#longest comic I’ve ever completed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

punkpandapatrixk · 6 months

Text

🌻Thinking About You ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

My Dearest Dream Person,

I think, the signs are all around me. When I weave dreams of my ideals, surely I must be thinking of you. I’ll recognise you when our eyes meet for the first time. I’m sure I can do that. After all, I have dreamt of you for the longest time.

I know I will love the way I feel, the way I am, when I’m in your presence. I’m certain that I will know then that this is true love…

with all of my heart,

Your Destined One♥︎

PLAYLIST: so this is love playlist by Sea Pearl

MOVIE: Sleeping Beauty (1955)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

For my Pink Clouds, there is a little incident with Pile 3, which is like, super random? But I was told it was important LMAO So I’ve included a mini behind-the-story for it as a sweet extra message🥰If you’re already subscribed, don't miss the full post on Patreon~🌷

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – I will hold and heal you, and always be there to protect you♥︎

VIBE: So This Is Love from Cinderella

my daydreams leading to you – Knight of Pentacles Rx

At the time you’re finding this PAC, your Destined Person is in a state of wanting to hurry and meet you XD They have this strong desire to be with you and hold you close. I think their Higher Self is making it clear to them that you exist somewhere in this Universe and that makes them daydream a looootttt about being in a relationship. Problem is, they don’t really know what you look like or how to find you… so… they could be trying to find a glimpse of you in so many different types of people! LMAO

For the most part, I don’t think this means your Destined Person is all and about dating all kinds of people just to find you—that would be kinda trash, right? But to a large extent, they daydream to no end. They could be seeing people, yes, finding them attractive or interesting, and being curious about them, only to realise there’s quite nothing there… These people don’t feel… right… or complete. Like there’s always something… wrong… or missing.

This could drive them crazy at some point. Wondering why their wants and ideals are so damn complicated! So unrealistic! But the truth is, they could never be satisfied with any of those different types of people because each of them hold only ever a piece of the puzzle that would make a whole picture of YOU~🧩It is your Destined Person’s task to figure this out themselves and finally get a clearer picture of what kind of Love they do truly deserve in this world (it is YOU~!)💕

let’s go on a date! – 5 of Swords

If you’ve chosen this Pile as your main pile, I feel like you’ve had a few storms in the past involving human connections in general. In simple terms, a lot of people have been so MEAN to you! It could be your own “family”, fake friends, toxic partners, whatever, really. A lot of people have caused a great deal of psychological pain onto you. And I have a strong feeling your Destined Person knows about this. I’m sure they know about this from the aethers, one way or another. After all, it’s not like their Higher Self isn’t in communication with your Higher Self? Huehue

That said, even before you meet in the physical, your Destined Person already has this vibe about them… of wanting to protect you from harm. I feel like they have this unsettling feeling deep inside of them, a feeling they can’t quite put a finger on, that they want to protect somebody. They want to be a hero to you. When you’re finally together, I still see this image of them wanting to punch anybody who would pose a danger to you XD

I’m seeing this comical image of them punching the air to demonstrate how they’re going to keep you from any, ANY, kind of harm. They’re funny like that. Humour is their love language hahah They’re not afraid of making a fool of themselves if that makes you laugh. Your Destined Person is going to be so devoted to protecting and comforting you♥︎

i want you around – Queen of Pentacles

Aaand…there’s a high chance that your Destined Person is a rich boi/gal. Not only do they have this nurturing quality to them, but they also have the means to provide for you. Even if they’re not that rich (yet) when you meet, the key thing is that they have this desire to work hard to provide for you. Make your dreams come true more easily. Make your life together easy. They don’t want you ever again to experience pain or hardship.

Truly, this is a daddy/mommy vibe~ It doesn’t matter if your Destined Person is younger or smaller than you, they will take it upon themselves to be the daddy/mommy in the relationship😂If you’re the one who’s older or bigger than them, you will find this stupidly endearing HAHAHAH

Your Destined Person is sensual, reliable, emotionally dependable, very honest and hardworking, on top of being funny. They have all of these lovely qualities that they can’t wait to pour unto you. They’re currently in this weird space where they really, really want to be someone’s boyfriend/girlfriend… GOSH, I HOPE YOU MEET SOON, DAMMIT!✨🍀🩰

DAYDREAMS🔻💚

words to describe you – Priestess of Patience

what’s in my heart for you – Priestess of Enchantment

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – You’ve shone a light of hope on my dark and dreary world

VIBE: Once Upon a Dream from Sleeping Beauty

my daydreams leading to you – 9 of Swords Rx

Right off the bat, your Destined Person has gone through some hellish experiences in this world. They’ve not had an easy life, and that’s caused them to view reality as immensely bleak. Before the idea of you came into their conscious mind, they’d probably had it so rough they couldn’t let themselves dream big or dream beauteous things. You know how people settle for less because they’re afraid of getting disappointed, again and again, by reality… by people?

On a different note, this could also mean that your Destined Person has endured much trauma in this life. People who have endured trauma could tend to have nightmares, even night terrors, right? We’re talking bad memories, PTSD, even CPTSD, so… this isn’t exactly an easy energy to navigate. Due to their traumas, they could also have developed harmful habits or strange coping mechanisms needed for survival. Within their psyche, there simply was so much chaos and pain.

One day, God came to your Destined Person and awakened a dream of YOU in them~ This miraculously gave them so much comfort and brought a sense of gladness for the first time in their dark and dreary world. When your Destined Person learnt of the aetheric connection you share, that you exist somewhere in this world and that you are waiting to meet and fall in love with them, they felt genuine softness for the first time in a long, long while…

That there is still something down the lane, there’s someone dearly beloved, that’s still worth living for~♥︎

let’s go on a date! – IV The Emperor Rx

From that moment onwards, your Destined Person went on to transform themselves. To make them stronger and more dazzling so they could become a perfect match for you. If this Pile is your main pile, I’m sure you’re a super dope person! I mean dope as in super awesome. I just know it that you’re a wonderful individual who has a big heart, and that a lot of people find you capable and inspirational. One way or another, this of you was conveyed to your Destined Person by the Universe~!

You are strong and kind and your Destined Person already knows this of you. In many ways, I feel almost like your Destined Person feels like they might not have that much to offer you… You’re so, so much, much more than they ever have been. Perhaps you’re richer, more successful, more famous, and all that, so…

Your Destined Person is currently just working on themselves. Making something out of themselves. They don’t really know yet what they could ever give you aside from their genuine heart. But they’re not going to be satisfied with just that. They’re not a loser, you know. They’re only beginning to let themselves be what they’re supposed to be—there’s still a lot they’re discovering about their strengths and natural talents! When they’ve figured this out of themselves, they’ll know just exactly what precious something they could offer you as a token of their Love~

i want you around – 8 of Cups Rx

Of all the Piles, I feel like your Destined Person is quite literally currently in a phase of self-discovery. They’re deep in the trenches of their own trauma healing and self-transformation that they can’t afford to focus too much on your energy. So this could mean you don’t always get clear aetheric messages from them. Plus, it feels like your Destined Person can’t or don’t even want to convey too many messages about what they think or feel about you because they know words would simply fail them.

The reason why? They’re afraid their words would become empty promises. They don’t even know themselves yet at this point. They’re not their best version of themselves yet. What tangible ideas or things could they possibly offer you? So, that’s kinda the vibe they’re operating with at this point in their Life. And if you should know anything, it is that your Destined Person has not had the luxury of being helped, supported, or coddled much by those they relied on. So there’s this vibe of them being afraid that they themselves can’t be relied upon. And that’s so sad because I think your Destined Person has such a genuine heart…

But worry not! At the end of the day, your Destined Person is literally just being taught by the Universe how to love themselves, prioritise their own needs and wants, and express themselves more honestly. They’ll get there😊They’ve just had a very lonesome and miserable life for the most part. One thing they do want you to know though, is that they’re thankful you exist at all in this Universe. You’ve given them so much hope and calmed down the storms in their world♥︎

DAYDREAMS🔻💛

words to describe you – Priestess of Prosperity

what’s in my heart for you – Priestess of Inspiration

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – I offer you now… Heaven on Earth! My Love!

VIBE: When You Wish Upon a Star from Pinocchio

my daydreams leading to you – 3 of Pentacles Rx

Even just looking at the pic you’ve chosen, it feels like you and your Destined Person really do wish to offer something precious to one another~ It’s almost like a prayer, I feel. That you hold such precious thoughts of one another and wish for the most wonderful things to happen to each other. But even more than just hoping, wishing and praying, the two of you are intent on making the world a better place so the other could rest more easily.

This isn’t just your Destined Person’s thoughts; I feel that even you have always held it in your heart that you wish to become a better person for the one most worthy of your Love. That person destined for you also carries it in their heart to work on themselves and transmute a ton of generational trauma as well as curses. If this is your main pile, I hope you know that you’re a powerful Soul who’s been tasked with the transmutation of Mankind’s negative inclinations.

You and your Destined Person are Divines Feminine and Masculine. You each embody the essence of the Divine in your own unique expression of Feminine and Masculine. Since you were a child, you were already a sage; you knew it within the heart of your hearts that changing the world begins with changing yourself. That’s why you will notice later on that both you and your Destined Person will appear to be such distant creatures from the rest of your families each—because you will have transcended above the ordinariness of the lineage you were born into LOL

let’s go on a date! – X The Wheel of Fortune

All of the above said, of all the Piles, yours is the most certain to meet very soon. I feel like, in the aethers, you are already one and united, and so, you’re just waiting for the temperatures of Planet Earth to get right so she could welcome your Divine Union. You and your Destined Person are such high-vibrational creatures that when you come into contact forests would shake and mountains would shudder XD I’m thinking of the chaos caused by Ponyo when she was trying to get to Sosuke LMAO PERFECT illustration!

You don’t want to end the world. So, this world has had to ready itself in order to witness your Divine Union with your Divine Counterpart. I’m sure when you’re together you’re going to become famous; whatever the scale of your community may be. You’re going to be seen by those around you as the charity-couple or inventor-couple or some shit. You and your Destined Person are going to be working together. And there will be something magical about what you do together—even if that thing is just a small business of a cosy café! For example.

Or it could be something what would be similar to the stories of the invention of bandaids and the surgical gloves. It’s just something lovely like that. There is healing in whatever you do which is needed by Mankind right at this passage of time. I just know it that your matrimony is going to be so full of meaning, of love and joy, or service to Mankind, and most importantly, so full of magical moments that make everything you’ve been through so worthwhile.

i want you around – King of Cups

The King of Cups—the King of love songs and poetry. He is kind, sensitive, patient and caring, compassionate and understanding. And immediately, a quote comes to mind with this aenergy:

‘The right person will make you fall in love with yourself, too.’

Your Destined Person resembles you so much. They possess so many qualities that you like that remind you that you have them, too. Looking at your Destined Person, you are reminded of how good and kind and capable you yourself are. The deeper your feelings get for them, the more in love you feel towards yourself, too. Life, finally makes sense.

You’ll find, ever so unexpectedly, that you don’t need so many distractions anymore. You need only this one person and everything else is a blur. You couldn’t care less anymore about people or things that feel so little in meaning. Not interested anymore. Ain’t got time for any of that now. You want only the one and true thing: a union—a Life—with your Destined Person.

Ever so naturally you will understand that the way to manifest this Love is through your own personal transformation. And so in that sense, your life’s focus becomes only one: YOURSELF. And you realise this—you become motivated to purify your world—through receiving the awakening call of your Destined Person’s identity.

DAYDREAMS🔻💗

words to describe you – Priestess of Magick

what’s in my heart for you – Priestess of Divination

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

589 notes · View notes

rdiowxdeaddove · 4 months

Text

▶︎ 00.01 - love him.

WARNINGS!: Rape/noncon, restraints, Gerard is a “little” unhinged, basement Gerard being gross (in more ways than one), forced relationship towards the end, manipulation, slapping, bleeding, crying, drugging, love-bombing, suffocation just a little and like once.

This aint proofread its 6am (i started this at 12am)

Summary: Gerard confesses to you but little does he know you’ve only been hanging out with him out of pity, but dont worry he’ll fix that.

Nah this the longest shit I’ve written.

AMAB!READER X BASEMENT!GERARD

You and your friend Gerard —if you could even call him your friend— were both sitting on his bed in the basement of his house, nobody else was here probably having something to do unlike Gerard whose only friend was you, he considered you his best friend. You were both watching some movie that you couldn’t focus on anymore once he started talking about a comic he was working on. “Well are you gonna show me or are you just gonna keep talking about it?” You cut him off, turning your head towards him taking your eyes off the tv. “Oh..Oh yea uh it’s over here.” He replied, getting up off the bed and walking to the other side of the room towards his cluttered desk. You followed after him, you figured he was probably expecting you to anyways. You were quickly proven wrong when he bumped into you, causing him to drop his sketch book and comic sketches.

“Gerard what the hell is that?” You asked, your eyes fixated on his now open sketchbook at both of your feet. You picked it up taking a closer look at it, it was multiple drawings of you in multiple different angles. “You’re just, easy to draw- im around you all the time..give it back!” He stumbled over his words before trying to grab the book out of your hands to which you successfully dodged. “No fucking way.” You were frankly disgusted at the next page, it was full of drawings of you, in sex positions, your face twisted in pleasure. “What the hell Gerard? What are you in love with me or something?” You inquired, shoving the book back towards his chest. You were hoping this was all just a joke that he would laugh in your face, but instead he stayed quiet and looked down at the drawings. “Dude! I only hang out with you because i feel sorry for you! I would never ever be with someone like you!” You pushed him, his back hitting the desk “But you-“ he tried to speak but you cut him off.

“No! no, you’re s’ fuckin..weird!” It didn’t take long for you to get dizzy, start slurring your words. You thought back to the coke he brought down to you before the movie started, he must’ve slipped something in it before giving it to you. Before you completely blacked out you saw Gerard smile before making sure you didnt hit your head when you fell. While you were out it didn’t take Gerard long to tie you down, he had this planned from the start. He knew you would never like him never mind love him the way he loved you, but that was okay he just had to make you. He just had to make you understand, even if that meant drugging you and fucking you so stupid you had no choice but to love him. He made sure that you wouldnt’t be out for too long but just long enough to get your shirt off and tied down to his bed.

You woke up to the feeling of Gerards lips on yours, your eyes widened as the memories from before you blacked out came back and you let out a muffled noise. Gerard pulled away from you, looking down at you with a lovesick stare. “Gerard? what the fuck are you doing?” You asked, your voice raspy from having just become conscious again. You tried to move your wrists only for you to find them stuck, same with your legs. “Wh- what- why am i tied up?” You squirmed under Gerard only for you to find out your shirt had been taken off and Gerards hard on was pressing against your stomach as he straddled your hips. His clothes were still on though he just took your shirt off so he wouldn’t have to deal with it later, he never took his eyes off of your face even as you started trying to get out of the bindings.

“Stop trying to get out, you don’t think that im that stupid do you? That i would just let you leave?” He took your face in his hand, squeezing your face so hard your teeth were pressed up against your inner cheeks painfully. Your eyes watered a little from the pain before he let go of you, pushing your head to the side. You squeezed your eyes shut before opening them speaking again, “fuck, let me go Gerard, i-“ you were cut off as Gerard hand made contact with your cheek, maybe a little too hard because looked at him shocked at the taste of blood filled your mouth. “Shh…shut up.” Gerard leaned down to whisper against your lips. “just shut up, you talk too fucking much.” You let out a cry as he leaned down to kiss you again, when he noticed you weren’t kissing him back he brought his hand that wasnt holding himself up to pinch your nose until you had no choice but to give in.

When he finally leaned out of the kiss and you could breathe properly he took you being distracted as his chance to get your pants down. “No! No- stop, stop please!” You pleaded once you gathered what he was doing, tears freely falling at this point. You tried to move your legs to deter his movements however it did nothing in the end as your pants ended up around your ankles as well as your boxers. “What..what are you gonna do?” You breathed out, barely able to get through your sentence. Gerard just ignored you moving his hips up closer to your mouth, you finally got the hint when he went to unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans before pulling his cock out. You went to shake your head in disagreement but Gerard made sure to grab your face and squeeze your cheeks so you had no choice but to open your mouth. “Y’ gonna suck me off okay?” He asked, obviously not giving you an option.

You had no choice but to nod in agreement, fearing the worst if you said no. Maybe he would make you bleed even worse, or drug you again just to use your body while you were unable to move and forced to just watch. You took his cock in your mouth, the taste of him mixed with the blood from your busted lip. “C’mon you can do better than that.” He spoke, not giving you a chance to prove you could do better before shoving the rest of his cock down your throat causing you to gag. “See? Isn’t that so much better?” He teased, now using your head to face fuck you as you struggled to breathe. He wasn’t completely cruel, pulling out of your mouth to let you breathe for a moment before fucking your mouth again. Your tears were starting to mix with your saliva as well as your blood, Gerard just smiled down at you as moans left him.

Soon he got bored of your mouth and you could finally breathe properly as he left your mouth and moved further down your body. “Im gonna untie your legs, if you so much as think about trying to kick me i will fucking kill you.” He glared at you from the end of the bed, you only nodded, unable to speak from the crying and face fucking from before. You didn’t wanna try to test him, you were the one who was tied to his bed and face fucked anyways. It didn’t take long for him to undo the ropes, rubbing your ankles as he got them off. He slid your pants and boxers all the way off after getting you free,leaning down to press his lips to your thighs. You were scared to move your legs, not wanting to piss Gerard off you kept still until he moved your legs himself. He made his way up the bed pushing your legs up by your thighs, your knees by your shoulders as you clenched your hands into fists.

“So pretty when you shut up and let me do what i want.” Gerard kissed your thighs “y’gonna get all hard for me yea?” He reached around to fist your cock, you whimpered and squirmed in Gerards hold before he used the forearm of his other arm and his chest to hold you down. He laughed under his breath as he felt you get hard in his hand and watched you turn into a mess under him his chest pressed against the back of your legs as he jerked you off. He let go of your cock causing you to whimper, shoving the middle fingers of the hand he was using to jerk you off into your mouth to lube them up. He didn’t have to tell you to suck for you to get the message, however it didnt last long as he took them out to stretch you out to get you ready for him. A sob ripped from your throat as he started at a fast pace, his fingers hitting everywhere they needed to make you feel good.

“Fuck!” You cursed, pushing your head back against the mattress, Gerard hummed in a teasing manner and smiled at you, “You’re a fucking freak, getting off on me raping you.” He removes his fingers deciding that you’ve been stretched out enough, at least enough for him to slide in without too much pain. You try to catch your breath before Gerard shoves his cock into you in one thrust causing you to cry out ,Gerard wipes your tears with his thumb before shoving it in your mouth successfully muffling you, the salty taste of tears mixing with the iron taste of your blood. All that can be heard in the basement are your muffled cries, Gerards moans and the sound of your bodies together. “You’re gonna be my boyfriend? You’re gonna come over every day and im gonna fuck you till you’re stupid and you have no other choice but to love me.” He tells you before taking his thumb out of your mouth so you can respond. You only manage to get a weak, “m’ your boyfriend.” Out before he speeds up his pace,

“cmon you can be louder.” He smiles at you before his face contorts into pleasure. “M’ your boyfriend! Just yours!” You manage to speak up, your throat not having recovered from the sobbing from before. “Mm, i love you, tell me you love me.” He took your face in his hand when you hesitated to answer and squeezed “love- love you! I love you, please-.” You cried when he plugged your nose again, even if you could still breathe out of your mouth you immediately went into panic mode from before. He let go of your nose and face before pulling you into a kiss. “M’ gonna cum, y’ gotta cum with me okay?” He huffed out before moving his hand to your cock once more. “‘Kay- okay!” You sobbed at the stimulation of his cock and his hand. It didnt take long for both of you to cum, him finishing inside of you and you finishing on your stomach and chest with a cry of relief.

Both you and Gerard caught your breath before Gerard moved to untie your hands. You were too tired to fight him off, opting to just bring them down to your sides. Gerard helped you up before picking you up to bring you to the bathroom connected to the basement. Running the bath he set you on the floor until it filled enough to get in with you, when it did he sat down behind you letting you lay on his chest. It didnt take long for tears to run down your face again as Gerard stroked your hair and pressed a kiss to your head. “So pretty…my boyfriend.”

#rdiofics !#grd #mcrdeaddove #tw noncon #tw choking #tw drugging #tw manipulation

67 notes · View notes

paintingpuff · 9 months

Note

Ooh the backstory for the comic sounds so cool! Could you maybe post the short story?

Sure, I'll put it under the cut!

Keep in mind the comic is an adaptation so the story had to go through some changes.

File info says this was made during quarantine which definitely explains why I can't remember writing it

My sister--and most people in our village, in fact--think that my child is not my own. One would assume it was because of the incident a month after my daughter’s birth, where I walked into her room only to find a fairy flying out the window, a bundle in her arms.

But that’s not why my sister thinks my daughter is fae, because I didn’t tell anyone about that incident. Instead, my sister says it’s because my child is acting odd. It’s a logic I can’t understand, since all children are strange to me.

I love the way they approach the world with a mix of naivete and eagerness. I’ve even met children that don’t realize that a scrape or scratch is supposed to hurt until you look alarmed. They have no understanding of common sense, because everything they do is for the first time in their life. They’re honest, harsh, and innocent in a manner that is gradually clogged up with new responsibilities and knowledge as they grow older.

Their world is limited, and as such they completely permeate it. It’s fragile and destructive in a way I don’t think can be replicated, not after that window of early childhood has passed.

I see it in every child, and my daughter does not seem any more unusual. But my sister insists that there is a difference, and shakes her head whenever she thinks it’s relevant.

My child has broken the table. Not much, she just jumped on the top one too many times and its leg splintered. I’m not going to get it replaced, or get it fixed, or at least not immediately.

She got in a fight with some other children in town, they said something that she just couldn’t understand and she lashed out with a stick. The other kid only had a red mark on his skin from the impact, at least.

My daughter hates being around others, and spends most of her time back home, where it’s quiet. I once tried taking her to the market and she broke down crying, sitting in the middle of the road. I consoled her there, crouching in the dirt path, and tried ignoring the judgemental stares from people passing by. She would rather spend hours on end at the edge of the forest. I don’t let her explore on her own, and when I’m gone the others say she always stands just before the trees become too dense and stares off, wistfully.

She’s a picky eater, but a very hungry one. I can’t find a consistent set of taste, and each new meal feels like a gamble of my time, but I have to take those chances because I can’t have her eating only eggs and milk for each meal of the day.

She doesn’t like being touched, reacts to my fingers as if they’ve given her rashes, and for the longest time I felt lost because I didn’t know how else to comfort her.

(I found my ways eventually. When she gets upset, I take my grandmother’s woolen scarf from its rack and wrap her in it. She loves running her hands along the threads.)

After long days of gathering food and walking from errand to errand I’m woken up in the middle of the night by her, and we both struggle to go back to sleep from her nightmares. When she was a baby she wailed as loud as she could, because she knew doing that would bring me to her. Now I’m afraid that I won’t hear her and she’ll think I left her alone on purpose. My friends comment on the bags under my eyes always getting darker. I know they’re trying to remind me that it’s a bad thing.

They call her a changeling, something that has replaced my real baby. The child I gave birth to is out in those woods, the stories say, maybe dancing with fairies or being sacrificed to the devil. But in the meantime, they say I am left with a parasitical replica, a creature that saps me of my energy, food and time.

I sometimes wonder if they’ve ever had a child before.

I do my best to brush off the people in town, but my sister is more insistent. I know she’s just being protective since my husband’s passing, but something snapped in me with the way she spoke. I yelled that the stories of the fae were all hogwash, and she asked me how I could be so sure. So I told her the truth:

I had already seen the fairy.

I had returned home early from the market, and had seen my daughter sitting at the edge of the forest, like always. Her hand was raised to the air, a single finger stretched parallel to the ground. This didn’t seem out of the ordinary to me, and I was about to head back inside and prepare dinner, when I saw a flicker of movement.

A tiny sparrow emerged from behind a tree, and settled on my daughter’s finger.

It was difficult to see her face from my angle, but just from the outline of her cheeks I could tell she was grinning from ear to ear. The bird whistled to her, and the child gave a raspy, unpracticed melody in response. She moved her hand around carefully, not wanting to startle the bird, but a part of me knew that something as simple as a jolt wouldn’t make the bird go away.

The bird was only there for a few minutes before it took off and vanished back into the forest. So my child sat up, stained in green but not caring, and ran back to the house. I entered shortly afterwards, acting casual. She didn’t know I saw her, and she didn’t tell me about the bird then, so I can only wonder how many times the bird had come before.

Still, gradually the two of us came to a common understanding: she figured out I knew about the bird, and I knew that she knew.

I hadn’t fully realized we’d had this agreement until my daughter stepped into my house, sharp distress twisting her face. She raised her tiny fingers to show blood spilled on them, but not from any wound of her own. She told me the bird had been missing feathers, had perched on her finger with only one leg, and its song was weaker than before. Her bird calls had already greatly improved, so she imitated the bird’s pained song for me, just to make sure I understood.

She wanted to follow the bird into the woods, see that it’s alright. I crouched down with the scarf, wrapped her in it, and told her that I would find the bird myself.

So I wandered through the dark woods, the sun already starting to set, a torch in hand and a cloak on my shoulders. I heard a whistling in the woods, and the melody rangs familiar. The bird was still singing, and it didn't sound any weaker, but my daughter has always been more attentive to details; I trusted her.

I kept walking, kept following the bird, and for brief flickers in the treetops I saw flaps of wings. It was flying slower than usual. It ducked behind a tree, and when I stepped around to keep my eye on the bird, I saw a child.

It was not my child, but another little girl of a similar age, one with brown hair closer to my own than my daughter’s fiery red. Patterns were dotted across her arms like that of a sparrow’s wings, but her skin was also spotted with bruises and scratches, twigs and leaves and mud in her hair and stuck to her body. She didn't seem to be in pain, and I wondered if anyone had told her that those scratches are supposed to hurt. She hugged the tree, perhaps as a shield or perhaps as comfort.

I crouched down, and kept my voice quiet. “Hello.”

She stepped back a little, keeping her eyes off of me.

“Are you the one who plays with my daughter?”

More silence. I swallowed, my throat already dry. “She considers you a very good friend.”

“She’s my best friend.”

The girl’s voice was rough and unused, but that similar constriction in my chest came when I heard it, and I fully realized that this is just another kid I was talking to. I told her what people call me. The girl gave no response, but I could tell that she was relaxing.

“Are you a fairy?”

The girl nodded. “I can turn into a bunch of different animals.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“A cat, and....a dog, and, uh...I’m a sparrow a lot.”

“Do you like flying around?”

To my surprise, the girl shook her head. She told me she likes landing on my daughter’s finger. “I like singing with her,” she said.

I asked her why she doesn’t transform into different animals to do so much more, and the girl looked at me with the most genuine and honest confusion I’ve seen. She didn’t understand the other options, because this was the only one that mattered to her. Her scope was so small, but she embraced it so wholly that I couldn’t be upset. “Are your injuries okay?” I asked instead.

There was a slight bob of her head, one I almost didn’t see in the dark. “They’ll get healed up.” She pointed over her shoulder to a small ring of mushrooms behind her. I know a fairy circle when I see one, and I nodded in understanding. I left her to vanish in the fog of that forest.

I returned home to my daughter and told her the bird is okay, and will come again tomorrow. She didn’t make a relieved expression or gesture, but gave a very quiet and polite “Thank you,” so I know that she was grateful.

Some of the townsfolk think I’ve had my real child switched with an anomaly, a magic changeling. When I first met the bird, I thought that perhaps she was the changeling that was supposed to replace my child.

But whenever the bird appeared again, I made sure to leave some bread and milk for her, as well as leave our window open, in case she ever needed to rest at our home. My child came to me, wanting to sew a pillow for the bird to sleep on. The snacks I left out became more and more elaborate, from a small bit of porridge to pieces of a cake. Some days I would wake in the morning early enough to see that bird curled up in the roughly made pillow of my daughter’s.

I didn’t even think twice before I moved the pillow to my child’s room, setting it next to her head. I watched her and the bird snore peacefully, and I watched as the bird’s feathers slowly retracted and its silhouette expanded in the faint morning light.

It wasn’t until I saw the two children, holding each other tightly under the warm blankets and roof of their shared house, did I realize that both I and the townsfolk were wrong.

No child of mine had been replaced, nor were they meant to. I simply had two daughters.

#writing #changelings #ask #gray ball

108 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 6 months

Text

Matthew Perry was a Friend to all, known the world over as Chandler Bing, always seconds away from a great wisecrack and a show-stopping grin. But he was also an addict. That was the “big, terrible thing” Perry referenced in the title of his memoir last year, giving it equal weighting with the TV series that made him an indelible celebrity, long after he had largely retreated from screens.

I read Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing last year and found it a jarring, often uncomfortable experience. It was one part juicy celebrity memoir, enlivened by the flashes of humour and winning self-deprecation that Perry (by his own admission) shared with his defining character; and one part harrowing account of a man intent on his own destruction.

Perry characterised himself as a ready-made, just-add-water addict: an alcoholic with his first drink at the age of 14, and hooked on painkillers with his first pill, prescribed after a jetski accident. High, he drove a red Mustang convertible across the desert, feeling “complete and utter euphoria”: “I remember thinking, ‘If this doesn’t kill me, I’m doing this again.’” It didn’t then.

Nearly a year to the day after Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing was published, Perry was found dead at his Los Angeles home in an apparent drowning. He was 54. Tributes from his friends and fans have rightly focused on Perry’s character and talent, with actors Morgan Fairchild (who played Perry’s on-screen mother) mourning “the loss of such a brilliant young actor” and Mira Sorvino of his “singular wit”. Even the Canadian prime minister, Justin Trudeau, (who knew Perry as a boy, and whom Perry claimed in his memoir to have beaten up) paid tribute to the “schoolyard games we used to play … Thanks for all the laughs, Matthew”.

Indeed, though Perry’s career never took off beyond Friends, he was arguably the standout performer in a talented cast of six. Any good-looking guy can be the smart-aleck, cracking jokes in the corner, but Perry imbued Chandler with energy and emotional depth.

Though defined by his deadpan delivery – Perry is right, when he wrote “that Chandler Bing transformed the way that America spoke” – he also had exceptional comic timing, and was a great physical performer. No one else has so effectively communicated combined dating anxiety and needing to pee. The fact that Perry managed to more or less keep it together over 10 seasons and 236 episodes, often while juggling ferocious substance abuse, is only further testament to his talent.

The success of Friends – not to mention the support from his castmates, his real-life friends – was what helped him to survive, Perry wrote. “There was no way I could have been a journeyman actor. I wouldn’t have stayed sober for that; it was not worth not doing heroin for that … When you’re earning $1m a week, you can’t afford to have the 17th drink.”

Perry also had a tricky part to play within the ensemble, in taking a platonic friendship between two cynics into a heartfelt romance. Chandler and Monica was Friend’s central love story, with none of the cushioning contrivances and strategic “breaks” of the series’ other pairings. In TV, as well as life, it’s harder to make yourself vulnerable and offer love steadily than it is to give in to doubt and run hot-and-cool: Perry showed that the smart guy, even the mean guy, could also be the nice guy you’d do well to marry.

In a series that has otherwise aged fairly poorly, Chandler and Monica are still an aspirational model for an equal partnership. As a teenager, I found it sweet when Chandler told Monica: “They can say that you’re high maintenance, but it’s OK, because I like … maintaining you.” As a far-from-easygoing, thirtysomething single woman, it is perhaps the most desirable declaration of love I’ve ever seen.

It is no wonder Perry was so beloved for his character. “For the longest time,” he wrote, he experienced it as a burden, though he had lately reached some kind of peace with Friends as his legacy. “If you’re going to be typecast, that’s the way to do it.” But at the widespread shock at his death, as the world woke up to the news on Sunday morning, you can picture Perry raising one quizzical eyebrow. As he wrote himself: “I didn’t stand a fucking chance.”

Perry might not have risked 17 drinks on set – but he would certainly try for 16. Especially during the later seasons of Friends, he was routinely drunk, high or hungover on set, prompting concern from Jennifer Aniston. (“‘We can smell it,’ she said, in a kind of weird but loving way.”) Even a “sober companion” to shadow him at work proved insufficient safeguard: when a read-through was cut short by Perry’s incoherence, the entire cast staged an intervention. When The One With Monica and Chandler’s Wedding aired, in May 2001, Perry was living in rehab.

For all Perry’s amusing celebrity anecdotes and determined good cheer, Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing reads primarily as an addiction memoir without an ending. Indeed, it read as though it had almost been written in real time: Perry’s colon had exploded in July 2019, only three years before its publication, and in January 2022 he underwent his 14th surgery relating to his drug addiction. “I finally have rock-hard abs, but they aren’t from sit-ups,” he wrote, perkily.

Perry described, often, the reward he drew from supporting other addicts: “The best thing about me, bar none, is that … I can help a desperate man get sober.” Nonetheless, I was struck while reading it that the more recent timeline of Perry’s using and abusing was somewhat opaque. It felt somewhat strategic: an attempt to obscure his current reality and lend heft to the suggestion that the worst of his troubles were behind him. But even Perry himself – no doubt encouraged to come to a positive conclusion – could not find a more upbeat note with which to end on than the fact that he was alive at all.

For all its gestures to sobriety, “looking forward” and moving into the future, the final chapter reads like Perry speaking from beyond the grave, reflecting on the faces of his loved ones as if he has already passed on.

The world might be shocked at his untimely death, but Perry knew that his addiction was going to kill him; he told us in print a year ago, in a book that reached six figures in sales. Indeed, he wrote, his most surprising takeaway was that it hadn’t already.

“There are two kinds of drug addicts,” Perry wrote of his preference for opiates over cocaine. “The ones who want to go up, and the ones who want to go down … I wanted to melt into my couch and feel wonderful.” You can only hope that, now, he is as close to happiness as he felt that morning in the red Mustang.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #matthew perry #chandler bing #Friends #Lovers #and the Big Terrible Thing #book review

52 notes · View notes

dandelion-jester · 9 months

Text

Writblr Intro:

Hello All!!!

I've been meaning to do a proper intro so better late then never!

Who Am I?

You can call me Dandelion. I'm 22 years old, I use they/them pronouns, I'm English and I am a queer, trans, neurodivergent fantasy writer. I've not had anything published yet but it's my aim.

I have a background in theatre and circus so performing arts tend to turn up in my work. I also love making maps and studying conlangs! I do a lot of art and reading as hobbies, but my favourite pass time is playing dnd!

What Do I Write?

I write mainly fantasy, but also scifi and historical fiction. I also dabble in poetry and I would like to learn how to write for games and screen at some point. For now though, it's all novel writing as far as the eye can see.

My favourite trope to write is found family (I blame all the dungeons and dragons I play). I also write a lot of queer characters and try to diversify my casts as much as possible. My work tends to be very character driven although I do love world building a lot, especially building different cultures and places. I'm best st dialogue and really struggle with building plots. I also have a deep love for history, specifically the 1700s and Anglo saxon - medieval Britain, so that's usually finds its way into my work as well.

You can find my work on Patreon here

What Do I Read?

Unsurprisingly, it's mostly fantasy. I used to read over 100 books a year, but university has made me hit a massive reading slump. So the main thing keeping me going right now is Robin Hobb. I also listen to a lot of audiobooks.

My WIPs:

Information on my current work is under the break!!

Feypocalypse

Feypocalypse is a queer, fantasy horror comic set in medieval England following the events of a Fey Apocalypse in the 1300s. It follows a group of knights trying to survive in a world that has been turned into a Fey hunting ground, whilst protecting the Changeling child they accidentally adopted. The current plan is eight issues, to be published on Patreon and then printed as a complete novel at the end! It will be written by myself and illustrated by my amazing co-creator @withlovefromthecrowss.

The Legend of The Rat Bastards (vols. 1 & 2)

I recently finished playing in a Curse of Strahd campaign that lasted about 2 years and was one of the best dnd experiences of my life. So of course, I decided to write it up in novel form so that I and the other players could always return to it. Our paladin was an extremely detailed note taker so I've been borrowing their notes. It's currently the longest piece of writing I’ve ever done and I add to it every day. It's from the pov of my character, a human necromancer called Sepulcrave who has a pretty crazy character arc and it's my current main WIP, even though its a personal project.

Eye of the Falcon King (working title)

A secondary-world medieval fantasy novel about identity, rebellion, and manipulation. In a world where some few people have the ability to shape-shift into birds, the king seeks out these people to be his personal servants, messengers and spies. Turik is a young boy able to turn into a falcon and becomes a member of the King's circle. But after a tragedy befalls his best friend it begins to become apparent that the king is not as benevolent as he seems and Turik must come to terms with the knowledge that his reality is a lie. This book is about breaking free from manipulative forces, the ways invisible disabilities are ignored and pushed aside, and mostly about how the monarchy is terrible. Also queer people because all my stories have queer characters.

Otherlings (working title)

It's 1875 and Eliza Farthing's twin brother Alexander has just reappeared in her life after seven years. Except he's not her twin, he's her changeling. And Eliza isn't always Eliza, sometimes he's Francis. The world's of the two twins - one fey, one queer - are about to become very intertwined against their wishes. The two have to fight against their family, the police, a morally corrupt scientist, inter-community distrust, and their own dislike for each other, or both of them will never regain the lives they so desperately need and desire. Also there's a circus. The book deals with identity, secrecy, hatred, and community. It's a book about found family, about accepting yourself and others, about not needing to be seen to exist and be worth something. Mostly it's about sticking together despite your differences.

So that's my current WIPs! I'll add more as I get them, but that's all for now! Thank you for taking an interest in my work and if you have any questions, don't hesitate to send me an ask :)

Tags I use

#legend of the rat bastards, #eye of the falcon king, #ask dandelion-jester #feypocalypse #otherlings novel

#writblr #writeblr #writeblr intro #intro #wips #my wips #writer #author #writing #legend of the rat bastards #eye of the falcon king #feypocalypse #otherlings novel

59 notes · View notes

kusaka6e · 2 years

Text

PRIDE

boxer!natsu x gn!reader

modern au

sfw

———

“and down goes dragneel! the dragon king is really giving the salamander a run for his money, i’m surprised he’s still conscious!”

bastards

you wish the announcers could hear you from your position in natsu’s corner of the ring, choice words brewing in the back of your mind for them.

please just stay down

this is the longest ten seconds of my life

the referee gets to seven before natsu signals that he’s okay to continue, making your stomach lurch. it wasn’t that you didn’t believe in him or his skills. you knew he’d sooner die than lose the fight. it was how his physical state would hold up after that you were worried about.

you rub your palms on your pants as the round ends, your custom jacket with “dragneel” plastered across the back suddenly feeling entirely too warm.

natsu’s left eye was swollen almost completely shut, and if you looked hard enough you were sure his jaw was out of place.

“are you okay to keep going?” makarov scowled, holding natsu’s water up to his face and trying to grease his ever-swelling eye.

“i’m good!” he nods, taking a swig.

“i can call it, you’ve done more than en-” natsu gives makarov a fiery glare, making the older man cut his sentence short. in any other setting, the size difference between them would be absolutely comical.

he spits the water into a bucket held up to his face by another member of his team, staring makarov down.

“i’m fine!” you let out a sigh, a sick feeling sinking in about how the next few rounds would go.

and somehow, miraculously, the announcers are holding up natsu’s fists and adorning him with a ridiculous sized championship belt, the arena roaring with praise for him. you had your camera-ready smile down to a science, but natsu knew you were upset.

you stayed in natsu’s locker room when a trainer came to see him, fighting the urge to scoff upon hearing he had another concussion, possible broken ribs, and probably needed a trip to the eye doctor to make sure he’d keep his sight in his left eye.

natsu had tenacity, nobody could deny that. that��s part of what made his name so popular in the boxing community so quickly. you’d been able to bear witness to him going from small matches in you two’s neighborhood boxing gym to selling out matches as the headlining fighter. you couldn’t be prouder. but you also couldn't be more worried. because for every ounce of tenacity natsu carried, he had just as much (if not more) recklessness to bring to the ring. his tunnel vision and hyperfocus on victory was his strength and very well could be his demise.

natsu’s father had been the one to teach him to fight. for unknown reasons, igneel never got into the big leagues, but he raised one hell of a prodigy.

so, you can see why natsu took igneel's sudden absence to heart. he wasn’t dead, or injured, or missing in action. just simply flew halfway across the world to start a new life with a woman half his age, completely abandoning his then-teenage son and training him. and no matter how well natsu did, how much he excelled or how many wins he had under his name, nothing ever made his father break his silence towards him.

makarov bringing natsu into his gym to continue his training was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. he saw natsu as one of his own, which is part of why he was so hard on him.

“you can’t keep doing this, natsu.”

“winning?”

“can you stop being a smartass for two minutes? you need to care for your body, not just train to swing hard. if you lose your sight in your left, then what?”

you suck in a breath, watching natsu’s non-injured eye narrow in annoyance.

“both of my fists will still work. i’ve fought plenty of times with a fucked up eye before.”

“you are insufferable.” makarov sighs, giving you a look that suggested you might have more luck than he did, closing the door behind him.

“love you too!” natsu shouts, grinning as he pulls a hoodie on his sweaty torso.

you two’s drive home is uncharacteristically quiet, natsu staring at you in anticipation. you’d snatched the keys out of his duffel before he could even think about insisting he could drive, knowing how casually he treated his concussions.

“why do you keep hurting yourself in your fights?” your voice is quiet and even-toned, staring at the brake lights ahead of you. traffic leaving the arena was nearly standstill, masses of cars surrounding you in every direction.

“it’s not like im punching myself in the face babe.”

you kiss your teeth in annoyance, refusing to look at him.

“you know that’s not what i mean.”

“why does everyone keep asking me that? this entire sport is based around beating the shit out of the other guy in the ring with you, i don’t see the problem.”

“the problem is you don’t know when to stop, natsu.”

“i stop when i win, that’s all that matters.” your grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles beginning to go white.

“what about you?”

he sighs heavily, cracking his knuckles.

“i’m fine, (y/n).”

“your fifth concussion in a year is fine, natsu? your broken ribs that are gonna make it hurt to breathe are fine? the possibility of you only being able to see out of one of your eyes, that’s fine to you?!” guilt washes over you when you watch him wince at your increase in volume, remembering that his concussion would make him sensitive to sound.

he opens his mouth, then closes it. he knows you’re right, and fighting with you is the last thing he wanted to do. soon enough, you pull into your driveway, thankful to get out of the car.

you park the car, yanking the keys from the ignition as he hastily follows you into you two’s home. you set the keys on a table by the front door, taking a breath.

“you can go to the eye doctor by yourself tomorrow.” his eyes widen, double taking to make sure he heard you right.

“what?!” it was an unspoken rule that you always came to his appointments with him. press conferences, interviews, photoshoots, his only request was that you were always right there.

“i’ll order the uber in the morning so you don’t have to dri-”

“why aren't you coming?”

“i’m not gonna listen to you try to fight the advice of another person who only wants the best for your health. justifying it with winning isn’t enough.”

“my eye is fine, i’m really not hurt that bad.”

“yes you are! i’m listening to you wheeze every time you inhale, don’t try to give me that bullshit. you’re either going to start taking care of yourself or i’m done. i’m not gonna sit around and watch you destroy yourself over a title.”

his eyes darken with anger, staring you down.

“yea? what happened to you being proud of me for fighting through all that shit? for being an underdog, for making a name for myself?”

“none of that is worth your well being, natsu! if you never winning a match again means you’re not going to get permanent brain damage from all these concussions, on top of partial blindness, so fucking be it! i care more about you than i do some stupid shiny belt.” you spit.

“that belt is worth everything to me, why don’t you get that?”

“why do you always act like you have something to prove?!”

“because i do!” him raising his voice rattles the entire house, regret rising in his chest at the sharp pain that shows up behind his temples and watching you jump in surprise.

“i do have something to prove.” his voice cracks when he repeats himself, much weaker than the first time.

you finally look at him, raising an eyebrow for him to continue.

“i have to prove that him leaving wasn’t my fault. eventually, he has to see how good i’m doing and say something about it.”

your chest pangs as you watch him wipe away a tear before it can fall, his usual massive stature suddenly looking so small and fragile in you two’s foyer, light from the moon illuminating behind him.

there’s tense silence for a few moments, but you know you can’t keep it up.

“baby…” you cautiously reach an arm around him, gasping when he throws himself into you, failing at trying to hide his crying.

“i-i’m sorry, i’ll be more careful. i just wanted to make everyone proud, to prove that i deserve to be here. i’ll go get my eye looked at, and i won’t fight when i get hurt like this anymore, just please don’t leave me too, i can’t-” the rest of his sentence is cut off with a choked sob, making you gently shush him as you move one hand to play with his hair.

“i’m right here, it’s okay.” you give him a few minutes to let everything out, cradling his tear-stained face in your hands and giving him a reassuring smile.

“i’m so proud of you. and so is anyone else who’s in your corner. anyone who’s not doesn’t deserve the honor in the first place.” he nods, sniffling quietly.

“i’m sorry.” he whispers, unable to meet your eyes.

it was easy to forget that natsu was sensitive under his goofy and nonchalant exterior, especially seeing him in action. you press a quick kiss to his lips, finally getting a small smile out of him.

“we should probably go shower and go to bed, yea? we’ve gotta be on time for that appointment tomorrow.”

his face lights up like a kid on christmas, taking your hand in his and tugging you upstairs to you two’s room.

“i’m sorry i’m a pain in the ass-” he kisses your nose, interrupting his statement “-i love you-” another on both your cheeks, “-so much.” he finishes with kissing your lips, lingering there for a few moments. you playfully roll your eyes, snuggling up to him so you can fall asleep.

“i love you and your stubborn ass more.”

#fairy tail x reader #fairy tail #fairy tail headcanons #natsu dragneel #natsu dragon slayer #natsu fluff #natsu headcannons #natsu headcanons #boxer!natsu #natsu x reader #natsu x gn reader

462 notes · View notes

fauxraven · 1 year

Note

Can I request that me and Morpheus are husband and wife and I have telekinesis and I protect him from all the people who are after him but i over use them and I pass out but release a energy blast but he catches me in his arms and places me in his bed until I wake up and I finally reveal who I am and he is very sweet about it

Brave New Dream

pairing: Dream of the Endless x Powerful fem!reader

summary: a thousand lifetimes of protecting the man you love and a billion reasons to love you more.

warnings: slight spoilers for the comics.

word count: 3k+

dedicated to this lovely Anon who, I hope will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Not sure this is what you had in mind but I took a bit of a creative license ;)

Enter the Dream, weary traveller

The universe began in death.

The world as humans know it was created billions and billions and trillions of years ago.

And for the longest time, there was nothing there.

Not even darkness.

Nothing but a pile of rocks that I'd crafted from my tears, long before I even knew about tears; long before I even knew about sadness.

Long before I knew about anything at all.

Unfortunately, the concept of sadness is one I’ve become familiar with. It's a concept I completely owe to myself, lest there be a Depression of the Endless I would be unaware of.

Naturally, sadness has never only really been just sadness.

And love has never really been just love.

Sadness and love; the only things I've ever taken for granted. I drag them behind me, like one of my husband's long billowing coats, on my road to eternity.

And eternity, is unbearable.

Eternity is impervious to evolution.

Eternity is impervious to the big D.

Eternity has never been anything else but existence, uninterrupted.

Nothing but me, sitting cross-legged on a giant rock floating in endless nothingness, watching stars bursting into life.

Billions and billions of lives.

Billions and billions of deaths.

Aeons fly by.

Atoms arrange, break down, rearrange, reshape, remodel in an infinite scheme for life.

And of this new process, burst life, everlasting.

The Creator came first.

He shaped worlds and realities of incomparable beauty, worlds that I could admire from my rock in a secluded part of this new universe. For him, I was grateful.

The Designer came second.

She'd always been here, in a way, just like me, but the Elden Books only gave her life meaning when her disembodied eyes had found those of her equal. For her, I was devastated.

Mother Night and Father Time were a logic addition to this bubbling garden of life, looking back.

Night and Time.

The essence of youth, ebbing away, crumbling to dust with each passing day; the everlasting presence of darkness itself, allowing thought to mankind, spawning fear and wonder in equal parts.

Night and Time. They never even knew I was there.

Night and Time and their children.

Seven Endless, seven beings, just as lost as I. Seven creatures of obedience and rules and death and destiny and dream and destruction and despair and desire and delight and—

Love.

So much love.

At first sight really; at first heartbeat.

But they were meant for inspiration, these beings, nothing else. Never anything else.

Whereas I was meant to watch.

From the darkest yet untrodden corner of a burgeoning universe, in a form that was not my own and thoughts that never sparred with anyone nor anything else. For them, I became everything that I am today.

But the beginning is important to this story; perhaps twice as important as the end. As it was from this very rock of oblivion, that I witnessed the purest thing yet.

The universe began with a dream.

A tiny dream, the first dream ever dreamt.

A fickle thing born of love.

A firstborn daughter, dreaming of her father, long since dead in battle. Fuzzy around the edges, the dream had no tangible contender, nor substance.

The father had no face to look at, no eyes to stare into nor voice to listen to; he was only as strong as all the men in her village, but the babe had no use for a face, only for a feeling.

She saw herself as older, fuller, running into his arms and laughing—laughing is not quite the opposite of crying, you see, but it is a merciful lie, one we tell ourselves to preserve our hearts, if only for a moment.

And the newly-born Dream Lord, barely more than a babe himself, was the sole puppeteer of this blooming hope.

And he was beautiful.

I loved him instantly for it.

I loved him for hope, I loved him for dreams, I loved him for love, even. I loved him for everything he could do and everything he could be. I loved him because when I thought of him I didn't feel quite as alone anymore.

I loved him because he gave me the courage to leave my rock and set sail for the stars. He'd never admit it, but Earth had always been his favourite of all worlds. And so it became mine.

Every waking moment, I sought to protect him. To love him from afar, rather than to not love him at all.

These days, it proved harder a task than usual.

The turn of the Twentieth century had offered me many things.

Semi-security, as a traveller, a woman, an impossible being. I'd been burnt as a witch, drowned as a witch, scalped as a witch, wheeled as a fae and hanged as a thief. I did not enact revenge. All of these were true, to some extent.

I'd established various homes across the aeons, found others like me, befriended some, hated nearly all of them. Always loved him.

Human beings are selfish by nature, but they have a knack to come about it that is just so ethereally beautiful and insightful and... magnificent. Just so uniquely human.

My love was just as self-absorbed. My friends themselves had some choice words about my aeon-long pining.

But of those friends, I particularly resented one.

Madame Klare was nothing particularly graceful nor spiteful. Only horrifyingly, tediously decent.

She knew of my shameful feelings, naturally. I reckon her exact words were A worthless waste of cosmic time, or some such lines.

The jab wasn't strictly intended to my feelings but rather to the unconventional way I chose to deal with them.

You see, I wholeheartedly believe that ire and hate are driving emotions, but there comes a time when the well of hate has run dry, when ire is no longer burning away in a pit but dying out in a shallow pool.

But love... love is infinite.

And when you love something as much as I love Morpheus, you protect it. It's the most... natural thing in the worlds—all and every of them worlds.

And time and time again, I protected him.

It began like a drawl; a slow, steady choreography that I practised alone from behind a one-way mirror—the Selena Gomez to his Drew Seeley.

He was a dark dot on a map, followed by a burst of light—life and love, everlasting.

My entire lives, I kept running after him.

After billions and billions of years, I was awarded a holiday by my dear friend.

A centennial thing—every three hundred years, she would kick my ass to the curb. I would leave for a century; go off-world, love myself, love the stars, come back and resume my duties to my one true love.

It was also during this century of lenience that my love was stolen from me.

I encountered him again some time later in a park in England, feeding the pigeons, of all things. I found him changed, in an odd, less tormented way.

The sun was showing her glowing head, burning brightly on an amateur soccer game. A fevered child ran past Dream of the Endless—he glanced at it with disdain and I stifled a laugh.

Needless to say, in this picturesque landscape, the broody dream Lord stood out like a sore thumb.

Something in him called out to something buried in me. For the first time, I decided to break my own rules.

He didn’t notice when I sat beside him.

‘’I love pigeons. They only ever need you for food but at least they’re very straightforward little bastards about it.’’

He gave me a sideway glance—sapphire blue and decaying hopes—and flicked another crumb to the surrounding flock.

There have been many an occasion, many a cause for his sadness over the years.

Sadness swallowed him whole every time.

Which is why I’d promised myself that I would never be the source of it.

Sadness was a default setting for both of us, but his was an infinite whirlpool, a tiny part of an endless ocean, extinguishing all hope of light it came across. And for a very long time, I thought this was all there was. But his sadness was so much deeper, so much stranger and so much more beautiful than that. Than mine. He was it. He was my everything.

My hand found his knee; only for a second, only for a tiny speck of comfort magic to weave through the dark jeans, through muscle, make-believe tissue and bone and there—the heart of an endless.

He looked at me then. At the smile I unknowingly offered him and the warm touch of my hand on his knee. And panic set in. Like every time for the past ten billion years, I scrammed.

⚭ ⚭ ⚭

The universe was playing a cruel joke on me.

The cruelest yet.

I simply kept seeing him everywhere, without even looking.

I wasn’t being strictly honest with myself either.

I knew about Hob and the New Inn; I had known about everything for a very long time.

I just didn’t expect he would see me right away.

I didn’t expect Hob to point a finger to the standoffish girl who’d been stalking his old friend for hours. I didn’t expect the man himself to look over. I didn’t expect my legs to be such traitors in the nick of time.

‘’Hi,’’ Keep it cool. Keep it together. Oh, god. He’s looking at me. He’s really looking at me and seeing me and I’m standing there, not doing anything. ‘’Can I… buy you a drink?’’

I’d done many stupid things over time. Hurt a lot, broke my own heart, shadowed him dutifully.

Loved him with everything that I had.

Of that, I said nothing.

I spoke of awkward things, shallow things, lively things, shiny things and funny things.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say much at all. He just kept staring and listening and I was entirely convinced that by the end of the evening I would scramble off back to my rock.

But I did not.

And he asked to see me again.

From there, something blossomed. Something beautiful and unlikely and ultimately based on lies.

But life went on.

And we… we fell into this lie so easily—he, digging deeper into the clumsy courtship and I, burying myself in a grave made of my own rules. It looked an awful lot like the underside of a cosmic rock.

He believed me human; of all things.

He saw my messy flat, and my boho friends and he showed me his realm and his love and it all absolutely terrified me.

I began by lying to my boyfriend.

Before long, I kept lying to my husband.

In all fairness, I’d denied him, the first time.

And despite his sadness and anguish, and my own self-loathing, I kept denying him until I just couldn’t anymore.

The wedding itself was all very briskly. Unexpected.

Right after I’d said no for the fifth time and just before I’d said yes for the first.

Something blue, something stolen, an immortal best man and his sister Death, officiating a small barely-put-together ceremony in the middle of an English park. It was perfect. It was everything.

I tried to convince myself that I was happy. I tried to live in a lie. I chose to kiss my husband every day, to chase his touch, to listen to the voice in me that needed him nearly as much as he needed me.

But every story, if you keep it going long enough, ends in death.

Death, is no beautiful lady on a languid trek through Brighton.

Death, is a burst of light, with a twist.

It’s a blonde woman who’s just lost a son and will take it out on anyone.

On the love of all my lives.

My physical form is used to these instincts by now. I should know better. I really, really should know better.

My mind follows, leaping from the confines of a rock at the borders of a forgotten universe.

I stand between a broken woman and a tattered dream—and I burst. I let it engulf all parts of me in every world that I’ve ever known. My power reacts on its own, fuelled by instincts and a dreary endless life without him.

This life remembers aeons of solitude.

It remembers bright skies and a dream of love. It remembers an otherworldly burst of light and a bewildered dream and a fuzzy mother.

This death remembers an endless embrace of sinew and a bed of starlight and wobbling bookshelves coming into focus.

‘’Boss? I think she’s coming to.’’

‘’My dream? Can you hear me?’’

A fuzzy dream of love and a talking raven.

A throbbing head and a loving hand in the small of my back, helping me up.

‘’What’s happening?’’ No. Wrong question entirely. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’It seems you’ve used up your… energy. Trying to help me.’’

‘’He means that you totally kicked ass today.’’

The raven isn’t an unusual sight. The bite in my husband’s eyes however…

It’s not that I haven’t seen this gaze before; this cool, unperturbed, assessing gaze. It’s just that I have never seen it in relation to me. This is death, for the first time in fifty billion years.

‘’Leave us.’’

The master’s orders are seldom discussed, and I am eternally grateful to Matthew for his slight twitch and dubious glance but I reassure him with a small smile. The bird flies away through a window; a window I recognise. Dream’s window. Our window in our little cosmic alcove, here, in his kingdom.

‘’It’s nice to see you still consider me enough to spare a pillow for my head,’’ I observe, stretching on the silk sheets and throwing him a coy smile. ‘’But whatever should we do with this insanely large bed?’’

‘’You lied to me.’’

The bite is cutting, gritted through a carefully crafted mask of indifference. It hurts more than the fleeting ghost touch of brushing against him in a busy street. More than shoving sixteenth century robbers with a wandering eye for rubies against a wall of a tavern with the force of my mind. Far more than nudging an engagement ring towards the man I’ve always loved, painfully aware that he would be gifting it to another woman.

‘’I’m not human, Morpheus.’’

The words are painful; they clog in my throat, and I wish to take them back immediately. A teardrop glistens in his endless eyes. I want to reach up and collect it before it falls.

‘’What, then?’’

‘’I don’t know. Not exactly. I never have. I just know that I’m old. Older than you.’’

He chuckles bitterly. ‘’That is impossible.’’

‘’Nothing is impossible. You taught me that.’’

‘’It’s all been a lie, has it not?’’

‘’Yes.’’ I’m desperate. Pathetic. His. ‘’You have to understand, I just wanted to protect you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, baby.’’

‘’You lie.’’

‘’I live for you.’’ I put his hand over the last beating organ I have left and kiss his tears away. ‘’I burn for you. I die for you.’’

‘’You’ve killed for me, my love. And you almost did die as well.’’

‘’I’ll do it again. Tomorrow if you’re free. I might have to sneak out, though. My husband gets awfully jealous; in this very hot very red-flaggy way.’’

He gives a snort—even that is dignified—and takes my face into his hands. ‘’You’ve overwhelmed yourself.’’

‘’Happens once every millennia. Only with you though. Always with you.’’

And then I read it. The confusion in his face. Dream’s always been an open book to me; an open books of books, Destiny’s own damned tome of forged tales. Dream is my fate, I know that now.

‘’When? When did you start…’’

Complete and unabridged truth. In sickness and in health. For now and until forever ends.

‘’Do you remember Alianora?’’

He remembers. He remembers everything.

‘’She needed a bit of a nudge to cross over. Took care of those lousy gods though, did she not?’’

I did it. It’s done. Out in the multiverse.

I’ve just admitted to indirectly saving his life and his realm. I’ve just admitted to unknowingly third wheeling in one of his earliest relationships. I’ve just admitted to loving him, for eons past.

‘’That was you? You helped her then?’’

‘’And a few more times across time. Once or twice or a billion. You, mister, are a magnet for trouble.’’

‘’You should have shown yourself.’’

‘’I had no wish to trample on your happiness. I wanted you happy, even if it wasn’t with me. That’s what love is, isn’t it?’’

‘’I love you.’’ He says after a drop. His admission has my own eyes watering. ‘’I think I loved you even when I didn’t know you.’’

‘’I don’t,’’ I sob into his jaw. ‘’I hate myself. I hate myself for not being there, for not being by your side when you were imprisoned.’’

‘’Do not fret. I was released and then—I met you.’’

He’s lost his eloquence somewhere in this mess of tears and snot that we share, and the kisses I keep peppering along his jaw and the thousand truths I haven’t told him yet. But I purposely pause to tell him this one.

‘’That wasn’t easy, you know.’’

He pauses as well to look me in the eyes properly.

‘’A real hurdle. There were guards everywhere and I can’t reach that far on my own. I just had to make it look like an accident—a misplaced swipe of a tired wheel. But it worked. It set you free, and I am so glad that it did, because then I wouldn’t have had these glorious years with you. I peaked, I really did.’’

He stands frozen for a moment.

My dream king, prince of stories who’s just been told an entirely new one that he doesn’t understand.

I stare deeply into those starlight eyes only to find that I can read him no longer. It frightens me beyond compare.

‘’Please, say something.’’

He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he brushes my temple with a soft thumb. The moment drags on with the sweetest touch before I catch his fallen tear with my trembling lips. Against those, he whispers shakily.

‘’Can I… buy you a drink, Dream Queen?’’

A/N: Some soft, out-of-character Dream, but who’s complaining?

83 notes · View notes

infinite-orangepeel · 1 year

Text

hi ! if you’re looking for young (pre-canon, freshman steve/sophomore eddie) slow burn steddie with lots of yearning & sexuality crisis—then i would love it if you’d read the excerpt down below :)

it’s one of my favorite things i’ve ever written (& happens to be ch. 1 of my ongoing ao3 fic that is currently sitting at 10 chapters)

fic title: i wore his jacket for the longest time (link to the full fic down below)

pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (steddie)

ch. summary: steve harrington’s 15th birthday bash is the greatest night of everyone’s lives, except for the guest of honor himself (who is in the middle of a panic attack) & hawkins very own freak (who really wishes he didn’t need the extra money). as fate would have it, the two end up finding comfort in the most unexpected of places (each other) and spend the night hiding away from the rest of the world on steve’s rooftop. nothing is ever the same.

TW: panic attack, use of homophobic slurs to insult a character (brief), themes surrounding sexuality crisis

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Part 1, Chapter 1: the great abyss

July 28, 1982

Eddie Munson is playing God or The Devil. He can never be quite sure on nights like this. The longer he’s kept up the gig, the more the lines seem to blur. It’s an odd job, but one he takes a sweet, sadistic pleasure in. Okay, so maybe that does make him Satan’s understudy more than a devotee of the “big guy in the sky.” But, who can blame him for seizing the opportunity to supply forbidden fruit to the poor sinners down below? There is nothing more gratifying than watching his heartless classmates tear each other apart from the gorgeous view of his twisted throne. All the while, knowing that the ensuing madness is a direct result of the vice-inducing treasures he stashes away in his aluminum lunchbox. And, to think he gets paid for it? He’d be a fool to let his already gray tinged morals prevent his sole form of employment. Especially, when said employment puts food on the table and delays his uncle’s need to apply for food stamps.

Usually when he “caters” events like this, the time passes quickly. It passes really quickly if those he’s dealing to aren’t complete assholes and let him partake in the festivities. That being said, after two years of high school, it’s become increasingly rare that he interacts with anyone that doesn’t respond to his presence like he’s a gory creature that just slithered out of the sewer.

It’s nearly comical. The ones that torture him the most in the halls of Hawkins High are also the ones that plead to him late at night like he’s the Fairy Godfather of Teenage Substance Abuse. He didn’t sign up for it, but more often than not, one jock or another is on his knees begging Eddie for a better price and just a couple more ounces of his drug of choice.

Eddie would be lying if he claimed the switched power dynamic of those moments didn’t give him a head rush and a mouthful of sick satisfaction.

He discovered he could name pretty much any price. Hawkins had a limited number of dealers and even fewer that would risk dipping their toes into the murky waters of selling to such a young clientele.

In true Pavlovian manner, all it took was Eddie undoing the clasps on his lunchbox to lure his prey into the trap. Suddenly, they would be thrusting their hands desperately into the deep pockets of their letterman jackets, in search of Daddy’s money to offer up for the exchange. The high he got from it was better than any strain his pale fingers might have rolled into a sharp tipped joint. Pure heady intoxication.

He rides that feeling until he’s wrung it dry in a perfunctory attempt to make tonight bearable.

It might have even been an effective tactic if he hadn’t been knocked off his high horse by Tommy Hagan and his squad of goons.

Eddie had hardly stepped through the massive double doors of Steve Harrington’s Loch Nora manner before he found himself pinned to the wall of the entryway. Hagan primally leered over him like he was tomorrow’s mystery meat and spit directly into his left eye. Gross.

“We’ll take it from here, don’t want guests scared off by the town freak,” Hagan wrestled Eddie’s lunchbox free from his white knuckled grip and made a show of emptying out its plentiful contents onto the pristine floor.

Eddie should have been enraged, should have lunged forward and put up a fight. But, as Hagan sauntered off with the stolen loot in hand, he couldn’t lift his gaze from the dark wooden boards beneath his scuffed Reeboks. He had the half-complete thought of what it might be like to slip and slide across such floors in those fancy wool socks he was certain Harrington had drawers full of upstairs. Wondered further if Harrington had ever known the struggles of a shotty heater and the lack of circulation one got from wearing four pairs of cotton socks to cope. Doubtful, he had decided.

Hagan hadn’t actually paid Eddie yet. Based on his reaction to Eddie’s arrival, it was vastly unlikely that he would be doling out the cash any time soon, if at all .

In theory, Eddie could have strode right back out the doors from whence he came and retreated to his side of the tracks, but he was viciously stubborn and had a bad habit of letting it rule him. Plus, Hagan had stripped him of his entire stash, which was not going to bode well for Eddie when Rick eventually sought him out to reap his portion of the earnings.

So, Eddie stuck around in hopes that Hagan would draw upon the miniscule shred of goodness left gnarled within his frozen heart and listen to the little angel poised upon his freckled shoulder. Again, unlikely, but if DnD had taught him anything, it was that anyone’s luck was subject to change even in the eleventh hour.

As it turns out, Harrington’s party looks just as repulsive from a bird’s eye view as it did on the ground. Eddie’s rooftop throne is admittedly a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll have to suffice for the time being. He’s not going to wait for Hagan’s change of heart out in the open. Lurking down below would only heighten Eddie’s chances of a broken nose and empty pockets. Eddie may be hard headed at times, but he’s not an idiot. He’s smart enough to know the deck will only be stacked higher against him if he accidentally pokes one of Hagan’s overly sensitive buttons. It’s a tripwire he’s not willing to trifle with.

Guests are packed like sardines into every breathable corner of the house and somehow, a line is still queuing up near the entrance. Girls in neon mini-skirts and guys drenched in cologne elbow past each other, willing to do whatever it takes to solidify themselves as permanent members of King Steve’s guest list.

Ah, King Steve.

How a rising sophomore that looked like something straight out of a Gap catalog had become a local legend was still unclear to Eddie. Not only was the guy popular, he had earned himself a royal moniker that somehow wasn’t used to mock, ridicule, or disparage him. Rather, King Steve was widely respected, admired, and adored by his loyal subjects. People worshiped the squeaky clean ground he walked on. His peers would practically throw themselves at his feet just to get a closer glance at his golden-boy smile and a whiff of his signature hairspray. Eddie really didn’t see the appeal, but maybe that was because people like Steve Harrington weren’t trying to make people like Eddie Munson part of their target demographic.

Eddie’s trying not to burn his fingertips on his silver lighter, a birthday gift from Uncle Wayne that he has yet to master. He can roll identical sets of perfect joints that rival the uniform efficiency of factory machines, but struggles to not flinch at the sight of a blue lipped flame. The potential to burn makes his hands shake and forces his tongue to stick out between his front teeth in itchy concentration. He’d never have a great career as a surgeon, but that was obvious long before he started smoking a few years ago.

Head tipped skyward, Eddie exhales the remains of the first hit and his lungs warm with an earthy heat. The touch of mother nature is soothing and brings him out of the present moment enough that he can focus on internally whispering the names of the few constellations he can remember.

Orion, Cassiopeia, The Big Dipper, and its’ little counterpart.

The trash pop music dulls to a mindless artificial hum of drums and synth with each consecutive hit he takes. He slips off the protective armor of his leather jacket, feeling safe and hidden enough to reveal the bare expanse of his forearms. Goosebumps prickle to the surface of his skin in immediate response to the summer breeze, but Eddie finds it grounding and doesn’t jump to reverse the decision. It serves as a fresh reminder that he’s a real person and not an inanimate object that Hagan and his lackeys get to smack around like a punching bag.

The joint softens him around the edges, encourages him to lean back on his elbows, belly-up and unafraid of what exists out past the infinite blackness of the night sky.

He’s lost in thought. The voices in his head curving in snake-like switchbacks this way and that, so at first he thinks the quiet grumble of someone clearing their throat might be coming from him.

Then, it happens again. This time, it’s followed by unassuming footsteps that clamber down the slope of the roof until they pause somewhere over Eddie’s left shoulder. Like the person is desperate to fill in as Eddie’s shadow now that his actual one has disappeared with the fully set sun.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, man. Didn’t realize anyone else was out here,” his shadow says apologetically.

Eddie’s confused. He makes a mental note to ask Rick if this strain is laced with something else. He eyes the dying joint suspiciously from where it is pinched between his thumb and index fingers.

He must have accidentally taken a hallucinogen, because there’s no other explanation for the timid, anxious tone coming from Steve Harrington’s mouth. There’s no other explanation for the way Harrington cautiously lowers himself to a hunched seat. The way he chooses to sit beside Eddie, like they aren’t part of two entirely separate spheres of existence.

It feels forbidden, Eddie thinks, like wearing the patches of bands you don’t actually listen to.

“Unless I’m mistaken or this joint has me really fucked up, I’m pretty sure this is your house, Harrington,” Eddie remarks, keeping his gaze trained on an imaginary point beyond the treeline that surrounds the wealthy neighborhood.

They’ve never had any sort of verbal exchange, but Steve’s last name snaps from Eddie’s mouth like a biting insult. He won’t do him the favor of using his first name. Not when his henchmen were so eager to sharpen the blade of the guillotine for Eddie’s neck only a couple hours earlier. It’s too personal, reserved for those that get to bask in the King’s good graces. Eddie isn’t under the delusion that he could ever soak up such glory by association with the boy sitting beside him.

However, he’s only human, which means that he’s not immune to the magnetic pull of curiosity. It goes against every fiber of his carefully curated public persona to take any interest in what King Steve looks like up close, but he can’t stop his eyes from wandering. His peripheral vision working overtime to track Steve’s uncertain movements, to follow the shaking line of his body as he sinks further into himself. Seemingly weighed down by a crown that has become too heavy.

“Dude, I was trying to be polite. It looks like you’re having a private moment out here and I didn’t want to intrude on anything,” Steve’s sitting close enough that Eddie can smell the faint sour hint of alcohol lingering on his breath.

It’s no shocker that he’s had a few drinks. Eddie wasn’t exactly hired to supply gumdrops and candy hearts at this party. The buzz of alcohol must be clouding Steve’s mind enough that he doesn’t realize the implications of being seen in casual conversation with Eddie. Not that anyone else has thought to join them on the roof, but it would only take one or two guests looking upwards from the crowded backyard to see the odd pairing hiding in plain sight. How would Steve explain this away?

“Well, dude,” Eddie mimics Steve’s locker room-esque fraternal lingo, “Forgive me for being caught off guard, but you’ll have to fill in the blanks as to why the belle of the ball has chosen to grace me with his presence instead of holding court down below? No offense, Harrington, but you don’t seem like the type of guy to give his company to a lonely stoner like myself just because it’s the charitable thing to do.”

Eddie still hasn’t allowed himself to fully take in Steve’s image. The corner of his eye has provided a jumbled puzzle of how all the pieces fit together. Eddie can see that a picture will form there, but can’t yet imagine the final result, so he has to go off of the limited information he has gathered.

For now, that’s a dorky striped polo that calls to mind what a cartoon captain might wear aboard his ship. The nautical navy hues make Eddie feel a little nauseous as if he’s the one out at sea. The buttons are undone half-way, which makes it appear that Steve is trying to achieve some sort of Peter Parker effect. Like, revealing an inch or two more of his chest automatically transforms him into the version of himself that’s a known party animal. The guy that girls swoon over even though he offers no promise of calling them up in the morning.

Other than that, Eddie’s thrown off by the quivering lip and uneven breaths that are making Steve’s polo-clad chest rise and fall in an off-kilter pattern. He thinks he’s imagining it or projecting his own anxiety onto the boy, but Steve’s breaths get louder and less easy to ignore. It sounds like he’s choking on the warm July breeze, itself. The exact one that had made Eddie feel so at peace before Steve had interrupted his sanctitude.

He bites his tongue hard before he says it, but the words tumble out despite his efforts to threaten them with the stinging consequence of physical pain.

“Hey, I’m sorry if that came off harsher than it should have, I didn’t mean to make you all emotional,” Eddie awkwardly spews and hurriedly brings the joint back to his lips.

Mostly, so he can have something to do with his hands to distract from the growing tension between him and Steve. He’s never known what to do with them in instances like this. If he should keep them to himself or offer them up as comfort to the other person. Harrington would more than likely knock him off the roof if he tried to do something stupid like pat him on the back.

A few beats pass before Steve explains the catalyst behind the increasing volume of his strangled sounds. It’s what one might think would come out of a wounded woodland creature, not the guy who’s destined to win nine out of ten superlatives by the end of his senior year.

Luckily, someone has decided the already blaring music isn’t loud enough. The recent increase further lessening the chance that anyone else would hear Steve’s small cries.

“It’s not you, Munson,” Eddie jolts at the idea that Steve not only knows him by name, but has elected to use it instead of one of the jabbing insults the rest of his group has assigned.

“I’m being a little bitch because of this stupid party. I never wanted it in the first place. Would’ve much rather gone to dinner with my parents or something,” he finishes and Eddie hears a mumbling thought exit his lips, but can’t quite make out the sentiment.

The mention of wanting after his parents strikes a chord in Eddie. It rings out clearly in the space between his ribs, akin to the clarity that washes over him in the aftermath of nailing down a particularly tricky riff on his guitar.

“Hm, what do you mean? Thought parties were kind of your thing, certainly hear about them enough around school,” Eddie says, finding that he wants Steve to elaborate and open the door to his private trembling thoughts just a little more. Just so Eddie can get a glimpse inside and maybe locate the thing that’s unexpectedly drawing him into the conversation with sparking interest.

Steve wavers again before answering, like he has to sort through an unforeseen dilemma. Like he’s at war with himself over needing a shoulder to cry on and wanting to swallow it all down and run in the opposite direction.

“I’m, um, kind of panicking? I don’t know what to call it, man. It happens to me sometimes, like I just freak out and start breathing all weird. Uh, today’s actually my birthday and Tommy H. made me let him invite everyone over to my house, like we were all going to celebrate or whatever, but I don’t think a single person has even wished me a ‘Happy Birthday.’ My Mom and Dad are on one of his lame work trips, so she can make sure he doesn’t cheat on her like last time. They haven’t even called and it’s almost midnight, so it’s destined to be another year of late apology money stuffed in a card signed ‘from, Mom and Dad,’ not even ‘love, Mom and Dad.’”

Eddie pushes himself up from his reclined position and finally turns his head towards Steve. He looks at him, really looks at him for the first time.

Of course, he’s crossed paths with Steve many times before tonight. In the halls of Hawkins High and around town running errands. The closest look he’s gotten has been when he’s done a deal with Tommy H. and any combination of the nameless kingsmen that all blur together and flock to Steve like he’s their shepherd. Eddie doesn't try or care to tell them apart, has no reason to memorize the repetitive nature of their names when they’ll shuck out the cash regardless. All identified by a last initial or physical trait that sticks out to him.

Steve’s been in the background in some of those instances. Eddie’s watched him from afar as Steve has waited for his skeevy sidekick to finish up. He appears untouchable behind the manufactured cool of his Ray Bans. Even when the clouds wake from their months-long hibernation, it’s impossible to ever tell where Steve is looking or who he is looking at, because his overpriced shades never get a day off.

So, this is markedly the first time Eddie has ever made eye contact with Steve Harrington. He lets out a small gasp when they latch onto each other’s gaze. Hopes that Steve will assume he’s only exhaling another hit, regardless of the fact that there’s no telltale trail of smoke to elicit such a conclusion.

Steve’s eyes are honeyed. That’s the only way Eddie can think to describe them. They’re a warm amber color that pulls him in with a hypnotic sheen that may or may not be the result of leftover tears. Though, Eddie’s pretty sure, Steve would never claim them if they were.

The shape of Steve’s eyes is another thing entirely. They’re downturned just slightly and Eddie’s never come across someone that takes up so much space and also happens to be so soft beneath the mask of his commanding exterior. Without the shield of sunglasses and with his attention fully directed towards Eddie, Steve arrives at the destination of his own youth. He’s much younger than he often portrays himself as being. He’s not some larger than life thing of myths and fantasies. He’s just a freshly fifteen year-old boy who hasn’t yet learned to deny himself the dream of gaining his parents’ love and approval.

And, Eddie? He knows something about that. Much more than he’d like to share, but Steve has just put into words the feeling Eddie’s been trying and failing to kill off for quite some time.

“That’s super fucked up,” it’s all Eddie can say without dropping his hand of cards and revealing what he’s been keeping pressed hard against his chest.

A memory strikes him and he’s reminded of the few times in his life that he’s felt really taken care of. For some reason, he won’t allow himself to begin to investigate; he has the odd desire to make Steve feel that way.

“This might sound weird and if it does, just tell me. No need to punch me in the face or anything,” Eddie is well aware that it is going to sound weird and probably, come off as way too intimate of a proposition.

“Why would I punch you in the face? I’m not a total asshole, y’know,” Steve counters defensively, still gasping for air like a fish out of water.

“Because of them,” Eddie gestures generally in the direction of the ongoing festivities beneath the roof, “Because Tommy H. fucking hates me and he made that very clear when he stole all of my shit earlier without paying a dime for any of it.”

“He did what? Wait, did he do that here, like at my place?” Steve furrows his brow like the little people’s complaints could possibly matter to someone in his position.

He’s being political, Eddie thinks, he wants me to be fooled into thinking he’s so “different” than them, so I’ll stay on his side.

“Harrington, let’s not play games. It’s sweet of you, really, to put on a face like my problems mean something to you, but we both know they don’t. It’s not like I haven’t seen you laugh along with the rest at my misery,” Eddie points out bitterly.

Steve startles, but doesn’t break eye contact. He seems offended by Eddie’s suggestion that he could be so callous, when it’s clearly an undeniable fact. Some are predators, some are prey. Eddie has unfortunately fallen into the latter category for most of his young life. It’s just the way things are. He doesn’t see a reason to dance around and sing songs of unity like Steve’s never stomped on his toes. Maybe not deliberately, maybe not on his own accord, but Steve’s definitely never been one to stand up and stop it from happening.

Before Steve can jump to defend himself again and swear up and down that he’s “not like that,” Eddie backpedals to his initial goal, which was to play the hero to Steve’s damsel in distress.

“It doesn’t matter, dude. Shit like that happens all the time when you’re someone like me. I wouldn’t expect you to know much about it.”

Steve nods slowly like he’s accepting the fact that Eddie has caught him in the act of deceit.

“But, let bygones be bygones or whatever. I, um, I’ve had panic attacks, too. That’s what they’re called, by the way. Panic attacks,” he says it a second time, so it can sink into Steve’s brain for the inevitable next moment that he will have to face one.

Sometimes, Eddie has learned, labeling a scary thing with a name gives it less power over you. If you bring the thing into the light of day, it loses the cloak of mystery and obscurity. That’s why it hurts him so much that no one, except his uncle, calls him by his first name; as if it's more fun to keep him in the role of the unknowable monster.

“Panic attack. Okay, so this is a panic attack?” Steve tests out the term in his mouth like it’s a foreign dish from some place half-way across the globe. Like he’s trying to get his palate to adjust to the exotic flavor.

“As far as I can tell, that’s what you’re experiencing. The heavy breathing, the gasping for air, the racing thoughts, the shaky hands; all pretty common panic attack symptoms,” Eddie explains, reflecting upon the first time his mom had taught him about the psychology behind the inescapable anxiety he felt whenever his dad entered a room.

“It kind of feels like I’m dying. Is it-is it supposed to feel that way? Do you feel that way when you have them?” Steve’s eyes are blown wide and Eddie is suddenly convinced that none of the fear is fabricated.

This isn’t some elaborate prank or ruse to mess with the school freak and embarrass him in front of the entire student body. Or at least, the portion of it that has achieved a social status high enough to be here.

“Yeah, it sucks. It literally feels like I’m going to have a heart attack when it happens to me. Sometimes, I kind of wish I would have one, so I wouldn’t have to deal with them all the time,” Eddie admits and immediately pinches the inside of his elbow, because he knows he’s said too much about who he really is.

It’s more ammo than Steve should be allowed to have, but here Eddie is, willingly giving it up to the guy and practically begging him to utilize the information in future torture campaigns.

Then again, Steve has provided Eddie with an equal amount of weaponizable information. The only difference is that everyone takes Steve’s word as truth from a higher power. By comparison, Eddie’s word falls flat as mere sticks and stones that would only ricochet off Steve’s impalpable form and backfire against him.

“There’s this thing though that my mom taught me,” Eddie finds it unnecessary to add that the woman is no longer in the picture, would rather let Steve wonder.

“It’s called ‘The Great Abyss,’ which is a badass name considering what it actually is. It’s a pressure point,” Eddie explains and Steve cocks his head in a way that conveys he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“Pressure points. They’re these little places on your body that can be used to heal all sorts of things. The whole idea of it came from ancient China, I think. They discovered that certain points were associated with all this internal stuff. Like there’s ones for getting rid of headaches and sore throats and even hangovers.”

Steve laughs at the mention of a hangover cure and the lightness it carries encourages Eddie to keep talking. Makes him believe for a second that Steve Harrington isn’t as closed minded as he originally seemed.

“Anyways, ‘The Great Abyss’ is on the inside of your left wrist,” Eddie grinds the butt of the joint into the roof’s shingles and tosses it aside so he can properly demonstrate,“There’s this hollow part, right here,” he leans closer to Steve to show him the spot beneath his thumb, where his palm and bony wrist meet.

Steve’s listening intently, like Eddie’s teaching a seminar on all of his greatest interests. If he had a notepad and pen to spare, he’d hand them to Steve just so he could relieve the intense pursed focus that has taken over his face.

“It feels weird, at first, because you have to get the hang of pressing down hard enough that it works. It took me a while to figure it out, so don’t worry if it seems like it’s not working when you try it. You hold down for a few minutes, no longer than five or you might pass out and let’s be clear, I don’t have the money to pay for any medical damages you may inflict on yourself,” Eddie smirks, but simultaneously, presses down with a moderate amount of force on his own wrist.

“And, if I was having a panic attack, the healing magic of ‘The Great Abyss’ should kick in right about now. You’ll feel your breath slow down and go back to normal. Then, with it, your heart rate will chill out and your thoughts should get noticeably less catastrophic,” Eddie concludes and releases the hold, throwing his hands up in a “ta-da” motion like he’s a magician who just pulled off an awe-inspiring trick.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, so Eddie takes this as his cue to leave. Figures Steve probably won’t want Eddie staring him down if he decides to give the ol’ Great Abyss a try. He knows he doesn’t have the world’s most calming effect on people, so he hops to his feet and faces the window that he had initially crawled out of.

But, as he begins to scale the sloped roof, Steve’s voice yanks him out of the thick concentration he’s in the middle of, not wanting to fall to his death in front of a crowd that would applaud such an occurrence.

“Where are you going? I can’t do this by myself. Can’t you show me?” Steve says in a frantic tone, shaking more than he had been when Eddie was beside him.

“You want me to do the pressure point on you ?” Eddie clarifies, shocked that Steve would suggest they touch in any capacity, when the rest of his peers avoid even brushing shoulders with him or passing him a pencil in the back of a classroom. Like they’ll catch a disease from simply breathing the same slice of air.

“That’s what I was getting at, yeah,” Steve confirms and is quick to amend his statement with, “Unless that makes you uncomfortable or you have somewhere else to be. I’ll be fine, really.”

The conundrum lies in that Steve doesn’t look fine, at all. He looks miles from it. Stuck out in the barren wasteland of conflated fear and self-loathing. Eddie hates that Steve’s looking at him like he’s an oasis in the desert, like he can wave a magic wand and cure him instantly.

He hates it even more that he finds himself under Steve’s own spell. The same one he seems to employ on a daily basis to woo the likes of peers, parents, and teachers. Eddie’s transfixed by his boy next door charm, struggles not to find his suburban helplessness endearing. Like this is the first real problem he’s ever faced.

“Okay, sure, I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal,” Eddie lies through his teeth. He knows before he’s even sat back down next to Steve that this moment will very much so be a big deal in the trajectory of his life. It carries an undeniable weight.

With feigned nonchalance and a grimace to hide his racing heart, Eddie settles back into the world he and Steve have created for the time being. Population of two, location unreachable by anyone not in their strange anxious little club.

“When do your parents get back?” Eddie asks, hoping small talk will prevent Steve from noticing the emotions that have to be incredibly obvious on his face. The heat rising up the line of his cheekbones tells him so and he can’t exactly blame it on the alcohol he hasn’t consumed a drop of.

“Don’t know,” Steve shrugs and his tense shoulders almost hit his ears, “They never really tell me. I just see the packed suitcases by the door and know that means I’ll have the house to myself for the next few days, sometimes a week or two.”

Eddie nods, imagines how empty the trailer would feel if Uncle Wayne left for more than a night or two at a time. How empty it would feel if it happened more than once or twice a year. Even more so, if he lived in a house with so many vacant rooms and no one to fill them but his selfish peers.

Eddie was starting to see why Steve was able to get away with having so many parties and more importantly, why Steve would want people over all the time in the first place.

“Can I see your left wrist?” Eddie implores, breaking away from his own thoughts and half- expecting Steve to laugh in his face, like the suggestion that they touch wasn’t his idea.

Steve obediently pushes up the sleeves of his heinous polo and presents Eddie with his right wrist.

“Your left one, dipshit,” Eddie laughs good-humoredly. It’s hearty and he finishes off with a goofy snort, but then, Steve’s cracking up alongside him, so he figures it’s okay.

“Wow, it’s my birthday and I’m in the middle of a panic attack,” Eddie takes pride in the fact that he taught Steve something new when he hears him use the term again, “And you’re making fun of me for not being able to tell my left from my right. Pretty dick move of you, Munson.”

He’s still laughing and clutching at his abdomen. When he leans back, an inch of his tan, well- defined stomach is revealed and Eddie tears his eyes away before he can begin to consider why he wants to touch the line of skin that sits below Steve’s navel. He shakes his head back and forth in hopes that the thought will fall right out of his ear and become a corpse beside him.

“Okay, sorry, sorry. I promise not to insult your less than optimal ability to follow directions. You have my word,” Eddie swears, theatrically waving an imaginary white flag in one hand, “Now, your left wrist, please.”

Steve calms his laughter and glows from the aftermath of their banter. His cheeks are flushed and pink near the apples, but Eddie knows the ruddy hue must have more to do with the beers he no doubt chugged earlier in the evening than it does with Eddie sitting so close to him.

The correct wrist is now within Eddie’s line of vision. He reaches down towards the place where Steve has it hovering over his criss-crossed lap. He tries to pay no attention to the smattering of moles and freckles that dot the inside of his arm like they belong somewhere up above next to Orion and Casseopia.

They’re not holding hands, but they might as well be as Eddie circles Steve’s wrist and begins to apply mild pressure to the hollow dent he had described before.

Steve lurches a little from the initial contact, but quickly self-corrects and lets his lids flutter closed after a second or two, providing Eddie with his trust. An innocence paints its way from his chin to his hairline, as if he’s never participated in even the slightest of sinful acts. As if the minute touch holding them together isn’t the very definition of sin, itself.

“Just keep breathing, slow and steady. Try not to think too much and just focus on the feeling of my hand on your wrist. I’m going to hold on for the next few minutes, but if it hurts or you want me to stop, just say so,” Eddie instructs, trying not to feel too foolish about the hippie dippy words coming out of his mouth.

Steve’s eyes remain shut, so Eddie helps himself to another lingering study at the enigma of the boy sitting only inches away from him. This time, he compares the open palm of Steve’s hand to his own.

Eddie’s fingers are longer and bonier, knuckles jutting up through the pale overlay of his skin. Yet, he still has trouble fully encircling Steve’s wrist in his hand despite the falsely perceived advantage of his lankiness.

Steve’s palms are wider. Flat, firm expanses covered with the rough spotty texture of calluses formed from years of playing a laundry list of sports. None of which Eddie knows or cares to know the rules of.

Eddie’s hands are made for stretching across the keys of a piano and skillfully painting the smallest details of the figurines that adorn his desk. Steve’s hands are made for exerting force on a grassy field and shoving his devoted followers into their assigned places in the pecking order.

“Okay, you can let go,” Steve says suddenly.

Eddie rips his hand away, worried that he had gotten too sidetracked by his analysis and hurt Steve in the process.

“Woah, man, it’s cool. You didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, that really helped. I just told you to stop, because I feel much better now,” Steve explains kindly, but Eddie’s tuned him out, because now, Steve has his hand resting on the inside of Eddie’s nearest bicep.

He’s rubbing his palm back and forth like Eddie’s a spooked horse. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t rush out now that he’s gotten what he wanted out of their interaction. Not like Eddie’s used to people doing. No one ever sticks around on his account, certainly not to make sure he’s okay.

And,no one has touched him so gently since his mom died. He wants to cry, can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, but can’t find the courage to let them out. Not here. Not when Steve’s just made the incomprehensible decision to give him the rare gifts of kindness and comfort. Not when he knows that this means much less to Steve than it does to him.

Eddie indulges in the feeling for a minute more and the two sit in a mutually agreed upon silence, like they’re old friends and don’t need to fill in the gaps all the time. Like they aren’t afraid of scaring the other off by not knowing how to put their thoughts into words.

He looks down at Steve’s hand on his arm one more time and commits it to memory. For what usage? He’s not sure, but it feels important.

Once it’s safely tucked away, Eddie shrugs out from under Steve’s hand and says, “If I had known this was technically your birthday party, I wouldn’t have shown up without a proper gift, but,” he digs around in the pocket of his discarded leather jacket, “I do have a few joints, rolled by yours truly, that I’d like to give you for keeping me company up here and not being a total dickhead to me.”

Steve breaks out into a huge lottery-winner’s grin and accepts the joints from Eddie’s hands, tucking them into the front of his light-washed Levi’s, “Thanks, dude. That, um, that’s really cool of you and probably the only birthday gift I’ll get until my parents get home with the apology money.”

“My pleasure. Happy Birthday, Harrington,” Eddie smiles genuinely at him and wants to say more, but can’t quite figure out how to escape the confines of needing to appear socially normal and at ease in front of Steve. He’s never been one to speak his mind without coming off as offensive or dramatic, so he keeps it simple.

Steve reaches across himself and looks like he’s considering drawing Eddie into a hug, but he lets his arm fall into his lap instead, having thought better of the idea. Halting himself from crossing into a territory that he can’t come back from.

“I don’t really know how to say this and I don’t want to make anything weird, but-” Steve hesitantly starts and Eddie feels his pulse lurch into the back of his throat. He thinks he might die from the way he’s hanging on Steve’s every word which is slowly knotting a noose around his neck.

What did Mrs. Douglas call it his freshman year when they were studying ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’? A dark comedy? Plays and stories defined by sharp ironic scenes and gutting satire.

That’s what this has to be, because the events that follow are nothing but a sick joke to Eddie and he never gets the chance to hear the end of Steve’s confession.

Because Tommy H. shows up leaning his head through Steve’s bedroom window, like he’s Rapunzel and Steve is the Prince on the verge of coming to his rescue. Eddie has to cough out a choked laugh. It’s humorless, awkward, and makes Tommy sneer in his direction, but he can’t hold himself back from the dark hilarity he finds in the unfolding scene. The tragic irony that has befallen him makes him sick and hopeless, anew and erases any progress he thought he had made in the last hour.

“Harrington, what the fuck are you doing hanging out with this fag ? I’ve been looking all over for you. Whaddya get too drunk and confused by the long hair? He’s a guy, at least I think, hard to be sure when no one would ever dare get in his pants,” Hagan spits out each word with increasing hatred, never taking his beady eyes off of Eddie. It’s vulturous, as if he might swoop down and tear into Eddie’s flesh any moment just to prove his loyalty to Steve.

For his part, Steve leans away from Eddie to scramble to his feet and it cuts him to the core.

Had he really thought their one interaction would change anything about their dynamic in the grand scheme of things? Had he really deluded himself into a hole so deep that he could imagine a world in which they waved hello to each other in the school hallways? A world in which they ate lunch together in the cafeteria and divulged petty secrets? A world in which they eventually dropped the act and attempted to master the commitment to each other’s first names?

No. Because, he wasn’t Eddie to Steve. He was never going to be Eddie to Steve. He was that other thing that lurked in the darkness, scared people’s children, and got maced in the face simply for walking down the sidewalk.

The Freak. The Fag. The Queer. The Monster.

“Let’s go, dude!” Tommy whines at Steve’s clear reluctance to return the weighty crown to his perfectly coiffed head of brown hair, “Tammy Thompson told me she’d give you a blowjob, if you came out of your hiding spot to take a shot with her. She’s waiting downstairs.”

“Gimme a second, I’ll be right there,” Steve swallows past a lump in his throat and doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the opportunity Tommy has just thrown on the table. Doesn’t lunge at it like some of the more perverted guys they go to school with would. Treats it like Tommy just told him there’s a ham sandwich on the counter for when he’s hungry.

His demeanor shifts in the direction of apathy. Maybe, even disappointment. But, that’s likely, because he has to go back to socializing with the exact people he was trying to run away from, not because he has to leave Eddie’s side and abandon his confession to hang in the air of what could have been.

Tommy H. ducks his head back in through the window, leaving the boys with a translucent brand of privacy. He’s tapping his foot on the carpet just on the other side and has his freckled arms crossed so tight he could easily break apart a watermelon if it happened to tumble between his chest and forearms.

Steve makes up his mind, eventually. He’ll give in to his subjects' wishes, grant them the company of their beloved figurehead. He’ll put aside the gnawing feeling of his remaining anxiety and drown it in as much of his parents’ liquor as it takes. He’ll let Tammy Thompson have her way with him, let himself pretend any of her touches actually make him feel held.

So it will be, so it always has been.

This is what it takes to be the King, Eddie realizes, the throne is not always a comfortable place to sit.

Eddie’s ready to go home, no longer cares if Tommy H. pays him or not. He’ll bust his ass to scrounge up the money through other odd jobs, like mowing lawns and washing windows. He just can’t be in the vicinity of this mess for a minute more, because if he stays and watches Steve get drunker and sadder, he knows he might do something he’ll really regret.

As he slips on his leather jacket, he almost misses Steve’s final words, which might have prevented him from falling prey to Steve’s charm again and again in the coming months. Unfortunately, he hears him.

Steve clears his throat, like he did when he first came out here to alert Eddie of his arrival. It’s subtle, but just as effective as it originally was at grabbing his attention.

Eddie looks over from his crouched position and finds Steve with one foot through the window and the other still firmly planted on the gray shingles of the roof; divided between the two planes of being. The person he wants to be and the person he has to be.

“I, uh, I gotta go, but I’ll see you around?” Steve says with an awkward lilt at the end, solidifying the fact that it is very much a question and not an assured statement.

“Yeah, I’ll see you when we get back to school,” Eddie replies quickly, not wanting Steve to think that he had assumed their paths could cross anywhere but the halls of Hawkins High.

“Sounds good. Bye, Eddie,” Steve salutes him with an upward nod of his strong chin and disappears back into the world in which people like them never even think about touching beneath the moonlight of a warm, July night.

98 notes · View notes