#Edward Short (mention)

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OH ARTHUR BENNETT.. such a gorgeous and intriguing character. terribly burdened by a GRUESOME set of crimes, his light suffocated by a HEAVY century of GUILT. so tragic, so dark and broody, and yet PAINFULLY awkward in any social setting ever

[arsenicflame]

or: 11 songs about divorce & 1 song about having a glove kink (while your marriage is falling apart)

(lyric snippets & audios below the cut)

5 Years Into Marriage - Matt Owens & Hannah White

5 years into marriage And it's looking like we're almost done. I love you, I'm just not in love with you any more (no, no, no) Both floated down the aisle, Started taking each other for granted somewhere between- The pulpit and those church doors. Confetti kissed your face, And I trod it right into the floor. We can stick it out another ten years, and we probably will.

Barricade - Stars

I found you on a Saturday, and that was where I lost you You had to finally walk away because of what it cost you Years later on, I saw your face In line to catch the morning train You looked like you'd been softened Like you never really loved the pain

I Don't Want Love - The Antlers

If I leave before you, And I walk out alone, Keep your hands to yourself When you follow me home.

If You Love Me, You Will Lie - Out lines

And shouting through the bathroom door You said that I was keeping score Why can't we accept that there's no more We never say goodbye

It's Beginning To Get To Me - Snow Patrol

I tried to tell you before I left But I was screamin' under my breath You are the only thing that makes sense Just ignore all this present tense

Midnight Love - Girl In Red

I hope that the right time one day arrives So, I'll be willing to let this die Able to look you right in the eyes Say I'm not your consolation prize

Mothers - Daughter

You will grow all you need to grow inside my spine And then take what you need to take, what's yours is mine And then just give all you want of it to some new thing I'll stay here, the provider of that constant sting they call love

Nothing New - Rio Romeo

So, won't you please spare me indignity? And won't you please give me some decency? And won't you please call it if our time is through? 'Cause I know that we fall apart when nothing's new

Sometimes I Still Feel the Bruise - The Mountain Goats

Making contact gets harder As the silence grows longer Why would you think of me? When you were not the one in love When you were not the dreamer When you were just the dream I'm under no illusion As to what I meant to you But you made an impression And sometimes I still feel the bruise

Splinter - Scott Hutchison & James Graham

‘Cause I always took the cutting, And you only missed my heart Although it amounts to nothing, The nothing’s left it’s mark

The Modern Leper - Frightened Rabbit

Well, I crippled your heart a hundred times And still can't work out why You see, I've got this disease I can't shake and I'm just rattling through life Well, this is how we do things now Yeah, this is how the modern stay scared So I cut out all the good stuff Yeah, I cut off my foot to spite my leg

Wedding Gloves - Frightened Rabbit FT. Aiden Moffat

Do you even remember What we said in the vows? God was watching on Saturday But He is not with us now, with us now

[beanghostprincess]

EdWin is a rare m/f ship that works for me and i think it's at partially cause they're so bi4bi (the rest is their personalities and that they're both really smart and also childhood friends to lovers)

They work for me because it's one of the greatest love stories I've ever seen, especially in anime. A shonen. It's just so obvious this was written by a woman because the female characters actually have personalities and ambitions outside of the male main characters. And they still can be together without reducing them to being women only. And,, The way they act around each other??' What the fuck. I haven't finished this yet, but all of their scenes make me go absolutely insane.

Ed saying Winry isn't meant to kill and taking the gun from her? Ed saying that the next time he makes her cry will be out of happiness? Winry realizing she's in love with him in the softest of ways in that train? Ed wanting to be completely honest with her all the time? The way he protects her and the way she doesn't want to stay back and look and instead wants to help Ed and Al in their journey? When Ed rests their heads together to give her comfort? Winry giving Ed her earrings? Their whole dynamic is just beautiful.

And it feels so so organic and domestic because they're childhood friends and it's just so beautiful,,, How they argue and care about each other so much to the point of yelling at each other sometimes but being extremely gentle with one another? Like-- Edward is extremely well-written and he means the world to me, but I already knew that from the first second. But Winry? It was such a pleasant surprise to see her being so silly with her hobbies and passions and also having a personality outside of Ed but quite obviously caring about him and Al the most. They'd do anything for each other.

They make me sick. I wanna throw up. They mean everything to me. Honestly, this usually doesn't happen to me with canon m/f couples in shonens (because they're usually shit) but they're just so fucking good. And I agree completely, by the way, both of them are Bi because there's no way Winry doesn't have something going on with Paninya and there's no way Edward and Ling aren't completely in love too.

[gcldenchild]

Behold, a Botanical Charge Triad!

violet :   how does your muse respond to betrayal ?

chamomile :   what is your muse likely to take away from a painful experience ?   are they one to be haunted by adversity ,   or to use what they’ve gone through to become stronger ?

amaryllis :   what is something or someone that your muse takes pride in ?   how do they express that pride ?

(For any verse, feel free to split the answers too haha)

botanical hc meme ! | accepting. dear god quen not the THREEFER.

— ☉ —

violet.

horrible. in any verse, in any time period. he's really, really bad with dealing with betrayal - for him, it feels like an incredibly personal attack for someone to have gained his trust and then subsequently break it. it's even worse, though, because despite that wishful expectation for people to just stick to their word, he also EXPECTS betrayal in the same breath. again, doesn't matter what time or verse. hali - humility - did a lot of damage to him as a child at pretty much every point via the chaotic corruption he experienced. a lot of his lifetime has been spent unable to discern reality from his fantasies, and this kind of gets a lot worse when taking into account how often he dissociates and leaves someone else in charge of functioning for the day - usually sephtis, because the indifference lets them survive better. he hallucinates other people around him and other people talking to him. it's something that reinforces his lies to himself ; surely people can't actually tolerate him that much, they're just waiting until he finally gives them a reason to leave him behind ! and of course, when he DOES get betrayed, it leads to an intense affirmation of his deepest fears that then, in turn, adds to hali's gradual corruption, continuing the cycle. he's really bad at dealing with it. as an adult he starts to get a little better, but that's ONLY with his support system around - and for five years between the promised day and him finally going to xing to be with ling, he significantly LACKS that support system. yeah he just doesn't do well with it at all.

chamomile.

same thing here - any time, any verse, he'll take away extremely bitter things regarding his most painful experiences. while the smartest parts of him can and DO file away more important lessons from being hurt by people or things, the rest of him that hates the feeling of being hurt instead stores away the information like some kind of plague that continues to destroy his insides. the transmutation, the incident in briggs, his wounds from the promised day - all of them are horrible, HORRIBLE experiences in his head, and they're ones that his brain likes to REPEAT at the most inopportune of times. the briggs scar especially. even long after it's healed he still remembers the feeling of ice filling his body and the sensation of cement in his heart while he tried to stay alive. it actually keeps getting worse for him, sometimes - he'll straight up have moments where he gets stuck with phantom sensations of the whole thing even IF hali isn't the one specifically triggering all of it. sometimes he'll have the worst pains in the metal limbs. sometimes he'll have the worst pains around his heart, which was his most damaged organ to begin with. he really never catches a break. eventually his trauma gets to a point where he physically CANNOT handle any more of it - and that's when one of the others is thrown into the mix so he can let them handle the burden. usually sephtis handles everything - but honey is responsible for keeping him sane despite having been targeted by a serial killer while he was crossdressing that one time. they kind of carry that trauma so he can just forget it ever happened. his mental state is ... weird, like that.

amaryllis.

ah shit its lairus now. because goldie had an issue with understanding and dealing with his pride in HEALTHY ways - aka not letting himself be tortured by humility for having a natural human experience and not letting himself grow too manic in said experience - we're going to lairus now, who is eternally 34 and NOT constantly hounded by his phantom twin for feeling things. he's ... weird about his pride, though. he has his small, brief moments of enjoying himself and being proud of the things he's capable of, but it's very clear he still has SCARS regarding his childhood and struggles to maintain said pride for a normal period of time. he'll have one moment where he boasts and then immediately cringe at himself and "calm down" - aka he'll just quiet himself and give a small, bitter smile before doing whatever else he needs to do. it goes hand in hand with how obnoxiously "humble" he can be - which is more sad than anything. he's getting better, though ! slowly. as slow as someone who's scattered across time and space can be, anyways.

[harry-styles-obsessed]

A sense of hope

Y/n x harry

Warnings mature: mention of abuse, harm, guilt, lots of fluff at the end, gore, manipulation- please don’t read if any of these things are sensitive to you. Thank you(:

Word count: 4k

“Jack, please, for the love of god me and Harry are just friends!”

Your voice trembled ever so slightly as you stare at the man in front of you, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists and his eyes practically black… wait- no. They were jet black. This was the Jack that terrified you. When you first met him which was over two years ago he was such a sweetheart, a loving charming man but then something switched within him and he turned into this angry beast of a man who hated anyone you got close to, even women… he despised it and what frightened you most was the fact that you knew he was starting to hate you.

“How many times?” He spat out and you stared at him shocked, your brows raising “excuse me?” You asked in complete shock. “I asked how many times!” He raised his voice getting closer and closer to you backing you up into the wall and you let out a shaky breath “how many fucking times did you sleep with Harry?” He asked and you blinked, confused “what- wait- I never slept with him he’s just my friend! I promise!” You exclaimed practically begging him to believe you, his nostrils flared as he glared down at you, his breathing quickening as he seemingly resisted the urge to slap you. “I’m not a fool y/n…. So you either get fucking rid of him or I’ll make you regret it. You have an hour to sort this bullshit out.” he said before he brought his hand back and in one swift moment slapped you right across the cheek.

Your hand desperately cradled your burning cheek as you stared at him utterly confused at his outburst, watching as he walked away moving into the living room, the slap stung slightly but he had done much worse. You stood there for a couple of moments, words unable to find there way out of your mouth as you stood and stared. As the stinging faded you let out a shaky breath before making your way upstairs, pausing just on the third step, hearing the sound of a beer being opened. Great. You ignored it though moving upstairs as you pulled your phone out of your pocket, sitting down on your bed as you sighed softly, staring straight at Harry’s contact. You didn’t want to get rid of him but if you didn’t you’d get hurt… you didn’t want to pick Jack over him but you were scared what Jack would do to you and even Harry himself.

You took a deep breath pressing the FaceTime icon at the top of the screen and within a few seconds Harry had answered, he was sat in his car, hair messy and AirPods resting in his ears “hey stranger” he said with a beaming smile which you wished to return but you felt miserable. “hi H” you said softly, a weak smile tugging at your lips “what’s wrong?” Harry asked almost instantly sensing something was wrong “um…” you cleared your throat letting out a little sigh “did j-“ he started but the camera went spiralling as a few cuss words were heard from Harry’s end, “oops- fuck, shit, bloody hell. Im so sorry y/n, just dropped you” he said as a soft laugh fell from your lips as you smiled, as he picked his phone back up, focusing the phone back on himself he was smiling but still looked just as concerned “sorry, continue what you were saying” he said with a little grin and you smiled “no no you were saying something,” you urged and he shook his head “it really doesn’t matter seems like you’re in a rush anyways so you go first” he assured,

A small grateful smile formed on your face as you sighed “well, uh, you see um… I- I don’t know how to tell you…” you said nervously and he studied your expression his brows knitting together “did Jack do something to you?” He suddenly asked his expression contorting into a protective anger, Harry had always despised Jack- he knew something was off with him from the get-go and you knew Harry didn’t like him but you wanted to believe Jack would get better with treating you with respect but that “respectfulness” declined and declined faster than anything. A shaky sigh escaped your lips “no… no… of course not” you smiled but the look on Harry’s face told you he didn’t believe you “do you need me to come over? I’ve got no plans… I can come over and spend some time with you?” He offered ‘yes’ your brain immediately fought to get the first word but your heart immediately spoke “no no… it’s okay- honestly. I’m okay. I promise.” You said with a soft laugh acting as okay as possible but Harry wasn’t stupid he could see right through you.

“Y/n you don’t need to lie” he whispered to you, his tone quiet on the phone and you gazed at him, your eyes clouding over with fear and you blinked a few times “I-I’m okay. Jack just-“ You said glancing up quickly as you heard a creek having to do a double take as you saw Jack standing there his hands clenched into fists and your eyes widened in fear and without any hesitation you hung up on Harry “babe-“ he cut you off “don’t you dare babe me you fucking bitch. Did you tell him? Did you tell him to leave you the hell alone huh? Or did you tell him something else?” He asked and you stared at him shocked “I-I-“ “I-I nothing y/n!! I gave you an hour you fucking whore.” He yelled his tone aggressive and angry and as he practically ran at you, you clambered off of the bed “Jack calm down okay? I promise I didn’t say anything to him” you said and he let out a laugh “don’t act like I didn’t hear that… are you stupid?” He grabbed your phone out of your hands throwing it down on the ground before he stomped on it, his fist flying towards you and you squeezed your eyes shut tightly, feeling the vibration from the wall as he punched a hole into the wall just beside your head “I told you if you didn’t end things with him then you’d regret it! Didn’t I you stupid bitch” he spat out, your voice silent as you stared at him, you wanted to stick up for yourself but you were unable to your breathing heavy and uneven.

“I don’t want to hurt you y/n! I want to love you! But you’re letting this prick Harry get in the middle of us!” He screamed, seemingly having a massive tantrum right in front of you, his tantrum turning into a fit of rage as he began throwing things around the room, making holes in every wall possible, “HARRY IS MY FRIEND” you screamed having enough of his bullshit- you were fed up to the back teeth of his childish behaviour. Your yelling made him freeze, his hands dropping to his side as he looked like a deranged animal with rabies, practically foaming at the mouth with anger his eyes a terrifying colour…. He took slow steps towards you “please just stop. You’re scaring me” You said more calmly and he stopped just in front of you staring into your eyes before he smiled, his face soft and loving but his eyes were a raging ocean “I love you” he whispered his hands gently cupping your face as he smiled pulling you close to him as he pressed a kiss to your lips “oh I love you” he said wrapping his arms around you swaying you back and forth in his arms “I’m sorry for scaring you” he whispered into your ear pressing a delicate kiss to your temple.

“You’re so beautiful… so gorgeous… and you know what else?” You looked up into his eyes watching smiling softly, the darkness returning to his eyes making your skin crawl “and a dumb fucking bitch.” He spat out, his fingers curling into your hair as he threw you down onto your ground and as you tried to fight back- getting onto your knees, he kicked your back forcing you to fall down your face hitting the floor harshly as his foot began repeatedly kicking at your stomach each kick becoming less and less painful, oxygen burning to find a way into your lungs, words of anger left his mouth as he used you as his kicking bag every little movement from you earning a kick in the face as you begged him to stop your begging soon dying down as you began to whimper in agony “I loved you! You wasted it all on him you slag” he said and as you felt like you were floating into an unconscious state, the kicking stopped and you forced your eyes open watching as a blurry figure began to beat the living shit out of Jack.

Harry tapped Jack on the shoulder and as the shorter male turned around stopping his abuse, Harry’s hand adorned with rings swung to punch Jack right in the face, the rings leaving marks on his cheeks as Harry stared at Jack emotionless. He was pissed. In a rage. He wouldn’t let Jack get away with this. Jack attempted to punch Harry but Harry grabbed a hold of his wrist, twisting it in an agonisingly painful way, before Harry swiped his foot under jacks forcing him to fall to the floor, a cry of pain falling from the males mouth. “Shut the hell up” he said before he knelt down grabbing a hold of jacks hair pulling him up forcing him to stand back up “oh they’re gonna enjoy you in prison” Harry said and before Jack could even respond Harry had shoved him back down onto the door, his foot then mercilessly kicking at jacks body, before Harry stood over Jack kneeling down onto one knees, his hand wrapping around jacks throat as he began choking him making it impossible for him to breathe as Jack gaped and gasped for breath scratching his nails into Harry’s tattooed arm to try and break himself free “are you going to do this again?” Harry asked painfully slowly making Jack gasp as he wriggled “are you?!” Harry yelled in his face making Jack shake his head repeatedly “no! No! I-I-I promise” he said and Harry kept his hand around jacks throat before letting go and grabbing a fistful of his shirt before using his free hand to punch Jack in the face. Over. And over. And over again until blood pooled out of his nose, in those moments harry didn’t care, even if he himself went to prison he wouldn’t care. “You sorry bastard.” He spat out before continuing to reign punches down onto his face.

Your vision remained blurry as a dark tall figure stood up straight before he got closer and closer to you “y/n? Hey you with me?” His voice was oh so familiar “harry” you whispered weakly and he nodded “that’s me.” He said and without even saying anything you threw your arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly “careful” he urged in a loving tone and you looked into his eyes letting out a shaky breath as the tears began flowing “I’m so sorry… I-I you’re gonna go to prison.. I-I cant lose you…. Harry please” you sobbed out and Harry looked into your eyes before he took your face into his hands, a slight flinch coming from you as you were afraid but he gently rubbed his thumbs against your cheeks assuring you that you were okay “if I go to prison that’s okay…” he whispered and you frowned “why? Why is it okay? Nothings okay” you whispered tears falling continuously and he made you look into your eyes “because you’re okay.” He said, a confused expression forming on your face “I don’t care whether I go to prison because you’re safe… you’re alive and that means it’s all worth it.” He said and you looked at him your expression soft and he pressed a kiss to your forehead

“It was all worth it y/n.”

You loved him so Incredibly much and wanted nothing more than for him to stay with you forever he was your safe haven. He held your face in his hands “you’re safe with me okay? You’ve got no reason to be sorry. I promise I’ll take care of you.” He said keeping an arm around you as he took his phone out calling 999 and before he could even press dial Jack began trying to get up to make an escape, and Harry’s tall frame immediately stood up “stay the hell down you sorry fuck.” He demanded and without even having to say anything more Jack looked at him with a scared look before falling back to the floor almost dramatically,

Harry then crouched down beside you once again, his arm encircling around you as he pulled you close, his fingers rubbing up and down your back as he explained to the 999 dispatcher what had happened and within minutes a police car had arrived, two officers getting Harry’s statement and then yours before they arrested Jack the asshole being removed from the room “would you like us to call an ambulance?” The officer asked and you immediately shook your head, Harry beginning to disagree with you but you shot him a pleasing look and he simply fell silent “no thank you, officer. Thank you for your time.” He said holding you close and as the front door slammed shut Harry slowly turned to look at you “you’re injured darling, you need an ambulance.” He said softly and you shook your head “please harry… I just need to clean myself up and then we can see what my injuries look like from there on okay?” You said softly and he nodded “okay.”

“Careful easy does it” he murmured helping you stand holding onto your hands tightly before his arm encircled around your waist “I-I really don’t want to clean myself in here… please can we go to your place?” You asked almost afraid he would say no and as he looked into your eyes his expression softened as he simply smiled “of course we can.” He said and you smiled gratefully. You knew it would be painful to go downstairs and Harry knew that too and without even asking him whether he’d happily carry you, he simply and carefully picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carefully made his way downstairs making sure each step was trodden on carefully so you wouldn’t feel any pain. He cared so deeply about you and wanted you to be okay.

~

The drive to Harry’s house was quiet, Harry’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking towards you ever so slightly every now and then almost making sure you were okay. He had noticed how your head was lulling back and forth, he knew you couldn’t sleep without sound and so he very subtly turned the radio on “get some rest darling, I’ll wake you when we’re there.” He said and almost as if you needed his permission to fall asleep your head fell gently onto the window, the coolness cooling your skin as you fell into a deep yet peaceful sleep.

What felt like seconds later a gentle hand shook your shoulder as you fluttered your eyes open gazing at Harry “we’re here…” he said softly and you let out a little groan, your body stiff and achy as you tried to undo your seatbelt, your arms being so tired and Harry noticed that, and instead of making you feel bad about it he simply unbuckled you before making his way round to the passenger side of the car, pulling the door open as he leant down hooking his hands under your arms as he carefully pulled you out, wrapping your arm gently around his shoulders as he began helping you into the house.

As you got into his bathroom he helped you sit on the toilet seat “would you like a bath?” He asked softly and you looked at him tiredly “I… I…” you wanted to of course you did but you knew he’d see you naked as there was no way you’d get in and out of the bath by yourself “there’s no pressure sweetheart… only if you want” he said gently his hand assuringly rubbing against your arm “if you don’t mind” you said softly and he smiled “of course I don’t mind” he said before standing up as he turned the hot and cold taps on before picking up two bottles of bubble bath as he smiled at you “lavender or marshmallows?” He asked and you smiled pointing at the lavender one and he smiled “good choice” he then unscrewed the cap before pouring the silky liquid into the bath before lowering his hand into the water and circulating all the water around creating mass amounts of bubbles and once the bath was at a warm temperature and at the right level he turned the taps off and turned to look at you struggling to get your top off, his expression softening “do you want some help?” He asked softly and you looked at him scared worry he’d judge you, say something to make you feel worse but this was Harry… Harry was the man you’d trust with your whole being and slowly you nodded your head “please”

He then got closer to you “can you lift your arms for me?” He asked gently and you did, a dull ache in your bones but it was okay. He then lifted your T-shirt over your head discarding it onto the floor, “trousers too?” He asked and you were able to unbutton them but you struggled to pull them down and he noticed that, his hands gently tugging your trousers down and once they were off he must’ve sensed the insecurity pooling out of you the slight trembles of your hands and the slight shake in your breathing only convinced him more and his hands took yours as he gazed into your eyes “hey… this is a judgement free zone I assure you…” he said and you looked at him sadly “it’s not you.” You whispered and he nodded allowing you to continue your words “Jack, he would call me names… slut… slag… fat… bitch… everything a-and I- I think he cheated on me… he must’ve… I mean who wants a wasteful bitch like myself anyways” you said immediately earning a disapproving look from Harry “no. We don’t talk about ourselves like that. You’re not a bitch and you’re not a waste. You’re beautiful and any man would be lucky to have you.” He said and tears soon began freely flowing down your cheeks “you don’t understand H” you whispered and he looked into your eyes “what don’t I understand?” He asked softly “I hate myself” you spat out a hurt expression forming on his face but he immediately pushed it away “well then… I’ll make it my mission to make sure you’ll find that love for yourself all over again.”

“I won’t look I promise.” He said softly, helping you unclasp your bra, he stood behind you his eyes remaining on the clasps of your bra and nothing else and like he promised he didn’t look, turning around to give you your privacy as you got into the bath, but after a second or two he heard a desperate sob falling from your lips “help me” you said softly feeling useless and he turned around his hands immediately holding onto your hips to keep you stable, he kept his eyes on your eyes not making you feel uncomfortable what so ever “I-I can’t get in” you whispered and he smiled “I’ll help you don’t worry” he assured his arm securely wrapping around your stomach before he effortlessly lifted you up and into the bath, the warm water immediately sending tingles up and down your spine, his hands holding onto yours as he helped you sit down “easy does it… well done… good girl.” He praised with a soft loving smile.

You sunk into the warmth of the water fluttering your eyes shut as he drowned a flannel in warm bubbly water before lifting it out before wringing out the access water before he knelt down onto his knees resting his forearm against the edge of the bathtub, using one corner of the flannel to gently rub the blood from your face, his touch gentle and soft. Your vision was starting to get better, the fuzziness leaving as Harry became a lot more clear his soft comforting features bringing warmth to you as you knew you were safe. As you sat up ever so slightly he began to wash your back, you fluttered your eyes shut your breathing calm and soft as he continued cleaning you, washing your body for you giving you his undivided attention.

“Your cheek” you said, horrified, noticing the purple-ish bruise forming on his cheek “it’s nothing don’t worry” he said looking into your eyes, your wet hand gently reaching out cupping his cheek as you brushed your thumb against the bruise “I’m so sorry… I never meant for him to hurt you” you said softly and he smiled at you “I said it’s okay. He’s an unhinged crazy bastard. He isn’t your problem anymore I promise.” He said softly gazing into your eyes, oh how his lips looked so kissable.

~

He helped you stand out of the bath, opening a towel as he wrapped it around you and instead of letting go he simply held you to his chest, lifting you out of the bath until your feet hit the ground again, he held the towel at the back for you so it wouldn’t fall down and as you took it holding it around yourself he let go “I’ll go get you some clothes okay” he said softly and you nodded gratefully. After a second or two he came back with a pair of boxers and a baggy T-shirt of his “I’ll leave you in here to get changed okay?” “No- please don’t” you said softly and he looked at you “I don’t want to be alone” you said and he smiled nodding his head “okay.” He said softly. He kept his back turned to you as you put on his T-shirt and boxers and once you were decent he turned back round to you “you must be tired, yeah? A warm beds awaiting your arrival” he said with a soft smile before he wrapped his arm around your waist leading you to the bed, his king sized bed was comfy and warm… it was very comforting to be honest.

As you laid down he got in beside you, turning off the night light the light from the bathroom being the only light but you didn’t mind. “If you need anything… let me know okay” he said softly, his breath fanning against your face as you nodded your head “okay, thank you Harry… seriously.” You said gently and he smiled, even though the room was dark you were both still able to see one another “no problem… sleep well okay? I love you.” He said and you gazed into his eyes “I love you too Harry.” You said quietly but you meant it, and instead of either of you falling asleep or even moving you both got closer to each other “just hold me, please” you whispered and he happily obliged his arms wrapped securely around you, his forehead nestling against yours, your parted lips practically brushing against his, both your noses lightly brushing against each other and slowly but surely his lips sealed against yours, your eyes fluttering shut as your hand slid up to cup against his cheek, the kiss being gentle but passionate, soft but hungry. Tears of relief slowly slid down your cheeks as you continued to kiss him, his kisses soon moving up your cheek as he kissed away your tears “I love you so much so so much.” You whispered and he smiled down at you “and I love you just as much my love.” He said the pad of his thumb brushing against your skin slowly and gently “I love you more than life itself… I’ll never stop loving you.” He said and the more you stared into his eyes the more you fell in love.

“But as much as I love you.. you need to sleep… you need to rest. Okay? We can do whatever you want whenever you want but I just want you to heal okay?” He said quietly and you nodded snuggling further into him, your head resting against his chest as you listened to his heartbeat. His lips etching little kisses onto your forehead as he played with your hair ever so slightly, his fingers making patterns into your back as he kept you close your eyes fluttering shut as you fell into a deep peaceful sleep, the sound of his heartbeat and breathing lulling you into a perfect sleep… Harry was your hero… Harry was your second chance… Harry was a sense of hope.

[polyphonial-old]

@maileesque iblings......

[image id: two sketches of my ocs. the one on the left is cass, a girl with straight long hair and bangs. she has big round eyes and a button nose. she smiles at the viewer, her hair and cape flowing behind her. she holds a smiling mask halfway covering her face with one hand and waves with the other.

the one on the right is a bust drawing of ed, a guy. he has a nose with a bump, thin lips, a hooded eye with an eyebag under it, and a spiky eyebrow. his straight, slightly spiky hair goes down to the base of his neck and half of it is pulled back, indicated by a little doodle of his side profile. he also has a splash shaped scar covering the left side of his face and stretching down to the side of his neck and shoulder. his left eye is not open fully due to his scar. end id.]

[whatwedoinvolterra]

Continuing my compilation of why Angela and Edward would be friends. Plus I like that he cares that her crush is deserving of her and not a creep

[la-tour-de-babel]

La Crêpe Ratée - Pièce de Théâtre en quatre Actes

DISCLAIMER : Le saviez-vous ? C'est très peu pratique de poster des pièces de théâtres, sur Tumblr. Le format ne passe pas très bien. Du coup, eh bien, vous avez l'incommensurable chance d'avoir un lien Google Doc à la place. La pièce est toujours sujette à réécriture, en plus, donc c'est tout benef'.

RESUME : Nous sommes dans un nouvel AU, abordable même sans avoir lu La Tour de Babel. Paul entre en contact via vidéoconférence avec une créature répondant au doux pronom de Lui. Pourquoi ? C'est simple. Il a besoin qu'on répare sa vie.

PAIRINGS : Alphonse Bertrand / Maître Alphabet x Paul Saulter / Programmation.

TRIGGER WARNING : Mention de suicide, de mort, et basiquement, on part complètement dans les principes de #unreality. Manipulation, bien sûr, parce qu'Il est l'un des personnages. Et beaucoup de discussions autour de la Théorie des Crêpes.

Sur ce, et bien. Enjoyez, si vous en êtes capables.

--------------------------

[rafecameronssl4t]

omg what about the forced marriage au! but sofia tries to flirt w rafe inspite of him being a married man infront of the reader and he sets his boundaries and makes it clear that he is only loyal to the reader

Eyes don’t lie || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: I don't think i mentioned it in the background for this au but reader and her family are practically royalty in obx. I forgot to mention this in the other fic but readers siblings from oldest to youngest is as followed: William Astoria Edward Charlotte and reader

Warnings: nothing really!!

Word count: 1,609

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

Sofia’s eyes wandered around the grand ballroom, her gaze drifted appreciatively over the opulent surroundings. The architecture of the room was breathtaking, its grandeur perfectly fitting for the New Year’s Eve celebration, which was exclusive to the elite socialites of Outer Banks.

The high ceilings, adorned with sparkling chandeliers, cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Sofia went about serving drinks to the guests, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd for a specific person. The ballroom was alive with chatter and laughter, but her attention was fixed on the grand staircase at the far end of the room.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted as the crowd’s clapping grew louder and more rhythmic. Sofia’s gaze followed the collective attention to the top of the grand staircase. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw your family make their entrance. First, your parents descended the stairs, radiating an air of effortless elegance.

They were followed by your siblings and their partners, each step meticulously coordinated, adding to the grandeur of the moment. And then, as if choreographed for a royal event, you and Rafe appeared, linked arm in arm. The sight was nothing short of breathtaking.

The way the crowd’s applause built to a crescendo as you both descended the stairs left Sofia in awe. The admiration etched on every guest’s face was palpable, a testament to the elevated status your family held. Sofia had known your family was influential, but seeing it up close was overwhelming.

The opulence and grace with which you and Rafe carried yourselves, combined with the sheer scale of the event, exceeded anything she had imagined. This elite socialite world was new to her; she had only been filling in for someone who couldn’t attend, and now she was witnessing a spectacle that felt almost surreal.

Sofia’s eyes followed you and Rafe as you navigated the room, your every movement drawing admiring glances from the guests. You both were effortlessly engaged in conversations, laughter dancing between you as you exchanged smiles. Sofia couldn’t help but notice how Rafe’s hand would rest possessively on your waist, his smile widening whenever he glanced down at you, clearly enjoying your company.

A pang of envy twisted in her stomach as she observed the closeness between you two. As the night wore on, you and Rafe made your way to the bar. Rafe took charge, ordering drinks for both of you while you chatted animatedly with your sisters. His hand lingered on the small of your back, a subtle but intimate gesture that spoke volume to Sofia.

Sofia watched this interaction with a mix of fascination and frustration. Determined to make her presence felt, Sofia stepped closer to the two from where she was behind the bar, her smile wide and her gaze fixed on Rafe. "It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?" she said, her voice laced with a flirtatious tone.

Rafe gave a curt nod, his focus remaining squarely on you as he waits for his drinks. His body language was clear—he was fully engaged with you and had little interest in entertaining Sofia’s advances. Despite his lack of response, Sofia persisted, her smile unwavering as she tried to find another way to break through.

It was obvious to Rafe that Sofia had a liking towards him and she was not good at hiding it. Rafe’s gaze remained fixed on you, but his tone was firm and polite. “I'm just here to enjoy the evening with my wife,” he said, his words leaving little room for further flirtation. Sofia’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, trying to mask her disappointment.

“Well I hope you enjoying the rest of the party," she said, her tone still light but with a hint of frustration. Rafe offered a polite but distant smile before turning his attention back to you, his hand still resting protectively on the small of your back. Sofia, though slightly deflated by his lack of interest, couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on him throughout the night, her eyes trailing his every move.

~

As you and Rafe exchanged quiet words, you leaned in closer to him, your lips near his ear as you asked, “Do you know her?” Your tone was casual, but your curiosity was clear. Rafe’s brows furrowed slightly before he followed your gaze to where Sofia quickly averted her eyes, trying to look busy behind the bar. “Some pogue that works at the country club,” he replied flatly, his voice laced with boredom as he turned back to you.

You hummed in response, your eyes glinting with amusement. “She seems quite interested in you,” you mused, a small smirk playing on your lips as you observed Sofia’s poorly hidden attempts to steal glances at Rafe. He rolled his eyes, lifting his glass to his mouth, clearly unimpressed by the attention. “Find this amusing, do you?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he took a sip of his drink.

You could see the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Very,” you replied, your smirk widening as you watched him shake his head in mock exasperation. The easy banter between you both was laced with an intimacy that only deepened Sofia’s envy as she watched from afar, her efforts to catch Rafe’s eye futile.

~

“One minute till midnight!” a voice called out from the crowd, drawing Sofia’s attention. “Get ready for your New Year’s kiss!” The cheerful voice belonged to Astoria, whose playful tone sparked laughter among the guests. Sofia’s gaze instantly zeroed in on you and Rafe, standing close together with his hand resting possessively on your lower back, subtly guiding you closer.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the way Rafe seemed so effortlessly in control, his every movement a declaration of his claim on you. As the countdown began, Rafe gently turned you so that your back was to Sofia, shielding your shared moment from prying eyes. His gaze roamed over your face with an intensity that made Sofia’s chest tighten. “What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the growing excitement.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he murmured in response, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. His breath fanned across your lips as he pulled you even closer, his touch both tender and possessive. “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!” The room chanted in unison, voices rising in anticipation as the new year approached.

As the numbers ticked down, Rafe’s hand slid up to rest on the back of your neck, his fingers lightly grazing your jawline in a way that sent shivers down your spine. At the stroke of midnight, Sofia watched with a mixture of longing and frustration as Rafe leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. The world seemed to pause for her, the moment suspended in time as she took in the sight of the man she desired so deeply kissing someone else.

A camera flash illuminated the room, capturing the intimate moment between you and Rafe as you slightly pulled away, only for Rafe to keep you close against him. His hand remained firm on your back, refusing to let the moment slip away so easily. The room erupted into celebration—confetti rained down, fireworks burst outside, and the sound of cheers and clinking glasses filled the air.

But Sofia couldn’t focus on any of it. Her eyes were locked on Rafe, whose lips remained pressed against yours even as the celebrations continued around you. Then, something shifted. Rafe’s eyes opened, and as he kissed you, his gaze lifted over your head, locking onto Sofia’s. His cool blue eyes met hers, and in that instant, she felt as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs.

But instead of the cold indifference she might have expected, there was a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile of invitation; it was a silent warning. His message was clear—back off. He was telling her without words that he was loyal to you, that there was no room for anyone else. Her heart pounded wildly, the sound of it echoing in her ears as she stood frozen, unable to look away.

Sofia felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart pounding harder as she realized the intent behind his gaze. She stood frozen, unable to look away, as that smirk told her everything she needed to know. Rafe was making it clear that she was wasting her time, that his commitment was to you and you alone.

Rafe held her gaze for a moment longer, his smirk lingering as if to drive the point home, before his eyes dropped back to you. The moment you broke the kiss, a smile spread across your face as you pressed your hands against his chest, turning your attention to the fireworks outside. Only then did Rafe’s expression shift, his smirk fading into a polished, aristocratic smile as he glanced around the room.

He clapped along with the crowd, though his enthusiasm was clearly feigned. After a few seconds, he snatched a flute of champagne from a floating tray, knocking it back in one swift motion. The gesture was casual, almost dismissive, as if the exchange with Sofia had been nothing more than a brief interruption in an otherwise perfect night.

Sofia, left standing in the shadows, could only watch as the man she coveted so dearly turned away, his focus entirely on you. The pit of envy in her stomach deepened, but now mingled with a bitter understanding—Rafe’s loyalty to you was unshakeable, and there was nothing she could do to change that.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Rosalie and Jasper talking about reader who is sleeping peacefully but had a nightmare episode a few nights ago

Can't Escape the Nightmares

Pairing(s): Jasper Hale x Human!Reader, platonic!Rosalie Hale x Human!Reader

Warnings: mentions of past assault, mentions of past rape, noncon themes discussed, reader is jasper's mate, platonic!rosaliexreader, human!reader, nightmares, trauma, ptsd, dark content, mention of blood, brief mention of murder/death, short

Words: 624

Cradle (pt2)

Rosalie pets your hair with the tenderest of fingers as you slept with your head on her lap, head cushioned by a pillow. Your mate Jasper was off with Emmett and Edward for a boy's night. Which was quite unfortunate as he was one of the few who could subdue your nightmares that constantly plagued you. Thankfully you found the same sense of calm when you were with Rosalie.

She'd left a text to Jasper, telling him to come home when he gets the chance but that was a while ago. Maybe he didn't have cell service out there.

Drawing the blanket closer to you, Rosalie makes sure you're bundled so her naturally cold skin doesn't make you freeze. What she would give to be able to see into your dreams to make sure they were sweet. You'd been through enough in the waking world, you shouldn't have to suffer them again as you slept.

Was it really only four years ago that she followed the sound of your screams into the woods and found you being assaulted in the worst ways possible. When she saw you there, she was taken back to a time where Rosalie was in a similar scenario. There was no prior thinking involved in her decision to rescue you and kill the men responsible.

She didn't even know what she'd do with you once she finished killing them. When Rosalie gazed down at your dirty face and trembling body she was not willing to leave you out there by yourself. You were swiftly brought to the Cullen house so Carlisle could attend to you.

And from there. . . you and Jasper fell in love. You were there to stay.

The back door alarms ding, Rosalie nearly jumps to her feet before she remembers you were fast asleep using her for comfort.

She needn't even budge. In a second, Jasper was in the living room with them. Eyes brimming with concern when he regards your sleeping form. "Was it bad?"

Rosalie hums and resumes stroking your head. "She's had worse."

Jasper kneels down so that he could get close to kiss the bridge of your nose. You'd been doing so well this past month; no nightmares for several consecutive days and it looked to be keeping strong. Of course the one night you push Jasper out to join his brothers in hunting would be the night you'd get a nightmare.

"Remember what Carlisle told us." Rosalie reminds Jasper in a warm yet warning tone. "It's from her PTSD. She may never really recover. All we can do is help her when she's suffering from it." Maneuvering herself so that Jasper had easier access to you, he picks you up blankets and all.

He often thinks back to the day Rosalie brought you home. Bruised, naked, dirty and so terrified that your bottom lip couldn't stop trembling. Bright red was splashed across Rosalie's face and even dyed parts of her hair where blood had spattered on. Time itself had stopped in that moment. Rosalie holding you looked like a painting from Titian.

It was funny, the contrast between how Rosalie treated you compared to Bella. Night and Day. From that day on, Rosalie always kept an eye on you similar to a mother hen. It didn't surprise anyone in the family, knowing what Rosalie had gone through was quite similar to what had happened to you. A morbid, kindred familiarity that made Rosalie soften up to you.

"Thank you, for being there for her." Jasper whispers. Unequivocal tenderness warms Rosalie's eyes as she watches Jasper hold you.

"Don't be stupid." her voice mellow like a drip of honey. "Even if you didn't want me to be, I'll always be there for her."

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

eddie wakes up with a red string tied from his finger to yours, no idea where he got it, and no idea how to tell you that you're caught on the end of it. soulmate!au. fem!reader, 16k.

content warnings mentioned issues with self image, implied body dysmorphia, reader is insecure/a touch shy, alcohol, a short kiss after one character has been drinking, weed mentioned but not used by eddie or reader. please read with care! requested here ♡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Eddie remembers the party in flashes. The feeling of his thick-soled creepers caught on the floor, wings in fly paper. Someone's headphones cracking like a wishbone between two hands and a fist fight in the backyard. Your hair touching some degenerate's cheek as they leaned down to kiss you, and the shudder that ran through you as you opened your mouth. Beer. Beer, cheap wine, another beer. 

While he realises the beer may be fogging his memory, none of the fractures explain the piece of string tied to the marriage finger on his left hand.

He stands in the tiny trailer bathroom with his back against the door, the hustle and bustle of his Uncle Wayne's morning routine filtering through the flimsy door. It bends under his weight. Anymore pushing and it'll fly off the hinges.

The string withstands reasoning. Eddie wasn't particularly alarmed when he couldn't slide it off of his finger that morning, half-falling out of bed and desperate for the bathroom. He figured himself the victim of an elaborate prank, toppling out of bed to follow the red string where it stood taut. He chased it to the door and gave up when he realised that it disappeared down the dark stretch of road leading out of the Hills. 

Panic set in somewhere between peeing and a pair of scissors falling apart around the string in the kitchen. Like even the touch of the string was an insult, uncuttable. 

From there he tried yanking, buttering, slicing. The butter made his fingers greasy and the knife went dull. To the touch, the string is thin. Twelve pieces of strand like doubled embroidery thread, plain cotton to the eye, maybe polyester if the minimal iridescent shine is a clue. He can spread it out between his fingers and thumb, he just can't cut it off.

"Eddie, what the fuck did you do?" 

Eddie winces and drops his hand from his eyes. The string slides down the doorway where it's trapped with a light shushing.  

"What?" Eddie shouts back to Wayne. 

"Don't what me, son! Come here." 

Eddie groans and hangs his head. Pissed, he scrounges through the laundry for a shirt that's in acceptable condition and attempts to put it on but the insufferable string refuses to play nice. It bends, snags, and Eddie can't find a way to get it off —he has to pull the string toward him, pleased if sceptical to find that despite its taut nature, it will allow him enough length to get an arm through his sleeve. 

"What the fuck," he mutters, looking at the mirror in disbelief. The purple-yellow bruise haunting the hollow of his right eye has shrunk since last night, to his relief. Upon reflection, Eddie doesn't think it'll draw much attention. 

The string doubles back on itself, a red line up the length of his arm to his armpit where it disappears into the sleeve. From there, it snakes down his stomach to pull out from the bottom hem. 

If whoever has the other end of the string decides to pull, his shirt will rise up. Awesome. Really great. He's a fucking streaker.

"Edward Albert Munson, if you don't get in here!" 

"Wayne," Eddie says, pushing open the bathroom door with a suffering sigh, "what do you want me to say? I can't get the fucking thing off'a me." 

Wayne is thoroughly unimpressed where he stands in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and gaze on the countertop by the sink. 

Eddie's confused at first, complaint dying on his lips as he remembers the mess he made in a mad dash for freedom half an hour ago. Butter shines yellow and melted on a small plate, the broken scissors tossed frustratedly aside, a useless knife in similar fashion at the bottom of the sink. 

"What the fuck, Eds?" Wayne asks.

Eddie holds up his hand. "I don't know!" he says, exasperated, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "I woke up with it, I can't get rid of it." 

Wayne's turn to be confused. But, like his newphew's, his confusion doesn't last long. "What happened to your eye?" 

"The string?" Eddie asks, waving his red string around for emphasis. Bruises are commonplace, were nearly normal the summer between nine and tenth grade, this weird magic string is anything but. 

"That what kids are calling shiners?"  Wayne asks, taking Eddie's face in a rough hand. "At least say you got one in too." 

"I don't remember." 

"You don't remember?" Wayne asks, a mixture of unimpressed and horrified. 

"No, I…" He bats Wayne's hand away, giving his tired-faced uncle an abashed smile. "It's fine, Wayne. I was at Gareth's last night." 

"Ah, well that explains it. What does your bruise have to do with the state of my kitchen? You try cutting it off?" 

Eddie turns from Wayne to grab the scissors and knife. He wraps both in paper towel until the sharps (or not so sharps) are covered and tosses them in the trash, scrounging for a bottle of bleach under the sink to wipe away his buttery mess. "You're focused on the wrong disaster, Wayne. Like, I tried following the string out the door and it's a half a mile long. I'm gonna follow it in the van." 

"Is this, like, a trend? Speaking in tongues to get out of trouble?" 

"What are you confused about?" Eddie asks, spinning back to hold his hand in Wayne's face. 

Wayne doesn't look like Eddie, he's not so dark in the hair or eyes, and he obviously doesn't look like Eddie's mom, but the smile he gives him now was one Eddie's mom wore all the time, enduringly fond. Wayne takes Eddie's hand, turning his nephew's palm this way and that as the string slithers against pale knuckles. It almost writhes. 

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" 

"That's not funny." 

"I'm not joking." 

"Wayne," Eddie says, his shirt rising as he pulls on the string to catch the light. It shines in a way that isn't normal, too many colours like the scale of a deep sea fish. "This!" 

"Right… I can't see whatever it is you're seeing. How hard did you get hit? Jesus, I asked you to stop getting yourself in these messes, you could get seriously hurt."

Wayne doesn't waste another second looking through Eddie's string. The weight of a long shift rests between his shoulders, abates as he brings the chipped rim of a Garfield mug to his lips. Eddie swears the chubby cat is mocking him, cruel eyes smirking at his misfortune.

"Unbelievable," Eddie mutters, ditching the whole scene in search of his dingy black sneakers. 

Wayne chuckles and opens the cabinet where they keep their cookies and coffee cakes, calling, "You want breakfast?" 

"No! I have delusions to attend to. Need anything while I'm out?" 

"A new pair of scissors."

Eddie pretends to stab himself in the eye by the front door, over and over. His frustration calms. He slips into loose laced sneakers and grabs his jacket where it's hanging on the coat rack, digging for his keys.  He elbows the door ajar, and doesn't notice his van isn't in the driveway until he's standing at the bottom of the porch steps, flabbergasted. 

"Did you wanna borrow the sierra?" Wayne asks from the door. 

Garfield looks on in silent judgement. 

Wayne generously lends Eddie the sierra. He's relieved when he shuts the door on his string and it behaves like regular old string (which is to say, it doesn't buckle the metal), but then he tries to grab the steering wheel and his finger almost pulls from the socket, stopped by the string. His relief ends. 

"Fuck fuck fuck," he says, opening the door, gathering some string and closing it again. Righted, he pulls his shirt back down his torso and starts the car. 

Eddie's hoping he can follow the string to its beginning, but at this point he's sure he got his shit rocked hard enough to forget being hexed by a devious yet loveable warlock —the string can't be a real string. It doesn't tangle around the wheels of the car as he drives over the faint line of it leading from Forest Hills into Hawkins' town centre, it just vanishes, like Eddie's winding it around a bobbin. 

He takes the first exit on the traffic circle reluctantly, away from the string and toward Gareth's house, where Eddie assumes he left his beloved van. He can't believe how wasted he must have been, and now that he's accepted the string as an irksome constant but prioritised it below van retrieval, the hangover he should definitely have rears a head. His stomach hurts, his eyes are sand, you were fucking kissing somebody else last night— 

Eddie might throw up. He rolls down the window and sticks his head as far out of it as he can justify while driving. The roads are quiet, a late morning in Hawkins pockmarked by the burr of lawn mowers chewing up perfect lawns and the spray of illegal sprinklers. The sun emerges slowly and then all at once, licking his naked arms with the promise of sunburn should he continue the day unprotected. Eddie never seems to tan. He hates the sun, anyway, the glare of it bouncing off of the road in a blinding dotted line. He unfolds the visor over his seat.

Needless to say, he's in a shitty mood when he finally gets to Gareth's house, spying his van wedged in the driveway between a miscellaneous ford and a buick.

Hungover, too hot, trying not to panic about the red string choking his knuckle. It can't seem to decide on how tight or loose it's going to sit. It tightens as he climbs out of the sierra, loosens as he walks toward his van. 

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, patting her freshly lacquered body with love. She's all jet black now, rust buffed and wheels shiny. 

There are bikes crowded against the house wall like toppled dominoes. The window shades are closed but the door is wide open the hinges, the sharp smell of booze wafting out into the sun. Give it enough time and Eddie's sure the sun'll bake all the milling bodies into a brand new smell. 

"Hey, man," Jamison greets, sitting on the kitchen counter and unfairly put together considering the bottle of sours he demolished alone last night, "you survived." 

Gareth is face down at the table next to a plate of cold toast, jelly congealed. Jeff stands by the patio door smoking a cigarette that smells exciting, and Macy stands doing the dishes at the sink.

"Got the girl doing the dishes. Classy," Eddie says.

Macy drops the sponge she's using into the water, soap bubbles dripping from her fingers. "Thanks for offering." 

He relents. The mess they've made —and it is generous to call it a mess, more apt might be an explosion, or a weather event— is extensive. Pizza boxes upturned, tomato sauce and stringy cheese smashed into the fridge like a modern art piece you'd see at MOMA. Eddie wouldn't put it past drunk or high him to have done it, declaring some statement of pretentious high horsery, so he doesn't comment on it. If it was him, he doesn't wanna know. 

"Some party," Jeff says through smoke. 

Eddie pulls the stopper out of the sink to let the water drain. He doesn't roll like that. "What the fuck happened?" 

Gareth rouses at Eddie's question, said as it is with vigour, and remembers his toast. He takes a bite and turns in his seat to blink blearily at Eddie. For a second, Eddie kids himself into thinking his friend can see the string currently spilling water onto the floor like a tightwire. 

"You lost your shit and wrecked my house, you stupid bastard." 

Eddie looks to Jamison, as if to say, that true?

Jamison pushes a long arm behind his back and stretches. "Y/N was hooking up with Cory Wilson and you took it like a champ, in my opinion. We had a good time." 

"She hooked up with Wilson?" he asks, dread pooling in his stomach. The string shudders as you had, Eddie remembers, your chin tilted up and your eyes closing into sweet dark lines, painted lashes squeezed together. 

"She took you home," Macy says, muffled, a hair tie between her lips. She lets the thin blonde strands of her hair fall back to her shoulders. "She didn't stay the night?" 

"That would've been kind of sick," Jeff says. 

"He could barely walk," Jamison agrees. "Okay, I'm lying. You were fine." 

"I figured she'd have to stay, the way you were begging her. Ditch Wilson, baby, he doesn't know you like I know you. We can make it work, just say you'll stop seeing him." 

Eddie drops a plate in the sink with a splintering crush. The answering roar of laughter tells him what he hadn't had breath to ask. No, he didn't really say any of that shit. 

"You were drunk, not stupid," Jeff says.

"Not that stupid," Jamison corrects. 

Eddie frowns down at the broken plate in the sink for a breather. Nerves abated, total loserdom escaped for another day, he holds his damp hand up in the air.  "Any of you fuckers seeing this?" 

"Get a new tattoo?" Macy asks. 

He shakes his hand, the string (still caught in his sleeve, line like a bright vein up his arm) shaking. "You don't see it?"

"Your artist is gonna be pissed, they hate cheaters." 

Eddie sighs. "Can someone pass me the trash can?" 

They clean the house together in fits and starts, all nauseous, all wishing they'd had the sense to have a chill get together, just the five of them. Gareth declares his home a no go scene for the rest of summer and Eddie doesn't bother offering, nobody wants a party at the trailer park. Seeing the disco ball missing a rainbow lense under the stairs, a jumbo box of popcorn sprayed over the entire downstairs bathroom, and poor Manny Gomez cup-locked where he snoozes on the Persian rug in the lounge, Eddie wouldn't agree to host a party ever, even if he lived in one of the rich kid cribs like Harrington. It takes hours to put it right.

The longer he cleans the looser the string becomes. It drops to the floor (seemingly done with no regard to the laws of physics, having magicked itself out of his sleeve at a point, unnoticed) and trips him up as he walks downstairs. Eddie led a one man search party for Gareth's pet fish who some idiot transferred to the bathtub. The fish flops around at the turbulence of his trip inside of a temporary cup, but Eddie manages to return the poor thing to its tank uninjured.  

"It's fucking sick," he says, crouching down to follow the fish as it reacclimates. Its big black eyes are like sequins set in orange glitter, scales glistening, a shimmering of purple and teal blues kissing its underbelly as it swims. "You're a beautiful creature. I'm sorry somebody tried to evict you, babe." 

"He's a boy." 

"Yeah, and he's a babe." Eddie bites his tongue. 

You bend at the waist. With the shades still drawn, the brunt of the light entering the room is from your left, and the right side, the side closest to Eddie, is lit blue by the fish tank. You smile gently at the goldfish puttering around between artificial seaweed, an expression that grabs Eddie by the intestines. You feel his gaze, turning your face ever so slightly to his. 

"Don't look as nice without makeup, I know," you murmur. 

You're dressed differently today, stripped back in one way and more beautiful all the others, bare-skinned, no makeup or glitters to hide behind. Eddie remembers every detail of what you were wearing last night, the details stamped into his temporal lobe (before he drank his weight in other peoples booze). Black tights that shimmered slick oil as you moved and a tiny dress to boot. You're not a small girl, thighs there and grabbable and so un-grabbed, and when you bent down Eddie's shamefaced to say he followed the line. He loved how you looked last night, loves how you express yourself, but he craves how you are now, the lesser seen side of the same coin.

"You look nice." He cringes, his reflection in the fish tank glass a horror. Eddie never actually managed to shower this morning. If he doesn't smell like pale ale it'll be a miracle. "You do. At least one of us showered." 

"I'm surprised you're alive," you say with a fond smile. Eddie never takes your insults to heart because you never say them to hurt. You're easygoing. You're light incarnate. "I haven't seen you drink that much since graduation." 

"Macy says you took me home." He stands at full height. You follow suit. 

"Kicking and screaming. You told me you were going to drink every drop of Mr. Lashlee's bourbon or die trying, and you tried." 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks. He can be volatile when he's intoxicated, like a fish out of water. 

You gesture to his cheek. "Hurt yourself. You were freaking out and your hand kicked back. I didn't think it would bruise. Does it hurt awful?" 

Your sympathy melts him. Eddie shakes his head, lying through his teeth, "I can barely feel it." 

Your hoodie drowns you, your jeans not as oversized but hiding the feats of your thighs from view. He can't say he's not disappointed, though it's cute on you, your jeans rolled at the ends to showcase mildly mismatched crew socks and a pair of converse, their rubber shiny with newness besides a small sharpie heart on the left toe. Trapped beneath them is Eddie's string. 

He tugs it out. You show no sign of feeling it as the string snaps upward like an elastic and stops short. It goes stiff as a stick, tied from the knuckle of his marriage finger and leading…

To the knuckle of yours. 

Like matching rings.

Eddie thinks, Sure. If I'm delusional, of course it's something to do with you. 

"Don't suppose you can see it?" he asks, pulling against the string. The red band expands to accommodate you, rather than tug you inward. It has a mind of its own, apparently, listening to Eddie only on occasion. 

"The bruise?" you ask, confused. "It's hard not to see. But it's not too bad. You could buy some powder for it if it bothers you, but I think it makes you seem cool." 

"I don't seem cool?" 

You smile as though you're sharing a joke. If you are, Eddie hasn't heard it before. 

It's weird, crushing on someone. He can't remember feeling this way growing up, spending sun-soaked days at playgrounds and parking lots and the pool, wet to the knees, you and your friends sitting under the shade of the umbrellas. The first time he saw you there, in your bikini bottoms and your big white t-shirt bent over a book, he didn't feel any sudden revelation. No spark. No pulled string. He thought you were pretty without bragging about it and he met you not long after that at a nondescript barbecue. Then he stopped hanging out with his middle school friends and flunked two years. He forgot you existed. And now he knows you again, he feels more and more of himself bending and twisting trying to be what you want him to be, or what he thinks you want, at least. If you want Wilson, he can be Wilson. Eddie can kiss like a fish and wear too much cologne, he can sell out and cut his hair to the ears. 

Well, maybe not that far. I still want to be me, he thinks, eyes on your hands and the string stretched between them. The red seems darker now, onyx hued, ropey as blood. 

"What are you doing here?" Eddie forces out. Not surprised, you and Macy are close enough that you've formed friendships with the whole gang of merry misfits, but wondering if his string has pulled you here. Does he have any say? 

"I thought I'd help with the aftermath, see if anybody wanted to get burgers, the works." 

Eddie catches a flicker of nervousness in your stance, the half-step backwards you take when his shoe nears your own. The string loosens.

He doesn't have any intention of making you uncomfortable. He probably smells like a dumpster, he wouldn't blame you for needing space. And if who you were kissing last night is indicative of who you'll be sidling up to again in the future, Eddie has low hopes for you both. 

"Burgers?" Manny groans from the floor. 

You turn slowly on one heel. "Hello, Manny," you say, angling your head to line up with his. "Someone's drawn on you." 

"What did they draw?" Manny asks, rubbing his smeared face sluggishly. 

You look to Eddie for guidance. The reality of Manny's tagging is embarrassing. 

"It's a dick, I'm afraid." Eddie offers Manny a hand. "With disproportionate, uh, baubles." 

"But I'm sure Benny won't care," you say.

—

Benny makes Manny wear a baseball cap pulled down low, because This is a family establishment, Man. Every time you see the thick-lined drawing on his cheek you smile and feel awful for it, but luckily Manny seems to be taking the joke well. 

If you'd fallen asleep at the party last night and woke up with a semi-permanent tattoo of similar calibre you'd be too mortified to bother leaving the house until it was gone. You're not thrilled with your appearance as it is. Any cruel additions would have you housebound. 

Guilty, you take a bite of your burger to hide your smile. Eddie's already clocked it, generous enough to pretend he hasn't noticed, and Macy finds it funnier than you do, so she's yet to notice your amusement. The rest of the boys are making ornaments out of plastic straws. Gareth is shit, Jamison better, but Jeff takes the cake with a three layer birthday cake, candles included. It strains to break as he adds another candle. His bloodshot eyes show no signs of anxiety. 

Manny grabs a napkin and knocks your ice tea. The cup sloshes but doesn't spill, ice cubes clinking and beads of condensation racing down the sides of your glass. You pick it up to feel the cold. Lately you've been morose. The cold, any sensation, can put distance between you and the heavy for a while, but there's no cure. And now you've gone and let Cory Wilson of all people kiss you for the simple fact that he wanted to. 

He's the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you. 

But you don't want him to kiss you again, and you're not sure how you manage it. Do you have to tell him you're not interested? Probably not, it was just a stupid kiss. He dipped down, his lips hot, his smell nice if overpowering, and it was right for a while, it was what you wanted, but then his hand dropped down rather than up, searching for something to take rather than something to hold. 

It's not how you pictured it. 

"You okay?" 

You raise your eyes, ice tea in hand. Eddie splits his attention between you and a basket of crispy crinkle cut fries loaded with cheese and bacon bits. He's nonchalant, his shoe tapping into yours as he leans forward for another bite. He chews, and he waits for you to answer. 

"I'm alright. Thinking about work." Bad lie. "Gareth said you got a new tattoo?" 

"Nope. I've been thinking about getting a new one to fill the gap under my puppeteer," he says, extending his arm to show you it in the light, the ridge and weave of his veins stark against his white skin. They're especially fierce leading down to his wrist, as is the small notch on the outermost side. You reach out to touch it without thinking, fingertip rubbing carefully over the bump. 

Eddie pushes his arm closer. "I want something here." He draws a half circle with his opposite pinky in the empty space. "But I can't think of what I want. Sometimes you go to the shop and they have a bunch of flash sheets and you like one of them enough to get it, right? I don't know."

It means a lot to you that he'd let you touch him without asking. You should've asked. 

He should've asked you, but he was drunk. You're not sure he was thinking straight. 

You sit back in your seat and finish your iced tea, feeling the cold slide down into your chest. You shiver at the feeling. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asks. 

"Why wouldn't she be okay, Munson?" Manny asks. 

"Quiet, dickhead." 

Manny snorts, grabbing a greedy handful of Eddie's fries as punishment for a low blow. Eddie couldn't care less, clearly, his focus on you and your moping. You step into a sweeter smiling version of yourself that you save for times like this. 

"You know I work for Deenie DIY?" you ask. 

"Of course I know that," Eddie says, and not in the way people do sometimes where they assume you're insulting their intelligence, but the nice way. Like knowing where you work is easy information to carry.

He's the nicest of his friends, which is a credit to him; they aren't a bad bunch.

"So, I have this coworker that keeps bringing soup to work, and she swears that someone is syphoning off a couple of spoonfuls before lunch every day…" 

Eddie listens to your story with a weird expression. You bumble through the twists and turns of the world's stupidest fable, how she blamed a bunch of different people and now no one likes her, and the soup was getting warmed up by the fridge lights —it was her own fault. He listens, he smiles and nods and offers commentary that's funnier than the original story, the entire time with a downturn to his lips. You hate seeing him like that, but you don't know what to say. 

Plates left streaked with ketchup and mayo, glasses dotted by greasy prints and lip smackers, you and your friends tip as generously as twenty-somethings can afford and decide to head back to Gareth's for a couple of hours. It's barely past noon on a Saturday in late July. Nobody has to work for at least thirty six hours. You pile into two cars, arguing about what tape to play for the ten minute drive. Eddie ends up in the seat beside you somehow, and he doesn't shy away when the car takes a bend and you lean into his side. 

He puts his arm behind your shoulder. "Sorry," he says.

"It's okay." 

You lift your head. The memory of his face hovering close to yours, the sweet smell of cheap cherry wine on his breath, his hand clumsy with drink but kind as it climbed your back, your dress thin enough to catch your death, thin enough to feel like he was touching bare skin. Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful. 

"I gotta take my uncle's car back. Wouldn't do me a solid and come with?" he asks. 

— 

You follow Eddie in the van. He can see you in his rear view mirror, your hands on his steering wheel, the window down and the breeze ruffling your hood. 

Jeff was too high to drive and Eddie wouldn't trust Jamison to drive a moped. Gareth can't drive and okay, Macy can, she's good, but Eddie chose you for a reason. The string tied between your hands clings from door to door. 

Eddie pulls the sierra into the driveway in front of the trailer, holding two fingers up to you as he hops out and jogs up the steps. Two minutes.

"Wayne? Brought the car back." 

"How's your bruise, Eds?" 

Wayne's laying on the couch with a blanket over his legs, coffee cup swapped for a plate of cookies and a bag of chips. Eddie leans on the doorway, Wayne's keys on his finger. The string bobs back through the door, as if to say, Hey, she's over here, dipshit.

"It's fine, what are you eating? Did you have breakfast after I went?" 

"Yeah I had breakfast, I'm a grown man." Punctuated by the crunch of potato chips. "It's lunch time. This is my lunch." 

"Let me make you a pot pie or something." 

Wayne waves him off. "You're going back out. Who's in the van?" 

"That's Y/N." 

Wayne smiles knowingly. "Ah, is it?" He stands up with remarkable speed putting his plate of cookies on the table. He ducks down to peek through the window, and you must see him or wave, Wayne waving back. "Make her come say hi." 

"I won't be making her say shit." 

"She was nice last night." 

Eddie cringes, having forgotten you were his saviour. "Do I wanna know what you said?" 

"I said you were an idiot and an embarrassment, and that your safe return deserved a reward. You should invite her over for dinner." 

"No, because that's, like, a couples thing. Come and meet my parents," Eddie says, shoulders jumping, hands up in jazz hands, "laugh at my baby photos." 

"I don't have many of those. Got a bunch of you when you were fourteen and deep in the glam rock obsession." 

He used to say Eddie could wear whatever he wanted and paint his face a hundred different colours as long as Wayne got to take a picture. 

"Great, I'll invite her, and you can show her your nice album of reasons not to date me." 

"Son, why don't you just ask her to dinner? Worked in my day." 

"You're not even old. And I was going to," Eddie whines, rubbing the flat of his forehead ineffectually. "Then she was kissing this idiot Cory Wilson last night. I blew it. Lost my chance."

"I still think you should ask her for dinner. Any sense about her and she'll say yes." 

It's one of those reassurances your mom says to you when you're down on your luck. Handsomest guy in the world, how could anybody say no to that face? 

"Maybe I'll ask her." Eddie smiles nervously. "We're gonna go hang out, cool? You going to Dean's?" 

"None of your business. Yeah, I'm going to Dean's, just to help him fix his hand saw. I'll be back before six. See you then?" 

Eddie tosses Wayne the sierra keys. "See you. Don't drink too much." 

"Ironic, Edward!" 

Eddie leaves the trailer feeling vaguely hopeful about you; maybe Wayne's right. Kissing somebody doesn't mean you're married, but the window of opportunity to let his feelings be known is getting smaller the longer he waits. And seeing you standing against the grate of the van with your hands in your pockets, slice of your calves peeking out between your socks and jeans, big sleeves on your hoodie falling up one arm, he doesn't know if he can wait anymore. 

"Hey, would you wanna get out of here?" he asks. "Like, ditch Gareth's for a bit?"

"And do what?" 

The string shortens as he closes the gap between you. He twists it around his finger. It's tied to you —it must be a sign. (Or he's imagining it and he has, like, a paralytic brain worm eating its way across his eyeballs.) 

"I don't know, hit the goodwill? I have somewhere between twelve and sixteen dollars with your name on it if you're interested." He tries not to shrug, can't help it. "Only if you want." 

"Yeah. I want to." You worry your lip. "I'm not dressed to go out." 

"Are you kidding? You look fine. You look good." 

You rub your wrists together, grimacing. 

Eddie can roll with the punches. "Or you could go home and change first?"

"Would that be okay?" 

Eddie's glad for offering to witness the spectacle of your bedroom. The string seems to hate him but love you, giving you space all the way here and yanking him like a bad dog when he strays too far. You change behind your closet door and it forms hearts at your feet, unperturbed by the mountain of rejected shirts and skirts. 

Eddie lounges in a bean bag by the door, taking in your belongings as he waits. You've crafts on your desk, little origami cranes made of paper you've painted with watercolour. Phthalo blue and alizarin crimson foiled with short, skinny strokes of gold etching. Intricate and simple, time and care poured into each sheet. 

"Are you sure I'm okay by here?" Eddie asks. 

"Can you see me?" 

"No." Eddie can see shelves of books with creased spines, your made bed and all your mismatched sheets, the candles on your window sill —moonlight meadow, half-burned and sun-bleached; candied sweetheart, untouched; white lily and freesia, a double wick with only one melted tunnel—, and the soot stain unfurling like a soft-edged flower around the curtain pole. "Can't see anything." 

"Then don't worry." 

The sun ticks higher into the sky as an hour stretches into a second since you left Gareth's together. Eddie likes his room, his dense kingdom of the stuff that make him him, but he likes yours for the quiet. He can picture you sitting cross legged on your bed with a book in your lap, your back arched uncomfortably forward, a day old drink of water on the ceramic coaster with tiny bubbles clinging to the sides of the glass. He thinks he'd like that, to sit here and watch you, listening to one of your CDs, the string between you bouncing with each turn of a page. 

Eddie pulls on the string experimentally. Determined to fuck with him, it becomes a tauter thread, and the momentum of his tug tips you over. Your hand follows the line and the sudden slip pulls you into view without a shirt. Eddie flinches and looks as far away from you as he can. 

You laugh to yourself, but the sound is bitter, like burning coffee grounds on the tongue. 

"Is everything good with you?"  

You and Eddie are friends. Not great ones, but enough to have been able to ask you to ditch the others. There have been hundreds of seconds alone, the two of you sitting together at tables edged by arcade machines, diner booths, bowling alley benches, waiting for the others to get back, and those are moments where Eddie found time to fall in love with you. The string must be a manifestation or those seconds, threads of time tied together that join you forever, even if you can't see them. They're there. Eddie cares about you and it makes his throat hurt to hear your unhappy sounds; you have a morosity to you that he isn't heartless enough to ignore. He doesn't want to. 

Everybody has an unseen misery weighing them down. Eddie needs to find a way to hold yours for you. Just for a bit, however long you need. 

Unless Cory Wilson is going to take that mantle. Maybe that's why you're sighing; Eddie would be pretty upset if he had to remember being kissed by Wilson. He was already upset about it, and Wilson didn't kiss him. 

"Hey," Eddie says, peering between his fingers. With you definitely out of sight, he lifts his head. "Seriously, are you good?" 

"I don't know what to wear, that's all. Sorry for taking so long." 

"We could sit here till tomorrow and that would be cool. We don't even have to go, but you don't have to stress about what you're wearing. It's goodwill." 

"I always get stressed about what I'm wearing." 

"Is that a girl thing?" 

You toss a pretty flowered dress over the closet door. It slinks under its own weight and puddles on the floor. "I've always been like this, I get too focused on looking nice, it winds me up." 

"You always look nice." 

Your laugh says you certainly don't believe him. "Thanks, Eddie." 

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. You'd look nice in a potato sack." 

"Like Marilyn Monroe." 

"Who?" 

You appear in a sliver, naked arm linked to an unseen but unignorable naked chest, your face over your shoulder and a beatific silkiness to your smile. "You know who she is. Happy Birthday mister president? Blonde, with her beauty mark." You tap your top lip with your pinky. 

"Oh, right. Did she wear sacks often?" 

"Someone said she was beautiful because her clothes were designer and made to fit, so she did a photoshoot in a potato sack to prove she was beautiful." 

"You could totally do that." 

"It's not other people I need to convince." You retreat behind your closet door again, your voice half as clear as you confess, "I think… I've always been like this. I look in the mirror and I don't even know who I'm seeing. She doesn't feel like me." 

Eddie's ridiculous sitting on a beanbag while you bare your heart. He swears in his head and climbs onto tired legs, his hangover beating like a dull knife between his eyes for a moment while he gets used to standing. 

You take his silence for something else. "Sorry, ignore me. It's weird." 

"That's not weird. It's not." He tries to say what he means and not the first words that come into his head. "You know, I used to feel that way. Growing up, in junior high, I felt like such a poser. Even when I started being myself, I didn't feel authentic. Does that… is that similar?" 

"I guess so. How did you make it stop?" 

"Okay, this is gonna sound bad, but my mom died." Eddie twists a ring around his knuckle, the string tangling between fingers. "And I didn't care for a while. And then I got older." 

"I'm sorry," you murmur. 

"It's okay. I didn't say it for sympathy. That's just what happened." Eddie sits gingerly on the end of your bed. He doesn't want to intimidate you —after all, you're a young woman alone with him in a state of undress. A vulnerable young woman, if you're as upset as you're beginning to sound. "I'm trying to make you feel better with the worst personal anecdote ever." 

"You don't have to make me feel better. I shouldn't have brought it up, I don't…" 

"You can tell me anything," he says. 

You appear again, this time fully clothed. Black skirt to your knees —the sickest skirt you've ever worn— and a thin gauzy camisole, you look beautiful, and insanely uncomfortable. "Really?" you ask, hands wringing.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I promise." 

"Well. Last night," —Eddie sees flashing lights, the carbon bubbles in a spilled beer— "I let somebody kiss me."

He knows. It's agony. Eddie waits for you to continue with an open expression despite the feeling your confession inspires; he assumes this is what a knife to the eye feels like, the willing horror of letting you use it. 

"Nobody's ever wanted to kiss me before, so I let him. And I'm shit scared that I'm never gonna recognise myself in the mirror, so I'll keep letting him kiss me." You wring your hands meanly. "Sorry, I know I sound like a bad movie. Why is talking about your feelings this awkward?" 

"That was your first kiss, last night?" 

It's not the right question. You wince visibly. "I know, I'm in my twenties, it's embarrassing." 

"No, that's–" Eddie sighs. "That's not what I meant." What did he mean? Fuck, I wish it could've been me, and Jesus, that doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. You aren't right, for starters, Cory Wilson isn't the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you, he's just the bastard that got lucky enough to have you reciprocate. "Wait, was it okay? Did he corner you?" 

You sit on the end of the bed with a small smile. "No. He didn't pressure me." 

"Was it what you wanted?" 

"Not really… I guess I don't know what I want." 

Is that rejection, or is he self-absorbed? Should he take the hint, or is he just another guy making it about himself? Eddie leans back into your bed to escape the heartbreak of being close to you, the string anchoring his hand in place as he tries to scratch his chest. 

"It's not embarrassing to get your first kiss in your twenties," he says, eyes roving over the lines of a small paper butterfly, black cardstock like ink against your white ceiling. "That's what your twenties are for." 

"Don't bother, I know exactly how you lost your virginity." 

Eddie scrunches his eyes shut, can't stop himself from smiling as his wry voice scratches out, "Listen, everyone knows how I lost my virginity, but that's not the point." 

"You'd think a seventeen year old would make marginally better decisions." You're teasing, not shaming, your smile playful. 

"No, you wouldn't. Seventeen year olds are stupid. I thought I knew what I wanted at seventeen and now I'm twenty three and the only thing I know for sure is that I don't know a thing. The point of being twenty is doing shit for the first time. It's our first time being grown ups." 

"That's wise," you say. 

"Fuck off." 

You lay down beside him. The string whips like a ribbon in the wind before falling into the shape of a heart again, clearly pleased to have you near. 

"It's not embarrassing," Eddie says quietly. "But when you get your second kiss, I think you should save it for someone you want to kiss. Don't just let someone have it because you're not sure of yourself." 

"That's a nice sentiment, Eddie, but I already gave it away." 

He swallows his surprise, a tiny spike of agony. "How was that one?" 

"I'm not sure about it. I don't think it counted." 

"Do I wanna know?" 

"I'm not sure about that, either." 

"Was it Wilson?" he asks. 

You turn your cheek into the bedsheets. He can hear the fabric brushing your skin, turns ever so slightly to meet you, a few inches all it would take to breathe the same air. 

"Eddie," you say, very, very softly. 

His heart eases into his mouth a beat at a time until it's thrumming between his ears. 

"Yeah?" he asks, his tone a twin. 

"I think I need to cancel our plans." 

It's not what he's expecting you to say. 

—

There's a black velvet jacket dotted with embroidered stars hidden under your bed, their silver thread like cosmic dust. Music pounds the floor and shakes the house's foundations, seeping down into Macy's damp basement one rippling riff at a time, the bass of it deep in Eddie's chest, but he can't stop thinking about your jacket. Did you know it was there? 

The string tied to his marriage finger grows restless the longer you and Eddie are apart, bouncing like a shockwave whenever he thinks your name. In fact, all it takes is the idea of you, the slightest memory of your smile, your hands, the way you tell stories to the group with your shoulders turned to him like he's there alone, and the string flinches. 

"Are you okay?" Manny asks. 

Eddie drags his way up the couch. "Hey, Man. You got the dick off your face. That's great." 

Manny lifts his cheek. "Had to steal some of my mom's make-up. Can't tell, huh?" 

The colour match is dubious, now he's mentioned it. Eddie doesn't have the heart to tell him, flopping back into the crisp, cracked leather seat beneath him. A circle of his face is sticky where it clings to the couch. It's among the worst feelings of this earthly plane, grim as ice cream dripping down your hand on a hot day, or perpetually gutting heartbreak like he suffers now. 

"I think I'm seeing things," Eddie says. 

"Jeff has stuff for that." 

Eddie groans loudly. With the way he feels it's not melodrama. Just pure human anguish. He groans again when nothing changes, fisting his hair in two aching hands. He's clenched and unclenched his hands for hours all day, trying to force the hurt away from his chest, chasing breathlessness to the tips of his fingers. Pins burn his palms. 

He knew in the back of his mind that you weren't going to want to date him. Realistically you have options, even if you think you don't, and his being your only option wouldn't inspire romance anyways. Being someone's last resort isn't love. None of it was love, you aren't in love, but Eddie thinks he could've been. He was halfway there, falling, whatever the poets might say —Eddie wants you. Wants to do stupid shit with you. He can picture the scene like he has before, that first bouquet of flowers, lilies with big white petals and purple sunspots. The cellophane would crinkle in trembling hands pressed to his chest, their stems leaking dew into his hardly worn button up. He'd pass them to you with more confidence than he feels and tell you that you're pretty. You're always pretty. 

He's not pretty, he's barely funny. He was stupid for thinking you'd like him too. 

The string is pale pink. Eddie loops it around his finger thoughtlessly, worsening the sting of pins and needles. 

There were times… 

He clutches his chest. The nausea he's feeling can't be understated.

There were times when you could've been in love with him, he thinks. Splitting a cigarette you had no business splitting on the steps of Jeff's porch, your vanilla chapstick softening the filter. Holding his hand for support as you made the hike down to the lake, your fingers curled around his like you worried you might hurt him. In the passenger seat of his van on the way to your house, laughing as he sang along to a Van Halen guitar solo. You could've been in love with him. 

But Eddie didn't ask you out. He didn't do what Wayne said, because goodwill is not dinner, and now you're probably happily sequestered in Wilson's BMW. He jumped the wrong gun and he blew it. 

"Seriously, Munson, are you good?" 

"Peachy." Eddie holds up the sign of the horns, pinky and index finger up, thumb holding his marriage and middle finger down, face buried in an old cushion. 

"Let me go get you a joint." 

"I gave it up." 

"Dude. Pizza it is." 

Eddie waits for Manny to leave before he turns onto his back. Last night in the shower after a knowing shoulder squeeze from his Uncle and a frankly overflowing bowl of microwave spaghetti, he pressed his forehead to the tile and let it all ache. He might have cried or water may have streamed from his hair, he genuinely doesn't know, but he knows he's in danger of another round of the same if he keeps thinking about you. 

He's a big boy. He can cope with your decision. 

"Eddie, what are you doing?" 

Eddie sits up with a handful of clicks. "Robin?" 

"Hey," Robin says, "whaddya know, I followed the smell of sadness and rejection and here you are." 

She's dressed fancy, her hair in a rare updo, faux pearls dangling from her ears to kiss the collar of a leather jacket. "Shit, you're so cool, Buckley." 

"Thanks. You okay?" Robin asks, sitting on the arm of the couch. 

Eddie's stomach churns as her perfume reaches him, the sweet, subtle smell of vanilla under white musk. He leans his face against the starched denim of her jeans. "Who told you?" he mumbles.

"Steve. Who else?" Robin pats his head. "But Jeff told him. And I was talking about your bruise." 

Eddie waves off her concern. "Where is Steve in my hour of need?" 

"Smoking a not secret cigarette with Jeff," she says, a melodic cadence to her usual light rasp. 

"I wouldn't risk Jeff's cigarettes." 

She snorts a laugh, "Steve would risk his life for a cigarette. He loves to say that quitting was easy, but he drinks half a beer and starts gasping like a fish." Robin mimes Steve's apparent desperation, to Eddie's delight.

She smiles as his laughter peters out, tilting her head to the side. "So… was it bad?" 

"I don't know." He rubs his eyes. "The last time I got rejected was in senior year, and it was– I didn't even like her, you know, thought she was pretty, but this is different." 

"Sorry, Eddie," she says, pushing her bottom lip up into her top one, a bubbled pout that betrays how out of her depth she feels. 

Eddie isn't trying to make it awkward. "That's okay. I liked her, she doesn't like me, it's cool." The string flails. The music from upstairs gets louder. "What the fuck is happening? I thought Macy said it was a quiet one." 

Robin and Eddie start up the basement stairs to the main body of the house. The air is warmer and thicker, the faint smell of hotdogs and burgers grilling in the backyard filtering inside through the patio doors. "You know," Eddie says, glaring at the sudden crowd, "there's an atari down there." 

"Sorry, I think I'll have to keep my idiot out of trouble." Robin points at Steve near the stereo with Jeff, the two of them laughing hard enough to bruise as they mess with the pitch of the music. "Steve! You'll go deaf in your good ear if you don't stop!" 

"What?" Steve shouts. 

Robin rushes over to drag him away from the stereo. Eddie doesn't want to be your best friend, but if it was a friendship like Steve and Robin's he would consider himself lucky to have it, smiling as she wraps her arms around his chest from behind and pulls him away, sniffing at him, her nose wrinkled as she gives a reprimand too low for Eddie to catch. "I'm serious," she says as they grow closer, weaving around the living room coffee table and retreating back into the slim hallway leading to the basement stairs, "where are your earplugs?" 

"In the car, Rob. I'm fine, I promise." 

"Sure. Alright, Eddie, would you keep him away from the stereo?" Robin shoves Steve toward him. "Thanks so much." 

"I'm not high," Steve says as soon as she's gone. 

"While that's uber convincing, honeybear, I don't care if you are," Eddie says lightly. "Not a cop. Wanna go get a burger?" 

They move away from the living room and into the kitchen, where Steve nearly trips over the door jam and Eddie forgets for the first time in days how awful he feels. 

He sits Steve down at the glass table next to Macy herself and a younger friend of Manny's. Jamison and Gareth stand at the grill arguing about who's doing what, but Jamison proves to be the better grillmaster and the better friend, dropping two burgers on paper plates in front of them not more than twenty seconds after they've sat down. "For you, my poor little Munson," he says, smacking the ketchup and mayonnaise down between them. "Eat up." 

"I can't get the cap off," Steve complains, welding a bottle of mayonnaise at him like a dagger. 

Eddie sighs. Steve is definitely high. "You know Jeff doesn't smoke plain rolled cigarettes, right? Like, you knew it was weed?" 

"Whaaaat?" Steve asks exaggeratedly. "Open my mayonnaise." 

"Plausible deniability," Eddie says. "I like it." 

He finds that taking care of Steve is a good distraction, but there's only so much care a grown man needs, high or not, and Eddie's gaze is pulled to the string. It's impossible to stop thinking about you on the other end of it. He tries not to look at the string at all, but he can't, being as permanently tied to his finger as it is. What's worse is seeing people tread on it. The colour fades slowly, once a strong red, now a meek pink. At this rate it'll be bone white by the end of the night, like a vein with no supply. Maybe that's how this ends. You stay kissing Cory Wilson and the string dies. 

As he thinks it, the string tightens. The pink turns rosy, turns healthy, red as a rose, vice-like on his finger. Eddie knows without knowing that you're near. He could've guessed without the string's shifting, your presence the antonym of sixth-sense chills. He turns back toward the house and catches a glimpse of you as you walk past the patio door in your black velvet jacket, those tiny sparse stars like needlepoints from this far away and glinting as you turn to let Robin pass. 

"Holy fuck!" Robin mouths, Steve's earplugs in a small pouch meant for coins in hand as she speed walks down the short path to the table. "She's here!" 

"I can see that." 

Robin sits on the chair next to Steve's. He passes her the last half of his burger and takes the earplugs from an outstretched hand, shaking them from their pouch. You'd never look at him like this with mayonnaise on his top lip, thigh to thigh with loser-sweetheart Robin Buckley, and think he'd be violent. He isn't, truly, his hearing loss the result of getting his ass handed to him hard, and the motivation of a pacifist who wears ear defenders to the movies. 

"You're gonna have to speak up," Steve says, pushing the plugs in. 

"Yeah, man." He doesn't have much to say anyhow. His stomach is curled in knots, the string a tightrope without walkers between him and you in the kitchen. You're talking to someone, walking one way before rushing the other. "What the fuck?" Eddie asks, sitting up. 

Macy stands as somebody gasps. Eddie's quick to follow, Gareth jumping back out of Jamison's reach as the grillmaster swings a long pronged fork his way. "What?" he asks cluelessly. 

Eddie follows the string to you, stepping over the patio doorjam and into the cacophony of the kitchen. Blaring rock music vibrates through Eddie's worn shoes, but it doesn't occlude the vehemence of Cory Wilson's slurring. "I should've known," he hisses. 

Eddie would stand in front of you, he should, he's going to, but he doesn't and he can't fathom why. He's glued to the spot as you defend, "I didn't know. And I didn't do it on purpose." 

"Are you fucking with me?" 

"No." You sound startled rather than scared, but the cagey way you've moved back and the curl of your hands into fists says otherwise. "No, I didn't kiss you to–" 

"To what? Guess it doesn't make a difference. I should've known. Two guys in one night's a good night for a girl like you, huh?" 

You flinch away. It could be the pull of the string or the panic on your lips as you struggle to speak, or maybe Eddie's done being a coward who half-asses his life even if you're not gonna kiss him like he wishes you would, whatever it is, it has him standing in front of you unafraid. 

Cory Wilson is rough. Eyes bloodshot, evil on tequila sliders from the sugary brown stain on his collar, he takes one look at Eddie and starts laughing. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, a girl like her? Why don't you explain it?" Eddie asks, his voice burnt, almost acrid in his own mouth. "What, you plant one on her and you think it's alright to talk to her like that?" 

"Eddie," you say. 

He reaches back gently, his fingertips brushing your abdomen. 

"You're a fucking classless act, Wilson, you always have been. You don't talk to her like that." 

"Why don't you stay out of it, freak?" 

"Dude," Jamison says. "No way. Get the fuck out of here." 

"You can't stay out of it, can you? It makes sense now I'm seeing it," Cory rails. 

This is so teenaged angst and Eddie's over it. You'll have to forgive him but he's feeling territorial. This is Macy's house, they're your friends, and Cory was a dick before he kissed you. "This is embarrassing, dude," Eddie says over the island, meeting Cory's eyes straight on. "Don't do this shit." 

"It was you, right?" Cory asks, nodding, mind made up already. He peers around Eddie's shoulder to stare at you incredulously. "Him?" 

"It doesn't matter!" you insist, stepping forward. "Why does it matter? I said no, I don't wanna go home with you, I'm sorry, I told you more than you needed to know because I thought it would help you get it, and I'm sorry I let you kiss me! I'm sorry, I thought it was best to be honest with you." 

Eddie's thinking you don't have to say sorry for anything. Cory's thinking about the milling crowd of young adults haunting the corners of the kitchen and pressed in from the hallway, rounding the island with his chest puffed up. 

"It was Munson, wasn't it?" 

You take a step back into Eddie. "It's fine," he says to you quickly, because coward or not he'd never let someone hit you, but you're pushing him behind you. You're protecting him. 

"Yes, it was Eddie!" you say. "So what? It has nothing to do with you."  

Macy cuts in, all red hair and glare. "Okay, enough. Cory, you have to leave, man. You can't yell at girls in my kitchen because they don't want to sleep with you." 

Eddie stares at the back of your head. 

Did you kiss him? That second kiss, that was with him?

"You kissed me?" he asks quietly. 

Your lips part as you look at him from over your shoulder. Macy and Jamison argue with a red-faced Cory, Steve asks Robin what someone just said and Robin shouts the answer, but Eddie couldn't tell you what anyone's truly saying if you paid him to, his attention on the pillow of your bottom lip and searching upwards as you exhale. 

"Eddie, you kissed me." Your eyes are soft, the starts of your brows hooked together. "You really don't remember?" 

"I kissed you? When?" He grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. "At Gareth's place?" 

"I took you home," —you drop your chin, a new panic about you as your voice drops, waning, tenuous as spider silk— "you were wasted, you'd been drinking Macy's wine and Mr. Lashlee's bourbon and I didn't mean for it to happen. I wasn't trying to get you to kiss me, Eddie, I just asked why you were upset." 

"What did I say?" 

"You said that I was beautiful. That you wanted to kiss me, and then you did." 

Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful. 

"And then you freaked out like you'd been laced about string between your fingers. I took you to your room and told Wayne you ate a bunch of hotdogs on the turn." You won't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for it to go that far." 

A glass smashes. Eddie takes your hand, pulling you away from the scene and through a curious crowd to the back door. He closes the patio doors behind you and half jogs you down past the smoking barbecue and all its leftovers, chairs pulled out haphazard from the garden table and food discarded. 

He has to be quick, he doesn't know how much time he has before everyone comes flooding back out of the house.

You're strangely timid, shame having sewn your brows together. "Eddie, I'm sorry," you say, your hand wriggling weakly in his to be let go. He lets it fall.

"Sweetheart, stop. Just stop. I'm the one who's sorry… I think I–" He sighs, you're so fucking beautiful on loop in the back of his mind. "I remember. I know I made a move. You didn't do anything wrong." 

"I should've stepped away faster. I wasn't expecting you to kiss me." 

"I shouldn't have kissed you." 

"It was just a peck, Eddie. It's okay, 'cos it's not that I don't want you to kiss me ever, but you were drunk. I should have–" 

"You didn't do anything wrong," he insists, cutting you off before you can criminalise yourself with a vehement shake of the head. "But that's– that's–" He chokes on his question. "What did I say about the string?" 

"The string?" you ask, and fuck! Fuck, you look beautiful now, beautiful still as the night moves forward and the day's last lazy dregs of sunlight dapple your skin through the hanging branches of the surrounding sycamores. You stuff your hands in your pockets and pull your jacket around your tummy to hide from the cold, the string tugging with you. Your eyes are wide with confusion. "You wouldn't stop talking about it. That's when you hit yourself, your bruise?" 

"After I kissed you, or before?" 

"After, but… why does it…" 

"I'm going to sound crazy." 

You laugh softly. "No different than usual, then." 

Eddie opens his hand and holds it out for yours. The string on his finger is loose but not long, moreso when you give him your hand. "I know you can't see it, I get that it's ridiculous, but there's a string tied from my third finger to yours. This red piece of thread like my nanna would use. I woke up yesterday morning and it was there. I thought maybe I was going crazy, because I like you," —he swallows air, no idea why this is so hard— "and I saw you kissing that loser and I figured it was some quasi manifestation of how much I want to be near you, like torture, but it was after I kissed you. It appeared after I kissed you." 

"So we're connected by a string?" you ask slowly. 

Eddie's genuinely ecstatic that you'd even entertain it. "Yes!" 

"Show me," you say. 

"I can't." 

"Well, where is it?" 

The string is tight as a wire again. Eddie runs his finger along it, hoping that'll help. You can't see the string but you can see the ease with which he follows it, how his finger slides from one end to the other seamlessly. Inspired suddenly by the memory of your bedroom, Eddie grabs the string near the middle and pulls. 

The string deigns to do his bidding, yanking your hand forward. 

You pull it back instinctively. "Is that a trick?"  

"There's a string. I've been losing my mind trying to show people, I tried to cut it off. It's impenetrable." Eddie stamps down his excitement in the face of your less enthusiastic frown. "It runs from me to you." 

You rub your marriage finger, the string a strong and shimmering crimson at your touch. "I can't feel it, but you pulled me." Your eyes are shiny. "Eddie, you like me?"

"Yeah, I do." He can't believe he's admitted to it out loud. No escaping it. Of the two secrets he just told you, it's the least terrifying. He wants to say more and he wishes he could take it all back, your confusion tangible in the lines of your frown, your gloss-sticky lips drawn thinner. 

He's interrupted. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Macy calls, slipping through the doors, Robin on her heels. "You okay?" 

Eddie steps back from you guiltily. 

"I'm fine! I'm fine, Mace, I was trying to let him down easy and I kept saying the wrong thing." You drop your hand out of the air. "I'm sorry." 

"Hey, it's okay, I don't care. I don't want people yelling at you, that's all." She spies on Eddie out of the corner of her eye. 

"I'm not yelling at her," he defends. 

"Yeah? You should both come back inside, then. Have a drink. That's why you're here, right?" 

She smiles until Eddie realises, defeated, that she's not gonna leave you alone out here with him. That's fine, he's glad people are looking out for you, but fuck is it annoying. He's finally told you about the stupid impossible string that links you together and you almost believed him, he could see it, and worse, his confession lays at your feet unanswered. 

Macy pulls Eddie back by the t-shirt as you walk on ahead, where you're quickly commandeered by a concerned Harrington, a chocolate milkshake in his hand that he instantly attempts to share. "Eddie," Macy says, jaw dropped in emphasis, "you kissed?" 

He covers his eyes with his hands, palm out, solid rings digging into his eyelids. "Not really," he says, a pounding headache emerging between his eyes. "No. I guess not." 

—

Hawkins library smells musty with disuse. Dust motes swim between beams of light shining down through dirty windows, an aged yellow colour painting the pages of the book splayed in front of you. You'd originally retreated into Hawkins library in the pursuit of one thing alone: resolute, guaranteed solitude. You'd considered disconnecting your phone, but your address isn't a secret. The only sure fire way to be alone was to leave, and to hide. 

No twenty-two year old Hawkinite spends their Sunday mornings at the library. You'd carried a litre bottle of water and a tupperware of sandwiches into the recesses of the old building and dropped into a creaky desk bright and early. For a blessed, blissful half an hour, you set your cheek to cold wood and closed your eyes, content to be unreachable. 

It's not that you don't want to see people. Not that you don't want to see Eddie. You don't want to be seen. Not today. 

Some mornings you wake up and feel wrong. You can shower, dress in new clothes, wear makeup and nice shoes and pretty bangles, but none of it makes any difference to your poor self-esteem. You figured every woman feels this way —what is there to love in a world that advertises solutions to problems you didn't know you had until they printed it in magazines? But it's been getting worse. 

Now you're lonely enough to let acquaintances kiss you for the simple reason that they want to, and insecure enough to attribute that want to a specific motive, but Eddie said he kissed you because he thinks that you're beautiful. Because he likes you. Because a string runs from his hand to yours that can't be severed. 

The latter feels as mythological as the former. 

It's a mess. You've asked a thousand questions. Would the situation be cleaner if you rejected Cory? Did Eddie kiss you because he realised he could, that you'd let him do it? Cruel. Not his style, and mean to think of him, but a worry nonetheless. From there the questions broaden, immature in root. Does Eddie actually like you? Would he be your boyfriend? Does he want that, do you want that, is he okay? Was he high last night? Was he ill? 

You flick through tomes with sweat thumbprints pressed deep into the corners and sides, scanning mildly then feverishly for an answer. Love myths, old legends, everything the librarian can give you on fantastical sweethearts —soulmates.

Eddie thinks that there's a string tied from his finger to yours to torture him as a link to what he wants, but can't have. 

It doesn't make much sense. Eddie Munson could have you if he asked nicely enough. 

That might be the problem. He's never asked anything of you. Eddie's a giver, constantly, a thousand little gifts. Your hair is nice like that. Do you want to sit here? You'll get the next one, but he never lets you get the next one. 

His very best gift was small. Waiting for Gareth to bring the car around and hiding from the early summer rain under the Hideout's short veranda, you and Eddie sitting on a cold wall, his jacket underneath you as he insisted to stop you from catching a chill. You remember thinking he was pretty even with his hair in his eyes, his cheeks hollowed in concentration. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, offering a glimpse of a guitar pick tucked inside of the plastic photo window. "This is my best kept secret, okay? Don't go spreading it around," he'd said from the corner of his mouth, deft fingers folding the length of a receipt into a square. He tore the excess, leaving himself with an incredibly small scrap to start with. From there he made the paper crane swiftly, folding neat corners and twisting the snout, placing the finished craft on your stocking-clad knee. "Here." 

"How did you do that?" you asked, awed. 

He made you a square of your own, shuffled closer to you on the wall, the heat of his hands near yours to correct you and his patient demonstration booting your heart into overdrive. You remembered every step of his origami even weeks later, folds of paper brushed by the soft memory of his fingertips on the back of your hand, accidental touches, and the smell of him, so close. 

Those paper cranes in your room, tens of them sewn like popcorn strings at christmas… 

You shake the thought from your head and close the book. Maybe you do like Eddie. Maybe you have all along (tenuously, waiting to get let down, and thinking there wasn't a chance in hell he could ever like you back). And now he likes you back? 

This obsessive retrospection is bad for your head. Sighing, you stand from the desk you've monopolised and stretch your arms over your head, taking a breath to peer down at your fruitless investigation. The string is in his head. He punched himself pretty hard the night you took him home —he's reeling from the after effects of booze and a mild concussion, no doubt. His mind is playing tricks on him. As far as you're concerned, there's no string. (But your hand moved when he pulled. But you want it to be real.) 

You pull the books to your chest and ferry them back to the lonely shelf they came from toward the back of the aisles near the audiobook stand. 

Fuck, you think to yourself, kneeling by the mythology section to begin putting your books back in a vaguely organised manner. Your reading provided no answers, and you're starting to worry it's none of the scenarios you'd contemplated, but a mean-spirited joke. What would Eddie ever want with me? you think, neatening the edges of the books slowly. 

Realising you like him, his chaste kiss, the red string, it's a lot to take in. You aren't sure what you believe, but you'd love to believe Eddie, in both of his confessions. 

You're standing and dusting your knees when you see it, a small cloth bound book shoved between encyclopaedias on the shelf above. It's more like a personal notebook than a novel. You reach for it on a whim. The cover is selenite white, slightly coruscating in the light and broken only by the weighted lines of Chinese characters painted with the bristle of a squirrel mop brush. You trace the last of the characters mindlessly, the English translation beneath it reading, Chinese Folk Mythology. 

You open the book to the first page, blank; the second, the titular; and the third, contents. You flick through creation myths and cosmology, defeated before you've even begun. You really want Eddie to be telling the truth about this —if he is, it means he's telling the truth about liking you, puts real feelings behind his tipsy kiss. 

The first and last burst of colour stops you short. 

The red thread of fate. 

A red line furls from one corner of the page to the second page opposite, shot through phrases, your eyes catching fast on choice words. Invisible to the mortal eye. Marriage of two souls. Tangled, knotted, but never broken. Fate. 

You sit on your knees on the floor of the library, the pages spread flat under your hands and their minute trembling. 

— 

Eddie checks his hair in the rearview mirror again. "Loser," he says, looking himself straight in the eye. Then he smiles with teeth, kicks open the driver's side door, and drops out of the van with a crushed bouquet of flowers held to his chest. 

Today's been a nightmare. Between you (always you, his only thought of the growing mess he's made) and Wayne, he's been flayed. 

"Your room is a pigsty, Eds, I'm not happy," his uncle had said, glaring at him over the lip of his coffee mug. Garfield absent and replaced by genial Odie, Eddie still felt abjectly judged. 

"I've been busy!" Eddie defended, too worried to eat and instead working his way through five pieces of nicotine gum at once, his jaw aching with each magnanimous chew. 

"Yeah, busy turning down shifts and spending all your money on burgers and beer." 

"I'm way too old for this," he said through gum bubbles. 

"Exactly! Too old to need reminding. If we get bugs I'm kicking you out." 

Wayne would never kick Eddie out, but that wasn't the point. "Wayne, I'm having a crisis. Could you have, like, a modicum of compassion for me? Your only nephew? In his time of need?" He clutched his chest. "Christ, man." 

Wayne leaned backwards in his chair to fish the trash bags from a miscellaneous drawer. "This is compassion. Don't be gross." 

His room was chaos rather than gross, knick-knacks in their wrong places and two hampers worth of laundry piled behind the door. The whole time he cleaned, he debated if it was appropriate to call you, and when he finally bit the bullet and picked up the phone you didn't answer. That's fine, except he called Robin (who was predictably nursing a rumpled Harrington back to health but had enough wherewithal to ask for the hot gossip), Macy (who told him to leave you alone if he was causing trouble), Gareth (who laughed), and Shauna (fucking Shauna) in search of you, and nobody knew where you were.

It got to the point where he couldn't not check on you. Couldn't stay stuck in the narrative anymore of your will we won't we. It hurt his chest too much, a real anxiety with claws to match. He hit Bradley's for a bouquet but the flowers they had were wilted slim pickings, and then he raced to the bakery before he thought about it too much and left empty handed. 

Imagine buying a girl baked goods for her to reject you. Eddie in the rain with his paper bag of croissants and dying flowers. 

He couldn't find you through the phone, but he has a secret weapon: the string that leads from him to you tied tight to his finger, a compass without magnets. He followed it in the van to this secluded spot overlooking Hawkins town, and knew he was in the right place when he found your car parked on the hill. 

His palms clam on the way up, pine needles crushed to mulch under his cons. Dirt crusts their white toes and puddle water splashes over the tongues, seeping into his socks. The rain slows to a pittering that beads down the arms of his jacket and along the ridge of one finger, welled cold at the line of a titanium ring. 

The string is trodden and dirty on the ground. Eddie toes at it as he goes, the thread red but not taut, leaving you closer than he expects you to be, perched on a picnic table with an umbrella held loosely on one shoulder. 

"Hey," he says, tensing as you tense, softening his voice appropriately. "If you don't wanna see me I understand, and I'll leave, but I wanna talk to you… If that's cool." 

You peer down at the umbrella handle under your fingers. "Sure, Eddie. You don't have to leave." He counts his lucky stars, more when he sits on the bench beside you and you ask, "Are those for me?" 

He fights through nerves, flowers squeezed to death in his grip. "They're for you. I had to buy a couple of bunches. These are the best of the worst." He offers you the flowers, cellophane crinkled in his hand, not half what he pictured but somehow better for being real. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't say sorry for giving me flowers," you murmur in your way, not mindless but small. Not tentative, just careful. 

"I'm not sorry for giving you flowers, I'm sorry that they're wilting. I wanted to get you a bunch from Leaven, you know, impress you even if it was too late. I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually. Mostly kissing you without asking first." He doesn't mean to say it like that— oh woe is me. "I want to be honest with you," he confesses, quieter. "Stuff feels weird and awful." 

"I know what you mean," you say. 

"But talking to you isn't like that. Talking to you is..." He scratched his neck sheepishly. "This is going way worse than I pictured." 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's pretty bad." Your voice is calm against his awkward panic. You aren't ridiculing him, the opposite. You're in the same terrified boat. It's reassuring at least to know he's not alone. 

You put your hand out without turning his way. Eddie stares at it with another gasping round of chest pain but takes it swiftly in both hands, too much. Why are you this fucking weird? he asks himself. 

"I think I believe you." 

Eddie bites the inside of his lip. Your hand is marginally smaller in his, softer by yards, and easy to pet at your admission. He feels this bone deep longing to stroke the back of it and he does, the side of his thumb tracing the faint indentation of bones beneath your skin with the care of someone handling a more delicate artefact, the string shortening, shortening, until it's all but disappeared. You're hardier than a rough hand-hold, he's wanted to do this for so, so long. 

"About what?" he asks. The string? Or his affection?

"About the string." You struggle with the flowers and the umbrella in your other hand but make no attempt to take the first back from his grip. 

He waits for you to say more, seconds turning to minutes, his palm growing sweaty in yours. Eddie wants to be cool like a rockstar who knows you want him and doesn't care, and he wants to be sweet and gentle and give you the respect you deserve, but mostly he wants to make it out of this conversation with you at his side. He's not sure how to do it, but holding your hand as you want him to is a start. 

"I have to ask you something," you say finally, as though the words have been dragged from the root of you. "This string… this isn't all a joke, is it? That would be– that would be sick. If it's not real." 

"No!" Eddie interrupts. "It's not a joke, I get if you think I'm crazy but I'm not trying to mess you around–" 

"I don't think you're crazy. This whole situation is crazy. It doesn't make sense." 

"But you believe me?" he asks. What he's really asking is Would you believe me, please? He's so tired of being alone with this. 

"I found this book at the library." Your hand livens in his, your fingers pushing between his to twine together solidly. "Talking about the red thread of fate. There's a myth that people who are destined to get married have an invisible string tied from their fingers. It gets bigger and smaller, and you can't cut it no matter how hard you try, but I still didn't know if I believed you. You could've read the same book." 

Didn't know. Past tense. "What changed your mind?" 

"How would you know where I was if you were lying? We're twenty minutes outside of town." 

"I could be a stalker." 

"Do you want me to believe you?" you ask with a laugh. 

"Of course I do," he says warmly, spurred by your laughter, pulling your arm bodily into his and encouraging you closer. "You don't have to believe that we're destined to be together, but the string is real." 

"And you like me." 

Eddie's turn to laugh. "I do, yeah. So much it's embarrassing." 

"Everybody knows but me?" 

"Kind of." 

"Oh." You lay your cheek against his shoulder. Almost like you're testing his limits to see if you're allowed. 

Rain dots lightly on his jacket arm, the chill of the weather sudden and obvious. He covers your wrist with his hand to hide you from it, knowing he should offer to take you somewhere warmer but needing to stretch this moment, his chest alleviated of anxiety pangs for the first time in almost a week. 

"You really think I'm pretty?" you ask quietly. 

Eddie stares at the top of your head. "You're the sweetest thing I've ever seen. Even if you don't believe it yourself, you're beautiful." 

It's not that Eddie thinks you're going to cry but you come apart, slow fissures in the last of your strength. He takes the bouquet from you to lay on the table behind and closes your umbrella, letting the drizzling rain kiss the tops of both your heads. You look as nervous as he feels. "Come here," he says, desperate for you to feel better. "C'mere." 

You sew your arms under his as he wraps his around your shoulders, the string stretching so as not to hurt you. Your voice comes rushed and low, honesty now that you're no longer face to face, "I like you too, Eddie. Ever since you made me that paper crane, I think." 

He rubs your back. "You don't have to sound upset about it," he teases, trying to rescue you from tears. He'd hate to see you cry. 

"This has all been such a mess." 

He hugs you harder. "I know. I promise I'll make it up." 

"But it's not your fault." 

"Maybe, but that's kind of the point of being with someone. Looking after each other, cleaning up messes. I want to." 

"You're with me," you repeat carefully. 

Eddie pulls back, taking your face into his hand. The string lines your cheek like a teardrop curved down the slope of it. He strokes the red thread gently with his thumb. "I want to be. You think that could work? Us?" 

Your fingers curl into the crook of his elbow. You nod into his touch. "If this isn't a trick."  

"It's not a trick. I'm in love with you," —he wants to lean in, and he can't, not yet, not while a fraction of you still thinks he couldn't want you sincerely— "everything about you. I think I have been for a while." 

"In love…" you murmur into yourself. 

You lean forward slowly, stilted, and when Eddie leans in to meet you your eyes flutter closed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thinks. He might have kissed you before but he doesn't remember it anymore than a phantom, a ghost, the echo of a memory. He remembers what he said and the blooming pain of his hand kicking back into his eye a thousand times clearer than how your lips felt, he has no idea what you like, where to put his hands—

You kiss him first. You lean in, and you kiss him gingerly, waiting for an impending cruelty or rejection that's never going to come. He keeps it gentle, holding his breath as the tip of his nose slides across yours and his head tilts to allow better access, a proper, full kiss. 

For someone who hasn't had very many, you're a good kisser. A little too still. Eddie sees no harm in it, moving back a millimetre to wade in again immediately, his left hand rising to join the right on your warming face and prompting you into a braver reciprocation. 

He smiles at the feeling of your bottom lip pressed against the seam of his mouth. His jacket sleeve creaks as your grip tightens. 

It's a lovely kiss, even if it's tenuously taken. It's everything. For a while the rain doesn't matter, steams off of him, but it must fall too harshly for you to ignore, peeling away from him, so, so carefully. He meets your softened gaze with a similar expression. For once, you seem completely present, and better, your smile is real. 

"Was that okay?" he asks, sliding his hands down the lines of your neck, feeling for nothing in particular. Feeling to feel, wanting to learn every hill and bow of you. 

"It was better than the first two," you say, an endearingly bashful answer.  

"That's not difficult. One was from a wet-nosed, mouth-breathing imbecile and the other one was from Cory Wilson." 

You laugh without restraint, a full-bodied sound that echoes down his arms. "I think you mixed that up," you say nicely. 

Flirting! Eddie could burst into tears. "You think? How about slimy, frizzy loser?" His hand lives a life of its own, squeezing your shoulder as he suggests, "Desperate and unobsequious uggo?" 

Raindrops catch your forehead as you tip your head back briefly, laughter bubbling on your lips, your relief a palpable saccharine. "In what world are you an uggo?" 

"What, do you like me or something?" He takes another kiss, lips lingering, longing for just a few more seconds. "Notice how you didn't disagree with 'desperate'? 'Unobsequious'?" he murmurs, a quarter inch from your mouth. 

"You're not desperate," you murmur back, almost inaudible under the patter of rain. 

"But?" 

"But I don't think unobsequious is a word." 

"No?" he asks, kissing you again. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a melding need. "You don't think so?" 

"No," you defend. He can hear your fondness. 

Eddie presses a tight kiss hard enough to feel the impression of your teeth over your lips before tearing himself away. Kissing you isn't a tenth of what he wants from you; there's a lot to tell you. He needs to start now. 

Your lips part as though you've a question to ask, too, but you bring a distracted hand to his hair. "Your hair's getting curlier in the rain. It's…" 

You falter. 

"I'm drowned, huh?" he asks. 

You try to say no. Your hand wavers shy of a coil, listless, "No way," you whisper, eyes on your hand now, on your marriage finger and the red string playing at your knuckle, shimmering with a fish-scale sparkle as you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger on the opposite hand. "I can see it." 

"You can see it?" Eddie asks, leaping onto his feet. 

Your face is transformed, infinitely, impossibly prettier by your beaming smile as you clamber to stand in front of him, stretching the string between your bodies experimentally. "I can see it!" 

"You can see it?" he asks, vaulting his weight into you, his arms working around your back in a squeeze. 

You pull your arm up between you both and twist your wrist this way and that, the string following your whims as you lean back in the circle of his arms. Your eyes flicker between him and the string, as though you're working out which one is an illusion. Eddie and the string are both real. 

"We're really soulmates."

Eddie doesn't know if he believes in soulmates, but he believes in the hopeful colour to your voice as you say it, and the tacky skin of your cheek as he leans in for your fifth kiss, your sixth, each one better than the last. 

If his soulmate were going to be someone, he'd want nothing more than for it to be you. 

—

"Come on! We're so late!" 

Steve detaches himself from the frankly killer novel in his lap to turn, his sunglasses casting you and Eddie in a sepia tone as he drags you bodily down the path to their picnic spot. You giggle girlishly at Eddie's telling off and the bodily nature of his pushing, flopped like a fish out of water in his arms. 

"I'm hurrying, Eds, you're just faster than me." 

Eddie pretends to drop you, to your roaring delight, your laugh echoing across the park and drawing the eyes of Steve's summer club. 

"Here comes happy and happier," Robin groans. 

"You wanted them to date," Steve says, turning to his best friend where she lays on the blanket beside him, his jacket a pillow under her neck. "You have sleep in your eyes." 

"I'm tired," she defends, struggling into a sitting position. She wipes her eyes with the bottoms of her palms, mean, words stretched with a yawn as she continues, "Please tell me Eddie has the basket." 

"Nope," Max says, slamming down on her knees next to Robin, her jeans already grass-stained. 

"Y/N has it," Lucas clarifies, sitting down with them in similar fashion. 

Steve's daunted by them when they're together, but he leaves his commentary at an unintelligible curse word, his head tipped back in annoyance. They're constantly pulling the carpet from under him, practically manufacturing flaws to tease him about, Max whip-smart and Lucas loyal to a fault. 

Still, he likes them. 

More than he likes Dustin when the curly-haired boy sits down next to Steve and takes his hat off. "Feel how sweaty this is getting." 

"Rather not, dude." 

Eddie speaks, closer now, and Steve misses the words but not the tone of them. Dripping, almost sleazy affection, the kind that knows what it is unabashedly. You stand on toes to kiss the highest point of his cheek as quickly as you can, your hand on his trap.

"Hey!" Eddie shouts to their turned head, waving a hand of rings, calluses and bandaids. "You guys look like meerkats." 

His cheeks are rosy red with blush despite the moderate temperatures today, the sun set to come out in an hour or two when the cloud cover moves. Said meerkats make room for you on the picnic blanket, where you share the bounty of your basket, sandwiches and cut fruit. "There are chips in the car," you say. 

"You cut up fruit?" Robin asks. 

"Eddie did. I watched." 

"And ate the best cuts," Eddie says proudly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to drown you in a hug. You slink an arm begins him to hug him in return, your face pressed with delight to the curve of his neck. "As is her right." 

"Don't be disgusting!" Mike calls, a baseball bat in unconfident hands.

"You sure you know how to use that thing?" Eddie calls back. "Lucas, I thought you were helping him, man? Help him!"

"Some people are beyond help." 

"Shut up, Dustin." 

Despite an abundance of company and a ton of shit to do, you and Eddie are distracted by one another, and Steve isn't stupid enough to not get why. They didn't see you both for a week, and then you emerged from your self-imposed quarantine as grossly in love with one another as Steve has ever seen two people be. Like, maybe the happiest couple ever. In some loud ways but mostly quiet ones, hands held, fond cheek kisses to say hello, these weird paper birds you make for each other whenever there's a scrap of paper left lying around. Eddie's doing it now, having stolen the sticky note Steve was using as a bookmark to craft a teeny tiny crane, Steve, their called cranes. One second it's a pink diamond and the next he's performing an intricate twist, four last folds, and placing the finished product on your knee. 

Steve's sort of jealous, but you guys are too in love, honestly. It's nice if you're in it but too intimate if you aren't (nothing maliciously done, of course), so he rounds up the troops for the first round of baseball to give you guys some privacy. 

If he's expecting you two to start French kissing when he leaves, he's not correct. He wouldn't know it, back turned to you as he takes first bat, knees bent and waiting for Erica to serve, but you guys talk. Talk talk talk. Eddie can talk for Indiana and you listen in your way, wryly amused, promising any minute now that you're gonna get up and spread out on the field.

"Is this a bad idea, sports? What if it beheads someone?" 

"It knows how to behave," Eddie assuages, hand on the blanket next to your thighs, turned toward you, effectively locking you in. "We don't wanna get that involved. You look too good right now to ruin."

Nothing can fix the insecurities you hold instantly, but knowing someone wants to kiss you regularly has helped. Eddie's constant compliments have done even better. He's easy about it, no fuss, no bravado, praise said like fact. Come here, pretty girl, I got a present for you. Hey, gorgeous. You should do my hair, yours always looks so good. And the photos —he has a disposable in the glove box, and insists on taking photos of you when you're especially happy. Now that he's your guy, that's often. 

"You're saying I wouldn't look good if I sweat this off?" you ask, gesturing to your face and your makeup. 

"I know you'd look good." He dips down for a kiss, as if daring you to suggest otherwise. It's a touch rough, twice as devoted. Things are heady for a time, the two of you stealing another short moment to add to the list, your kiss made of twin smiles.  "Maybe we can use it to our advantage," he suggests, pulling back to stroke your cheek. 

"The string?" you ask. 

Eddie steals a last quick peck before his hand climbs onto your leg, giving your denim-clad thigh a pat. "We'll use it to trip people up. Come on, it'll be fun. We'll get Harrington flat on his ass," he says, clambering onto sure footing.

"No way," you say, leaning back to see him, your hand nudging aside a plate of sandwiches. You shield your eyes from the sun as it comes out, sunlight like spun gold spilling down your arm. "I'm not helping you hurt your friends." 

"What, those guys? They're just my D&D subs." 

You shake your head at him in disapproval. 

"I'm kidding!" he says, reaching down for your hands. "Get up, sweetheart, we'll only trip someone if we need to win. Stop fighting me, you know it's useless. I always win." 

"You cheat," you sigh, letting him help you onto your feet. 

"I cheat," he agrees, kissing your cheek, then the opposite, before holding them in both hands and leaning in. "I love how you sound when you know you're losing–" 

"Shut up–" 

"You get all breathless," he says, his face drifting closer, and closer, "all shy on me." 

"If I knew you were gonna try and embarrass me this much I never would've said yes to being your girlfriend," you say, half-glaring at him with a wave of affection brimming behind your poor acting. 

"Really?" he asks. His voice is low, a little rough. 

"No. But you have to stop, okay?" You laugh, nudging him in the stomach with your knuckles. "I wanna play baseball." 

Steve waves Eddie over from home base to field on his team while you join Max, Robin, and Lucas in line to bat. "This isn't enough people for baseball," Eddie says, crushing emerald green bluegrass beneath his shoes. The rainfall last week made for lush vegetation. 

"Yeah, which is why you were supposed to invite more people," Steve quips. 

"I was busy." Eddie rolls his shoulders. "We don't need more people to win. We got this." 

"We do not got this! And no going easy on Y/N, okay? I don't care if you're together, we need to play to win. Loser's buying the winner's pizza and I just got Sheila out of the shop."  

"Are you kidding?" Eddie asks, stretching his arm behind his head, his eyes across the field where you laugh at Robin's side. "Obviously I'm not going easy on her. Why would you think that?" 

"Seriously? This is the worst honeymoon phase I've ever seen. I figured you guys wouldn't even be able to play on different teams, like, major separation anxiety." 

Eddie does this thing with his hand, his thumb plucking an invisible string. "I don't need to worry, man. I know exactly where she is." 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, especially if you got all the way to the end! hope you enjoyed ♥

[ynbabe]

Come Through ୨୧ George Russell x Rockstar! Reader

Is rockstar the right word? idk I just know bro is crazy bts, the white boy with Excel persona is fooling NO ONE Georgie boy. Also, Reader has vibes of the Weekend song, hence the fic name.

Lando thinks it's all a joke. He hadn't been crying, screaming and manifesting for the past three years only for his celebrity crush to be dating someone else, another driver that too.

"WHO-" He yells as he storms into Max's room, where most of the drivers had collected, they hadn't decided but they all just gravitated towards the blonde with sweet blue eyes who listened to the vent and gave the best hugs, "AFTER ALL WE WENT THROUGH- WHO IS DATING Y/N L/N?"

All eyes were on him, Max lying on his bed, Charles, Carlos and Daniel with him. Lance, Esteban and Pierre were on the sofa, playing FIFA on Max's PS5, George and Alex were sharing the smaller two-seater, Zhou and Yuki were passing a tennis ball to each other and Logan and Oscar were sleeping, cuddling close on the floor surrounded by pillows, but were now woken up by Landos yelling.

"Lando stop screaming," Charles yelled back.

"No," he simply replied and made his way to the bed where he jumped on top of Carlos and Daniel, the older of whom groaned and grumbled something about his back, but Lando didn't care, he pushed his phone in Max's face, blurring his face in Carlos's neck.

xoxof1

xoxof1 Y/n l/n an infamous British rockstar most famous for her multiple dating scandals and most recently an arrest is rumoured to date a F1 driver.

username MOTHER WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE 😭😭😭

username girl... knowing her it's like Lewis or someone

username fr like hasn't she 'dated' a dozen older guys not to mention her record with women username girl why are you hating like a man, she's iconic and we all know it

username just lost my wife to a vroom-vroom man no one talk to me

Max began laughing, looking up from the post to the distraught Lando currently getting his hair played with by Carlos.

"Mate, I don't think you're her type," he threw the phone back to the whining boy.

"Yeah? And how would you know? I look exactly like Edward!" He pointed to the bassist of the band you were a part of.

"Kelly loves her music..." he muttered, looking away much to the younger man's amusement.

"HAH!" He shrieked, "SHE'S NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND ANYMORE!!" He laughed to which Carlos pushed his head down, eliciting an 'oomph'.

"I've been told many times," Max muttered to himself and turned to Lando to hear the rest of his rant, though loud and fast, the boy was the best source of entertainment they had.

"Max, look at her band, she's so coooool," he groaned, passing the phone to him again.

Cupidd

Cupidd THANK YOU LA!! We'll be back with 'young, numb and brunette' after this short break!!

y/nl/n My old man said I had to be in Shangai this weekend 🫡 but trust- I will be back to piss y'all off with Eddie asap

edwrdnotcllen MY WIFE HAS LEFT ME FOR A TWINK HELP y/nl/n shut up Eddie your the twinkiest twink I know username I love that they have had multiple partners in the past yet still always call each other husband and wife username I pity her boyfriend 😭 imagine having to compete with a man who looks like Edward

username SHES GOING TO A RACE????

username nooooo pls my parents

username girl they have never dated, both y/n and Edward have had multiple partners and relationships with men and women in the past. Leave them alone, they're adults username FOUND Y/N'S BFS ALT GUYS!!!

"She's coming to China?" Max asked no one in particular but Lando took it as an invitation to freak out.

"Bro please, please, please let me win this one, I'll owe you forever, bro please," Lando tried his puppy eyes on Max but Max jumped out of bed calling his girlfriend, walking out the room trying his best to convince the older woman to not attend the race.

"I have so much work to do," Lando gasped and followed Max out the room.

The race was one to remember, with Max winning but George a close second and Lando barely a tenth away on the third.

He hadn't been able to find the girl anywhere but at least he got points for the team. He went to the McLaren team party and forgot about the other celebration taking place.

xoxof1

xoxof1 The unexpected couple have been revealed in a series of leaked pictures of the private f1 party after the driver George Russell had a podium finish for his Shangai race.

username Mr.Russell I was unaware of your rizz, forgive me sir.

username WHITE MAN DOES IT IN ONE DAY 😭😭😭

landonorris When i catch you george when I catch you

username LANDO??? username he's one of ussssss username bbg you get me 😮‍💨 in ways no man ever has

George woke up with the worst headache he ever had in his life, he was sure he'd never get over this hangover but then he saw y/n next to him, hair tussled wearing the white shirt he was wearing last night.

"Y/n, darling, wake up," he pressed a kiss on her shoulder.

"mmhm," the woman groaned, turning to the blonde next to her and kissing him, the taste of vodka still fresh in her mouth.

She melted into his touch as he deepened the kiss, " Mornin' G," she whispered to him, voice hoarse from the night before.

He smiled in return, placing one last kiss on the corner of her lips. She searched around for her phone, finding it fallen amongst their haphazardly discarded clothes and opened Instagram to thousands of notifications.

She was used to it by now, it was quite fun.

y/nl/n

y/nl/n If I speak... @/georgerussell

edwrdnotcllen @/yn/ln you are so welcome for not squealing as soon as I knew

y/nl/n girl you asked me if you could kiss him after??? edwrdnotcllen And I still am?? username WHAT-

username I just know Lando is fuming rn

username y'all need a third? a dog? a maid?

username it should be me instead of him!!!

username god I see what you've done for others 😭

"Darling, did you post-" George had just begun but his room was rudely broken into, running in he saw a hyper papaya-coloured blur followed by a very hungover Max Verstappen.

Lando gasped looking at the woman next to George, screeching at an inhuman pitch, "HOW'D THIS PIECE OF VANILLA FRAPPUCCINO WOO HER??!?!?" He pointed at Y/n, making the woman laugh.

George offended, scoffed at the boy, "Well if you must know, I met her at Nando's party-" he was cut off once again, this time by the Dutch man.

"That makes sense actually," he said and immediately grabbed Lando by the collar and dragged him out, "Sorry guys!" he yelled after himself.

"I like your friends," Y/n said smirking making the taller man blush and push the woman slightly, before collapsing back into bed, making a silent promise of never trying to out-drink the woman again.

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Doctor's Wife 💘 | Carlisle Cullen Imagine

Set during the events of Twilight (2008)

Twilight Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x female!vampire!reader (romantic), Bella Swan x Edward Cullen, Edward Cullen x reader (platonic)

Content warnings: fluff, light angst, suggestive themes right at the end | female reader (she/her) | wc: 3.5k

requested 📥 yes/no

Premise: When Edward introduces Bella to his family after weeks of avoiding the inevitable, there was no telling how it was going to go down. Of course, what does one expect when they bring their girlfriend over for the first time…. except it's to a family of animal blood-sucking vampires who's lives each deserve a biography of their own. Bella felt the pressure of making a great impression, but the nerves seemed to heighten in regard to meeting the woman responsible for raising Edward throughout his undead life. The woman whose soul was bonded to none other than the Cullen patriarch.

--------------------------

Over a hundred years walking the Earth and Edward still experienced the universal feeling of cringe and embarrassment. This time, at the hands of none other than his family as he introduced him to the girl who’d captured his undead heart and made it hard for Edward to stay away. 

“Alright, um,” he swallowed, placing a gentle hand on Bella’s back to nudge her in the direction of the staircase. Away from the prying eyes of his siblings and Carlisle after Alice had to say, ‘Oh, you do smell good,’ and Jesper was literally fighting for his life to keep it together. “Where’s Y/n?”

“In her studio,” Carlisle replied with a smile, the mention of his wife bringing a warmth to his chest. “She’s working on a project and can definitely use a break. She’s been excited to meet Bella since you mentioned bringing her over.” 

Bella blushed, the nerves resurfacing at meeting another member of the Cullen family. The matriarch at that. Edward’s adoptive mother and Carlisle’s wife. 

“Thanks,” Edward turned on his heel, leading Bella in the opposite direction. Mumbling a short goodbye, she followed the vampire down the corridor, past the staircase and a living space before stopping in front of a wooden door. 

Before he knocked, Edward put a comforting hand on Bella’s shoulder, “Calm down,” his teeth sparkled against the light, eyes teasing. “Your heartbeat is out of control.”

“Sorry,” she flushed again, cursing at herself. She didn’t understand why she was so nervous to meet Y/n. More so than the rest of his family. Maybe it was because Edward spoke so highly of her. Maybe it was because she saw the way Carlisle lit up at the mere mention of her name. Or how the townspeople praised Y/n, even if they only had one interaction. 

Edward went to knock, but this time was interrupted by a voice calling out from the other side, “Come in!” Smiling, he pushed open the door, revealing a large room in what only could be described as an organized disarray. 

Bella’s jaw slightly dropped, taking in the scene before her. Eyes first darting to the high ceilings with a drop-down chandelier. Though it wasn’t on, thanks to the natural light provided by the left side of the room with floor to ceiling windows where a wall should’ve been. A beautiful, perfect view of the forest surrounding the home. 

The walls were painted a rusted burnt red, the kind you see in art museums. Floors made of the finest dark wood, with one area covered by plastic reserved for protecting it by the paint cans laying on top, beside an easel holding a large canvas. A very large, vintage clock took the center of the wall connected to the window, surrounded by pieces ranging from old signs to shelves holding books and plants. 

On the main wall parallel to the windows, a map of the world hung, flanked by art pieces. Portraits, landscape. Various mediums of pencil, oils, and acrylic. A phone straight from the 1930s mounted above a small table covered by messy stacks of paper. Bella’s eyes drew to a woven basket that came probably to her waist, filled with pieces of rolled parchment. A few laid on the ground. A foot away from it was a cart holding art supplies. 

Finally, Bella’s gaze landed on the figure in the center of the room. Y/n sat on a wooden stool, her posture perfect, hand scribbling across a large piece of parchment placed on the wooden desk facing the windows. The desk was the type that propped up, a lamp attached to the corner, and side table. Something an artist or engineer invested in. 

“I thought I heard the raging pump of a heartbeat approaching.” Bella squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment, letting out a small groan. Opening them when she heard the skid of the stool against the floor. 

“Y/n,” Edward scolded, tone playful. 

“Apologies, I couldn’t help myself,” Y/n chuckled, approaching the two with a wide smile. Bella held her breath, admiring the woman before her. Alice may have been the fashion girlie of the family, but there was no denying who she must’ve gotten it from. 

Y/n made even the simplest of clothing look ethereal. White blouse tucked into beige trousers, brown belt with hints of gold, paired with stunning white heeled boots. The necklaces she wore were layered, the longest of which had several charms making them clink together, bracelets covering her wrists, three rings on each hand, and gold hoops. A multicolor scarf consisting of warm tones like red, orange, and yellow tied around her hair. Then of course, her eyes were melting gold. 

She was the picture of an artist. 

Upon closer inspection, Bella had to hold back a whistle at the ring reserved for her left ring finger. Carlisle sure had taste and made sure his lady got what she deserved. That was no ring. That was a rock.

“You must be the famous Bella,” Y/n’s hand shot out, Bella hesitating a moment before taking it. Y/n’s handshake was soft yet firm at the same time. Bringing a chill to Bella as their skin met. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you,” letting go of her hand, Y/n brought both of hers up to make a gesture. “I have been begging Edward to bring you around for weeks. I don’t know why it’s taken him so long,” a playful glare was directed at him. 

Edward rolled his eyes, then put an arm around Bella. “Bella, this is Y/n. My mother for all intents and purposes. Artist, architect, and occasional therapist to all of us emotionally stunted immortal teenagers.”

“You said it, not me,” Y/n smirked, hands raised again. 

Bella laughed, comforted by Edwards touch as she regarded Y/n. “It’s really nice to meet you, Y/n. Edward talks about you all the time.”

“Good things, correct?”

“Of course,” Bella assured, nudging Edward who had scoffed. “He mentioned you designed this house--it’s absolutely beautiful. And this--,” motioning to the space, Bella was again in awe of Y/n’s studio. It’s like she was walking through an exhibit in the Louvre. “Wow.”

“When I made the blueprints for this house, I wanted everyone to have a place--plus everyone was vocal about what they wanted,” she teases with a grin. “Carlisle has his study, Alice her closets, Rosalie wished for a garage, Jesper desired a library, Emmett a game room, Edward got his music room. And me,” a hand waves to the room with pride. “My studio.”

Bella raised an intrigued brow, aimed at Edward, “you have a music room?” 

Had he been human, Edward would have blushed. He brushed it off with a shrug, “Yeah, it’s just where I keep a few instruments. I’ll show you as we go through the house.”

“A few,” Y/n lightly scoffed, earning a small glare from the boy. 

“Carlisle said you’re working on a project,” he changed the subject, nudging his head toward the desk. Catching sight of the blueprints that were in the early draft stages. 

“The high school plans to renovate the library, so they’ve asked me to go over some plans and designs. They were pleased with my work for the gym last year.” 

Edward turns to Bella, “Y/n has the magic touch for designing and constructing. And because we’ve had the time to redo college over and over again….” They share a laugh, “she’s got degrees in art, engineering, design, and business on top of her architecture education.”

The woman simply shrugs, “I like to keep busy. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of obtaining all the world’s knowledge when you have eternity.” If she saw the pointed look Edward was giving her, Y/n ignored it. 

“Anyway,” He sighed, returning his attention to Bella, “The town comes to her for consultations. And, in most cases than often, she designs and oversees the build.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Bella awed, past Edward’s shoulder she spotted the white construction worker's hat. Propped beside a coat hanger possessing a pair of overalls, scarves, and painters' boots. “Did you-,” her finger pointed to the display of artwork, “paint all those?”

“Several, yes,” Y/n motioned them to follow her, moving closer to the wall. “This one you might have guessed is the view of the forest from this room. The first one I did when we moved here. But not all are recent, some I did in the 90s--,” she pointed to a canvas framed with gold trimming near the top. Depicting an image of inside a medical tent, “That one is from when I volunteered for the Army Nurses Corps.”

Bella’s eyes bulged, glancing between Y/n and Edward. “You--you served during the War?” 

Y/n nodded, expression now solemn, “First World War. We were living in Virginia at the time and therefore injured soldiers coming back from Europe docked at the bases there first. Carlisle was the trauma surgeon, and I was a nurse.” Her boots echoed against the wood as they strolled down. “We stayed there the duration of the war before settling in Chicago….”

“How long before he wakes up?”

“Not long,” Carlisle kept his eyes on the unconscious boy while his wife paced behind him. Had they been able to sweat they would’ve been drenched. “The venom transferred from his neck. The closest I could get to his heart--it should take less than a day.”

Y/n ran a hand through her neatly styled hair in distress. They’d only been in Chicago a few months. Arriving when the War ended and immediately joining the effort to combat the Spanish Influenza spreading through the population. With their current predicament, there was no way they could stay.  

Ripping the nurses cap off, she asked, “What’s our next move then? We can’t stay here. This city is an endless potluck of people, and we don’t know how strong his urges will be,” she stopped pacing, coming beside her husband with a pleading gaze. “I know you said his parents are dead, but that doesn't mean he may not have family who’ll come looking for him. What kind of people are we to rip him from the ones who love him?” Upon the look she received, Y/n dropped her head, “Unless you mean to fake his death.” 

Carlisle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “The boy had the influenza. They saw his condition--it was deteriorating. They’ll believe it took him in the night and his body was sent to the incinerators. Just like the others.”

Y/n sniffed, eyes welling with unshed tears. “I know, but…” she trailed off, “He’s a kid, Carlisle. We agreed that when it came time for us to save someone from death, it would not mean robbing them of their life--.”

“He was dying, Y/n,” his tone was firm, yet gentle. “I promised his mother we’d look after him.” Eyes flicker to Edward, then back to Y/n. While Carlisle hated himself for what he’d done, there was no going back now. “He’s our responsibility now. We’ve to teach him the ways of this life and make sure he copes with it. Not succumb to the darkness like we did.” 

Another sound left her, Y/n taking a moment to process before nodding. “Okay,” she whispered, keeping her voice steady. “We take this day-by-day.”

“Day-by-day.” 

“That’s when Edward….” Bella trailed, biting her lip when she realized it wasn’t the best idea to bring it up. Yet, she was surprised both the vampires nodded, understanding her implication. Instead, she said, “He mentioned you’ve been with Carlisle the longest….”

Like earlier with the doctor, Y/n visibly brightened at each time his name was said. “Will be two hundred years this fall.”

“Two--two hundred??” The human spluttered. Edward had failed to tell her that information. Only saying the two had been together long before Carlisle saved him. 

Chuckling at Bella’s reaction, Y/n tucked a piece of stray hair back in its place. “The vampire who bit me didn’t stick around. Abandoning me. A few days later of endless wonder and unable to control my newfound appetite, Carlisle found me.” Her smile was so wide, bright white teeth bouncing off light. “It’s been quite a life ever since.” 

They spent the next few minutes learning about the history of each painting. From the oil masterpiece of the New York Skyline to the charcoal portrait of Joan of Arc. Bella took time to admire the watercolor image of Carlisle. Donned in his white coat, hair and posture perfect. 

“Ah yes,” Y/n hummed, beaming up at the canvas. “My personal favorite. Though I’m a little biased given the muse of this piece happens to be the muse of my soul.” 

“Stay still.”

“I am.” 

“No, you’re not,” Y/n berated, dipping the brush back into the golden color before continuing to paint Carlisle’s hair. “I know this is time consuming, darling, but it’s not like you haven’t done it before.” 

“In my defense,” his hand raised, quickly putting it back in his lap when she groaned, “I’ve never technically sat for a portrait. The ones from Volterra were done while I wasn’t aware they were being painted.” A grimace took his features, remembering his time with the Volturi. “Aro preferred moments to be captured as they were happening in real time.”

Y/n threw him a look, shaking her head in the process. “Yeah, he seems like the type.” 

“First and last time he got to play model,” she laughed at the memory. “Thanks to the creation of the camera I could develop a photograph and wallah!” her hands made a gesture, “A still image to use as reference. And now with cell phones….I don’t even have to put in the work to develop the photo. It’s right there!”

Initially Bella found her reaction to a camera phone a little odd. But then remembered Y/n was a 200+ year old vampire and literally witnessed the development and advancement of technology. 

“But I don’t always create,” Y/n winked, stopping in front of a stunning work of a lily pond. “Sometimes I collect.”

Stepping closer, Bella inspected the art, finger on her lip as her brows furrowed in concentration. She’d seen it before. The familiarity of it was driving her brain into overdrive. Then it hit her, breath hitching, “Is that…A Monet?” Her confirmation nod made Bella nearly choke on her saliva. “How--?”

“Being alive 226 years and getting the privilege of traveling anywhere means I’ve had the pleasure of meeting interesting people,” her smirk was the type a movie villain showed that made the audience fall in love with them and brush away the fact they were a villain. A captivating sight. “One of those people happened to be Claude Monet during our time in France. Our shared love for art and nature brought a great friendship. I was actually with him when he painted this,” she casually said, aware of Bella’s astonished reaction despite her eyes trained on the canvas. “Unfortunately, Carlisle and I left before I got to see him finish. After he died several of his paintings went to museums or auctioned off. I made sure to acquire this one--took me about three years to find.”

After a moment of gawking, Bella gathered herself and moved onto the next piece. It really felt like they were in an art museum. Soon they came to the end of the gallery. 

“You’re incredibly talented,” Bella praised, unable to take her attention off the marble sculpture enclosed in a glass case by the small bookshelf. 

“Thank you. It’s nice to finally have someone to show this all too. Instead of just me admiring it daily.” Y/n put her hands in pockets, “Now I hate to kick you out, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to beat,” Y/n led them to the door, “and I’ll let you get back to your tour of the house. It was lovely to meet you, Bella, and please don’t be a stranger. Our door is always open for you.” 

“I really appreciate it,” Bella smiled, standing beside Edward in the doorway, “It was great meeting you too.” A wave of a goodbye and promise to visit again, Y/n watched Edward escort his girlfriend up the staircase to the second floor. Leaning against the side, Y/n touched a finger to her lips, not bothering to hide the giant grin surfacing. 

“I know that look.”

Despite speaking after Bella and Edward disappeared, Y/n felt Carlisle’s presence the second he breached the corridor. Not to mention the tingling sensation at the base of her spine. 

Slowly turning to face him, her smile widened, and Carlisle saw the way her golden hues sparkled when he approached. “And what exactly is that look?”

“The one where you’re overcome with happiness unable to be measured with how much it consumes you.” 

Hands took hold of her shoulders, gently brushing down until they reached her own, Y/n leaning into his touch, voice teasing, “What mother would I be to not be overjoyed for her son and the wonderful girlfriend he’s brought home?” 

Carlisle chuckled, tilting his head down to place a kiss on her forehead. The floral aroma of her Marc Jacobs perfume amplified her already sweet scent. Oh, how addicted he was to her scent. It was like walking through a garden of the most beautiful flowers on Earth. 

“You didn’t embarrass him, did you?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, tapping his chest to scold him, “Not much more than you lot. He was practically dragging Bella out of the kitchen.” Carlisle raised his hands in defense, making her raise a brow.

“That was all the kids. I’m innocent, my dear, you must believe me.” 

She tsked, “Well, at least you didn’t scare the poor girl like Rosalie and Jasper. And as much as I love Alice’s excitement, you might want to tell her to take it down a notch,” Y/n made a face, “I thought we all agreed last night not to bring up Bella’s scent.”

She was met with a sigh, her sculptured-God of a husband dropping his head onto her shoulder in defeat. “What was I supposed to do? You left me to fend for myself.” 

Laughing, Y/n reached her arms around his shoulders, encasing him in an embrace to which he greatly accepted. “I’m sorry, my love. Will you forgive me? I promise to find you the finest stag in all of Washington for you to feast upon.” Instantly his head shot up, moving it so their noses brushed against each other. 

“That’ll do.” Their lips met, igniting fireworks throughout their bodies as it always had for 200 years. Never once losing the feeling. 

They’d seen everything in the course of their century's long life. Several wars. Epidemics. The fall of countries and rise of new ones. Medicine advancing, technology overtaking man. The race to space and the rebirth of the Olympic Games. 

Met people who’d changed the world. Witnessed humanity evolve--and sometimes wondered how the hell it could be so stupid. But overall, they were the stagnant figures in their plane of existence. Time moving, they remained still.

And yet, somehow, they were able to find a family after all. 

When they pulled apart, their expressions of love remained. “God,” she hummed, “That never gets old.”

“Just like the first time?” He chafed, gold eyes glimmering.

Y/n pretending to think, lips pouting, “Less nervous,” a squeal escaped her at the feeling of his fingers tickling her ribcage. Shoving him away, the woman chided, “Get back to the hospital old man. There are patients to be seen, and I have a deadline to finish.” The gasp that left him made her grin.

“Old?! I’ll have you know that if I’m old then that means you are---.”

“Don’t you finish that sentence,” her finger pointed at his chest, “otherwise you’re sleeping on the couch.” Carlisle smirked, entering her personal space once again. 

“I can’t sleep. Neither can you.”

“Damn,” she exhaled, feigning defeat when really, she was becoming more invested with their little game. “You’re right.” Then her eyes turned dark, sinister. Face consorting to a look that made Carlisle shudder. 

A look he’d seen hundreds of times, and not once did not bring a chill to his already cold body. Enough to bring his heart back to life. Enough to send the frozen blood down to his spine. 

“Guess we’ll have to find another way to pass the time.” 

[orphicdreamers-wp]

Crowded Room — Ethan Edwards

Summary; In which Ethan never thought of you like that until he saw you show up to a party with a football player

Content Warning: 18+ Content, Smut, oral sex(f receiving), p in v sex, filth, slight degradation, hair pulling, choking, used of ‘sir’ ‘whore’ ‘slut’, mirror sex, unprotected sex(don’t be silly y’all), creampie (🫣), breeding kink, mentions of birth control, religious mentions(really quickly), JJ McCarthy getting caught in the crossfire, possessive JJ, cheating(? not really, reader and jj have gone on like 2 dates) loosely based on Lovin On Me By Jack Harlow

Pairing; Ethan Edwards & Fem Reader

You were tucked beneath JJ’s broad shoulder as you entered the fraternity house. You guys were immediately greeted with the smell of alcohol and marijuana. JJ’s grip on your hip tightened as he pulled you closer to his body. You two mingled with various athletes and a few of your sorority sisters as you made your way into the kitchen. You smiled softly at Ethan as you saw him pouring some concoction into a plastic cup as your voice came out softly, “Hey Eth.”

Ethan had been in your Ethics in sports class since freshman year and for some reason your professor always paired you two up for partner work. You would be lying in you said that you didn’t notice how attractive the hockey player was. He had the biggest and softest brown eyes you’d seen. He always had on that stupid hat and his beautiful dark hair sticking out. Anyone with eyes could see that Ethan Edwards was an attractive guy.

Ethan had never seen you as anything more than a friend. You were kind, funny and the first sorority girl he’d met that truly understood the concept of hockey. You had always been a friend to the brown haired hockey player. But you stood a mere five feet away from him, clad in a low cut cropped cheetah print top that accentuated your breasts perfectly, like the shirt was molded around your body. A fair amount of your stomach was out until it met the short leather skirt that had Ethan’s pants constricting his lower hips.

Ethan had never thought about it before but in that moment all he was thinking about was bending you over the counter and fucking the shit out of you, without a care in the world that JJ McCarthy seemed to be staking his claim on you in the kitchen. The way you said his name made him feel ridiculous for never thinking about you in this capacity. But surely you’d never thought of him that way right?

Ethan raised an eyebrow ever so slightly as he saw the grip JJ held on your hip. He could see the intensity of the hold by the skin visible between the hem of your top and the your skirt. He also noticed how JJ’s eyes were glued to him as you watched him intently. Ethan pressed the cup to his lips, “Hey Y/N, McCarthy. Didn’t know y’all were a thing.” You went to open your mouth to say that you weren’t, that tonight was your like 3rd date, when JJ spoke, “It’s new, right babe?” Your heart was beating up into your throat as you nodded, “Yep, good seeing you Eth. I have to use the ladies room.”

You looked up into JJ’s piercing blue eyes and unglued yourself from his side. You slipped out of the kitchen, feeling overwhelmed by JJ’s sudden influx of testosterone he’d felt the urge to show. You walked down the seemingly never ending hallway. You entered the bathroom and went to shut the door only for a hand to stop you. You looked up, taken aback as Ethan stood in the doorway, “Are you okay?” You felt your throat clam up, “‘M all good Eth.” Ethan shut and locked the door to the bathroom behind him as he leaned against it while you stood in front of the mirror, “Your a shitty liar Y/N. What’s going on in your pretty little head?”

You let out a nervous laugh, “I don’t even know. I’m not dating JJ by the way.” Ethan laughed heartily, “I gathered, you looked like you just shit your pants when he called you babe. Most girls don’t have that reaction.” You laughed, “Can I be honest for a minute?” Ethan grinned, “I’ve never known you to not be honest. What’s up?” You giggled nervously, partially tipsy from the bottle of Pink Whitney you had pregamed with at your sorority before leaving the house for this party.

“I’m kinda nervous being alone with you right now.” Ethan frowned, immediately feeling bad, initially believing he’d made you uncomfortable, “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. I can go.” You shook your head, “No it’s not you. Well not like that.” Ethan raised an eyebrow as he walked across the room and stopped next to you, “What’s wrong then?” You laughed slightly, “Being alone with you makes me nervous because your hot and I’m tipsy but I’m pretty sure this is how a handful of my wet dreams have started.”

Ethan laughed breathily, “So I make you nervous with my fleeting sex appeal? Good to know.” You rolled your eyes, “See this is why I should have kept my mouth shut. You never take anything seriously.” Ethan stood in front of you, keeping you from moving away from the counter. He placed a hand on your bare skin, “Trust me pretty, I’m taking this very seriously. Hop up on the counter for me.” You pressed your back against the mirror as Ethan dropped to his knees.

Your breath hitched as his warm breath traveled up your legs as he pressed soft wet kisses up your legs. By the time he reached your knees, you legs spread further giving Ethan easier access to your thighs and soaking core. An pornographic groan left Ethan’s mouth as his lips neared your burning core. He looked up at with his beautiful brown eyes lit up by desire, “Is this okay?” You groaned at his question, “God yes, please.” Ethan pushed your skirt up further as he pulled your panties down in one swift motion.

Your hand’s immediately flew to Ethan’s head, removing his hat and setting it near the sink as your fingers threaded through his hair as his tongue met the bundle of nerves that had a coil forming in your stomach. Ethan hummed as he pulled away, “So wet for me. Such a whore, letting me take you in a bathroom.” You felt yourself clench around the air as Ethan’s fingers slid inside of your dripping cunt. You felt a unrecognizable moan leave your lips as you clamped your legs around Ethan’s head as he began to lap up your juices as you came down from your high.

You breathed heavily as you leaned your head against the mirror and panted, “Holy shit. I can’t believe I just did that.” Ethan laughed, “Don’t worry it’s hot.” You rolled your eyes, “I cannot believe I did that. Oh god, I’m like a total whore.” Ethan pressed a kiss against your lips, “Sorry I just really wanted you to stop talking.” You groaned as you pulled him into a passionate kiss, your core clenching as you shamelessly grinded against him. Ethan pressed his hands on your hips, “Are you sure?” You reached down to unzip your skirt letting it fall to the ground as you pulled Ethan into you, “I’ve never been more sure of something.”

Ethan groaned as he pulled his shorts down and kicked them to the side. You hummed to yourself as Ethan rummaged through the drawers in search of a condom, only to come up empty handed. You groaned as you pulled him by his shirt to you, “I have an IUD, please just fuck me Eth. I need you inside me so badly.”

Ethan practically groaned at your words, “Such a desperate little slut for me. Just begging for me to fuck you raw in a random party bathroom. Didn’t peg you for a freak.” You groaned as you clenched your thighs together, “Damn it would you just fuck me already or do I need to have JJ come do that?” Ethan scoffed as he turned you to face the mirror as he adjusted himself behind you.

You felt a sharp breath leave your mouth as Ethan slid into you. Your chest tightening as he bottomed out inside you. Ethan’s hands found their way to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, harshly enough to leave bruises. A groan leaving his mouth, “You feel so good. Clenching around me, such a little slut.” You felt your eyes roll into the back of your head as Ethan’s hips began to move rhythmically. As sharp gasp left your lips as Ethan pulled at your hair, bringing your back pressed against his chest. A soft groan emitted from Ethan’s lips into your ear. You smirked pridefully, “Did I just hear Mr Ethan Edwards who has a reputation for never moaning during sex, moan?” Ethan rolled his eyes, “Shut up before I pull out.” You whines lightly at his words, “Please, alright fine sir. Just don’t stop.”

You felt Ethan tighten his grip on your hair, “Call me that again, please.” You grinned, learning Ethan’s soft spot in bed. A soft moan leaving your lips as your eyes screwed shut as you fell into the bathroom counter, “Oh god right there. Don’t stop please sir.” Ethan’s hand found it’s way around your throat, holding just tight enough to make you feel pressure but loose enough your air supply wasn’t compromised. You clenched around Ethan’s cock as he pounded up into your pussy.

You let out a pornographic moan, “Shit, I’m so close. Don’t stop.” Ethan groaned as he breathed heavily, “I’m there too. I wanna cum inside you so bad.” You groaned at his words, previously believing it was impossible to become more wet, “Cum in me Eth, I need it. Need to feel you inside me.” Ethan groaned, “I could get your pregnant right now given the chance.” You let out another moan as you felt the coil building in your stomach burst as you clenched around his cock. Your orgasm triggering Ethan’s as he came following you.

You leaned against the counter, ass bare in the air as Ethan’s cum dropped down your thighs. You finally caught your breath and grinned as Ethan got a few square of paper towel and began to wipe his cum off of your legs and helped you back into your skirt and panties. You sighed as you two made your way out of the bathroom. A sinking feeling built in your stomach as it hit you, you’d have to explain to JJ where you’d gone off to for nearly an hour.

The sinking feeling dissipated when you found JJ sprawled across the couch with a redhead perched on his lap making out. You let out a sigh of relief as Ethan draped his arm on your shoulder, “Back to another crowded room we go.” You had expected him to enter the room and abandon you to go back to his teammates and brag over the easy lay he got, but he intertwined his fingers with yours and led you over to his friends. A small smile forming on your face as he sat down and pulled you into his lap as he watched some of his teammates play beer pong.

[melrosing]

What do you think of the Sansa bullied Arya take if you don’t mind me asking (just don’t answer if you don’t want to haha)

per my usual practice on Controversial Topics im putting this under a cut

At the real risk of that lot showing up in my notes again, I think this ‘Sansa bullies Arya’ pins their pre AGOT dynamic squarely on Sansa herself, rather than the way they are both being raised by the adults around them to behave towards one another. Sure, Sansa is mean to Arya sometimes during their childhood! We don’t have a lot of examples besides the oft-mentioned ‘horseface’ insults, but I think it’s fair to assume that more often than not, Sansa was looking down on Arya. Meanwhile, Arya herself feels inadequate and like she just can’t do anything right. She resents Sansa, but also worries that Sansa’s opinion of her may be true.

Fine. But where has Sansa’s opinion of Arya come from? Is it her cold black heart? Fucking no, it’s come from Septa Mordane, Catelyn, and whoever else surrounds them growing up. The men don’t seem to really give much of a shit how Arya acts because it’s not their business and she’s just a kid anyhow, but the women pointedly give many shits. In our first scene with Arya, Septa Mordane scolds her for not being good at ‘women’s work’, and there’s plenty to suggest that this is just another day in the life for Arya. Meanwhile, Sansa gets the carrot for excelling. Both Arya and Sansa are learning their own worth in this chapter, and the worth of one another. Sansa internalises the praise whilst learning that Arya is bad, and everything she mustn’t be. Arya internalises the criticisms whilst learning that Sansa is good, and everything she can never be.

They’ll be getting this from Catelyn as well. Catelyn clearly adores both her daughters, and will move heaven and earth to get them back in ACOK. But one good adjective for Catelyn is ‘dutiful’ - it’s in her house words, and it’s how she’s lived her life up to AGOT. Doing as she’s told, even when it pains her. She expects the same of her daughters, and finds those expectations satisfied in Sansa’s case, and apparently flouted in Arya’s. So again, from their own mother, Sansa internalises that Arya is bad, and that she, Sansa, is good. Arya internalises the same. If societal standards were reversed, perhaps it would be Arya lording over Sansa, but such as it is, it’s Sansa over Arya. 

Now, Sansa is a child. When children are told over and over that X is good and Y is bad, they generally don’t question it, at least until they're older and more experienced in the world. They will also parrot what they hear, often in graceless ways. Because they’re children. Sansa is told that Arya wilfully misbehaves because she’s bad, and so Sansa thinks: then I should look down on Arya. It sounds like Sansa mostly keeps her distance from her sister pre AGOT. Not always - they play together sometimes - but a lot of the time. She has internalised the teaching that Arya is an aberration, and as she herself knows the adults value obedience in girls, and she wants to please them so badly, the distance between her and Arya demonstrates to them just how good she is - she won’t descend to Arya’s behaviour. 

When Sansa does interact with Arya (pre Darry), we see her being a bit bossy - telling Arya what to do, etc. Sansa is replicating what she has seen the adults do with Arya, and is mimicking them to assert her own position as the good, obedient child. If Arya ever doesn’t want to do something, it can only be because she’s bad. 

[sidenote, it all really reminds me of these short stories me and my sister used to get read a lot as kids, called My Naughty Little Sister (lmao) by Dorothy Edwards. They're pretty old and I don’t think they ever got major circulation outside Britain, but for anyone unfamiliar, you can probably guess how these stories go. There’s an elder sister, good and obedient, who narrates short tales of her ‘naughty little sister’ doing terrible things like idk, making a terrible mess etc, and going ‘now I’m sure you [the child audience] wouldn’t do a thing like that!’ They’re supposed to be short morality tales for the children, and amuse the parent reading them aloud, who recognises the mischievous behaviour of the younger and is charmed by the haughtiness of the elder sister, who you can hear is narrating the incidents of her sister’s mischief with the disdain that she’s heard the adults do so, and is asserting her own good behaviour over said sister. And the whole fucking reason we were read these stories was because my younger sister was precisely the kind of kid who got up to all kinds of shit as a little kid (which now all of us find hilarious but DIDN’T AT THE TIME), and I was the elder sister like ‘my goodness how could she do such things as these!!’ (e.g. paint an entire bookcase with grout). It amused us both to see ourselves in the stories. You could say this was life imitating art, but I think this is simply an age old dynamic, familiar to many people with siblings: you would see how the adults spoke to another child in your family, and replicate their manner in an effort to come across as an adult. Except you weren’t an adult, so you weren’t always as graceful about it as they were. That is pre AGOT Sansa, to a T. And I’m sure that’s what GRRM, a child of three who had two sisters of his own, is replicating here.]

But I think there’s also a loneliness in being the ‘obedient child’. Doing as you’re told all the time can be boring, and living up to expectations is a lot of pressure. Sansa wants a companion in all that, but Arya has no interest in sharing in it. Arya is offering friendship, but from a place Sansa believes she can’t reach her sister - Sansa thinks she’d have to ‘descend to Arya’s level’ to accept it, and she can’t do that. You get a sense of Sansa thrilling in trying Arya’s ‘misbehaviours’ for herself when she quietly delights in behaving ‘as wicked as Arya’, but you see in this that she has to condemn such behaviours and herself for exhibiting them, all in the same breath. And in the end, I can easily imagine Sansa resents that Arya has more fun with their brothers than she ever does with Sansa herself: that the one sister she has is one she has nothing in common with. Sansa can’t find a like mind amongst her siblings, and so clings to Jeyne Poole, and the praise of the adults around her.

So with all that in mind, YES! Sansa is sometimes mean to Arya, and calls her horseface. That is because Sansa is a child, nobody is correcting her behaviour, and she understands that Arya is bad, and the way she behaves is frustrating to Sansa herself, so really what does it matter if she’s a little mean sometimes? She knows that she is good, because everyone says so. Even if she calls her sister a name now and then, she’s still the good child. 

AND THEN we get to Darry. And Sansa starts to see that society isn’t a song, and sometimes it doesn’t matter how good you are, horrible things can happen to you anyway. But she doesn’t want to believe that, because it would turn her world upside down, and her future would look a lot darker, too - Ned has not ended her engagement to Joffrey, and Sansa has to live for the foreseeable in KL. So when Arya doing the thing she ‘wasn’t supposed to’ (playing with Mycah) snowballs into a terrible miscarriage of justice where Sansa’s wolf is killed, Sansa rejects the notion that the songs could be wrong about beautiful princes, and shifts the blame onto Arya for that original 'misdemeanour'. The grief at losing Lady is terrible too (the wolves are meant to have a soul deep bond with the Stark children), and so the target of that grief likewise becomes Arya. What was previously a normal, childishly complicated sibling relationship gets twisted into something else.

This is where I think Sansa becomes different level of unpleasant towards her sister. She’s cruel about Arya’s loss of Mycah, tells Arya she wishes she were dead instead of Lady, etc etc. Arya is not giving as good as she gets here - she even tries to make amends with Sansa, but Sansa throws the offer in her face.

The reasons for Sansa’s behaviour are complicated, but not that complicated. She’s been raised to slot perfectly into this world, without ever being told what that world is really like. And when abruptly it turns out that what she’s being raised for is essentially the slaughter, she rejects it. She can’t see Joffrey as he truly is: she’s been told that princes are charming, that Kings are just, Queens are kind, and she herself will be a Queen. Sansa is going to be handed over to the Lannisters, and she’s going to live the song of her dreams, and the only thing between Sansa and the realisation of those is the thing that’s always been wrong: Bad Arya. Because again, if Arya isn't bad, then everything else is, and Sansa is in terrible danger.

No one is sitting Sansa down and explaining to her that Arya is not bad, just different from her, and that they should love one another - that there are dark forces here far stronger than them that could tear them apart, that the Lannisters are the greatest of them, and they have to fight together, not each other. Arya gets this talk, funnily enough, but not Sansa. Arya is asked to understand that Sansa is different from her, but Sansa is only ever taught to abhor that her sister as different from her. Where Arya is told to be wary of the court of King’s Landing, Ned leaves Sansa to continue her fantasies, and then, when he abruptly tries to put an end to them, he doesn’t bother to explain why. I’m not saying this is unforgivable on Ned’s part - he has a lot on his mind lol - but it’s quite obviously a major failing. Ned leaves Sansa in a fantasy world. It’s fucking Joffrey who has to step in and clarify for Sansa that actually, she’s been dreaming.

So as long as they’re together, Sansa is never able to come to terms with the fact that Arya was not the aberration, but rather, everything else was. In the absence of one another, they cannot reconcile over that fact. So yes, GRRM says they’ll have deep issues to sort through when they meet again, but those aren’t going to be the times that Sansa called her ‘horseface’ - they’re going to be about what happened since they left Winterfell, when their relationship was twisted by forces much darker than Septa Mordane. 

So no, I think the ‘Sansa is a bully’ diatribes are seriously tedious, because even if you want to insist that calling your sister ‘horseface’ a few times even qualifies, you can still accept such wrongs without deciding that that makes Sansa a fundamentally unkind person who cannot be reconciled with Arya and doesn’t deserve to be. It is on the page that the two of them miss each other. Like I genuinely cannot imagine going through everything Arya does in the story and then, upon reuniting with a sister I thought lost forever, deciding I’m actually still mad about the things she got wrong as a child that she herself has paid dearly for, both physically and emotionally. Like jesus fucking christ man. By all means let them talk about it!! But who do you think Arya is lmao

Tl;dr: Sansa is a kid in a society. She is not the arbiter of Arya’s place in society. She is not mean because she’s cruel, but because she has internalised the exact same things that Arya has, based on the example of the adults surrounding them. It just happens that those things were a carrot for Sansa and a stick for Arya. But then in the end, they weren’t a carrot for Sansa either.

tl;dr 2: clarifying once again - i am a jaime stan. i find the stark sister relationship interesting bc I have experience of a similar sisterly dynamic and find it interesting to see a version of that explored on the page. so if you think one has to be a sansa stan to observe all this then that kind of just demonstrates how dichotomous you've become on this issue lol like if I'm talking about takes I dislike re JB I don't generally feel the need to attribute them to JC fandom. let's all grow up x

tl;dr 3: no i don't hate sansa or arya, since i know these are both conclusions various people reach whenever i even mention these two. in fact i think they are both great girls! imagine

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Holidays! ❄️❄️ more from What They Expect please! I love that AU!

continuation of 1 2 3

It’s been well over a year since she’s seen Mustang. Al’s all aflutter about it, and how puberty has her looking like something other than a twelve year old boy, but she’s really not worried. Mustang is so involved with his own shit that he doesn’t have the time to care about hers. It would be a damning quality if it wasn’t exactly what she needed from him.

She is, sort of, a little bit worried about Riza. Not worried as in she actually thinks something is going to happen, but just that if anyone out of Mustang’s little idiot brigade would figure her out, it would be her.

Maes is a distinct possibility, but also not really. The thing that saves her, always, is that no one’s really looking. She’s loud and flashy and angry and no one thinks she’s too short to be a guy because of how sensitive she is about it and no one notices she’s pretty because they’re too busy dealing with her being mad and scowling and, with these guys, she’s got an extra ace up her sleeve.

They think they already know all her secrets.

They know about human transmutation and binding her brother’s soul to a suit of armor and every questionable and terrible thing she’s done since in her pursuit to fix it.

Why the hell would she be lying about her gender? It’s not even a thought in their heads, and if it ever becomes one, they’ll dismiss it before he even has a chance to.

Eden binds her chest tight extra tight, so her chest is nearly flat, and puts on her baggy tank top and giant red coat that hides the way her hips curve and the giant stompy boots that she really does love, sets her face in a familiar scowl, and goes off to war.

If war was child’s play, that is.

“Where have you been?” Mustang demands, towering over her and nostrils flaring.

Well. Sort of towering over her. She must have had a growth spurt, because he’s really only got a couple inches on her, which is sort of hilarious. She hadn’t noticed that he was short before. “Uh, lots of places. Haven’t you been reading my reports?”

She does not laugh in his face at the way his eyebrow ticks. She spends so much time meticulously writing everything down in dedicated code in her travelogues, she really doesn’t have the energy to spare when she gets to her reports for Mustang. Besides, he doesn’t really care what she’s doing, only that it’s big and flashy enough to distract from whatever he’s doing.

Is she supposed to know that? She can’t remember. But it’s so obvious that it doesn’t feel like something that can be a secret.

Then again, the rest of the brass haven’t caught on, so.

“What were you thinking in Liore?” he snaps.

Eden blinks. “Liore? That was forever ago. Did something happen? Rose didn’t mention anything in her last letter.”

“Yes, Edward, it was forever ago, but since you declined to answer my summons to come here and explain yourself, we’re discussing it now,” he says.

God, she’d forgotten how bitchy he gets. “Okay, well that priest guy was pretty strange-“

“I don’t care about the priest!”

She stares. She had to kill the guy twice and he doesn’t care? Honestly, she thinks it’s sort of memorable.

“What were you thinking messing with that river?”

Ed tilts her head to the side. “You’re upset about the river?”

He glares. “Of course I’m upset about the river!”

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Al’s really worried over nothing.

Mustang is never paying attention to the right things.