#i really really wish i could explain this better

[ghost-proofbaby]

FLASHES OF THE BATTLE COME BACK TO ME IN A BLUR. ALL THAT BLOODSHED, CRIMSON CLOVER - SWEET DREAM WAS OVER. MY HAND WAS THE ONE YOU REACHED FOR.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, i cannot emphasize the angst warning enough - it's a sad one for our boy, sugar is spoken of inappropriately by roadies with sexual undertones, mentions of drug use beyond just weed (specifically sleeping pills as well as allusion to heavier drugs being acquired), minors dni

☆ WC: 6.7K+

☆ AN: i'm not even sorry at this point. let's get into it, shall we? or should i say - let's fight.

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

masterlist

“Alright. Let’s fight.”

There was a certain point in Eddie Munson’s life, approximately one year ago, in which he had come to the acceptance that sometimes harsh words exchanged were better than silence. 

It had taken a lot out of him, that night – another drink tossed down his throat, another hit from his sour joint, another sigh passing his lips that was the closest he could come to communicating all that nostalgia and guilt building up within his chest. He had been terribly far gone, and he swears, at some point he had heard your voice call out his name. 

And for a second there, he had believed you really were there.

It wasn’t because you had called out his name so sweetly, it wasn’t because there had been some sort of longing in your tone that echoed in his ears. No, he had heard your voice, and you had been angry. Furious, venomous in the way you had spit out his name. Each echo of it in that empty hotel room had felt like a residual punch to the gut, and for a second, he truly believed you were there with him. You were there, and you were angry, and all he could feel in his inebriated state was sheer happiness at the thought of seeing you again. He didn’t care if you screamed in his face. He didn’t care if you shot nothing but insults his way. It would be enough if you were there. He just wanted you to be there. 

It had been a sore disappointment when he’d sat straight up in the bed that wasn’t his, in a room he wouldn’t see again after the night passed, and found himself to still be entirely and utterly alone. 

He had wished you were there. He had wished that he could fight with you rather than drown out his sorrows. 

And the Universe is funny in granting wishes, because now, he’s getting exactly what he had yearned for that night. 

Your eyes are wide, pupils blown out, chest heaving with rapid breaths are you both simply stare. He doesn’t know where to start – but he remembers where it had ended the last time. 

“You stopped saying you loved me.”

It’s already an unfair fight, uneven playing ground. Because how does he explain that? How does he explain how even if the words stopped leaving his lips, the feeling never paused its growth in his bones? You were rooted too deeply within him, even once your presence had been replaced with your absence, and he can’t imagine a day coming where he doesn’t love you. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, “Would you like-”

“It was more than the physical leaving,” you interrupt him, “It was the… emotional leaving. That’s where we left off before Matt came into the studio.”

Straight to the point then, so it seems. 

You stopped saying you loved me.

He did, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight against facts. 

I never needed elaborate metaphors or pretty words, Eddie.

And he had been well aware of that. Perhaps that’s exactly why he’d gone and overdone it with the songs, with the lyrics, with the poetry. He gave you everything he had left, everything he knew you wouldn’t need. 

I just needed to know you still fucking loved me.

And what is crueler than finally telling you how he knew that? That at the time, he had been so well aware that’s exactly what you had needed to hear, and perhaps that was exactly why he stopped saying it. 

Keep you at an arm’s distance. Keep you safe and sound, miles away from the disaster of impending doom. 

Miles away from him.

I can explain, he nearly says, but he doesn’t want to lie to you. His explanation is hardly palpable, and surely not something you would be able to stomach. He can hardly stomach it. 

Instead, he tries to stand his ground, as if he could ever stand a chance against you, “What else was I supposed to do?” 

Wrong choice of words.

“What else?” you parrot back in disbelief, finally looking less sad, less broken. This could work, he thinks. To see you fiery and alive, even in all your anger against him, rather than some broken thing, “Would you like to me to list out all of the fucking options you had?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but when he doesn’t respond, you decide to answer the obvious. 

“You could have taken ten extra seconds on the phone to say love you, babe. You could have texted me the damn words. You could have- just- you could have just told me if you were getting sick of me!” 

He doesn’t know which is a bloodier catastrophe – the shaking in your voice as you yell out the last part, or the twist of his stomach at hearing it. 

Sick of you. You had thought he was sick of you. 

“I wasn’t sick of you,” it comes out snappier than intended, but all that his tongue seems to care about is that the words are out there – no care in the fragility of tone. “I was- it was just a lot. It was our biggest tour yet, and-”

“Oh!” you laugh out, and his blood is beginning to go cold. All the warmth is leaking out, and all he can think about is twenty four hours ago. How warm it had been beneath his covers, your body curled against his, not a worry in the world. “Oh, I’m sorry. It was a lot? I’m so glad, in that case, that I took the stress of our relationship off your plate,” your voice is still cracking with every syllable. All he can think about is how it had sounded breathing out against his ear, “I just- Jesus, you ask me why I left? That’s why. Forget the bullshit about loving me. Maybe I just felt like a burden. Have you considered that?”

Sweet memories of the night before snaps away like elastic, back out of reach, your words yanking him back down to reality abruptly. 

You, of all people, felt like a burden. To him. 

The person he saw a future with – the person he wanted a future with. The only one he had wanted to see at the end of each wearing day on tour, tears clogging his throat up to the point where he pretended to be asleep so he could avoid having to try and chat with his bandmates. The only one who could have soothed whatever ferocious ache that had materialized deep within him while on the road, that he had foolishly tried to replace with a million different things that only ended up leaving him more empty. The only cure to a homesickness that had ruined him in the end. 

You had never been a burden. But he was fucking it all up, and he was watching the weight of that belief fall down upon your shoulders again. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that!” he’s desperate now, struggling to find ways to fix this. There was a fine line when it came to the fight, a dance between seeing you alive and willing to put up your fists for whatever was left of the two of you versus seeing you broken and unwilling to help him fix it, and he’s sure he’s crossed it. Irreversible damage is being done, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, “It wasn’t- You weren’t- The problem was never…. Never….”

Fix it, fix it, fix it. 

“Don’t say that the problem wasn’t me,” you huff out, almost laughing, looking right at him. Dead in the eyes, but still putting up the fight, “If I weren’t the problem, you wouldn’t have pushed me away. You would have- I don’t know, just let me in. We were supposed to be a team.”

He can’t deny a single word falling from your mouth. You’re right – he knows you’re right, sure as he knows the sun sets in the West, and he knows there’s nothing to be said that can fix this. 

He chose to break this. This wasn’t some terrible accident; Eddie had gripped the wheel with both hands, shaking white knuckles in control, and had driven the two of you straight off the road. 

—

He can’t breathe. 

It’s all he could think about the moment he saw your contact light up the screen of his phone, as he swiped to answer, as he said his pitiful hello. Your voice doesn’t unlatch the tightness from around his lungs, your sweet words do nothing to lighten the load upon his chest. If anything, he almost swears you’re making it worse.

He can’t breathe, because he can’t handle you making it worse. 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He wasn’t supposed to dread the phone calls. He wasn’t supposed to come up with lies about how his day has gone. He’s not supposed to be jumping through hoops to guarantee you can’t find out the truth.

Whenever he’d imagined these calls amidst his daydreams for this very life, give or take, he’d always assumed they’d be boiling over with the truth. That spilling out the mundane details of his day would come naturally, that he’d probably make you laugh by making sure you knew exactly which pair of mismatched socks he’d thrown on for the day. He thought he’d be honest; he’d be happy, and he’d be honest.

At the end of the day, he supposes he’d always thought the truth would have been something different. 

He’s staring at the bottle of pills recently prescribed to him through whatever low-profile doctor his manager had found for him, meant to help him sleep these days after he’d had an entire private breakdown over his restlessness and a proper scolding for his ever-growing use of plain pot, and your voice prattling on about something is entirely lost on him.

When did that happen? When did he zone out when you, of all people, spoke to him?

You’re mid sentence when he cuts you off, “Hey, baby.” 

A pause that feels like eternity to him, but probably goes unnoticed by you. He’s gotten good at that – he’s gotten good at churning out little infinities for himself amongst the seconds for others. Time to ruminate, time to rot, time to decay. A coping mechanism since privacy has become a foreign thing. 

“I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says the lie so easily, it scares him. His palms shake at the realization that it was so simple, so second nature to him now. 

Lying to you. He was lying to you. A realization that twists his gut painfully as it settles deep within him. 

Soundcheck had finished over an hour ago. Showtime wasn’t for another two. He had the time for you – he had specifically made sure to have the time for you after dancing around your texts and calls the last week. 

Why was he making up an excuse to end the call? He’d made the time. Why?

“Oh.” 

He can’t fucking breathe. He can hear the disappointment, and he can’t fucking breathe.

One little word. Two insignificant letters. They ruin him in too many ways to formulate. 

“Oh, that’s fine!” your desperate attempt at a recovery doesn’t fool him for a second, but maybe you had sensed his mind being so far away. Maybe you had assumed he’d fall for the nauseatingly fake mask of joy, “Go, they need you.” 

Do they, though? Do they truly, genuinely need him? 

It had been a question keeping him up lately. The very question that was meant to be quieted by the Zolpidem that he continues to burn holes through the bottle of with his heavy eyes. 

Lately, it had felt a lot less like they needed him, and more like everyone around him needed the idea of him. They needed the rockstar, the frontman. They needed the man who would get on stage every night and sing his heart out, who would smirk at a crowd of adoring fans and wink at them in order to send their hearts racing. The charming trickster who could produce honey words both over a record and over interviews, luring in new fans at every corner. 

They needed his hands, only so that they may write words across pages and play instruments across tracking. 

They needed his vocal chords, to sing the lyrics to market, and to smooth talk the early morning show host. 

They needed his heart, so they could tear it apart and devour it right in front of him, uncaring that they would leave him with nothing but a bloody mess by the end of it. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and he knows you won’t be able to taste the dryness of it. His entire tone has been flat – the laugh is no different. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?” 

He hates rockstar duties. He hates it all. 

He hates the lights that are always too warm while he’s up on stage, gasping with every breath to try and find the joy once more in his tired bones. He hates the tight schedule, and the way he can’t even have enough free time to leave his hotel room to see half the cities he’s visited. He hates the flashing phones across the crowd, all vying for a photo more than they are a connection.

He’s being drained dry. He has nothing left to give – by the time he’s meant to come home to you, he will have less than nothing. 

“Of course. Go give ‘em Hell.” 

His fingers can’t work fast enough. Your soft oh had broken him, but this shatters him. 

Because that’s what they want, isn’t it? They want him to give them Hell, packaged in the euphoria of a false Heaven. And yet, at the end of the day, the only one receiving the fires of the Hell is him. The loneliness, the demanding weight of the world, the bottom of a parched well. Everyone else lives in a dream from what he can give them, but Eddie? 

Eddie is left with nothing. 

He hangs up just in time for the first sob to leave him. Dry as he felt, dry as his laughter. He couldn’t even choke out a pathetic love you. And his ears are ringing, and somewhere in the buzz, he tries to decipher out the last time he had said those words to you. He knows the sound of your sweet tongue awarding him the affection – you say it at every chance you get – but he can’t recall when he’d last offered you that piece of his soul. 

Did he still love you? 

Yes, the violent thing in him sobs as he lets out another croak, doubling over and tossing his phone away blindly, I do. And that’s the issue. 

He was a ticking time bomb now. He knew there was an inevitable end coming for him, and he was terrified he wouldn’t survive this tour. 

And you – his darling light, the one he was supposed to race home to and was supposed to hold close to his heart as motivation to make it through so that this tour would not be the end – wouldn’t survive it either. The blast radius, the implosion. You were something too soft, too gentle to handle that. He couldn’t do that to you. 

He couldn’t ruin you. And so he was pushing you away. 

Somewhere through the gasping breaths and shake of his shoulders, he reaches to find his phone again. His eyes burn, but no tears come as he stares down at a now cracked screen. He’s hyperventilating – he can’t catch his breath, no matter how wide his chest and lungs try to expand. It’s been stolen from him.

All of it has been stolen from him. His happiness, his dreams, you. 

A month back, he had to change his lockscreen from his favorite photo of you. It had been at a party, and one of the sleazes dressed in leather and cigarette smoke had thrown his arm around Eddie just in time to get a peek at his lockscreen. 

‘Take a load of that,’ the stranger had commented with a low whistle, whiskey on his breath suffocating. 

Eddie had tried to not judge him the entire night. Sometimes, when he was looking at him, he saw the reflection of himself these days. 

‘What?’ Eddie had tried to laugh off, looking more properly through his drunkenness at that vibrant photo of you. His girl, the one he wanted to go home to. All big smiles and aching cheeks, laughing probably at something stupid he had done. 

He could see your bare thighs brushing the sheets of your shared bed back home – it started a hollow ache of longing to feel them wrap him up again. The sheets, your thighs, your arms. 

The small bunks on the bus and the hotel rooms didn’t compare to sleeping next to you. He thought if you had been there, if you had been with him, maybe this all would have been easier. 

‘That fine piece of meat on your screen, man,’ the guy motioned vaguely with a deep chuckle. ‘Fuck, is that what’s waiting for you back home?’

The sinking feeling had started then. The urge to flip his phone over and hide you away began to accumulate, his hand twitching with it. 

‘Yeah, that’s my girlfriend,’ he had said. Choked the words out. Tried to brush off his worry.

That’s just how the guys on the road had spoken. It was fine. It would be fine. 

‘Shoulda brought her on the road,’ the man had sighed. ‘Then we all could have gone a few rounds with her.’

Eddie had never leapt up from a couch quicker. He had also never vomited up more of his guts in a stranger’s plants than he did immediately upon running out the back door. 

Your photo had been exchanged for a stock image the next day. 

The memory still makes him sick. 

He swipes right over that very stock image, one he never cared enough to change because the only photo worth replacing it with was one he could no longer share with this world, to unlock his screen to find his texts with you already open. 

His thumbs are shaking, alien, almost unwilling as he commands them to type a message. 

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be pushing you away. He shouldn’t be sinking deeper into this crowd of uncaring faces, of people who only want him for what he can give them. 

Maybe he should come crawling back to the one who wants him for his hands, and the way you could hold them out in your lap as you traced the softest of patterns over sensitive skin, a secret message of adoration poured from your own fingertips. 

Maybe he should confide more in the one who wants him for his vocal chords, and for the conversations that could be had in the middle of the night, upholding his opinions on anything and everything with the most importance. And in the shield of the night, sometimes even the day, he couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing – not with you. 

Maybe he should remember to love the one who wanted his heart, simply to handle it with care instead of devourment. 

The simple message of I love you is typed out. His thumb hovers over the small send button. 

Maybe he should let you back in. Maybe he could survive this. 

His thumb diverts suddenly, backing out of the conversation, back into the rows of texts awaiting to be opened and read. Left to smolder just like all his missed calls, missed birthdays, missed holidays. Friends from back when everything felt real, and more sleazes in leather and cigarette smoke. People who devour. People who want what he gives, never what he is. 

Wayne, somewhere amongst the missed connections, just asking if Eddie is alive. If his boy is okay. 

He goes ignored, just as you had as of late, and for all the same reasons. Same lump stuck in Eddie’s throat, same weight on his chest. 

The thumb finds its way to a text chain with someone who can’t fill the hole in Eddie’s chest, but he certainly had offered something at one of those after parties that might be a good place to start. 

Maybe Eddie should just get more of that, more sweet releases without a prescription, something to send his mind swirling until he forgets that you, that Wayne, that even he exists. Yes, that might be the best idea he’s had all week – he types out a message and hits send without hesitation this time to a stranger with his worst interests in mind, asking if he might have any more of that snow in the dead of July he’d been offered at the party. 

His text to you, unfortunately, is never sent.

—

“You want me to let you in?” Eddie suddenly says as he snaps back into his body, into his current mind and current situation. 

He can’t change the past. He’d give anything – God, he’d give everything – to go back to that night and make different choices, better choices, but he can’t. 

All he really has is the here and now. This version of him, and this version of you. The current you, who hates him and absolutely should. The current him, who’s six weeks sober yet has finally seen the light. 

The past doesn’t matter, and yet the past is the entire reason for this. 

“Yes,” you laugh as dryly as he had that night during that final call, throwing your head back in your own desperation, “Jesus Christ, yes. That’s all I ever wanted, all I fucking asked f-” 

He cuts you off by suddenly storming off, but it’s not away from the situation. Not this time. 

Down the hallway, through the door only himself and you have ever passed through. Across the carpeted floors and straight for the stack of notebooks scattered beside the couch. 

Somewhere in the mess, he finds the notebook he’s looking for, right on top of his laptop he needs. 

You trail in behind him, seemingly stunned by his rash actions – except they’re not that rash. He may be moving fast, erratically even, but this is the most sane he’s ever felt with how he’s handling the situation that has become the two of you. 

“You want me to let you in?” he repeats, and you stare with confused eyes, mouth barely agape, entirely lost for a moment, “Fine. I’ll let you in.”

He throws the notebook your way, and your reflexes are your savior as you catch the flutter conglomeration of paper between your palms. The laptop, however, he’s smarter about. 

“Clearly, you’ve already seen my notebook of lyrics,” he says as he huffs, setting the laptop up on the coffee table, rummaging for a pair of headphones he knows he’s left somewhere in this mess, “Why not take it a step further, yeah? I have the demos right here, on my laptop. I’ve been recording them for ages, and having copies of any we try out in the studio sent over to me. I want you to listen to them, because obviously, just reading everything I wanted to say to you doesn’t wo-”

You nearly fling the notebook right back at him, slamming it down against the side of your thigh, “I don’t want songs!” 

He pauses, looks up at you, nearly deranged. “No? You just asked me to let you in, and this is me letting you in.” 

“That’s not- this isn’t-” you stutter over your words and he can see your eyes begin to sparkle with tears as you approach him, just as frustrated as he was now. “I want you to speak to me, Eddie! I’m tired of listening to second-hand accounts and I’m tired of all the versions of you, of this fight, in my head! Use your words,” you make your way between him and the table, the laptop, falling to your knees slowly, the notebook being tossed away for a moment as both your palms come to grip his knees. He can’t tell if you’re trying to ground him, or yourself, “I am here. Right fucking here, right in front of you. And after all this time, you still can’t talk to me.”

He feels the way you shake with those gentle palms on his bruised knees. He’s terrified – the rough fabric of his jeans isn’t thick enough to keep you away. There’s not enough layers of any fabric on this planet that could ever be thick enough to keep you from feeling that rot. And you must feel it – you must feel all those holes that have whittled away at the man you once knew. 

The man you once loved. 

He doesn’t think he can ever be that man again. They did more than break his spirit over the years, or crush his childhood dreams. 

Something snapped in the foundation of him. 

“I…”A lump he’s felt as though he’s lived a lifetime without finally returns. The same one from that terrible night in which he made every wrong choice possible. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Your face falls, ever so slightly. “It’s not about what I want-” 

“Yes,” he stops you, hands coming down to press over yours. Your skin is warmer than his, and he fights the urge to flip your palms up. Press the softest of your skin against the roughest of his, intertwining unworthy fingers between slots unmeant for him, “It is. It absolutely is.”

Just how silently can a heart break? 

You don’t pull back from his touch, and it almost feels like progress. Silent shattering can almost be mended with the way you only let your left palm weakly squeeze at his knee once, twice. 

He waits for the third squeeze, but it never comes. 

“Then there’s where we start,” you whisper, looking down at where his hands hover over yours.

“Start with what?”

“Fixing things.” 

You finally pull your hand away, a slow drag that sends shivers up his spine. He has half the mind to try and capture your hand in his to prevent it; one last desperate attempt to cling to you and all the ways you could heal him. All the ways you could love him. A world of possibility, another time in the Universe where you adore him and he’s never hurt you. Where his shelves are filled with photos of the two of you, together. Where he doesn’t fold you out of the frame, and where his walls are just a little less cold. 

A time, a world, where home feels like home again. 

“We need to stop saying what we think the other person wants to hear,” you croak out as you stand up, almost ashamed. As if realization has finally washed over you of just what you had done – gotten down on your knees and begged him, pleaded with him. “If this is going to work, that…. It has to stop.” 

We need to stop being what we think the other needs. We don’t know what the other needs. 

The unspoken truth you don’t need to say to him. He gets it, he really does. 

This entire relationship, this entire situation the two of you have stumbled into headfirst, needs to be a fresh start. As far as either of you should be concerned, you need to be strangers. No history, no marks, no dust. 

It’s a challenge Eddie would have balked at a mere six weeks ago, but that he faces head-on now. The thought of forgetting you, untangling your soul from his, in order to make new knots doesn’t scare him as much as he should. It’s his chance to start over; his chance to start fresh and new, a clean slate he’d begged for every night amidst every new mistake he had made in your absence. 

He could do this. And by the look on your face, you could also do this. 

“Agreed,” he finally stands up from the couch, nodding more to himself than to you, “Start new. Start fresh. Some inspirational quote from those fucking Facebook moms I hate.” 

A smile nearly cracks on your face, “You hate Facebook moms?” 

“Oh, I loathe them,” he leans in a bit closer, as though he might be letting you in on a secret. Really, he’s just trying to distract you from his wound – that terrible gash in his chest this fight had opened back up, a slice from the past he’ll need the night to stitch back together, “It’s okay, though. The feeling’s mutual.”

Your laugh is weak, and it’s proof enough that it isn’t forced. “Figured as much. I guess the Satanic panic wasn’t just a Hawkins’ thing, huh?” 

Hawkins. God, he hadn’t spoken about Hawkins with anyone, any single soul, in so long that the name of the town almost felt foreign. 

“Guess not,” he quirks his mouth, tilting his head at you, trying to chase away the reeling you’re sending him on. If he thinks too hard about Hawkins, he’ll think too hard about more names he hasn’t uttered in a year. More people left behind, more memories left to burn, “So… Now what?” 

He needs to change the topic, to run away one last time. There’s other nights ahead for the two of you to open those wounds of his. Tonight is not the night. 

You shrug, looking around the room, “I mean… we have a contract to fulfill.” 

“I’m sure my people will get in touch with your people.” 

“I also have work tomorrow.” 

“I’m sure I could call a cab for you in the morning.” 

“Eddie.” 

A selfish part of him had hoped if he’d given in and fought, you might stay another night. That maybe the fight would give him everything he had wanted, and then some. 

Another night. Another clean slate. Another chance to prove himself. 

But by the break in your voice as you say his name, he knows he was clearly delusional. 

“Or I could call you one tonight,” he secedes softly, failing at hiding most of his disappointment. It doesn’t matter – it doesn’t change a thing. “You’ll probably need your beauty sleep. No need for some aggravating rockstar to interrupt all your rest with his lousy guitar playing.” 

“Stop that,” you insist, face falling a bit too serious for his liking. He had been trying to joke around, “I- Your guitar playing is not lousy. We both know that.”

“Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up.” 

He watches the contort of your face, and his chest constricts. He wants to be able to read your mind, look past that sudden stoic wall that falls over your eyes and flat lips. Chip past the marble facade to understand why those words seemingly sucked all the air out of the room just now. 

“Yeah,” you say, but you sound miles away, looking over his shoulder, breaths a bit unsteady. “Yeah… You’re, uh, you’re right. I don’t mind calling my cab-”

“I insist,” he rushes out, still scanning your face, still grasping for straws to get a glimpse inside your brain. 

What did he do wrong? What had he said? 

“You really don’t-” 

“Consider it done.” 

His phone is already in hand, and the number already half dialed into it isn’t just the city’s taxi service. It’s his driver’s.

His personal driver. Is that what had made you uncomfortable? Had you realized that before he’d even called for one of those SUVs to be your ride home? 

Was he coming on too strong for all this talk of a fresh start? 

You pick your battles, and just as he had lost the war to have you stay, you let him dial the number. Wander to the corner of the room as he talks to the man only he’s familiar with over his cell phone, fingers tracing over the few instruments littering the space. He wonders if you take note of which ones you pull away from with a smudge of dust on the pad of your finger, and if you can see the desperate wear worn into others from late nights like the night before. If you can see the scratch marks covering guitars from violent strumming, or rough circles over the keys of a keyboard he’s propped against the wall after it had stopped emitting noise due to being kicked off its stand after a particularly rough session. 

He wonders if tears can stain, and if you could see any of his panic and regret at that burst of violence. It was the night he swore off vodka. 

With confirmation of the SUV being on its way, he turns all his attention back on you, “See anything you like?”

You’d been staring at one specific acoustic guitar, one that had gathered more dust than any other instrument in the room. A stunning guitar polished to perfection, to the point of still being able to see your reflection in the onyx abyss of it below the layer of neglect. 

He knows exactly where your eyes have caught. A perfect carving of his initials, deeply cut into the rosewood right below the strings at the top of the neck. Dust had covered up the deep red painted into the hand-carved letters. 

“What?” you look over suddenly, almost as though you wanted to pretend you hadn’t seen it. But he knows you did, and he knows you had a good guess, an accurate guess, as to where that guitar came from. “I- No- I mean, yes! Sorry, I just… A lot of instruments, I guess?” 

You’re biting your lip, clearly nervous, as he forces a smile, “Yeah. Always swore I’d have a room like this when we- I had a place of my own someday.”

He knows the blood has drained from his face at his slip up. Feels the cold creep into his cheeks, as he clears his throat awkwardly. 

“You did,” you grant him the grace of ignoring it. Save him the embarrassment, and move right along, “What kind of guitar is that one?” you pause, turning back to the guitar you’d locked your sights on and jut your chin in it’s direction, “A… Yamaha, right?” 

“Yamaha F335,” he confirms, walking up behind you, looking at the dark beauty, “Nothing extravagant, but…”

“You always said Yamaha never felt cheap,” you murmur under your breath, smiling as if lost in a memory, “Under two hundred bucks, and you still sounded like Kirk Hammett when you hammered out those solos over Master of Puppets.” 

He wishes you wouldn’t do this. Not now, not when you aren’t spending the night. Not when a car is coming to take you away, and not when he knows your knees are still raw from falling to them and begging him of all people to just talk to you. 

“It was a crime,” he chokes out in a tight tone, having to cough a little to loosen up his words before continuing, “Playing such a metal album on an acoustic. Always sounded better on Sweetheart.” 

You continue to tear him open, rib by rib, as you softly say, “Yeah, but Wayne always seemed to like that music a little better when you played it that way instead.”

It feels as though it’s finally his turn to fall to his knees. 

You don’t even notice the unraveling, reaching up to caress over the strings covering the simple cursive EM on the neck. Almost out of reach from where the guitar sways on the wall mount. 

“Does she have a name?” 

He has to gather himself before he can reply, “What?” 

“The guitar,” you glance over your shoulder, eyes shining just a bit. He thinks he knows why you wouldn’t face him now. Why you’d kept your back to him, “You always named your guitar. Don’t tell me you grew out of that, Munson.”

This smile isn’t quite as forced, but it quivers all the same on his lips and cheeks, “Never. His name’s Nelson.”

Your face scrunches a bit, “Nelson? His name’s Nelson?”

“Yep.” 

He can’t help the way the word comes out so short, so quipped. You’re both treading in very dangerous territory now. 

“That’s…” you nod, deep in thought as you trail off, and he wonders if you caught on, “Odd. But I like it. What was the inspiration?” 

He has to lie. He can’t admit it to you. There is only so much blood left in his body to bleed out tonight, and he simply cannot give you the full truth now. 

“A bit of a nod to the person who gifted it to me,” he offers as much of the truth he can, but if you ask him for any more specifics, he simply can’t.

You look between him and the guitar, a small smile growing, and it breaks his heart, “Oh? And who- I mean… may I ask who gifted it?” 

His entire body aches as he forces out, “An old friend.”

Eddie Munson hates himself. More than he ever believed possible, to the point of a stomach churning with sheer sickness as you nod at the oddly quiet answer, finally taking the hint. 

He hates himself. He hates what he has become. He hates what he has destroyed. 

“Sounds-” you’re cut off by the ringing of his phone, incessant chiming from his driver to announce his arrival. 

The conversation ends there. Eddie informs you your ride is here, and he trails after you slowly as you gather your things. He feels the apartment drop colder and colder as each article of you is snatched up, no malicious intent but painful all the same, until he’s finally walking you to the elevator with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“So,” you nearly stumble over your own two feet as you try to face him in the final few steps, clumsy and nervous as ever. Even if the fight has cleared some of the air, offered some clean slate, some things never change, “I guess your people will call my people?” 

He only nods, discreetly tucking his hand back away that had shot out, ready to catch you. 

“Okay,” you nod, eyeing him as though you have more to say. A million words, a million questions, a million topics to avoid. He really wishes you would spend the night. “Well, then…. See you around, I guess?” 

Bruised knees, avoidant eyes, tight throats. The two of you are such a mess, it’s no longer funny. 

“See you around, Sugar.” 

The elevator dings with its arrival, and Eddie doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s motioning you in. Away from him, away from the damage, away from the impending explosion. 

He almost wonders if you had the same look on your face the final day you’d left your shared apartment with him as he watches the two doors slide shut. 

He doesn’t linger, though. The moment you’re locked away from him, he’s rushing back to his apartment. The only one on the entire floor, entirely secluded in his tower, cursed to solitude as a private punishment. Whenever anyone had asked in the past, it had always been the excuse of privacy – but he knows better. 

Eddie Munson had torn himself limb by limb, cutting every lifeline ever tied to him, long before he’d moved into this chilling penthouse. 

He avoids the urge to run to one of his panoramic windows, trying to remind himself he won’t be able to see thirteen floors down to the street where you’re surely rushing into that familiar black SUV. He takes a sharp turn down his hallway, feeling almost robotic, returning back to that cursed room the two of you had just broken each other inside moments before. 

Straight to the back wall, and straight to the black Yamaha guitar. Straight to Nelson.

His hands shake as he pulls the instrument away from the wall just enough to see a note that barely clings to hand-polished wood, tape aged and paper crumbled. Yet the ink is still visible. The scar, it seems, is not quite healed as he reads over the messy scrawl. 

For my boy. Give them Hell, kid. And maybe give your old man a call. 

Love, Wayne.

[ethtyn]

LET'S GO OUT WITH A BANG 🚦

taglist:

@ashiyn @single-malt-scotch @goodtimeswithetho @pebbltree @crabbunch @catmaidetho @amethyst-allium @stitchthesewords

sooooo ermm i guess i get to talk about this piece now YIPPEE

i am one of those people who's constantly trying to figure out what their own art style looks like LMFAO. i take frequent breaks from art due to mental health shit so it feels like every time i come back i'm trying to find my footing again.

that being said, i had a lot of caffeine yesterday and started this on a whim and it ended up being something i'm incredibly proud of. i think it helps that i've been redrawing old emotes for a friend's twitch channel, so figuring out which brushes i like right now was really helpful, and i ended up using my personal emote palette like...a lot. that pink in Etho's eye, the purple used for shading, most of the browns are all used in my own emotes. it's wild how much having colours already picked out streamlines things!

Etho is the one i started with, of course, and ended up being one that i went back to re-draw after i'd done...three? or four? more, because the sizing wasn't right and i wasn't happy with the posing. i still wish i could have conveyed him dipping his chin into his coat fluff a little better, but oh well. i thought of the little detail of him looking at Martyn's drawing at the last second (#ethtyn4life) and it made me laugh so i did it. points to you if you caught that!

Joel was the second - life!Joel has always been fey in my head, especially after that season when he just went batshit insane the second he turned red. can't explain it, that's just how it be. i tried to give him an air of subtle menace about him but i think he just looks sleepy 💀 i'd like to do these as individual, larger pieces at some point, so maybe i can work on that more then.

Grian was the third - he reminds me of a Lost Boy here and that wasn't intentional but the Lost Boys always kind of freaked me out and life!Grian's kinda freaky so i think it fits. his little smirk is so creepy and i love him.

i don't remember who i did next after this so we'll just go in order pfft

Bdubs is SO CUTE look at him. one of the few where i couldn't make a menacing expression work, and honestly with how good his profile turned out i barely mind. i did that side profile with no reference, y'all, idk what kind of crack i was on last night. what the hell. this was about the point where i started wanting to do little lore doodles for everybody so i added the clock face - i think it clashes with the red background but what can you do.

CLEOOOOOO CLEO CLEO. i LOVED drawing them, i think their design is one of my favourites of the bunch. her hair has always been snakes in my head and AGAIN i drew those with no reference, can you fucking believe that. i loved the little detail of some of the snakes poking at the people next to her, they're so cute hehe. also Cleo has freckles now, i'm so sorry but i don't make the rules. someone complimented the teeth in the reblogs and THANK YOU!! they're not quite anatomically correct but fuck it we ball and they look cool as hell anyway.

Martyn is so smug, i love him. points if you caught that he's looking at Cleo bc Double Life, i wanted to do something a lil different with him than just another straight up symmetry tool drawing and i think it fits. he is so eye-searing tho sir please tone it down.

Lizzie is fey just like her husband, and also she is smol. i don't think it's conveyed as well as i'd like here but i also didn't want her to look like a straight-up child so i did what i could. she is So Scary with those vacant blue eyes oh my god. and drawing her hair was sooooo fun i love long hair ahh

with Gem i basically smoothed out a rough design sketch i posted awhile back and i'm so proud of the little head cock she's got going on, she looks so cool. also her hair?? idk how i did that. i love her swoopy bangs so much.

Pearl is moth. Pearl will always be Moth. so she got lil antennae and big buggy eyes. drawing that hood was so satisfying, i used to try and draw Raven Teen Titans in high school and could never get the hood to look right so seeing this one come out perfectly was sooooo good. and of course had to include a teensy moon.

that's all i've got, i think - i feel myself crashing LMFAO. maybe at some point i'll come back and say more but here's this for now!

[the-phiwi]

Phiwi!

I would love to hear your adoption story, how did Dan and Phil find you?

I am so glad you asked!

I was but a lonely kiwi sitting on a shelf, I mean, I did have my fellow kiwi friends but I yearned for something more.

I had always felt like my purpose in life was more than just to sit on a shelf collecting dust. Hoping that some stranger buys me for their garden as I sit there to rust.....

That's when a mysterious hand reached out and picked me up. My kiwi mates all watched me, the chosen one in envy.

The hand started stroking my metal feathers gently, assuring me that everything was going to be okay. They explained that I was to be spray painted gold and put on a stage in front of thousands of people. I almost shat myself. Alas, we went to the front of the store to buy the paint, and I got to see the outdoors for the first time. It was a beautiful moment.

I was strapped to a chair. I hear it's called a seatbelt, and is to keep passengers safe.

I was then taken to an undisclosed location and spray painted a bright yellow. (Mysterious hand person bought the wrong paint).

But that was okay, cause they got the right paint in the end. It felt nice when it was sprayed up my bum.

After I had dried, I got to meet this 'Dan and Phil' I had heard so much about. The dark haired one cackled very loudly when he first saw me, and the blonde one just started into my soul with a little smirk on his face.

Come show day, I was placed on a big black box. I was super nervous to be in front of all those fans. I was told about the legend that is the Golden Pig. How could one ever live up to such an iconic creature? I was afraid I would let everybody down, and that they'd wish that the pig was there instead of me. Phil gave me a pep talk before they went backstage to start the show, and I felt a little better.

After the end of the show, I wasn't sure what my fate would be. I am a pretty big kiwi, and London is 24 hours worth of flights away. Would Dan and Phil really bother to bring me back to their home? I thought I was done for.

Luckily, I was wrong, and I was brought all the way across the world to my new home in The Phouse.

And now finally, my life has a meaning. The sense of fulfilment is crazy. I got to be onstage in front of thousands of people. I am now painted gold and feel like a STAR. I have made great friends (hi Pheal and Golden Pig, ily), and have the most loving dads who treasure my existence. The Phouse is the height of luxury. When I was a lonely orphan at The Warehouse, I could have only dreamed of a life like this.

Thank you Dan and Phil for adopting me 🥝💛x

[hoonieyun]

now playing...

when the sun hits - slowdive

pairing: lee heeseung x reader x sim jaeyun

warnings: profanity, some really angsty shit, talks about mental health, reliving trauma, 18+

wc: 2303

pls ignore timestamps and possible typos lol - please make sure you read the written parts to fully understand the whole story!

you were more nervous than you thought, your leg bounced rapidly as you waited for heeseung as at your agreed upon location. 

the sound of your platform boots making a rhythmic tapping sound on the floor was all you could hear as you patiently waited for heeseung to arrive, you never even fully processed if this was a good idea but after talking with manon and jen; you were about 75 percent- wait no. 60 percent sure this was a good idea. the three of you weighed the pros and cons and ultimately you decided that you should meet with heeseung. if only they knew that you had also agreed to meet with jake later tonight but that was something you could just explain at a later time. 

so here you are now, staring at your cappucino that has long become cold, the ripples in the coffee nonstop as your leg continues to bounce and lightly bump the table you were sitting at. you chose a spot somewhere in the back corner of the cafe, for privacy reasons and just in case the conversation takes a turn for the worse; there was another exit in the back you could just run out of. 

you’re too focused on trying to figure out what you wanted to say to heeseung that you hadn’t even realized he was standing in front of you until he was setting down his own drink next to yours on the table. 

“hey, sorry did i startle you?” heeseung asks and you shake your head but you probably did look startled since you were so deep in thought you didn’t even notice his presence. you motion for him to take a seat and he gives you a tight lipped smile and a nod before pulling out his chair and sitting across from you. 

“you look good.” heeseung says just above a whisper; like he was testing the waters on what he could say without getting a reaction out of you that he wanted to avoid. 

“thanks, i’ve definitely looked better. you look good too!” you respond, trying to lighten the mood with a small chuckle to which heeseung returns with a laugh of his own. 

it’s felt like eternity since you heard his laugh and you’d be lying if you say that the sound of his laughter didn’t sting just a bit. it makes you think about all of the good times together and how those moments have now been shrouded by all of the toxic and emotional mess that you two got into the last few months of your relationship. you wished you could go back, truly. 

but you weren’t sure that the outcome would be any different if you did. 

heeseung clears his throat when he’s noticed you’ve begun to space out; “i see you still zone out pretty often.” heeseung mutters and you look up at him with wide eyes like you’ve just gotten caught. 

“sorry i just-” you begin to say but heeseung places his hand over yours on the table when he sees the tremble in your fingers. “it’s okay, you don’t need to apologize.” and the feeling of his hand over yours seems to bring you a sense of comfort you hadn’t felt in so long, especially from heeseung. you manage to calm down and steady your breathing thanks to heeseung. 

“mind if i start first?” heeseung asks and you nod. 

“i know i can go on and on about how terrible of a boyfriend i was, hell, how terrible of a person i was truthfully; but i don’t think that’s productive. 

i’d rather tell you about how good i’ve been doing and that i plan to stay this way. i’ve only been in therapy for like a month or so but it’s really helped. honestly, i always knew that i was a little messed up here” heeseung says, lighty knocking on his head garnering a small giggle from you to which he smiles at when he hears your laugh. 

“therapy has helped me realize a lot of stuff i wish i knew sooner so that i could’ve been the person that made you happy instead of miserable and i can’t take back anything i said or did but i just want you to know that i’m not that person any more. 

sorry, i mean that i am that person and i will always be that person and i need to take ownership of my behavior but i refuse to be that person any longer even if that was who i was in the past. 

im really sorry for everything i did and i know i know a simple apology isn’t going to do anything but i hope we’re in each other's lives in the future so you can see how much i’ve changed because i couldn’t imagine a life without you. 

even if it’s just to admire from afar. i’d like to be in your life…”

a single tear falls onto the surface of the table and that’s when you realize you’re crying. you weren’t utterly sure why his words had this effect on you but hearing heeseung be this sincere, compassionate, and vocal about his emotions in a healthy way made you cry. you could tell he meant it because his eyes have become glossy and this was the first time you and heeseung had a conversation about your relationship and emotions without it instantly turning into a screaming fest. 

“thank you for saying that heeseung…” you begin to say, taking a deep breath before continuing. 

“i’d be lying if i said that these last few months haven’t been hard, because they’ve been shit. it wouldn’t be fair to put all of that blame on you so i’m sorry that i’ve made you feel like you were the root of all of our problems. 

i know i’ve said hurtful things in the past and i think- sorry i know that they were all from a place of hurt but hurt people shouldn’t hurt people. so im sorry that i didn’t do my part as not only a girlfriend but as your friend to be kinder to us both.

i’m so grateful that you care enough to articulate your emotions in the way that you did and if i’m being honest i’m pleasantly surprised. i can tell how much you’ve grown in this short time and i’m happy that you’re going to continue to grow and want to grow.

i think being in each other’s lives to witness our growth is a good idea…” you respond and heeseung’s eyes light up; like he had just heard you say you love him again and although you didn’t it was something. 

“really?” heeseung asks eagerly

“but-” 

“oh…” heeseung’s voice drops low at your response. 

“i think i still need time to myself. this conversation is making me realize a lot of things and even if it’s resolving some of our issues i don’t think it’s fixed everything. 

maybe in a few months from now when we’ve both gotten the chance to do some more healing, we can start over but not right now…” you explain and you watch heeseung’s eyes lose their shine. 

“i understand… i really do appreciate you coming to talk to me. i didn’t expect you to even want to see me in person.” he says. 

“yeah, i didn’t expect it either.” you respond causing the both of you to laugh. 

as you part ways, you take one look back at heeseung as he continues to sit at the coffee table in the back. a slight pain in your chest as you watch his figure, his leg bouncing similar to yours just moments ago. unbeknownst to you that heeseung was trying to hold it together and prevent himself from crying.

you thought that after the nerves from speaking with heeseung you’d be fine to meet with jake but you were wrong. you were just as nervous, maybe even more. you weren’t sure why; maybe it was because you’ve known jake less? you don’t fully know him as a person and that made you uncertain?

or maybe it’s the fact that you weren’t sure if the issues you and jake have would ever get fixed. you wanted to fix them but it seems like jake wants to fix them a lot more than you did. what problems you had don’t compare to the issues that plagued your relationship with heeseung but after speaking with heeseung you felt like it was salvageable. 

you thanked the host and gave her a small nod as she walked you to where jake was sitting. you stood right outside of a private room at the restaurant, you had told jake that this was your favorite place because they had really good steak and his ears perked up at the word steak like he was a puppy hearing the word treat. 

he always said he’d take you here on a date one day but you didn’t think this would be the circumstance for that to finally happen. 

you take a deep breath before knocking and pulling the door open, to which you find jake sitting at the table and looking at you with a smile. you return the smile with your own and he gets up to hug you and his embrace feels warm. a type of warmth you hadn’t received from jake since the start of your relationship. 

he pulls out your chair for you and helps you into your seat, muttering a small thank you as you watch him circle the table so he could take a seat of his own. 

“i hope you don’t mind, i ordered for us. i just asked the waitress to bring us what their special was if that’s okay?” jake explains and you smile and nod. 

“yeah, that’s fine. honestly i’m not too hungry-” you explain but jake cuts you off. 

“nonsense, you need to eat. i know how you get and i’m sure all you’ve had today are energy drinks.” jake says with a laugh and you can’t help but also chuckle. 

“as a matter of fact i also had a cappucino so there’s that” you respond teasingly and a smile breaks out onto jake’s lips. like he was relieved and glad you were comfortable enough to joke around with him knowing the seriousness of what this dinner was for and how things have been between the two of you for the last few weeks. 

the two of you silently ate your meal, occassionally breaking out into conversation to catch up and it was so hard to get through the awkward tension. 

“so-” the both of you say in unison after the waitress has come by to grab your empty dishes. 

“you can go first.” jake says and you nod in response. 

“i’m going to be honest jake… you hurt me… a lot. 

i wasn’t sure that i was ready for a relatioship after heeseung and i think this proved that i wasn’t. 

i’m sorry that i couldn’t be the girlfriend you expected i was going to be but i wish you’d understand that i wasn’t in the best place and i feel like it’s not fair to have treated me that way knowing what i was going through and had just gone through. 

i was still processing so many things and then you came into my life and i thought you were a sign that i was going in the right direction but i think it was more to let me know that i needed to keep going instead of stopping at where i was. 

i really did like you jake but i think this is as far as we’re going.” it felt a lot easier to vocalize your emotions to jake because it was so fresh that you were able to just say all of it without having too much time to ruminate on everything and make yourself overthink. 

“you don’t think we can start over?” jake asks, a slight tremble in his voice. 

“i don’t know. truly, i don’t know. everything is still too fresh and i haven’t even processed my past trauma to process everything that’s happening right now. i’m sorry but i can’t give you an answer.” your explanation leaves jake nodding in silence for a moment and you can tell he’s trying to come up with what to say; like your words aren’t what he was expecting and he thought this would go a completely different route. 

“i was going to ask you to get back together in hopes that we could fix this together and we’d be able to come out of it as better people but i respect your wishes. 

it was a bit foolish of me to think you’d take me back so quickly but knowing how i made you feel and the hurt i put you through i get it. i just hope you know how sorry i am. the way i acted was despicable and i don’t even recognize that person. i’m going to do better in the future… 

i hope that we can meet again later down the line? maybe when we’ve gotten some time to ourselves?” jake asks, hope coating his words as he looks at you with so much intention and regret. 

“yeah, later down the line.” you say with a tight lipped smile as you get up to leave. 

“yn…” jake says just as you’re about to walk through that door. 

“i’ll always love you. even if i only got to actually love you for a short amount of time, i’ll always love you.” he confesses and you can’t bring yourself to turn around as tears threaten to fall down your face. 

“goodbye, jake” you say, voice shaky as you sniffle your way through the door.

masterlist - back - next

hoonieyun notes: we love open communicators!! now lets just hope no one fucks up... now playing will return soon! ive got to write out the last five chapters then its... over..!! ahhhh i can't believe we're so close to the end wahh

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[flieslikeamoron]

For the ask meme, if you're still doing it! I wish you would write a fic where either Eddie or Steve can read the other's mind, or feel their emotions, or are otherwise psychically linked in some way. :)

Hiiiii! At one point I was thinking about writing a soul bond type of thing where the bat bites create a hive mind that Steve and Eddie share. Your ask reminded me of the idea so I wrote a little bit of what that could have been like. Some dicks and stuff behind the cut.

-*-

It’s not that weird.

Sure, it’s a little strange Steve always seems to know when Eddie pulls into the parking lot at Family Video. Even if he’s in the back room, couldn’t possibly have heard the rattle of the van’s rusted muffler. 

And yes, he can tell when Eddie’s hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Can tell without asking if he’s craving a burger or spaghetti. Can tell where Eddie is in a room without looking. Can feel it like a magnet pulling. But he knows when Robin’s hungry just by looking too. Or when she has a crush on someone. He knows when Nancy’s fed up or trying not to laugh. He knows when Dustin’s about to go off on some nerd rant before he starts talking. 

It’s just because they’re friends now. That has to be why he feels so much better when Eddie’s around. Like something he didn’t know was missing clicking into place. That’s friendship, isn’t it? 

It’s not that weird. 

Not compared to all the shit they’ve been through. It’s nice, actually, the way Eddie smiling at him sinks deep into him like sunshine on his skin. The way Eddie’s pacing footsteps or the drumming of his fingers on the counter thumps in a rhythm against Steve’s chest. Even when Eddie’s pissed, it rattles like rain on a tin roof in a way Steve kind of likes. 

It’s just because Steve likes him. It’s not a big deal that he hasn’t felt exactly like this about any of the other people he’s friends with. Any of the people he loves. Different isn’t bad. There’s no reason to mention it. What would he even say? Do you know when I’m thirsty too? Do you feel like a lock turning when you touch me? That does make it sound weird. And what if Eddie says no. What if Eddie has no idea what he’s even talking about. 

No, Steve will just give him a Coke when he knows Eddie wants a Coke. And bask in the smile that gets him. There’s no reason to bring it up. To make it weird.

Until.

It comes out of nowhere, heat building low in his gut when Steve’s in the middle of putting his laundry away. He’s got the phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder, Robin on the other end giving him a play-by-play of her latest not-date with Vicki. He puts the rest of his jeans away, trying to ignore how turned on he is for no apparent reason. But there’s something fucked up about having Robin’s voice in his ear while he’s popping a boner. 

“I gotta go,” he interrupts. “Sorry, I forgot I have to-” He tries to think of something he could be doing that’s not jerking off.

“Am I boring you?”

“No I just-” He stops again. This time because he has the oddest feeling. Almost the feeling of a hand on him. Of fingers pinching into his nipple. It’s never really done much for him, having his nipples played with. But a pulse of heat goes right through his balls. He curls a hand thoughtlessly against his boner, feeling the needy weight of it. “I’ll call you in a sec.” He can hear Robin protesting as he hangs up and tosses the phone aside. 

She calls right back, but he lets it ring. Too busy tugging his pants down. He can’t explain anyway. That he just really needs to get off right now. It’s rude as hell. He doesn’t know why he’s- But he’s so turned on. He’ll make it up to her after he gets this out of his system. 

He tugs his underwear down enough to get his dick out, starting to stroke himself with one hand, the other braced on his dresser. He likes to start slow normally, get himself worked up, but he feels strung tight as if he’s already been at it for a while. He spits in his hand, spreads precome down the shaft. Watching his hand move, the head of his dick red and slick in the circle of his fingers. 

There’s something wrong with his vision, something sort of blurry like a double exposure in a photograph. He blinks. It’s like the almost there of another hand, that’s not his hand. Of a dick that’s not his dick. He can almost feel it ghost against his skin when that hand moves, off rhythm with his. It’s making his dick throb, gut snarled tight with heat. It’s making him dizzy. He closes his eyes, and tries to focus on the slide of his hand. Just his hand. Tries to picture Phoebe Cates getting out of the pool. Perfect boobs and a slo-mo smile. But the picture in his head feels impossible to hold on to. Feels like he can’t- 

And then he’s seeing himself a little hazy and far away like looking through clear water. It’s him pulling himself out of the pool in his swim team speedos. Muscles flexing. Water streaming off him. Hand running through his own wet hair, and a cocky grin on his face. 

And okay, he knows he’s a good-looking guy. But he’s not- His ego isn’t this big. This isn’t the him he sees in the mirror. It’s sort of- Everything a little better than he actually is. The him he wishes he was. 

He didn’t- The shape of it feels wrong inside his head, like it doesn’t fit right. But he’s watching himself sitting down now, at the edge of the pool. And there's someone still in the water. There are hands on his thighs. A mouth on his cock. He can’t see much of the other person but long, dark, wet hair. He can almost feel it, the heat of that mouth on his cock. The sizzle of it through his mind going straight to his balls. And every time he strokes himself it’s like he feels it in his dick, and then he feels it again somehow like an echo throbbing through him. An overwhelming feedback loop of want and need and how good it feels. God. Fuck. I’m gonna come. He is gonna come, but he hears it against the inside of his head, and it doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like-

“Eddie?” he says cautiously. Out loud and in his head too.

He feels a quick stab of shock, fear. It feels like the rest of it. Sort of the wrong shape inside his body, inside his head. And then it’s like he’s got a song stuck in his head, but it’s a heavy metal song he’s never heard before. 

“Eddie?” He thinks it harder. Tries to make it a scream, send it out past the inside of his own head. But the music keeps going, the noise of it so loud he can hardly think past it, can’t hear past it to whatever Eddie’s thinking behind it. That is Eddie behind it though, he’s pretty sure. That was Eddie just now. The things Steve was feeling. That was what Eddie was thinking about while he was getting off. He was thinking about Steve. 

Steve should be more weirded out by that, probably. Knowing he’s starring in Eddie Munson’s wet dreams is a bit of a surprise. He didn’t even know Eddie’s gay. He waits to feel shocked or upset, but outside of being kind of confused how any of this is even happening, he doesn’t seem to mind it. It’s a compliment, really. If that’s the way Eddie sees him. He kind of likes it, actually, in a deep down, self-satisfied way that makes him wonder if he does need to work on his ego after all. 

He feels vaguely guilty that he accidentally ruined the guy’s jerk off session. He looks down at his hand on his dick. He’s not sure if he should finish now. It’s like stolen valor or something. Is he even horny or was he just piggy-backing? However he got here, he’s still pretty close. He gives himself a couple careful strokes. Can Eddie feel that? Or was it just a one way connection? He heard it when Steve thought his name though. The heavy metal is still fucking blasting, so maybe he can’t hear or feel Steve past that just like Steve can’t hear him. He doesn’t know if he should risk it though. 

It’s pretty fucking weird.

The kind of weird he can’t ignore. 

He takes a cold shower, the heavy metal stuck in his head starting to give him a headache. Could you turn it down a little? he tries thinking. If it gets through to Eddie, he ignores it. Steve tries to figure out if there’s a way to turn down the volume on his end. Putting his fingers in his ears doesn’t help. He tries counting backward from a hundred and that seems like it does something, sort of. But as soon as he stops counting he can hear the music just as loud. Maybe Eddie will turn it off on his own if Steve gives him a little time to stop freaking out. 

He’s got to be freaking out. Having the dude you’re jerking off about pop up in your head has to be the nightmare scenario of all time. But how is Steve supposed to tell him it’s cool if he won’t stop putting up a wall of sound?

Or maybe Steve could try something a little less direct than whatever this head to head connection is. He tries calling Eddie’s trailer. No answer. He tries the walkie. No answer.

He wonders if Eddie can tell he’s pulling into the trailer park like Steve can always tell when he’s pulling up the street to Steve’s house. Steve can feel it. That magnet tug as he walks up the stairs. That feeling just underneath his breast bone that always seems to orient toward Eddie like a compass pointing north. He wonders if Eddie can feel that too. 

But maybe he can’t, because he looks shocked when he opens the door. Wide-eyed for just a second. The music breaks apart in Steve’s head enough that he can feel fear, just for a second. Less than that. Barely long enough to notice if he hadn’t been paying attention. And then the music starts up again, and whatever Eddie’s feeling is hidden behind it. Behind the easy laugh as he reaches out to thump Steve on the chest with the back of his hand like normal. Says, “You couldn’t call?” like Steve didn’t. Says, “You’re lucky I don’t have a life,” and tugs Steve in through the doorway. Like normal. 

For a moment Steve thinks maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he’s just like- Losing it. Maybe he's making up weird shit and thinking he and Eddie have some kind of psychic connection and hearing things that aren’t there and seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe none of it is real. And there’s nothing weird here except him. 

But there’s music in his head. And he doesn’t know this song.

[quibbs126]

Something that’s been bothering me, in Cyberverse Season 1 we hear about the Decepticon cause being made because Megatron wanted to fight against and change the corruption on Cybertron

But like, we never actually saw any of that in the flashbacks. Best you can say is Starscream having a high opinion of himself due to being a jet (or at least that’s what I think was going on? It was something about Starscream and being a jet), but you can also assume Starscream’s just being an ass, not that this is a systemic issue on Cybertron. Outside of that, everyone seems to have been doing fine, they got along and everyone was vibing and having fun, going to Cube games and chilling at Maccadam’s, going out to do some racing on a vacation to Velocitron

I do suppose we were limited to only seeing things that Bee witnessed himself, but he was there for other important events before war was declared, we could have seen some more evidence that things were bad on Cybertron before the war and why Megatron and Optimus were so intent on changing things

As it is, it feels more like telling and not showing, and I don’t really understand why the Decepticon cause was needed in the first place. Well I mean I do, but that’s because I know the story in other continuities, not because Cyberverse told me

And if I can pivot slightly, I feel like this is an issue in other shows as well. Earthspark barely went into the backstory of the war at all, only making vague allusions like the “lower-class” remark and Orion Pax getting the Matrix (which honestly I don’t remember why he got at all and if it was related to the war). And yes, Earthspark was about moving forward after the war, but also the show wanted to portray Decepticons in a more neutral light, allowing them their second chances to do better after the war. Not to mention Megatron switching sides due to realizing how far he’d strayed from his original cause. I don’t feel like telling the Terrans the original causes of the war would be out of question, it makes all the sense. Also if we’re trying to portray the Decepticons as not being pure evil, explaining the horrible conditions that drove them to starting it would do wonders. Megatron is here, he can tell the Terrans with all the correct info if the Autobots can’t

Prime also has this problem, but I’m willing to give it a lot more leeway because it was part of the Aligned continuity, which was made up of more than just this one show, and Transformers Exodus I’m told went into this backstory a lot more. So okay, it’s explained somewhere. Though personally, I wish we went into this backstory a bit more in the actual show, because all I know from it was that Megatron was a gladiator fighting for change, Orion Pax met him and agreed, then they proposed their ideas for change to the Senate and it caused them to split. I don’t actually know why they were fighting for change. Again, I know Exodus did and it was around at the same time as the show, but we don’t all have access to Exodus. And honestly it might be the reason the other shows don’t go into it much either, despite it being the only one with an excuse

Like I think this annoys me because it feels like the shows expect you to know the general backstory so we don’t have to go into it. But you’re supposed to tell us this, especially when this isn’t like Batman or Superman’s origins where everyone knows the backstory of the war

I know what the backstory is, but not because these shows told me. It’s because Emperor Kumquat told me in a YouTube video where he was explaining the Aligned backstory from Exodus, while making the point that people who only watched Prime wouldn’t know all of this. How was I supposed to know this information if I hadn’t?

And to go back to Cyberverse, I can make excuses for Prime and Earthspark; both were set long after the war started and Prime especially didn’t have much reason to go into it outside of what it did. But not only did Cyberverse have the means to show us corrupt pre-war Cybertron vis Bumblebee’s flashbacks in Season 1, it had at least a little leaning to making the Decepticons more sympathetic. They are still for the most part antagonistic, but it did make the point that Optimus originally agreed with Megatron, we had bots on both sides getting along during peace talks and Windblade being angry at Slipstream’s killer, had most of the main threats not be Megatron’s forces that had the two sides forced to team up, and by the latter half of Season 3, had Megatron be more heroic, with him saving the day from the Quintessons and wielding his own Matrix of Leadership, and working to stop the other him that he knows is coming to reclaim his Matrix. They aren’t at Earthspark Season 1’s level, but they weren’t making the Decepticons pure evil either. So I feel like we should really see what it is they were fighting for originally

[mwagneto]

the fact that almost every character in ofmd is specifically a gay man is seriously so fucking special like usually a show will have 1 character from a minority group and then that character has to be every single thing - a person the straight/homophobic audience can accept and even like, someone that deals with their issues the way they "should" be dealt with, someone who's not too much of anything but simultaneously everything because every expected trait has to be displayed at some point or another.... versus this show with its massive cast of characters who are all able to embody specific (and extremely varying) ways to be a gay man where all of their journeys and personalities and approaches to their sexualities are so unique to them but so true to people that exist in real life........ i wish i could express this better coz it's such an incredible thing to see it genuinely makes my chest hurt with how much it means to me

[bunnieswithknives]

As much as I love angst I think it would be funny if he just didnt give af

[abyssal-ilk]

how are you liking Veilguard so far?

i'm liking it!! the environments are gorgeous, the combat is fun, i'm liking all of the companions we have been given, and it's just good to be playing another dragon age game after so long. it's definitely not a perfect game by any means but i'm taking my wins where i can. i'm having fun playing it even if i don't exactly love at a lot of the writing choices, and maybe i'll write out proper critiques when ive finished the game?? but for now im chilling.

[maliro-t]

replaying dav act 1 and the way i instantly prefer the minrathous route is wild sorry antiva 💀💀💀

[nidstiniens]

dress-up estinien | [ 02 / ?? ]

[billpottsismygf]

Episode 3 of Dead Boy Detectives is the best one yet. The murder is absolutely brutal, but it's tightly plotted and has so many great character moments throughout.

This is the most attached to Charles I've felt so far. He's currently furthest down my list of favourites out of the main cast, but his performance was really moving this episode. I also loved how it highlighted his relationships both with Crystal and Edwin, and the jealousy that Edwin feels there. Interesting that that jealousy seems to go both ways, too, with Charles being the last to leave Edwin and Monty alone at the end.

Edwin and Charles are unlikely friends in a lot of ways, but I do buy it, especially when he occasionally makes Edwin smile. Here, Edwin is confronted with the fact that he actually doesn't know many of the deeper parts of Charles' life, and that he maybe hasn't shared all of his own. Really nicely done.

Edwin's sexuality crisis continues to be really compelling. I actually adore his dynamic with Monty. I know he's literally a plant by Esther, but their tiny interactions so far have so much chemistry. I also have Thoughts on why Edwin is more open to him than the Cat King, and it's the plausible deniability of it all. The Cat King was extremely upfront about what he wanted from Edwin, and Edwin could not quite bring himself to admit he even understood what that was. Whereas with Monty he's able to retreat behind his protests that "he is a boy and I am a boy, if anything he just enjoys ghosts".

Also! Crsytal and Edwin are becoming friends!!! Crystal's my second favourite character and I'm so happy they're warming up to each other. Edwin is such a spiky character but I love him and want everyone else to love him. On that note, him being understanding to Niko about her trauma also made me very happy. Edwin is not budging as my favourite character!

Small things:

Esther continues to have the best, most over the top performance. Perfect, no notes.

Niko yaoi enjoyer and general weirdo, I love her so much <3

[cathymee]

maybe it's to maintain a sense of tension & turmoil that would eventually reach an explosive peak, a sense of tug-of-war, a back-and-forth to hammer home the ideals they want to deliver and for the viewers to chew on, but although these arguments regarding hiroshi & his stance as a man torn between his loyalty for his country & the loyalty for his Filipino friends and lover is of course important, how they write these scenes & the points they present from this week alone is getting too repetitive...? literally the argument scenes from last night & tonight between adelina & hiroshi is basically the same; the ideas were the same, the dynamics were the same: the aggressive, radical adelina, bristling rage and fear over the injustices she's seen thus far, and the cautious, inspiriting hiroshi, all hopefulness and reassurance one moment as a lover, defensiveness and sternness as a japanese soldier in another. this debate will be ever-present ofc, it is one of the series' biggest conflicts, but it is unfortunately so easy to tell when it is a.) being pulled up as a main topic to move the plot along / be a necessary conflict for character development/introspection / be the conflict to deliver the morals & messages the writers want to send to their viewers, or b.) when it is being pulled up only for the drama and filler to pass the time. like watching the characters sit down to argue for 10 minutes, do other things for the plot for 2 minutes, then sit down again to argue for the next 20 minutes. lol.

[uncanny-tranny]

Quit being transphobic and adding the asterisk to make it say trans men* and trans women*. It's 2023. I thought we were past this.

This is probably about my post about trans women and trans men exchanging advice since it's been gaining traction, and I add the asterisk to signal that this isn't just about trans women and trans men. As somebody who isn't solely a trans man, it's weird to me that people have almost demanded that I just... ignore that, because it "isn't close to cisness." I added the asterisk for brevity and to signal that it's also about transfem people, transmasc people, transneutral people, genderqueers, genderfreaks, and whomever else I am not mentioning (memory loss gang, rise with me on this one).

Maybe you aren't a fan of how I indicated that difference (which is not what I have an issue with), but I truly do not appreciate being told that me acknowledging that trans men and trans women aren't the only people in this community is transphobic. If you aren't a fan of the asterisk, don't use it because that's completely neutral. But don't go after trans people who use it for literally non-transphobic reasons. Trans women and trans men are important members of the community, but they are not the only people who are trans in this space.

This will be my only response about this because I do think an explanation of my thought process in that post and posts like this would be helpful. But I'm drawing a firm boundary with how I'm talked to. This type of engagement is incredibly upsetting to me, and while I understand the aversion you may have to my language, I'm not going to be okay with being spoken to like this.

[girlivealwaysbean]

anyway im going to the gynac tomorrow and i don't know what i want the result to be

[godsfavoritescientist]

Biting the bars of my enclosure about autistic ford tonight. There's something about him using vocabulary and turns of phrase that seem "outdated" or "pretentious" that feels so painfully genuine to me. When people say he talks like that just to "try to sound smart" I wish I could explain what it's like to be so ostracized from your peers growing up that you spend all your time reading instead, to the point where you pick up your way of speaking from books instead of from people. And then what it's like for people to call you out for "talking weird" over and over again, not able to wrap their heads around why the fuck you would choose more archaic or technical or formal words than the simpler ones that surely come to everyone's minds first. What it's like to have to dedicate a sizable chunk of attention to filtering through every single word you say out loud in real time before you say it, to make absolutely sure that it isn't a word people will judge you for using or make fun of you for using, just so you'll have a chance of being taken seriously. Learning through trial and error how to filter out the words that other people don't think are normal or casual enough for the conversation, even though for you, the word choice that's "natural-sounding" enough for them is the third or fourth word you came up with when searching for the right way to phrase something in your head. I wish I could explain just how long it takes to say fucking anything after spending a lifetime doing that during every single conversation, and how repetitive and long-winded you end up being when you spend so long coming up with alternative ways of saying every little thing you ever think. And I wish people realized that, at the very least for autistic people and autistic-coded characters, speech that's seen as pretentious is really just the way they talk when they're not putting in the extra effort to filter through every word they say just so others will take the time to listen.