#i might pass out trying to write this

[imaginethezeldaverse]

grips my office desk

to the anon who suggested a mating press and a breeding kink with Yunowho......................

[pokimoko]

haunting the narrative -> haunted by the narrative -> haunting the narrative -> haunted by

[ghost-proofbaby]

my little scaredy cat

request: [anon] i would love to see watching horror movies with best friend!eddie and reader instinctively grabs his arm and hides herself against him and it leads to feelings and confessions haha

warnings: none! except it's unedited, which would be scary if that wasn't 90% of my writing on here lmao

pairing: eddie x fem!reader

wc: 3.1k+

i had a lot of fun busting this one out. it's just so cute and certainly how i wish i was spending my halloween! also, rest assured, i am also eyeing the other request you submitting anon. <3 happy haunting, my friends.

This was such a stupid idea. Such a stupid, stupid idea. 

You’ve always been a scaredy cat. Everyone in your friend group was well aware of it – you loved the idea of Halloween, but your poor heart just couldn’t take most of the frights that came with the eccentric holiday. 

It was fine, most of the time. If anyone had the urge to plan out a day at a pumpkin patch, you were eagerly accepting the invitation. If anyone wanted to bake any sort of sweet treats laced with pumpkin spice or caramel apple flavor profiles, you were already in your car and armed with the perfect recipe to help them. Someone wanted to peruse the decoration aisles of various stores? Wait no more, the perfect shopping buddy could be found in you. You, who could handle most of the trivial and sweet aspects of the holiday. You, who divulged in the more aesthetic side of it all rather than the scary side of it. 

Your distaste of being jumpscared or unnerved by gore and ghouls alike only really caused issues when it came to your best friend, Eddie Munson. 

His taste in experience of the frightful time of year was entirely the opposite of yours. It’s not that he didn’t like decorating caramel apples with you or that he didn’t find your choice in decorations cute, because he did. But he liked the terrifying aspect of it all – he liked the adrenaline rush of fictional danger. 

And friendship, in all its glory, is about give and take, is it not? 

Compromise. That’s what he called it when he’d begged and pleaded for you to join him in a movie night. Because the moment the suggestion fell from his lips, you both knew he had no intentions of watching one of your usual festive movies that only teased about the creatures that crept through the night. PG-13 films that didn’t really do it for him. No, Eddie Munson had insisted you join him for a movie night, and you both knew exactly what kind of movie he intended to play. 

You just hadn’t anticipated the scariest fucking movie you’d ever endured for the boy beside you on the couch. 

“Shit!” 

Your squeak is muffled over by the crescendo of creepy instrumental echoing from the small TV across the room. A cycle had quickly been found during this movie night; the movie would fall eerily silent as a tense scene arrived, you’d tense every single muscle so hard that Eddie could feel you shaking from the other side of the couch, and then once the jumpscare occurred and your small squeals were let out involuntarily, his own laughter would follow. 

“Oh, come on,” he coos a little, leaning closer to the middle of the couch, still a fair distance away from your figure bundled up in blankets that were being used more as shields than anything at this point, “That one wasn’t even that bad!” 

“To you!” you snap, yanking the fabric back down from your eyes only to glare at Eddie rather than look at whatever grotesque was plaguing the screen, “I’m a scaredy cat, remember?” 

And oh, remember he does. In all your years of friendship, Eddie had called you that nickname more times than either of you could count. He never meant it with ill will, but it was easier to tease you than to admit just how adorable he found your small reactions. 

Easier to tease than to admit just how badly he wishes you would seek protection or refuge from him during the scares he put you through. 

His face falls slightly, but he doesn’t let his small grin slip up, not wanting to give himself or his twinge of guilt away, “I’m sorry, kitty cat. C’mere – I can protect you from all the big bad monsters-”

Eddie’s opened arms are only met with one of the pillows you’d stolen off his bed to make the couch more comfortable. It smacks into the center of his chest with deadly aim and ferocious power, making him let out an exaggerated oomph. 

“Fuck you,” you grumble, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders now that the scare had passed. You almost tack on a comment about how he’s lucky you like him, because you would never endure this for anyone else.

Robin had tried. Steve had tried. Nancy had tried. They’d all tried to entice you in the scarier, classic Halloween experiences to no avail. Every offer of going to a haunted house, or attending the premiere of the newest horror movies at the local theater, were shot down before they even finished their sentences. 

Only one person could break your staunch demeanor on your limits. And right now, you sort of hated his guts. 

Eddie softens a bit, watching the way you pout and curl into yourself just a little tighter.

“Sweetheart,” he finally drops the cool guy demeanor, his voice gentle as he leans over with genuine concern, “We can turn it off, if you really want. Hell, if you want me to, I’ll put on something in your taste. Little Shop of Horrors, or maybe Beetlejuice? Those don’t usually scare you.” 

The offer is enticing. But you have a point to prove. 

“No,” you sit up a little straighter, square your shoulders with a little more defiance and faux bravery, “No, you wanted to watch…” 

You pause, and Eddie smiles softly as he supplies the title of his film of choice, “Poltergeist.” 

“Right, yes, Poltergeist. You wanted to watch it, so we’re gonna watch it.” 

Your stubbornness is admirable. 

Even when it falters. Even when another jumpscare has you ever so slightly scooching towards the center of the couch, no longer pressed to the opposite arm from Eddie in defiance. Even when Eddie spreads his legs casually, and you bump your knee into his thigh, the slightest touch bringing immense comfort.  

Once you discover that, it all seems downhill from there. 

A press of a knee against the side of his thigh turns into your side brushing his. Suddenly, the blanket you’d wielded like a weapon becomes shared. Moments where you try to hold up a barrier between your eyes and the screen cause slight disturbances in Eddie’s own vision. And then, it happens.

The thing he’d been diabolically planning for years. The one scenario he’d dreamt of every Halloween season, the one intention he’d held secretly every time he’d put your through endless scares. 

The one touch that could send him into cardiac arrest. 

He almost missed it, it happens so suddenly. One moment, you’re just curling up a little bit closer to him. The next, your arms fully wiggly their way around his bicep, capturing his arm in your grasp as your face buries into his shoulder. He can no longer smell the buttery popcorn or faint chocolate on his breath as you invade his space. It’s all sweet shampoo and subtle perfume that tickles his nose, skin against skin in a quick flush as he can hear the vibrations of your predictable scream against the fabric of his shirt. 

You hardly seem to notice the sudden entanglement of your bodies in all your fear — your knees practically in his lap and your torso clinging onto his forearm for dear life. You’re acting on instinct, seeking out humane comfort without considering what you were doing.

When you do notice, you don’t let go, only slacken your grip. 

“Oh, I-“ you stutter, pulling back slightly to look up at a stunned Eddie, “I’m sorry, that’s- I just- I was scared and-“ 

“It’s fine,” he cuts you off, eyes blown wide, “It’s… it’s fine.” 

It’s more than fine.

His heart races in a way no horror movie or haunted house could incite. Every nerve ending tingles, everywhere his body connects to yours burning in delicious warmth. He wants to spend an eternity like this — you, curled up to him, clinging to him like your holy savior. 

Years, and years, and years of wait pays off. Patience is surely virtue as those big eyes of yours look into his. 

After a couple awkward beats of silence, you whisper, “I don’t think I like Poltergeist.” 

Just like that, you have him laughing again. It’s slow and steady, a gentle chuckle that stirs from his chest in disbelief as he tries to thaw from his shock and yearning.

“You think?” he breathes out, tone not nearly teasing enough to cover up the shakiness. 

He swears he can feel your heart pounding against his shoulder. 

“Don’t be mean,” you start to scowl, slowly unfurling. But he stops you — angles his arm so you can’t slip your arms away as easily as before, tilting his head in closer.

“Mean? I could never be mean to you, my little scaredy cat.” 

“You’re literally being mean as we speak-“

And so, he decides to stop speaking. 

It’s impulsive and an even dumber idea than you enduring such a scary movie to be around him. But you look so fucking cute, his heart is tearing up his throat, and suddenly his lips are on yours in his largest spurt of bravery to date. Even more brave than the time he’d made himself a human shield between you and that dude with a chainsaw at the local haunted house, despite the way chainsaws actually kind of made him shit himself.

You don’t fully reciprocate at first. His lips are pressed hard against yours, tips of noses crushed and eyes fluttered shut, and he starts to believe he’s made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake that just washed years of friendship down the drain. 

Until your hands tighten on his bicep. Until that soft squeeze comes, and it feels like he can breathe again despite sharing the air with you. 

He breaks away for just a second, “I-“

“Don’t be mean,” you repeat your earlier words with entirely new meaning now. He opens his eyes and finds yours already pleading up at his face, glossy and desperate, movie forgotten. 

Those hands once squeezing his bicep let go and move to the collar of his t-shirt. Normally, he’d make a comment about you stretching it out, deforming the perfect fit that took him ages to wear in, but he can’t be bothered to feel anything but delight when you’re tugging him back in for another kiss. 

And the last thing he wants to be is mean. So he kisses you kindly, kisses you with all the care in the world that he had buried beneath his skin since the day he met you. Kisses you like it could scare away all the monsters that wait in the shadows. Like he’d lay down his life to protect you from the very frights he’d been subjecting you to for far too long now. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, pulling back briefly, “Hey.”

This time, his forehead doesn’t leave yours as he pauses the kisses. 

“God, Munson, I’ve waited for this God knows how long, sat through so many fucking scary movies, and you’re really going to-“ 

“Hold on, what?”

He’s grinning so hard, it aches. In his cheeks, in his chest, in the back of his head. Your words sink in and he relishes each syllable, even in your frustration.

“I- Uh,” you pull back suddenly, fingers still loosely tangled in his t-shirt, “I-“

“Enlighten me, sweetheart,” he insists, eyes finally fluttering back open to catch the embarrassment painted plainly across your face. You wear a nearly painful expression that only tightens as you know he’s watching you, “Just how many scary movies have you sat through wanting me to kiss you?” 

“Fuck off,” you sigh out, shaking your head a little, “I mean it. Fuck right off-“

“Cause I could probably give a ballpark number for how many times I’ve wanted to kiss you during them,” he continues on quickly, “Actually, I bet I could count how many times I suggested watching these fuckin’ films just for this moment only to chicken out.” 

Your eyes are open again in an instant. Sparkling with hope and realization of what he was getting at. “Excuse me?”

“Do you really think I’m that mean?” he scoffs, finally reaching up for your hands, surprisingly calm despite the delightful storm wreaking havoc in his chest. He takes your knuckles in his and lets his thumb trail right over them, “No offense, but if I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have-“

“You like me?” 

Your voice is sweet as honey, bright and drowning out the horror movie still playing. 

He smiles, boyish glint and all, as he confirms, “I like you.” 

You put the first real amount of distance between the two of you since you’d started to cling to him out of fear, almost as if signaling that bravery beginning to bubble over in your chest, “You actually like me?”

“Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, I- Well, maybe,” you bite your lip, and he’s suddenly dizzy with the need to capture it between his own teeth, “I just… I always thought you might like someone a little braver.”

His nose wrinkles, hands still twisting yours in his, “Excuse me? I think you’re plenty brave.” 

“Eddie, you’ve said it yourself, I’m a goddamn scaredy cat.”

“So?”

“So,” you persist, shuffling so that your legs fold beneath you and you gain some leverage over him, “You’re the exact opposite. You love scary things. Not even just during Halloween, but year round. And you’re telling me you like me even though I’m a scaredy cat.” 

“I like you because you’re a scaredy cat, thank you very much,” he corrects you immediately, “I love the way you always need me to protect you. I know, I know — not very feminist of me. I’m sorry. It’s just- it’s really fuckin’ cute, y’know?” now that his floodgates have opened, he’s pouring out all the words he’s held back for so long, “And besides, you’re more than just a scaredy cat. You’re also so smart, so beautiful, so funny. Yeah, you scare easily, but you’re also the same person who is the first to put me in my place when I’m being an absolute little shit. And don’t even get me started on all the cute faces you make when you’re talking about things you actually like, or when you’ve been baking with Nance and have flour all over your cheeks-“ 

“Okay, okay,” you stop his rambling before he can embarrass you any further. Any more affection, and your face might end up buried in his shoulder again, “I get it. You like me.” 

It’s quiet for a few moments. The two of you only stare, both smiling stupid, the screams of whatever climax occurring in the movie not even reaching your ears. All you can hear is the echo of his words, of his admission. And all he can hear is the pretty way your breath catches when he gives a small squeeze to your palm. 

It’s nice. It should be more anxiety inducing, it should be more dramatic. Eddie Munson should be absolutely losing his mind right now because he just kissed his best friend he’s been in love with for ages, but he isn’t. Actually, for the first time in a while, it feels as though he’s finally found it — he’s found his mind, he’s found his peace as he’s staring at your shy expression. It just feels right. Like a sigh of relief from the Universe. 

“I like you, too,” you break the silence, unable to meet his gaze, “I mean, you probably already got that, but-“

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“I did gather that, but my God, please say it again.” 

Your eyes meet him, and another piece clicks into place. 

Right. It’s so fucking right.

“I like you,” you repeat yourself, a smile beginning to dance on your lips. He can’t help himself — he leans forward and pecks the corner of your upturned mouth, “I like you,” the repetition is music to his ears as he plants a second kiss on your cheek, “I like you, Munson.” 

His peppered kisses mark every inch of skin available to him, making giggles begin to escape you. You even try to hide from his onslaught, but it’s no use. He’s quick to drop your hands and wrap his arms around you, tugging you in close and trapping you against him as each kiss grows more obnoxious. Loud smacking sounds, deliberately leaving spit behind that has you squealing. It’s nothing like the squeaks from when you were watching the movie; these small noises are filled with a little more joy, a little more happiness that only fuels Eddie.

“Eddie!” you try to scold, placing two hands on his solid chest, “Oh my God, stop it. You’re gross.” 

“You love it,” he mutters with his mouth fully pressed to your temple, nose buried in your hair. That sweet, sweet shampoo intoxicating him.

You like him. He didn’t fuck it up. 

You finally go slack in his touch, succumbing and letting him place you in his lap, curled up comfortably as you sigh, “Yeah. Okay, maybe I do. Whatever.” 

“Oh, don’t act all tough now, kitty cat.” 

Your hands are curled back in the fabric against his chest and you share the wonderful ache he had been feeling in his own cheeks and bones as you look down at him with playfully squinted eyes.

When he ducks down for another kiss, you stop him easily, “Nope. First, I have a request.” 

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Name it, and it’s yours.” 

“Please turn off that goddamn movie.” 

He throws his head back in laughter that shoots straight for your heart. The kind of laughter that haunts a chilled autumn night as children prance the streets for candy, as teenagers get into mischief in distant bonfire parties, as elderly couples enjoy morning coffees over eerie fog. 

It kind of feels like home. It kind of feels like everything is as it should be, finally. 

“I suppose I can do that for you, my little scaredy cat,” he muses as his head tilts back forward, chest swelling with affection, “Besides, I think I know something we can do that’s a little more fun than watching the Poltergeist.” 

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”

His arms tighten around you as he suddenly throws the two of you to lay down on the couch, his body hovering over yours and pick necklace nipping at your chin while he reaches out to click off the TV. The weight of him between your hips feels even better than either of your wildest dreams.

Years. You couldn’t believe it had taken years for this, and neither could he. But patience is virtue, and he probably would have waited another thousand years for this feeling, truth be told. 

“This,” he says boldly once the TV buzzes in sudden silence, dipping down and continuing where the two of you left off. Two sets of lips fit together like the world’s easiest jigsaw puzzle.

It’s safe to say the rest of the night, any further squeaks and squeals you let out aren’t due to ghosts.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

[cinsketches]

You ever randomly get sad by realizing that the people on No Man’s Land are probably missing a lot of the human experience and how most of it is connected to earth?

They’re never going to know what rainstorms are like, or the smell that lingers in the grass after it’s over.

They’ll never know what it’s like to hear cicadas or frogs croaking near a lake at night.

Earth has so many colors, so many animals, and so much flora. Even though they have the geodomes, they’re merely a fraction of what the planet had to offer.

But they’ll never know.

[thestarswhim]

I got an AU cooking up and it's in the VERY rough early stages, as in I don't know exactly all the info yet myself, and I don't know how in the woohoo I'm gonna type it all out... BUT I WILL- try- anyway have this for now BYE

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[sollucets]

hi everyone :’) i havent been on tumblr much lately because i am 1) not watching anything and 2) still dealing with the effects of a bunch of fun medical stuff! i am doing ok but my body hates me so so so much lately. i have the energy and ability(?) to do only a few very specific things right now (play elden ring, let youtube forcefeed me kpop videos, languish) and that does not include watch show or make gif or even write no matter how much i might want to. so. this is how it is haha. miss u guys

[optimallymuse]

mhui is so funny bc it goes through the regular story and then some. and also theres a really heavy focus on the relationship of bkdk with the gacha animations being the bkdk fight.

anyways they're so sillyy <33

[itstimeforstarwars]

My diary when I was a teenager: I am so angry and this is where I put my rage about how the world is ending and how mad I am about it and how much I hate politicians and the school board

My diary now: here is a recounting of what I did today as well as how I feel about some of the news from today, so that in twenty years when everyone is lying about how the 2020s went I have proof that I'm not insane.

[ggukkiedae]

unfollowing everyone who supports lucas.

um hi? i dont know what brought this on when i dont think ive written him into my story-form content since 2020 or 2021? but hey im not judging, i understand

i honestly kinda just stayed away from news about him for a while. a few weeks ago when i heard he had a documentary, i tried to watch, but i found it made me uncomfortable seeing him, so i decided then to completely stop watching him or waiting for updates about him and decided not to include him in my writing since others may feel the same way i do

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Me: I should probably clean my room, unpack, find my laptop and finish the work tasks that were due yesterday

Also me: I think I'm going to hot glue flowers, vines, and ribbons to a basket instead :)

[rotinthedark]

He's a pretty simple guy, all things considered.

[miasanmuller]

I grieve so much for the time that has passed. I grieve for all the versions of me that were, for the ones that will never be again and also for the ones that never existed outside of my head. I grieve for the lifes I never lived, the things I never did or said, the people I never became. I spend so much time lost in my grievance that I find myself lacking time, energy and mental space to move forward, to open up myself for the things that will be and for the person I am becoming. And even though I know it's necessary, even though I know it's part of growing up, I can never find the inner strength to let go of everything that went before. How can I make peace with the places I'll never see again, the people I'll never meet, the lifes I'll never live? How can I make peace with the brief moments of my past that lasted no more than two seconds but still linger in the depths of my brain?

[satari-raine]

How about #16? And you can pick whichever ship you want!

#16: things you said with no space between us. ask meme here - still taking requests.

It's still unnerving, like an arrow aimed at his neck - having Milo's attention fully on him.

He breathes through a snarl that should be softer around its edges if not for the fact that it's him, and that Milo is bleeding, snow blue hair matching his own shade of red around Milo's temple - a careless tumble with gravity having been content to watching him fall. It would've been worse if not for Actagawa's quick thinking, but the fact that it's anything at all simmers Bisco's blood, this irascibility a burning underneath his collar. It's a minor enough wound that there's no stitches needed, only the antiseptic and bandages required buried under the curling of Bisco's fingers - just a "Sorry, can you get this, Bisco? We don't have a mirror so I can't see to do it myself" that Bisco had cut off with yanking the supplies to his own chest, silent only because Milo's answering smile - sheepish, pink around the cheeks with the blood that he hasn't lost - leaves him unable to say what he actually wants.

Instead, he has Milo in his lap, almost nose to nose, with the weight of his partner a match to the sudden lump lodged in his throat.

"Hold still," is all that comes out, gravel-rough, and Milo answers by disobeying him with an eager nod, pale fingers curling into the cuff of Bisco's sleeve, happily trailing along, happily attached, as Bisco dabs at the split skin. Milo doesn't wince; he's too strong for that, or perhaps Bisco is blind by being this close, even as he finds himself gentling the pressure when he imagines it's lingered for a second too long. Actagawa is scuttling about in the background, from the corner of his eye, watchful among the arid sands. The sun is setting. He wants this done before it's down.

"Bisco," Milo starts, saying it almost mindlessly (as if Bisco isn't aware of how mindful Milo is when it comes to him) and Bisco holds his breath as Milo's warms his cheek. He shifts back instinctively, finding Milo has already started to move in turn to find his eyes. There's a warmth there that looks out of place with the cockiness of Milo's grin. "Bisco."

His mouth twitches to match; he stomps it down, but finds it still slips out in his tone if the way the corners of Milo's eyes crinkle when he replies, "Am I supposed to know what you mean by just saying my damn name over and over?"

"You usually do."

At that, he does grin, his laugh a bite at Milo's bark.

"Moron," he states with certainty, curling the red-blue hair back behind Milo's ear from where it had slipped, fingertips brushing over the curve and trailing down to the lobe. "Duck your head back, I'm not done."

"Yes, sir," is all Milo ends with, voice a sing-song smoothness that Bisco wonders he used when he was treating patients back in Imihama. If - a big if, Bisco imagines - Pawoo ever got injured, beyond the rust, if Milo's voice served as a balm to her cracked pride.

The bandage isn't shoddy by his own standards but already, even without a precious mirror, Bisco watches with a barely contained frustration - a "really, doc?" ready on his lips - when they lean back from another and Milo instantly reaches up, not with the hand still curled in Bisco's sleeve, and pokes at the bandages. But then Milo's smiling, sparing no restraint in how often he's gracing Bisco with the sight, his hair catching on the setting sun as he tips his head back with a proud laugh, a short and quiet thing in the space between them, with all of who Milo is in this moment lighting every single one of Bisco's nerves on fire.

"Not bad, Bisco," he says and it sounds like he means it, and the two bloody rags draped over Bisco's knees makes Bisco wonder how tired Milo is now, finally dropping down from the adrenaline. There's a coolness quickly spreading over the desert, as the moon in his periphery begins to rise, so Bisco thinks nothing of it as his fingers drop down from curling Milo's hair back behind his ear - again - a slow glide of callouses against pale skin, fingertips resting at his neck, and Milo shivers.

He thinks nothing of himself when, for a moment, he pulls Milo forward, pressing his forehead to his partner's. His goggles push up into his hairline, crooked and threatening to fall back behind him into the sand, but Milo's hand is leaving his sleeve to curl around his fingers, a smooth warmth against the chill Bisco didn't realize he was carrying. He lets out a breath in a sigh and does everything in his power - and failing miserably - not to smile when Milo copies him.

With his eyes closed, without looking, he knows Milo's focused on him, that the man has settled himself in to staying like this for as long as Bisco allows it. He never had to teach Milo what somehow comes to him so innately - not archery, or cooking out in the wild with only the elements providing for them, or for having the damn decency to say no for once, come on, Milo; no, not this - the way his partner has let himself be so captivated by whatever he sees in Bisco that his focus leaves Bisco feeling stripped raw, as if there's no space between them.

He sighs again, brushing noses with Milo as he pulls back, opening his eyes to find Milo's right there, open, trained on him like a well-nocked arrow.

Just for that, with a grin, he raps his knuckles once, twice, against Milo's bandages and lets Milo's hiss of pain, pittering out to soft laughter as he tries to push Bisco back into the sand - tries and fails, "you're on me, y'know, you idiot" - chase away anything he could think to say in this moment, locked down, deep in his chest.

He'll let it burn there for a little while longer.

[thevalkyriewarrior]

I hate the feeling of not being broken enough.

Of feeling like there's always going to be someone else who needs attention and comfort more than you

That you're less important because you're holding yourself together better

[asinglesock]

just realized my fatal flaw and the great struggle of possibly the rest of my life. while watching a cdrama.