#nobody cares weepy

[intercomkris]

me trying to talk to someone who I barely have anything in common with. . . But because I’m a pacifist and social butterfly- I can’t resist

[relaxxattack]

Piggybacking off the last anon, what is it you like about Jane so much? I find my feelings on her kind of mixed but I lean towards positive.

okay i haven’t read act six in probably like 5 years so bear with me here. *cracks knuckles*

jane is sooo so interesting and it’s really a shame people miss like everything fun about her.

pre-scratch she used her detective work to literally succeed at tearing down the crocker cooperation, to the point that HIC has to fucking abandon ship and head into another universe to have another shot at her evil empire. pre-scratch jane is also fucking hilarious! if you didnt enjoy her antics with john as nannasprite you must just have no heart

meanwhile HIC breaches a new universe, and her FIRST fucking order of business is to NEUTRALIZE JANE CROCKER because of how goddamn detrimental she was to HIC’s plans the first time around.

not ONLY does HIC pump subliminal messaging and brainwashing into nearly every aspect of jane’s life, she also tries to straight up mind control her basically whenever possible! she ALSO sends assassination attempts after jane 24/7! (people will seriously try to say that jane lived a safe normal life… as if she wasn’t almost killed by walking into her backyard.) this is because HIC is fucking scared of jane, as she very well should be!

jane is also NOT a boring weepy annoying crybaby like everyone and their mother complains about. jane is literally the most fucking supportive friend and emotion-repressing dumbass you could ever hope to meet. jane combines john’s emotional repression and jade’s intentional cheerfulness together into one of the most fucked up cases of emotional repression in the whole comic

act 6 suffers from a LOT of shitty writing choices, but it’s not jane’s fault the whole act turns into a soap opera— and she’s ALSO not the only one who acts all soap-opera-y either! literally all of the alpha kids suffer from this, people just like jane the least so they project it all onto her. despite the fact that she did her very fucking best to NEVER talk about her feelings, to the point where she ONLY started telling people about shit when she was mind-controlled or took mind altering substances to make her do so! and you can say “ohhh that’s stupid she shouldn’t repress things in the first place how dumb” but, one she’s sixteen, and two, everyone eats that shit up when it comes from like. literally any other character.

people (cough hs2 writers) act like she would actually be “pushy” with a relationship on jake— as if she wasn’t literally the one who helped him make the decision to explore dating dirk?? because she thought it was the right thing to do???

jane is incredibly thoughtful and mature and people really throw all of those traits out of the window with preference for a version of the story where she Comes Inbetween Their Fave Gay Pairing as if she wasn’t, again, the one who got them together. jane is also extremely interesting in terms of queerness; she’s got the makings of a really interesting arc, not to mention she’s the only human girl that dresses mainly masc! there’s a lot there that people just don’t care to explore.

people just have less patience for the prospit kids in general. not to mention homestuck fans love to be misogynistic and berate jane for stuff they love the men doing, or claim she’s coming between them when she’s not, etc etc. and then because no one was writing fun meta posts about her, nobody ever rereads the comic to grab little scenes or lines to expand the online discussion about her! and then because there’s no discussion about her, people assume she’s boring and don’t go looking for bits to start discussing, which cycles on and on forever until we have the ripple effects we see of that misogyny today. which mostly consists of, “oh i hate jane because she was a villain is hs2”, or, “i know hs2 isn’t canon but i still don’t care for jane because she doesn’t do anything that interests me.” (and she’s only not interesting because of the cycle i mentioned before causing NO ONE to have meta discussion about her).

idk, it’s been a while since ive read so i could be talking out my ass but that’s what i’ve got.

TL;DR: jane is fucking COOL, she just suffers from intentional fandom ignorance. and she’s also a canonically hot, fat, masc woman, so i don’t know what else you could possibly want.

[ghostbite0]

What usually triggers baby mode and what were everyone’s reactions the first time it happened? Particularly the other two babies ^^

i was planning on drawing this but i am so. so tired... so i hope this is okay!! tiny 21 trio au my beloved

Sanemi:

usually he goes Baby Mode when his emotions get carried away. 9 times out of 10 its because he's really angry and frustrated about his situation

but he will also go baby mode when he's super happy. Tengen found out he could get him to go Baby Mode via tickling him and playing with him for example

He went Baby Mode for the first time when he accidentally got himself hurt during a 'tantrum.' Sanemi accidentally hit his head, and the second Genya scrambled to make sure he was okay, he began bawling his eyes out and he dropped

Genya was worried, but once Sanemi was cheered up, he was thrilled, because it turns out Baby Sanemi is attached to him

this weirded out Giyuu and Obanai a lot-- the angry Wind Hashira was suddenly a super happy-and-go-lucky baby who drooled all over the place

they were not huge fans of Sanemi trying to play with them, though Giyuu reluctantly joined in-- only to regress into an infant mindset as well. Obanai thought he was in hell

Giyuu:

he’s having a hard time processing the attention and care he’s receiving and he just sort of drops out of nowhere

Obanai and Sanemi, being his number one haters, mock and degrade him for it via baby babble, but thats just because they struggle a LOT with the situation

they are very thrown off when Giyuu starts cooing and attempts to cuddle with them

Sanemi in particular, gets super annoyed because he keeps pawing at his face and trying to play with him

Giyuu keeps calling Obanai "baby" because he's a lot tinier. the Hashira find this hysterical

Giyuu warms up to the transition pretty fast to make things easier. he tends to go Baby Mode more voluntarily and tries to help the other two understand why its useful

Sanemi and Obanai just assume Giyuu is doing this to make himself look high and mighty, and it pisses them off. every time Giyuu goes Baby Mode around them, they spend the first minute being like "what the hell is the matter with you. jerk"

the other Hashira are grateful but a few can’t help themselves from teasing him about it. they all agree hes adorable when he regresses. Shinobu is thriving 

Tanjiro and Nezuko adore Giyuu whether he's big or small, but when he's Baby Mode, he's much more willing to be held and snuggled and loved

Urokodaki cries the first time he sees Giyuu in Baby Mode. he loves his son very much

Obanai:

his first Baby Mode directly resulted from Obanai's inability to find Kaburamaru. someone (probably Tengen) makes the mistake of pulling the serpent away from the tiny baby out of fear that Kaburamaru might accidentally hurt him, and when Obanai lost sight of his familiar, he began to quietly weep

nobody noticed his cries at first, but Mitsuri quickly picked up on how curled up the baby was, and how his little body shook in distress. she quickly scooped him up and showered him in affection, not even questioning Obanai's change in mental state

as she fawned over him, the others reunited Kaburamaru with Obanai, and the two clung to each other the whole night

everyone quickly found out Obanai would involuntarily go Baby Mode for several reasons. mainly losing sight of Kaburamaru or when everyone tries to get him fed

Obanai is extremely sensitive and weepy, and the only thing that really cheers him up is words of reassurance combined with snuggles. Giyuu and Sanemi find this pretty ironic. usually Sanemi will just pat the smaller baby's head, but Giyuu will actively crawl over and hug him in an effort to help

when he has trouble eating, Sanemi and Giyuu sympathize with him, since this is a habit Big Obanai has as well. those two can actually eat fruits and mushed up baby food, but Obanai still needs to be bottle-fed (at least in the beginning). to help, the two will also drink from a bottle to show him it's okay

when they are no longer in Baby Mode, Sanemi yells that Obanai owes him. Obanai feels both insulted and shocked

he will also go Baby Mode while being taken care of Mitsuri and Rengoku. its hard not to when they're so genuine and loving

[antianakin]

It's so funny to me to see people getting all weepy about how Anakin's stupid wittle robot suit is so painful and how sad that is for him and how he's being TORTURED all the time in it like wow boohoo who cares, he's literally committing genocides every month and enslaving entire planets every week and upholding fascism every moment of his entire existence. Yeah, I HOPE his stupid wittle robot suits hurts, I HOPE it tortures him every second he's alive to feel it as a reminder of the pain he's inflicting on an entire GALAXY of innocent people. He deserves it. Nobody deserves it more than Anakin does.

[st-danger]

Dew x Swiss heat? Maybe a little bit shame?

Dew can’t bring himself to ask for help with his heat so he’s been sneaking things he’s scented into Swiss’ nest in the hope it triggers his own and gets caught

It isn't that heats are embarrassing. Not really. It's something that happens to all of them Above Ground. In all honesty, Dew enjoys it- when it's happening to someone else. He likes it when Aether gets weepy with need and pleads for Dew to knot him. He likes it when Rain whines and shivers and they all get to lie him down and work him through it with knowing hands. He likes watching their pleasure and finding some for himself, whether in their waiting mouths or inside their body that's been running too hot for too long.

He does not like when it happens to him. He does not like being on this side of things, where he loses control.

There's something frightening about it, even though he knows he'll be well-fucked and taken care of. For as much as he adores seeing Swiss and Cumulus mindlessly begging and grinding, he hates living that lack of control. He'll watch it all day every day and jerk himself raw while observing, make no mistake- but he doesn't care to be the one writhing around, at the mercy of the burning low in his belly.

Alone in Swiss's room, Dew sweats, fingers trembling finely as they grab Swiss's pillow, so he can nuzzle it. Shoving his face into the down, smelling him. Rubbing his face all over it. It looks ridiculous, he knows, standing in front of his bed and trying to inhale the lingering traces of cedar-scented shampoo, trying to replace it with his own heat-drenched scent.

It's easier than asking outright. Easier for him to find this, even if it's hours later, and go looking for Dew. Easier for Swiss to find him and offer to shove his knot inside and milk him for all he's worth than it is for Dew to ask to ride it.

It's been creeping on for a few hours now; he's not naive enough to believe that the others haven't already sussed out what's happening. Nobody's stupid. He knows the way Mountain looked at him earlier. He saw the way Papa glanced at him at the end of practice as he'd been speaking with Aether. He'd locked himself in his room after, gotten less than a minute of pumping on his cock before cumming, and the relief he'd felt was so short lived. Now, he's hard and anxious and nothing feels like it will ever be enough, ever again.

He could ask. He could ask and Swiss would take care of him.

He really doesn't want to ask.

He sets the pillow back down, and leaves. Gets a hand on the door and makes it down the hall, almost doubling over when another wicked flare of pleasure boils through him and licks at every nerve. Stumbles, then, hard and scowling, and manages to throw his own room open. Barely. Collapses inside and shuts the door, leaning heavily against it while he works his pants open.

It takes him another minute more, maybe. If that. He pulses in his hand and squirts and dribbles all over his knuckles, blood-hot and sticky and almost bites through his cheek.

The knock on the door is unexpected. He jumps.

"Dew," Swiss growls. "Open up."

Dick still in hand, Dew hesitates, dazed. Heat-stupid. Embarrassed.

"Can smell you," Swiss says from the other side, voice muffled but no less alluring. "Open up and let me come inside."

The wording is, of course, intentional.

Still on his knees, he cracks the door and sees wild, golden eyes peering down.

[manicpixiedreamcurl]

The More You Give ❧ (Part VI)

Pairing | Eddie Munson x shy!reader

Warnings | 18+ minors and blank blogs don’t interact, bullying, discussions of anxiety, oral (f receiving), virginity loss, protected P in V sex.

Word Count | ~16,400 

A/N | Oh you won't be able to move for all the fluff. Cheeky shout-out to @heydreamchild for this post which made me lose my mind in the tags and think about Eddie's relationship with Wayne's mug collection.

Taglist (please don't ask to be tagged if you won't interact with the fic)

Previous Chapter

❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦ 

 You screw your eyes shut instead of watching the ping pong ball continue its high arch over the remaining cups on the other side of the table. You hear it hit the floor, the barely suppressed scoff across from you at another missed shot. 

Your cheeks are burning, have been since you started this game. You open an eye to find May smiling at you encouragingly as she lines herself up for her turn. She’s more practised than you. Invited to more of these parties, asked to play more of these games. The ball flies from her hand and lands with a gentle splash in one of the three remaining cups in front of you, her expression now tinged with satisfaction. You can’t blame her, you’d look the same if you were good at any of this. You fish the ball out and sip the lukewarm beer for a second before forcing the rest of it down just to get this turn over with. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, handing the ball to your partner and stepping aside to let him take his turn. Safely at the corner of the table, you glance quickly at the clock on the other side of the room. It reads 11:03pm, and you wonder if you could negotiate heading home by eleven thirty. 

Not likely. 

When you’d walked through the door, shoulders pressed between both your friends, you had yourself convinced that you would have a good time tonight. Tipsy from the white wine your mom let you drink under her supervision, warm with joy from an early evening spent with May and Heather in your room. It’s your favourite part of going out; the hour or two before. When it’s just the three of you, with nobody else to perform for, you fit right back together as you always did. Swapping gossip, exchanging compliments. Painting Heather’s nails a soft pink, her steady hands painting yours in return. You worked on May’s make up, smiled shyly  into the mirror when she set your hair up the way you like it and told you with a pout how jealous she is of its texture. 

You listened to Heather, gentle and happy at seeing her boyfriend, at the flowers he’d brought her. You spoke to May about the film you should rent for your next movie night; a comedy with popcorn or a weepy chick flick with chocolate. You’d watched from your bed, grinning and heartsore while May leaned into Heather’s shoulder, serenading her while she applied her lipstick. Heather rolled her eyes fondly as May crooned into her ear, “I can’t fight this feeling anymore!” 

Later, head truly fuzzy from paint stripper vodka and lemonade, you’d screamed all the words to Power of Love with them. Hands in the air, hips swaying, content in the knowledge that, if everyone in the house has drank as much as you, none of them will care to remember how you danced and sang tonight. It was exactly as you wanted it to always be. With your friends, believing entirely, at least in the moment, that you still put each other first. That you were friends now not just because you used to be. 

Only, Heather’s boyfriend had appeared like a grey cloud in the blue sky of your evening. Before you knew it, she was settled under his arm on a couch at the other side of the room, sipping light beer and talking with the friends he’d brought back from college for the weekend. All boys you can’t stand, and know May can’t stand either. The last time you saw them, when May had told them proudly that you were well on your way to NYU to study Comparative Literature, you’d watched two of them make eye contact, sniggering with each other into their beer. You weren’t proud of yourself for adding that you still might do Chemistry, not that it had helped much. 

Soon after, May was called over by some cheer friends. She’d grasped your hand and pulled you along with her, both a blessing and a curse that she refuses to leave you out. Lacking some of your usual self-consciousness, both from your continual sips at your drink and the fact that Caroline, blessedly, hadn’t shown up, you’d managed a brief, fairly friendly chat with Tracy about whether she was wearing too much blush (she was) followed by how well the basketball team will do this year (hell if you know). 

Then, when Josh, a boy May has had a simmering crush on since you were freshmen, invited her over to play beer pong, you let her pull you with her again. And here you are, paired with this boy in green and white. Ethan flashes his white toothed smile every time you miss a shot on account of your shaking hands. A charming smile that tells you how girls might get into trouble on his account; girls like Caroline, girls like Erin. You wonder if it was that smile that made Erin follow him upstairs that night, that made Caroline fall back into his arms with little complaint, all the blame placed elsewhere. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, squeezing the top of your arm before turning his attention to the table. May smiles at you again as Josh chugs beer down in a quick gulp, sending you all the signs of gratitude that make you feel guilty for thinking almost exclusively about the ways you could leave soon.

When it’s your turn again, you take stock of the cups across from you. Two on your side, four on theirs, so with any luck this is your last turn. You watch the ball just brush the opposite rim of one of the cups, before bouncing lamely to the table. “Okay, that one was close.” Ethan says kindly, elbowing you.

“Nah, her head’s in the clouds,” Josh says with a smirk, catching the ball and bouncing it a couple times off the table. “Too busy thinking about…Munson, right? Would not have thought that was your type, but uh, I guess that explains why you wouldn’t let Andy-”

“Leave her alone, Josh,” May cuts in, leaning away from him with a scowl. You feel a rush around your ears, your heart in your throat. You like to forget this fact, but sometimes you’re reminded of it like seeing it written in bright red neon. Just about everybody knows what happened between you and Andy to varying degrees of detail, and they can all use it against you whenever they want. 

“It’s not that serious,” he says, the following laugh more defensive when May rolls her eyes. “You are dating the freak, right?”

Your toes curl. “Don’t call him that.”

“C’mon, man,” Ethan sighs. “You’re killing the mood.”

“It’s dead and buried,” May corrects, face set in that brilliant frown that gets your heart pumping when it’s directed at you. 

Josh glances between the three of you, landing particularly on May and her crossed arms. He looks to Ethan again for support, throws his hands up when he finds none there. “Fine,” he says, smacking his teeth. “‘S boring playing girls anyway.”

He bounces the ball across the table to Ethan, and stalks off with his shoulders sagging. May’s face softens when she comes over to you, your chest warm at her concern. “You okay?”

“Mm. Thank you.”

She pouts, swaying a little. “Why are guys such jerks?”

“Um, I’m right here,” Ethan laughs, chucking the ball back and forth between his hands. There’s that smile again, easy and sharp and clean. You think of Erin, dragged through mud. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, barely glancing at him. 

“No problem. He’s an idiot when he’s drunk.”

If you were braver, you’d say he’s an idiot sober, too. 

“Looks like we need to even the teams up,” May says brightly. 

“Oh, that’s okay,” you answer, the only relief from the situation that this may give you a chance to escape for a brief moment. “I wanna get some water. You guys can keep playing.”

“You sure?” She asks, leaning in so it really is just the two of you, giving you a hit of tuberose and orange blossom, the same perfume she’s worn since your first high school party in ‘83. “I’ll come with you if you want.”

“It’s okay,” you say, squeezing her arm gratefully. “I’ll be right back.”

The air is fresher the second you’re in the hallway, without the clutch of warm bodies forcing you to mutter ‘excuse me’ enough that the words lose all meaning. The damp heat picks up again in the kitchen, smaller groups standing around with cups in their hands, some swaying to the distant music. You glance at the sink, find a couple crowded in front of it, their eyes intent on eachother. Even your slightly fuzzy mind decides against trying to navigate around them in search of water. 

“Hey, Ringwald.” It takes a good couple of seconds for you to register that the greeting might be for you. It requires a tap on the shoulder, Erin’s half there smile directed your way. She holds up a cup. “Want some?” 

You glance into it, find clear liquid that gets your hopes up. “Water?”

She snorts. “I know I’m pretty badass, but six shots of vodka in one cup is a little much. Even for me.” 

You take it gratefully, screaming at your tipsy brain to remember not to drink too much of someone else’s water. A couple gulps and you hand it back to her, surprised at how much you needed it, throat a little scratchy from singing earlier before your joy left with Heather. 

“So, uh, how are you?”

You nod, giving her a close lipped smile. “Yeah, fine. How are you?”

Erin tilts her head, her right eye narrowing. “No, I mean, like really how are you?” She waves her cup around, as if gesturing to the entire house. “Seems like you and May are friends again, I guess.”

“We were always friends,” you assure, heart panging. “She was just,” you search for it, unprepared for this conversation. Where you normally would avoid answering altogether, your cottoned up mind combined with the earnest desperation to defend your friend ends in a rambling answer. “I didn’t tell her the right way, you know? She was hurt, finding out from somebody else about, you know, Eddie and I. But we talked it all out and she’s forgiven me.”

“Forgiven…you?” 

“For not telling her myself.”

Erin taps a finger on her cup, considering you. “That’s what she was angry about?”

Your mouth opens, thoughts tangling. “Um, I mean, among other things,” you rush, giving her a reassuring smile. “But everything’s fine now.” 

“Okay,” she says, that half smile returning. “Glad to hear it, Ringwald.”

“I, um,” you step a little closer, forcing yourself to look right into her eyes. “I did want to say thank you for that actually. I just-” You just worried endlessly about approaching her, how you would even thank her for preventing you from being quizzed about your sex life in front of an entire group. You shrug, and luckily Erin seems to understand.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You shouldn’t have had to explain yourself in the first place. But those girls are pretty vicious when they smell blood.”

You’re struck with a pity for her you know she’d probably hate you feeling. You try to remember what she was like before her entire friend group turned on her, before she was taken in by that sharp smile. She still had the sarcastic wit, you’re sure. But without the undertone of anger that comes along every other sentence; less bite. Erin has always been confident, but now she carries herself like somebody full of righteous indignation and nowhere to put it.

“You can have the rest of this,” she says, handing you the water and looking away like she’s read your whole thought process and wants out of the conversation quick. “Those six shots actually sound kind of appealing now.”

“Okay, well, see you later?”

She gives you a little thumbs up as she passes. You watch her elbow past the couple at the sink to reach the bottles and cups piled beside it. Already feeling more sober than you had when you walked in, you finish the cool water, resisting the temptation to start playing with the material of your skirt. 

“Hey, uh…hey.” You look over at Neil from your Physics class, recognising the sound of somebody trying and failing to remember your name. “Could you talk to Munson for me? Tell him I’m good for the money, it’s just that it’s another week before I get paid.”

You blink. The information takes a second to move from your ears to your brain, longer to process their whole meaning. You feel a flutter in your chest; something like excitement, something like relief. “Eddie’s here?”

“Yeah, and he’s making a really big deal out of twenty dollars, you know?”

You look over his shoulder as if Eddie might be standing out in the hallway, finding only the empty doorway. “Where is he?”

“Uh, he was by the stereo I think? So, you’ll talk to him?” 

“Um, sure,” you mumble, pressing past him to walk down the hall back into the living room. There’s May, laughing as Ethan tips his head back to drink, the table laden with a new set of cups. On the other side of the room, Heather, nodding at something and looking serious as ever. 

And then you catch him; a head of messy curls, denim on leather, the cut out t-shirt you know Eddie sewed on himself by hand. He’s standing right next to the stereo, sorting through records. His curls shift with a shake of his head and you just know his expression is dismayed, truly disappointed in the collection. To his side, a group of boys is searching their pockets, failing to hide their efforts to pool money together. 

Eddie’s presence pulls at you, an invisible but physical tug, and before you know it you’re crossing the room towards him. He jumps a little when you rest your palm on his back, his hand flying to his wallet chain. Then his brown eyes land on you, and you feel the unique joy of watching Eddie realising it’s you. His expression turns in an instant from guarded to happiness. Round eyes look you up and down once in surprise to confirm it’s you, once again in appreciation. He leans right into you, smile a little wolfish. “Well, hey. What brings you to my darkened corner, sweet thing?”

What can you say to that? That in the six, seven hours since you’ve seen him, you’ve felt the lack of his presence? That you’ve spent the last hour in particular wishing you’d never come here, wondering why you didn’t go home with him instead? 

“Was surprised to see you.”

“Yeah, well,” he starts, gesturing with his head to the boys behind him. “My services were required, you see.” His eyes track down again, zeroing in at the place on your legs where your dress ends, the fishnet tights wrapped around your thighs. “You look, uh,” he clears his throat, clearly searching for the right word. “Shit. I mean, fuck. You look good.” 

Your cheeks warm. You turn to the side a touch, pressing your knees together. “Thank you.”

“I um, really like these.” His hand teases the hem of your dress, thumb brushing across the string of your tights. Eddie’s fingers are a warm sting that has your breath catching, your body aching to be closer to him, to more of his heat. 

“Munson?” Sounds from behind him, and the spell is broken. Eddie jumps again, hand parting from your skin like he’d touched a hot stove. His hair flies around him as he turns, face becoming impassive again. 

“Gentlemen,” he says, standing in front of you. “Managed to pool your allowances?” 

“Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie’s head tilts. “For future reference, save the shit talk till after you have the product in your hand. Unless you wanna add another ten percent for the ounce-”

“No, it’s fine,” another says, elbowing his friend. “It’s all there.”

Eddie sighs, taking the collection of rumpled bills from his hand. You watch him stand in front of the antsy boys, counting each note twice over just to watch them squirm. “Mm. Looks like it’s all here.” He brings his wallet from his back pocket, attached to his jeans by a chain, and tucks the money inside. Then, after glancing around him quickly, Eddie’s right hand disappears into the front of his pants. 

“Kept it warm for you, boys,” he cackles, pulling out a plastic baggy filled with green clumps and hurling it towards them. 

In the next second, he’s grabbed your hand and is pulling you through the crowd to the sound of, “Munson, you prick!” from behind you. You can hear Eddie’s almost manic giggling over the music, your heart pounding from speeding after him and the fear of the chance at being followed by five boys, all half drunk and furious. 

Eddie’s hand remains tight around yours until the cool air out the front door hits your heated skin, finally slowing to catch his breath, still chuckling to himself. You watch him, wide eyed, as he leans back against the front wall, head falling back and then forward to look at you. His eyes flash, his face tells you he’s proud. 

“Why did you do that?” 

His laughter stops when he spies the serious look on your face, your hands fiddling with your skirt. “Ah, shit. Sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t plan for you to be around but there wasn’t much I could do, sweet thing. It was already down there, y’know?” 

“That’s not what I- Why would you aggravate them like that, Eddie?” 

Something a little cold comes over his face then. “Satisfaction, pure and simple,” he answers. “The only kind I can get out of guys like that.”

“But, if you didn’t speak to them like that-”

Eddie’s already shaking his head. “If I didn’t speak to them like that- Hell, if I gave them that weed for free, got on my knees and asked for an ounce of kindness, come Monday they’re still gonna throw me, or Jeff, or any of the guys from Hellfire into a locker,” he tells you, voice a plea for you to understand. “Or call me a freak, or lock one of the freshmen, who still barely know their way around the building, in a supply closet for an hour.” Eddie tilts his head at you. “It’s got absolutely nothing to do with me aggravating them or not, okay? It's not about how nice I am, or how I talk to them - it's about this," he stresses grabbing his long hair, then his shirt. "And this. And D&D and the fucking trailer and my piece of shit father. No amount of sweet talk will fix it cause they don't want me to be nice; they want me to change. And I can’t do that, okay? More importantly, I won’t do that.”

Everything he says makes your chest hurt.

It makes sense, that this is how Eddie Munson thinks. Since your first stumbled word, you’ve been hiding yourself away, blending into the crowd to avoid all the pain that comes with being singled out. But him? Eddie has no interest in curling in on himself, shrinking his personality to fit in. Everything he says, every move he makes, is unapologetic. As true to himself as that shirt. 

But it hurts to think that something so unnatural to you could be right. For all your good will, all your work and staying under the radar, it hasn't saved you. Your need to keep quiet only led to Caroline’s harshness, the laughter from the cheer girls. Your desperation to avoid judgement only opened all the right doors for Andy to hurt you the way he did, for everyone around you to know exactly how. All your complacency, all your acquiescence, none of it kept your friends nearly as close as you’d wanted them. 

You swallow, catch Eddie’s eyes, and whisper in earnest. “I don’t want you to change.” 

You could cry at the relief in his face, the fast blinking that vanishes the shine in his eyes. His head tilts. “No?”

You shake your head vehemently, wishing he would hold your hand again so you could play with his fingers. He pushes himself off the wall and leans into your space, hair falling towards you. You look between his eyes and his collar, debating hiding your face there. 

“Not even my driving?”  

“Okay,” you answer, watching his dimples press into his face. “Maybe I’d like you to change one thing.”

“I knew it!” Eddie cries, throwing his hands up. “Sweet girls like you are only ever after one thing. You wanna fix me, huh?”

“No,” you whisper, smiling to the side. “Just, gently improve your interest in speed limits?” 

“Yeah? And what about my proclivity for pineapple and olive pizza?”

You chew the inside of your lip, suppressing giggles. “I think, given time, I can learn to live with it.” You feel a buzz of pride at Eddie’s laugh, the crinkle around his eyes he gets when he’s really, truly happy. “I do mean it, Eddie. I like you exactly as you are. More-” You take a breath. “More than I’ve ever liked anyone.”

Eddie’s hand finds yours again, your fingers curling into his, your knuckles at his palm. 

“Like me enough to come home with me?” 

You want to. Desperately. The relief you felt at seeing him, your whole body telling you that you’d rather spend an evening with Eddie than here, navigating social circles you’ll never really be a part of. 

“I have to tell my friends first,” you say, watching Eddie nod. 

“Sure thing. I can wait.”

“Okay.” Your gaze travels between his eyes and his collar again, stalling your departure. You want a kiss. Want to kiss him all the time, even for a short goodbye. Eddie, sensing your hesitance to leave, narrows his eyes a little like he's trying to work you out. He catches your eyes dart to his lips, and they curve. 

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to you. It’s a perfect, innocent little thing. But you like it, like the domesticity you’re learning with Eddie. You want kisses goodbye and hello, his hand in yours in the car. You want elbows meeting sides while cooking together, waking up in the middle of the night just to hear Eddie breathing before you fall away again, catching sight of each other in the mirror while you brush your teeth in the morning. You want your daily life, with Eddie in it, with all the things he adds just by way of existing. 

You give him another quick peck, face hot, and run into the house before your mouth asks him to leave with you now and never come back. 

You find May in the kitchen, huddled together with a couple of the cheer girls as well as Ethan. She waves brightly when she catches sight of you, gesturing you over. “Hi!” She calls, hair mussed, clearly having continued to drink since you parted. “Where did you go?”

“Um, I was thinking I might go home,” you say, fiddling with your skirt. “M’tired.”

“Oh, are Heather and Patrick leaving too?”

“No, no. I ran into Eddie. He’s gonna give me a ride home.” 

You brace yourself, the back of your neck prickling with tension. You watch the expression on May’s face shift from confusion, not to anger or disappointment, but amusement. 

“Ohh-kay, you’re tired,” she laughs, shaking her head. You make a noise in embarrassment, checking to see if the rest of the group are listening in and she grins at you, pulling you into a quick, floral smelling, hug. “Have a good night, okay? I’ll see you later.”

You give her a squeeze back, chest warm. “Yeah, later.” 

You give a half hearted wave to everyone else, navigating your way to the living room. Heather is where she has been all evening, under Patrick’s arm. “Hey,” you say, avoiding eye contact with the boys around her. “I’m gonna head.”

“Already?” Heather pouts. A quick throb or annoyance rises and falls, your anger that she wouldn't have noticed either way reasoned with the fact that it was your decision not to spend any time with this group. 

“Yeah, I’m tired.”

“I thought I was giving you a ride?” Patrick asks, leaning over.

"No, Eddie's gonna take me home."

There’s a moment of quiet, information sinking in before Patrick's face displays a shocked frown. "Eddie? Munson? You're getting in that scrap heap he calls a van?" 

You look from him to Heather, spy the clear guilt on her face when you say, "He's my boyfriend. Heather didn't tell you?" 

“She most certainly did not- when the fuck-”

“I’m sure she can fill you in,” you say, voice edging towards breaking, thinking about her encouragement, her fingers on the cross around her neck. Heather's mouth opens, her hand coming to that very pendant, and you shake your head. "Bye." 

She calls your name behind you, but doesn't come after you when you leave. 

Eddie is waiting for you still, balancing a seat on the porch rail and smoking when you emerge. A dimple presses into his face when he flicks the cigarette away and slides down. “All good?”

You grab his hand, bury your face into his shoulder to lean on him a little. Breathe in leather and drugstore shampoo - Eddie, Eddie, Eddie - until your heart stops throbbing painfully. 

“All good,” you mumble, turning your head to look at him from his shoulder. “Home?”

You realise how tired you are when you are settled in Eddie’s van, your eyes and limbs heavy. You half want to curl up in the soft seat and drift, but get taken in by watching Eddie as he drives. His fingers following the guitar licks of his music on the steering wheel, his hair shifting when he rocks his head forward. The way he glances at you when he turns, catches you staring and grins to himself every time. 

"You know, I didn’t really have you down as someone who’d be into paaarties,” he says, eyes wide with his mocking tone. He glances at you again, at your worn out state, and half closes an eye. “And I gotta say, you don't seem like you were having a good time."

You think about that for a minute, wondering how best to explain your complicated relationship with social events. “I like dancing with my friends,” you start with a shrug. “And getting ready.” You lean your head back. “It’s like the only time the three of us are together anymore.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, glancing over at you. “Why’s that?”

Why is that? You’ve wondered it yourself. It felt like, suddenly, though maybe it happened very slowly without you realising, whatever delicate thread held you together started to strain as you moved in different directions. Or, as they did; leaving you lonely in the place you used to share. Waiting for them to visit, when it suits them. 

They changed. You stayed the same.

Only, you must have changed a little. You replay that last moment with Heather tonight in your head, wondering if you’ve ever shown her your hurt, your anger. Six months ago, you doubt you’d even have left at all. It’s more likely that you would have stayed, wishing to be anywhere else, until they wanted to leave. 

Eddie looks over at you following your long silence, adopts the soft, encouraging smile he gives you to show you he’ll wait for your answer, regardless of the reasons it’s taking you so long to find it. You get an inkling, then, of why you’ve changed, if only a little. 

“We’re all just…different than we were,” you say finally. 

“People change, I guess,” Eddie nods. “For better or worse.”

You think you might be better.

Exhaustion takes over when you cross the comforting threshold into Eddie’s home; the familiar smell and warmth of it sending a message across your body that you can relax now. You clean your teeth with the brush Eddie presented you with the first time you stayed over, scrub at your face with warm water until all that’s left are panda eyes you don’t have the fortitude to deal with. When Eddie takes his turn in the bathroom, you search through the little drawer he’d cleaned out for you to find soft cotton pyjamas that have your eyes drifting the second you have them on. 

When Eddie returns, you’re standing in the middle of the room fiddling with your hands, still a little worried about the assumption of getting into his bed when he’s not there. 

“C’mon, sweet thing,” he says, holding the covers open for you and tucking them over your shoulder when you’re settled on the good pillow, the one he insists you take every time. You watch, heart sore, as Eddie removes every one of his rings, counting the little metallic clanks as he drops them on the table. Then goes his bracelet, his watch and his wallet chain. You stare shamelessly as he pulls his shirt over his head, soft hair following the collar up, up, up, and dropping down again in a curly mass around his pale shoulders as the fabric pulls away. You hear the distinct clink of his belt, curl your knees up at the heat the sound sends through your core. Eddie wiggles his hips a little as he pulls his jeans down, stepping out of them ungracefully, kicking them off his heels. He stands before you in his blue plaid boxers, all pale tattooed skin. 

“You’ve been staring at me all evenin’,” he says, approaching you, dropping down in a squat so his face is right by yours. 

You can’t argue, but find yourself fiddling with the duvet, pulling it up to your cheek and half hiding in it to mumble into the polyester. “I like looking at you.” 

“Yeah? Well, looking’s free. Usually touching would cost you,” he says, reaching out with a finger to pull the cover down from your face and leaning in like he’s sharing a secret. “But, uh, just between you and I, sweet thing, you can touch for free, too.” Your toes curl, glancing quickly at Eddie’s pink mouth, watching his lips tilt. “Need some of my services just now?”

“Yeah,”

He hums, his big hand capturing your cheek to tilt your face to his. Eddie’s kisses are gentle and warm. You taste dried toothpaste on his lips, the lasting smoke in his breath from that final cigarette. Then, when your kisses have turned too sleepy to last, just soft presses to his bottom lip, he climbs into the other side of the bed and reaches out for you, fingers wiggling. You tuck yourself into his side, and fall asleep quick. 

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You drift to waking, gently pulled from sleep by sunshine peeking through cheap blinds and the distant sound of a barking dog. You are comfortably cozy under the sheets. Even having shifted to either side of the bed in the night, no longer tangled, you can feel the heat of Eddie at your back. 

You half snooze for a long time, eyes drifting open to take in the contents of the room. The amps and the Corroded Coffin wall hanging, a closet slightly more full than the first time you were here, a floor still messy but less littered with piles of half clean half dirty laundry. Eddie’s acoustic guitar, his writing overtop in white, THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS. 

You close your eyes again. The next time they open, the room is brighter. Turning ungracefully, you come face to face with Eddie, and huff a soft laugh through your nose. Eddie’s hair in the morning is a beast, pressed to either side of his face from his tossing against the pillow. Some locks frizzed to the point of dullness, some still set in loose curls; both types tossed over the front of his face. Reaching out, you tuck each lock back until you can see him properly, every pretty feature of his face.

You consider trying to wake him, but find yourself simply shuffling closer, tucking yourself into him, nose at his neck. Eddie hums, one arm coming up instinctively to settle over your half asleep body. 

You finally jump awake to the sound of the front door falling closed in a swinging slam. Eddie blinks opposite you, fully registering the noise and your presence together. He hums, closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath through his nose and opens his mouth wide to yawn so loud he might as well have screamed. 

“Coffee, boy!?” Wayne calls as Eddie stretches and cracks his pale limbs. He glances at you in question. 

You chew the inside of your lip. “Should he know I’m here?”

Eddie takes this in for a second, then smiles. “I mean, he’s about to, either way.”

Regret at not having asked Eddie to set an alarm rids all the warm cosiness of the scene. Your face feels hot already at the thought of facing Wayne on a Saturday morning having clearly slept in this bed. “He’ll- he’ll think we-”

Recognition dawns on Eddie’s face, and he shakes his head quickly. “He won’t think anything, sweetheart,” he tells you, leaning in till he’s put himself in your eyeline. Eddie’s expression is earnest until it shifts into an amused smile. “I’ll even tell him you slept on the floor to preserve my innocence. Score you some points with the old man.”

Eddie’s sleepy laughter has some of the tightness in your chest abating. The sight of his eyes crinkling at the sides, dimples digging into his cheeks, is a treat you don’t usually get so early. 

“What time is it?” You ask, realising it may not be early at all if Wayne’s back. Eddie grabs his watch from the bedside table, blinks away residual blurriness.

“Nine thirty.”

Later than you’ve slept since school started back up, yet even now, the thought of curling back up in Eddie’s arms and snoozing for a little longer is an attractive prospect you’re seriously considering.

“I heard your caterwaul of a yawn, boy! How many coffee’s am I making!?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. You nod. He calls back. “Three! If you can count that high!”

The sounds of clinking mugs and sizzling oil mix with Eddie’s soft grunts as he gets himself dressed, jumping up and down to pull his jeans over his feet and searching through the closet for a t-shirt adorned with three angels, all smoking. 

He takes you in when he’s put his rings on, no doubt almost as messy haired as him, watching him from his bed. Brown eyes bright, Eddie leans in to give you a soft kiss. 

“Morning, sweet thing,” he says. His hand cups your cheek, letting you press into his wide palm. “Take your time, mm? I’ll assure Wayne my innocence remains intact.”

Your nose scrunches at his teasing, even as you turn to press a quick kiss to the centre of his hand. Eddie rubs a thumb under your eye, then shuffles out his door. Immediately, the noise of clinking plates is smothered by the exchange of familiar jabs and teases between the uncle and nephew. 

The days you’ve spent here have made you realise how special their relationship is. Not something less than father and son, but in fact something more. Wayne looks upon Eddie with the exasperated fondness of a dad, but reserves the true judgement they can be prone to. No passive aggressive comments about Eddie’s track record at school, nor questions about the way he dresses, despite the bookmarked King James bible that sits on the coffee table. He’s ruffled Eddie’s hair kindly every time he’s been here while you were doing homework, hung his latest C- graded test up on the fridge. Eddie told you Wayne bought him that acoustic guitar when he was thirteen, saved up for months to take him to a real music shop in Indianapolis and let him pick one out. 

You can see, even, the parts of Wayne that have filtered straight down to Eddie. Their humour overlaps, the way they can banter back and forth with each other, never crossing the line into hurt. Though, where Eddie can’t help but grin at a good joke, Wayne remains deadpan through every jibe. 

Wayne, when he gets talking, can spin a yarn the same way Eddie can. Stories about his nights at the factory, his old job driving trucks across the country, his youth, told not in a long ramble, but structured perfectly to have you on the edge of your seat. 

You know now that Eddie’s kindness, the way he treats you, was a gift from Wayne. His genuine interest in your life, your plans. His continual, earnest offer of food from his fridge every time he sees you. When your mom made a lasagne for you to take in thanks for all the evenings you’ve spent here, Wayne didn’t send the dish with Eddie to school, but drove to your house with it cleaned to a shine to hand it back and thank her personally. Soon after, Eddie let it slip that the daisies he brought you for your first date were bought at Wayne’s insistence. 

You’d wondered, that day at the lake, how a boy treated like Eddie is treated could be so bright and kind. 

Wayne was the answer. 

So you should be braver, emerging from Eddie’s room in that big hoodie of his he’d been lending you on and off and shorts you’d left here the last time you stayed over, no doubt still sporting panda eyes from last night. But you find yourself making use of the long sleeves, fidgeting with your fingers against the fabric. 

Eddie’s in the midst of getting his wrist thwacked with a spatula for attempting to steal a streak of bacon as Wayne transferred them from pan to plate. Gasping, he holds his hand in the air and lets his wrist fall limp. “I- I can’t feel my fingers!”

Wayne silently watches Eddie flop his hand back and forth, only a slight crinkle at his eyes suggesting he finds anything his nephew is doing at all amusing. When he catches sight of you, his gaze barely flickers from your messy hair to Eddie’s hoodie. “Mornin’,” he says, turning his back to a still howling Eddie to shake the pan. “Eggs? Bacon?”

The temptation to refuse, to be polite and pretend you don’t want anything from him prickles at the back of your mind. Only, experience has taught you he’ll only plate you up something anyway. There for you if you change your mind, something both he and Eddie say frequently.

“Please,” you nod. 

“You gonna set the table, Eddie?”

“How can I?” Eddie cries, wrapping his other hand around the injured arm and holding it up as if the ailment has moved all the way to his elbow. “With this!?”

Wanting to make yourself useful, you venture into the cutlery drawer yourself, giggling as Eddie shakes his limp hand at you, before pulling up the fold out table at the other side of the kitchen. “You’re on coffee duty then, Ed.”

Eddie gives up the routine at the prospect of picking out mugs, his eyes shining. It’s an activity he seems to enjoy deeply; shuffling over to the expansive collection and perusing them like he doesn’t already know exactly who’s getting what.

Eddie likes to give Wayne a novelty Garfield mug, something about the quiet, serious man drinking from the head of the large orange cat tickling him. For himself, a black mug with THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE printed in white letters around a cartoon duck. For a while, he has been trying out different mugs for you, showing the best of Wayne’s extensive collection. But he’s settled on a white NASA mug Wayne picked up on a trip to Houston. “For my smart girl,” he’d said the first time he handed it to you, expression all fondness and pride. 

Eating together is becoming familiar to you now. Wayne has picked up on your tendency to keep quiet the same way Eddie did, sometimes asking you questions but generally letting you decide when you want to speak without much prying. 

“You two got plans?” He asks, glancing briefly at you then turning to Eddie when you look unsure. 

“Uh, nothing solid,” Eddie says, focused on the construction of an increasingly complex breakfast sandwich. “But I was thinking about heading to Greenfield to pick up an album. I had loan of Accept’s newest record from Jeff before he remembered I had it.” His tongue peeks out at his concentration, topping the egg, bacon, hashbrown and tomato with a final piece of toast. “Didn’t think three months was too long to keep it. I mean, what’s an album between friends?”

You watch in near fascination as he manages to keep it all in tact through a large bite. He chews slowly, and swallows. “I’d welcome a road trip buddy if you’d be so inclined, Princess.” 

Your face warms at the name used in front of Wayne, but you nod. 

“There’s a good bookshop, too,” he says, clearly holding himself back from taking another significant bite. “S’where I got my copy of Orpheus.” He must see something, excitement probably, move across your face, because next Eddie is flashing a pleased smile. “Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

When you’re all finished, dishes washed by you at your gentle insistence, face scrubbed further with luke warm water from the tap and hair finger combed through, you leave a yawning Wayne to his fold out. 

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The shop, located two towns over from Hawkins, smells like the music room at your first school. The memory hits you as soon as you walk through the door; standing in three lines and belting out an off tune Amazing Grace with another thirty kids. Playing with claves and tambourines. Eddie seems in his element here, directing you through display shelves of pop and country records around a corner to the back where his kind of music is kept. “Course, some albums I just use the cassette,” he tells you, rifling through a couple of records. You look around the section yourself, counting up the albums you recognise from Eddie’s desk, his glove compartment. “But when I love an album I kinda have to get it on vinyl, you know?”

You don’t, not really. You have your own pile of albums in your room, all plastic rectangles ready for your cassette player or your walkman. Your dad has a collection of country records, your Mom some Joni Mitchell, the Crosby, Stills and Nash records she played constantly when you were a child. Before Eddie started asking you to pick out albums you thought looked good in his room, you hadn’t touched a vinyl since your aunt asked you to put on the White Christmas over the holidays. 

Eddie senses your confusion, and shrugs. “I mean, I wanna see the album art for real,” he tells you, finding one as an example. “Not quite as effective at four by three inches, right?” You recognise it immediately as Holy Diver. Eddie has a shirt with this cover on it; a demon standing over a priest splashing in water. He was wearing it that day in the woods, when you ran right up and kissed him. He takes the record from you when you nod, placing it back carefully. 

“And there’s albums a stereo just can’t do justice to. They’re useful when I wanna skip songs. But hearing it from start to finish? At the highest quality? It just needs a record. Ah-” He finds the album he came here for and shows you. A blue background, with a chrome, blocky heart shape filled with valves and pumps. "Metal Heart," Eddie explains. "Latest, and best, album by Accept. They're this German heavy metal band? The lead guitarist, Wolf Hoffman?” He sighs wistfully, looking off into the distance. “Man, what I'd do if I got him in a room alone.”

You make an awful snorting sound when you laugh, have to ignore the delight on Eddie’s face lest you burn up entirely. "So,” you start. “Heavy metal is different from regular metal, or is it just another term for it?”

Eddie's face lights up at the question, putting on a refined accent. "Heavy metal, young lady, is a type of metal that encompasses many genres,” he explains, bringing a hand up to add to the role. “For example, one could say all thrash metal is heavy metal, but only a simple fool, would seek to claim that all heavy metal is thrash metal. Do you follow?” His character falls apart at your giggle. “I said metal too many times, huh? Note taken. You wanna listen?" 

At your nod, Eddie walks you back round to the front towards a row of glass booths housing record players and headphones. You watch his hands move carefully, treating the record with the same care he uses to hold your hand. When it's in place, he dons the headphones and places the needle, nodding his head until it reaches the start of the particular song he wants you to hear. His hair fans out a little as he removes them, making to place them over your ears until you flinch and he jerks them back. 

 “A little loud,” 

“Ah, shit, sorry,” he says, turning a knob on the record player. “I forgot. Princess ears.” He replaces the headphones, eyebrows raising in question. The volume more manageable now, you nod happily, listening to pulsing guitars build in intensity, joined by thrashing drums and eventually the telltale screeching voice that immediately transports you into Eddie’s room, the soundtrack of his life. 

Eddie’s eyes are all soft excitement, shining at you, watching for your reactions. 

If you had to make a list of all the things to like about Eddie, his passion would surely sit near the top. The way he fizzes all over to talk about music, and Dungeons and Dragons and Lord of the Rings. The way he’s desperate to share his interests with you. Not out of expectation for you to feel exactly the same about any of it, and certainly not with any assumptions that you should understand it already. Just to share, to let you in, to show himself to you. 

You wish you were more like him, that way. That you weren’t more comfortable hiding, keeping bits of yourself under lock and key lest their exposure leave the most delicate parts of you open to attack. You try to imagine Eddie using anything like that against you. You remember him leaning across the table to you on your first date, listening to you ramble about wyverns and etymology while your feet tapped your anxiety out onto the floor. He’d thanked you for sharing. Very metal, he’d said. 

Three minutes in, and you realise Eddie’s been playing the whole song in his head, because he brings his hands up to follow the chords playing in your ears with an imaginary guitar, hair shaking as he throws his head back and forth. Then he flashes his smile, soft cheeks displaying his dimples and smile lines.

You can’t help it. 

You step forward until your feet are patterned with his. You reach out for his sleeve, playing with the chains keeping the left connected across his wrist. Eddie’s still watching you when you tilt your chin, leaning towards him to press your lips to his. Anxiety prickles along your spine, but you know that nobody can see you. Even better, you know that Eddie is between you and the door, hiding you from the world. With the distinctive chains of his jacket in your fingers, his music sounding through your headphones, his lips on yours; everything around you is Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. 

Safe, safe, safe. 

He pulls away with a huff of breath against your lips, giving you a series of chaste pecks like he isn’t quite ready to stop kissing you entirely despite protesting lungs. Your face burns, but it’s worth it for the way Eddie is staring at you when you finally open your eyes. 

“What was that for?” He mouths, gaze flicking to your lips and back to your eyes.

You bring your foot up, pressing the top of it to the back of your ankle and sliding it up and down your calf. A braver version of you would say what every part of you is screaming. Instead you shrug, still fiddling with his sleeve. Eddie tilts his head, clearly unsatisfied, but doesn't press you. 

"I like this," you tell him as it finishes, removing the headphones. 

"Well, that settles it," he answers, sliding the record from the player back into its sleeve. "You're coming home with me." 

You watch Eddie navigate the shop like it's a second home. He stops off at the cassettes, rifling through for anything new, anything he might not have heard before. He grabs a couple blank tapes too, looks at you to the side with pink cheeks. "In case I wanna make any more mixtapes." 

At the desk, Eddie places everything down carefully while you wait at the empty till. After a good thirty seconds, you start playing with the rings on Eddie's left hand while his other raps against the wooden desk. "Uh, hello? Anybody- ah, shit." 

"Munson," says the bespeckled boy who emerges from the back room. 

Eddie’s fingers twitch, and you cease your fidgeting to look up at him, find his face pulled taught. "Oh, hi. I, uh, didn't think you worked on Saturdays anymore." 

"Switched to the weekend shift," he answers, stony faced. "That gonna be a problem for you? Surely you’re not still in highschool?"

Eddie frowns, hand twitching again as he sighs. "Listen, man, I'm not looking to argue-"

"Don't know why else you'd show your face. You know your money's no good to me." 

Eddie slumps, all the easy happiness pulled from him. He hasn’t looked at you once, and your heart aches. 

"I'm buying these," you declare, searching through your bag for your purse. Tissues, no, lipgloss, no, mixtape, no. 

They both turn to you. The boy behind the desk takes you in finally, his nose wrinkling. "Oh yeah? You a metal fan?" 

"Mm hmm,” you say, voice higher than you’d like. 

"Okay, name three Metallica albums."

You glance at Eddie, find him rolling his eyes until you ask. “But Metallica only has two albums, right?" 

Eddie’s immediate smile is warmth inducing, causes you to shuffle with shy pride. You thrust out the money in your hand, start gathering up the items again to place in your shopping bag while Eddie grins in the face of the scowling man. 

"Whatever,” he says finally. “I don't wanna see you around here again, Munson." 

Eddie gives him a little salute, then grabs the bag from you and takes your hand to leave.

"Jesus," he breathes as soon as the bell announcing the doors closure sounds. "You can't talk like that, sweet thing. We're in public. You’ve-" He scratches at the back of his neck. “You’ve really been listening to me talk about it all the time, huh?”

You frown. “Of course, Eddie. I like it,” you answer, tugging his hand to start the walk back to the van. “Who was that?" 

Eddie’s smile drops. "Uh, Peter? We actually, kinda used to be friends. I introduced him to all his favourite bands back in the day, you know? Then suddenly he’s the gatekeeper of metal- I mean it’s a fucking joke.” He opens the side door, placing your bag behind the front seat. “S'how I met Gareth, really. Poor kid couldn't name two Dio albums so he gets insulted buying the latest one, what the hell is that? We all have to start somewhere. I mean, when I met that guy he was a U2 fan. Anyway-” he continues, closing the door. “I told him he was being a dick and he got all pissy about it." 

You chew your lip. "He acts that way, because you called him a dick?"

Eddie blanches, his head falling back with a quick groan. "Okay, I wanna add a disclaimer that I was sixteen and dumb," he starts. "And he really was being a dick, acting like- like all those guys metalheads are supposed to hate in the first place, and-" 

"And?" 

"And I hit him. Real gentle. With my fist." 

"Eddie,"

"Sweet thing, even you woulda decked him if you'd been there. I swear. And, I just can't fucking stand that shit, you know?" 

You do know. Eddie is all gentle touch and soft smiles around you, but something changes in him when he’s witness to injustice. He'd had to miss a date just last week because he had detention, brought about by standing over a sophomore who'd dared to mess with one of the freshmen in Eddie's club. "You make one vague threat about human sacrifice and suddenly everyone's got an opinion on what constitutes bullying," he'd complained later. "If teachers aren’t gonna teach that kid not to be a cunt, why shouldn't I scare it out of him?" 

You've heard him call the whole group his little sheep, laughing like he doesn't kind of mean it. Like he doesn't think of them as weird kids he'd gathered together in something of a herd, a pack. Like he doesn't think of himself as their shepherd, as their protector. 

"Point is," he says now. "He's the one in the wrong, I swear. Shit. I can't believe he works weekends now." 

"Well, I can go in for you." 

"Yeah? You can set him straight, my baby metalhead. Fuck- didn't even say thank you. Was too busy trying to pretend I wasn't half fucking hard-" You make a soft noise and Eddie blinks, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. How much was it again?"

You press a toe to the top of your other shoe shyly. "Can't I buy you them?" 

"Huh?"

"Like a gift?" 

Eddie’s face twists. You thought he was just being a gentleman, when he’d paid sneakily on your first date. You know now that’s only part of it. He likes driving you places but won’t accept gas money, likes making you dinner at his home but won’t let you pay for groceries when you tag along on errands. The only thing he doesn’t get twitchy about is your baking, but that’s because you’re there eating them too. You think this might further influence from Wayne; a certain pride, a refusal to accept anything monetary from you. 

"But, sweet thing-"

"Please, Eddie?" 

He watches you, conflicting emotions passing along his expression. "Okay. But you’re picking out a book. A real fancy one. I wanna see leather binding yeah? And one of those little ribbons attached, okay?" 

Your toes curl, nodding happily. "Okay."

You feel more at home as you walk through a glass door to the smell of old paper and ink. 

Joan Baez croons from the record player in the corner. The woman at the register nods as you enter but offers no other greeting. Eddie follows after you when you make a beeline to the poetry section; full of battered, well loved books with cracked spines and fading covers. 

You send Eddie a shy look, spine prickling from being watched in what feels like a solitary activity. You rub your thumb at a dusty shelf, wondering how to tell him, when he leans in a little. "Hey, you’ve been taking all my music recommendations. Anything for me to read?”

“Oh,” you say, mind lighting up before dimming at the thought of being too pushy, or recommending something he might hate. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon,” he says, leaning in more until he's all you can see, tilting his head until you’re looking into his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

You chew the inside of your lip. “Mm. Maybe- Have you ever read The Metamorphosis?” 

Eddie leans back, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Can’t say I have.”

“I think,” you consider it again. “I think you’d like it. It’s about, well- A man turns into…an insect.” You simmer over the fact you want to share, let yourself believe that Eddie will be as willing as always to hear it. “It was written in German, and the word for what he turns into literally translates to, like, an animal you can’t sacrifice. Like, vermin?” Eddie’s watching you round off this information in a rush, smiling a little. “Kafka, the writer, didn’t want the actual animal to be specific. But sometimes it’s mistranslated and people say he turns into a beetle, or…or a cockroach,” you trail off, cringing at the sound of yourself. “I’m not selling it very well.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he answers. “Sounds suitably weird. Kafka, you said? I’ll get searching.”

Eddie disappears round the corner, leaving you to comfortable contemplation of the poetry selection. Rilke's entire works, some Wilde, some Shelley. You search for something new and land on a name you've never heard. Drawing it from the shelf, you peer at the cover, a silhouette of a bridge bathed in orange, with the Selected Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva printed above. 

You read a couple of the shorter poems, struck by her voice, her imagery. Turning to a random page, see the original Russian on one side, the English translation on the other. The title, asking the question, Where Does Such Tenderness Come From? Your heart pangs in recognition of her feelings as you read, the best part of poetry always finding yourself reflected back at you. 

You and your eyelashes - she writes. Longer than anyone’s, as if she knows about the eyes you wish you had the confidence to stare into without respite.

“Found anything?”

You jump, closing the book quickly as if you’d been reading something illicit. Eddie gives you a quick up and down look, keeping his distance until your shoulders drop their tension. “Yes,” you say, turning the book so he can see the cover. “I’d never even heard of her but I like her already.”

“Enough to kick poor Rainer off the top spot?”

You feel that strange warmth that comes with being known, the little reminder of things that Eddie has learned and remembered about you. “Not quite, but I’ll still give her a chance.” You glance down at the book in Eddie’s hands, glad to see he’s grabbed your recommendation. “You like it?”

“Seems weird as fuck,” he confirms matter of factly. “So it’s almost like I’m contractually obliged to read it, you know?”

He pulls the new book gently from your hands, retrieving his chained wallet from his back pocket. "My turn," he says with an unusual seriousness. “You want any others?”

You shake your head, lean up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, surrounded and sheltered as you are by shelves and books. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“Nah,” he says, face a soft pink. 

Later, when Eddie has followed you perusing shop windows, and you are full up on drive through fries, eaten in the front of Eddie’s van as you listened to his story of negotiating $20 of payment between his entire band for their nights playing at the Hideout, Eddie drives you back, glancing over at you every so often like he wants to say something, but turning his head back to the road every time instead.

❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦

You feel relaxed, content, sitting comfy on the couch outside of Eddie’s trailer. He popped his head in earlier and found Wayne still sleeping, so you settled here to read in companionable silence. You, discovering more of Marina’s voice, drifting back again and again to the one poem that makes your chest full. 

Eddie lies with his head resting on your lap, flicking through the short novella. You play with his hair throughout, curling locks around your fingers and stroking his fringe back from his forehead. Occasionally, you glance down at him, taking in his furrowed brow and eyes shining wet at a couple moments. 

“Well, that was fucked up!” Eddie cries, snapping the book shut and somehow managing to whisper a yell. “He just dies? And they don’t care?”

You close your book to focus on him, resting it next to you. You let your fingers tangle into his hair, scratching softly. Eddie, even in his indignation, tilts his head towards the satisfying feeling like a cat. “Mm. That’s the point. He was living his life for his family, but they didn’t really care about him.”

“Yeah, but there’s not caring about someone and there’s hurtling fruit at them,” he reasons. “That Kafka guy had issues, I can’t be the only one who’s noticed.”

You crack a shy smile. “I think he’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie’s dimples tease you. “You’re a freak.” 

Your stomach flips at the affection in his voice, fingers stilling in his hair for a second before resuming their gentle caress. 

It hits you then, watching Eddie's pretty face, that you’re going to be alone with him again through the night, without interruption, and your throat lumps. As if he realises at the same time, Eddie sits up, hair still at angles from your exploring hands. His mouth opens, then closes again, his eyes flicking from your face to your hands where you’ve started fiddling with the hem of your shirt. 

Forcing yourself to take on his example, you ask, “what are you thinking, Eddie?”

“Big question,” he says. “But uh, I guess, I never thought…I never thought sex was that important, you know? Hell, I lost my virginity in the bathrooms at the Emerson Theatre.” His eyes scrunch closed as soon as he says it, like he regrets letting that particular detail slip right now. When one opens, and finds you smiling at him encouragingly, he sighs with his whole body. “And, I hope you know that it wouldn’t matter to me if you had been with somebody else,” he continues, eyes wide. “Like, at all. But at the same time, I’m happy I’m first, you know? Cause I know I can look after you. I can give you what you deserve. Which, again, technically should be a big fancy bed and linen sheets, but some people have absolutely no patience, so-”

“Eddie,” you groan. But it has no bite. You’re already smiling at him, grabbing at his palm to play with his fingers, heart full. 

He clears his throat. “So yeah, that’s what I’m thinking about. Also seeing you naked, obviously. But that takes up a good 30% of my brain pretty much all the time so it’s not entirely relevant here.”

“You’re so annoying,” you laugh, watching him clutch his chest in mock hurt.

“I just bared my soul to you!” He cries, watching your giggles incredulously. “Do’st thou mock me? Have you no heart, woman?”

You bury the rest of your laughter in his neck, feeling a kind of dizzy happiness that makes it hard to stop. Eddie’s chest shaking under your cheek tells you that he’s as affected, a hand coming up to stroke at your hair as the mirth fades. Turning to look at where your hands have started up playing with his fingers again, you think about what you want to say.

“Eddie,” you whisper, pulling from his neck, looking between his eyes and his forehead as you search for the bravery he has in spades, the ease to tell him that it always had to be him. 

Only, the front door of the trailer opens, revealing a sleepy looking, shirtless, Wayne. 

“Oh, Jesus, have some decorum, man!” Eddie yells, covering your eyes with his hand. 

“Evenin’, Eddie,” he says, followed by your own name. You wave, blinking to Eddie’s palm. “Get everything you wanted?”

“Yup, sweet girl bought me my very own Metal Heart,” he grins, tapping the album where it sits at his side on the couch as you wrestle his arm away. “Sleep well?”

“As good as I can.” He answers earnestly. “Just makin’ coffee then I’ll hit the road. You want anything?”

"I want you to put some clothes on!"

“No, thank you,” you answer over him, shaking your head and leaning into Eddie’s arm. When Wayne's gone, you glance up, find those soft eyes, those long dark eyelashes. Longer than anyone's. 

"What are you thinking?" 

You answer honestly. "That you're gonna look after me." 

"I will," he nods, sounding almost stern. "As long as you want me to." 

You wish it was easy to say, but all you can do is think it. 

Always, always, always.

Wayne leaves with a gruff goodbye, a reminder to Eddie that there's left over pasta in the refrigerator. You remember the first time you were here at the same time as Wayne, the almost desperate rush to get into Eddie's room the second he was gone. 

Now, you and Eddie stay, settled into one another for a long while after, until the sun has moved from high overhead to just behind the trees in front, turning the scene to a silhouette backlit with orange light. Eddie disappears, comes back with bowls of that pasta. You talk about school, and Eddie's band. He explains more about thrash metal, you tell him your new favourite German word you’d learned only yesterday. When the orange fades to blue-black, Eddie looks over at you. 

"Ready?"  

You wonder what it means, that despite the increasing thrum of your heart in your chest, you don't even have to think about it. "Yes."

He holds your hand all the way to his room, guiding you through like you don't know how to find his bed at the end. When the door is closed, sheltering you from the world outside, you wrap your arms tight around him, give yourself the comfort of hiding in his collar, feeling the slow rise and fall from his breath. 

Eddie hums, his hand coming to that space at the back of your neck that eases everything in your body that you’re used to holding tight. “How you feeling, honey?”

“Good,” you mumble. Then, wondering if he can feel the heavy beat of your heart. “Nervous.”

“Okay,” he says, fingers stroking and squeezing at your tender skin. “What are you nervous about? Anything we can fix?”

You let that thought sit. You are still learning how much Eddie means it when he says things like that. Still practising the belief that Eddie wants you to share your worries, carry some of the burden for you. The responsibility of trying to shed the weight, the disappointment of knowing some of it just has to be carried.

You’re resigned to telling him, but finding the exact reason for the nerves twisting your stomach takes its own time. With anyone else, you’d be worried about pain, about what happens if you have to stop. These concerns float away on their own at the feeling of Eddie’s hand stroking at you, his lips pressing kisses at your temple. Then you land on it, and press your face deeper against the softness of his shirt.

“I don’t know, I guess- What should I do?” You ask, voice small. “So it’s good for you, too.”

You feel his sigh from the rise in his chest, the shake of his head from the brush of his hair against your cheek. 

“Will you look at me?” He asks, waiting for you to tilt your head to find him. “You want the truth?” You nod, chin still tight to his shirt. Eddie’s eyes narrow a touch, leaning down conspiratorially. “It will feel good for me,” he starts, his free hand rubbing at your waist. “If we can get your pussy all soft, first.” A surprised throb between your legs has you clenching down on nothing, close to whimpering at the gentle roughness of Eddie’s voice. “All soft, and wet enough that I can just slide in, fill you up easy. Making you cum on my cock, sweet thing. That’s what’ll feel good, for me.” Eddie gives you a wolfish grin as he starts walking you backwards towards his bed, raising his eyebrows in question. “Think we can do that?”

It’s easy, then. “Yes, Eddie.”

“Mm, my good girl,” he says, holding you with the backs of your knees pressed to the side of his mattress, his nose at your temple. “Can I kiss you?”

Even easier. “Yes, Eddie.”

His lips press soft across your cheek and down to your mouth, warm and waiting for him. He's gentle with you, none of the fierceness you've felt in Eddie's kisses more recently. Like he's restraining himself, learning how you like to be touched in the lead up to something new. Your hands find his shoulders, soft cotton of his shirt, and rub at the fabric. His tongue flicks subtly against your bottom lip, but you're already desperate to taste him for real, letting him press deeper without any more prompting. 

You feel it at the sound of his laugh, the sudden curve of his lips, the huff of air from his nose against your cheek. The addictive high of showing Eddie how shameless he makes you, the knowledge that he sees you as you are. Not a wallflower here, or a naïve girl. Not an ingénue, to be taken advantage of, or protected from corruption. 

With Eddie, you can be as you are. Inexperienced and desperate in equal measure, as nervous as you are sure. 

"Fuck," Eddie breathes, pulling away only to blink down at you for a couple seconds before he captures your mouth again, tongue pressing to yours, hot and wet. You whine slowly, rising in volume, your fingers clasping at him. "S'alright," he soothes, giving you another press to your pout. His hand rubs at the back of your neck, encouraging you to lean your head into his support, give him space to leave plush kisses down the side of your throat. 

"Eddie," you whisper, softer than you'd expected. Not a moan, or even a plea for more. Just to say it, to feel the shape of his name in your mouth again. 

"So sweet," Eddie says, voice a wonderful vibration against your sensitive neck. "Sweetest girl I've ever seen- fuck. Can I?" His hands tug at the hem of your sweater and you nod desperately, helping him pull it off over your head. His lips return to your skin the second the material is on the floor, a wet press down to the softness of your chest. You feel his smile, his excited breath. He sucks, pulls at your flesh until it aches and you squirm. “Mm,” he sighs. “Can’t help it. Wanna mark you up-”

Gentle hands peel your bra from your chest, the tenderness vanishing with his tongue finding the pert bud of your nipple, treating the sensitive peak to wet warmth and friction that has your toes curling. The quick scrape of teeth makes you bat at Eddie's shoulder even as your body tilts to follow his mouth when it retreats. 

He gives the other similar treatment, groaning when your fingers drift upwards to tug at his hair. Another little squeak at the graze of his teeth and he’s pulling away to look at you. Your heart jumps at the sight of him, hair mussed from burying himself into your skin, face a light pink, lips wet and kissed dark. The way his eyes flick about you, you’re sure you must be in a similar state. 

Eddie’s throat bobs. “Wanna sit up on the bed, there?”

You nod, letting him help you up to the mattress and stand between your swinging legs.

“Need to go over something else, before we really get started,” he tells you, walking you back to sit on the bed, legs swinging off the side. Eddie drops to his knees to take your ankle in hand and pull at your laces. He sets your sneakers to the side, pings your socks over after them. He presses tickling kisses up your calves, eyes all bright when you laugh and kick at him slightly. 

Once he’s back at your height, his hands move to your waistband, thumbing at the button of your shorts. “You know that any time you wanna stop, you just say, okay? I mean it, sweet thing.” He pops the button, pulls at the zip. When his hands smooth under the denim to your hips, helping pull them down, he continues. “Doesn’t matter when. Even if I’m making this face-” He scrunches his nose up and lets his tongue hang out in a gross approximation of his expression when he cums and you can’t help but cover your eyes at the image. “What, you don’t like it?”

“That’s not what you look like!”

“That’s right, you’re the expert now, huh? This better?” He asks, stretching his lips flat and crossing his eyes. 

“Stoh-op!” You cry, somewhere between giggly and mortified. Eddie’s face settles back into its regular pretty softness, all shining amused eyes and laugh lines. 

“That’s exactly what you say to me if you want me to, mm? Or slow down or anything else you want, okay?”

“Yes, Eddie,” you murmur, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. “Will you,” you swallow, playing with the neckline of his shirt. “Can you keep talking to me? While…”

“You say that like I'm gonna be able to stop talking. Hips up, sweetheart,” he says, helping you lie back so he can pull at your shorts. “Nah,” he breathes, hands disappearing to drag his shirt over his head. “You’ll be sick of my voice by tomorrow.”

Eddie helps you shuffle up the bed, your head falling easy to the good pillow. 

“Never,” you tell him, arms opening to pull him in. He finds your mouth again, kisses a little more desperate, already a touch breathless. Your fingers brush at the back of his hair, soft curls between his shoulder blades. 

Eddie’s hand dances over the soft skin of your stomach, pulling giggles from you when he hits ticklish spots. His fingers edge at the frilled waistband of your panties, waiting for your hips to tilt towards him to dip inside. 

“Oh, honey,” he says with a gentle pout, fingers meeting the hot wet warmth between your legs. “Should’ve told me you were feelin’ desperate.”

Your thighs twitch at the first gentle circle around your clit. Eddie’s thick fingers, the roughness at their ends that catches the sensitive bud so perfectly with each little rub. Already your mind feels light with pleasure, body sinking into the bliss of being touched by Eddie. You’re caught between watching his hand where it disappears, the impression of his knuckles moving under blue cotton, and pulling up the courage to stare back at Eddie as he scans every twitch of your face. He grins at you when you manage to turn to him, licking his lips quickly. The little peek of his tongue, the memory of all the ways it makes you weak for him, has your legs kicking and twitching.  

“Feels good, yeah?” He asks, eyes flickering to your lips as they open to let out a moan. “Want me to open this pussy up, sweet thing? Get you ready for me?”

You like that, enough that you nod desperately without thinking twice. “Yeah, want- please, Eddie?”

“Jesus,” he huffs a laugh, his fingers easing downwards only to drag slick from your pussy back up to your twitchy clit. “So fucking good, baby. Say please again?”

Your hips tilt up, chasing his hand though he makes no move to deprive you of it. Your whole body feels hot; from his words, his voice, as much as his touch. When you chance a look in Eddie’s eyes, all the warm brown has been swallowed up, leaving his gaze dark and intent on you. You curl your fingers into his shoulder, stare at the pick hanging from his necklace, swaying with the subtle movement of his torso following the pace of his arm. “Please, please, Eddie.”

You make a high noise of protest when his fingers pull away from your bud, shivers running up your spine at Eddie’s patronising coo, the jutting of his plush bottom lip. “Like I said, no patience. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?” He sighs, pushes at your thighs to catch a glimpse of the dark, sodden material between your legs. “Just gotta get these off you, give me space to work, hm?” 

Eddie disappears from your side, moving down the bed to sit between your legs. His fingers hook quick into your waistband to pull your panties down your thighs. 

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, rubbing the wet cotton between his fingers. “Maybe you can be patient. You been wet all day, pretty?” You watch him lean over, hooking your panties over the headboard.

“Eddie,”

He only flashes you a grin, hand strokes at your thigh, fingers digging into the softness to push your leg back. You feel the sticky split of your cunt as it opens up for him, the wave of cool air against your heat. 

“Fuck, look at her,” Eddie breathes, dropping down to his front. His wide eyes blink in near fascination, like it’s anything new to him, watching your cunt flex and shine. “You want two?”

You clench down at the thought. “Yeah.”

Eddie hums, nips at the skin of your leg as he drags his fingers through your slick. The first press inside is a good stretch, lacking the edge of pain that comes with three. They sink inside easily with a wet noise that would have you squirming away if you weren’t so fuzzy in the head, so desperate for the pleasure Eddie’s touch promises. The pads of his fingers find the spot at the end of you that he has mapped out, pussy fluttering around his fingers in protest every time they leave to press back in. 

“Feels good?” Eddie asks, rubbing his face against your leg. You hum. “You want another?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, craving more, wanting everything. “Yes, Eddie.”

“Mm. Open those legs just a little more, baby- yeah, good girl.”

Eddie gives you one final press of his lips to your thigh as he withdraws his fingers, stroking at you again to gather your slick across all three. You feel the blunt ends of his digits at your entrance, the first push and-

“Oh,” you whine, the familiar ache nothing compared to the euphoria of Eddie’s tongue coming to lap at your sensitive clit. Your hands fly down to his hair, clenching around soft curls as if there’s any possibility he might pull away. He groans, sending a pleasant thrum across your nerves. “Eddie, please.”

Your hips twitch when his fingers meet resistance half way deep, but Eddie stops his approach before you have time to register any discomfort. Clenching tight around his half buried fingers, Eddie lathes his tongue, wide and wet, from where his digits disappear inside to the top of your pussy. Your legs kick again, clit throbbing under his attention. He waits patiently for your body to relax into the pleasure, gently pulling his fingers back before pressing even deeper into your supplicating cunt. 

“S’good, Eddie,” you whine, thighs pressing at the sides of his head without your wherewithal. All you know is you can feel him everywhere you need him most. His curls in your hands, tickling the sensitive insides of your legs. His tongue on your clit, gentle sucks that feel like kisses. His fingers filling you, stretching you and rubbing just right at the top wall of your cunt to send tingles along your spine. Ecstasy builds everywhere you can feel him, from a aching twitch between your legs to a wave that passes over your entire body. 

Eddie’s name escapes you on repeat without shame. You hear him curse, feel the breath of it against your clit, as you squeeze tight around his fingers, pulsing with each peak of the high. 

You finally slump into the mattress again, boneless and tingly. You ignore the wet sound produced by Eddie’s hand leaving your pussy, focusing on how he grins at you as he crawls up your body to settle over you, eyes crinkled at the sides with his satisfaction. 

“Jesus, you’re so hot,” he laughs, leaning down to plant a breathless kiss to your lips. “Thought your thighs weren’t ever gonna let me up. Started planning a life down there, you know?” 

You giggle, but can’t think of anything clever to say back, caught up in the perfect view of Eddie above you. Pink and lightly freckled, lips dark, the entire bottom half of his face shining from looking after you until he drags your slick to his tongue with his thumb. His hair falls forward like a curtain around your faces, tickling your cheeks until you reach up to tuck it back. He leans absent mindedly towards your hand then, enjoying the warmth of your palm. 

As you caress Eddie’s face, he gives you a gentle, wide eyed look. “You still wanna?” He asks, a little rushed. “Cause we can stop right here.”

“I want to,” you answer, just above a whisper, but sounding as sure as you ever have done. “If you do.”

“Yeah,” he nods, like he hasn’t quite registered the full meaning. Then, as if he’s taken it in, “yeah. Okay. Okay.”

Eddie climbs off the bed, leaning over his bedside table to search through the drawer, hands emerging with a box labelled TROJAN and a bottle of clear liquid. You watch him fumble a little with the box until it opens, and pull out a square wrapper that has your face feeling hot, as if the presence of condoms is any more illicit that how Eddie has been touching you already. 

“Look away!” Eddie jokes when he finds your eyes on him as he pulls at his belt. “Gotta keep my modesty in tact.”

You jokingly cover your eyes, hearing his laughter along with the clink of his belt, his zip pulling open. The mattress dips with Eddie’s return, and you peek through your fingers at him before settling your hands at your sides. Your mind fizzes at the sight of Eddie naked, settled on his knees between your thighs. Your eyes trace all the ink that decorates his torso, the softness of his stomach. The patches of dark hair on his chest, between his legs. His cock is a dark pink, swollen enough that the tip kisses his stomach. Eddie drags a hand over it with a soft groan like he’s been tortured by the wait. If he registers your staring, he doesn’t point it out, focusing on tearing open the foil wrapper and pulling a clear condom down over his length with a sigh. 

Your fingers pull at wrinkles in the sheets as Eddie squirts some clear gel from the bottle into his palm, dragging his hand over his cock again to spread it. “What- what’s that?”

“Oh, uh, lube?” Eddie says, throwing the bottle down on the mattress with a bounce. “Makes it easier to, like, move I guess.”

“But-” You’d press your knees together if Eddie weren’t settled between them. “I’m wet.”

Eddie’s eyes flash, lips quirking. “You are, huh?”

“Eddie,” 

“Mm. I know, sweet thing. But a little extra never hurt, mm?” 

“Okay,” you murmur. 

“Okay,” he answers. “I think it’ll be easiest like this, probably?” He drags the spare pillow from his side, tapping your hips gently to place it under you, tilting your body up to him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, Eddie. S’good.”

“Okay,” he breathes, shuffling forward. With one hand, he strokes gently at your thigh. The other finds your pussy, his thumb playing with clit until you’re feeling pleasured and loose, settled back onto the bed with fluttering eyes. “Still want this, Princess?”

You stare at him, heart sore as you take in his open expression. You can see the evidence of how desperate he must be, how much he wants this. But he looks at you, and you know he meant it when he said you could stop at any time, that he isn’t expecting anything from you, even now.

This body of yours is used to freezing up, follows a routine of tensing and shaking at questions less serious than this. You breathe, swallow, force yourself to look him in the eye. “I want you, Eddie.”

He watches you, searching for your certainty. You smile, a nervous thing, but real, and he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna go slow. If it hurts, you say, yeah? Or kick me in the balls - whatever’s easiest.”

You giggle, shaking your head at him, your body feeling loose and relaxed by the time you feel the tip of him catch at your entrance. You make a soft noise at the back of your throat, wanting to watch him but also wanting desperately to keep yourself relaxed and open. You close your eyes, feel the softness of Eddie’s sheets under your fingers.

“Sweet girl,” Eddie murmurs, still circling your clit as the tip of him sinks inside. You feel the aching stretch of him, the pleasant warmth of Eddie’s cock under rubber. He’s saying something, talking to you like he promised, but you’re focused on your breath, on fighting the urge to bear down on him. 

He must be a couple inches deep when he stops and pulls back only to press forward again and you think, for a second, you will be able to lay back and take all the pleasure Eddie always gives you, but-

His thumb circles just perfect at your clit and your pussy flutters, the new tightness resisting the slow press of his cock. It’s a sudden, shocking hurt that has your hips flinching to another stab of pain. Before you can help it your body is tensing all over, a soft pained sound escaping your throat. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says, voice rough, and that the squeeze of your pussy must feel good doesn’t even register. You can only think that he must be as frustrated with your body as you are. Not in control, but a witness to it falling back into routine, pulling taught even as Eddie starts hushing softly. The more you tense, the tighter you feel, the pleasant ache of him pushing inside quickly turning to a stinging stretch that has you clenching fists in the sheets, tears springing to your eyes. 

Eddie pulls out from you, and your chest throbs.  

“I’m sorry,” you cry, wanting to close your legs and hide away from him. 

Eddie’s warmth doesn’t vanish as you fear. In fact it grows as he leans over you, an arm coming to circle your waist. You feel his free hand at your hair, stroking it back from your face. “Look at me, baby,” he murmurs, his breath a gentle caress against your cheek. “You’re in that head, mm? C’mon out.”

The tears that had been bubbling under your eyelids spring free when you open them, tracking down your cheeks as Eddie shakes his head. He wipes each of them away with his thumb until they stop coming. “Sweet thing,” he breathes. “It hurt, and you needed to stop. It’s okay.”

His thumb strokes over your cheek again and you lean into it, resting your palm at the back of his hand as you sigh. Your fingers weave with his, everything better now that you can touch him, now that you can’t run away into your head away from his voice, so close to you.

“Wanna get dressed? We can watch something, mm?”

You shake your head immediately, feeling determined. “Can we try again?”

“We don’t have to-”

“I want to, Eddie.” You assure, hoping he believes you. You rub your cheek into his palm again. “But, can we stay like this?”

There’s a pause as Eddie blinks at you, then his mouth turns up. “Wanna change tactics, huh, Princess?” You nod, watching as he pulls away briefly to help pull the pillow out from under your hips, his hands pressing at your thighs so he can settle properly between them. You whine softly at the feeling of him, still hard and pulsing, between your legs. 

Eddie comes back to you with a kiss, lets you wrap your arms around his shoulders to hold him close, get your fingers pressed to his warm skin, playing with the ends of his hair. 

“Forgot who I was dealing with, didn’t I?” He says, rolling his hips so the tip of his cock drags over your twitchy clit. Your toes curl, the ball of your foot stroking a little at the back of Eddie’s calf as your legs curl round him. “My girl needs to touch me all over, huh?”

Eddie grins down at you, wiggles his hips just to hear you gasp at the friction of your clit, feel the way your digits dig at him, your right hand rubbing at a lock of his hair. Tension pours from your body at the weight of him all over you, the chance to watch Eddie’s joy at touching you, the pleasure he feels in tandem with yours at every roll of his hips.. 

He kisses you again, then both your cheeks and your nose and chin, peppers them in quick succession across your neck to get you giggly and soft. When he emerges, you watch each other. Eddie’s gaze flicks about your face while you count down the checklist of your favourite features; dimples and quirked lips, wrinkles at the sides of his eyes and laugh lines.

“Again?” He asks, one hand moving from your thigh to grasp his cock between you. You nod, press your digits into Eddie’s shoulder as his tip opens you up. 

“Good fucking girl,” he breathes through the first slow thrust, voice clear as day now he’s so close. “You’re so good, baby.”

Pleasant shivers run through you at the praise. When the stretch makes your body pull taught, your fingers press at Eddie’s skin, letting him feel your need to slow. When the sound of his shaking breath, the sight of his eyes fluttering at the tightness of your cunt around him, has you excited and pliant again, your fingers playing at the ends of his hair tell him that he can start moving once more. Eddie pulls back each time before pressing deeper, humming you through each new tender stretch until you feel the wiry hair above his cock tease your clit. Your hips tilt, chasing the delicious rub, and you feel Eddie’s cock twitch inside you.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, face dropping into your neck to groan. “How’s it feel?”

Your cunt flutters at the strain in his voice. This time, rather than sending warnings across your body at an unpleasant sting, your pussy bearing down aggravates a dull throb. Like pushing on a sore tooth, it’s painful and addictive all at once, clenching down again for the satisfying feeling of Eddie’s cock twitching inside you, the sound of him groaning against your skin.  

“Good, Eddie,” you say honestly, fingers stroking through his hair. “Will you- can you move?”

“Yeah- fuck,” he nods into your neck, laughing softly. “Just gimme onnnnne second. Jesus. ‘How do I make it good for you?’ She asks, with heaven between her legs.” 

Your body shakes as both of you giggle together, cut off by another whimpering moan from Eddie. “Aw, shit, don’t laugh or I’m really gonna embarrass myself.”

He tilts his head to the side, looking at you with his chin at your collar. His hips pull back, relieving your pussy of the ache until he slides forward again, letting you feel full, the weight and warmth of him inside you. It’s different than his fingers, which map out the best spots and play with them. Eddie’s cock, thick and heavy, drags along all of them at once. 

His face is so close by yours, watching desperately for every sign of pleasure, any hint of discomfort. You open your mouth to reassure him, but all that escapes is a soft, pleased sound that makes his hips stutter.

“Feels good?” Eddie gasps, nodding like he wants to encourage you to agree.

“Yeah, s’good,”

“Fuck,” he says. “You’re gonna want this all the time now, yeah? Need your pretty cunt full of me?”

Pleasant tingles of shame dart up your spine, and one of Eddie’s hands slips between your bodies to rub at your clit again. 

“Yeah? Say it, sweet thing.” He groans, hips stuttering at a clench of your cunt around him. 

“Like being full of you, Eddie,” you whine, fingers tightening in his hair. “Want it all the time.”

“Jesus- Christ, you’re so good,” he breathes, his fingers bullying your sodden clit. The ache of his cock falls away in comparison to the onslaught of stimulation there, leaving only the satisfying resistance to your cunt clenching down, the sweet fullness, the friction against your sensitive walls. “You’re so good, letting me hear you. Your pretty voice- fuck. Just for me. Think you can cum?”

“Uh huh,”

“Yeah? Like this? Just like this?”

You nod desperately, hips twitching towards him. Chasing the rub of his fingers, the feeling of being stretched full when he presses deep, the throb of his cock inside. 

“You cumming, sweet thing?” He asks, as if he can’t see the flutter of your eyes, feel your body clasp around him. “Yeah? Holy-”

Your high is a gentle thing, compared to what you felt with Eddie’s fingers and tongue. A quick rise and fall focused at the top of your cunt that shifts quickly into the numbness of overstimulation. The lasting ache is too present for anything more, but it feels like a promise, a hint of how good it can be with Eddie, if you do this with him again. 

You feel boneless and tired while he finds his pleasure, staring down at your warm, satisfied face as he groans. You can feel him inside, the twitch of his cock as he groans, the sudden warmth behind rubber. 

His body half collapses on yours, sweat slick skin sticking together. You wrap yourself around him, foot stroking at his calf, hands scratching at the back of his scalp while he tries to catch his breath against your neck. You can feel the pound of his heart where your chests press together, know he must feel yours. When they slow in tandem, beating together, you find Eddie’s wide, soft eyes. 

“That-” his voice cracks, his throat clears. “Was that okay?” When you nod, offering a tired smile, he strokes some of your hair back. “I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” He says, waiting for you to nod again. 

You take a shaky breath as Eddie’s softening cock pulls from you, stealing all the soothing warmth inside and leaving you with a sensitive, fluttering pussy. You whimper softly at the tender feeling. “I know,” he breathes. “I know, sweet girl. Gimme one second.”

Shivers run up your spine when Eddie disappears briefly to deal with the condom, a little prickle of something unpleasant at your neck. You’re only starting to replay everything you just did and said that might be shameful, embarrassing, in your head when he returns. Eddie wipes warm damp cloth between your legs. He smooths away the uncomfortable, cooling stickiness. Predictably, he tosses the cloth over his shoulder to fall back into bed and pull you into his chest. There, with his arms tight around you, his adoring gaze set on you, any shame your mind could convince you to feel falls away. Why would you dwell on it, when you can let yourself feel all the warmth Eddie brings? 

You lie together for a few minutes, tracing Eddie’s tattoos. Over and over, you drag your pointer finger over the lines forming CORRODED COFFIN under his ribs, letters on Eddie’s skin.

“Thank you,” you murmur eventually, watching Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. You kiss his chest. “I’m glad it was you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice breaking a little at your immediate nod. “Well, uh, thank you for trusting me, sweetheart.”

You lie together until the sweat on your bodies is cool and sticky. When the first shiver runs up your body, Eddie helps you stand from the bed like he expects you to be walking like a new-born deer. You manage into the bathroom by yourself, emerge washed and clad in cosy pyjamas, his soft hoodie. Eddie takes his turn, and returns to bed with steamed warm pink skin and dripping hair that sprinkles droplets on your face when he shakes it out like a dog.

You drift asleep with Eddie’s breath at your ear, his fingers stroking steady at your waist.

You wake the next morning to that same sunlight through blinds, the same dog barking in the distance. If it weren’t for the new ache between your legs, you might have thought you’d dreamt the entire perfect day, woken up to find it was Saturday again.

You turn yourself over to Eddie’s side, find his long bare back, pale and dusted with freckles. In a second, you’ll curl yourself around him, wrap an arm over his torso so he can wake up feeling something like the way you feel when he holds you. 

But now, your rapid pulse pounds in your ears. Even as he sleeps, your body won't allow you to say it, or even whisper it. Your throat closes up with the thought of too much, too soon. 

But you ache to do something, to let the feeling out somehow. Caught between your throbbing heart and the worries that have kept you quiet your whole life, you shuffle forward, reach out, and draw eight letters, one after the other, on the soft skin of Eddie’s shoulder. 

I L O V E Y O U

❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦

Next Part

[oizysian]

Hi there! How are you doing? How's your day going?

I was hoping, if you're not too busy, that you could write a Lizzie Olsen fic where (obviously) her fem reader wife decides to give her a surprise visit. Reader is a bit protective of Lizzie but she doesn't care too much at how reader overreats at times. So reader heads up at the worst time, not realising that Lizzie had just finished filming a scene but she also twisted her ankle or something and shes headed back to her trailer, her face covered in bruises and gashes (all make-up for the movie) and reader starts panicking and rushes over to Lizzie, all weepy and afraid.

After Lizzie manages to calm her wife down, she takes her inside the trailer where she explains things and how she twisted her ankle, which made it appear that she'd been genuinely hurt. As a result, when Lizzie finally asks why reader is so overprotective (because she's worried about making reader angry about the details shes so sensitive about), which results in reader confessing that she'd been going on a spiral decline prior to their marriage when there had been a very tragic incident (you can choose this) that left her psychologically scarred and somewhat emotionally unstable. They proceed to relax by cuddling in the trailer.

Kind regards, anonymous

(If you're unable to fulfil this request, it's totally fine and I apologise if I disturbed you!)

I Can’t Lose You | Elizabeth Olsen

Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: death mention, injury, overprotective reader.

Word count: 1k

AN: Thank you all for your requests! I hope you’re all having a great day and I hope you enjoy!

•

I walked through the studio, looking for the set that Lizzie was working on today. She was working on a super secret new Marvel project, so I was only allowed to visit during her lunch hour. I carried a basket of food and wine for us to enjoy before she had to go back to work.

I heard her voice before I saw her.

“I’m - I’m fine.” She chuckled softly to her assistant, limping towards her trailer. “It’s just a sprain. I’ll be okay after lunch.”

“Oh my god, Lizzie!” I cried, almost dropping our lunch as I ran to her side.

“Y/N,” she said softly, hissing when she tried walking on her injured foot. “You’re early, baby.”

“What happened?” I ignored her statement, knowing she was just trying to divert my attention from her wounded foot and multiple cuts and bruises on her face.

We walked into her trailer and I helped her sit down, placing the basket down on the table and closing the door so we had some privacy. I kneeled down in front of her and examined her swollen ankle.

“It’s not broken.” She said, relieved. “The medic on set already looked at it. I just sprained it.”

“How?” My eyes filled with tears. My wife was hurt and I felt helpless.

“A stunt gone wrong.” She smiled, brushing the hair from my face. “I’m fine. I’ll be back out there in a few hours.”

“No you won’t.” I protested, pushing her back against the cushions and forcing her to relax. “You’re gonna stay off that foot. You need to heal.”

“Y/N, I’m gonna be fine.”

“Your ankle is swollen. Let me get you some ice.”

I stood and went to the freezer, grabbing an ice pack and bringing it back to her. She grimaced as I placed it gently on her ankle and I turned my attention to the wounds on her face.

“What happened?” I asked as I searched her eyes for answers.

She looked confused before chuckling softly, bringing her hand up and rubbing some of the blood and bruising off of her face with her fingers.

“Just makeup. I told you, I’m okay.”

My lower lip trembled as she explained, bursting into tears at the sight of her, even though it was only makeup.

She looked startled before leaning towards me and wrapping her arms around my waist, pulling me close to her.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? Why are you so upset about this?”

“You got hurt.” I whimpered, looking down into her eyes. “I couldn’t …”

“Nobody could’ve done anything to prevent it. I fell. It was an accident, but I’ll be okay.”

“I should’ve been here.” I was in full panic mode now. “You needed me.”

“Y/N, Y/N,” she said so softly, so tenderly. “Please, baby, relax.”

She took hold of my hands and pulled me down onto the couch with her. I curled up on her lap, crying onto her shoulder as she held me. She rocked me, shushing me softly, attempting to calm me down.

“What if it was worse?” I whimpered against her. “What if I lost you?”

“You’re not gonna lose me. I was just a little clumsy today, that’s all.”

I sniffled, adjusting myself on her lap so I didn’t hurt her more. She pet my hair, stroking it back from my face so she could see me.

“Y/N, you’ve been on edge for a while now. Is something wrong?”

I shook my head, but averted my eyes from her own. There was something I wasn’t telling her …

“I just … I can’t lose you.”

She pressed a kiss to my forehead and wrapped her arms tighter around me, making sure not to disturb the ice on her foot.

“You won’t.” She whispered. “I promise you.”

We were silent for a few moments before I gained the courage to speak again.

“I lost someone very close to me, a long time ago.”

She was quiet, waiting for me to speak again.

“She - she was everything to me; my best friend.” I swallowed roughly. “A few years before you and I met, she died in a car accident. I always blamed myself for not being there for her, for not protecting her.”

I felt her grip around me tighten and I closed my eyes, trying to push back the fresh tears.

“It wasn’t your fault.” She whispered against my hair.

“I know,” my voice cracked. “But, I still feel like I could’ve done something. Anything.”

“There was nothing you could do, my love. It was an accident.”

“I know.” I cried. “Ever since I lost her I’ve been so depressed. When I met you,” I smiled to myself, thinking back to when I first saw her. “You made everything better. Life felt like it was worth living again.”

Wordlessly, she moved us so we were laying down on the couch, her injured ankle resting on the soft cushions. She was still cradling me like a baby and I never felt more safe.

“I can’t lose you too.” I whispered and she kissed my forehead again. “I can’t lose someone else that I love.”

“I understand, dove.” She said gently. “But, we can’t live in fear. You can’t live in fear.”

“I know.” I was ashamed of how I acted, but I couldn’t stop myself from overreacting. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” She rubbed her hands up and down my arms, soothing me. “I understand now. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want to think about it. I tried to pretend it didn’t happen …”

“But it did. And you feeling the way you do is perfectly understandable. You lost your best friend. Now I know why you’re so overprotective of me.” She said with a soft chuckle and I nodded.

“I just don’t wanna lose my best friend again.”

She raised my chin so I would look up at her and captured my lips with her own. I put all my love for her into that kiss, wanting her to know how much she truly meant to me.

“I’m here to stay.”

[yopossum]

HOME

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Summary: Dieter Bravo is sober. For good, this time. He got divorced, got into treatment, and left Hollywood to focus on healing. Moving a couple hours north to the quiet city of Santa Barbara and into a modest recovery group home in the east side of town, where nobody much cared who he was or what he did, brought a calm he’d never known before. It also left him facing down all his demons armed with only pints of ice cream and weepy Murder, She Wrote marathons.

When one of his early-morning walks is interrupted by mysterious (and sexy!) music coming from a street he hasn’t explored before, Dieter stumbles upon a small private pole dance studio, and class is just about to start. He expected, as one does, to find a room full of sweaty, grinding, beautiful people in their underwear - and to be clear, he does. Amazing. What he could not have anticipated was that, inside a random purple strobe-lit garage on a gloomy Sunday morning, he’d find something he’d been searching for all his life — home.

A roommates/besties/platonic soulmates story that honors the journey of coming back to yourself after a very long and painful time away with laughter, chaos, tears, tenderness, sex, and, yes, pole dancing.

Mixed-media fic featuring traditional writing, graphics, and other digital elements, told in non-linear installments. Bravo Bits - images/videos; Dieter Drivel - ficlets.

Rating: M/E 💖🌈🔥⛈️

Pairing(s): Dieter x BFF (I mean, it’s Dieter, there’s gonna be some friendly banging), Dieter x OMC, Dieter x OFC, Dieter x nonbinary OC, Dieter x group, Dieter solo, Dieter x a powerful vision of his younger self, etc etc etc

EXTENSIVE EXHAUSTING YET INTRIGUING LIST OF WARNINGS AFTER THE BREAK 🚨🚨🚨

Warnings: BUCKLE UP I’m gonna do my best to cover everything I currently have completed, in progress, and planned. Inevitably there will be more, because Dieter. Innuendo, exotic dance/pole dance, masturbation, like a LOT of masturbation, pornography references, sexting, PIV, grinding, butt stuff, mouth stuff, hand stuff, boob stuff, you’d be shocked at all the kinds of stuff, toys, group sex, sex work, sobriety, addiction (drugs, alcohol, sex, fame), regret, shame, self-loathing, shitty families, bad relationships, abuse, body image, mental health, trauma responses, loneliness, housing access, friendship, self care AND community care, subby D, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dieter is still a horny conspiracy theorist and bisexual chaos demon that has nothing to do with substances he’s just Like That, his bff loves him as he is, gratuitous use of 🍆🍑👄👅💦 and literally every possible vaguely sexual emoji, texting with one hand For Reasons, nicknames, good-natured teasing and exasperation, desperate need for little treats, Dieter’s filthy robe needs its own warning, belly worship, kissing, snuggling, jumping on the bed and laughing til you cry and cuddling through a sleepover with your bestie cuz it’s you two against the world, there were actually two beds but Dieter needs to share sometimes anyway, Baby Beluga, emotional breakthrough singing along to Steve Winwood’s ‘Higher Love’ while using an enormous dildo as a makeshift microphone, being banned from Target, pup cups, and Cabot Cove’s prodigal idiot nephew Grady motherfucking Fletcher

Bravo Bits

(all 🔥💖 unless otherwise noted)

Grocery Run - text thread (scrolling video)

Grady Fletcher Night - text thread (scrolling video)

Target Trip - 1 - Impetus - text thread (scrolling video)

Target Trip 2 - Aftermath - text thread (scrolling video)

You up? No. - Roomie’s screen, Dieter’s screen (images)

Dieter Drivel

Dietergesis - M - our introduction to HOME’s Dieter

Dietergesis Part 2 - NEW 9/14

[nikethestatue]

This is my opinion in the subject of Elain's gifts.

Elain, more than anyone (other than Feyre) has received all kinds of gifts, and from 3 different men, no less.

We have Graysen's engagement ring

We have Lucien's gloves and pearl earrings

We have Azriel's rose necklace

Graysen's engagement ring--iron, with a pearl--spoke of his essence. He was violently anti-Fae, he was a warrior and a protector. His ring to his future wife was made of iron (to 'protect' her, to 'ward off' the enemy), had an impersonal, token gem in it, and it was something that Elain loved, just like she loved Graysen. Her hold on the ring, which she refused to relinquish, was her tether to her old life, to her old self. She cried for the ring, and for everything that she'd lost when she was Made, and she felt as emotional about it as she did about Graysen's rejection of her.

The steel that Elain was once so dependent on for protection now forges her. She is not the same girl who was Made. She is more like her sister Nesta--we see that in ACOSF. This new Elain, the Elain who was Made, dumped, who saw the death of her father, who was in a war, and who killed the king, has a new kind of softness. A steely softness. This Elain don't take shit from nobody. Not from her sister. Not from the IC. Not from Azriel.

When Nesta lashed out at her, she lashed out right back. She is still emotional about those she loves--she cried over Nesta, but she also wasn't going to put up with any more shit. It's not Elain trailing after Rhysand. It's the High Lord trailing after Elain, flying her back and forth and giving her the scenic flyby of Velaris. This Elain says 'by using me' and this new Elain is ready to go and look for Trove objects. "Find me when you are ready," she tells them.

So when Azriel gifts her a beautiful necklace that she loves, and calls 'beautiful' and when she tells him to put it on her and when she offers him to kiss her--this Elain knows what she wants. And when he says 'this was a mistake' the new Elain returns the necklace. Why? Because she is no longer a weepy pushover who let her family or her previous men put her in the corner. The return of the necklace is a prideful gesture, but also an emotional one. She is sad and upset, but she is not going to beg or cry. She let's him know everything that she is feeling when she leaves the necklace on top of the pile of all of his gifts. To me, this speaks of her emotional growth. She isn't reactive like Nesta, but her reaction is sharp and telling. It will be Azriel who will be groveling this time.

Which leads me to Lucien's presents. And here, we see the absence of emotion. She doesn't...care. She isn't angry or resentful, she isn't hurt or upset. She. Doesn't. Care. She doesn't use the gifts because she doesn't want to give Lucien any ideas--no notion of interest on her part, no notion of 'acceptance' of him or his bond. But also, indifference. It's not like she is using the gloves or wears the earrings when he isn't around. She put them all in a drawer and forgot about them.

And I think that's what's so telling about Elain's feelings: to those she cares about, she reacts. She reacted to Graysen, to Azriel, to Nesta...Lucien, not so much.

And SJM, who built entire chapters around Solstice and Solstice gifts, around gift giving and receiving, definitely emphasises Elain's reaction to all of them.

[luxaria-nocturne]

Can’t Let Go

Adult Katsuki Bakugo x fem!OC (didn't feel like changing it to reader)

Tags: Heavy angst, infidelity, death

Word Count: 3,900

Notes: Found this in my old, old drafts. Figured it should see the light of day.

Heartless. 

That must be the word used to describe him in the agency nowadays. Absolutely heartless. Awkward as he may appear in social situations, Bakugo is far from blind. He saw the looks that his coworkers gave him when he came back to work, still with that ever present scowl on his face like nothing had changed… like his wife, Anka, hadn't just died one week before his return. Most didn't even try to hide their disgust. He could only guess what they would all whisper to each other in the break room,

“What’s he still doing here…?”

“Shouldn’t he look sad or something?”

“Didn't he care about her at all?”

They had searched his face for days for any sign of grief and, sure, he was a little colder than usual but it wasn’t like he was friendly to begin with. Apparently that's not good enough for people to think you're upset. Just when did his feelings become their business, anyway? It’s like when you lose someone the whole goddamn planet expects you to follow a script... Act weepy all day while talking about your feelings endlessly, that's it right? But who actually cares about any of that? So what if he didn’t follow their script? So what if he kept living his life? The world doesn’t stop when you're feeling a little blue... His actions didn’t mean he was totally fine… 

He's far from heartless...

Alone now in bed he stares up at his ceiling with a dull, vacant expression. He didn’t sleep last night, nor did he sleep the night before. He hasn’t slept well in months, really, but tonight feels like a special exception.

There are an awful lot of things that could have him in a bad mood right now. There's the vicious chill in the air of his apartment, the vibrant street lights practically in his eyes, the constant smell of mildew, and, of course, the stiff, uneven piece of plywood he has the misfortune to call a mattress. Hell, if his place were any crummier, he'd have considered swallowing his pride and crashing on Kirishima's couch. But of the great many things could make Bakugo absolutely miserable, only one springs to his mind before all the others.

‘It’s been a year… A whole goddamn year…’  His eyes drill holes in the cheap tile above his head as that bitter thought creeps in. He’s laying with one leg slung haphazardly out over the edge and a hand clenched tightly on his extra pillow. The red hue of his alarm clock registers out of the corner of his eye, but he hasn’t dared to look at it in hours. He'd much rather live in ignorance of whatever time it says. In fact, he’d be quite happy to curse all of time to go to hell because today marks his first year without Anka in his life.

Nobody could have predicted the accident that took her away. She was just out shopping. One of the shops had some recent storm damage and though it was only supposed to receive minor repairs, there was a sudden structural failure... Some jackass had used shit materials during the building process and the support beams gave way. Anka was inside when everything… fell... The coroner would later assure him that she didn’t suffer for very long...

But it still left him angry.

He was angry before he could even process she was gone and he remained that way for weeks. He was angry in the hospital when the doctors told him no more that could be done. He was still angry when his friends tried to comfort him in the days following, snapping and snarling at every condolence like an insult, no matter who it came from. Nothing compared to how pissed he was at her funeral, though, when he found out he couldn’t even comfort himself… He didn’t know who he was mad at or why, he just was. How else was he supposed to react? And when the anger finally subsided, he felt nothing. Sure, he’d go work like normal. He’d see his friends all the time but on the inside he’d be numb and distant. Anyone who tried to talk to him about it would get a harsh warning. He’d even hear his friends whisper, “Shouldn't have pressed the Anka-button,” whenever he’d storm out whatever room they were in…

Not that he had a problem with that, really. He didn’t want to talk about Anka then and he still doesn’t now. He can't even hear her name without flying off the handle. One by one, people got the message. Even Kirishima gave up on healing that wound long ago... Too many broken glasses, too many singed couches, and too many bars that still won’t let them in on sight… As harsh as it sounds if he could wipe Anka's name from his memory completely, he probably would.

'Maybe they're right…  Maybe I am heartless…'

That thought just doesn't sit right with him. Heartless people wouldn't care at all, right? He's not sure if he really fits that description…

He feels a lump growing in his throat as he sits up in bed to try and find a distraction. Glancing around his just-a-hair-too-bright room while still avoiding the clock. The last thing he needed was another thing to gripe about in his head... As his eyes wander aimlessly, he knows he doesn’t have to worry about seeing any unfriendly reminders of Anka in his bedroom. After about a month he couldn’t stand to look at her things anymore. He gave most of them back to her family, other keepsakes he put in storage, but even their wedding ring became too much to handle… People must have thought he sold it when he came in one day no longer wearing the thing... In truth, he keeps it in his nightstand, right next to her part of the pair in the same box they came in. But he still hasn’t opened that box since he took it off his finger...

He had to sell the house too. Not for money, since his agency was doing well even before the accident. They had a home to match his success. He moved just to get farther away from the memories… He couldn’t focus in that house, he always felt on edge or irritated. Walking around the places she used to walk, seeing her side of the bathroom empty, or her side of the closet stripped… He needed his own space. When his friends asked why he chose a place with such low value all he ever said was, “It’s cheap,” and that was that. 

Sure he could afford better, but he probably didn’t deserve it.

Even the brief thought about his wedding ring is enough to cue his ring finger to rub uncomfortably between his middle and pinkie. It isn’t the first time it’s felt oddly naked to him, but it’s been a long time since it bothered him this much. It might be the sleep deprivation, it might be the significance of the date, but he finds his gaze land on the rarely touched drawer to his nightstand. He knows that within are all the small keepsakes he couldn’t let go of, even after the move. Though he had every intention of never opening that drawer again, something in the back of his mind convinced him that he at least had to keep them close at hand. Nearby, even if out of sight… 

For once, a different sort of thought crosses his mind,

‘Today would have been special for her…’ 

It would have marked their third year. Not exactly a milestone, but add on the two years of dating before and that makes five all together. In a way, this would have been their fifth… The acknowledgement sparks a small tightness in his chest that he has to bite his lip to ignore. Only four years with Anka... It sounds so short in his mind but he’s sure it felt much longer somehow. The two of them had just worked so well together, they understood each other enough to cut past the other’s bullshit. She used to joke that she could tell how his day went by how many times he swore in five minutes…

He feels his lips form a soft smile in spite of himself. The memory of her curled up on their old couch while telling him that flashes by briefly in his mind. There are things about the scene he’s certain of: her chunky white sweater, the blanket over her bare legs, and her messy hair from staying in for the day and just letting her bedhead be, but other things feel a little hazy... How long has it been since he'd seen a picture of her? All of his favorites were out in storage and he even took off every one he could find on his phone. It had only been a few months, but has he already forgotten her face…? 

That realization alone feels like someone kneed him in the gut, then stood back to laugh… But why? Wasn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this what he’s been trying to do for a whole year now? Forget…?

Another flash memory goes by and he recalls something else. He had always treated Anka like she was Quirkless but she actually wasn’t. She told him a few times, she had a family quirk… Something about memories... 

Spurred on by his new train of thought, Bakugo grasps the handle of the drawer with just a slight hesitation and pulls it open. It takes only a brief glance inside for it all to start flooding back to him. Next to the velvet box that held the wedding rings was a bigger, more ornate wooden box with a floral engraving on the outside. A box she would have picked out when she was young… The box that would hold her memories.

All at once he feels his mouth go dry. The day after she was pronounced dead, the coroner brought him this very same box. Inside were the last remnants of his wife… Back then, as is right now, he reaches out for it with trembling hands. He was still so fucking mad on that day he was sure he didn’t listen to a word that the coroner said. Anka, Linger, and the chance to revisit memories... He hadn’t wanted anything to do with it at the time. He tried to give the box back to her parents, even attempted to force it on them at one point, but her mother kept refusing to take it. Her words were always, “You’ll need her with you.” Of course, that would only serve to make him madder. He never understood why those old geezers wouldn’t just take the damn box… What good would a bunch of memories do him?

They wouldn't bring her back...

With the small wooden box in hand, he brings it to rest on his lap before staring at it. Had he really been sleeping next to something like this all this time? Had he just blocked it all out, like he did with everything else that reminded him of Anka...? Should he even open it?

He sits in silence for what feels like a long time. There’s a twisting feeling in his gut and a nervous pounding in his chest. ...Was he scared right now? Of what? It  wasn’t a damn bomb, it was Anka! On today of all days, he could let himself think about her for a while... couldn’t he?

It could just be his sleep-addled mind but for some reason he just really wants to see Anka... Maybe on that day last winter, on the couch dressed in her favorite sweater… smiling at him while trying to get him to say “fuck” ten times fast…

When he opens the box he’s met with a little gold orb about the size of a marble perched in the middle of velvety soft cushions like a precious gem. The orb radiates an inviting warm glow, rising and falling in intensity like a steady heartbeat. He can’t recall ever really seeing it before and he wouldn’t say it’s what he expected. Was Anka really in something so small now? Something about that feels wrong, though he can’t quite place why... 

Of course, it's only when looking at the little piece of Anka does he realize that he doesn’t really know how it works. In all that time spent blocking out her memory, it seems he blocked out her instructions too… Without many other options, he takes the orb between his fingers and brings it up to his eyeline. It's smooth and slightly warm to the touch, as if it had been cradled in an unseen hand even while out of sight. However, Bakugo doesn't get long to inspect it before it begins to dissolve into gold dust before his horrified eyes. He lurches forward in panic, his honed reflexes taking over before his mind can fully catch up to try and grasp the flowing dust as it floats around him in a stream. It wisps through his fingers elsively like a plume of smoke before traveling away from him, slipping intangibly through his bedroom door and out into the silent hallway.

Bakugo flings himself to his feet, tossing his blankets away so roughly that they sail over the bed and crumple on the ground. Once upright he goes to rip his door open and his gaze catches the stream exit the hallway into his living room. He follows it at a brisk pace, heart pounding like mad in his chest, until he turns the corner and feels everything stop. Standing in the middle of his living room is Anka... or a near replica of her. Her body is made from the sand-like dust, gold just like the orb, removing all of her other colors but her form is spot on… The curves of her body, the tresses of her hair, right down to the deep furrowing of her brow as she glares off into the space just past him. Anka is standing in his living room, golden and goddamn beautiful, but she also looks absolutely furious.

"Just what the hell were you thinking, Katsuki?"

A pang of guilt goes through him so strong that it nearly knocks the wind out of his chest. This is the first time he's seen her in months and there she is looking pissed? What did he do?? Was she mad that he hadn't called on her earlier?... Was she mad that he had been trying to forget…?

"Don't pretend like you don't know! I saw you!! You were feeling up that girl like you didn't give a shit! For God's sake, Katsuki, I was right there! There were cameras!!"

No. He remembers this night. Bakugo has to take a step back as he tries to catch up to his reeling thoughts. The month before her death, their relationship was already getting rocky… It wasn't really one thing, they were just so busy with work and other problems... That night had been a cocktail party thrown in honor of the city's heroes. He… maybe had one too many drinks supplied to him by a cute waitress. His mind is still fuzzy on the details but he does remember that Anka was furious.

Rightly so.

"Oh sure, deflect and defend because nothing is ever your fucking fault!!"

He watches the memory's hand scoop up something unseen and throw it his direction. It takes a moment for him to remember. A pillow. They had this argument in their old bedroom.

"Do you know how humiliating it is to see your husband fooling around at the same party you're at?? I can see it in the headlines! 'Dynamite's Wife Not Good Enough to Reign Him In, Does He Have a New Sidepiece??' Let the tabloids run with that, hell, I'll write the article myself!"

"Of course you're good enough…!" His voice croaks out before he can question what good it is to argue with a memory. The guilt from before has only gotten worse, feeling like a block of cement pressing down on his chest… Because he knows that's not what he said that night. It's what he should have said, it's what he really meant, but his damn pride wouldn't let him back down…

His words of affirmation, of course, fall on deaf ears. The memory of Anka can only hear the words of the past, no matter how nasty they were. He watches as her face, still gorgeous despite the tears staining her makeup, twists up in horror, disgust… and pain. In the present, Bakugo bites down hard on his lip to try and keep himself together but he can sense the pinpricks of his own tears forming in his eyes. Why was he such an idiot…?

The memory's next words are deathly quiet compared to the shouting from before. Deflated. Defeated.

"If… if that's how you really feel… then fine. Go."

Anka's golden form turns away from him now to face sideways, sitting down in midair. She sat on their bed that night… trying to collect herself and think about how to proceed… His view of her gets blurred by his now overflowing tears and he sinks to his knees, grasping his chest in the cold silence. He feels so stupid now, so beyond stupid, why did he ever let it get that bad? Of all the memories to pull out, it's this one?? Maybe this was payback after all…

It takes the soft hum of Anka's voice breaking the silence to pull his head up from the floor. The memory has her hand resting in the air, making a soothing petting motion to the blank space… where his head would have been.

When he would fuck up in their relationship, like majorly screw up, sometimes he would hug her legs and lay his head on her lap… He couldn’t ever trust his mouth to say the right things, but this was their shorthand, their signal: "I fucked up and I'm sorry… I wouldn't do this for anyone but you…"

"You're a selfish, hot-blooded dumbass, you know that…? But I told you on our wedding day that you're stuck with me. I meant it. Through all your bad days and stupid mistakes… I know you can be better than this, Katsuki, so fucking prove it to me… Please..."

That's what she had posed to him… a challenge to be a better man. Though that was the first time she ever said it out loud, Bakugo took being with her as that same challenge ever since she said, "I do." No more letting his temper run wild or ignoring the people around him. For once he had actually signed up to be a part of a team and he was going to be the best teammate, the best husband, there ever was… When did he forget that promise?

But something is unfair. No, everything is unfair. Anka's death, the way people treated him, the crappy place he found himself in, and even the fact that of all their memories her Quirk pulled out, it had to be his absolute lowest. Nothing. Was. Fair.

He gets back to his feet, a new surge of anger pumping through his veins and marches over to the quiet memory.

"Yeah? Well. You're not here, Anka!! You’re not! You said you'd never leave but here I am, alone!! Why, huh!? Do you know how shit my life has been without you?? Do you?!?"

His mind is too blinded by rage to remember that she's only a memory so he waits for a response, glaring with watery eyes down at the form before him. Anka doesn't move, nor react, for several moments.

"I love you, Katsuki…"

He feels his heart stop. What was he doing? Why was he shouting at a memory…? Why was he shouting at Anka...? Hadn't he learned anything at all...??

Bakugo's shoulders begin to tremble as the urge to cry, no wail, washes over him. His throat aches as he fails to hold back the sobs... Because really, he hadn’t learned anything. He never got the chance to prove it to Anka that he could truly be better, she was taken from him too quickly... When she died he was still her unfaithful husband… but she loved him anyway.

Again, Bakugo sinks to the ground but this time he carefully places his head above the knees of the memory before him. Though he could tell the ghostly form wasn't solid, he could still feel warmth coming off of its surface and radiating against his cheek… Anka's golden hands must be gliding through his hair, but he can't feel a thing.

"I… I'm sorry, Anka.... I love you too…" His hoarse voice comes out with a choke, sorrow catching in his throat. Thoughtlessly, he tries to hug her legs as he always would but, of course, there’s no one there. His strong arms cut right through her form and the golden glow dissipates, the dust that formed her collapsing back into a marble that hits the floor with a tink. Bakugo's eyes fly open and he stares at the orb, arms coiled around his own chest instead of the woman he loved. 

Again. He was alone...  

Bakugo reaches out and carefully picks the marble back up between anxious fingers. Its glow was duller, but not extinguished, as if it was on a cool down. As he stares at the little piece of memory in his hands, the guilt inside reaches an all time high. He had been trying to forget Anka... to run from his failures - to run from his feelings... But he wasn't getting any better for it… He was miserable dodging her memory and what good was it doing him? She wouldn't want him to live like this…

"I know you can be better than this, Katsuki…"

It's too late to be a better husband to Anka... He'd never get that chance again. But he could still become better for Anka… Starting with...

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

The phone rings in his hand as he sits patiently on the couch. Though it's long past the time any normal person would consider taking a call, he knows he can count on the man on the other line. Sure enough, it takes a few rings, but he hears Kirishima's groggy voice when he picks up the phone.

"Bakugo…? Dude, it's like 3am… You need something?"

Bakugo's other hand is gripped against his knee so tightly his knuckles ache. His teeth chew on his lip while the seconds pass in silence.

"Bakugo? Are you there?"

The concern is evident in his friend's voice, but he can still feel a pit growing in his stomach. He hated asking for help… He hated being this vulnerable… even if it's with a friend...

The first words out of his mouth are quiet and hoarse from crying, but still recognizably his.

"I miss Anka, Kiri…"

He can hear frantic rustling on the other end as Kiri probably bolts up in his bed. He ought to. Bakugo hadn't mentioned Anka to him in ages…

"I just miss her… so much…"

"... We know, Bakugo. We all know."

[imsparky2002]

Barbie as the Island Princess: First Thoughts

The intro gives me Little Mermaid vibes for some reason.

Man I know this is only five years from Rapunzel, but they really improved in the cgi! The designs look really pleasant!

Ok, the dolphins look a bit plasticy but still!

I’m glad they also have enough confidence to let the tale stand on it’s own without having to establish this is Barbie telling a story to her little sister.

Is it wrong that I’m shipping the peacock and panda? They feel like a middle aged/eldery gay couple and I love it.

Aww! Weeby was right! They totally are Barbie’s gay dads!

Yeesh… I do NOT like the elephant’s design. Why can I see her realistic human teeth? And those eyes!

Overall a very pleasant opening musical number that shows off the island.

Pleasant scene of Ro comforting Tikka during a nightmare.

This goodnight song is making my brain feel weepy.

I love how this is a male love interest who is full of life and isn’t afraid to be in touch with his feminine side. Love the bow on his ponytail.

I love how Antonio’s first instinct when approached by a crocodile is to risk reaching for a branch to put in its mouth.

OMIGOD SHE KNOWS THE ALLIGATORS NAMES!

I love how they go "aww" because they're sad they can't munch on him.

Wait a minute... one of the crocodiles is called Fang. Holy crap, this is the origin story of Jagged Stone’s pet!

I love how Azul found out he’s a prince and is immediately like “fuck this island, come on Sagi, let’s take Tikka and live it up!”

I'm loving the lyrics in this song about Ro being befuddled by Antonio's tech and clothes.

Gerard is a zaddy, not gonna lie.

I’m giggling like a fool at hearing Azul ranting and raving in peacockese.

I wonder if Barbie will try speaking to any of the land’s animals.

WTF is that thing the queen is holding? Is that a monkey or a very unfortunate looking baby?

The king looks pretty young, more like his late 20s instead of 40s. Honestly though, he’s really hot.

Aww, the royal monkey has a posh accent!

Queen Ariana is honestly not that bad looking at all. If I wasn’t gay, I’d find her kinda cute.

It’s nice that the rival love interest is actually a sweet girl. A good subversion of expectations.

The vocals of the villain song reminds me of ABBA. Which is always a good sign.

Great contrast between Ariana’s powerful belting and Luciana’s quiet tone.

Omigod I am loving Ariana’s lyrics in this song, diabolical and hilarious.

LOL AND HER RATS ARE DOING BACKUP CHOREOGRAPHY

Aww, the girls dressed Tikka up!

They really captured the awkward yet respectful dialogue between enforced couples with Antonio and Luciana.

The backing score for the ballroom dance is divine.

Get yourself a man who would abdicate from the throne just to be with you.

Ah, I see Tikka hid the letter, I assume due to attachment issues.

I feel like the Cheese song is kinda unneccessary. A few lines of dialogue would have got the message across.

I do find it kinda ridiculous that nobody can pick up on Ariana’s evil vibe.

Seems that traumatic events are the key to regaining Ro’s memories.

Dolphin ex Machina has arrived.

So this new queen is obviously Ro’s mom, right?

I feel like Ariana would’ve been smarter to not attempt poisoning Antonio and his family so that she can remain in her daughter’s good graces.

Luiciana saving Ro and proving her mother’s the criminal warms my heart.

Ok, I’m happy Ro and Antonio are together, but isn’t marriage rather quick?

Huh… the sudden reveal of Rosella being a princess all along kinda ruins the message of “Love doesn’t care about status”.

Overall, a massive step up from the previous films. The first two were decent flicks, but this one takes time to flesh out each and every character. Also the score was wonderful and I found the animation to be a pleasant upgrade. The ending was a bit of an ass-pull but a enjoyable film nonetheless. @artzychic27 @msweebyness @nerd-chocolate

[intercomkris]

okay hear me out. . .

i create a ts2 custom hood, featuring a gay military full of closeted insecure men, a euphoria high but in the dry grasslands but 1990s coded, serving cunt PTA moms, dilf aliens ?

[wulfhalls]

idk who said this but - making the show a lesbian divorce drama was a great idea the writers just seem to have forgotten about the divorce part

it's so frustrating because the show just refuses to make them enemies even tho they've been in conflict with one another longer than they've been friends. the eye for an eye incident should have been the point of no return, it wasn't. the usurpation should have been the point of no return, it wasn't. luke's death should have been the point of no return. it wasn't. b&c should have been the point of no return, it wasn't. rhaenyra asked alicent for the head of son and she sold him down the river at a chance to be her friend again. like. what are we even doing here.

and the worst part is genuinely nobody cares? nobody is watching the show for the alicent and rhaenyra dynamic. the locals are watching for the dragons, war and targ drama, the fandom is divided among the tb people, the tg people and the asoiaf enjoyers and then you have that very very small section which are the rhaenicent shippers most of them don't even care about the rest of the show outside of rhaenicent. that's legit their target audience.

I very much dread season 3 mainly cause of their obsession with the most boring relationship between Alicent and Rheanyra. I can only imagine the dull,pointless,weepy 15min conversatios be forced to watch every episode when they’re in the same place all season. You know they’ll let Rheanyra be angry for an episode at most. I don’t even know what either of them is mourning or longing for at this point,it could not have been a more basic superficial friendship and there’s no way to even imagine they having anything similar now. I can’t say I care for Alicent either way but Rheanyra was very annoying in a bad not fun way any time they shared scenes in season 2 which is not a great sign for the future.

If they really wanted the audience to buy into their friendship they should've spent at least half a season on just the pre Alicent marrying Viserys, which they could never do for time reasons. What we do get is a handful of scenes between them that are not even that well written the only reason it kinda works in season 1 is the chemisty between Milly/Emily and Olivia/Emma and their performances but even they can't save it.

I'll be even messier and say Alicent should not be one of main characters anymore. They changed her character so much she doesn't even play a part in war in order to make her a more sympathetic character but by doing that they made her irrelevant to the plot. All of her scenes feel like filler and the show is clearly struggling to find reasons to keep her around and so prominent.

everyone clearly made peace with the writing on this show and fully moved on and isn't bothered about it in any way shape or form anymore <3 good for us!

[quill-pen]

I just had a vision. New Year's Day. All the Pack couples gather together to celebrate (of course) and welcome the new year! There is also food, champagne, wine, games...etc. Morning comes. So, of our couples, how do we see them waking up/feeling? Are some hungover, while others are passed out from exhaustion in a guestroom from just dancing? Did someone stay awake the whole night to make sure NOBODY acted a fool with all the booze? Spoiler, Connie drinks and is absolutely is a sleepy-drunk, so she is curled up somewhere. Probably in a bathtub, like a little kitten. And she'd definitely wearing Adonis' tie. As for him, I picture him sleeping outside the tub, 'guarding it'. Perhaps he could carry her to bed, but he's quite tipsy himself. ^^;

Ooh, this is so fun and I had to think about it for a while.

Right off the bat, I see Hela being... the designated supervisor. She doesn't give me vibes she cares for drinking all that much. Maybe one glass of wine or a little champagne, maybe gets a light little buzz going, but that's about it. Bess might also help her out since she is such a lightweight and doesn't care to get drunk a lot. But considering the time of year and the fact she's surrounded by friends and loved ones, she probably feels safe enough to get particularly buzzed if not drunk.

So with that said:

Hela makes sure Harry gets to bed, especially if they're hosting or their families are. Harry is a very happy and lively drunk with a tendency to get himself hurt or into predicaments. But if you can get him snuggled under blankets and his head on a pillow, he konks out. He doesn't have as much of a headache as Hela made sure he also drank plenty of water through the night.

The Cratchits have years of experience being able to fall asleep in very odd places and positions because of all the late nights with their kids. They definitely ended up in a coat closet somewhere to do some necking (where do you think the Wolves got the idea from) and fell asleep in there, Bob sitting upright against the wall with Ethel leaning on his shoulder. Bob, ever the gentleman, probably pulled down a coat and covered her with it before drifting off. Raging hangovers for these two, as it was a night away from the kids and the perfect opportunity to cut loose. Ethel can hold her liquor, I tell you what! Bob is much more of a lightweight.

The Wolves are curled up on a couch somewhere together. They definitely started out in that position because Wolf was comforting Bess as she cried. After all, a drunk Bess is a weepy Bess. Naturally, they both just drifted off snuggled together, Bess asleep on Wolf's chest with his arms around her. Whatever room they're sleeping in is echoing with snores. Bess is definitely waking up with a hangover. Wolf probably didn't drink enough to get very inebriated as to let Bess have a night with him watching over her, so he's fine.

Addie and Tom are asleep in the pantry. Drunk Addie gets frisky and brazen about it, and drunk Tom is incredibly suggestive. She likely whispered a secret, food-associated desire and he took her up on the offer without hesitation. The kitchen doesn't lock, but the pantry does. They're definitely waking up tangled together, naked between tablecloths. Minor to mid hangovers for them.

Gal and Jake passed out at the table while partaking in a drinking competition with each other. They can go toe-to-toe on this; we don't know who won. Definite hangover and probably cricks in the neck and back from their positioning. Adorably enough though, their hands did find each other during their slumber.

Solomon and Nancy ended up back in bed. Most likely for some fun, drunken shenanigans. They'll wake up to morning cuddles. Like Addie and Tom, only minor hangovers here.

Ella and Ernie ended up in their room as well, probably because Ella got sick early on. Ernie tucked her into bed and didn't leave her side. Ella will wake up in the morning to find him sitting beside her in bed, not under the covers, still dressed, asleep. He stayed up watching over her until he finally let slumber overtake him. No hangovers here, but there will be some more rolling tummy for Ella. Hmm. That's odd. Wasn't Ethel like this whenever she was in the early stages of pregnancy? Maybe Ella should schedule something with Bess, just in case. The doctors told them it was unlikely they'd ever successfully conceive, but clearly, doctors don't know everything, as Bess and Wolf have so clearly demonstrated with their growing family.

Now I gotta ask: What about TeTe and Carl?

[corrodedcoughin]

Steve coming home from work as a community nurse and he’s so tired. Has been for what feels like weeks if not months. He love his job, don’t get him wrong, but sometimes he cares too much, sometimes he thinks he cares too little. There are days when all he can think is ‘I can’t be bothered’ and it makes the guilt in him rise like a great wave. He pushes it down and down, as far down as he can, distracts himself with patients and paperwork.

The team is understaffed, there hasn’t been a week where he hasn’t worked over time in the past six months. He’s bone tired but he sees his colleagues carrying on and feels like he should too, do he does.

One day though, one day after losing a patient that was palliative from the day steve met her the dam breaks. He holds it in, holds it all so tightly and silently begs that nobody speaks to him, if somebody so much as says one word steve won’t be able to hold back.

He finishes the work day, drives home and drags his feet through the front door, greeted by ‘hey Stevie how was work?’ from Eddie, fixing dinner. And all Steve can do is let out a ‘yeah fine’ as silent tears slowly trail down his face. Eddie turns to look at Steve, that’s all it takes, immediately crowds into him, over him, holding him. And Steve let’s go, he finally lets the exhaustion, pain, grief, frustration, all of it, out. It comes as snot and tears and ‘I’m sorry’s into Eddie’s chest, trying to find something to hold on to, hoping that he can secure himself to Eddie body and not feel lost and alone.

‘Oh Steve. Steve I’m so sorry. Sweetheart please don’t even try to say sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong’

Steve tries to stop but he can’t, just grips Eddie tight. Eddie starts swaying, rubbing a hand up and down Steve’s back, his arms, the back of his head. It helps, it does, but Steve is weepy for the rest of the night. They talk, about work, about friends, about nothing. Eddie knows this has been a long time coming, sees the toll work takes on Steve but also knows Steve couldn’t stop caring so much even if he wanted to.

Eventually they end up watching silly tv shows on the couch, Steve smiling and letting out a laugh that makes Eddie’s heart sing.

[thesoulesscollection]

Ellie & Henry; An Unbreakable Bond

Hello. I don't have much in the way of request but I do have two ideas all involving Ellie so likely separate oneshots

#1: An alt ending to an existing scenario or your own scenario where Ellie dies and Henry witnesses it (Think of it as Ellie's version of the "Valiant Hero" ending) the circumstances are up to you it could be Henry and Ellie on their own, them being members of the tophat clan (or Henry as the leader) or them being the good guys with Charles possibly in the story I'm fine with either route

#2: Henry after escaping the wall stops and with hesitation turns around and heads back for Ellie feeling a twinge of guilt for using her and leaving her behind

This one was a lot of fun for me to write even if it took me a while. Down below are the tags for each prompt;

1) Tw/Tags: Toppat Recruits, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Little To No Comfort (Depends On How You See It), Major Character Death, Blood, Emotional Distress, Mild Mentions Of Depression, & (RoseMin) Relationship Can Be Seen As Platonic Or Romantic

2) Tw/Tags: Developing Friendship, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Inner Turmoil, Complicated Relationships & Hopeful Ending 

1)

This isn't supposed to happen. It was never part of the game. Nobody is meant to die in this timeline. Not anyone that he particularly cared for but not her. 

Not Ellie. His best friend and companion in crime. 

She was meant to be here with him. After all they went through together she shouldn't be ripped from his grasp. 

Until now she was. Forever gone and he isn't able to change it. He didn't know what to do, even witnessing her totally preventable, and irreversible demise took its toll on him. It was his fault. He could've done something to stop it from happening though it was yanked out of his hands. 

Said hands are shaking as he kneels down to her still warm corpse. The death rattle having been seared into his brain. They fist up then relax, clutching tightly like a vice on Ellie's bloodstained shirt. 

It wasn't until much later, realized the severity of what had been done, that he's screaming his lungs out, crying, and in such a frenzied state nobody can get him out of it for hours on end. 

Afterwards, when someone else in the clan, he couldn't tell who it was, had managed to tear him away from her, he was somewhat able to cool down. He's put in a safe place, alone per his weepy wish to cope. 

She was dead because of him. 

She choked on her own blood, withering in awful pain because of his mistakes. 

Her gorgeous eyes once full of love and pride stared at him with a glassy unfocused haze, fresh with her own tears as life slowly slips from her. 

It was torture knowing he was alone again as he's left to wallow in his misery. Often he laid in the same bed she would lovingly and so carefully drag him out of when he himself was too depressed to get up. 

But nobody was there to do that. No one who does it like her. They tried, surely in their own unique way however it wasn't the same. Him and Ellie had a specific deep bond. 

So it was difficult accepting her death, a slow progression, and it was a hard pill to swallow, that's for sure. 

In the unfortunate circumstances, he noted in a rotten grimace, that there's nothing he can do besides sucking it up. At the start, a few days after Ellie's death, he didn't try, instead played ignorance. His words exact, rarely he does speak, will only consist of the topic that she will come back to him in some shape or way. 

Eventually, people grew tired and left him to his devices, he understood why. Still they did try their best to be a shoulder to lean on if he allowed them. For some, he did do that when he couldn't fight anymore. Oftentimes he was eerily silent, still crying but it eluded him once he realized that no longer did anything come out. 

And so he stands on the special balcony for the orbital station that's shielded nicely with a thick, sturdy glass. The void of space colored in blacks, blues, purples and his favorite, red was refreshing as it is a daunting beauty. His sore eyes were dry when he wiped his sleeve across them, sniffling and wincing a bit at the slight pain. He grips his shaking hands on the banister, breathing deeply through his nose as he watches the larger than life twinkling stars hover above him. 

He is going to get better for his sake. Ellie's even since he knows she wouldn't stand for this. 

***

2)

Regret seeps in like poison. Henry was used to being alone, always on his own. So when climbing through the vents and popping out, he hesitates to move forward. It wouldn't be the first time he betrayed someone or had the same happened to him. 

Though this was different. Somehow unlike the times he did this, Henry felt bad. Guilty. 

In a world, cruel and unfit towards people like him and coincidently her as well should know better better to blindly trust. That's why he did what he'd done without having looked back to see her reaction as his experiences with the same hardened him. 

She was down on her luck. Just like him but she entirely gave up. He still had his fight in him. That's why he's here to begin with, right behind two guards chattering away unaware of his presence, while deciding what to do next. About to make a break for it.

Maybe he should head back just for the heck of it. What would go wrong? 

So he did, begrudgingly, mind you, he wasn't used to this. 

Once he returns to the hole in the ceiling, he cautiously peeks over, taking in the scene of the redheaded woman now curled up in the furthest corner. In the room already so empty and cold, near the door, is the warden’s right hand looking straight ahead, again unaware. 

Softly he makes a noise in order to get her attention which she wasn't bothering to try, even ignoring to seemingly in his growing annoyance. The redhead must know he's here for her. 

He's just trying to help her! In some way he was trying to apologize and that's rare for someone like him anyways. 

As the thief resists the urge to hiss louder or even cut his losses and turn back, he hooks his feet on the hanging staircase. Why it was there is beyond him. Then he curses it upon losing his footing, falling to a crumpled heap in front of the shocked woman. 

Before long he stumbled on his feet, she was gobsmacked to see him as he grabbed onto her arm. Unsurprisingly, the warden’s deputy noticed, stormed into the waiting cell, seeing that Henry was without his cuffs. It won't be long when the true shit goes down so he'd have to rush for it. 

Hope for the best outcome as this wasn't his plan. 

With her in tow, forcibly behind him, he made a beeline to the door. He may be a scrawny guy at least compared to the other man but he isn't a literal pushover. Thankfully, as by pure luck it remains at his side too once he barrels past, knocking the other down with ease. Another surprise to him is that she's running alongside with little resistance.  

The blaring noise of sirens rings in his ears seconds later. He kept going, huffing from the exertion and the mild irritation that throbs in his head. Soon he takes a sharp turn down the hallway, a path chosen in his mind. 

It won't be his smartest, cleverest ones out there, just one that would work for right now at this moment. At the hall's end, close to an office, he slams a fist into a circuit board on the wall, all in the dwindling hopes it's the right choice. 

The door slams shut so it was to his relief. 

He lets go, turns to face her, when he does is instantly met with an angry scowl, and a cold glare. Worse, he is caged in and she can do anything to him. She doesn't, instead stands there, hunched, in stiff silence, except for her ragged breaths filling the air. The cuffs that completely covered her hands so that may be the sole reason why.

In his hesitancy, Henry steps forward, hands up in faux surrender, with no words that he's no threat to her. Eyeing her cuffs then at the room they're in, he notices one, the decently sized trophy likely carrying a heavy weight and secondly, the vent in the ceiling. 

Moments later, trophy in hand, he bashes the cuffs until they drop on the ground broken. In a groan, he steps back, leaning on the table and motions to the ceiling. She runs her free hands together, as if attempting to gather the warmth. 

Of course, she's highly skeptical. Right until he's on his knees ready to boost her up. He doesn't mind being the one to do the lifting this time. She looks around and he knows she's searching for another exit. Then she moves quite quickly, placing her foot on his knee. 

In a flash, the hinges of the vent break apart and she climbs up. 

Henry stands up, dusting off and he hears the sound of people outside the door get louder. 

When he does look up at the ceiling, almost surprised to see she remains there, allegedly waiting, maybe uncertain about the choices laid out for her. It won't shock him whether she takes the grand opportunity to simply leave him behind. 

Until she stretches a hand out for him.