#EVERY TIME!!!! EVERY SINGLE TIME I OPEN UP THIS STUPID THING FOR WORK!!!!!!

[inumakisangel]

you were always there

open your eyes!! there's absolutely no way you can "fail" to shift, you make yourself go back! how can't you realise how much power do you actually have???

So. As i've said before in other posts, i have been in the shifting community ever since 2019/2020, but shifted just now. Why did i take so long?

I simply didn't realise how powerful i actually was. How every single soul who knows about shifting but never shifted, did not realise how much power they had in their hands, but they just underestimated themselves so much to the point of not doing it. how is that even possible?

I used to be someone who got unmotivated so damn easily, seeing shit that anti-shifters say used to ruin my journey so much

And when i say that doubts are the ones that are not making you shift, i don't mean that, when you try, it's not successfull and you simply don't go; i mean that every single time you try, you go. you're actually there. but your doubts makes you go back.

Seeing shifters who say that "i tried, but it didn't work!!" makes me laugh so much. GIRL. HOW COULD YOU BE SO SELF DEPRECATING TO THE POINT OF GOING BACK TO CR EVERY TIME YOU SHIFT??

There's no such thing as failed attempt. It's all real. The little symptoms that you feel, the floating sensations, the tingles, the dr noises, they're all real, it's not just some lie you randomly heard, do you even realise how powerful you are? how come such a powerful being be so unmotivated to the point of not being able to do something that they're made to do?

If you're so convinced that you're not gonna shift then lift that chin up, look deep into the eyes of your dr s/o and say loud and clear to them that you're never gonna see them. are you brave enough to do that? no? then shift

What actually made me shift was simply realising that all the other times i "tried" to shift ever since 2019, they were all real. I was just stupid enough to let my doubts take over and they made me go back

So i shifted knowing i wouldn't actually stay in cr. and it worked. i just accepted that i could do it, realised how much power i actually had in my hands, and did it

As real as i imagined, as detailed as i thought it would be, as detailed as my script was, i was there. just like all the other times i tried shifting before, but underestimated myself so much that i would go back.

Shifting is realising. All you have to do is realise that you did it. You've always did.

As i said before in my other post talking about shifting in the way that makes you comfortable, i mostly meant that some methods and ways of shifting, deep down they make you doubt, that's why you go back, so you have to find your way to shift that tells you the truth: that you were always there from the start

Every person is a master shifter. From the person that "tried" once, to the other one who "tried" 603 times, you were all there. Open your eyes! Stop letting the "what if"s and "but"s take over, embrace the truth!

You were breathing the same air as your dr s/o all the times you "tried". All of those times daydreaming the day you would be there, you already achieved it.

All the effort is worth it, because in the end, all of your doubts are gone and you can finally shift in peace without going back because of them

Now shoo. Don't keep them waiting.

[eldritchqueerture]

petty morons are back on their bullshit, facing the infamous Consequences of Their Own Actions. @lighthouseshepard 💜

---

As soon as the doors to the hotel closed behind him, Arthur knew he had made a mistake. He very much did need John, and not just for his sight – a part of him had always known that. He swallowed as panic started to grow in his gut, an electrifying force travelling with his blood to every part of his body. He retraced his steps to the alley.

“John?” He asked quietly, hoping no passersby were around to hear him. “John!”

No answer. His chest tightened, pushing the air out of his lungs. Did he really leave? Arthur didn’t let himself think like that when he woke up to an empty room – didn’t even want to consider the possibility that John might not want Arthur in his life, now that he didn’t need him.

And it was the truth. John didn’t need him anymore. It was Arthur who needed him, and perhaps… Perhaps he would only be a burden in John’s mind. Arthur had served his purpose, just as Oscar had back on that farm, and John was free to create the life he wanted, whatever that would entail. And Arthur… Arthur had just lost another person.

He leaned his back against the wall and let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t help but look back on every single friendship he’d had: James, Parker, Oscar, Noel, John. All of them, dead, hurt or pushed away some way or another. He just couldn’t seem to figure it out – couldn’t let a single person stay, no matter how much he’d tried.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t giving up – not now and not ever. If he had control over anything in this fucking life, it was his own actions. Hurtful things have been said, that was obvious, but they didn’t have to be the end. Not as long as Arthur had anything to say on the matter.

He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and took out the lighter. With an almost unconscious movement he opened it and struck a flame, passing a thumb over the engraved words. This too shall pass .

With a deep determined breath, he gathered himself, pocketed the lighter, and returned to the hotel lobby. Remembering the way to the reception desk, he strained his ears not to bump into anyone and called it a success once his hand touched the surface of the desk.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist spoke with a polite tone.

“Yes, could you direct me to the phone? I, uh, can’t see very well,” he chuckled.

“Oh, of course.” The rustling of clothes and a creak of the chair suggested the man was getting up. “What of your companion?”

Arthur’s smile soured; he wasn’t overly thrilled that this man remembered them, but he couldn’t really expect anything else.

“Ah, just… A stupid fight,” he sighed. “He’s… We’re both rather hot-headed at times. I do have someone to call, though.”

“Of course. This way.”

The receptionist led him to the phone and offered to put the number in as well. Arthur breathed with relief – he didn’t have a perfect memory for numbers, so going on that alone was bound to end in him making a bunch of wrong calls. But this way, he searched his wallet until he found the familiar card and gave it to the man.

He took the receiver with a tight knot in his stomach. They hadn’t heard from Noel after they made sure he was at the hospital and his wound was being taken care of. He didn’t know whether he still worked there – whether he was still alive at all. All sorts of things could have gone wrong during surgery, or he could’ve lost too much blood, or—

“ Yes, Detective Noel speaking? ”

Arthur let out a shaky sigh at the familiar, lilting voice.

“Noel,” he said. “I… It’s A-Arthur.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side. “ Arthur! It’s good to hear you. You had me quite worried there, disappearing like that. ”

He couldn’t help a small smile forming on his face at the thought.

“Yes, I–I’m sorry about that… S-So you’re still in New York?” He asked, a little nervousness stealing its way into his voice.

“ Yeah, for now. Not many prospects anywhere else at the moment. Where’ve you two gone off to? ”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “Yes, um, about that. We’re… Ah, in New York, too. Actually—Can I meet you somewhere? I’d rather not have this conversation over the phone.”

“ Are you okay? ” Noel must have detected the strain on Arthur’s voice. “ D’you need anything? ”

“We’re—I’m…” Arthur faltered.

“ Where are you? ” Some rustling on the other side made it to his ears.

“Hotel Tudor, just off of Grand Central,” Arthur offered with a deflated sigh.

“ I’ll come pick you up. Hang tight. ”

The connection ended. Arthur let out a sigh that could have just as well been a laugh as he put the receiver back in its place. He hadn’t expected Noel to drop everything and come get him, but it made something warm flutter in his stomach amidst all the worry and regret. With Noel’s help, maybe they could find John and fix the situation somehow. They’d always come out of fights like this better for it, right?

As he directed his steps towards a seat in the lobby, a treacherous part of him whispered that before this, all their fights had ended because their survival depended on it. They could not afford to be at odds when they shared a body and the potential of death. It was just like Kayne said; there were universes where they’ve separated earlier, and it had never gone well for their friendship.

But thinking like that would not get him anywhere.

With nothing to do, the minutes passed torturously slowly; every time he heard steps approaching and thought it might be Noel, it turned out to just be random person. He forced himself to disregard the sound entirely, relying on the voices surrounding him, looking at where he assumed the faces of the people entering would be.

“Hey there!” He finally heard, and with all the nervous energy accumulated in his muscles, he jumped in his seat before standing. “You alright?”

“Noel,” Arthur sighed with relief. “Thank you for coming, seriously. I—”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m glad to see you again. C’mon.”

Arthur followed Noel as best he could by sound alone, but late morning brought more guests to the lobby. He almost managed to get to the door without bumping into anyone, but Noel still noticed the difference.

“Are you okay?” He asked, putting a gentle hand on his forearm. Arthur let out a huff.

“I can’t see,” he whispered. “And John is… gone. Alright?”

“Gone? What do you mean—”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Arthur replied, exiting onto fresh air. “Let’s just… Get someplace safe.”

“Sure.” Noel sounded worried now, but he knew when to put off an interrogation. “You need an arm, or…?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Arthur took the offered arm with gratitude. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kid,” Noel scoffed with a chuckle. “Just tell me if you need anything else.”

Noel took them to a café at the corner of the street and ordered them two coffees. When they settled into a booth, he somewhat awkwardly informed Arthur that the café wasn’t busy, and that they were sitting by the window overlooking the street. Arthur appreciated the effort.

“So, what’s going on?” Noel asked intently once the waitress, who brought their cups was out of earshot.

“John and I separated,” Arthur said, cradling his steaming cup.

“Separated?”

“Yes, it’s… a long story.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “We performed the ritual in an old cult hideout near New York, so we decided to stay here to… figure things out, I suppose.”

He didn’t need sight to sense the frown on Noel’s face.

“We got here last night. John was quiet, uncharacteristically so, and—and I thought he’d need some space… You know, it must be overwhelming with a new body and all, and…” Arthur took a shaky breath. “And when I woke up this morning, he wasn’t there.”

“You mean he just left?” Noel asked disbelievingly.

“I mean, I—I don’t know what I thought at the moment, but I went to look for him eventually and… And I suppose I was angry.” He chuckled bitterly. “He found me down in the lobby and we argued, it… It seems stupid now.”

“What did he say?” Noel asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Arthur rubbed his face. “I think he was… worried I’d get hurt without him. He lashed out, and—and gripped my arms so tight…”

His voice faltered. “Fuck. I got all defensive about my own autonomy, but I didn’t consider how it must’ve felt for him.”

“I imagine he must be pretty conflicted,” Noel mused.

“Conflicted?”

“Between protecting you and being his own person.” He put the cup down with a clink. “Does he even know what he wants out of life on this plane?”

Arthur frowned and took a breath to answer but halted with a sudden thought. He let out a laugh. “Do any of us ?” He offered instead.

Living with the prospect of deadly encounters on a daily basis wasn’t exactly grounds for long-term life goals; and Noel must have realized that, because he too let out a startled laugh.

“Alright, got me there. But you catch my meaning.”

“Yes, I… I suppose.” Arthur rubbed his thumb on the rim of the cup.

“You don’t like it,” Noel observed after a moment of silence.

“I…” He started. “I—I mean, we’ve worked towards this for—for so long, we… That was the goal. To separate, to have my—my body back and…”

“And you don’t like it.”

He inhaled, desperately wanting to deny it, yet knowing he could not. Noel was right – he didn’t like that John could just leave now, create a life all of his own without involving Arthur in it if he so wished. He didn’t like that John was now so far away, not just across the city but in a different body; he didn’t like the silence in his head, and using his left hand still felt foreign and strange.

“I can’t not like it, Noel,” he said instead with a crack in his voice. “John… deserves a body of his own, to know and enjoy all life has to offer. He was trapped in my head, probably more so than I was trapped with him. This is… This is the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Noel agreed. “And you’re allowed not to like it for a while.”

Arthur blinked instinctively, parting his lips, though no words came out.

“Kid,” Noel sighed. “Where is he now?”

“I—I don’t know,” Arthur mumbled. “I left him outside the hotel and when I went back he was gone.”

“Did he say what he looked like?”

Arthur surmised how John had described himself to him in front of the mirror at the hotel room and recalled that brief little moment where he held his palm to his face. It was fragile and full of possible meanings that Arthur couldn’t let himself examine right now. He left that, as well as John’s tentacles, out of the description.

“Right.” Noel said. “Any ideas where he could’ve gone? Places that come to mind?”

Arthur chuckled under his nose. “So, this is becoming a missing persons case now?”

“I mean, might as well,” Noel smirked. “Gotta do what we do best, right?”

“You do have a point.” Arthur nodded and finally drank the coffee. The taste was mildly bitter, leaving a watery and slightly nutty aftertaste on his tongue. “Honestly, we didn’t spend that much time here, and I don’t imagine he’d want to revisit any of the places we’ve… Maybe except for Marie’s,” he said. “But she wouldn’t know him, of course.”

“Alright,” Noel replied. “We can go there, check the area, then go back to the hotel. He might just come back.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded through the bile in his throat.

“And then you gotta talk, kid.” He could imagine the look Noel was giving him right now. “I’m sure you can work this out.”

“Yeah, I… I hope so.”

---

John walked for what could have been hours before finally slowing down. Was he trying to escape Arthur – as if he’d been able (or better yet, willing) to chase him down? Or was he escaping his own thoughts, nagging at the back of his mind, spurring him ever forwards? He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know what to feel, and everything happening in his guts, chest, and throat amounted to a maelstrom that just made him feel… sick.

He was lost.

As if on cue to the thought, a church bell rang to announce the hour. John stopped altogether to consider his surroundings. He had walked into a poorer part of the city, it looked like, with slightly more dilapidated buildings and a familiar-looking church. John frowned and inspected the area closer. Was this…

Yes. Not far from the church John could see the outline of the community center they had visited with Arthur when searching for Mr. Scratch. Where they had met Oscar.

Did that mean Oscar worked in this church? John wondered, staring at the door. It would be monumentally stupid to go in there, wouldn’t it? Even more so to seek him out – the man Arthur had had to abandon because of him; the first friend he had made since John showed up; the one John had tried to kill out of his frustrations.

But was he not frustrated now, as well? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate lesson for Arthur about who John really was, what he was capable of – the carnage, the power, the inexpressible cruelty that put him above these meager mortal shells; that let him thrive in the Dark World for countless years. He wasn’t human, and he never intended to be.

But he wasn’t those monstrous impulses anymore, either.

The violence would feel good for a second, the pleasure drowned and overpowered by shame and regret. He could feel the taste of them in throat even now, standing before the building dedicated to a god he did not know of. A god that might not even exist.

He went into the building without any idea why. One of the heavy wooden doors was open, and he passed it with a skeptical quirk of an eyebrow, as if someone else controlled this body and he was just there to judge their questionable decisions. In a second the bright light of day was replaced by the half-dark of stone walls and stained-glass windows, illuminated by flickering candles inside.

The air was chilly and smelled strongly of incense and old stone. There weren’t many people about, and they were mostly sitting silently and motionlessly in the pews, with their heads bowed in silent prayer.

He hesitated at the entrance. What the fuck was he doing here? An entity of madness fitted into a human body, standing in a catholic church. Did he hope for answers? Clarity? Absolution? Was he completely out of his mind?

He was about to turn on his heel and leave, when the smaller doors to a wooden box by the wall opened. An older woman left for the nearest pew, clutching a pearly necklace with a cross in her hands – a rosary, John belatedly remembered. From the other side of the box emerged a man in a priestly garb, his movements a little unsteady. He turned his head a little as he closed the door behind him, and he met John’s gaze briefly.

For a terrifying moment, John felt recognized. He knew Oscar would not, could not know who he is, not even knowing of his existence through Arthur, but still he felt seen like never before. That halted his movement enough for Oscar to approach, like a predator hypnotizing prey until it could comfortably devour its fill.

“You look lost, my friend,” he spoke softly. His voice, his accent, his left arm a stump at the elbow – all of that reminded John of his frustrations. Of what he craved from Arthur and, at the same time, what he ran away from.

“You don’t know,” he replied with a scowl, looking away. He felt Oscar’s eyes on him, on his face – rich brown and intelligent, that Arthur had called beautiful when John had described them to him.

“I may as well not,” he shrugged. “But God does.”

John scoffed. “Your god doesn’t care.”

Oscar blinked up at him, some sort of realization smoothing out his face. “Believe me, I know how that feels,” he said quietly, so only the two of them could hear.

John raised an eyebrow at him in doubt. “Do you?”

Oscar motioned with his head to follow him to the corner, closer to the confession booth. John felt compelled to follow, if only for curiosity’s sake.

Oscar looked up at him again, for a second trying to read something in his face. With the mask disguising half of his features, John deemed that an impossible task.

“I can tell you’ve been through a fair share of pain, my friend,” he spoke again in that gentle tone that made John want to smash something. “It seems impossible that a merciful God would allow that.”

John barely stopped himself from outright snarling. “ If your god exists, he is anything but merciful. Trust me.”

Oscar tilted his head at him curiously. “Yet you have come here. Why?”

This time the growl that brewed in his chest was directed at his own damn self. Why did he come here – to Oscar specifically? To scratch at old wounds, pick at the scabs that formed over tender flesh, and tear the thin layer of fresh skin anew with his blood-stained claws? Was this at all a punch directed at Arthur – or just a reminder of his own failing? What was he looking for in the recesses of his old identities that was so important and yet so lost?

“I…” He faltered. “I don’t know.”

He let his gaze fall to the ground, the anger and frustration dissolving into exhaustion that fell upon him like an avalanche.

“It’s alright,” Oscar said. “There are times we don’t know our purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?” He countered with a heavy frown, almost challenging him with the knowledge that he had. Oscar gave him a slight, sad smile.

“Other people,” he spoke. “There are times I struggle – we all do. But in those times especially we need other people to latch onto. To help. To protect. To inspire us. So, we may then inspire others.”

The glistening determination in Oscar’s eyes was too much for John to handle. He knew he spoke of Arthur, and a spark of that clawed, cloying jealousy reared its head, looking for something to sink its teeth into. But who was he to feel this way now? He left Arthur at that hotel alone because… what? Because he was scared of his own feelings? Frustrated with the intensity, the depth of what he felt, and feared that Arthur may not want him to stay, should he find out? Knowing what he’d done – knowing what he could do. Arthur wanted him to be human, undefeated – he wanted him to be other people for him, to inspire his humanity, but John would never be able to live up to that standard.

But Oscar could.

If he could give Arthur this – the companionship he craved, the friend he’d had to abandon – then maybe he could forgive John for failing. Maybe he could forgive him for being a piece of a shattered mirror – a shard of glass, always meant to cut his fingertips.

“Oscar,” he said quietly, noting the look of surprise on the priest’s face. “I am not here by mistake.”

Oscar frowned, trying to understand the change in tone. “I didn’t—”

“Arthur told me about you,” he lied. Oscar’s face paled in shock.

“What? A-Arthur…?”

“Yes,” John looked down at him, expressionless. “I can… tell him I ran into you. I’m sure he’d want to talk to you.”

Oscar stuttered for a moment, clearly thrown by this turn of events. “Why? Wh—Who are you?”

John took a breath. “Because I owe it to him. Because I,” –he huffed and gritted his teeth. “Because he deserves to have a friend like you.”

Gentle. Soft. Kind. With no teeth that could cut bone clean in half, no tentacled limbs that would smother every part of him if given the chance. Without masks, manipulation, lies.

No sharp edges that had sliced through his identity, leaving only shattered dust to be swept up with the wind.

He’d turned to leave, but Oscar grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… He said—”

“Trust me, Oscar,” John said. “He will want to speak with you.”

“How do you know?” He breathed out, and John pressed his lips together briefly.

“Because he didn’t want to leave you. I told him to.”

Oscar let go of his arm, staring at him with wide eyes. John looked back at him one more time and, without another word, turned and left the church.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Endure

This is just deeply self indulgent, inspired by @mumms-the-word's fic featuring chronically ill Tav (forgive me please; I want to read it but I have to be mentally strong to do so I think.) So this is just... a little bit of truth from my own life. The diseases are from the setting, but that's it. So this is a little bit of me, fictionalised. Be kind, please.

'I must become a lionhearted girl, ready for a fight.' - Rabbit Heart, Florence & the Machine

Taglist:

@alpydk @boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard @silent-words

@netherese0rb @sorceresssundries

Tav stared into the campfire, walking cane across her lap. I’ll be alright, she thought. A tadpole is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. I’ve got this. Still, she felt the familiar sneak of anxiety in her gut. Now they were in the shadow cursed lands, and death loomed over their shoulders. Astarion was pretending to read a book, but she could feel his feline gaze on the back of her head. Gale was really reading, but she noticed he would glance up at her every few pages, as though checking she was alright.  Shadowheart was eavesdropping on Wyll and Karlach’s conversation, Lae’zel apparently uninterested in socialising, engrossed as she was in a githyanki slate. So Tav sat alone, thinking.

Why did you bring me back? She closed her eyes, furrowing her brow. I never asked for any of this. I’ve been so strong for you my entire life and you let this happen to me. Why? Without warning, tears slid silently down her cheeks. She heard the soft thud of books closing and felt Gale and Astarion settle on either side of her. Astarion’s cool fingers stroked her back soothingly as Gale reached for her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles, both of them comforting in the ways they could. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, not even opening her eyes to look at them.

‘Pish posh,’ said Gale softly, nudging her shoulder. ‘You don’t need to lie.’

‘Just having a crisis of faith, I suppose,’ she said, sniffing and opening her eyes. She wiped fiercely at them with her free hand. ‘Hating my lot in life a little bit tonight.’ She sighed, deep and tired. ‘I thought you could choose your deity. Not me. I was plucked from the brink of death, and I’ve been fucked ever since.’

‘The gods are bastards and wretches,’ said Astarion bitterly.

Tav shrugged. ‘Without him I’d be dead. Still, it’s not like he’s offered me a bounty of beauty or particular skill or-’ she gestured vaguely, ‘-magic. It’s just been a litany of hurts. I’m tired.’

‘I never asked,’ said Gale. ‘About…’ He gestured to the cane.

‘Don’t you dare pity me,’ she said through her teeth. ‘I hate it.’

‘I wasn’t. I just want to know what you’ve been through. And not from some kind of morbid curiosity either. You’ll forgive my bleeding heart if I hate seeing my friends in pain.’

‘It’s not good form to ask these things,’ said Astarion tersely. ‘But then you always were incredibly intelligent and breathtakingly stupid, Gale.’

Tav almost laughed, a single huff of air from her mouth. ‘Sure, I’ll tell you. But remember you asked.’ Dimly aware the camp had quieted, and her audience was beyond the wizard and the elf, she spoke to the flames. ‘I was born too early for anyone to expect me to survive. My lungs didn’t function, there was a stutter in my heartbeat, internal bleeding on the brain, all that. I had some necrosis and blacklung and even spotted plague, all at once could you believe it? I should’ve been dead five times over. I was put through my paces. I don’t know how or why I made it and sometimes I wish I hadn’t. But I did. And I got to grow up.’ A bitter edge crept into her voice. ‘And then something happened to me later, some people happened to me, and now I’m in pain all the time. It never goes away. I can manage it, on a good day, with rest and the odd spell. Potions don't work for me at all. I can’t do too much though, you see.’ Her face hardened. ‘Because the god who refused to let me die was Ilmater. My suffering is divine. I can’t even walk away because I owe him my very existence. How does a baby bargain with a god like that? So I push on. I endure, because I must.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Gale. ‘I empathise, believe me.’

‘Right,’ Tav said, voice softening a little bit. ‘The orb.’

He nodded. ‘Still. Self inflicted. It’s different.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I’d known…’ he continued.

‘You wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it and you can’t now,’ she snapped. ‘I appreciate it Gale, I really do, but this is just my life. And now we have these things.’ Jabbing her finger at her forehead she set her jaw in determination. ‘I’ve been through worse. Doubtless we all have. We’re going to win this fight. We don’t have a choice.’

‘Hear hear,’ said Karlach softly.

‘You deserve more credit,’ said Astarion. ‘You’re strong.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t want to be though. I want to be soft. I want to rest.’

‘You don’t have to do this alone,’ said Wyll, sitting across the fire from her. ‘You have us now.’ His smile was so gentle it broke her heart.

‘Your endurance is admirable,’ said Lae’zel, sitting on Astarion’s other side.

‘For once I agree with you, Lae’zel.’ Shadowheart stayed back from the fire until Karlach grabbed her wrist and plonked her down next to her.

‘Any spells or potions you need, I’ve got you,’ said Gale. ‘It’s the least I can do given you helped me with my condition.’

‘Sweet as that is Gale, perhaps you could start with dinner? Karlach’s stomach is snarling like an angry bugbear,’ said Astarion lightly.

‘I saw that archdruid whittling in the grove earlier,’ said Shadowheart. ‘Maybe he could make you a new cane.’

Tav looked down at the cane in her lap. It was crudely hewn and splintered; she’d done it herself. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah, maybe I should ask him.’

[shikai-the-storyteller]

[bloodbankzz]

it is painful to learn the "normal" ways that people reasonably around my age were motivated to do things their parents wanted, ie chores or getting good grades in school. this is a pain that has built over time because, seeing it around me as a kid, i could reason that maybe every single one of my friends were just spoiled. but, eerily, every time it seems the topic of motivating children comes up in whatever conversation is bringing it up, it seems like. and it still feels presumptuous to say. but most people as children were rewarded for good behavior. the one i was most envious of as a child was that multiple of my friends got paid money for getting As, and it was actually very shocking to me to find out that that is at least kind of a little more universal than i really really was sure it was not, but that's not the big thing that causes me pause now. generally, it seems, children are rewarded in some way for doing things their parents ask of them. writing and then stepping back and reading such a sentence makes me feel like an alien trying to puzzle out the function of the human pancreas lmfao but i dont know. in the wider conversations where this happens to come up, describing these motivators is never the point, which is maybe part of the difficulty for me. it's really hard to process that not everyone was doing what their parents said to do out of cold pure fear for their life. there's so many things it turns out other kids were getting. stickers and movie tickets and candy and praise and love. i am so sad.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[screampied]

“. . do you . . know what happens after death, sweetheart?”

the words that slipped out of nanami’s lips struck you right in the very depths of your heart.

it stung—a sharp prod that made the very crevices of your mouth twitch. his hands, his once warm and loving hands started to grow abnormally cold. frigid to where you even started to adapt to his chilled temperature.

“no why….” you started, feeling your throat tighten. “why are you asking me that, kento?” you sniffle, tightly interlocking your fingers with his.

he stares at you with a warm smile spreading across his lips.

regardless of his current position, peacefully resting his back against the ground—his inevitable fate had finally caught up to him.

nanami’s breathing patterns changed significantly. everything was so loud, all he could make out through his peripherals was splotches of blur and your pretty worried face. “. . because,” he continues, and his speech was so slow. you could tell he was trying to get every word out, every syllable, every vowel. just for you and only you. “i’m about to find out, my love . .”

your irises focused on him. nothing else, no one else—just him.

you’ve never seen him like this. so pale, so weak, so . . . scared.

his pure emotion, it showed in his eyes. his perfect brown eyes that you never failed to get lost in. for the first time in what was probably forever, nanami felt…scared. he tried his best to conceal it in front of you though. but even his best wasn’t enough, because you probably knew him better than you knew yourself.

“don’t say things like that, kento,” you mutter, already feeling that annoying plump knot rise up in your throat. your breath was shaky, tremble after tremble. “you’re fine. you can get up. we can get up.”

he knew when you said we, you implied that you’d both be walking away together — hand in hand, like in those stupid cheesy movies you’d watch with him every sunday after he gets off work. but alas, reality was quite harsh to face. an even more incredible tough pill to swallow. nanami knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

it was irksome, you had to squeeze your eyes shut to prevent a single tear to roll down your cheek.

nanami’s eyelids were hanging on by a thread, just barely open. he was trying—trying so hard to hang on, a small pout curls against his lips before he huffs out a single breath.

“ah . . forgive me, you’re right,” he says, his thumb swiftly stroking the front of your hand. a single tear escapes past your lower damp eyelid. even his voice sounded different. a voice you grew to love, so sweet and protective. it now sounded incredibly tired. you could hear a slight wheeze between breaths of his. “hey, don’t cry. don’t do that, look at me.”

his voice was so soft, you sniffled—despising the irritating tears that started to run down both sides of your temples. if it was anything nanami couldn’t stand, it was that he couldn’t stand to see the love of his life shed such sweet pitiful tears for him.

you looked at him, watching his eyelids struggle to stay open for you. everything ached, his body didn’t even feel like his own anymore. it was an indescribable feeling from when he got struck, laying against the slick cold floor of the shibuya train station.

“. . d-don’t leave me,” was all you managed to say, your lips was trembling, your heart pounded and you didn’t wanna say goodbye just yet. “kento, i need you.”

“hm? what are you mumblin’ about, sweetheart? ‘m right here.” his voice, it sounded happier.

you furrowed your eyebrows, now finding yourself buried into nanami’s bare chest, damp chin pressing against his pecs and all.

you were here safe and sound, snuggled up all against him, as you should be. it took you a long while to calm down, he’s staring at you with a soft loving gaze—a brief look of concern before you mumble out a, “..kento? are you okay?”

“why wouldn’t i be, baby?” nanami hums, a soft thumb stroking your back. with a relaxed breath, he leans in to plant a gentle kiss near the very tip of your forehead. his touch was forevermore soothing, a touch you never wanted to forget.

you let off a jittery sigh of relief, finally coming to the conclusion that it was another one of your horrid nightmares. you had nothing to worry about.

he was fine.

you were fine,

everything was fine.

. . is what you kept telling yourself.

nanami never told you those words, he didn’t kiss the tip of your forehead or stroke your back lovingly whilst staring into your eyes. the only true unbearable truth was that nanami was gone.

he was gone, and his last words weren’t even “i love you,” or “i’m sorry.” on his fatal dying breaths, nanami’s last words to you while squeezing your hand, sliding a ring into your palm, he rasps out a breathy, “will . . you marry me?”

but before you could tell him yes, he was already gone.

[4unnyr0se]

❥ being megumi's kindergarten teacher

warnings: fem! reader, teacher x single dad trope, BREEDING, rough sex, spanking, toji is a whore, not proofread at all (i wrote this while i was at work), toji is a decent father in this, megumi and tsumiki mentioned

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 628

i'll be so fr i do not like this but,,,whatever

The first thing Toji Fushiguro noticed about you was your hips. You were bent over your desk, shuffling through some children's drawings, trying to find Megumi’s from the day before. Tojo tried with all his might not to smack your ass, but his kid was watching. Gotta make a good impression, right?

Toji waited until Megumi ran off to play with his playgroup to hit on you; he was a good dad in that sense. He waited until your back was turned, hunching over your form with a smirk on his face. The heat from his breath tickled the baby hairs on your neck, his hands hovering just above your belly. 

“I never knew Megumi had such a fine teacher,” he would purr in your ear, messy bangs hanging over his face. You’d blush and turn around, not expecting Toji to be that attractive. Tsumiki usually dropped Toji off, her class was just down the hall from Megumi’s. But damn, Mr. Fushiguro was fine as hell. You’d lecture him about how he was being entirely too inappropriate, fraternizing with his son’s teacher. But Toji remained smug as ever. Tsumiki never dropped Megumi off again after that day, it was just Toji. 

His favorite part of the weekday was dropping Megumi off, walking over to you, and admiring how your face exploded in a bright red hue the second Toji opened his scarred lips, He loved seeing your modest skirt wrapped so perfectly around your hips, around your waist. How the turtleneck sweater you wore hugged your breasts so perfectly that it had to be intentional. 

Every weekday, Toji would flirt with you. Whispering filth into your ear when the kids were distracted with their fingerpaintings. His large hand would grope the fat of your hips, squeezing them between his fingers while he inserted the most lewd ideas in your head. “I wonder how pretty you’d look bent over for me, hm?” he smirked, removing his hand from your hips as the first bell rang. “My place, Saturday, 10 PM. Don’t be late.”

And you were there right on time, wearing the sluttiest dress you had. Toji practically pounced on you, dragging you up the stairs of his townhouse and throwing you onto his messy bed. He instantly tore that dress off of you and that cute matching underwear set. 

You’d yelp in surprise as his fingers plunged into you from behind, scissoring you open with ease. He’d pull his fingers out of your dripping core, shoving them inside your mouth for you to suck. He wouldn’t even wear a condom before pushing himself into your tight cunt, why would he? Wouldn’t you look so cute with another one of his babies in your belly? Tits full of milk for him and his brat? 

Toji didn’t stop after his second orgasm, no sir. This motherfucker went seven rounds with you; seven fucking orgasms rippled through him as he filled you up once more from all different angles and areas of his townhouse. Bent over the kitchen counter, mating press on the living room floor, riding him on the couch while the TV  played. Toji didn’t care how overstimulated you were, you were his. And you were gonna belong to him even more as soon as he knocked you up. 

Of course, you went to work the following Monday, insisting on not sitting down because it’s ‘important for the students to see an adult not being lazy.’ When in reality, your ass stung so much from Toji’s spanks that it was painful to sit for long durations of time. Every fucking morning and afternoon that week, Toji flashed you his usual shit-eating grin because he knew you would come crawling back to him, begging to be fucked stupid once more.

[nervousimposter]

Eddie started finding notes in his locker his sophomore year. The first couple of them, he just tossed without reading. He didn’t need to read what those asshole bullies wanted to say about him. But curiosity won out after two weeks of constant notes and he finally opened one. It was the single most impactful thing he’d ever read. 

I think you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. 

He kept that note. And every other note he got from that point on. If anyone were to ask Eddie what he regretted most in his life, it would be those two weeks of notes he tossed without reading. Ten slips of paper with unknown writing that he wishes he could get back. Add them to his ‘mystery boys notes’ box. And he was a mystery, the note writer. Anonymous. Unknown. Impossible to catch. 

Eddie held out for a month. A whole month before he decided to stage a stake out. He watched his locker like a hawk. In between classes, during classes, lunch, after school and even one absolutely horrible day where he came in an hour before school started. But the mystery boy had to be invisible. He never saw anyone approach his locker but his daily note was always there. And Eddie; poor, unfortunate, infatuated Eddie dealt with mystery boys’ notes from ‘82 to ‘85. Four agonizing years of the most heart-warming, loving notes. 

I wish I was as brave as you.

Did you change your shampoo? Your hair looked so soft today.

God, your eyes have to be the biggest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen. So pretty.

I like how long your hair is getting. 

Saw you walking down the hall today and I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more. 

They started cute. Compliments here and there, even a doodle every once in a while. Hearts and smiley faces. But as the months and years went by, the mystery boy got deeper. Confessions and secrets. 

I think if I had a different dad, we would’ve been best friends.

Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never talked to?

I dream about us. 

I’m a boy. I’m sorry.

I want to hold your hand. Those rings are something else. 

I saw you trying to catch me. Adorable.

I wish I could take you on a date. Not give a shit what my dad would say or what people would think. 

I wish I could be brave enough to talk to you. 

You’re still the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.

I’m graduating this year. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. I think I’m going to try to figure out a way to keep dropping these off next year. I don’t want you to forget about me.

The notes didn’t continue when the school year started. Eddie was embarrassed to admit he cried that first night. He wasn’t sure how the mystery boy was going to be able to get the notes to him but he fully believed it was going to happen. He went five weeks with no daily note in his locker. And then, it showed up on a Monday. He almost missed it, the tiny slip of paper. 

Sorry this took so long. Had to figure out how I was going to sneak these in here. I don’t think I’ll be able to call you pretty every day of the week this time around but I’m going to try my best! 

And mystery boy was right. The notes were always there on Monday. Just Monday. But Eddie didn’t complain. One note a week after five weeks of nothing almost had his heart bursting from his chest. It also narrowed down his search. Sort of. Mystery boy was either coming in on those Mondays to drop off the note, sneaking in on the weekends when the school was empty OR after school on Fridays. And look, he’s failed to graduate high school two times in a row now but he wasn’t stupid. Did it take him three months after the notes to start again for him to realize who it was? Yes but to be fair, for two of those months it was Eddie wallowing in denial. 

Five weeks into school was when he restarted Hellfire. Three weeks before that was when he brought in those new little freshman sheepies. The same freshman sheepies that got picked up by Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington who graduated last year. Steve Harrington who he catches staring at him from his beemer in the parking lot every Friday night before he takes the kiddies home. Steve who he categorizes as someone who is so far out of his league that it just couldn’t be him. But it’s been three months and there isn’t any other former Hawkins high student running around in or near the school. And now that Eddie’s almost certain Steve has been mystery boy these past few years, he can’t wait. He’s been in love with a figure made out of slips of paper for four years and his nonexistent patience has truly run thin.  

He calls for a break 15 minutes before they normally end their sessions. Tells the boys he needs to run to the bathroom and almost sprints out the door. His locker sits in the hallway just around the corner of the drama room. The door closing shut echos through the empty hallways, alongside the squeaks coming from his shoes as he hustles towards his locker. He freezes as soon as he turns the corner. 

Steve probably only had 30 seconds after hearing the door open and shut to process what he was going to do. He could’ve run or hid, maybe pretend like he just needed the bathroom while he waited. But Eddie watched him pause as they made eye contact instead. Watched as Steve looked him up and down. Watched him relax and lean back against the lockers behind him with a lazy smirk. His arm slowly moved up and Eddie could see a slip of paper held between his fingers. Steve didn’t break eye contact with him at all as he proceeded to shove the paper between the vents of his locker. They stayed like that for what felt like hours. Staring. Broken when Steve pushed himself off the wall and walked towards him. He didn’t stop. Side stepped around Eddie before they could collide. A faint brush of his fingers along the back of his hand as he walked past him. And Eddie just watched him pass. Just like he watched him slip that note in his locker, he watched Steve walk back down the hall and out the front doors.

He waited only five seconds after the doors closed behind Steve before he jogged over to his locker. Grabbed the note and shoved it into his pocket before running back over to the drama room. Told the guys that they stopped at a decent spot and would meet again next Friday. Walked with them to the parking lot to head home. To catch a glimpse of Steve. And there he was, sitting in his beemer, staring again. This time though, Eddie smiled at him. He smiled at him and pulled the note out of his pocket. Opened it right there in the parking lot while he stared back at Steve. It only took him a few seconds to glance down to read. And as soon as he did, he threw his head back and laughed. Cackled really. He looked back at the beemer and saw Steve with the widest grin. Watched him lift his fingers off the steering wheel and wiggle them at him before he started pulling out of the lot. He looked back down at the note in his hand and chuckled again. Who knew Steve Harrington knew DnD well enough to draw a perfect rendition of an eight sided dice?

Wanna go on a d8? - Steve Harrington xxx-xxx-xxxx

[soshhy]

I was just reading an ADHD post about breaking tasks up into smaller chunks, and I wanted to share something that helped me.

Once upon a time, I was sitting at my desk at 3am, having procrastinated all day, and finally got to the stage where I was so desperate to meet my 9am deadline I made an itemised list of every single thing I had to do, to the level of "1) Open this document. 2) Open this web page. 3) Arrange the windows so you can see both at once... Etc." It took me hours, and I was beating myself up the whole time because I knew I was spending three times as long making the list as I would doing the task, good god, what's wrong with me, this is so stupid...

I finished the list. I went through it step by step. And then I was done.

It was a revelation. It was so incredibly easy, once the list was there.

Since then I've thought: so what if making the list takes three times as long as doing the task? That's what it takes. That's PART OF THE TASK. It's the most important part, because it's the bit that means you can start at all.

Now if I'm struggling I give myself permission to use the most time consuming strategies, to hold my own hand like I'm a two year old, to guide myself through the tiniest of baby steps, because that's a skill I've fought for and it works.

Maybe this is obvious to everyone else. But if there's anyone out there like me, perhaps not yet diagnosed, beating themself up for not being able to just get things done like a normal person, I want to say this: make that list even as the clock ticks down to your deadline. It's not a waste of time. It's part of the task.

[neverevan]

I know we all love the idea of Eddie keep flirting with Steve and calling him pet names, because he thinks he can get away with it.

But I've been thinking about Steve casually calling Eddie baby without even registering what he's doing.

Like they are standing outside the van with the hood open and Steve just tutting at him like "Eddie, baby, you really gotta get your transmission checked, this is like the third time this month" and Eddie's losing his shit, mouth hanging open in shock, but Steve has no idea and it just keeps on happening after that.

Next time it happens, they are all over at Steve's, having a movie night and Steve has El and Max passed out on him, making him unable to get up from the couch without waking them and he just whisper-yells to Eddie "Hey babe, could you pass me a beer? Kinda tied up here" and Eddie just blanks and says nothing, but gets a bottle from the sixpack on the floor and Steve says "thanks" like it's just how things have always been between them.

And Eddie's working himself into a frenzy. Has Steve got no idea about what he's doing to him? Because Eddie's been lowkey crushing on Steve since he got mixed up in the whole Upside Down business and it just got worse when he woke up at the hospital to Steve holding his hand and giving him the brightests of smiles that there was, rubbing his thumb over Eddie's knuckles, whispering a soft "Hey there sleeping beauty, how're ya feeling?" while being completely oblivious to the suspicious look Wayne was giving them. And sure, hanging out with him nearly every day didn't help the situation one bit.

But this. This is going to be the death of him.

And it just keeps on happening. Steve murmurs "goodnight baby" into the phone before hanging up, he shouts "babe, come here, you gotta see this" when Lucas ends up stuffing fifteen oreos into his mouth (which is a new personal record) and whispers "hey baby, I'm sorry, I know you'd rather do something else, but I promised Mrs Wheeler" when they're watching Holly's ballet recital, waving at her from their seats when her eyes land on them.

It all comes to a head when Eddie's stupid van breaks down in the middle of fucking nowhere, on their way back from Indianapolis, after going there to buy a special boardgame for Dustin's birthday.

There's not a single car or house to be seen anywhere in a ten mile radius.

"Oh this is just great," Steve hisses as he jumps out of the car to walk around and Eddie does the same. He pops the hood and watches as a small cloud of smoke slithers out of it.

"Shit" Eddie swears under his breath. It looks bad.

"See baby, that's exactly why I told you to get it checked! Because I didn't wanna get stuck in fucking no man's land!"

"Look, I'm sure if we just leave it to rest a little..."

"Rest? Eds, come on, you know that's not how it works. We gotta walk up to the next gas stop and phone someone to tow it."

"Fuck, fine!" Eddie grunted. "But it gets dark in like twenty minutes."

They both know that they can't handle walking out in the wild after dark. Not after everything and not with all the nightmares that still tormented them most nights.

"Then I guess we're sleeping out here tonight." Steve says, dropping his hands on his hips. "You have pillows or some shit in the back?"

"Got a couple of blankets, yeah."

In the end they lay down two blankets on the bottom of the van and bundle up some old jumpers Eddie keeps in there for pillows. They lie there, facing each other in the dark.

"Hey... I'm sorry about all this" Eddie whispers, like his voice could disturb anyone out here in the middle of nowhere.

"It's okay, I just wish you'd pay more attention to stuff like this. I mean shit, babe, what if it's just you out here, huh? What then?"

"Steve-"

"I mean, I just hate to think about how shitty it would be, to be out here alone, in the dark... plus I'd worry myself sick not knowing where you are, you know?"

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not alone."

"No, no you're not alone" Steve agrees with a private little smile.

They settle into a companionable silence and Eddie's almost certain that Steve is just about to drift off, but he can't contain it in himself any longer; he has to ask.

"Hey Steve?"

"Mmh?"

"Why uh... why are you keep calling me...?" He can't bring himself to say it out loud without his face heating up.

"What?"

"Names." He settles, hoping that Steve would get it.

"Names?"

He's gonna make him say it, isn't he?

"Yeah like uh... baby."

"Oh"

Even in the darkness of the van Eddie can see how the colour darkens in Steve's cheeks.

"Does it bother you?" Steve asks after a beat and Eddie just sighs out a soft "no".

"Okay."

For a long moment it seems that this is all Eddie's gonna get, but then Steve shuffles a little closer and runs a finger along Eddie's palm before taking his hand into his own.

"It just felt right, you know? Calling you that. I dunno, it was like how it was meant to be."

"That sounds kinda romantic, isn't it?" Eddie's shooting for a joke, but Steve just sighs timidly.

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"

"Steve-"

"Eddie... can I?" He doesn't finish it, but Eddie knows he'd say yes to pretty much anything Steve could ever ask from him.

"Yeah" He breathes with a little nod and Steve scoots even closer, placing his other hand onto Eddie's cheek. He leans in and looks him in the eyes for an impossibly long moment, making sure he's got permission one last time.

Steve whispers a soft "baby" onto his lips before finally closing the gap between them.

[kyeomofhearts]

Again & Again | C.SC

+ summary: you caved in and fucked your best friend, but it was only a one-time thing… right?

+ pairing: scoups x fem!reader

+ word count: 4.3k

+ content: fwb!, chubby reader (love ya'll), friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, pussy drunk cheol, size kink, angst, fluff

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (Final)

+ WARNINGS: drinking!, smut, dom!seungcheol, sub!reader, rough sex, praise?, sizekink, creampie, pls lmk if I missed anything

“I’m ready!”

Seungcheol’s ears perked up at your sudden announcement. Turning his head, only to be met with a breathtaking view of you. The way your clothes hugged your figure had his head spinning. He always loved seeing your curves and the way you filled out everything nicely. Although you weren’t wearing anything out of the ordinary, it was just a simple outfit. Something that would match the mood for Jeonghan’s party.

But Seungcheol being… well himself, he was mesmerized. He was for sure going to struggle to keep his hands off you, especially at Jeonghan’s party. As much as he was willing to risk it all for you, he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable so he kept it to himself.

“Let’s go then.”

…

The car ride was comfortable, nothing different from the ordinary.

Well, maybe a little different.

From the corner of your eye, you could see Seungcheol looking at you at times. It was easy to guess what he was thinking about… but you were literally two minutes away from Jeonghan’s place!

And they would know.

You took a deep breath.

“Don't even think about it.”

“What?” Seungcheol tried playing it off, even though he knew he had been caught. Even his voice raised a few octaves.

“We can’t! Not now at least…” As much as you tried hiding your pout, you couldn’t.

Of course, you wanted to fuck Seungcheol but with how rough he got… you knew you would get your makeup all messed up and that was something you did not want to deal with at the moment.

“Well… can I get a kiss before we head inside?” He gave you puppy eyes after putting the car in park.

God was he annoying. It annoyed you that his tricks always worked on you. But before you could say anything he was already leaning over the console, fluttering his stupidly long eyelashes with his lips puckered. He knew he looked stupid but teasing you was his favorite thing to do.

Without a second thought, you leaned in to give him a light peck. That should be good enough to hold him off for the next few hours right? Nope. Just before you were finished pulling away, his hand swiftly pulled you back to his lips. You couldn’t stop yourself from following his lead, especially when his hand was keeping your head steady.

Before it could escalate to something more, you felt your phone vibrate. Finally, pulling away while ignoring Cheol’s pleas, you went to check who had texted you.

Ugh.

It was Jeonghan, asking why you weren’t there yet.

“We can continue this later Cheol. Jeonghan’s asking me where we are.” You spoke softly, you knew how sulky Seungcheol would get if he didn’t get what he wanted, but it had to be done.

But fortunately, that was enough to convince him to hold off on his desires. And so he finally stepped out of the car, but only after telling you to not move an inch.

After he opened the door for you, you both began to walk to Jeonghan’s place. It was a nice walk to his place. It would have been even more nice had Seungcheol not tried holding your hand. Was he trying to give you a heart attack? Seriously, everything he did made it feel like he was your boyfriend… which he was not. It really didn’t help your blossoming feelings for him either, it was like he was purposely adding fuel to the fire. But you knew there was nothing behind his gestures, he’s been like this even before you started hooking up.

“C’mon… my hands are cold without yours!” God was he annoying. He was a living embodiment of the pleading emoji, always finding a way to use his puppy eyes to his advantage. But you loved to indulge him every single time.

You rolled your eyes, “What about your other hand? If I only hold this one, then the other one will stay cold.”

“The other hand is connected to the other, so once you hold my hand they both get warmed up.” Seungcheol countered all smug as if that didn’t sound like the dumbest thing he’s ever said.

“I don’t think it works like that-”

“You guys took forever!” Jeonghan said while looking at both you and Seungcheol. You immediately ripped your hand away from Cheol’s.

Jeonghan’s eyes were carrying an entertained look to them, you hope he didn’t see the whole thing between you and Seungcheol. That would be really hard to explain.

But before you could think anything of it, the sound of your favorite voice (besides Cheol's) had gotten your attention.

“y/n~ there's a special surprise waiting for you in the kitchen!” Soonyoung had yelled out behind Jeonghan.

“And… that's my cue!” You immediately sped off towards the kitchen. Tonight was all about having fun and you were going to take advantage of it. Head empty, no thoughts. That is what you were striving for.

Now Seungcheol and Jeonghan were left alone.

“So… you and y/n? Finally?” Jeonghan prodded after your swift departure. He has been waiting for the day that you and Seungcheol finally got together.

“No… not yet at least,” Seungcheol said with a sigh. Even when he didn’t mean to get all sulky, it always happened. It was like second nature to him.

Jeonghan raised his eyebrow to this. While it was amusing to see both of his friends be blind to the other’s feelings, it was just as frustrating. For the past few years, he witnessed how stupid people could truly be. How was it possible that you and Seungcheol were not aware of each other’s feelings? Anybody could see it clear as day. But he couldn’t do anything about it, since at the end of the day, it was not his place to get involved. So with a loud, disappointed sigh, Jeonghan patted Seungcheol’s back. All he could really do was provide advice and comfort.

“Just tell her man, I am more than sure that she will return your feelings.”

Seungcheol groaned at the thought.

“I will but I still need to find the perfect-”

“Time, yes I know that. You’ve been saying that for years now.” Jeonghan was displeased. “But what if y/n begins to think that she’s wasting her time with you? What happens then?”

Seungcheol really wanted to fire back but he couldn’t find anything to say.

And just like that, Jeonghan went inside, leaving Seungcheol outside in the cold.

Jeonghan's 'party' was quite small in reality. It was really just the guys with some of their significant others, nothing crazy.

Well.

Except for Soonyoung and his drinking.

You weren't known to be a heavy drinker but when it came to special occasions, your friends knew you could get down.

Luckily for them, today had been quite stressful in terms of work. So after a few pleas from Soonyoung and Seokmin, you indulged in a few shots. After all, a little never hurt... right?

Wrong.

Needless to say, you got wasted within a matter of hours.

It wasn't your fault though! The games Soonyoung came up with were really entertaining, you just couldn't help yourself.

The burn of the alcohol didn't phase you as much after your fourth shot. The aftertaste was still disgusting of course, but nothing a chaser couldn't fix.

Soonyoung, being the lightweight that he is, was already nearing the edge of blacking out. And Seokmin... you didn't know where he went to. Maybe the bathroom? Well, he was for sure in the house, you'll find him sooner or later.

God, your eyes were beginning to feel heavy and it didn't help that everything was starting to look blurry as well.

You decided to stand up and walk off the sudden drowsiness, that usually helped you wake up a bit. Instead, you felt a sudden rush go straight to your head, which threw you off balance.

Maybe you should-

“…And I think we’re done with the drinks,” Seungcheol said as he magically appeared behind you, taking the empty cup in your hand and throwing it away.

His free hand snaked its way down to your waist. "Feeling good? Need some water love?"

If you were in the right state of mind, you would be definitely thinking about how intimate this would look to the others.

But all you could think about was how his hand was leaving a warm, tingly feeling on your waist. The way his touch was firm yet gentle at the same time.

You were so focused on his touch that you forgot to answer the question he had originally asked you.

He leaned his head further into your neck, "I'll take that as a yes... did you want to head out?"

It was nearing ten o'clock, which should be considered a reasonable time to leave.

"Hmmm... I guess so."

The idea of climbing into bed and just dozing off was so tempting. Unfortunately, you had to wait which was the worst part of it all.

Before you could continue thinking about how comfortable your bed was, you felt something cold press against your cheek.

You shrieked at the feeling.

“Why would you do that?” You yelled out in surprise.

Turning around to look at Seungcheol, you couldn’t help but freeze. His gaze sent you shivers, or maybe it was because of the water bottle still pressed to your cheek. Either way, you were rendered speechless.

“You need to drink your water that’s why.” His tone was innocent but the smile that accompanied it was quiet… mischievous.

“…and maybe because you ignored me today. ”

There it was. He always found a reason to pout and sulk to you.

So you did as you were told and drank from the bottle. It did help wake you up a little bit but you were still far from sober.

"Let's say goodbye to everyone now." He took your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. This action alone making your body burn up.

You don't remember too much after that, only slurring out your goodbyes to your friends.

It had only been a few minutes since the two of you had arrived at his apartment. He decided it would be better in your case since his place was closer to Jeonghan's compared to yours.

“Since when did you have these products?” You stared in drunken awe, most of your skincare products were in his bathroom.

Shit. He hopes you don't think he's a complete freak. He bought your skincare products for the nights that you would spend at his place. He just wanted to make you feel at home with him. (And maybe this was his way of convincing you to stay the night with him since you had everything you needed…)

“Um… just figured it would be more convenient for you…” he prayed that you would think it was a kind gesture rather than him being a weirdo.

You took a second to respond, admiring how thoughtful he was when it came to making you feel comfortable.

“It's cute, I'm honestly more surprised you were able to get some of these products, some of them are exclusively online...” your eyes flitted to look at his. "Although, I don't think I'm capable of doing my whole routine right now." It was true, you were barely able to stand, imagine trying to do your skincare like this…

“I can do it for you,” he chipped in immediately after.

This filled you with that warm feeling you were now getting accustomed to. What was he doing to your heart?

He tapped the toilet lid, waiting for you to sit so he could begin his work. You knew it was pointless trying to stop him, once he had his mind set on something he wouldn’t let anything get in his way from completing it.

“Not yet. I still have to brush my teeth first.” And maybe this was your time to calm down before he eventually caressed your face for ten minutes straight.

Seungcheol took advantage of the little time you gave him and got changed into something comfortable. He also pulled out some more loose-fitting clothes since he knew you liked wearing baggier clothes to lounge around in. He wondered if it would be too ridiculous if he put them in the dryer to warm them up for you. It shouldn’t be, right?

"Are you sure you want to do this?" You asked apprehensively.

"Of course." He said without a second thought.

"Anything for you, remember?" His eyes were filled with something, some would say love but you didn't want to get too ahead of yourself.

He started to warm up the oil cleanser in between his hands. Then he gently applied the oil to your face, rubbing it in slow circles as to not irritate your face.

It was at times like this that made you worry if your arrangement was a bad idea. Sometimes you wish you would have just confessed to him instead of jumping straight into bed with him. Maybe things would have turned out differently had you done so.

Unwanted tears began pooling in your eyes. Why were these thoughts eating you up all of a sudden?

Seungcheol was quick to notice the tears.

"Did I get it in your eyes? I'm so sorry-"

“Cheol… I don’t think I can continue with- whatever this is,” you hiccuped, “i-it's just too much for me.”

His heart dropped.

What do you mean stop? He thought everything was going great, he was even planning on officially asking you out tomorrow.

“Why? I mean if that's how you really feel then we can stop, but at least tell me why, love.” Though his tone was understanding you could still see the concern in his eyes.

“I don't know... I just feel so conflicted. Like the way you treat me makes me want more with you but I know that's probably not what you want.” It felt as if a huge weight had been taken off of your shoulders. He’s right, you can't just end the arrangement without telling him why.

Continuing, “I just can't help it, I really like you but I know this is just casual for you and I would hate to put you in an uncomfortable position.” You ignored meeting his eyes, knowing you would cry even more if you saw the way he was looking at you right now.

On the other hand, Seungcheol was stunned, to say the least. But he was also relieved to hear the reason you wanted to end things was because you liked him but now he had to stop you from crying. He needed to let you know that he liked you just as much if not even more.

He was usually good with words but he didn’t really know what to say… so he hugged you instead. Hug was actually an understatement. His whole body tightly engulfed yours. He didn’t want to let you go at all.

“Cheol…?”

You tried wiggling out of his grasp but there was no point in trying, he had a very tight hold on you.

“You actually had me worried there for a second, I thought I actually did something wrong.”

Oh.

He cupped your face, which, by the way, was still oily because of the makeup remover.

"I was planning on asking you out tomorrow," he let out a soft laugh, "but I guess you beat me to it." He pressed a light peck to your lips.

“Wait, so does that mean…” okay that sounds dumb. But in true fashion, you had to ask him if he really meant it (even if he just confessed to you).

He laughs at your confusion but nods nonetheless.

"I'm sorry I made you feel that way though," he says wholeheartedly, "I actually wanted to avoid making you feel like I was only using you."

Before you could think of anything to say his hands returned their motions on your face.

"We should finish cleaning you up before we continue talking about us."

It was quiet but not uncomfortable. Soft giggles from either you or Cheol came and went.

He had finished around ten minutes later.

Your eyes were beginning to get heavy again, the sleepiness slowly creeping over you again.

And again, he noticed this. He was always able to read you.

"We can talk about it tomorrow," his tone was soft. He tried his best to not disturb your sleepy state.

His hand went to the small of your back, lightly guiding you to his bedroom.

Once you climbed onto the bed you fell asleep not even a minute later. Seungcheol quickly followed as soon as he cuddled up against you.

It was calm.

It had been almost an hour since you had woken up. Your head wasn't hurting as bad as you thought it would be. Maybe it was because someone kept making you drink water throughout the night.

Speaking of him, Seungcheol was currently busy with making breakfast, which left you the freedom to lounge around the living room.

Until a certain thought came up.

Well, more like thoughts.

You were recounting last night's events and what still weighed on your mind.

You knew you had confessed to Cheol and that he returned your feelings… but something felt off. It still felt like you needed to tell him something but you couldn’t place your finger on exactly what it was.

“Here,” Cheol had placed the food right next to you. God, it wasn’t even anything special but his food looked so damn good.

Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to eat it.

“Is something wrong?” Seungcheol asked apprehensively, his gaze filled with worry.

You didn’t know where to begin.

Maybe you should tell him about the guy you had hooked up with a while ago, the one that didn’t know where your clit was… that’s a good start right?

Obviously you know you didn’t really do anything wrong but it still weighs heavy on your mind from time to time.

"I need to tell you something, but promise me you won't get mad at me," you pleaded.

He looked at you incredulously, "It can't be that bad."

Taking a deep breath you begin, "I slept with someone else. But, this was before we came up with the arrangement, I think maybe a few days after we..." your voice immediately got stuck in your throat once you caught a glimpse of Cheol.

He was oddly calm. Too calm for your liking.

"Did you like it?" His voice didn't hold any trace of anger but you knew he was bothered by it.

You knew that you had to be cautious with your wording.

"No! I think I was just confused at the time so I experimented ," Your voice was meek. "It didn't mean anything, I promise."

He looked at you briefly. "That's too bad."

Huh?

To your dismay, he stood up and walked away into his bedroom.

You felt frozen in a way, confused about how to handle the situation. But rather than letting it grow into something worse you decided to follow him to his room. Talking it out will for sure help.

As you walked towards his door, you noticed that it had been left wide open.

Was this a setup?

Carefully, you stepped inside his room while searching for him. You were met with the sound of the door slamming shut, and a sudden presence behind your back.

"Cheol-" He turned you towards him, his hold was quite firm; though not to be confused with harsh.

"I'm not mad I promise," he leaned closer to kiss you. While his tone was gentle his kiss was not.

He pulled away for just a second.

"Why be mad when I have you all to myself now?"

Before he could go any further he pulled away again.

"Is this okay?"

Immediately, you nodded to let him continue his ministrations.

He cupped your cheeks once again to kiss you.

After a minute or so, he moved down to your neck. At first, he pressed light pecks but eventually started lingering on certain spots.

"Need to let everyone know that you're mine."

With that, he continued marking your neck, making sure that everyone would be able to see that you were now taken.

And while you loved the feeling of him marking you up, you couldn't help but want more.

"Cheol, please," your breaths were labored.

He hummed into the crook of your neck.

"Can you please just fuck me already?" You were growing needier by the second. Your panties were sticking uncomfortably against your heat.

He scoffed at your sudden urgency.

"I still need to prep you though," he tried reasoning with you, but to no avail, it fell upon deaf ears.

"We can do that any other day Cheol," the thought of having to wait a second longer pained you.

But, if that's how you wanted it... how could he deny you that?

He roughly exhaled before focusing on you again.

"Clothes," he instructed with a tug to your (his) shirt.

He did the same in return. Once you were both done stripping, he pushed you towards his bed so he could begin his work on you.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to get prepped first?” He was lightly tracing his fingers over your inner thighs.

Had it been with anyone else you would for sure need prep but Cheol was always careful with you, you trusted him.

“Yes, god, please just fuck me.” Desperate couldn’t begin to describe how you were feeling at the moment.

With that final confirmation, he began to work. While he knew you didn't want to be prepped he still wanted to work you up a bit. Gently, he grabbed a hold of your thighs and started spreading them apart.

He trailed soft kisses at an excruciatingly slow rate. But eventually, he landed on your core. He peppered it with another round of kisses, the pressure varying between each kiss.

After a minute or so he pulled away and slotted himself right in between your legs.

Holding his cock in his hand, he stroked it twice and then ran the tip up and down your slit. No matter how many times you fuck Seungcheol, you will never get used to the initial sting of his cock. It also doesn’t help that he’s so big.

He slowly nudged the tip towards your entrance. Gradually, he carefully pushed himself deeper inside you, cautious knowing that he hadn’t prepped you. After the first few seconds the feeling went away, leaving you with want. You moved your hips to let him know you wanted more.

"Fuck," you manage.

"Can't take me?" He almost pulls out fully before snapping his cock into you again.

You hated when he got this cocky, but you couldn't deny that it didn't turn you on even more.

“Shut up,” you tried hiding the pleasure in your voice while he slowly went in and out of you.

He only hummed in response. Soon he became enveloped in you, his thrusts were slowly picking up pace while he held onto you tightly. Your senses were completely invaded by Seungcheol, only being able to think about him.

“I will never get used to how tight you are,” his voice was strained, trying his best to not cum inside you. (because that would be embarrassing, not for you but for him)

All you could do was moan in response.

After a few months of consistent hookups, Seungcheol had learned about your body pretty quickly, from your kinks, to your turn offs… he practically knew your body inside and out.

Which explained how he knew you were on the brink of coming, your walls tightening around him being a common telltale sign.

Usually, he would edge you for a good hour or so, but after last night’s ordeal he just wanted to show you how much you affected him. So with that, Seungcheol lazily brought his free down to your clit and began to rub slow yet firm circles. He knew that playing with your bud would immediately send you over the edge. It also didn’t help that his pace was becoming more erratic, by the looks of it, you would be coming together.

And just like that, after a few more thrusts he felt you begin to spasm underneath him, letting a loud string of moans out during the act. Seungcheol dipped his head towards your lips as he came inside you, making you swallow his groans in the process.

Shortly after, Seungcheol’s body fell completely limp on yours, feeling only pure exhaustion. It felt nice, only being able to feel his heavy body on top of yours… kind of therapeutic in a sense. But unfortunately that didn’t last very long, because after a minute or so, everything began to feel wet and sticky.

As if reading your mind, Seungcheol mumbled out a low, “let’s get cleaned up.”

While you were obviously up for it, the thought of having to stand up at this very moment felt horrible. As he slowly pulled out of you, you couldn’t help but just stay on the bed. This did not go well with Seungcheol.

“Y/n c’mon, we have to get you cleaned up,” he whined while tugging on your arm.

“Just five more minutes, I still can’t feel my legs!” Were you being over dramatic? Yes, but it’s not like he’s not used to it.

“Y/n we have to get ready to go out.” This time he pulled you all the way up, keeping you steady while you regained your balance. You did recall him mentioning going out today but you don’t remember exactly where.

“Really? Where are we going?” The excitement of going out completely masked the feeling of your jelly-like legs.

“Nowhere in specific.” Your smile dropped. What does he mean nowhere? You hated when he turned things into surprises. (Hate is a strong word but you get the idea.)

He shrugged his shoulders, “Just wanted to show my new girlfriend off to the world I guess…”

Ugh. He is so annoying.

“Never say that again, ever.”

Yet, you couldn’t hide the smile slowly creeping up towards your face. Hearing him call you his girlfriend was definitely something you could get used to.

I am so so so sorry for leaving you guys hanging! It was not my intention I swear,, I just kept taking and adding to the fic which is why it got delayed so bad… at least the finale is here right? The last part was not proofread so I’m hoping that it’s legible, hope you enjoy :3

[headkiss]

you’ll always know me

part 1, part 2

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: even as the crowds at his shows get bigger and bigger, eddie munson still has you, his very best friend. or, (for my swifties) eddie munson is your dorothea.

word count: 8.6k

warnings: fluff, a little angst, childhood best friends to lovers (sort of), weed and smoking, librarian!reader, first kiss, so many uses of the words “i miss you,” and some idiots in love !!!

a/n: hiiiii!!! this one took so long but i really love rockstar!eddie and i hope you do too!!! this is inspired by tis the damn season and especially dorothea by taylor swift <3 thank you to my love @inkluvs for encouraging me on this one ily!!!

♫♩♪♬

It’s surreal to watch someone close to you grow so much bigger than the town you live in.

To know that the person you see on the news, at award shows on your TV screen, is the same one who used to push you on the swings at the playground, who used to walk with you to and from school, who grew up beside you, closer than anyone else ever could have.

Closer than anyone ever would, still.

To most people, he’s Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist of Corroded Coffin. To you, he’s Eddie, the best friend you’ve ever had.

You can go back years and years, and Eddie’s woven into your life for so much of it. So is his music. You can pick out the points: watching Corroded Coffin play for the first time in middle school, watching their first gig at the Hideout, being in the front row for it all wearing the widest smile, having the loudest cheers.

Even the late night phone calls you’d get when he’d be stuck on lyrics, when he wanted someone’s opinion and chose to dial your number instead of his bandmates’.

(“Hello?”

“I can’t get this line to sound right.”

“Let’s hear it, Munson.”)

You’re often in disbelief of where he is now. Not because you ever doubted him, but because even after so long, it’s strange not to see him every day. You’re insanely proud of him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t miss him.

Because you do. You miss him so much.

A box sits on the top shelf of your closet, one filled with newspaper and magazine clippings, articles about the band’s success, positive reviews about their shows and their albums. Things to show that Eddie’s dream came true, and that’s a rare thing.

There’s only one kind of tabloid you choose not to keep: the ones booming with rumors you selfishly hope aren’t true.

‘Lead singer of Corroded Coffin has a new spark? Read more to find out who’s caught famous bad boy Eddie Munson’s eye.’

You see him constantly in pictures, through a screen, but you only really ever see him on holidays, when he’s able to come home. When he comes bursting back into your life in vibrant fireworks with his stupid, pretty smile and stupid, shining brown eyes. When he comes back only to leave all over again.

You only have yourself to blame, really, for letting it tear you up. Because more than anything, you’re happy for him, so happy you could never express it properly, but still, there’s an ache in you when he crosses your mind, when the feelings linger.

Life in Hawkins for you consists of working at the library, reading your days and thoughts away, hanging out with the gang when you’re up to it, and that’s about it.

Eddie always knows where to find you when he does come home, usually barging into the library with his arms open for a hug, one you rush into easily. You always spend the couple days he has in Hawkins together, being the you and him you’ve been since you were kids. But the lingering reminder doesn’t fade, the reminder of him having to leave looming over you like a storm cloud.

Eddie Munson comes home sporadically, unknowingly taking your heart with him wherever he goes. And when his inevitable departure takes place, you’re forced to regrow what’s missing from your chest. Every single time.

-

Besides his uncle Wayne, who could only ever see him as a troublemaking kid, you’re the only person who’s never treated Eddie any differently.

Not in high school when he was labeled a freak, not even when the fame rose so suddenly it felt like a tidal wave. You kept him afloat. You keep him afloat.

He knows he should call more often, he knows that even if the phone works both ways, you really don’t have a way of keeping track of which hotel he’s in, which state, which country, even. He knows that falls on him.

Your phone number’s burned into Eddie’s memory. He could never forget it, and still, he can’t seem to find the time to dial it. He’ll get called away, or he’ll just be getting back from a show and barely have the energy to shower before getting in bed. Worse, he’ll get the panicked sense that you won’t pick up anymore.

At least he’s never missed your birthday. That, he’ll always make time for, usually phoning you at the same time that a bouquet of flowers arrives at your door. And somehow, even when he’s away, you don’t miss his birthday, either.

Eddie’s sitting on the small couch in his dressing room, waiting to go on stage, thinking of you the way he often does.

He wonders if you think of him, too. If you miss him or if you’re angry that he’s gone so often, that he can barely even manage a fucking phone call. Though, you were never the type to be angry. Never with him, at least.

He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you tell him ‘good luck’ before going on stage like you used to. He peeks at the table next to the couch. Eddie’s not sure how much time he has before he needs to go, but he figures it’s worth a try.

Just as he’s about to pick up the phone in his dressing room, there’s a knock on the door.

“Munson! You’re on in five!”

He’ll call you later, then.

-

“Beginning descent to the Indianapolis International Airport.”

The muffled sound through the airplane’s speakers is followed by the ding of the seatbelt signs being turned on. Eddie shifts in his seat to look out the window. He’s got his own little cubicle in first class, and though this is how he always flies now (other than when he finds himself on a private jet, which is even more unbelievable), he’s still not used to it.

He’s itching to get out of this seat, then he remembers that he’s still got the trek through the airport and the drive back to Hawkins. It’ll be worth it to see Wayne, who he doesn’t see nearly as often as he should, and get his classic hug with a slap on his shoulder.

It’ll be worth it to see you, who makes Hawkins feel more like home. You, who reminds him of the person he’s always been, the parts that get lost on the road. You, who hugs him tighter than anyone else ever has.

His hands clench into fits in his lap.

As soon as Eddie steps off the plane, his security team finds him. He’d assured them that he’d be fine, really, but this is how it is for him now. Through baggage claim and all the way to the car that’s waiting for him outside, security takes a step whenever he does.

Shutting the car door as he slides into the backseat, Eddie tips his head back and sighs.

The car ride feels shorter than usual, the city fading into trees and fields until the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign comes into view. The gravel crunches under the car’s tires as it pulls into the trailer park. Wayne’s got enough to get a better place now, Eddie made sure of it, but he never did. He’d never admit it but Wayne’s sentimental, and the trailer houses too many memories to let go of it.

After all, it was home.

Stepping through the front door there’s the smell that he’d never noticed until he’d been gone for weeks at a time. The settled dust, the faint smoke of cigarettes, coffee, and the room spray Wayne inevitably uses to try and cover it all up.

Eddie drags his bags inside, waves to his driver, and shuts the door behind him.

Then, Wayne’s warm rasp, “my boy. Get in okay?”

He’s wrapped in his uncle’s classic hug quickly, the pats on his shoulder and all. Eddie closes his eyes and soaks it in, just for a second, “yeah. It was fine.”

“Good, good,” Wayne says, pulling back and grasping Eddie’s shoulders, getting a good look at him. “Take a shower.”

“Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?”

“Nah, that’s me telling you that you smell like airport, boy.”

“It’s great to see you, too,” Eddie says, smiling.

He and Wayne have the kind of relationship that time doesn’t really affect all that much. Whether Eddie’s away for a week or a month, or two, or three, they fall back into things like he’d never even left.

He knows Wayne’s probably lonely, probably hiding more than he could imagine, but he also knows that he loves him, and that’s always a good thing to know, to feel. Loved.

“Shut up, you know I missed you,” Wayne shakes Eddie’s shoulders and lets go, “now go wash up and you can tell me about your last show over some coffee, sound good?”

“Sounds good. I missed you too, Wayne.”

Eddie carries his bags into his room, leaving them open on the ground rather than unpacking. He’ll just have to pack them all over again, anyways.

Before long, the trailer’s small bathroom is filling with steam as Eddie steps into the shower, dropping his neck back and letting the water run over his shoulders, his back. He stands like that for a bit, simply letting the heat melt away at the tension in his muscles.

By the time he steps out, the mirror is completely fogged with steam, and Eddie wipes away at a section to look at himself. The bags under his eyes, the mess of his hair that he doesn’t bother taming, the small scratch on his chin from one of his rings. He shakes his head and heads into his room with his towel around his waist.

He throws on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a faded band tee, his hair soaking the back of it drop by drop.

In the kitchen, Wayne’s got two mugs of coffee sitting on the small table, a seat already pulled out for Eddie to take.

“Thanks.”

He nods, sipping from his mug as Eddie does the same.

In the silence, he can’t help but think of you, of how close he is to you now. Mere minutes away. He wonders what you’re doing, if you’re reading in bed after your shift, if you’d just showered like him, if you’re thinking of him, too.

“I saw her the other day,” Wayne says.

They both know he means you.

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll ask her that when you see her tomorrow, but she seemed good.”

“How'd you know I’m gonna see her tomorrow?”

“Come on, kid. You go to the library the day after you get in every time and think I don’t notice?”

Eddie looks down at the mug in his hands, his face warm. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t have him feeling all shy and nervous, like he’d been caught, but it does.

“She misses you,” Wayne adds.

“She tell you that?”

“Doesn’t have to. I’ve known that girl since she was little and running after you on the playground. I can tell.”

Wayne has always said that you’re as good as family, after all. Eddie used to joke that his uncle liked you more than him, and you used to laugh and joke back that he was right.

Eddie’s suddenly very excited to sleep, only to get to tomorrow quicker.

“I miss her, too.”

“Yeah, kid. I know,” Wayne leaves it there, switching things over, “I saw you almost eat shit on TV the other day.”

“Come on!” Eddie groans. He’d tripped over a fucking wire on stage. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was still fuckin’ funny.”

“Of all the shows, you just had to tune in for that one.”

Wayne asks about the tour, about how Eddie’s liking it this time around, about whether or not there’s anything new he’s working on.

In return, Eddie asks about the mechanic’s, about whether or not Wayne’s back has been acting up (which earns him a light slap on the back of the head), about what’s changed in Hawkins since the last time he’d been home.

Even through the smiles he shares with his uncle, Eddie’s wondering how you’ll react when you see him tomorrow, picturing how it’ll feel to be near you again. He gets that feeling in his gut, the butterflies that are nerves and excitement and questions and feelings rolled into one.

He’s pretty sure he dreams about you, too.

-

Your shifts at the library are always long; full days of scanning and shelving books. You’re lucky to say that you actually like your job. The smell of worn pages, the peacefulness (save for when Dustin comes barging in with his stack of overdue books that you let him off the hook for every time), the interactions that are almost always short and sweet since it’s meant to be a quiet place.

Your eight or nine or however many hour days go by much quicker now than they did during your high school job at the grocery store, that’s for sure.

You’re pushing the put-back cart between shelves, humming a random song quietly as you place the books where they belong, sometimes pausing to straighten things out. It’s the middle of a weekday and you’re the only person in there anyway. That is, until the small bell on the front desk dings.

“Just a second!” You call, squeezing between the cart and the self beside it to walk over to the front desk. You think your heart stops altogether.

You’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, the dark, frizzy curls. Hell, you’d recognize that damn denim vest anywhere, even the stance of the person wearing it. “Eddie?”

He turns around at the sound of your voice, and something lifts from his chest when he sees you. A grin spreads wide on his face, splitting his cheeks and crinkling his eyes in the corners, “there she is.”

Usually, when he comes home, it’s on a holiday and you’re expecting him, watching the door and waiting for him to walk through it. This time, you had no idea he’d be coming home. It’s the best surprise you could get.

You’re practically running into his arms, and he wraps them around your waist easily, yours tossed around his shoulders. Your face is buried in his neck, breathing him in, making sure this is real. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His hands clutch at the fabric over your sides, his head twisting so he can place a kiss over your hair, “had a break from tour. Missed home.”

And sure, Eddie hadn’t really realized just how much he missed it until he came back, it’s crystal clear now, with you hugging him. He really, really missed home.

You want to say something stupid and emotional like it hasn’t felt as much like home until now, or I missed the sound of your voice and the smell of your shampoo, but that would probably reveal a little too much.

“Just home you missed or…” you tease, pulling back to look at his face, his brown eyes that sort of sparkle. Your hands stay on his shoulders, his on your waist.

“I missed Wayne, obviously,” Eddie replies, acting oblivious and smiling at the small furrow in your brow.

“Eddie!”

“Aw, come on.” He tugs you in for another hug, his cheek squished against the side of your head. “‘Course I missed you, trouble.”

Trouble. You never knew you could miss a single word so much.

Eddie started calling you ‘trouble’ when you were kids, sometime in middle school when you’d stolen a bunch of his mixtapes and only returned them weeks later, when he finally noticed. He’d snatched them out of your hands and muttered ‘you’re trouble’ and it just stuck.

“Thank you,” you say, laughing when Eddie pulls back frowning at you. “And I missed you, too. Duh.”

“Duh.” He mocks. He lets go of you fully but doesn’t go far, leaning an elbow against the desk, “you’re doing okay?”

“I’m good. Things don’t change all that much around here, you know that.”

“I’m not asking about around here, I’m asking ‘bout you.”

You tug at the hair tie on your wrist. “I’m fine, Eddie. Promise.”

He nods, and there’s a small lull in the conversation that pinches at your chest for some reason. The sort of silence that never used to be there when it came to you and Eddie, always filling it with conversation or letting it be comfortable. Now, there’s something like awkwardness stretching and it stings.

Because it shouldn’t be there, because he’s Eddie and you’re you and you’re best friends and that’s all there should be to it. But it isn’t. You’re the same people, but so much is different.

“You working late?” He asks.

“Until we close.”

“Care for some company?”

You tilt your head at him, “you really wanna hang around the library for the last four hours of my shift?”

“Sounds like fun to me. I’ll even push the cart for you, and you can tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”

It’s funny that he thinks he’d ever have to convince you to spend time with him, when you’re practically pulling at any thread of him that you can, when you’re taking anything he has to give you. Two days, a week, a couple of phone calls.

It’s all better than not having him at all.

“Only if you tell me what I’ve missed, too. Like all the cool celebrities you’ve met.”

“Not as cool as you, trouble.” Eddie taps your nose, smiling at the way you scrunch it in response.

“Shut up and start pushing the cart, Munson.”

He stands straight and salutes, “yes ma’am.”

You’re still smiling when you shake your head, “idiot.”

Eddie really does spend the rest of the day with you, pushing the cart while you re-shelf books, sitting in the extra chair behind the counter while you file returns, ducking when someone else walks in.

He asks you about Robin and Steve, Dustin and Lucas, how the kids are finding school, whether Nancy’s been hired at a big paper yet. He asks you about your family, and most of all, about you.

He hangs onto every word you say. And not once do you say anything to make him feel bad for being away, if anything, you can’t stop telling him how proud you are, especially when he talks to you about what’s in the works.

“I always told you you’d make it, Munson.”

“Wouldn’t have done it without you, trouble.”

-

The next morning, you’re sitting across from him in the corner booth by the window at Benny’s for breakfast. The same way you did every Friday in high school, at the same table.

Whenever you wind up at Benny’s when Eddie’s away, you tend to avoid that booth. It’s pathetic. Like his absence is clearer than ever sitting there when he isn’t. When he’s not putting whipped cream on your nose or stealing food off your plate.

Now, it’s his presence that surrounds you, his smile and his laugh, his foot nudging yours under the table.

The menu is sticky under your fingertips where you hold it, faded from sunlight and discolored from coffee spills that stain the page. You don’t really need to be looking at it—after years of coming here, you’ve probably got the thing memorized—but you need the time to collect yourself. To remember that this is Eddie, and there’s nothing to be nervous about.

You need the time to stuff down that flutter in your gut and in your chest.

On the other side of the booth, Eddie takes your distraction as a chance to really look at you. The details he can’t seem to picture when he’s away like the flecks in your eyes or the exact shade of your lips.

He never realizes just how much he misses you until he’s home. Until he’s sitting across from you and listening to the sound of your voice clearly instead of through a crackling phone’s speaker, until he gets to see the way your eyes light up slightly when you laugh.

It sort of hits him all at once, and he’s thinking, God, I should call more often. I should visit more often.

After a couple of minutes, you look back at Eddie, “you know what you want?”

“I’ve been getting the same thing since high school, trouble. Don’t need the menu.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go order,” you say, placing your menu back in the holder by the window.

When you start sliding your way out of the booth, Eddie places a hand over yours on the table, “I can get it.”

You look down at your hands, his skin on yours, like you’d expected to see something there. A spark, a burn scorching your skin in the best way.

“I know you can,” you say, smiling at him. “But it’s my treat, okay? I want to get it.”

Eddie always feels sort of guilty when he’s not buying, because he has more than enough money to take care of it, more than he knows what to do with. Sometimes (often), people expect him to pay, even. And just like you’d known how he was feeling, you shut it down with a flash of your smile.

You shift to squeeze his hand before getting up and heading over to the counter, leaning on your elbows as you wait your turn.

Still, Eddie’s looking at you, his hand in the same spot on the table.

He knows that, despite it not being a busy morning at Benny’s, people are looking at him, whispering the way they did even in school. Only now, they’re saying they can’t believe it, look at him now, instead of calling him a freak. And just like in school, having you around makes the talk bearable. Hell, it makes it disappear, if only for a little while.

When the waiter finally comes over to take your order, you send him a kind smile, rattling off yours and Eddie’s orders.

Eddie watches the entire interaction. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone else, that it’s because he’s just making sure you’re alright. It’s certainly not because of how pretty he thinks you look today, not because of how hard it is to keep his eyes off of you.

The waiter is a younger guy, probably around your age. Someone Eddie doesn’t know. He seems to tell you a joke because you laugh, bright and sunny, and Eddie suddenly wishes that Benny was the one taking orders.

Because he should be the one to make you laugh like that, to be on the receiving end of your grin and crinkled eyes. Because there’s this weight in his stomach that feels a little too much like jealousy. Because you’re his best friend and he fucking misses you.

Eddie looks down at his hands and twists his rings around and around until you come back, the old booth squeaking as you sit down.

“You okay?” You ask, always noticing his nervous habit of fiddling with his rings.

She’s my friend, he reminds himself. My best friend, that’s all.

“‘Course I am.”

“The guy at the counter, Dan, wanted me to tell you he’s a fan.”

He shakes his head, “I can't believe I have those. Especially in this town.”

“Excuse me? Your biggest fan is sitting right here, in this town, Munson.”

He probably thinks you’re joking with the way he chuckles, chest rumbling. But, you’re not. The shoebox full of clippings says enough, and you don’t think he’d ever let you live it down if he knew about it.

“She want an autograph?” He teases, the heaviness in his stomach melting away. Your biggest fan.

“In your chicken scratch? Yeah right.”

It’s not long before your food arrives, plates of waffles and fruit, sides of bacon and hashbrowns. Of course, you inevitably end up with whipped cream on your nose and food missing from your plate.

It’s your favorite kind of breakfast.

-

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van—the same van he’s had since high school, that he refuses to replace—heading towards Steve’s place. It’s not unusual for either of you to be meeting up with the gang, but Eddie’s still nervous.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks you.

They don’t know he’s in town, and as sure as you are that they’ll be thrilled to see him, Eddie isn’t convinced. You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly as he drives.

“Everyone’s gonna be so happy to see you. Don’t you trust me?”

“‘Course I do,” he says easily, without thinking, “just haven’t seen anyone in a while, you know?”

“We all miss you, Eddie. It’ll be fun!”

Logically, he knows nobody’s gonna kick him out, or treat him any differently, but it doesn’t stop him from getting nervous. You wanted to surprise everyone, and how could he say no to you? So, here he is, gripping the steering wheel too tight and worrying too much.

Pulling into the driveway, he nods, “here we go.”

You hop out of the van before he has it shut off, but he catches up quickly. He follows you to the side gate of the house, watches you unlatch it and stroll into the yard. The sound of voices mingling hits his ears as you walk around the house and find your group of friends sitting around in lounge chairs.

“Look who I brought,” You announce.

Your shout is followed by eyes flicking towards you, then Eddie who stands beside you. Then, a chorus of his name, plus Argyle’s “rockstar!”

“Hey guys,” he says, waving shyly.

It’s odd to feel this way around these people that he’s known for years. Robin and Steve who’ve rented him way too many movies for free, Nancy and Johnathan who are probably why he graduated high school, and Argyle who was always his most loyal customer.

All of these memories and he feels a little too much like a stranger. At least he’s got you, who feels like one of the only sure things in his life. No matter how long goes by, you’re there, and he hopes you always will be.

“You want a drink?” Steve asks, leaning to reach into the cooler beside him.

“I’ll take one, thanks,” you say, catching the can Steve throws to you.

“I’m driving,” Eddie says, jingling his keys.

“Eddie Munson being responsible,” Robin teases, “they grow up so fast.”

And just like that, he feels a little better. These are his friends, and even though he’s not around all of the time, and even though he may not be as close to everyone anymore, they’ll still be his friends.

You sit down on the empty lounge chair and pat the space beside you for Eddie, sending him a smile that says both ‘told you so,’ in your snark he can practically hear, and ‘everything’s okay,’ in your kind way.

He plops down beside you.

“How’s everything going?” Johnathan asks him.

Not wanting all of the attention on him, Eddie keeps his answer short, “busy, but it’s a ton of fun.”

“Everything you ever dreamed of?” Robin adds.

“You could definitely say that.”

Though, Eddie has this strange feeling that he’s missing something whenever he’s gone. It’ll go away, but somehow, it always finds him again, when he’s debating on calling or not, when he’s hit with a memory of you in the front row at the Hideout when he’s on stage.

He looks over at you and finds you smiling softly at him, eyes fond. He can’t believe he’s the one you’re looking at like that.

Eddie blinks and turns back to the group, “how about you guys? How’re the jobs?”

The chatter picks up and surrounds him, but Eddie can’t stop thinking about the way you were looking at him just then. He’s never had someone look at him like that, like there’s nothing but affection there.

It’s platonic, he tells himself. She’s my best friend.

You feel happier now than you have in a while. Things feel more complete when Eddie’s around. Things feel right. It’s all of your favorite people with no empty chair, it’s falling back into a friendship that’s existed for years.

When conversations split off into smaller ones, you lean your head on his shoulder, and the words sort of slip out of you, “it’s really nice to have you here.”

His heart beats louder, he leans his head on top of yours, “it’s nice to be home.”

And it is. Eddie loves touring, he loves playing his music, and he loves his job, but at the end of the day, he’ll always be this boy from Hawkins, and he’ll always be happy to be home, to be with you.

Catching the moment, Argyle—always sharing his thoughts—says, “sick, you guys are finally together.”

You and Eddie both sit up, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even when you’ve sat like that countless times before.

Everyone’s eyes seem to be on the both of you now, and you have a tiny panic inside. Have you really been that obvious with how you feel? Does Eddie know and he hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t want to hurt you?

You laugh awkwardly, “what?”

“Like, dating,” Argyle explains.

“Me and Eddie?”

He’d been frozen for a second there, surprised that Argyle thought that. Was he seeing something Eddie couldn’t? No, no way.

“Just friends, guys,” Eddie says. “Come on.”

You swallow, forcing out a word, “exactly.”

“They’ve always been like this,” Nancy says, which explains enough but also sort of nothing at all.

Just friends. It’s something you know, you remind yourself constantly. It’s all it’ll ever be, and still, hearing Eddie say it out loud has your stomach feeling heavy. Just friends, get over it.

Even as conversation picks up again, as you laugh with everyone, the two words play in your head over and over. Then, after saying your goodbyes, once you’re in the van with Eddie again, it fades, because if you can’t be in love with him, you can be his best friend, and you’d much rather have that than nothing at all.

Once he drops you off, Eddie thinks and thinks about what Argyle had said. He goes over memories, over how he feels around you, and it hits him like a huge punch to the gut.

He thinks he has feelings for you. Big, huge feelings.

-

It’s the same day, a different sky, the sun sunk behind the horizon to give way to a sky full of stars and a bright moon.

Eddie’s van is parked by Lover’s Lake, the back full of blankets where you both sit, the doors open to look at the sky and the way the moonlight reflects on the water.

There’s practically an indent in the ground in the spot he’s parked, the one that’s been your go-to for ages. From day picnics to nighttime smoke sessions, it’s another place on the list of the ones that are filled with memories of Eddie.

Beside you, he’s got a joint in hand, the flick of his lighter catching your ears over the crickets and the breeze. You watch him inhale, his chest expanding, the smoke slipping from his lips. You turn back to the water.

“Your turn,” he says, handing you the joint.

You grab it between your fingertips and bring it to your mouth, feeling the smoke trail down your throat, further, then you’re breathing it out, clearing your throat at the tickle.

“Out of practice?” Eddie teases at your small cough.

“My favorite weed dealer went out of business,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “so, yeah.”

He takes the joint back from you, “you don’t smoke when I’m not around? You know Argyle’s gotta have some stock.”

“Oh, he definitely does. A little too exotic for my taste. Besides, he won’t give it to me for free.”

“Getting cheap, trouble?”

You shrug, shoulder to your cheek, and give him an innocent smile.

It feels easy, the joint being passed back and forth between sentences until it’s done and stubbed out, the flow of conversation, the comfort that’s there. It’s always been easy with him, even when it hurts a little.

Eddie’s got on his worn denim vest, still full of pins, and you tug at it, “think this thing has a permanent weed smell by now.”

“I think that’s just part of my natural scent,” he replies, playfully flipping his hair over his shoulder.

His curls graze your cheek—that’s how close you’re sitting, thighs touching—and you giggle. You’ve had so many nights just like this one with Eddie, and it feels like some kind of reward that you get to have them still, even when they’re far less regular now.

“Doesn’t this make you think of high school?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Eddie’s hand is on his knee, his pinky twitches, reaching for your leg, “hell, I’m even wearing the same clothes as in high school.”

“How does it feel like yesterday and also a lifetime ago?”

Eddie looks over at you, the warm glow of moonlight and stars on your skin, the way your sweater hangs off your shoulder, the shine in your eyes that’s part weed and part nostalgia.

“A lot’s changed since then,” he says. “I’m not a loser anymore.”

“You’re still my loser.”

How is it that even when you’re calling him a loser, the idea of being yours in any sense of the word is enough to have Eddie’s heart swell in his chest, a balloon floating up and up and he has to swallow to push it back down.

“Stop being cheesy,” he plays it off, ruffling your hair.

You shove his arm away, “I just miss you!”

Eddie looks at his arm, your hand still holding onto it, he follows your arm with his gaze until it lands on your face. He thinks you’re beautiful, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and no groupie could change that.

“I miss you, too, trouble.”

Something shifts, the air growing thicker, a sort of understanding between the two of you. There’s something here, something that could be a disaster but could also be so, so good. Could be everything.

“No way you think about me when you’ve got crowds and fans and-“

“I think about you a lot, honey.”

Honey. He’s probably called you that before, but never like this. Never dripping sweet and sincere, never looking at you like he wants to do something you can’t even let yourself imagine in fear of being let down, of hoping too much.

Eddie’s hand shifts from his own leg to yours, thumb running back and forth, burning you even through the fabric of your pants.

“You do?”

“All the time. You’re my best friend.”

Right. Friend.

“You’re mine, too, Eddie.”

And suddenly you can feel his breath fan across your cheek, your lips. His face is close to yours and the hair that falls over his forehead tickles yours. Just a second ago he’d been saying the word ‘friend,’ and now it feels like he’s going to do something to contradict that.

Against all odds, he does.

Eddie couldn’t help himself. Maybe he’ll blame the weed, or maybe he won’t, but before he knows it he’s reaching up with the hand that isn’t on his leg to cup your cheek and tilt your head. And he’s kissing you.

He’s kissing you.

It’s so delicate, so much you’re afraid to even breathe, like it’ll break in an instant. Eddie’s fingers squeeze your leg, urge you to kiss him back and there’s no way that you wouldn’t. Not when his lips are actually on yours, not when he tastes like weed and mint gum and something perfect.

It could be seconds or minutes that you’re kissing, tilting your head even more to feel him, clutching his sleeve tightly. It never deepens, but it doesn’t have to, it says enough.

When you pull away, it’s not one or the other who does it, it’s natural, like it’s been rehearsed time and time again. Eddie leans his forehead against yours, his hand still on your cheek.

“Was that a bad idea?” He asks you, voice low and quiet.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” And you don’t, because there’s no way of knowing what’s gonna happen next, if things will be ruined, if this will fade away like it never happened, or, maybe, just maybe, if it’ll start something.

“Was it okay?”

“More than okay.”

You don’t talk about it that night, and you don’t want to just yet. You’re fine with enjoying the pink-tinted haze at least until tomorrow.

-

Eddie’s barely been gone for two days and you’re not sure what to do with yourself. After that night, neither of you brought it up, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. You were scared. And anyway, it was probably just the weed for him.

You’d never kissed before. Sure, you’ve come close, faces inches apart when you’d share a bed, whispers away, but nothing ever happened. Until now.

Now, sitting on your bed, chin resting on your knees, you’re reeling from knowing what Eddie’s lips feel like and missing him all over again. Rebuilding that piece in your chest.

Somewhere else in the country, in the world, Eddie’s position isn’t so different from yours. He’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, forearms on his knees, head bent. He wants to call you, and he’s figuring out what he’ll say when he does.

He misses you every time he isn’t home, but it’s never felt like this. There’s never been this ache in his stomach that won’t go away because of it. Fuck, he misses you more than ever.

The last trip back to Hawkins was different than anything else, because he brought back these feelings with him and he keeps reaching up to press his fingertips to his lips, like the memory of your own lingers there.

Sure, he’s had silly, sticky thoughts like waking up with his arms around you after a nap and thinking he could wake up that way forever, but he’s always pushed them down. Now, it seems, he can’t, the images too buoyant to ignore, floating back up every time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he sits up and reaches for the phone, dialing your number that’s stored in his memory. His leg bounces as the phone rings.

You’re startled by the screech of your phone on your bedside table, head lifting to look at it shake on the receiver. You reach over and pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, trouble. It’s not a bad time, is it?”

Eddie. His voice crackling through the phone sends a spike down your spine. You clutch the phone a little tighter.

You’d expected Robin, or Nancy, even Steve. Because there’d been a time, earlier in Corroded Coffin’s career, when Eddie would call you at least three times a week, and then the calls grew less frequent until they sort of died out to holidays and birthdays.

So, maybe a couple of years ago, you’d have expected Eddie’s voice, but not today.

“Eddie, hi. Not at all.”

“I- um, I just wanted to call,” a small pause, he clears his throat, “how are you?”

“It’s only been two days, you know how I am.”

“I mean right now.”

You twist to lay on your side, legs curling in towards your chest. You smile to yourself like an idiot. “Right now, I’m good. It’s lame, I already miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

The reply comes easily to him. There’s no thought to it, because in the past 48 hours, he hasn’t been able to stop missing you for a second. The warmth of your hand in his, the sunshine sound of your laughter.

He’s not sure why everything’s so big now, his feelings amplified, only quieted now, by the sound of your voice.

“Did you have a show today?”

You have a way of asking that makes it sound like you really care, Eddie thinks. He loves his music and he knows you know that. It means the world to him to do what he does, confusing feelings or not.

“Not today. We spent the day on the bus. Show’s tomorrow.”

“Nervous or excited?”

It’s something that you used to ask him before every small show in Hawkins, and the memory has a grin spreading on Eddie’s face. “It’s always both. More excited, though.”

“You should be,” you say. “You guys are really great.”

“Yeah? Who’s your favorite band member?”

He’s fishing, and you tease him rather than bite, “hmmm. Gareth.”

“Fuckin’ trouble. You liar.”

“You asked!”

“You answered the question wrong, honey.”

There it is again. Honey. You’re sort of glad he can’t see you right now because you probably look way too happy, burying your face in your pillow for a second before replying.

“You know you’re my favorite, Munson.”

“Yeah I am,” he sounds far too proud. And then, he’s softer, “I’m not keeping you up, am I? Time zones fuck me up.”

“No, no.” Even if he was, you wouldn’t tell him. This is better than trying and failing to sleep the way you so often do. “It’s not that late. What time is it for you?”

“Not that late,” he says, even though the clock on the nightstand reads 1:14AM. “So, what’s happening in Hawkins right now?”

“Mmm, it’s getting warmer. My window’s open and the crickets are loud as fuck.” You twist the phone cord around your fingers, “it’s donation week at the library, so I’ve been shelving new books for a change.”

Eddie listens to every word you say, asks you questions like if you’d kept any books for yourself (you had, but swore you’d give them to the library when you were done) and hums between your sentences.

Somewhere along the way, he’d laid down while listening to you, eyes shut as he tried to picture what you might look like right at this second. If you’re in your pajamas or not, whether your hair would be a little messy, baby hairs a halo around your face.

Then his eyes grew heavier, your voice putting him at ease even with the sounds of his bandmates laughing from somewhere in the hotel.

“Eddie?” You ask after he’d been silent for a bit.

“Hm?” He hums sleepily.

“I lost you for a second there.”

If he wasn’t half asleep, he’d feel worse. “Sorry, getting sleepy.”

“You wanna hang up?”

“No, uh- keep talking to me? You have a nice voice.”

You smile, cheeks pinching with the size of it.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll keep talking.”

And you do, you keep talking and talking until you can hear the sound of Eddie’s tiny snores on the other side of the line. You’re smiling again at that.

Even after you’re sure he’s asleep, you don’t hang up right away, not until your own eyes are growing heavy. You put the phone back quietly, like you’ll wake him if you’re not careful. You whisper a soft ‘goodnight, Eddie,’ as you do.

There’s a small stiffness in your fingers from how tightly you’d been holding the phone, and still, you’d let your hand cramp for hours to talk to him.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with the pattern of the phone pressed to his cheek where he’d left it last night.

-

The TV sends flashes of color flickering across your living room and over your face. Usually, you’d be in bed by now, but it’s the night of the MTV awards and Corroded Coffin is nominated. You couldn’t miss it.

You’re not really paying attention to most of it, the sounds of performances and hosts and thank-you speeches filling your ears as you read your latest book. At least, you’re not paying attention until Eddie’s category is announced.

That has you shutting your book and sitting up, grabbing the remote to turn the volume higher.

They show the nominees, give far too long of an introduction before tearing open the envelope holding the winner’s names. You don’t know it, but you’re practically white knuckling the blanket on your lap.

“And the MTV award goes to… Corroded Coffin!”

You stand and place a hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating—racing—for the band, for Eddie. This is huge, it’s a dream, and it’s his. If you could, you’d give him a suffocating hug right now.

Eddie’s voice taking over, thanking his fans and Wayne, the boys and their team, then, thanking Hawkins and the people there, even when they gave him hell.

If you knew the right number to call to talk to him, you’d dial it in an instant.

Lucky for you, your phone rings the next night, late enough that you can only assume it’s Eddie given you don’t know anyone else who’s probably in a different time zone right now. You pick up quickly, fumbling with the phone a little before bringing it up to your ear.

“Eddie?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Ummm, my amazing intuition? Telepathy?”

“Telepathy, she says.” There’s a soft chuckle on his end, you close your eyes and lean your head back to thump against the wall behind you. “How’re things, trouble?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that, mister MTV winner.”

Eddie’s been calling more often again, whenever he gets the chance, really. Even so, he never thought you’d be keeping up with him that way, that you’d care enough to watch an award show and remember what he’d achieved.

“You were watching?” He asks, heart thudding.

“Of course I was. I’m your biggest fan, remember?” You’re sitting with your back against your headboard, knees bent, hand absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread in your pajama pants. “I’ve got cheerleader pom-poms and everything.”

“You do not.”

“Do too. They’re super metal, all black.”

“Yeah, cause pom-poms are super metal, babe.”

Another pet name in the rotation, uttered like it’s easy, natural. You bite back a smile.

“Whatever. Mine would be,” you say. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too.”

“I wanted to call you yesterday,” you admit, twisting that loose thread in your fingers, “after I saw you won. I’m really proud of you, Eddie.”

They’re words he hadn’t been expecting, but ones he’ll be thinking about over and over. He wants to keep making you proud, he thinks, and he’ll pour that into everything he does whether he means to or not.

“Thank you,” his voice is quieter, almost shy. “I wouldn’t be here without you, you know?”

“You would. You’re talented, and there’s no way that could stay hidden in this town, you’re bigger than it.”

Somehow, it’s easier to be so open with him on the phone. You don’t have to look at him, get distracted by his tongue running over his lips or the way his bangs get caught in his eyelashes sometimes. This way, all you have to do is speak, nothing more.

“Trouble-” he can’t even find the words to say, because there’s affection laced in your tone, seeping through the phone and into his head and, fuck, he wants to kiss you for it and he can’t. “I really miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” There’s some silence, and the overthinker in you worries that you’ve said too much even though you meant it with every part of you, that you’ve given yourself away. “Anyways, I should go, let you celebrate your win.”

It’s what he would be doing if Eddie’s thoughts hadn’t been so full of you and your mouth and your voice. It’s what his bandmates and friends are surely doing in some club around here.

“You don’t need to. I’m not doing anything.”

“No?” You try to lighten your tone, to joke the way you usually do, “don’t have groupies knocking on your hotel room door right now?”

Instead of playing along, Eddie’s voice is serious, still soft in the way he speaks to you, but serious nonetheless, “I don’t entertain them, honey.”

“You don’t?”

He’s tried. But ever since you kissed him, probably since before that, too, Eddie can’t seem to look at anyone else, let alone have someone else kiss him and tarnish the memory of your lips on his. He’s only ever thinking of you, it seems. So no, he hasn’t fooled around lately.

“Not in a while. I’m trying to write for the next album. No distractions.”

No distractions. He says it like that’s true, even though he can’t seem to fully focus, like there’s a piece he’s missing. Like every lyric he’s written since he’s been back isn’t somehow about you.

He’s so, so fucked.

“Look at you, Munson. Squeaky clean.”

You hope he can’t tell that you’re sort of a mess, a stupid blossom of hope planting itself where it shouldn’t. He’s your friend, he’s always been just your friend. But you kissed and it felt like something changed, and you can’t seem to let go of that.

“You sound surprised,” he teases, gathering his wits the best he can.

“Can you blame me? You used to have multiple lunchboxes reserved for your weed.”

“You loved those lunchboxes and you know it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

And then, like that moment was simply a blip, easily brushed over, your conversation turns back to your normal. Jokes with underlying affections, teasing while picturing what kind of smile the other wears when you laugh lightly into the phone.

Time runs away from you, and by the time you hang up it’s well into the early hours of the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

-

After hanging up, Eddie’s got this sinking, aching pull in his stomach. He knows what it is, has had bouts of it before where he misses Wayne’s hand patting his back or the way his mattress is worn-in just the right amount back at the trailer, when he thinks about what his friends might be doing or what science project Dustin’s got going on.

But it’s never felt this heavy. Eddie’s the most homesick he’s ever been.

He’d listen to your voice forever, but in that moment, he’d give anything to see your face, to see the shake of your shoulders when you laugh, the curve of your smile.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Eddie wipes his palms on his thighs before standing and walking out into the living room of his band’s suite hotel room. The guys are still up, and they’re all staring at him like weirdos.

“What?” He pauses in the doorway.

“Did you tell her you’re in love with her yet, or what?” Jeff, the electric guitarist, asks him.

“What?” Eddie says again because there’s no way he heard that right. He’d only just come to terms that he had feelings. This is much bigger.

“You’re joking,” Gareth pipes in, “you don’t even know it? Dude, you’re all ‘I miss you, trouble, you’re my favorite person ever.’” He does a knowingly terrible impression of Eddie.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You kinda do,” Jeff says.

“Why else would you be spending hours in that room on the phone, man? Come on,” Gareth sing songs the next bit: “you’re in loooove.”

Then Eddie thinks and thinks and thinks. The warmth that blooms when he hugs you, the jealousy he felt when he thought that server at Benny’s was flirting with you, the difficulty to say goodbye, the way your kiss haunts him in his sleep.

These idiots aren’t usually right about things, but just this once, maybe they are. Eddie Munson is probably, very likely, definitely in love with you.

Yeah, he’s so fucked.

♫♩♪♬

thank you so so much for reading!!! if you enjoyed please please please consider reblogging and letting me know what you think! it helps and means so much <333 i have plans for a part two, and if you’d like to see it, some support would help a bunch! ily!

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ vi.iii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: updating bc i love yall. lol jk i dont want to study for my engineering management long quiz yet. sum1 yell at me to start studying or smth.

tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab @vildetry06 @a-beaverhausen @formula1mount @loloekie @alucardsdaddyissues @juky-ps @cassianswh0reeee @devotedlycrookeddonut @amberpanda99 @supermaxv1 @evie-119 @spideylovin @harianaswhore @formulaal

masterlist.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2021 is a little dramatic in Max’s opinion. Some would say controversial. A lot of restarts. The issue with the safety car. Hamilton and Verstappen goes neck to neck. 369.5 points to 369.5. In the end, Verstappen overtakes Hamilton and wins the 2021 World Drivers' Championship.

The team celebrates with him after winning and in the sea of Red Bull employees, Max searches for you.

He won! Max Verstappen won! He’s a WDC now! He finally made truth of the world he told you in 2019.

Kelly appears and kisses him square on the lips. Max sees you in his peripheral vision, pulling your ball cap lower on your face before turning around and leaving. He wants to call you but Kelly keeps him in place.

Max visits your hotel room later, all happy and he holds the canned bottle of beer to you when you open the door.

“I’m not the sour loser anymore.”

You smile at him and Max feels like he’s on top of the podium again.

“Told ya you’ll be champion one day. Congrats, champ. Very happy for you.”

Champ.

Max decides that he likes Champ over every name you call him.

2022

you: go to fucking sleep u degenerate gamer

you: its 3 in the morning you have a race at 8

max: youre not my mother

you: i am ur manager u ass

you: and i have ur mom’s cell no

you: i will fucking call her if ur stream doesn't turn offline in ten seconds

you: 10…

max: you wouldnt dare

you: 9…

He moves into a penthouse at the beginning of the year and purchases a jet, Dassault Falcon 900EX, to make the traveling easier. Flying commercial absolutely sucks, even first class.

When he mentions the money he spent; the penthouse rental cost, the price of the jet plus maintenance of the private plane service, you have stood up and went to the balcony to stare at the Monaco scenery to gather your thoughts. Max laughs as he watches your brain overheat. He tells security that you’re to be given an immediate pass into the building and his penthouse without the need of going through the strict security checks. He gives you a keycard that you barely use because you knock on the door every single time you come by. A month later, Kelly and Penelope move in and this is the beginning of the little family charade.

“What are you doing?”

“Is it not obvious?” you gesture to the iPad in your hand. “Readin’ a Lestappen fic in AO3.”

Max’s brows furrow.

“Lestappen?”

“The ship name between you and Charles. Lestappen. Leclerc, Verstappen, Lestappen,” you say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and he’s stupid for even asking, waving your hand in a complicated flourish. “It’s good. Top-tier literature. Want me to send you the link?”

Max’s nose scrunches, “So there are people who ship me and Charles?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Romantically?”

You nod, “Want the link?”

“Absolutely not.”

You shrug your shoulders.

“Your loss.”

Max wins P1 (as things should be) in Austin, Hamilton P2, and Leclerc P3. The team holds a private drinking party in the hotel bar. Max sits with Leclerc, whom he has invited, and Lando, who came with Daniel, and Daniel because he’s Daniel and he still gets a free pass in Red Bull parties even though he’s in McLaren now.

Daniel passes him a bottle of Heineken and Max searches for the bottle opener on the table but it's nowhere. He reaches for you, who sits on the neighboring table with the PR team. Max grabs the hem of your polo shirt sleeve and tugs slightly to get your attention. He opens his mouth to ask if you’ve seen the bottle opener but you got to moving, not even giving Max the chance to speak.

Without even interrupting your conversation with the PR people or even breaking eye contact with the person who is talking animatedly, you take the beer bottle from Max’s hand, toss a hand towel on top of it, then you use your teeth to remove the cap. It opens with a loud click. You wipe the rim of the bottle, pocketing the bottle cap, before returning the Heineken to Max.

Max looks at the Heineken bottle in his hand.

You know, Sophie, Max’s mother, always say that there's a certain type of intimacy existing when two people are able to communicate without the use of words. People associate intimacy with bare skins and basking in the fragility and vulnerability of a person, but intimacy goes deeper than mere nakedness and showing all the bare parts of you to the other person. Intimacy comes hand in hand with truth. When you admit your truth to the other person, that's intimacy. Her knowing his truth, his needs, without him telling her. That's another kind. If that's not the purest form of love then he does not know what is.

Charles pats his shoulder to pull him to reality.

At that moment, Max decides he’s an asshole because he just realized that he likes his manager after she opens his beer bottle and he has a fucking girlfriend now.

Max wins WDC for the second year in a row. Leclerc is at second and Perez at third. He’s on the top of the fucking world. Everything feels right now that he’s standing at the top.

His eyes search for you in the crowd but he doesn't find you. Only Kelly. He kisses Kelly, celebrates with the team, and visits you in your hotel room later with a cold can of beer in hand. It's a little past midnight, his watch tells him. You open the door seconds after Max knocks.

“Have you talked to Horner?” you ask, accepting the beer and opening it. The loud click when you open it feels satisfying in his ears.

You’ve changed out of the Red Bull polo now and instead, you wear a black shirt.

“No,” Max shakes his head.

“When will you?”

“Soon.”

That's the only truth he can offer. Because the bigger truth is this: Max doesn't want you going anywhere, not even the engineering team who works closely with him. He only wants you here, beside him, behind him, at all times.

One more year. One more year and he's going to tell Christian to move you to the engineering team. One more year to have you and he’ll let you go.

(That's what he told himself last year, too.)

“Okay,” you nod and it relieves Max that you’re not arguing with him about it. “Congrats, Champ.”

You don't fly with him to Monaco. You don't fly with the team either. Instead, you fly to Texas immediately straight from Abu Dhabi. Max calls you once in the middle of break to greet you happy holidays and you mail him his gift—a clay keychain figure of him. He adds it to his keys, sitting right next to the beaded keychain you gave him back in 2020 and a bottle opener keychain in 2021.

2023

“Should I break up with Kelly?”

Your head snaps up at a speed that should be considered a hazard, stunned. You give Max a look that can be translated as: Did the g-force finally catch up to your brain?

“What prompted this?” you question, slowly setting Max’s laptop aside. You’re working on fixing his laptop’s wifi connection while he’s getting his makeup done for the Heineken ad filming. Once the makeup artist deemed him done and left the room, he immediately took the chance to ask the question.

“Nothing,” he lies.

“I’ll throw away your laptop if you don't tell me the truth,” you threaten.

“It's just—” Max pauses. His mouth feels dry. He licks his lips before continuing, “It’s just… I don't know how to explain it. It feels like I don't love Kelly anymore.”

I think I love you, [Name].

“Aight,” you grab a monoblock chair and drag it until it's right beside Max’s chair and plop your ass down. You sigh deeply before your face schools into complete seriousness. “Can't believe I’m the one givin’ you this talk. Uh, Max, you see, in a relationship, you typically experience this period called the honeymoon phase.”

Max nods slowly. He doesn't know where you're trying to get at but he clings on each word that leaves your mouth.

“The honeymoon phase can last anywhere from months to years and when it's done, the strong feelings and infatuation you have for Kelly decreases and that's natural. This is the stage where your bond with Kelly is strengthened,” you explain. “It's not all sunshine and rainbows. It can get boring. But the love is still there. It's just…well, less intense than before.”

He wants to ask if this happened to you and Leo as well, but he bites his tongue and says a different thing instead, “You give advice like a relationship guru.”

“Baby, I have a long list of ex-lovers. Kelly’s your first girlfriend. You don't have a say.”

Your birthday is near. Daniel shares to Max that he’s buying you a new ball cap this year, signed by your favorite professional billiard player. Max needs to give you something better.

He thinks about the things you like. He makes a list. It's a short one.

Beer

A spot in the engineering team.

Your family

He cannot give number three. He cannot give what you already have. He can give you number two but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want you to be anything other than his manager. He can give you number one but it'll be very lame of him if he gives you beer for your birthday. What is better than Daniel’s gift? What would you like more than a ballcap?

Max calls his sister that evening.

“Shoes,” she says. “Oh wait, that's a little hard. You might get her shoe size wrong.”

“She’s size 7. In Euro, 37,” Max states a little too quickly and a little too sure.

“How did you know her shoe size?” Victoria wonders.

“I don't know. I just watch her feet?”

“So, you estimated her shoe size by watching her feet like a creep?”

“I watch her feet a normal amount, Victoria,” Max insists.

“Max, I can't even tell my husband’s shoe size even if I stare at his feet for hours.”

“Maybe you just suck at estimating measurements.”

Max ends up getting the shoes with Victoria’s help. Victoria gets too irritated with him midway because he is too indecisive. He thinks all the shoes that’s displayed do not suit you.

It's not even this difficult when he’s picking shoes to give Kelly. Normally, he just asks the saleswoman to show him the most expensive or the latest in their stock and he buys it, instructs the storespeople to wrap it up and make sure the brand shows because Kelly likes it when the brand is big and bright and attention-grabbing.

“If you think nothing’s pretty enough then go get a custom made shoe,” she advises and then sighs in exasperation. Victoria shakes her head at him. It's not supposed to be a serious suggestion but Max takes it to heart.

Instead of black, Max goes for white. You rarely go in white clothing but when you do, you become so beautiful that Max has to stop himself from kneeling down in front of you and risking everything.

It has pearls and diamonds and satin. All beautiful things that reminded Max of you. Max wants, no, needs to see you put them on. He’s the one who puts it in a box. White-colored with peach stickers and a peach-colored ribbon.

Max plans to give them to you after he wins the Miami Grand Prix. But your family arrives just as he’s about to retrieve it from his driver’s room.

Max meets your family. A family that consists of happy parents and three brothers. You are your family’s unica hija.

Julio [Last Name], your father, is a big man and his accent is thicker than yours and he doesn't call you by your name, only the most affectionate-sounding mija. He reminds Max of a giant teddy bear. A giant teddy bear who crushes rocks for a living.

Your mother, on the other hand, is a stern-looking woman. Sally, her name was. She’s short, compared to you and her sons and her husband.

You have three brothers. One older—you call him Damiano. Two younger—Rafael and Dominic. You are more your mother than your father, Max notices. Appearance-wise anyway. Damiano, too. Sharp-looking, both of you. Your sharpness makes you look charming whereas your Damiano’s sharpness makes him look intimidating. Your two younger brothers are carbon copies of your father, a little round and with kinder looking features.

“Papa, Mama, Bro one, two, and three, this is Max,” you introduce him, smiling widely and you're doing that smile where you’re showing too much gums and your eyes are shaped like crescents. Happiness looks good on you.

He lets out an oof sound when your father engulfs him in a hug. Max hears you exclaim: “Papa!”

Max laughs and waves his hand to tell you that the hug is fine and is very much welcomed.

“Congratulations, Maxwell!” Julio claps Max’s shoulders.

“Papa, please,” you shake your head at your father’s antics. “It's just Max.”

“Ya want to join us for [Name]’s birthday?” Julio invites. Max catches your eyes. You mouth a no but Max shrugs and says, “Sure.”

Max joins the family dinner. It's held in a Mexican restaurant somewhere downtown. Originally, your family reserved a table for ten. But Max has gone ahead and reserved the entire restaurant by paying upfront. You slap Max’s hand but Max laughs and says, “Happy Birthday [Name].”

Over dinner, Maxs learns that Rafael, Dominic, and Damiano are the biggest motosport fans so they all talk about Formula One and occasionally MotoGP. He finds out that they're a big fan of Marc Marquéz. Max tells them that he knows Marc personally and shares his experiences with the man. He promises to send them the man’s signatures. You tell him that he doesn't have to. He tells you that it's his pleasure.

Max listens in attentively as Julio narrates his amazing tales about his work experience. You laugh at the surprised Pikachu face Max makes when Julio is telling the entire table about the creepy call he responded to just the other month. You and your mother occasionally join in on the conversation but are more comfortable with listening to the boys.

Later, you stand up to excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Max stands from the table five minutes after you leave. He’s drunk too much soda so now he needs to take a piss.

“Are you okay?” Max asks as he catches you reapplying a layer of lipstick—a shade of nude rose—on the sink in front of the washroom.

You hold the lipstick in one hand but the other is holding your right arm, palm covering the word MANAGER printed on the sleeve of your Red Bull polo shirt like it's something to be ashamed about.

“Yeah.” A lie.

The rest of the night goes the way Max wants it. He almost wishes it won't end.

Kelly waits for him in his hotel room. She gives him a gift for winning P1. The shoe box in Max’s backpack remains untouched.

He’s got every country except Singapore, Saudi, and Azerbaijan under his belt. His third WDC is secure even if he loses Abu Dhabi, but Max is selfish. He still wants a P1 in Abu Dhabi so he fights and fights until no one can catch up because of how fast he was.

Kelly comes with him this time to watch him race and support him because it's the final race of the season and she also knows that Max is going to win WDC this year. P is over at her father right now so it's just the two of them.

“Babe!” Max looks up from his laptop. Kelly comes running in and Max’s eyes widened, horrified, when she sees that Kelly is holding it.

The white shoes.

Max stands abruptly. The laptop in his lap falls to the floor and shatters. He curses and crouches down to pick it up and save what he can save. When he looks up, Kelly is sitting on the bed now and is trying the shoes on. Max shoves the damaged laptop aside and strides towards her. He’ll deal with the laptop later.

“That's not—”

“Oh?” Kelly’s face morphs in confusion. “It doesn't fit.”

Kelly chuckles yet it sounds empty and dread pools in Max’s stomach.

“You bought me shoes many times already. There’s no way you’ll get my shoe size wrong.”

Max takes the shoes from her hand quickly and he puts them back carefully in the box.

“That's not for me,” Kelly states.

“It’s not for you,” Max echoes.

“Then who’s it for, Babe?”

Max doesn't answer. Instead, he avoids her gaze.

“Max Emilian Verstappen, who’s the shoes for?” Kelly is seething now.

For the first time in their two nearly three year long relationship, Max and Kelly get into a screaming argument. They get into arguments as all couples do, but never ones with screaming and crying and too much anger in one room.

“I can't go on like this anymore,” Kelly cries. “I can't. I let it go when you made me wait because you celebrated her birthday with her family. I let it go when you made her that crochet bag. I let it go when you bought a billiard table and brought it into our home because she likes playing billiards—”

“I tried breaking up with you!” Max roars and he sees Kelly flinch. “And you told me not to. You used Penelope so I wouldn't break up with you—”

“Do not even say my daughter's name—”

“It's true!” Max throws his hands in the air like a man gone mad. “I told you in fucking July that I think I’m losing feelings for you! You told me to not break up with you because Penelope already thinks of me as her father and it’ll break her heart if I kick you out of my house! I am NOT her father, Kel, her father’s Daniil! You only want me because I can give you everything you want! Money, pride, and a fucking father figure for your child!”

Kelly strikes his cheek. Sharp, fast, and strong. Max remains still in shock and stares ahead.

Kelly has officially become the second person in this world who has raised a hand at Max.

“I hate you,” Kelly utters it with so much intensity. “I hate you. We’re done.”

She leaves quickly.

Max’s phone buzzes.

you: hey champ. race is on in an hour n a half. u good to go?

max: yeah

max: i’ll be there soon

you: i’ll wait for u

max: you always do

Max races with the guilt that he's a cheating asshole. His mother will not be proud of it once she learns that her son has dated a girl and idiotically realized that he’s in love with his manager halfway through the relationship.

Despite the emotional turmoil that swirling inside him, Max takes P1 and becomes a third-time WDC. He celebrates with the team. You excuse yourself, saying you have something important to do, and Max doesn't bother asking you to stay because he knows he’ll visit you in your hotel room later with a cold can of beer. It’s become your ritual now.

He drinks with Daniel, Yuki, and Checo. Five bottles in, he spills everything. He pukes. It tastes disgusting. His world turns into a hazy blur. You came to his rescue because that's what you always do.

Max is so dumb for taking so long in realizing that he's in love with you. It's always been you. You and your dumb considerate attitude and your snarky personality and your crude mouth. He never realized how horrifyingly enormous his desire for you is until its right there in front of him with its mouth wide open, ready to swallow him whole.

you: landed

you: thanks for the jet

you: talk soon gotta get to papa 1st

max: ok

max: stay safe

max: your dad will be alright dont worry

you: i hope so

It has been seven days since the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, three days since you left Monaco, two days since your last conversation in Instagram, and a day before Max flies to Belgium to celebrate the holidays with his mother and sister and his sister’s family.

max: are you okay?

max: just landed in belgium

max: mum and vic says hi

max: hey it's been a week now

max: is your dad okay?

max: im worried

max: call me soon please

max: happy holidays

max: or merry christmas

max: whatever you celebrate there in america

max: yeah i greeted a little too early

max: you didn't answer my call

max: im friends with logan now by the way

max: we talk at times

max: im trying to get him into sim racing

max: maybe it'll help him improve

max: happy holidays

max: i called your cell

max: you know christian just told me something funny

max: he sent an email this morning with a list of candidates for my 2024 manager

max: he said you resigned

max: very funny

max: please tell me you didn't

[chuulyssa]

🇨​​ 🇴 ​​🇳 ​​🇫​​ 🇪 ​​🇸​​ 🇸 ​​🇮 ​​🇴 ​​🇳​ ！

BSD MEN REACTING TO A CONFESSION.

↷ A/N ─ yes new divider again because im indecisive as heck

★ FT. ─ dazai , chuuya , ranpo , akutagawa , atsushi , fyodor

!! TAGS ─ mentions of suicide, insecurities, overall fluff

"i love you."

ᴅᴀᴢᴀɪ.

promptly replies with, "i love you too."

he'll lean into you with an amused smile because he lowkey thinks you're joking

when he realizes you're serious about it he'll immediately stop the stupid grin

and look at you with this sincere look you've never seen on his face before

he'll hold your hand and everything while repeating "i love you too," for a second time, only this time he's serious about it too

definitely asks for double suicide later

"You know it's my motto to unalive myself with a beautiful woman. How lucky of you to have been bestowed upon this honour."

"Mhm."

"I'll say yes if you join me in a double suicide," he asks with puppy eyes.

"Dazai, you already said yes."

"I'll say it again!"

​ᴄʜᴜᴜʏᴀ.

he stops abruptly and half chokes on his expensive ass wine

poor boy is really confused 😭 because "where did that come from??"

he tries to play it cool but he's literally SCREAMING inside

we all know he's been betrayed a lot of times in the past so he feels hesitant about it

will decide to give it a shot tho

100% calls dazai to brag about it

"You may be taller or whatever (as if that matters in the first place) but were you the one able to steal her heart? Eh? I think not!"

You chuckle hearing him update his rival of his new relationship status.

"And anyway," he raises a glass of wine for toast. "I'd like to thank my good looks, good looks and did I mention my good looks (?) for making tonight the happiest night ever."

ʀᴀɴᴘᴏ.

"i know."

he has always observed every single thing about you - how you behave around others vs how you behave around him, the little times you look at him like you want his attention etc etc

he's known about this since like soooo long

he defo also knew when where and how you were gonna confess

went to yosano for tips to react to it and bought you chocolates and stuff. he thinks it'll make you happy :D

eats all of that himself even tho he originally bought it for you but you let it slide because he's a cutie patootie

"You could at least have been a bit subtle about it," he says, munching on his chips. "I mean, anyone who saw you would've been able to guess. I didn't even need my ability for this!"

He lifts his chin up thoughtfully, fingers ripping open another packet of snacks. "You should be grateful I'm not a snitch. Eh, well," he shrugs, "You're now dating the greatest detective in the world! Congratulations!"

ᴀᴋᴜᴛᴀɢᴀᴡᴀ.

"eh???"

like chuuya, he's pretty confused too

"are you sure?"

tries to keep a straight face and hide his fluster

he'll narrow his eyes at you as if he's trying to read your emotions. he doesn't wanna get hurt if he gets too attached to you and you two end up breaking up

also how tf is he supposed to believe that someone like YOU like someone like HIM?

reassure him that he's perfect please :( poor baby deserves the world

"I am a lot of work. I don't think you can keep up with all of that," he says shortly.

"I'll try my best."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to!"

He stares at you for a few moments, looking like he's about to cry.

"Oh, alright then," he waves a hand around. "But don't you ever leave me."

ᴀᴛꜱᴜꜱʜɪ.

screams

"SAY IT AGAIN PLEASE!"

jumps around everywhere in happiness

you dont even get a verbal answer the man's just dancing around

either that or he just faints

he's, like akutagawa, insecure about himself. but he's much more open to showing his emotions to you.

you end up cuddling the whole night or he calls off work to be with you for the rest of the day <3

"I..." he repeats the same word for the fifth time in a row.

"Yes?"

"Don't mind me, I'm just trying to come to terms with the fact that I get to date you."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, no!" he panics, wringing both hands all over himself hastily. "I love you! Really!"

ꜰʏᴏᴅᴏʀ.

no reaction. im sorry

spares a small glance at you but otherwise doesn't get distracted from his work

you think he's gone deaf from the way he just ignored you cuz what????

will spend like 15 minutes that way before extending an arm to you and you lowkey DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO??? HELP??

he'll stare at you for a few seconds before pulling you onto his lap and continuing with his work

and that's his way of saying yes

He shuts the computers around him down and taps your outer thigh twice. You immediately stand up and help him up. He stares at you for a few seconds, contemplating something.

"You know, I never thought I'd enable others to call me a lovesick fool."

"Does that mean you are a lovesick fool?"

"A little, maybe," he turns around and walks out of the door while you follow him with a soft smile on your face.

© chuulyssa 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

[rustedhearts]

just friends (again) (roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: you’ve convinced everyone around you that you and steve are just friends. now you just have to convince yourself—but it proves difficult when steve finally admits how he feels.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ just friends (part one) ✶ the library

tags: pining, yearning, they want each other so bad they're so stupid, little angst/hurt/comfort, oh steve harrington the man that you are. didn't proofread so ignore any mistakes oops.

buy me a ko-fi! (my blurb commissions are also still open!)

“I’m having a little carpet picnic.”

Julia Roberts’ voice filled the living room with a familiar warmth. The pinks and whites of the Beverly Hills hotel room from Pretty Woman coated the coach and the surface of your face with a gentle glow. The Chinese food you ordered a few hours ago was starting to stink. Even Ted, who was curled at your feet for most of your movie marathon, could no longer stand the vegetative life and scampered away.

It had been a week since Eddie broke things off. After Steve punched him, you spent the Sunday post-knockout calling and texting, hoping to sort things out. But Eddie never picked up. Eddie never replied. You figured stopping by the shop was a bit too far—if he wanted to talk to you, he would’ve by now.

So here you were, spending another weekend on the couch. Single. Broke. Lonely.

“He thought I was cheating on him,” is the excuse you have for getting dumped.

But the look on Theresa’s face when you told her is the first time it made you recoil. The first time you doubted that Eddie was 100%, entirely out of his mind.

Theresa winced into the overpriced lattes you were drinking at a curbside patio on Wednesday. “Well…I mean…”

And you gasped, mouth agape and heart hammering in your chest. What the fuck did that mean? Because you were just friends. All Steve ever was and is: your best friend. Why did everyone act like you were having a secret affair when the doors were closed on the public?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me—“

“I’m not defending the prick,” Theresa justified. “He was an asshole for talking to you like that. But I can see why he might have thought that. You and Steve are really close. Like…very close.”

“We’re friends,” you insisted.

And Theresa dropped it, holding her hands above her latte with innocent agreement. But her words haunted you the entire week. Every time Steve filled your coffee and had it ready on the counter for your commute to work (he even used your favorite travel mug). Every time he came home with a bag of peanut m&ms when he dropped by the store because it was the little treat you always asked for, but he didn’t even need to be asked anymore.

But like any other Saturday, the apartment was void of him for most of the day. He mumbled some excuse about going to the mall through your door this morning, and when he came home twenty minutes into Pretty Woman with an Abercrombie shopping bag, you knew he’d been date shopping.

“Hey,” he called to you, door clamping closed behind him. His keys jingled on their toss toward the table cluttered with half-opened mail.

Cheek squished against a throw pillow, body splayed flat on the couch, you cut him a glance sideways and adjusted the volume. “Hey.”

Steve kicked off his shoes and set his bag near the door, making your chest tighten when he immediately sauntered toward the couch. He turned to the tv with his hands on his hips.

He asked what he always asked, despite his eyes watching the very thing. “Watchya watchin’?”

“Pretty Woman.”

“Did you already watch Mystic Pizza?”

“Yep.”

Steve sighed. “Damn. Alright, well, scooch over.”

When he plucked your feet up and flopped down under them, he smelled like the sickeningly sweet butter of a soft pretzel, and the overwhelming stench of Abercrombie & Fitch. You couldn’t believe he still shopped there.

His hands were still resting on your ankles, bracing your feet against his jean-clad thighs. His touch was warm, soft, all-encompassing—and suddenly all you could think about even as Richard Gere came on screen. Steve's touch, his heat, the body those hands came attached to resting just inches away. He was wearing blue today. He looked so good in blue.

You swallowed and coughed, cheek rubbing on the pillow. Steve’s finger twitched around your calf.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you croaked.

His eyes bored into you for a moment before he turned back to Julia Roberts. "Notting Hill or My Best Friend's Wedding after this?"

Your lips parted to reply, but then his finger began tracing shapes into the patch of skin between the bottom of your pant leg and the elastic of your sock. Air choked in your throat. Your eyes bulged on the glowing television screen. The muscles in the center of your body knotted and squeezed like nausea.

In your stock-still state, it didn't even occur to you that Steve somehow knew your entire I'm-sad-and-can-only-watch-Julia-Roberts-movies marathon setlist, but it certainly crossed your mind later on. You and Steve are really close. Maybe Theresa had a point.

"Um..." Your tongue darted out to lick your suddenly-dry lips.

"You good over there?" Steve chuckled, head tipping to gauge the features and their current predicament on your face.

You buried it further into the pillow, as far as it could go without hiding completely. "Yes, Steve, I'm fine."

Steve pulled back, settling into the couch again. "Jeez, oh-kay."

He waited a moment, and you inched free from your pillow enough to bring your eye back to the television, doing your best to focus on the movie you'd seen a million times and not Steve's hand sweeping under your pant leg. He'd done that a million times, too. Touched you. Felt you.

He held your hand when you crossed the road like a child that needed guidance. He braced your back to move you which way he wanted, and to pull you close when public situational occurrences arose that made him uncomfortable. He brushed your hair once when you were victim to an ungodly illness that had you picturing death. He removed your makeup on your birthday last year when you got so drunk you puked in the doorway.

His hands were always so gentle. His touch was always so soft.

But, God, why did it feel so different right now? Why did it feel so good?

"Want a mall haul?" Steve asked, too uncomfortable in the sudden silence of the living room. He was already standing and placing your feet back on their own before you could reply.

In your periphery, he headed toward the door to retrieve the bags he neglected. "Got a couple shirts to try. Also, am I too old for that store? I swear, everyone in there was like a little Taylor Lautner wannabe from 2012—meaning they were fourteen and on steroids—"

"Steve!"

He stopped. Standing at the edge of the rug with both hands on the corded handles of his Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag to pull it open. The snicker gathering in his throat hitched into a snort, smirk drooping into wide-eyed surprise.

You never yelled. Not at him. Not at anyone that didn't deserve it, like the neighbors when they were arguing too loud again and you were trying to nap. Like the guy that tried to steal Steve's package a few months ago that you nearly tackled down the hall.

But never Steve.

You shot up on the couch, hands flying to your pounding head. "Just...please! I don't want a mall haul, I don't want to talk, I just...—I just wanna be alone."

Steve blinked, cheeks colored pink. He closed the bag slowly, paper crinkling as he went. He took it in one hand and backed up, stepping off the rug foot by foot. He glanced at Ted, who skittered in surprise at your outburst and was standing with an arched back and black pupils near the tv stand.

"Uh...yeah, okay. Sorry," he mumbled, scratching at the nape of his neck.

Your shoulders slumped, deflating into the couch as Steve turned his eyes to the floor and tugged at the back of his hair. That stress tick again—the one you hated causing. He turned slowly, caution stiff in his spine. You watched his finger twist and wind into a lock of chestnut hair as he trudged into the hall. His door clamped closed a moment later.

A heavy, moaning sigh shuddered from your mouth as you flopped back on the pillow. Two arms locked over your head, pressing down on your eyes to blind them and the horror you created.

"Slippery little suckers," Julia Roberts snickered on the screen.

"It happens all the time."

✶ ✶

You ate dinner separately. It was the first time you'd ever eaten dinner separately within the same four walls. Even the night you moved in together, when you were nothing but a pair of strangers gauging how weird it might be to live with the opposite sex without something romantic or sexual in the undertones—even then, you ate a greasy cheese pizza together on the living room floor with an empty box as makeshift table.

He asked all the right get-to-know-you questions, and when he successfully made you laugh with all his snarks and quips, you knew Steve Harrington would be an alright roommate. You never figured he'd become your best friend.

Tonight, you pouted into the salad you regretted purchasing yesterday because a "healthy" lifestyle was born and had died within the span of your forty minute shopping trip. And now, you wanted nothing but another wet, shiny pizza, and Steve Harrington's dumb jokes.

He ate in his room. Shuffled out while you were finishing Notting Hill and made another bland chicken-rice-and-broccoli dinner. And then he shuffled past you, shut his door, and ate it alone. Never even giving you a chance to tease his unseasoned plate for the purpose of "gains." You thought he could remain just as toned and handsome with flavor on his food.

By the time you were showered, redressed, and gurgling with lingering hunger, you were properly sour with guilt.

And maybe the black sweatpants with the bedazzled jewels on your ass were pulled on with manipulative purpose before you shuffled to Steve's door. You lingered there a while, gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail and glancing between the wood grain of Steve's door and the plush surface of your yellow slippers. At this proximity, you could hear the low hum of his radio behind the door. He had a strange affection for the 70s and 80s station.

If only you knew that it was because Steve knew "the all time hits of the 70s and 80s" were your favorite.

The radio dimmed, and a moment later Steve's voice called through the door. "I can hear you lingering out there."

You jumped, stepping away from the door. Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth piercing the skin to nibble it away. The shuffle of feet and jingle of the doorknob came too swiftly for you to evade, and then the door swung open to reveal Steve in grey sweatpants and a tight red t-shirt. He looked good in red, too.

"Oh. Hi," you murmured, hand instantly dropping to your side.

Steve caged the doorway, biceps bulging on either side. You averted your eyes with a swallow.

He sighed. "Hi."

Steve watched you sweep a slippered foot back and forth like sloshing through water. He tipped his head and bit away a smile when he caught the edge of a jewel on your hip. His favorite sweatpants.

"Are you mad at me?"

Steve sighed again, this time a little shaken with laughter. "No, kid. I ain't mad at ya."

To prove his point, he nudged the door open with his palm and motioned toward the bedroom behind him. "Come on in."

You flopped on the edge of his bed, bounced up and down by old springs. Steve swung the door closed and joined you, easing back against his wooden headboard to reassume his rumpled position. He reached toward the nightstand and turned the knob on the radio to lower the Elton John song playing.

Steve snatched the small plastic basketball from behind the radio and tossed it in the air. "So, what's goin' on?"

You watched the ball soar into the air and come back down into his palm. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I was just...cranky."

Steve quirked a brow, catching your eye over an orange blur when he threw the ball again. "Yeah? That all?"

The corners of your mouth pulled down. "Yeah...? What else would it be."

Steve shrugged, chin turned up toward the ceiling as he watched the basketball fly toward it. Elton John died down and switched to Def Leppard. "Hysteria" was one of Steve's favorite songs.

"You tell me. You were having a Julia Roberts marathon."

"So?" Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth ripping at the skin.

"You only watch Julia Roberts when you're sad."

"Not true."

Steve fixed his head straight again, eyes narrowing into a pointed look. The basketball sat in his right palm against his chest. You huffed, angling yourself toward the door to glare at it instead of your roommate and his smug, all knowing expression.

He waited a while, like he always did—waiting out your stubbornness and refusing to let it break him. You could talk to him, you knew that. He wanted you to know that.

"I guess..." You sighed, throwing yourself back on the bed with your arms locked over your eyes. "I guess I'm just upset that Eddie still hasn't called. I've been calling and texting him, but...he doesn't wanna see me."

Steve immediately felt every blood cell in his body curdle. Like they were burning and festering, irritated under his skin. He swallowed, bringing the basketball to sit between his knees where he could pick at the design with blunt fingernails.

"And you want to see him?"

You dropped your arms, letting them plop to your sides. "I mean...yeah."

Steve couldn't help it—he scoffed.

The sound had your head turning, brows furrowed his way. His head was shaking, eyes focused distinctly downward to avoid yours. All the smugness of his expression dimmed into something distasteful and angry.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Nothing."

"You scoffed."

"I sighed."

"No, you scoffed."

"Well—"

This time, Steve did sigh. He took the basketball in his hands and chucked it toward the door, causing it to boomerang off the wood and catapult back toward the mattress again. The sharp smack had you jolting upward, and your eyes widened on Steve when he hopped from the bed and stood to his feet.

"What the hell—"

"He's not good enough for you!"

You paused on weak wrists used to push you upward. Steve stood a foot away from the bed with pink cheeks and outstretched hands. They curled back toward him to sweep through his hair and tug hard at the roots.

"Steve—"

"He sucks. Alright? All your ex boyfriends sucked, but especially Eddie. He didn't understand you, he didn't appreciate you. He made you cry, for fuck's sake, and you want him back? I just don't get it."

Your lips parted, but it felt like gulping for water on dry land. And Steve watched, helplessly, as you stammered for words in the face of his impending and inevitable confession. Inevitably painful, he knew, but he could no longer stomach the tireless routine of finding the body closest to yours in another dark bar, hoping she would comfort him enough to soothe the ache he had for you.

You, who slept across the hall and shared the sofa with your head on his shoulder. You, who looked at him like some sort of light source with those little round eyes. You, who made his heart pound and weep endlessly every second that you were near, and every moment you were away—leaving him in a constant, centrifugal loop of torture.

So—knowing it might ruin every bit of good the pair of you worked so hard to keep—Steve stepped closer to the bed and swallowed. He prepared himself to form the words he'd practiced a million times over in his head.

"I just figured that eventually...you'd get tired of all the wrong guys, and realize that...I'm here. That it was me, that you loved me. Because I love you—don't you love me?"

He paused, but it would never have been enough time for your mind to process his proclamation. He had a look of such anguish embedded in his features, all scrunched and screwed together with wet, shiny eyes.

"And I figured it was easier to sleep my way around than sit and watch you waste your time with these idiots. But they were never you. And I never bothered to get to know them, because I only wanted to know you."

Your breath hitched when Steve crowded your corner of the bed, hands clasped over his chest. You had to tip your head back to meet his eye, and you felt your arms shake in their locked position holding you up. The sight of him blurred with the onset of your own hot, salty tears.

Steve sniffed: a wet slurp proceeded by a tear slipping down his cheek. He wiped it quickly and sank to his knees before you on the bed, hands coming to cradle your bent knees.

"I just can't take it any longer," he whispered, and his hazel eyes were like shiny coins gazing up at you.

His lips were wet with his own tears. His tongue swept them away. Every breath inhaled rattled in his chest, and every exhale shuddered his cheeks full. He chuckled when he rubbed his palm into his eye and turned it red, sweeping his forearm over his face to clear the tears again but they just kept coming.

"Fuck, say something, please," he huffed, lacing it with laughter despite its absence of humor.

Your throat felt like it swelled to twice the size. Sickness rolled in your stomach. But it only grew at the thought of breaking Steve's heart with your silence. Because the longer he looked at you with those almond eyes, and the longer he sniffled and massaged your knees to comfort himself—the more your heart crumbled.

"I...I don't know what to say," you croaked.

Steve inhaled again, stuttering through a sniffle. He wiped his cheek on your knee and chuckled again. "Yeah. Yeah, of course—it's okay."

"Steve—"

"It's okay," he insisted, scrambling to his feet. He backed away toward the door and you finished pulling yourself upright.

"Steve, wait—"

"Really, it's okay, honey. I'm just gonna...—we ran out of ice cream, so 'm gonna g-go—go get some. Mint chip, yeah? Okay."

He sniffled again upon his exit, slipping through a small crevice he opened the door to. The front door slammed shut moments later, and you rolled onto your stomach to unleash a scream into Steve's mattress.

"Stay tuned for more all time hits of the 70s and 80s!"

✶ ✶

Steve did not return with the mint chip until nearly midnight. It came in a plastic bag that announced his arrival even before the clamber of keys. Yet, it was the squeal of old hinges that woke you from your couch slumber, and you jolted upright as the door swung open.

Steve closed the door and stood there for a moment, spotting you in the dimness of the living room. You rubbed your eye and he shifted on his feet. Ted scampered off the couch and butted at Steve's calf.

He held up the plastic bag. "Got the mint chip. It's uh...it's all melted now, though."

You wanted to reply, to make him feel better again. His eyes were still pink and puffy, and you hated the thought of him spending hours in his car or another dark bar agonizing over what you might be thinking. Worst of all, regretting any of what he said.

Because you spent the past few hours doing plenty of thinking. You laid in his bed, curled on your side, and looked at all the pictures pinned to a cork board above his desk.

The sepia toned film strip from a wedding last fall where you took him as your date. You were smiling in every one, and to the unbeknownst you might have already appeared as a couple.

The Polaroid from his most recent birthday, where you were sitting on his shoulders and clutching onto his hair for dear life. His sister took the picture.

The black and white he printed from his phone of just you on a park bench, feeding the ducks. You never even knew he had that one.

And when you shuffled to your room, you suddenly stopped. The clack of hard-bottomed slippers caught your attention, and you looked down at the plush yellow footwear around your toes—a gift from Steve.

You stood on the other side of your bed and stared at the windowsill full of miscellaneous yellow items all gifted from Steve. The movie ticket stubs shoved in your mirror and the hundreds thrown in a box on your dresser because you'd probably seen a thousand over the years with Steve, who loved movie theater popcorn and sitting close to you in the dark.

The birthday cards he wrote extensive messages of well wishes and gratitude for your friendship in with terrible penmanship. The purse he bought you for that you said you liked in passing but would never spend that much money on, and the note still tucked inside the zipper that came pasted to the bag on Christmas morning:

Because you deserve it.

Love, Steve

And then you ended up on the couch, falling asleep watching the door and waiting for it to open.

Steve trudged to the kitchen while you were lost in thought, and you hurried to catch up as he swung the freezer open. He wrapped the plastic bag around the pint of the ice cream and stuck it on the top shelf, hand reaching to close the door—when he was pushed forward by a force crashing into him.

And then there was warmth around his stomach: two arms curling around his ribs. Two hands pressing to his stomach and pulling him in. Steve stopped, immobilized in the open freezer door.

"I'm sorry," you breathed into his shirt, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I was just so stunned. And I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, Steve, for letting this go on for so long. Of course I love you, of course you love me—God, I just never wanted to ruin everything. But you make me so happy, and I—"

Steve spun around, causing your head to lift off his back. You went to drop your arms, but he instantly brought them around his neck. Two hands, still frozen from melting ice cream, braced your cheeks.

"You mean it?"

You nodded in his hold, happy to see his hazel eyes free and clear of tears. "Yes. Yes, of course I mean it—"

"Oh, thank fucking God," Steve breathed, and then his mouth descended on you.

You curled to the tops of your toes to press into his kiss, whimpering at the warmth and softness of his lips. It felt exactly as you thought it would—anticipating their plushness every time he pressed his lips to your cheek over the years.

It lasted until the pair of you were breathless, and you heaved for air upon release. Steve brushed his thumbs over your bottom lip, smearing spit and hemming your airless grin.

He kissed you all night, and let his hands roam where they could not roam before. You fell asleep in his bed tucked under his arm, and when you woke you shared the refrozen pint of mint chip with one spoon.

And when Steve called his sister while you were showering to share the good news, all she did was laugh.

"Jesus, about fucking time."