#THIS S SONG FUCK

[sowheresmyroom]

Alastor is the funniest bitch in the show for that absolute buck wild song interruption by the way. Calling himself Dad while making the most unhinged, unblinking eye contact will never not make me keel over in laughter. Man snapped, he was so fucking mad for what??

[the-crows-are-after-me]

i made this collage of ted during show stopping number lol

[mr-malumm]

Starting a series of drawings for each song and we're going IN ORDER BAYBEEEE, so heres Happy Day in Hell!!!!!!!!

[sword-of-stardust]

The Endless Cycle of Burnout and Recovery

[Kiki's Delivery Service - dir. Hayao Miyazaki // bestinsio (Twitter) // grocerystoredean (Tumblr) // The Oh Hellos, Boreas // Kiki's Delivery Service // Mitski, A Burning Hill // sea-mists (Tumblr) // clonist (Tumblr) // Mary Oliver, Wild Geese // MrTechnodad (Reddit) // My Chemical Romance, The Foundations of Decay // that-house (Tumblr) // stuckinapril (Tumblr) // elytrians (Tumblr) // Kiki's Delivery Service]

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER TEN: RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

DID YOU EVER HEAR ABOUT THE GIRL WHO GOT FROZEN? TIME WENT ON FOR EVERYBODY ELSE - SHE WON'T KNOW IT.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.9K+

☆ A/N: lyrics used towards end of the chapter belong to the following sleep token songs (in order of appearance) - chokehold, ascensionism, and take me back to eden. 10/10 recommends listening to them <3

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

When you wake up, you’re shocked to find cold sheets beside you. 

Your hand stretches out on instinct, joints cracking as you barely slip into consciousness, and it’s the one thing capable of jolting you awake. These aren’t your sheets (they’re too nice to be your sheets), this isn’t your bed (there’s a cologne across the fabric that no longer stains your own mattress), and the bed is cold. Not even whispering of the warmth of who should be in bed with you, no trace of him having been tangled up with you the entire night to be found. 

Eddie had been here. You know he had been here. Last night couldn’t have possibly been a dream, or a hallucination, or some cruel twisting of reality done by your brain out of the terrible yearning that is bubbling back up to the surface of your chest. 

He had been here. And now, he’s gone. 

It reminds you too much of those mornings you’d awake while he was on tour. The mornings you’d roll over in a shared bed, only to find the other owner was still a country away. Mornings where you took your coffee cold and alone, and took your updates from some online source posting blurry photographs of the man you were waiting up on rather than from his own two lips. 

Bile almost rises in your throat until you properly sit up, and you properly remember. 

Eddie. Kisses. His guitar. His song. Whispered falsetto of taking aim, painful words about the way love is a weapon. 

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t dense. And Eddie Munson was a rockstar, not an actor. 

The room is still dreary, faintly lit with the wisps of daylight peering through the curtains over the window. You can’t tell if it’s stormy out, or it’s early out, but neither really matters. Neither really explains why you’ve woken up in a bed alone, after a night of playing pretend. 

Eddie’s lips, trailing down your skin. Eddie’s hands, bruising your hips and holding you to him in all the ways you begged him to. Eddie’s legs, entangling with yours beneath sheets he used to not be able to afford and blankets that kept the rest of the world as far away from the two of you as possible through the night. 

You swear, for just a moment, your back is still warm with the imprint of his chest curling against you. 

With every movement you make, you wait for Eddie to magically appear out of thin air. To jump up in front of you, to smile at you with that toothy grin and greet you with some ridiculous good morning. You keep waiting as you kick off the covers, and as your feet meet his cold floors, and as you make your way to the unfamiliar bathroom attached to the bedroom. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

You sort of fucking hate waiting. Especially when it came to Eddie.

There’s no sign of him in the apartment. It becomes clear once you’ve brushed your teeth, almost hesitating to use the toothbrush available until you realize how ridiculous that would be. He had his tongue down your throat last night, amongst other places – he could bare for you to borrow his toothbrush just this once. You make your way out of the room, down the hallway, to the kitchen. 

Nothing. No Eddie. No breakfast. No reminders to call Matt and no ambulances on speed dial. 

You feel like a fool. 

“Talk about karma, hm?” you mumble to yourself as you lean against his kitchen island, staring at the fridge, weighing your choices. 

You could stay, make yourself breakfast, enjoy the luxuries at your disposal. 

Or you could leave. You could get out now while he’s not here to stop you, erase the night from your skin and memory. There’s still time to pretend that none of it ever happened. There’s still time to scrub the stain he’s once again left across not just your skin, not just your mind, but your entire existence. A newly reopened wound, and you still had time to make amends and stitch it right back up. No blood stains necessary this time around. And things were always easier the second time around, right? 

Wrong. 

Something keeps you rooted in spot. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, wrapping its way up around your bones. Maybe it's the wishful thinking, the smallest of hopes that Eddie will eventually burst through the front door and wash away the doubts. 

Or maybe it’s the post-it note that you’d initially missed, barely clinging to the surface of the fridge as it leaves behind a sticky residue. 

Went to the studio, I’m in trouble with Matt :( Help yourself to anything in the apartment. If you leave, just make sure to lock up behind you. I’ll text once I’m done. 

It’s written in messy penmanship, the font of someone in a rush. The phrase ‘if you leave’ is only slightly neater, as if written slowly and given more thought than anything else said. 

As if Eddie might have hesitated, for just a moment, at the thought of you leaving once more. 

You’re probably imagining things. You’re probably making up that difference in your mind, projecting onto what you want him to feel so desperately. It shouldn’t make a difference in if you stay or if you go. It shouldn’t. 

And yet, it does. 

The hours pass by slowly. Morning bleeds into the afternoon as you keep yourself entertained and take Eddie’s encouragement in full stride; you make yourself a decent enough breakfast from what food he does have in the fridge, and you almost make a note of scolding him for having little to nothing in there. But then you remember that it isn’t your place anymore, and your toast is nearly burning, and so the mental note of any slaps on the wrist is pushed away. You wander about the living room, taking in what photos he does have displayed. There’s not much – a few awards, some nice recounts of the band’s successes, but nothing that is Eddie. No photos of Hawkins. No photos of friends. No photos of Wayne. You hadn’t realized just how empty, how vacant, the place had felt until you properly inspected it all. 

There’s only one trace left behind of Eddie. The man you once knew and loved, not Eddie the Rockstar. Eddie, the caring best friend. Eddie, the doting boyfriend. Eddie, the one you’d once spent all your days weaving a future with, threads intertwined and dreams perfectly aligned. 

A single photograph of just him and Gareth. Or at least, what’s been framed to appear to be of just him and Gareth. 

Eddie, front and center. Gareth to his left. At a quick glance, it seems like one more homage to the band, maybe even to his friends. 

It’s more than that, though.

Your hands can’t work fast enough as they grab the frame, not even thinking clearly about how Eddie might feel if you rip the back off the nice piece of memoriam. Your heart is racing out your chest, breaths starting to come out in harsher and harsher puffs as you struggle to flip the clips and remove the backing cardboard. 

You find exactly what you knew you’d find. Exactly what you’d dreaded you’d find. 

Yourself, staring back at you. 

Creased over so purposefully, the section of the photo containing you has been prestigiously folded to appear as though you’d never existed. You, with a fool’s grin and eyes squinted out of appearance. You, hand on Eddie’s shoulder as you’d lifted yourself up dramatically on your tippy toes, body full of pride beyond the point of containment. 

A version of you that you can remember crystal clearly. 

“Wait, wait!” you had squealed, the stick of beer on concrete floors meeting the rubber sole of your shoes audible as you’d ran across the bar, “Don’t you dare take that photo without me, assholes!” 

You’d nearly slipped in a puddle of only God-knows-what as you’d made it to where the boys were gathering, but Eddie’s hands had already been there to catch you before you’d met an untimely demise. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” his face twitched with concern, but his smile wasn’t fading, “Trying to kill yourself there, Sugar?” 

“No, I’m trying to get into the photo with my favorite people,” you’d corrected, looking around Eddie to shoot a smile Gareth’s way, “Gotta make sure they don’t forget me in the history books in ten years, when they put you guys’ into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” 

Gareth snorted immediately, shaking his head, his own head of curls bouncing with the movement, “Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

Eddie’s hands left your waist, leaving you to bounce on the balls of your feet as you looked back to Jeff still poised with a camera. “Don’t be such a pessimist, Gar.” 

“Don’t call me Gar.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I use the full nickname? Would you prefer Gare-Bea-”

“Okay,” Eddie cut you off with impeccable timing, putting his hands out between the two of you, “Can we not kill each other after we’ve just played our biggest show yet?” 

Biggest show yet, indeed. Everyone had come out to show love to the boys you’d been rooting on from the hot floors of garages for several months at that point. More than just a few drunks being forced to listen to the live band playing at their favorite joint, and more than just a few friends who’d spared their evening to show support. 

Everyone was there. The bar had even made an exception for a few of the boys in Eddie’s Hellfire club, and that alone had already gone to Dustin Henderson and Mike Wheeler’s heads. 

“She’s right!” Dustin added without any prompting, standing to the side and looking just as giddy as you did, “You guys are gonna be goddamn rockstars!” 

“Language, Henderson!” Steve Harrington scolded, scowling at the younger boy, “Jesus, we let you guys come to a bar one time to support Eddie, and you immediately start acting up-”

“Can we please just take the photo?” Jeff waved the camera as he looked between you, Eddie, and Gareth, “Please?” 

Surprisingly, every single person listened. 

Gareth resumed his cool-guy position, clearly trying to not show just how excited he was. Arms crossed as he didn’t move any closer to be more fully in the photo, offering the limited effort of leaning in. 

You knew he was just playing it cool. You’d seen the smile light up his face, even behind the drumset, the moment the boys had seen how large of a crowd they’d garnered. 

Dustin jumping up and down beside you, waving his hand, trying to just get a glimpse of his blurry palm in the shot. 

No one could even be mad at him, the air was too thick with excitement. He was only exerting it the way all of you craved to do so badly, guided by his youth and genuine love for his friends – his mentors. 

And then there was you and Eddie. Eddie wasn’t hiding his joy at all, those dimples you so adored in full throttle as he looked at the camera with starry eyes. All that hard work, all those late nights, finally beginning to come to fruition. He didn’t have to say it – you knew. You knew he was beginning to see the shape of a rockstar forming that you’d always been able to view. Seeing himself in the spotlight that you’d always shone on him, blind faith and all. 

He was proud, and you were prouder. 

On your tippy toes, hand curling around Eddie’s shoulder like an anchor as your chin tilted up and your teeth flashed to the camera. You probably looked ridiculous – you felt ridiculous. But there was no time for some elegant pose or faux cool act like Gareth or Jeff. You were bleeding out all your pride and all your happiness, and it was all for the warm body beneath your palm. The boy you’d be holding dearly when it was all said and done at the end of the night, letting him collapse into your solace as he giggled and muttered his disbelief at how well the night went once you were both safely back in his bed. 

“Say cheese!”

Jeff was all but ignored, only Gareth loudly proclaiming the word through gritted teeth. 

You squeezed Eddie’s shoulder a bit tighter, and he smiled a bit wider as you whispered, “I’m so proud of you, Rockstar.”  

You didn’t realize you were crying until the first tear drops onto the photo, narrowly missing your overly exuberant face and landing instead on the back of the part of the photo unseen from this point of view.

The part that was on display. The part that Eddie would let the world see. 

The tears can’t become more; you can’t let them. You weren’t going to break down in sobs in the middle of Eddie’s apartment. Not after the night before, not after what felt like the precipice of progress. Not after the beginning of what felt like a peace offering. 

Closure. You were both so close to closure, and yet had never felt further. 

Instead of putting back the backing of the frame like you should, you pull out the entire photograph, slowly unsticking it from the glass so you can unfold it to witness the entire picture. You thought it might feel wrong to see this version of you standing beside that version of Eddie, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the burn of nostalgia worse. 

The night before, Eddie had asked you a question. 

“Do you know how many times I played this moment back over in my head?”

And you didn’t know. You never found out, never bothered to ask him for the answer. But you couldn’t but wonder if he knew how many times you’d played moments like the one in this photograph back, over and over in your mind, until it drove you to madness. Just how many late nights in that lonesome apartment, haunted by the memories, it had finally taken before you’d had no choice but to move. How many breakdowns had been spurred on in public when you’d heard his song playing in a gas station, or you’d seen a magazine that he’d occupied the smallest corner of the cover of. 

How many times, during those moments, you’d thought back to nights like the one in this picture, and wished you could go back. 

Even now, even with progress on the horizon, you want to go back. Everything in you screams for this time rather than the present. You want small crowds in the Hideout and an overly hyper Dustin Henderson to annoy you all. You want Eddie kissing you in the bar’s bathrooms, everything reeking of stale beer, and you want the only interruption to be the others banging on the door to let you know it was time to go, not Eddie’s cell phone ringing with a call from his agent. 

You want, and you want, and you want. 

For an innocence neither of you can return to. For a life both of you left behind in ashes. For a love that had seemed so infinite, not as though it might be a momentary time bomb waiting to blow. 

You want to take past you by the shoulders, and shake her so hard that there’s a chance she’ll listen to you when you demand she just enjoy it.

Enjoy all the late nights spent in diner booths with all the boys, none of them witness to the pathway of a heart that Eddie’s thumb is drawing on top of your hand. Enjoy all the grand firsts, and enjoy how everything feels like the ends and beginnings of your world when you’re that young. Enjoy Eddie while you can, even when he annoys you, even when he finds a way to get perfectly on your very last nerve. Enjoy it. 

Because one day, it would all be gone, and you’d be crying over a photograph in the apartment of the man you once thought you were going to marry. 

Now is the time to stop. Now is the time to put the photo back, gather your things, then leave. Put away the shovel and walk away from the grave of the past. 

You can’t do it. 

It turns into some wild scavenger hunt, lacking in guidelines and etiquette as you search through the rest of the apartment. Not truly snooping, but certainly scouring every corner for any other possible remnants of you. Small markings, brutal stains. Proof you weren’t the only one left maimed at the end of the day. Proof you weren’t the only one stained. 

Nothing else is found, because nothing else in the apartment is seemingly as personal as that one photograph. 

You’d noticed the apartment was barren, but hadn’t taken the time to see just how far the emptiness went. His living room, his kitchen, his bedroom – not a single sign of the Eddie you once knew. Only the new Eddie. The Eddie with awards, with a reputation, with adoring fans. 

The Eddie that you couldn’t tell if you really cared for all that much.

The first sign of life only creeps into your vision when you crack back open that door to his makeshift studio. Guitars he once only spoke of owning, a keyboard that tells you he’d finally taught himself how to play piano rather than only speaking about it as a one-day, notebooks and loose-leaf pages scattered across the coffee table that’s situated in front of the comfortable couch. 

It reminds you of the coffee table back in the Munson trailer. Of his desk, back in Hawkins. 

There’s no sporadic Hellfire campaigns across the pages, though. No small doodles in the corners of the crumbled pages. 

Your curiosity gets the better of you as you take the same seat you’d occupied the night before (or technically, the earlier morning). No guitar fills your lap – only the weight of the first notebook you could get your hands on. He’d told you to help yourself to anything in the apartment, and he’d never said that the studio was explicitly off-limits. 

There’s rings of coffee stains across the front of the notebook, half the pages visibly used from the side while the rest stay pristine and uniform. Before you can overthink it, you’re flipping the cover of the spiral notebook open, holding your breath as you read across the first line of penned words that you find. 

When we were made, it was no accident. 

Lyrics. They’re clearly lyrics. You keep reading, out of order as your eager eyes drink it all in. 

I’d turn my walls to gold to bring you home again.

You turn the page. You refuse to linger. You refuse to over analyze. 

MAKE IT REAL. ‘Cause anything’s better than the way I feel right now. 

The first three words are angry, aggressive, large. Screaming off of the page. And the remaining ones are small, almost cursive as they flow together like a whisper. Like the writer couldn’t handle telling the world something so vulnerable, so loudly as he had his demand.

Below, a phrase takes up an unexpected amount of space, circled around several times, a few stray question marks penned around the edges.

Diamonds in the trees, pentagrams in the night sky.

You recall all of Eddie’s doubt when you’d interrupted him writing a song last night. The muttering to himself, questioning what the words might even mean. It seems that was not an occurrence saved solely for you – it seems, when he’s been left to his own devices, the process always remains. 

You turn the page again. 

This time, you’re met with the largest conglomerates of lyrics yet. Spreading across the available lines preset for him, but also spiraling about the page. Written in the margins, forced to fill the gaps between the lines. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut before you even read the lyrics, based on the title alone – Take Me Back to Eden. 

I dream in phosphoresces, bleed through spaces. See you drifting past the fog.

You’re holding your breath again. 

I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre. 

Your eyes wander further down the page. 

I need you to see me for what I have become.

The word become is angrily underlined, over and over, until the pen had torn through the page in the slightest. 

Something rises up within you, and in a panic, you jump to the bottom of the page. 

I guess it goes to show, does it not? That we’ve no idea what we’ve got until we lose it. 

The first fatal blow – you can practically hear Eddie’s voice singing the line to you. 

And no amount of love will keep it around, if we don’t choose it. 

Another blow. Flashes of simpler times. Times when Eddie was yours, when the world didn’t lay claim to him the same way your own shaking palms would. 

No amount of self-sought fury will bring back the glory of innocence. 

It doesn’t matter how small he’s written it. No matter how tiny and insignificant he attempted to make the line, it cuts deeper than any knives that have ever passed through your flesh before. Deeper than the knife of losing him, so terribly slow. Deeper than the knife of hearing Corroded Coffin in public for the first time, playing out of someone’s car on the street as they listened to the Alternative Rock station. Deeper than the knife of burying his mother’s ring at the back of your closet, no longer yours to wear but somehow still yours to keep. Deeper than the knife of seeing him sitting there, in your office, completely unaware for the first time in two years. 

You slam the notebook shut before you can end up bleeding all over the pages, tears gathering once more and wounds all ripped back open mercilessly. 

The glory of innocence. 

All the reels of memories that had hit you as you’d held the photo in the living room come barreling back, striking you down, hitting you exactly where it hurts. 

Because he had felt it too. He had experienced it too. 

The nostalgia, the want for the past, the need to go back in time when things were simple – innocent. When the stakes were low and love was more than just a ghost wandering through your graveyard in passing. 

Self-sought fury. 

All the headlines, all the self-destruction. Every news article that had chipped away at the great Rockstar’s reputation. It hadn’t been the Eddie you’d known, just as you’d immediately thought; it was a new version of him, a new shell of him, seeking out damage wherever his furious hands could grasp it. 

But you’d never self-imploded. You’d never gotten your fury out, never got to kiss strangers in bars or destroy hotel rooms to move past all that you had lost. You’d been sitting in silence, a brewing pique that you’d let fester for far too long. All the hurt, all the fury, all the heartbreak. 

You didn’t have songs to write about all that. You didn’t have notebooks filled to the brim with those emotions. 

All you had was a shovel, and a deep hole inside yourself that you never thought you’d excavate again. Deep, russet brown eyes that had once lit the pavement for your future, now patronizing your past from the grave. 

A grave you hadn’t been digging alone, apparently. Worlds apart, and you two still had been seemingly in sync with the murder of who Eddie Munson once was. 

But the grave is excavated now, and you don’t think too much as you all but sprint out of the room, a clear destination in mind, that damn notebook in hand. 

—

Google is your greatest friend, your greatest tool, in the end. 

You don’t have the right connections at first. No numbers saved in your phone that you could call for the information, no emails beyond Matt to reach out to. And if there’s anything you’ve learned in working in a business where emails were the sole form of communication, it’s that no one would reply to you as quickly as Eddie had been. 

You didn’t have time. So you decided you’d already crossed a line, and you’d scoured the address of the recording studio that Corroded Coffin uses. 

You’d almost lost hope until you’d seen a paparazzi photo of him leaving said studio. Most news outlets had clearly been paid to keep hush about the location, but some were still the scum of the Earth, and some had left behind evidence. It took more effort on your part than expected, and more scrolling through fan forums than you were proud of, but you’d found it. 

You’d found the address where you would find Eddie Munson. 

Hell hath no self-sought fury like a muse scorned, you suppose. 

That’s what had hurt the most. In hindsight, you’d always known he’d write about you one day. He was an artist, and he had always pulled inspiration from his real life experiences. You’d just always been under the assumption that when the day came, the words on the page may be a happier tune. Something softer, something less hurtful. 

He wasn’t even insulting you, but it certainly felt like he was mocking you. 

You’re blinded by pain as you storm through the front door of the surprisingly small studio, finally feeling the need to lash out after two long years. Two long years of silent misery, silent suffering. You’re no longer the same person who had taken the cowardly way out. There is no instinctive running away from this, no gathering up your existence and disappearing from his life. 

This time, you want to fight. You want to scream at him all that you had felt as well. You wanted him to know the damage done, whether it was the right response or not. 

It probably wasn’t. And there was probably something to be said about the fact that this time, you were willing to fight with him over it. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” a young receptionist greets you from the front desk, “Do you have an appointment?” 

“Nope.”

She doesn’t deserve your venom, but she’s getting it straight out of your clipped tone regardless. You’re not here to play niceties with her – you’re here to see Eddie. 

She’s clearly taken back from your straight-forward answer, “Oh, I see. Unfortunately, the studio is currently occupied, but we can-”

“I know the studio’s occupied,” you reply blandly, eyes looking for the elevator, “I’m here to see the bastard currently occupying it.” 

“I- excuse me?” 

You spot the elevator, feet working faster than your mouth as you start to walk over to it, “I said, I’m here to see Eddie Munson. I know he’s in the studio currently, I know him-”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re not really in the business of letting me do anything-”

“Ma’am.” 

You hadn’t noticed the security guard until his hand comes down on your shoulder. The receptionist girl is wide-eyed, looking nervous enough that if you weren’t in the middle of your own spiral, you might feel bad. 

“Let go of me,” you shakily demand, standing still under his hold, “I just need to speak with Ed-”

“No one goes in there without permission from the band or their management,” the man gruffly replies. He may have a good foot on you in height, and the stretch of his muscles beneath the plain black t-shirt might be impressive, but you’re almost convinced by the adrenaline racing through your veins that you could take him. One swift kick of the legs, and you could get to the elevator – you could get to Eddie.

Fight with Eddie. Call Eddie out for all the pain he’d let fester within you for far too long. Probably not even realizing you were calling yourself out in the same breath. 

“Then fucking call them,” you snap, reaching up to swat away his hand, “Call them, and tell them my name-”

“We’ve been given strict instructions to not interrupt them-”

“I could give two shits if we’re interrupting!” you finally yell, fulling tearing yourself away from the strange man’s grasp, “Fucking call Eddie, and tell him-”

It’s the sudden call of your name that breaks the tense moment entirely. Not Eddie’s voice, not even Matt’s voice, but a different voice from your past that has hardly changed.

Standing before you is Gareth Emerson, almost looking entertained at the current exchange happening. 

“She’s with us, man,” he chokes out, clearly holding back laughter as he locks eyes with you, “I can take her back up.” 

“Are you sure?” the security guard presses, looking at you with narrowed eyes, “If this is some insane groupie, Matt will kill me if-”

“I’m not a fucking groupie!” 

You have no reason to be so angry, so defensive. But you’re already a wounded animal, and you’re primed to bite at the slightest inconvenience. 

The wounds of the past are gushing, and being reduced to nothing more than an insane groupie is salt in the blood. Callous, burning, hurtful. 

You’re not just a groupie. 

“She’s not a groupie,” Gareth echoes after you, and his words are far more effective. The guard takes a step back, and Gareth finally lets out a snort that he tries to cover with a cough, “C’mon, Hellfire. Let’s take you upstairs before you burn this whole place to the ground.” 

You swallow down any shock at the old nickname, and you rush to join Gareth’s side, being sure to knock an elbow into his side on your way past him. 

“No one even calls me that anymore,” you mutter, still half-angry, guns still ready to begin blazing in Eddie’s direction once he’s in your sight. 

“Maybe that’s because you haven’t been around the only people that did call you that,” he points out, tone entirely unaffected by your elbow.

“You guys didn’t trademark Hellfire.”

“No, but we sure as Hell made a name for it back in Hawkins.” 

You two stop in front of the elevator, and neither of you make a move to press the call button. You’re all deep breaths, trying to settle yourself as Gareth continues to stare at you. 

“You haven’t changed one bit, you know.” 

His words have you looking up sharply, brows crinkling as you let them sink in, “Excuse me?” 

“I thought you might have changed,” he says, face softening, “You know, the years and city changed you or something. But you’re still… still that same girl we knew. All fiery, always ready for a fight.” 

His last sentence is laced with a bit of sarcasm, some light-hearted joking you hadn’t realized you missed until you’re face to face with it. 

You swallow hard, and you know your own face melts to match his, “That… I… I have changed. That guard was just being a dick.” 

“He was doing his job.”

“Yeah, well,” you sigh, feeling the wisps of fury slip out of your grasps. You almost feel like a toddler, prepared to stomp your foot just to emphasize a losing argument. “He should do his job worse.” 

“And you say you’ve changed,” Gareth teases, bumping his shoulder to yours, “Bullshit, Hellfire. You just let the suits at your job get to you. Maybe you should stick around this time, remember who you were.” 

The words shouldn’t make your chest tighten, but they do. 

Who you were.

Leaving behind Eddie meant more than just leaving behind a failed relationship. It meant leaving everyone. And that included Gareth. That included the version of you that you’ve missed so terribly today that you’ve gone grave-digging, pulling back all emotions to the service. It’s not just anger, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s something deeper and something you can’t erase. A stain on the deepest parts of you that you can’t rid yourself of, even if you’d wanted to. 

Neither of you have pressed the elevator button yet. 

It’s impulsive, but there’s a decision to be made that you won’t overthink. You’re brimming with impulsivity anyways, “Give me your phone number.”

“What?” 

“Give me your number,” you repeat yourself, already digging out your cell phone as you balance Eddie’s notebook in your other hand, “And I’ll stick around this time.” 

You don’t necessarily mean it in the same way he implies, but you mean it in the way that counts. 

You hand your phone over to his waiting palm, and for a moment, it feels like a weight has lifted. 

Even if it all burns down with Eddie. Even if you find the closure you’ve been so desperately seeking out with him, it doesn’t mean you have to leave the others behind. People like Gareth, like Grant, like Jeff – there’s still room for them, somewhere in your new life. You had grown up together practically, at least during the years that had counted, and there was no need to erase them from your history. 

You could find a way. You had to find a way. 

Compartmentalize, rationalize. Justifications and explanations were plentiful. You would find a way to meet the you that once existed and the you that was left behind in the rubble, somehow, someway. 

When Gareth hands you back the phone, there’s a smile twitching in the corners of his mouth, “We should meet up for dinner sometime. I know the rest of the guys, Jeff and Grant, they miss you. And we know this killer pizza place.” 

You don’t fight your returning smile, “Yeah. We should. I think I’d really like that.” 

“Right,” he claps, looking around to clearly see if the guard and receptionist are still watching. They’re momentarily distracted, it seems, by some sort of delivery driver, “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Our studio’s on the third floor.”

“Wait,” his finger has already jabbed at the call button, the sounds of an elevator creaking on its quick descent to you sounding from behind the metal doors, “Aren’t you coming back up with me?” 

“Oh, God, no,” Gareth’s nose scrunches, and his overgrown hair bounces as he shakes his head, “I think I’ve had just about enough of Eddie for the day. The rest of the guys left about an hour ago, anyways, and I’m guessing you two might want some privacy?” You nod at his questioning tone, “Perfect. Then, in that case – third floor, like I said.”

“Thank you, Gareth,” you blurt out, fighting down all the nostalgia. Part of you is aching – part of you just wants to see the other boys again, no longer needing the fight with Eddie, “I- I missed you guys too, for what it’s worth.” 

“We know,” he jokes back, although there’s something in the way he says it that makes you think that maybe they didn’t know that. He finally glances at the notebook in your hands that you’d nearly forgotten about, lively eyes turned simply sad. “Just go and give him Hell, yeah? You’re not the only one who's lost themselves.” 

There’s no chance to ask what Gareth might mean as a ding sounds and the doors slide open. The boy that you have genuinely and sincerely missed nods his head, signaling for you to get in, and you do just that. Mentally preparing yourself with one last gulp of air, one last look at Gareth, before you ready your boxing gloves once more. 

You’re not the only one who's lost themselves.

The doors slide shut, and you punch the button for the third floor. 

eddie's taglist:@capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @mediocredreams @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin

@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87

@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea@kellsck

@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking

@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore

@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog

@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp

@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

@writinginthetwilight @trixyvixx @kittydeadbones @munson-addict @bluejeangenies

@cryingglightningg @joannamuns9n @missmarch-99 @rhirojo @findmeincorneliastreet

[rotomicity]

TGCF art from 2021 which were very experimental and very much something out of my comfort zone but am still so satisfied with

(gonna ramble more under the cut 👉 )

My main inspiration for these were definitely classic storybook illustration styles and the watercolor-like illustrations included inside the tgcf books which depict hualian's daily slice of life routines as seen below

I wanted to capture that feeling of warmth i got from reading but i also went with the storybook look because their relationship (and by extension broad strokes of the entire plot) really did feel like something out of actual myth or legend; i'm chinese indonesian and was raised surrounded by chinese culture + values so tgcf felt VERY familiar to me, it threw me back to my childhood reading or listening to tales about chinese deities, i'd say the storybook image definitely came into my mind pretty quickly bc of this

I find this style somewhat hard to replicate now but if i could or have the time to, i really want to continue the 'companion pieces to chapter titles ' concept i did with the last 2 pieces (which are of the same chapter title but i was just indecisive 😭😭), i even had 3 more planned based on my favorite titles before burning out back then

[updownlately]

i like it when you hug me (‘cause i kind of feel you love me)

| leah williamson x reader | trigger warning for mentions of depression and self-loathing. please read at your own discretion!

~~~

“Hey…”

The voice echoing through the room had you burrowing yourself impossibly deeper into your comforter, nearly hiding your face beneath the blanket- the light peeking in from the hallway very much unwelcome in the dark room. 

Shaking your head, you let out a shaky breath, quickly running your sleeve over your botched face, wiping it in case the quilt was moved away from you.

Stilling your movements, you listened carefully, on alert as Leah’s hesitant footsteps headed closer to the bed- closer to you.

With each subsequent step, you found yourself wishing she hadn’t entered the room at all and the self-aware part of you felt a pang of guilt bloom from your chest, mentally chastising yourself for being so selfish. 

Please don’t care about me. Please just turn and leave.

You swallowed hard as the voices in your head spoke, eyes widening as you felt the bed dip. Curling in on yourself and shuffling backwards, you buried yourself further into the sheets. 

Right now, all you wanted to be was alone. The kind of alone where your phone doesn’t make a sound, even though your ringer’s on blast. The alone where your door doesn’t move, not by a single millimetre, because no one’s coming in but you. The alone where it’s heartbreakingly lonely, achingly so, but you can’t think of a single person to call. You just wanted to be alone. 

Holding your breath as the blonde neared your lumpy form, you waited cautiously for her next move- body on alert, ready to move further back at the slightest of touch.

You weren’t you right now and she most definitely didn’t need to witness that first hand- it was already embarrassing enough that you were hiding out in your shared bedroom all day, avoiding your girlfriend like the bubonic plague.

Lips moving but no sound coming out, you mouthed a silent plea to the universe, begging that she didn’t come closer. You didn’t know how badly you’d break if she did- and you didn’t want to find out.

Unluckily Luckily for you, almost as if your silent prayers were heard, Leah didn’t reach out for you, hand staying firmly put in the space between.

Smiling sadly to yourself, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her lack of touch, hand itching to pull her close, devil on your shoulder telling you to push her so far she forgot she was your home.

Taking a silent shuddering breath, pleading for the assault of thoughts in your head to go away, you did your best to be quiet. You tried your hardest not to acknowledge her presence, instead hoping she’d go soon enough. She didn’t need to be around you when you were like this. No one did. No one deserved that. 

Quietly praying she’d leave you be, that she’d make this easy on you, you slowly moved your hand to wipe it on the bottom of your hoodie, hands sweating nervously. 

I’m asleep. You can go. I’m perfectly fine.

The words you wanted to say but couldn’t- the lump in your throat holding you back.

Rather, you waited patiently for her to make a move, one that hopefully got you out of this situation without too many cruel words said, in your mind or elsewhere. 

Unfortunately for you, regardless of the absolute pitch-black darkness in your room, Leah caught the movement, softly speaking when she realised you were most definitely awake. 

“How we feeling about dinner?”

You stayed quiet at her words, hoping she’d convince herself you were asleep and leave.

You let the uncomfortable silence rest in your bones, its familiar presence a comfort.

You didn’t deserve to be taken care of. Especially not after how you’d hidden yourself away in your shared bedroom all day- ignoring Leah, the skipper being nothing if not understanding, letting you be as you pulled away. You didn’t deserve it and your brain did a hell of a job reminding you so. 

Pity’s what brought her here- a clear look at you and she’ll run.

The long silence that accompanied the voice in your head was uncomfortable but you were used to it.

Taking small breaths to not make a sound, you felt your chest tighten with each passing second that she stayed.

I don’t want you here. I don’t want you here. Not for me but because you deserve better.

The words repeated in your head as your heart constricted, tired of you and wanting to be wrapped around your lover’s arms as much as you wanted her to go away. 

It seemed like Leah knew as much, her shuffling closer to you and you could soon tell she was lying on the bed beside you.

“I know you’re awake…”

Her whispered words had your body tensing, any hope that you had of her leaving washing away as your leg vibrated restlessly.

You felt her gently tug on the edge of your quilt and you contemplated resisting, wanting to tuck yourself away in a cocoon but not being able to bring yourself to do so, guilt resting heavy on your shoulders.

Instead you slowly gave in to the skipper’s prodding, wincing as the cool air of the room hit you, reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks making themselves known in the dim light.

Shutting your eyes closed as her face came into view, you tried to shake the image of her pitiful gaze from your mind. 

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better than me. 

The words continued to repeat, an echo in your otherwise silent mind.

You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You should leave.

Clenching your jaw, you missed the way Leah’s face softened at your clear distress. 

She knew your mental health wasn’t the best, but she never got to witness just how poor it really got- not until now at least.

The way you had sluggishly left your bed nearly two hours after your alarm this morning- how you had hid from her all day, not bothering to have anything more than a few spoonfuls of yogurt for breakfast, completely foregoing lunch, and now, quite possibly dinner. The signs were clear, you weren’t fine.

You weren’t okay, not one bit, but if Leah had anything to say on it, she ached to tell you it was okay. 

It was okay to not be you today, not when she was here, you didn’t have to run and hide. 

But she couldn’t tell you right now, not with the way you barely met her gaze, head tucked in the crook of your elbow, tear-stricken cheeks just barely hidden, body tense.

So instead she placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, moving the arm on your face to the side as her hands travelled to your torso. 

Tugging gently, the blonde pulled you into her embrace, hands coming to wrap around your midsection as you complied, tucking yourself into her side, too tired to protest. 

If words weren’t what you wanted to hear, then she’d speak to you with her touch. 

Continuing her efforts, you let out a small sigh as her hand came to smooth your messy hair, scratching your scalp gently, just how she would when she’d comfort you after a tough loss. 

The ministrations coupled with the faint touch of her rubbing circles on your back, and you could feel your body relax, gears in your mind beginning to slow as your hands shyly made their way to grab fistfuls of her hoodie, not wanting the comfort to leave- not wanting her to leave.

Surprised at the Englishwoman’s actions, you burrowed your face into the crook of her neck as you felt the knot around your heart loosen just a tad bit, a grateful breath escaping you.

You sunk into her grasp as you ignored the dying voices yelling in your head, your weight rest wholly on top of the midfielder's body, back muscles going slack as you let her warmth break through the iciness plaguing you.

Thank you for staying, for being patient, for caring.

The words went unspoken whilst you waited as the rock in your throat to slowly shrink.

And as a minute passed and then two, her grasp on you only getting stronger, more assuring, you couldn't help be grateful.

All your unsaid words from earlier finally had the chance to be spoken now, chest light, speech coming easy. 

Letting yourself snuggle into Leah’s hold, feeling her place a soft kiss on your crown, you finally had a breath of comfort, nearly crying in relief.

Though the voices in your head didn’t quite disappear, she made living a bit easier, the simple act of breathing no longer a chore.

It’s why your murmured words finally came easy, heart floating, your grip tightening in adoration.

“I love you.”

[puppyeared]

Dear Wormwood PART 1

(slight tw for bright color at the end)

[hawkeyeslaughter]

listened to this verse and thought about them because of course i did <3

[svtskneecaps]

lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

[casualavocados]

Learn from who? Learn from you? You are still a brat. What do you know? You're only three years older. Like you are any better than me. You're 21, and still a virgin. What are you proud of? I think you can't do it.

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 06

[elvisqueso]

Times they had to say goodbye — [3/4]

Pocahontas (1995)

[bassboosted-moon-chao]

Unlimited connections when you're digital.

(lyrics are from Prototype VIP, by WoodenToaster)

what started as a silly idea evolved so hard it became THIS

[dellinah]

I am heartbroken and frothing at the mouth that I have yet to see anyone on Tumblr mentioning the YT animation Bun hunting: overture

You'd think a furry animation inspired by 30-60's cartoons with a lot of fanservice would be popular here (for one reason or another)

It's barely 3 minutes long but I'm IN LOVE

with the animation style. Yeah

I wish I was in the mindspace to talk more about it bc this animation made me happier than I can say rn and it deserved a ramble but anyway

There's just something about seeing the old (obviously(?) Song of the south-inspired) Disney 2D animated style done SO WELL in this era that made me really happy and even so short it seems so cute and promising and all of it is SO WELL DONE

I would give anything for this to be longer but I'm so happy with what we got. I hope Piti Yindee and the team get to do more with it eventually

[applejongho]

WHY are the people of tiny twt talking about atz needing to release an eng album...... no they do not!

[rikan-oo]

Me after A Certain Mister Sung’s Birthday arc: