#blown so much money it's not funny

[eurofox]

I've pretty much ran Ichiban confections into the ground trying to keep my shitty employees happy. Blew all of Nick's money as well.

Guess I don't have good business sense

[vivwritesfics]

Rockstar GF - LN4

lando is obsessed with his rockstar girlfriend. His rockstar girlfriend is obsessed with him

social media au

y/nontheguitar

Liked by landonorris, yourbff, and 147,833 others

y/nontheguitar my boyfriend is my personal photographer

view all 582 comments

landonorris this boyfriend sounds like a cool guy

y/nontheguitar he is, you don't know him

yourbff you got me 🥵🥵🤧🤧🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️

y/nontheguitar ily 🥹🫶

username1 I was at the show!

username2 when's the album coming out? 😤😤😤

landonorris

liked by maxfewtrell, y/nontheguitar, and 633,291 others

landonorris in the back row of her show

view all 3,773 comments

maxfewtrell blurry picture there mate

y/nontheguitar goddamn

y/notheguitar who is that handsome man?

y/nontheguitar

liked by alex_albon, landonorris, and 336,996 others

y/nontheguitar me when me when me when me when

view all 884 comments

landonorris you're funny

y/nontheguitar *funny looking

username3 we love a self burning queen 😩

alex_albon can i get concert tickets?

y/nontheguitar no

alex_albon mean

y/nontheguitar i hate you

landonorris

liked by oscarpiastri, georgerussell63, and 643,886 others

landonorris me when me when me when me when

view all 5,774 comments

carlossainz55 simp

georgerussell63 simp

alex_albon simp

oscarpiastri simp

y/nontheguitar simp

username4 not the other drivers calling him out 😭😭

username5 wait who is she?

username6 omg have you been living under a rock?

username7 username5 she's a musician who's kinda blown up since she's started dating lando

username5 sus

username8 um maybe she's blown up because she's talented?

y/nontheguitar

liked by yourbff, landonorris, and 342,177 others

y/nontheguitar blocking out the haters (jk love you guys)

comments on this post have been limited

maxfewtrell im your biggest hater 😘

y/nontheguitar no im yours 🥰

alex_albon when's the album coming

georgerussell63 can i be on the album cover?

y/nontheguitar georgerussell63 only if lewis says no

alex_albon don't ignore me

alex_albon y/n

alex_albon pls

ln4_nation

liked by username9, y/nontheguitar, and 66,325 others

ln4_nation rumour has it he's listening to Y/N's new music

view all 557 comments

username9 omg he's so pretty

username10 bull, this is from his latest stream

username11 i want the new album so baaad 😭😭

y/nontheguitar 🤪🤪

y/nontheguitar

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 361,994 others

y/nontheguitar someone pls tell my boss to make the tour dates match up with the f1 season

view all 1,642 comments

alex_albon TOUR DATES?

logansargeant TOUR DATES?

carlossainz55 TOUR DATES?

charles_leclerc TOUR DATES?

username12 omg this is not the tour announcement 😭

username13 when are the tickets going on sale?

landonorris I can't wait to see you do your thing 💘

y/nontheguitar i can't wait to see you in the crowd 💘

username14 i love that the drivers are her biggest fans

landonorris

liked by maxfewtrell, y/nontheguitar, and 674,931 others

landonorris we got backstage passes

view all 3,481 comments

maxfewtrell thanks y/n for the backstage passes

y/nontheguitar knew you were my number one fan

username15 i hate them (affectionate)

username16 I WAS THERE! I GOT TO MEET MAX AND LANDO

alex_albon can't believe she gave a loser like you tickets

landonorris jealous much?

alex_albon incredibly

y/nontheguitar

liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri, and 653,825 others

y/nontheguitar my pookie wookie bear

view all 1,362 comments

landonorris pls don't spread my feet pics

danielricciardo i know people who would pay good money for these

oscarpiastri i am people

username17 lando get on feet finders pls 😭

y/nontheguitar this post was not meant to focus on your feet pookie im sorry 😭

landonorris forgiven 🥰

y/nontheguitar he treats me so good 🥹

[harrysgal]

I DIG YOUR CINEMA (1)

harry styles x yn aspiring filmmaker — social media AU

I posted this yesterday but I wanted to change a few things so I deleted it and now I’m posting it again lol it’s long but I still hope people like it!

About the smau: yn starts posting videos on youtube and is trying to build a career as a filmmaker. Things are going pretty well for her and she starts getting more attention when she creates content about shows she goes to. She’s also a fan of Harry’s music and some of his fans start getting suspicious when his team starts interacting with her.

Disclaimer: The story it’s set in 2021 and it will follow their relationship through the LOT leg in the US. Since this is nothing but fiction, I will be following some of the real timeline but also adding my own stuff. On top of that, I won’t be basing myself on Harry’s actual posts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I DIG YOUR CINEMA (PART 1) — MEET YN

liked by bestfriend, yourbrother, and 60 others 

yourinstagram here’s to a new year and new beginnings :)

view all 6 comments

bestfriend love youuuu  bestfriend im so happy to have you back!! 

↳ yourinstagram pls don’t let me choose a bf ever again ↳ bestfriend don’t worry. single squad for life ↳ bestfriend or until one of us gets married lol  ↳ yourinstagram 😂 love you!!

Jan 5, 2021 • 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

liked by bestfriend, yourbrother, and 75 others 

yourinstagram can you believe just three months ago this gal was heartbroken, unemployed, and out of dreams? guess the world reallyyyyy spins around, huh 😜

view all 8 comments

bestfriend yes it doesss  bestfriend now the universe is giving back what she deservessssss yourbrother i think i liked you better when you had no social life

↳ yourinstagram 😂 omg fuck off ↳ yourbrother if this is the language you use around my children i’m never letting you babysit again ↳ yourinstagram 😔 stop that’s not funny

Feb 10, 2021 •

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

liked by sisterinlaw, bestfriend, and 60 others 

yourinstagram got myself a camera and a dream (plus an empty bank account)

view all 7 comments 

yourmom Are you OK? Do you need money? x

↳ yourinstagram im okay mom :) love you ↳ yourbrother my bank account is empty too

bestfriend can’t wait to be your +1 at the academy awards 

Feb 26, 2021 •

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liked by yourbrother, bestfriend, and 85 others 

yourinstagram step aside pls your girl just posted her first video on youtube and is now one step closer from becoming a filmmaker ✌🏻

view all 13 comments 

bestfriend THAT’S MY BESTIE sisterinlaw Loved it!! 💋 yourmom I miss you. Give me a call x yourmom Also you should post pictures of your face x

↳ yourinstagram 😂💗

childhoodfriend Nice to see you still love telling stories, haha great video!

↳ yourinstagram oh my gosh it’s been a while! 🥺 thank youuu let’s catch up soon  

Mar 19, 2021 •

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liked by yourbrother, bestfriend, and 167 others 

yourinstagram life lately

view all 23 comments 

user1 just watched your video on youtube about growing up and i’m in tears! you’re soooo talented

↳ yourinstagram omg that’s so sweet thank you so much :’) 

yourbrother why bothering buying a camera if you’re going to steal mine

↳ yourinstagram i didn’t steal it  ↳ yourbrother but you also didn’t give it back yet did you? 

user2 Loving your content!!

April 10, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, anotherfriend, and 319 others 

yourinstagram hellooooo i just posted another video :D even tho she’s not physically in it, i must admit our 20+ years together completely inspired this one. thank you for being there for me. i’m very lucky to call you my best friend and i love you 💗 hope you enjoy it!

view all 25 comments 

bestfriend i cant rn i’ll be back when i stop crying user1 amazing!!! another great video! loved everything about it, left me thinking and wondering about lots of things. i’m blown away by how talented you are.

↳ yourinstagram you’re so sweet 🥺 thank you, it means more than you can imagine!

yourmom Lovely girls 🥰 user3 This was my favorite so far!

April 21, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, sisterinlaw and 512 others 

yourinstagram got my first paycheck and went out shopping 

(ps: remember when my ex freaked out bc he didn’t want me to buy harrys album? lol here’s to you pal) (fine line you’ll be next i promise!)

view all 57 comments 

bestfriend harry styles album listening party tonight

↳ yourinstagram as if we don’t already listen to it everyday lol 

user1 you’re so real for this lol user1 also wtf? why didn’t he want you to buy the album? 

↳ yourinstagram bc he was jealous and insecure  ↳ bestfriend jealous that you’d bump into harry someday, mention you bought his album and he’d fall in love with you  ↳ yourinstagram lol talk about delusional  ↳ bestfriend he just knew your potential ↳ user1 😂😂😂

yourbrother so YOU are the reason why my daughter is suddenly obsessed? user5 Omg didn’t know you’re also a harry fan! What’s your favorite song?

↳ yourinstagram sign of the times always and forever

May 6, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, yourmom and 750 others 

yourinstagram just me and my little camera conquering the world ❤️ lol no but srsly, i know it’s only been a month since i posted my first video on youtube but so far ive had suchhhh a great time working hard to make my dreams come true :’) i sometimes fear my content isn’t much or isn’t professional enough, so the feedback i’ve been getting truly warms my heart and puts a smile on my face! thank you. thank you. thank you.

view all 86 comments 

bestfriend ❤️❤️❤️ yourbrother why are you still living in 2020? 

↳ yourinstagram why are you so annoying?

yourmom We’re very proud sweetheart x

↳ yourinstagram wouldn’t have done anything without your support! love you ❤️

user1 your content is AMAZING! the way you bring little stories to each video has me obsessed 

↳ yourinstagram i love telling stories so much!! im happy you enjoy them! 

user3 Honestly you’re one of the most creative people I’ve come across lately. The way you approach each topic with so much honesty and tell real life stories while not really including people in your shots is incredible!

↳ yourinstagram omg thank you so so much! this means the world me! 

May 6, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, sisterinlaw and 910 others 

yourinstagram hiii i just posted a new video on youtube and im really nervous about it lol this is really different from the others + a little longer, but also the most special so far. it includes a very memorable moment we lived as a family just a couple weeks ago so i trulyyyy hope you enjoy it! lmk your thoughts plssss

view all 103 comments 

user1 i just sent this video to everyone i know. i feel like i say this every time but this one is my favorite yet!! you’re so talented i want to live inside your brain

↳ yourinstagram hahahha you’re the best thank you sooooo much for your constant support!

bestfriend ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THIS WAS MY FAVORITE ONE SO FAR  bestfriend pls take me to a concert and make a short film of me dancing to my favorite songs too 😭 i beg you!!!!

↳ yourinstagram let’s do it! ed sheeran? beyonce? harry styles? ↳ bestfriend YES ↳ yourinstagram yes it’s not an answer lol you were supposed to pick one 

user8 👏👏👏 you’ve outdone yourself with this one!  user4 You’re so real about this one! My mom LOVES Shania Twain too and the day she saw her live for the first time was exactly like this! She just turned into a fangirl all over again haha 

May 27, 2021 •

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user2 Hey there. I’m so happy youtube just recommended this to me. I’m in love with your content! So creative and touching. I’m definitely going back to binge all your other videos now. I was just wondering, though, is this your real family? I’m only asking because from the way you tell the story it feels so much like watching a movie that it made me wonder if they were actors following a script 😅 hope you don’t take it the wrong way. Have a good one!

↳ youryoutube hiii thank you so much for watching and for being so respectful and polite about your comment! 😊 this is my own family, yes! i actually wasn’t planning on filming this, but my brother and i took my mom to see shania twain (who’s like, her favorite artist of all times!) and i woke up inspired to make a little video about it. i’m really glad you enjoyed it, and i’m actually really flattered by your question, because this was the first time i didn’t script a video at all and was really afraid in the end it wouldn’t come up the way i wanted to. so thank you!!  ↳ user2 Oh, wow! Thanks so much for taking the time to answer me. That’s really interesting to know. Loved how you managed to capture the emotions without actually exposing anyone. I also enjoyed how this isn’t just a “vlog”, if that makes sense. It truly feels like an actual story with beginning, middle and end (I mean, there’s even some drama in it!). So cheers to you! Can’t wait to see what else you’ll come up with in the future.  ↳ youryoutube THANK YOU! oh my goodness that’s exactly what i’m always going for :’) thank you, thank you!! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

liked by bestfriend, yourbrother and 3,614 others 

yourinstagram hello????? i just woke up to the news that the one and only queen and goddess shania twain watched my video????? and shared it?????? what the hell it’s happening????? 

view all 245 comments 

yourbrother thought you were going to expose mom losing it on our gc haha bestfriend I’M COMING OVER WE’RE FUCKING CELEBRATING user1 😍😍😍 yesssss love to see you getting bigger and bigger!! user18 omg that video was so cute!! also love your aesthetic user14 your mom’s excitement was the sweetest it left me in tears  harryfan say 🙋‍♀️ if you’re here because gemma shared her video

↳ harryfan2 🙋‍♀️ ↳ harryfan3 🙋‍♀️

Jun 1, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, anotherfriend and 5,875 others 

yourinstagram good morning?? is life even real?? 

last week was sooo insane omg im still over the moon and also so happy reading everyone’s reaction to my mom’s dream coming true 🥺 everyone’s just so sweet and kind! thank you!! i wish i could spend the entire day around just chatting and celebrating, but today is a big and busy day for me so wish me luck im really gonna need it 

view all 541 comments 

bestfriend remember there was a time when i used to be the first and only to like your posts? :’) user1 good luck!! user4 Can’t wait for your next video! user9 I THINK I JUST HEARD YOUR INTERVIEW ON THE RADIO??

↳ user10 Yesss. I was driving to work and I heard that too haha ↳ user3 omg what did she talk about? ↳ user9 ＠user3 they were basically asking about the video/her mom. she explained that it was a really spontaneous thing and that she wasn’t planning on doing more of those but after seeing everyone’s reaction she’s changing her mind. oh, she also mentioned she never expected shania to see her video and that she still doesn’t know how it got to her in the first place!

Jun 8, 2021 •

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

liked by anotherfriend, cuteguy and 6,513 others 

yourinstagram quick life update: got a part-time job. moved to a new apartment. completed my harry styles album collection. went on a date with a cute guy. posted another video. 

so far no complaints. 300/10.

view all 617 comments 

bestfriend can’t believe ‘went out for dinner with my best friend’ didn’t make the cut 

↳ yourinstagram sorry that’s bts content

user5 Your last video was amazing!! So were the last two before that!! Totally feel like you found yourself in the music field 

↳ user1 omg i totally agree! i can totally see this becoming a series or something like this ↳ yourinstagram ohhhh i love the idea!! :) 

harryfan any chance this cute guy was harry styles himself?

↳ yourinstagram 😂😂😂 minus 100% chances 

user3 Is this part time job film related maybe?

↳ yourinstagram i wish :( needed a normal part time job to pay for my dream job actually lol

harryfan2 omg which one of his albums did you get?

↳ user5 she already has self titled so she must’ve gotten fine line now

June 25, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, cuteguy and 8,315 others 

yourinstagram sorry i havent been here the past few days but i was busy playing hide and seek with my niblings (i just found out there’s a word for niece + nephew btw. how cool is that?!!)

view all 732 comments 

harryfan girl tell me why i came here to watch one video and never left? :’) 

↳ user1 lol same!! she’s great isn’t she?

yourbrother i hope you know you’ll be the one buying your goddaughter a ticket for that harry styles boy

↳ harryfan2 “that harry styles boy” lol excuse me sir? ↳ yourinstagram you’re about to get soooooo dragged and all im gonna do is sit here and watch lol ↳ sisterinlaw I’m sitting here, too!!

user4 your posts always brighten up my day 😍

July 3, 2021 •

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liked by cuteguy, yourmom and 11,798 others 

yourinstagram i can’t believe there are so many people watching me post stuff like this lol i don’t really know how to behave and i get easily embarrassed so if you don’t mind i’ll just pretend we are no more than 5 friends just hanging out okay? thanks!!

btw wanted to share that we took my niece to see ariana grande so…… guess what??? new video will be up tomorrow :D this one is once again a little bit different from the others idk im always trying new things so let’s see if it works!! 

view all 931 comments 

cuteguy 😍 bestfriend when is it going to be my turn? :(( user3 omg can’t wait!!! will we finally get to meet your niece??

↳ yourinstagram nooo:( i don’t feel comfortable sharing them on the internet. that’s also why you’ll see this video is kinda from a parents perspective? idk how to explain with words you gotta watch it to see it haha ↳ user2 we love a respectful and mindful woman 💪

harryfan can’t wait for the day you see harry omg i just know that will be the best video ever

↳ harryfan3 right like so many fandoms have been getting these incredible videos i’m so jealous

July 12, 2021 •

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liked by yourinstagram, bestfriend, sisterinlaw and 4,339,032 others

harrystyles LOVE ON TOUR will be going out across the USA this September and I could not be more excited for these shows. I love you all so much. I’m very excited, and I can’t wait to see you. H

view all 100,888 comments 

bestfriend ＠yourinstagram 🤭 harryfan ＠yourinstagram THIS IS IT DO YOUR THING PLS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT user2 OMG ARE WE FINALLY GETTING A SHORT MOVIE??? SAY YES PLS OMG ＠yourinstagram user7 i feel like if yn doesn’t take ＠bestfriend to at least one show there will be blood 😂

↳ bestfriend ＠yourinstagram see? everyone knows it should happen ↳ yourinstagram ＠bestfriend STOP WE’RE SO FUCKING DOING THIS ↳ harryfan AIDHASASJDBAJHAJH I’M SO EXCITD

July 14, 2021 •

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liked by cuteguy, anotherfriend and 14,513 others 

yourinstagram had a reallyyyyy huge meeting today and i was losing my shit so this really cute guy took me out for a coffee :D 

(new video’s up!!! hope you enjoy it!)

view all 1,007 comments 

user4 are you guys sharing a piece of cake? stop that’s so sweet :(  user8 omg she has a bf?? but what about harry?? lol

↳ harryfan7 THAT’S WHAT I SAID!! she was supposed to go to his show so he could see her in the crowd and fall in love 😩 ↳ harryfan12 lol please harry doesn’t even know who she is. also maybe don’t be disrespectful to the guy she’s actually dating? ↳ user8 ＠harryfan12 it was just a choke chill out lol

user1 can’t wait for the new video!!! (also… important meeting??? 👀)

July 29, 2021 •

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liked by bestfriend, mollyjane_x, cuteguy and 17,283 others 

yourinstagram i dont think you guys will ever understand how much you watching and spreading the word about my videos has changed my life. it hasnt been even even six months since i started posting on youtube and yet it feels like i’ve lived four years so far. thank you soooo much for deciding to join this ride with me!

also, so much is happening rn that i feel like i need to sort some things out and reorganize myself. so there’ll be a new video up tonight, and then i’ll be taking a short break before releasing any new content. it won’t be long, just a couple of weeks that will mostly be used to feed my creativity once again lol (and also to plan and script some exciting new projects!!) 

i hope you stay around and wait for me. i’ll see you back really soon 💗

view all 1,345 comments 

sisterinlaw 💗 user1 take all the time we need we’ll be here waiting for you!! <3 user3 you deserve all this sooo much!! harryfan7 i see you molly 👀

↳ harryfan11 no bc how are you even a harry fan and don’t absolutely freak out when harry’s creative director likes your post?? ↳ harryfan8 also his manager following her??? i mean what are the chances of being just a coincidence? 

bestfriend i love youuu and i’m so freaking proud of you 💗 user4 I’ll miss your content because it always puts a smile on my face, but I totally understand and can’t wait to see what’s next!

Aug 13, 2021 •

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liked by cuteguy, mollyjane_x, gemmastyles and 19,107 others 

yourinstagram so……. i kinda quit my part time job to start this other full time job? which is now finally related to something i truly love?? 😅 oh god!! i dont even know what to say. all i know is that im about to start the craziest adventure of my life and even tho im about to board the plane i still cant believe it is ACTUALLY happening. again, thank you so much for spreading the word about my videos and for being so kind about them. thank you for deciding i was worth your time every week. im only here right now bc you gave me the chance in the first place so thank you thank you thank you! 

i’ll share more details as soon as i can (and when i’m sure i wont jinx it lol) but for now, THANK YOU!

view all 1,501 comments 

cuteguy have fun, call me when you land 😘 harryfan you’re going to the LOT and nobody can convince me otherwise!!

↳ user4 why wouldn’t she just say it, tho? ↳ harryfan idk she normally never shares she’s going to a show anyway she just posts the video later 🤷 

harryfan8 the fact that molly and jeff followed her and now molly likes all of her posts can’t be random. also she quitting her job and traveling the same day so many from harry’s crew are traveling? 

↳ harryfan2 AND GEMMA LIKING THIS POST? WHY IS PEOPLE SILENT ABOUT THIS?????

harryfan7 gemma liked this post but she doesn’t even follow her??? bestfriend i miss you already can’t wait to visit you!! user1 im so excited whatever it is you deserve it so much!!!!

Aug 25, 2021 •

— — — — — 

PART 2: LAS VEGAS

— — — — —

I’m not hopeful people will read and enjoy this, but if you happen to do so pls let me know? :( thanks!!

[suiana]

hi! could you do yandere roommate?

for sure!

✎ yandere! roommate headcanons . . .

✎ warnings . . .

― manipulation, nsfw etc.

(gn! reader x male yandere! oc)

‎

✎ yandere! roommate who found you pretty cute from the moment you moved into his apartment. god, he's going to have so much fun having you as a roommate <3

✎ yandere! roommate who sets the rule of not interfering with one another's life. if either one brought back a one night stand, the other would not complain. oh! he also said the chores had to be split too!

✎ yandere! roommate who initially didn't care about who you brought back. oh you're getting your back blown out? good for you! just make sure to take out the trash tomorrow :)

✎ yandere! roommate who started to unknowingly fall for you. was it the conversations when you two were cooking together? was it the way you two already acted like a couple?? it doesn't matter, he had already fallen for you and that was a fact.

✎ yandere! roommate who now forbids you from bringing other people home. he doesn't need you fucking other people in his presence!

✎ yandere! roommate who blatantly lies and tells you when you talk back to him. it's because the neighbours were complaining from the sounds you made when you were doing it! we need to be considerate you know? how funny because your room is actually sound proof.

✎ yandere! roommate who raises your rent to an ungodly amount. inflation is a bitch huh :(

✎ yandere! roommate who tells you that there are other methods of payment ;) that you can either pay with your love or with cash which you unfortunately do not have enough of. what were you thinking of huh ;)

✎ yandere! roommate who treats you like his significant other now that you picked the love option. I mean, the both of you already acted like a couple, might as well make it official now!

✎ yandere! roommate who tells you how lucky you are to be his roommate. he's not even asking you for money now! just your love is enough <3 and don't even think of escaping, you won't be able to. you can't escape. never <3

✎ "roomie~ should we add this decor into the living room? it's so cute!"

[bizaar]

Cruel Summer Epilogue - Part One

Masterlist - Part One - Part Two

pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+) minors DNI (you guys they go the fuck off idk what to tell you, gird your loins), pregnancy, mentions of sickness and vomiting, traumatic flashbacks, angst, swearing (please let me know if I missed anything, there's a lot going on here)

word count: 23k (oof)

a/n: tumblr is really gonna make me split this thing up more than I already was going to — oh well, it doesn't matter because it's here! Forgive me for how I had to lay this out, and for everything that follows, because part two is going to be nothing but complete rabid bunnyfucking...

Melvald’s is slow today. 

Of course, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Melvald’s is always slow. You don’t think there has ever been such a thing as a morning or afternoon rush within these cluttered walls, and you’re fine with that. 

You have to be, because it’s not like you have a lot of other options left in Hawkins. 

After everything went back to normal again — as normal as normal can be, considering the circumstances — you didn’t dare go back to ask for your job at Benny’s. You tell yourself it’s because you’ve got too much self-respect for that (and certainly not because you’re quite sure they’ll laugh you out of the building if you tried) so now you stock shelves at Melvald’s.

The hours are long and the pay is crap, but your commute is a quick ten-minute walk, and that’s more than you can ask for. Because you never got your car back after you went sailing out the front doors at Benny’s with the singular purpose of finding Eddie, getting out of town, and never coming back – a purpose you mostly succeeded in. 

Mostly.

You found Eddie, but you never managed to get around to getting out of town. You did eventually end up coming back, though only to discover that while you were away your trusty little Toyota Corolla had been towed.

Figures. 

Funny how you can’t just leave a vehicle sitting unclaimed in a private lot for over a month and expect there to be no consequences. 

By the time you got around to finding your car, you ended up having to sell the damn thing just to cover the impound fees, and you quickly learned that despite what all those sappy greeting cards like to say, you can put a price on your memories. Hundreds of hours of carpooling trips to and from school and the arcade and movies and innumerable Corroded Coffin gigs, all the jam sessions and make-out sessions and “you gotta hear this song” sessions that resulted in blown out speakers and deeply existential conversations and fights about nothing and everything. All the time and people, friends and lovers and emotions permeating it’s dingy cloth seats and hard plastic siding was whisked away in the blink of an eye. 

Your bittersweet adolescence, gone in exchange for a measly four thousand dollars. Somehow, you’re never going to forgive yourself for letting it go like that. 

And yet, for as sad as you were to part with and old friend, it wasn’t all bad, because even with most of that blood money sent off to the Roane County municipality, you still had a little left over. 

Enough to get the van towed out of the ditch and back into working order, at least. It wasn’t pretty, and it needed more work than any of you could really wrap your heads around just to bring it back to its previous semi-shitty condition, but it was alive and that was all that mattered. 

If selling your car meant that Eddie didn’t have to lose anything else, then you were happy to let it go.

Anyway, you like your walk to work. It’s short enough that it doesn’t give you time to think about anything that isn’t immediately in front of you. It doesn’t remind you of anything you might be mourning from back in the good old days, and it means, if need be, you can get home as fast as humanly possible.

Unlike at Benny’s, nobody at Melvald’s gives you shit if you have to go sailing out the front doors and across the parking lot to rescue Eddie from his demons.

That mile-and-back commute does not, however, keep you safe from the perils of being late for work. Not in the cold blue light of morning, when Eddie snakes his arms around you and holds you hostage, leaving sleepy, sloven kisses down the stretch of your neck and sending shivers up the length of your spine as he begs you for five more minutes, and five more minutes after that. 

You find that you have a hard time arguing with him on mornings like that when the only thing that can chase away the lingering sting of bad dreams and worse memories is to lay pressed together in a heap of tangled limbs, listening to the muted thump thump thumping of his beating heart and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

You’re spending a lot of mornings like that lately, laying in as late as you possibly can before slinking into work a cool twenty minutes late. And if anyone on Melvald’s barebones staff cares about that, you haven’t heard about it. Even if you did, the feeling would not be mutual.

Who gives a shit where you decide to spend your mornings? Mornings are for people who never came so close to losing everything, so what’s the harm in five more minutes? 

Plenty, it turns out, when you finally manage to extract yourself from that tangled mess of limbs and are hit with a wave of nausea like a speeding train the moment you sit up. You were late to work this morning, sure, though not because you couldn’t stop indulging Eddie in five more minutes, it was because you couldn’t stop your insides from turning into outsides and spent almost a full half hour with your head in the toilet.

You mostly don’t wanna talk about that. 

If you have to, you chalk it up to the bizarre sickness you can’t seem to shake. You just can’t stomach much of anything these days, except for herbal tea, and that is only consumed against your will, because herbal tea is gross, despite how it’s the only thing that abates your nausea. 

Well, you thought it did. 

Joyce Byers is on an extended smoke break, so you’re alone in the store when it hits you. 

One minute, you’re sitting behind the cash wrap, absently flipping through Cosmopolitan Magazine with a steadily cooling cup of stagnant bog water at your elbow, and then someone hits the ejector button. The next thing you know, you’re sprinting for the bathroom with a harsh squeak of Chucks on linoleum.

You barely make it to the stall in time to send your prayers to that eternal porcelain god.

Zero to sixty in half a second, just like this morning and every other morning this week. 

By the time you come slinking in again from the employee’s bathroom, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, Joyce is still not back from her fifteen-going-on thirty minute break. There are no customers, no coworkers, just you and the lingering air of your spectacular Regan MacNeil impression – getting better and better every day – because it’s just another boring Thursday afternoon, and Melvald’s is always slow. 

Your insides cramp with the threat of sustained illness as you slide in behind the cash register, ready to resume the spell of your boredom, then, you find yourself face to face with a pharmaceutical ad you don’t remember seeing when you last flipped the page. 

You stare down at the image of a beautiful woman with her face stretched into a wide, open mouth smile, which is manic enough that you could easily mistake her for screaming rather than laughing. 

You begin to feel a cold, creeping dread raising the hair on your neck and arms as you read the copy. 

“Morning sickness? Not me!” 

Jesus Christ, you think with no small amount of disgust, Somebody got paid a million dollars to write this – and yet all it takes is those four measly little words.

They fall into place one right after the other, each with a hollow boom that sends shockwaves radiating out across the expanse of your body with goosebumps. A previously darkened part of your brain slowly begins switching on as the phrase is fed through its internal processor over and over until something starts to come into focus.

A question you haven’t yet asked yourself, and the answer you’ve been subconsciously dodging, like lightning in the storm of your sudden onset illness.

Morning sickness? Not me… surely not me…

Still, you immediately begin counting the weeks on your fingers and think yourself in circles, trying desperately to remember when you had your last period. Last week? Last month? You don’t remember. You’ve never been the type of person to keep regular track of something like that, though only because you never needed to. 

You were a virgin until you met Eddie and now you can’t seem to recall when you had your last period.

It takes you too long to remember, and when you do, you don’t believe it, so you count it out three times just to be certain and swallow hard against the sick feeling roiling in your esophagus.

January… February… March… March? No, that can’t be right… 

You rustle a piece of scratch paper from the register to draw it out so you can visualize it, and when the data still doesn’t change, you get up to go and find the calendar in the employee’s locker room just to be certain that it really is – June. 

According to your math, you haven’t had a period since March, and according to the calendar, that was two months ago. 

Holy Shit.

If you were thinking rationally, you might understand how two months could pass without a person noticing, especially when they’ve been living their life by the second. 

But you’re not thinking rationally, and if you were being honest, you haven’t been since last Spring. 

Time stopped for you in the other place, when Eddie’s heart stopped down on the wrong side of the world, and ever since you slipped back through, it hasn’t really started back up again in a way you can wrap your head around. You live your life by the days of the week, so how were you supposed to know something was amiss when your only basis of passing time is “it’s Thursday again,”? 

Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach and you feel like you could be sick again as the facts begin to present themselves in neat little lines. 

You and Eddie are living together now. 

After everything that happened, when the dust finally settled on the Forest Hills trailer park, the folks from the Hawkins Lab came out from their fortress like feudal lords in lab coats. They took samples, corded things off with a mountain of red tape, performed test upon test upon test on the ruined contents of the trailer, and after all was said and done, it was deemed “uninhabitable”. 

Which meant the Munsons were out of house and home. Wayne, it turns out, could get temporary housing through the Plant, but only so long as he was actively working. Someone was going to have to be the steward of Eddie’s recovery once he got out of the hospital (and that was shaping up to be a full time job in and of itself) but if Wayne took any time off to take care of him, he was going to lose his bid for company housing. Without it, he would have to move the pair of them back into the extended stay rooms in the Motel 6 out on the interstate, which he could only afford to pay for if he was earning a steady paycheck – such are the perils of selling your soul to the company store. 

So, Eddie came to live with you in your icebox of a basement apartment, which seemed like the most practical, level headed idea until you were left alone and the reality of your sudden and total privacy settled in. It didn’t take long for the both of you to completely lose your minds in a haze of traumatic aftermath and unchecked hormones.

To you, it was the greatest idea anyone had ever had in the history of mankind – to your neighbors, Eddie moving in has been a catastrophic turn for the worse. 

Because at the end of the day you’re just a couple of horny kids, sharing four hundred square feet of space, most of which just so happens to be taken up by a queen sized bed. 

There have been noise complaints abound, but honestly, what did anyone expect to happen? 

And what did you expect to happen when all either of you seem to do outside of basic human function is fuck like bunny rabbits? 

You bury your face in your hands and choke on a horrified moan as you wrack your brain trying to think if, in fourteen months of domestic bliss, you ever once remembered to use protection..

The answer is a resounding no.

Who has time for condoms when you’re busy living your life to the fullest? What’s the saying? Wrap it before you tap it? Not me! You both almost died, remember? Live a little! 

At least that’s been the logic for fourteen fucking months. 

Jesus wept. 

In the silence of the store, in between the waning notes of royalty-free Muzak and the gentle murmur of outside traffic, you can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the overhead clock. Wretched time, quietly counting down the seconds as potential disaster comes hurtling toward you like an atomic bomb.

Your stomach is cramping again as you move out from behind the cash wrap and stagger over to aisle three on stiff legs–

Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God 

– where you drop to balance on the balls of your feet and come face to face with the little white and purple boxes hanging there – pregnancy tests. 

You think back to the way you’d so casually racked them the day before and cannot believe it never once crossed your mind. 

Morning sickness. 

Except you aren’t just sick in the morning, are you? You’re sick all the time, any hour of the day… so it’s probably not that, right? You probably just contracted some weird parasite at the lake or from a bad burger and now it’s wreaking havoc in your guts, right? 

Right! a condescending voice tells you, It’s called a fetus. 

Your mind outright rejects the notion, but now that the idea is there, the hint of nagging possibility will not be dismissed. So you sit there, eyeing the vaguely feminine graphic design, promising quick results in big bold letters.

Ten minutes or less. 

You nibble your thumb and reach for the box before thinking better and stopping short.  

Do you really want to know? And what are the consequences if you decide you don’t? 

Maybe nothing. 

Maybe big ones. Big round baby-belly-shaped ones. 

You abuse your lower lip between your teeth and glance reflexively at your watch, which you discover is not there, but you’re too pressed to notice as you twist around to find the clock on the wall — half past one, and still no sign of Joyce. 

You turn back to the promise on the box burning itself into your retinas — ten minutes or less — and count the months again. 

The math doesn’t change. You’re definitely late, which means you are definitely— 

Shut up! Don’t say it, don’t jinx it! 

Then again maybe not…it’s a fifty-fifty chance, either you are or you aren’t. The answer lies in front of you, readily available in ten minutes or less. 

…So, what’s ten minutes? 

Joyce is still on a smoke break, so there is no one to cover for you, but what can possibly happen to an unmanned store in ten minutes? In Hawkins? On a Thursday?

Melvald’s is always slow — what are the odds you’re going to be hit with the first rush in the history of it’s time as a brick and mortar staple if you decide to pop back into the bathroom for a moment? 

Ten minutes more like.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything as you snatch the box off the shelf and wobble back out of the aisle on stiff legs. 

Back to the employee’s restroom to take a pregnancy test – the reality of that information is profoundly disturbing. 

You’ve never taken a test before — never had to — but you distinctly remember instances back in High school where you’d been enlisted to stand guard outside of a bathroom stall while Carol Perkins and Tina Burton took “just in case” tests. 

You just want to sate a curiosity — just in case. What’s the harm in taking a test? 

It’s ten measly minutes. 

When Joyce finally comes back in, it’s been fourty-five minutes since she originally left, and you’re a vibrating ball of nervous energy. You sit, bouncing your knee erratically, fidgeting with the ring with the dark stone sitting snug on your finger – a promise, given, returned, and given again, pulling your t-shirt up and asking for five more minutes… just five more minutes – and she greets you with a tight-lipped smile.

You hardly wait for her to get through the door before you’re rounding the counter.

“I don’t feel well,” You say in a garbled rush, snatching your bag from where you’ve had it strategically stashed at your feet since you slunk back out from the restroom a second time, “D’you think it’ll be okay if I head out?”

She blinks back at you, and for a very brief moment, you’re terrified that for the first time since you started here, someone is finally going to give a shit about you leaving.

Thank God Melvald’s is always slow. 

“Oh. Sure, Honey. That’s–” Joyce begins, brows tweaked together in confusion as you rush past her.

You’re out the door and headed up the street before she can finish asking if you’re alright. 

You don’t think you could stand to answer that question right now, and she couldn’t help you even if you did. 

You need a quiet place to sit and think. You need to be swaddled in a blanket of cloying familiarity while you watch the rest of your world come crumbling down. You need… Eddie?  

No, a voice answers, startling you almost as much as what you’d learned in those previous ten minutes. You don’t need Eddie. Not right now, at least.

Right now, what you need is for it to be like it used to be. You need an adult, you need to go home, but you don't live there anymore, and your parents haven’t lived in Hawkins since the Summer of 1985. You can't even call them, because if you do, they’re just going to come down here and try to take you away again, like they did when you got out of the hospital.

You can’t have a repeat of that mess. You can’t leave Eddie, but you also can’t face him just yet. You need to be sure before you can go home, and before that, you need to get as far away from Melvald’s as you possibly can.

You briefly consider calling Wayne, just to try and get the closest thing you can to fatherly advice, but what is he going to do for you? What is anyone supposed to do for you right now besides tell you that you ought to have known better? 

You don’t need to be told what you already know. You need a second opinion, and you cannot get that sitting at home, socked in to four hundred square feet of domestic bliss with the ghost that haunts those walls.

But there is nowhere else you can go … not unless you want to make that long hike up Cornwallis and bang on the Henderson’s door like it’s the good old days and you’re there to babysit. 

You’re not about to submit yourself to the abject humiliation of Dustin (or, God forbid, Claudia Henderson) finding out, because you can’t just go closing yourself up in their hall bathroom for ten minutes (or less) with no explanation. You'd have to tell them what was wrong, why you couldn't use your own bathroom, and you're not ready for that kind of drama.

You can just picture the look Dustin would give you, admonishing you with a terse utterance of your name and a heaping helping of as much paternal disdain as a fifteen year old boy can manage. 

“Why weren’t you using protection?” He would demand, “— that’s the first thing they teach us in health class,” followed very quickly by a not so gentle reminder that “they hand out condoms at school like candy!” 

As if you didn’t know that. As if you (and everyone you knew) didn’t used to come home with those shiny little packages lining the inside of your bookbag like legal contraband. For the duration of your tenure at Hawkins High, you lived in the surety that you could open any drawer in your bedroom and be sure to find a condom there.

Not that you needed one. 

You were a virgin until you met Eddie, but none of that is any of Dustin’s business, and beyond the fact that you’re not in school anymore, you’re not going to go all the way up to his house just to take a pregnancy test.

You don’t need to, the soiled plastic applicator you’d hidden way down at the bottom of the wastebasket back in Melvald’s employee bathroom has already told you everything you need to know.

Suddenly, all you want to do is go home, crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head. You want to go back to the days of everyone telling you “you’re just a kid,” and you want to revel in the frustration of it.

More than anything, you want to smack yourself in the face for ever daring to suggest you were “grown up” enough for anything.

You’re just a kid. Eddie is just a kid. How could this have happened? Why on Earth didn't anybody stop you?

You just want to go home, but you can’t go home. Not yet, so you walk. One foot in front of the other, aimlessly without really seeing, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting at the warped, termite infested picnic bench in the woods behind Hawkins High, and you have no memory of getting there.

You know you should be more concerned about that.

Your shift is technically over at three, and you really should try to get home sometime around then (just so Eddie doesn't start to worry) but time was fake before you slipped back into the eternal dark of November ’83, and now you have no use for it at all, especially when you're so patently avoiding going home.

It seems like just yesterday you were sprinting out into the parking lot at Benny’s, ready to throw caution and everything you ever thought was important to the wind to go and save the jerk who’d so spectacularly broken your heart the previous summer – fifty-four Saturdays ago, your subconscious unhelpfully informs you.   

It’s a wonder you’d actually convinced yourself that anything of what followed that week could be the scariest thing you’d ever have to endure. Turns out, giant man eating bats and interdimensional wizards are nothing compared to realizing your period is two months late. 

You trace your thumb across the faded carvings in the tabletop and linger over your inscribed initials x E.M. – you did that, in the summer between your Sophomore and Junior year, in the first weeks of your official attachment to Eddie.

It felt like such an important gesture back then, but you had no idea what important looked like in those days.

You think back to those stupid kids who pledged to stand together against the world without knowing what that really meant, or just how viciously people could hate, and your heart throbs.

After everything that happened, Munson Mania in Hawkins has never been worse. 

The good people of Roane County had already done all the mental gymnastics to decide that Eddie killed Chrissy. It fit perfectly in their narrative about him, and it would be too much work to untangle the mess they made coming to that conclusion, no matter what the second coming of Jim Hopper said. Guilty or not, they whisper among themselves, point fingers, hurl insults, and shout accusations. 

Freak. Murderer. Psycho killer – qu’est-ce que c’est? – Barbed wire candy-grams for the town pariah, hurled like molotov cocktails, even in the light of the truth. The murky, inconclusive truth.

You had to learn how to adapt very quickly to the ramped-up prejudices of all these nice God-fearing people, because for a while there, Eddie couldn’t even walk down the street without fear of being reminded that everyone in this town thinks he’d be better off dead. The bolder of the good people of Hawkins have no shame about telling him so, either. 

Now, Eddie stays mostly out of sight of all your neighbors and you take care of everything that has to be done.

You go out, do all the shopping, work to pay the bills, keep your life support afloat and you bend yourself painfully out of shape to be his shield. You provide the bread and butter and all the love he could ever possibly need. You smother him in it, keep him well fed and swaddled in affection so that he never has to feel the cold touch of its absence. 

You're everything to him. Friend, lover, caretaker – you wish there was room for just a little bit of help in that, but Eddie doesn't have friends anymore.

He just has you.

Anyway, how are you supposed to explain to Adam and Jeff and Gareth that the Eddie lurking in the shadows of your basement apartment isn’t the Eddie they remember? What would they say if they knew he can’t make his fingers work well enough to play the guitar anymore, or that he can barely even look at his D&D books without breaking into a cold sweat? 

You know what they’d say – they’d want to know why. They’d want to know what the hell happened, because when they’d tried to visit Eddie in the hospital, they got one look at him before making a bullshit excuse about needing to leave, and he didn’t want to see them again after that. 

So now, when they call (and they so seldom call, these days) you tell them he's fine, and you hold them at bay, because it's your job to protect Eddie, no matter what. If that includes keeping all his friends in the dark, then so be it.  

If you can’t get around to explaining what happened to Eddie, and what is so terribly wrong with him, you can’t even imagine trying to break the news that you’re pregnant.

Christ, how are you supposed to tell people when you can barely conceptualize it yourself?

How are you supposed to tell Eddie?

He can barely hear that you’re going to be working late or picking up a shift, because it means he’s going to have to stretch his imagination to find ways to occupy his time without you. It means a change in his routine, and routine is all he has besides bad habits and nightmares.  

And now you’re just supposed to add a whole other person to that? One who can’t take care of themself or tell you what’s wrong or when they need something or when they’re on the brink of death or… or or or…? 

Your stomach is in knots again, because having a baby is suddenly starting to sound just like having a whole other Eddie to take care of, and you can hardly manage one of him. 

You have no idea how he is going to react to hearing that your tight little twosome is about to expand.

Eddie doesn’t have a lot of things that are strictly his, and when it comes to those things he is not exactly the sharing type. 

He’ll go blue in the face arguing he doesn’t get jealous, then turn around and have a conniption when you stay on the shore of Lovers Lake with Dustin and send him out in the boat with the others… dot dot dot - dash dash dash - dot dot dot…

You bite back the cloying scent of mildew suddenly filling your sinuses and dig shallow crescent moons into your palms until you feel your feet touch back down on Earth. Then, all the hideous questions you’ve been successfully holding at bay all afternoon come flooding in like the tide. 

What if Eddie doesn’t want this? What if this is one of those cataclysmic deal breakers and you lose him forever… again? 

And why does this all suddenly feel like your fault? 

In an instant, you’re once more brimming with that irrational anger, because if this is anyone’s fault, it’s his. He’s the one who always wants five more minutes, who pulls you back into bed and paws at your clothes and does all the little things he knows you can’t resist and takes and takes and takes. 

He’s the one who did all the work – what did Carol and Tina used to call it? The good ol’ pump and dump? 

How many mornings have ended with Eddie taking those five minutes more, then rolling over to go back to sleep while you run around trying to clean up the evidence and pull yourself back into shape?

He’s the master behind this little ritual, you’re just the vessel – and what is the vessel for if not to carry the seed?  

You need to walk, you need to think. You need to talk to Eddie.

You take the long way home, going past the haunts of your youth and all the places you don’t go anymore. All the places you’ll never go again — all the places that don’t exist like your childhood home, the Starcourt Mall, Benny’s Diner, and the cozy little double wide on the far end of town, and you think about how Hawkins is a ghost town that doesn’t know its dead. 

You walk, and you think about Eddie, like you always do.

You think about how bad those first few months were, about his nightmares and how he could barely stand to shut his eyes, let alone sleep because of the monsters waiting for him beyond the hypnotic pull of his circadian rhythms. You think about how in the beginning, sometimes he didn’t even have to close his eyes to become trapped down there in the dark again. 

You think about how hard you’ve worked to get him to where he is now, all the blood, sweat, and tears it has taken to curb the itch for all the bad habits that got infinitely worse in his attempt to soothe all the things that hurt. Everything you had to do to center your world around his needs, his worries, his recovery, to make him feel safe. It’s taken a long time, with a lot of set backs, and a lot of bad days, but you tell yourself that you’re happy to have them at all. 

Recovery is a road, not a destination, or at least that’s what Eddie’s physical therapists liked to say before he quit on them – if all you have to worry about is making sure the rent is paid and the pantry is stocked and the door is barred against the monsters out there, you’re fine with that. 

Nevermind your nightmares and all the little things you have to do to cope.

You’re only the one who had to sit there and lie to Eddie that everything was going to be okay while his lips turned blue and his eyes went dark. You’re the one who had to stand at a basin in the hospital and try to scrub his blood out of your clothes, your skin, your hair and lock your knees to stay upright while you did everything you could to try and keep your shit together.

You’re the one who had to sit at his bedside and tune yourself in to the new normal of monitored heartbeats and machines forcing compressed air into collapsed lungs, feeling so incredibly helpless to do anything but wonder how you ever told such a hideous lie. 

Everything is gonna be okay… you wish you could make yourself believe that. 

On your really bad days, that helpless feeling comes roaring back so powerfully you feel like you’re going to collapse in on yourself like a dying star. It's those days that you can’t pull yourself away from Eddie no matter what, where you need those five minutes just as badly as he does, because you’re the one who sat there and told him he was going to be okay and then watched him die.  

And then, when the feeling passes, you pull yourself up, straighten yourself out, and you go to work, because the only thing that matters is Eddie.  

He’s the only thing you can count on when the world gets too loud, the memories of that other place get too close, and you begin to feel yourself slipping away. He’s the only thing keeping you grounded, even if he doesn’t know it, and you’re suddenly so worried that introducing a third element to your duet will blur those lines again. 

You think about all your progress, how on your best days it almost feels like things are back to good, and you think about how all of that hard work is about to become extremely fucking secondary to the little parasite nestled in your womb – not a baby so much as a tapeworm.

The notion causes your insides to stir with anxiety.

How could you have been so careless?

And why would you or anyone expect anything else to happen when you’re just a couple of stupid kids playing house and sharing a studio apartment, which is getting smaller by the moment. 

Kids having kids. 

You should have known better. 

Because time isn’t real, the sun is starting to set by the time you finally make your way home, well past three o'clock.

Past Melvald’s and ten minutes down the street to the concrete stone steps and into the recessed well containing the red door, marked with a tarnished silver six. You can still see the faintest outline of the other two sixes someone recently graffitied on either side of the metal placard – just in case anyone happened to forget who lives here – and suddenly you think you can hear the distant tones of Iron Maiden playing somewhere beyond.  

Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number… 

It is not the first time you’ve had the misfortune of living in Apartment 666, and as you fumble with your keys and glare at the lingering shadow of permanent marker on paint, you are certain it won’t be the last. 

Funny how you never used to hate Hawkins before. 

Now, you’re painted red with the feeling as you plunge the key into the lock and twist it hard enough that someday you’re certain the blade is going to snap off (and then what are you going to do?) Today, however, is not that day. 

As you turn the key you hear the rotor shift over with a satisfying THUNK. You twist the handle, push the door, and nothing happens. 

You groan to stop yourself from screaming, because despite what you think, the door is not out to get you. 

You’re just having a very bad day. 

The humidity the humidity signaling the inevitable heatwaves of the Indiana summer causes your front door to swell and stick, and you have to give it a firm kick to force it open. You know this, despite how you may have forgotten under the weight of everything else currently on your mind. 

And yet, today, when the door sticks, it feels personal. 

You grit your teeth and shut your eyes against it as you put your foot in the door and give it one more solid push. It swings inward, taking you with it and sending you staggering across the threshold and into the apartment. 

The door swings shut behind you with a loud THUMP, and all goes quiet inside your head. 

Just like that, you’re home. 

A singular room made up of kitchen, dining, living, and bed area, all squeezed into four hundred square feet of what the landlord had originally referred to as “cozy living”, when it was just you and your broken heart.

Now, it’s a chaotic mish-mash of all your things and what you could salvage of Eddie’s before someone went and burned what was left of the Munson residence to a smoking husk. 

When you get in, he is sitting on the unmade bed wearing the same sweat-stained t-shirt and pair of ratty pants he’s been in for the last three days. His hair is greasy and hanging limply around his face, which is lined in the shadow of a patchy stubble. You try to think back to the last time you remember him showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, doing anything but laying in bed watching television.

You aren’t shocked when the memory fails to arrive. 

Don’t be unkind, that gentle voice comes again. You stamp it out before it can finish. It’s hard to be kind when all you have to cling to is the way things used to be. 

Eddie used to have hobbies and interests and friends. Now, he only watches television and reads the TV guide until he’s got it memorized and waits for you to get home so he can use you to chase his demons away.

Eddie’s depressed and you’re pregnant – it’s not much to go on, competition-wise, but the poison of your mood is inclined to suggest that you got the short end of the stick on that one, considering it’s his depression that got you that way.  

Nothing gives such an instant boost of dopamine like an orgasm, after all. 

The apartment is a mess. There are dirty clothes and dishes everywhere, mixed in with piles of the clean you have yet to put away. Socks and underwear hang draped off the backs of the two rickety dining chairs from where you’d washed them in the sink and lay them to dry six days ago. The bedsheets are pushed down and hanging off the mattress, exposing half a dozen Hostess wrappers sitting on the rumpled, stained top sheet. 

And there sits Eddie in the middle of it all with a hand down his pants and a lit cigarette pinched between his lips. 

Your blood flash freezes and boils. 

He’s supposed to be quitting. That same gentle – nagging – voice whines from the back of your mind. And he promised he wouldn’t smoke inside. 

You have to clench your teeth until your ears start ringing to shut that little voice up. 

“Hey!” Eddie yelps the moment you appear, leaping up and waving his arms around to try and disperse the smoke as he kicks the evidence of his afternoon indulgence off of the mattress and steps down with a hard thump – he’s limping ever so slightly as he crosses the room to you, “Hi! Shit… um… this isn’t what it looks like,”

Which is a bald faced lie – it is exactly what it looks like, and suddenly you can’t stop the mental tally of all the things you asked him to do today, and all the things that remain undone. 

It makes your skin itch, then as he gets closer, you see the holes in his socks – holes in his neck and ribs where he’d nearly been eaten alive – and you remember too late that you’d promised to pick him up a new pack of crew socks on your way home from work. You forgot. 

Part of you supposes that makes you even, and you stuff it down with everything else you’re not presently available to feel. 

You decide you don’t care. 

You don’t care that he’s smoking again even though he’s still not fully recovered from his collapsed lung, or that he gave up on physical therapy because it was too hard, or that he never does anything he says he’s going to and still always expects you to give him five more minutes.

And he probably still expects you to let him fuck you later on, even after all that. 

You don’t care you don’t care you don’t care. 

And after a moment, you’re surprised to find that you really don’t, (you do, you really fucking do) you’re just trying to see where the cigarette went when he less-than-subtly flicked it away.

The last thing you need to end your shitty day is to have the apartment burn down.  

Eddie mistakes your silence for anger, as he always does, and you watch him begin to fidget as he waits for you to speak. 

You don’t, because you don’t have anything to say, but also because he’s not wrong. You are angry.

You’re standing there, clenching your teeth and fists and doing everything in your power to swallow the urge to yell at him, or to nit pick all the things that are out of place in your apartment – no, not just yours anymore. He lives here, too – this is his home now.

“Where’ve you been?” Eddie asks when the tense silence becomes too much. “I was starting to get worried,” 

He reaches for you and you surprise yourself by letting him pull you into a tight hug that feels a tad too much like it’s meant to try and distract you from everything he evidently decided was less important than smoking cigarettes, eating Twinkies, and playing with himself. 

You’re mad as hell, and if you were paying any attention you would realize that the emotion is getting stronger by the moment, but you lean into him and snake your arms around Eddie’s midsection. You bury your face in his shirt and sigh against him as you chase the comfort of his embrace, waiting for the world to fall away and the cocoon of his safety to envelope you. 

Once upon a time, all you needed was a good Eddie hug to chase your worries away. Now, under his touch, all you can think is how he reeks of nicotine and smoke and days old deodorant and everything else that comes with unwashed boy.

But you have to remind yourself that you don’t care, because he says he was getting worried. 

“You were?” you ask, and your voice sounds odd against your ears. 

“Yeah,” he shifts back and holds you to the spot, like he needs to get a good look at you to make sure you’re still you and that nothing has changed in the few hours it’s been since you left that morning — he worries so much these days. “I went to get you from work when you didn’t come home,” He says. “But you weren’t there.” 

It sounds strangely accusatory, and you aren’t exactly sure what to do with that as a solid lump begins to form in the back of your throat. 

He rubs his hands up and down your arms in a soothing gesture, like he’s attempting to create friction in slow motion. It’s something he’s always done that has been comforting in the past, but right now it is only making a sore spot where he’s rubbing the skin raw. 

You look from his attempt at gentle, reverent contact to where he is carefully watching you, and feel your brows creep toward one another as that irrational anger begins to rise in the pit of your belly.

This is all his fault, and part of you seems to think he knows that, even if he doesn’t know. 

“Okay, I can see that you’re mad…” Eddie starts, doing his utmost to remain as diplomatic as possible so as not to set you off but also to accept no responsibility, “… are you mad?” 

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him, instead you crane your neck trying to see around him to find that goddamn cigarette before it can catch and send everything up in smoke… literally. 

You feel Eddie’s fingers flex on your biceps.

“Don’t be mad. I was gonna get around to it, I swear, but then you didn’t come home from work and… and I was worried! I didn’t know where you were,” . 

Anger subsides — if only briefly — and you get almost all the way around to feeling guilty about that until you clock the cigarette butt smoldering on the yellowing linoleum in front of the kitchen sink, and then Eddie finishes his sentence. 

“...And I didn’t know if you were gonna be home for dinner,” 

He flinches when your head snaps around and you finally level him with a poisonous look. 

“So you smoked half a pack of camels and ate a box of Twinkies?” you scoff. 

You want to ask where he even got those, but then you remember. He went to Melvald’s looking for you, and when he didn’t find you there, he must have figured he deserved a treat for braving the big, scary world. 

He gets a treat and you get to watch your world crumble – you could spit fire. 

Eddie’s mouth falls open like he’s going to say something to defend himself, but then he just laughs. You can tell it’s out of nerves rather than humor, the way he always does when he’s caught red handed and doesn’t know what to say to get himself out of trouble. 

You would punch him if you weren’t half certain he would break into a thousand pieces if you did. Even then you’re not so sure you’d feel worse about breaking your boyfriend or having to vacuum him up off the floor after. 

“I was worried!” Eddie insists when you turn away and throw your keys into the dish with a thunderous crash.

“You said that already.”  You snap, storming across the tiny living space and stooping to pinch the half burned stock of cinders and throw it into the sink with a hiss. 

You almost wish that he would have just given you that kicked puppy look, then you could have at least felt bad about biting his head off. But no, he had to go and get irreverent on you. 

Hi honey, welcome home! I know I said I would clean up and do some house work and stop smoking so I don’t get lung cancer by the time I’m thirty and die, but you see, I can’t be fucked to care about anything but myself! But remember, it’s not my fault, I’m depressed!

You’d spent so much time worrying about what you were going to say to him, how you were going to break the news, but as you step out of your shoes and drop your bag onto it’s designated doorside hook, you decide that if he can’t be fucked than neither can you.

Those little pink lines say differently. 

You suddenly feel ready to burst. 

You cross to the bed, snatch up one of the pillows and press it to your face, then you scream as loud and long as you can. When you’re satisfied that your lungs are completely flattened, you lean forward and drop down onto the mattress with a muffled THUMP, and let the tide take you out. 

It’s just one more thing that douses you in a fresh layer of red. Because your first foray into real adulthood didn’t begin with moving in together, or engaging in excessive amounts of sex just because you could, or even the unexpected addition to your lives — it began with the waterbed Eddie had insisted upon. 

After he was discharged from the hospital, you learned very quickly that your mattress was too soft for his broken body, and the nice, “sensibly priced” one you’d gone out and tried to replace it with had ended up being too firm. 

After all that talk and research and careful consideration, all the work you put into trying to make him comfortable in his new home, in this new situation, and the mattress was too goddamn firm. 

Then came the waterbed, and Eddie’s first full night of sleep since leaving the hospital, and you didn’t dream of sending the damned thing back, no matter how badly you hated it. 

You still hate it as you lie there, coasting on the waves and stewing in all the ugly thoughts and feelings and emotions that you are meant to be safe from inside the vacuum chamber of your apartment. 

For a time, all you hear is the muffled sloshing of the trussed up waterballoon and the gentle murmuring of informercials playing on the half muted television. Then, you hear the slow thump of footsteps approaching and feel the mattress dip and slosh beside you. 

Your guts heave and for a brief, yet terrifying moment, the nausea returns. 

“...D’you wanna talk about it?” Eddie asks tentatively from somewhere not nearly close enough. 

“No.” You say, knowing well enough that this is not a conversation you can keep putting off. 

“Okay…” he says, sucks his teeth, then tries again, “D’you wanna hear about my day?”

“No.” You insist. 

“Great. So today, I got up at a reasonable hour and totally didn’t sleep in until two-thirty again. I did everything you asked me to and ate a healthy, full balanced meal and only watched, like, half an hour of tv – don’t worry, just PBS, Babe, only the really boring, educational shit. But I swear on my life, this whole place was spotless … and then out of no where – WHAM! You’ll never guess what happened.” 

He pauses for effect, and waits for you to play along, to rise to his prompting like you normally do, but he’s sorely mistaken if he thinks you’re in the mood for games. You wire your jaw shut and leave him waiting for you to answer. When you don’t, Eddie repeats himself,

“You’ll never guess what happened.” 

Finally, he prods you sharply under the armpit with two fingers, and you flinch, curling into yourself with the kind of high yelp that can only come from being tickled. 

“Ask me what happened.” he prompts when you uncover your face to glare at him. 

You tell yourself you won’t, but you’ve never been able to resist him, even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad, and especially with the way he’s leaning over and looking at you, all soft eyes and long lashes. Because in spite of the smoking and the lying and everything else, every part of you loves every part of him, even when you want to punch him in the face. 

“What happened.” You mutter reluctantly, not a question so much as a submission – Eddie smiles. 

It’s a half hearted thing that doesn’t reach his eyes, but you know what it’s meant to convey – Good Girl. Your heart skips a beat and you kick yourself for still being so stupid for him, even after all this time. You’re supposed to be mad at him. 

He shrugs. 

“Killer Klowns,” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“...you gotta be kidding.”

You turn away to bury your face back in the pillow, and Eddie keeps on talking and talking and talking, because that’s all he does anymore – try to talk himself out of trouble. Funny, the way he never seems to remember how that never works for him. 

“Baby? Baby – hand to God…” he says, pausing again. You just lie there and wait for him to finish, “...They were from Outer Space.”

And when his joking fails to garner any sort of joy, the sentiment goes out of him in an almost tangible wave. For a moment, there’s nothing but measured silence as the refrigerator kicks on and vibrates gently against his guitar, hidden from sight and collecting dust. 

In the interval of time between your release from the hospital and Eddie’s homecoming, you went looking for what could be saved in the wreckage of the Munson trailer. Thankfully, you knew where to look for what was most precious, like the family photos and heirlooms. You rescued what you could and replaced what you couldn’t, but there are some things that are too precious to ever replace.

Things like Eddie’s guitar.

When the world came tumbling down in those last few moments of whatever the hell happened at the end there, Sweetheart had taken brutal damage, and that was before someone burned the place down. She was barely clinging to life when you finally unearthed her from the rubble – all but one of her strings had snapped, the heat of the fire had caused her resin to bubble and warp, and without its protective layer, someone had been able to stomp her body nearly to oblivion. 

The violence of it broke your heart, and you’re not ashamed to admit you’d kneeled over her carcass and wept when you found her.

It made you physically sick to have to return her to Eddie in such a state, but there was only so much you could do without taking time and money you couldn’t spare to get her out to the Guitar Center in Indianapolis. 

She’d once been his prized possession, the focal point of his bedroom put on proud display, the only other woman in his life, now, she’s just some forgotten thing tucked into the space between the refrigerator and the wall, hidden from sight and collecting dust. 

Somehow that’s worse than any of it. 

Eddie told you it was because the apartment was so small and she fit so perfectly in that alcove, but you know it’s because after all that happened, he can’t stand to look at her. 

The refrigerator vibrates against her twisted body, and slowly, the room begins to fill with the muted buzz of a low E.

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart.” Eddie sighs, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you.

You feel the mattress dip as his hand comes down to rest at the side of your hip, caging you in beneath him, “I’m just trying to make you feel better… honest.” 

You heave a weighted sigh and roll over onto your back, throwing your arms over your eyes and baring down until you see spots and colors and stars. He settles down over you, and when you feel his weight come down to rest on your belly, your heart briefly palpitates. 

You have to stifle the urge to tell him to be careful, because he doesn’t know. How could he know? You haven’t told him. 

“I’m sorry,” He says again, and you can’t help yourself. 

“You’re always sorry when you get caught, but you always do it again.” You bite. 

You feel the corner of his mouth twitch against you and for a long time you both just lie there, wondering how the hell you got here. 

You like to think that under normal circumstances you might not stick around for so much bullshit, but unfortunately for you, your life never got back to normal after you put it on hold to go looking for the jerk last spring, and now you’re committed to him, warts and all. 

And the pair of you have always existed outside the bounds of “normal circumstances” anyway. 

It occurs to you now that this is exactly why you’d been so leery about coming straight home. You’d needed time to prepare before facing Eddie, to be certain before having to explain yourself, because it’s your job to protect him, but how are you supposed to protect him from himself, especially when he’s hell bent on following this path of self destruction to the end of the line?

But you’re still not certain, and you’re starting to think you really need to take another test…

“Where’d you go earlier?” Eddie mumbles dejectedly - you feel his voice rumble in the pit of your stomach and it sends the faintest stirrings of something you absolutely do not want to be feeling down through your central cortex – arousal. 

“Nowhere.” You say, distantly feeling your lips move and the vibration of your voice, but not hearing yourself speak. 

Before you realize what you’re doing, you shift your lower body, ever so subtly trying to move your hips up in search of a little friction.

Stop that, you silly bitch. You are not going to give him a pity fuck just because you feel bad about making him feel bad. 

You sigh. 

“I just needed to walk a little… stretch my legs… guess I lost track of time,” and then, “Sorry,” 

Eddie says something, and you are vaguely aware of responding – him asking if everything is okay and you dismissing the question, building up another layer of that lie and reassuring him that everything is fine…

At least, you think that’s what you said, you can’t be certain because his voice is still buzzing down through your belly and stirring that raunchy little pot, and you’re still fighting tooth and nail to stop your hips from squirming.  

You know if you don’t do something, you’re absolutely going to end up giving him a pity fuck, and that’s exactly how you ended up in the situation you’re in now. Because when Eddie calls, you come running, no matter what. 

I should tell him. 

You try to take another one of those deep, steadying breaths to banish the skittery tightness forming in your chest, and you choke on it.

Something begins to press in at the back of your eyes, welling up and crowding them in your sockets. Your vision blurs and before you realize what is about to happen, your lashes flood with hot, stinging tears.

You begin to cry. 

Goddammit. It really has just been a very shitty day. 

You uncover your eyes long enough to mask the motion of wiping away the wetness streaming across your cheeks by checking your watch, and you see that it is not there. A bright burst of panic sparks in your chest sending adrenaline shooting down to the tips of your fingers and toes before you remember how you’d removed it to wash your hands after being sick in the employee bathroom at Melvald’s. 

Before your life came grinding to a halt in ten minutes or less.

I should tell him. 

You imagine – you hope – your watch is still sitting there on the edge of the sink. And then you remember that it doesn’t matter if it is, because time stopped in November of 1983. 

Time isn’t real, it’s just another Thursday. 

You heave another one of those measured breaths – this one a little wetter and shakier than the last – and drop your arms to come down gently over Eddie’s shoulders. 

You sniffle and sigh, and he immediately twists over to look up at you. 

You look down and meet wide brown eyes – sad eyes – duller than they’ve been in months, red rimmed and ringed in dark circles like bruises. He’s so pale, his full lips are dry and cracked and raw from where you know he’s been biting at them. 

Eddie’s brows come together to form a deep crease of worry and suddenly your face is bracketed in his hands, brushing at the wetness you can’t manage to stem and apologizing endlessly for everything he’s ever done wrong. 

He doesn’t know what he did to hurt you, but he’s sorry for it. Sorry, sorry, always so incredibly sorry – how many times can someone say something before it loses all meaning? 

Sorry doesn’t mean shit coming from Eddie – yes it does, don’t be unkind.

He’s depressed, and you’re pregnant, and now you’re crying about it and he’s desperate to take the blame for it. 

To his credit, Eddie hauls himself up to meet you and pulls you into his arms, crushing you against him as you go to pieces. You can feel the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

He wants to know why you’re crying, so you should just get it over with and tell him, right? You can’t make the words come out, and now that you’ve started crying, you can’t stop. 

He deserves to know, but it’s your job to protect him, and so long as you keep this secret to yourself, he’s still safe from the harm it might cause. Everything is still okay, you just have to keep holding that door.   

It takes what feels like a very long time before you calm down, and even after you do, you just lay there facing each other, feeling Eddie’s eyes boring holes into your forehead. 

You have to tell him. 

“Are you mad?” Eddie asks before you can get the chance, reaching across to thumb away one last stray tear from the hollow beneath your eye – the lump in your throat threatens to swell again.

Tell him now.

You swallow hard and try not to choke on it.  

“Yes,” you say honestly, “But not at you … not really,” 

The corner of his mouth twitches again as he tries and fails to smile.

“Who do you need me to beat up?” Eddie asks in his best approximation of something he might have said once upon a time. It doesn’t hit quite the way it used to, and despite the shy smile that quirks up at the corner of your lips, you feel a sharp stab of grief for the person you lost on the other side of the world.

It's not a fair thought to have. He’s still here, part of him at least, and he’s fighting to get back to you with everything he’s got. 

You know he’s trying, and it immediately floods you with guilt. About biting his head off, about lying, about going missing long enough to leave him wondering what the hell could have happened to you. 

That was selfish of you, but you’re not going to apologize for it, because above everything else he said he was going to do, he promised to take better care of himself.

You suppose that makes you even. 

The silence that follows is unbearably weighted, like a sopping wet blanket – like the air in the other place – and you have to make yourself look at him to make sure you haven’t gone suddenly deaf, and to make sure he’s still there.

When you look, you’re not surprised to find that Eddie is looking too, like he’s had the same thought and it’s struck him with a bolt of blinding fear. You both do that a lot now, go checking to make sure the other is still there, even when you’re laying pressed against each other like this. 

He’s giving you that strange hard look you’ve come to know very well. It’s the same look he had on his face every time you caught him staring at you over the course of that long, terrible week last spring – the one he gives you when he knows something is wrong, but he is too afraid to ask on the off chance that he’s right about it. It’s the way his face looks all the time, now, ever since he got out of the hospital.  

Are we okay? He wants to ask, Do you still love me?

Because no matter how many times you tell him, it never seems to settle in. He always needs to hear it one more time. 

He always needs five more minutes. 

Just five minutes more more more more more –

Well, what about what you need? You’re the one watching your life fall apart, you’re the one who’s pregnant.

Then again, how do you know you haven’t been hallucinating the whole thing? You do have to tell him, but you really ought to take another test, just to be really, really sure before you share your findings with the class.  

A false positive isn’t unheard of. What’s the harm in a second opinion? You won’t know until you know.

Eddie follows when you sit up, and quickly takes your hands back from where you’ve begun scrubbing them furiously against your face, trying to rid yourself of the cloying miasma of salt drying tacky on your skin. 

“Don’t do that,” he tells you, and you don’t even bother asking him why. 

He does it because you would have done it to him. 

That’s how he operates now, relying heavily on what he knows you would do moment to moment, because he’s still that lost in the reeds. It’s the only way he knows how to take care of himself anymore: what would you do for him in any given situation?

The next thing you know, you’ve got your arms around his neck, squeezing him as tight as you dare, as tight as you think he needs to be held just to remember that he’s still here, and you wish like hell he would just pick up what you were putting down already. You wish he would know exactly what is going on with you without even asking, like he used to.

But you know he can’t, his mind is too clouded for the kind of clairvoyance lovers share anymore.

Eddie’s head thumps forward to rest atop your shoulder and strong arms – less strong than they used to be – squeeze you tight enough around the midsection to cause something in your back to pop. You don’t care. It’s grounding and it’s what you’ve needed all afternoon. 

You go chasing the feeling as you breathe in another two-count and exhale on three, twisting your head to bury your nose into the crook of his neck.

He stinks like days old sweat and your perfume. 

“I’m sorry I was mean,” you say into the filthy curtain of his hair, and you’re suddenly reminded of how you’d stood together like that in the dark of his bedroom a lifetime ago, counting down the moments you had to spare before you slipped back into the other place for the last time.

“S’okay,” Eddie slurs, and you feel the guilt of it throb painfully in your chest as you nuzzle against him, trying to slip beneath the surface and occupy the space beneath his skin. 

It’s the only way he’ll ever feel close enough without being inside of you – the gentle rumbling of your prior arousal begins to stir again, and you have to remind yourself that you’re not doing that.

“I love you,” 

He makes a soft sound and you feel his fingers flex against you, digging needily into your skin and pulling you up into his lap.

“Say that again,” he says, holding you against him.  

The fibers of his well worn t-shirt make the beginnings of a friction burn against your cheek as you shift to compensate for this new position – it’s hard to stay tucked against him now that you’re sitting above him, harder still not to sit right down and press the seam of your pussy against the bulge you can feel forming in his sweatpants. 

For the sake of your own self preservation – why? It’s not like he can get you more pregnant than you already are – you sit back on his thighs and bring your hands up to grace the curve of his throat. Eddie tilts his head back to follow and gaze up at you through his lashes. 

“Say it again,” he says, and days old stubble scratches the ridge of your knuckles as you stroke the side of his face.

“I love you,” you say thickly, for all the times you said it and he didn’t believe you, and all the times he needed to hear it and you kept it to yourself.

You listen as Eddie breathes out a shaky, charcoally sigh. His eyes slide shut and he lets his head drop forward to thump against your sternum. For half a blessed second, everything feels exactly like it should. Not like it used to, but as right as it possibly can be after everything that’s happened. 

It’s just you and Eddie. 

You and Eddie and the sea monkey growing inside of you.

Just like that, your brief moment of perfect peace begins to crack. You curl your arms around his neck in defiance of it and squeeze him a little tighter and do everything you can to hold it in place. 

He’ll be okay if you just hold him tight enough. Everything will be okay – nothing bad can happen when you’re together. 

Except for all the bad that happened at Rick’s Place and Lover’s Lake and on the other side of the world and… shut up shut up shUT UP!

Everything is going to be fine.  

You’ll tell Eddie your secret, and he’ll tell you that everything will be alright. You’ll figure it out, like you always do, and you’ll be happy to have whatever you end up with.   

You press your lips into the crown of his head, and he makes a soft sound beneath you. 

You tell yourself you ought t0 do it now. Don’t make a big deal out of it, but tell him and get it over with all the same so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. 

Eddie will help you – you don’t know how, but he will. He’s the only one who can help you, so just tell him. 

“Are you hungry?” You ask.

Coward.

He shakes his head and breathes a deeply melancholic sigh into your collar. Of course he isn’t, he’s full of sugar and coffee and nicotine, he’s not going to be hungry until next week. 

Still, you know he’s going to crash hard and be sick in the morning if you don’t make him eat something besides processed pound cake. He’s not hungry, but he’ll eat if you’re eating — the thought of food makes your insides clench and heave. 

“Are you?” He asks, shifting back so he can look at you again – in another life you watch him retreat to the stove at Rick Lipton’s place. 

“I made dinner,” that Eddie says, and you’re thrust into a memory of sitting with your heads bowed together over a flaking linoleum table, a sticky pot of Spaghetti-o’s and a hundred and one unsaid things between you — your stomach roils with nausea. 

“No, I’m good.” you tell this Eddie, your Eddie. 

That Eddie was your Eddie too, and sometimes you miss him so badly you can hardly breathe. 

You shift further back on his knees so you can look at him, really look at him, and tell him – you have to tell him – and you take his hands in yours. 

“Eddie, listen – there’s something we need to talk about…” You start, and feel him tense beneath you. 

You know what he’s thinking, more bad news. He’s about to lose something else, and you don’t have the heart to quell those fears just yet. If you get stuck trying to make it all better before it even begins, you’ll never get the words out.

You have to tell him. 

Deep breath in – the words sit on your tongue like burning coals, and yet you continue to fail to spit them out – just say it.

Two measly little words and it will be over. 

I’m pregnant.  

Say it, say it now … for the love of God, say anything.  

It’s only when you turn Eddie’s hands up to see his palms that you are saved from your sudden onset muteness as a spot of bright blood drying tacky in the creases of his hand makes itself known.

“Oh, my God!” You gasp, wondering how in the hell you didn’t see that before, “What happened?”  

“Nothing.” He mumbles, jerking his arm back to try and hide the wounded extremity. “It’s just a splinter.” 

You can feel your face pulling into a frown, even if you aren’t conscious of intentionally emoting, and you reach after him. 

“Let me see,” you say — Eddie says, because you’re out in the woods with two broken fingers that need setting and a black eye courtesy of Jason Carver, “Baby, let me see…” 

To his credit, Eddie doesn’t put up as much of a fight as you did back then, though only because you think after all this time he doesn’t have much fight left, and gives you his hand when you reach for it back in the here and now. 

Fingers in his, you turn his palm up again to scrutinize his shoddy work and feel your heart stutter.  

He’s dug a needlessly ugly crater into the calloused meat between his forefinger and thumb. Sticky, semi-coagulated blood is still oozing up in a ring around the faint shadow marring his flesh, and for half a second you’re afraid he’d gone and done something stupid like try to extract the foreign agent with a pair of scissors. 

When you look, you’re semi-relieved to see that it is only a pair of worn needle nose pliers balancing precariously on the bedside table. Still, you bite the pulpy mass you’ve spent the day chewing into the inside of your cheek until you taste blood to stop yourself from saying anything about it.

Eddie has always been such a boy, blundering through life and bashing his skull against problems because someone once told him to “use his head”. He always makes everything harder than it needs to be, and then wonders why he doesn’t feel any better by the end of it.

“I couldn’t find the tweezers,” he explains sheepishly.

You look up at him and gaze into those big sweet doe eyes — pretty eyes. Sad eyes. 

“They’re in the drawer —” You remind him, taking gentle hold of his face in one hand and squeezing, “—where they belong,” and then you push up to stand over him, “I’ll get them.”

You turn for the bathroom and don’t let go of his hand until the pull of distance demands it – his fingers slip from your grasp, and you blink back the beating of heavy wings and gnashing teeth, wrenching you out of his touch and into the dark of your mind’s eye.    

Across the room and into the little bathroom, you shut the door behind you. 

You click the lock. 

You don’t know why you do that, except maybe because you’ve been doing it all day, and you’re desperate for a moment to yourself in this four hundred square foot box of self pity. You tell yourself you only need a moment, but suddenly you can’t imagine that naïve girl who had been so ready to never have to bother with something like personal space and boundaries again.

What a foolish little thing she was.   

Young love doesn’t have the foresight for things like the shock of falling into the toilet at three o’clock in the morning because Eddie’s never lived with someone who doesn’t take a piss standing up and you’ve never had to navigate sharing a bathroom with someone who does. 

The learning curb has been steep. 

You drop the toilet seat with a loud clacking thump and you upend the grocery bag of prenatal contraband you’d smuggled out of Melvald’s. 

Part of you hopes Eddie didn’t see you grab your bag off the hook, but you suppose if he did, you’ll have to explain that behavior later, though at that point, you imagine he’ll have a lot more on his mind than wondering why you need to bring your purse with you to the bathroom. 

You drop your jeans, pee on the stick, and gnaw your fingers to the bone as you witness a little more of your life flash before your eyes with every passing second until you count out ten minutes … or less, as the packaging so boldly promised.

And when you receive your second opinion, you decide you could stand to get a third, so you lean over the bathroom sink, guzzle as much tap water as you can stomach and you do it all over again.

Colors and shapes and stars explode across your vision in a kaleidoscopic dance as you dig the heels of your palms into the jelly of your eye sockets and you wait … wait… wait to see what will happen next. 

There you sit, wringing your hands, bouncing your knees, and you wait ten minutes and ten minutes more until you get your results in thin pink lines and bright blue tabs and little green plus signs.

Positive results, which means… 

“Shit.” You hiss — the plastic casing creaks and begins to tremble in your hands, “Fuck!”

A sharp rap on the door sends you leaping damn near out of your skin and the test goes clattering to the floor. 

The action is followed by a cautious utterance of your name, muffled by layers of wood vinyl and hollow core. 

Your heart lurches– along the bottom of the bathroom door, you can see the subtle shadow of idling movement. You forgot about Eddie, and you wonder with a start just how long he has been standing there, waiting for you. 

For ten minutes or less, you imagine. You have to swallow the urge to tell him to go away.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you suddenly feel ready to burst into tears again – goddamn hormones.

You glance down at the strip of plastic casing and cardboard bullshit, at the two pink lines standing boldly against the soiled backdrop and grinning wickedly at you for all the smart decisions you didn’t make over the course of the last fourteen months of domestic bliss.

The answer rockets to the front of your mind.

No. You’re not okay. You’re pregnant.

You swallow hard to try and banish the cobwebs blooming in your throat, and when they thicken, you swallow again. 

Eddie is speaking before you can decide how to answer him. 

“… are you feeling sick again?” 

You just manage catch to catch the burst of bitter laughter before it can come bleating out of you, and you shake your head for no one in particular.

“Yeah – I mean no.” You say unevenly, “I’m okay, I’m just–” Pregnant. “–feeling a little bit off.” 

You know between the vagueness of the answer and the discovery of a locked door between you, Eddie’s mind is bound to be spinning out with worry. 

He worries so much about everything these days — just wait until he finds out about the baby, that’ll really give him something to worry about. 

You listen to him shifting his weight from one socked foot to the other on the carpet, to the soft thump that follows and has you picturing him resting his forehead on the door jamb. 

You brace your hands on your knees and push up to stare at your reflection, eyes heavy and ringed with exhaustion, about to get so much worse when you’ve got a tiny helpless creature screaming its lungs out at you in the inability to communicate.

You hear the tentative rasping of your name eke out from behind the door, and watch the handle jiggle in the mirror. 

All you want is to go to bed, sleep this weirdness off, and wake up tomorrow to find that everything has gone back to normal. 

Not the normal of this morning’s blissful ignorance, but the normal of days past. Of school days and homework and gossip and when the only thing you had to worry about not getting caught sneaking out of class just to steal five minutes behind the bleachers with Eddie.

The salad days.

You just want things the way they were — Eddie the way he used to be and you the way you used to be, sitting tucked away together in his bedroom at the old place, before anything went wrong and it was just you and your dreams for the future. 

More than anything, though, you wish you could buck up the courage to tell Eddie you’re pregnant so you can drop this suffering in silence bullshit. 

You carefully wrap everything back in that same plastic bag you never want to see again and stash it in the cabinet beneath the sink, tucked in behind all your forgotten bottles of shampoo and cleaning supplies, where no one will accidently find them. 

Then, you push up on creaky legs and address the elephant in the other room. You don’t unlock the door.  

“I’m gonna shower,” you watch your reflection say, it is a hollow, robotic sound, and Eddie doesn’t answer right away. You can hear him just outside the door.

Thinking. Worrying. 

Pouting more like. 

And you know he’s going to ask before he even says it. 

“…D’you want some company?”

Bingo.

Never has a sentence embodied a more desperate plea to be let in — he may as well have been scratching at the door and whining like a dog who’s been locked out. 

Let me in let me in let me in please let me in. 

You clench your teeth and blink back another wave of those pervasive tears pressing at the backs of your eyes as a strange, misplaced resentment wells suddenly in you.

It’s a startling feeling.

Not the same as the cheap, petty anger you’d felt before but a black and violent thing that does not belong to you. It has no business existing inside of you, and yet here it is, telling you that you can’t stand it. You can’t stand how much Eddie needs you all the time. You give him everything you have and he always needs more. 

Just five more minutes, please just give me five more minutes. Don’t leave me, just love me, let me in, let me in Please please please.

It’s not his fault. You tell the violent feeling. He’s depressed. He doesn’t have hobbies anymore…

He doesn’t have anything anymore — it bites back, he just has you. 

You shake your head in melancholic defiance of these conflicting feelings.

He needs me. You insist.

He’s using you up. It responds. He’s smothering you.

And you hate the feeling for being right. All he does is take and take and take, and you’re nothing if not a fool for giving him everything he needs and then some. You love Eddie more than anything, more than everything, but if he doesn’t stop taking, there’s not going to be anything left for you… for this— 

“—Baby?” Eddie calls faintly, startling you again. 

You have to take a moment longer than is probably necessary to calm yourself enough to decide whether or not you can stomach his “company” right now. 

“No,” you sigh, “I just wanna wash the day off.”

You imagine the pang of fear lancing through his chest as an invisible box is ticked off: the second sign of trouble.

Locked door. His alarm bells are ringing. Can’t get to you. You’re trapped trapped trapped. Let me in let me in let me in let me –

There is the scratching of the chewed edge of his thumbnail digging into the painted wood, peeling it — probably causing another splinter — and you have to bite your tongue to keep from telling him to stop doing that, because you’re not going to get your security deposit back. 

Who cares about security deposits or contraception or personal space, you both almost died, remember? Live a little!

You turn away from the stranger in the mirror and face the door, forcing yourself to sound chipper as you make empty promises about the future to the foreign shell of the person you have to remind yourself you love. 

“I’ll be out in a jiffy,” you call unevenly, “…just let me rinse off, okay?” 

There is a long moment of disappointed silence before Eddie finally responds. 

“...Mm’kay…” 

Fading footsteps thrum a gentle beat as you step out of your abused and crinkled jeans. Oddly, you feel like you’ve spent more time out of them today than in them, and that might almost be funny if it weren’t for the circumstances.

There is a moment of peace as you continue undressing, then the rapid thump thump thump of returning steps. A sharp knock summons another one of those long-suffering sighs whooshing up from the deepest recesses of your body.

“What do you need, Eds?” You ask a little too harshly, pinching your eyes toward the bridge of your nose with your forefinger and thumb. 

You tell yourself you’re not angry with him, you’re just tired and uncertain and scared of that uncertainty. 

“Tweezers.”

Oh. Right. 

They’re in the drawer, neatly tucked away and exactly where they belong. Just where you said they’d be. 

You crack the door as far as you dare and don’t look at your boyfriend when you take his palm in your hand, despite the holes you can feel him boring into the top of your head. 

Don’t shut me out — please – oh, God, please let me in! he begs you with only a few short breaths as you pluck the thick spur of plywood from his hand and douse it in rubbing alcohol for good measure. 

Eddie hisses and bends to kiss you on the cheek. You let him do it, then shut the door in his face. 

If he didn’t know there was something wrong before, he’s bound to be crawling out of his skin with it now. 

You don’t care, and you feel terrible about it as you lean over the tub to pull the pin and turn the water on. 

The shower head roars to life, and as it fills the room with noise and steam, you can barely hear yourself think – thank God.

You stand under the stream and let the water run hot on you until it goes cold, and even then you linger and accept the beating it gives you. 

Eyes shut, senses dulled, body pinging with goosebumps, you feel your muscles begin to loosen and relax. The outside world goes swirling down the drain, and you finally let your hand creep up to touch your belly. You splay your fingers over the expanse of skin and hold it there, feeling for something, anything, some sign of the life lurking there among your guts. When you don’t feel anything — why would you feel anything when the baby is not even a baby yet — you try your hand at rubbing the spot, back and forth, like you’ve seen people do to their fake pregnant bellies in the movies. 

The results are middling beneath pruning fingers and the shower head is pinging ice at you now, stabbing you in the scalp, so you decide with no small amount of disappointment that it’s time to get out. 

Just as you expected, Eddie is waiting for you when you flick off the bathroom light and re-emerge into the bedroom/living room/kitchen combo.

You’re almost surprised to find that the room has been more or less straightened. It’s not clean, by any stretch of the word, but trash, clothes, and all manner of discarded knick-knacks have been removed from the floor and stashed in other strategic places. The bedsheets have been tidied in the best approximation Eddie can manage for making a bed, though you can’t say it looks much different than it did before. He couldn’t do it right before he had his guts ripped out, and time and practice has had no effect on that inefficiency. 

He’s sitting there on the bed, trying to look casual with his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, arms crossed, fingers crossed, and you give him a weak smile as you enter, holding your towel and heading for the chest of drawers on your side of the bed. You stop short when you notice the clothes he’s laid out for you: an oversized Houston Oilers t-shirt you’d thrifted for him before he came to stay and a soft pair of shorts – how unbearably sweet. 

“Feel better?” He asks hopefully, boyishly, as you step into the shorts. 

You nod, and you can’t even call it a lie, because getting the muck of the world out of your skin and hair has made enough of an impact to improve your headspace exponentially.

At least you don’t feel like you’re about to start screaming anymore – Jefferson Starship is happy enough to do that for you, howling to the elusive Jane, still playing that same old game she never can win. 

Eddie’s put on the mixtape you made him in the summer of ‘84, which you’re not certain he’s ever heard the end of – if only because he can’t make it through Dancing Queen without saying something snide about ABBA and disco as a whole – but he’s trying to make it better.

You tell yourself that, in spite of everything else, you have to give him credit for that as you slip the t-shirt over your head and walk your towel back to the bathroom. 

And if he’s trying, then you’re a fool for not trying too, so you do your best to put a happy look on your face when you reemerge and jerk your thumb over your shoulder.

“Okay, your turn.”

His mouth drops open, but you don’t let him protest. 

“Go on – git.” You say, affecting a thick southern drawl to try and lighten the mood. 

Eddie just frowns at you.

“If you wanted me to shower you shoulda let me join you,” He grouses. 

You stick him to the spot with a pointed look.

“If I’d let you join me, we wouldn’t be getting clean in there, and you know it.” You press, “I mean it, Eds. You smell like a garbage truck. When’s the last time you showered?” 

He snorts and does his best to make the jab to his ego look like feigned hurt feelings, but you can see the edges of his mask flickering. Not even near death had been enough to dampen that ego of his. 

It’s a bizarre thing to witness what is left of the Eddie from before fighting for real estate with what has grown into the Eddie here and now. If you could capture it in an image, you’d hang it on the wall and call it “the duality of man,”, but that wouldn’t help you to get Eddie into the shower any more than your attempt at gentle coaxing. 

You have to resist the urge to offer some sort of trade off, because there are scant few things that motivate Eddie these days that don’t end with you opening your legs for him. And you have to remind yourself, once more for the people in the back, that’s exactly how you wound up in your silly little predicament. 

Back when you were in high school and still strangers to one another, there had been a wildly circulated rumor that Eddie would trade weed for head … funny how that has circled back to reflect you and your recent penchant for sexual bargaining chips – if you take a twenty minute shower, I’ll go down on you when you get out.

You don’t wonder how your shitty old friends would react to learning about that development in your behavior, because you rarely ever think about Carol and Tina these days. 

You do wonder how you’re going to get Eddie to stop giving you that sulky look while holding your ground.  

He needs to shower (on his own), and you need a little more time to yourself. 

You hate to press the issue, because it makes you feel too much like his mother – and you cannot even begin to unpack the Oedipal concept of that dynamic – but you absolutely cannot spend another moment pressed against his side and breathing shallowly under a cloying musk of days old body odor. 

“I’m fine,” He insists, crossing his arms and still trying to pretend like he isn’t bothered by your indictment of his personal hygiene. 

“No, you’re not.” You say, “You have to take better care of yourself. I know you don’t think it’s gonna make any difference, but I promise you it will. You’ll feel better.” 

Eddie offers you one of those half hearted smiles, and quirks his brow.

“You always say that.” 

“Yeah, so what? I’m always right. Do it for me, okay?”

It takes him a minute more of contemplative pouting, but eventually he relents, because for as soft as you are for him, he’ll do anything for you, even if it means bruising his ego a little. 

He slaps his hands on the bed and pushes up in the fading glimmer of a gesture he might have made back in the old days – your heart throbs painfully in your chest as you watch him flicker in and out of frame – then makes a show of stretching his arms high over his head. 

You watch as he comes to immediately regret the motion when his bad side hitches and he quickly remembers his limited range of movement. 

Eddie pretends like it doesn’t hurt as he makes his way across the room.

“Okay,” he says softly, pausing to kiss you on the cheek as he passes, “But only ‘cause yer so damn purty,” 

The affectation of the southern drawl you’d used before sounds much better on Eddie, and you lean fondly in to the press of his lips, not even bothering to be annoyed when he takes a cheeky handful of your backside. 

You feel your insides burn with what the touch suggests, and for half a mindless second, you tell yourself that maybe you could stand to follow him in there. Just to help him wash, of course, get the spots he can’t reach… nothing else…

Then, your rationality comes snapping back into place when Eddie strikes you hard on the ass with an open palm. 

You yelp in alarm more than pain and jump. Even after every time he has done that before, you never expect him to do it, and your face is burning as you turn to watch him go, disgustingly pleased with himself and snickering.

“Wash your hair,” you call, knowing it will add at least another five minutes to his shower, and your coveted alone time. “And brush your teeth.” 

Eddie acknowledges you with a dismissive wave and something grumbled under his breath as he disappears into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked in a stark contrast to the way you’d shut him out when you slipped away into the next and only other room. 

Therein lies the ultimate problem of your living situation. You keep trying to build a barrier, brick by brick, because you need your space, but Eddie needs it too, so every brick you put up he takes right back down.  

You feel a muted pang of guilt over that which dissipates the moment you hear the shower hiss on. Then, and only then, do you breathe a sigh of relief you didn’t realize you were holding. 

Your time begins now. 

Because you absolutely cannot abide the state of the bed, even after Eddie’s futile attempts to pull it into shape, you spend the full duration of Jefferson Starship’s regression back into the days of Airplane attempting to wrestle the top sheet into position as Jane fades into White Rabbit. 

Then, as the first strummed notes of More than Words begins to play, you brave the tide and pull the blankets over your head, curling in on yourself protectively. In the dark, the wet sloshing of the mattress is so much worse, so much weirder, and you try not to think about how womblike your cocoon suddenly is. 

You didn’t want the waterbed. You wanted a normal mattress to try and live your normal lives, but Eddie already wasn’t sleeping because of his nightmares, and you couldn’t stand to see him in any further pain, not when it was because of something you could so easily remedy.

Sure, it was a real kick in the teeth to have to send five hundred dollars you couldn’t afford down the drain on a mattress, but thankfully the retailer would accept an exchange on a product of equal or lesser value (emphasis on lesser) and that’s how you’d gone and found Eddie in some back corner of the store, starfished and riding the surf of the floor model waterbed like a blissed out Goldilocks.

The stuff of your nightmares.  

“Babe, it’ll be so cool,” he’d told you when he was trying with everything in his power to convince you to say yes.

He’d spouted some bullshit statistic he’d skimmed in a pamphlet at physical therapy about the benefits of hydrotherapy, and you’d informed him that sleeping on a giant water balloon was not hydrotherapy. But you were just so glad he was getting excited about something, and because mattress shopping is an exercise in twentieth century torture, you took it home for a tentative trial. 

Fourteen months later, here you lay, trying to relax, trying to sink into a quiet, thoughtless meditation, but you can’t stop your mind from spinning.

Because you hate this fucking waterbed. 

You hate the way it lists back and forth when you climb into it, and when Eddie slinks in after you and startles you awake with the sudden lurch of blaring panic, like stepping off a curb in your dreams. 

You hate the leaks it springs, you hate the crinkling duct tape patches that poke you through the sheets when you roll over. 

You hate how it holds the cold in the winter and radiates heat in the summer. 

But you don’t hate how happy it made Eddie to see it delivered, or how you’d lay awake giggling together that first night. You love the childlike glee you’d shared that night, taking turns bouncing each other on the creaking tide and whispering back and forth like kids having a sleepover. 

Of course, that giddy episode of play was the only prelude to what was perhaps the worst night’s sleep you’d ever had, but you’re almost happy to ignore that.   

In a turn of events which you pretend not to be shocked by, Eddie’s shower lasts nearly twenty-five minutes. By the time he shuts off the water and re-emerges, scrubbed pink, clean shaven, and reeking of peppermint, you’ve let the gentle rocking of the bed lull you into a sleepy stupor. 

“How was it?” you ask, regardless of what you already know.

You don’t ask him how long he actually spent washing and how long he just stood there under the tap (you also don’t ask if he allotted any of that time to jerking off in the distant hope that he’ll be satisfied enough to leave you alone) because the subtle change in his posture is all the evidence you need to know you were right. 

Like always. 

He looks over at you and smiles that same goofy smile that made you fall in love with him back in high school, and his brows come down. 

“Cold.” He says, “You used up all the hot water,”

Oh, whoops. He levels you with a sidelong glance which you imagine is meant to make you feel guilty for not letting him share the hot water with you, but somehow you can’t manage to get around to feeling that way. 

He’s clean, that’s all you care about.  

You can’t help but stare as he drops his towel in a wet heap and stands comfortably naked, pulling open drawers and looking for a pair of boxers and a clean shirt – wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles…

“Sorry,” you hum, watching with rapt, unblinking attention.

Eddie turns at the sound of your apology, and it takes a moment too long for your gaze to snap up when he comes to face you. You smile innocently, but he’s already smirking at you. 

“Are you?” he asks, “...or are you just enjoying the show?”

You tilt your head down to press your shoulder to your ear. 

“Maybe,” 

He rolls his eyes and steps into the faded blue plaid boxer shorts.

“Maybe, she says – move over, will ya?” 

You hold the blankets up for him to slide beneath. Pulling the shirt over his head, he settles in beside you and you sit together in silence, listening to the distant sounds of your mixtape playing as you wait for the bed to stop sloshing. 

You know deep down he secretly hates it too, but he’s too proud to admit when he’s wrong, especially after campaigning so hard for it. You don’t care, you’re in this for the long game — you’re gonna make him say it before you do.

You curl your arm around his back and immediately go to work knotting your fingers in the tangles of his hair, tugging gently at the damp baby hairs curling at the nape of his neck and making a mental note to help him comb it out before you fall asleep. 

Eddie rests his head atop yours with a contented sigh and you feel the poke of his tongue in his cheek as he swipes it over his teeth. 

“So, are you ever gonna tell me about your shitty day?”

“Who said I had a shitty day?” You ask.  

He breathes an easy chuckle out through his nose and you hear it rattle all the way down in his lungs. 

“You and that attitude of yours,”

 Before you can say anything in defense of your self, the next track begins to play, bringing with it the iconic intro to Dancing Queen. And because Eddie cannot abide ABBA, he is on his feet in an instant. 

The prelude to a great disappointment begins to well in your chest, because unlike Eddie, you do in fact remember being young and sweet, only seventeen, and you cherish those days – the earliest days of your entanglement with the town pariah, before you’d finished dancing around each other. 

“Eddie don’t–” You whine, but he’s already thumping across the room to the stereo sitting precariously balanced in your rickety bookcase. 

When he reaches the unit, he makes the executive decision that you can neither dance nor jive, and you will not be having the time of your life. He begins agitatedly punching buttons, and the song cuts out.

The track skips, and the next thing you know, your blood is thrumming along to the beat of a crunchy baseline, and Steve Perry is crooning you make me weak, and wanna die… and you know exactly what is coming next. 

The main event. The lovin’, the touchin’, the squeezin’... your insides squirm with an unhelpful reminder of your deep dark secret, and you muster every shred of self control you have. 

You will not be having sex tonight, no matter how good Eddie looks naked, no matter what he does to try and sway you, and no matter how much Steve Perry insists he’s tearin’ you apart… 

You cross your arms and breathe out hard through your nose with wavering determination as Eddie turns back to you, once again disgustingly pleased with himself. 

“That’s better,” He says, crossing back to the bed in two long-legged strides and throwing himself down beside you.

The mattress jumps and rolls, and your muscles tense as you do everything you can to stay upright and sulking.

“Why do you hate fun?” you ask as Eddie crawls over top of you on his hands and knees.

“Hate fun?” he echoes, like he cannot believe you would accuse him of such a thing.

“You know I love that song.”

 “Yeah, but, Sweetheart, this is a great song! It’s the best song on the list,”

Never mind the fact that he skipped three tracks to get there. You set your teeth and try not to take offense to his criticism of your taste in music because you’ve long since agreed to disagree.  

“This is a sex song.” You correct, resisting the asking fingers he’s begun to drum along your tightly crossed arms.

When you fail to open up for him, Eddie rolls his head to the side and looks up at you through his lashes in that very specific way he knows drives you just a little bit crazy.  

“It’s your tape, Babygirl,” he says evenly, “I’m just a humble disc jockey.” 

You snort out your displeasure with the statement, but you can’t deny it. Because you had indeed hidden Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’ among the tracks on your Summer Fling mixtape back in the summer of ‘84 in the raunchy little hope that it would inspire Eddie to do just that to you, and you know that he knows that as well as you do.

So, whose fault is it really when he slips his hands up under your shirt and starts kissing your neck?

You curse yourself for being so unbearably hot for him back in the day, and for the way that, after two long years, nothing has changed.

“Can I make a request?”

He hums out an easy laugh.

“Nope, sorry. We’re only playing mood music for the rest of the night.” Eddie says, and you tilt your head dutifully back when he nudges your jawline with his nose, “Unless you were gonna ask for Dio, ‘cause you always gotta remember to leave room for Ronnie–”

“If you try to put on Holy Diver again I’m leaving.”

He giggles then – actually giggles – and this time when he kisses you, you feel the press of his tongue on your throbbing pulse point.

You tell yourself this is as far as you’re going to go. You can stand to let him suck a bruise into your neck if that’s what it takes to make him happy but you’re not going to have sex, even if you’re suddenly squirming beneath him to alleviate the thrumming between your thighs.   

With everything you still have to talk about, you can’t afford to let Eddie distract you like that.

Of course, you already know what he’s going to say, the question he’ll ask you — what do you want to do? 

You don’t want him to ask you that. You want him to tell you what to do. You want him to have all the answers and put your mind at ease because you’ve been driving yourself crazy asking yourself that question all goddamn day.

What do you want to do? What are you going to do? How far are you willing to let this go? 

Are you prepared to go all the way with Eddie Munson? You’d asked yourself that once in a situation not so dissimilar to the one you currently find yourself in.

Of course, that time had been significant, because it had been the first time, and even now you remember that cold November afternoon so vividly. You should have been in school, but instead, you were parked outside a record store an hour outside of Hawkins, laying in the back of a van beneath the boy you so desperately loved and letting him send you to pieces with a kiss.

It wasn’t a chaste, pretty kiss like you see in the movies — at least no decent kind of movie — it was a heavy, dirty thing, with tongue and teeth and gasping breath. He held your hands pinned above your head, and you lay there rutting up against him in desperate search of something that only your animal brain could explain. 

The natural progression of things, the way of the world and of girls and boys since time immemorial.

You might have briefly entertained the thought of having his baby back then, in the murky heat of the moment. In hindsight, you’re fairly certain that was just latent Darwinism reminding you that you are a mammal and that your only true purpose on this Earth is to breed – so breed, Baby.

And then your rational human mind prevailed, and asked you that terrible question: are you ready for this?

You’d thought you’d been scared of what the question meant then, but the virginal fear of the thing lurking between a boy’s legs — between your legs back then, prodding you through Eddie’s jeans and asking for a respectful permission you could not help but deny — holds no candle to the uncertain, impending future, which you no longer bother planning for.

Pledging your undying love as a horny teen fresh out of a very close brush with death is one thing, but tethering yourself to something and someone indefinitely?

Are you ready to commit to that with Eddie Munson?

Are you prepared to love him and take care of him on good days and bad, no matter what? Through night terrors and fugue episodes and days and days and so many hard days of wishing he would just snap out of it and come back to his old self?

Are you prepared to have his baby? 

“Ground control to Major Tom.” Eddie calls distantly, and you feel a gentle tapping at the center of your forehead, “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”

He guides you gently from the mire of your existential thoughts and fears, and you blink back at him as he waits expectantly for an answer to whatever it was he’d just said.

“Hmm? Oh — sorry, Eds,” you say absently, reaching up to cup his cheek in your hand, “What were you saying?”

He glares at you, but the effect is ruined by the shy twitch of his lips, quirking at the corners despite his best efforts to play mad at you. He’s still on his hands and knees, a mere inch of distance between your noses as he glowers at you in mock offense — how dare you not be fully engaged in the first steps of this stunning foreplay.

Oh please, as if you don’t do this every goddamn night. 

“Only that I need you so bad right now,” he says, “But it’s not so easy getting that message to Mars. I guess NASA’s not really in the business of passing love notes.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, hooking a finger in the collar of his t-shirt. The lingering effects of the shower waft up in a puff of clean air when you release the fabric, and even through the haze of shampoo and toothpaste, you can smell the bitter undertone of all the cigarettes he smoked today.    

“You need me so bad every night.” You remind him. 

He grins and you feel his teeth when he tips forward.   

“Can’t help it.” Eddie says against your lips, attempting to resume the stilted progress of his foreplay by ducking his head to press a less than chaste kiss to the space beneath your ear — flicking tongue, scrape of teeth – his voice reverberates against the drum and you shiver, “It’s Kafkaesque.”

You snort and wonder as he snakes his hands up under your shirt and takes your breasts in hand if that was meant to impress you. 

“Pavlovian.”

“What’s that, Sweet Girl?” He asks, changing direction without missing a beat.

Eddie rocks back on the balls of his feet, and lifts your thighs over his, pulling you down the mattress a tick – your head thumps against the headboard. Ouch.   

He helps you sit up straight with an apologetic hand, boring holes into you with those big dark eyes – pretty eyes. 

Hungry eyes Eric Carmen might have told you, were you listening to the radio and not Journey’s endless waning call of “nah nah nah-nah nah,”.  

“You mean Pavlovian,” you tell him, bracing your hands on his shoulders when he hugs you by the waist and pulls you into his lap.  

“How do you know what I mean?” he asks as you settle into this new position. 

You drum your fingers along his collarbones and tilt your head, smiling coquettishly as you innocently prepare to bore him to death. 

“Because Pavlov trained dogs to drool at the sound of a bell by ringing one every time he fed them,” you say, “and Kafkaesque suggests that you’re trapped in an authoritarian situation that you can’t escape, so I don’t think that really applies … unless you’re trying to tell me something about our relationship.” 

Eddie hums out a low, performative moan, deep from the back of his throat. It’s not so performative a sound, however, that you can’t feel the hard length of something prodding into the crook of your thigh. 

“I love it when you talk dirty,” he says, baring his teeth at you in a wolfish grin that looks almost like something the old Eddie would have done. 

Eddie before the trauma and surgeries and blood transfusion on blood transfusion on blood transfusion. 

You roll your eyes and trail your fingers down down down his abdomen until you’ve reached the less-than-subtle tent in his threadbare boxers. He draws in a sharp intake of breath when you skim your fingers over the tip of his bulge before taking an immodest palmful of his dick. 

Once upon a time you would have wilted at the thought of doing something like that, but time and practice and the way Eddie’s eyes slide shut as he nods his encouragement has turned a gesture like that into something as casual as late night television. 

He rolls his hips forward and you already feel a bead of heady wetness blooming in the fabric of his boxers when you swipe a cheeky thumb over his tip.

His breath hitches, and Eddie has to clear his throat to keep his voice steady as you begin to work him in your fist. 

“Go on,” He says, and you’re nothing if not happy to oblige.   

“You … getting a hard-on …every night at bedtime… is Pavlovian…” You say, stroking him in a measured up and down. 

Big smile, front teeth poking out, cheeks indenting with an elusive dimple, Eddie shakes his head, pulling you forward to press bodily against him, and sandwiching your hand indecently between you. He doesn’t stop moving his hips. 

“You’re so smart,” he rasps, and you detect the faintest hint of a quaver in his voice when you make a ring with your index finger and thumb, encircling the broad flare of him through the fabric and squeezing.

His mouth falls open on a heavy breath, and you close it right back up with a finger on his chin. 

Still moving in short lazy thrusts, he sighs against you and kisses the line of your jaw, teasing your head back once more with a gentle nudge and exposing the taught columns of your throat to him.

“It’s so fucking sexy.”

You fail to suppress a snort and are almost shocked when it doesn’t immediately kill the mood.

“Is it really that sexy or are you just horny?”

“Who says it can’t be both?” Eddie says, “You’re smart and sexy… and I’m super fucking hot for you right now,”

And because he absolutely cannot help himself when he is reminded of even the faintest hint of a song, suddenly he’s singing under his breath.  

“—hot-blooded, check it and see—” Eddie’s Foreigner impression plays against the waning backdrop of Journey turning over to Pat Benatar, insisting We Belong from the competing stereo.

It’s entirely too much, and you burst into a fit of undainty laughter.

“Don’t laugh, this is important.” He says, grinning, “— I got a fever of a hundred and three,”

When you don’t stop, Eddie kisses you, and even under the seal of his lips, you can’t manage to stifle your giggling.

Of course, now you remember why it’s more fun to fool around and have sex every night than it is to be sensible adults who keep their hands to themselves. Because that’s how you get the old Eddie back – fun Eddie – the one who made you lose your mind and fall in love with him that first Tuesday night at the Hideout a hundred Tuesdays ago. 

Even then, you’d loved him so bad you could have screamed. And you did scream, you recall. You’d screamed yourself hoarse even as Corroded Coffin got booed off stage because you were their biggest fan – their words, not yours – even if their name was stupid and made you giggle behind their backs. 

So what if you only ever see that version of Eddie anymore when you’ve got his cock in your fist? As if to punctuate the thought, he stammers over the next lyric and gasps out a breathy moan when you give him three quick jerks.

He laughs.  

“Naughty,” 

You giggle along and part his lips with a cheeky swipe of your tongue, happily swallowing every little sound he makes under your touch and feeling your insides begin to quiver in turn.

You’ll keep jerking him off because it’s fun to watch him steadily go to pieces, but you’re not having sex tonight – so, why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that?

“Babe,” Eddie says, lips clicking wetly as you part, “It’s not funny, it’s a serious medical condition – you don’t have to read my mind, to know what’s on my mind – Man, those lyrics are stunning.”

“Sheer poetry.” You say, nodding and his eyes light up.

“Right? Guy’s an artist,”

You’re still giggling when you feel the scrape of Eddie’s teeth along the tender veins lining your neck, pinching just a little too sharply on your jugular.

It sends a bolt of adrenaline shooting down like sparks to sting the tips of your fingers and toes, and suddenly it’s not nearly as funny or sexy as it was a moment ago.

You gasp. Fight or flight kicks in — you freeze.

Your heart hammers in your chest, your hearing whites out, – your hands are trembling as you struggle to unwind the soiled bandage tied tight around your broken fingers. You press it to the ugly wound in Eddie’s throat, spurting blood as he tries and fails to breathe through it – he coughs and gasps against the pain it causes him and chokes on your name in a way that makes you never want to hear him say it again… help me, it pleads, don’t let me die, make it stop…

You breathe out harshly and shake your head against the intrusive image of blood turned nearly black in the dark of that place. Your hands come up to brace firmly against Eddie’s shoulders, fingers trembling as you dig them into the muscle there, and you shove him without really meaning to.

“Stop—” You gasp.

It’s okay, you’re okay, You tell yourself, the same way you tell Eddie every night he thrashes awake in a blinding terror, You’re here. You’re safe, you’re home — just breathe. 

“Sorry—” He says immediately, “Too much?”

But you can barely hear him over the roaring in your ears.  

You focus on what you can see — the walls of your shared bedroom/dining room/living room, all your collective things illuminated in the amber glow of the flickering table lamp sitting across the room.

And you focus on Eddie, drying curls backlit and flyaway, framing his face — his handsome face — not spattered in blood and twisted in agony, but freshly scrubbed and tweaked in alarm and a less than subtle hint of concern. 

You’re okay, but more importantly, he’s okay, he’s here with you, and nothing bad can happen when you’re together — but you’d been together while he lay there bleeding to death, hadn’t you? 

“Are you okay?” he asks, all traces of teasing gone from his tone. 

It’s amazing how quickly he can shut it off when the mood shifts. Your sweet boy. 

“I’m okay,”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, “I just — I didn’t expect you to do that.” 

It’s bizarre that the motion triggered you like that, especially since you’re not the one who had your throat cut down there.

Down there. 

“...do you wanna stop?”

You fight to suppress a shiver and the urge to immediately agree – yes, you should stop, especially since you have no intention of letting this go any further than heavy petting, but you don’t want to be a killjoy.

You shake your head to try and disperse any lingering memory of that night – that eternal night – and absently pet the side of your paramour’s face.

“No,” You say, “No, we don’t have to stop.” But you’re painfully aware of the lack of enthusiasm in your tone.

Eddie’s brows furrow over his eyes, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you, so you tilt forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Let’s keep going,” you say.

You kiss him, attempting to rekindle what has already begun to die out, and when he doesn’t reciprocate, when you try to kiss him again and he leans back, you feel your insides seize with disappointment. 

“I’m fine, Eddie,” you say, and he pulls a face.

“Liar,”

“I am. I promise.” 

You watch disbelief shadow his face and the muscle in his jaw flex. You can tell he’s getting impatient, not for the starting and stopping, but because he knows you’re not telling him something.

Isn’t that the understatement of the century?

After a moment, Eddie drops his head and sighs your name dejectedly, you try not to flinch or hear it forced out on a burbling bloody timber begging you to make it stop. He slumps onto his hip beside you and he walks two cheeky fingers up the length of your thigh before resting a hand at the top and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“—we don’t have to do this.” He says, “We can just go to bed.” 

You wish that were true. 

You rock back into the pillows and force yourself to smile, feeling your cheeks pull as your insides go tight and twisty. 

Sure, you could just go to bed with a chaste kiss and a “see you in the morning,” and wake up in a few hours to find Eddie on his third cup of coffee, watching late-night television and chain smoking. Or, and far more likely, you can wake up to him thrashing and screaming beside you through the endless circadian reruns of his death and spend the rest of the night trying to calm him down.  

No actually, you can’t just go to bed. You have to do something to help him relax, so that he’s too tired to do anything but sleep through the night.

And the best way to do that, you have found, is to get him off. As it turns out you can only therapy fuck your boyfriend for so long – approximately fourteen months – before it starts to have consequences, like unplanned pregnancies and his being unable to sleep without you getting him off first.

Your hesitation to answer speaks volumes, and Eddie finally shakes his head.

“Let’s just go to bed,”

“No,” you press, pawing at the front of his shirt and hating how whiny you sound as you say it, “I want to keep going.” 

“Don’t just say that because you think it’s what I want to hear,” he says a little too harshly.

“I’m not.”

“You have to tell me if something’s wrong, Sweetheart. I’m not a mind reader, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

It’s startling to hear, like the clanging of a bell. He knows something is up, and while he may not know what it is, Eddie’s not nearly as stupid as he pretends to be, and you’re a bad liar.

So, quit beating around the bush and tell him already.   

You don’t know why, but you’re committed to denying it now, so you wire your jaw shut and shake your head. 

“I’m fine, you just startled me. I didn’t expect you to do that,”

Eddie gives you that hard look again, and you do your best not to wilt under it. 

“And…?” 

“…And I’m–” Pregnant. “– a little tired…” Pussy. “…and my head hurts.” Stupid. 

Oldest cliché in the book — not tonight honey, I have a headache.  

When he still doesn’t let up, you throw your hands up in a lopsided shrug and catch his face to bracket on the way down, as if that’s going to do anything to soften the blow of rejection you’re trying so desperately to avoid.

Suddenly, it feels a lot like you’re the one about to receive it, and you hate how desperate that makes you feel. What are you fighting so hard for? You’re not having sex tonight, remember?

“I found out I have to go in on Saturday to do inventory,” you fib, pulling your shoulders up and fully committing to the bullshit subterfuge, “That’s why I’ve been cranky… sorry, I should have just told you.”

And then, Eddie’s shoulders drop and he relaxes under the blissful satisfaction of the truth. It makes you feel grimy, 

“Ah-ha,” he says, “Melvald’s workin’ you to the bone, huh?”

You nod.

“One box of Kotex at a time.” More like one box of neatly packaged pregnancy tests — results in ten minutes or less! 

Eddie's features soften, and he dips his head to brush his lips across the slope of your shoulder. 

“My Baby’s just tired, huh?” He hums against you, “Poor Baby...” 

You suppress a flinch and silently wish he would stop saying things like that. 

“Yeah.” You say dejectedly, “Anyway, there you go. My shitty boring day. Stocking shelves, live in technicolor,” 

Eddie hums thoughtfully and you watch as he begins a steady descent down your body.  

“That’s hot. Think we could get it on pay-per-view?”

You push up on your elbows just as he slides down to come face-to-face with your midriff, and you clear your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” You say, as he slips a cheeky finger beneath the band of your shorts. 

He pauses to give you a sly look.

“Down unda,” Eddie says, grinning and effecting a thick Australian accent. 

Oh no, absolutely not. Jerking him off is one thing, but if you let him go down on you, it’ll be a one-way ticket to Stupidtown, and you’ll absolutely end up letting him fuck you. 

You’re determined not to let that happen, so you pull your knees up and cross your ankles over his back, squeezing tightly. Eddie makes a put-out sound when you cage him in and he finds he can go no further. 

“You got a passport, Crocodile Dundee?” You deadpan, quirking an unimpressed brow.

“Jeez, can’t a guy worship at his altar in peace?” he says, trying to wriggle free and butter you up in the same breath, “The goddess? My inspiration?” 

You roll your eyes but you don’t let him go when he begins to squirm in earnest. 

It is an effort in futility. 

Back in the day, you spent many an afternoon sitting around the trailer watching professional wrestling, and those sessions typically ended with you in a headlock after boldly claiming you could beat Eddie in a fight. To his credit, he always at least let you try before flipping you ass over tea kettle and holding you pinned to the carpet until you said “uncle”. In those days, you never stood a chance, but that was then, and unlike Eddie, you actually bothered to go to your physical therapy sessions and still have full functional use of your body. 

You’re not trying to hurt him, so you aren’t putting nearly enough pressure on his ribs to really hold him, but he’s out of breath before you’ve even broken a sweat.

“Release me, Foul Temptress.” He demands, struggling against you and the vice you have on him. 

You cross your arms and make a show of leisurely checking your nails. 

“Say uncle.” You say innocently. 

“You’re evil,”  

“No, I’m winning.”

When he stops moving long enough to glare back at you, you push out your lower lip in a feigned pout. 

“Had enough yet?”

You watch the muscles in Eddie’s jaw flex as he contemplates all the biting retorts he could possibly hit you with before evidently decides against retaliation. 

He sighs and goes slack against you, forehead dropping to knock against your belly, and you once again have to resist the sudden and bizarre urge to tell him to be careful.

He doesn’t know, how could he know when you haven’t told him yet? 

Of course, it’s only lost in this brief but looming thought that you momentarily let your guard down, and Eddie finds his ace in the hole.

He presses his nose to the tender softness of your belly and makes a gentle, needy sound, and your thighs involuntarily tremble. 

You unhook your ankles and let your feet drop to the bed on either side of his hips with two solid thumps that sends you rocking back and forth on a sloshing tide.

You don’t know when he started to work your T-shirt up, but suddenly your flesh is exposed to him and those damn lips. 

He doesn’t kiss you, so much as part his lips and breathe out, a long, quivering breath that has your throat closing up and your knees edging open far enough to let him drop and lay with his stomach pressed flat to your pubic bone. 

“I just wanna be good to you,” he says, muffled against your stomach, searching hands skittering up up up over your thighs and into the open legs of your shorts to grace the supple curve of your hip. “Wish I had something nice to say … to make it all better…”

He brushes his lips over the spot just beneath your navel and you feel something flutter there. 

You can’t be sure if it’s just the phantom sensation of your secret crying out to be known, or the way you’ve noticed how he’s begun rocking his hips into the mattress. He still has a hard on, after all, and he knows how much you like to watch him get himself off like that. It causes your breath to hitch in your throat, but you manage catch Eddie’s hands before he can get your shorts off.

Under the looming threat of complete and total mental blackout, you muster your courage, and try once more to pick up where you left off. 

“I – I have something to tell you … actually,” you say tentatively, worrying your lower lip and trying not to get caught on the slow, purposeful canting of his hips.

It piques his interest enough to stir him from where he’s tucked himself between your legs and turn curious eyes up at you, blown dark with needy expectation. 

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is a deep and husky rasp that sends a bolt of want like lightning down to the thrumming apex of your thighs. “Something nice?”

You swallow hard and, despite your subtle hesitation, lift your hips off the mattress to assist him this time as he slides your shorts down and discards them over his shoulder. 

They land softly over top of the lamp, plunging you into a sudden and deeply muted semi-darkness – mood lighting, something inside you suggests and you have to force yourself to watch Eddie work to keep from rolling your eyes.

You’re not going to have sex with him… but that doesn’t mean you’re not just a little curious to see what he has in mind. 

You know exactly what he has in mind, Stupid.

You forgot to make him eat dinner so now he’s just going to have to make due.

“I don’t know if it’s necessarily nice, but it’s something.” You breathe, watching transfixed as he eases your knees open as far as they will go, exposing the thin, damp fabric of your panties to the air.

He hums, a gentle rumble in the hollow of his throat that sends goosebumps flash freezing across your arms and legs when it catches on the end. 

Distantly, you see his hips jump as he catches on a fold in the sheets, and you throb in wanting commiseration.   

“… good or bad?” He rasps, punching a breath out from your already flattening lungs as he skims the junction of at the crook of your thigh with the tip of his nose and moves lower … lower. 

“Oh… good.” You say, voice an embarrassing octave higher than normal, “It’s good… hhmmaybe. I...uh... I-I haven’t decided yet.”

Teeth in the elastic of your panties, a sharp tug pulls his lower lip down before it snaps back into place, and he groans.

You fail to suppress a shiver as Eddie eases your legs up over his shoulders, still working his hips against the mattress at an agonizing pace. Suddenly all you want is to be the bed, laying beneath him as he rocks steadily into you, using you to chase his release, just like he does most nights. 

It briefly occurs to you that if you’re having that thought, it means you’re steadily approaching the point of no return. If you had any sense at all, you’d pump the breaks while you still can, but then you can feel the smooth plane of his face nuzzling the flesh of your inner thigh. You feel the press of his lips, and your tongue goes fat and useless in your mouth. Under the gentle prelude to the way he begins to press slow, reverent kisses along the expanse of your scar, you forget how to breathe, let alone do something so pointless as speak. 

The scar is the only physical thing you carry from that day you slipped through to the other side of the world. It’s a jagged, ugly thing that extends from your knee to your bikini line because while the initial wound had been expansive, the surgeon who attended to you that night last spring knew fuck all about fuck all and somehow managed to make it worse. You’re lucky, because most of your trauma is invisible, but you shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, you should be thinking about something normal, something sexy as Eddie continues with those soft, open-mouthed kisses, leaving cooling wet crescents over the length of the raised puckered skin, higher, higher…

And what’s sexy about scars and surgeons and the lingering evidence of eighty-four stitches?

Nothing, absolutely nothing, but it doesn’t stop you from reaching down to hook your fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. You tug and pinch and gather material until you’ve made a little progress, trying to undress him while he’s busy grinding his cock into the bed, but you’re having a hard time getting it done from this angle.

Thankfully, the reverence of your touch does not go unnoticed — Eddie ceases his ministrations to push up on his knees and help you. Flushed and sweating, he reaches back and takes a fist full of the fabric, pulling the shirt over his head and discarding it in one swift movement. 

And then, just like that, you can see all the punishment he took trying to save you, down there on the wrong side of the world. All his scars and the evidence of just how close you came to losing him. Your heart thumps solidly against your ribs – yours is ugly, but his are worse, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing what those nasty little fuckers did to him. You keep that strictly to yourself, however, because Eddie already hates the way he looks bad enough without the burden of your opinion. He doesn’t need to know how they make you feel. 

You reach for him, suddenly desperate to touch him, and he takes you by the hand. He holds you firmly in his smoldering, blackened gaze, and you watch as he presses your index and middle fingers together. Then, he slides the compressed digits into the dark wet heat of his mouth and sucks on them until you’re flushed so hot your face has started to burn.

On the surface of your brain, the feeling of his tongue slipping up between your fingers, edging them open and flicking at the soft nook of flesh at the valley of their connection is unbearably gross, but that message doesn’t seem to make it down to the places where it matters. Nobody tells your animal brain that it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your fingers go sliding out with a sickly wet slurp, and you shiver.

“Save these for me,” he says, “For later,”

Later? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What’s going to happen later? You find, as he slides down the length of your body, that you don’t actually care. 

What happens in an hour or ten minutes (or less) is none of your goddamn concern when Eddie is busy parting your legs in a mirror image of the way he’d just parted your fingers.

You find you don’t have the capacity to wonder any further than that when he slips back down to prop your legs over your shoulders and hook his fingers in the dampened gusset of your panties. You breathe out a long, wanton noise that something in the back of your mind tells you is whorish when you feel the first puff of air fanning your bare pussy.

That damning something in the back of your mind suggests you should be embarrassed about that, but you can’t manage to feel anything but heated as he eases your underwear down your legs and banishes them to some far corner of the apartment.

Eddie kisses the nook at the highest point of your thigh, directly to the right of where he’s begun to trace the faintest ghost of a touch over your entrance, and suddenly all you can hear is your own heart pounding in your ears. He applies a whisper of pressure and dips into you up to the first knuckle, and you lay there, barely able to take it, wringing the sheets in your fists, telling yourself that at any moment cooler heads will prevail and you’ll put a stop to this.

Stupidtown looms on the horizon, and he’s barely even touched you.

Then, on top of everything he’s doing to you, Eddie has the audacity to try and get you talking again.

“You were saying?… ‘something good, maybe’ … but…?” he says, stretching the word lyrically in a way you haven’t heard him do in a long, long time. 

You don’t get the chance to revel in that before the question is followed by the sharp pinch of flesh between teeth as he bites you, just beneath your scar. Hard enough to bruise, but not enough to break the skin. You yelp and jump against him, but he holds you firmly to the spot so you can’t escape, then he soothes the offended flesh with the wide flat press of his tongue before sucking it in past his lips – it burns, and you can’t stand how much you like it.

“Hey, g-go easy with that, will you?” You try to tell him, “Easy…” but then he uses two fingers to spread your pussy open wide, exposing you to the air.

You trail off into a long, high whine, which turns sharp and loud when he flicks the blunt edge of his nail over your painfully neglected clit. The bundle of nerves screams, and your hips buck up hard enough to break the seal of the bruise he’d been busy sucking into your thigh. 

When he presses his thumb flat to that howling little bitch, you blow right past the point of no return. 

“Oh, fuck! – Eddie!” you gasp, and when he smiles you can feel his teeth as he gives you one last gentle nip for good measure. 

“Ask me nicely,” He growls, and you lose your goddamn mind. 

Never mind all of your bullshit principles. Never mind tests or little pink lines and blue tabs and green plus signs – you need him to fuck you, and you need him to do it now.  

“Please,” you cry, “Please, please, please–”

“Good girl,”

[zirawrites]

Fallout 4 companions reaction to sole who used to be criminal back in the old days before the bombs fell? They used to be a pro thief as they would rob banks and jewelery stores.

Cait: "I knew there was a reason we got on so well, Sole!" Cait threw an arm around her companion's shoulders. "So, what was your biggest score? And care to try it again? I reckon caps are easier to nick than jewels."

Codsworth: The Mr. Handy's body rattled in horror. "My word, sir/ma'am! Surely you jest. Our home was purchased with honest money. Why, you had reputable employment. Why would we have needed to steal?" He shook himself in disagreement. "This is a prank, isn't it? Well, it's not very funny. You've been spending too much time with Deacon."

Curie: "The psychology around kleptomania is actually quite fascinating." Curie badgered Sole with questions about their motivations behind their theft; seemingly uninterested in the heists themselves. Sole was so overwhelmed that they eventually lied that it was a joke.

Danse: "And you thought that was appropriate to confess to a Paladin?" Danse crossed his arms in admonishment. "I suggest you recant that statement before it gets noted in your records."

Deacon: Deacon reckoned that being a liar didn't give him the best moral standing to judge his partner for their criminal past. "That'll come in handy when dealing with the Institute." Then he patted his pockets. "Just don't get any ideas about borrowing my things. Tinker Tom does that enough already. This merry band we've got is running me dry."

Hancock: "Get in line with every other drifter who's blown through my town." The ghoul handed Sole a can of jet and gestured to his apartment. "Though I wouldn't mind hearing about some of those scores. Dishonest work makes for some of the best stories."

MacCready: "Woah, nice! What's the most expensive thing you've ever swiped?" MacCready pulled out a lighter from his duster. "Sometimes I help myself to a trinket or two from a target. This here is the best lighter I've ever used. Stole it off a serial killer, so I don't feel too bad about it." Then he shivered. "You don't think it has, like, bad energy, do you? Maybe I should toss it..."

Preston: "I don't think you'd want to admit that in earshot of any other Minutemen," he warned. "Don't think they'd take kindly to knowing our general's loyalties are... questionable." Then Preston checked his coat. "Wait, you haven't stolen anything from me, have you?"

Piper: "If you weren't my friend, I'd interview you for a feature on your greatest pre-war heists." Piper shrugged, her disappointment obvious. "But I'd hate to besmirch the goody-two-shoes image you've cultivated in the Commonwealth. Even if it loses me some sales."

Nick: "That's not exactly something you should brag about, kid." Nick looked the the perfect example of a displeased parent. "Some criminals make for the best detectives. They know how the bad guys' minds work. But don't get any bright ideas about pulling one over on me."

X6-88: "Surely not a common thief, though." X6 frowned. "Are we talking fancy jewelry stores? Big banks? Whatever you stole, I'm sure you got more out of it than a simple raider."

Edit: Just as Sole thawed from cryofreeze, I have returned.

[x-liv25-jamieswife]

can a girl get some Hawthorne brother bonding as children hcs? <3

hawthorne brother bonding head canons

omg yessssss! i love the four brothers' dynamic. they're so fucking amazing (and hot). hope you like them<3.

nash would read them bedtime stories. they'd join him in his room, and they would take turns choosing which book nash would read to them

xander used to get all of them to join him in the pool bc he absolutely loved blowing bubbles in the water but didn't want to be alone.

this one happens when they're older but i found it funny so - xander, grayson, and nash would all drag jamie up to his room when he passed out form drinking too much.

they would tease xander about his school crushes (he was once crushing on the girl bc she had blown him a kiss, and he didn't stop talking about for the next week)

xander would find stray cats/dogs and give them to his brothers

grayson started learning how to cook at like 8, but he was really bad at it. his brothers used to pretend the food was delicious when in reality in tasted like dog shit (jamie didn't lie though, grayson appreciated it and became better bc of it)

xander had an obsession with whales and wanted his walls filled with them. nash, grayson, and jamie, got xander out of his room, and painted little whales on his walls (they're all great painters bc yk hawthornes)

they all had a shared insta account when xander was like 12 where they would post random shit (gray hated it but liked the idea of having smth special with his three brothers)

for nash's 10th birthday (i believe that means xander was like 3) the three younger brothers went out alone and bought him a new cowboy hat and cowboy boots.

they all go shopping with for the gfs together.

they'll sit together and ask each other relationship advice.

when jamie was younger, he had an obsession with helicopters, so nash, grayson, and xander got tobias to get someone to give him a helicopter ride.

they had sleepovers at least once a week when they were children

they didn't really have many real friends (people wanted to use them for their money) so at school they would just sit together at lunch (obviously nash wasn't really a part of if cause he's older)

skye usually forgot about their birthdays so they would all organize their own birthday parties.

xander used to loveee it when jamie gray and nash took turns reading the percy jackson series (like jamie as grover, gray as annabeth, nash as percy)

sometimes people pick at xander cause he's a sweet innocent little cinnamon bun who's kinda easy to bully so nash, grayson and jamie always defend him and make him regret everything he's ever said to their sweet little brother (they once stalked this guy. followed him home, sent him little threats. tobias got really mad and told them that they couldn't do that again)

they're always commenting on each others insta posts (and jamie's thirst traps)

they love going on road trips together (just the four of them). they do at least one road trip a year alone. the tradition started as soon as nash learned to drive.

xander organizes all of their closets (he's an organized king) or makes them little gadgets/grayson is always cooking everyone meals/jamie leaves little puzzles with gifts inside for them to find/nash is literally always teaching them new things

nash used to love to tuck them all in when they were all children.

sometimes they'd watch movies together and they'd all fall asleep except for nash. he'd carry them all up to their rooms. sometimes he also carried them all to his own room, and they'd have a sleepover.

they all like reading (some more that others) and sometimes they all huddle up in xander's room (cause he made this weird comfy revolutionary sofa thing that's really comfortable) and read.

they all gush about their girlfriends to each other. like they'll sit there and be like "omg you should've seen avery today, i think i fell even more in love with her" and then nash will go like "omg same libby made me cake today"

nash wears speedos to the beach and xander thought it was funny so he dared them all to do it too the next time they went to the beach. their gfs were traumatized and were considering breaking up with them. (@catapparently came up with this one)

xander published the book he mentioned writing at the beginning of tbh and it sold like crazy (i don't remember what it was called). xander saw how successful it was and made a book for nash and jamie too.

they love making candy salads and eating them in front of the tv while watching shows (grayson secretly loves candy smmm).

they were all on the cover of vogue (all individually, and once or twice all together)

grayson makes painting for all of them to put in their rooms.

grayson sometimes composes piano pieces for xander, jamie, and nash's birthdays.

jamie used to tear up when his brothers asked him to hang out with them bc tobias convinced him he wasn't good enough (fuck you tobias)

xander used to love to have tea parties when he was like 5, and he'd force everyone to come (he had a pink tea set).

[miyagifangkai]

Coffee and Cigarettes

Requested: by anon

Summary: You work at a slow diner in the dead of winter. Through the boring nights you meet someone.

Character: Adam Stanheight

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Honestly none. It’s fluffy. Tons of dialogue lol! Honestly not completely proofread

A/N: this was super fun to write. Hope you all like it. Thank you so much for reading, honestly. 💕

The night was cold. Freezing to be exact. Your fingers were numb and you could see your breath with every exhale. You started to quicken your pace as the wind started to pick up. It was starting to flurry snow and you could tell that it was going to start sleeting soon.

You didn’t live too far away from your job but on nights like this it felt like miles. You didn’t have enough money for a cab since it was a slow night at the cafe but you still chose to go home early tonight.

As you were walking you couldn’t help but think about your shift, specifically a customer you had. A thin brunette man who stayed most of the evening. He was charming but awkward; funny but erratic in some ways. You weren’t sure if it was too much caffeine that he had consumed after his four cups of coffee, the total of creams and sugars running through his system, or the copious amounts of nicotine that he had smoked; but he always greeted you with wide eyes, blown pupils, and a slightly goofy lopsided grin with every word you spoke to him.

“More coffee?”

He looks up at you with a cigarette in hand and a small smile, “Yes, please.”

You couldn’t help but smile back at him, “Of course,” you pour more coffee in his cup.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” your heart jumped when he said this.

It had been a few hours of him sitting in the cafe looking through a scrapbook of what you were assuming was pictures that he had taken.

It was dead so you decided to ask, “It’s none of my business but what are you looking at?”

He slightly scoffs, “Oh, this?” He looks down and points at the book with a shaky hand that was opened on a page with a picture of a middle aged man, smiling, walking to his car, “it’s work.”

“You keep your work in a scrapbook?”

He looks back up at you, “Yeah. Just the ones I like. The ones with mystery.”

You shake your head letting him know that you understand what he was talking about, “Huh, that’s cool! Kinda like a detective?”

Looking back down at his scrapbook he chuckles and shrugs his shoulders, “Sure, something like that.”

You smile again at him, “Sure, do you need anymore cream or sugar?”

“Sugar, please.”

You reach in your pocket and hand him a few packets of sugar, “So, you’ve been here for a bit,” he looks back up at you with slight anticipation, “what’s your name?”

You could tell that he was struggling with something to say to you or maybe he was contemplating on if he wanted to smile at you or take another drag of his cigarette but he finally settles on, “Adam.”

“Well, hello Adam!” You say sounding embarrassingly excited.

This time he smiles and almost laughs, “Hello.. uh.. Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, honey. Let me know if you need anything else,” you gave him your award winning smile.

He reciprocates, “Thanks.”

You approach the door at your apartment building and unlock the door. You walk inside and close the door letting out a breath already starting to warm up. You decided to take a warm shower and make something small to eat. You couldn’t help but think about him again. Your thoughts becoming consumed by him. You wondered if he would show up again and when? You got excited about the thought of seeing his smile and hearing his voice.

As you’re on your way back to work the following evening your thoughts are still crowded with memories of him. The sunset painted the sky with pink and purple watercolors. You always loved a pretty sunset after a snow which is why you chose to walk to work again.

You still wondered if he would come by and hang around for most of your shift again. The roads were covered in ice and a light layer of snow; you had a feeling it would be another dead shift. Cold snowy nights like this never brought in anybody because most sane people wanted to stay home in the warmth.

You arrive and clock in and you are greeted to one table. The shift was boring. You even had time to eat some dinner and a piece of pie while balancing your nonexistent tables. You were cleaning the front counter when you see him approach the front door. You feel your heartbeat quicken and you begin to develop a head rush. You thought about how ridiculous you are being! You have a crush! You walk back behind the counter and keep cleaning trying to act nonchalant as he approaches one of the seats right in front of you.

“Hey! Welcome in,” you greet Adam, “back so soon?”

“Yes, I couldn’t get enough of that delicious coffee,” Adam takes a seat and lights up a cigarette.

You chuckle, “I’m guessing you’re wanting some more coffee, huh?”

“Please,” he says with a small smile.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Read my mind.”

You pour him a cup, “So, you don’t have your scrapbook tonight?”

“No. I didn’t bring it. I needed to escape from the chaos tonight,” he shrugs.

You put the cup and the sugars and creams in front of him and slightly lean on the counter, “Understandable. It certainly is peaceful in here tonight.”

Adam takes another drag of his cigarette, “No kidding.”

“Yeah, I’d rather it be busy it makes the time go by faster plus I get more money.”

Adam leans more on the counter as well with a slight smirk, “but then you wouldn’t be able to talk to me.”

You two are practically centimeters apart and you didn’t know what to say. All of the breath, thoughts, and words have left your body. All you were left with was the sound of your heartbeat and the smell of Adam’s cigarette smoke.

Adam’s eyes slowly lower down taking in every aspect of you as he leans back in his seat and takes a sip of his coffee.

“So, Y/N, what’s your hobbies?” his voice laced with less intensity, “you know mine.”

You start to shake off your nerves, “Nothing really. I work and come home and sleep,” you laugh, “is sleeping a hobby?”

Adam chuckles, “not really, but it can be.”

You two share a laugh and you decide to pour yourself some coffee as well, “can I bum a smoke?”

Adam raises an eyebrow, “you smoke?”

“Yeah, on occasion, I’m not proud of it.”

Adam hands you a cigarette and you place it inbetween your lips, “C’mere,” you lean down and Adam lights your cigarette for you.

“Thanks.”

Adam smiles, “Don’t mention it.”

“Okay, so, you got a girlfriend? Or… boyfriend?”

“Ha! No. No girlfriend,” Adam smiles, “or boyfriend.”

You nod and take another puff, “good,” you exhale.

“And you?”

“Dude I literally said that sleeping was a hobby so,” you shrug.

You put out your cigarette as a few more people walk in and sit down at a table, “duty calls,” you saunter away from Adam. You felt his eyes practically looking right through you and you smile to yourself with satisfaction.

As you were helping your other table you see Adam get up, leave a tip, and write something down on a napkin in your peripheral vision. You were so focused on him that you practically missed everyone’s order at the table. You get their orders and walk back behind the counter to read his note.

“Sorry I had to dip. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night? He’s going to come back again? Oh gosh, you’ll so have to fix your hair tomorrow!

The next evening rolls around and you are back on your way to work for another graveyard shift. You had bought yourself another pack of cigarettes, ugh, damn you Adam. You clock in and do the usual cleaning and preparations for the night. Dead, as usual. Sometimes you wondered how this place stayed open especially during the winter nights.

You decided to step outside to have a smoke while you waited for someone to come in. That’s when you see him. Slowly approaching the front doors with a cigarette and scrapbook in hand.

“Howdy stranger,” you greet, “got your scrapbook tonight, I see.”

“Hey, yeah, I decided to bring it with me to look at while you were with your other tables.”

You feel a slight blush creep up on your face, “Cute. Want some coffee?”

“Lead the way!”

He opens the door for you and you walk back into the practically abandoned cafe and he takes a seat while you pour you and him coffee.

“Ya know, I’m growing pretty fond of our little coffee dates,” he says with a smile.

You felt your blush grow deeper, “Dates?”

“Want some pie?”

You shake your head, “Nice switch of topic there. And yes I’d love to have some pie.”

You put a slice of pie on a plate and scoot it towards him. You hand him a fork and his fingers softly brush yours. Even though they were cold it still filled you with warmth and you felt at this point that you were going to melt. The smell of coffee and nicotine becoming a drug to you. You just couldn’t get enough of him. You walk back around the counter and take a seat beside him. You two were close, almost brushing shoulders. God, how bad you wanted him to touch you. You wanted to feel his lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, him pinning your arms behind your head against the wall as you practically gasp for air. Fuck, you wanted him.

You interrupt your thoughts, “So this is a date, huh?”

Adam lights another cigarette, “I’d hope so.”

You smile trying your absolute best to avoid the blush that was on your face but he couldn’t avoid it. He just kept looking at you with a smirk on his face.

You two sat there in the peaceful silence for a bit and enjoyed your coffee and pie, even though Adam chose his cigarette over food. You two would steal glances at each other every now and then for some reason you couldn’t find any words to say and neither could he.

As you look back at him he puts his hand on your cheek and asks, “is this okay?”

“Yes,” is all you could mutter.

You both lean in and finally connect lips. You felt like all the planets had aligned and all the stars had blew up at the same time. You place your hands atop his shoulders for stability making sure that you don’t fall over or you felt like you might start floating. The taste of him was intoxicating, exactly what you thought. He smelled of cheap aftershave and smoke and you wanted more of it. You couldn’t get enough of it. All you wanted was him and only him in this moment.

His shaky hand takes hold of yours as you two deepen the kiss and all you could think about in this moment was how he would touch you, feel you, and savor you.

If only this moment could last forever. Until the bell on top of door rings and you two quickly separate.

You had forgotten that you were at work.

“Holy shit, I really hope the kitchen doesn’t tell on me for that.”

“Yeah, wow, I’m so sorry.”

You hastily stand up and say, “Don’t be sorry. Thank you.”

Adam laughs and you walk away before he can say anything else; grabbing your notepad to go take your new tables order. After you take their order and hand it in to the kitchen he’s gone. Leaving a tip and another note.

“Stellar date. Hope we can do it again sometime. I’ll see you soon.”

Your heartbeat quickens but also you feel a twinge of sadness. You wondered why he wouldn’t give you a proper goodbye… but some people just weren’t that good with goodbyes you had guessed.

Either way you would have to wait for tomorrow to see if he’d show up again.

You counted the minutes until tomorrow evening and here you were.

Finally at work.

You never thought you’d be excited to go to work but here you were. You were wiping down the counter when you heard the bell ring, the door swing open, and you see him. He looks at you with his cigarette in hand and he smiles at you.

“Adam!”

“Hey there,” he exhales.

“Coffee?”

“You know me so well.”

“Of course I do.”

“And that’s what I like about you so much.”

You hand him his coffee and look him in the eyes, “I like you too.”

[minzart]

His trusted collector

Pantalone x reader

childhood friends, gender neutral reader, debt collector reader, no warnings worth mentioning yet, found in my drafts and got the energy to finish this part 2! Still have the notes for part 3 so maybe it would one day see the light

Also on Ao3

(1) (2) His best investment

He thinks of you, and how you became friends

He watches you go, your back straight, head held high, such a contrast to the child he met years ago. A swell of pride finds itself in his chest, you were one of his precious investments, and what an investment you are, he will admit that he didn't expect you to still be with him for so long, but you surprised him as you always did.

Pantalone thinks back to your talk, you were exhausted, that much was a given, dark circles clear as day in your eyes, yet you were so energetic still, he envies that part of you a little, not that he would let you know of course, pride is a funny thing after all, nor that he missed your voice, such a small detail but it's true, it was your strongest asset, you molded it to what needed to be accomplished, fear, excitement, happiness, pity… that and your strength, it's been a while since he saw you work, but he knows, you are alive after all, and your quests are delivered almost flawlessly.

"Shit" he muttered to himself, small legs trembling from the cold, even with the Sun at its peak it didn't bring any warmth to the street, and to the boy with shabby garments it meant more suffering, not that it was anything new. What was unusual was his irritation, you were proving to be a pain in his ass to trick.

Plan 3 had failed, and 1 to 2 proved to be a waste of his time, since you didn't even recognize him, annoying, incredibly annoying, an annoying bug he's trying to catch in an intricate web that you were proving to be not worth the trouble for, the rumors he heard about you were being put to test every single time he laid eyes on you, good fighter, pff, you weren't even a good runner to begin with.

But, the little boy took a sharp breath, he needed allies, now more than ever, since one of his schemes is proving to be coming back to bite his ass, he needed a "friend", a strong friend, to be able to live another day if those brutes caught him desprepared. He knew that if he got caught once then all respect he had built to himself in the small amounts of talks and promises he made to other weak minded fools would be blown to the winds and become more trouble than he was capable of dealing alone.

That's why he needed a brute, strength, a temporary allie even, just for one day, but he hopes to gain your favor for more time however drastic times need drastic methods, he was not above begging… for now at least, one day he won't ever beg again and that will be the day he can finally get back to every single stupid bastard that even dared to treat him like garbage.

“Please just this time!” he throws himself in his knees, blocking your path “it's not a trick I need your help! Please!”

You huf, equilibrating the boxes you were carrying again “can't you see I’m busy?! Move!”

The hagged boy grabs your leg “Only if you promise to come with me and help!”

“stop that you're gonna make me break those and I don't have money to repay that old man!”

“I'm not letting go”

“yes you are” you shake your leg, the boy doesn't budge “it's your problem that you got involved with a prick”

“I gave you an apple!”

“I knew you were gonna bring this back- see that's why I didn't accept your generous offer to begin with-”

“you are my only friend please!”

“we are what?!” you stop, huge eyes locking with his and for a moment, the little boy cheeks burn pink, then he smiles bright, sweating bullets.

“exactly! We are friends! Aren't we? And Friends… help each other!” he cringes at the word, he want an ally, not a friend stupt kid brain slip of though, gluping he weakly hoped you would still agree with his bold assumptions without much fuss.

“since when?” you tilt your head to the side, puzzled expression matching his, internally he screams in despair.

“since… the… apple?”

“since the apple”

“yup”

“... how…?” you put your boxes down, crossing your arms.

“... friends… always hang out? I have been hanging out with you what do you mean?”

“bugging me isn't hang out”

“isn't it tho?” he let's go of you leg now that your attention was all on him, getting up bit never letting you out of sight he starts to bluff “don't your friends annoy you too? Everybody knows it's a love language-”

“I don't have friends” the archons smiled at him today, it seems, blessed be the insufferable fate.

“yes you do” he points at himself “welcome to the friendship distribution sistem we are like cats”

“that's bullshit-”

“no eyes!” a harsh new voice joins the echoing alley, he recognizes this brat, and you do too.

“shit” he turns around but two new boys block the path, he is stuck.

“you picked a fight” you grab him by his collar “with the richest prick in this town?!”

“It was an accident”

“was it?” he sees a hand appear in your shoulder, a cold smile gracing the lips of the most irritating older boy he has ever had the displeasure of interacting “ one hands hardly are that deep in someone pocket when it's about good intentions”

The boy tugs a lock of you hair behind your ear “is this your friend?”

You lock eyes with him, there's fear there, he knew, you just got a new gig, carring boxes full of spoiled fruits to the local orphanage that the merchants pay you two coins worth of labor, cheap and drastically underpaid and yest it was your first job, if you picked a fight with this boy, in his behalf, you would never see the color of money again, maybe not even the day.

It was a gamble, his life alone or dragging someone with him, a sliver of chance to getting out alive if he was good at faking a beg for your life, but then… then if you ever survived whatever happened to you today, you would never forgive him, he knew, he felt time stop, a decision must be made and things would change.

In the streets sticking together was as worse as being alone, but a companion even if for a brief moment could save one's life. He took a breath, lungs full of new fresh air for what he assumed would be the last time, and invested in you.

“no”

The older boy shoved you aside “good, less messy this way” and started to corner him.

The two other took position, grabbing his hands and shoving him in the ground “now be quiet”

He didn't even heard your steps getting further away as a boot meet his head, over and over and over.

It felt like days, kicks and punches and spit, blood didn't even had a taste anymore in his mouth, maybe he didn't even had tooth anymore. But finally it stoped, he was thrown in the ground, he could hear shouts, there was someone besides him, vision turvy, head sleepy, he almost didn't recognize the rich boy in the ground, passed out, a loud clang of metal hitting the ground made him try to look forward, the only thing he remembers before the black, was yours overused shoes.

When he awakes, he feels awful, head troubling, and the bumps aren't helping… bumps? Oh, yeah he can't feel the ground… he can't feel the ground? But he sure sees it passing by fast, then he feels an abrupt curve, someone is panting hard, it isn't him, he's sure, his lugs hurt. Then he finally looks to his side, and realizes, you are there.

Carrying him and running as fast as you could, to were he doesn't know nor care, but you are warm, very comfortable, so comfortable he could sleep.

The second time his eyes open, he could hear the rain, drops getting in the broken window of the house he doesn't recognize, there's a blanket in him, bandages clumsily put around his bruises, bloody water in a bow next to his feet, someone had cleaned him, and then you, curled around a tinny beaten down pillow by his other side.

That day, he thinks he finally understood what friendship was, and by the end of the week, rumors of a murder surrounded the city, the victim? A poor rich boy that was lost in a alley, playing with his friends. Pantalone couldn't be more happy that you were as smart as you were strong.

Back to the present, the baker chuckles to himself, what a desperate little boy he was, someday he still doesn't understand why you came back for him that day, sure what you have now is all consequence of that one act but still, you couldn't know that in the future that weak little boy would become such a powerful man. You must have pitied him, or his speech of friendship had worked, either way you did save his life, and builded the base for his empire, he couldn't have been more lucky.

Countless crimes committed, countless nights spent in each other's company, and yet he still feels you at only his arms length. Strictly professional even after years, your best and worse trait, after years of partnership, he still has little to no idea how your mind works. And it frustrates him, because he can easily command you and you will obey, no questions asked, kill, rob, treated, but then he asks for a match of mahjong and you… how long has it been since you both had anything to talk about that wasn't work anyway?

Has he become only a boss to you now? A small realization breaks him, work wasn't news to you both, in truth you both endorsed each other workaholic tendencies, it wasn't the first time he has noticed it, you reported he gave you another, you came from a job he sent you in another, he goes to interrogate, you guard the door, it's an old tale now, a song and dance you both knew to heart.

“I missed you”, you had said, he hadn't expected it, not by a mile, it was a slip of his tongue that greeting, and yet you answered in a way so raw it floored him at the moment. These memories he though were long buried still felt like yesterday, you little hands firming him in your back, the pain he felt that day a mere ghost to your firm hand in his, you name rolling out of your mouth, eyes locked in his as the world presented his first contract “that's my name, and I accept your friendship”

Friendship… at the time a good title, but now… he took the pen you were playing with mere moments ago, your hand treating it like a blade, passing from finger to finger, graciously, like nothing was a challenge, he writes with it instead from now on, not before drinking the rest of the tea left behind in the cup you poured for yourself during your long report, droplets still slowly falling down from were you lips touched it, and now his too.

[lunarfleur]

Earth 42! Miles Morales General Hcs

Tagging: @juneberrie @hiyaitssans @sluggmuffin

Warnings:Mention of death, fighting, insecurity, smoking weed

A/N: I love my silly little guy

I see a lot of people view this Miles as like this scary tough go who one crosses

But I respectfully disagree

Miles is probably a dork in every universe. He’s quiet, reserved, and put together. Ganke’s is really his only friend, but they don’t hang out. He prefers to be alone.

He doesn’t start fights, because he knows his mom wouldn’t like it, but trust he will finish them ☝🏻

He’s actually really silly. Like he makes funny comments when he’s comfortable and jokes around a lot. And his laugh is contagious, it’s adorable.

People don’t like him, but they don’t hate him. Teachers like him cause he’s a good student. Students are able to like him because he’s not hard to work with. He’s smart and quiet and nerdy.

He has a lot of built up anger. He just doesn’t show it because he doesn’t want to make his mother worry.

He loves his mother more than anything. She always comes first.

He saves up his prowler money for her. Birthday gifts, Mother’s Day gifts, Christmas gifts, etc…

He never argues with. She works so hard to support him and he knows that. She tells him to do the dishes even when he’s tired and doesn’t want to? He does it.

He tells her he loves her. Every day. Because he does.

Miles’s anger comes from his frustration with himself about his mother. She overworks herself, but he can’t do more than just be there? How is he supposed to be okay with that?

When he’s at home and Rio’s working late, he always stays up to make sure she comes home. And when she falls asleep on the couch? He’s walking out of his room, slipping off her shoes is she didn’t get to it, and tucking her in tightly.

He always kisses her goodnight.

best bet he HAS slow danced with her in the living roo

Okay okay moving on from the sappy stuff 😭

The difference between him and his 1610! Counterpart is that his music was heavily influenced by Aaron.

He listens to some modern rap, but a very large majority of it is 90’s hip-hop and rnb.

Also some of his mother’s favorite songs

He has a pretty large record collection

And prefers airpods to any other kind of headphone

Literally has a plain black phone case 😭

I hate to say it but bro’s short 💀

Idc what is or isn’t cannon, bro’s tiny

But has abnormally large hands

Was one of those kids with GINORMOUS ears until he grew into them 🧍‍♀️

Bro has literally nothing on his bed, except for like a thousand pillows and one blanket

He used to play piano (still does at school but no one has to know)

And likes art just as much as 1610! Miles.

Except he mainly draws what he sees?

His mother, the sky, flowers, that kind of thing…

His inspiration comes from the world around him versus in his head

He’s a giggly bitch at heart

If he wasn’t so stubborn, he’d laugh at everything

42! Miles was one of those guys blessed with clear skin. I just know it.

AND the prettiest freckles (every version of Miles has this)

Only ever cries in front of his mother or at night when he’s supposed to be sleeping

He’s not actually afraid of being vulnerable? Like he doesn’t like doing it in front of other people but he doesn’t try to stop it?

Bros eyes are majestic

This is going off topic but I love his nose 🧍‍♀️

He’s really skinny for some reason

And he’s got one of those really pretty waists for some reason

Loves cargo pants

He’s actually got really good style 😭

Miles has a pull up bar in his room I just know it

Works out consistently

Is a sucker for rom com movies (and is very ashamed of it)

Hates going to the pool (he hates the smell of chlorine)

But likes going on walks?

Loves the smell of rain and smoke from like blown-out candles and bonfires

Hates the smell of lavender

Also loves the smell of vanilla because it makes him think of his mom

Uses Old Spice Bearglove deodorant

And semi-nice cologne? Like not expensive but not cheap?

Bro smells gooooooood

Purple is his favorite color

But he also quite likes pink because it goes well with purple

This Miles has lips that are not chapped (1610! Miles does)

Uses lotion multiple times a day so his hands are soft asf

Is a straight A student

And this boy was raised right so he’s not one of the guys girls worry about?

Like he’s chillin

If someone asks him out and he’s not interested? He’s cool about it

“I’m sorry, I don’t see you like that.”

One of the few situations where he says “I’m sorry” instead of “my bad.”

He doesn’t want to be viewed as a bad guy. He actually really cares about it.

Bros locker is boring asf 😭

Really likes cats and stops to pet (and sometimes feed) strays

Is surprisingly alright with kids? He’s got baby cousins and stuff

He’s one of the few guys who’s confident in his masculinity

Would paint his nails black if he didn’t hate the smell

One of those early to bed and early to rise mfs

He’s got a good sleep schedule

He has gotten high before like off a cart (for anyone who doesn’t know what that is, it’s basically weed in liquid form)

He doesn’t do it consistently or often, so he’s not addicted, but he’ll do it if it’s there

Has a lot of one sided friends (??)

Like he’s a friend to them but they’re not friends to him?

A lot of those are guys who are dicks to girl and doesn’t fuck with that

Cause his mother always taught him to ask himself, “would I want someone to do that to my mother?”

He doesn’t go out of his way to correct them, cause (A) it’s probably just gonna start a fight and (B) chances are, they won’t listen anyway

He’s an honest boy, you know?

He’s pretty craft with like machinery and stuff

He’d make a good mechanic

His least favorite class is English, but he’s a pretty good reader

He’s a math, science kind of smart

There’s pictures of him and certain family members around his room, as well as like 2 of him and Ganke

He thinks of his dad every

And talks to him sometimes, too.

After his dad’s death he kind of pushed his mother away?

But he ended up alright.

Likes buying flowers to keep in vases around the house because his mom likes plants and color

He takes care of them for her

He loves the Rush Hour movies

Actually considered joining the basketball team

Snuggles with blankets and pillows at night

And really likes the tight shirt and baggy pants look

He’s got a nice build

His phone’s wallpaper is a picture of him with his parents

He’d never change it.

He really loves The Boondocks

Miles has a collection of small pieces of memorabilia?

Like movie tickets, dried flower petals, polaroid pictures…

His room is always terrifyingly organized

Like more than a normal person’s

He doesn’t even know how he does

Overall, he’s a chill guy.

[tojiscumdumpster]

CHAPTER SEVEN - TOJI

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀✧ summary page

Within the next few minutes, I’ll be dead. I knew this the moment I saw that blue-eyed freak reappear after when I thought I killed him. Fucking sorcerers and their cursed technique bullshit. Maybe I was too confident thinking I would win the second time. I doubted myself at first, but then I calmed down… No. 

 I was just too confident.

 A world like this wasn’t meant for a monkey like me. I was born into a fucked up family that treated me like shit because I didn’t have any cursed technique. The scar on my lip reminds me of it every day. I got over it, though. I accepted this was my faith. I served my purpose, and it was time for me to go.

 Still, I can’t help but wish I made it out alive. That I had a little bit more time. 

 “Nah,” I replied, vaguely. 

 How am I supposed to answer some cliché question like that? 

 Any last words?

 Why would I tell him that? 

 Tell him about the thoughts and images that’s in my head.

 Tell him that I had a wife who I actually saw some good in me. Good enough to get pregnant and raise a kid together. Tch, me? Toji Fushiguro? A husband and father? I never thought I would live to see the day. And of course, it didn’t last long. 

 My wife died because of an incurable sickness. I never felt pain before. Not when I’m standing here with half my body blown off. Not when my family tortured me. But the day she died, I felt pain. I didn’t cry. I just felt empty. Felt like I had no reason to be decent anymore. How was I supposed to raise a kid by myself? 

 She told me I was going to be okay. 

 I wasn’t okay. 

 I’m a fucked a person.

 A fucked up father.

 . . . I was never made to be a fucking dad. Me selling my son to my family is better than what I could’ve done for him. It wouldn’t make any difference if I was or was not in his life because I would never be good enough to be a father. . . A person. . . But I met. . . Her.

 In my final moments, I think of my late wife, my son, and—

“Dad!” Megumi’s deafening voice wakes me up. “It’s almost five. We have to go to the store.”

  What the…

 What the fuck was that? 

 Lately my mind has been clogged with thoughts and what feels like memories I used to have. Could never decipher them, but that dream was probably the clearest I had. 

 Me being on the verge of death (wouldn’t be the first time), apparently being killed by some blue-eyed fuck. Giving Megumi away to the Zen’in Family? Like fucking hell. I would endure the shit they put me through every day for the rest of my life knowing it would keep my kid safe. I just don’t understand these dreams I’ve been having.

 Are they signs? Is my judgment day coming where I would have to atone to my sins? Some bad shit about to happen to me? Megumi? I don’t fucking know. 

 I don’t care for karma. I don’t care for faith, destiny, or any of that manifestation bullshit. But I do believe in purpose, and sometimes I feel like I don’t have any. That there isn’t any.

 I’m a dad. For what? To fail my son. I was a husband, had my flaws but shit, I tried. And for what? To lose her only after being parents together for eight years? It was unexpected. Nature calling, and at the moment, I never hated whatever fucking god above so much because they took her away from me. 

 From me and Megumi.

 Please take care of Megumi.

 It’s like I can hear her lecturing me about all the times I had our kid eating take out or having him walk home alone from school. 

 Take care of Megumi. . . Yeah, I’m trying.

 I have to do better.

 I need to.

 The little purpose I have is left for him.

 “If you can’t go anymore, can you at least give me the money so I can go by my-”

 “No,” I interrupted, clearing my throat. “No, let’s go. Sorry, kid. Your old man was dozing off.”

 Here’s another thing about being a parent. Being around other parents who force small talk while their kids go off and buy shit. Because we’re parents, that means we have to share funny stories and randomly show baby photos to people you don’t even fucking know. Why? I don’t know, but I bet the mom next to me that has been talking my ears out for the past fifteen minutes could tell you.

 Having Megumi as my kid means he’s going to have most, if not some, of my traits. One of them being how much of a loner I am that appreciates his space. After my failed attempt to walk around with the kid to maybe have some father-son bonding, I figured I just stand at a comfortable distance and let him do his own thing. 

 No pressure. I’m on his time. Not the other way around.

 Still, me standing alone was not a fucking invitation to talk to me.

 I respect women. I do, but I’m two seconds away from telling her to fuck off in the nicest way possible. 

 Though, I have a reason why she approached me to begin with. 

 How she’s invading my space, trying her hardest for me to look at her tits. The extra pout she gives her lips while talking to me. How she’s still asking me one off questions, despite my vague one word answers.

 She’s looking to get fucked, but she’s just too shy to say it. 

 Attractive for most part. Probably five-foot-ten, maybe in her late thirties. Strong perfume. Hair drops right below her jaw. 

 Hm, not my type. 

 “So, here’s another photo-”

 “Sorry, why are you showing me these again?” I abruptly asked. 

 “I—” she stumbles over her words, pushing her hair back while giving me a timid smile.

 “Seems like you had other reasons.”

 “Like?”

 I shrug. “To get fucked.” I can tell that my brute honesty throws her off a bit, but she gathers herself. 

 “Are you offering?”

 “No.”

 She’s probably taken back by my response. I wouldn’t know because I casually walked away to the next aisle. 

 Back in Tokyo, I gained attention, but in America? The women here look at me like I’m a fucking piece of meat. Not that I don’t mind, but shit. 

 What would help if they didn’t waste both our time with trivial chit chat and just cut straight to the chase. 

 Anyways. 

 Told the kid I’ll be walking around the store if he needs me, and of course he replies with whatever . Like I should be surprised. 

 He’s my son, after all. 

 Pretty packed for a Tuesday night at the store. Guess all the parents are out buying their kids shit, too. While Megumi is getting his supplies together, figured I could go to the meat section to make dinner tonight. Probably hot pot for the kid and offal for me. 

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing this parenting shit right. You know, letting Megumi be by himself to buy things while I roam around. Probably not because I see families throughout the store and they look happy, for the most part. 

 The look on their faces, the light conversations they’re having about who knows what. . . I can tell this is going to be one of those fucking nights for me. 

 Remember there was a point in my life where I was content with the small family I created. My wife. Megumi. Living in the shittiest apartment building back in Tokyo and barely making ends meet. 

 I came from a wealthy family. One of the wealthiest in Japan. I was supposed to be a silver spooned brat that was grateful to be born into money, only later to be beaten and emotionally abused, which eventually left me in the streets. 

 And you know after all the shit those Zen’in fucks put me through regardless of the amount of money I had access to, I’d always choose what I had with my wife and my strained relationship with Megumi. 

 But of course, any good that happens to me is only temporary. Can only imagine how long I have left with Megumi until he turns eighteen and moves far away from me if he decides to go to college. 

 Is it wrong for me to wish my kid would cut me some slack? Probably, but that’s not something I would ever ask him. Though, I can fucking admit that it stings how he addresses me has changed over time. 

 Daddy to Papa, now to Dad. Soon he’ll start being formal and shit by calling me father or even my first name. I guess I should be grateful he’s calling me anything at all. 

 Damn, if I liked alcohol, I would’ve said I need a drink right now. Maybe a few. Being in family settings makes me feel the emotion I hate feeling the most. Vulnerability . 

 It makes me feel weak, like I’m pitying myself. I don’t care for pity. I don't care to say I didn’t deserve to experience trauma. It happened. There’s shit I can do about it. No point for me to keep thinking about it. 

 It’s just hard when your son doesn’t even want to be seen with you in public to go school supply shopping. 

 I need to clear my head. 

 Already worked out twice today, and clearly that’s not working. Maybe some pussy. It’s been a while since I last had sex. Maybe I need…

 Y/N .

 Here I am again thinking about her at the most random fucking times. I said I need her. Would I ever tell her that?  Most likely not. 

 How can I tell a woman that I don’t know that I need her? To be around her and have her bubbly personality overshadow my grumpiness. To stare at her in dead silence and think how fucking pretty she is. How good she smells. How can I tell Y/N that? 

 She’s good company. 

 That’s all she is…

 Soon she’ll see I’m no good. 

  “Miss L /N told me you’ve been doing good in class, kid.”

 Been home with Megumi for about two hours now. School shopping is not fucking cheap, to say the least. My job pays well, but the cost of shit in America is still something I’m trying to adjust to, especially in comparison to Japan. 

 Megumi is the only reason why I haven’t gotten broke yet. 

 “Yeah,” he responds flatly.

 I stuff my mouth with a piece of meat. “Want to talk about it?”

 “Not really.”

 “Alright.”

 There goes that loud silence. 

 I continue, trying to keep conversation. “Food's good?” He nods. “Think you got everything you needed for school?”

 “Yes, Dad.” Annoyance fills his voice, making it very clear that I’m bothering him. 

 “Everything’s okay?” I asked. 

 “Can’t we just eat in silence? Why are you forcing conversation?”

 Oh.

 “Sorry, kid. Just trying-”

 Megumi pushes back his chair, standing up with his plate in his hand. “I’m going to my room. Thanks for dinner.”

 What the fuck am I doing wrong?

 I talk, he’s annoyed with me. I don’t talk, I feel like he’s being neglected again. Not sure if I’m giving Megumi too much space or just enough space, but it’s kind of fucking hard when I don’t how he feels. 

 When you come from an abusive family that doesn't know how to give or receive love, it passes onto you and potentially it’ll pass onto your child. 

 That’s what I’m trying to prevent. 

 I was scared as shit when my wife first told me she was pregnant. I mean, how the fuck was I supposed to be a dad? I don't know what it feels like to have one. But I knew I was going to be okay if I had her by my side.

  I’m a fucked up person. . . A fucked up father. 

 “Fuck, I need to take a walk,” I say to myself. 

 I get up to put the leftovers in the oven so I can finish later. Before I walk out the door, I tell Megumi I’m stepping out for a while and guess what he says? 

 Whatever. 

  Patience, Fushiguro. Patience.

  Be kind to yourself, Toji . That’s what Y/N told me the other day. I have messaged or contacted her at all since I got her number yesterday. Maybe I need to talk to her… see her… just for a little bit. 

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

discussion question #3 — the more we see toji and megumi's relationship, struggles are shown between them. more so, on toji's part. do you think he should continue making small talk or allow megumi to come around whenever he's ready? looks like toji is afraid to let that happen because he doesn't want megumi to feel neglected. thoughts?

[laf-outloud]

the hypocritical nature of this is actually so hilarious when this behaviour accurately describes the way y’all are being towards Misha. Yet you feel justified in that because of your dislike… literally two sides of the same coin.

First of all - No. Just no. You are wrong anon.

In this poll situation, Misha IS the worst actor. He just is. Ask any professional. Hell, J2 and others who worked on spn have openly talked about making fun of him for being so over the top at some points and also have made fun of his "accents" and have told him to pull back.

Another reason you are wrong anon - we don't go around hunting down polls with Misha to downvote him. We also don't actively try to get his stuff canceled. Do we make fun of it HERE on our own blogs with proper anti tags and where we don't tag him or any of the rest of the cast, crew, etc? Absolutely. That is VERY different than actually making full blown campaigns with graphics and posters someone designed, etc. just to try and get Jared's shows canceled. All while tagging him and anyone related to the show including Jared himself, Gen, other actors, writers, etc.

Making fun of Misha on tumblr dot com without tagging literally anyone and not even putting it in his tumblr tag is worlds away from actively trying to get shows canceled and trying to do things like get charities to give back money simply because it was from the Pads. Like actually contacting the charity to do this. And if you can't see the difference anon? You need to step away from the internet and probably get some therapy.

Very well put, anon! It's always funny when they try and claim us dissing on Misha (rarely now since he's even more irrelevant than he's ever been) is "two sides of the same coin" to the hatred and downright death threats Jared receives even to this day.

And yes, out of the options presented in the poll, Misha is the worst actor. I mean, you just have to look at their post-SPN careers to see that. If he were that much better than Jared and Jensen, don't you think he'd have a job?

[lolahasmoxie]

For a Little While (e.m. x reader)

PAIRING: Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

WORD: 1.6k

WARNING: Some angst, no happy ending, fluff, feelings

I've been in a mood recently. This popped into my head today, and I'm rolling with the angst. A second part will be coming.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Eddie remembers the day his friend Robin told him he simply had to meet her new neighbor. It's seared into his permanent memory.

Initially, he felt that it was a setup, and he told her in no uncertain terms he wasn't ready to meet her neighbor and that he could smell this thinly veiled setup for what it was.

Robin nodded and reassured him that while yes she was his type, her neighbor was cool and someone Eddie would genuinely enjoy talking to. So in late July, while Corroded Coffin took a little break before putting the finishing touches on their latest album, Eddie ventured to Brooklyn and a small rooftop terrace where an overeager Robin introduced Eddie to you.

Eddie could have started preparing ten years ago, and it still wouldn't have readied him for you. It felt like he'd known you for a lifetime, several even, if you believed in that sort of thing. You were smart, funny, and what his uncle would have called a real livewire. When Robin told you that they were almost out of the dessert you made, Eddie found himself bounding down the stairs to help you bring more.

The two of you sat and talked until the wee hours of the morning, and when the sun began rising over the city, Eddie walked you back to your front door with a promise to see you later.

He was in town for a week and spent as much of it as possible with you. He went out of his way to make you laugh, the sound intoxicating him to the point where he would do anything to hear it again. He was blown away by your music knowledge, a byproduct of working at a record store to earn money through college. Eddie couldn't help but flirt, and it shocked him when you seemed to flirt back.

The last night he was in town, Eddie was in a small bar with Robin and a few other friends, you included, before he headed to the airport for a red eye that would take him back to the city of angels. He was sitting in a booth beside you, where the feel of your thigh right next to his made his skin tingle and his blood boil. All night, glances and lingering touches made Eddie feel like he was back in high school again. His bravado returned when he asked you to follow him outside when his cab arrived. Robin watched the whole scene with a smug smile on her face.

Once outside, you asked Eddie if everything was okay but were silenced when two of the softest lips you'd ever felt pressed against yours. Eddie's ring-laden hand reached to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone as your hands eventually found purchase in his hair. When he pulled back, he tried to read your face for a reaction. He was prepared for you to run around inside or yell at him; he was not ready for a punch to his shoulder.

"Asshole, you kiss me like that right before you head across the country? You wasted so much time!" When Eddie climbs into the backseat of the cab, he's holding your phone number and wearing a stupid grin that reaches ear to ear, counting down the minutes until he can call you.

You talk almost every single day. Sometimes, the conversations are short; sometimes, you talk for hours. He spends the in-between wondering how you're doing and if your job treats you okay. And at night, when it's just him, he wonders what your body would feel like under him. Does your skin feel as soft as it looks? What would you taste like under his tongue?

In December, when he travels back to Brooklyn for the holidays, he takes a taxi straight to your apartment. You greet him with open arms and a warm smile, and that night, he discovers the answers to the questions he's spent months asking himself.

This goes on for almost a year. He comes to see you when he can, spending as much time in your company as possible before he has to leave again. One spring evening, as you're wrapped in each other's arms, he poses the possibility of more. You kiss him gently while shaking your head no.

"I like what we have," you counter, turning your body to sit in his naked lap. When you lean in to kiss him, Eddie decides he can accept that as an answer for now.

When July comes around, he comes out for a whole month. Corroded Coffin begins their tour prep on August 1st for their first international tour. The plans were to travel for a year, but if the ticket sales were good, it could extend the time. He was excited, thrilled to see the world he had been aching to see. But then he would think of being unable to see you, and it made him want to walk away from the whole thing.

Since you had a whole month together, Eddie let you plan out things to do. There were trips to museums and galleries and day trips out of the city. Nights were spent with friends at boozy dive bars that led to whiskey-flavored kisses which led to even longer nights, bringing each other to ecstasy again and again.

It was three days before he had to leave. You'd spent the day with Robin and Vicki before returning to yours for a homemade dinner. After you'd finished, you had asked Eddie if there was anything special he wanted to do the following day. While you rambled, Eddie wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood from his seat. You stopped talking when you felt him take your hand in his, letting him lead you to your bedroom.

You both had yet to talk about what would happen once Eddie was on the road. You gave it no thought as he laid you on your bed and devoured you like a last meal. You let him love you like he would never get a chance to do so again.

The hour is late, just after midnight. He's sitting on your stoop smoking a cigarette. He left you sleeping, no doubt exhausted. He's shirtless and wearing pajama pants, the summer breeze chilling him slightly. It always surprises him how quiet your street is at night, like there's no one else in the world.

He turns when he hears the turn of your doorknob. He takes a long drag as you take a seat next to him. You're wearing a sleeveless black maxi dress, the hem fluttering around your ankles. He looks straight ahead as you rest your head on his shoulder.

"It's nice out," you say. Eddie hums in agreement. He feels your gaze on him, and after he puts out his cigarette, he turns to face you. You raise an eyebrow, your silent signal for him to tell you what is on his mind.

"Come with us," he says quietly. You sigh before lacing your fingers into his hand.

"I can't"

"You said before you could do your job anywhere," he says, trying not to sound like a petulant child. You take his hand, kissing the tattooed knuckles before squeezing it tight.

"The last guy did a number on me," you say quietly, not looking at Eddie. He's looking at you, though. He remembers you telling him about this guy, the one you had dated after college. His brown eyes watch every emotion you try to hide dance across your face. "I don't think I'm ready to be loved the way you want to love me."

"That only gives us two days, then," he counters. You chuckle lightly. as you place your head back on his shoulder.

"So pessimistic. But that is one way of looking at it," you reply as Eddie lays his head on top of yours.

"How do you see it?" he asks. You lift your head and look Eddie in the eye. You breathe deeply, trying to commit as much as possible to memory. The warmth of his skin, the smell of his cigarettes, the way the moon makes his eyes seem to glow.

"We have two whole days together to do whatever the hell we want," you say confidently, and Eddie can't help but lean in and kiss you. This time, you're the one who stands first. You don't say a word; simply reach out a hand to him, an invitation. Eddie accepts, letting you lead him back to your bed, where you spend the next two days soaking in each other.

Eddie sits quietly on the plane, inwardly thrilled that he was granted a window seat. He reaches into his carry-on for his book, a parting gift from you, when he finds it. It's an envelope with your handwriting clear as day. He waits until they're at cruising altitude before he opens it.

When the woman beside him asks if he's alright, he plays it off as allergies. She knows better; he knows that she does. He rereads your words, telling him to enjoy everything on tour. That if he happens to meet someone, you won't be mad. It's the ending he reads over and over again.

"I hope that if we're ever lucky enough to meet again, I'll be ready to be loved by you. Until then, I wish you all the happiness your heart and hand can hold. Go knock 'em dead, rockstar."

Eddie sighs, placing the letter back in its envelope. He shoves the book back in his bag and reaches for the notebook and pen, which are always nearby. It's littered with DND ideas, song lyrics, and thoughts. He opens a blank page and clicks his pen as he conjures up an image of you in his mind's eye.

He begins to write.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for staying friends with someone?

I (25, nonbinary) became friends with someone (19F) online because they liked a fanfic I wrote. Let's call her Jessie. At first, Jessie messaged me just to say she enjoyed my fic and shared a fanart she drew of it. I was absolutely blown away by that, and let her know how nice her art was. Which started us having a pretty normal online friendship. Chatting about silly fandom things or ranting about our jobs or school or whatever. She is a really smart and funny person!

Jessie started writing fanfic, which I encouraged. It's fun to write! Of course I would read her fanfic and let her know I enjoyed it.

But then it turned into her only messaging me to read her fanfic. Like, we never can hold a conversation anymore without it turning to talking about her fanfic. I don't even bring up my own fics anymore because I know it will switch the conversation to Jessie's fics.

And, Jessie started to pressure me to write her ideas. Like "Oh, this would be a good idea! You should write this! When are you going to write this! I'll be waiting to read it. Have you written it yet?" When I never agreed to write it. Half the time, it's not even something I would want to write.

Or, I read this one fic and wrote a post on tumblr about how much I enjoyed it, and then minutes later had Jessie spamming my messages about how I should make a post promoting her fics. And exactly which ones I should promote because they don't get enough attention.

But the most recent thing Jessie has been doing that has annoyed me is continuously asking "If I think her fics are just as good as my fics". Like, I'm not a talented author, in my opinion. I'm pretty average. But I feel like the answer Jessie wants is for me to say Jessie's fics are better than mine. It always feels like Jessie wants to put myself under her which is...just not a good feeling. I usually just say I think we are about the same, but Jessie never seems satisfied with that answer.

I feel like our friendship has shifted to Jessie only wanting to use me for attention and the small amount of publicity I can offer. (Which isn't much. It's not like I am a well-known person or anything. I'm certainly not exactly a BNF writer or anything)

Here is where I am asking if I am an asshole. I've gotten to the point where I don't even LIKE Jessie anymore. Her actions have just...soured our relationship. I just roll my eyes when I see a notification from her, or shit talk her in real life to my brother. I procrastinate answering her messages.

But I really don't want to be mean to her face. She has had a really hard time in life. Her parents are kinda shit and her boyfriend left her (which he wasn't so great either). She has a ton of health issues, money issues, relationship issues, etc. I don't want to just drop her and make things worse for her life. But also, I just kinda can't stand the behavior anymore.

Part of me thinks I should just set up more clear boundaries, but on the other hand I just don't want to put in the effort of fighting her for those boundaries. And I am pretty sure it would be a fight.

Am I an asshole for continuing the motions of a friendship for a person I don't even like anymore? Should I just end the friendship and let them move on, or would that be worse?

(Asdfghjkl123)

What are these acronyms?

[harlowsbby]

Birthday Shenanigans

If felt as if it was yesterday that Jack was just turning 24 but now not even a year later he was turning 25. Jack didn’t really love doing much on his birthdays he’d rather spend his birthday with you but you were making sure that this year was going to be memorable.

You’ve spent so much money on birthday decor it wasn’t even funny and when Urban or Neelam tried pitching in you denied the help, you wanted to do this for Jack.

You’ve been up since 4am that following morning setting out balloons and streamers trying to figure out which colors went together and which ones didn’t, you even had a different variety of color cups that said. Single, Taken or It’s complicated on that cup.

You had somehow convinced Jack to spend te night at Nemo’s last night so that way you’d be able to set up with Neelam and Taylor while Nemo and everyone else tried to entertain Jack for the day.

“Y/N, do you want the blue and yellow balloons to be blown up and formed into an arch or do you want the white and blue?” “The blue and white should look good together.” She nodded and went ahead and got to work while Neelam struggled with the streamers.

“It’s not twisting the way it needs to be twisting, I’ve tried hanging them from the ceiling but it won’t hang right.” She groaned in frustration. You rolled your eyes playfully but went and helped her and showed her the correct way. “See like this, now just twist it a few times and stick it to the ceiling.” You huffed and went back to what you were working on.

Taylor giggled while Neelam’s eyes widened. They both knew how you got whenever it came to planning an event so they knew not to take anything personal.

“Why are you putting so much effort into this party Y/N? You know Jack would’ve been fine with just going to the bowling alley or something.”

Neelam had a point you didn’t have to go all out and you knew Jack would be a bit disappointed that you’ve spent so much money on tonight but he was worth it, Jack always made sure to go above and beyond for your birthday so you wanted to return that feeling.

“He just deserves it I mean he always makes sure my birthday is one that I’ll never forget and I just want to do the same.” The two of them coo’d at you.

“What’s the best birthday he’s done for you so far?” Taylor asked. “Probably when he rented out that bounce house place, remember how fun that was.” You all laughed as you remembered that day like it was yesterday.

flashback

“Druski, please no jumping near the kids I can’t afford a lawsuit right now.” Neelam panicked and went to deal with that situation, Urban and Ace thought it would’ve been fun to dare Drusk to swing on the ropes that just so happened to be where the kids were playing.

“What is wrong with them.” Jack laughed as he approached you, he swung his arm around your shoulder and brought you into him. “Those are you friends baby.” Looking up at him you watched how he smiled and laughed at everyone, his beard was freshly groomed and you loved how lose his curls looked today.

Everyone was wearing a t-shit with your face on it, Jack had made it mandatory, everything was pink themed you didn’t know how he managed to do that but you were beyond grateful.

“Thank you for this Jack I appreciate it so much.” He smiled and looked down at you. “Anything my baby wants she’s going to get.” Grinning you grabbed him by the collar of his next and brought him down a bit and smashed your lips onto his.

He was a bit off guard by your sudden action but none the less he kisses you back. “Hey, enough with all that PDA we have kids around and I need help, Druski and Urban are about to jump from the top of the foam ramp I need to get the kids out of the ball pit.” Clay urged and quickly ran over to Druski and Urban.

“Next time I’m making sure they stay home.” Jack groaned and followed after Clay. “Let’s just join them.” That’s exactly what you did everyone just took turns jumping into the ball pit and playing games like Marco Pollo.

flashback over

While the three of you reminisced over past birthday parties, Jack on the other end was beyond stressed and annoyed.

“Why can’t I go home? I miss my girl and Urban you stink man.” Jack was stuck in a car with Urban, Ace, 2fo and Nemo, Ace was driving around trying to find something to do that’ll pass the time till you texted him to start heading over to the house.

“The question is why do you want to go home so badly? You don’t want to spend your birthday with your brothers?” Ace poured through the review mirror. “Technically I’m his only brother.” Clay chimed in. “You know what I mean Clay.”

“Look I love you all but I miss Y/N, I just wanna shower and be in bed with her.” They all aww’d at Jack. “Let’s just stop at the grocery store then we can head back to your place alright?” Nemo asked him, you had texted him saying you needed ice and then it was safe for them to all head over.

Jack huffed but agreed on going to the store, as long as he was going to see you after he didn’t care what they did.

He opened up his phone and went to his messages and texted you.

Baby 💗

- I miss you so much 😕

“I think your phone is ringing Y/N.” Maggie said, looking down at your phone you noticed it was a message from Jack. “It’s the birthday boy, he said he misses me.” Everyone coo’d including Bryson.

“You definitely got that man wrapped around your finger.” Bryson joked making everyone laugh. “Oh I know I do and I love that for me.” You texted him back saying you missed him as well and that you’d see him soon.

Jack ❤️

- I’ll see you soon Jack, I love you more I can’t wait to give you kisses 🥺💗.

He blushed at your message and smiled. “You two are so cute.” He looked up seeing 2fo practically breathing down his neck. “Wha- what 2fo leave me alone!”

Jack wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to take in this car but he was hoping he’d be out of it soon.

————————————————————————

“Are they almost near?” Neelam asked you while placing Jack’s and Urban’s Pokémon themed cake on the kitchen table, even though it was Jack’s birthday they were also celebrating Urban’s as well.

“Yep Nemo said they are just now pulling up so everyone let’s get in positions.” Everyone scrambled around to find a good hiding place, Maggie and You crouched behind the kitchen counter.

“I can’t see anything.” Jack’s voice came from the hallway. “That’s the point Jack just shush and go along with it.”

“What if you’re all trying to kill us.” Urban added on, since he was blindfolded as well. “Please the two of you goofball aren’t worth jail time.” Ace said.

Once you heard the doorbell giggle and open a crack that’s when you quickly switched the light on and everyone jumped up screaming “Happy Birthday Jack and Urban!!”

“Wait you guys did all of this for us?” Jack smiled wide but his smile widened even more when he finally made eye contact with you, he made grabby hands meaning he wanted you to come closer to him.

“Well more like Y/N did, we all just helped her but she really put all of this together.” Bryson said.

Jack looked down at you and smiled, “You know you didn't have to do all of this baby, I would've been completely fine with just spending the night with you.”

"I know I didn't but I did this because I love you and you’re always spoiling me so it’s only right I spoil you back, but you won’t be getting your gift till later on tonight, if you know what I mean.” You winked at him and removed yourself from his hold to go mingle and party. He raised his eyebrows and smirked but followed after you.

Eventually the party ended up dying down Jack and You laid on the couch together. Him laying down with you laying on top of him. He rubbed small circles on your back. “Thank you again baby for this I had fun.” When you didn’t respond he looked down at you and shook his head seeing your fast asleep.

“Sweet dreams baby, I love you so so much you have no fucking idea.” Jack was thankful that night he was thankful he had his friends and family and most of all he was thankful he had someone like you.

taglist

@neon-lights-and-glitter @jackmans-poison

@jackharloww @a-moment-captured

@awhore4moree @nattinatalia

@heavyhitterheaux @hoodharlow

@itsyagirljaz @moody4world

[poke-maniac]

Had this funny idea for an AU: what if instead of giving their baby to Ben and May, Peter's parents left him under the care of Norman and Emily right before their death (perhaps because Mary and Emily were close friends), so Peter ended up being adopted into the Osborn's family?

I can imagine that Peter would have turned into a much more snobbish, condecensing jerkass who thinks he's above everyone, flex about his intelligence and be a huge jerkass to his brother, Harry. It's also a given that Norman would heavily favor Peter over Harry due to his "intelligence" and passion for science (which could shape Peter's condescending attitude towards Harry) and likely put a lot on pressure on Peter, contributing to Peter's superiority complex.

Also, Peter would definitely not go to Midtown High given his privileged upbringing and intelligence, so I doubt he would ever encounter Flash Thomson or Liz Allan. And he would have encountered Gwen Stacy earlier as she's a friend of Harry and that Norman and George Stacy were canonically close friends.

He would still become Spider-man in this universe but given that he already has all the fame and money he wants, he wouldn't need to use his powers for these things. I think he wouldn't bother using them at all at first. Rather than Uncle Ben's death, Harry's death could serve as a catalyst for him to become Spider-man. Perhaps Harry and Gwen went to investigate a gang's criminal activities and Harry asks for Peter's help as his powers could be of use but Peter ignores his request and instead goes to Oscorp's meeting with his dad. Harry predictably dies and Peter thinking he could have prevented his death with his powers tries to make up for his death by becoming Spider-Man, whereas Norman who has already lost his wife in similar circumstances less than a year ago, goes into full blown madness and turns into Green Goblin to "avenge" them by directing his anger at the city as a whole, which he sees as a corrupt, irredeemable place (akin to Ra's Al Ghul in Batman Begins).

Spider-Man and Green Goblin develop a deep seated hatred towards each other. Of course, to keep some spice, Norman and Peter are unaware of each other's identies until the very end. Needless to say that they would be deeply disturbed to learn the truth, especially Norman who swore to protect Peter by all costs since Peter is his last remaining family, someone he deeply loves.

Over time, Peter would grow out his worst traits to become a much humble and heroic person and would have to try to keep balance between his responsibilities as the heir of Oscorp and a superhero. I can also see Peter running Oscorp alone as his father's mental state deteriorated ever since Harry's death so wouldnt in position to run such a large company. I can him developing a some sort of rivalry with Tony Stark initially due to being heads of rival companies. I can also see Peter using Oscorp's technology in crime fighting (while Norman uses it for crime).

Gwen and Peter/Spider-Man form a some sort of crime-fighting duo as Gwen is basically a mix between Oracle and Insomniac MJ. She would be the computer nerd making all research needed or pirating stuff like Oracle and gather clues like insomniac MJ to help Spider-man. Peter would continue his brother's "legacy" by working with Gwen like his brother to take down criminals whereas Gwen continues her father's legacy to make New York a safer place and of course Peter and Gwen develop a romance over time.

Anyway, what do you think about this idea for an AU? It in an interesting idea to explore?