#i need eddie so bad

[seexyyprincess]

Eddie loves.

Eddie loves to wash my hair when we take a bath together. Eddie loves to kiss me every moment he sees my face. Eddie loves to hug me because his love language is physical touch. Eddie loves to cook me my favorite foods or foods that we both like just to please me. Eddie loves my smile. Eddie loves to give me roses. Eddie loves to write me letters because he knows i love them even though he's not the best at writing. Eddie loves to drink a good wine with me while we talk about our future at night cuddling on the couch. Eddie loves watching romcoms with me because he knows i adore them. Eddie loves waking up with me. Eddie loves calling me with the cutest nicknames on the world.

Eddie loves me and always expresses it to me with each of his actions.

[munsonsreputation]

julia, you and i are the same!!! thank you for this hilarious picture hehehe ���🩷

yours

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: [2.9K]

warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established-ish relationship, eddie feeling like he's not good enough, mentions of financial difficulties, overall fluff goodness!!! loosely based off "i wanna be yours" by the arctic monkeys

summary: eddie's down bad for you and all he wants to be is yours — you thought he already was.

It should feel pathetic, the way Eddie dropped everything in a heartbeat and came dashing to you the moment you called out his name, but to him it was the greatest honor for your mouth to even utter his name — he’d simply come crawling if you’d ask.

“Eds,” nickname made him go weaker for you.

Your voice was a small whisper and your hand grazed shakily upon his forearm, giving it a tender squeeze as you leaned in closer just enough for your breath the dance over his earlobe. His opposite hand didn’t falter, binding around to rest on the small of your back staying there to keep you steady in the cramped position.

“S’the matter, sweets?” He murmured loud enough for you to hear over the music of the party, brows pinching together, watching you intently.

He felt you pinch his skin again, your thumb and forefinger rubbing over the area apologetically, as you met his eyes, “C-could you come with me outside? Just need some fresh air and I don’t want to go alone.” Your voice was almost saturated with regret for feeling like such a hassle.

But Eddie didn’t want you to go alone, anyway.

It was a friend of a friend’s house party on the other side of town with plenty of people that you and him didn’t necessarily know too well. Honestly, you didn’t even have to ask. You could’ve just walked right up and grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out the front door and he wouldn’t have asked any questions.

But the way you ask him as if he’d ever say no made his heart melt because clearly you didn’t quite know how head over heels he was for you already.

There wasn’t much to it after that. Eddie simply gave your back a small pat and begun to stand up from his seat, letting his arm wrap across your shoulders as he maneuvered the both of you through the sea of bodies.

“Thanks.” You smiled tenderly up at him through the walk, encasing your hands around his biceps and following his lead out the front door that was propped wide open.

Eddie knew you like the back of your hand, the way your senses tended to get overstimulated when the music was too loud, chatter was too chattery, and the footsteps too heavy — he knew all of those things and he never minded that he was painstakingly aware because he wanted to be when it came to you.

These days, your comfort meant more to him than anything in the world. Tonight, it was an overload, and he wanted to curse himself for not noticing sooner.

It didn’t happen all the time, but occasionally you just needed a minute away, far away where those things couldn’t be heard at all. You didn’t even have to ask him to walk with you a few blocks down in the neighborhood to get away from hearing the thump of the party. He just continued on, letting you cling to him as he gave your shoulders a squeeze every so often to silently ask you if it was all better now.

It was always better when it was just you and Eddie.

“Sorry, it was just so loud.” You exhaled shakily, untying your arms from his muscles and instead hugging yourself to his torso, breathing him in — letting him fill your senses.

He found it heartening that you gravitated to him like that no matter where you were. Eddie was like your giant portable teddy bear, always near and ready for you to jump into his arms. His chin rested on the top of your head, draping his arms over your back and pulling you closer — the closest he can get you to keep you here and warm.

“S’okay, you don’t have to apologize, baby.” His voice was soothing and ironing out any worries that lingered.

“But you were talking to Rick then I—”

You could feel his head rock against you, a puff of air exiting his mouth with a deep breath. “You didn’t do anything. Just stupid talk anyway. You know I’d drop anything for you.”

The emphasis on ‘you’ was endearing because you felt the exact same way for Eddie. The urgency to be at his side whenever he needed you and even when he didn’t say it, you can feel it in your bones, because in soul you just knew.

“I know.” You said, dragging your face away from his chest to beam up at him, tiptoeing to press a kiss under his jaw before setting back into him.

He could still feel your lips on his skin, a sort of electrifying touch that should have had him running because it had to be too good to be true, yet all he wanted was more but only if it was you. Whether it was here on a shadowy sidewalk or maybe at the Hideout after one of his shows, and the end of the night and the start of the day, it could only be you and him.

All he ever wanted now was it for you both to be where you belonged — always in each other’s arms.

“Wanna go home?” He crooned, sliding a delicate hand through the ends of your hair careful not to let his rings catch.

You pressed another kiss this time to the center of his clothed chest, gawking up at him. “Do you?” You sought putting himself first instead of your own — good thing Eddie could read you like a book.

He grinned, cheeks tugging his knowing smiling impossibly wider. “Yeah, I do.”

He led you to his van, shrugging off his leather jacket and dressing it over your body as you settled into the passenger seat. You often got cold on late night drives and felt bad for asking to turn down the air conditioning so in order to comprise, though he never minded, whatever jacket he was sporting always ended up acting as a blanket until you got home and he could he yours.

“Feeling warmer?” Eddie chuckled, darting quickly from the road to your body that was curled up in the seat.

You nodded with a hum, bringing the sleeve of his jacket away from your face. “Better, but I really wanna take a hot shower when we get home.”

He let out a sound of agreement, reaching over for the air conditioning vents closer to you and flipping them up so less of the cold air was directed in your direction. It was a pure act, one that you picked up all the time even when you promised you were okay — part of you liked to think he had spidey-senses and could feel the shivers you tried to hide from him.

He could feel everything without you saying a word, a kind of connection you never thought was possible in this lifetime.

“Gonna do an everything shower tonight?” He asked with a glint of humor in his voice.

He was familiar with your ‘everything’ showers: full body exfoliations, deep conditioning, hair masks, the whole shebang. Eddie was more than happy to sit outside the shower, keeping you company for the next hour that used up all the hot water.

Truth be told, he subjected to everything showers at least once a month — when he was all burnt out from work and just wanted to relax, you’d fill the bath up with epsom salts, sit on the ledge of the tub as you shampooed his hair, and the both of you would talk until the water turned cold.

You giggled, shaking your head tiredly at him. “Not today. I’m too tired. We can shower together if you want? I like it better when you wash my hair.”

Who was he to turn that down?

“My pleasure, doll.”

Home was Eddie’s and his uncle Wayne’s shared trailer — it was your favorite place to be, despite what Eddie thought of the quaint space. It had an even smaller bathroom, but you didn’t care, pleased that it gave you the excuse to be closer to him in the most intimate way.

He always let you stand directly in the stream, letting the hot water cascade over your naked body while he received the backsplash of the droplets against his cool skin. His fingers worked through your scalp, the chunky rings shed for the time being, allowing him to be more firm in his movements, getting your scalp nice and clean.

You were humming a song, and he wasn’t sure which one, your voice too quiet for him to hear over the water and the suds from the shampoo. He thought it was something from the new Madonna album he picked up for you on cassette, and he was sure it would only be a few more days before he learned all the lyrics and got them stuck in his head.

When lather foamed up on your head like a heap of bubbles and that’s when he knew he’s done enough washing, nudging your shoulder with a kiss of his lips as he was mumbling against your skin.

“Turn around and let me rinse it out, sweets.”

You nodded, twirling on your heels as his hands instinctively grabbed at your shoulders making sure you didn’t slip and fall. You shut your eyes tightly, letting the water flow over the back of your head, his fingers once again combing through the ends gently, doing his best to not let the soapy water travel down your face.

He took his time even though he clearly didn’t see the suds running any more. He just wanted to admire your pretty face with your eyes closed because that meant you didn’t try dodging away from his gaze.

He noted how you felt the suds wash away, face then relaxing and the pinching of your eyes eased and a tired smile took over like you were seconds away from dreaming.

Yet he knew he couldn’t let you sleep like that, bringing you back with a gentle kiss upon your lips until you finally switched places, letting him be under the showerhead.

“You’re running out of shampoo.” You pouted, reaching down to grab at his bottle and squeeze a dollop into your palm.

He shrugged, keeping his arms around your waistline as your hands wandered up and began raking the product through his hair. Your nails were a bit longer than his, scratching at his scalp just enough that it didn’t hurt, but tickled in a pleasing way.

“I’ll pick some up tomorrow. Do we need more conditioner too?” He proposed already peeking one of his eyes open to stare at the nearly empty bottle.

You thought he didn’t know, but Eddie knew you hated when he spent money on you, even if it was a shared thing like conditioner or shampoo. He did a lot for his home, helping his uncle with rent with whatever tips he made from his share tips at the Hideout and when times were rough, pawning things just for the extra cash.

You wanted him to save some for himself, something he could call his own instead of giving it to you when you didn’t need it.

But things were starting to get a lot better with Eddie picking up a job at the General Store after Joyce became manager and was able to hire him as a cashier. He’d spoil you to cool thrifted jewelry and take you out on dates at Benny’s where he’d let you pick whatever you wanted and promised that you two wouldn’t have to share a single meal or a single drink.

In a lot of ways, Eddie’s love language was gift giving even if it was small acts. In all honestly, if Eddie could pluck every single star from the galaxy and give it to you in a bouquet sprinkled with flowers and love letters he would.

He’d give you the whole world if he could.

But even then, you’d probably tell him how he didn’t have to do all of that because all you ever needed was him. Same thing went for that silly bottle of conditioner that he knew you’d fill up with water and let last another two weeks before he’d pick a new one up without asking you.

Your fingers falter against his scalp before you shake your head, “No, we’re fine. It should last us until next week or so.”

He called it.

“Hmm, sure,” He grunted, wiggling his shoulders, “You said you wanted to try that new brand right? The lavender and mint scent?” He urged, not trying to tease, but it came out that way with the smile he still wore.

“Stop it.” You bite down on your lip, trying to hold back your guffaw as you motioned for him to turn around so you could rinse out the product.

You knew it no use trying to change his mind… if you were lucky, you’d say by the time he got home from work tomorrow he’d walk in with a bag of groceries and a new bottle of conditioner and shampoo in one of them.

And the both of you would probably end up here again… showering each other with love and suds of a new scent that will become your new favorite — he would definitely remember until you decided it was time for something new.

The two of you spent the rest of the shower with delicate hands roaming across bare skin, quietly conversating about any and everything under the warm water that was slowly running cold. When the water finally shut off, you both patted your bodies dry and standing in front of the mirror where Eddie watched you complete your skin care routine before helping him with his own.

You ended up dressed his oversized t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers as he settled for sweatpants that hung low on his hips. If you weren’t so tired, you’d jump his bones and get dirty all over again, but for the sake of your energy, you could wait it out till morning, happy to know you got to jump his bones in another way that was just as good.

His room was pitch black, cascaded with the pale moonlight that peeked past the curtains with the slight breeze coming from the ceiling fan whirling above you. His blanket was pulled up to your collarbones, keeping you warm alongside himself who acted as your portable heater. One of your legs rucked over his hips as the other rested against his thigh.

Eddie could feel your breathing against his chest, cheek nuzzled up right under his head that thumped for you… always for you.

All of his being, every inch and ounce of him was committed to you but he despised himself for not knowing if that was what you wanted. There was never a talk or conversation about what the two of you were.

It just so happened that it happened.

He gulped, thumb caressing your shoulder in random patterns as he looked down at you. “Baby?” he called out, checking to see if you were still awake before you hummed against him, “What am I to you?”

“Huh?” You moaned out, brows furrowing with your eyes still closed, caught between being awake and drifting off to sleep.

“Y’know, like…this. Us.” Eddie shifted a bit, just enough to be able to move your damp hair away from your face, “What am I to you?”

You didn’t give it much thought. The only thing in your head was the four letter word echoing because even in the dead of night on the brink of slumber, Eddie was always going to be the one for you.

“Mine.” You said, voice stronger than before, as you fought your eyes open and looked up at him past the darkness.

“Y-yeah?”

His voice seemed to betray his smile, like he still couldn’t fathom you could see him in that light. The kind that didn’t glare off his flaws or the things that he was afraid of… you didn’t make him feel less than for having fears or not being the perfect person.

To you it only made him more human, the one that you wanted to spend forever with.

“You’ve always been mine, Eds.” You murmured, moving yourself up on your elbows just enough to look down at him.

Your palm came down to where your head had laid, pressing against his heart and letting him know you were right there with him all along.

“What do you want to be to me?” You whispered, keeping your eyes on his, swimming in them, trying to get a glimpse into his thoughts.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, feeling your pulse that beat in sync with his. There was no doubt in his mind that he always wanted you to be his, but he was always afraid he was never enough to be yours.

Not until now.

“Yours,” He breathed, finally letting go of the secret he held too long in his heart to try to hide any longer.

Smiling at him like he had plucked every star from the galaxy and laid them all out here for you. That’s when you knew what it was… what it had been all along. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, still smiling stupidly lovesick at him—

“You always have been.”

A kiss, a bond that sealed you two together forever because maybe all you wanted to be was each other’s, in this lifetime and all the others ones that existed.

💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌

a/n: this one has been sitting in my wips since forever and i finally got to finishing it up!!! i wanted this one to be coated with sweetness and everything in between!!! i haven't written eddie in a while so this was super duper fun and revisting his character took me back to my roots!!!

taglist: @translatemunson @kennedy-brooke @manda-panda-monium @tvserie-s-world @givemeth @steveharringtonswife @astolenkiss @loving-and-dreaming @awkotaco24 @engenelxver @elfiaaaa @pbs-theundeadmaggot @johnricharddeacy @gaysludge @keerysfolklore @micheledawn1975 @ihatepeanutss @bakugouswh0r3

[izel-scribbles]

Happy new year!!!

local jarthur fan becomes obsessed with symbrock fork found in kitchen

drew most of these right after finishing the last dance 😞

[abellmunsonmovie]

Can we talk about Eddie’s hands real quick? Cause like okay, he plays guitar, he’s good with cars, he most definitely knows how to roll a joint, he wears cool rings. Alsoooo the clip where he’s in the cafeteria flipping the bird, YOU CAN SEE VEINS?!?! WHEN I TELL YOU I LOST IT I MEAN I LOST IT. Sooo anywho…I live for Eddie and his hands

[lonestarcowpoke]

Steddie F1 where Eddie is a mechanic who gets recruited for a pit team, and he develops a massive crush on the cute Italian driver. But unfortunately, Eddie does not speak any Italian and can’t talk to him. And he has only ever heard the guy speaking in Italian on the track, so he knows it will be awhile.

So finally, after months of Duo Lingo and help from the other people on the crew, he goes up to the driver after the race and says “Vuoi uscire con me?” only for Steve to respond in perfect, accented English “What took you so long to ask?”

[mouthfullofmunson]

Literally the only thing that’s ever on my mind is boyfriend!eddie

Like boyfriend Eddie who is completely wrapped around your finger

He worships the ground you walk on

He does anything and everything you could ever want

Just the absolutely sweetest boy ever

When he comes in late from work and he has to crawl in bed he curses himself for making you stir, apologizing a thousand times while pressing kisses to your hair and shoving his hand under your shirt to softly scratch your back

It doesn’t matter where you are he is right behind you covering you in kisses, pressing pecks up and down your arms, softly moving your hair to your other shoulder while he nuzzles his nose into your neck and kisses at it

He’s so eager to help you out with anything and everything

He’ll sit on the edge of the bathtub and shampoo your hair

Or he will accompany you in the shower and help you wash your back

Literally anything to make your life easier

Demanding you throw your feet into his lap so he can paint your nails so you don’t have to bend

HES MY DREAM MAN 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Braiding your hair before you go to bed 🫶

If you even mention that you are thirsty he is shooting up to get you water “no, honey, you stay there I’ll get it for you baby. Stay comfortable, keep my spot warm.”

Fuck I could cry I need him so bad!

Opening every single door for you

Always pulling out your chair and making sure you’re comfortable before he is sat

Always holding your hand over the dinner table 🥲

If you have a bad day he is there rubbing your back and kissing your head. “There’s always tomorrow, honey. We’re going to make it a good day. I’ll make sure of it.”

He’s always planning surprise dates

And cute little picnics 🥹

Pajamas set out for you every night

He’s 1000% a crafty little gifter

Making cute little Polaroids out of craft paper and shoving Polaroids of the two of you inside of it

Making mix tapes

Ugh he’s just the cutest

He is absolutely carrying all of your bags when you go shopping!!

I’m so obsessed with him just like SO head over heels he feels like he’s out of breath head in the clouds when he’s around you🥲

Let me know your thoughts

:)

[mac-mcdonald]

[kitmon]

Get Into The Groove | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Eddie finds you dancing while you’re home alone and, unsurprisingly, the sight has him careening into the bottomless gorge that is loving you all over again.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: allusions to sexy times 18+ only, no actual smut, FLUFF cuz I’m a sucka for it, established relationship, reader is explicitly referred to as “girl” and “woman”

Author’s Note: Just an itty bitty thing that came to me a while ago that I jotted down in between work and school :P hope you like it! And if you’d like to enhance the experience listen to Into the Groove by Madonna and Wango Tango by Ted Nugent!

There are few things that Eddie Munson looks forward to in life: a well-planned D&D campaign, a perfectly rolled joint— the premium shit— and getting home to you.

He whistles to himself as he skips up the steps of his trailer, chains and leather creaking with each step he takes and every key he flips in his hand. The entire day he had been anticipating this moment, just as he does every weekday, where he can come home to a warm and secluded trailer, see you and kiss you the same way he did before he left to work— deep and passionate and long enough to make you dizzy— and sink into his worn-in spot on the couch with you under his arm. He smiles at the comforting thought as he pushes the door in, humming under his breath as he steps inside. 

He drops his keys into the ceramic bowl near the door with a clink before he begins peeling his jacket and vest off. His arm is halfway in and out of his jacket as his ears perk at the music trailing down the hall from his room. He finishes shrugging his jacket off, tossing it over the La-Z-Boy before he stalks towards his room, taking care to cushion his steps. As he gets closer he can make out the faint synth and the clap of the drum machine; it’s Madonna, he realizes.

He dips his head to peek through the slit between the door and the frame, eyes glowing with mirth as a wide grin consumes his face.

Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free…

He hadn't expected to find this upon coming home. You’re usually stretched out across the sofa or his bed, mentally marking the bubbles of a quiz inside a Cosmo that Nancy let you borrow or smiling to yourself as you flip through the pages of one of your bodice ripper romances. Instead, from his vantage point, he can see you singing along to the tape that you’ve popped into his stereo, sipping a black cherry Tab as you skip around his room tidying up the cluttered space. You pick up discarded clothes from his floor, pinching that lacy number he stripped off of you that morning and dangling it over your pointer finger as you absentmindedly twirl it around before tossing it into the hamper.

Tonight I’m gonna dance with someone else…

As the song builds to its chorus you drop the clothes you're working with, take one more gulp of your soda and start bobbing your head and shaking your hips. With the way you sway, he can't help but admire how your frame fits under one of his ragged sleep shirts. Your legs are bare and enticing as you prance around with only your underwear on underneath, the reliable lilac pair that you wear flashing at him with every punctuated glide you make down your legs before flipping your hair back. 

Get into the groove,

Boy you’ve got to prove,

Your love to me…

Your voice picks up in confidence and volume. Even if you're not classically trained, you make up for the wavering notes and shifting keys with your enthusiasm as you stomp about his room, shaking your head and shifting your hair as you swivel and cock your hips in a way that has Eddie swooning against the door frame. The door kicks open wider as he watches you, tongue licking at his canine in amusement and adoration.

Your singing subdues into little mumbled harmonies and a few enunciated riffs as you drag your hands from your thighs up your rocking body, your fingers catching the hem of your shirt and lifting it over your ass to offer just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glimpse. You writhe like a charmed snake in a wicker basket, your hands meeting over your head as you slither in mesmerizing forms.

You fall away from your dance but maintain the skip in your step and the nod in your head as you bend over and snatch a pair of Eddie's boxers from the floor. You twirl in place, boxers held to your chest as you get lost in the music, shifting your feet to twist you around, eyes closed blissfully.

“At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see— AH!”

You scream, chucking the boxers at Eddie’s head as you’re startled. He ducks as the garment soars over his head and he laughs at your reaction.

“Jesus, sweetheart! You almost took me out with my own drawers!”

“Eddie!” You scold, with wide eyes and a small crinkle between your brows, “You scared the shit out of me!”

You’re clutching your chest with one hand as your breath relaxes but your eyes screw up in mild anger at the fact that he snuck up on you.

“M’sorry! Didn’t want to interrupt the show.”

You groan, your hands crawling over your face as you wince, “You saw that?”

Eddie steps towards you, soothing your embarrassment by rubbing at your arms.

“Mm-hmm, and, if I may say so,” he leans in to whisper into your ear, “it was very sexy.”

You sputter out a giggle at him before taking your hands and pulling at the loose thread along the collar of his t-shirt— perhaps you’re the reason all of his shirts have holes along the collar.

“Of course you would find it sexy,” you tease as your fingers migrate upwards to play with the ends of his hair. “You could watch me floss my teeth and get a semi.���

“Can you blame a guy?” He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist to draw you closer. “With a girl as smokin’ as you, it’s impossible to keep the little guy down.”

You snort, letting your head fall into his chest as he strokes your hair.

You bask in the silence for a moment, the two of you shuffling your feet and breathing each other in. The song’s ended by now and moved on to another poppy dance number that fades into the background.

“Think you can teach me some of those moves?” He questions into your hairline.

You hum, a smile coating the sound as you lean back to look into his eyes.

“I dunno, don’t think you’re limber enough to pull off some of these crazed gyrations of this rock generation.”

He smiles down at you, leaning close enough to nip at your lips, “I’ll have you know I’m a proper Johnny Castle, baby.” His smile gives way to a contemplative yet amused shape, “And did you just quote Ted Nugent to me?”

You nod your head as a wide grin splits across your face.

“Oh, you don't know what you do to me, woman!”

You squeal as he hoists you up and throws you onto his bed, your head falling back against his pillows as you laugh from the excitement of it. You fall into soft hums of laughter that slip past your throat as Eddie follows you down and climbs up your body, nipping at your calves and thighs, pushing his nose against the hem of your— well, his shirt— to reveal that worn lilac cotton that you make look like a whole Victoria’s Secret set.

“And I’ll show you dancing, I’m quite skilled at Zee Wango, Zee Tango.”

[kenneth-black]

Buck truly looks his best in red 😍😍😍

[meep-meep-richie]

on call or not; he's here

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[nex-has-gender-envy]

Just a little tender smooch

Sorry for lack of symbrock content, a lot has been happening rn in life (also I've been on that poolverine wave, still kinda am) . But damm I'm so excited for venom 3. I hope they release another tease this month or in next. Im starving .

[poughkeepsies]

I'm sorry I know this is probably gonna rip my heart out but the idea of buck possibly dunking so hard on christopher it causes a third premarital buddie divorce is absolutely murdering me

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Something something about us being shown Eddie developing his cooking skills before buck - that were shown Eddie being able to cook a full meal (and bake) before were shown Buck doing the same thing. And something something about that foreshadowing Eddie having his full feelings realisation before buck.

Eddie’s cooking skills are on display in 5x11 outside looking in when he cooks dinner for buck Chris and Taylor - and he’s baked cupcakes for desert as well.

But we don’t actually get shown buck cooking a full meal until the 6x01 lasagne. He’s only got as far as breakfast foods when he makes Maddie an omelet in 2x04 stuck but we don’t get shown him actively cooking again until he makes the lasagne.

After that its hit and miss on the cooking and baking front for buck - burnt lasagne in a 7 and I’m assuming his baking isnt that great in 8x07 by the way Chim has one bite and then pushes the loaf away before he masters the ziti, garlic bread etc in 807 and then later the scones in 8x08.

[moonyslesbian]

i know tim said we're not getting a cliffhanger but man. how good would it be if we got buck nde while eddie was leaving LA to go get chris back and had no way of knowing. like maybe its the a shift's day off and eddie decides on a whim that actually, he wants his kid back mom, and he buys a last minute plane ticket. and buck gets into a car accident or his loft burns down or whatever. and everyone's in the hospital waiting room getting frustrated at eddie's number going straight to voicemail and wondering just where the fuck eddie is. meanwhile eddie's on the plane sitting and thinking like Hmmm i wonder if chris will come more willingly if i mention buck's name... :)

[woohoorin]

"Richie's sometimes enchanting, often exhausting charm" "But there was something he had to say first." "Man, he had hated it when Richie called him Eds..but, he sort of liked it too." "I saw what a cutie you were the first time I met you." WHICH COULD MEAN N