#another love

[queenfantasy123]

"Sleep isn't really sleep anymore, it's just an escape from reality "

[hagarsays]

These are my holy trinity of WEBTOON my ride or die 😂

[eijferalgoyeis]

Maybe in another life we can be together.

[dumblr]

I wanna cry and I wanna love, but all my tears have been used up. On another love.

[goldustwomun]

another love (e.m.)

pairing: eddie munson x best friend! fwb! reader

summary: sleeping with your best friend was never a good idea, and though he’s confessed his feelings to you, they were feelings he felt for an entirely different girl.

warnings: about the same warnings as part one; lotsa swearing, some spiciness but not anything explicit; mutual pining; angst angst angst

wc: 3.0k+

note: okay, this was going in a completely different direction but i think i’ve found a middle ground i’m quite happy with. there will be a part three because i have an ending in mind that i couldn’t quite make it to in this part!!! so yay for more eddie <3 hope you all enjoy <3

read part one - part three

It was a kick in the teeth when you realised the rumours were true. Hawkins really was as boring as they all said it was. No wonder, come September, so many of the previous year’s graduating class would hop onto the first bus out of town and never look back. 

You’d grown up in Hawkins, it was all you really knew. Sure, it wasn’t the most diverse, open-minded town, but you liked to think that the people you surrounded yourself with were the best of the best. Were worth sticking it out between mall-fires and broken hearts.

But without the familiar company of your friend, your best friend, really, you were starting to question whether you should get onto that same bus, and say goodbye to Hawkins forever. There wasn’t much left for you here anyway. 

“Come on! It’ll be a blast, you know it will!” 

Nancy had been after you all week to join her and the gang, at least the older half of it, anyway. Steve was having a party that night – booze, pizza, good music and company – the whole shabang. You weren’t sure why, something about finally finding a girl that would ‘stick’ and wanting to show her off to the rest of the town and his friends. You thought he was a dopey idiot, but an idiot you loved, nevertheless. 

“For old time’s sake,” Nancy whined once more, breaking past your disgruntled inner monologue to whine in your ear. 

You were sick of hearing that. Why would you want to relive the ‘old times’ anyway? When you were too busy pining after a certain someone and he had his heart set on just about anyone but you – the one person he screwed any chance he could. It bugged you to think about it now, months after the two of you had last spoken. 

Because you felt stupid – utterly, completely stupid. Like a fool, in fact — that’s what you were, for ever having thought it could have been something more. For ever thinking you could have convinced him to love you like you loved him.

You were stupid, and a fool.

That was the conclusion you’d come to after going over whatever relationship you had with him.

“He won’t be there,” Nancy added, a cheeky grin plastered to her face. You stopped at that, glared at her, hard, but it could have been the sun directly behind her head, as well, that had you squinting so intensely. “I told Steve. He said ‘Munson’s busy anyway’, so he won’t be there.”

You scoffed in reply, dropping to sit and sulk on a bench just outside her house. The two of you were meant to spend the afternoon studying. You’d help Nancy get ready, and then return home to the comfort of your favourite book (it was The Bell Jar, at the moment) and your walkman. 

“That’s not why I don’t want to go, Nance,” you relented, arms crossed over your chest as you pouted up at her tiny yet defiant frame. She was determined to convince you, and you’d been on the other end of Nancy’s ‘persuasive suggestions’ (orders, essentially) enough times to know how it’d end. You’d go to that party, probably enjoy yourself, even. But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to make her sweat a little, really feel guilty for forcing you to enjoy yourself. 

“I just– It’s like–” you struggled with your words. That was another part of why you felt so completely dimwitted. Ever since you’d given him up, you’d lost the ability to speak your feelings. You knew what you felt, what you wanted to say, and usually you could articulate them with no problems. But it’s like the emotions had escaped you, ran off in search of your heart that you were certain was still in the pocket of the curly-haired metalhead that you’d been avoiding relentlessly. 

You sighed. Buried your face in your hands before you eventually got out, “I hate feeling this way, you’ve got to know that. This isn’t me, I’m not this kind of girl. I’m better than this, and I feel like such a  weak, naive, damsel-in-distress even thinking about him. I should be over it by now, right?”

Now it was Nancy’s turn to frown. She sat on the bench beside you, resting her hand reassuringly over your own. “You should’ve told me you were still feeling this way, sweets. You know I would’ve helped. And even if I couldn’t do anything, I would’ve listened.” 

She shook her head, tugging your hands into her lap so you’d look at her instead of the miscellaneous stain on the concrete beneath your feet. “You’re way too good for him, you’ve got to know that. You’re not naive, or weak, I swear. It’s all him. It has to be, because what idiot would pass on loving you?” 

You gave her a watery smile and a quiet sniffle, hugging her tight before standing up with a renewed sense of purpose. It wasn’t gone, the hurt and heartache, but you were determined to not let it get the best of you. Not anymore. 

Your days had been devastatingly boring, monotonous – filled with a routine you had reluctantly adopted. You’d avoided your family, friends, even the things you’d loved, because in every situation you put yourself in, you were reminded of how you’d once done it with him. Though you were starting to understand how all of those seniors felt, fleeing from Hawkins the first chance they had, you still had a few more memories to make in the small town you called home. 

But you felt a muted twang, somewhere deep in your chest. One you hid from Nancy and the others. It was because those memories you yearned for would be nothing without him — the only person that would make them worth having in the first place.

Steve was shouting something at you, lips moving around unintelligible words as he swung a bottle comically in one hand, while his other was occupied with holding a cute girl’s. You hadn’t missed the way Nancy had rolled her eyes at everything the (admittedly shallow) blonde had said. Robin had been cackling behind her fist when she’d first noticed the exchange before nudging you in the shoulder so you, too, could relish in your friend’s quiet misery.

Steve, however, was having the time of his life.

It wasn’t that he was drunk, but rather, the music was so fucking loud that you couldn’t hear a word he, or anyone else for the matter, was saying. He might have been talking about something to do with the beaming girl next to him, or his hair – he spoke of it often enough for it to be an appropriate guess.

All you knew was that he was talking so animatedly that he probably hadn’t noticed just how little attention you were paying him. Instead, you’d been busy making accidental eye contact with one of the basketball players for the past twenty minutes. 

He was attractive enough, in a conventional, Star-Athlete kinda way. He’d noticed you before, and you him – it was hard not to with his broad shoulders and goofy grin that even you’d admit had your heart tripping over itself. 

But you’d always pegged him as someone who’d end up married to a cheerleader, living in a sensible townhouse with trimmed hedges and a white picket fence. It wasn’t that you weren’t opposed to picket fences, quite appreciated their daintiness and all that, but you were no prim and perfect cheerleader, and you doubted he’d want to get it on with the school poet. 

(Anyway, you’d much rather live your life out in a broken-down trailer than a house with a white picket fence, but that was something you kept to yourself.)

No one really knew it was you who wrote short verses for the paper when Nancy needed something to fill a page. Only Nancy, of course, Steve, Robin, and…

Eddie. Oh, fuck.

He had crept in, unnoticed by the dozens of drunken teens around him, and was stood in between you and Mr Star-Athlete. 

The look on his face resembled something between amusement and pain. Though you could have spent longer pinpointing the exact emotion, had done so millions of times prior, you’d already dropped your drink all over yours and your friends’ shoes, eyes wide in fear and looking a lot like a deer (or trembling large rodent) caught in the headlights of a speeding car. 

The speeding car in question pushed his way through the thrumming crowd to reach you, but you’d already started backing away from him the moment your cup had hit the floor. 

Nancy, confused by your sudden change in mood, followed your line of sight. Her features mimicked your own – shocked, surprised, fully aware she’d never hear the end of it from you. She followed you in your attempted escape towards the stairs that lead to the rest of Steve’s (parent’s) house, shoving you up the first few steps. “Go! Go! Go!”

“I’m fucking going, Nance!”

Jumping over the scattered limbs of couples and wallflowers to make it to the upstairs landing, all the while you could feel his eyes on you, could feel them through six feet of concrete if you really focused, and the thought of him so close after so long only motivated you to move faster. It was only when you  found an unoccupied toilet and locked the door shut did you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe.

“Fuck!” 

You swore quietly at your reflection, hands gripping the sink tight enough to turn your knuckles white.

But you needed something to ground yourself because you were worried you’d float away if you let go for even a second, not stopping until you hit deep space or burned in the sun. Twisting the tap, you splashed the streaming water onto your face, feeling the burning of your cheeks lessen minutely. 

Of course he was here. Of course he’d seen you. Of course you were now trembling in a locked bathroom to escape the truth laid out so blatantly in front of you.

Weeks of progress had been lost in mere seconds, and that same burn of unrequited love – the one you’d convinced yourself had healed over – began to sting once more. 

A pounding on the door had torn your stare away from the porcelain of the sink. It’d only been 20 minutes and you reasoned if he had followed you upstairs, he would have knocked earlier.

So you shouted, “Give me a minute!”, gave yourself a quick glance-over in the mirror, and twisted the door handle open.

Only to slam it shut immediately in the face of one Eddie Munson.

He was, as expected, faster than you and shoved the toe of his shoes to jam the door open. You had no choice but to stare at his insistent expression through the crack in the door. 

“What the fuck, Eddie!” you scolded, and you weren’t sure who you were more mad at: him, or yourself. He wasn’t a complete idiot, unlike what he let the whole town think – he must’ve known you’d open the door eventually. You’d fallen into his trap easily. 

“I just want to talk, please.” There was something about his voice that had you pausing momentarily. You knew the many faces, voices, expressions of Eddie Munson – knew them like the veins on the back of your hand, and his, as well. But this was new – he’d never seemed so ragged, so defeated.

The second of hesitation was all he needed to push his way through the opening, slamming the door shut behind him and locking the door. 

It was then that you realised that you had no choice but to listen, because Eddie was about as stubborn as you were and if he wanted you to stay, you’d just have to deal with it.

“Please, hear me out,” he pleaded, eyes searching your face for any sign of reciprocation. He stood a respectful distance away, not wanting to push his luck. He was impressed with himself for even having gotten this far into his plan so he didn’t want to waste the opportunity on whatever lustful urges were lurking in the back of his mind.

“What’s there to talk about, Eddie? We haven’t spoken in weeks, in months, even. We said what we had to bef–”

“You said what you had to, actually. I didn’t get a single word in that day. You know it. You never stayed to listen to what I had to say, how I felt,” he argued, hands waving in suppressed frustration. He was frowning so intensely, you were worried his mouth would get stuck in that downturned position.

And holy shit, you needed to stop staring at his mouth. 

“I fucked up, bad. I know I did. I must need glasses or something because you were right there, right in front of me, and I couldn’t see it. You have to know, I wanted you so bad, and I was so fucking afraid that if I let you know it – let you know how I felt, you’d get tired of me.” He took a steadying breath. “Now my lightbulbs are fucked, I’m failing Spanish, again, and I can’t sleep at night because I have the image of you crying— of you crying because of me, on repeat, over and over again.”

He was breathing hard, and you knew, because you knew Eddie, just how difficult it was for him to say what he had. He was never good with words, having always preferred a more hands-on approach to life. 

“And I know it’s too late for apologies, but I need you to hear it from me before I leave. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so—”

“Leave? What do you– where are you going?” you pushed, brows furrowed in confusion.

“I can’t explain right now. I will– don’t give me that look, I will,” he implored. “I just need you to hear this first.”

Your heart couldn’t help but tug at his confession, and you knew if you stayed any longer, you’d give in. Let him mould you into whatever shape his heart desired until you were consumed by Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. 

But he had to know – you’d been hurting so bad, the scars of your heartache weren’t completely gone. Their rough ridges and bumps were still scattered haphazardly across your body, across your heart, and you knew that letting him back in so quickly would only be a disservice to yourself.

It took everything for Eddie to finally tell you how he felt, but hadn’t you given him just as much, if not more, months earlier?

“I don’t want you to just want me, Eddie. I deserve more than that. You owe me more than that.” The sharp edges of your admission, the truth of it all, cut into him. 

He gave in to his urges and stepped closer, invading your space and air and 

God, you were going to kiss him. 

The rough calluses across his palms brushed against your cheeks as he cradled your face, tipping your chin up so you’d look him in the eye. “I don’t just want you, I need you – I need you so fucking much, it hurts to breathe,” he said, voice hoarse from fear, pushing his forehead against your own so his urgent whispers left imprints against your skin. “I swear it, if you gave me another chance, if you let me in – I’d be everything you deserved. I’d do my best, I swear I would.”

It was exactly what you wanted to hear, so much so that even your dreams – the ones you’d kept secret from everyone come morning – couldn’t live up to this moment. 

Your lack of response had left Eddie antsy, he gripped you tighter, closer, harder, brushed his chapped lips against yours once, twice, before slotting his mouth against your own. You melted, completely, wholly. It felt achingly natural to shove your hands into his hair, have him shove his leg between your thighs – the two of you fell into each other with the ease of reciting the alphabet. 

It didn’t last long. All the good things in your life seemed to have a time stamp imprinted on them, and you were always a second too late. Eddie broke away from your mouth, the very action seemed to hurt him as he clumsily untangled his hands from you and your hair, and took a cautious step back. “I need to go,” he sighed, sounding both determined yet reluctant. 

There was still so much you wanted to say and so much you needed to know. How could he just leave? 

“Where are you going? Eddie?”

“I can’t explain, sweetheart, I just need you to trust me.”

“What do you mean ‘trust you’! You’re running off again– how can I fucking trust you?” you questioned, temper rising. It hit you then, a plausible answer and the reason the two of you were even in this situation. “Are you going back to Chrissy? Is that it?”

“What? Fuck– No! No!” He surged forward, grasping your hands in his. He wouldn’t stop glancing at the door, like he expected someone to break through and tackle him to the ground, but he pulled you close to him so you’d hear his words exactly. 

“We’re nothing. Chrissy and I are nothing. She only ever spoke to me because she wanted to get high, it was never anything more. I was blinded by fear– I never loved her, sweetheart, you have to know. It’s only ever been you.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as a chill swept across your body. You nodded in understanding. It wasn’t as if you were some perfect paragon of a person. You’d made your fair share of mistakes, and it was always Eddie who had stood by you in the aftermath of it all.

“Okay, I believe you,” you acknowledged, giving his hands a quick, hard squeeze. Eddie leaned down, intending to kiss you one last time, but you dodged his lips at the last second. “I believe you, Ed, but I can’t forgive you – not yet.” 

It was his turn to nod. Instead of kissing you where he wanted, where he craved, he pressed his lips to your cheeks and turned towards the door. 

“You’re okay, right? You’d tell me if you were in trouble?” There was something oddly final about him; in the way he was speaking and behaving and holding you close. You had no reason to worry, but there was still that impression of a feeling that had you second-guessing what this really was. 

“Trouble? Me? You know I’d never, sweetheart,” he teased, offering one of his blinding grins before slipping past the door, leaving you in the silence of the bathroom.

There was a reason for his existential behaviour -- there always was.

What Eddie had failed to mention, and what you and the others would only learn later, was that not only had Chrissy gone to his trailer for a fix that night, but she’d died there, as well, in a crooked, mangled heap. 

And Eddie Munson was, for obvious reasons, the police’s number one suspect. 

I hope you all enjoyed this next part! Reblogs and comments are much appreciated <3

tag list, as promised:

@julehack @zucchinimalfoy @tomhollandisabae @fujiihime 

[downfalldestiny]

Another love 🎹❤️ !.

[angstarion]

{ ᴍ ᴏ ɴ s ᴛ ᴇ ʀ s } aren’t born, they are made.

You abuse somebody who’s ᵂᴱᴬᴷ p u s h i n g them over and over again until they s̶̨n̢̢á̴p͟ bending their morals, shattering them like glass, leaving them to rot in their own

D̲̲ ̲̲E̲̲ ̲̲S̲̲ ̲̲P̲̲ ̲̲A̲̲ ̲̲I̲̲ ̲̲R̲̲ ̲ —then you give them ( ＰＯＷＥＲ). So they can wreak R E V E N G E and obliterate anything standing in their way. Aren’t monsters to be { pitied }, then ?

[mecnun1cinar]

Sen yeterki sev kulun olayım

Bir dile bin yıl kölen olayım

[dustyanterose]

My most recent favorite Hozier side quest is him bringing out Tom Odell on stage in his show and singing Another Love together.

Seeing that live would have healed me, I think.

[queenfantasy123]

[soy-fugaz]

On another love, another love, all my tears have been used up... 🎶

[spicy-salamander-soup]

Sometimes I consume some media that I just know in my heart has some deeper meaning but I just feel like I’m not poetic enough to understand it and I just wish I had someone cleverer than me on hand to explain to me all of these beautiful and sad things

[songsbelongtothestreets]

Bir gün biri gelir anlatır sana derdini sen onun terapisti olursun. Sonra biri daha gelir oda anlatır ona da terapist olursun ama kimse sana senin Bi derdin varmı diye sormaz sen etrafındaki insanları iyileştirmeye çalıştıkça kendi acılarını iyileştiremezsin ve onlar orda Bi yerde kalır öylece. Artık istesende gitmez...

[veherkesbekler]

Ey sevgili, nerede ne kusurum varsa gördün, kendi kusurlarına kördün.

[dumblr]

I wanna sing a song that would be just ours but I sang them all to another heart.