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sayoneee · 8 months

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☆ I WANNA BE YOUR MAN

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” (1.7k)

contains: loser older brother luke castellan x fem! reader. mortal au. pt 2 of parent trap but can be read standalone ish. guest appearances! rock / metal music references.

kashaf’s note: i think i can call myself a melomaniac now

LUKE CASTELLAN HAS always occupied that in-between space, the no-man’s-land between something and nothing — his indecipherable gaze as his cold, black, and blued knuckles grazed your cheek when he tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear swims around your mind endlessly. despite how each thought, each expression, each breath is as familiar to you as your own, you have never quite known where you stand with him, regardless of how quickly he seemed to inhabit a piece of your soul.

the familiar weight of the mixtape that luke made you feels unusually burdensome in your hands, mirroring the heft of the songs on it that you have painstakingly committed to memory, each sleepless night’s offerings of tossing and turning becoming a reoccurring ritual.

you had popped the tape in your walkman immediately after luke had handed it to you, incognizant of the way his eyes softened as you concentrated on the music, trying to identify the first song.

“this is that band you like — l.a. guns, right?”

“you’re a regular sherlock,” luke had said, smiling and sarcastic, twisting his silver rings.

“shut up, no i know this song,” you say, tilting your head and snapping your fingers. “its — um — i wanna be yours? nono, don’t make that face at me, asshole, hold on… i wanna be your man?”

hues of pink crept up his cheeks, and you basked in the warmth of his answering crooked grin, the feeling wrapping around you like the caress of a summer night.

you uselessly stirred the spoon in your now stone-cold cup of chai, leaning across the kitchen table with your head propped up in your other hand. the phone taunts you from its corner on the counter, sitting just by the clear jar of blue cookies, its black hue a beacon among the sea of greens (the cabinets, the tiles — you liked to tell sally that she should try her hand at interior design one of these days) — as of late, the jacksons’ kitchen has become somewhat of a refuge for you.

you set a steaming china cup down in front of him, listening to the sounds of percy, annabeth, and grover in the living room, pulling out the chair in front of him with a slight creak on the slightly worn wooden floors, and watching him as he taps his fingers along to bob marley’s soft crooning, “little darlin’, stir it up”, lost in his own world.

“luke,” you say, breaking him out of his revelry.

luke sits up straight, meeting your amused gaze, “yeah?” he asks, reaching for his chai, and mumbling a quiet thanks as he sips it.

“you look kinda stupid when you think,” you say, watching him blink before taking the bait, and hiding your smile of satisfaction behind your cup.

“y’know, this is why you have a black hole for a heart,” he says, grinning crookedly, filling you with an indescribable longing to reach out and trace his grin.

“what?” you laugh, “what does that even mean?”

“just that you’re mean,” luke says, and the afternoon sun chooses that specific moment to encompass him in its glow, like a kiss from apollo. “and that you’re emo.”

“you literally say this every time, oh my god, i’m not mean or emo.”

“because i’m literally right?”

“you like him,” annabeth says, sympathetically, standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her braids resting across her shoulders, glancing from your untouched cup to your face, an expression of pity gracing her features. her presence caught you so off guard that you don’t even question where percy ran off to, who was usually attached to annabeth like a conjoined twin.

“i know,” you say, shivering slightly, the revelation feeling strangely empty, although you suppose the same part of your soul that recognized him had always known, a small inkling reappearing with every argument, and every nudge.

“he likes you,” annabeth adds matter-of-factly, interrupting your stream of consciousness.

“i know,” you repeat, picking at the lint on your sweater, and while this revelation is supposed to be shocking, it is also hollow, as you suppose your soul also knew this with every hushed conversation in the dead of night, and the slips of silence that only spoke volumes around him.

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” she turned and stalked back toward the living room.

you sat still for a minute or so, before sighing and putting luke’s mixtape (even in your misery, he is somehow always there) in your walkman, putting your headphones on as axl rose trilled, ‘i said, baby you been lookin' real good’ in his voice that took a while to get used to — something luke gave you a heads up on.

you sighed, conceding to annabeth’s attempts to rewrite whatever fate had pushed the two of you apart, from the hours-long phone calls that dwindled into short, clipped conversations, you can’t necessarily blame annabeth for trying to fashion a phoenix from the ashes of your friendship.

you stood up, grabbed your jacket off the back of the chair you were sitting upon, and walked into the living room, pausing for a few minutes to watch the scooby doo episode on the screen along with percy, grover, and annabeth, who were currently sprawled across the softly carpeted floor, arguing over monopoly.

“you’re literally cheating,” percy was saying.

“i’m the banker, i’m supposed to be innocent,” annabeth argued back.

“percy, i saw you steal a couple dollars behind annabeth’s back,” grover added, rolling the dice.

“guys,” you said, interrupting their three-way argument, “put on your jackets and shoes, we’re going to the fair in five minutes.”

you ignored the way the troublesome trio exchanged glances, walking through the hallway covered in framed photos of percy and sally, going to wait by the door for them.

“so,” percy says, all-too-innocently, “why the sudden change of plans?” once the four of you are a couple of blocks away from his apartment.

“no reason, just wanted to see what was so hot about the fair,” you say, digging your hands in the pockets of your jacket. once more, you ignore the glances the trio exchange.

“so it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain curly-haired individual that we’re currently seeing less and less of?”

you keep walking, trying to feign ignorance, although the question was so pointed even you were concerned with percy’s audacity, “what’re you talking about?”

“oh, nothing,” percy smiles. “just the way —”

“— the two of you —”

“— were inseparable —”

“— for a disgustingly long time —”

“— and now you’re not —”

“— but we’re going to the fair because —”

“— his band is playing —”

“— and you’re going to try and fix —”

“— your troubles in paradise.”

you blinked slowly, as the three of them did jazz hands, matching shit-eating grins on all of their faces, “how long did it take for you guys to rehearse that?”

“a week, give or take,” grover says, and annabeth shoots him a glare.

“not the point, the point is, we support you.”

“gee, thanks, all i really needed was the support of three twelve-year-olds.”

“three twelve-year-olds that know you’re stupidly in love with luke castellan,” percy points out.

“okay, y’know what…” you trail off, frowning.

annabeth nudged percy, “not the point here, again.”

“fine, fine, fine,” you huff, as the four of you approach the brightly illuminated fair, looking for the ticket-selling booth, “i’ll buy you guys tickets so you can go hang out on the rides and i’ll go to the concert.”

the three of them nodded happily, making a beeline for the cotton candy stand a few feet away. you shook your head before pushing through the bustling crowd to look for the concert stage. when you finally do find it, after three excuse me’s and four sorry’s, the concert is already in full swing, with what looks like a mini moshpit already forming somewhere near the center.

once you’ve pushed your way to the absolute front, the darkening night sky serving as a backdrop, the harsh lights illuminate all five individuals on the stage, with a gorgeous girl with shaggily-cut hair and a raspy voice singing as lead (thalia? you think you remember luke telling you on the phone late at night once). however, your gaze almost immediately fixed on luke, who was playing a riff on his electric guitar, looking as hot as ever, his crooked grin on full display.

the band is covering l.a. guns’ ‘i wanna be your man’ at the moment, and you’re suddenly very grateful to annabeth for her unsubtle nudges, because you would’ve missed out on this sight of luke castellan, the view of his muscled arms bulging out of his band tee is permanently seared into your memory.

you’re almost sad when the show is over though, finally realizing why luke liked concerts so much, from the crowd surfing to the drumstick tricks during solos (beckendorf, you think the drummer’s name was — luke had mentioned him before) to the lead’s insane vocals, to the girl with long curly hair that stood next to you for most of the concert (probably the band’s most enthusiastic fan), you savored every minute of it. however, you’re glad for the chance to corner luke afterwards, climbing onto the stage as the crowd begins to disperse in waves, and realizing the curly-haired girl was already among the band members packing up their instruments, helping the curly-haired bassist pack his things.

luke barely looks up at your sudden arrival. “what’re you doing here?” he asks, packing away his guitar.

“i’m here to see you,” you say, trying to drive the hint home.

“i told you that you didn’t have to come see the band if you were busy,” luke says, uncomprehendingly, making eye-contact with you.

“i like you,” you say insistently.

“c’mon, let’s not kid ourselves right now, you said we’re friends so you don’t have to try to make me feel better,” luke says, shrugging and looking away from your face, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i listen to your dumb mixtape every night, luke castellan. does a person who’s not into you do that?”

there is something so raw about the way he looks right now, with his expression stilling as his cheeks are colored in swathes of red.

smiling at his dumbstruck expression, you surged forward to kiss him, ignoring all the wolf whistles and “get some, castellan” enveloping the two of you, tangling your fingers into his hair, his hands coming to rest upon your hips.

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determinate-negation · 7 months

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“This raises the question: if industrial production is necessary to meet decent-living standards today, then perhaps capitalism—notwithstanding its negative impact on social indicators over the past five hundred years—is necessary to develop the industrial capacity to meet these higher-order goals. This has been the dominant assumption in development economics for the past half century. But it does not withstand empirical scrutiny. For the majority of the world, capitalism has historically constrained, rather than enabled, technological development—and this dynamic remains a major problem today.

It has long been recognized by liberals and Marxists alike that the rise of capitalism in the core economies was associated with rapid industrial expansion, on a scale with no precedent under feudalism or other precapitalist class structures. What is less widely understood is that this very same system produced the opposite effect in the periphery and semi-periphery. Indeed, the forced integration of peripheral regions into the capitalist world-system during the period circa 1492 to 1914 was characterized by widespread deindustrialization and agrarianization, with countries compelled to specialize in agricultural and other primary commodities, often under “pre-modern” and ostensibly “feudal” conditions.

In Eastern Europe, for instance, the number of people living in cities declined by almost one-third during the seventeenth century, as the region became an agrarian serf-economy exporting cheap grain and timber to Western Europe. At the same time, Spanish and Portuguese colonizers were transforming the American continents into suppliers of precious metals and agricultural goods, with urban manufacturing suppressed by the state. When the capitalist world-system expanded into Africa in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, imports of British cloth and steel destroyed Indigenous textile production and iron smelting, while Africans were instead made to specialize in palm oil, peanuts, and other cheap cash crops produced with enslaved labor. India—once the great manufacturing hub of the world—suffered a similar fate after colonization by Britain in 1757. By 1840, British colonizers boasted that they had “succeeded in converting India from a manufacturing country into a country exporting raw produce.” Much the same story unfolded in China after it was forced to open its domestic economy to capitalist trade during the British invasion of 1839–42. According to historians, the influx of European textiles, soap, and other manufactured goods “destroyed rural handicraft industries in the villages, causing unemployment and hardship for the Chinese peasantry.”

The great deindustrialization of the periphery was achieved in part through policy interventions by the core states, such as through the imposition of colonial prohibitions on manufacturing and through “unequal treaties,” which were intended to destroy industrial competition from Southern producers, establish captive markets for Western industrial output, and position Southern economies as providers of cheap labor and resources. But these dynamics were also reinforced by structural features of profit-oriented markets. Capitalists only employ new technologies to the extent that it is profitable for them to do so. This can present an obstacle to economic development if there is little demand for domestic industrial production (due to low incomes, foreign competition, etc.), or if the costs of innovation are high.

Capitalists in the Global North overcame these problems because the state intervened extensively in the economy by setting high tariffs, providing public subsidies, assuming the costs of research and development, and ensuring adequate consumer demand through government spending. But in the Global South, where state support for industry was foreclosed by centuries of formal and informal colonialism, it has been more profitable for capitalists to export cheap agricultural goods than to invest in high-technology manufacturing. The profitability of new technologies also depends on the cost of labor. In the North, where wages are comparatively high, capitalists have historically found it profitable to employ labor-saving technologies. But in the peripheral economies, where wages have been heavily compressed, it has often been cheaper to use labor-intensive production techniques than to pay for expensive machinery.

Of course, the global division of labor has changed since the late nineteenth century. Many of the leading industries of that time, including textiles, steel, and assembly line processes, have now been outsourced to low-wage peripheral economies like India and China, while the core states have moved to innovation activities, high-technology aerospace and biotech engineering, information technology, and capital-intensive agriculture. Yet still the basic problem remains. Under neoliberal globalization (structural adjustment programs and WTO rules), governments in the periphery are generally precluded from using tariffs, subsidies, and other forms of industrial policy to achieve meaningful development and economic sovereignty, while labor market deregulation and global labor arbitrage have kept wages extremely low. In this context, the drive to maximize profit leads Southern capitalists and foreign investors to pour resources into relatively low-technology export sectors, at the expense of more modern lines of industry.

Moreover, for those parts of the periphery that occupy the lowest rungs in global commodity chains, production continues to be organized along so-called pre-modern lines, even under the new division of labor. In the Congo, for instance, workers are sent into dangerous mineshafts without any modern safety equipment, tunneling deep into the ground with nothing but shovels, often coerced at gunpoint by U.S.-backed militias, so that Microsoft and Apple can secure cheap coltan for their electronics devices. Pre-modern production processes predicated on the “technology” of labor coercion are also found in the cocoa plantations of Ghana and Côte d’Ivoire, where enslaved children labor in brutal conditions for corporations like Cadbury, or Colombia’s banana export sector, where a hyper-exploited peasantry is kept in line by a regime of rural terror and extrajudicial killings overseen by private death squads.

Uneven global development, including the endurance of ostensibly “feudal” relations of production, is not inevitable. It is an effect of capitalist dynamics. Capitalists in the periphery find it more profitable to employ cheap labor subject to conditions of slavery or other forms of coercion than they do to invest in modern industry.”

Capitalism, Global Poverty, and the Case for Democratic Socialism by Jason Hickle and Dylan Sullivan

#mine #imperialism #capitalism

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darknight3904 · 8 months

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Memory and Devotion

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʀᴀᴢɪɴᴇꜱꜱ.

ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴀ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀʀᴇᴅ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴀʟʟ.

The bruise on his neck aches as a nameless Avox blends skin-colored makeup into his neck to cover it up. Their touch is too forceful but it gets the job done and Coriolanus knows the importance of looking good for a camera.

He plays the part perfectly, he always does. He shakes hands and smiles politely at those in attendance. The soft click of a camera reaches his ears and Coriolanus hopes the Avox's work hasn't faded away.

The tang of the lemon drink being served burns at the back of his throat. It's your favorite, he remembers the many times he'd bring it to you at countless galas you had attended with him. Coriolanus found himself wishing that you were here, at his side sipping at your own lemon drink and laughing next to him.

No one is laughing tonight though. The mansion is filled with a strangling air of sadness as Coriolanus pretends to inspect the roses on the table.

Dinner passes slowly and Coriolanus fights to swallow the lump in his throat when dessert is served. The delicate cakes with powdered sugar on top are your favorites. The china plate underneath the sweet is staring at him in mockery with its light blue flowers and intricate gold trim.

His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton as he bids your parents goodnight. Your father thanks him, something about being a wonderful partner and friend to you and Coriolanus can't look him in the eye, instead, he focuses on your father's shiny black dress shoes. Your mother gives him a warm hug and she almost smells like you as Coriolanus keeps his face devoid of all emotion.

Time is a funny thing. Coriolanus figures this out on the night of his 30th birthday. The city lights of the Capitol shimmer as he stares at them when he realizes how long it's been since he's seen you. He wonders what you'd think of him now. Sometimes he swears he can hear you voicing your opinions through the empty halls of the mansion. Moments like that have left parts of the mansion frozen in time but the sunroom has the worst of it. Coriolanus never goes in there yet he has an army of maids tending to it daily, keeping it devoid of dust and disrepair. Everything is just as you left it, from your books with the dog-eared pages to the slightly askew desk chair and the squished pillow you liked to put behind your back for support.

Everything is just as you left it, ready for your return, just as he is now as he sits at his desk, mind replaying the last moments he shared with you.

His heart was pounding as you struggled against him. Both of you had been a wild blur of limbs and metal in the dark as he gained the upper hand in the fight you had started.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

His enraged voice filled up the room as he grabbed at your hand and ripped the chain away from his neck.

Your answer is swift and unyielding as something plunges into his side. He feels blood soak into his shirt and lets out laugh. What a clever girl you were, using the paring knife that had been at breakfast this morning.

Sure, you were clever sneaking up on him and then stabbing him. But, if you had actually been smart, you would've used a bigger knife. If only you had waited, steak was being served for dinner later, now that knife would've been perfect, with its longer blade and serrated edge.

Blood drips onto the floor as Coriolanus grabs at the chain, still attached to your ankle.

"We could've talked it out, you know. I'm a great listener."

Your time in this room has made you weak. He's able to easily staddle you and quickly use his weight against you.

The struggle you put up is admirable, futile, but admirable. The chain reminds him of a snake constricting its prey before its meal as your arms flail beneath him. Soft gasps of a dying girl reach his ears but his brain feels fuzzy as he wraps the chain around tighter.

He'd hold it for a few seconds and then let it go. That would teach you your lesson. Hopefully you'd never be brave enough to fight against him like this again. Then, he'd take you upstairs and show you the maroon curtains he picked out. Perhaps you'd like them even more than the blue ones. He wanted to have strawberries tonight, big ones, just like the one you offered him the day he first laid eyes on you.

"Coryo!"

Your voice, barely a whisper is fluttering in his ears.

"Coryo!"

There you are, saying it again. It sends a warm tingle down his spine.

He feels a smile stretch across his face.

"Coriolanus!"

His eyes flutter open and he feels the slight bit dizzy as he forces his eyes to focus. For a moment he swears its you, back from the dead, rousing him from his sleep.

"Sorry, you seemed like you were having a nightmare." Livia says, backing up from him when he sits up, neck stiff from falling asleep at his desk.

"Its fine." He replies "Its late. What're you still doing up?"

"You try sleeping with someone kicking at your bladder every five minutes." She laughs

Coriolanus' eyes follow her hand and he watches her hand gently rub over her swollen stomach. A glamorous yet tasteful ring glints on her left hand in the low light of his desk lamp.

"Right, I forgot about that." He says

Livia lets out a slight hum and he looks away, mind racing with thoughts of you.

"Are you alright, Coriolanus? You seem upset." She asks

What a doting wife he has ended up with. How thoughtful she is, asking if he is alright.

"I'm fine. Just thinking about the past."

53 years later

"Tonight's preparations for the conclusion of the Victory Tour have been finished, sir."

"Good. How far away is the train?" He asked

"About 4 hours sir. When the Victors arrive, their stylists will need about an hour to get them ready. Their escort contacted the Capitol about twenty minutes ago." The maid replies

He nods, ready to dismiss the maid and go back to his work. But, the way the sunlight streams through the curtains stops him. Maroon, a favored color of his looks back at him.

"Tell everyone who is finished with their jobs to go down to the basement. There's a separate bedroom down there with boxes of blue curtains. I want them washed and hung before the party begins." He orders

"Yes, sir."

He isn't sure of the reasons behind his actions. Hanging up those old blue curtains. Perhaps old age is making him sentimental. Sentimental for what, he wasn't entirely sure anymore.

Hours later, the mansion is still a buzz as workers rush around trying to fulfill his command of washing hundreds of curtains. They remind him of little worker ants scurrying around, keeping the nest clean.

His shoes click slightly as he wanders through his home, taking in the decor, making sure it is all as he desires. His wandering leads him through the maze of hallways, and before he knows it he's standing in front of the sunroom.

Coriolanus knows he ordered that the sunroom remain untouched, expect for its daily cleanings and basic upkeep of fresh paint every few years, nothing should disturb the room.

Everyone in the mansion knows that this room is off limits no matter what occasion it is.

So why was he staring at the room, its doors thrown open with three workers, inside moving furniture around, discussing about who was going to clean up the large stack of books that had fallen of the desk.

Your desk.

Your books.

Your room.

You.

He knows his rage frightens the workers but he can't bring himself to care as they scurry out, heads bent low, apologies on their lips. His mind races with ways to do away with them, Perhaps a swift poison, or maybe they'd become Avoxes. He'd decide on a punishment once his mind was clearer.

He feels his bones ache as his brain reminds him just how much he misses you. It had been years since he properly thought about you and your demise. You had been dead to him for so long, but now your name felt like a curse on his lips.

Unsteady feet carried him into the sunroom, He hadn't been in this room since your wake.

His eyes take in the room he had regarded as sacred for so many years.

Ruined. It was ruined.

So many years of memory and devotion, ripped from him by three incompetent workers he had brought into his home.

Your books and desk had been shoved into a corner. Some your favorite reads were scattered on the floor. His hands shake and his back aches as he reaches to scoop them back up, wishing he remembered exactly what order you had kept them in.

He fixes the room by himself, ignoring the offering of help from different maids, dismissing them rudely. It takes time but he has everything back in its place. Or at least he thinks its back in place. He can't remember exactly how everything was and he wishes he could.

He sits at your desk, inspecting the little doodles you had drawn on a few pieces of paper. A flower on one, a heart on the next. Your name written in exaggerated cursive. One paper at the bottom of the stack remains unfinished though. His name, written in the same cursive.

'Cory'

The beginnings of the 'o' are there but its as though you were called away from your work. Perhaps you would've finished this if he hadn't strangled you down in that basement room.

He traces his finger over the page that had yellowed over the many years it had been apart from you.

Tears threatened to spill from his blue eyes as he looked at your name on the paper. His hand ran over his face, it was so wrinkled and old. Perhaps it was good you were gone. Would you have even liked him if you knew what an ugly old man he had become?

Perhaps it was better that you were frozen in the past. At least you never had to witness what he had become to sit on the throne he had now.

The soft click of the door to your room opening interrupted his train of thought.

"Sir, the Victors have arrived with their escort and mentor."

Coriolanus decides you would've loved this party. From the decorations to your favorite drink being served to everyone. Most of all though, he knows you would've loved getting dressed up for it. You had always looked so breathtaking in your gowns.

Cheers and claps filled his ears as he waved at the crowds of Capitol citizens that had arrived at his home while he was picking up the pieces that remained of you.

His eyes scan the crowd and bright colors look back. Over the top makeup and wigs glitter in the night as he looks through the crowd.

Finally though, he sees her. The girl who whose fighting spirit reminds him of you and how hard you tried to get away from his grasp that day in your room. He smiles at her and she stares back, eyes as hard as steel as he takes a sip of his drink.

Katniss Everdeen is watching as he finally makes his decision about this years Quarter Quell. She won't go on to haunt him the way Lucy Gray does. The way you do. The Girl on Fire will be snuffed out, he'll see to it himself.

Bonus Part to this series

Series Masterlist

Thank you for reading this series. This is the final part of It Burns For You. If you'd like to read more of my work, check out my masterlist or follow for more. I do plan to write more for Coriolanus.

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mxmparts · 10 months

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sagemetalpart · 1 year

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Precision Unleashed: Navigating the Realm of CNC Machining Parts in China

In the heart of modern manufacturing, precision and innovation converge to shape the landscape of industries. China's mastery of CNC machining parts has propelled it to the forefront of technological excellence, redefining the way components are crafted and assembled. This article embarks on a journey through the realm of china metal parts, unraveling its intricacies, applications, and the transformative impact it has on diverse sectors.

#china metal parts #cnc machining parts

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alluvthegurlz · 25 days

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FRESH OUT THE SLAMMER

❝︎ i know who my first call will be too ❞︎

pairing | teen!dean winchester x fem!reader

content | fluff, angst, mentions of a fight, mentions of john being a dick (you can’t make me like him)

summary | dean calls you after he gets into a fight at a frat party down the road

THE PARK was so quiet you could almost imagine it was abandoned like the old house on the corner. The one all the kids stayed away from, only stepping foot on the porch against a dare their dumbass friends had made. A flickering light, similar to a shining star lighting the path of the short sidewalk to the tiny playground; the park was empty. Only the faint outline of someone sitting atop the play area could be seen.

“Hey,” you called out to him quietly. His shoulders tensed, his head turning quickly before his body had relaxed again when he noticed it was just you. His shoulders weren’t so broad anymore, his head dropping down before you heard the quiet exhale leave his nose. “Sorry,” an apology spilled softly from your lips. Apologetic for scaring him, but relieved that he was at least relatively okay.

The phone you had gotten not even an hour before had you on the verge of a panic attack until you had actually seen him.

“You alright?”

“Can you meet me somewhere?” He had asked so brokenly that you were scared that if you didn’t agree, he was going to crack in half like an old porcelain vase sitting atop the tallest shelf in your grandma’s china cabinet. “I ne…just — please?”

He hadn’t left you with much of an option. It hadn’t sounded as if he was about to jump off the deep end if you hadn’t shown.

“It’s alright,” he muttered, scared that if he talked any louder his voice would fail him. He was already on edge for having to call you this late, guilty that you had actually shown, but mostly, he wanted to avoid the emotions that were climbing up the back of his throat. If it had clawed at his throat any longer, they would crash and he’d be in the middle of a breakdown.

“You alright?” Your head was tilted to the side curiously, shoes digging into the wood chips beneath you. He was sat atop the jungle gym, his feet dangling into the night as his head rested against the cool metal rail guard beside him. Cooling any angry emotions he might’ve been feeling.

He finally lifted his head up, that’s when you could finally see the small stream of crimson trailing down his face.

“What happened?” You pointed to your own eyebrow, watching as he gingerly touched his own before staring at his blood coated fingers as if he had no clue it was even there.

“It’s, uh…” he was going to deny it being a big deal, just like he always did when something happened. “Fight.” He gave in.

It had shocked you if you were honest, that he had actually said it. Usually he had blamed it on slipping in the shower, but he could only use that excuse so many times before it got suspicious, and after the second time…you were more than suspicious.

“What happened? Frat party down the road?” You questioned, starting your climb up the jungle gym to sit behind him when he failed to answer. “Heard the cops got called, shut it down.” You settled in beside him finally, staring at the sky above you as the clouds threatened to cover the small stars.

“You weren’t even there,” he let slip past a quiet mumble.

“Might’ve been,” you shrugged innocently. “But now that I know you were looking for me —“

“Shut up,” he stopped you before you could get ahead.

He tried to hide it, but you could see the way the corner of his lips turned, the dull moonlight accentuating the way his cheeks fought off a smile. Your own laughter tumbled past your lips as you let your feet kick out in front of you.

This was a weekly occurrence it seemed. An empty park, the two of you sitting on a different part, the silence. You could’ve just talked about anything and everything and he would just sit there and listen. Whether it was willingly or not, he certainly never left. There were nights where he would talk until the sun came up. Some new story about his little brother, mostly his little brother annoying him, but sometimes there was a good story. You liked those ones. The ones where Dean had gone on and on about how his brother was just being a kid.

It was funny to think about it now, because now even a few years ago, that was the two of you. Just being kids. He was complaining about stuff the two of you had always done when you were Sammy’s age. Be annoying, play in the first, it was silly stuff that a kid is supposed to do and for a teenager to find annoying.

“You going home after this?” You didn’t want to ask the question, but you needed to make sure he still had a place to go. Finally, you dragged your eyes away from the constellation you had managed to make out to look over at Dean. His tired face looked even more relaxed than it had when you first showed up.

“Have too,” he answered quietly. “Can’t leave Sam there.”

“And what’s your dad gonna say?” You questioned, referring to his eye as he just shrugged his shoulders this time.

“Whatever the hell he wants,” he took a deep breath, trying to not think about what new string of swears his father could possibly throw at him.

There was always a place for Dean at your house, it was just taking so much to convince him that it was actually true. It was a mental block he had, you could always tell. The pressure that his dad put on him was ridiculous. You genuinely had no idea how he even functioned on a day to day basis. He had his moments where that wall crumbled, he let you see past the cracks just for a night before they were built back up again.

“You ever need anything, just call, Dean. You know that,” you broke the silence again.

“You’re always my first call,”’ he whispered.

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x fem!reader #supernatural #spn #reader #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural one shot #spn fanfic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine #the tortured poets department #fresh out the slammer

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thinemoonshine · 7 months

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𓆰𝓅𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓊𝓇𝑒 ♡𓆪

cha hyun su x female reader genre: romance, slightly mature (suggestive themes) type: series (but can be read as a oneshot) word count: 1,921

part 2 of series ◄◄ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ part 4 of series

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ synopsis: after the old man, seok hyun, had turned into a complete monster and was killed by the hands of his own wife, the atmosphere in green home has grown more tense- more so towards the other known infected, cha hyun su. meanwhile, hyun su has his own battle to fight; that is against his monster and its persistent trials to break through its enclosure within hyun su. unfortunately for him, his monster's grown impatient for freedom- and (y/n) just so happens to be around ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

'It's annoying, isn't it? To hear me pester you all day and night like this. Why not just... let me free?' Cha Hyun Su's monster tempts him with a tune that it appears to be more of a mockery than it is persuasion.

The poor owner of the body clutches his bag tighter against his chest as he tries to sleep on the now unoccupied couch. He didn't want to lie on it- but if a better cushion will help him sleep faster and rid off the voice in his head then he'll take it.

He's curled like a hook, desperate for rest and cease the unending taunts. And gradually, he does get it thanks to the relentless missions Eunhyuk sends him on. Maybe it's because he got upset when he discovered that (y/n) tailed after Hyun Su on a mission once and the latter didn't bother to tell, or that the latest incident struck a nerve in Eunhyuk but recently, he's been more irritable.

Time passes and soon, it's morning once more. Hyun Su feels just slightly better than before after some forced sleep but it's better than nothing. Besides, the monster's quiet now.

"You can't."

He turns to the door at the faint sound of Eunhyuk's voice. Slowly, he approaches it before pausing when he sees him with (y/n) a few large steps away down the corridor leading towards him. Hyun Su sneakily presses himself against the wall and observes the pair as much as he can from his hidden angle.

"Why not?" (y/n) argues with an evident glare on her face.

Eunhyuk, with his arms crossed and unchanging expression, sighs. "Because you broke the rules. You weren't supposed to join on the mission."

"Yeah, but that's a mission. This is just to visit him in the quarantine room like I always do. Why is it suddenly a forbidden thing to do??" She retorts and crosses her arms, mimicking him as if it will shift the power between them.

But of course, it doesn't and Eunhyuk only furrows. Once again, irritated. "What if he changes when you're in there? What are you gonna do then?"

"I'll run out?? Besides, he's not going to change. He hasn't been getting nosebleeds and even if he does transform suddenly, he could be a non-violent monster like the old man," (y/n) tries to convince the other but obviously, he's got a barrier taller than The Great Wall of China.

"Theories are just theories," he says sternly before swiveling and walking down the corridor to the other direction.

(y/n) stabs daggers at his furthering back. "I'm breaking the lock."

"Have fun."

And he disappears into a room.

The girl sighs exasperatedly before slumping against the wall that faces the quarantine room. Of course she can't break the lock. If she does, everyone's just going to get more anxious and the bad image Hyun Su already has might turn worse.

She lifts his head up and is met with surprise at the sight of Hyun Su gripping onto the bars of the little rectangle opening at the top half of his metal door- dark, round eyes fixed onto her as his cheeks touch the cold cylinders he holds. "Hyun Su... What are you doing?"

Her gentle cadence and smile are vastly different from how she was with Eunhyuk. Clearly, she has a favourite. And Hyun Su loves knowing that.

"I'm...watching," Hyun Su answers slowly.

A small titter escapes her as she closes the distance between them. "That's creepy."

She now stands just a step away from the door as she looks up at him with a dispirited expression. "I don't think I can come in anymore. Eunhyuk's become more strict and he's using the people to back him up. All I can do is just accompany you from out here."

Hyun Su lets his eyes roam on her face and a small smile graces his own as he slowly lets go of the bar and reaches his hand out. (y/n)'s brows raise at the unforeseen behaviour from him and obviously, gives in.

Her hands rests onto his palm which he then curls, clasping hers in his and intertwining their fingers. The girl gulps, flustered and abashed at the sudden skinship, oblivious to his own feelings that can be seen from the red tips of his ears.

"It's okay. This is enough," is what he says and indulges in watching her trying to 'play it cool' by avoiding any eye contact and doing a subtle shuffle. She's adorable.

'She sure is,' a voice echoes inside and Hyun Su's quickly alert. 'Wah... What you feel for her is just so sweet, it's sickening.'

Hyun Su's fingers tighten ever so slightly around hers as he tries to push it away. 'Go away.'

'I can't. Unless you've forgotten, I'm inside your head,' the voice snickers and Hyun Su's heartbeat quickens from annoyance and yet, fear. It's not supposed to come out- not when he's with (y/n). 'And I'm getting awfully impatient.'

His words confuse Hyun Su. 'Impatient? Wha—'

And suddenly, everything turns pitch black.

The abrupt drop of his head causes his forehead to crash against the bars and (y/n) worries for his wellbeing.

"Hyun Su! What's wrong?" She gasps. "You haven't eaten today, have you? Let me get you something."

She turns to leave but the tight hold he has around her hand tugs her back and she nears the rectangular opening, still seeing him with his head down against it.

"No... Don't go..." He then, whimpers, and the fragility in his voice stirs her into a panic.

"Hyun Su," (y/n) softly says his name again and reaches her other hand between the bars- searching for his face to pull it up.

Her palm cups his cheek and he shudders at her touch. A small whisper of her name leaves him as she lifts his face up.

Her eyes flicker between his own closed ones, troubled at his unsolvable pain that causes him to react the way he is. "What's wrong?"

In contrary to her expectations however, Hyun Su nuzzles against her hand- rubbing his face against her palm before he presses his own hand on top.

"Hyun Su has such strong will... I could never," he says and despite using the same exact voice, he sounds too different from the Hyun Su she knows. But what even is she trying to say? Hyun Su isn't Hyun Su?

Everything's too puzzling- especially when he pulls her by the wrist, causing her to collide with the door and her face against the bars.

"Hyun Su, what are you do—"

"I'm lonely," he speaks pitifully and this more familiar tone of voice calms (y/n)'s nerves as she pulls away slightly to look at him who's still keeping her hand against his cheek. 'His eyes...'

"Look at me," she says.

Hyun Su tilts his head into her palm again- the sad, sympathetic expression now shifting to a cocky, devious smirk as his lids open to reveal his black eyes.

No gentle dark browns, just pure abyss.

"You caught me. I knew you wouldn't have wanted me if I were to show myself," monster Hyun Su chuckles and erases the gap between them, now face to face with her.

(y/n) scoffs after quickly concluding that this must be the monster inside Hyun Su. "Want you? Why would you even consider that?"

She yanks her hand back but is swiftly captured by his- now gripping it with more force which makes it impossible to budge.

"Because you want him," he confidently declares and (y/n) feels her heart skip a beat. 'He knows. How does he know?' "At least, that's what I observe... Not that this weakling would ever consider it."

"What do you mean?" Her curiosity gets the best of her. 'Hyun Su would never consider it? Why? Is it really one sided? All this time?'

She's unnerved. He can see it from her expression that's almost begging him to assuage her anxiety, the questions in her head. He grins as his head angles upwards slightly and gosh— (y/n) will be lying if she says she doesn't feel a flutter in her stomach.

"Calm down. He likes you too... maybe a little too much. He thinks he doesn't deserve you, thinks you're better off with someone 'normal' who won't threaten your life," the monster scoffs as if finding the whole thing hilarious. "And yet, just one touch from you and he's tingling all over- craving for more like you're his oasis in the desert."

(y/n) says nothing- no, can't say anything. She's rendered speechless by this sudden, shocking information that she's having a hard time believing. Never once did Hyun Su ask for her affection, and even if he does reach out to her, it'll be momentary; comes and goes in a blink.

An abrupt warmth on her hand makes her jump before seeing Hyun Su kissing it. He plants his lips on the back of her hands, her knuckles, her palm before sliding up her arm to her face- unlatching his other hand from the bar to hold her chin.

He smiles beguilingly as he watches her weigh the voices of her brain and heart, enjoying her panic. "This is what Hyun Su wants. What I'm doing... this is all by him. But I'll be lying if I said I'm not indulging myself either."

"He...wants this?" (y/n) echoes and she can almost hear her sense of rationality and logic shrieking at her for irresponsibly choosing to communicate with a monster.

"Oh, yes," he slurs as his tongue darts out to wet his lip and brings her face closer- his eyes shifting between hers before down at her lips and back up. "So, so much, it wrecks him inside. He feels secure with you, comfortable, happier than ever, but at the same time you taunt him so much with your sweetness that it's venomous. But I like you because of that. Makes it easier to tamper with his mind."

His confession fills (y/n) with dread. All this time... has she been only making things harder for Hyun Su? He's been on war with himself for so long- and she's only adding fire to it.

"Don't worry too much, though. Because without you, he would've been long..." Hyun Su trails off as his eyes trail to her mouth and his thumb brushes over her bottom lip. "Gone."

He pushes his finger in slightly, touching her tongue- making her bite down from surprise and a low groan escapes him at the pain. A pain much too good to actually hurt.

Monster Hyun Su smirks as a scoff sounds from him once more at her immediate retraction and he grips her chin to yank her close.

"You temptress," he hisses before his eyes roll back and eyelids shut. His figure limps and he crashes onto the cold floor of the quarantine room.

#cha hyunsu x reader #cha hyun soo x reader #sweet home x reader #cha hyun su x female reader #sweet home #cha hyun su #fanfiction #cha hyun su imagines #cha hyun su fanfictions #sweet home fanfictions #sweet home imagines #monster hyun su

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year

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eddie x fem! reader

masterlist

w/c 7.8k

summary: things heat up in more ways than one for the roommates, thanksgiving makes everyone thankful.

warnings: NO MINORS, language, fighting, mentions of child neglect, mentions of murder

a/n: thank you to my beta readers: @jo-harrington @sweetsweetjellybean pls check out their work they are both so amazingly talented 🩵 thank you to @blueywrites for screaming with me on certain parts of this story + @fracturedarkness for helping me plan future parts for this series.

again— I’m no longer doing a tag list for this series— this week as really opened my eyes to a bunch of shit in this world and I’m fucking pissed off about it.

“Do you think it’s enough food? Last year Mike ate all the mashed potatoes so I’m just hoping there is enough for everyone.”

The holidays were always a stressful time for most people, housewives stressing over meal planning, guest lists and matching outfits for their Christmas cards—ones that coordinated well and hid the fact that they were miserable with their lazy, limp dick husbands. Poor Nancy fell into that category all too well.

She’s walking circles around her dining room table, counting the dishes on her fingers. Ham, turkey, cheesy potatoes, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, corn, green bean casserole, a relish tray, strawberry fluff, gravy, two pumpkin pies, two pecan pies, a jello mold, two dozen caramel Rice Krispie bars, a pan of iced banana bars, and one can of jellied cranberry sauce on a crystal plate.

When Nancy asked you to join the Wheeler/Byers/Hopper’s gang for thanksgiving this year, you quickly accepted the invitation, asking if there was anything you could bring. She requested you bring the dessert. So the night before Thanksgiving, you started the tedious task of keeping Eddie from eating all the icing and caramel.

“Eddie! Have you seen the caramels I just bought? They were on the counter next to the flour canister.”

“Nope! Haven’t theen ‘em,” he answers all too quickly, “you thur you bought ‘em?”

“Yes I’m su—,”

Goddamn him.

Walking into the living room you approach the metal head, splayed out on the couch, fingers shoved in his mouth picking at his teeth, “oh Eddie?”

“Mhmm?” He hums, innocently, looking at you with big doe eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have caramel stuck in your teeth, the same caramel I bought and said, ‘please don’t eat these they’re for the Rice Krispie bars,’ would you?”

Rose colors his cheeks, “what? Me? Not listening? Ok O’Donnell,” he says with a scoff.

“Eddie,” you say sternly, hip thrown out and arms crossed over your chest.

“Ok! Fine! They were just so fucking good! But I’m dying right now— my teeth feel practically glued together— do we have any floss?!”

“Nance, I think there is more than enough here, you and Jonathan will have leftovers for weeks, months possibly.”

Fretting, Nancy wipes her fidgeting hands on her apron, “I just want it to be perfect— you know how I am.”

Type A, that’s how she was.

“It’ll be perfect, Nancy,” Jonathan agrees, coming up behind her and holding her around her small waist, “just like you.”

Scarlet heat accentuates her rouged cheeks. “Ok ok, no kissing the cook just yet,” she says, peeling herself from Jonathan’s arms, “can you and Argyle set the card table up in the basement?”

The turkey almost melted like butter on your tongue, the gravy was rich and savory. Karen’s cheesy potatoes were creamy and the crunchy cornflakes on top were to die for; the entire meal was delicious. The labor of Nancy’s love for her family and friends showing through her craftsmanship of amazing cuisine. You hadn’t seen Karen or Ted since the wedding, being the closest thing to parents you had, you were ecstatic when Karen joined you over the hot water and soapy sink, washing the china plates.

“So sweety, how have things been going lately? Nancy said you have a roommate?” Her tight blonde permed curls shaking behind her as she scrubs the pot used to make the gravy.

Drying the freshly rinsed dish, you answer with a coy smile on your face, “I’ve been good, doing better than I have in a while, yeah, I have a roommate, uhh Eddie Munson.”

“Oh Mike’s friend? He always was so kind to him, taking him under his wing and showing him the ropes in high school,” she looks at you then, her lavender eyeshadow catching the light over the sink, “I’m happy you two are dating.”

Dating.

Dating Eddie Munson.

Scenarios fly through your mind, Eddie holding your hand at the movie theater, him behind you—his chin resting on your shoulder helping you play video games at Arcade Land, watching him write songs and play his guitar, kissing his lips sweetly, deeply— moving down his neck, his chest. His fingers on your thighs—

You’re sweating.

Head dizzy and full of visions of you loving Eddie and Eddie loving you back dance in your head.

“W-we’re not dating, just—”

How would you describe your relationship with Eddie? Roommates? Friends? Waiting for him to kiss you?

“—friends,” you say, enunciating the word slowly, rolling it off your tongue.

“Well,” Karen says, a hidden smile on her knowing lips, “I’m happy you two are just friends.”

Friends.

Such a complicated word. Because you and Eddie were more than that, but definitely not dating. The tension between you was electric, and sometimes jarring, but you went to bed thinking of him every night, hoping he would just open the door to your room, slip beneath the sheets and hold you while you dreamed.

[Two weeks prior]

The morning after you had comforted him, you woke up alone— his side of the bed still warm as if he had just gotten up. Sleeping so soundly you weren’t sure what day it was, or the time. The alarm clock on your night stand said 7 o’clock but that couldn’t be right. You and Eddie had both slept for over twelve hours, the comforting kind of sleep that lulls babies to sleep, gentle, sweet, pillowy dreams in one another’s arms. Getting dressed for work, you slip a pair of jeans on, and change into a long navy blue cardigan, headband to match. Lacing up your converse, you open your bedroom door.

Eddie’s in his room getting dressed for work when you find him. Knocking on the opened door gently, you poke your head in, his eyes lift and meet yours, a sleepy, coy grin colors his face, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, stopping mid button on his work coveralls.

The black bandana around his head presses his bangs nearly flat, the soft waves of his chocolate dipped curls reflect the sun light with a honey oranged hue.

“Hi,” your voice is small and meek.

An overwhelming feeling of dread* clouds your mind. Where would this new found friendship and comfort lead you both? Maybe Eddie was regretting the entire night. You haven’t been on this comfort level with someone you were physically attracted to ever. Steve was like a brother to you. And Chad— you were never comfortable with him, your skin crawling just thinking of it. But Eddie? The sight of him gave you butterflies, his arms holding your waist while you slept was an intimacy you haven’t experienced before, and you wanted to relish in the feeling of it.

He fiddles with his rings on his fingers, rolling them around and around before his mouth opens to speak, “I’m sorry for yesterday,” he blurts out, looking down in shame, unable to meet your curious eyes.

Barely comprehending that he’s apologizing for being vulnerable, you walk towards him slowly. He notices your staggering steps and inches backward. His walls are back up, caged in with his feelings, barbed wire on the top so you couldn’t find a way in, electric fence surrounding the brick walls—the highest voltage imaginable.

“Ed—”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracked and broken, wavering on another breakdown, “please don’t… I don’t need your sympathy.”

Tears well in your eyes at his recoiling. How can a night of comfort turn into despair and hostility the next morning? Nose burning, signaling your brain that tears would be falling any second, you wipe your eyes hastily.

Eddie felt like his neck was out, exposed to the world, waiting for the guillotine’s blade to slice his skin, until the crimson of his blood spilled in the basket, severing his head, a trophy amongst the weak.

Munson’s didn’t accept charity, his whole life that's what he felt like to Wayne, a charity case, a goddamn roadblock in Wayne’s life stopping him from finding a girlfriend, sleeping on a real bed, forcing him to work overnight just for Eddie— he’d never forgive himself for the pain he’s caused him— and now you? Offering your bed to him, your fingers twirling through his hair as he came undone. Whimpering like an infant, coating your thighs with thick tears. Sure it felt nice to have someone there with him, to reassure him it was all going to be okay, sweet, angelic voice of reason. But when he woke this morning he felt disgusting, like a predator, a vicious wolf preying on a sweet innocent lamb offering herself to him because he was upset.

He didn’t want that for you. He didn’t want to taint your soul with his past.

“I’m not giving my sympathy,” you voiced into the void, whether he heard it or not you weren’t sure.

Eddie breathing heavily, trying to contain his emotions from spilling out of him, “good, because I don’t want it.”

He walks around you in a huff, the muted scent of cigarettes and cologne hit your nose, as he passes you and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door all too hard. Following him, you’re certain you are full fledged crazy at this point, like in a scary movie when the lead actress stays in the house instead of running away.

Opening the door, opening Pandora’s box, you push it til it swings wide, he’s hovering over the sink brushing his teeth, white and blue toothpaste decorate the corners of his mouth.

“Tooty,” he groans, spitting a dollop of toothpaste into the sink, “seriously— I don’t want to talk about it, whatever you have to say save it for the human Care Bear Harrington—I don’t want to hear it.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stones would be impressed with how still you’re standing, head raised waiting for him to look you in your eye. Refusing to break. A storm in your eyes threatening to flood. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Eddie grunts impatiently, “are you ready?”

When you don’t say anything, he moves you out of the way, large hands around your arms, stepping around you and going into the kitchen.

Following him, you won't let up, his head in the fridge he pulls out the orange juice carton, drinking directly from the jug, “Eddie, you can talk to me about it, I’m a good listener.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, gasping for breath as he swallows the citrus liquid, “I said— I said, I didn’t want to talk about it and I meant it, I’m a grown ass man— ”

Interrupting him, not giving him time to finish you blurt, “Doesn’t make you less of one just because you’re upset.”

His teeth clench so hard they almost crack, his hands balled into fists at his sides, the orange juice container crumbling in his grasp. Years of therapy as a child did nothing to help him. And neither could you.

“Stop,” he snaps, his eyes pinched tight, a wave of fury washing over him, only seeing red. “Jesus Christ enough! I don’t need this shit right now, I’m gonna be late for work!”

He stomps towards the door, shoving his boots on haphazardly, throwing his leather jacket under his arm, the same leather jacket you had worn the night before, your perfume lingering on the inside.

The smell of you lighting his fire even more, he’s losing all self control.

“What’s your problem anyway?” he grumbles, kicking open the front door, waiting for you to follow. His eyes are wide and full of hurt, anger, crippling anxiety so deep he didn’t even know if he was breathing. But no matter how mad you looked, how many tears you kept wiping away from your lash line, he couldn’t stop.

Keys in the ignition he puts the van into reverse and yanks the wheel quickly, driving like he robbed a bank.

Anytime you try to speak he cuts you off.

“Do you like getting involved with people's lives? Why are you so desperate to know what happened? Need something to gossip about at the salon? So you and your boss can whisper shit about me again? Hmm? ”

“What the fuck are y—” you try to say, but he cuts you off again, he’s raging war on himself and on you, it’s far from over, no surrender flag in sight.

“That must be it right?” he preens, barely stopping at the stop lights as he flies to your work, tires squealing around corners, “I’m here because you need something to talk about, the well full of hot gossip of Hawkins must have run dry. Well guess what sweetheart? It’s not anything I haven’t heard before.”

He’s so clueless, so expertly out of sync with what you were trying to convey, what you were begging him to understand. The tears are free falling and you don’t stop them, screaming at him, “Eddie!”

“What?!” he barks back, chest heaving with hatred filled lungs and venomous words so toxic they’re burning your skin.

Aching soul and self doubt at an all time low you try to will the words to not shake as you deliver, “do you really think I would hold you while you were sad with any other intention than consoling you!? You were upset and the least I could do after you helped me was try to make you feel better!”

He tried to argue but it’s your turn to cut him off, holding up a hand as he fumed through his nose. He parks in back of the salon, slamming on the brakes as you both jolt forward. “Let it go, Too—”

“I care about you, you stubborn asshole!” You grab your purse between your feet and open the door and jump out.

“Just stop,” Eddie pleads, his eyes brimming with tears, “don’t.”

“I can’t,” you say back in a whisper, your voice breaking at the last syllable, you reach for the door, out of breath and holding in your sobs the best you can, “oh, and for the record— Josie was telling me to be nice to you and give you a chance— my mistake.”

Slamming the door you don’t hear him break, you don’t hear him thrust the heel of his hand into the steering wheel until it aches and burns. His nerves shooting pain through his entire arm. You don’t hear him scream and hate himself as he drives to work, his body soulless, empty, fragile.

“Tooty, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell Josie for the tenth time.

You definitely were not fine.

Distracted the minute you got to work, your mind raced with questions of the unknown. Hurt, confused and pissed off, you had mixed the wrong color formula for your clients hair, resulting in money down the drain from your own paycheck as you threw the mixture away and started it again, for the third attempt.

At 10 o’clock you were folding towels in the back when you realized you had bleached an entire load of darks. The once rich black towels were now faded with splotches of orange.

Eddie’s words had ripped through your heart, hurdling themselves into the deepest parts of you that were sheltered away from anyone, taking up solace in your forbidden soul, hollowing it out.

By noon you were crying while rolling a client's perm rods into her hair, having to step away multiple times before Josie gently told you enough was enough and that you should go home for the day.

Not wanting to call Eddie and get a ride you decided to walk the half mile through town back to your home on Cherry lane.

Kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe for most of the walk home, you mull over the events of the day. Wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan as you tread along the sidewalk.

[Thanksgiving Day]

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Nancy and Jonathan’s? It’ll be fun!”

Eddie is leaned against the driver window of his van, his finger tracing a smiley face into the dust in the dash. “I wish I could, but Wayne and I go fishing every year on Thanksgiving— it’s a tradition.”

Every year since Eddie was ten years old, Wayne took him fishing on Thanksgiving, starting early in the morning and going until sundown, ending the night camping beneath the stars, cooking their daily catch for supper, “save me a piece of pie okay?” he finishes, ruffling up your hair, a shit eating grin on his lips.

Feeling horrible that your car was still out of commission, Eddie had let you borrow the van for the night after you dropped him off at Wayne’s. “And you’re positive it’s okay if I take the van?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Eddie’s laugh spread across his cheeks, the black beanie he has on his head inching closer to falling off every second, “Tooty,” he breathes, his brown eyes dipping into yours, “take the goddamn van and have a good time—and hurry up, you’re gonna be late.”

[2 Weeks prior]

🎶 it was the third of June another sleepy dusty delta day

I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was baling hay

Bobbie Jo’s tune was ringing in his ears all day— no matter how loud he cranked the radio in the shop, no matter how many times he tried to hum a different tune— her -* words rang through his mind like silk, coating his skin and implementing old memories he didn’t want brought up.

He was filled with fury. A ticking time bomb. It should have been no surprise when Sean and Aaron started poking at him, how unhinged he would become.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Munson,” Sean sneers, changing the oil on the Ford truck, “your little girlfriend finally figure out you’re a fucking loser?”

Eddie had already thrown a wrench across the shop out of frustration when he realized he forgot his lunch. He slammed the hood of a blue minivan on his fingers right after morning break, and now Aaron and Sean were starting in on him.

His breath erratic, trying to breathe through his nose to calm himself down but failing. His misery over taking his nerves. He grunts through barred teeth, “We aren’t dating,”

Sean perks up at the news, his wiry mustache splattered across his top lip like a squashed caterpillar, decrepit and sparse. “Oh shit, so she’s single, huh?”

“Damn,” Aaron chimes in, his hands cupped around his junk as he shakes it back and forth between his greasy hands, “what I wouldn't give to be balls deep in that pretty little mouth, that’d shut her up for good.”

“You’re skating on thin ice, fuck rag, I’d watch my mouth if I were you.” Eddie’s shoulders are tensed, adrenaline at an all time high. Fight or flight screaming through his blood racing through his heart and speeding up his heart rate.

“Whatchya gonna do about it, freak?” Sean spits pushing Eddie in the chest, “ ‘Name the time and place’ yeah motherfucker? How about right here right now?” Standing toe to toe with Eddie, but a foot shorter he peers into Eddie’s face, egging him on.

“Ever since you moved in with that whore you’ve been such a little bitch about everything— I mean I get it, honestly— Chad always said she had the sweetest p—”

Sean chokes on the last word as Eddie’s fist connects with his cheek, his rings would end up leaving bruises in their shape on his skin for weeks to come.

Sean throws a punch at Eddie but he is quick to dodge it, years of fighting in the trailer park giving him an upper hand. Blood spews from Sean’s mouth as Eddie upper cuts him in the chin, his tongue almost split in half as he bit down from the impact.

Eddie is blinded momentarily as Aaron socks him in the eye, a deep purpling plum colored bruise that took weeks to heal. Stumbling backwards his back hits the red sun faded tool box, Sean came swinging a crow bar out of nowhere and hit Eddie in the ribs, a groaning thud as the sound of his bones shatter in his body.

Behind his back, he reaches for whatever is closest, a wrench wrapped tight in his fingers gets thrown in the air at Sean, hitting him in the throat and knocking him over onto the smooth concrete of the shop floor, gasping for breath.

Aaron tackles Eddie, sending him into the air compressor, four fists are swinging and bodies shifting as they both struggle for dominance. Eddie’s lip is cut and his eye is swollen almost shut. Aaron’s nose is dripping blood on Eddie’s shirt as he punches him in the same place that Sean hit him with the crow bar. He’s able to get a knee up between Aaron and himself and twists his body to get above him, and when he does he lays punch after punch into Aaron’s swollen bloody face.

With each rocking fist connecting with flesh, Eddie has one thing on his mind, you. He thinks about the foul way they had disrespected you. The way you had cried when you told him you couldn’t stop caring about him. How he was close to losing you because he couldn’t open up and let you in. How terrified you must have been for all those years when you were scared and alone, nobody there to hold you and comfort you. And while he’s pummeling Aaron into a bloody pulp of cracked teeth and swollen eyes, it finally clicks for him.

The fight didn’t last long, but was effective enough to get Eddie suspended for the rest of the work day— and Aaron and Sean got a nice week's vacation with no pay.

Eddie’s knuckles are coated in a mixture of blood and spit. His jaw aches as he drives home with one eye open, it’s the clearest he’s seen in a long time.

[Thanksgiving]

“Fish ain’t bitin’ much are they?” Wayne and Eddie have both cast and reeled in their rods multiple times with zero luck. The small boat Eddie had gifted Wayne with for Christmas 3 years ago stood at still waters of Lover’s Lake, both men chilled to the bone.

“Nah, they sure aren’t. Probably no fish left in here after the summer you had.”

Since Eddie had graduated, Wayne dropped down to part time at the plant and went to dayshift. A true dream for him and for Eddie, offering to pick up most of the bills, a silent thank you for all the years that Wayne has taken care of him when he didn’t have to, but did anyway— the only caring person in his life, until you.

The wind whips through Eddie’s hair, tugging the curls out from the confinements of the cotton stocking cap snug on his head. The once crisp autumn foliage is soggy like forgotten cereal in a bowl of milk around them from the previous nights rain, chilling the usual humidity from the air and adding a depth of ice in their veins as they shake and shiver in their jackets, Eddie in his leather jacket, Wayne in a weathered faded khaki canvas coat.

Ruddy hands with silvered rings light two cigarettes, passing one to a pair of calloused, aged hands. Inhaling deeply and blowing warm smoke in the whispering winds of the quiet fog around them.

Wayne runs a rough hand over his sunned scalp, itching the small patches of hair left, as he readjusts his tattered cap, letting the nicotine settle into his bones and soothe the stubborn ache in his jaw, like ointment on an arthritic joint, “you ever gonna bring that girlfriend over to meet me or you keepin’ her alls to yourself?”

“What girl?” Eddie says quickly, coyly, blowing smoke into the space between the two of them, hiding his mouth with the curtain of his curls, opening the coffee can full of mud and worms, pushing another worm on the end of his hook.

Wayne hadn’t talked to him about girls since he was fifteen when he walked into his room and tossed a box of rubbers at his chest and grumbled, “use ‘em,” under his breath.

Irritation blooms against Wayne’s brows, “boy, don’t play dumb with me,” he cracks at Eddie, a false stern voice in his gruff voice, “the one you’re dating you little wise ass.”

“I’m not dating anyone, Wayne.” Eddie says, pretending to be preoccupied with the tackle box full of neon fishing lures and bobbers. He runs his thumb over the rough cracked surface of the faded red and white bobber, the same one Wayne gave to him when they started fishing all those years ago. The memory brings a smile to his face.

The gruff scoff from Wayne’s throat suggests bullshit to his ears from his nephew’s mouth, a noise Eddie has heard many many times in the two decades he had been living with Wayne, one that told him that he better tell the truth, and right the hell now. No matter that he now towers over Wayne, he’ll always be his boy, the wide eyed boy with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, his son.

And as Wayne always knew— the more he poked and prodded, the more Eddie would clam up. They sit in comfortable silence, the slight breeze rippling the water on Lover’s Lake, rocking the small fiberglass boat and swaying the two Munson men gently.

How could he describe the relationship between you and him? Not dating, but hopefully more than friends. He didn’t have many friends that he’d willingly let help him battle his inner-most demons. In fact, Gareth and Jeff were still left in the dark about it. The breeze continues to grow frigid and burrows itself between the layers of his clothing, freezing his skin and peppering it with goose bumps. The chattering of Eddie’s teeth remind him of Steve’s birthday when he offered you his jacket, and opted to freeze the rest of the night just so you wouldn’t be chilly.

It’s simple really, he admitted it to Steve, but somehow admitting it to Wayne was worse than the hit from the box of condoms against his chest.

He says it all too fast, out of breath, and barely audible. But he says it. And a smile spreads across the weathered leather of Wayne’s face, pulling his mustache up, a glimmer of a sparkle in his eye, “see, now was that so bad?”

[2 weeks prior]

His knuckles ache, and he’s not positive if it’s from the blows to Aaron’s face or the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. His realization while busting open Aaron’s cheek made him eager to get home. Eager to clean himself up before he went to pick you up from work.

The house is silent as he walks through the garage, his angry hurtful words bounce back to him off the kitchen walls, the counter. The orange juice was still where he left it, crumpled and misshapen.

He truly was an asshole. Hurting the one person who cared for him other than Wayne. He sits down in a chair and unties his boots, blood splattered on the toes. Peeling the sweat stained work coveralls from his body, he tosses them down the steps to the basement, leaving them for later.

He stands partially naked in the kitchen, clad in only his underwear and socks, the kick of adrenaline wearing completely off, the promise of pain against his broken ribs rings searing heat through his body.

A glance around the kitchen stills the breath in his lungs. The kitchen is a wreck from the waffle night, the colossal beginning of a budding relationship that he was currently in the trenches hoping to fix. The once silky batter is now hard, pale concrete cemented onto the sides of the glass mixing bowl. The waffle iron was open, sprayed with cooking oil that was sitting with its cap off on the counter. The plates were sticky with cold syrup and now styrofoam resembled waffles, still on the table from where you had both sat. Forks and knives laying atop the ceramic plates in a haphazard way, awaiting the return of warm hands to finish their job.

Without thinking he starts to clean up, filling the sink with hot water, scraping the food from the plates into the garbage, putting away the orange juice and the left out butter and cooking spray. In no time the kitchen is sparkling and Eddie’s body is screaming at him to rest. The cuts on his knuckles are cleaned but swollen, soap stung from the water. His side aches, adrenaline slipping away with every growing minute.The pain is almost unbearable.

A clicking noise from the front door has him turning suddenly, a slight panic in his nerves as he stands stone still.

A block from the house, your tears return, cold, and stuck to your face like ice on poles. You’re exhausted, stomping the entire way home drove shin splints up your legs, the cold cramping dull in your calves. Thinking of Eddie the entire way home you are dumbfounded— completely and utterly confused at his reaction. How could he not know how you felt about him? Why was he begging you to stop? Wondering if you’ll ever get the answers to those questions you wipe your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan. If he was going to guard himself again, and put the barriers back up— so could you.

The door is stuck as you try to open it, pushing and shoving your shoulder into it, it finally gives, stumbling your way into the living room in the most ungraceful way. The scent of freshly wiped surfaces sting your nose and stop you dead in your tracks. You weren’t expecting to be relieved from seeing Eddie, but the relief is short lived as you notice the deep violet and indigo bruise painting his eye.

“Ed—,” you gasp, covering your mouth as you run towards him, foregoing the screaming in your legs, “wh— oh my God!”

His eyes melt at your appearance, scarlet rimmed eyes and wet cheeks take him in, eyebrows dipped into unease and apprehension. He feels your hesitancy, thick like fog surrounding you both as you reach your fingers up to his cheek. Ice cold pads of your fingertips skim the tender skin of his face, brushing the wispy hair of his bangs from his eyes with your fingertips to get a better look at him.

He doesn’t speak, barely breathing at your gentle touch on his face. The frosty coolness of your fingers burn his skin with every silky movement of your hands. He tries to avoid your eyes, avoid the pain he knew was from earlier and his cowardice.

Fingers dancing along his skin, you scan over his torso, the same way you did on the morning after Halloween, the bruising from the mishap of the steps is replaced by a pattern of splotchy deep bruising.

“They’re broke,’’ Eddie groans, his split lip ripping open, from him trying to force a smile, “looks cool though right?”

Using humor to deflect the true way he feels was an easy defense mechanism for him, but you won’t bite. Won’t take the bait he’s dropping into your waters, won’t nibble at his small offering.

Trying not to break, you stand your ground, “what happened?”

“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” Eddie says, eyes casted downwards at your hands near his ribs, “I was just having a shitty enough day— my own fault—“, he adds quickly, his eyes flicking to yours, not wanting to put salt into the already festering wound he created, “I—uh—I took care of it.” He says in a final explanation.

“And now I’m going to take care of this,” he motions between you both, sliding his hands down your arms and settling them in your hands.

“Tooty— I,” he exhales as deep as his lungs will allow given the break in his ribs, spilling his stitched up heart to you, letting the walls fall with each word, “I’m sorry— I’m so fucking sorry. Nothing I do or say will ever amount to how shitty I feel for making you cry, for pushing you away. I’m a coward when it comes to this type of shit, and it was too heavy— too muddy for me to explain. I figured if I’d shut you out you’d go back to how it was before— before Harrington’s birthday, before Halloween befo—,”

A shake of your head and a sharp intake of breath come from your body. Did all of this mean nothing to him? The flirting, the gentle touching, the sweet gestures? It was all just something he wanted to forget?

Voice small and shallow, “Is that what you want Eddie? To go back to how it was before, when you first moved in?”

A single tear falls from your face, and without thinking, without second guessing himself or wondering if you would think he was being weird, Eddie is quick to brush it away with the curl of his forefinger. His swollen knuckles are tight and achy. He tries to hide a hiss from his teeth, wanting to live in this euphoric moment for as long as he can, as long as you will allow him to. He extends both hands now to your face, his rough thumbs rubbing over the expanse of your cheeks, fingers behind your ears, curling into your hair.

“I want,” he breathes easy now, as if the touch of your skin on his fingers mended his broken bones, his eyes soft where it allowed, one still swollen shut, “I need you to know that I care, too— and I don’t want you to ever quit caring about me— baby, I’ve cared about you for years—- and I can’t get myself to stop.”

And when a sob breaks from your chest, he pulls you into him, “c’mere,” the sensation steals the breath from your lungs, you’ve never been touched with such gentleness, such care. He’s holding you as if you’re glass. Fragile, cracked and held together with shitty Elmer’s glue that was a tempting snack for children. It’s so delicate the way he’s stroking your skin.

Minutes or hours pass you’re not sure. His warmth engulfs you, his musky cologne and spiced deodorant is a gentle blanket around you. Wrapping you in a swaddle of his admiration.

His hair tickles your cheeks, tattooed arms are twisted in your hair,and wrapped around your back. The shine of your tears coat his bare chest, his chin rests on top of yours breathing in your hair shushing you gently.

You spend the night working Eddie’s rings from his already swollen fingers, pressing ice packs to his bruises and spreading neosporin on his cut lip, rubbing it gently with the tip of your finger, Eddie giggles at the concentration on your face and the way your tongue is poked out.

He’s infatuated with the way you make him feel. His heart soaring higher and higher with each delicate touch of your fingers on his skin.

He’s up late that night, stomach full from your homemade chicken noodle soup and his heart even more full. Flying higher than cloud nine, your sweet face on his mind.

[Thanksgiving]

A sadistic voice echoes from your tv screen, “a little young for ya isn’t she Richie? BEEP BEEP RICHIE!”

Richie Tozier sips the Dixie cup of water, leaning against the bookcase in the Derry library, Pennywise continues his antics of torture as balloons drop from the ceiling, popping with blood spluttering on the library go-ers faces, oblivious to the fantasy nightmare Pennywise ensues.

The front door opens with a thud as a shriek and the popcorn bowl on your lap goes flying through the air. Eddie walks hurriedly through the door. A shivering spine of fear and realization hits you all at once. His boisterous laugh reverberates the living room walls as he picks popcorn from your hair, and places it in his mouth, a loud crunch between his teeth as he plops down next to you on the couch.

“Think you got your holidays mixed up, sweetheart— it’s Thanksgiving, Halloween was last month.”

Rolling your eyes you make a face to mock him, which only fuels his fire and has his cold fingers jabbing into your sides and tickling you so hard you scream out. Begging him to stop.

“Don’t!,” you squeal, holding your breath and giggling at his unrelenting tickling. He finally gives up after your face has gone red and your hair is a mess, laughing tears rolling down your cheeks.

Eddie sits back on the couch taking a huffing breath, a wild smile spreading from ear to ear, “that’s what you get for watching IT without me!”

Scoffing, you pick up the bowl of popcorn and the paled yellow crunchy kernels spilled on the ruby red throw blanket, “wait, weren’t you supposed to be camping with your uncle tonight?”

Eddie breathes out a sigh, bending at the waist to gather the kernels off the floor. The rest of the fishing trip with Wayne, Eddie spent it quieter than he had ever been, contemplating his next move, how could he show you that he was serious? How could he let you in? Show you his ugly past without scaring you, without you running for the hills? The answer was easy.

“I have something— somewhere I wanna show you,” he whispers, standing to his full height. Looking for the familiar mischievous glimmer in his eye, you are surprised by the genuine sparkle replacing it. His face his earnest, almost a look of doubt on his lips, scared of your reaction.

He peels the blanket from your lap and reaches down, his hand held out extended to yours, “come with me?”

The air is bitter. The driveway is glittering with a sequined frost, dancing with the shine of the street lights. Warm breath fills the inside of Eddie’s van as he slots the key into the ignition and fires it up, cranking the heat. Snuggling further into your knitted scarf, hiding the chill of your nose as Eddie backs down the driveway, heading out of town.

It doesn’t take long to get to where he was going, the drive in silence had you questioning what was going on in his mind. The path was overgrown, hidden from the road, hidden from anyone who didn’t know that it was there. The headlights of the van bob along with each sunken hole on the dirt drive. Jostling the van this way and that.

Nestled into thick trees past an old loose and corroded barbed wire fence, in place for property lines, sits a small house, paint chipped and barely visible. The roof was caved in by a large tree falling on it, the sagging porch still had bleached yellow crime scene tape hanging on by threads to the moss eaten pillar.

Eddie throws the van in park, sniffling slowly and looking around. “This uh,” he stutters, clearing his throat, “this is where I lived with my mom, my old man was in and out most of the time—drunk or in jail, I don’t remember him being here that much except the last time.”

Silence is golden, and you give him your undivided attention as he twists in his seat, bent knee leaning on the door frame.

“That,” he says pointing to the fallen tree in the back, “was an apple tree, apples this big around I swear,” he motions his hands in a circle, a chuckle in his throat, “we didn’t live here for very long, a year, or two maybe…”

His voice fades, and at first he second guesses bringing you here. He can imagine you piecing this puzzle of woe together, his life. The tragic tale of Eddie Munson, he didn’t spin a web of luxuries for you to pretend with him for a moment, a second, that he was anything other than what he was—but when your cotton gloved fingers slide into his, interlacing them—it gives him the courage, the resilience to continue.

“…I was six when it— when she was… he—,” he trails off, unable to finish, but it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. The abandoned house, the barely-there flicker of yellow tape, she wasn’t only dead— she was murdered, by his father’s hand.

Comprehending what he’s getting at, you can practically hear his heart breaking. Eyes never leaving his face, you take him in, his eyes are wet as he blinks back tears, using his other hand to pinch the inner corners of his eyes, and hide behind his hair, his face is ashen, once ruddy cheeks from when he came home and tickled you is now swallowed by stale ash, sucking the life from his eyes, his cheeks, his soul.

“.. right in front of me…” he hangs his head low, sniffing quietly, “Wayne took me in after that.”

Eddie and you were alike in more ways than you had thought, although your parents were still alive, they were equally absent from your life, much like Eddie’s parents. Sure you both had people who took care of you, and as sweet as the gesture was, it was never really the same. The aching torture of having to defend for yourself, put a brave face on for your temporary care takers so you don’t seem like a bother to them, so they won’t worry about the weight of taking you in— was all too familiar.

“Eddie,” you whisper softly, rubbing his hands with your thumbs.

Yearning and breaking for him, the cords of your heart reach to his, tethering them together as you slide over the center council, and carefully land into his lap. He’s surprised at first by your brazenness, but once you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him into you, he melts like chocolate at your heated touch.

Your fingers tug into his hair at the nape of his neck, his nose and lips make their way in between your scarf and your neck, the slight chill against your skin sends goosebumps down your spine, a throbbing in your core.

Realization spreads through your heart, your brain, the hair follicles on your head, the painted nails on your toes. Holding him, him holding you, his arms around you, your arms buried in his hair, his fingers rubbing patterns into your back as he sighs deeply and regulates his breath—for the first time in your life, you realize this is what love feels like.

To be loved and to be in love. It was undeniable. Right? Friends didn’t do this. Roommates didn’t do this. But two people who cared deeply for one another and were bonded together by more than just traumatic circumstances? That was love.

In this moment, nothing else matters.

It’s just you and him.

Him and you.

The flutter of your heart short circuits as it seeps hot sticky love all over your face, blooming warmly in your cheeks. Grasping him tighter, you pull away, settling your forehead into his. Whiskey poured eyes staring back into yours, for a brief second you swear you can feel his heart flutter with yours, beating as one.

Eddie doesn’t play his music loud on the way back. A comfortable echoing still in the van as it clunks along the road. His voice barely above a whisper when he speaks. He feels satisfied. Happy even? Like the weight of the world was off of his shoulders by you simply knowing his past. You didn’t ask questions and in the moment he didn’t need you to. His arms wrapped around you was more than enough, your fingers twirling in his hair, the smell of your perfume behind your ear. The way you let him grieve, let him take you somewhere he hasn’t gone in years, was something he’d appreciate for a lifetime to come.

Once home it’s like any normal night, only he doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t fight over the bathroom or use your toothbrush, he doesn’t argue when you pop Christmas Vacation into the VCR, even though you can quote the entire movie. He’s completely engulfed by you, watching you brush your hair, the extra roll of the waistband of your pajama pants. The ridiculous colors of your fuzzy socks you insisted on wearing now that the weather was colder.

He’s never felt nervous around a girl before, usually throwing himself around, showing off his exquisite rack like a stacked buck in rut, rubbing his antlers on trees, showing his mighty dominance.

But you weren’t just another lonely girl looking for a night with a lead singer, or a girl pretending to be in love with him just so she could score coke from his supplier while also fucking him behind his back, and you definitely weren’t a faceless girl that he plowed to forget it all.

Meaning much more to him than just some silly fuck, or a high school “sweetheart” that ended up being a heartless cunt, or a dumpster for his cum.

No.

You were much more than that, to him.

More than a roommate, more than a friend, more than Eyeball’s bratty fucking sister.

He could write sonnets about the little lines in between your brow when you pulled your eyebrows together, usually when you were mad at him. He could sing songs about your laugh, not the small polite one, the loud one, the one that rang every doorbell to his heart and and he gladly answered. He could hum a tune of gratitude about your cooking and the silent ways you care for him and your close friends. He’d get his ass kicked by the entire male population of Hawkins if it meant keeping you safe.

You were it for him.

The only one to make him feel, the only one he wanted to see at the end of the day, in the morning when he got up.

Watching you giggle and let out a yawn, he places a couch pillow between his hip and yours gesturing for you to lie down. He almost goes into cardiac arrest when you move the pillow entirely, your head resting in his lap. A sleepy smile on your face as you tug the blanket under your chin.

Yup.

You were it for him.

And he's a sucker, addicted to the way you made him love you so effortlessly.

hope you all enjoyed this volume! volume ix is where it heats up 🔥

@big-ope-vibes @br0ck-eddie @b-irock @loveshotzz @mopeymopeymouse @shiftingtherain @courtingchaos @nightonblogmountain @word-wytch @ghost-proofbaby @hanobe8 @abibliophobiaa @joejoequinnquinn just a few of the coven 🩵🩷

This is for you

*sacrifices 🖕🏼

#honey i’m home #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things x y/n #eddie x you angst #Eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you fluff

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