#mostly because they'd be easier to find

[luveline]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 

summary eddie munson is super weird. he holds your hand too tight, he has a fascination with your neck, and he can’t give a hickey to save his life. good thing you’re super weird, too. [20k]

warnings two losers falling in love!! vampire!eddie munson, ditzy!reader (kind of), fem!reader, smut mdni (p in v, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, general heavy petting and kissing, praise), fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (eddie struggling with guilt and grief). canon divergent (the events of volume 2 take place but there’s a mostly happy ending i.e. everyone good lives and everyone bad dies) TW eddie doesn't have suicidal thoughts, but he does think about it briefly. not with intent or anything like that though. requested here for my halloween party <3

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie Munson never wanted to be a vampire, and he wants that on the record. 

It's a ridiculous existence. It's embarrassing. It's nothing like all the movies and books promised him. 

He's looking at you, Bram Stoker. 

In Eddie's mind, Stoker’s nothing less than a liar and a sycophant. 

"Who's dick were you bouncing on, Stoker?" he demands to know, kicking fallen leaf mulch under his feet angrily. "Need'ta fucking impress some vampire lover with your over-exaggerated, over-powered, ridiculous descriptions? Great. Hope it was worth it. Meanwhile I'm here, self-esteem half the size of a grain of rice because I can't scale a building with my bare hands." 

Eddie would know. He's tried. 

He's not genuinely angry with Bram Stoker, but he'd rather take his frustrations out on a guy who's been dead for a hundred years than take them out on the demobats, because he doesn't want to even think about the demobats. They're all dead too. Not before they'd had (see: devoured) their pound of flesh and changed his life for the worse, though.

He shakes his head to drive out the memory like water in his ears. It's easier to pretend none of that shit in the upside down ever happened. (Impossible to pretend. He begs himself to try anyway.) 

He’s pissed because science fiction has promised him a lot of things and reality has delivered on none of them. No super strength, no impermeable skin. He is faster, but that's more a reflexive thing than anything else. And being faster doesn't make running fun. That’s impossible.

Sunlight breaks through the treeline and his skin crawls. Science fiction didn't get that right, either. The sun doesn't hurt. It's just really, really annoying.

He covers his eyes, winces at his itchy hand, pulls his sleeve over his fingers and covers his eyes again. "This blows," he says, and means it. 

In Dracula, the sun nulls Dracula’s supernatural abilities. Eddie doesn’t have any abilities worth nulling, unless you count echolocation.

He doesn’t. 

He walks another five minutes up the road toward Forest Hills when he realises you're behind him. His senses are enhanced now as a bat’s might be, hearing fine-tuned and dialled up every second of the day — which makes living in a trailer park where everyone thinks he's a murderer an acute misery — but he's as prone to distraction as anyone else. Especially when he gets stuck in a memory.

Eddie throws his gaze over his shoulder and finds you thirty or forty feet away, talking to yourself under your breath. He knows you more for your sounds than your appearance. To be able to put a face to your mindless babbling is a mystery solved. Of course you look like that. A skirt made of soft looking fabric bounces over two cute thighs, a pretty lacy corset type of thing that isn't too tight outfits your top half. You look more like a vampire than he does. 

"Hi, Eddie," you call.

His eyes widen, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. If you notice how he's frozen you don't show it, continuing to push your bike toward him. The tick of the wheels grows louder as you get closer, two hands on the handlebars with wrists draped in bracelets, both silver and fabric. 

Besides your jewellery, your arms are bare. You must be freezing. 

"Hey," he says. 

He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know how you know his, and he’s too awkward to ask. 

Your sounds peak as you close the gap. The wet scrape of your dirty black canvas shoes over shining asphalt, the soft puff of your breath, the clinking sounds of whatever trinkets you have in your bag. If he focuses, he can make out the tiniest pinches of fabric. Your short sleeves rubbing against your arms, your bra straps stretching over your shoulders. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to diminish his senses. 

"Where's your van?" you ask curiously. 

"Piece of shit kicked it in the middle of town. Just my luck." 

You pause at his side, looking him up and down obviously but without the judgement or irreverent disgust he's come to expect from near about everybody in Hawkins. 

"That's not good," you say succinctly. 

It's such a genuine response that Eddie can't find it in himself to be sarcastic. 

"God awful," he agrees sullenly. 

You nod and start to walk again. Eddie falls naturally into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. 

"You should get a bike." 

He laughs. Coughs to cover it up. "Yeah?" 

"They're way more reliable than a car, and it doesn't hurt the zone." 

Eddie squints. "The o-zone?" 

"Is there another one?" 

You're still so serious that he spares you the ridicule he might dole out to anyone else. If Dustin had said something like that he would've ripped the kid a new one, but you're rather sweet in an odd way. You have a soft manner of talking — each word sounds like you've thought its pronunciation through meticulously beforehand. 

He ignores your question and points at your bike, ring catching the sun. "Why aren't you riding it?" 

"My chain slipped." 

"So much for reliable." 

That makes you smile. Eddie feels it like a punch, a flat palm slapped into his chest. 

"You can't put the chain on yourself?" 

A brisk breeze whips your hair, your earrings. The left kisses your cheek, a silver heart-shaped hoop with pink beads that click together. You lean into it, face tilted to one side as a perplexed smile plays on your sticky lips. "You can do that?" 

"Sure, you pull it back around the gear. It's easy." He hesitates for a moment, and then feels guilty about hesitating. "I'll do it for you, if you want." 

"The guy in no. 62 has been charging me ten dollars." You don't sound as angry as you should, in Eddie's opinion. 

"I'll do it for nothing." 

You beam at him. His chest feels like a bruise. 

Pretty girls don't like Eddie. Not before Chrissy, not after. He's trying to work out your angle, what it is that you want. 

Or maybe you don't know. 

As soon as you find out who he is, you'll turn your pretty nose up at him and walk the other way. He shouldn't smile at you, he definitely shouldn't fix your bike. 

He can't help it. He's so starved for positive attention that he follows you all the way through the park, westside to east. 

He checks the driveway of his own home and smiles mildly when he spots Wayne's new car. It's new in the sense that it's different. It's actually way older than the one he'd had before, the one he'd pawned to pay for Eddie's — well, Eddie's everything. His check-ups, his court dates, his goddamn bail. In the same way that this trailer isn't the trailer, but an older, smaller one as far away from their first as possible. 

Kid, if I had the money…

Wayne hadn't needed to finish. If he had the money, they'd leave. Leave Hawkins, leave Indiana. Settle down in some other mediocre Midwestern state with all the same creature comforts and none of the "You were acquitted but literally none of us believe you didn't kill someone," motif. 

All they have now is debt, each other, and the Great Munson mug collection. 

Eddie keeps his head down as they pass the old trailer. Nobody lives inside now. Only termites. 

He can taste blood by the time they reach your home. Far from the metallicity of his human blood, Eddie's blood now harbours a bitter taste. Not quite like coffee but with that same overwhelming earthiness. He pulls his teeth from the bitten flesh of his bottom lip and quickly raises a hand to his teeth, alarmed. 

No knife-like points. Normal teeth. 

"Are you thirsty?" you ask him. 

Eddie flinches and drops his hand. You've parked your bike against the wooden lifts of your porch and are halfway up the steps to your front door, hand clasped loosely on the railing. 

His heart fucking pounds. 

"I have grape juice?" 

"Right," he says hurriedly, "right. Yeah, that would be awesome." 

Duh, you meant juice. 

You send him another endearing smile and pop up the last of your steps and into the front door. It's not locked. He doesn't follow, thinking you must live with somebody (who's gonna know exactly who he is and tell him to get lost).

He turns his attention to your bike instead. It's easy enough to fix. He rolls the bike so its handlebars are resting against your concrete driveway and covers the top bar of the metal body with his sneaker to stop it from toppling. He rolls up his sleeves and bares his arms, but pulls them back down immediately when he remembers the white-purple whorls of scar tissue lurking underneath. 

"Fuck," he mutters. Everything is a reminder, all of the time. He can't escape what happened. 

It's everywhere. 

He's getting his fingers under the chain when you reappear. You've layered up, bracelets and naked arms hidden by a black hoodie. 

The wind blows and your skirt shifts. From his position he can see a ladder hiding in your tights where your inner thighs are pressed together. He whips his gaze up like a high-school perv caught sneaking peeks in the girls locker room and notices the stitching on your chest for the first time.

"You like Dio?" he asks excitedly. 

"Who?" 

He wilts. "Uh, your hoodie. Dio." 

"I got it for three dollars in the bargain bins," you supply helpfully, all pep as you climb down the stairs and offer him a glass cup adorned in dainty enamel flowers. "Is Dio good?" 

He waves his hand at the glass apologetically. "Two seconds…" Lifting the chain with the second hand, Eddie tugs and then feeds until the links are lined up with the bumps on the big chainring. The skin on his fingertips get pinched and his eyebrows pull together in pain, but it's a mild irritant at worst and after a moment the chain is back in place. 

He pulls his hand away and wipes dark grease down the front of his jacket. "I think I did it." 

You're glowing, earrings like a metronome as you ask, "That fast? You're awesome."

He turns the pedal and your back wheel spins in time with his heart. You're awesome. When was the last time somebody who wasn't Wayne said anything like that? 

Although Dustin had told him he thought Eddie was a much cooler, more fucked up version of the guy from Van Halen the other day. 

You're just saying that 'cos we're both called Eddie, Eddie had said morosely. 

Learn to take a compliment, dude. 

When they aren't pity compliments, he might. 

Eddie lifts your bike back onto the wheels to show you that it's working perfectly. You giggle your evident pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" you say, super sweet even as grape juice sloshes over the rims of your flowered glasses and drips down your fingers. 

"Here, let me," he says, taking the glasses from your purple-stained hands. 

You kiss your hands clean which is a thing, a lot to watch. Eddie admits to himself that he thinks you're really pretty, recognises that that is a bad thing to think considering the likely very short life span of your acquaintance. God knows you won't be saying anything as friendly when you find out who he is. 

"You're so nice," you say. It feels like you're talking more to yourself than him. "Thank you. It's slipped off three times this month, and ten dollars is ten dollars. Wait, do you want ten dollars?" 

"My services were administered charitably.”

Your smile grows. You accept your glass and take a small sip, eyes lit up as Eddie steers your bike one-handed to rest against the porch. 

"Do you wanna come inside? I don't have any of the Dio, but I have Blondie." 

He holds in a throwaway comment about real rock and roll, astounded that you’d ask him. "Your folks aren't home?" 

"I'm twenty-two." 

Eddie squints at you. "Seriously?" 

"You didn't think so?" 

He shrugs. It's not that you don't look twenty two. Or even that you don't act twenty two. But it's been a long time since he met somebody living alone in the park. Forest Hills is where poverty comes to settle. 

"A boyfriend?" 

"Just me and mister Porterson." 

"That your grandpa?" 

"That's my pet fish."

He smiles. It's his first real, authentic smile in days. He's genuinely elated by your offer and your attitude, but he doesn't know how to handle it, struck with a sudden nightmare of you, afterward, telling somebody you'd invited him in and he'd tried to hurt you. It isn't fair of him to assume you'd do anything like that. You've been nothing but sweet and sincere this whole time. 

Eddie hasn't let his guard down in a long time. 

You're giving him this wide-eyed, imploring look that promptly suffocates any fear. 

And in a week, when she finds out who you are and feels betrayed, feels tricked? What then, Munson?

"You know what happened?" he asks.

"What happened?" 

"Two years ago. Chrissy… Chrissy Cunningham?" 

Don't say her fucking name. 

Your expression clears as clarity blooms. You take a step. He needs a second to realise you've come forward rather than away, fingers twitching toward his hand. 

"I know about it. I'm sorry that happened to you." 

He stares. 

This is a trick. Two years and he can count the amount of people who believe him on his two hands, and only because they'd all gone through it with him. Sometimes there are outliers, logical people who seem to realise Eddie couldn't have killed all those people, couldn't have been in all those different places without leaving any evidence behind. And sometimes there are people who agree he didn't kill Chrissy, but he's a coward for leaving her to die. (She’d already been dead.)

Eddie doesn't know what he thinks. Wayne sets the record straight every now and then with a clap on the shoulder. You did what every parent wants their kid to do. You lived. I can't ask for more than that. 

"You don't believe it?" 

"That you hurt her?" You hold his gaze, face practically impassive. "No, I don't believe it." 

He pulls in a breath that fills every inch of his chest. "I could learn to like Blondie," he says. 

— 

You're standing in the driveway of Eddie's trailer with a heavy bag over your shoulder, face to face with a man who kind of looks like him but not really. You assume it's his uncle because who else could he be? If you hadn't seen him here you'd never guess. 

"Eddie's mom must've had strong genes," you say. You bring your shoulder up toward your cheek thoughtfully. "He didn't get any of your face. Was she pretty? Eddie's really pretty." 

"She was," he says, peering down his nose at you. 

"I got sandwiches. Do you want one?" 

"What kind?" 

"I have ham and cheese, or ham and lettuce and tomato, or I have pumpernickel cookies. Is Eddie a vegetarian?" 

"Why?" 

"'Cause I only brought one cheese and cucumber, and I have dibs." 

He climbs down the last couple of steps and is still taller but definitely less imposing, face covered in scratchy salt and pepper stubble and crows feet deeply embedded into the corners of his eyes. He looks like a man who has been tired for a very long time. You make a mental note to bring him some lavender for his pillow on your next visit. 

"You're Eddie's new friend?"

You nod your head briskly. "Yes, sir. I'm Y/N." 

He opens his box of camels like a pro, bottom pressed to his chest. He tucks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter out. He doesn't light it. 

"It's nice to meet you," he says eventually, voice warming. 

You search through the mess of your skirt for the zipper on your bag and peel it open, pulling out your tupperware of cookies and cracking them open to release the fragrant smell of cinnamon and almonds. It's a heady scent, fitting for the holiday season approaching. 

You offer Eddie’s uncle a cookie.

"Thought pumpernickel was bread," he says gruffly, taking one. 

"It is, but there's this little town in France that makes these every year at Christmas and they call them pumpernickel biscuits," — he takes a bite and winces at the hard snap — "you're s'posed to dip them in hot chocolate." 

"You don't say." 

You nod happily and he moves aside to let you pass. 

"Thanks, kid." 

You turn back to him with your fingers curled around the door handle. "Of course! It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Munson, sir." 

"Wayne is fine." 

You laugh and repeat his name in a similarly rough voice, letting yourself in as Eddie had told you to do. You find him immediately in a man-made corner of the living room, pale and in his pyjamas. The trailer is open planned, a living room they’ve divided by propping a couch against the kitchen counter, a slim hallway leading to a cramped bathroom and the single bedroom. It's exactly like in your home. 

You're somewhat surprised to see him in pyjamas. Eddie doesn't wear comfy looking clothes out of the house — you've only ever seen him in jeans and jackets like a real rockstar. 

"Are you ready?" you ask.

You've invited him to come and search for bugs with you. Catching any kind of bug, whether beetle or butterfly or spider, is really scary, but you need to be able to catch them to draw them. 

You'd expressed this to him over the phone and he'd said, "I can come and help. I have good reflexes." 

He rubs his hands over his knees. There's a blanket pooled around his feet, a quilt he must sleep with, and the room is decorated with not a whole lot of stuff but enough to make you take a step back. 

"Is this your room?" you ask, enchanted. 

"Kind of." He pulls his hair from behind his ear, obscuring a pale cheek. "I don't think I can come with you today, I'm sorry. I meant to call you." 

You toy with a dark thigh high sock as you ease out of your shoes, height drastically decreasing. "That's okay, we can stay here. I brought you a sandwich. I brought you two sandwiches," you correct. 

He nods. Rather sadly, in your opinion. "Alright. Thanks." 

You step over a tented paperback and hand off the cookies before sitting down beside him on the couch he's occupying. It's smaller than the one against the wall and round like a clam, lots of room for your legs to stretch out. 

"I feel like a pearl," you say. 

You and Eddie have been friends for a little while now. Long enough for you to realise he's either depressed or mentally unwell in some way. You hardly mind keeping him company on his bad days if he needs somebody, so drawing bugs will have to wait. 

His hair is limp, not totally greasy but not super clean either. His face looks fresh enough, though the bags under his eyes make you frown. 

You pull your purse into your lap, thighs covered by the thin layers of your midi skirt. "I have just the thing for you," you murmur. 

"Yeah? Bring me another bracelet?" 

You like that he sounds eager. Making his bracelet had been a challenge, lots of knotting and double knotting, three restarts and one small under the breath tantrum. It's not anything special, black and white hearts seven strands wide, but he'd been very appreciative. 

"No, but I can make you another one if you want. I mastered the inverse chevron last night." 

He hums. You pull a saran wrapped sandwich from the depths of your crowded bag, glad to see it's mostly intact. When you open it up you find that it's the ham and lettuce and tomato one, so you drop it into his lap haphazardly and move onto the next. 

"Aha! Here," you pull a cucumber from your sandwich. "For you." 

He takes it between two tentative fingers. "Thank you?" 

"For your eyes." 

"There's cheese on it." 

"I'll still work," you assure him. 

"M'not putting cheese on my eyes." 

You laugh because he probably shouldn't put cheese on his eyes, cucumber adjacent or otherwise. "Okay, don't. I'll make you a hot towel." 

He drops his hand on your arm as you go to stand. You like how he touches you, soft but not scared. "You just got here. Stay here." He pats you nicely. "Tell me about work last night." 

You settle heavily into the seat beside him, your thigh to his thigh, your hip squished against his hip, doughy flesh separated by nothing more than a strappy tank top and a cotton long-sleeve t-shirt. His heat quickly becomes yours, a sinking transference of warmth. 

"Well," you begin, cheek turning into the couch to face him. "It was mostly okay. I dropped another plate, but this time it didn't have a stack of waffles on it." 

He smiles ruefully and sinks back as you had. Neither of you eat your sandwiches. "Progress. Taking it out of your pay?" 

"Yes, definitely." 

"Discrimination." 

"That's what I said! I said, Sarah, I was born with butterfingers and you know that." 

"She didn't budge?" 

"Dishwashing all week next week. Whatever, though, 'cause it's Saturday." 

He laughs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to your neck. He does that sometimes. You can't blame him; you wear a varying assortment of necklaces because you think they're pretty, and you're glad he likes them too. 

"See my new one?" 

"What?" 

"New necklace." You look down at your chest and pull the newest addition from between the cups of your bra. "It's real silver." 

"It's nice." 

"It's surprisingly heavy. Wanna feel?" 

"That's okay," he says, slightly strained. 

Right, you think. I'm talking a lot. 

You press your lips together in a mild pout and look at him through appreciative eyes. He's a very pretty boy, all soft and pale and sweet dark curls.

"Do you want me to put your hair up?" 

His lips part before he talks. "I don't know if you should." 

"Sure I should. It's getting in your eyes, right?" You take his hand where it's laid unsuspectingly in his lap and slip the hair tie from around his wrist, his fingertips tickling the inside of your palm. "Sit forward, Eddie." 

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and sits up. You twist and then realise you need some more height, pushing a leg under yourself to kneel next to his lap. 

You weave our fingers softly into the hair at the front of his face and rake away in lieu of a brush. After it's mostly tamed you pull it all into one hand and wrap the tie at the base of his head. You hum to yourself as you go, pleased when his lovely curls behave. 

"Voilà," you announce, moving back on your haunches. 

He breathes out. "Thank you." 

You reach for a curl you'd missed at the very front and encourage it behind his ear. He has subtle indents in his cheeks today like he's in need of a good meal, and his skin is colder than it should be when you flatten your palm. 

"You need something to eat," you fret. Your fingertips stroke under his eye, your thumb his smile lines. 

He moves away slowly. 

You pull your hand back into your lap. "Maybe we can go out and get something, if you don't like the sandwich?" 

"What?" he asks, pale lips taut as he simpers at you. "Are you kidding? This is about to fix everything that's wrong with me." 

His enthusiasm emboldens you. "It so will! There's ham and cheese too, if you prefer that one." 

"Get it! I'm gonna eat both of them." S

Eddie eats both of his sandwiches and you eat your own, the two of you with your heads dropped back against the couch as you watch TV. There's a guy you've never seen before running around the streets of Chicago city centre looking for people to be in his play. Eddie's seen it before. He repeats dialogue in time with the characters, performing each line. Impressive, what with how tired he looks. 

"What did he just say?" you ask, mouth full of cucumber.

"He said he's gonna throw himself off a bridge," Eddie informs. "Poor guy. I know the feeling." 

You swallow harshly.

"Seriously?" 

Your sad tone surprises him. 

"I- No, I'm kidding," he says, scratching the base of his throat, friendship bracelet his only adornment.

His nervous itching makes you even more worried. 

"If you did wanna do that, you can talk to me-" 

He baulks, tongue poking out past his lips as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, pet name like a kiss. It sounds silly but it really feels like one, right in the centre of your chest. "But I'm fine. Promise. It was a bad joke." 

"Okay," you say, letting your suspicion shine through. You hold his eyes. 

You haven't known Eddie long. It feels like you met yesterday, though really it's been two or three weeks. You fit together in a way you hadn't expected and adore more than you can articulate, two funny puzzle pieces.  

"Well, I just wanted you to know. I like being your friend, I don't want you to disappear."

He laughs and licks his lips, a rough, chesty sound. "I don't want you to disappear either." 

Tires crunch outside, a shushing sound and then the sharp shriek of a jeep being put into park. Eddie perks up considerably, his shoulders straightening. 

"Hey, Chief," Wayne calls. 

Trailer walls. Basically made of cardboard. 

"Hey, Wayne. Where's the kid?" 

You can't hear what Wayne says after that, words stolen by the TV. 

"Is that Chief Hopper?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the mostly shuttered blinds. 

"Yeah, he- He's friends with Wayne." 

"Why's he wanna know where you are?" 

"'Cause I got into so much trouble." 

You bite your tongue. His tone is hard, not stern but almost, and you realise you've overstepped as you usually do. You want to apologise but you don't want to pick the wound, eager to gloss over and make him smile again. 

"It's pretty cool, isn't it?" you ask him.

"What?" 

You spread your legs wider to slide onto your thighs and make him the taller one again, legs bent in a 'W' shape. "Coming back from the dead! First Will Byers, then Hopper." 

Something surfaces in his expression. An irony. 

"The undead," you croon, aiming for a smile, a laugh. 

He cracks. "The undead," he agrees, smiling in bemusement. His eyes are a funny shade of brown. 

—

Eddie shoo’s you home early that night but tries to do it kindly. He feigns exhaustion, a facade that's difficult to uphold when his entire body is thrumming with want. If there's one thing Eddie hates about being a vampire (there are literally hundreds of things he hates, but this one's special) it's that he wants to hurt the people he likes a thousand times more than the people he doesn't. 

He can't explain it. Your blood is more appealing than any lonesome stranger's. Your pulse is practically music to his ears when you sit beside him. He'd kill himself before he ever hurt you, though. Or that's what he likes to think. Whether he has that amount of control is debatable. 

No. He would kill himself before he hurt you, or Wayne, or any of his friends. 

Steve can see the way that he's feeling on his face. 

Hopper's delivery set to one side, a tall glass with blood congealed in a sticky ring at the bottom, Eddie curls under his huge quilt and tries not to pass out. Blood sate feels the same as a thanksgiving food coma. It's awesome. 

He hates how good it feels. 

"Stop feeling guilty," Steve says. 

"He doesn't look guilty to me," Dustin says beside him, taller than the last time Eddie had seen him but still miles off of Steve's tall stature. He's changed his hat again, this one a garish green. It's not a good look. 

"He looks like he's napping," Robin says, delighted. 

"Can you guys go home?" Eddie asks. 

"Shithead." 

"What Steve means to say," Robin corrects, grinning her huge, catching smile, "is that no, we aren't going home. We brought games." 

"I don't wanna play games." He does. Eddie needs the distraction, because eventually the blood sate will fade and all that will remain will be self-revulsion and a cruel desire to do something awful. 

"I do not care even slightly," Steve says, deadpan, as he sits right there next to Eddie where you'd been sitting before. Steve's nowhere near as soft and he doesn't smell as nice, but Eddie's honestly glad someone is willing to sit next to him at all. 

"Ouch, what the fuck?" 

Dustin looks up from where he's sat himself on the floor. Robin giggles in her seat on the coffee table. 

"Munson, are you fucking shedding? I just got stabbed." 

"They don't work like that. They retract." 

Eddie feels at his broken gums with his tongue. There's a clean incision where his fangs come out and then snap back inside after a time. They're remarkably thin, fitting in front of his natural incisors neatly. 

Steve grumbles, hips lifted and hand searching under his butt for whatever it is that jabbed him. He retrieves exactly what Eddie had been expecting but hadn't had the forethought to prepare a lie about with a shocked gasp.

"Is this an earring? You don't have your ears pierced." 

He swallows, knowing it's a very guilty gesture, and meets Steve's eyes straight on. 

Funny how Steve's hair speaks as much as his expression, bobbing as he nods his head to emphasise each word, "Munson, do you have a girlfriend?" 

Silence. 

"...Not really." 

"Holy shit," Dustin says, sounding extremely pleased. "No way." 

Robin tucks her short hair behind her ears, hands paused in disbelief at her neck. "Actually?" 

"I have a friend," Eddie admits. 

"Thank god," Steve says, dropping your heart earring onto Eddie's thigh. The silver feels extremely hot over his pyjamas, like it's been held in the centre of a blistering hearth. 

"I really thought Steve was gonna have to take one for the team and give you a pity handie," Robin says agreeably, scratchy voice coloured by genuine awe. 

Eddie groans, "Harrington, get this shit off of me. You know I can't touch that." 

"I forgot," Steve lies. "Can you wait? My hands are busy." 

—

He has Steve put your earring between two pieces of kitchen towel and holds onto it. He doesn't see you for a week, and he keeps your damn earring in his pocket that entire time worried it's gonna slip out and brand him at any second. 

Finally, you call him. He pretends he wasn't waiting. 

"Hello," you say, like you're announcing something. 

"Hey. How are you?" 

"Eddie, I need your help. Badly." 

He flinches up where he'd been leaning casually, hard enough to make Wayne jump. Eddie smiles at him placatingly and mouths a poor sorry, turning away to pretend there's a semblance of privacy to be found in such close quarters. 

"Are you okay?"

"I gotta find a rainbow leaf beetle. Do you have a torch?" 

"...What?" 

"They only come out at night, so I'm gonna go look but I don't have a torch that works." 

He relaxes, the lilting cadence of your voice enough to make his whole night. You sound so pretty even through the phone. He suspects you could hold any pitch, deep or high, and you'd still sound nice. 

It's all in the way you — he says this with love — perform the words. You speak like each word you're saying has equal importance, and it's calming.

Even when you say stuff that's nonsense to him.

Right now, you don't sound upset or even worried about not having a torch, simply curious to know if he has one. If he focuses hard (and he's been trying not to, as you deserve your privacy) he can hear you all the way across the park, shifting from foot to foot in your bedroom, carpet crushed under your heels. 

The action makes him think this might be more urgent to you than you'd first admitted. 

"I have a torch." He also has amazing night vision. Like, impeccable. "Can I come help?" 

"You want to?" 

"I'd love to. Are you going out tonight?" He leans back to glance out the window. "The rain is finally stopping." 

"Yeah, tonight! Is that okay for you? We could go tomorrow if you can't." 

You're willing to change your plans now that he's asked to go with you. It's a gesture as lovely as you are. Eddie doesn't think you'd ever think it of yourself; your kindness is so intrinsic you don't notice it, like the fine stitching of a leather bound book. Integral and widely unappreciated.

"That's perfect."

Wayne raises an eyebrow when Eddie relays the conversation. "You're going out in the middle of the night with this girl to… look for bugs." 

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. "I swear." 

"Be honest with me, kid." 

"I am!" 

Wayne swirls his coke can around in his hand as he thinks, a reluctance evident in his scowl. Eddie knows he's way too old for a guardian's oversight like this but he lets Wayne have a say because Wayne loves him, and Eddie doesn't ever want to put his old man through the turmoil he went through when he ran away. If that means a curfew in his twenties, Eddie's okay with that. 

"If you're going to have sex with this girl, I'd prefer you did it here. You have to treat women with respect."  

Eddie shivers, full body. "Wayne," he groans, covering his face. He can feel his cheeks pink under his palms, that's how quickly his embarrassment rises. 

"I know you're more responsible these days, and you're a grown up. If you want a girlfriend and you want to do adult things with her-" 

"Jesus Christ." 

"- then that's alright. You don't have to fool around outside." 

He drags his hands down on his face, pained. "It's not like that. You met her, you know she's…" 

"Strange?" 

"Alternative." 

"No, you're alternative. She's cooky." 

"Don't," he says. He knows his uncle isn't actually being cruel, so he lets it lie and fights for his own cause. "We aren't messing around. She genuinely wants me to go find these bugs with her. And…" He hates himself. "She has her own place, you know? If we were going to-" 

Wayne seems stricken by the same mortified embarrassment as Eddie, raising a calloused hand in surrender. "Spare me." 

"Thank you," Eddie says, spinning on his heel to hide in the bathroom for a while. It's only when he's sitting on the closed toilet does he realise Wayne hadn't mentioned his more dangerous ailment. For a time, he'd been a normal (debatable) person having a normal (horrifying) conversation with his dad. Not a vampire. Not somebody who ruins everything he touches. 

—

"It's so quiet," you whisper. 

For you, Eddie thinks. 

You're in the forest surrounding the aptly named Forest Hills trailer park, wielding your borrowed torch carefully into the dark. Eddie's following in your footsteps, trying not to smell everything that's on you today and failing. 

You smell like a person as everybody does. Over that is your soap, a faint hint of milk and honey that sticks to your skin even after you've washed it away. Over that is your deodorant, 'unscented', and over that is your perfume, which he likes most. It's a mix of smells, some Eddie doesn't know and some he does. There's lavender, though that might be down to the bunch you'd brought for his uncle wrapped in newspaper, and there's something fruity he can't quite put his finger on, all of it wrapped up in a cloying pairing of vanilla and coconut. 

"Eddie?" 

"What?" 

"Are you okay? You're almost as quiet as the trees." 

If only you knew the trees aren't quiet. 

"I'm alright," he says quickly, catching up to you where you stand a few feet ahead. "What are we looking for?" 

Best change the subject. How to explain he'd been smelling the notes of your perfume? 

"They rest on tree trunks. You have to be careful, any sudden sound or light will scare them away. But if you flash the torch on them, they shine like oil stains." 

He loves when you talk. "Where'd they come from?" 

"Place called Snowdon. They're so rare, they think there's only about a thousand alive there." 

"Well, how did they get here?" 

You laugh under your breath, so quiet he would've missed it if he wasn't enhanced. "I don't know. How do beetles get to different places?" 

"They fly?" 

A twig crunches under your shoe. 

Eddie tips his head to the side, thinking. "If there's only a thousand, how-" He stops, your circle of torch light growing further and further away. "Are you sure that they live here?" 

"No, but if they do we'll be the first to find them." 

"So they've never found any out here? In- In the midwest?" 

"Not yet. Where'd you go?" 

He shakes his head in an affectionate disbelief. "Right behind you." 

You search in silence for a while. Eddie wishes he could say he was mad, or even mildly annoyed, wishes he had even the slightest regard for his own time, but really he thinks any time with you is time well spent. Especially if it's helping you do something you want to do. Whether you find your rainbow leaf beetle or not, he feels better knowing he's out here with you to keep you safe and in company. 

Conversation is sparing. He doesn't mind. Your footsteps fill the sound and he finds even that stupid detail charming, the crunch, the pick up. His own are silent, a rare advantage to his terrible affliction. 

"Any other beetles you want me to keep an eye out for?" he whispers. 

"I'm not sure…" You turn to face him, torch pointed at your shoes. Rubber toes touched together, you lean in until you're all he can smell. Perfume. Blood. "If you see any cool spiders, too." 

"You have the mason jar?"

"You know I do." 

More than you realise, he thinks. The glass clicks in your bag. 

There's enough light reflected to see the most minute details of your face. Your nose, the circle of your irises but not their colour. He suspects Eddie from early '86 wouldn't have been able to see hide nor hair, and it wouldn't shock him if you were technically blind right now.

"Thanks for coming out with me. I was gonna ask you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, but I didn't want to come on too strong." He can sense your smile even though he can't see it. It's in the way your breathing deepens. "I know I can be a lot to deal with." 

"Who told you that?" 

"What?" 

Eddie doubles down.. "Who told you that?" he sounds heartbroken. 

He kind of is. Yeah, you're weird — Who cares? Who isn't? — but you're not a lot to deal with. He doesn't 'deal' with you.

"Everybody tells me that. All the time." 

"Everybody's stupid." To say it so loudly, scathingly, is sweet. It's therapeutic. "They are. This whole town is stupid." 

Your fingertips touch his thigh. He's willing you to turn the torch up and see his face, because he has a lot of feelings on display that he isn't brave enough to say out loud. 

"You never make me feel stupid," you say softly. 

"You're not." 

You giggle breathily at his vehemence, fingertips pressing in with a touch more pressure before you pull away and shine the torch deep into the trees. 

"This whole town is stupid," you mumble. "But not you." 

He thinks of his friends who are definitely stupid, but he loves anyways. He's about to add them to the not-stupid (subjectively) list when he remembers Steve's discovery: your earring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd been carrying it for long enough now to forget all about it. 

"Hey, I have something for you." 

"You do?" 

"Don't get too excited. It's not a gift." 

He digs in his pocket for the tissue paper wrapping and hisses in shock as the silver plating of your hoop graces his index finger. You shine the torch at him. His eyes ache like he's been stabbed and he slams them closed, hand pulled to his chest. 

How embarrassing. 

"Eddie, what happened?" you question loudly.

He winces at the sudden overstimulation. Slowly, he blinks, and finds you staring at him in a worry that softens every feature, even your nose. He doesn't know the logistics. 

"It's okay. Stabbed a paper cut on the back. Your earring's in my pocket, the heart?" 

"The hoop? I thought I lost it." Your worry turns to confusion and then melds into joy. You step forward and fish in his jacket pocket for your earring. 

"Steve found it." 

"'The hair'?" 

"Yeah, the hair." 

You both laugh and yours heightens when you find the earring, pulling it out like a knife to be brandished. "Yes." 

"I meant to tell you a dozen times that I had it." 

"You're the best." 

There's a crunch of wood somewhere to the left like something heavy falling over.

The forest sprawls in every direction and the trees tower, their presence looming as skyscrapers. The wind ruffles the topmost branches and their trunks groan with pressure. It's enough to freak Eddie out super sense or not, feeling suddenly like he couldn't protect you. He could hear the individual droplets of drool dripping from a lynx's bloody maw, and he can sense each twig underfoot before he takes his next step, but none of that is going to keep you safe in the face of real danger. 

"Maybe we should head back," he says tentatively.

"Okay. Do you want to come over?" 

His breath catches. "You want me to?" 

"Yeah, we can watch movies, I have leftover pasta." 

That sounds more like what he should've been thinking. "I don't wanna keep you up." 

"What kind of pasta?" he asks. 

The torch flickers. "With the tiny tomatoes. You'll like it, super creamy." 

"How do you know?" 

"You like Alfredo," you say astutely, hitting the torch into the palm of your hand. It flashes weakly, the shadow of the trees flickering and so dark they're violet. 

"Try tightening the handle." 

You turn the barrel of the torch and the light switches off completely. You try to undo what you've done to no success, the sound of plastic rubbing plastic almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your pulse falters and then grows to racing when the light fails to come back on. 

"Eddie," you say, sounding unsure. It's a new sound on you. "I don't know where we are. How are we gonna get home?" 

Your admission is like a dousing of ice water over his head. "You don't know what direction we came from?" 

"No, do you?" 

Eddie wouldn't know if he couldn't hear the sound of the electricity pylon buzzing somewhere to the right. But how can he explain that? "Uh, we were turned around."

You creep to his side and grab his arm with both hands. "Are you sure?" 

"Hey," he says gently. "Hey, it's okay. I know where we are. We'll be fine." 

"Are you sure?" you ask again. 

"I'm positive." 

You take a deep breath that doesn't erase your shakiness, a failed attempt at self-soothing. "I really don't know where we are." 

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" 

"Not really… I don't wanna get lost out here." 

"You won't. I know how to get back. C'mon," he prompts, pulling his arm to encourage you forward. 

You let go of him and navigate a few steps by yourself. He weaves through the trees, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. 

It doesn't. He opens his mouth to reassure you again when you gasp, kicking your foot against a root and tripping. You barely fall, catching yourself on the trunk of a tree, and Eddie remembers himself. You can't see the trees. That's why you're worried. You can't see anything. 

Then the smell of blood hits him like a freight train. 

—

Your hand stings where you caught yourself, palm scraped down against harsh bark. 

"Shit," you mumble. 

You're panicking badly, and you're confused as to why Eddie isn't. Not only was it fucking stupid of you to come out here with only one torch, it was stupid of you to assume you'd remember what way was home. It was stupid of you to come here tonight for that stupid beetle, and stupid of you to drag Eddie along. You're an idiot, and now you're bleeding. 

Your eyes sting with tears, pain like a popped seal. I'm so stupid. 

"Hey," Eddie says, his tone silky soft, "you're okay. Let me help you up." 

You hold your hands out. 

"Eddie, this is weird." Hopefully he understands that weird means scary.

He takes your hands, fingers closing slowly over your bloody palm. His breath is loud as he pulls you up toward him like he's panicked but his grip stays kind, and you abandon the notion when he rubs over your knuckles with his thumb. "It's alright." 

He doesn't sound the same. 

"Eddie, we can't see." 

"We'll go slowly, okay? I'll put my hand out and we'll walk around anything that gets in the way." 

"Yeah," you say hurriedly, heart bump-bump-bumping against your ribcage. 

He keeps one hand, the injured one, and starts to drag you slowly through the trees. His grip tightens as you go until it starts to ache, until it feels like it might bruise. 

"Ouch, Eds. You're hurting me," you say, going for a lightly teasing tone and missing the mark. 

Instantly, he eases off. "Sorry, sweetheart. You hold onto me, alright?" 

You do as he'd asked, hand clinging to him as he leads. He doesn't squeeze you again, walking slowly as he'd promised, and the closer you get to the edge of the forest the clearer it becomes. Light pollution from the centre of town leaches through the trees like water trickling from an overflowing basin. 

His second hand is in his pocket. 

"Here," he says after you've traversed to the very edge of the forest. "There's the park. We're bona fide explorers." 

He looks out toward the park and you look at the side of his face. Something isn't right. Something uncanny. 

You drop your gaze from his face to your joined hands. They come apart, blood smeared in both your palms like two halves of a dripping heart. 

— 

There is something weird about Eddie. As a residential freak of Hawkins you think you're an authority in this, and you don't feel guilty for judging him. Your brain can't stop going over your night in the forest. For days you play the scenes back and for days you lose the details. You forget how the wind had tousled his hair, how he'd smelled, what he'd said. 

You remember the way he'd squeezed your bloody hand. You remember the way he'd spoken, strained. 

Not strained like he didn't want to comfort you, he had, but strained. 

Restrained. 

You're poking at the shallow cut half-healed now in your palm at work when a dude walks in, very tall, handsome, and gunning straight for you. 

You straighten your badge and hide your bracelet heavy wrists behind your back, receding slightly as he approaches. He slows in front of you. 

You have a light bulb moment. 

"The hair," you say.

He scowls. "He told you that, huh. Typical." 

"You're Steve?" 

"That's me." Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his back to a booth, your back to the diner bar. "You're Eddie's new friend." 

"What counts as new?" A month and a half doesn't feel so new to you. 

"Trust me, you're new." 

He has the strangest patch covering the outside of his left wrist, the same peculiar scarring that you can see on Eddie's waist when he reaches for a glass out of the kitchen cabinet. You don't ask because you're not a dick no matter how curious you find yourself, but it makes your heart skip. What is that? You'd assumed Eddie's was road rash. Now you're not so sure. 

He tucks it under his arm. 

You meet his suspicious gaze. 

"You want coffee?" 

"No." 

You kick your foot, shoe sliding over the shiny waxed floor with a squeal. "Is Eddie okay?"

"Did you want to come to a party next Friday?" 

"No," you say honestly. "Like a cult?" 

"What?" 

"Are you initiating me into your cult?" 

He finally smiles, eyes creased with amusement. "I'm inviting you to our club." 

"Club where you chew on each other?" 

You look pointedly at Steve's wrist. 

"No. Club where we play board games and drink jiffy pop. Come or don't, doesn't matter." 

"If it doesn't matter, why are you asking me?" 

It's a strangely intense conversation to have this early in the morning. Patrons chatter about work, coffee gets poured. The diner smells of syrup and sugar and bitter cold-press. You're both in work apparel, both refusing to move back. If this is some kind of shovel talk then that's fine, and if it's a test you're determined to pass, even if Eddie's been super weird lately. 

"I'll come if you promise not to eat me," you say. 

"It's really not that kind of club." 

—

"I had the weirdest visit in the entire world today," you declare, stopping in front of Eddie's porch with a smile. 

"Yeah?" he asks without looking up, guitar in his lap and pen scribbling over a lined notebook.

You wait for him to stop before you continue, leaning forward with both arms braced on the porch by his feet. "Steve Harrington came to see me, and he was super mean. You said he was nice." 

He frowns at you. "I told you he was a dick." 

"You like him when you tell me stories." 

"How mean?" Eddie asks, patting the seat beside him. 

You climb up onto the porch and plop down onto the couch, worn leather cold with the weather and damp in the seams. 

You take a strand of his hair and curl it around your finger. "Not really super mean, but he was, like, acting like I killed a baby." 

"He's like that." 

You sigh and lean your cheek against the couch cushion, watching Eddie's stubble move as he tamps down a teasing smile. "He invited me to a party next weekr." 

"It's not a party- Sweetheart, what are you doing?" 

You tickle his cheek with the end of his hair. "Nothing." 

"M'gonna sneeze." 

You tickle him again, fine dark strands brushing over his pale cheek. He's a very ashen guy, you've found. Likely because he barely goes out in the sun and he doesn't eat enough. You draw circles around the apple of his cheek and grin softly at his growing smile, a sweet, silly thing. 

"I'll tickle you back," he warns. 

"Promise?" 

He steals the curl back and tucks it behind his ear. 

"You're not a cannibal, are you?" 

Eddie chokes on air. You startle at his coughing and move to pat his back, palm slapping a steady rhythm into his shoulder. When he calms down you run your hand down the length of his arm, long sleeve t-shirt soft beneath your touch. You linger at his wrist and decide to hold it. 

He drops his pen and your hand travels until he's caught your thumb. He kneads it in his fingers.

"I'm not a cannibal. Why would you think that?" 

"I don't, but you and Steve are in your club, right?" 

"Hellfire wasn't like that," he says heatedly.

"No, not- Not that one." 

He doesn't say anything. 

"You have… He has this scar, on his wrist. Like something bit him, or-" He turns to you and he looks formidable and upset and himself, not mad at you but raw emotion in his expression anyhow. It's gone as quick as it came. 

"When all that… stuff happened," he begins quietly, "we got hurt. A couple of us." 

You drop your head, ashamed at having pried.  "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else."

"Don't be sorry…" He squeezes your hand and lets it go. "Don't worry about it." 

"Okay." 

"We usually call ourselves a party, these days. Not a club." 

"Do you really play board games and drink jiffy pop?" 

"Sometimes we get really crazy and order a pizza. You should come." 

You realise as he says it how much his wanting you to go had mattered to you. Eddie's your friend, and you don't think that you're going to stay friends much longer.

"You think your friends will like me?" you ask, voice descending to a new kind of gentle. 

He puts down his guitar and his notebook. His full attention is something you've come to really enjoy, not because of the hunger you often see flitting across his face — though that's neat —, but because of the inklings of adoration clinging to his smile when he looks at you. His blinking lashes. He smiles at you and just slows. A usually frenetic boy calmed. 

"Maybe not Mike. Mike doesn't like anybody. Except for Will," he muses.

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"Who do you like?" 

"I like all of them." He juts his cheek toward his shoulder, conceding, " I think Dustin's my favourite. He's funny. He's funnier than I am, and he's the smartest kid I've ever met. And he knows it." 

Your eyes focus on the pink outline of his upper lip as he speaks. It's a pleasure to be this close, and see him in this kind of crazy detail. When you go home tonight you might try to draw him. You'll probably forget.

It's the kind of smile that deserves to be immortalised. 

"I really like your smile," you tell him, hoping it'll last a little longer. 

It stretches. The pink outline turns white. "Shut up." 

"I do. I've seen a thousand different smiles but I've never met someone who smiles like you do." 

"How's that?" he asks, edging toward you, face a mirror in which you can see your own charmed expression. 

"Like you," — you shake your head with your lips parted — "know a secret. Something you won't tell anybody." 

His smile abruptly ends. 

You've nothing if not a talent for saying the wrong thing. 

"A good secret," you amend. 

He picks up his acoustic and gives it an experimental strum. "Maybe one or two," he agrees. 

Relief catches you. You nibble at the inside of your lip and watch his fingers work over the neck of his guitar, tipping your head so you can read the words he's markered over the body. 

"This machine slays dragons," you murmur to yourself. "Yeah? How many?" 

"Just the one." 

"Save any princesses?" 

"Not yet." He plucks at the strings, lost in thought, before turning to you with eyebrows raised. "Can you play?" 

You exhale out of the corner of your mouth as he pushes the guitar into your lap, an arm coming around your shoulder, the other reaching to guide your curled forefinger to the strings. You turn to face him, watching him talk with a growing fondness. 

"It's easy, I swear. We'll do Call Me. Blondie's basic, even a baby could play it." 

He realises you aren't listening and raises his gaze, shiny brown irises stuck on your lips. This close, it would be worse if he didn't look at them. 

You glance at his, an obvious thing, half a wish. If he only lifted his chin. 

Your breath mingles. 

"It's easy," he says again, a murmur of his usual volume as his gaze pulls back up to yours. "I'll show you." 

You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding; it's deafening. You wait, and you wait, and you turn your eyes back to his guitar and clamp your fingers down against the struts so he can't see them shaking with adrenaline. 

—

Eddie sits beside Steve and tries not to admit to himself that Steve Harrington is, horrifyingly, his best friend (along with the rest of the party, obviously). Steve is the closest in age and Eddie can't make excuses (though he tries and tries and tries), Steve understands how much Eddie doesn't ever want to talk about anything that's happened to them, so he talks about literally everything else instead. 

"It was the weirdest pawn shop I've ever been in. They had, like, a wall of combi's playing the same video at the same time but all slightly delayed." 

Eddie blinks. 

Steve turns his head from the TV, having expected a response. "Did you say something?" 

"No." Then, because he's not a dick. "Sorry, Harrington. Want me to sit on your other side?" 

"What for?" Steve says. Not because he denies how he's hard of hearing, but because he denies having conversations with Eddie. 

He does end up moving to Steve's other side with a pathetic excuse. "I can't see the TV." 

Steve doesn't say a word until he's sat down again. "Sorry I was mean to your girlfriend." 

"Yeah, what was that about?" 

"I was cranky because it was early and I don't want her to damage the integrity of the party." He gives equal weight to both reasons. 

Eddie snorts at him. "Since when do you care about the integrity of the party?" Steve barely acknowledges that they are a party. He thinks that's a very nerdy way to say friends. 

"Since always, dipshit." 

"And inviting her to join the party was the solution because…?" 

Steve drinks the rest of his coke and pretends to really care about what's on TV. "If," he begins after a minute, refusing to look at Eddie, "something happens with her, and something happens to you, that damages the integrity of the party." 

"Steve," Eddie says, jaw dropped down to his chest, "do you have a crush on me?" 

"Oh my god," Steve mutters. "Oh my god," he says louder. "I can't stand you." 

To prove his point, he gets up from the couch with a wrinkled nose, stops to tap his shoe gently against Max's where she's sitting in the armchair across from the coffee table, and disappears into his kitchen. 

Steve Harrington cares about me enough to give Y/N the shovel talk. 

He feels kind of great about it. 

But he's not sure your the one who needs warning. 

That night in the forest, Eddie had almost snapped. There are rules to follow if he wants to keep people safe, self-imposed, Hopper-imposed, and he's broken too many with you already, the most important being no close proximity when he's hungry. Eddie doesn't even realise he is hungry half the time. He'll be standing by you and he'll want to touch you, and suddenly it's like he's three weeks in to the month without sating. 

He thinks about kissing you and suddenly he's thinking about biting you, and hurting you, and it's literally tearing him up from the inside out. 

How can he want to do that to you? 

"You look so depressed and pathetic," Dustin says out of the blue. 

Eddie pouts and falls back into the couch, Steve's fancy throw falling onto his shoulder. "I used to like you," he says, taking in Dustin's outfit with a kind of parental approval. He's getting older and it shows, slightly more handsome than he had been — he's kept all his baby weight and it suits him, his full cheeks surrounded by the softest brown curls Eddie has ever seen. The outfit stays immature, a funny t-shirt and ill-fitting pants. 

"Sad. You have a sad face," Dustin says. 

"Go play with your nerd squad, please." 

He doesn't listen, collapsing in Steve's still-warm seat like a cheap tent and crossing longer, thicker arms over his chest. He smiles at Eddie genuinely. "Where's your girlfriend?" 

"No." 

"Where's Y/N?" 

Eddie tips his head so he can see past the coffee table and points to where you're almost hidden, sitting with Robin on the floor by Steve's sideboard. You have a basket of tapes in front of you, the two of you trying to choose what's going in the stereo. Eddie prays for anything but Blondie. 

You will most likely choose Blondie. 

"What does she like?" Dustin asks curiously. 

"Everything, kind of. Why?" 

"I wanna know what to say when I talk to her." 

Eddie smiles at his friend's face, a soft, surprised thing. "I don't know if she knows anything about the radio but if you're happy about it she'll be happy too. She's a good listener."

Dustin picks at a piece of lint on his t-shirt bearing a white and black print of a dog wearing sunglasses. "So you talk to her?" he asks without looking up. 

"I mean, yeah. What else do you do?" 

"With a girl that likes you? Huh, let me think." Dustin laughs and ruins his own sarcasm, pointer finger laid against his chin in a show of thoughtfulness. 

"It's not like that," Eddie says lightly. 

"It could be." 

"Could it? I mean… I don't even know if she'll stick around. And I feel bad 'cos I can't be honest with her." 

"Why not?" 

"Hopper said he would literally put me in the hole if I even thought about it." There's no need to expand. Dustin would know better than anyone what he's talking about. 

He cringes at the thought, self hatred a hot poker down his throat. He must've said it to Dustin a hundred times when he finally came around from his coma (that wasn't a coma, but a death, and then a rebirth). I can't believe I put you through that. I can't believe I put you through that. I'm so sorry. 

I'm just glad you're alive, Eddie. 

And for a while, Eddie hadn't felt the same. The world he'd woken up to was hard. There had been lawyers and grief and guilt and becoming. He doesn't have the words to describe how it feels to become something new, something that needs to hurt people to live, something that will hurt people to live, whether Eddie wants to or not. 

The loss of choice is suffocating. 

Though moments like this with his friends– they don't make it 'worth it', they're just how it had to happen. There isn't a scenario where Eddie could give up. He can't leave Wayne, and he can't leave Dustin. He can live with the grief of what he is if it means other people don't have to live with grief of what he isn't. 

"Eddie, are you okay?" 

He's missed something. Dustin isn't the only one looking at him. 

He curls a hand around his forearm subconsciously. "I'm fine. I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom, actually. Gotta piss real bad." 

"Eddie-" 

"I'm fine, Henderson." He puts on a good show, patting Dustin's arm. His heart, usually so slow these days, has enough life in it to ache. 

He can't have been in the bathroom for five minutes when somebody knocks on the door aggressively. He's expecting Steve, pissed at his disappearance and likely preparing a speech on attention seeking behaviours and how they're hurting the youth of America, so he opens the door with a tired glare. 

He finds you, beaming and pretty, dressed ridiculously nicely for his idiot friends. 

"Hi," you say. He can hear something from Blondie's Parallel Lines playing from the living room, familiar because it's your favourite album. "Any room for me?" 

Eddie moves back. You close the door behind you. The bathroom becomes a vacuum of your sounds and smells. 

"They didn't have any Dio," you say with a smile. 

"I honestly wouldn't expect any different." 

"You could've brought some tapes, your mix from the van," you suggest. "I love that one." 

"Which one?" he asks, and he can't help it, whenever he's with you his voice crops to a dulcet murmur. The urge to speak to you as you speak to him is unconquerable. 

"One with the winking smile on the slipcase. I really like it." 

"You can have it." 

You lean against the sink. "I can?" 

"Mm. Whatever you want." Especially when you look like this. 

You smile at him, your 'thank you' smile, all sticky fondness and mischievousness. He has no idea what you're thinking. 

"'S a small bathroom in a huge house," you marvel. Your voice echoes "Where does he shower?" 

"There's an upstairs bathroom." 

"Two bathrooms? That's-" 

"Audacious?" 

"I was gonna say overkill." 

Your candidness has him shaking with laughter. He clutches at his sides, arms crossed and leaning forward. You visibly take in his appearance, eyes panning slowly over his clean hair. He'd taken care to look like somebody you might want to look at tonight. 

"Why don't you sit down, Eds?" you ask, eyes creased with an unreadable emotion. 

Eddie feels blindly for the toilet lid and pushes it down so he can do as you ask, wondering why you're asking.

"You look very handsome today." 

He hugs himself. "As opposed to every other day, when I don't?" 

You take a step forward, a second, hands playing with the hem of your shirt. Your outfit today is delightfully simple, a pressed black t-shirt long enough to cover the waistband of your pleated skirt. There's an expanse of thigh that makes his heart beat spin out, one longer than the other where your thigh-high is falling down.

He wants to pull it up. 

"C'mere," he says. 

You take that last step between his shoes and he reaches out, getting his fingertips under the elastic of your sock and tugging it upward over the soft fat of your leg. Your hands come up to his shoulders for balance, and you say, "No, you look handsome every day. Today you look very handsome. I made the distinction." 

He covers your thigh with both hands, looking up into your face as you look down. "You look really pretty today," he says boldly, fingers spreading behind your knee. 

"Thank you. Do you like my t-shirt?" 

It's a screen print of Debbie Harry. Eddie tries not to roll his eyes. "I love it, but your dedication to Blondie is seriously worrying, sweetheart." He gives your leg a short squeeze and pulls the most giggly smile out of you yet. 

"Like Madonna." 

"No!" he bemoans. 

You laugh and grow closer, arms on his shoulder, a hand threaded into his hair. "Cyndi Lauper?" you suggest. 

He puts a hand on your waist as you move in for a hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and the tops of his shoulders, cheek crushed to the top of his head. 

He'd ask if you were okay if he thought you weren't. You're not upset or seeking comfort. You're affectionate. You've been getting more and more touchy for weeks, as he has. Stolen touches, your almost-kiss on the porch last week. 

"No, not Cyndi Lauper," he says, his hand skirting around your back to pull you in properly. 

"R.E.M?" 

"God, no. Where are you hearing all this junk?" 

"The radio." 

"Tuned into the wrong station." 

You pet the back of his head. "Yeah," you say softly, "I think I was." 

The hug is shorter than Eddie wants it to be. You make one of your happy sounds and pull away to get your hands on his face, stroking curls from his cheeks with a protective touch. "Handsome," you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek with your knuckles. "Pretty. You have really big eyes, Eddie, so brown, and so…" You tilt your head to one side, face inching forward. 

He turns his face to suit, to fit, breath held as you close the gap. 

"So pretty," you murmur, and kiss him. 

His hands are limp and then alive, one clutching your hip, one splaying against your chest. He can hear the thud of your heart clear as day — you're bumping with excitement as you kiss him. It's a delicate, tender thing, the party suddenly far away, the music drowned by the sounds of your breathing. You kiss as you talk, as you move, gentle but with bursts of ardency. Your lips are a blissful heat, the tip of your nose smushing into his as you part your lips over his. 

He lifts his chin higher, his neck craned to receive you. He's savouring every movement. Each pause for breath that you take. The feeling of your inhales over his quick-bruising lips. 

Your hands play in his hair so sweetly it makes his eyes burn with an embarrassing amount of emotion. He screws them closed and squeezes up your waist, steadying himself as you feel along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. 

You don't get much further than that, seemingly pleased with your own brazeness or perhaps his touch, eyes glowing with mirth as you pull away. 

"Sorry," you breathe, not sorry at all. "You just really looked like someone should be kissing you."

You're flushed. Eddie can practically see the heat emanating off of your cheeks. He can feel it. 

He stands up, your pulse a ringing in his ears. The wet valves of your heart opening and closing. 

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, lifting your head to meet his eyes as he walks you back into the door. 

His gums sting. A click. 

It's a compulsion. 

His hands curl around your elbows, holding you in place. Your eyes are wide with confusion, your lightly swollen lips parted. He can see the tiniest slip of your pink tongue. 

He holds your gaze as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter closed. You wrap your arms around him as he descends, totally trusting. 

He's a meaner kiss than you are. He starts slow but swiftly loses a handle on it, kisses short but insistent, hot presses like little crescent moons against your barely open mouth. 

His hands move up your arms, a near vice-like grip until he finds your sleeves. His fingers slip underneath, hands hungry for your warmth. 

You make the worst sound anyone has ever made as he moves back, like something has been ripped from you. A gutted gasp, near silent. 

He placates as he wades back in. Thumbs rubbing your arms, lips mouthing damp kisses down your face. The corner of your pout, the hill of your chin, the skin under your jaw. Your head tips back against the door with an audible thud. You exhale hard. 

Eddie can't feel his hands. 

Your pulse hammers under his lips. He kisses it once. He can't think. He can't breathe. 

"You're always cold," you whisper, your hands drifting lazily under the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingertips trail up his spine. "But your lips are warm." 

He kisses your neck, his lips parting slowly, a hair's width a second as he sucks your skin into his mouth gently. It's barely a kiss. He does it a second time. A third. You start to laugh, a golden sound. 

The point of his fangs touch your skin and you stop. 

Eddie closes his mouth abruptly. His hand leaps to your neck and he feels your heart skip as he holds you still. "I'm sorry," he says, nose rubbing over the damp spot he's left behind, your teased skin. 

Your heart hikes again. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He pulls away, an agony. 

"It's okay," you say. Your breathlessness says otherwise.

Eddie takes as many deep breaths as he can stand, wanting to clear his head and filling it with you instead. Your everything; your smell, your skin. Your limp hands against his back. 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks when he gets a look at you, your unreadable expression. He takes care to keep his head angled down so you can't see the lower half of his face. 

"I don't think you could." 

You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, his weight against yours.

"I wanted to tell you something," you confess. 

"What-" He licks his lips, wincing when his fangs slide into his tongue and scrape grooves across his taste buds. "What was that?" 

"I know you…" You pause, fingertips rubbing at his cheek.

Does she know? Eddie thinks, horrified. He hadn't realised how scary waiting could be. A thousand worries condensed into a handful of seconds. Does she know?

How could she not?

You press your palm to his cheek with more insistence. "I don't want you to think you have to hide anything from me. I know you have scars," you say, fingers sliding into the soft baby hair at the back of his neck. "You don't have to cover up. You don't have to cover any of it." 

"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to convince himself. 

"I know." 

-

You stay a while longer. Eddie's friends pretend that you hadn't been alone in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time together. You thank them all silently and less so, trying to talk to as many of them as you can. 

There's Lucas, who's really, really nice, and his girlfriend Max, who's less so. She gives you an unimpressed look through her thick-lensed glasses, but you compliment her crutches and she comes around. 

There's Mike, who actually isn't anywhere as bad as Eddie had described him. He's not frosty or standoffish, he's sweet and he asks questions. There's a girl with him that you don't catch the name of, and a boy on her other side. 

There's Dustin, who you adore immediately, Robin, who you adore more, and then there's Steve. 

Steve offers you a pretzel like you're more than familiar. He strolls right up to you with a bowl of them in hand and doesn't leave until you've eaten half of them. 

There's a couple of people you don't manage to talk to at all, and you feel guilty about it all the way home. 

"What if they think I'm rude?" you ask, tired eyes locking onto the stereo system. The time blinks analog in the dark, 12:59AM. 

"They don't, don't worry about it. You have lots of time to get to know them, anyway." 

You hum and turn to his face, indulgent because you know he can't look back. "You're not too tired to drive, are you?" He's spent. Yesterday had been one of his bad days. 

"I'm fine." 

"You say that all the time," you observe, dropping your cheek into the passenger seat's headrest. 

"I'm fine all the time." 

"Liar." 

"Nuisance." 

You huff a laugh through your nose. The strands of his friendship bracelet, the small beads at the ends, swing like pendulums in the gap between his arm and the steering wheel. You can see the rough skin of a scar creeping out from under his sleeve. 

"Mike was really nice," you say. 

"He has a bleeding heart." 

That feels accurate. "He reminds me of you." 

Eddie rolls his eyes. You feel for every detail, the strange tension between you like a gaussian filter over everything. He's gorgeous in a horrific way, heartbreakingly pale, eyes dark as pitch, hands restless. They squeeze alone the wheel, thick fingers curling tight until his knuckles are stark white. Running down the back of his hands are veins like rivers. They're more purple than green. 

"Eddie," you say, playful, a tiny bit insecure. 

"What?" 

"Wanna stay the night?" 

His hand moves forward on the wheel like he's revving a motorcycle, the tendon in his wrist rising to the surface. He clenches. "Not sure it's a good idea." 

"Just to sleep. It's late." 

"I don't know if I can sleep next to you." 

You don't wanna say please. You don't want to ask Eddie to do anything he can't or doesn't wanna do. 

He pulls up outside of your house with his mind already made up. He gets out of the car and you follow his lead. He locks it, shoves the keys in his pocket as you join him on the path up to your porch. 

He's been in here enough times to know what it looks like, but for some reason you find yourself checking his face, worried about what it is he thinks of your things, all your mismatched trinkets, your stained glass lamps, your life as you let yourselves in. He ducks through the beeded curtain into your bedroom wary that they'll get tangled in his hair like they sometimes do. 

"Do you wanna call Wayne?" you ask, gesturing to your telephone on the right hand side, nestled between a stack of books and a cup full of coloured pencils. 

You pull your knee up to your chest and unlace your shoes one at a time. Eddie punches the number into the phone and holds the receiver to his shoulder to do as you're doing. It takes him less time to pop his sneakers off than for you to get out of yours. He's just taken the phone back into his hand when Wayne picks up. 

"Wayne?" he asks softly. "Didn't wake you up, did I?" 

You can't hear his response. 

"I'm gonna stay with Y/N tonight. Yeah, we had a good time. Yeah…" His eyes drift to you as you peel out of your thigh highs.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What?" He meets your eyes and it feels accidental, because he throws his eyes to your bedsheets and turns his face to the wall. "No," he says firmly. 

You scrape together something to wear for bed and some fresh underwear and leave for the bathroom, telling yourself that nothing is gonna happen so don't get your hopes up but not wanting to get caught out if it does. You freshen up, brushing your teeth and washing your face.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you should've left your face-powder and your mascara on. Maybe even the skirt. You'd looked nice and pretty for the party. Now you look like yourself, still pretty but without those extra touches. Will he care? Does it matter? 

You debate your pyjama pants considerably. 

There's a lot happening. 

Eddie is… Eddie is something else. He's different, you'd known that for a long time, and his kiss had confirmed it. 

He's something out of a science fiction book. 

Well, nobody's perfect. 

Whatever he is, he'd kissed you. You'd kissed him and he'd responded, he'd come back for more, and now he's sitting in your bed when he could've gone home. You bring your hand to your neck and crane to one side, fingertips poking at your unbroken skin. His hickey's haven't even bruised. 

You screw the pants up and drop them into your laundry basket. You take off every piece of jewellery on your person. 

"Do you wanna use the bathroom?" you ask from behind the beaded curtain. "I left a new toothbrush for you on the sink." 

"Yeah, desperately, I…" He takes you in as you emerge. Fresh-faced, bare-legged. As naked as you've ever been in front of him, physically and otherwise. 

Eddie meets you where you're standing. He's ditched his jacket, and for the first time since you met him you can see the full length of his arms.

"You're not wearing your bracelets," he says, looking between your bodies. His hand twitches toward yours. 

"You have tattoos," you say. 

"They were better, before." 

There's a misshapen mess of black splodges near the crook of his elbow broken up by scar tissue. One arm is less scarred than the other, an almost perfect flank of white skin. 

"Is that a puppet? He's super spooky." 

"Mh-hm." 

You bring your hand to his tattoo and feel over the skin. It doesn't feel like it's there. Eddie holds your wrist and the two of you move together, your fingertips stroking up until you're wrapped around his bicep. 

Eddie brings his free hand to your collar. His index finger straightens, encouraging your chin up so he can ease forward and kiss you. He's firm, eager, and your lips curl up into a smile underneath it. He turns his head to the right and you fall left, smile worsened when you feel his own start to form. 

He nudges your nose. You take it for a telling off and laugh. "Sorry," you apologise, kissing his top lip. 

"You're making this difficult," he chides. 

Despite any sternness, Eddie loosens his grip on your wrists to slide his fingers between yours, pressing your joined hands to your chest. He leans back down and he's careful, almost methodical in the way he kisses. Chaste pecks, hot and precious as tiny stars. 

You reach for his waist. 

Eddie kisses you a final time and steps back. "I'll be back," he promises. 

You lower your chin, flustered and perplexed by his sudden departure.

Walking around to the right side of the bed, you click on your bedside lamp — a beautiful glass and foiled contraption that throws dainty stripes of stars and hearts over everything close in the dark — before climbing in. You sniff one of your pillows experimentally, trying to remember when you last changed the bed. You decide they're acceptable even if they really smell like your hair oil and flip them around to be safe, plumping them up with your hands.

You've curled up on your side and almost succumb to your fatigue when Eddie returns, bringing with him the smell of spearmint and a fuzzy feeling in your stomach as he shuts off the light and sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing you. The hair around his face is damp with water, baby hair's limp. 

"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you to wear, I-" Youre cut off by your own gasp as Eddie kisses you, his hand on your neck, his nose bridge sliding into your own. You hadn't been expecting it, and it's no less dizzying than any other kiss he's given you today. 

"It's okay," he murmurs lowly, lips pressed to your lips, "have to wear you, is all."  

You huff a laugh into his mouth. "I swear I'm always laughing when I'm with you," you muse as Eddie dedicates himself to your bottom lip. You cup the back of his head. "You're amazing." 

Eddie groans and eases back. "I'm not good with words, sweetheart. To tell you how I feel about you." 

You push one of your legs toward his knee. "...You can show me." 

He shifts in the bed until he can lean over the entirety of your chest, hands cupping your face and lips poised hovering over your own, a millimetre of space between your mouth and his. "Okay," he says quietly.

He dips down. You can feel his bottom lip tremble, and then he's kissing you too hard to feel it anymore. You wrap loose arms around his back. 

"Are you sure?" you whisper to him. 

He rests his nose against your cheek, eyes closed, drawing the tiniest left to right. "I want you," he reassures. 

"And you're okay?" 

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm okay. Do you want to?" 

"Yeah. More than anything." 

Another loving kiss against your cheek, Eddie moves down, down, down. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he murmurs, top lip dragging and leaving a line of dampness to the base of your throat. 

He adorns the canvas of your neck in half-moon contusions, big hands caressing your shoulders, your chest. You hold your breath as his fingers pass over your nipple, fighting to keep in any embarrassing sounds. 

Eddie disagrees with his plan of action. You shiver as he brings his lips to a close and his bottom teeth scrape upward, as he pulls his head up and says, "C'mon, angel, breathe." 

He follows his command with a manipulative touch, a circle over your nipple that makes you shudder. He kisses you and it feels like a thank you, pressure, a heat as his palm smooths over the bump of your tummy to your thighs. He squeezes the outside of one and for a while you can kiss him back, and then he pulls your thighs apart and you break away. Eddie follows, kisses you even when your reciprocation is weak. 

He pushes your thigh flat to the bed. 

You feel the heat of your excitement start to grow. Your stomach aches with the want to be touched. 

"You're like a space heater, you're that warm," Eddie says, hand coasting down the inside of your thigh. He squeezes until fat melds under his fingers. "Are you scared?" 

His whispering in your ear, his hand as close as it is to where you want it, it winds you up like a coil. You sigh as his thumb strokes the edge of your panties, sound coloured by an awful, devouring desire. 

His face presses further into yours in reaction. 

His touch is like the tide. He wades in, away. His thumb strokes inward over something soft and then his whole hand moves back to your thigh. 

"Teasing," you utter. 

"A little… Why, is there something you want me to do?" 

His clueless whispering is infuriating and exciting at the same time. Your heart races and you can't discern if it's more lust or love.

"Touch me," you plead, pouting, knowing he's a pushover.

Anticipation stabs like a needle in your tummy as he slides his palm over your cunt completely. He rubs a careful, almost casual rhythm into your panties with the breadth of his fingers, lips kissing a lazy stripe up to your forehead, where he rests his face. You both watch his hand move past the valley of your rising chest. 

"M'gonna pull these off, yeah?" He sits up, fingers pushing under the sides. "Lift your- yeah, thank you, sweetheart." 

You buzz with his pet names, his soft voice, the feeling of your panties sliding up to your knees and his gentle exhale. You swear you can feel it fan over your slit. "Shit…" he moan, pulling at your spread cunt. 

He looks like he's in pain, eyebrows pinched together and murmuring curses as he circles the wetness gathered at your entrance. You turn your head searchingly as he starts to ease his index finger inside your heat, a gentle probing. 

One becomes two. He muffles your sighing with firm kisses, amorous praises, "That's it, baby, relax," as he works you open, fingers wet with slickness but not enough. He changes his position, pushing his middle and marriage finger inside and curving as his thumb slides up your slit looking for the bead of your clit. 

Slow, slow circles. "There, huh?" 

You shiver as he pushes in deeper, fingers as far as they can go. He spreads them wide, drops reassuring kisses all over your face when you keen. It's so new to have him kiss you at all, and to have him touching you — you're melting into nothing right there in his hold. 

"I got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay?" 

"Want you to- I want you to fuck me," you murmur, arms wrapping around him so you can hide your face in his neck. 

"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you just as soon as I can fit," he murmurs back, sinking three of his thick fingers into your snug cunt. He pulls wetness out with every thrust, a line of slick dribbling down onto the sheets underneath. He wipes it upward and pushes it back inside, his chest heaving. "Y'so tight, gotta take my time. Take our time." He rubs his nose against your head until he can kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Make sure you can take it." 

"I can." 

It doesn't bear repeating how quietly you're speaking, a mouthing inaudible under the wet, rhythmic thud of Eddie's pinky finger slapping your sticky cunt as he ups the pace of his finger-fucking. 

"I don't think so," he coos, pulling his fingers from your cunt and making a show of spreading them wide. Your slick ribbons between them, almost invisible in the dark. "Ruin your sheets before any of that, maybe." 

Eddie sits up and gets his hands under your armpits. You laugh as he tugs you up so your shoulders are on top of the pillows, but you don't have time to be confused. He quickly moves to kneel at your feet and pulls your leg over his shoulder, your back lifting unevenly from the sheets. 

He starts with a sweet kiss pressed to the skin closest to his mouth, your lower thigh, and then works his way up, open mouthed, barely kisses at all until his hair whispers against your sensitive cunt and he's nipping at the stripe of skin between your thigh and the place where you most want his attention. 

"Pretty," he says into your damp skin, lips shining. You reach down to stroke his hair behind his ears, worried he's gonna get it dirty. 

He looks at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark in the dim light, their lashes long and soft where the outermost flutter into your skin. He's lovely. 

He holds your gaze as he pulls back to your inner thigh. "Pretty everywhere," he says salaciously. 

His lips part over your skin and you think he might bite you, a bruising hickey, but he pushes you down flat to the bed by your hips and kisses your clit, a simple kiss. Your fingers weave deeper into his hair. Your fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp, every tiny lick or kiss reflected in the minute tightening of your hands. 

He goes slow, mouths down, kisses wetter and wetter as he reaches your entrance. "Poor girl," he murmurs, hands pulled down to further scandalise. He sinks two fingers inside and laughs into your cunt. You squirm. 

"What happened? You're dripping on my fingers." Your thighs draw closed around his head as he curls his fingers against a soft spot.

"Eddie, can you-" You swallow. "Please. Please." 

He pries your thighs open and rubs them soothingly, lapping at the heat of your cunt in face of your pleading. His tongue appears broad and flat up the centre of you until he's kissing on your clit, fingers pumping in rhythm. Your fingers work into his hair and he groans, the vibration enough to make you whimper under his mouth. 

He laps at your clit messily and you tip your head back, breath coming in tight pants. You don't know what you say, only how you say it, desperate "please,"s and keening "Eddie,"s. 

His thrusts grow in enthusiasm, fingers rubbing eagerly against something sweet. You pull your legs up and nudge his face to your cunt insistently, thigh shaking as you hold it up. Eddie doesn't need any more encouragement, his pretty pink lips suckling at your clit until you see stars. You make a pained little sound and try to move away from his kissing, startled at the intensity of your high. 

Eddie lets your clit pop out of his mouth with a lewd, slick sound, his hands moving under your thighs and pulling you closer. "Good girl," he says, rubbing his wet face against the inside of your thigh. He inhales hard as you are, though he pauses to kiss your kneecap and pat your leg. "Good girl, sweetheart." 

"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, hands pulling his hair from his face. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves. 

"For what?" 

"Tugging on your hair," you explain, shoulder pulled up to your cheek.  

Eddie kisses your tummy lovingly and climbs on top of you to do the same just under your chin. "It’s okay, sweetheart, I like that shit. That was good, huh?" he asks, lips dropping down to yours all wet and warm. 

He's not bragging, he's genuinely asking. 

You nod into his kiss, your hands coming up to his sides. You swear your ears perk up as he unzips his jeans and eases them down, a hand disappearing into the mess of fabric. He moans quietly at the first touch. 

You move his hair out of the way to watch. Eddie tugs at the length of his cock with a cruel hand, a short dribble of pearly precum sobbing down the tip and under his fingers. He spreads it as it goes, the slickness emphasising the ridges and veins of his cock. You can see it throb, if you look close enough. 

He sits back and eases his jeans and boxers down enough to reveal a thatch of curls that brush his hand with every pump downward. 

"You okay?" he asks, smirking. 

You pull your shirt over your head and your chest warms at his adoring smile. "Will you take off yours?"

He doesn't hesitate like you worried he might. He sheds his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over the back of his head and dumping it off the side of the bed. 

You take in his chest and it's abundance of ragged scarring still purpled with newness. He has a tattoo over his heart, a black whorl of legs and eyes. Fine dark hair crawls from the middle of his chest down his navel, joining with the thatch of coiled hair surrounding his aching cock. You shuffle forward and wait with two tentative hands held aloft until he says, "It's okay," before you touch him. You run your hands down the soft slopes of his waist. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Not anymore." 

"Can I kiss it?" 

He snorts. "Prefer you kiss something else." 

That really makes you laugh. You dot a kiss against his jaw and can't make yourself stop, dropping them all the way to the skin behind his ear. Your hand creeps lower as you go, held to the curve of his tummy. His skin is hot to touch the lower you go, and his stomach feels solid, a heaviness you know all too well. 

"Can I touch you?" you whisper into his ear. 

"Please." 

You drop your forehead against his chest and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head. His cock pulses as you wrap your hand around it, skin smooth and slick as you palm slowly up and down. You watch in awe as a bead of precum wells at the tip, Eddie's rough breathing loud overhead. 

"Lie down, Y/N," he says, hand moving behind your naked shoulders. 

"What way?" 

"How do you want it, sweetheart? We'll do it whatever way you want." 

You think about it. Whatever way you want. No matter how indulgent, you know he means it.

"Will you spoon me?" 

He pushes you gently and follows behind, dragging your body into his front and angling your hips, cock hot and prodding your back. He gets his hand under your knee and pulls it up, splaying your cunt. You jump in surprise as he pushes his cock through your folds, tip rubbing against the still sensitive bead of your clit. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, hugging you from behind. "You wanna put it in for me, baby?" 

You reach between your bodies and take his sticky cock into your hand, shifting until the head nudges against your hole. He sinks in inch by inch, arms tightening around your waist and grinding you down onto his cock until you're whimpering. 

You grab at his arms with your hands and tether yourself to him as he starts to rock his hips, his thrusting tender and his face turned into your neck. 

He presses his hand flat to your abdomen, an anchoring point as he moulds your weepy cunt around his length, each slovenly movement into your heat spreading you that little bit wider. 

"Fuck," he says finally, sounding seconds from a black out. "Oh, fuck- You're tight. Gonna fuck you open slow, okay?" 

You're pretty sure you'd let him do just about anything. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss every white knuckle, every freckle you can see on the back, and when he bottoms out your cover your lips with his stolen hand to smother a tearful gasp.

Eddie's thrusts are spearing in their steady rhythm, a dirty slap ringing with every punching thrust forward. You curl in on yourself and hide your mouth in the sheets, wet pants smothered by fabric. Eddie's grip falls to your hip, where he pulls your body back and forces your cunt open even deeper. 

His cock pushes into your sweet spot sudden and emphatic. You moan and he stills, rutting into that same space without pulling out until you're babbling his name, body knocked forward with every thrust. 

Eddie turns your face toward him as much as he can without hurting your neck, your moans echoing in time with each thrust. "There you go," he says, "wanna hear how good it feels." 

If he cares that you can't answer him he doesn't show it, arm coming up under you arm to grasp at your chest, your breaststroke soft and aching under his hand as he squeezes tenderly. His cock kisses at the sweet spot inside you intermittently; you're dizzy with it. 

Eddie can't keep quiet either, his moans breathy, his breath hissing between his teeth when you clamp down around him. "Fuck," he begs, dragging his cock out of your heat, "fuck, Y/N." 

He says your name like the syllables alone are appraising. 

You can tell when it gets too much for him. He slows. His face drops into your shoulder, and he matches his pace to the wet kisses he leaves behind. Your wetness feels stickying, each of his thrusts snug. 

His breath hitches, ragged pants accompanying every slow push of his hips. "Where's my girl?" he asks, eyes still closed as his hand abandons where it'd been squeezing the bump of your tummy to search further downward, fingers disappearing into your folds, short curls wet with slick. He can't find any purchase. You roll your hips, chase his touch and the pleasure that comes with it. 

He groans into your shoulder. It sounds more pain than pleasure. 

"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to turn in his arms. He holds you in place. "Eddie?" 

"Yeah, fuck, I'm okay." He grinds up into your cunt. "Fuck, you're perfect." 

"Will you kiss me?" 

He does. It's nowhere near the bruising press you'd wanted. It's too careful. 

"Listen," he murmurs, "I'm gonna get you on your front, okay? Gonna make you feel so good," he promises, waiting for you to nod before he pushes your shoulder away from him and climbs up behind you. You lay flat on your stomach and Eddie settles on your thighs, a heavy weight. 

He pushes into your cunt with two fingers first, the new position allowing for a new pleasure. He pumps in and out and swaps his fingers for his cock quickly after, bearing the full weight of his body into your back as sinks to the hilt. 

You both moan in time, hands fisted in the sheets. 

He kisses your neck, lips parted, and his teeth feel so sharp that your heart sinks as it had in the bathroom. 

"Eddie-" you start. 

He pulls away, stops every movement. 

"Eddie," you say again. What are you supposed to say? You both know what he is. 

There's a lull where neither of you knows what to do filled by your too-fast breathing.

"I won't hurt you," he says, hands rubbing up the length of your back and then under. He holds a hand over your heart. He drops his lips to your back. "Do you want me to stop?" 

He must feel your pulse calm under his touch, but he still asks again when you don't answer. "Do you want me to stop? It's okay if you do. You're okay, baby, I promise." 

You steal a pillow from against the headboard and rise up on elbows. Your admission comes weak but completely honest. "Fuck me, Eddie, please... I want you. I want you-" Your murmuring's interrupted by a sharp breath as Eddie starts to move again, the head of his cock pushing into your cunt, a slick, perfect feeling. 

He moans from the back of his throat as his cock pushes into you again and again, hips smacking the dough of your ass as his pace quickens. You hug your pillow tightly, tears popping up in the corners as he ruts deep. 

"Being so good for me," he groans, clamped down on your hip with a vice-like grip. "Fuck, you feel so good. Fucking clinging to me every time I pull out, baby, Christ." His blasphemy is punctuated by a thrust that has you sliding up the bed, sheets wrinkling under your arms. You spread your thighs and wetness pools at your clit as his pelvis thrusts into you, driving pleasure so deeply it aches in your hips.

You moan pathetically and reach back to hold his hand, wiggling your fingers. He takes it in one and presses your arm against your lower back with the other, struggling to maintain a steady pace as he gets close to cumming. You're a babbling stream of sounds as he fucks in deep, swollen sweet spot tapped against mercilessly.

He throws himself back on his haunches, cock dragged out of your heat. 

You pull your legs out from underneath him and curl onto your side to watch, eyes wide as white spurts of pearlescence jump out of the head of his reddened cock and drip down the bumps of his fingers. He leans back, his stomach and thighs tensed with every pump. 

He groans through a smile, moan's coloured by a happy, relieved laughter. "F-uck," he drags, fisting his cock dry. 

He meets your eyes as the last of it slides down onto his stomach. 

You smile softly. "Fuck," you mumble. 

Eddie wipes his hand in his jeans like a fucking hooligan and tucks his cock back into his boxers with a wince, and then he collapses on top of you. He's sort of nice about it, his arm over your shoulder and his face behind your ear. 

"Fucking beautiful," he praises, dropping his head back on the bed so you're face to face. "You're so fucking pretty. So perfect." He kisses you. "You're perfect," he repeats, staring intently into your eyes. 

You pull a hand from between your legs, smelling of sex. Eddie literally couldn't care less if he tried, and he lets you take his face into your hand without complaint. 

He gets his arm under your arm and starts to rub your back. "You want me to take care of you again?" he asks, eyebrows raised gently. "Yeah?" 

And you would let him, you would, but you need to see them for yourself. 

You touch your index fingertip to his lip. 

"Can I see?" you ask. 

He loses his boisterous joy, tamps it down. He realises that he can't lie, that he hasn't been lying, and he nods. You tremble as you pull his lip up over his canine tooth, excited and scared.

A sharp, exceptionally white tooth pokes out of Eddie's gums. You're taken aback, though you'd known exactly what you'd find.

A fang. 

Blood oozes at the gums. 

"You're bleeding," you worry aloud, touching your finger to the dark beading at the base of his tooth. 

Eddie's eyes rove over your face thoughtfully. He pulls your hand away from his lip and sets it on his neck instead. "They always do that. The gum heals, breaks when they wanna come out." 

"How often do they come out?" 

"A lot more since I met you. Whenever my adrenaline spikes, they seem to think it's… feeding time." 

That is a dizzying thing to learn. 

You're not sure how you feel, but you know one thing: he's Eddie. "It's too bad," you say, forcing a lightness that turns real more easily than you expect. "I really want to kiss you right now." 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb. "I really wanna kiss you too. Maybe a small one?" 

You find yourself leaning forward, unafraid. 

He kisses you once, twice, three times, the two of you holding each other's faces and covered in mess. Slick and sweat and blood. The hearts and stars from your lamp spray over his hip and paint him with pinks, greens, oranges, a rainbow cutting over his trim waist. You rest your hand overtop, feel his keloid scars like hills under your fingers. 

"My boyfriend's a vampire," you mutter, bemused at fate.

Eddie blinks at you. "I'm your boyfriend?" 

"Yeah, I think so. Don't you?" 

Eddie pulls you into his chest and doesn't let you go for a long, long time.

-

Your first time watching a blood sate is weird. 

For one, Chief Hopper is firmly against it. He's got his kid with him, the boy from the party that Mike had been so heavily doting on, and if he didn't you might think he was a pretty scary guy. 

"I think this is stupid," the chief says plainly. "I think this is stupid, I think you're stupid," — he points at Eddie where he's sitting sickly in the round couch — "and I think you're plain crazy, kid." He points at you last. 

You beam at him. "People have said that about me." 

His kid laughs. 

"Will," Hopper says tiredly, "go sit in the car." 

"Look, Chief, I know I messed up, okay, but she kind of stuck her hand in my mouth and I didn't really have a choice." 

Wayne looks at you with new eyes. "You did?" 

You nod at him faux-seriously. 

"And what gave her the inkling that you might have had something in your mouth worth looking at?" Hopper says, which is hilarious. You laugh behind your hand. 

He gives you a disapproving look that you completely ignore. If you'd taken notice of disapproval you would've stopped having this much fun years ago. 

"Uh, well, she might have… felt them?" His pitch rises. 

Hopper looks like he's about to blow a gasket when Will says, "What was he supposed to do? Never talk to anyone new ever again?" 

"He did a lot more than just talk to me," you say. There'd been a fixed bike, phone calls, lots of sandwiches, bug hunts, an entire sketchbook full of drawings. 

"I told you to wait in the car," Hopper says.

Will grins and raises his hands in surrender. "Bye," he mouths. You wave. 

Hopper waits for the door to close before he continues. "I get it, when you're a teenager you think your hormones are the end of the world-" 

"I'm almost twenty three." 

Hopper pinches his hand closed. "But you do not understand the danger that you are creating here."

"Like a stake-ing," you whisper, very very quietly. Eddie's the only one who can hear you, and he laughs so hard he snorts. 

"I'm glad you find this funny." Hopper's tone could not imply the opposite any more. 

He hands Wayne a paper bag that audibly sloshes and stalks out, his anger a palpable cloud of steam rising off of his shoulders. Eddie seizes up beside you at the sound, lips parting as his fangs come through. You don't touch him because you value your blood inside your body, only slide away from him and smile. "You okay, handsome?" 

"Kid, maybe the chief is right. We don't know how Eds is gonna act with you here," Wayne says. 

You nod respectfully. You like Wayne, and he knows about all of this stuff more than you ever could. 

"No," Eddie mumbles, putting his hand out for you across the couch. 

You take it without thinking. 

Wayne sighs. You can hear him grumbling as he disappears from view into the kitchen and puts a pot on the stove. There's the sound of a bag being punctured with a knife, a wet slosh. Eddie's grip on your hand tightens. 

You're still fascinated that he even drinks blood in the first place. That's wickedly sickening. Wicked, because it's cool that he's a vampire, with his impressive hearing, senses and smell. But sickening, because if you had to drink a pint of blood every couple of weeks you'd throw up. 

"I read about a new blood-sucker." 

Eddie raises his heavy head. "Another bug?" 

"No, a finch! A vampire finch. They're really pretty, Teddy. They're small and brown with long beaks and they drink blood because there's barely any water on their island." You give him a loving smile. "They aren't parasites. S'just how they had to change to survive." 

He squeezes your hand, this time on purpose. 

"Are you gonna come and have it in here, Eddie?" Wayne asks, one last shot at separating the two of you.

"I'm okay," he says loudly. His eyes trace your smile. "Really." 

It can't be fun to have two people watch you drink a warm mug of blood, but Eddie finds it funny. He keeps laughing every time he brings the rim of the glass to his mouth. 

"I can't do it if you're looking at me," he says. 

Wayne rolls his eyes and looks away. You cover your face with both hands and part your fingers to spy on him through the gaps. He makes it look easy, draining the mug basically in one long pull, though his hunger turns violent as the cup empties. He chokes. Blood trickles down from one corner of his mouth. 

You automatically want to reach over and wipe it away. Wayne grabs your arm before you can and gives you a fatherly look that says, I wouldn't do that if I were you. 

"Shit," Eddie says, slamming his now empty mug down on the coffee table. It makes a grating sound like a ground mortar and pestle. He sits as far back on the couch cushions as he can, nausea clear on his face. 

"Deep breath," Wayne says. 

"Fuck, Wayne." 

"You're aces. Deep breaths." 

Your heart hurts watching Eddie like this. He covers his mouth with eyes closed tightly and breathes hard through his nose. Already there's colour coming back into his face, not a lot but anything is an improvement. He'd been practically grey. 

When Eddie pulls his hand from his mouth blood has spread over his lips and jaw. Your eyes widen.

"I'll get the shower running," Wayne says, slapping his knees as he stands. He stops before the hallway. "Good job, Eddie." 

The boy in question slouches into a ball on the sofa and nods into a cushion. You wait for the sound of Wayne pulling the shower cord that turns on the hot water before you stand up, head tipped to one side. 

"You okay, handsome?".

"Tired." 

"You want a hug from me?" 

"Is anyone else offering?" He opens one eye to peek at you and grins at your distraught expression. "I'm joking, I'm kidding. C'mere, before I start bawling." You sit and then flop onto your side, pulling your legs up next to his. "Such a frowny face." His voice is adorably tired.

"Better than yours. You look like someone from Night of the Living Dead, baby." 

Eddie's arm lies limp like a dead fish over your waist. "Lemme nibble on your brains," he says, words thick as dark honey, eyes closed. "Just a snack." 

You're waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under your feet. No way your boyfriend, your cries at the end of every movie, brings you flowers because he felt like it, won't step on cracks in the sidewalk boyfriend just skulled a glass of O-negative like it was a milkshake. 

You feel guilty as soon as you think about it. He's not confined to all his softest parts and he never will be. He's snarky and angry and loud. He plays guitar like a real rockstar and he doesn't take anyone's shit. He's a survivor. A glass of blood every now and then was never gonna stop him. 

You keep wondering if you should let him suck your blood. It could be hot. It could also probably be the worst idea ever, a relationship faux pas up there with proposing after a month or saying I love you on the first date. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. 

You brush the hair out of his eyes with your ring finger. "Embarrassing relationship fumbles." 

"Oh yeah? Like letting your girlfriend watch you drink human blood from a mug shaped like Woodstock?" 

"Least it wasn't Snoopy." 

"God forbid." 

"Is it always like this?" You stroke your hand down his face and rub along his jaw with your thumb. "D'you always get sleepy?" 

"Yeah." He turns his face so your hand covers his mouth. 

You've stopped wearing silver jewellery, your wrists bare besides the endearingly awful friendship bracelet he's constructed for you. Not a friendship bracelet, he'd corrected. You're not kissing other friends, are you? Because that's really gonna put a downer on this whole thing.  

You dip your forehead to his chin and the two of you lay there in silence. You can smell blood, a thick, metallic stick permeating every corner of the room. It's especially strong between the both of you. 

"Do you wanna bite me right now?" you inquire without opening your eyes. 

"Not really. Blood sate kicks in quickly. It's the worst for, like, the first ten seconds after. Now I wanna sleep, but Wayne's gonna make me shower." 

"Maybe I can shower with you." 

"I'm sure he'd jump for joy if you suggest it." 

"Really?"

Eddie kisses your hand. "No," he says with a giddy laugh. 

"I'll pretend I'm gonna sit on the toilet. Keep watch." 

"How will you stop your hair from getting wet?" 

"I'll lean out." 

Eddie laughs even more than he had been, peeling laughter that warms you from the inside out as he kisses your hand again. "That'll definitely work." 

Wayne clears his throat. 

"Shower's hot. I'm going out. For an hour." Eddie perks up. His uncle looks him dead in the eye. "Don't make me regret this." 

And while Wayne had been under the impression you and Eddie were gonna have some grown up fun together in the shower, what you really do is an innocent act of affection: you wash Eddie's hair. 

"You have to lean your head back," you chide. 

"I am." 

"More than that." 

"There's no room." 

You're lucky you both fit. You're freezing standing behind Eddie, the only relief the warm water that trickles down from your hands to your elbows as you draw circles in his scalp, working the shampoo into a fine lather. 

"How did you get blood here?" you ask, scratching rusty flakes from the hair behind his ear. 

"I don't know. It gets everywhere. Like eyeshadow." 

You push your chin over his shoulder. "You wear eyeshadow?" 

"For shows." 

"Really?"

"Is it hard to believe?" 

You encourage his head under the water and rake your hands through his curls, encouraging the soapy water down to the ends with patient hands. "Lip gloss too? Hey, can I do your makeup?" 

"Maybe tomorrow," he bargains. While the shower has helped to wake him up, lethargy remains thick and unshakeable as adamant. 

You kiss the wet ridge of his shoulder blade, picturing his pretty face decked out in dark liners and sticky balm. "Thank you." 

"I haven't worn any in a long time. Haven't played a show in a really long time." 

You wring the water out of his hair and search in the steam for his conditioner. It's mostly empty. "You could put on a show for me. I never got to see you play," you say, shaking it really hard. A dollop collects in your hand and you work the dregs through the ends of his long hair. 

"You want that?" 

"I think you're the best guitar player in the world." 

You're not joking. He's the best, and he plays guitar. And he's pretty good, semantics aside. You love sitting out on the porch with him and listening to him play old rock songs off the top of his head. You could watch his hands move over the strings for hours. 

"If that's the case, I can definitely put on a show. Make-up, costume, stage dives. The whole nine yards. Anything for my girl." 

You roll the ends of his hair between two coated palms and step back. "There. You have to let it soak in for a couple of minutes." 

Eddie turns with a grin, angling his chest and hair forward, away from the stream. 

"Whatever will we do?"

You wipe an escaped streak of blood off of his bottom lip and smile. "I have no idea." 

You kiss. Eddie leans down and you move up, damp noses glancing off of each other. You're used to short kisses, never enough to make his heart race in case it prompts an unnecessary appearance of his fangs, so when Eddie encourages your lips apart to wade in deeper you pull back questioningly. 

"Blood sate. I'm 'sated'. They won't come out." 

Your jaw drops. "For real?" 

He shakes his head with a pleased smile. "For real. Kiss me sick, sweetheart." 

You throw your arm around his neck and drag his face to yours, kissing with an ardency that both surprises and amuses him. He laughs into your open mouth until suddenly he's not laughing at all, only breathing, pushing against you with the same urgent force and the same adoring smile. 

"Does this mean you can give me a hickey?" you ask enthusiastically. Eddie has yet to give you a proper love bite.

He leans back under the show spray and pulls you in with him, laughing when you dissolve like rice paper in his arms, finally warm. There's never been a sweeter sound. 

/\^._.^/\

thank you for reading! | my masterlist | my halloween party

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#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x reader imagine #eddie munson x reader hurt/comfort #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #vampire!au #vampire!eddie #vampire!eddie munson #vampire eddie au #vampire eddie smut #vampire eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #stranger things 4 #stranger things 4 spoilers #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x afab!reader smut #fem!reader #luveline's halloween party

[noroi1000]

That snow leopard (18+)

Snow leopard Gojo x fem reader

Summary: You found a snow leopard that looked sick. You took him for tests, but your friend told you he couldn't stay in the building. You brought him home with you because you couldn't let him go free like this.  But why does this snow leopard suddenly have a human body? Why did he consider you his mate? Are you to be the mother of his kittens?

Warnings: NSFW

Inspired by the comic SatoSugu (snow leopard Gojo x Geto) by @xo-romiiarts.

Words: 2.9k

Part two

"I don't think you should take a wild snow leopard out of its natural habitat." your friend said when she brought in the research papers. "Besides, we don't have room for him to be here yet."

"Shoko, I couldn't leave him. It was terribly cold. He looked sick." You replied looking at the caged animal in front of you.

"And you want him to live on the nature reserve?"

"Yes. It will be easier for him there. Much easier. In addition, it is easier to get used to a young individual than an older one. He has recently entered adulthood as a male. This is a young male snow leopard. Tests show he's fine."

"Yes. And females from the zoo and Nature Reserve could get a breeding partner."

She put the sheets of paper in a briefcase and placed it on the cage where the animal was sleeping.

He was fine. No injury, no disease.

But from what you know, sometimes young animals do not tolerate the first mating season well. Because they don't yet know how far they can go to find a mate.

From what you've learned in your life as a veterinarian, you know that some male snow leopards have a mate and stick together. Although mostly snow leopards are solitary, some stay closer to their mate.

You've never seen snow leopards mate for life. But if snow leopards had a human mind, they'd have a mate. You've been trying to understand this lately. That's why you understood that if any male had a human mind, he would stay with the mate.

Because he will feel that it will be easier to live with a partner. That a baby will be born. So the snow leopard male will feel that it is best to live with a mate for the rest of his life.

But it wasn't possible for some wild animal to get a human mind.

"You have to take him from here. We don't have permission to keep snow leopards here." your friend said as she looked at the computer.

"Shall I take him home?" You asked incredulously.

"Yes. You can take him home. You can even sign a contract to take care of him. Since you once said that you would like to have a snow leopard as a pet. You like them a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah..." you grunted as you crouched down in front of a wild cat whose eyes were closed.

He's not sick. He just didn't get a mate and is frustrated that he's failing. Besides, the weather where you found him isn't ideal either. He was lying in a cave as if he had an existential crisis.

Well, as if he was acting like a human. Like a man.

But you must think so.

"Could I do something like that?! Have him at home?!" You screamed as you realized what the brunette had said.

"Yeah. You can have such a pet. Probably the only condition you will be given is to keep it in exemplary health, and also to serve as a breeding partner for the females living in the zoo."

"How can I do that?" you asked.

You wanted to take him home. You don't want to set him free when you know that with that attitude (like a guy with no sex?) he won't live well there. You also don't want him to live in a zoo. Because at first he will panic because of the amount of people around him.

And you also want a snow leopard. Since he's young, he'll get used to you.

You decided to take him home with you, because since there is no place here. There was no way the cage would fit in the car, so you took the sleeping animal and put it in the back seat. You hoped he wouldn't wake up. So you drove as fast as you could but also as carefully as you could. Because anything can wake him up. And you were afraid that he would be aggressive.

You had a much-needed muzzle in the trunk to put this on his face at home. You don't want him to kill you while you sleep. You have an office at home. You'll just lock him in there and maybe put a collar on him to tie him to the wall with a rope. You really don't want to hurt him, but it's for your safety. Because without it, he can escape.

This is quite a large individual. You had a hard time getting him in and out of the car. But you managed to get him by dragging the cat across the floor on a blanket.

Once he was in your office, you looked at the fluffy fur on his tail. On the whole body. So clean and tidy. You gently placed the collar strap around his neck and attached the reinforced rope to the heavy metal cabinet you had there. You were about to muzzle him, but then your compassion for animals kicked in. He was put down a few hours ago. He neither ate nor drank. That's why you put the exhaust muzzle away. You filled a metal bowl with water and placed it near the animal.

At that moment, as you look at him, you saw the cat's eyes slightly open and you quickly pulled away. But the blue eyes closed. How could a wild cat have such human eyes?

You moved out the door and locked it, staring at the animal through the tall window in the door.

Has he woken up yet?

Can you really tame it??

It's normal for people to have different pets. Even those that are predators in their natural environment. Crocodiles, other wild cats. So it wouldn't be a problem if you had a snow leopard, right? Besides, you want to study him. Because he is very different from others of his species...

When you went to bed, you were sure that your security would hold. A collar with a reinforced cord? This is just so that the leashed animal can't chew through it. And the door is not thin either. You doubt he'll break down the door. And he doesn't have the hands to open it anyway. You locked the door from the outside. You'd be even safer if you muzzled him. However, he may injure himself if, for example, he tries to take it off with his paws.

Even if this species jumps high, you doubt it will be able to break the glass in the door and open the lock from the outside. Because that's not possible.

You left him water, and in the morning you will try to feed him. You will give him the meat that was meant to be cooked for your dinner.

Lying with your head on the pillow, you wondered what it would be like to have a snow leopard as a pet ... You're sure it will be very nice when he becomes attached to you and will be so cute.

walks? You'll be able to have it all the time. Feed, caress. He just needs to get used to you and be nice. It's enough that he recognizes you as his mate.

Your thoughts were interrupted by small sounds coming from another part of your house.

"He probably woke up." you groaned as you looked towards your bedroom door.

It was very quiet in the house since you lived alone. That's why you heard everything this animal could do.

You were a vet. You knew he'd calm down in time once he'd come to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to run away. You'll start getting him used to you from tomorrow.

But as you turned over to fall asleep, you heard the sound of breaking glass.

Your eyes widened and your legs quickly popped out from under the covers as you ran down the hall in your pajamas to see what happened.

You froze when you saw something you thought was impossible. Your office door was open and the window was broken. Shards of glass lay on the floor.

You turned around to see if anyone was there. Nobody was there.

Someone broke in? After all, a snow leopard couldn't break the glass and open the door. Someone is trying to steal it?

You cautiously approached the door and hesitantly turned on the light in your office.

The corridors were lit. Because it will be easier for you to see the burglar.

Your hand grabbed the doorknob and, careful of the glass on the floor, you walked in.

To see that the leash you put on the animal is unfastened. The water has been drunk. Nothing is broken apart from the glass in the door.

It's not possible for an animal to do something like that.

You left there to get to the phone and call the police.

However, as you passed the kitchen, you caught a glimpse of something fluffy on the floor.

You turned to see the tip of the tail twitching. The rest of the animal behind the wall.

You have to make sure that the wild animal doesn't run away from the house to the street... That he won't be a danger to people around.

You have to lock him in the office to later call the police about the burglary.

You grabbed a broom from the storage room next to the study and walked slowly with the stick.

You don't want to hit him. You want something to protect yourself from if he attacks you. You made a bigger step to see the whole body of the big cat at once.

More and more of the tail was visible to you. More and more.

Until suddenly you saw human skin.

You were afraid someone was holding a snow leopard. However, as you looked further, you noticed that the tail was sticking out from the bottom of the man's back.

The tip of the tail twitches with joy.

You saw a naked man sitting on the floor. The tail that followed him. Ears identical to those of the snow cat that was in your office.

As you took one more step forward, his ear on his head moved and he turned his head towards you. Lips stained with cream from the cupcakes you bought.

Your hands trembled as you saw the sharp eyes staring at you menacingly.

When the half-cat man turned half to you with the same stare, you took a step back.

He had the same eyes as the snow leopard that looked at you in your office... And there's no indication that it's a burglary... What's going on here?!

Isn't the snow leopard that was in your house actually a snow leopard?!

You held the broomstick firmly towards him.

You saw how long and fluffy gray speckled tail was moving slightly. His ears pricked up as he looked at you.

Suddenly, his tongue licked the cream off his lips.

Was he so hungry that he ate sweets from the fridge?

His nose twitched and then his pupils dilated as he stared at you. He tilted his head slightly to the side.

You couldn't register the movement. And you don't know how it happened, but now you were lying on your back on the floor with a naked man above you staring at you.

His nose was moving again. Hands with longer, sharper nails on either side of your head.

The broomstick was still in your hand. But you couldn't move.

Especially when you saw the one above you open its mouth, showing its sharp teeth.

You closed your eyes and whispered not to kill you. But you know very well that if it's that snow leopard and maybe you have delusions that it looks like a human, he won't understand you.

Suddenly you felt something warm and wet against your neck as it slid over your skin.

You looked in panic at the head with ears in white hair that was next to your neck.

You never knew snow leopards lick their prey...

His clawed fingers gripped your jaw as he laid your head on its side, digging his nose into your neck.

"You–." He spoke up and you widened your eyes hearing him speak.

You gripped the stick tighter and slapped it on the side, causing it to fall sideways, revealing an escape route for you.

You have to call the police!

You got up despite the shock and ran away in tears, heading for your bedroom.

"Human! Wait!" you heard a call behind you.

But you slammed your bedroom door and locked it.

You started looking for your phone. And when you found it, you panicked and couldn't find the phone icon in the apps. You couldn't find it! Your hands trembled in fear. And as you tilted the phone slightly to the side, it fell out of your hands.

And you heard the door slam behind you. And as you slowly turned around to see the naked man from earlier, you felt your body being pushed down onto the bed.

You were trapped under a larger, naked body.

"L-Let go! Leave me! N-No!" You screamed as his hands gripped yours.

"Human..." he growled, and you suddenly fell silent with tears in your eyes. "You brought me here to be my mate, right?"

His face hovered above yours as he spoke.

"So be a good mate and take off those clothes!"

He tugged at your pajamas until he suddenly tore the material, leaving you without it.

His lips were on your throat as he licked your skin. It wasn't aggressive behavior. It was like a kitten licking skin.

In a partnership way...

"Who are you?!" you screamed, trying to push his chest away.

The tail brushed against your thigh.

"I'm Satoru. The snow leopard you brought." He said before biting your neck. "You'll make a good mate. I couldn't have had a better one~"

"M-Mate?!"

"You will be my mate. That's why you brought me here, right? To breed."

"N-Nie! It's not like that! I'm a vet! I found you and I thought you were sick!"

"But you'll still be my mate. You are so fertile and perfect to be the mother of my kittens~."

You changed and looked at Him. It's his instinct, right? is he human? No... He said he's a snow leopard... So can he turn into a human?

His tongue reached your bare breasts and began to bite and lick you there. He may have thought you'd be the perfect mother for his kittens. You'll fit a lot of milk so that they'll be fed to their hearts' content.

Then he cuddled up to your belly. And he was just thinking that his kitties would have enough space inside of you to develop properly.

And then he buried his nose next to your pussy in your groin, feeling you fertile and ready to impregnate.

"Mate, your name?"

"...(y-y/n)..."

"(y/n)... Sweet name. Perfect for my mate for life. The perfect mother for my children. Your body is so fertile and ready to receive my seed. Ready to hold my kittens and then give birth to them and feed them with your milk."

His tongue licked the long strap on your pussy. Making you feel like you're about to get wet.

It's not that bad. He's human... Besides, he won't let you go.

I guess that's not a bad thing...

He turned you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips to make you kneel. But your chest stayed on the mattress as you rested your hands on it.

His teeth lightly dug in and bit your neck and shoulders as he rubbed his hard length between your pussy lips.

You felt the little spikes on his tip rubbing against your clit, making you sensitive.

He has feline features... His dick is big, smooth as human. But you can clearly feel the little spikes on the tip. Just like cats do. You've been a vet too long not to know this...

As you felt him stop at your slippery entrance, you started to panic a bit.

"W-Wait..."

"Don't worry. I won't hurt my mate. It won't hurt. Just give up and let me breed you politely."

You felt his length digging into you. His hips pressed against yours.

His fluffy tail wrapped around your ankle as your legs were spread.

His hands next to your shoulders as his mouth tormented your back and neck.

He put his chest against your back as he moved his hips, hitting you.

His pointed tip rubbing against your cervix as your flesh melted beneath him, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.

A room filled with your moans and his grunts when he tagged you as his mate.

The phone had long been forgotten by the bedside.

Your body softly aligns itself for him.

What you thought earlier, that if a snow leopard had a human mind, it would have a mate for the rest of its life has come true.

You became the mate of a snow leopard named Satoru.

Taglist: @weebotaku21; @yihona-san06; @mikkies; @raysheil; @dreeamiea; @safaia-47; @porridgesblog; @weebnk-popper; @mc-reborn

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #Snow leopard gojo

[alenseress]

"Oh. Hah."

Elias makes his way in without much commotion to it. There's certainly enough space around Jon's somewhat limp body sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the doorway and he makes use of it, eventually stopping to neatly fold his coat. Jon is not entirely sure he finds it in him to be surprised. Or scared. Or, maybe, he just doesn't have enough will of his own left to feel pretty much anything.

"Take the shoes," he clears his throat out, trying to find his voice. "Take the shoes off. Georgie doesn't—"

"I know."

Of course.

"Of course," he blinks first and shuts the door second.

They go by a kind of move-stare-follow protocol while Elias proceeds to make himself at home. Although it's mostly Jon doing the staring, Elias doesn't look at all. He walks across the flat blindly, like his muscles remember the floor and the corners. Jon supposes they might, in some omniscient and messed up way.

"Charming," Elias proclaims dryly at the thin mattress Jon came to inhabit.

"Indeed," Jon echoes.

Seeing the man plop down gracelessly in his thick flannel suit doesn't have the same effect anymore. Jon used to think it was some weird corporate thing, something they'd teach you at a workshop about great leadership. Make yourself approachable. Sit down with them on a dusty curb in the back alley, share a cigarette, address them by their names. Crush a man's scull into a purée in their office. Make them feel. Make yourself human.

"Don't," Elias said softly as Jon takes a breath in.

He reaches out a hand that Jon doesn't take. Instead, he sits at the opposite end of the mattress, feeling a sudden vertigo. Elias drops the hand into his lap, palm up. "You're burning up."

Jon cracks a hysterical laugh, heavily propping himself up. He feels a tug at his chest, a yearning for a solid form beside him, spitting "fuck you" in the viper's face — a sad, childlike desire, to call for Tim like he'd make all the monsters go away in an instant. Jon squints at the hungry void across from him, all alone, he's so alone, and the monster creeps closer. Elias takes his still burning, still bubbling hand in a firm hold and tugs until the void swallows Jon whole. He watches the fall of his own body, wet forehead pressed into the wooly fabric, bones twisted in an unnatural position. Elias jolts involuntary as Jon tumbles into him but sits still for the few excruciating moments Jon needs to collect himself. Mentally, mostly, because to recuperate his body on the ground — mattress, — and push himself up against the wall proves to be easier than walking.

They sit now, shoulders and sides touching, and Jon now can't see the void. He closes his eyes to be sure and pants heavily.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing. You're just dehydrated."

"Sure."

Elias sighs and runs circles over his wrist.

"I might get sick," Jon adds.

"You are."

"No, I mean." He gestures vaguely, shaking off the cold fingers. "I mean puke."

"Mhm."

Jon makes an effort to pull his knees up and double over, curling in on himself. He breathes, fast and panicked, trying to will the nausea away and the cold hand returns to pet steadily at his back. Jon feels a very particular nothing about it being there.

"You..."

Killed. A complete sentence, not even an accusations, because Jon doesn't know how to finish it. Leitner. Gertrude. Sasha. You killed me, he wants to say, even when he's still hurting and breathing.

"Time and place, Jon. There's no use to try right now."

Jon squeezes his head between his knees and wants to wail. He wants to cry more and he wants Elias to be gone. He does get away, truth be told, the mattress shifts and pangs and Jon doesn't know if this twisted delirium of his is ever coming back until Elias carefully unfolds him.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he sounds almost amused as he cradles Jon close, pushing a bottle into his hands and palming greasy hair out of the way.

Jon drinks in gulps that hurt him more than the burning and drops his head onto the bony shoulder in some exhausted kind of surrender. Elias smells like the archives. Cologne and cigarettes, too, but mostly dry rot and dust. Never sweat. Never the must of a human body. Jon feels cold terror bite at his ankles and curls up again, this time pressing himself into Elias' rigid form, nose buried in satin. He doesn't knows gods, not the way his grandmother did, but he imagines this to be the smell of those catholic statues adorn in silks and left to stale for centuries on end.

Feed your god fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you.

He feels a gentle press to the top of his head. Might be lips or something else, Jon doesn't know, but he laughs coarsely, clinging to the shirt with bloodless fingers. "Don't get the wrong idea."

He doesn't really think there are any wrong ideas left between them.

Elias hums and it echoes all around. Jon speaks again. "Is this real?"

He's not sure if he's doing the thing, but Elias scratches at the base of his skull with repulsive tenderness and answers earnestly. "It is."

"What do you want?"

"At the moment?"

"I... Yes."

"For you to sleep, preferably."

"Why?"

Jon feels his pitying gaze. Like he's a blind rat staggering in a labyrinth under a watchful eye from the above.

"There's a job to be done, Jon."

Jon pushes away with a sigh, not meeting much resistance, and buries himself into the scattered sheets. Maybe this is the kind of acceptance the underground woman felt in the face of death. He never understood it before, not before a kiss touches his temple and slips onto his cheek. He's not sure he wants the touch. He's not sure if he resents it. Papers slide across the floor, a statement he won't read, not now, not in this room. He kind of expects footsteps and shutting of doors now, but instead Elias gives them some distance and seemingly settles for good, prickly eyes creeping up Jon's spine.

"Do you want to hurt Georgie?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Not to you, Jon."

Jon turns his back on the monster in his bed and doesn't find it in him to care if he doesn't wake up.

#jonelias #tma #only thing I write is people yapping pointlessly

[strangersteddierthings]

The Response

Part Two of The Interview [Part One] [Ao3]

With no exact time given by Robin, Eddie's left to kill time. He drags himself from the YouTube spiral to try and track down Steve on social media. After two hours, he concludes that either Steve has his (and official Corroded Coffin's) socials blocked, or Steve just doesn't have any. He's a bit baffled that people can even find Steve to send hate mail to him.

He shoots a text to Gareth. Can you find Steve on any socials?

He gets an instant reply.

DO NOT CONTACT!!!

WAIT FOR RESPONSE

DONOT MAKE THISS WORSE MUNSON

Eddie frowns down at his phone but doesn't argue. He probably would make it worse. He sends back 'k' and looks back to the laptop. Watches it auto-refresh but Robin's feed hasn't changed.

God, what will Steve have to say?

It's mostly true, that Eddie hasn't thought about Steve in years. That's been deliberate. Eddie was so furious back then. Robin wasn't wrong about him venting his feelings into a song, but how was he supposed to know Hey Steve would be the song the catch the ear of the people? And yeah, the lyrics are very unflattering.

A lot of their first songs were filled with rage. The whole first album is just their collective high school experiences. Songs about growing up in Hawkins and how shit that was for them, a song about Eddie's complicated feelings towards his dad, songs about dungeons and dragons disguised as fantasy ballads, things like that. And, of course, Hey Steve.

He can admit that years ago he reevaluated the lyrics and found it to be more harsh than was warranted. But he figured there was no point worrying about that. People exaggerate in songs all the time. The song is out, people still plead for it to be played during encore performances. Eddie hadn't thought it was hurting anyone to play it.

Hey Steve had taken Eddie less than two days to write. He did almost nothing for those two days except write. Fuck. He was still just a dumb kid when he wrote it, barely graduated high school. And the reason for writing it...

Eddie had know Steve wasn't out to his parents when he'd asked Steve to essentially runaway with him. Steve had worried about things like money, and living situations, and getting food. It had all sounded like excuses to Eddie back then. Like Steve was picking the safety of Hawkins and his parents' house over going out into the world to be with Eddie freely.

They'd fought about it. The worst fight they'd ever had. Yet, here Eddie is, a decade later and unable to recall anything that was actually said. Just a summary of that conversation exists in his mind, now. Steve wanting to wait. To save more money now that his hours at the grocery store would be changing from part time to full with him no longer being in school and able to work the morning shifts. Wait to get his car fully transferred to his name from his parents.

All things that adult Eddie can now see as reasonable. Jesus Fucking Christ. He remembers he'd given Steve some sort of ultimatum. He was leaving on the last Grey Hound from Hawkins to Indy. Steve could meet him at the bus stop or stay, but Eddie was going, with or without him.

Steve had shouted back. He knows they just got louder and nastier until Steve finally told him that he would be going without him, then, because they were over. Even as angry as Eddie had been, he'd held out hope. But that last bus left Hawkins with Eddie on it and no sign of Steve in sight.

So Eddie did what he did best. Channeled that hurt into anger and wrote a song. Never in a million years did he think that, in the very first bar they played at in Indy, they'd meet a man who wanted to take a chance with them and get them a demo. All they needed to do was get from Indy to LA. Eddie had a van and the motivation. The next year of his life was too busy for him to even think, much less worry about Steve and his breakup.

Well, that was a lie. He thought about it constantly and shoved the thoughts aside as quickly as they came. Easier to do when he had no way to check up on Steve. He left Hawkins with no laptop and a pay-per-text flip phone he'd bought at a gas station. Wayne tried his best to provide for Eddie, and that meant they'd had one cell phone between the two, and Eddie had insisted that Wayne keep it.

By the time he got a laptop and internet, Steve had blocked him on Facebook and Twitter. That was the conclusion Eddie had come to when he finally worked up the nerve to swallow his pride and apologize and couldn't find Steve on either platform. Another thing that had filled Eddie with anger and hurt. Steve had broken up with him and then made sure Eddie couldn't reach back out.

Now he wonders, did Steve block him, or did Steve delete his socials to stop the hate mail?

Eddie feels nauseous.

Fuck!

What's worse is that, before the fight, Eddie had been so sure he was in love with Steve. But how can he say that with how quickly he dropped him? With how he's acted ever since? He could justify it to himself when he was still freshly broken up with and hurting but that faded away as fame took over.

Hard to be sad about not having a boyfriend when there were plenty of people lining up to be with him.

He pulls himself from his head to look at the laptop. A new tweet shows on Robin's screen and he scrambled to turn off the auto-refresher.

It's a short tweet, and Eddie sees she's changed her name as well.

Clicking the link takes him to a YouTube video.

It starts with the camera slightly jiggling, presumably from someone hitting record. It's been set up in a recording studio. A stool in front of a mic that's suspended from the ceiling is the only thing in the frame.

"Alright, dingus, last chance to change your mind about this," Robin's voice is picked up from off screen.

"You can't talk me out of this," says a male voice, and without any thought about it, Eddie's hand flings out and slaps the space bar, pausing the video. His heart is pounding, and he has to take a few deep breaths. That was Steve's voice. Of course, it was Steve's voice, it's his statement video, but hearing it again. Hearing it spoken softly but determined.

Swallowing feels difficult. Eddie's last memory of Steve's voice was screaming. This is... this is the Steve he never thought he'd hear again, and hasn't realized how much he desperately wanted to. With shaking hands, he presses play again.

Steve steps into frame, takes a seat on the stool. He looks in the direction of the camera, and Eddie has to pause again, to take him in. His hair is longer than it was in high school, the ends of it touching his shoulders. He's got it pulled up in a half updo, keeping the hair out of his face. His face is familiar and yet so different. He certainly looks older but not in a bad way. The biggest difference is his nose; it's not as straight as it once was, like it's been broken and healed wrong. His strong, square face is as handsome as it ever was, perhaps more so now. Eddie's eyes are drawn to the two moles on his cheek; his eyes have always been drawn there. It was his favorite place to kiss Steve.

He's wearing light wash jeans and a deep blue Henley. And fuck if it doesn't make him look good.

Eddie unpauses again, and waits to hear the retribution he deserves.

"This good, Robin?"

"Yeah, you're perfectly in frame."

"Good. Uhh, hi. I'm Steve. Robin told me that there was a lot of fuss regarding a certain Corroded Coffin song, and that people wanted to hear from me. Which is wild 'cause like, I'm just some guy and I don't really have much to say-" Steve is saying, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Steve!" Robin interrupts him, "I just had to help you move because someone threw a brick through your window! What do-"

"Okay! I get it! But that's not Corroded Coffin's fault. They do that whole anti-bullying thing! It's not like they don't address harassment and bullying. I-" Steve cuts off, seeming to remember he's on camera. His face turns pink. "We can argue this later. Uhh, anyway. There is something I want to say to Eddie Munson, so I hope he's watching."

He makes a 'give it to me' gesture and Robin enters frame, handing him an acoustic guitar. "I thought I'd answer using the one thing Eddie understands best. Music. So, uh, I wrote this song with Robin's help. Lyrics are mine but the melody is Robin. The song doesn't have a title but, uh, okay. Here it goes."

And then, Steve starts to sing, looking down at the guitar for correct finger placement more than singing into the mic but it picks him up well regardless.

"Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me? Or that I was on the brink? How could you think, darling, I'd scare so easily? Now that it's done There's not one thing that I would change My life was a storm, since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane? If someone asked me at the end I'll tell them put me back in it-" Eddie is sitting down, and still he feels the floor fall out from under him.

"-Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah If I could hold you for a minute Darling, I'd go through it again, ah, ah."

Eddie doesn't hear the rest of the song because of the blood pounding in his ears. This can't be- it doesn't mean- after all this time? After everything that's happened, everything Eddie let happen, unintentionally or not.

His phone buzzes against his leg. He ignores it in favor of restarting the video and listening to the video from the start. He listens to the whole song and it ends without anything else. Once Steve's strummed the last chord, he just stands up, walks to the camera and the video ends.

He restarts the video again, and again, and again. Hears Steve sing How could you think I'd scare so easily and I would do it again if I could hold you for a minute and though I know my heart would break I'd tell them put me back in it.

It's through the tenth, or eleventh, playback that his phone buzzes again and he fumbles to answer blindly, unable to pull his eyes away from Steve on the screen of his laptop.

"Gare- It's not- what did I do Gare? Everything I thought Steve would have to say never came close to what he just sang. I can't- I don't know what to do," Eddie sobs into the phone.

There's a pause of silence before what is very much not Gareth's voice says, "Well, dammit Munson. I was calling to rip you a new one but you're already crying."

It takes Eddie a moment to place the voice, "Robin?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Robin says. "I think Steve's let you off easily, but I also know I kick a hornet's nest with my interview so I think we should work on getting this cleared up, both publicly and privately."

"How did you get my num-"

"Gareth. Keep up, Munson. I'd like us to be able to call off each other's fans. Your PR team and whoever you employee to do that anti-bullying campaign have done a pretty good job so far in telling people to back off, politely. Helps that Jeff has been on top of this from the beginning. Honestly, I think the best decision you've ever made in your life was making Jeff the front man of your band and not yourself. He's much more pleasant to talk to, and so good with people."

"Robin!" Eddie has to shout because Robin keeps saying words and they don't make sense. "What?"

He hears a sign from the other end of the phone. "You are annoying. You know that, Munson? I'll work with Gareth to get this done. I think we should be seen together, publicly. Maybe getting a coffee. So everyone knows we've made up, or whatever it is Gareth and I decide is happening. We should also meet up privately. There's a lot to talk about."

"I'm so confused."

"Nothing new. Now, when are you free to get on a plane to Pendleton, Oregon?"

"Pendleton?"

"Munson!" Robin snaps, "we just established that you live in a perpetual state of confusion. Instead of questioning me, how about you answer my questions. Now, when are you free?"

"Anytime."

"Smart answer. Get your ass to Pendleton by the morning of the twenty-third. I'll work with Gareth for all the other concerns. He's easier to deal with."

"Can I ask one follow up question at least!?"

"You just did but I'll allow one more before I hang up."

"Why Pendleton?"

"It's the nearest airport to our destination. I am not having a private conversation with you in California. I don't want to be caught speaking to you until Gareth and I have a chance to work out the details."

And then Robin hangs up.

Eddie leans forward and restarts the video on his laptop before looking up plane tickets. Fixing things with Robin might be the first step in ever getting try and, he doesn't know, apologize to Steve? Maybe even have a conversation one day.

He doesn't deserve that chance, he thinks, but he's a bad enough person to want it anyway.

#steddie #my fic #the interview #the song steve sings is Francesca by Hozier #i dont do taglists so i linked to ao3 where u can subscribe and get updates #i feel like eddies an unreliable narrator so im adding that tag on ao3 #the boy has got NO CLUE what is happening at any point in time ever #hes just a ball of guilt and regret #also i didn't clarify in the fic because i couldn't find a good way to fit it in #but gareth is not an active CC member‚ he's the PR manager #he used to be in the band but quit to finish college and be a family man #Jeff is the front man so he does the interviews/public appearances/etc #Eddie used to but like rockstar life hit him hard and he had to let someone else take that role

[olderthannetfic]

A common anti talking point is that "problematic" content is fine as long as it's portrayed in a bad light, and I know this is mostly a way for them to say "porn bad", but, like... if we exclude stupidity, is this even a common issue at all?

I try to think of what they could otherwise mean, because I read a lot of things they'd hate, but even the cutesy stuff has dark undertones, or is clearly done with the reader meant to understand that at least one character involved is a freak. Even with porn, I'm not sure I've seen many that didn't lean into how taboo it is. The closest trend I can think of is age gap romances where the protagonist is 16 and going for someone in their 30s, but even those make sure you're extremely aware of the age difference the entire time since that's the appeal. Or an anime where the siblings are REALLY close and no one comments, but as a viewer I can still clearly pick up that these are codependent freaks.

Is this a me thing? Do I just not see these swarms of insidious positive portrayals and they're actually everywhere? I don't doubt there are bad writers that fumble their stories, and I'm less likely to read those long enough to find out, so is that what they're referring to? Or is it really always just porn is evil?

--

No, people being dumb as a box of rocks and not grasping that weird internet porn is not a how-to manual is not that common a problem.

However, being traumatized and having zero useful mental health support is.

A lot of anti talking points are coming from a place of toxic coping. mechanisms where someone thinks that if they can just control everything around them The Bad Thing can't happen again, to them or to anyone else.

Blaming the influence of bad fiction is a very common step for people who haven't had enough time or safety to accept that, no, actually, the person they trusted hurt them on purpose because they felt like it, not because Media Made Them Do It.

Or that maybe their dumb teen self handled some situations badly, but it's because teens often do that and/or because no decent adult was around to ask them why they seemed upset, not because it was fiction's job to teach them boundaries. It's a lot easier to blame the concrete experience of reading something that modeled bad behavior than the highly amorphous negative space where good offline role models who paid attention and gave a fuck should have been.

--

Some people are self-medicating with a rage high. A few are nasty ringleaders trying to power trip. Lots are just scared dumbasses who haven't grasped that it's okay to have dark fantasies.

A lot of it is just people with the hubris to say "Well, I have decent reading comprehension and can spot subtext, but what if all these other people can't?"

[antianakin]

No Order 66 AU where Anakin leaves the Order after the war ends and he and Padme end up retiring to Naboo to try to raise the twins together, but neither of them ends up feeling particularly satisfied with life on Naboo (for Anakin it just doesn't give him any purpose the way he desperately needs and for Padme it's always been this perfect rosy dream and reality doesn't measure up), so they end up leaving the twins behind a lot so they can pursue other things and are pretty absentee parents in general. They mostly end up getting raised by Padme's parents instead, and while they're perfectly good guardians for the twins and raise them kindly and love them a lot, there's always an obvious elephant in the room regarding who ISN'T there.

This causes a bit of a rift between Luke and Leia because while Luke is trying to keep the peace and give their parents the benefit of the doubt as he moves on and figures out his own life with what he DOES have, Leia is less willing to just forgive and forget.

Luke ends up becoming a pilot working for the royal palace for a while, but Leia goes into politics (something she'd entered while younger because it's what her mother did and she'd been hoping it would get Padme's attention and bring the two of them closer; it didn't work out that way at all and now Leia's sticking with it at least partly to spite Padme) as an aide for her cousin Pooja who is now Senator of Naboo.

And it's here, once she finally makes it to Coruscant and starts working in the Senate, that Leia meets Bail Organa, still working as Senator of Alderaan. The two of them click IMMEDIATELY and Bail ends up becoming Leia's mentor in politics, as well as the person who actually introduces her to the Jedi themselves. Anakin and Padme had never really bothered to do so, both because they were so rarely around, but also because they had chosen not to give Luke and Leia to the Temple and decided at that point that it would be easier to keep the twins and the Jedi separate. Bail of course has no such compunctions and even if he knew about Anakin and Padme's feelings on the matter, I imagine he'd find ways to allow Leia to accidentally bump into some of the Jedi while she was on Coruscant. If he just so happens to double book himself for lunch with both Leia and Obi-Wan, it's hardly anything malicious and they may as well all eat together!

Leia finally feels like she has a parent who gives a damn about her, someone who acts like a parent to her, the parent she's always wanted. Her grandparents had always been incredibly kind and they obviously had to do a lot of parenting, but they'd always been very strict about making sure the twins saw them as GRANDPARENTS and not their actual parents, which just make the absence of their parents that much more obvious and painful. But with Bail, she's finally got someone who doesn't care that Anakin and Padme aren't there and doesn't feel the need to create a wall between them for Anakin and Padme's sake. Bail takes her under his wing, teaches her everything she knows, allows her to explore things she'd never been allowed to explore before, connects her to even more people who can help her understand herself better than she's ever been able to before. THIS is what a parent was supposed to do for her and she knows it, THIS is what selfless love looks like from a parent and she THRIVES under it for the first time in her life.

She eventually decides not to stay on as Pooja's aide because she has no real desire to become a senator for Naboo at any point, but she IS good at politics and desperately does want to help people any way she can, so she starts up some sort of organization of her own to help people around the galaxy (and connects it to the Jedi because deep down she KNOWS she was supposed to be one of them even though that path is now closed to her). But she doesn't go back to Naboo, she doesn't make her home on her mother's home planet.

She goes to Alderaan instead. And this time, she gets to stay there for the rest of her life.

#star wars #leia organa #bail organa #bail can't adopt her officially but damn if he isn't going to do it UNOFFICIALLY #bail isn't force sensitive but he sees this girl enter the senate dome and immediately feels a connection #and he's familiar enough with the jedi now to know that he shouldn't ignore those feelings #what is it that leia's organization actually does? i have no idea #i imagine she has some level of inherited wealth through padme and the naberries she can access #as well as connections to the royal family of alderaan and everyone else she befriended at the senate #so she has the resources and connections to do basically whatever she wants to do #she gets aid where it needs to go #leia will be an organa in EVERY scenario explicitly because she will always CHOOSE to be an organa over a skywalker or a naberrie #anakin critical #anakin skywalker critical #anti anakin #anti anakin skywalker #padme critical #padme amidala critical #anidala critical #leia naberrie organa au

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I (23) the asshole for using someone else their art as the base for mine? 🖌️🎨 (so I can find this easier)

So there is an artist I follow that I often use art as a reference from. I download pieces I like and replicate the style and pose for my own characters mostly but sometimes also for fanart of characters I like so it's not the same. I never saw an issue with this but I was talking to my friends about this and they asked if I asked this artist permission to basically copy her work or at least credit her. I told them that I didn't since it's not like I'm tracing her art and I draw different characters. And I don't really want to credit her because people can be pretty nasty about people referencing other works on here (it's not tracing and a valid way of learning how art works but people don't seem to get that often) which is also why I avoid reblogging the art I reference so people don't notice and get aggressive about it. I have anxiety so I'd rather avoid stressful situations. But now since my friends got upset with me telling me that they'd be pretty hurt if someone used their work like that I'm kind of doubting myself now. One of my friends especially was very mad since they looked up the artist and saw that a commission they got from me was inspired by one of her works and is threatening to tell her.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[appleblueberry-pie]

Yandere Lesbian Nurse Geto x Female Nurse Reader

Geto has been a nurse in the biggest hospital in Tokyo for 5 years. And for all 5 years, I have been working beside her. Taking a ridiculous amount of patients, working my ass off, but ultimately being able to put food on my table. Geto has been a great co-worker and friend to me. She'd start her shift at the same time as mine just so we can have a lunch break together. She sometimes steps off of her main task to help me with my patients if she can and even gives me an extra bag of her homemade lunch if she finds out I don't have any.

She's so sweet and caring to me. But I don't hear the same from everyone else I work with.

They'd say outrageous things about her. To me specifically, as if I could do anything about it. "Because she fucking kisses at your feet." They'd spit. "Maybe if you soften her up, she'll consider my offer when my shift is over," they'd chuckle. It's mostly the male doctors who come up to me with this information. Which makes it hard for me to take them seriously. And I don't believe them. How could such a nice woman be as they describe her? Foxy, arrogant, sly, and greedy. I don't see that in her. Therefore, their words mean nothing. Her dark-lipstick stained lips slightly curl up in amusement as I turn my back to the doctor, walking back over to her.

She loves the way you think. It makes her job way easier. Get closer to you, and she'll get her much deserved prize.

I see Geto leaning against the wall as I approach. "I hope you didn't hear what he said." She shrugs and meets me halfway. "It doesn't matter. Words don't matter like that. You learn that early in this field of work." I nod and smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right. So, what do you have planned for the rest of today?"

This is how my usual work day goes. Unnecessary rumors, casual conversation with Geto and then go home. But I guess something was in the air today. Because when I finished eating my lunch alone(surprisingly), I walked into the staff room and found Geto screaming at one of the doctors. He and her were separated by one wooden circular desk and they were both standing. She was leaning over the table as if she wanted to lunge over it to kill him.

"You fucking asshole. If you just listened to me, I would've given you all of the sex you wanted! But you fucking talked to her. AGAIN. You've been pissing me off too many times." She scoffs and turns away from him, holding her head as if she had a headache. He walks around the table and approaches her, placing his hands on her shoulder. "Suguru, forget about her. Why do you care about her? She's a nobody. You're everything she's not, can't you see? You make way more than her, you're prettier than her, and you work more harder. We're the same."

He smiles as Geto relaxes against him. My eyebrows furrow at their words. What the hell was going on? Were they shit talking me? Why did she make that absurd deal with him? And I've never heard anyone call Geto by her first name. They didn't see me yet, and I stood there silently, waiting to see where this conversation would go.

Geto nodded before looking back up at him, a smile on her face. He smiles back before his eyes trail to her lips. When he inches closer, Geto pulls a full syringe from a hidden strap on her thigh and stabs it into his neck, injecting whatever it was into his blood. The doctor chokes on his words, face turning red as he falls to the ground. Geto doesn't even glance down at him before turning towards the door, only to see me there. "Y/n...." I stare at her in horror. She runs towards me and I flinch out of my frozen position. I am only one step back before she yanks me in, slamming the door shut. I can still hear the doctor gasping for breath and I shove Geto away from me. "I can't trust you...get the fuck away from me." My heels click against the floor as I speak.

She slowly approaches me again. "You don't mean that..." I nod, stressed. "Yes. I do." A weird look of happiness overcomes her face before she pushes me through an open door. I fall on my ass, yelping in pain. She storms into the room as well, shutting the closet door and turning the light on. She towers over me and I look up at her, regret filling my chest. They were right. And I didn't listen to anyone. How come I couldn't ever see it?

"Oh, you fucking liar," I whisper.

My skirt rides up and I can feel my upper thighs brushing against the cool marble floor. I hate this closet for this exact reason. I look up, only to see Geto staring back down at me with a look of adoration on her face. Which makes no sense considering she just illegally penetrated a licensed doctor with a needle filled with drugs to knock him out.

Confusion crumbles and turns into fear, my breaths slowly increasing as she fondly looks down at me as if I was a little useless deer, far, far away from mom. Her red heels clack against the floor as she walks closer. I scoot back, my skirt riding up higher in the process and she coos. I gasp at the feeling of the point on her stiletto suddenly rubbing between my pussy lips through the fabric of my panties. "Ohhh, there we go. See? It feels so good, doesn't it, baby? C'mere.."

She steps over my legs before kneeling, her knees trapping me in place. She takes my face in her hands and immediately places her soft lips onto mine. My eyes widen and I can feel her desperately initiating the control. My eyebrows furrow when a warm muscle slips from between her lips into my mouth and I whimper. She swallows it and kisses me harder. I can feel her resting her weight onto my lap, her panties underneath her uniform brushing my core above my work skirt.

I separate the kiss, gasping for air and turning my head to the side. She presses messy kisses down my jawline and neck. I begin to feel dizzy as her hands travel down my chest, groping it before groping at everything else they can get at. "Geto..." I breathe out her name. She whines and grinds herself against me. I feel a throb between my legs and push her away from me. She looks confused and a little sad at me pushing her away and I shake my head.

"No...no, this isn't right. Y-you just drugged a doctor a-and we can't do thi-"

"I love you!!!"

My world stops as she stares at me, tears filling her eyes. "I fucking love you....i've loved you ever since I began working here. I cook you my food, I take some of your own work, I turn down everyone for you, for you! I do everything for you. I still work here for you, I...I turned down my promotion just to be near you. T-that fucking sleazebag I drugged?? He secretly wanted you. But I want you more..."

Her eyes are gone as she gathers her words. I am frozen. No sound is heard besides our breaths. Her face turns to stone as she looks back up at me. "I want you more. I deserve you. You ungrateful piece of shit."

She grabs me by the hair, fingers digging into my scalp as she stands back up. I yelp and she tells me to shut up. "I'm gonna make you love me back." She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

"Pull my panties down." I stare up at her, frozen and confused. "Pull my fucking panties down. Now." My hands wander towards her underwear under her uniform and I feel around her warm skin until I find the thin thong bands and i pull them down, trying so hard to ignore the string of slick connected to them. "Good girl....come eat me out." Her voice is softened as she spreads her legs for me. I look back up into her eyes and she smiles softly, a look too put-together in her eyes. She's fucking nuts. Her fingers tighten once more on my scalp and I cringe, pushing her skirt up until I see her pink pussy in the shitty closet lighting. I lean closer to it, staring her in the eye as I lick a stripe of her juices from between her warm and sensitive lips.

Her eyes roll back into her lids and her head tips back, a shameless moan leaving her lips. A part of me enjoys this moment between me and her despite everything leading up to this moment. I'm on autopilot as I grab her legs, spreading them further apart as I force my tongue to continue eating her out, ravaging my first meal of the day despite it being 10:30 at night. "I know you didn't eat lunch today." She slurs out, a small squeal leaving her lips when I suck on her clit. She then giggles. "So, this is your meal. Do you like it? Does it taste good, baby?"

I hum, staring her right in the eyes. My face is deep between her soft and warm thighs. I remain eye contact as my tongue finds her entrance. The cold tip of my nose presses firmly against her wet and erect clit. That's when she pulls my face away from her cunt. The bottom half of my face is soaked in her juices. She takes a deep breath before softly loosening the grip on my hair. My face relaxes as she lets me go. She gets back down onto my lap, straddling me. "Please. No more." I plead, exhausted. She caresses my face before bringing her hands to my uniform shirt. "It's okay. I'm gonna take care of you."

She tears my shirt open, biting her lip at my beautiful choice of bra. She makes me take my shirt and bra off, immediately pawing at the tender breasts when they're freed. "So pretty." I sit back, resting on one arm, spreading my legs out. She doesn't even finish her initial thought before sucking on one of my nipples. I sigh in regrettable pleasure. She gets off of my lap, sitting next to me as one of her unseen hands trail down beneath my skirt, between my legs to touch at my damp underwear. I flinch lightly and she pulls off of the nipple.

"Be a good girl and moan for me, okay?" I didn't know what she was talking about until she swiftly pulls my panties to the side and firmly slides two fingers into my cunt like it was nothing. I gasp and she hums in acknowledgement. I whine lightly as her fingers thrust in and out of me. They feel a little rough as she also kisses around my chest, creating hickeys in-between kisses. She then starts curling her fingers on that spongey spot inside of me and my back arches at the pleasure blooming in my lower stomach. "Like that?" She asks. "L-" As soon as I speak, it's cut off from her fingers rubbing quicker on that one spot, the pleasure increasing twice as much. A pathetic moan escapes my lips instead. "Hm?? Just like that?" She asks again as I throw my head back, almost hovering over my body from where I lay. I nod, my eyes squeezed shut. A satisfied smile spreads across her lips as I suddenly moan loudly, squirt gushing out of my pussy onto her hand. Obscene squelching sounds echo throughout the room as she continues her assault on my hole.

"Fuck, no more! No more, please..." I beg and she immediately listens, pulling her fingers out of me. I relax, my back hitting the ice cold marble floor. I try to catch my breath, rubbing my face as if trying to find the sense I once had. Geto sucks my juices off of her fingers, ecstasy flowing through her veins at the taste. She tastes every last drop on her hand and even considers licking what I left on the ground. But I'm more important. She turns back to me and leans over my naked torso, kissing my forehead. "I love you, y/n."

"..." I look back into her expecting eyes. What happens if I say it back? Will it even matter? At this point, I completely forgotten the things she had done before we ended up in the closet. "I love you, too." Her eyes sparkle and she laughs as if I just proposed to her. Her hands find my cheeks once more, cradling my face as she kisses me. The kiss is soft, warm, and domestic. She pulls away and her heart squeezes. "I have to take care of some business. Can you wait here for me?"

What else can I do? I nod. She stares at me for a little while longer before standing up. She leaves. It's silent. I'm half-naked, my mind is fuzzy, and bodily fluids are spilled on the floor. It's cold. What have I done to meet such a woman? She's probably gonna kill the doctor, and God knows what she'll do once she comes back to get me. But even after everything, I'm the one that has her wrapped around my finger. I just have to find a way to get out of what I put myself into.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere character #reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #geto #geto x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #yandere geto #yandere geto x reader #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto suguru x reader #jjk geto suguru #jjk geto suguru x reader #yandere nurse x reader #nurse geto suguru #nurse geto #jjk nurse geto #nurse geto suguru x reader #jjk nurse geto x reader #nurse geto x reader

[bokettochild]

Bit of a weird question, but how do you think Legend (or any of the Links, really) would handle getting separated once the quest is over?

I'm personally of the opinion that he and Warriors would be the ones to figure out a way to visit afterwards, but that's mostly because I hate found families breaking apart to go home after the plot ends. I also like seeing takes where one of them doesn't return to their original time for one reason or another.

Time is used to this sort of thing; losing everyone after it's all over and not able to go back. If anything, I think he drifts into a short depression but eventually moves on. He doesn't try to get back to them because none of his efforts with similar incidents ever did any good, so he really doesn't see the point in trying this time. Instead, he tries to make sure to take care of the world he has to pass to them.

I think Four would be a bit broken up about it, but he's also used to saying goodbye to brothers once the adventure ends. He might dabble a bit with trying to find a way back to them, but he;s very cautious for fear of bringing back anything else, so eventually gives up and/or get's distracted with a way to bring back Shadow instead.

I think Sky would probably consider trying to use the time gates to visit the others, maybe he succeeds, maybe he get's lost for a bit and Zelda has to pull him back to their time so they can fix the gates to do what they want, maybe it works. I think he'd try though.

I think Wind and Hyrule would be broken up about losing their brothers, but they have too many responsibilities in their worlds (rebuilding their Hyrules) to really get to dabble with ways to meet the others again. I think they'd handle the loss well though, as they're bright souls and still young enough that change isn't as shattering for them. Not knowing any horrible future fates also makes letting go of the others easier, and they help themselves process it by trying to remind themselves that the others can now be at rest and at home.

Twilight and Legend would take the loss terribly. The vet keeps losing people so I think it'll really break him, and Twilight's fear for Time, for Wild, for all his brothers who he can no longer protect 100% gives him constant anxiety. Depression and a need to find a way back to the others probably take them over until either they do make it back to see the others again or they give up in despair (hence why Twilight's spirit lingers beside Wild as the Old Wolf)

Wild, obviously, is so busy rebuilding Hyrule and going through TotK that he doesn't really have much chance to do much more than miss his brothers. Post TotK though, he and Zelda probably do look into time traveling around if/when they find out Zelda's time powers.

Warriors though, Warriors probably confronts Cia and demands visitation rights as recompense for the war, Zelda backs him up. Cia is willing and the heroes get established visiting times so they ca keep up with each other. I will take no discussion on this, Warriors refuses to leave his brothers alone and sad, he will visit them even if he has to beg Cia for it.

(And if Cia doesn't agree, Nayru sort of owes Legend her life, and she's definitely got a soft spot for him, so I can see her allowing him to visit his brothers as long as he promises to not screw up the timeline.)

#asks and answers #linked universe #lu legend #linkeduniverse #lu twilight #lu wild #lu warriors #lu four #lu time #lu wind #lu hyrule #lu sky

[tizeline]

I was actually wondering what the Sep Au Brothers feel about fashion? I read an analysis the other day about Rise Donnie and he seems to have the best fashion sense out of them all (and may or may not have his own fashion line?? Idk but I love that idea)

So I was wondering if it was the same or different for your Donnie? Do the Drax brothers have more of a yokai fashion sense or like- idk, what do they think of human fashion?

I have no idea is that makes sense but words are difficult

I think I've seen the same post actually, haha! Yeah, I really like the idea of Donnie being into fashion, and I don't see why it would be different for AU Donnie. As for the Drax Bros, I mentioned it in This Post but their outfits are mostly inspired by what Draxum wears, which in universe would be explained by them wanting to be like their father by emulating his sense of style. After the whole Redemption Arc thing and the Draxum family decides to abandon their Evil Plan, the trio might start exploring and developing their own taste in fashion.

Leo I feel like would be quite excited to try out human clothes, considering he already has an interest in human stuff. It might actually end up being a bit of a bonding experience for him and Donnie when they properly become friends, with Donnie helping Leo find the right outfits for him!

Mikey and Raph would proably still mostly stick to yōkai clothes, while they do eventually become, not just more open-minded about humanity, but also curious about it, they'd still wanna stick to what they're familiar with.

Actually, with Raph it might be more of a necessity. It would be really hard to find human clothes that'd fit his size, and also work with his spikes. Yōkai on the other hand are a lot more diverse physically than humans, so the people in the Hidden City who work with designing and creating clothes would take that into consideration. So needless to say it would be easier for Raph to find yōkai clothes that fit him rather than human clothes.

Seasons probably don't effect the Hidden City that much, I'd assume? Cuz it's underground? So the Drax turtles might not have that much experince with seasons. Still, I don't think they'd love winter considering the fact that they're reptiles and as such are more sensitive to cold. (I think Draxum would've made sure they're more resistant to cold than normal turtles, it would be quite inconvinient if they started brumating in the middle of a fight just cuz it was snowing lol, but they're still more susceptible to it than mammals)

I think Mikey would appreciate autumn, when all the leaves turn a vibrant orange. Both because as an artist he'd appreciate the autumn aesthetic and because... y'know, orange. I think all the bros would like summer cuz, again, reptile biology, they'd like the heat.

I'd assume yokai would have their own unique holidays that the Draxum family would celebrate, no idea what those would be, though.

Draxum has definitely informed his sons about how dangerous Big Mama is and how bad it would be if she found out that they were literally created with her favorite champion's stolen DNA. They don't like her and know to avoid her, if any business is being done between their family and Big Mama then Draxum is the one who handles most of the negotiations.

And lastly - episodes like Todd Scouts and Snow Day, and then The Mud Dogs - none of these I have figured anything out for of how they would be handled in the AU sooooo no answer for ya there, sorry!

#tizel art #Tiz Sep AU #tmnt #rottmnt #rottmnt au

[painted-bees]

Thinking a little more on the whole "when did Margie and Raf realize they were In A Relationship?" question, and while they'd both struggle to find a definitive moment, I think there was one particular situation that arose to kinda...lock things in for them.

Sometime prior to autumn 2009, Margie was headhunted by Bioware[Edmonton] thanks to the recommendation of an old Orbital Media colleague who was trying to establish/salvage Bioware's beleaguered handheld dev team. Following a promising phone interview, she was asked to make a 30 second demo track as part of the hiring process, and met expectations well enough that she was offered a job as an in-house musician and sound designer. Which also meant that she'd have to move to Edmonton. She had been keeping Raf up to date with this whole thing, mostly because she was too excited to keep it to herself. Raf was hugely supportive and excited -for- her. 'Cus like...he plays games. He even plays Bioware games, so, yanno...very cool. But he had also assumed this was gonna be more of a freelance contract kind of thing. And so, hearing her mention that the company would cover the costs of relocating her to Edmonton comes as a weird surprise. And suddenly, he's having a real hard time being excited for her. He keeps it to himself, 'cus he'd be an asshole not to. He's been really adamant with himself, and with anyone who asks, that he and Margie are just really good, comfortable friends/roommates. But even by this point, he's kinda known and been unwilling to admit to himself that the only reason he hasn't openly recognized their relationship for what it actually is--is because the non-committal ambiguousness provides him a clean way out if he starts feeling cagey/uncomfy about anything. It was an exit door that he liked keeping open incase he needed it. But Margie had seen it differently. To her, it was a door she figured she was gonna have to leave through eventually. Because Raf would inevitably find a more serious partner to settle down with, or he'd be whisked off by some other important venture that she couldn't be a part of. She figured he was leaving that door open because his current situation was a temporary transitional stage in his life that he simply allowed her to be a part of. And so, she's not really torn-up about the prospect of leaving, especially under the circumstances. It presented an easier, more exciting transition than she might have had to face if Raf had 'outgrown' her first.

So, Margie's excited about the new job offer, and Raf's sitting there feeling like he played himself--while being wholly unable/unwilling to tell her "Hey, uh...this sucks, actually, I really don't want you to go." Because that'd require him to admit that he's been lying to himself--which sucks. But more than that, it'd require him to admit that he's been lying to her--only employing honesty as a tool of convenience to dissuade her from going and getting something really good for herself. He can't, he won't. The sudden off-key in his tone, though, doesn't go unnoticed by her, and Margie is perfectly candid about the whole "we'll visit each other, I'll stay in touch--I'm not gonna disappear on you lmao" Except that's not really...how Raf operates. Distance + time does not make this man's paranoid lil' heart grow fonder. There's never been a relationship-friend, family, or otherwise-with enough staying power for Raf to maintain it once they're no longer within physical proximity. Even if he wants to 'keep in touch', it quickly falls off. He's just known...too many people, and been too many places...his brain doesn't have the bandwidth to maintain close relationships when there's a distance. And, after a long enough pause in communication, his paranoid anxieties lift the barrier of entry higher and higher until it's almost insurmountable. People become strangers again. Always. In the end, Bioware did not get to develop any more handheld titles, and the handheld division in Edmonton is dissolved before Margie was even offered a job start date to plan her big move around. And so the whole thing falls apart before it even had the chance to get started lmao. At which point, Raf finally allows himself to be honest and say "thank god, I was fuckin' dreading an empty apartment again." Treats her to a consolatory dinner, and gets to tell her as much as he is able to figure out for himself--that he doesn't really know what he wants, actually--but that things aren't as casual and clean-cut as he thought it was. He still can't bring himself to be like "yes, romantic committed relationship, that's us, that's what we are" but he does at least take measures to establish that he'd really like to take off his shoes, place them on the rack next to hers, and close the door behind him.

#Margie takes a little while to get over the sting of disappointment with having her cool validating job fall through #but she's happy she gets to stick around with Raf too...and then soon realizes the full implications of what he tells her #over that consolatory dinner lmao #hi-note #magritte #rafael

[nintendont2502]

cant find the original post but a while ago i impulsively decided to add all 32 sburb players (betas, alphas, alternians *and* beforans) to a random name generator and then randomly mix them up - characters kept their original first name and class, and took on the last name and aspect of whatever character they took the role of. this was just meant to be a funny 1am experiment so i could laugh at the cursed results

...yeah it has lore now. i cant stop thinking about it. help.

Beta Kids:

Gamz Egbert (Gamzee) - Bard of Breath. One of the most chill guys ever. Constantly zoned the hell out. Loves clowns :0) him and his dad bond over it. Hangs out with Kari a lot over vc, where it's basically just Kari talking at him uninterrupted (the kid needs it sometimes)

Kari Strider (Kankri) - Seer of Time. Gifted kid and he won't let you forget it. Permanently lives in a sweater vest even though he literally lives in Texas. Constantly annoyed by how childish and immature his older brother is. Lectures him a lot. Lectures his friends a lot. Has 'visions of his past lives' (aka occasional memories from his post-scratch/alternate timeline counterparts). Lectures his friends about how theyre real and valid whenever they make give him shit for it (which happens a lot). Dedicated pacifist - for now, anyway.

John Lalonde - Heir of Light. Golden child. Has an over-bearing mother that constantly pushes him into learning instruments/lanugages/skills, participating in competitions and events, winning award after award. Sure, he's... kinda sick of doing things all day every day, and he doesn't really want to do any of this, but... shouldn't he do it anyway? Even if just for his Mom? Hell, he can't really complain about it, right? He has such a good life! He goes horseback riding every sunday! Sure, it sucks that he doesn't have any free time that isn't controlled by his mother, but he can deal with it. It's fine.

(Things get even worse during the three year trip when Wuh Oh! Gender crisis time! Except he can’t be a girl because he was always meant to be his mom’s perfect son, and he’s already let her down once by letting her die, right? He can just… live with this. Its fine. It's not that bad. It's for her, after all.)

Roxy Harley - Rogue of Space. Grew up living on a small island somewhere in the Pacific that her grandfather 'won in a poker game' (aka probably scammed someone out of, knowing him) - or so he says, anyway. He also used to say he got Roxy the same way every time she asked where she came from! Haha very funny Roxy definitely loved hearing that and not a real response every time she asked where she came from and why she didn’t have any parents. That was great. Her grandfather died when she was fairly young, leaving her alone on the island with nothing left of him but the small inventions he left around the place to make life easier for her. She grows up learning how to maintain them, and although she tries becoming a great inventor like her grandfather, she just... doesn't have the skill. Hacking, on the other hand - shes great at that shit! She finally cracks her final goal - cracking into her grandfathers servers - just before her friend Gamz's 13th birthday, finding mostly boring shit - expenses, customer complaints, legal threats, budgets, etc. What's mildly more interesting to her, however, is the insane amount of money (if they lived on the mainland, they'd be fucking LOADED), and a .exe file for a really cool looking game, with a note from her grandfather congratulating her on finally getting in. And hey, would you look at that? Its multiplayer! And all her friends are free - even John, who through sheer coincidence found himself with a free weekend after his tutors came down with various mysterious illnesses and injuries. It's like the universe wants them to play the game or some shit! Haha wild

Alpha Kids:

Raph Crocker (Rufioh) - Rogue of Life. The living embodiment of all those business major memes. Dude is *dedicated* to the Crockercorp brand - he's determined that one day, he'll climb the ranks and become head of the company, and hopefully lead it just as well as his great-grandfather did. He unironically wears a suit everywhere, and seems committed to sounding like a 50 year old boardroom exec trapped in the body of a 16 year old - although it isn't hard to get him to crack. As much as he pretends he has no patience for his online friends and their constant stories of 'living on a remote island' or 'living in the post-apocalyptic future' (seriously guys, he isn't that gullible), he does genuinely care about them. Besides, when you're stuck in the house all day, there isn't much else to do.

Tuna Strider (Mituna) - Heir of Heart. Trans king. Exudes pure 'disney channel older brother' energy. Shithead (affectionate). Looks up to his Bro, a famous pacifist who resisted the Batterwitch's rule with a global peaceful protest... only to be killed the moment he became too much of a threat. Yyeah. Tuna has... some thoughts about how that should have gone down - most of them involving swords. Or guns. Or both. Maybe if his Bro had a sweet katana, the world wouldn't have been flooded! Although it's too late for his Bro, Tuna has decided to take up the fight in his stead by creating his own 'sick as fuck gun-sword' with whatever scrap metal he can find in the apartment (his Bro, for some reason, didn't think to leave him any useable weapons. cringe). He's got the sword part down great, but the gun... not so much.

Vris Lalonde (Vriska) - Thief of Void. The second half of the 't4t post apocalypse chaos squad', as Tuna calls them. Girl doxxes people for fun - what are they gonna do? Doxx her back? lmao good luck with that losers - closest youre gonna get is still 400 years off. Constantly daring her friends to do stupid shit and quote, 'stop being so fucking boringggg'. it usually works on tuna. sometimes on dave. she still hasnt gotten raph yet, but *one day*...

Dave English - Knight of Hope. smooth talking mile a minute inventor who *loves* trying to 'pitch' his latest invention to his friends. its become almost a game to them, where theyll take turns bidding increasingly ridiculous amounts for an umbrella that shoots seeds ('for easy planting in the rain yknow') or a beat-boxing robot ('i dont even need to explain this one just look at it man. cool as shit'). hell, even raph gets involved sometimes, usually turning it into a shark tank style negotiation. dave swears hes keeping a tally of how much everyone 'owes' him, and claims that one day hes settling that bill. his inventions are genuinely pretty impressive, especially considering his limited resources - being stuck alone on a remote island makes sourcing parts pretty hard. he probably wouldnt even need to jokingly scam his friends in order to jokingly sell his inventions - they jokingly sell themselves. he just thinks scamming people is fun.

Alternia Rapid Fire Round lets goo

Cronus Megido - Bard of Time. relentlessly flirts with anyone of a higher caste than him in the hopes that, if he can get into a quadrant with them, he'll have more protection than he would as just a solo rustblood. this strategy ultimately fails when he flirts with a particular Serket one too many times and gets killed for it. damn. oh well.

Sollux Nitram - so so tired of everyones shit. the only person that actually vaguely got along with Cronus (because he was the only person that Cronus didn't flirt with). just wants to play his pokemon in peace man stop dragging him into drama

Damara Captor - Witch of Doom. 'curses' people. seems weirdly unsurprised when those curses actually work. after cronus' death, a rumour went around that she was the one who caused it, and she absolutely wasnt denying that shit - now no one wants to fuck with her, and those that do? well, she still has her psiionics.

Meulin Vantas - Mage of Blood. Basically the only fucking thing holding this friendship group together. Despite all the complicated as shit relationships - the friendships, the exes, the mortal enemies, the attempted (and successful) murders - Meulin somehow manages to navigate the web of relationships and keep everyone relatively stable

Jaydee Leijon (Jade) - Witch of Heart. catgirl :33. Wishes she lived closer to everyone so she could see them 33: especially her moirail!! at least she still has her lusus to playfight with

Karkat Maryam - Knight of Space. basically a tboy vampire. Used to live in the caverns, but after he realised he was a dude, he began to feel uncomfortable with how oppressive and 'feminine' the caverns were. ran away. struggles with his identity - the contrast between the typical female jadeblood standards of being caring and nurturing, and the typical alternian female standards of being violent and aggressive, leave him stuck in the middle, unsure of what to do or who hes 'allowed' to be. swings wildly between being aggressive and letting himself care about his friends. he eventually figures out that gender stereotypes are bullshit and he can care abt his friends and still be a dude. hes still an asshole though <3

Eridan Pyrope - Prince of Mind. Incredibly committed to a strict moral code - which... no one can figure out. it seems to vary wildly depending on what suits him best at the specific moment. Used to roam Alternia looking for 'criminals' to 'improve' or, if that failed, 'bring to justice' with one Serket, but after an incident involving the loss of three eyes and one arm... they arent exactly on speaking terms.

Dyrrhk Serket (Dirk) - Prince of Light. i dont know how else to say it this mfer makes saw traps. he claims its to 'improve' people - by putting them through some specific trap, it... fixes a percieved issue? even if its an issue only he can see. and if they die in the trap? well, they should have just tried harder right. they probably deserved it. he isnt even doing this out of a desire to hurt people hes *genuinely* convinced that what hes doing is helping, and thinks that this is the best way to go about it. puts eridan through one one day, resulting in the loss of his vision, and after he (finally) figured out that 'huh maybe that wasnt a good idea', he... apologises. lmao just kidding that would be too reasonable - instead he mind controls one of his friends into putting *dyrrhk* into a trap of his own design, resulting in the loss of an eye and an arm. he seems genuinely convinced that this should make them even. everythings fine now, right? he scares me just on a conceptual level

Tavros Zahhak - Page of Void. hes basically a himbo im ngl. hes tall hes ripped hes clumsy and he cant help but draw attention to himself wherever he goes - attention he *hates*. moirails with jaydee. theyre cute <>

Latula Makara - Knight of Rage. clown... despite the usual purpleblood stereotypes, she doesnt really get angry all that often - most of the time, shes just vibing. but when she *does* get angry? its always for a reason. theres always a specific goal shes fulfilling through that anger (even if its just intimidating someone into doing something). i have the least thoughts about her but shes interesting

Jaiikk Ampora (Jake) - Page of Hope. Just a funny lil guy that likes playing pirates :) all the lowbloods he roleplays with definitely want to be there and don't feel coerced by being 'asked' by a literal violetblood :)) if people die during his 'games' well that sucks but he cant exacly stop playing because of a few small accidents right? ..yyeah. hes incredibly ignorant of his position in society and how that effects other people, even if (especially if) those consequences are deadly for others. after a certain point its just easier to not know whats going on than to face all the damage youve caused right. claims he loves the ocean and dreams of living in the depths. never goes into the ocean. hes a weird guy

Equius Peixes - Heir of Life. Future heir to the Alternian throne. Determined to lead Alternia into a new era of strength, no matter the methods to get there. moirails with Jaiikk (which absolutely doesnt help the whole 'Jaiikk accidentally pressuring lowbloods into doing things for him' thing. bro has scary dog privileges with the future emperor looming behind him at all times)

Even faster Beforus speed round because you cant legally make me think about them for more than five seconds

Porrim Megido - Maid of Time

Feferi Nitram - Witch of Breath

Rose Captor - Seer of Doom

Nepeta Vantas - Rogue of Blood

Kurloz Leijon - Prince of Heart

Aradia Maryam - Mage of Space

Aranea Pyrope - Sylph of Mind

Kanaya Serket - Sylph of Light

Jane Zahhak - Maid of Void

Meenah Makara - Thief of Rage

Terezi Ampora - Seer of Hope

Horuss Peixes - Page of Life

#me.txt #christ this was long #randomiser au #homestuck #i love these guys sm #they haunt me #ask me questions abt them please please pleas eim so so normal

[dairy-farmer]

Jaytim half sibling au, where tim is catherine and willis todd's biological child. They put him up for adoption because they felt they couldn't support more than one child. Jason was only two or three at the time, and only has vague memories of his mommy's tummy being big.

Maybe tim always knew he was adopted, but didn't care much, other than the odd daydream when he was lonely. He loved his parents, so he mostly fantasized about long lost brothers or sisters.

Idk how this would progress into jaytim, but I feel like this is a deep well for exploring Jason's mommy kink lol (imagine if tim has her smile)

👀👀👀👀 okay so i had a jaytim thread fic about tim and jason being biological fraternal twin brothers here!!!

but here tim knowing he's adopted and always being curious about the family he would've had if his bio parents kept him. it had been a closed adoption. willis had insisted, told catherine it would make things easier because they couldn't afford another child. not when jason was already such a big expense, plus at least with the adoption they'd recieve some money and that would keep their heads above water for the meanwhile. catherine, of course, knows willis is right. she knows they can't afford another baby. but...this is the first baby she's ever carried and now she has to give them up. it takes a toll on her. jason recalls years later never really knowing what pushed his mom into her drug habit. as far back as he could remember he knew she'd been self medicating with drugs and alcohol. he thought his dad had been the reason. he'd hardly been a very pleasant person to be around. an asshole even. but...never a wifebeater. jason had always just sort of assumed his dad was the cause because he knows his old man had been a dealer at some point. jason only knew that because willis had harshly cautioned him against going down that path. it was one of the few times willis had tried to parent him by pulling jason by his ear away from a group of older boys that hung around a stoop across the street and harshly scolding him.

catherine never quite gets over losing her child. the only thing she has is the birth certificate and some papers from the agency that had set everything up. its what sits at the bottom of some forgotten box long after she has died and so has willis. it gather and collects dust in the closet of the apartment in the building jason grew up in. and it won't be until decades that jason scouts out the condemned building, feeling some sense of nostalgia as he determines the amount of work that needs to go into fixing the whole building up so that it can house new families. jason goes into that old one bedroom apartment, runs his fingers through the thick layer of dust. odds and end furniture that was never thrown out because that old landlord had never been able to find a new tenant after jason's dad was locked up and his mom died and no one was left to pay rent.

jason stumbling across that box, going through it, finding an odd set of papers and just...staring. remembering being two, nearly three and recalling how he'd press his ear to his mom's tummy and giggling along with her at the feeling of something pressing against his hand. its just bits and flashes like how its around the time his mom started on a downward spiral that ended up killing her.

jason finally figuring out this was the reason why. that somewhere out there was a little sibling he'd never known.

maybe he can't go to barbara with this because she'll likely spill to dick or run to bruce to tell on him. jason's options are limited and so he turns to the only other detective that might be discrete about it.

tim helping jason with his search because the adoption agency has long since shut down and were active during the time of paper record keeping.

the two of them growing slowly closer, getting to know each other better. jason thinking tim's not as bad as he thought he was that sometimes...tim might even...remind him of his mom.

he dismisses it because it was that visit to his apartment that makes him all sentimental...makes him think of his mom more often and the good times they had together like her warm laugh and the soft skin of her hand. and sometimes...when jason is dead tired and tim's is the closest place to crash...sometimes....tim does those little things that make the kid part of jason's brain just melt because his mommy is there.

jason and tim starting to sleep together and the the absolute ice bucket chill that hits them both when tim manages to track down the couple that adopted jason's sibling and it's jack and janet drake 👀👀👀

#answered asks #asks #anonymous #jaytim

[drdemonprince]

How do you maintain a healthy relationship with exercise as someone with a history of disordered exercising? Asking for me

I'm an eating disorder harm reductionist, not a perfectionist. Some of my ED behaviors exist to help me regulate my anxiety and impose structure on an unpredictable world, and I don't care about getting rid of those impulses anymore, I try to just work with them. I'm not especially worried about whether my relationship to exercise is "healthy", because what would that even mean -- normal? not obsessive? I've never been those things. so long as I take steps to minimize any damage I do to my body with my behaviors, i'm satisfied.

Lifting weights and being on T has been a good middle ground for me in a lot of ways. a brief lifting session in the morning gives me the sensation of having generated some endorphins, which makes me less likely to self-harm or behave impulsively, and it does so without requiring a ridiculous time commitment the way my long, long aerobic exercise sessions used to do. I used to miss a lot of special occasions with friends and holidays etc because I would spend so much time exercising every day, mostly as a stim and a way to offload stress. now the exercise I do can easily get squeezed into my downtime without taking away from other important things in my life.

strength training doesn't damage my joints or tendons the way that aerobic shit did; rather, it strengthens them. This kind of physical activity makes me hungrier and requires that I ingest enough protein, which motivates me to eat more, and i do tend to need that external motivation because otherwise i'll forget. being a muscle bro is also all very silly and stupid, which makes it easier for me to laugh at myself and not see the whole thing as super dire the way a restrictive eating disorder + exercise bulimia felt.

I still cling very obsessively to a set exercise schedule, but I don't see that as inherently eating disordered, it can just as easily be a very Autistic self-regulation thing. i honestly first started lifting weights in 2018-2019 because i was craving the endorphins from enduring pain HEAVILY, and would have really impulsive BDSM sex with complete strangers to get a pain rush without any prior negotiation or forethought, and i wasn't really looking after my safety. but i noticed that when i put myself through the controlled "pain" of lifting weights every few days, my desire to behave completely recklessly subsided and i could get by with having kinky sex more sporadically, and with actual planning and safety protocols being on the table instead of just pulling the first rando i could find on fetlife.

if someone believes in total eating disorder recovery/abstinence, they'd probably still look at my rigid adherence to a lifting schedule and my tendency to not feel hunger cues and my fixation on getting enough protein and think that i was still fucked up, but i feel physically the most energized and strong that i ever have in my life, my exercise regimen does not consume my daily schedule the way it once did, i dont think about my body size at all anymore, and i self-harm less and take fewer risks. so. seems pretty good to me.

harm reduction and a personalized recognition of one's needs > health

[heartthrobin]

lovers, to bed: tis almost fairy time (4)

sam winchester x fairy!reader

wc: 4.0k

warnings: soulmate!au (partners share scars), fem!reader, limited use of y/n, implied age gap (reader is early 20's), angst, subby sam winchester (?), some smoking, canon warnings (child kidnapping, violence ect.)

an: i'm so sorry that this took so long, uni has put me in a really tough mental space at the moment and being creative has been so difficult. but i hope it was worth the wait! love you all endlessly

summary: yes, Sam Winchester was an idiot: but he would be damned if he was going to let his little fairy get away.

part one part two part three

The trunk clicked open, swinging up against the back window of the Impala.

Dean rummaged between the shotguns and the silver blades and the jugs of gasoline. His hand emerged with a wide set machete, holding it up to Sam.

"I've been dying to use this bad boy since Idaho." He grinned at his reflection in the steel blade.

Sam rolled his eyes, hair fluttering over his forehead where the evening wind was tugging on it. The Impala was parked up against the grass at the edge of the forest, the sun disappearing over the treetops in a way that sunk the town in a purple glow.

He reached in to grab a shotgun, a silver blade too: slipping it into his jacket pocket. "Right. Let's just get this over with."

His brother grinned, "So you can go see your little princess, hm?"

Sam didn't dignify him with a response. Mostly because he was right.

The weight of the truth draped over his shoulders like a truck. Stifling and making it hard to breath, let alone think.

Dean laughed at his lack of response, bumping his shoulder to his:

"Sammy's getting laid tonight." He sing-songed.

"Yeah, right. That's a great idea." He huffed, "Then she can see all my scars and realise I've been lying to her. Sounds fun."

Nudging the trunk closed, Dean groaned. "She's gonna find out either way."

"Not unless I don't tell her."

At that Dean paused. His eyes ran over Sam's figure where he was loading the shotgun.

"So when were done, we're just gonna leave town?"

Sam slammed the trunk shut with maybe a little too much force. "Can we drop it?"

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Whatever. It's your problem, but I think she should know."

But Sam was already pacing towards the line of trees, huffing and trying to suffocate the guilt building in his chest.

The forest wasn't making it any easier. Dean was trailing behind him, every footstep crackling over the dry leaves and soft grass reminding him of your laugh. The dark bark of the black of your eyes, those eyes so wide and wet--

"Hey," Dean's voice cut through his thoughts. He motioned over between the trees. "Look."

There was the tree again. Glowing just like it had been the last time they'd ventured into the belly of the woods.

A crunch echoed around the space. Sam's head whipped over his shoulder, Dean reaching with a quickness that only came from experience for the gun in his holster:

"What was that?"

-

There was a teenager behind the counter when you plonked down a packet of sour worms and a tray of eggs in front of her.

She was usually the one who helped you when you'd stop in after work some days. She's cute in a sprightly way: piercings sticking out from every piece of skin she could get her hands on and she was one of the only people left in town who didn't scowl at you when you came in.

But she was looking at you funny just then, her hands still where they'd usually just reach to start scanning your things with a bored look on her young features.

"You've ... uh, got a ..." she'd motioned up to her own face, brushing a finger over her cheek.

Your hand came to pet your own face, drawing back with a palmful of blood. Shoulders sagging, you sigh. "Oh."

She leaned down under the counter, emerging with a handful of napkins and offering them to you. You smiled at her, "Thank you. It's, uhm, it's not mine."

The girl nodded like she already figured. She started to scan your eggs while you wiped down your cheek, napkins dissolving into a crimson lump. You wondered, for the millionth time, what your soulmate had gotten themselves into today.

There was a glass case enclosing some rotating hot dogs that you used to check your reflection: to probe gently at the thin cut you suspected was the work of a sharp blade, and when she handed you your bag, your face was mostly clean over where it was flush with embarrassment. Poor girl was already working late on a week night and you'd waltzed in looking like a scene from a horror movie.

You thanked her and she offered one last uninterested nod.

It was dark out already and you didn't feel as safe walking home as you once had but there was little option, and the corner store was less than a couple blocks from home.

The bag shuffled and your neck-full of crystals clinked as you walked. You hummed a song you'd had stuck in your head all afternoon, some playful tune you'd heard on the radio in the shop.

In the distance there was a crowd. The road overthrown with a flickering blue and red light from cop cars parked just further down and voices overlapped in loud chatter.

You frowned. "What ..."

As you neared your eyes find uniformed officers pushing back other curious onlookers. There was a news van parked there too: a man dressed in a smart suit speaking into a microphone at his chest and he's grinning-- "Yes, Arthur, I am here in Fernglade Washington with some amazing news for our viewers. Tonight, the town can rest a little easier--"

There was a loud sob that carries over heads and a woman was on her knees, jeans pressing into the concrete where she was clutching a child. She's shaking violently ... and she wasn't alone.

Behind her was another set of parents with a child ... and another, and another.

Your heart floated into your throat. There brewed a bubbling feeling in your chest, it's ... it's the children. The missing children.

You recognised Rachel and Georgia ... and Manny. Sure, they were a little dirty: with pale soil-ridden faces and torn Barbie t-shirts.

One, two, three -- you counted them with your eyes -- seven. They were all there.

The police had set up a barricade and you didn't even realise you'd dropped and crushed your eggs when you pressed against it. There's eyes on you, guilty eyes, and you could tell nearby officers were pretending not to look at you out the corner of their eyes.

But you couldn't be bothered with them, with the whispering crowd either, because you'd made out the outline of the Winchester brothers' backs talking down at a short police woman who was avidly writing against a tiny notebook.

You were grinning so hard it was hurting your cheeks and your eyes welled with the joy of the scene. They were all there. They were all okay, alive!

"Sam!' you leaned over the wooden barricade. It had to have been them, there was nobody else who believed you. Believed that the kids weren't locked up in the depths of a dungeon you didn't own.

A laugh was gurgling up from the depths of your throat and you felt where a tear slipped over the healing cut on your cheek. "Sam!"

Sam's head perked up, pausing mid-sentence when he turned those wide shoulders to the crowd, to you. His face lit up with shadows under the spectacle of coloured lights when his eyes found yours.

Your heart sunk from where it was sitting in your throat, slipping all the way to the deepest pit in your stomach.

Even under the harsh light and the cover of night it was impossible to miss the drying blood painting his face. Running down from a cut over his cheek. Your hand came to find your own jaw, eyes never leaving his, when you pressed up into the matching scar. It didn't hurt and even if it had, you wouldn't have felt it just then.

Sam's face was twisting with realisation. "Y/n--"

You tripped back over the edges of your skirt, knocking into the onlookers behind you-- "hey, watch it!"

Concrete reached up, scraping at your heels wedged into dainty sandals, but the hammering of your heart kept them moving. You broke out the crowd, oxygen leaning further and further out your grasp when you broke into a run.

"Y/n, wait!"

But you didn't stop.

Sam watched your silhouette shrink down the road, streetlights illuminating your escape. He gulped for breath, guilt choking him out: clogging his airways with thick sludgy shame.

"Sammy," a hand closed over his arm. "Come on--"

"Agent, we need to finish getting your statement."

Dean was leaning over his shoulder when he looked down. His eyes were sticky with sympathy.

The officer was lingering just a foot from him. She looked confused, gaze flickering between him and the now empty street.

"Dean ..." he turned to his only comfort. "She-- my face ..."

His brother nodded. "Yeah, I know. I know, Sammy."

He patted him. "Just give her some time to breath, okay? Let's finish here."

Every nerve-ending in his body was screaming at him to chase you down the street. To break through the nosy locals and crawl his way up your porch steps: beg on his knees for forgiveness.

Just give her some time. He didn't know if his mind was ringing or if Dean had said it again, but Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

The officer pressed her pen back to her little notebook. She nodded, "Okay so you guys followed the perpetrator into the forest. Male, blonde hair, you said?"

Dean made a grunt of agreement.

-

The night was so cold, Sam remembered.

A thin sheet of drizzle was patching up the sidewalk when his heavy footsteps crept up along it. Barely enough to dampen his hair, but his jacket felt impossibly heavy over his shoulders.

It was past midnight. The police had held them down: a trip to the station, a tower of signed documents and a sketch artist later there he finally was, standing feeling small for the first time in his life at the edge of your property.

Wind was twirling a thin line of smoke off your porch. He could see you through the darkness.

You said nothing. Eyes connected with his across your impeccably maintained grass.

It egged him forward.

His footsteps were loud clambering up the three wooden steps onto your porch.

You were leaned back into the arms of an ornate wooden rocking chair he'd noticed on his first trip up those same stairs. You weren't looking at him anymore: eyes drifting over the quiet street.

Sam was at least glad to find you bundled up in a blanket.

In your lap sat was the strangest-looking pipe he'd ever seen. An obnoxiously long chamber with a bulbous bowl at the end.

A string of purple smoke was curling out from between your lips. "You're here."

He couldn't tell if it was a question or not. Your face was as passionless as he'd ever seen it: offering him nothing.

"I promised I would be."

You nodded slowly, bringing the pipe up to your mouth and sucking on it steadily, still not looking at him. "How are the kids?"

Sam's hands bunched at his side. A dreadful burning viper was slithering between his organs. In this light he could see the smooth cut against your face, a misaimed throw of a blade from Dean when a tiny grotesque goblin had leapt up at him.

"They're ... they're fine. T-They're good."

"Did you know?"

You're looking at him now. It's the question he knew was coming but it knocks him breathless all the same.

He draws breath, mind spinning between the truth and an easier lie. "I--"

"Don't lie, Sam."

Your eyes are piercing him, like an arrow to the chest. He swallows hard. "Yes ... I did."

The pipe draws up to your mouth again, you let out a soft humourless laugh. It's followed out by another cloud of glittering smoke. The laugh so empty that it dries Sam's mouth.

"I ... the life I lead," he starts again, the snippets of a speech that he'd been stewing on his whole life for this exact moment coming out sounding more pathetic than he ever thought they could. "It's no life for you. For anyone, and I couldn't do that to someone I... I-I love. To tie you to me, I've done terrible things you don't know--"

"And you think I haven't?" You're rising from the chair now, pipe thudding to the floor. Your voice is prickled in a rising anger. "That I'm some jewel who could never imagine what life is like on the run? To kill and hurt for survival?"

The rain was coming down harder. Trees and bushes leaning against the push of the wind. Sam was so lost in the heat of your eyes that he didn't notice the creep of a thick-set branch crawling up the edge of the porch, down over the lip of the roof.

"Were you just gonna leave?" Your voice never rose but he flinched like you'd screamed it at him. The flush of fury setting your cheeks alight, illuminating the scar that put you both there. "You were, weren't you?"

The touch was wet and solid when it wrapped around his ankle, the branch wrenching him by both ankles back against the bannister of the porch. He gasped when the wood struck his back: another thick brown limb winding around his neck, not enough to hurt but enough to fix his head in your direction and stop him from toppling over.

It took a couple gulps of breath to realise that it was the tree. The one wrapped around your cottage, that it was you.

"This is a two way street, Sam." you pressed up against his chest, eyes alight with a power you'd never let show before. "You bang me up for years and years, and I sit and wait for you. And you were just gonna leave? Leave me to patch up all your bullet holes and your wolf bites?"

Shame drains his cheeks of warmth. He doesn't fight the tree's grip, purposefully ignores the sharpened blade that's still well within his reach. Sam shakes his head as well as he can: he doesn't know what to say. His whole pathetic speech meant nothing anymore and he didn't think this could hurt any harder until he realises that tears are streaming quietly down your perfect perfect face.

You're pressed up against him, your warmth seeping into his bones.

Forehead meeting his pectoral, you shake your head too. Tears wetting his shirt.

"I was scared." He finally lets out, it's pitiful. "I didn't know this is what it felt like. I didn't know love could feel like this."

"I'm scared too, you know." You whisper into him.

In a surge of bravery, or maybe just stupidity - he couldn't tell anymore, his hand finds your jaw: tipping it up to face him.

God, he never thought you could be more beautiful but you were blinking up at him with wet lashes and a trembling lip and he was ready to give up his whole fucking life for you. Lay down the gun and never pick it up again, let Dean drive alone out and far away from Fernglade.

It was all made more real when you leaned up onto your toes, nose brushing his and hands finding his neck.

You moved no closer, warm breath caressing the bow of his lip, but Sam would be damned if being hog-tied by some oak tree was gonna stop him from the taste of you so he wrapped a strong arm over your waist and tugged you just that little distance further.

The feeling of your lips crashing on his couldn't be any sweeter. He imagined that this is what a firework felt like when it leapt into the sky and burst.

Your mouth was desperate, like his, and your hands wrapped around the base of his shivering neck.

You tasted like sweet tea and tangy like whatever was in your magical pipe and if the tree wasn't holding him upright he'd have crashed to his knees. You whined lowly and it stoked the fire pit in Sam's stomach.

His tongue slipped past your lips, struggling against the hold of the oak tree to let his hands roam your back. Your mouth was wet hot and he knew he could kiss you forever, until his oxygen depleted and he was dead for the world.

But you stepped back, eyes wide like you'd been doused over with ice water. A hand wiped at your mouth, at the mix of his and your's saliva coating your lips.

"You ..." your voice trembled. "You should go."

You stumbled back down the porch, door creaking as it opened and banging as it shut.

The grip of the tree loosened and Sam watched it's branches creep back under the porch. It became still again, rain calming to a measly patter and bushes watching quietly.

"Fuck." he whispered.

-

Sam shut the car door obnoxiously loud after him. The leather of the Impala creaked loudly when Dean followed in suit, hands reaching up to the slick black wheel.

"You're sure?"

Without answering, Sam shifted to take one last look at the Pinecone Motel and it's chipping copper paint.

"Fine." Dean turned the key into the ignition, car rumbling to life beneath them.

In the backseat is his and Sam's rucksacks and duffle-bags jam-packed with their few worldly possesions. The same bags haphazardly zipped shut that same morning when Sam eventually busted through the door demanding that they left Fernglade right fucking now.

The sun was just barely creeping over the town and morning chill frosted the view through the windscreen. It's busy despite the time: open signs are flickering on and men in aprons are heaving crates of apples onto stands under fairylight-lit doorways.

Bad Moon Rising hummed through the crumbly speakers and Sam slammed the switch on the dash so it shut off.

"Hey!" Dean calls, "take it easy man. She's gentle."

He pat the dash softly where Sam has just knocked it. Still, his brother says nothing.

"Okay." He huffed, pulling the car into a spot near the sidewalk in front of a lifeless diner. Dean twists in his seat to face Sam: "you've barely said a word all morning."

Sam tugged his jacket closer over his frame. "I said I don't wanna talk about it."

"Yeah, yeah. You've been saying that all damn week." Dean's arm lifted to rest against the back of the seat. "But you're gonna talk now. This isn't some passing girl that you can just pack your bags and run away from. You're gonna have to go there and apologise."

Sam's expression curls in anger. "Yeah, Dean, I did that! And she tied me up with tree branches and kicked me off her porch--"

"Well, boo hoo!" Dean tightened his one-handed grip on the steering wheel. "Do it again! Do it until she forgives you."

"I don't need your advice, Dean. I've made up my mind, we're leaving."

A cat was scratching on a growing weed at the edge of the sidewalk, Sam focused on it to avoid his brother's eyes. They were hot and he could feel them burning a hole into the side of his face.

"Can we just go."

"What is it?" Dean spoke again, this time quieter. Cool fog followed the words out his mouth. "What are you scared of?"

Sam ran both hands through the tendrils of hair over his scalp. He sighed. "I'm ... she's not gonna be able to forgive me."

"Are you gonna be able to forgive yourself?"

There was a long quiet.

It was broken by a car passing noisily. It draws Dean's attention and he nodded quietly to himself. "Fine. Wisconsin?"

"Yeah." Sam agrees quietly.

The car started again, Dean went to turn to radio back up. "Will you grab my jacket, I left it in the trunk. It's fucking freezing in here."

Sam sighed again. "Fine."

"Thanks."

The door clicked open again. He's barely both feet out the car when it grumbles and swerves off the sidewalk, Sam tripped over the edge nearly onto the concrete, and by the time he's stabled himself: the Impala was racing down the main road.

"You'll thank me for this!" His brother's voice faded with the car's black silhouette.

Sam's hands returned to his hair again, "son of a bitch!"

An old lady across the street turned to him with an affronted look. He waves her off, kicking at the same weed the cat had abandoned in the flurry of commotion.

Above him, the diner sign flickers on: The Frothy Mug. He stopped.

It felt like years between when he was last standing under the same light of the sign. In front of the same three steps that he watched your eyes sparkle at him: your hand tucked warmly against his.

"Fucking ..." the expletives died on his tongue. He's right, that asshole.

"I'm a fucking idiot."

Sam's legs began moving before he even knew they were, chasing down the same route he'd meandered along with you three nights previous. He's sprinting, breathing a purposeless afterthought as the diner disappeared behind him.

Past the pharmacy, the laundromat, The Bloom Box. All the way to the end of town where your cottage and your trees and your flowers and you waited for him.

Sam panted clouded breaths as the sight came into view at the end of the road. The morning sunlight lit your garden a bright orangey eden. His steps were just as heavy as they were in the early hours of that same morning when he trudged up the same stone pathway.

He didn't let himself hesitate, bringing red, bruised knuckles up against the hardwood door. The knock rumbled through the house and shakes every bone in his body.

There was a long pause. Then a scuffle, a sniff and a "Goose, get back".

The door creaked and you stood in the doorway like you had the first day his feet found this porch.

While expected, Sam was taken aback by the sight of you. You're in a matching set of pajamas, green - unsurprisingly - and covered in little ladybugs. Your face was swollen with sleep, eyelashes kissing in the corner and lips puffy.

"Sam--" you sighed, but Sam's hands find your shoulders gently.

"I know it's early, but please listen. I'm an idiot." He sounded desperate, but couldn't find a way to help it.

"Yes." You nodded.

"And I'm sorry." He nodded along with you. "And it took Dean kicking me out the car to get me here because - like I said - huge idiot, but I'm sorry. I'm a sorry, sorry idiot who's so in love with you that he doesn't know what to do with himself."

Your eyebrow curls, "Dean kicked you out the car?"

Sam's eyes rolled. "Yes. I was going to leave, because I'm a coward too. A cowardly idiot who doesn't deserve forgiveness, but I'm asking for it anyways."

You shrugged, head dipping to almost rest against your shoulder. Your face almost, almost laced in amusement. "Begging always looks a little more convincing on your knees, Sam."

His knees knock loudly when they hit the wooden porch. Sam's hands slide down to find yours.

"I'm sorry." He said again, the only words his brain could formulate under the shine of you in your morning glory - the sight of a woman he wanted to see every morning until forever. "Please let me make it up to you?"

Your hands released his slowly, rising to run through his chestnut hair and settling at the base of his neck. You smile.

He thought he might be dreaming but you lean down and kiss him gently. A tinkle of bells rang through the air and Sam smiled against your mouth.

You brushed your nose against his: "I forgive you, Sam."

Sam's hands grip against your hips before floating back and brushing against the edge of the silken wings at your back.

"Really?"

"Yes. Now come in here and show me how sorry you are."

-

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#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x you #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester #sam winchester x female reader #sam winchester drabble #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you

[myoddessy]

evermore. cl16

summary—you had fallen in love with charles to the sound of squeaking tricycles and high-pitched laughter. You'd loved him through every race, just as he'd loved you through every audition. Loving him had become as natural as breathing, so when he walks out the door for the last time, your left choked and alone.

what to expect—actress!reader, angst (lots of angst), based on a load of songs from taylor swift's evermore, mostly focused around charles' pov, slightly rushed/kinda open ending. for the sake of drama let's pretend that Monaco and Spa gps were in the same month in 2022.

word count—3.8k

He's a nice guy. You know it, he knows it, everyone who's ever heard of the name Charles Leclerc would know he's a nice guy. He was a gentleman. He followed the sidewalk rule, opened doors for you, practically threw his jacket at you the second you so much as shivered around him.

But more than that, more than the kindness that you could find anywhere if you looked hard enough, Charles understood you. He saw you, really saw you. He knew you as more than record breaker, more than a star, more than a lover, more than a friend. In mornings of intimacy and nights of passion, Charles had built you a home in his heart and swore you would always be safe there.

But now, as you stood in your kitchen, staring blankly at the empty chairs, you knew you could call Charles one more thing.

A liar.

You cursed yourself for feeling bitter, knowing he hadn't left your apartment that night unscathed either. You almost wished he had. Maybe if there was an actual villain in your story, it would be easier to admit that it's over.

If he wasn't such a nice guy. If he had screamed at you, demeaned you, equated your self to nothing, you could convince yourself you were better off without him. But you weren't. You know it, he knows it, anyone who met you before him knows it too.

You sigh and roll your eyes because you know as much as you try to hate him, you never will. He will never be your villain, so you'll just have to settle with him being nothing.

You'd faced heartbreak before, but those guys had all worked in your fairytale favour. Much needed antagonists, if you will. With every snide remark towards your success, they'd pushed you towards Charles' open arms. You'd learned how to cope with that pain, but this one was different. Nobody teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you, after all.

Some nights, when you woke up because of a window you forgot to close, you swear you can still feel him. Still hear the light hum of his sleeping breaths. Still smell the homely scent of his cologne. But then, when you turn to the other side of the bed, hoping all of this had just been a bad dream, your met with cold pillows and empty space, and remember that this is your life now, not what once was.

You had to break all your habits, forge new routines, because everything had been reliant on Charles. Instead of calling him as soon as you got back from set, you started running baths and catching up on episodes of shows you used to love that never suited his taste. Instead of carving days out of your limited free time to fly to who-knows-where for races, you explored the cities you were in and rekindled lost bonds with old friends.

Ever since Charles had left, on a surface level, you'd been thriving. Your friends admired it, saying you were strong and powerful for how you'd taken your heartbreak and turned it to success.

They didn't need to know about the slipping of your hand when you make enough dinner for two, or how you found yourself reverting back to the playlist of French classics he'd made for you whenever you felt particularly lonely.

It had been two months. Days ticked by and with every one that passed, you found yourself selfishly hoping that Charles Leclerc would disappear. From your memory, from your heart, from your world. Because every time you felt you were having a breakthrough, every time you made just enough breakfast, you'd leave the house and see magazine cover celebrating his success, every time you found a new song to listen to, you overhear a rumour that he took a model back to his hotel last weekend.

There was a time when you'd happily let Charles occupy your mind, but that time was long passed, and you needed it to stay that way.

No matter how well—or unwell—you handled it on your own, Charles couldn't say he fared much better. He still pulled out two wine glasses, still reached out to nothing in the dead of night, still heard the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears when the shrieks of fans should drown it out.

He swore he was going insane, but what a beautiful torment you were, and if seeing your shadow around every city street was his downfall, then hysteria was welcomed with open arms.

He wished he could say he didn't regret it. That ending things was what was best. He could say that at the time, but as days came and went, he found himself doubting. He had insisted that both of your schedules would be the death of you. With him flying around the world to race and to train, and you being flown out to anywhere and everywhere to film, and pose, and answer questions that he knew you hated, you had to fight tooth and nail to spend any time with each other.

Charles hated to admit it, but most of the sacrifice had come from you. You never complained, of course you didn't, you were nice like that. Loving, understanding. Of course you wouldn't tell him about the offers you declined and the covershoots you'd missed to visit him at a race. You never wanted him to know, but he found out anyway.

He was in the en suite, you were in the bedroom. Charles remembered that you'd gotten a call before he got in the shower, he had made note to ask why you looked so stressed when you answered. You'd kept your voice quiet, Charles only later understanding why.

So engrossed in the conversation, you hadn't noticed Charles shut the water off, nor had you heard him open the bathroom door. Your back was facing him.

"Viv, I'm sorry. You know I'm sorry, but I can't take it on right now. I'm booked to go to Spa that week, then I have to come back to Monaco, you know how important it is that I'm there." Your voice was soft, Charles couldn't tell if you were fighting tears or consoling someone. He could vaguely hear the person on the other line.

"Y/n, this is huge! I mean, come on, you've talked about wanting to work with Wes Anderson how many times? Can't you miss two races?"

"I know." Your agent was a tough woman to bargain with, but you knew she only ever wanted the best for you. "But I can't miss these, he needs the support. He deserves it."

Charles didn't hear the rest of what was said, moving into the bathroom again to look at his reflection with a wave of guilt hitting him suddenly. He splashed cold water on his face, preparing himself to face you and tell you that you needed to take the job. That, even if the luck that came with your presence pulled through, any victories would pale in comparison to how selfish he'd feel knowing what you gave up to be there.

But when he finally reopened the door, and he saw the happy smile you gave him with a small hum of good shower? the words died on his tongue. He would regret it for forever, but he didn't dare ruin the domesticity of the night with tears and arguments.

Now, three months after the split, Charles sees a tweet announcing a new film. Normally he ignored those notices, you always told him the important stuff anyway, but when he saw your picture posed proudly, he stalled. A leading role in the new Wes Anderson feature, set to start filming a month from then. He didn't feel sadness or jealousy at your ability to succeed, he smiled and carried on with his day.

The next time Charles was reminded of memories of you was a mere week after he saw the tweet, when he decided to take a run through the streets of Monaco. He passed a park on his way, slowing to a walk to admire the scenery. It wasn't anything abnormal, people walking their dogs, couples strolling with linked arms, kids screeching with joy as they ran around the playground.

But the one thing that made him stop was two children sitting on a bench near the gates. Their legs hung over the edges, swinging back and forth while they talked. The shorter one, the girl with twin plaits and a frilly pink dress had her head tilted to the sky, giggling at the clouds passing by, murmuring something about how they looked like bunnies. The taller one, the boy with a shaggy haircut and baggy clothes, however, had his eyes trained on her, nodding mindlessly while she babbled on excitedly, a noticeable blush on his face. And, suddenly, he's five years old again, playing with his toy car in the same playground with a bright-eyed girl in a pink frilly dress running up to him to tell him his hair is funny.

He remembers being offended at first, then falling into a fit of laughter to match hers. He didn't learn her name that day, nor the day after when they bumped into each other in the same way, in fact, it wasn't until a week after when he finally learned her name, and it was through pure chance.

It happened in a bakery, one he hasn't stepped foot in in three months. He'd been dragged along on errands by his mother, coaxed by the promise of pastries at the end. He waited impatiently on a highstool facing the window while she ordered, his head resting on folded arms. Then, after what felt like a century, he heard his mother come up behind him, a large bag of sweets in on hand, the other thrown around the shoulder of another woman.

"Oh my, he's grown so much!" The woman exclaimed. All Charles did was look at her funny, the only thing he wanted to do was go home and eat. The overhead bell rang as the door opened.

"Mama!" A small, high-pitched voice called. "Papa says we need to go or we'll be late to the shoot." A young girl walked up to the woman Charles didn't quite know. She wore a pink dress that Charles recognized in an instant—quite impressive for a five year old, he'd later brag. Oh, so you were always down bad, Lando would then chime in, and chaos would ensue.

She gasped happily. "Funny Hair!" She exclaimed, pointing at Charles. Their mothers exchanged confused looks. "Mama, this is the boy from the park. The one who let me play with the cars!"

Pascale saw the bashful face on her boy and smiled warmly, placing a hand on his back to help him off the chair. She nudged her head towards you, silently urging Charles to properly introduce himself. "I'm Charles." He mumbled, nervous under three pairs of eyes.

Dimples carved into your cheeks at your gap-toothed grin. "I'm Y/n." You reached forward and shook his hand, turning to your mother once more to politely remind her that you had somewhere very important to be.

With goodbyes and promises of coffee and lunch while you and your parents were still in Monaco, you left, leaving Charles with nothing more than a red face, a fast-beating heart, and a name to put to the girl who insulted his hair. You saw each other here and there after, your mothers dragging you both along when they met up until it eventually became you dragging them out the door in sheer eagerness to see each other again.

Many things changed since those fateful days in Monaco. You grew from TV ads to Hollywood leads, he grew from toy cars to formula tracks. You both stopped hating adults who kissed in your presence, and ended up being the bane of his cousins' existence. One thing that didn't change, however, was Charles forcing you to sit down and watch the, now old, Sky TV ad you were rushing off to film when he first learned your name.

Charles smiled at the sky as he carried on with his run.

Nobody could truly understand why you broke up, other than you and Charles. Beneath the adoration and pride, there was a hidden torment. A nagging feeling tugged at your heart every time you sat in Ferrari hospitality instead of curled up in a trailer, working on a project. A similar feeling washed over Charles every time he saw your shining eyes, knowing what should've been was forgotten so you could be here.

He hated what he was making you. He knew your career was your truest love and your dearest pride. He knew the blood, sweat, and tears you'd put into earing a name and a platform for yourself so you could support your family and help those who couldn't help themselves. He knew that your greatest joys would always come from performing, how you had a special smile reserved for when you saw the results of your work and dedication. He knew that, despite loving him wholly, you were changing who you were at your core to fit him.

He loved the sight of you cheering his name in a sea of red, but whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the way you looked when you turned down a job to support him, and feared that if it went on, you'd grow to resent him.

Above anything, his greatest fear was you seeing him as your downfall as opposed to your lover and, in the end, the only fate worse than being left in your past, was being someone you hated.

yourusername just posted !

Shit. Through everything, Charles had forgotten to turn off your post notifications. His thumb hovered over the screen, fighting temptation to see what you were up to. But, like he always was around you, Charles found himself helpless, clicking the banner and swallowing hard.

liked by zendaya, finnwolfhard, jennaortega, and 650,901 others

yourusername stumbled down pretend alleyways, cheap wine, make-believe it's champagne 🥂

zendaya babe you're glowing 🥺🥺

tchalamet 🔥🔥🔥

ynslover I WAS TAKEN BY RHE VIEW LIKE WE WERE IN PARUS

lecl3rcszn crying bcs y/n posts about being in Paris THE DAY AFTER I FLY BACK FROM THERE

On instinct, Charles liked the post, scrambling to unlike it with a sharp gasp moments later. He cursed himself for the slip of his thumb, praying nobody had caught it. But he knew yours and his fans well, and knew that at least one person had taken a screenshot in the time it took for him to realise his mistake. "Fuck." He groaned, tossing his phone across the bed and running his hands over his face, preparing for the media shitstorm that would come over the next few days.

You screamed into your pillow when you saw the notification. 

“Who does he think he is?” You asked the empty room. Standing up from your bed to pace around, your dog looking at you with a quirked head. “Don’t judge me.” You pointed at her. “I mean, seriously, who the fuck likes their exes post not even a minute after it was uploaded?” You chewed on the side of your thumb. “It was probably a coincidence, right? I happened to post just when he refreshed his feed. He definitely doesn’t have my notifications on, does he?” Again, you were met with silence. 

“Ugh!” You groaned out, falling onto your bed once again and covering your face with your hands. You thought you were over this shit, you thought you were over him. It had been months, you’d been on Vogue, you’d been on SNL, you’d done the interviews, and the ads, and the photoshoots, and you’d booked the role of your dreams, and with one stupid fucking like, Charles Leclerc had ruined it. 

All of your work, all of the hours you’d poured into TheWizardLiz and whatever ‘New Mindset, New Me’ creators you’d found, was now worth nothing because you were back where you were three months ago. Lying in your unmade bed with a heavy heart and a mind full of Charles. 

You wanted to cry. You’d tried so hard to put yourself and your progress in the forefront of your mind, but now all you could think about was the night he left.

He’d flown out to you in NYC, handful of roses and a pocketful of sunshine. You hoped he hadn’t come over with the intention of ending it. You didn’t know if you could handle him being that happy, all to break things off. 

It was on the last day of his week-long stay. He’d made you a fancy dinner, lit candles, set flowers. A foolish part of you thought he was going to propose, but when his hands found yours on the couch later that night, what he said was anything but romantic. 

The Dom Perignon on the table was long forgotten, the only sound between his words was the cracking of your glass heart. “It’s for the best.” You heard him say through the ringing in your ears. “We’ll grow to hate each other.” “I’ll always love you.” “Say something, please?” 

“So we’re over? Just like that?” For the first time since he’d met you, the loud, vivacious girl he’d grown to love was nowhere to be seen. Your voice was hushed and small, your shoulders were hunched. You were making yourself small and it was his fault, the fact made him sick. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, their was a crack in his words and tears in my eyes. You sniffled and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. 

“I- um- I think you should go.” Your voice was thick with tears shed and more welling up. Charles sighed and nodded in understanding. “I’m out tomorrow for lunch with Timothee and Saoirse at 1 so you can get your stuff then, if you want.” You mumbled out, barely audible as he stood by the door. 

He halted halfway through the threshold, and the young girl in you with a pink dress and pigtails hoped he was going to turn back and kiss you and say it was all a dream. But he didn’t. He did something much worse. 

“I really do love you, you know that, right?” A beat of silence. “And I really am sorry.” 

That was when you knew you couldn’t hate him. Because you did know it, you knew he loved you. You knew this wasn’t what he wanted, but it was what you both needed. You could hear him crying on the other side of the door, him resting against it for a minute or two before finally leaving. 

He repeated a mantra in his head as he went down the elevator, It's for the best. Sometimes giving up is the right thing, he told himself as his footsteps echoed through the parking lot. Sometimes to run is the strong thing.

As he turned on the car and drove far away from his true home, he prayed that was true.

It had been 9 months since the break-up. Your feet ached from the heels you’d been wearing all night, and the comfort of your apartment had never been more appreciated. You really did it. The premiere was everything you could have wanted. The afterparty had stretched into the AM, and praise had been thrown at you for hours, much like the drinks. 

But as early morning moonlight still lingered through the windows, you didn’t want the champagne, or the glitz and glamour, all you wanted was a nice, home-cooked meal. You sat up from the couch, stretching like a cat, designer gown still hugging your figure as you shuffled to the kitchen, rummaging through your cupboards to grab some pasta. You pressed shuffle on a playlist of your current favourite songs.

New York had never really been strange to Charles, whenever he visited, he always had an A-class tour guide in you. But as he wandered through the streets in their 4am glory, alone after Pierre abandoned him for some reason he couldn’t quite remember, he knew he couldn’t feel like more of a tourist if he tried. His eyes were hazy with sleep and a mild buzz from the club he’d just left, but his mind cleared when he looked up to the gleaming billboards and saw your face. 

He smiled, continued walking, and thought about the times you’d practically pulled his arm off to show him around whenever he visited. He didn’t really know where he was going, but with the certainty in his heart, he knew his hotel must be somewhere near. 

“Shit!” You cursed, your hand slipping for the first time in months. Enough pasta for two. At least I’ll have some left over for tomorrow. You thought with a huff. You swayed along to the music gently, humming the lyrics to invisible string with a content smile. 

25C. That seemed right. Charles felt around his pockets for his keycard, grumbling indistinct complaints when he remembered he left it in the hotel room with the intent of using Pierre’s after the club. He raised his hand to knock, hoping his friend wasn’t too tired, or too occupied elsewhere. 

A knock made you jump in your skin. “Who the fuck makes house calls at 4:30?” You asked yourself. You wiped your hands down with a cloth and walked to the door, too hungry to bother checking the peephole.

"Oh."

"Oh." Your jaw slacked and your hands grew clammy. You hid them behind the lavish ruffles of your dress.

Charles was knocked back to sobriety, wide awake, and heart thumping out of his chest.

"What are you doing here?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was just in the area?"

You huffed out a laugh, Charles joined, and it soon transcended to a small fit of giggles.

"I think I'm a bit lost." He admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"You think?" You teased, and a small part of you was screaming at you to stop joking and slam the door, but the rest was elated in the comfort of the ease in which you talked.

He wasn't a stranger to you. He never would be.

You wondered if you'd regret what you were about to do when morning came.

"It's late, if you need a place to stay, I still have that extra room." You but the inside of your cheeks when his eyes widened. "And I accidentally made enough food for two people, so the choice is yours. We can catch up."

Charles looked to the apartment behind you, then back you, then back to the apartment, a silent game of tennis to see if you were really serious.

When you smiled at him and stepped aside, showing him the opportunity was his, all he had to do was grab it, he nearly jumped for joy. But instead of screaming and kissing you then and there, he just smiled with his usual boyish charm.

"I'd like that."

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