#because I read it all the time in middle/high school

[jo-harrington]

Become What You Were Meant To Be (Eddie Munson)

Word Count: 2.4k

Themes/Warnings: Modern!Eddie, Older!Eddie, set in the mid-2010s, fandom lingo, nerd lingo, Star Wars, typical childhood bullying, angst, minor FOI reference, some canon divergence, coming of age themes, probably poorly written and not edited at all

Note: Happy Birthday to one of the backbones of this fandom, who supports and encourages so many of us, whose endless friendship I am so grateful for. Someone who has absolute endless creativity but doesn't give herself enough credit and grace, who is secretly sitting in the background pulling the strings on some of the best stories I've read and I've written. My muse, my life, my world, my cheeseburger. @fracturedarkness

Thanks to @dr-aculaaa for the beta.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

Eddie Munson was a nerd.

Point blank, end of story.

It was one of those badges he wore along with Freak and loser and...well, you get the gist of it. But it was a badge worn with pride. He owned his identity. Wasn't afraid to show everyone he came across who he was.

It hadn't always been that way.

There used to be a time when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be a nerd like that. The kids bullied him because he got overly excited talking about his favorite characters and favorite books that they found boring. They all teased him when he wrote stories about exciting heroes from fantastical worlds in English class, even though the teacher told him that his stories were ambitious and imaginative. And when he spent lunch doodling in his notebook instead of playing kickball or foursquare? Well, you get the point.

"You're so weird." They mocked him. "You're a freak. Draw normal things. Like normal things. Why can't you just be normal?"

It was cruel, in the way that children naively become perpetrators of cruelness. And it made Eddie sad.

Because what did that mean? He couldn't draw normal things, or like normal things, or do normal things. Then he wouldn't be himself anymore.

And that was the point where he decided normal was overrated. Why would he want to be normal when he could be...anything else.

He could pretend he was one of the Pevensies upon a throne at Cair Paravel. Or one of the Ghostbusters. Or a Jedi...

Of course, he couldn't actually be anything else; he was stuck being boring, old, nerdy Eddie Munson.

It wasn't until middle school--you know, middle school, when everyone decides to embrace who they are and become an individual--that he decided being Eddie Munson wasn't all that bad after all.

This epiphany definitely didn't happen after a Hot Topic opened up at StarCourt Mall. No sir. Not when one of the older kids that worked there, sporting armfuls of tattoos and a lip ring, told him the pen drawings on the toe caps of his sneakers were cool. Of course not. And not after he used the last bit of his birthday money to buy a cool band t-shirt and colored hair gel. Pssshhh...

So on the first day of 8th grade, he showed up rocking his dad's old leather jacket--the one that practically swallowed him--jeans that he ripped himself and a poor excuse for a mohawk, ready to accept the Freak label proudly.

He also accepted detention for breaking the dress code.

And a grounding from Wayne for cutting up a nice pair of jeans.

And a buzzcut because he'd done that poor of a job of cutting his hair for that mohawk.

But he'd gained a friend.

Several friends actually.

Ronnie Ecker and Doug Teague. They were both in the same grade as him, and shared many classes. And it might have been a little embarrassing, but a sixth grader named Jeff who told Eddie that he was his hero. That made Eddie feel like he was on top of the world!

They were friends that stayed with him all through high school, and when he repeated his senior year twice, even more joined the mix along the way.

Band kids and science fair nerds and...and...and...

He called them his sheepies, and he their shepherd clad in black band tees and ripped jeans.

And Eddie?

Eddie just got nerdier.

Got weirder.

Dug himself deeper into the pit of stark individualism that the close-minded town of Hawkins didn't know how to react to.

It was glorious.

He listened to music that made other kids cringe and turn away and neighbors complain about the noise; he liked it so much that he made his friends start a band with him. They played at every single school talent show until they graduated; they never won and sometimes people tried to plug their ears, but to Eddie and his friend, their sound and that stage was exactly what their hearts yearned for. To them, the auditorium might as well have been Madison Square Garden.

He started playing Dungeons and Dragons--started a club of his own design, Hellfire--when he found the guidebooks on a dusty shelf at the library. They were seemingly untouched since their initial publication in the 70s, but they were like a key that unlocked something inside of Eddie. Something that he seemed to have forgotten along the way of reclaiming the name "Freak."

Through DnD, the imaginary worlds that he left behind early in his adolescence opened their doors to him once again.

And his friends, his players, never made fun of him for knowing the ins and outs of the worlds of their fantasies. Worlds like Greyhawk and Faerûn.

Worlds like a certain galaxy far...far away...

---

Eddie's re-entrance into the world of Star Wars had been...an interesting one to say the least.

To Eddie, Star Wars meant the original trilogy. Cut, print, sign the check.

When he thought of Jedi, he thought of Luke Skywalker and Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan and a puppet Yoda. And of course he thought of the dreaded Darth Vader.

Yeah he had his books from the library, a whole extended universe with Mara Jade and Jacen and Jaina. But he'd missed out on the prequels growing up; from being a little too young to see them in theaters, to the whole fiasco of his mother's passing right before Revenge of the Sith had premiered.

As he got older, the need to see them just wasn't there, and hearing from friends and enemies alike that it wasn't anything to write home about was the nail in the coffin.

Until he met one Dustin Henderson.

It was the Jar Jar Binks t-shirt he wore on the first day of his freshman year that got Eddie's attention.

"What is that?" he flicked a finger against the graphic as he ran into Dustin and his friends in the lunch line. "Something from that new Star Trek movie?"

Cue a whole rant about the Gungans and the Separatists and an inter-galactic conflict that made Eddie happily fold Dustin and his band of nerds into the protection of the Hellfire Club.

Eddie still refused to watch the prequels, no matter how much Dustin begged.

"I like it when you guys talk about them," Eddie shrugged off the pleas. "Even better when you guys act out the whole fight between Anakin and Obi-Wan. I'd sell my left nut to relive seeing you and Lucas do that in Wheelers basement; it was the best day of my life Henderson, I swear to god. There's no way the movies could actually beat that."

He hasn’t expected that those little idiots would trick him into a movie marathon for Lucas's birthday.

Even Gareth was in on the whole plan. Traitor.

But it was the beginning of the end.

From the movies to the books to the cartoons, Eddie's love of Star Wars was rekindled. He even spent a short stint as a gamer playing The Old Republic on the old PC that was tucked into the corner of the trailer.

And when a new movie was announced, Eddie happily took his nerd-dom to the next level.

Yes, he was the one to suggest they all dress up for the midnight showing of The Force Awakens, but if anyone asked it was Mike.

He spent hours on a stupid Boba Fett costume. It was a different set of skills to the mini-figures he was used to crafting for DnD. He had to think on a different scale. Hot glue and spray paint and too much cardboard. Only to find real cosplayers used foam, not cardboard. His paychecks from Thatcher Tires went straight to the project, until he had something halfway decent for the premiere.

"What?" he laughed along with his friends when they joked about the hot glue spiderwebs that he'd been too lazy to clean up. "It's not like I'll have to do this again; we're not dressing up next time."

Or so he thought...

There was something so magical about sitting in a movie theater, in the middle of December, at midnight, surrounded by other people who decided to dress up for the occasion, and a few dozen plastic lightsabers all lit up.

To listen to the theme, to read the crawl on a big screen, to see the camera pan down into the vastness of stars...

This was what it was to be a nerd.

There was something extra special about finding a new favorite character. Something that touched something deep down inside of you when you saw something of yourself in them.

And Eddie had always been drawn to the villains. Whether in the media he consumed or the characters he created for DnD. He knew why; he wasn't totally oblivious. To be the hero of his own story, he often had to become a villain to someone else.

Besides, villains always had a little bit more fun.

So when Kylo Ren first made his way on screen, Eddie knew that he was done for.

The mask, the lightsaber, the Dark Side of the Force, the anger...how many times had he almost given in to the anger he felt at being mocked and teased. He'd overcome that time and again; what if he'd just given in?

There was also something about being Al Munson Han Solo's son.

Yeah. He could understand the anger there.

But then he was also Elizabeth Leia's son...the conflict.

It took Eddie a few days to get over the initial flurry of thoughts after seeing Force Awakens for the first time. That was when he realized he needed to see it again. And again. A matinee showing on Christmas Eve with Wayne, who he also treated to lunch. The last showing on a Thursday in January. Another outing with the guys, refusing to admit that he'd already seen it a few times between opening night and then.

Thankfully, this time, Mike was the mastermind behind their plans for the next movie as they waited for the previews to finish.

"So," Mike sat up straight. "I think I wanna get an early dibs on dressing up like Poe when Episode 8 comes out."

"I think I wanna try my hand at making an Admiral Ackbar costume," Dustin said with utter confidence, and then turned to Eddie. "What about you?"

It caught Eddie off-guard for a second; should he just say Kylo? Did they expect him to want to dress up as anyone else? Maybe they thought that he would want to be Poe, leader of their misfit group as he was.

"Eddie's obviously Kylo," Jeff piped up. Eddie's head immediately turned to him. "What? Don't think we didn't watch you drool over that lightsaber last time."

"And his ship?" Gareth cackled one seat over. "Fuck the Falcon. I swear, if you could turn the van into something that looked like that ship..."

"Oh my god, you're right!" Lucas cackled.

"Hey I think I could figure out a pretty convincing Snoke," Eddie argued, trying to deflect their teasing, but secretly pleased that he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

And that his friends knew him so well.

---

For two years, Eddie worked on his costume.

Two. Years.

He was practically a different person by the time of the Last Jedi's opening night.

And yeah his motivation faltered, but he never quit.

It was strange, the need to perfect the costume. He’d almost given up many times. When there was a certain skill he wasn't good at or when he'd felt like it would never be finished. Every time, he felt like that silly kid who everyone just told to be normal. To like normal things.

He was growing up. He was a grown up! Shouldn’t he be passed all of this…silliness? Everyone else in the world seemed to think so, as they put away all the frivolities of childhood. Were they working round the clock and pricking their fingers on needles and burning themselves with hot glue?

Probably not.

Eddie found himself still stuck there, watching a world lose its joy and think that it was normal, and he always wondered if he should try to be normal too. For once in his life. The first time in his life.

But every time he thought about letting it all go, about putting his dream aside...something would come and drive him to keep going.

New promotional images, a new trailer. Especially the ones focused on Kylo himself.

"Let the past die," Kylo Ren grumbled in the voice over. "Kill it if you have to."

That became Eddie's driving force.

He owed it to himself to finish. He owed it to his younger self...not to let his dream die...to keep being weird and nerdy and happy.

"Let the past die," Eddie told himself as he stitched the hem of the tunic the week before opening night.

"Kill it if you have to," he said as he distressed the plastic helmet that he'd ordered, giving it the right amount of realism so it didn't just look like something so fake and commercial.

"Let the past die," his child self muttered, front teeth missing from the day Johnny B pushed him over on the playground because he was playing superheroes wrong. Eddie put a hand on his head and then stepped into his boots.

"Kill it if you have to," his preteen self urged him, self-assured, mohawk looking stupider than he realized way back when. Eddie flicked his ear good-naturedly before adjusting the cape on his shoulders.

There he stood--Eddie Munson, the young man, the freak, the nerd--in his bedroom before the mirror. He was adorned in pieces of foam and layers of fabric from the craft store, helmet tucked under his arm.

But in the mirror itself? There was Kylo Ren...there he was as Kylo Ren. In the hallway of a Star Destroyer, layered in armor and the shadows of the Dark Side itself, like he was ready for a battle with the Resistance.

Ready for the battle within himself.

But there was no battle, and the armor was actually Eddie's skin. This was his real self, his true self. All of his work came to fruition, all of the time and effort that he put into the craft. Not just two years working on a costume, but an entire lifetime poured into becoming an Eddie Munson who proudly wore the title nerd and freak and loser.

The destroyer melted away, and he was back in his bedroom once again. Surrounded by posters and books and drawings, by all of his crafts and his guitars and his endless clutter.

He smiled at himself, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

Eddie Munson was a nerd, and as he lit the lightsaber and he was washed in a glow of crackling red light, he knew that this was who he was always meant to be.

[paeliae-occasionally]

hi pae pae!!!

what is your process of designing your maps? and how do you approach lore? how does that brilliant mind of your work to create such fascinating history and complex worldbuilding?

je would like to know the trade secrets pretty pls

p.s. how far along are you on xaeren? if it’s not far enough, im afraid i’m going to have to start protesting soon… 😔

p.p.s. before you say school is taking up your time—understandable. have a great day. keep being brilliant. i just really want more xaeren content.

p.p.p.s. in my head, i imagine xaeren as so mighty fine that there’s an occult in some middle school of a suburban neighborhood with an old classroom turned into a shrine for his feral fangirls to host club meetings simping over him

that’s it’s. that’s all the pspspsppsss i have. miss you! have a great day! cheerios!

Hello Naveena! Lots of questions! We will go through them one at a time.

What is your process of designing your maps?

So with maps I will start by just noting down the history and current function of the city which gives me an idea of style and layout e.g. all of the cities that were part of the Laith’Edrels have lots of circular designs whereas a modern altic city may have more typical alleyways and rectangular buildings Next I plot in the districts of the city, like where the upper class live, where the high streets are etc. I also add any key buildings at this time, like a plot relevant church or a mages tower. Lastly I go back in and draw boxes and house shapes for 2 hours.

How do you approach lore?

A lot of my lore is just a set of stories where I look at a place on the map, or a group of people and go ‘what could have happened here?’ The bigger worldbuilding points like the dissolution came from me wanting to have magical decay from fewer more powerful beings to more less powerful beings, so I needed gods. However it always frustrates me when there are canonically gods in a world who just sit back and ignore the world crashing and burning as one frustrated hero has to fix the problem, so I made a reason for them to be gone

History and worldbuilding

Honestly a lot of my history writing was based off of the large amounts of real life history I read in my free time. Studying how cities and empires develop then putting my own spin on them because magic would change some things. Worldbuilding comes from my maps really. I will label different cultures on the map then come up with myths and legends for that culture, magic specific to them or their ancestors, wars and internal conflict. Then that spirals into pages of notes on the socioeconomic background for Onkairel. It is lots of fun.

“would like to know the trade secrets” she says after writing a whole book with detailed political lore and plenty of depth to the world.

You know the secrets. You also know the secrets to actually writing the book too.

So about Xaeren…

I will be writing the scene where he meets Kell soon so I will tag you in it when I do, but you are right about the school work :( so it may take a little while.

“an occult in some middle school of a suburban neighborhood with an old classroom turned into a shrine for his feral fangirls to host club meetings simping over him”

So you say that jokingly… No, to be fair he isn’t known for his an appearance but he is quite well known in Zairel as an assassin and member of house Hiresias. He is terrifying and intriguing to many because of his unique magic that Lysandri can’t explain so I would not be surprised if there was discussion of him in the lower ranks of Lysandri and Hiresias.

I will write some Xaeren soon. Have a lovely day <3

[maddie-grove]

This is so depressing.

[just-somedude]

.

[quaranmine]

your mom reads your fanfiction? that's awesome! what else does she say about it?

Well, she's read this one! She hasn't ever read any other fanfiction before either but I've explained the concept to her. It's also the only piece of fiction writing she's read by me since I was probably in 7th grade or so. She knew I could write based on the essays and articles I've written. Like, I've had her help me edit my college papers before and she went with me in high school when I competed at state for timed essay writing. But she had ZERO exposure to whether I could write fiction or not!

I left her some notes at the beginning of the story to explain a few things, like how yes the names are weird but she'll get used to them. (I pointed out that she loved Cold Storage by David Koepp, which has a character who is called "Teacake" the entire time.) She is also reading it slower than she probably would've read other books, because I recommended she open up the document on her laptop. At 218 pages, the google doc lags HARD on your phone.

She told me that once I used the word "rack" to describe Grian hanging up the phone in its place, and that wasn't what it was called, but she blanked on the correct word to describe it. (Cradle? Just 'holder'?)

She already knows the end of the story, but she still thinks it's very irrational for Grian to assume Mumbo is alive. She too has a lot of experience going hiking and doing outdoor activites, as well as a big true crime obsession, so she's well versed with the odds of missing people being alive after such a long time. So she think it's Painfully obvious that Grian is wrong, but she also understands the way I've set up his grief and is very sympathetic to it.

She's delighted with the part where Scar desribes Jellie to calm Grian down. She also highlighted several descriptions I've done and said that she loved the way I described the mountains and nature. She said it was very beautiful. She has learned a lot about fire lookouts and finds all my details interesting. She likes Scar best because she knows a lot more about him from me talking about him over the years—I guess I tend to talk about Scar more than Grian because I watch his streams more and showed her pictures of Jellie.

She's also calling it "my book" :D

[yzafre]

This post sponsored by the youtube vid title I saw referring to Aqua as "mom" my teeth are set on edge and I'm eying it suspiciously because I DON'T trust it. I've seen that "oh, she's the mom-friend and the only one with her life together, just going around picking up the boys' messes" opinion too many times, I am hissing warily.

That's way too simplified, stop reducing her depth, she's much more complicated and also even inside the mom-energy she admittedly has, it's like. Hm.

She does have some mom-energy (affectionate) but I think she also has mom-energy (derogatory). Y'know?

[nero-neptune]

idk, i just think that (to a point) Everyone's a product of the media they consume. that's why certain media is called 'formative', esp if you watched it young. one thing you watched/read could’ve lead to an interest which could’ve gotten you to learn/participate in/avoid something you wouldn’t have otherwise. take away all the books you’ve read, movies you’ve watched, music you've listened to, etc etc- you’re likely a totally different person. which is neither good nor bad, that's just called being a person who lives on planet earth.

[soliusss]

I love reading posts about allistic/neurotypical behavior. Everything makes sense. Apparently in conversations there are cues for beginnings and ends you’re supposed to pick up on. And that’s how you dont accidentally talk over someone else. I do not have the Sensors for that. And that’s just one example of many. This stuff is crazy. No wonder I can’t make friends apparently there’s like 20 million social rules I’m unaware about. Doesnt feel like I’m missing out on much though, it sounds exhausting

[bitchthefuck1]

One of the weirdest things about finding out you're traumatized/mentally ill/neurodivergent as an adult is looking back at all the very obvious signs in your childhood and realizing none of the adults responsible for you were paying attention

[blondiest]

going to make my own version of those "that girl" videos that used to go around on tiktok (which were basically aesthetically-styled disordered eating so far as i could tell tbh) but mine will be me eating stuff like hard-boiled eggs slathered with mustard & enjoying it with a degree of enthusiasm that viewers find off-putting. my "that girl" trait will not be yoga or drinking five gallons of water a day or even having nice hair or clear skin, it will simply be my joie de vivre or however it's spelled

[fingertipsmp3]

Why did I get paranoid about how no one has checked the work I submitted yet. It’s literally Sunday

[montanabohemian]

so yesterday i had someone comment on a post i made on IG telling me how "offended" they were because i'd simply ended my post with the phrase "end the occupation and free palestine." so much of what they said was actually insane racist islamophobic bullshit and they managed to end their comment by calling all muslims terrorists and literally parroted the "they want to kill americans" fucking horseshit.

the person that made this comment was by someone i've literally known since grade school. i'm not close friends with them but i've gotten to know them over the years and never once thought they'd say anything like this. i actually thought it was a bot account for like a full minute.

i'm sadly not surprised at the rhetoric because that's where we are. we're right back to twenty years ago during the post 9/11 / war in iraq / war on terror fervor kicked off. i'm just. i had to fight this shit twenty years ago and here we are all over again, except this time with the added benefit of fucking social media.

if simply saying "free palestine" is so inflammatory for you, then that is your fucking problem to work through.

[cantstopkillingtime]

I love you anthologies. I love you short stories. I love you haiku. I love you sonnets. I love you ballads. I love you limericks. I love you short films. I love you 10-50 second songs and samples. I love you self contained movies. I love you mini episodes.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[jkslipppiercing]

Never Been A Friend | Part 2 | Jeon Jk

♧ synopsis: Sneaky glances across the room weighed with a dozen different meanings left to be unsaid; confusion desire, lust. He was never a friend, was he?

♧ pairing: brother's bsf!jk, bratty!reader.

♧ warnings: jungkook is so pussy whipped it's hilarious, he's kinda in denial, masturbation but at the end, y/n is drunk, jungkook taking care of drunk y/n, jungkook curses like every other sentence, this is jk pov btw!!, kinda fluffy but really really cute, he loves her eyes, and i forgot what else, EXPLICIT CONTENT!!

♧ WC: 3.1k

a/n: hiiiii sweethearts! ive missed you guys so much 💕💕 make sure to read part 1 before reading this if you havent 🥹🥹 hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think!

Part 1

index

taglist

“y/n?” I shake her shoulder softly, attempting to nudge her awake. “wake up.”

When she mumbles something unintelligible and trails off to sleep, I exhale a soft sigh and hop out of my car after pocketing my phone and keys.

I'm fucked.

Utterly fucked.

The ride to her brother and I's dorm had been one of silence. Other than a few grumbles and whines from y/n when I seated her in the passenger seat next to me, she spent the ride peacefully sleeping. Unaware.

So unaware that I had to reach over and tug the hem of her dress down each time it hiked up her thighs. Her bare thighs. Her full, smooth, silky thighs.

Fuck, man.

She makes my blood boil.

I’m still not over the fact that she was left alone and oblivious before her brother had called me. How long had it been?

What if I hadn't picked up?

What if something happened to her?

Am I exaggerating? Maybe.

Does that lessen my anger? Fuck no.

No, because how the fuck can a brother be so nonchalant about leaving his sister alone while drunk? All for a quick fuck?

He's never gonna hear the end of it. I’ll make damn sure of that, but for now, I have to get this drunk-out-of-her-mind girl up to my apartment dorm.

I had tried asking her for her address multiple times, but all in vain, of course.

I didn’t even know she was in town.

Thought she had stayed with her parents in her home town- which her brother had mentioned only twice, maybe even three times- after graduating high school. He brought it up in conversation once but never justified why.

I mean, sure, not everyone wants to go to college and that’s fine, but why hadn't she?

Was she more of a liberal person?

Did she figure out her future already?

Why do I care?

I shake my head as I round the front of the car to get to her side. Her head falls when I open her door, and I instinctively catch with my hand, hoisting her up so she’s in a properly seated position with her head on the headrest.

God, I can already feel the headache approaching.

Taking her seatbelt off, I pat her cheek to wake her.

“y/n.”

No response.

“Y/n, come on.”

I pat her cheek again.

Nothing.

Oh well.

Placing one arm under her knees and another under her middle, I carefully slide her out of the seat and carry her into my arms. Her breath tickles my neck as her head rests on my shoulder, her nose nudging my pulse.

Which skyrockets.

Fuck, that felt good.

But I don’t know how to feel about that, because:

1. This is y/n we’re talking about.

2. A little nudge to the throat has me weak at the knees?

3. Toughen up, dickwad.

She huffs as she adjusts her head and pulls her arms around my neck for support, nuzzling my neck farther before mumbling something that sounded like, “mmm, warm…”

Her head is nestled to the crook of my throat and her breath sends a shiver down my spine.

The fact that I have to catch the moan in my throat has my cheeks grow an embarrassing shade of pink.

Clearing my throat awkwardly- which causes y/n to groan at the disturbance- I try my best not to disturb this brat’s beauty sleep as I walk up to the apartment building.

Wait…something’s not right.

I stop my stride short to try and point out the prickling feeling-

This brat’s dress is so short it might be flashing her ass by the way I’m carrying her.

Jesus Christ, give me strength.

○○○

Wincing at the loud creak of the door announcing my arrival, I nudge the door closed with my foot as I step into my apartment.

A shared apartment.

An apartment I share with the almost passed out drunk girl im carrying in my arms’ brother.

Yeah, shit.

Never in a million years would I have ever imagined this shit happening.

It’s not that big of a deal, except I cant really help the intrigue that accompanies the thought that comes with y/n.

Why did she scowl at me the first time she met me? Had I done anything to cause her to show such an awful bad impression?

I must admit, I never stopped thinking about her.

Not in a stalker way of thinking. I didn’t think about her in an obsessive type of way…not at all.

I guess I could say it was just…weird.

I never understood.

I was just interested.

Interested in the way her hips move on the dance floor.

Interested in the way she acts like a brat whenever she feels like it.

Hell, I'm interested in the way she flips me off whenever we cross paths for the fun of pissing me off.

Yes, she gets on my nerves; but she was never worth throwing a fuss over.

I barely saw her once every two months, if we’re being honest. The college her brother and I go to being almost three hours away from where they lived, it was a long trip.

But the way I felt about this girl puzzled me way more than I’d ever appreciate, especially since I knew nothing about her.

Nothing. Nada.

Where she goes to college, where she spends her time living, what she does on a daily basis…

No clue.

Then…what the fuck is she doing here?

A pained groan from the girl driving me insane pulls me back from my raging confusion.

She clings to me harder like a baby koala as she mumbled something incoherent under her breath, snuggling into the crook of my neck into what seems like her favorite habit tonight.

That one motion has become my weakness in a matter of minutes.

All because of her.

She does it again, this time connecting her nose with a spot right under my jaw. Her lips just shy of the skin on my throat, she groans in what seems like satisfaction.

My knees almost fucking buckle.

I try to focus on any sound in the apartment, relieved when I'm met with silence.

With a resigned sigh, I make my way to my bedroom.

Keeping my footsteps quick and light, I shift my door open with my shoulder-

Fuck!

I cant help the grimace that makes its way to my face.

It fucking reeks in here.

Of sex. Right. I was having sex.

The second relief of tonight washes over me when I find my bed empty, the sheets rumpled and messed up on top.

I should probably make a call to apologize to the fuck buddy previously occupying my bed, but I got better things to do.

A particular brat to take care of.

God, she cant sleep in here when it smells like this.

Making a detour, I go for the couch, setting y/n lightly on her ass. Her hands tighten around my neck in protest, which causes my neck to crane down awkwardly, but it still makes me chuckle when she frowns up at me through her blood shot eyes.

Fucking adorable, that is.

How her lashes prettily frame those sad eyes.

Sad eyes I was always unable to forget.

Those sad eyes. My demise.

Fuck me.

I untangle her arms from around my neck, adjusting the pillows thrown messily around the couch to create a cozy , temporary cocoon.

Picking her up swiftly, I lay her down on her side and brush a stray hair away from her face. Her soft, soft, soft features peer up at me as she struggles to keep those pretty eyes open.

“You’re smiling.” The cutest little slur laces up with her words and I just cant fight the flutter in my chest.

What the fuck?

It’s then I realize how hard I’m smiling.

“I’m not.” Too rough. Too scratchy. Too fucking vulnerable.

She’s not even touching you, fucker, and here you are. All hot and bothered.

Shut up.

She giggles, the sound reverberating as the most adorable drunken giggle I’ve ever witnessed.

It pains me how oblivious she is.

Her dress hikes up her thighs, almost baring her ass to me, and in other cases I would’ve been turned on.

But now? My blood fucking boils.

I should’ve killed that fucker while I could.

I’d taken care of drunk girls before, most of them being my friends.

I’m the boring ass in the friend group that always stays sober to take care of the others. The others that get so drunk and messed up that I have to take them up to their apartment and put them to bed because of how out of their mind they become.

I’ve never thought much of it.

Never cared, really.

But this girl?

Goddamn it.

One second she infuriates the hell out of me; she’s stubborn, hot headed, and just reckless.

Irresponsible.

Then the other I’m smiling like a dork in love.

She’s not even my type for fucks sake.

But then again, this is the first time I’ve seen her like this.

So vulnerable, with her guard down. I tug her dress to cover her ass with barely restrained madness.

She reaches up to touch my face with what seems like the utmost amount of effort from her to make any movement.

“pretty.” As she touches my face with light fingertips and pink cheeks.

Crumble. I almost crumble.

“Yeah?” I don’t know what’s gotten into me when I push away another rogue hair strand as she giggles again.

“mhm.” A little hum of contentment before she drops her hand and flutters those eyes closed.

Softly, softly, softly.

With a step back and a tired sigh, I cover her up with a blanket as I tuck her in and make sure she’s comfortable.

I make pretty quick work with taking my bedsheets off, with utmost effort not to grimace every time I get a slight whiff.

It’s not that bad…it’s just…weird.

Really weird.

Whenever I picture y/n in my bed, every single fantasy that clouds my mind is inappropriate.

But tucking a girl in a bed that was previously used by another girl just hours before? Not to mention, a naked one?

That’s a douche move.

And I never thought of myself lowly or in any way to appear humble. But im also not a fucking asshole.

Im arrogant? So what?

Im confident. I plead guilty.

Cocky? Whatever floats your boat.

I tug at my sanity that hangs by a dwindled thread. My thoughts race back to a dreamy gaze and soft eyes. Adorable frowns and drunken giggles.

if it was as easy as bottling them up in a pitcher so I could drink her in every once in a while, I would’ve done it a while ago.

If I could, I would.

My mind was so caught up with her that I didn’t even notice how fast I’d changed the sheets.

I’d cracked the window open for a little ventilation and fetched an air freshener, which made the room smell decent. Better than decent.

A quick change of clothes and bedsheets later, Im carrying y/n from the couch to my room.

I lay her on the bed and nudge her awake.

“y/n?” a tap to the cheek.

Thankfully, she stirs awake. The drunken haze a little lesser than before, but nevertheless still there. Her eyes peer up at me, droopy with exhaustion.

I clear my throat awkwardly under her gaze, switching my weight from one foot to another.

“you need to change.”

Her eyebrows scrunch up in confusion as she tilts her head.

“your dress looks uncomfortable to sleep in.”

Excuses.

“left you one of my Tee’s so you could change.” I turn around and head for the door, giving her much needed privacy. “you have five minutes. Change.”

And with that, im out of the room closing the door behind me.

I lean back on the door and take my phone out of the sweats I put on earlier, purely for the decency of y/n being here.

I usually walk around in my boxers as well as sleep in them, but it’s too early to traumatize the girl.

Not even past unlocking my phone, y/n’s voice reaches my ear from behind me as she yells my name.

I knock, unsure if I should come in, but enter when I hear her confirmation.

Peaking my head into the small opening I’ve made through the door, my eyes land on y/n with her facing me.

Her eyebrows are pulled together in concentration as her hands are both reached behind her back, apparently struggling with something.

Her heels are off and her hair is messy from her running her hands through it, her mascara smudged and her lipstick almost completely wiped off.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier sight.

Her lips pull forward in a slight pout, and she turns around to grace me with a view of her halfway bare back.

She tugs harder at the zipper, only getting it stuck farther.

“help?” she asks in a tiny voice, looking above her shoulder with a helpless look.

Noting how long I’ve been standing in place, frozen and doing nothing, I clear my throat as I shuffle my feet towards her.

“oh, um, yeah.” Staggering for words was never my thing. Rubbing my neck was never my nervous tick.

Except…y/n was never my thing, either.

Her beautifully messy hair cascades down her back, and I bundle it up with a hand and rest it over one of her shoulders. My fingertips lightly touch hers and the distraction that accompanies the shiver rolling through her body at the contact clouds my focus. Her hands fall to be replaced with mine at the zipper, and I tug gently.

It doesn’t budge.

Okay, it’s stuck.

Obviously, genius.

When my knuckles graze her skin as I try to get a better grip on the zipper, she shivers again, a soft sigh leaving her lips.

Pretty baby’s a sensitive drunk.

A giggly, bubbly, and hella oblivious drunk.

Focus.

I pinch the frayed open sides above the zipper with one hand and tug it with the other, a concentrated rumble of my chest unconsciously making an appearance.

I’ve apparently shifted closer to y/n in the process, and I just now realize that I might’ve groaned in her ear.

When I successfully slide the zipper down just above the curve of her ass, y/n turns around with a grace I don't miss even as my undying lust for the feel of her skin remains unwavering.

“thank you.” Sounds barely audible from how breathless she sounds, and fuck, when she bites her lip, I want to punch myself.

Those lips.

Those eyes.

My cock restrains, stiffening at the images attacking my mind with her lips around it.

A gust of wind blows through the curtains, thrashing y/n’s hair in all different directions.

I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, knowing damn well I have no business touching this girl.

This girl that stands almost naked and drunk in the moonlit darkness of my room.

Her softness bothers me.

Her innocence a loud cry for corruption.

She reaches up to undo the strands of her dress, and the realization that she must’ve seen something in my eyes snaps me back into reality.

I was always told how much my eyes could tell.

And judging by my earlier thoughts, she must’ve seen it.

The darkness.

The lust.

She starts to slip her dress down, down, down, and my mind is nowhere to be found.

My cock hardens at the thought of her naked, submission written all over her.

But this is wrong.

So wrong.

Even as I step closer to her and bind my forehead with hers, my mind goes in all different directions.

Fuck her.

Shut up.

“Y/n.” a raspy attempt at a plead. “you’re drunk.”

She closes her eyes. “I want this.”

Fuck me sideways.

I know for a fact she doesn't.

I'm not stupid.

Even as my forehead stays pressed to hers, I don’t miss the tangy scent of tequila on her breath. Faint, but there.

I haven’t forgotten how red her eyes still are.

How dry her lips are from all the alcohol.

The pink tint of her neck and cheeks.

Alcohol is flowing more than freely in her system, and I know for a fact she also wont remember a thing.

“you don’t.”

So I do something stupid.

Something I know I'll regret by tomorrow.

I stop her hand that’s tugging her dress down and cage it between both of our bodies. I place my other on her neck, long fingers eating up the space beneath her jaw as my thumb rests on her cheek.

I stroke it once, twice, three times.

And I kiss her.

A small, feather-light peck on her swollen lips.

It's not needy, nor is it hungry for anything more.

It's something I crave to keep me sane, at least for the next few hours.

Because this girl?

This girl is a deadly thing that will destroy me.

She’ll destroy me before I ever get the chance to ruin her.

And the bad thing is?

Even as I pull away,

Even as I shove my t-shirt into her hands and bolt out of the room after telling her to sleep,

Realizing the fact that I didn’t regret it scares me.

Even as I grab a towel, strip bare, and lock myself in the bathroom,

I think about her.

The freezing water does little to calm the white hot lust in my veins, and my stiffened cock stands true to that statement.

I wrap my fist around my dick, and I dare to fucking think about her.

I think about her on her knees, mouth open.

I think about her on my bed, laying on her back with her legs open.

I think about her on top of me.

I close my eyes and I fucking think about those lips, those eyes, that dreamy gaze.

Her soft sighs.

How she’d kiss me.

Would she gasp into my mouth?

Cry into my pillow if I pounded her pussy from behind?

Would she beg?

She’d be my little slut.

My pretty baby.

I cum the hardest I ever have, a guttural grunt and an explicit “fuck.” into the walls of my bathroom. Alone in a goddamn shower, when im fisting my cock and thinking about someone.

No, not someone.

Fucking y/n of all people.

And guess the fuck what?

I want to kiss her again.

how was your day today 😇

@hoseokteardrop @nochuel @kaitieskidmore97 @nays2112 @jksoftii @yu-justme @meadow-in-spring @bunnykoos @looneybleus @fushigurosdarling @alpha-mommy69 @junecat18 @xjiminsthighsx @tanniesdolls @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @whoa-jo @ahgasegotarmy116 @jksusawife @frgetmenotes @baechugff @partyparty-yah @army130613210521 @drugerlime @allisonstone @hopekive @llallaaa @tarahardcore @hopetookmysoul @betysotelo18 @harmonic55 @ecrvea @awesomebabyyoda @peterstarkchrishiddleston @pinkrockstar19 @sweetestseoul @luv--youu @mochminnie @coletaehyung @whitelies2248-blog @ash07128 @bangtans-momma

@yourbobaeyestell @laylasbunbunny @btsnpniff @olimpiiaa @caro134340lina @ohsweetmimosa @lovingkoalaface @httpjeonlicious @t-alyssa2006 @aloverga @sexytholland

@skzthinker @whoa-jo

[sp0o0kylights]

Give meee: an Eddie who went into a small little bookshop on an Indie trip and stumbled across an in person fandom meeting. 

It's mostly Star Trek, and also mostly women, but the stories they have are nothing like Eddie's ever read. 

He's barely a teenager, and already protective of himself and his real identity--but everything he's ever wanted is written down, right here, on a little zine with Kirk and Spock doodled on the cover. 

They’re not--it’s not obvious, that they’re what he is, but the story itself is blatant and Eddie ends up being so obviously close to tears, he accidentally outs himself without ever saying a word. 

(He also ends up on the mailing list, then being sent home with several hand printed copies of all kinds of zines.) 

Eddie would remain on this list well past his third senior year in high school. 

Past bats, and Vecna and Steve fucking Harrington. 

Flash forward to his first apartment.The tiny one he shares with Steve when they followed Nancy and Robin to college. 

Steve knows Eddie’s gay. 

Or rather, Steve has been told, but Eddie's still pretty clammed up about it. He's not yet where Robin is, ready to bemoan her loveless existence while draped over their crappy, thrifted couch.

He makes jokes and he flirts and he absolutely says things he shouldn't, but none of it is real. 

It's flash. Showmanship. 

It's the persona that yes, is him, but Eddie consciously built it. There’s nothing soft or gooey there, nothing anyone can use to hurt him. 

So when he comes home and sees that plain, padded envelope with the neatly printed label on the counter, torn wide open and flat without its contents?

 Eddie panics. 

His heart thunders in his chest, vision tunneling as adrenaline kicks through him. 

He wants to bolt-- should bolt--except ever since he almost died his brain no longer obeys him. 

Not when it comes to running, anyway. 

Instead it fights him to a standstill, freezing his feet right to the living room floor. 

The urge is still there. 

To run, and save face the cowards way. 

Vanish before Steve could get at a part of him that had once kept Eddie out of Wayne’s trailer for two days, until the old man had hunted him down and made him come home, huffing about how he’d love Eddie no matter what but he better never disappear like that again. 

(Which Eddie did anyway, and of everything that happened with Vecna, it’s that he regrets the most. The stories he heard of Wayne putting up posters. Squaring off with angry, too-righteous townies, and--)

A sniffle jerks him out of his thoughts. 

Eddie gasps, entirely unsure of when he stopped breathing. Stumbles back and turns, right in time for Steve to come out of his room and amble down their hallway. 

One hand rubs at his eyes, and the other is--the other has…

Eddie identifies the cheaply printed, stapled zine immediately. It's one he's wanted to read for a while now, solely because it features a story about Kirk and Spock being stuck in a cave together on a planet that has  bat-like, vicious animals on it. 

Kirk gets bitten after something goes wrong with the transporter and, look, it’s carthiatic okay!? Sue a guy for wanting to read a romance about a situation he identifies with! 

Steve looks up from the zine and startles. 

For a second his eyes go dark and flat, the same way Eddies and Robins and Nancy's and everyone's does when caught off guard. 

It's gone in a flash though, Steve visibly relaxing when he clocks that it's just Eddie. 

He keeps the zine pressed to his sweater clad chest,  and huffs out a laugh that's half forced and half pure relief.

“Fuck Eds, you scared me! I didn’t know you could be quiet.” 

“Uh huh.” Eddie manages, voice sounding totally and absolutely normal and not at all ten octaves higher than it usually is. 

They stare at each other for a second. Long enough that Steve's eyebrows crinkle in the middle, which is the first hint that he’s beginning to worry, and Eddie really cannot handle Steve being worried right now.  

“What's--” Eddie’s voice cracks and he coughs to recover. “what's that?” 

Steve frowns at him for a moment, until Eddie gestures at the zine in his hands. 

“Oh!”

Steve holds it up, as if to show it off. 

“It's a little book Robin got in the mail. It has a bunch of stories in it. They're normally boring as fuck but this one's from Star Trek.” 

Hearing the words ‘Star Trek’ out of Steve’s mouth shouldn’t be weird, not anymore, when Eddie and Dustin have been on a two man mission to nerdify Harrington as much as possible, but it still kicks like a mule to hear him say such things without any prompting. 

“You know what Star Trek is?”

“Eddie,” Steve tuts, tongue clicking in his mouth. “everyone knows what Star Trek is. It’s nerd shit, but like, old nerd shit. My grandparents used to watch it when I stayed over. This?” 

 He shakes the zine, so hard Eddie wants to snatch it away from him.

 “This isn't nerd shit. This is excellent.”

Steve gives the zine an appreciative glance and hell, maybe Eddie accidentally walked into another dimension. 

He’s been trying to get Steve to read more, rediscover the joys of books the public school system does its best to destroy, but until now Steve hasn’t really taken to it. 

Enjoys when Eddie reads aloud sometimes, and has started to bug Robin to do it for him too, but otherwise?

Eddie’s nerve seen him with anything that had the written word on it that wasn’t a cooking or car related magazine. 

“Honestly,” Steve’s saying, “I think Robs fucked up, this isn't her style at all. She’s gonna be pissed.” 

He eyes the thing appreciatively, like the gift it is. 

“I'm stealing it the second she figures that out.” He adds decisively. 

“You like it?” Eddie asks. 

“Mmm.” 

“Even though it's--it's got…Kirk…” 

Steve's frowning at him again. “What?” 

“It's queer man. It's really queer.” 

Steve peers at him, the crinkle back in his eyebrows. 

“I know. Wait, how do you--” 

And well. It’s now or never. 

“It's mine.” Eddie says in a rush.

“No it's not.” Steve scoffs, and okay, maybe this is a dream. Eddie pinched himself twice already, but perhaps a third time would wake him up?

(It does not.)

“it was even addressed to Robin. Well,” Steve has one hand on a hip now, his default position when arguing, “Robbie, but she goes by that sometimes.” 

Which Robin does, but not in the fucking mail.

Without a word, Eddie turns and goes for the envelope the zine came in. 

Steve follows, invading Eddie’s space to peer over his shoulder (and that’s Eddie’s fault too, that closeness, but he didn’t think it would be turned on him in a moment like this--) 

There's a sticker on the envelope’s label.

 It’s barely hanging on, half of it curled into the air.  Round and yellow, with little black lines, it becomes immediately obvious that one of Robin's smiley face stickers has migrated again. 

They're all over the apartment. Remnants of a phase she went through after she stole a roll of them from her and Steve’s job at a local toy store.

This one had clearly jumped ship from its original spot (likely on the ceiling somewhere), and was now firmly over the E in Eddie's name. 

‘Ddie’ still isn't exactly ‘Obbie’  but--

Steve leans around, snatching the envelope up and bringing it close to his face. 

Far too close, like he can't read it, eyes squinting as he examines the label--and suddenly Eddie knows exactly what happened. 

He laughs, an explosion of noise that's half hysterical and half disbelief. 

Steve looks at him. 

“What?” 

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, one finger jabbing in the air in the vague direction of Steve’s nose. “I told you you needed glasses!” 

“I do not!” Steve protests immediately, but his eyes are darting around the envelope. 

He’s scrambling to figure out what Eddie’s seeing, trying desperately to find a hole that can prove himself right. 

Eddie decides to help him, by plucking the smiley sticker off the envelope. 

“See?” He jeers, and shit okay, maybe his life isn’t over just yet. “It says Eddie, not Robbie!” 

“You guys have got to start using your government names for this shit.” Steve bitches, but it’s weak.

Eddie feels a grin coming on, and lets it overtake his face. 

“So...Kirk and Spock huh?” 

“They’re cute.” Steve defends instantly, before sighing his defeat and tossing the envelope on the table. 

The zine he keeps in his hands. 

Eddie crosses his arms and leans against their rickety table. “Even though they’re both guys?” 

“I thought we were past this!” Steve whines. “I went to a gay bar with Robin last weekend!” 

Which is news to Eddie. 

“You didn’t invite me?” He gasps, feigning hurt by putting a hand over his heart. 

Truthfully he still hasn’t fully recovered--is play acting himself, almost, but is rapidly coming around to the idea of Steve appreciating queer fanfiction. 

“We did!” Steve rolls his eyes so dramatically his whole head moves. “We absolutely did, You said,” 

Here Steve’s voice pitches into a mockery of Eddie’s  that he will not give him points for, even if it is a little hilarious, “Me? At some loser bar? Fuck no, I’ve got a campaign to write. Starbuck, don’t you have homework?” 

“I didn’t know that was a gay bar!” 

“You did! Robin told you!” 

“Okay well, I wasn’t listening!”  

“Clearly. I keep telling you we need a fucking--system or, I don’t know, a code word or something!”  

“Yeah well, when you wanna make us a safe word for conversations, big boy, you let me know.” 

They’re both laughing a little now, this argument veering into familiar territory, with Eddie not really listening and Steve mocking him for it later. (As well as vice versa, with startling regularity.) 

“You really like it though?”  Eddie says after the laughter winds down, gesturing to the zine still clutched in Steve’s hand. 

“Yeah.” Steve confirms, easy as he’s said anything else. Like this isn’t embarrassing, or almost worse than the time Wayne found Eddie’s porno mags and alphabetized them as a joke. 

“It's part of a mail tree. I’m supposed to send it on to the next person when I’m done with it. I make copies though,” Eddie rushes to add, because Steve is now clutching the little booklet to his chest in horror, as if Eddie was about to rip it out of his hands. “If you like I’ll show you my other ones?” 

Steve eases his grip, giving Eddie the little smile he makes that makes his stomach flip. 

“That’d be cool.” 

(Later, Steve pokes at Eddie’s thigh from where they’re both sprawled on Eddie’s bed, Steve having switched the new zine out for one of Eddie’s copies. “Are you going to laugh at me if I ask you to read some of these aloud?” 

“Only if you don’t laugh when I ask you to take me to that gay bar.” 

“Deal, but on the grounds you’re barred from making fun of my flirting attempts. Robin doing it was bad enough.” 

“Well you deserve it if you’re hitting on women at a gay bar, Stevie.” 

“I wasn't hitting on women you asshole.” Steve says and oh.

Oh.

Eddie feels the floor drop out from under him for the second time that day. 

At least this time it’s not fear that thunders through him, but possibility.)