#another angst chapter

[currentlyreadingawesomefanfics]

Chapter 9 of Somnolent is going to be mighty interesting…

[cacoetheswriting]

break my heart again | chapter six from right where you left me.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 6.4K

summary: He realises in that moment how, although you’ve never said anything, you have feelings for him too. Back then, even stronger now. All along. All this time. And Eddie does next what he knows is wrong. He forces your hand — just like he did three years ago, but this time, he’s hoping for a different outcome. That’s all he’s got left. Hope.

content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, slow burn, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, emotional hurt / little comfort, some serious mutual pining, use of pet names, implied intimacy | non-explicit, plus mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, also touches on topics of: death, grief, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

2:34AM. 

The house is still. Quiet and empty. Everyone is hiding away in their own rooms, trying to get some sleep after a long and exciting day.

Except the house is not still. There’s shouting bouncing between the walls, keeping the group awake. Raised voices coming from one bedroom.

Eddie’s, to be exact.

Ding. Phones illuminate the darkness. The group chat.

Steve: They’ve been arguing for over an hour… Robin: should someone check what’s going on? Robin: not it

Jonathan sends a thumbs down emoji.

Nancy: Let’s leave them alone for a bit longer. Steve: I’m trying to sleep Robin: we’re all trying to sleep, Harrington Nancy: 15 minutes and I’ll go, okay?

Thumbs up reactions fly in. The chat dies down for a moment. Phones get locked, attempts at eavesdropping continue.

Robin: do we know what they’re arguing about? Robin: they looked mighty cosy this evening and now this? Steve: I can take a wild guess Robin: do enlighten us, detective Jonathan: Guys, it’s not our business. Steve: They’re kinda making it our business, Byers Steve: I suspect it’s got something to do with Chrissy Robin: of fucking course

Chrissy has had enough of being made to look like a fool. She felt as though she sacrificed enough for Eddie Munson during their time together and she wanted something in return, for the years she wasted on the metal-head. For all the instances he’d tell her you meant nothing, yet his actions proved otherwise.

Chrissy no longer wanted to be the butt of the joke. 

Recording her version of the story, articulating it into words she’s been too afraid to feel, was therapeutic. She should have left it there. Let the past go and find someone who actually cares. But she couldn’t just let it be. Not so deep down, she wanted Eddie to hurt — you’re just collateral damage, a means to an end.

You pressed play without thinking too much about the implications because what could Eddie’s pretty ex-girlfriend possibly want with you. Issue some vague and empty threats, perhaps? Or maybe to tell you something along the lines of ‘good luck, he’s an asshole’ — typical ex-girlfriend stuff.

Only there isn’t anything typical about Chrissy’s message.

Listening to it once should have been enough for you, but no, you had to go and hurt your heart by playing it again and again and again, until the words made even less sense than they did the first time around.

It’s incredibly incriminating, to say the least, and you don’t quite believe that anything Chrissy has said is true, so you let auto-pilot take over and saunter down the hall, towards Eddie’s bedroom.

He opens the door before you even get a chance to knock, as if he knew you were coming. As if he felt your energy gravitate in his direction and he wanted to meet you halfway. A smile reaches his lips, cocky yet soft, and your heart clenches because you desperately want everything to remain on the edge of whatever the hell you two have been doing all day.

“Miss me already, angel?” He quips, arm above his head, resting against the frame.

“We need to talk,” you say and slide under his bicep, stepping inside his safe space.

Eddie shifts, his smile faltering. He gets the sense that he’s not going to like what’s about to come out of your mouth. He swallows a breath and shuts the door with the heel of his foot, a gentle thud vibrating against the floorboards.

“What’s going on?” Concern laced through his tone.

You don’t answer. Not really. Instead, you hold up your phone, the one you’ve been gripping tightly in your hand, imprints left behind on your palm.

Staring at the metal-head, you press play. Chrissy’s voice booms from the speaker and you observe Eddie for any sort of reaction: to prove she’s lying. She has to be lying.

“Okay, ugh. This is so weird,” Chrissy’s note begins. “You don’t have to listen to this. In fact, I half expect you’ve already turned it off because you don’t owe me anything. We were never friends, just friendly. Acquaintances by nature or some shit.”

She pauses. Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the phone. He takes a step forward, but doesn’t try to come any closer to you. Almost as if he knows what his ex-girlfriend is about to say and he feels helpless to stop it.

“Now that you seem to have reconciled with him. There’s something I think you ought to know. Something he definitely won’t tell you since he’s always been quite chickenshit when it comes to the truth and you - separately and combined.”

You play the second voice note, eyes not leaving Eddie’s brown ones for a second.

“Our graduation party. There’s not a lot I know about what happened between you, Eddie, and Steve. He never told me the specifics, but I can piece together a rough picture and I know there was a blowup, one he blamed you for.”

Shuffling in the background indicates she’s on the move as she speaks.

“Listen, I’m not here to make assumptions or whatever. I just think there’s been a certain double standard which you don’t deserve - coming from me, that must feel like a shocker.”

Chrissy chuckles. The voice note ends. You play the next one, but not before Eddie says your name which makes your insides curl.

“After you fought for everyone at the party to hear, and after Eddie took you home, I don’t know if you know that he came back. I found him ruffling through the bushes. I suppose he was looking for something, although he never told me what. He never told me much when it came to you.”

Your free hand lands on the guitar pick around your neck.

“Well, I invited him in.”

“Angel—”

“Eddie, shut up.” You interrupt, voice quavering because now, seeing the downcast expression on his face, you know what Chrissy is about to say next is true.

The note continues.

“I’ll spare you the details. We slept together. Bet Eddie would never tell you that, huh? He’s all high and mighty about whatever you did with Steve earlier that very same night, when in reality he’s not much better.”

A pause for dramatic effect.

“Then, word spreads that you’ve skipped town and Eddie comes around more often. I asked about you, you know? I asked if he told you about what we did because I’m not stupid, I know there’s always been something between the two of you, and I didn’t want to step on any toes in case you came back. All he did was shrug and say you didn’t deserve to know anything from him anymore.”

Tears wet your lashes.

“Talk about being a conniving asshole.” 

In the last, shortest note, she adds, “Sorry you had to find out this way.”

With the click of a thumb, you lock your phone and go back to gripping it, tight. Anger seeps through your fingers, although that’s where it starts and ends. The rest of you feels borderline numb — which usually drives you to drink. You hate yourself for this setback, but more so for allowing this in the first place. For getting caught up in Eddie’s forgiveness and his laugh, his touches and kisses, his promises of a better tomorrow.

The sham is clear. Chrissy spelled it out in her voice notes.

Eddie Munson gave you hell for kissing Steve then jumped into bed with the blonde Cunningham. Whatever. He needed someone to make him feel better. That’s not what irks you.

What hurts the most is the radio silence that followed beyond the night. The years of no contact.

What hurts the most is allowing you to think everything was your fault. For allowing you to isolate yourself from your friends, your home. For letting you stew in misery, thinking you hurt him beyond repair.

“I was going to tell you,” Eddie says, taking another step in your direction. “I swear, angel. I-I just didn’t know how to go about it.”

You scoff although your voice wobbles as you say, “Well, thank god for your ex-girlfriend.”

Eddie’s now an arm-length away.

“Look, I-I know this looks bad, but this doesn’t have to change anything,” he half-pleads. “I mean, we dated after, so it’s not like—”

“Like me and Steve?” You interrupt in disbelief at this entire situation. “I thought we moved past that.”

“We did,” he agrees with a shake of the head. “Fuck! I-I am just trying to say how what happened between me and Chrissy is different.”

Slowly, you nod. “Right, because that explains it so much better.”

“Angel—”

“You think I’m mad because you had sex with her?” 

He seems shaken by your question which answers it immediately.

“Eddie, I don’t give a shit about who you sleep with. Chrissy, those horny moms that listen to your radio show, whoever else.” You tell him, “I’m upset because I went years believing everything that happened to us was my goddamn fault!”

The yell slips and he flinches, not expecting such ferocity.

Eddie left you to your own guilt and that’s his prerogative. The secrets however, they hurt. First the Billy thing, and now this. And imagining how different things could have been if you knew all this information sooner makes you want to scream.

“You keep secrets, Eddie. Billy and this, and you fail to realise how these secrets impacted me and my decisions!” You accuse. “What’s worse, we had a heart to heart last night, which would have been a good opportunity to tell me about this thing with Chrissy, but you chose yourself over me, again.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “You still left, remember? You didn’t have to do that. You could have stayed and we uh, we could have tried to work it out—”

“I left because of you!”

Something snaps then. The last string of forging forward.

“Okay, I don’t like the accusation when you’re the one who made out with my friend.” Eddie goes on defence.

“Jesus! How many times are you going to make me apologise?” You throw your arms up with the question. “I was drunk and sad. My best friend—” You point to the metal-head. “— just told me he had feelings for me at quite literally the worst possible time and I wasn’t ready to…”

The sentence fades as you shake your head. “No. You don’t get to say anything about me kissing Steve anymore because you forgave me, remember?”

He’s staring at you. Hands formed into fists at his sides.

The argument bounces back-and-forth like this. You’re hurt. He’s hurt. Neither of you willing to back down first because there’s a whole lot more to lose now than there ever was before — boundaries crossed, all those kisses and whatever the fuck they mean.

“Do the others know?” You ask, breaking a tension filled moment of silence.

Eddie shakes his head.

You smack your lips together. “That tells me you’re ashamed, which means you know what you did is wrong.”

“What do you want me to say?!” He half-shouts, feeling agitated and defeated all at the same time.

“You still haven’t said you’re sorry,” you answer, softer, sadder.

Eddie’s heart clenches. He can see the hurt behind your eyes, hear it in your voice. He should have apologised, but you came in hot and he felt blindsided — not like that’s a good enough excuse, although maybe it is considering some forty-eight hours ago, you two were hating each other.

Well, he didn’t hate you. Never ever. Quite the opposite in fact, all this time.

“I'm sorry, okay.” Eddie says eventually. “I am really fucking sorry.”

“If only that wasn’t so forced.”

He sighs. “We’re going in circles here, angel.”

And the argument starts again. At this point, it feels stupid, but there’s a gnawing inside your chest that’s not allowing you to let this shit go.

“You let me believe you were broken over me.” 

“I was!” Eddie shouts. “What happened with Chrissy has nothing to do with how I feel about you, goddamn it!”

You blink. Feel, he said. However, not even a split-second passes to let you dwell on the word and his use of it because Eddie continues with his rant.

“The facts are, you left. Despite whatever I said or did, and whatever you said or did. At the end of the day, you still left! And maybe I am a shitty person, shitty friend, for not reaching out and not telling you about getting with Chrissy that same night, fucking sue me!” 

The metal-head approaches you as he speaks. He stops only when he’s toe to toe, hovering over you, demanding eye contact.

“I was heartbroken and I chose to react how I did to help me get over you!” 

He fucked up, he knows, but you’re no better either. There’s been years of miscommunication and hidden information; that’s hard to fix over a few days.

“Eddie…” You whisper his name and search his gaze for absolution. An ending to this whole debacle.

“Which frankly, is a tough fucking thing to do,” he adds and clenches his jaw in anticipation of what you’re going to tell him next.

But you don’t get to reply. You don’t even have a minute for his admission to settle because his phone starts intensely vibrating on the bedside table.

Hanging his head, Eddie walks towards it and after glancing over his shoulder at you, a sad look on his face, he reads the texts that are coming into the group chat.

He types.

Eddie: We’re fine. Steve: Sure doesn’t sound like it, dude Steve: Heard my name a couple of times… Eddie: It’s fine. Robin: liar

He slips his phone into the back pocket of his jeans with a sigh, and as he turns back around, he says: “I’m sorry, angel. For my part, I am.”. But you’re not there anymore.

The door to his bedroom is wide open. You must’ve slipped out in the split-second he paid attention to his phone instead of what truly mattered.

He follows, looking for you. When he finds you outside, sitting on the lawn and staring ahead at the lake, you tell him you want to be alone. Eddie says he knows, yet plops down next to you because he’s not making the same mistake he did three years ago. He’s not letting you retreat and run away when he just got you back.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says earnestly, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes.

“So you’ve said,” you reply, choosing to focus on the reflection of the stars in the dark water.

He sighs. “You don’t make things easy, you know.”

“So you’ve said,” you repeat.

Suddenly, he’s in front of you. Parting your legs, so he can slide in between. His own knees bump your arms, keeping you in place, no escape, as his hands delicately grip your face and force you to meet his sad brown gaze.

“I should’ve fought for you.”

Not a simple sentence whatsoever. Hard to say, hard to hear. The words settle around you, within you. They hold your heart. Squeeze it and let the blood pour until you’re faint.

The weight of this is bigger than anything he’s ever said to you. Eddie knows this too. He feels the way your body sags in his embrace. How you’ve seemingly stopped breathing.

He realises in that moment how, although you’ve never said anything, you have feelings for him too. Back then, even stronger now. All along. All this time.

And Eddie does next what he knows is wrong. He forces your hand — just like he did three years ago, but this time, he’s hoping for a different outcome. That’s all he’s got left. Hope.

“I should’ve fought for you because I-I don’t think I’ve ever stopped… feeling things for you.”

“Eddie.”

“And I-I think the problem all along has been your fear of reciprocating anything real.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug, “Or maybe you’re just trying to find another reason, another excuse, to push me away so you don’t have to face what’s been in front of you all along. Me.”

He kisses you before the words fully escape his plump mouth. The fight’s not over. The argument, simply put on hold. His lips trace yours, then travel along your jaw and down your neck. He reaches your collarbone and kisses there too, slow and steady.

He wants to hear you say it. Admit the feelings you’ve been harbouring.

His movement is methodical. His hands now on your waist, splayed fingers digging into your lower back as he bites your flesh, coaxing a moan from your parted lips.

“Eddie,” you breathe, “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

But you don’t. In fact, you lean forward.

“But we’re not having sex,” you mutter against his parted lips.

“Okay,” he breathes.

“And this doesn’t fix anything.”

“You already said that, angel.”

Since you have no further rebuttals — actually, you have plenty, but all you can think about right now is how much you want him.

Sure, the circumstances could be better, but fact remains. You want him to touch you and make you forget, make you feel better. Make you happy. And you want to return the favour, out on the grass, under the cover of darkness, because if nothing else, at least you’ll both have this moment.

3:17AM

Steve: It’s oddly quiet……… Nancy: Maybe they went to sleep? Jonathan: Exactly what we should be doing too.

He follows with a frown emoji, to which Harrington reacts with a thumbs down.

Robin: they’re not in their rooms Robin: and yes, I went to check because that’s what good friends do Jonathan: Not our business. Steve: The cars are still here, so they must be somewhere on the property Jonathan: Guys, seriously. Nancy: We should all go to sleep. Robin: fine Robin: but if they’re still missing in the morning, I won’t be the one talking to the cops Nancy: I’m sure they’re both fine. Steve: They’re in the backyard….. Robin: oh? Steve: They’re fine

He wraps the conversation up with a winky face and locks his phone. The rest of the group do the same, only after Robin sends one last message: “fucking finally”.

Finally. 

That’s what you’d say to describe this moment too.

As Eddie’s hands gently slide under your top, as he works his lips along your jawline, as you tug his brown locks in your fingers, as he lay you down on the grass and wedged his denim-clad knee in between your thighs, finally is the thought that definitely crosses your mind.

Until it doesn’t.

“Eddie,” you mutter his name.

“Yes, baby?” He’s kissing down your neck, excruciatingly slow.

You exhale, eyes rolling to the back of your skull, turned on, but also nervous for his reaction to what’s about to come out of your mouth.

“What are we doing?”

He smirks against your skin. You can feel the twitch of his lips against that soft spot you didn’t even know you had until the metal-head found it.

“We’re not having sex,” he replies, teasing with your earlier comment.

The corners of your own lips twitch upwards involuntary. Happy, content. He’s funny. He likes you. Why is the devil on your shoulder trying to ruin this good thing?

“No.” Pressing your forehead to his, gently pushing away, you continue, “What are we doing?”

Slowly, the metal-head lifts his head, catching your gaze with his own. The gentle moonlight glow illuminates his face.

“There’s a lot riding against us,” you say. “And it doesn’t help that we’ve been avoiding this conversation.”

“What conversation?” He questions, although he already knows the answer.

“Eddie,” you whine. “We can’t keep pretending.”

Brows furrowed, he drops his hand to your lap, interlocking your fingers together. He squeezes once, twice, then swallows his breath. Nervous. A ticking time-bomb, this thing between you. That’s how he’d describe it. A lot of questions and excuses, not a lot of decisiveness out of fear, mainly.

“Pretending?” He ponders.

“Pretending it doesn’t hurt every time we look at one another,” you explain, “Pretending. everything is fine and we’re just two people who used to be friends.”

Eddie sighs. “That’s bullshit.”

And his lips are back on yours. Softer this time. A loving kiss. A loaded kiss. Making you forget why you were nervous in the first place because despite everything, he’s here and as are you. Together. Feeling… things. Liking each other. That should be enough.

Right?

Wrong.

Birds chirping and a cool breeze stir the brunette awake. He sits immediately because the first thing Eddie notices is how he’s alone — which is not how things ended at the ungodly hour of the night.

In the aftermath of a lovestruck haze, you fell asleep in his arms, but now you’re gone and dread spills into his gut. 

Pulling his T-shirt over his bare torso, Eddie is on his feet and rushing toward the house. Inside, Steve throws him a look, a cup of coffee barely hiding the knowing smirk.

“Some night, huh?”

But Eddie ignores his friend. He’s got no time to entertain the teasing of it all. He needs to find you first.

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Eddie grumbles, albeit growing red as a beet.

Steve snorts a laugh, shakes his head, and dips out the back door to enjoy the rest of his morning coffee.

Eddie resumes his search.

The living areas are all deserted. Quiet. Upstairs, he checks his own room first, the common bathroom, and when they too prove vacant, he rushes down the hall until he reaches the door of the last place you could be.

He knocks. Once, twice. There’s no answer and his anxiety spikes. Calling your name, he helps himself inside. Also empty.

Worse. There’s no sign of you whatsoever.

Eddie circles the room, slowly. The bed is made. En-suite clear of any lotions and bottles alike. Hesitantly, he opens the wardrobe, only to find nothing at all. Free hangers and unoccupied shelves. Your suitcase is also gone.

Something catches the metal-heads eye. A singular item left behind. The plushy he won you at the fair. He reaches for it, then stops abruptly because a sound coming from downstairs catches his attention instead. The entryway. Hinges open, close.

Your laughter.

Hastily, Eddie grabs the toy and rushes out of the room. He stops at the top of the stairs when his wide gaze lands on the girl he was sure left him behind — again.

“You’re here?” He half asks, half says.

Your head snaps in his direction and a timid smile graces your features.

“Good morning.”

“You’re here,” Eddie repeats, stepping down the steps, until he’s an arms length away from you.

“Where else would I be?”

“Your room is empty,” he points out, then lifts the plushy in his hands, “This is the only thing that was left.”

You reach for the toy, but grab his hands instead. Fingers interlocking together and you squeeze.

“I packed up my car. The rabbit must’ve fallen out of my bag.” Slowly, you pull his knuckles to your chest.

He nods, once. Slowly.

“I-I just thought maybe you… The whole Chrissy thing and what I said last night…”

“Yeah, we should definitely talk before we leave today,” you say and offer him another smile.

Eddie takes it in, the twist of your lips, and relaxes slightly, but there’s a look in your eyes he can’t quite place. A certain detachment. He wants to ask you about it. He wants to double check that you’re okay because he doesn’t quite believe that you are. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance because you slip away from him, into the kitchen where seemingly the rest of the group has now gathered.

The detachment is intentional. You’re just unaware that Eddie picked up on it. He wasn’t supposed to.

Truthfully, when you woke up this morning, tangled in his limbs on the hard grass, your insides curled with panic.

The metal-head kind of predicted it himself, with what he said. You’re afraid of falling. Love and other good things. You don’t want to feel them because they’ve hurt you before and he knows that. Which is why your instinct is to leave. Run to Las Vegas and forget about Eddie Munson once and for all. You can’t keep stringing him along forever.

You were almost free and clear, driving away without any goodbyes, when Nancy caught you.

She saw the look in your eyes and understood immediately because it’s the same look that you shared with her three years ago, when she told you to leave.

This time however, the Wheeler girl is telling you to stay. “At least say goodbye,” she says and you nod. “It’s the right thing to do.”

All through breakfast, you workshop a list of pros and cons to the internal turmoil of leave with Eddie or leave alone.

The Munson boy is staring at you from across the table and his deep brown gaze makes it all that much harder to think. Thoughts of he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve this, turn to, don’t leave him, don’t leave him, don’t leave. But no good will come of you staying, that’s what the devil is telling you. The dark part of yourself.

“This was a really good weekend,” Robin announces with a smile. “Thank you for organising, Nance. You’re the best.”

Steve lifts his mug. “To Nancy.”

“To Nancy,” the group echoes, you included.

“To us,” the brunette girl says instead. 

Your gaze locks with Eddie’s and your heart drops. You don’t want to leave him. Not now, not ever. So maybe him coming with you to Vegas is a bad idea, because it’ll be that much more difficult to inevitably say goodbye?

His words echo in your mind: “Maybe you’re just trying to find another reason, another excuse, to push me away so you don’t have to face what’s been in front of you all along. Me.”, and despite the sinking sensation, you plaster on a smile and repeat Nancy’s sentiment, eyes not straying from the mahogany across from you for even a second. 

“How about we each say what our favourite part of this trip has been?” Robin suggests, “Eddie, why don’t you kick us off?”

The metal-head swallows. He forces himself to look away from you, towards the remainder of the group and nods.

“Uhm. Sure.” He clears his throat. “I uh, I had fun at the fair.”

He doesn’t look at you when he answers because that would reveal too much to your friends. Although, judging by the snickers coming from Steve’s end of the table, they already know a lot more than they’re letting on.

“Good start,” Robin says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “Who wants to go next?”

Argyle puts himself forward. He says he enjoyed canoeing the most and the whole table, minus you and Eddie, barks out in laughter. Jonathan reminds his friend that he never joined them on the lake, he was afraid, and Argyle disagrees.

“That doesn’t sound like me, dude.” He drawls.

The group continues to laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Steve interjects, ceasing his chortles. “My favourite moment was cutting onions that very first night.”

Your eyes snap in Harrington’s direction and for the first time all morning, the smile on your face doesn’t feel forced.

“Don’t be cute,” you tease.

Steve rolls his eyes. “What can I say, sweetheart. I loved reconnecting with you.”

“That’s been my favourite too,” Robin chimes.

“Guys, stop,” you force, getting slightly choked up about this sentimental moment you’ve found yourself in. “These feel like cop-out answers.”

“What’s yours then?” Robin asks.

You hesitate. There’s been a lot. Some bad moments too, although the good outweigh them. Eddie is at the top of your mind. Making out in the lake. Later, dry humping (etc.) on the grass. A burn in your cheeks at the sudden flashes of memory.

“It’s all been really nice,” is what you settle on.

Robin rolls her eyes. “Right, ‘cause that’s not a cop-out answer.” She huffs, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Nice,” Steve repeats. “I guess bumpin’ naughties—”

“Well,” Jonathan interrupts, “I agree. It’s all been really nice.”

You flash him a grateful smile and he tips his head in your direction. A way of expressing ‘don’t worry about it’ behind the look he’s sporting.

“Me too,” Nancy adds.

“You guys are no fun,” Robin half-whines. “Only Eddie understood the assignment, and even he’s not being a hundred percent truthful.”

“I am,” the metal-head speaks. “Being truthful, that is. I really liked the fair.”

Robin smiles at him. “I know, dude. But I also know you guys did something salacious last night,” she says, pointing between you and the brunette across from you, “And I would’ve thought that’s the favourite moment.”

“Robin!” Nancy breathes in shock.

“We… I-I…” You stammer, searching for the right thing to say since there’s no use in denying it.

“That’s none of your business,” Eddie huffs for the both of you.

“I told them that,” Jonathan says.

“Oh come on,” Steve laughs, “It’s not a big deal. We’re just happy for you two. It’s been a long time coming.”

Hesitantly, you look back at Eddie. His own gaze is fixated on the ceiling above, head resting on the edge of the chair. He’s thinking about that detached look on your face. How can he share the same energy as his friends when you feel like you’ve already slipped away?

“So, are you guys like, together?” Argyle asks innocently, pushing the conversation along. “Congrats either way, my dudes.”

You want the ground to swallow you up whole. For all the talking you’ve done with the metal-head, you’ve not discussed a lot about what any of this means. The plan was to do so last night, before Chrissy’s voice notes. Plans shift. Mere moments ago, you said you’d talk before it’s time to go. You certainly didn’t think you’d be having this conversation in front of / thanks to your friends.

“We’re not together,” you say, blinking the embarrassment away, and the whole table looks at you. Including Eddie, whose lips part as if to say something different.

And he does.

“We uhm,” the metal-head clears his throat. “We actually haven’t talked about it.”

“Not for lack of trying” You mean it as a whisper, for no one in particular to hear. It comes out a little more intense than that. 

Eddie leans forward. A snap judgement.

“You really want to do this here?” He asks quietly.

“Okay,” Robin chimes, “Guys, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, the dryness becoming unbearable. “All the arguing last night, and one reason we didn’t talk, would be my ex-girlfriends fault.”

Steve shouts, “I knew it!”, while you flutter your eyes closed. Breathing in, then out.

Last night. You decide, a little too late, that last night would’ve been a good idea to finish the argument. Wrap this cursed graduation party topic up, once and for all.

Instead, you gave into deep confessions and Eddie’s beautiful chocolate-button eyes, his light touches and the sensation of his lips on yours.

The group is chattering. They’re pressing Eddie for more details on what his hell-of-an ex did this time. He’s trying his best to fend them off: intentions may be innocent, but it’s none of their business. Unfortunately, he’s not having much luck.

Eventually, he cracks.

“I slept with her.”

Opening your eyes at that moment, you look at him again. His attention is already on you. Apologetic, sad.

“Well, duh, dude,” Robin begins, “You dated her. We kinda assumed you boinked.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Before,” he says, pauses. You can see him swallow his nerves. “The night of the graduation party.”

Silence stretches across the table.

And then you realise something.

You have to leave. Alone.

The flight to Vegas, and everything in between, cannot happen. How can you entertain the idea of falling for someone who, aside from wild confessions, doesn’t want to talk things through?

He too is always finding an exit strategy. Later, later, later. Eddie says later and nothing happens because there’s something different that gets in the way. His own excuses since he too is afraid to get hurt.

“Dude,” Steve begins, “That’s like…”

“It’s fine,” you chime. “That’s one of the things we actually did talk about. Not completely, but more than other stuff. ‘Cause we’ve done a lot of catching up, but uh, it’s all been very surface level.”

“Surface level?” Eddie asks in disbelief.

“Aside from Chrissy’s confession, we haven’t talked about anything real, Eddie.” You continue. “And we probably won’t because one of us will always find an excuse. Plus, there’s just too many other variables that make things difficult and as nice as this weekend has been,” you pause, heart hammering inside your chest, “We should stop kidding ourselves.”

His jaw locks into place.

“If that’s how you feel,” he says, monotone.

You nod, then blatantly lie. “That’s how I feel.”

Eddie stands. Chair sliding, falling backwards with force. He leaves before anyone else can add to the shitsorm that’s just transpired. Steve follows after his friend, shooting you an apologetic glance before he leaves. Robin and Nancy are suddenly on either side of you. The blonde telling you how she’s sorry for pushing this topic and the brunette reminding you that this doesn’t have to end. You freeze their voices out. Focusing on only one thing: the heartbreak in Eddie’s eyes as you spoke the words you didn’t mean.

Only a few seconds, you think, that’s all it ever takes to ruin a good thing.

After breakfast, you don’t care to stay much longer.

Itching instead, to get back to Fort Wayne. See your mom. Cry about everything while she hugs you. Maybe you’ll stay there a couple of days. Call in sick to work. Fake an emergency. Have her piece you back together. Maybe, while you’re with her, you’ll change your mind— No.

One by one, the group exchange goodbyes. Quick and long hugs. Promises of staying in touch. Some tears. A lot of pained laughter. 

Robin says she’ll call every day and she’ll see you soon, for her girlfriend's birthday bash.

Nancy reassures her and Jonathan will also plan a trip to see you, and once again tells you about the room at her future house with your name on it. You stifle a sniffle and embrace her for a second too long.

Jonathan offers some wisdom. The silent killer, Jonathan Byers. A man of very few words yet, as you have come to experience, they’re somehow always the right ones. His hug is quick and you appreciate that about him. No mushy things needed.

Argyle announces loud and proud how it’s been nice to meet you, get to know you. “Likewise,” you tell him honestly and exchange a fistbump.

Steve’s next on the goodbye train. This hug you don’t particularly want to let go of. His strong arms hold you tightly, as if he’s trying to take away all of your worries and pain. In a hushed whisper, he apologises for what happened earlier and says how he only wants you to be happy — a sentiment not so dissimilar to the first conversation you had together this weekend. You place a soft kiss on his cheek and tell him you love him, because it’s true. He smiles, forehead pressed to your own.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Platonically, the feeling is not as scary.

When you break apart, you glance between the group and a lump forms in your throat. These are the best people you have ever met and reconnecting with them this weekend is what really matters, at the end of the day.

This group, plus Eddie.

Because Eddie is currently not here. He didn’t come to say goodbye.

And as you stride down to your car, glancing over your shoulder one last time, at your friends, at the house, you feel a thousand times worse for wear.

Until the front door opens with a violent shake.

Eddie comes into view. He’s got a wild expression on his face as he barrels down the front porch steps, then the gravel which crunches underneath his sneakers.

He pushes through your mutual group of friends and doesn’t stop his pace until he’s face-to-face with you, peering down into your surprised eyes, slightly breathless.

“It’s not been surface level,” he says.

“Eddie,” you begin, but his thumb is suddenly pressed against your bottom lip and you stop dead in your tracks.

“I’ve been head over heels in love with you for a very long time, angel.” Eddie states, a nervous tick in his voice because you don’t do well with proclamations, but he’s not going to let you leave this time.

(Never. Again.)

“Long before this weekend, definitely over the last three years, and before the graduation party, before Billy. Probably, actually,” he swallows, “I’ve been in love with you since the very first time I saw you.”

Tears brim the corners of your eyes as the metal-head continues.

“And I know there’s a lot we haven’t talked about and a lot we need to figure out, but this thing we have, baby, I’ll be damned if I let you get in that car right now thinking that all we’ve done is surface level.”

“Eddie,” you try again.

He shakes his head. “Unless you’re going to tell me you’re staying to have a proper conversation, the one I owed you yesterday, I don’t want to hear it.”

Someone — Robin — shouts, “Kiss him, you fool.” and the rest of the group snickers. Well, Argyle and Steve snicker, while Jonathan and Nancy remprimend the lot.

Then they lead them back into the house, leaving you with this boy who is wildly in love with you, and who you perhaps love back, but how can you even begin to tell him that, since the last time you uttered those words, they were to someone who died.

“Please, angel.” Eddie pleads.

You open your mouth, then close it just as fast, chewing instead, on the inside of your cheek for what feels like eternity. In reality, it’s only a split-second while your brain works out what to do.

When you lean forward, inhaling his breath, his scent, him, you don’t intend to kiss him. You do anyway. Softly, tenderly.

And suddenly, your arms are around his neck and his hands are on your waist. He’s pinning you to the side of the car and his knee is wedged between your thighs. Your fingers pull his brunette locks and he bites your bottom lip, hungry, needy, pleading for something else entirely than a conversation.

“Okay,” you mutter against his parted lips, “Let’s talk.”

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

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[clockworkreapers]

The calm before the storm, we always wish it would last longer.

[bananasplit133]

Dial T for Tenna (PART 5)

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

PART 1 --PART 6 -- AO3

Summary: After a calmer broadcast, Tenna is pulled into a surprise meeting with the higher-ups. Tension rises, but the reader helps him stay grounded. Despite everything, they choose to stay by his side through the rest of the day.

----

The next day carried the weight of something unspoken—like the echo after a broadcast that had ended too abruptly. The studio didn't feel loud, exactly, but it wasn’t quiet either. There was a tension in the air that no amount of lighting gels or laugh tracks could dispel. The incident from yesterday—the contestant, the knife, the panic—had slipped into every crack between cables and clipboards. No one said anything outright, of course. They were professionals. But there was a new tightness in the way stagehands moved, how producers huddled behind headsets a little longer than necessary. Every time someone glanced toward the main hallway or the editing bay, it was like they were bracing for a surge of static that never came.

And then, Tenna arrived.

He didn’t enter with a bang. No signature catchphrase. No arms thrown wide, demanding attention like a spotlight come to life. Just the soft tap of his shoes on tile, the hum of his frame as he walked through the lobby like someone who had simply never left. His screen was calm—still glowing white, not flickering or glitching, no sharp color shifts or sound distortions. Just… steady. Even his antennae, usually twitching with some unreadable broadcast tension, were unusually still, rising in slow, measured angles instead of jittering through thoughts he couldn’t say out loud. And his mouth—tight-lipped, flat—didn’t try to form a smirk or a grimace. No theatrics. No false charm. Just a thin line of quiet resolve.

You watched him from the break room doorway as he passed by, barely registering the crew around him. He moved like a weathered professional might walk through a set after a bomb scare—no panic, no collapse, just checking the walls to see what was still standing. When he saw you, he didn’t stop, but his head turned slightly in your direction. A twitch of his antennae. A subtle parting of his lips. Not quite a smile—more like an acknowledgment. The broadcast version of, “You okay?” without ever asking it out loud.

He didn’t ask how you were. And you didn’t ask him either.

That was the strange thing about yesterday’s chaos—it hadn’t broken something between you. If anything, it clarified it. You weren’t just background anymore. Not just the network’s last-ditch “liaison” plastered into place to keep him from melting down on air. He’d looked at you yesterday like you weren’t part of the noise. Like you were the one piece of signal he could tune into when everything else was screaming.

Tenna moved through the building like a presence now, not just a performance. People didn’t flinch when he walked by—not because the fear was gone, but because he wasn’t wearing the same razor-edged energy anymore. He wasn’t performing for them. Not today. He walked into the control room before anyone else could, leaned over the shoulder of a technician still finalizing transitions for the day’s recording, and quietly pointed at a glitch in the lower-third overlay. His antennae dipped as he murmured something under his breath—some note about timing, or color, or spacing. The tech nodded, fixed it, and Tenna stepped back without fanfare.

No booming critique. No tantrum. No static pulse of fury.

Just... work.

Later, in the side hall near the loading bay, you found him again. He was leaned up against a metal case full of cables, coat slightly wrinkled, one antenna bent where it had snagged on a scaffolding pipe earlier. You caught him mid-thought, staring off into some corner of the ceiling like there was an old episode of himself rerunning up there that only he could see. You approached slowly—no clipboard this time, no notes, no rehearsed lines. Just you. Just him.

“You alright?” you asked softly, the air between you still thick with yesterday’s memory.

His mouth pulled into a lopsided shape—something close to a grimace, but lacking any real bite. “You think if I say yes, the sponsors’ll start sending fruit baskets again?”

You gave a dry laugh, stepping beside him. “Depends. You want apples or apologies?”

Tenna snorted, a sharp burst of static through his chest that fizzled just as quickly. “I’ll pass on both. Apples rot, and apologies come with paperwork.” He tilted his head slightly, antennae flicking to one side like a shrug he hadn’t fully committed to. “Not like any of them meant for her to go off like that. They just wanted a wildcard. Something unstable. Something marketable.”

You didn’t correct him. He wasn’t wrong.

“She didn’t belong on that stage,” you said. “You knew it before anyone.”

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, voice low and mechanical, “I felt it. The timing was off. The pacing. The rhythm of the segment just... cracked.” His mouth pressed into a deeper frown. “Used to be, I could fix anything. Tanked jokes, busted lights, even dead crowds. All it took was volume. Flash. I’d pump the feed so full of noise they wouldn’t even remember the glitch. But yesterday...”

He didn’t finish.

You didn’t push.

The silence that followed was long and stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It just sat with you both, like something earned. Tenna’s antennae drooped slightly—not with exhaustion, exactly, but like someone powering down just enough to feel the air around them. You watched his screen quietly, waiting for the static that usually crawled at the edges to return. It didn’t.

Eventually, he turned his head toward you, mouth parting like he had to chew on the thought before letting it out. “You remember what she said? That she didn’t sign up for this?” His shoulders flexed slightly. “Neither did I.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not as a star, not as the network’s unbreakable showman, not as the suit who screamed catchphrases into the void because it was safer than silence. Just Tenna. Broadcast burnout in a humanoid frame. Not crying for help. Not begging for pity. Just… there.

“I know,” you said softly. “But you stayed anyway.”

He stared forward, then nodded once—mouth twitching downward in what might’ve been the beginning of a real, weary smile. His antennae perked slightly, not all the way up, just enough to register the motion. A signal that said I heard you.

The crew started buzzing again down the hall. Lights warming up. Producers barking over comms. Another episode to prep. Another thirty minutes of structured chaos and camera-ready reactions to build. The world was waking up again. But for now—for this one moment—it was just the two of you tucked between shadows and silence.

“You coming to stage?” he asked finally.

“I’ll be there.”

“...Don’t let them throw another knife girl at me.” he muttered, antennae dipping in the closest thing to a comedic wince.

You gave him a crooked grin. “No promises.”

And with that, he straightened his coat, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his shoulders like he was rebooting a long-lost file from deep in his system. His mouth curled—not quite into a grin, but something that suggested he still knew how to wear one if the moment called for it.

“Alright then,” he murmured, voice steady but still tinged with something tender. “Let’s give them a show.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the stage, his antennae bouncing slightly with each step—lighter now. Less like a man trying to outrun collapse, and more like someone beginning to trust the silence wouldn’t swallow him whole.

—

The show went off without a hitch.

No fog machines breaking down mid-round. No stagehands tripping over wires. No rogue contestants with twitching hands and knives tucked into jacket linings. Tenna was sharp, electric in all the right ways, never overloading. His timing was crisp, his jokes hit their beats, and the audience—blessedly—stayed on their side of the stage. The buzz in the control room leaned toward cautious optimism, like everyone had been holding their breath for forty-five minutes and now weren’t quite sure how to let it out.

You watched him carefully from the wings the entire time. He didn’t know you were tracking his every move—not directly—but you could feel it in how your eyes wouldn’t leave his screen. You weren’t watching the host. You were watching the tilt of his mouth when a segment didn’t land quite right, the brief flex of his shoulders when the audience clapped too late, the flicker across his antennae whenever someone called a cue half a beat early. He didn’t falter. Not once. But the little signs were there, if you knew what to look for. And you did.

Then came the wrap. The sign-off. The "Thanks for tuning in!" delivered with just enough static to sound spontaneous, but clean enough for broadcast. The music swelled. The lights faded.

And Tenna… exhaled.

You caught the way his shoulders dipped—not in defeat, but in release. His mouth slackened slightly, no longer pinched with performance. The glint of white on his screen dimmed to a gentler glow. Not tired, not smug. Just done. It was the kind of ending that usually bought you at least fifteen minutes of peace before someone barged in yelling about numbers.

But then came the voice.

"Mr. Tenna, please report to Conference Room 1-A. Immediately."

It blared in from the overhead speaker with all the warmth of a dial tone. Your stomach twisted. The tone of that announcement was never good. Not neutral. Not casual. Immediate was code for bad. And calling him in right after the show? That was blood in the water.

Tenna didn’t speak. His antennae twitched once, sharply. His mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable shape. Still, he didn’t argue. He just stepped offstage with the same quiet grace he’d worn all day, like someone walking into a spotlight they didn’t ask for.

You moved before he could say anything.

They’re calling him in alone? After that week? After what happened? That’s not just a red flag, that’s a broadcast emergency test pattern. You caught up to him halfway down the hallway, shoes clicking against tile, clipboard forgotten somewhere on a prop cart behind you. He didn’t look at you, but when you fell in beside him, his hand brushed yours in a tiny motion. Not a grip. Not an ask. Just… a reminder that you were there.

“I’m coming with you,” you said softly, more a statement than an offer.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a tiny, affirming twitch of his antennae. His mouth was set straight again, expression unreadable—but you knew better. That was his defensive mode. Screen bright, posture tight, antennae alert. Like a live wire trying not to short.

Conference Room 1-A. Of course it was that one.

That room still held the ghost of every shouted memo and every impersonal “We love you, but…” ever aimed his way. You’d been in there with him during that first meeting. The one with the paper rattling, the light flickering, the static roaring behind his words like a barely leashed storm. You knew exactly how quickly this place could dig its claws into his frame and twist.

He reached for the door handle like it might shock him.

Announcing you that a meeting is about to take place, your thoughts quipped bitterly. Hmm. You should go with him. The higher-ups calling a meeting out of nowhere might bring trouble. And you were right. The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

The lights in the conference room were always too bright. The walls sterile white, like a blank screen trying to blind you. The suits were already seated in their tidy little rows around the glass table, tablets and styluses at the ready like they were prepping to dissect someone instead of talk. Kairos was already standing, arms crossed tightly, her nametag catching the light in that frustrating, self-righteous way. She didn’t smile. She didn’t welcome him.

She jumped straight into it.

“Tenna. Sit down.”

His mouth curled slightly—not into a smile. It was the kind of twist his lips made when something was being forced out of him. Restraint. Disgust. Tired showbiz tolerance. His antennae twitched again, more sharply this time, but he obeyed. You sat beside him, hand near his on the table but not touching.

Kairos didn’t waste a second.

“Do you want to tell us,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “how that girl—a completely unverified, unscheduled individual—ended up on your stage with a weapon?”

Tenna’s screen didn’t flash. Not yet. His mouth stayed in that tight line. But his antennae tilted back, defensive.

“I didn’t bring her on,” he said, voice flat.

“She was introduced as a contestant on your segment.”

“I wasn’t given a choice,” he snapped back, and the sharpness of it made his antennae flick forward again. “They slotted her in last minute. I didn’t even get a name until I was already live.”

The other suits muttered, tapped their screens like they were scrolling for excuses. Kairos leaned forward slightly.

“You lost control,” she said. “You were supposed to maintain the broadcast. Instead, we had an emergency feed cut halfway through a round. Sponsors are calling. PR is—”

“I handled it,” Tenna said. A bite in his voice now. “No one got hurt.”

“But it was close,” she snapped, louder now. “And if the footage leaks? We’ve got optics to consider. Damage control. Headlines. People saw your screen glitch, Tenna. You think no one noticed that panic loop in the audio?”

His hand twitched on the table. You noticed it. The same way you noticed his screen beginning to brighten, not with light, but tension. The static wasn’t visible yet, but you could feel it. Building.

Too bright. Too fast. Too many voices talking at him instead of to him.

You looked at him. His mouth was tense. Antennae stiff. The glow behind the glass of his screen was becoming just a little too sharp.

You had to step in.

“I was there,” you said, calmly, clearly. The suits turned. Kairos didn’t, but you knew she was listening. “Mr Tenna did everything he could with a chaotic situation he didn’t create. He got everyone out. He kept it from going to black. That was him. Not you. Him.”

Tenna blinked—figuratively—and you felt the tiniest release of tension at your side. His antennae lowered a notch. His hand flexed once on the table and stayed flat. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t explode either.

You could work with that.

Kairos didn’t flinch at your words. She didn’t scold you for speaking. But the flick of her pen against the table—measured, slow, deliberate—spoke louder than her voice ever could. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but her posture screamed frustration barely caged behind a clipboard and a polished blouse. Across the table, the other suits whispered behind their tablets, muttering about liability and news cycles, ignoring the actual person seated inches from them like he was just another broadcast machine that needed tuning.

And Tenna?

He was slipping.

You could feel it—see it—in every detail they ignored. His screen, still a dull white, had begun to hum. Not loud, not chaotic, but enough to rattle the air near him. The kind of quiet pre-static that came before one of his episodes. His antennae were twitching again, sharper now, not in rhythm with his usual controlled theatrics. One of them ticked down and then jerked upright again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace for impact or send out a distress signal.

But it was his hands that gave it away.

He dropped them to his knees under the table, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants like they were the only thing keeping him tethered. The grip was tight—too tight. The kind of white-knuckle pressure you knew from watching people try to anchor themselves to reality before something inside them cracked. His mouth tightened, clenched at one corner like he was physically holding something back. Words. Static. Rage. Fear. You couldn’t tell which. Maybe all of it.

The suits kept talking.

Kairos was still reciting PR nightmares like it was a weather report.

And Tenna was unraveling in real time right next to you.

Don’t wait. Your brain barked it before you could overthink it. Don’t let him drop here. Not in this room. Not in front of them. You shifted slightly in your seat, slow enough not to draw attention. The hem of the tablecloth grazed the top of your hand as you reached beneath it—careful, cautious—and found his arm where it rested against his thigh.

His forearm was tense, cables and synthetic tendons pulled taut beneath his coat sleeve. You slid your hand over it gently—steady, warm, grounding. No sudden movement. No demand. Just there. You pressed your palm down just enough for him to feel it.

And then, soft—just for him—you whispered: “Hey… you’re here. With me. Not them.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Tenna’s mouth twitched—not open, not closed. Just… shifted. Like he was processing the words before his mind could reboot fast enough to shut them out. His antennae flicked, then slowly lowered—not limp, but calmer. Less signal lost. More signal stabilized.

His hand didn’t release the grip on his pant leg.

But it stopped tightening.

The hum in his screen softened—not gone, but muted now, like the volume had been turned down. You didn’t let go of his arm. Not yet. Not until he leaned into your touch just slightly—barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it.

But you were.

And then Kairos spoke again, this time louder, with that tired finality of someone wrapping up an unpleasant job.

“We’ll be monitoring the next few episodes closely. If there’s even a hint of instability on-air—emotional or otherwise—there will be consequences.”

She straightened her clipboard with a snap.

“The meeting is adjourned.”

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor rang too loud in the silence that followed. Styluses tapped off, tablets clicked shut. The suits moved in their usual rehearsed rhythm—brisk, indifferent, unaffected. A few tossed tired glances Tenna’s way, but no one lingered. No one said anything to him. Not even Kairos, who simply pivoted on one heel and strode toward the door with the grace of someone who had never once questioned her authority. Just another day at the network.

But Tenna didn’t move.

He stayed seated, hands still resting on his knees. His mouth had drawn into a thin, brittle line. One antenna sagged halfway down, like the energy had drained right out of it. His screen glowed with a dull white pulse—not dangerous, not angry… just empty. Faint interference ghosted along the edge of it, like the image wouldn’t quite finish rendering. He hadn’t looked at you since you touched his arm, but he hadn’t pulled away either.

You let the quiet stretch.

Let the suits walk out first. Let the echo of their footsteps fade behind the conference room doors.

Only then did you slide your chair a little closer, hand still resting on his sleeve. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched once—like he was trying to form a sentence and the wires just wouldn’t cooperate. His jaw flexed. His antennae slowly started to rise again, unsure, shaky.

“I didn’t lose it,” he muttered finally, voice rough. The sound of static barely touched the words, but you could hear the strain behind them. “I didn’t break. Not really.”

“No,” you said gently. “You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted to yell. Scream. Fry the table and walk out and tell Kairos she can stuff her clipboard through a CRT.” He inhaled, and his shoulders lifted sharply with it. “But I didn’t. I sat here. I let them talk to me like I’m not even—like I’m just some busted set piece they can wheel out and dress up and scream at when the ratings dip.”

You hesitated, then leaned in a little closer. “You’re more than that.”

He turned his head just slightly. Not enough to face you fully. But enough to let you know he was hearing it.

“You held it together,” you said. “That’s not nothing.”

Tenna finally let out a long breath—half-static, half-exhaustion. He peeled one hand off his leg slowly, the fabric of his pants creased where his fingers had clutched so hard you were surprised the stitching hadn’t snapped. He stared at his hand for a second, like he didn’t quite recognize it, then rubbed at the side of his screen where the edge flickered faintly, like a headache trying to bloom behind his face.

“I hate this room,” he muttered.

You glanced around. The cold lighting. The clinical table. The emptiness that always buzzed around the walls even when it was full of people.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Me too.”

He finally looked at you—his screen flickering to a faint, washed-out tone. No color. Just the suggestion of something trying to stabilize. His mouth softened—not quite a smile, but no longer pulled so tight. His antennae drooped toward you a little, a quiet motion of… trust, maybe. Or just relief.

You stood first, motioning subtly toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. Didn’t say anything else as he rose, but when he moved to follow you out, his shoulder brushed against yours and didn’t pull away.

You didn’t need to fill the silence between the two of you.

Because this time, he wasn’t filling it either.

He was just walking beside you. Still lit. Still broadcasting.

Still here.

The hallway felt quieter after the conference room.

Not sterile like before—just… soft. Like the building was exhaling after holding its breath too long. No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the hum of distant machinery and the low shuffle of crew breaking down the last of the day’s sets. Your footsteps echoed beside Tenna’s as you made your way toward his dressing room, neither of you rushing, neither of you speaking. You kept a comfortable pace, close enough that your sleeve brushed his every few strides. He didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t pull away, either.

When you reached the door, he unlocked it with the familiar hiss of an old magnetic reader and pushed it open without fanfare. Inside, the space was as you remembered it—overly lit, lived-in, faintly cluttered with cue cards, old wardrobe notes, and a half-drunk cup of black coffee that had gone cold on the shelf. Tenna stepped inside like muscle memory, tossing his coat onto the side couch and immediately heading toward the small desk in the corner.

“Of course,” he muttered, antennae twitching in resignation, “they left me a pile of incident reports to review.”

You blinked. “Already?”

Tenna made a sharp static noise in the back of his throat—a noise you’d come to recognize as the mechanical equivalent of a bitter laugh. “Oh, they waste no time when they think I’ve embarrassed them.” He plucked a small stack of digital printouts from the desk and dropped into the swivel chair like he was collapsing into it. “Look at this. Eight pages. Eight. On how I may have agitated a potentially unstable contestant by existing too loudly on live television.”

He spun the chair halfheartedly, antennae drooping forward in exasperation. His mouth twisted—not angry, not sad. Just exhausted.

You stepped inside and leaned against the wall near the coat rack. “Need help?”

Tenna looked at you, screen flickering faintly.

Then, he shook his head. “Nah.” His voice lowered into something dry, familiar. “I’ve got this. Paper cuts and PR lies. I’m used to it.”

You nodded slowly. You could tell he meant it. He’d shifted back into function mode—not performing, exactly, but retreating into the safe rhythm of things he could control. You watched him reach for a stylus and begin scanning the first document with quick, deliberate flicks of his hand.

After a moment, he spoke again—quieter now. “You don’t have to stick around. Really. It’s boring from here on out.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. His screen glowed soft white again, blank. “You should take the rest of the day off. I know they didn’t assign you to babysit paperwork.”

There it was. The graceful exit. The dismissal that wasn’t unkind, just routine. Something he could say without having to admit anything.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the doorknob. Didn’t make an excuse.

Instead, you smiled—quietly—and stepped toward the little armchair near the far wall, dragging it just close enough that you could see the top of the report stack but not read any of it. You sat down, folding your hands in your lap. “I don’t mind boring.”

Tenna paused, stylus hovering mid-mark.

His antennae twitched once.

Then again.

His mouth didn’t smile. But it didn’t argue either.

He let out a soft, static-laced sigh, so faint it could’ve been mistaken for the white noise of the room’s old AC vent. “You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly. “Sticking around for the boring parts.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching the way his antennae finally settled, relaxed, no longer sharp with stress. “Or maybe I just know when someone shouldn’t be alone.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t ask you to leave again.

For the next hour, the only sounds in the dressing room were the quiet hum of electronics, the occasional scribble of Tenna’s stylus on paper, and the soft shift of your breathing as you leaned back in the chair. He worked. You watched. You didn’t fill the silence with conversation. You didn’t reach for your phone. You didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t need a speech. Just a presence.

Eventually, he glanced your way—not a full turn, just the tilt of his head, a subtle shift in the direction of his screen. “Still not leaving?”

You met the glow of his screen with a calm look. “Nope.”

Tenna was quiet a long moment.

Then: “Good.”

And with that, he returned to his paperwork, the tension slowly unwinding from his frame with every page he signed, every breath he took.

You stayed until the lights dimmed and the office was quiet enough to hear the soft flick of his antennae with every subtle movement.

Not because you had to.

Because he let you.

Because he wanted you there.

---

THANKS FOR READING!

TAGLIST: @fallendove @theilluminatidragonqueen @sacru-tainted @thefiasco-onyourblock @aroura-yuh

[basil-does-arttt]

FINALLY POSTING THESE BLORBOS!!

my FEAR unit cadre! (and possibly in the future some more replikas they know but for now its just them hshdhs)

yappage!!

FEAR-VNT-001 "Eine"

- The leader of the group.

- Her personality is the closest to what you'd expect from a FEAR unit; timid, introverted, avoids other units that arent her own cadre.

- Very cautious about her surroundings, triple checks routes before proceeding.

- Shell is painted with red eyes, and the Nation's insignia on her chest. She says it helps her feel closer to home.

FEAR-VNT-002 "Zwei"

- Outgoing and extroverted, a surprising trait for a unit of her type.

- She can be quite impulsive and have a tendancy to act first and think later.

- Is usually the one braiding everyone else's hair, keeping a positive mood and always hoping for the best, even if she knows how her story will end.

- Life is short, might as well enjoy it while you can, right?

FEAR-VNT-003 "Drei'

- A fall from a collapsing floor in a building left her suit and shell critically damaged, and her arm needing to be removed. The suit was discarded, and her shell patched up with scrap materials, but she knows it wont help much; she knows that she'll be the first to die from the contamination around them.

- Due to her injuries, she's most often the one finding and setting up their camp sites, sticking behind while the others go off and perform their duties.

- She tries to use what little time she knows she has left to help the others feel comfortable and happy.

FEAR-VNT-004 "Vier"

- The voice of reason within the group. Despite Eine being the leader, most group decisions go through her first before being passed.

- Often the one collecting supplies and trinkets, rather than cleaning up.

- Prefers wearing Gestalt clothing over her shell, for "decency".

- Quite stand-offish, but she doesnt mean to be rude. Its just a little hard to be nice sometimes when you know your only purpose in life is to finish your mission then die.

FEAR-VNT-005 "Fünf"

- Blind after clawing at her own eyes during a mental break. She doesnt want to die.

- Eine prevented her from tearing her eyes out entirely, and from taking the rest of the Cadre down with her.

- Despite this, she still works with the others, collecting waste to transport it to the dump sites.

- Likes to sing old folk songs.

FEAR-VNT-006 "Sechs"

- The naive and blindly optimistic unit. She fully believes there is hope for her when she returns from the mission, that she will get to live a full life. Eine doesnt have the heart to tell her thats not the case.

- She likes to try and befriend the Vinetan wildlife they find while on missions; be it aquatic or land creatures.

- Timid and introverted much like Eine, but a little more willing to approach others.

- Often the one handling combat, should the need arise. She keeps a pistol on her at all times which she found while exploring with Vier, just incase.

[rockingtheorange]

Do you ever think about how important and significant Alex's action to give his key to Henry was?

Alex had brought the key with him everywhere throughout his life since he got it.

Then, the first moment he's quietly alone with Henry, Alex gets to explain what it means to him: it's the key to his family's house in Austin.

But it means much more to him: it's from the times when his family was still all together (book), it's his childhood, his time growing up in Texas, it's his mixed blood, and the quiet life he left behind to follow his mother in something bigger than him.

That key is his comfort and reminder of what he was and the memories he will treasure forever.

Alex doesn't tell all of this to Henry, but Mr. HRH Prince Dickhead knows there's more about it underneath, just like how he had always known Alex wasn't just a peasant boy.

Alex brings his keychain everywhere and Henry is always there to admire it.

The key to Henry means something completely different: it's the reminder of his unusual life, the fact that he can't have such normal things as possessing a simple key, it represents all the things he can only admire from afar but he'll never be able to posses.

And then Alex breaks the wall that Henry thought would suffocate him forever, that seemed impossible to destroy.

Alex starts to remove the key when he's in the most intimate moments with Henry. He decides to leave the thoughts and worries related to his family for another time. He decides to be fully Henry's, even during just brief rendezvous.

And Henry takes everything he can, as far as he can. Till the moment, he's sure will come, when the magic breaks and the key will return to be something to admire and desire from afar, but never possess.

But Alex isn't just a peasant boy.

He hands over his childhood, his memories and his whole being to Henry, with just a simple gesture. Alex says "Henry, I'm yours." by giving him the object of his desires, by breaking the illusion that Henry can't be a normal boy, simply owning the key of someone's heart.

And Henry is reluctant to accept it, cause he knows (just like he had always known that Alex wasn't just a peasant boy) that the key means so much to him. But Henry accepts, cause he wants to believe that the wall between them can break, Alex made him believe it. And he grips and holds onto that hope like his life depends on it, cause it does.

Alex is the only key to his freedom.

[forgetme-eternally-blissfully]

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

Cale blinks, eyes bleary. He's being held in Choi Han's arms, tucked close to his chest. Wince. Not only does his head hurt, his body hurts now too.

Being ten is strange. Strange in the way that his body doesn't match his mind anymore. Strange in the way that he feels like a stranger in someone else's home. It reminds him of a memory, older than he is, of when he first walked into the orphanage. Out of place. The kids already there looked at him like he was no different from them, but it was strange to finally be labeled an orphan despite having been without parents for most of his life, now.

The 7 year olds memories tucked away in his mind welcome the 10 year old in. Cale frowns.

A habit from his older years, and younger ones, has him checking his environment before his condition.

"I will go to Duke Fredo." He hears Eruhaben declare to everyone in the room, clearly having a meeting of sorts. Cale is tucked so close to Choi Han that his being awake goes unnoticed. Or, if it is noticed, no one says anything about Cale listening in.

Rosalyn nods. "The White Star is planning something in Cale's absence. We need to find out what that is," somberly, she adds, "Before 'he' decides to do something about it first."

Cale yawns in the middle of her talking, and the buzzing in his ears prevents him from hearing the last part. Duke Fredo... Cale remembers being Naru, for a time. Cookies and the White Star... his head aches. It feels, very accurately, like a long needle is being inserted into his skull and poking around in his brain.

"Cale?" Choi Han squeezes his shoulder. The 10 year old in his arms frowns more at how comfortably he's being held. How long has Choi Han been carrying him? He recalls being carried by Choi Han many times. It makes him recall other things, such as pain and coughing up blood. He assertively stops thinking about it.

The meeting on the other side of the room comes to an end at Cale's emerging consciousness. The eyes on him feel familiar. It reminds him of the pitiful looks he got when he wandered the cold streets in nothing but a school uniform. His memory flickers and it suddenly reminds him again of the team, when they looked at him as the Team Leader.

Though, he can't think of any reason why they're staring at him like that.

Finally, with a twang of pain in his skull, he realizes that they're looking at him with expectation... he doesn't connect the dots that their expressions are that of worry. Was there something he missed? He yawns again, tears coming to his eyes, and he calmly wipes them away before kicking his legs.

"I want down."

Choi Han sets him on the ground, steadying him on his wobbly, sleepy legs. Cale is thinking about the conversation that Eruhanen and Rosalyn just had when hunger pains radiate from his stomach like twisting tendrils.

-Sorry Cale! I took longer to heal your body because of the curse, but it's fixed now!

Clutching his stomach with one hand, he covers his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep the blood in his hand as he coughs wetly. It tastes familiar, beyond the familiarity he had with it at 10, but rather its a lifetime of familiarity that cannot be contained in just the words, 'he tasted blood.' It was a taste he knew better than food or water.

His chest feels better, he notes. His head still hurts, unfortunately, but he shouldn't expect too much.

It also came out of his nose. Gross.

With that underwhelming thought, he keeps the blood carefully cupped in his hand. Uncle hated when he got blood on the-

Uncle is...

Right.

But still... he shouldn't get blood on his Hyung-nim's nice carpet. It's probably... expen... sive.

Noise buzzes around him, someone is touching his shoulder, but he's coughing blood again, again, and again, and it feels awful as his stomach twists and writhes with the hunger and pain that he's felt before, but it makes him ravenous all the same.

Hungry. He could eat anything right now. He remembers the tasteless rock he ate to get Super Rock's Ancient Power. He'd even eat a normal rock.

But still, even in his hunger, he keeps his mouth closed.

He can't bring himself to ask for food.

Not even from Raon. Something in his core, in his gut and his heart and his soul, tells him that he shouldn't ask. How could he take food from Raon? Well, it's Raon's supply of food for Cale anyway, so it's okay. But taking food from a child? But Cale is a child too--

"Human! That's your hungry face! Quickly eat this pie!" Raon cries out and there's suddenly a slightly smashed slice of apple pie in his face. How are there already tears on it...?

He grabs it without thinking hard.

The hunger doesn't care about tears, and soon Cale is stuffing his face with the salty apple pie with a fervor that he, at 10, would normally never have shown to anyone. He eats without chewing with a familiarity that makes him want to cry.

Choi Han's hand shakes on Cale's shoulder.

He should've checked Cale's condition beforehand. He saw that Cale used the ancient powers but still, Cale only got his external wounds treated. Why did he let his happen? He thought that it would be okay this time. Cale was young now and he wasn't showing a response for a long time, so he didn't think. There's no excuse for this.

Cale eats desperately, as if his life depends on it, and Choi Han can't help the way his heart cracks at the sight. And burns with frustration at his own uselessness.

Drip.

The room is quiet.

Drop.

"Human! Do-do you need more apple pie?!" Raon yells, panicking, bringing out more apple pie as Cale's cheeks become wet with silent tears. He reaches for a pie in the air and scarfs it down, uncaring of the sticky fingers covered in sweet apple filling and flaky, crumbling bits of crust.

It tastes like home.

It doesn't taste like Uncles house, or blood, or school hallways or alleys or scraps.

He sobs miserably, wanting to hide. He isn't crying over apple pie, he isn't! From his memories, he definitely shouldn't be crying over this much- it didn't even hurt enough to cry!

Thunder crackles outside the castle. Cale remains hunched over a new slice of apple pie, curling into himself in a very not-Cale like manner.

Another crack of lightning outside.

Eruhaben steps in front of Cale. He brushes Choi Han, frozen in his shock, away from the scene. Raon brings more apple pie out, even as he sees that Cale isn't so much eating the pie as he is holding it.

"Human, I will- I will destroy the world! You can't go into a coma again, I will- I will," Raon's voice cracks. Choi Han gathers himself. He looks at Cale, before calmly standing next to Raon and touching his paw in the air. "Human..."

"Cale," Eruhaben speaks calmly. "Look at me."

Cake shakes his head, fingers trembling. Something's wrong with him, inside of him, and the panic gets to his chest as he starts to take quicker breaths. Cale looks through his memories to fix himself but they blur in a cacophony of sounds and words and frames.

"Cale Henituse, you need to relax. Everything is okay. No one is taking anything from you. Calm down."

They weren't inspirational and comforting words. No, the words could even be considered a little cold, for an adult speaking to what appears to be a 7 year old. But it was necessary for Cale, who was 10 and not 7, and Kim Rok Soo, who was orphaned at a young age and abused and abandoned, and a little boy who went through both child and teenage years without anyone he could call family.

Cale opens his eyes. Were they closed? Eruhaben is in front of him.

Calm down.

Why did Lee Soo Hyuk come to mind when he heard that? A distant, dusty memory falls through his mind, so he picks it up and watches it. The Record plays out.

Something happened like this, once.

It was the only time he came close to crying in front of the Team Leader. Lee Soo Hyuk brought him out of it. The Record, though the reason why he almost cried was somehow forgotten(lost?), always played when he needed to put himself together in a moment of weakness.

Even now. When he is 10 years old in a 7 year olds body. The voice brings back the feeling of calm.

His memories settle.

Right. This is more like him. More like himself.

His face levels out into something neutral.

It feels like an older version of himself, somewhere between 38 and 20, is stroking the top of his head. Cale wonders if hallucinations are part of the curse.

"Good job." Lee Soo Hyuk in the Record and Eruhaben's words overlap for a moment but Cale ignores it.

It takes mental strength to stand straight again, but he manages it with a stiff expression. His hands are a mess, a gross mix of blood and the smushed flesh of what used to be a perfect apple pie.

He's never been more ashamed and embarrassed in his life. Old memories come to mind, reminding him that he's done worse, but the 10 year old in a 7 year olds body feels mortified. If he'd done this in front of his uncle...

"I'm sorry." Cale apologizes. It comes out of his mouth naturally. He has a lot that he could be apologizing for. The floor, which surely has blood and messy apple pie on it now. The pie, which is as ruined as his shirt. The weird hyperventilating thing he did. He recalls his memories. Maybe it wasn't what Lee Soo Hyuk called it, a 'panic attack,' but something different, more sinister.

He convinces himself that it is.

Red flag number 6 it is.

"Cale, you have nothing to be sorry for." Eruhaben states clearly. Cale looks him in the eyes. Strangely, he feels compelled to believe the Ancient Dragon.

.... Red Flag number 7?

Cale backs away on instinct.

Eruhaben sighs.

"Unlucky bas... hah." Standing up from where he had apparently gotten on his knees, Eruhaben waves his hand. The gross feeling on Cale's hands disappears effortlessly, and the stain on his shirt vanishes too. "It'll still be better to wash your hands, at least. Though that doesn't mean you're dirty... it means you were attacked by apple pie." Eruhaben tells him seriously. He lowers himself to his height and makes eye contact. "So it's best to wash it off, just in case some of it is still on you. It could... attack again."

The other people in the room, notably missing Bud and the mage Glenn now, stare at Eruhaben. He pointedly ignores their gazes.

Cale nods.

Eruhaben covers his rising smile.

"Off you go now," he lowers the hand, looking serious again. Struggling, he continues,"... Be careful." Like sending off a soldier, he stands up and looks away from Cale.

Choi Han covers his own face and fights to not laugh.

Somehow, despite the fact that Cale technically has all of his memories, the explanation works for him. He goes into the bathroom, escorted by Ron, who helps wash his hands at the sink. Ron also has him change his clothes, despite their clean appearance.

Ron assures him that it's due to the risk of another apple attack. It could be stuck to the clothes as well. Cale frowns. Ron smiles at the pouting 7 year old.

The 10 year old starts changing his clothes obediently.

Cale's muscles ache and burn. Even his bones hurt.

His head is in so much pain, especially when he focuses, but he draws in his willpower to think very hard about the reason why he might be in this condition.

Cale winces as the needle in his brain digs in deep and drags itself over his frontal lobe, and he visibly shudders, trying not to grimace.

10 year olds are supposed to be bigger than 7 year olds, is the conclusion he comes to.

...

Cale gets chill on the back of his neck.

Surely he isn't going to grow... right? No, no way. If he is, surely he shouldn't be in pain, right? He became 7 years old in a flash and it didn't hurt, so why now?

The pain alleviates for a second. In feels like whatever is causing the pain is given a revelation.

In his undergarments, Cale is enveloped in a white light.

This is...

Definitely red flag number 8.

Definitely, he thinks, suddenly 12 years old in a 12 year olds body. The needle painfully digging into his brain burns and yet feels cold at the same time. It spreads like an infection, and he immediately covers his right eye as it becomes numb with a sharp, icy sensation. Strangely, his hand warms up.

Ron, who innocently retrieved a garment from the crown prince Alberu's younger days, drops it. The assassins hands, which never tremble, shake more than they would if Cale had been an adult. Seeing a newly 12 Cale bleeding from his eye...

Blood seeps through the gap between Cale's hand and his face, which is now suddenly 12 years old.

Cale-- Ron realizes as he calls, as calmly as he can, for the ancient dragon and rushes in a not-so-calm manner to the young masters side-- has yet to realize that his eye is gushing blood. The 12 year old looks at Ron, confused.

Ron's expression is stiff.

"Ron?" Cale asks.

Eruhaben enters the room alongside Raon and Choi Han, but Ron focuses on relaxing his expression, and carefully holding Cale's hand to his eye, keeping it there so he doesn't remove it.

"Young Master... Do you remember the song, Dark Night Moon Light?"

Cale frowns. His head hurts.

"No." He says honestly. Why is everyone in here all of a sudden? Cale was barely dressed in some now too-small shorts. It's cold, he thinks through the pain.

"Then I will remind you, Young Master. It's a children's song that parents or butlers like me sing at a child's bedside. The child will close their eyes and listen to the song. Would you allow this butler to sing it to you?"

All of a sudden?

Cale feels uncomfortable, but his head hurts so much that he can't think about it a lot, so he closes his eyes.

Ron sings, in his calm and low voice, a common children's melody. He himself had once sung it for Beacrox, a long time ago.

It's supposed to help children who find themselves terrified of the dark. As far as Ron knows, Cale was never been so afraid of the dark to have this song sung to him... but, he understands with a bitter heart, even if he had been scared, the song would've been sung by his mother. Not his father, who was too sucked in by his grief after her passing.

He realizes that Cale, being 12 now, must no longer have the memories of his mother singing to him.

Eruhaben has Ron carefully remove Cale's hand, which had been pooling blood inside, spilling onto the floor.

Branded under his eye, looking like a burn in the soft and thin skin, is a number.

'12'

Eruhaben waves away the blood.

"Young Master, open your eyes now. The song is over." Ron doesn't react to the number, and when Cale opens his eyes, hides his relief that his eye is not damaged. Just bleeding. "Do you know how old you are now?" Though, Ron had a strong suspicion that they already knew.

"... 12, I think."

"Cale, you've been fighting off the curse, haven't you?" Eruhaben asks. It feels angry. Cale shrinks in on himself.

"It's fine, isn't it? It's better if I'm older."

He won't cry anymore. He can bathe again, since he can now handle the phantom sensations of blood and scars and dirt. He won't ignorantly use his ancient powers. Off the top of his head, there are more reasons that he should be older than there are reasons to go back to being young.

He is a better slacker when he isn't being whiny and childish.

"... Cale-nim." Choi Han groans.

"You knew that you were fighting off the curse, right?" Eruhaben asks again, but it's calculating.

"... Yes," but how could he not? He could always feel when he grew older, smarter. Not to mention the cracking like pain of his skull being hammered in, worse and worse as he ages. Even now, he can only tell the honest and not altered truth, simply because he is in too much pain.

Choi Han wants to ask. 'Is it because you don't trust us?'

But he holds his tongue.

Eruhaben sighs. He nods at Ron.

"Get dressed." Eruhaben rubs the top of Cales red hair, leaving him frazzled, before leaving the room. Choi Han clutches his sword and restrains his rampant emotions.

"You aren't in trouble human! The great and mighty Raon will help you become a child again!" Raon flies around Cale. Ron, observing Choi Han and Raon, leaves to rob the crown prince of more clothes.

Sigh. Cale shivers.

His head hurts.

[archaospetryx]

Oh boy u guys aren’t ready for what I have in store for my human Harley and Vessel Harley/The Doctor!🥰

You’re in it for angst and ur scheduled program of Harlussy fever

[ghost-bxrd]

Static crackles over the phone, Dave choking on cigarette smoke no doubt, “S’cuse me, what?”

Jason doesn’t laugh. It’s not funny.

“I said to shoot the Bats.”

Another staticky sound, “Boss, I- even Robin?”

Jason takes a deep breath, “Yes.”

“But, uh, sir, Robin’s a kid, are you-“

“He’s sixteen,” Jason snaps, “I was fifteen when I die-“ He cuts himself off, breathing deeply.

On the other end of the line, Dave is silent.

“He’s not a kid,” the words burn in his throat, “You don’t get to be a kid in those colors, Dave. Just fucking do as I say.”

— Sneak peek of chpt xii of What You’re Longing For (you claim to abhor)

[currentlyreadingawesomefanfics]

I haven’t updated my fanfic because I don’t feel like editing 2,446+ words only to finish chapter ten and have to edit even more—

[spooksier]

i read your deltarune fic (absolutely banger) and oh my god seeing the scenes in noelles house made me do the leonardo dicaprio point every 3 seconds. tyler spooksier the people are asking did you ghostwrite deltarune🎤

toby fox visited me in a dream and asked me to spoil ch 4 for you all six months early, sorry guys

[plantwithoutplot]

ASL Brothers sketch art

Chapter 7 of Speak Up, Boys!

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 6

Part 5

Last Time: Nancy starts filling in the gaps of everything Eddie's missed

~~~

Max, Lucas, and Erica were the first to quit calling. Hell, they’d always been more Steve’s than Eddie’s, since he’d adopted Max with the last of his parents’ trust money when he turned nineteen. After the kids graduated, Steve had set himself, Max, and Robin up in a cheap two bedroom apartment in Chicago where they all started school. Then Lucas moved in only a few months later– Max and Lucas in one room, Robin and Steve in the other. Only for Eddie to then uproot Steve to LA just before he could finish his degree, selfishly isolating him from his family.

Dustin was the next to disappear. They were close, and Eddie considered the kid one of his best friends. It apparently didn’t matter, which–just like with the other three–he should’ve seen coming. Steve was practically a brother to Dustin, same as Max. Eddie just always thought the split was more fifty-fifty with Dustin. It was a thick pill to swallow, but he managed.

He reached his final breaking point when Nancy and Mike started ignoring him. Eddie could make excuses for the rest of them, they were Steve’s adopted, puzzle-piece family. The Wheeler’s were Eddie’s family by blood. 

His parents kicked him out for kissing the neighbor boy– well, his adopted parents. Turns out Karen Wheeler had put him up for adoption three years before she met Ted, but was too scared to reach out, hoping he was happy with his new family. When little twelve year old Eddie showed up with a social worker at her door the next day, however, Karen welcomed him with open arms. He figures he’d be dead if it wasn’t for them, caught up running petty crimes just like his dad.

But that all meant Mike and Nancy were supposed to love him, not Steve. He called non-stop once he’d finally understood what was happening, but they never answered. Eddie remembers lying in bed for days, ruminating on how they’d picked golden boy Steve Harrington over their own family. Old feelings of neglect and rejection curdled up in Eddie’s stomach. A reminder that he was just a burden. Some lost, broken, queer kid they never asked for, forced onto them when Karen and Ted already had three mouths to feed.

Eddie's resentment towards everyone carried the band through their first national tour. He wanted to kick-off on a festival tour in Europe once they finished, but the band was exhausted. They were desperate to take a break while Metal Munson was still riding on top of the world, a full-fledged rockstar getting invites to behind-the-scenes parties, walking the red carpet, and casually dating celebrities. 

But he still loved his Corroded boys, so he agreed, thinking the break would allow them time to recover and give him more time to reap the benefits of a rockstar lifestyle. 

Except staying out every night started to lose its shine. The parties were duller than he remembered, the lights less bright. Mindless flirting with boys only interested in Metal Munson strained his smile. Strange, strong hands started to feel like sandpaper across his bare skin, the tangled sheets between them constricting Eddie until he couldn’t breathe. 

It all came crashing down when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed next to a man with fluffy brown hair, moles scattered across his back. Brilliant, sky blue eyes staring back at him.

Eddie quit going out. Stopped answering phone calls– not that the calls came from anyone who actually mattered. 

Because Steve never called. Not once, still hasn’t. And Eddie doesn't think he ever will.

~~~

Part 7

Tag List!!!

@sadisticaltarts @5ammi90 @blacklegsanji21 @jaytriesstrangerthings

@thewickedkat you didn't actually asked to be added to the tags, but I included you bc of your comment on the last part. If you'd like to not be included next time just lmk <3

[good-beanswrites]

All but one of my requests are angsty LMAO, so I wanted to write some sweet things to break up the drama :’) I’ve been dying to write fantasy Milgram for a while, and so I treated myself to something within @hectorthedoggo ‘s Fugue Au!! A little creature Es and dragon Fuuta drabble (that would take place sometime in Route 3, I’m pretty loose on the exact timing)

Es crept through the trees, wondering where their party member had wandered off to. They were taking a day of rest, but Es still found themself antsy that Fuuta had disappeared for so long. They peered at each cavity left in the thick tree roots and uneven ground. 

They buried their temptation to call out his name – hadn’t they been taught not to make a scene?

Instead of curled up underneath one, Es was shocked to find him sprawled atop a boulder in a particular sunny clearing. Fuuta reclined back, his wings flattened against the stone to soak up the rays of warmth. With his eyes closed, he didn’t notice Es scaling the side of the rock until they were perched right next to him.

“Hey!”

Fuuta let out a scream choked with sparks, nearly falling off the rock.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m sorry. I – I didn’t do it on purpose. I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“I was trying to relax…” He glared. “You should try it sometime instead of scaring the shit out of someone for kicks.”

“I told you, I didn’t mean to.”

“Like I’ll believe that! Why don't you go read one of your dry-ass law books?”

“It is a perfect day for reading, huh…”

“I was being sarcastic!”

Es noticed how Fuuta’s eyes focused on the keys around their neck. Even as he settled back into a semi-relaxed position, his gaze kept flicking back to the collar. For one panicked second, Es thought he knew how they worked. Was there something wrong with this kind of magical item? Did it make them seem more suspicious? Was he planning on accusing them, or exposing them, or maybe jumping right to an attack? Es maneuvered into a position they could quickly fight or flee from, shifting the keys with the movement.

That was when they realized it wasn’t recognition lighting up his eyes – it was desire.

They covered the collar with a gloved hand. “So dragons do hoard shiny things.”

“W-what?” Fuuta's face twisted in terror. His wings raised up on his back as he sputtered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You can’t have these. My guardian gave them to me.”

“I never said I wanted any of your weird rabbit crap!” He didn’t need to say it, they way he’d been staring, and now looked pointedly away. “You think I’d just steal something from a kid? How dare you, ignorantly believing every dragon stereotype that you–”

“Isn’t that Mikoto’s earring in your pocket? And Kazui’s ring?”

His wings curled around himself. “They gave them to me!”

They studied his face, now turning as red as his scales. Though frantic from getting caught, he didn’t appear to be lying, at least.

When Fuuta squirmed under their gaze, they realized they’d just been staring with intensity in silence. Oops. 

“I mean it! We were preparing for a battle, so they gave it to me for safekeeping. All that other stuff is the same – I’m not hoarding anything!”

“How long ago was this fight?” Es had been traveling with them for a while now. Even if it was a recent event, Fuuta had plenty of time to return their possessions.

“That’s none of your damned business.”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuuta’s hand drifted nervously to his pocket, where Es heard a hefty jingle.

They exhaled, their voice becoming serious. “If it means anything, you wouldn’t want these anyway.”

“–I already told you I didn’t–”

“Lately they’ve been doing this… thing.”

They pinched one of the keys between their fingers, recalling the painful experience from before. The golden surface caught in the sunlight. Fuuta’s pupils dilated.

He blinked. “Doing what thing?”

“Ah, it’s nothing.” They shouldn’t have said anything. Fuuta would only worry, and tell the others, and they would worry, and so on. This wasn’t anything worth their time. These keys were a gift. They were meant to help. Es just needed more time to figure out exactly how. But that was their own problem, not anyone else’s.

They dug into their own pocket. “Although, I do have some loose change. I got it when we went to the marketplace, and I don’t really have use for money.”

They held out the shining coins. The confusion on Fuuta’s face melted into disgust. He swatted them away into the air.

“You brat!”

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

Readers of You've Got The Wrong Guy, aka Kidnapped Style fic

Would you all like to have another small chapter before you get an epilogue to show what happens to Kant and to see Style waking up? Or would you rather just skip to the three months later epilogue? I'm just curious because it seems like a lot of folks are super concerned about Kant and want to know what happened to him and I'm not opposed to writing another POV for him.

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on tumblr, here to read on Ao3 chapter 1; chapter 2; chapter 3

Les fleurs du mal ch4 rosquez, 1.8k words

Vale has been thinking of everything but Marc lately, or at least, he’s been trying to.

He wakes up every day with a different person in bed, this break is getting him the refill of energy he needs, or well, the refill of alcohol and whatever substance he keeps putting in it he needs.

He had thought about calling up Marc.

Just to fuck, or to have him suck him off, like it happened in Sepang.

But the chill that runs up his back at the thought of Marc being hurt, those damn petals in the bin, Marc yelling at him not to touch him makes it impossible.

He turns around, he doesn’t even remember who he got in bed with last night, too high or drunk or both to care.

There’s a cute guy beside him, he looks young, he probably is not older than 25, brown curly hair, slightly tanned skin.

Ok so this one Vale has to admit is basically another version of Marc.

Even the lips they’re - not the same but similar to Marc’s.

There’s no mole on his pec though, the one Vale kissed so many times before, there’s no twitch of his eyebrow when Vale moves the sheets, no heavenly sweet voice calling him back to bed as he gets up to get dressed.

If this was Marc’s home, he’d stay.

Get up, prepare breakfast, wake Marc up and lead him to the kitchen.

Eat together, mostly in silence because Marc doesn’t really like to talk in the morning and then either have another round, nice and lazy, or just lay on the couch watching something horribly romantic Marc would put on the TV.

Now, he just gets dressed as quickly as he can, ignoring the boy still sleeping in the bed, and getting out of there.

Luckily this guy doesn’t live too far from the hotel he’s staying in, so he can walk there pretty easily.

Marc on the other hand, he’s been spending his winter break at home, cold and shivering, refusing visitors except for his mother and exceptionally his brother and father, without ever mentioning his disease, playing it down to a harsh fever he didn’t want to pass to others.

Jorge had texted him, phoned him, trying to put some sense in his mind, trying to convince him to get the operation done, telling him Vale would not go back on his steps, that Vale had probably never even loved him to begin with.

He had just worsened the situation, trying to make Marc understand it was useless to keep hoping.

But once again, Marc is a stubborn man, he’s set his head on the thought Vale will reciprocate again, that Vale will call him.

Or text him.

Or meet him once they’re both back on track for the new season.

But more than a month has passed since Valencia, since the incident he had to mask to the media, since Vale obviously came to know about the situation he is in.

And he hasn’t called or texted.

But maybe he just needs time.

They have time.

Marc is sure they have time.

Even if these days the shivers and fever are higher, even if his own mother is begging him to get the operation done, he knows they have time.

Because they’re soulmates, they’re made to love each other.

Marc knows the story about the red string of fate and he’s ready to swear him and Vale are connected by it.

To each pinky they’ve got a red string bonding them together for the stars to see.

“You’re really pretty in the morning you know?”

“Only in the morning?”

Marc had pouted playfully at Vale’s words, still curled up against his chest, smiling against it.

“During the night you’re more hot than pretty amore”

“ I like you calling me hot”

“Yeah? You’re really hot”

“Are you trying to charm me in your pants Vale? Not very gentlemanly of you to do”

“You don’t like gentlemen Marc”

“Mh no, I like you”

They had kissed, Vale’s hands guiding Marc on his lap by his hips, as if he weighed nothing.

“I love you”

“Love you too Vale”

It was then Vale told him about the strings of fate.

“You know baby? There’s a legend, it says when two people are made for each other they’ve got an invisible red string which is tied to both their pinkies and bonds them together”

“You think we-“

“I said you would be the next me no? Would I say that to someone I don’t think has to be mine?”

It hurts to remember.

Because Vale had so much love in his words and so much truth it seems impossible to Marc that he’s puking petals again, hung over his toilet, because Vale had wounded him so deeply he could feel the blood run free of containment in his body.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

A soft one, almost ghostly.

“Marc? It’s mom, are you coming to lunch?”

“Yeah I” he holds in his cough, he knows it hurts his mother to hear him

“I’m coming mom”

“Are you - again?”

“No no mom don’t worry”

When he gets out his mother hugs him, so tight he thinks his lungs are breaking more under pressure.

He’s fragile now, really fragile, his rib cage is very visible through the skin, his cheeks are hollower than they used to be, the color of his skin no more a sweet caramel tone but instead a pale and washed one.

He’s thinner, every cough feels like a hit to his sternum, if he bumps into things a bruise is really quick to follow.

He’s sick, sick as he’s never been before.

He even had to miss a training session because he was too debilitated to do it.

Santi had pretended to know what was going on, he had said bronchitis.

Which wasn’t completely far from the truth.

He can feel his mother’s pain through the hug, in the way she tries to keep the crying at bay, the way her heart is synchronizing itself to his.

“Marc, you need to listen to your friend.

He -” his mother never said the name Vale, or Valentino, not even Rossi.

it was always “he”

“He’s not coming back Marc”

“Ma-“

“Marc, please”

“Just - just give him some time mom. He’ll come back. I know he will. Now can we go have lunch? I’m hungry”

“You need to tell Alex”

“No. I won’t tell, there’s no need to. He doesn’t need to know, I’m gonna be fine in no time anyway. Plus if I told him he’d do something stupid like forging my signature and force me to get the operation”

“Marc”

“Mom. I’ll be fine. I promise you. We’re both gonna be fine, he just needs a bit more time to realize it”

Roser tries to have this conversation three more times during Marc’s stay at home.

She tries to tell Alex, but when her younger son answers she can’t tell him anything, beside “Marc is still sick, but he’s getting a bit better”.

Marc had begged her not to talk, and Roser can’t bring herself to betray her son’s trust, not after his heart has already been shattered by the person he loves more than anything in this world. 

In the delirium caused by the fever that keeps getting higher and higher, Marc had called for that man.

She had run to him, cold towels placed on his forehead and wrists to try and bring the temperature down, with little results.

“Vale it hurts please bring me water”

“Marc, it's mom, what's going on?”

“Vale just - he went to take a glass of water, don’t worry go back to sleep”

“Marc he is not -”

“Look he’s back, see? Go to sleep mom”

“Thanks Vale, you see mom? I told you he just needed time, we’re fine”

It had been a painful night, Marc snapping out his open eyed dream and sobbing in her arms like a little kid who just scraped his knee and wanted to be held by his mother.

And she had held him like that, trying to protect him from all the evil in his mind, from all the evil that man had sewed into his skin, but to no avail.

If she placed a hand on her son’s ribcage she could trace the outline of a root.

When he took deeper breaths in her embrace she could feel the bumpy surface of his bones against her chest.

She had thought, once, to call the man’s mother.

She thought that maybe she would’ve understood the worry of a mother, that she would’ve tried to talk to her son.

But she knew if she did she would’ve just spewed hate towards that woman’s son, and couldn’t do that to another mother.

So she just held him as if he was a little boy, tried to picture him as his three years old self when he had fallen from the mini bike and hurt his elbow, and she had held him until he slept.

Vale meanwhile had begun to doubt.

Doubt everything.

Uccio first of all people.

It made no sense, no sense what he had accused Marc of doing.

And even if - even if he had been shown proof of it, Vale doubts.

After months, long infinite months later he’s doubting.

Of the telemetry, of the color of the petals.

Hell he even doubts Marc ever came to the Ranch on purpose to beat the record and shame him.

Because it simply doesn’t hold ground as an accusation, why would Marc, a lovestruck 20 something kid, who just loves Vale so much to still have a collection of bikes representing him, a rival,

in his room, why would he do something like that to him?

He wouldn’t.

He loved, still loves Vale, he’s sure of this. He just has to find counter proof.

For the first time ever he’ll have to work against the one friend he always trusted with all his everything.

So he begins his personal crusade to find out the truth he thinks lies covered beneath the surface of thick and carefully built lies Uccio fed him.

For what reason he doesn’t know, he can’t find it in his mind to understand what could have driven Uccio to do what he did.

He spends a month locked in his house, not even paying attention to his academy of growing riders, the only one partially admitted at home being his little brother, but not more than once every week.

He spends a month looking for evidence he’s been lied to, driven away, manipulated, blinded by his competitive spirit.

He doesn’t call or text Marc.

He fears if he’s not completely sure of his idea it will end up hurting Marc more.

The start of the season is two weeks away when Lorenzo sends him a text.