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sweetsweetjellybean · 21 days

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Your crush on Eddie was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened leads you into a storm.

I wasn't happy with my first version of chapter 4. So I polished it up and added a little more dialog. Feel free to wait for the next chapter but if you'd like to read it, either as a refresher or for the very first time, please let me know what you think. XOXO-Jelly

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees surrounding Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away.

Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality.

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend. You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? The answer scares you more than you expect.

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black jeans clinging to his narrow hips. An impatient sigh pulls the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame. "You in or out?" His fingers snap near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on his silver rings, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending a hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk, teasing the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum. Dan’s hand hovers while he glances around for prying eyes, but Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground before he can take it.

"Oops," Eddie’s voice drips with feigned innocence before he pivots on his heel and walks away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering a curse.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of pink-cheeked girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.

"Ladies." He extends an arm, waving them on, his voice as smooth as a melody. They flutter past with giggles and heated glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van when no one is looking – to be the subject of the rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie – your friend. The same old Eddie, you reaffirm, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud, sending vibrations through the timeworn wood. His eyes linger on the girl's retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, tipping your chin toward where Dan is stalking off in a dark cloud of annoyance.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, causing a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg, eyes dropping to your thigh. "What’s this?" His dark lashes make half-moon shadows on his cheek as his thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses covering the denim patch on your jeans. A trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you crave more of his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, hyper-aware of the warmth of his skin as the ghost of his touch lingers. "The art of visible mending."

"Looks cool." His gaze meets yours, a little too intense and a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours in a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do." Something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back. "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in – keeping the lawn perfect and fixing up all the broken things, erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on, absolving themselves like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen. As if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all.

"I can keep you company?” You try to keep the offer casual despite the hump in your pulse.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run." There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown and look away, hiding your disappointment. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, keeping your voice low, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises. "Movie night. Just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds you for a heavy beat before breaking away. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts when you part ways at the door.

As you make your way to class, those feelings nag at you like a forgotten lyric. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the persistent ache that spreads through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, guarding it like a secret. To lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head and fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

Cold gray days give way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon are veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier as fall edges closer to winter. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” He nods at the TV, extending his arm to make space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side.

“You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his chest, and his lips touch the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs, his finger sliding down the trackpad as he scrolls through a document that never seems to end.

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint at the brightness of the screen.

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while toggling between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone will be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you take one of his hands between yours, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.”

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and told them to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He leans forward, slotting his lip softly between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thanks for helping out, Ace.”

“I just have Eddie's interview tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you tug at his hand. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together.

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood. The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump.

"Hi," Eddie greets you with a soft tone from the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years. Part of you still expects the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over in the same way, like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he still see the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider, welcoming you in. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the hall.

The lobby is in chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips, watching you take in the space.

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room. “Really beautiful.”

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "I thought it was a dump."

"Well, what can I say?” You spin around. “It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens with your praise.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain Lolla tee you put on this morning. None of the trendy outfits you usually wear for interviews seemed to fit right today.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m so nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. “Maybe it’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right." He says, taking a step forward, his gaze locking with yours. "After all these years, it's still you.

"Eddie." His name comes out on a breathless sigh as you look away. The shield of anger between you is heavy and battered, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold it up. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He rakes a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you."

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios like work has been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You look around the abandoned space before stepping inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck that holds the mixing board is ready, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand, brushing over knobs and sliders of the soundboard that's still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall.

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope you don’t fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you move to the window. The sun glints off the mirrored surface of the tall building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"Of course I am." He comes to stand beside you, taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined, "The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them, even if I have to play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him.

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall. "The rules seemed to be treating you well."

You raise your shoulders with a warm smile gracing your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He sighs in a short, almost defeated breath. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient distraction. "Where does this go?" You wonder with your hand closing over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You let it go like it burned you, swallowing the lump that has made a sudden appearance in your throat.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The closet carpet is soft under your fingers as wet tears rain down on the glossy pages. Steve's voice gets closer as he calls out your name. A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that Eddie's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he faces you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie scratches the side of his head as his brow wrinkles. "Who do you think it up there?"

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "I don’t know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. According to the magazines, your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling.

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff. "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group."

"What group? The one for annoying assholes."

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with addiction in their families. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

Frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Glancing at your feet, your voice diminishes to barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation. Your eyes trace the patterns on the floor. "It just makes for a better story, is all."

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." You spin around the room, taking in the progress, before letting your bag slide down your shoulder and sinking onto the couch.

Gray triangles of acoustic foam now adorn the live room walls in contrasting patterns, and layers of soft carpeting line the floor. The mixing room's mural stands completed, and the furniture has all been placed.

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you shift, tucking a leg under you as he joins you on the couch.

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips. "The others will get jealous."

Rolling your eyes, you pull your phone from your bag, open the recording app, and set it between you both.

"How does this work?" Eddie's eyes are fixed on your phone while he rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." You set the pages in your lap, drawing in a steadying breath. He’s sitting in front of you with a key to a locked door – one that might be best left closed and forgotten, but it’s time to hear him out.

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You slip into your most professional tone. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side, taking a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this kind of raw, untamed energy, and I wanted to capture that, to add an edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical era that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around was because they liked the way I babied their instruments."

"I remember,” you nod. “You’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school."

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows, draping an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind."

Eddie's expression turns more solemn. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach.

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?"

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was, stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee, with no ride, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom, I thought that was it, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You shuffle through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke, and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?"

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name. "He kept an eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards. He said he could see shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see shadows looming. Consequences of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog.

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of water I sweat out," he chuckles. "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–"

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to talk about things. Be open, you know?"

"No thanks. I tried that once," you tell him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

Your arrow hit the target. Regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–"

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads."

Like the ones back in Hawkins that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring past shames of a lovesick and foolish girl. Robin had seen it, and so had the entire town, but you aren’t her any longer. She lies resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city drowns out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, flipping through the pages of your notes, ticking off the points from your outline.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and Chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful. But I really stayed for the music,” he shrugs. “Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I won’t shut up about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" Your gaze rises from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve. Mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." His jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending on a flat note. A stone sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lack the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute."

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-"

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room.

With a sigh, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet, walking through to the live room where a drum kit stands at the ready. The snare looks a little worn, and the symbols have lost their shine. Your nails tap the high hat, and you smile at the shimmering sound.

"What am I doing?" You whisper, spinning the gold band on your finger.

The sound of the floor creaking echoes through the hall. Eddie enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. His name written in Wayne's shaky handwriting, peeking out from underneath his fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he grins mischievously. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I would see you. But you know him, he never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over your jean-covered thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there."

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you take a seat on the floor on the side of the box.

His mouth quirks up, watching you get comfortable. With a fluid motion, he leans and grabs a box cutter beside the soundboard. His shirt lifts slightly, offering a glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape.

"Score!" He pulls out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud the words scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat.

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly.

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he folds it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches into the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comic books and hands them to you.

"Still in good shape." You thumb through the copies of Tank Girl and Witchblade.

"My campaigns." He pulls out a pile of notebooks and sets them aside before reaching back in. "Some CDs." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye.

"Hey, that’s my Cranberries Cd!" Your fingers dig into the carpet as you tip forward, yanking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he scratches his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"You got me. It was the accent," he admits with a grin full of dimples, his hand closing around your finger.

"I’m keeping it." You drop back into your seat and pick up the case to examine the disc.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, pulling back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. “Come on. Close your eyes."

"Fine." You leave one eye open, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal. Plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Your hands fly to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at her droopy hat and too-large ears, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her buck teeth and flowery dress that barely conceals her body.

"She's beautiful." You cradle her in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs.

Your cheeks already ache with an unrestrained smile as the memories from that night surface. "I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard."

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet and ripped your pants," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson came out in his bathrobe, screaming about shooting you in the ass."

Eddie shakes his head as you laugh at his expense. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you cover her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over.

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "I’ll have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, and his eyes ignite. He smiles like he’s savoring every sound, like your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for.

The shards of the past press against the scar tissue encasing your heart as if struggling to free themselves and reassemble in the present. Your hand finds its way to your chest, pressing gently on the tender center, trying to quell the ache and remain in this moment—with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot.

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you. "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He places them aside. "Thanks, Wayne. Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes. Oh, this is yours." He tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" His voice brims with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, and a sharp sound follows. "Yes." His tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he pries off the lid.

His voice fades into the background as your focus turns to what you're holding. The fabric of your Musicland vest unfurls as you hold it out in front of you, the gold name tag still pinned to the front catching the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns as each inhale becomes battle.

There’s a scrape of metal as the lid pops off. "Polaroids," Eddie declares, his attention lost to the thrill of his find as he flips through the stack of photographs.

Your heart races as the room seems to shrink. "Stop it," you whisper, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough can make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he goes on, unaware.

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins as you push yourself up on unsteady legs. "I need to leave."

Eddie's laughter dies in his throat as he looks up, the joy in his eyes replaced by confusion. "Wait a minute." He gets to his feet and follows you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. Without hesitation, you sling your bag over your shoulder and maneuver past him towards the door.

“Just hold on a minute.” He blocks your path again, hands up, eyes searching yours for answers. “Tell me what's going on.”

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick toward the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now? After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest as his voice turns softer. "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’,” your voice lowers to mock him, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened and hand you a clean slate. Drop everything in my life to follow you around like a puppy because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone.

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He steps closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered—all of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs that I can't listen to without my heart breaking over and over."

"You're right, okay." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a fucking coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and that was never going to happen. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong.

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment, you turn, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I was a mess after you left. I cried for days, but I clung to this pathetic hope that you’d call to explain everything. To say it wasn't the end for us. You wouldn’t just throw me away, right? Not after everything we had been through together. I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid that the second I left, the phone would ring."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated every song that came on the radio, reminding me of you. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for trusting you. For believing that you ever cared about me. That I wasn’t alone. That's what you did to me, Eddie.”

“You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence as his gentle hand cradles your jaw. “There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside your stone. "You kissed me. And then you left me the next day. You knew how I felt."

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. Trying to make it up to you. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit even to myself. I was scared and angry all the time."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head, keeping it shut.

"Stop, doll," he pleads. “Let me explain,” but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" he yells. His hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"I made you up.”

“No.”

“The boy I knew could never have done that. He could never have hurt me like that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?"

"Damn right, I do."

His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his mouth moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a fire that seems to spread with each touch. The scent of clove and cedar leaves you lightheaded as the flames lick through your body. The scruff on his cheek is a rasp against your skin, a roughness contrasting with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. This kiss is filled with years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestra's finale.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps for air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. Your fingers tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breaths when you tug. His hands trace the curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you, pressing you against the unyielding door. You gasp as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and a kaleidoscope of colors burst in the darkness.

He nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered.

Your stomach plummets as the harsh reality sets in. His kiss now tastes like the ash of betrayal. The distressed whimper escaping your throat finally has him looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until your feet meet the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, moving one hand to his hip while the other rakes through his hair.

"Please don’t," you plead. "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch—" But the word stays stuck in your throat, as your eyes swim with tears.

His face falls, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire, each one a cold, wet slap against your skin. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become. Your car roars to life, and you pull out onto the roadway, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin, and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your unheard pleas bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain —"What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and defeated.

Another angry horn sounds off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With pruney fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up.

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass.

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds. An exhale loosens the tension in your chest. His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?”

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call.

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the monitors creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands.

“What are you doing here, kid?” The gruff voice cuts through your misery.

"Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest." Hopper towers over you, standing beside your desk with his hands buried in his pockets.

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, surprised while he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. Have I told you about it? I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?”

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk.

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–”

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “I’ve babied you. Maybe it’s because you’re my favorite or because you were just a kid when you started. I let you get away with too much over the years because you’re a damn good writer. But that stops now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going back to that studio, and you’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?”

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach.

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of Chardonnay breathing.”

Your favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, his eyes reflecting your disheveled state.

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender. “Hey, that's alright, ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle and draw the cardigan tighter around yourself. "I got caught in the storm."

“Did you forget your coat?” He draws closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away.

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you bury your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed."

“If that's what you want,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up. I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you step away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen.

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell.

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the regret. Sliding down the tiles, you draw your knees close while your tears fall, mixing with the stream of water spiraling towards the drain.

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

Thanks for indulging me with this new version. I wanted to get it right. This next chapter is going to be Steve's launch party and will explore the fallout from that kiss. I love each and every one of you and I hope Torn!Eddie makes an appearance in your sweetest of dreams. -Jelly

#steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn series

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morganbritton132 · 1 year

Note

I need Eddie's jealous moments!!!!!

yk... for research

Eddie once came home from a three-week stint playing shows in middle-of-nowhere Ohio to find a man sitting on his couch. Steve was newly diagnosed and newly moved in, and Eddie was prepared for anything.

Except for a man sitting on his couch. A very distinctly Tommy H-shaped man, sitting way too comfortably and way too close to his boyfriend. On his couch.

Eddie was expecting throw pillows not – “Hagan.”

“Munson.”

Eddie wasn’t due back until tomorrow and Steve is surprised to see him, and he’s happy. He lights up like Christmas, but this is not the homecoming that Eddie was expecting. He still gets a hug, but it doesn’t linger and it doesn’t lead to where he wants them to go (the bedroom). Steve awkwardly pats him on the shoulder when he pulls away like they’re bros.

It’s kind of obvious that Steve had some of his jock friends from high school over to watch the game because the people on tv are talking about sports and there’s a letterman jacket too big for Steve or Tommy forgotten on the kitchen floor. The fact that Tommy is the only one that remains irks Eddie though.

It sets his teeth on edge, especially when Steve settles back on the couch and Tommy refills the space next to him like they were still friends. Tommy throws his arm over Steve’s shoulder, absently touching his hair the way that he always did in school. Steve might not notice it, but Eddie does.

It ain’t subtle. Not to Eddie, who knows what it looks like to be in love with Steve Harrington.

He’s not dumb. Eddie might be out of town just as much as he’s in it nowadays, but he knows what the rumors are about why Steve is living here. He also knows that if he was the one harboring a crush on a boy since grade school and there was even the slightest change that he might be gay than Eddie would be here too. Testing the waters.

Too bad for Tommy though because this is Eddie’s pool.

Despite the loud and obnoxious presence pressed up against Steve’s side and Steve awkwardly reintroducing them to each other, Eddie still asks, “You have people over?”

“Wayne said it was okay.”

“Course it is,” Eddie grinned. “You live here, sweetheart.”

Steve tells Eddie how Tommy was home from college for the long weekend and about the game of telephone that led to him hosting his friends. He even tells Eddie how he recorded the game on tape to watch with Wayne later. Eddie listens and he maybe agreed to watch the rerun with them, but he’s waiting. He’s watching Tommy squeeze the back of Steve’s neck and make some joke that’s not funny, and he’s waiting.

And it happens.

Steve asks Eddie how his shows went, and Eddie grins. He’s not an insecure man. Not about Steve and not about their relationship. Tommy can make all the moves he wants, Eddie knows where Steve’s sleeping tonight. So, he grins.

He startles them both with a running jump onto the coffee table and he takes up all the attention in the room, Tommy left an afterthought. Eddie regales his time in the far off land of Ohio. He paints a perilous picture of nights driving through cornfields and cows like an adventure. He recounts their shows like he’s slaying a dragon, and he draws Steve in like he knew he would.

He physically draws Steve closer, crouching down in front of him and putting his hands on his shoulders. One hand slides up to caress his cheek, and Steve leans into the touch. Eddie pulls him forward until he’s barely on the couch at all and Tommy is left leaning against nothing, and then Eddie pulls him to his feet.

High school Steve probably would’ve sneered at the Eddie of it all, but this Steve – his Steve – laughs and lets Eddie pull him where the story needs to go. He drags Steve through the living room as he weaves a tale in movement about Corroded Coffin’s harrowing battle against the one lone preacher protesting devil music.

Their feet get tangled together when Eddie zigs and Steve zags, and they end up toppled into Wayne’s favorite chair. Steve laughs in that way that squishes his whole face and he tells him without thought, “Missed you.”

Eddie knows that those are words that Tommy wants to hear. He knows the taste of a friendship lost and he knows that Tommy wants this, but this isn’t high school anymore. Tommy can’t just take what he wants. It’s a deep and settling smugness playing on Eddie’s lips because this his and he says, “I know.”

Tommy leaves with very little fanfare. Forest Hills may not be a castle, but it’s Eddie’s domain and Steve is a very captive audience. Tommy, at least, knows when to admit defeat.

He’s standing on the gravel outside of the trailer when he says, “I’ll drive you to that appointment Monday. What time was it?”

Before Steve could say anything, Eddie’s throwing his arm over Steve’s shoulder. He gives Tommy a grin that’s all sharp corners as he threads his fingers into Steve’s hair and tugs on it, “Don’t worry about it, Tommy-boy. I’ll handle it.”

Eddie only kinda feels like an asshole when he smudges Tommy’s name off the calendar stuck to the fridge later that night, but then he gets into his bed for the first time in three weeks. Steve curls up closer and Eddie finds it really hard to care about anything else.

#not sure if this reads as jealous but I think Eddie is less petty in his jealousy. he doesn’t need to worry that Steve is going somewhere #he just needs Steve’s eyes on him. if that makes sense #this is almost long enough to be considered a full fic #eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson

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hedwig123 · 1 month

Text

Ranking The Quarry Counselor Outfits By Late-August Practicality

OK, so. This has been bugging me. I blame SMG's British-ness for this, but so many of the counselors' outfits are just... ridiculous for late August.

(Apparently the weather in the area- West Kill, NY- that day was a high of 75, a low of 68, and humidity was 100 FUCKING PERCENT. So. My concerns are not unfounded.)

So now I'm going to rank all the character outfits by how likely I think it is that normal human people would put them on during the latter half of August, tyyyyyyyy

Excluding Max & Laura because the only time they got to pick their own outfits was June- which, still not great, but. I'll let it slide. Also excluding Emma's overalls, because again, she didn't pick them.

So of the other 21 AUGUST outfits:

21. Nick's 80s Outfit

Dead fucking last is the letterman jacket. Aesthetically it looks cool, and I want to give it bonus points for being a Matt Taylor reference, but I can't. That's a coat. A coat, SMG.

20. Jacob's Modern Outfit

First can I just say how weird it is that Jacob doesn't have a single 360 look uploaded? In ANY of his outfits???

Anyway. This was going to be a little higher because I thought he was wearing a sweatshirt, but looking at it in the close-up that is a fucking sweater. NO!!!!!

19. Nick's 50s Outfit

That is just a full-on nearly-cable-knit sweater. The only reason it ranks above Jacob is that it's at least not visibly layered. But still.

18. Abi's 50s Outfit

Listen, I love that they made Blygbank into Velma & Daphne as much as the next person, but Abi's still wearing a turtleneck in August. They couldn't at least shorten the sleeves? Or pair it with shorts?

17. Emma's Modern Outfit

OK, so I love this outfit out of context. But. Even as a crop-top. It is a turtleneck sweater. With jeans, no less! Jeans, no less!

16. Kaitlyn's Modern Outfit

Why the layers. Why. It's cute, sure, but August.

15. Dylan's 80s Outfit

I'm told this is a rugby shirt, which people do play some sports in. So it's almost passable. But the slacks... the sleeves... the shoes...

14. Ryan's Modern Outfit

Again, almost passable. The shirts look thin, even if there's two of them. But the two shirts combined with the skinny jeans & shoes would just... suffocate him :(

13. Abi's 80s Outfit

This outfit is awesome, but not pictured here are the COMBAT BOOTS SHE'S WEARING ON HER FEET.

No.

12. Dylan's 50s Outfit

OK, listen.

Listen.

I love this outfit. You love this outfit. That shirt was made for him.

But the pants!!!

11. Jacob's 50s Outfit

T-shirt good. Pants BAD.

10. Ryan's 50s Outfit

Same as Jacob's 50s outfit, the shirt is fine. The WOOL PANTS are a no.

9. Ryan's 80s Outfit

This one is almost acceptable. Despite the dark colors, the material looks light. The shoes are OK (not great, but OK). The t-shirt is perfect!

But the vest. The vest. Does he look good in it? Of course. But NOBODY ADDS LAYERS IN AUGUST!

8. Emma's 80s Outfit

We have reached the Acceptable Eight.

I love this outfit. Really the only things putting it at the bottom of the top 8 are the lipstick and the socks, which like... who cares? But these things have to be considered for the ranking.

7. Nick's Modern Outfit

There's nothing wrong with this outfit. The only thing putting it at 7 is the sleeve length, but. It's fine. It's acceptable.

Leagues better than his other 2 outfits.

6. Emma's 50s Outfit

This outfit is great. The shoes are light. The pants are open on the side. The shirt is cropped and tied off!

Only thing edging it out of the Top 5 is the scarf. It's cute, I love Daphne!Emma with my whole heart, but it would get hot.

5. Kaitlyn's 80s Outfit

5th through 2nd place was a toss-up. They're all perfectly appropriate August attire.

This one's great. The jeans are light wash and ripped at the knees. The polo is perfect. The only thing that might give me pause are the converse but honestly??? They're fine too.

4. Abi's Modern Outfit

This outfit's great too! The only counselor outfit with shorts besides #1. The tights don't bother me, they look very light and breathable. 10/10 good job modern Abi!!! (Give 50s Abi some tips she's gonna die of heatstroke)

3. Dylan's Modern Outfit

Another great choice. Light t-shirt, skinny jeans that aren't too tight, and vans. ✨10/10 great job Dylan✨

2. Kaitlyn's 50s Outfit

THOSE ARE OPEN-TOE SHOES I REPEAT THEY ARE OPEN-TOE SHOES THIS IS NOT A DRILL

ONE FUCKING CHARACTER GOT SHOES THAT OPEN AT THE DAMN TOES

I don't even care that it's just a peep toe, I'm fucking counting it

Jacob's 80s Outfit

Was there ever any doubt?

Honorable mention goes to:

Nakey Jakey. Honorable mention only because he didn't reeeeeeally pick it as an OUTFIT outfit.

But still.

#the quarry #2-5 are genuine toss-ups I cannot stress this enough #jacob custos #nick furcillo #abigail blyg #ryan erzahler #dylan lenivy #emma mountebank #kaitlyn ka

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moonmoolight · 1 year

Text

Dumb (Part One)

Kenny McCormick × AFAB! Reader

Part Two: Coming Soon

Request Open! -> About Requests

TW: They killed Kenny, you bastards! (Non permanent character death), descriptions of blood and Gore. Angst with a happy ending; hurt/comfort

Synopsis: y/n watches Kenny die right in front of her. The next day, she goes to school in shambles, only to see a familiar face beside her at her locker. Needless to say, she's pretty sure she is losing her mind.

Inspo: Dumb by Nirvana

Y/N found herself standing in the parking lot of South Park High on her first day of senior year, staring at her best friend.

Her dead best friend.

She watches in horror as Clyde Donovan rushes out from his brand-new convertible in a panic. The front end was dented in from the impact, and the once shiny yellow paint job was splattered in a dark crimson red.

Y/N wasn't sure what had happened. It seemed as though they were hopping out of Stan's car just a moment ago, excited for the first day of their last year in this hell hole.

Now, Kenny lay sprawled out against the pavement, surrounded by a pool of blood.

"I told you to put your goddamn phone down, Clyde!" Shouts Bebe from the passenger seat in between sobs.

Y/N sees Clyde running his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands as tears well in his eyes, "I, I didn't see him!" He screamed, looking around at the crowd gathering around the gruesome scene.

Stan, rushing over to Y/N, was quick to try and shield her from the sight, but she had already soaked it in—every last detail down to his torn-up shoes.

"You," she pushes out, hot tears beginning to streak down her face, "You fucking bastard!"

Y/N attempts to launch herself past Stan, though he holds her back as she claws at the air around her as though it would help push her forward. "Was it worth it, Clyde? You killed him, and all you can say is, 'I didn't see him'?! What kind of lame fucking apology is that?!"

She could feel the strain in her vocal cords as she raged on, and somehow, she had broke free of Stan's grasp. Running at full speed towards Clyde, she quickly punches him square in the jaw.

"Y/N, stop!" Shouts Kyle as he, Stan, and a few other seniors sprint to restrain her as Clyde recoils to try and protect himself from Y/N's aggression. She rips the leather sleeve of Clyde's letterman jacket in a rage at the seam.

"I hope you're fucking happy! You ruined senior year, you braindead prick!"

Ambulance and police sirens sound off in the distance as Y/N's friends force her to sit on the sidewalk, holding onto her as she wails out in heartbreak.

"I'm not going." Y/N protests as her mother sets down a bowl of oatmeal in front of her at the dining room table.

How was she supposed to live in a world without Kenny McCormick by her side?

-> <-

Her mother sighs in response, taking a seat beside the gloomy girl. "Honey, you're going to school. What's gotten into you?"

Furrowing her eyebrow, Y/N lifts her head from its place on the edge of the table. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were still swollen from the nonstop crying.

"What's gotten into me? Are you kidding?"

Her mom cocks her head, placing a loving hand on her daughter's shoulder, "Oh dear, is it that time of the month already?"

Scoffing in disbelief, more tears began to collect in her eyes. How could her mother forget that her friend had just been brutally slaughtered?

"You know what, maybe I will go to school. I can't be around you right now."

Mrs. Y/L/N watches her daughter jolt from her chair and scurry towards the door, throwing on a pair of shoes and haphazardly slinging her school bag across her shoulder.

"Don't forget your car keys!" Shouts the confused woman from the kitchen.

"I'm walking!" Screams a very upset Y/N as the front door slams shut behind her.

Cold autumn air gushed against her as she made the rather long trek to school on foot. She'd needed the time alone to collect herself. Yet, for some reason, every familiar car that passed by harbored her classmates, who all dawned smiles or tired looks. It seemed she was the only one who cared that Kenny was dead.

A horn honks in the distance, and she turns to see the familiar sight of Stan's car behind her as he pulls off to the side of the road. Rolling down his window, he pokes his head out with a perplexed look plastered on his face. "You want a ride?"

Y/N waits a moment before shrugging, walking over slowly, and lazily flopping herself into the car.

The drive was mostly filled with comfortable silence as Stan drove them to school. His head bobbed along to the stereo as he seemed to be in high spirits.

This baffled Y/N, as she had been talking to a disheveled Stan just yesterday. "How are you in such a good mood?"

"What do you mean? We got a whole extra day off of school. Of course, I'm in a good mood! Aren't you?"

Y/N scoffs in astonishment as she looks at him with disdain.

"No, Stan, I'm not in a good mood."

He frowns at her words, peering over at her momentarily as they pull into the school's student parking lot, "Oh, I'm sorry, Y/N. Maybe Ken can make you feel better. He's pretty good at that."

She freezes, questioning if she has heard him correctly.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

Stan laughs nervously as he watches her expression fall further into anger. "Oh, that's why you're upset. Look, whatever Kenny did, I'm sure he didn't mean it-"

Stan is left speechless after she sends a hand flying into his cheek. As he holds his stinging face, Y/N swings the passenger door open as she glares back at him through blurred vision.

"What is wrong with you, Marsh? It's only been a day, and you think it's okay to joke about him? Have some decency, would you?"

And with that, she storms through the parking lot. Once inside, she looked around to see everyone going about their day like everything was fine. Like nothing had ever happened.

The most infuriating thing she saw was Clyde Donovan leaning against a stairwell, flirting with some sophomore.

A low growl rose in her chest, but she knew she couldn't start a fight with him after yesterday. She had narrowly avoided assault charges in the first place. Speed walking through the halls, she ignores the warm greetings of her friends she passed while she was on a mission to make it to her locker without completely breaking down.

Shoving a couple of books into her bag, she lingers when she sees the inside of the locker door. A few Polaroid pictures hung sloppily taped onto the metal. One caught her eye in particular: she posed with Kenny on a snowy February. She held a middle finger to the camera as Kenny leaned against her, keeping two fingers behind Y/N's head to resemble devil horns.

And once again, she becomes a blubbering mess. Using her sweatshirt sleeve, she covers her wet face and gently shuts the locker.

"G'mornin, Y/N."

Those words and that voice made her spiral into full-on bawling.

"Angel, why are you crying?" Kenny's familiar voice speaks up from behind her.

It seemed so natural. She convinced herself it must be her grieving subconscious filling that empty void. That warm greeting she looked forward to every day, those sickeningly sweet nicknames, had been ripped away.

Chalking it up to the slow descent into madness, Y/N looks down and continues walking toward her first-period class as the first bell sounds.

Someone grabs her by the waist, stopping her dead in her tracks.

Hot breath against her ear as that honey-like voice whispers gently.

"Hey, don't ignore me. Who made you cry?"

#kenny mccormick #kenny mccormick x reader #kenny mccormick x y/n #kenny x reader #south park x reader #south park requests #south park oneshots #south park fanfiction #stan marsh #kyle broflovski #eric cartman #clyde donovan #craig tucker #tweek tweak #tolkien black #bebe stevens #wendy testaburger #umospace #moomoonlight

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spring-picnics · 2 years

Text

Getaway car | James Potter x reader

•————————— ★•♛•★ —————————•

After years of loving James, you finally snapped.

630 words

Reputation

•————————— ★•♛•★ —————————•

You were crying. Glittery twin trails of desperation and regret ran down your cheeks as you gasped for air. Makeup was melting off of your face; there was mascara fudged into your dark circles and crimson paint smeared off of your lips onto your hands. Sharp, knife-like stilettos resided in the seat next to you along with a wallet and whatever else you could get your hands on. The sequins on your clothes illuminated the roof of the car with small, fractured beams of light and colour. Your mind was in complete and utter silence while somehow in overdrive. Distant sirens and lights were reaching out to you and suffocating you.

You slammed the hazard warning light and pulled over as you started to drown in the darkness of your car. You reached for his jacket to ground you, but it no longer comforted you; the scent of pine and cologne making you sick. As your erratic breathing started to take over, you threw the letterman out of the window. In a burst of confidence and power, you started the car and backed up enough to be able to go full speed at the jacket; but as soon as you followed through with the action, you got out and picked its muddy shred off the ground and hugged it, as if you were hugging him.

I’ve hit rock bottom. I promised to never feel this way about a guy, and now I’m here. Hurtful thoughts ebbed away your confidence. Your usual sweet words and compliments were now harsh and had sharp, painful edges that tore away at your insides.

He stole away your warmth, your confidence, everything you had spent years building up, in mere hours with only a few words. You had to leave.

“I’m in love with Lily.” He declared in a soft voice as if it was common knowledge. After years of flirting and stolen kisses and hooking up, he was still Lily’s. Just like you’d always be his.

He put down his drink and focused on the sounds of the ice, clashing around the drink. “But for now I have you instead,” he finished with a faux joy.

You left in a hurry. Your broken heart was covered by a thick mask when you made your way to his suite. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.” Your voice was lowered to a hush seductive whisper as you attempted to keep it together.

But at least you left with something. You wish it was your dignity, but sitting in the passenger was his wallet, keys and anything else you could get in your hands as you fled the scene. While your heart mourned the loss of several friendships and the love of your life, your brain started to form a list of items that needed to be fulfilled so you could get your life on track without him.

Your mutters echoed around the silent car. You were frantic and your mind was in utter discord. “SIM card, burner, apartment, lease, car, flight.” The random puzzle pieces made sense in your head in a masochistic fashion; then they were transformed into a plan, an escape.

James would never find you now. When it finally hit him, when he finally understood and sped over to your apartment, you would be gone. He would come back to an empty apartment, no longer yours, with your old phone and his missing items mounted in a corner. It was void of furniture and decor and you, all the proof of your existence hidden away in a storage locker or wiped away. Instagram, twitter, TikTok didn’t have a trace of you left. Your car was traced back a few days later in a random car lot, and the last time he saw your name was on the receipt of a ticket to Madrid. If you couldn’t find yourself, no one could.

•————————— ★•♛•★ —————————•

@spring-picnics

#sunny.writes #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x yn #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter angst #james potter oneshot #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter drabble #james potter blurb #marauders oneshot #marauders fanfic #marauders fanfiction #marauders angst #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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goggles-mcgee · 3 years

Text

FUCK FREUD CLUB SHENANIGANS because I didn't think people would enjoy my little idea so much and I have more to share!

• Harley who may have been drinking a bit: "I gotta admit Brucie babe, I, like many of our classmates, had a little crush on you!"

Jonathan who was getting more comfortable without wearing his Scarecrow hood, also who has been drinking too: "Confession, I also had a crush on you Wayne."

Bruce, now blushing and wondering if he made the Sangria too strong for this week's club meeting: "Well I'm flattered. If we're being honest here, I did have a crush on you Crane after you went off on Professor Kingsley when he said Freud was a genius."

Jonathan, now also slightly blushing: "Stop Mister Wayne or the media will somehow get wind of that and it'll be the new scandal."

Harley: "Speaking of scandal! Have you guys heard about the latest fight Pengy and Riddler had? I heard they legit got into a fight in front of the Bat!"

Sometimes their club meetings turns into gossip sharing.

• Harley bursting into Bruce's Study with Jonathan right behind her: "You're being played by George Clooney!?"

Jonathan: "You agreed to be the secret identity of Batman!?"

Bruce who was plotting Jason's second funeral and Tim's first: "My son's forged my signature on those papers. Then the other's heard about it and got so excited and I couldn't back out! Especially after Cass made me a card! She made me a card!"

Harley: "Pushover."

Jonathan: "People pleaser."

Bruce with his head in his hands: "Arnold Schwarzenegger is Mr. Freeze....Uma Thurman is Poison Ivy....Should I be worried that they'll attack me more after the movie?"

Harley now super excited: "They're in the movie!?"

• Jonathan standing next to a white board as he hosts this week's club meeting: "Today's club meeting will start off with our absolute favorite thing we hate about Freud. After that Harley has designed a Family Feud style game where Bruce, you and I will go against each other and guess Freud's stupidest idea's and studies based off Harley's questions. Winner takes home the homemade Fuck Freud Trophy which is a golden hand giving off the middle finger."

Bruce and Harley lifting up their hands in unison and solemnly flipping off a picture of Freud: "Fuck Freud."

• Bruce being held "hostage" by Two-Face before looking at the clock: "Oh shit. Harv? Can we like, reschedule this? I have a club meeting and I'm in charge of snacks this week."

Two-Face: "You...want to reschedule a hostage situation? For a club?"

Bruce, completely serious: "Yes."

• Harley got them Letterman jackets for the club, of course personalized. Jon even got them mugs for the club. Bruce caved and got them pens and pins made for the club.

His kids do not understand why he goes along with the club but they have also never seen their dad so normal and happy.

Clark gets jealous.

• Bruce walking in late to a club meeting with Starbucks for everybody: "You would not believe the nightmare I had last night."

Jonathan already pulling out a clipboard and pen: "Tell us all about it."

Harley coughing to hide her chuckles: "Yes tell the dream psychologist that has a nightmare kink all about your scary dream."

Jonathan who is blushing now, is it in anger? Is it in embarrassment? Who knows: "One class! One dream psychology class! And I do not have a fear kink!"

Bruce finally taking his seat: "Denial. Interesting. Now let's acknowledge the fact that Harley said you had a nightmare kink not fear kink. Do you want to discuss that further Mr. Crane?"

Jonathan throwing a pen at Bruce: "We were talking about you not me Rich Boy!"

Bruce and Harley cackling.

• Jonathan and Harley are still villains but they kind of start to edge into the anti-hero stage of things. Nobody knows why expect Bruce and he's so proud.

• They actually call each other on their bad days. Harley yelled at Bruce about being more open with his kids and he actually really took it to heart. Jon got collectively yelled at about his self esteem issues and taking better care of himself because no Jon, a human can't just survive off corn and sweet tea. Harley had a tough love session when Bruce and Jon had to tell her just how bad Joker was to her and yeah she realized that but she shouldn't be afraid to get into a relationship with someone just because of that past toxic relationship.

• Bruce's kids actually start to get comfortable with Harley and Jonathan being around the house from time to time. It's still weird to them but they see first hand the changes that all three are going through.

• Bruce babysits Lou and Bud for Harley whenever she needs him too or if she gets in trouble and is sent to Arkham. Damian loves helping out with them.

• Batman may or may not have taken the long way to the university when he heard Scarecrow took over the Psych 101 class because the teacher was obviously incompetent Bats. He was teaching young impressionable minds!

• Bruce admits to them that he hates the whole 'Playboy Billionaire' role he used to play and can't seem to escape from. Especially because he's a dad now, it's not like he can really afford to be a playboy.

• Harley insists on teaching Bruce how to fight because she can't believe how often he gets himself into bad situations.

Jonathan agrees about this and even gives Bruce some of his Fear Toxin in case he ever has to use it in defense to get away from anyone. He even put it in a pepper spray-like bottle so it would go unnoticed.

I have so much more headcanons but here are a few XD

Enjoy

#dc comics #batman rogues #batman comics #bruce wayne #harleen quinzel #harley bruce and john brotp #harley quinn #dc harley quinn #jonathan crane #scarecrow #dc scarecrow #med school brotp #gotham shenanigans #batman headcanon #the fuck freud club #official fuck freud club

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thesolferino · 3 years

Text

senior high school bf!dream headcanons

⤷ note: literally woke up this morning and couldn’t get it out of my head so i wrote this whole thing at like 8 am while having coffee instead of writing my actual requests. hope you enjoy!

mister “quarterback on the school’s football team-wide shoulders-super tall-pretty smile-letterman jacket” dream

your high school jock bf dream (no pun intended)

your high school was never that cliquey in the first place, but clay was definitely popular and well known by the whole school

he mostly hung out with nick (who everybody grew to call sapnap) and george who were, as opposed to him, kind of shit at sports, but geniuses in literally everything else

he never dated one of the cheerleaders despite them obviously hitting on him (who could blame them?) - he simply wasn’t interested. ppl couldn’t believe it, especially him being a senior and never having dated anyone from the school

the person he DID, however, end up dating, was you - a girl he had to tutor in english ‘cause you were so bad at it that you were absolutely going to fail

he wasn’t all that excited about it, assuming you wouldn’t want to cooperate, until he saw how pretty you were when you approached him to figure out when you guys were gonna meet up

and once he figured out you were actually quite good at english, just didn’t have the attention span for writing long essays, he liked you even more

during your shared chemistry class, for a moment he turned around to look at you, and you smiled at him from your place at the other end of the classroom

sapnap and george caught that. they did not let it go for approximately the rest of eternity

they actually let it go after a few weeks when they saw the two of you leaving the school together, hands interlocked

my GOD he would be a sucker for you wearing his clothes - ESPECIALLY HIS LETTERMAN

he’d take it off in school just to give it to you so you can walk around in his jacket and show off that you’re his

lots of stares since, like, that’s CLAY’s jacket!!!

he also gets jealous/protective so easily

one of the dudes in your class tells you you’re pretty? arm around your waist immediately

someone who’s into clay DARES to make fun of you? he’ll embarrass them in front of the whole class. no mercy!

he thinks you’re like the coolest person alive. he’ll just sit and listen to you ramble about things you love forever

you’d come to football practice with him when you had time (and even when you didn’t, because he’d beg you to come watch him) and cheered him on every time he seemed vaguely happy with his results since you had 0 knowledge of the game

be prepared for a lot of smelly and sweaty hugs

nothing he loves more than picking you up and spinning you around after they win a game

and hugging you very very very very very tight

“baby, let me go, you smell!” “what? i can’t hear you.” “i said you smell! let me go!” “wait, i need to bring you closer, i can’t hear what you’re saying.” “NO!!!!!”

also late night talks about your future and what he wants to do when he’s finally out

not sure if he wants to use his intellectual skills and learn coding or put his love for writing to use or keep doing football

you teasing him saying he’s like troy from high school musical

him wheezing loudly and claiming you’re gabriella

cue half an hour of discussing high school musical

going back to that “clay after they win a game” point,,,,,

nsfw under the cut! if you are a minor or uncomfortable with such topics, please stop reading here!

⤷ note: the characters in this story are high school seniors, which means they are 18-19 years old!

he’d have SO much adrenaline and energy that just needs to go somewhere

istg the stamina that man has is crazy

if the guys stick around in the locker room he’ll just usher you to one of the bathrooms and fuck you there

he does not give a single fuck if a teacher walks in; it’s their damn problem!

and if everyone gets changed quickly and leaves for an afterparty you bet you’re getting railed on one of those benches

“come on, baby, get on your hands and knees for me.”

he’s definitely one for overstimulating so he’ll just fuck you through your orgasm, fingers still on your clit and everything to the point you have to push them away

feel like he would be really good at aftercare so after he fills you up he’ll pick you up and sit you down on the bench, get some tissues and whatnot

“you okay?” “does it hurt?” “d’you want me to carry you?” “i didn’t hurt you too much, did i?”

and when they lose the game

whoooOooooo boy

you’re getting railed into next fucking week with all the force he has in his body

he’s going full degradation mode + spanking bc fucking you is just not getting that energy out by itself

“look at how you clench around me, whore. my little whore, aren’t you?

“i told you not to hold back. keep doing that and i’ll fuck you in the damn cafeteria so you’ll be sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

his ego is just wayyyyy too big to not have you screaming every time

tease him and he will have you spread out, begging and pleading. literally no question about it

“aw, you thought that was funny, didn’t you? not so funny now, is it, princess?”

he’ll edge you for literal hours until you apologise. don’t underestimate him! he has his goals set and will do whatever it takes to get to them

that’s what makes him so successful, i suppose

i just feel like he would be a vvv sweet boyfriend 🥺

(would defo convince you to go to a college that’s close to his but that’s a story for a different time)

football player dream supremacy, me thinks!

#dream x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #dream imagines #dreamwastaken imagine #dream fluff #dream angst #dream smut #dream fanfic #mcyt x reader #mcyt imagine #mcyt fanfic #dreamwastaken smut

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anxiousgaypanicking · 3 years

Text

Book Signing

kind of a short, second part to my radio hosts au that can be found here

“A book signing?!” Roman exclaims, as he paces back and forth between the kitchen. “They’re doing a book signing?! We don’t even know what they look like!” He has his phone out; the bright screen illuminates his green eyes, of which are shining with both excitement and anxiety. It was a strange look to see on Roman’s face especially, but one could expect such a mixture of emotions when faced with the once in a lifetime opportunity to meet your celebrity crushes.

Even when neither Roman nor Remus even knew what they looked like.

But oh, oh, how they both adored their voices, and the stories. Roman could do without the vivid descriptions of gore and dismemberment, but Remus thought that made it so much better, especially considering Janus and Logan hardly let expression flow through their voices.

One would think that listening to two grown men talk about horror and tragedy from around the world in such monotone voices would make you think they’re sociopathic at the least, but it was in fact quite the opposite.

As long-time listeners of the show, the twins had learned the hosts’ main purpose was to educate their listeners on the horrors that occur around the globe, and to help spread awareness in the event such things ever happen again (as most are often caused by lack of safety concerns or by overlooking simple things).

Additionally, as read in the book the two hosts would be signing later today, both of them confessed to having issues with expressing emotion. Logan Berry was autistic and had trouble over-empathizing with old news. He was overly respectful and factual towards victims and families of things like crimes and such, however, which was a rare occurrence.

Names were given, details were offered, and he refused to make a mockery of tragedies, especially since it would be disrespecting the lives lost.

Janus Dolion on the other hand had undergone severe trauma himself. The book didn’t go into that much detail, but it is stated he’d witnessed a lot of death head first in his life, and undergoing such desensitized him to most things that would horrify others. His joking and often sarcastic quips were always more so directed at Logan or the nature of the story (sometimes even the authors of some articles), and after reading the book it was awfully clear a lot of it was done to cope.

However, he too was extremely respectful to the victims, noting first hand that when people make a mockery of horrid incidents, it can be really upsetting for the victims families, and for victims themselves.

“I think that’s kind of the whole point, dumbass,” Remus responds, checking the same article on his own phone. “It gives fans an opportunity to meet them firsthand after learning more about them specifically.”

“Yeah but… anyone could pretend to be them…”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t want to go?”

“No! No, I absolutely want to go.”

Suddenly, Roman’s letterman jacket from high school is being thrusted into his arms, as Remus heads to the front door, keys spinning quickly around his index finger as he grins, wide and excited. “C’mon then; it starts in like ten minutes.”

So they went.

Roman is excited, albeit nervous when they walk into the library. A fitting place for a book signing, although Roman and Remus did get lost on the way there. There’s already lines of people, grouped around each other or certain tables. There’s a stand with the hosts’ book that can be purchased for them to sign, with a slouching man with purple hair selling them.

The two walk past, holding their own copies of the book rather tight. Roman’s looked pristine and perfect, as if it were a fresh copy, meanwhile Remus’s had tears at the edges, as well as highlighted sections within the book, and even doodles on the side that the book reminded him of.

He never cared about the things he vandalized, and so didn’t see the atrocity in “ruining” a good book like Roman said he was. He loved the book, and it was shown through his happily scribbled notes and underlined sections.

As they move near the front of the library, they see there’s a much longer line, filled with people excitedly buzzing about getting to meet the famous hosts, and Roman and Remus glance at each other as they both realize this must be the signing line.

It doesn’t move that fast; both Janus and Logan are known to get caught up in conversation, but Roman and Remus couldn’t find it in themselves to care.

They can’t see the two at all through the thicket of people in front of them, and every time a group moved away, there were statements of “I didn’t expect that” and “wow” that made Roman rock on the heels of his feet in excitement.

He wanted nothing more than to just gaze upon their faces and finally have an image to put with their voices.

Remus suspected they were both hot, and both he and Roman have pitched theories on what these people may look like. Upon getting the book they got a few hints as to what their appearance may be. Logan has glasses, Janus has scars, Logan dresses like a college professor (a quote straight from Janus) and Janus dresses like a Victorian goth with a modern grunge twist (a quote straight from Logan).

And, well, when the twins got to the front of the line, they realized those descriptions did not disappoint.

What did disappoint however was their own interpretations, as none of them could even compare to the way the two looked in real life, and sensing the speechless twins were baffled by both of their unique appearances, Logan and Janus smile.

#intrulogical #roceit #sander sides #agp fluff #ts logan #ts remus #ts roman #ts janus #logan sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #radio hosts au #sanders sides radio hosts au

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sukunasfourtheye · 3 years

Note

Part 5 babyyyyyy

As you crossed the threshold of the door, Levi’s gentle airs were dropped. He was a patient man, but his cock had other ideas. He could feel his heartbeat in it as it throbbed against his jeans zipper. He dropped you on the couch, the wind knocking out of you from the drop. Levi removed the letterman jacket he’d been wearing and placed it on the coat rack by the door. “Clothes off. Shoes too.” He didn’t even glance as you direction as he spoke, making his way to the kitchen and placing a kettle on the stove. You laid on your elbows. Was this really how this was going to be? It didn’t even feel like you were here to sleep with him. What’s with this guy? You looked around the room, your gaze freezing when you notice Levi standing in the kitchen with his arms folded, an unamused look across his face. “I gave you an order.” Your heart jumped at the sound of his voice. Fuck, he’s so scary it’s hot. “Well?” Levi began to look annoyed as you sat there looking completely dumbfounded. You looked so fucking stupid and he loved it, you played your role of the ditzy cheerleader without even trying. Before you could even register, Levi’s hand firmly grabbed your chin, gripping you so tightly your lips puckered. “You have until my tea is finished.” His gripped loosened as he walked away. Your heart was racing as you quickly undressed. As much as you wanted to know the consequences of disobeying, you were eager to have the results of obeying as well. You undressed quicker than his tea brewed and could feel your juices threatening to drip onto the couch. You stood up, the same embarrassed flush returning to your cheeks. You slowly walked in the direction you saw Levi had gone, peaking around the corner to see him leaning against the counter staring at the kettle as it began to his. He lifted his body from the counter and turned off the stove, pouring his tea effortlessly into the cup he had put on the counter. “I guess you aren’t hopeless after all.” Levi said, not even turning around to look at your naked body. He could feel your unrest as your eyes bore into the back of his head. “Shower. Now. I don’t touch filthy girls unless I made them filthy.” He turned around walking down the hall, a single glance letting you know you needed to follow him. The hot water felt nice so you weren’t complaining as you roamed your own body, eyes closed and distracted by your thoughts. You hadn’t heard him enter as he began to watch you touch yourself through the glass shower door. “Tch. You’re so impatient.” You were startled at the sound of his voice, your eyes staring back at him like a deer in the headlights. “Y-you were taking too long.” You had been trying to tease him, but you tripped over your words, unable to think straight in his presence once again. Levi opened the shower door and turned off the water, he grabbed your throat and pushed you against the tile walls. “You don’t have the brains to be a brat. Don’t start acting like one or I’ll punish you like one.” Your fingers delicately traced his veins as he held onto your throat, pools of lust welling up in your eyes. Levi loosened his grip as a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Hm, maybe I misread you, maybe a good spanking is exactly what you need.” Levi’s movements were quick as he grabbed a fistful of hair and started to drag you out of the bathroom. You were dripping wet still as you followed him closely to keep from having your hair pulled any farther. “Ow L-Levi!” His grip only tightened as you whimpered his name. Damn, he was trying to tip you off the edge but he felt like he was the one about to lose control. “You wanted to to talk like a brat, now you’re being punished.”

-🍃

“You don’t have the brains to be a brat. Don’t start acting like one ill punish you like one”

Part 1 | Part 6

Babe. I’m not even exaggerating when I say I’m starting to fall in love with YOU 🍃. You deserve head for this literally. You literally deserve that sloppy toppy. 😂😂 This is getting dangerous bc this is literally becoming one of my fav Levi smut fics I’ve ever read and it hasn’t even got to the smut part yet like YOU HAVE ME STRUNG ALONG HERE . THE TENSION IS ABSOLUTELY IMMACULATE. Your DIALOGUE IS JUST PHENOMENAL it’s so fucking sexy without being over the top like that’s so hard to do?!?! The fact that he makes fucking tea after throwing you on the couch. “You have until my tea is done” UWAAAAAHHH. The choking in the shower. I’m literally breathless.

#I’ll link parts 1-4 later I have work in the morning but OMG #check the 🍃 anon tag in my page for all the parts #🍃 anon #anon #nonnie #levi smut #levi ackerman x reader #Levi ackerman #captain levi smut #levi heichou #Levi ackerman smut

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haileygarciasunshine · 3 years

Text

Soft as Silk

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Fem!Reader

Written: December 22nd, 2020

Posted: December 22nd, 2020

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,000

Requested: Yes! @kpopgirlbtssvt Hii!! (This is a lot omg, let me know if it’s too detailed!) Can I please request a Sweet Pea x shy/quite!innocent!fem!reader where when the Serpents first go to the Northside school, at some point during the school day, Sweet Pear hears soft music (a violin) and he’s curious, so he follows it. Which leads him right outside the orchestra room, where he sees Y/N (for the first time as she’s really shy and doesn’t talk to many people), by herself, playing her violin. Awhh and she would so blush when she sees him (through the window on the door) watching her play, but shyly smile too. She doesn’t hold the same beliefs as the other Northsiders do, she’s actually kind and accepting to all the Southsiders. They get closer and closer and their relationship eventually develops into boyfriend and girlfriend. Sweet Pea would be soft for her and veryyyy protect and the other Serpents would be as well. The Northsides (especially Archie and Reggie) would be shook lol. I honestly love the “opposites attract.”

---

A/N: I loved writing this, especially because it was a Violin reader request! I used to play Violin all through school, I even won competition medals and even got my Letterman’s Jacket Letter from playing Violin in high school. Even though I haven’t played since, I still enjoy listening to orchestra music, if you’re like me I suggest listening to Lindsey Sterling, she’s great with her electric violin. Okay I’m done ranting lol. I also included a lot of the things I did / experienced. Like having to take a music class to graduate, swaying as playing the violin. ect.

---

Sweet Pea Masterlist

Walking into Riverdale high, you gripped your Violin case handle just a little tighter. The Southside High students would be attending classes today as they transferred to the Northside school.

Everyone seemed to be a little on edge since the announcement of the merge. Reggie seemed to be a little angrier since then, as well as Archie. They had both been your friends since you could remember. Both guys were often very protective over you since you were shy and didn’t have a lot of friends. It seemed like an odd friendship as an outsider looking in.

As you walked through the hallways, you made your way to the Orchestra room. Nobody would be in the classroom until at least the third or fourth period, which allotted you enough time to play to your heart's content.

Shutting the door, you let out a content sigh. The overwhelming feeling of home washed over you. The Orchestra room, was your home away from home since you were always there practicing.

Opting for a change of scenery, you decided to take a seat in the back row. Grabbing your sheet music, you placed it on the stand in front of you. Turning towards your case, you had placed it on the chair beside you. Opening the case, you pulled your bow out before tightening it ever so slightly, then you grabbed your rosin and began moving it up and down on your bow.

Once you were satisfied with the amount of rosin on your bow, you pulled your violin out, placing the shoulder rest on it then placing it on your shoulder. Angling your head you held the Violin between them. Reaching underneath the violin you began twisting the tuning pegs, allowing you to tune your violin.

After tuning, you felt as though you were ready to begin playing. You glanced at the key before checking the tempo. Placing your bow on the strings you began moving your fingers to hit the notes. Losing yourself in the music you began to sway slightly as you played.

---

As Sweet Pea entered the Northside school, he couldn’t help but have a foul mood. He hated the North siders and now he would have to go to school with them. Luckily, he had his closest friends beside him to help him get through the day.

Naturally, they arrived late to school. Walking towards their assigned lockers, they placed their belongings in them before making their separate ways toward their respected classrooms.

Sweet Pea grumbled to himself as he made his way towards the Choir room. Each student was required to take some sort of music class to graduate. The soft sound of instrument melody filled his ears.

Glancing around the hallway, he was alone which allowed him to follow the sweet melody. The music led him straight to the orchestra room. There he gazed through the window and saw an innocent looking girl playing her violin.

---

Losing yourself in the music, you continued playing until you felt the sensation of somebody watching you. Glancing towards the door, you saw a guy with a black leather jacket gazing at you.

You could feel heat rising in your cheeks as you locked gazes with him. Normally, you weren’t one to play for an audience, however, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop playing.

As you gazed at each other, you didn’t miss the blush that made its way to his cheeks nor did you miss the soft smile he sent you.

The sound of a bell interrupted your moment, as it signaled the end of class and the start of a new class.

Sighing, you broke the gaze you shared and begun putting away your violin. Once you were finished, you held onto a small inkling of hope that he would be waiting for you. As you exited the orchestra room, you glanced around only to see the mysterious serpent nowhere in sight.

“There you are!” Reggie exclaimed throwing his arm around your shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I should’ve known you’d be in the music hallway.”

You rolled your eyes, before shrugging off his arm. “You should’ve looked there first, that’s where I always am.”

“Clearly.” Reggie scoffed. “Come on, you don’t want to be late for next period.”

---

The rest of the day, your mind was clouded with the thought of the mysterious guy from this morning. You couldn’t help but think back to the intimate moment you shared. It was a moment you hadn’t shared with anyone before.

In one of your classes, you were sitting beside Tony and Fangs. They were quick to introduce themselves to you. A grin made it’s way to your face as you had become friends with some of the South siders.

“This is, Sweet Pea.” Fangs spoke introducing you to the guy you had seen earlier in the day.

“Nice to meet you, Sweet Pea, I’m Y/N.” You grinned shaking his hand.

---

Since that day, you had developed a close bond with the younger Serpents. It was rare that you were seen without one or all by your side. They had taken you under their wing and protected you as their own.

You and Sweet Pea began developing a close bond. He would often skip classes, to spend time listening to you play your violin in the orchestra room. Fireworks always seemed to erupt in your stomach anytime he was near you. “What is he doing with her?” Archie questioned as he stared daggers at the sight of you and Sweet Pea walking through the halls.

“I don’t know man.” Reggie shrugged. “It’s crazy that they excepted her into their group.”

“This is Y/n,” Toni spoke introducing you to FP.

Fangs had convinced you somehow to hang out with the younger serpents at the wyrm.

“Hi.” You shook his hand, as your voice came out meek and meager.

“Ah, so she’s the North sider you’ve all been talking about.”

Join my Taglist Here

Request a Part Two (Be sure to mention the title) Here

Send me a Request Here

Taglist:

@remembered-license @beth-winchester21 @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e

#sweetpeaimagine #sweet pea imagine #riverdale #riverdale imagine #riverdale imagines #riverdaleimagines #riverdaleimagine #sweet pea #sweet pea imagines #sweetpeaimagines #sweet pea x reader #sweetpeaxreader #requestedimagine #requested imagine #jordan conner #jordanconner

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caswellprmanager · 3 years

Text

out of the closet (and into my arms)

read it on ao3

Ship: Ricky Bowen/EJ Caswell

TW: transphobia, deadnaming, gender dysphoria, panic attacks

Summary: Ricky has certain items of clothing that EJ loves to steal.

Notes: I exclusively blame @random-nerd-3 for planting this idea in my head in the discord server so now it has manifested itself. *british accent* I can't believe you've done this 😩

EJ was not above pretending to be sick just to not go to school. He didn't go to theater camp for nothing. One time when there was this really mean kid who sneezed on him in third grade, he faked having pneumonia so well that their mom made them apologize for infecting him. One could say he's basically a natural born actor.

But today... he's not even pretending when he says he feels sick.

He woke up that morning, running through all the things he had to do for the day, and then promptly chucked it out of his mind when he looked at himself in the mirror. He's been on T for a while now but his parents refuse to pay for top surgery. He'd do it himself with the money he has in his bank, but whatever he purchases alerts his parents. So looking at his tank top clad torso with no binder on and the tell-tale bumps of his breasts lightly tenting the material up front made him want to punch his mirror.

His breasts weren't big but god were they noticeable. At least for him. He shakily runs a hand down his chest and wishes more than anything for the offending things to disappear. He mentally computes how long it will be until he moves out of the house to go to college — just so that he can finally get the surgery he's always wanted.

Yet, even after computing, it still seems so far away.

"Eliza? Are you up? Breakfast is ready?"

There was a dull ringing in his ears when he woke up a few minutes ago but it was deafening now at the sound of that name.

You know that's not my name.

EJ feels his chest tighten and his breath come out in shorter bursts. He grabs the edge of his bathroom sink shakily, knuckles turning white the louder the ringing in his ears gets and the faster his heart beats.

Drowning.

He's drowning.

He's drowning in thoughts he doesn't want to have but invade the forefront of his mind.

He's drowning.

"Eliza? Eliza, answer me!"

Stop calling me that! EJ pulls at his hair, vision blurring at the seams. Stop fucking calling me that—

"EJ!"

A hand on his shoulder practically yanks him up to the metaphorical surface. He's breathing, but only barely, and he subconsciously falls into someone's arms, gasping through sobs.

"Hey there, handsome. You're okay. I got you."

The voice was soothing, familiar like the feel of his favorite childhood blanket wrapping around his shoulders. He buries his face into the fabric before him, inhaling the scent of sandalwood, cherries, and throb cologne.

Throb cologne.

"R-Ricky?" He whispers, not really believing it himself. The one holding him answers by tightening their hold around him and EJ feels himself collapse even further in their arms. He breathes in Ricky's scent like it's the only thing keeping him grounded right now – and it might as well be.

"I'm here, Elijah. I'm right here." Elijah. EJ visibly relaxes at the sound of that name – the name he gave himself.

"How did you–" He tries to say but the tightness in his throat only allows his voice to come out in a whisper. Ricky runs their hand through his hair.

"I thought I would go to your house before school for a change. Your mom let me in." Ricky doesn't force EJ to look at them and he's grateful for that. His vision was still impossibly blurry and he feels a strong headache approaching after what just happened. "But I have a strong feeling you don't want to go to school today."

EJ buries his face even deeper into Ricky's chest and Ricky kisses the top of his head right after. He's taller than Ricky – not by much, but he'll hold that over Ricky 'till the day he dies – but right now he feels like a little kid wrapped in Ricky's arms. Small. Secure.

Safe.

"C'mon, handsome." Ricky says into his hair, placing another kiss on the top of his head. "Let's get you back to bed."

EJ doesn't even remember being tucked back into bed, nor the third kiss Ricky gave him on his cheek, or even the sound of Ricky conversing lowly with his mom at the door. All EJ really remembers is feeling absolutely exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that the second his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light.

After a few hours, EJ woke up again, still with a lightly throbbing headache and his room plunged in darkness except for the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling.

EJ focused on the constellations he painstakingly stuck there in the first grade. He remembered breaking his arm trying to get off the ladder and crying all the way to the hospital. The memory seemed to give his mind a distraction but he wasn't distracted enough to not notice the extra layer on his body.

EJ fell asleep with a tank top on, just like he always does. He runs warmer than most people so he doesn't usually sleep with a hoodie or sweater on until the winter months. Even then, he just turns up the thermostat in his room.

So... where the hell did this hoodie come from?

"Knock, knock!" Came a voice from the other side of his door and his heart stared beating a little faster, hoping that it wasn't either of his parents about to scold him for skipping school. But when the door opened — revealing a smiling Ricky — he could practically feel the tension lift from his shoulders.

"Oh good, you're awake! Your parents left for work a few hours ago so you don't have to worry, by the way." How Ricky was able to figure out what exactly was on his mind was beyond him. But it did put him ever more at ease. Although, he was still confused as to why Ricky was still here.

"Ricky did you... Did you skip school?" He asked, sitting up against the headboard just as Ricky sat next to him to feel his forehead. Ricky smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of their neck.

"I couldn't leave you alone." Before EJ could protest, Ricky continued. "Don't worry! I texted Big Red to update me on rehearsals. I also texted your co-captains for the Water Polo and Lacrosse teams that you weren't feeling well, so you have to skip on training. I figured they'd spread the word to the rest of your clubs. You're in, like, a million of them."

"It keeps me busy," EJ mumbles but allows Ricky to climb into bed with him. He immediately relaxes into Ricky's chest when he opens his arms invitingly, knowing that he can't resist an invitation to snuggle. "You didn't have to do that."

"It's one of those days, isn't it?" Ricky asks and EJ nods. Ricky hums in acknowledgement. It's one of the things EJ appreciates about their relationship — one that took a lot of trial and error. They're different in a lot of ways but when it comes to their struggles with gender, they've found someone to relate to. EJ doesn't think he's ever dated anyone who just... gets it like Ricky does.

"It sucks," he mumbles into Ricky's chest with a little pout. "Plus I don't have any clean binders today so that makes it suck even more."

"Well, I'll be right here if you need me. Just say whatever and I'll help you in any way I can." EJ could feel tears well up in his eyes and buries his face into Ricky's neck, overwhelmed and filled with so much unbridled joy for Ricky's mere presence in his life right now.

Which brings him all the way back to the mere presence of the hoodie he's wearing right now that is definitely not his. But he can make an assumption from the smell alone.

Sandalwood. Cherries. Throb cologne.

"Darling?" EJ says into Ricky's neck slowly.

"Hm?"

"Am I wearing your hoodie?"

"...And If I say yes?" Ricky teases, using their nails to scratch at the nape of EJ's neck casually. EJ fights the fluttering of his eyelids to focus on the task at hand. He pulls away from Ricky a bit to look at them inquisitively, which thankfully results in Ricky sighing in defeat. That basically answers EJ's question, and just as he's about to remove the hoodie, Ricky gently places a hand on his chest.

"Keep it. It looks good on you."

EJ looks down at the brown and white color block hoodie. When Ricky wears this, it engulfs their entire frame and makes EJ want to smother them in kisses. EJ has never admitted it but... this was on his top list of favorite hoodies that Ricky owns.

But he also knows this is also one of Ricky's favorites.

And yet... the more he looks at himself in Ricky's hoodie, the dysphoria he felt in spades just hours go subsides, even just a little. It makes his chest look properly flat and it was awfully comfy. He feels Ricky's eyes on him as he brings the fabric of the hoodie to his nose, breathing in Ricky's scent one more time.

Sandalwood. Cherries. Throb cologne.

He smiles for the first time today and Ricky smiles back.

He could get used to this.

Ever since that day, EJ has started to slowly come into the possession of... several of Ricky's clothes.

Now, stealing might be too heavy of a word to use here. Though he's not unfamiliar with the concept — he just prefers to use the phrase... indefinitely borrowing.

But if one were to ask anybody else, EJ was most definitely stealing Ricky's clothes.

It started off with the color block hoodie Ricky gave him that day. That damned hoodie even changed his nightly sleeping routine – with wearing that very same hoodie as the last step before he's able to truly fall asleep. It's absolutely insane how one piece of garment can make him feel. How having something of Ricky's makes him want to have more of them.

And so EJ just never stopped.

One day before rehearsals, on a particularly cold afternoon (and EJ knew it would be cold. He checks the weather forecast on his phone everyday), he deliberately forgot his letterman jacket in his locker. After arriving to the bomb shelter, and coincidentally hearing from Miss Jenn that the janitor hasn't fixed the heater yet, EJ casually mentions to Ricky that he forgot his jacket in his locker. And that it's way too far to retrieve now.

"You poor baby," Ricky says with a knowing glint in his eye. It's a subtle game they play, the two of them, and EJ likes to think he wins it every time. "Here, take my sweatshirt. I sprayed extra throb on it for you."

"Okay agenda for tomorrow," EJ teases while pulling on the sweatshirt that indeed wreaks of throb. "We're going shopping for a new cologne."

"I thought you liked throb?" Ricky replies with a cheeky smile. EJ sticks his tongue out at him – a very mature response, thank you very much.

"It does remind me of you." EJ says this as he brings the collar of the sweatshirt up to his nose. He tries to hide the way his lips curl up automatically at Ricky's familiar scent. He wouldn't hear the end of it if they were able to catch that. "But it doesn't mean I like it."

"But you like me, right?" Ricky says this with a hint of a tease and a larger hint of vapid curiosity. It's almost as if Ricky is just waiting for the confirmation that EJ most definitely still likes them, which isn't much of a surprise. Ricky doesn't exactly have the best of luck in the romance department. It actually took quite a bit of time before the two of them even got together. But, now that they are together, EJ makes it a point to remind Ricky that he will continue to choose them everyday.

And EJ doesn't mind reminding Ricky how much he loves them — it's practically a part of his daily routine.

"I love you, angel." EJ says, lacing each syllable with as much affection that he can muster. Ricky bites their lip and tries to hide their blushing face with their hands. EJ chuckles, leaning over to place a kiss to Ricky's temple before wrapping an arm around them.

"EJ... I..." Ricky starts to say but the words don't ever take shape. EJ knows this though. He doesn't mind the wait.

"I know, baby." EJ kisses Ricky's forehead this time. "I know."

bowen (affectionate): did i leave my blue-grey hoodie at your house? i cant find it anywhere...

caswell (derogatory): [sent 1 attachment] oh you mean this one?

caswell (derogatory): :-)

bowen (affectionate): ah

bowen (affectionate): there it is

caswell (derogatory): do you want it back? i can bring it to school tomorrow

bowen (affectionate): nah

bowen (affectionate): actually no yeah bring it to school tomorrow

bowen (affectionate): but you have to be wearing it 🤷‍♀️

caswell (derogatory): u dont have to tell me twice 😘😘

[1 new notification: @ejwaterpolotheaterguy posted a new photo]

ejwaterpolotheaterguy: boyfriend sweater 😍 @sk8erbowen thanks for the drip 😚

There are days where EJ feels dysphoric and Ricky isn't there.

It just so happened to be the very same weekend that Ricky decided to go visit his mom up in Chicago when EJ woke up once again wanting to claw at the offending mounds of flesh on his chest. He nearly punched his mirror before Ricky called him to ask how he was doing.

"I'm so sorry, EJ. I wish I was there."

"I'll get by. Just gotta cover the mirrors all around the house and exclusively live in one of your hoodies for the next 24 hours." EJ rummages through his drawers, trying to find the exact hoodie he's been thinking of since Ricky called. It was the one that was big even on EJ and felt like getting a hug from Ricky. The second his fingers felt the familiar purple fabric, he quickly put it on, almost completely forgetting that he was on facetime with Ricky.

"Well look at you, my handsome boy." EJ blushes when he realizes that Ricky could see him but the smile that makes it to his lips is the most genuine one he's had all day. "How're you feeling?"

"Safe." was the first word that came to mind and EJ couldn't have stopped it from leaving his lips even if he tried. Ricky's answering smile made the slip-up worth it, though.

And there really isn't any other word that describes how wearing Ricky's hoodies and sweatshirts makes him feel. It's like getting a cup of hot chocolate by an open fire on Christmas morning. Like coming home to a warm embrace after a terrible day. With Ricky he was safe. With Ricky, in Ricky's hoodies, there was comfort. Sure there are moments where a storm hits and neither of them have an umbrella... but that just means they'll end up finding an awning together, soaking wet but basking in each other's warmth.

Sandalwood, cherries, and throb cologne.

And as Ricky smiles at him through the phone screen, he knows there's no one else he'd gladly weather any storm with but them.

#cloud's writing now #ej caswell #ricky bowen #caswen #ej x ricky #ricky x ej #trans!ej #genderqueer!ricky #tw: transphobia #tw: gender dysphoria #tw: deadnaming #tw: panic attack #hsmtmts #i just rly love soft caswen #i am incapable of making ej sadder than he needs to be

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caffeinetheory · 3 years

Text

Safe House [Rewrite]

It is finally here, I hope you guys like it as much as the original. with the writing changes I have now it didn’t feel right to just continue so I have decided to start from the beginning again with little tweaks here and there

(don’t get used to notes in front, it won’t be the norm I promise)

AO3 link

The weather outside was perfect as Mari skated down the street. Early enough that the sidewalks were mostly hers, as she sailed down the short strip to her second home. Pulling her phone out of the pocket of the black and blue jacket recently finished she fished the headphones out and got ready to check the upcoming events for the week.

A lighter work load greeted her but a slight frown threatened to grace her face as she saw the anniversary coming up followed by a League meeting. Always a fun combo. It had been what five years, or was it seven now? The time right after still feels like a fog and maybe it is better that way. The silver ring that slightly moved in the wind on her chest gave her comfort. He wouldn’t stand for her to woolly in self pity, not anymore. It brought a slight smile to her face, in a way he was still with her after all.

The League check in though was going to suck, it always did. It didn’t help that it was so close to a sensitive day for her. Sure it got better over time but the mourning still hurt, just a little less each year. She wasn’t a fan of the League or their treatment of certain people. The occasional check-in was a necessary evil though so she was able to keep her life as free from that life as she could now. She could prove she wasn’t a threat, share some information and answer some questions then she’d be free to go back to everyday life.

Mari didn't have much time to swerve to miss the confused looking red-head in a letterman jacket in the middle of the sidewalk. He seemed to be checking his phone and didn’t see her either. Thank Kawmi, she had good reaction times, uttering a quick “pardon,” her accent coming out slightly as she continued down the street. She glanced behind her just double checking he was fine, and focused back on the space in front of her. Phone now placed back securely in her pocket, only the headphone cord sticking out so her music continued as the nursery came into view.

Secret Garden Nursery, it was her own little place that started as a joke. Sure the creation Kawmi holder doing things in the arts made sense, you created new ideas in a field like that after all. Something didn’t feel right about pouring her whole being into fashion after everything. Her life was a wreck and the only thing that kept her from being in bed all day was some plants on her balcony. Dumb as it was, it gave her a sense that she could help something... keep something alive.

She was spiraling again, a shake of her head and the jingle of the door greeting her as she unlocked it brought her back to reality. That small feeling of control and needing a new start was all the push she needed. Sure she still did designs and kept baking like her parents taught her but they were hobbies. Who would have guessed having Tikki for so long gave the side effect of a green thumb? The whole getting too cold and falling asleep isn’t as great but beggars can't be choosers after all.

Not the point, now she had her own little garden of sorts. Mari was able to quickly establish a little niche for herself and got enough business to keep her afloat but not more than she could handle on her own. She liked to work by herself in the shop if she could, after all if she was alone in the store the Kawmi in her care could come and exist somewhere besides her flat.

Speaking of Kawmi, the one who started it all for her came zipping out of her messenger bag. The red companion began flying around the store front, taking extra time by the blooming flowers. Mari‘s soft laugh filled the room as she watched Tikki enjoy herself. Her own jacket folded gently to not mess with the fresh stitching revealing a dark grey, practically black, t-shirt with three colored strips around the torso. If you looked closer it was actually five and a shirt that was clearly taken care of. A light grey apron was tied around her waist and as she checked her ponytail making sure it was high on her head and tight.

Tikki was once again by Mari’s side as she finished putting her stuff away in the back.

“Ready to start the day,” she got a hum of approval as the Kawmi flew around her head.

The storefront was soon filled with soft music that she hummed as she began her rounds. A watering can in hand Mari made her way down rows of flowers, some blooming and some still growing. Next was the succulents, a spray bottle in hand as the song changed to a more upbeat pop song. Next on the list was trees. They were quickly becoming a staple, mini trees were something people liked to buy and she loved to grow them. Last to water were the herbs in the hanging pots around the outer edges of the store. The last of the plants watered for the morning meant it was time to start doing stock of the seeds and checking up on orders.

A pen sticking out of her mouth Mari went down the list of orders on the computer screen. It was a light week. Just the regulars getting their weekly arrangements for loved ones, two plant pickups and an email from Ivy talking about taking over for a few days. Nothing out of the ordinary and perfect for a week with as much baggage as this one might take. Bless Ivy for insisting on helping out and always seeming to know when she was needed. Mari’s train of thought was broken when the doorbell chimed to alert someone was coming in. In her surprise she stumbled to catch the falling pen and greet the newcomer.

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