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estrellami-1 · 1 year

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Falling

(ao3 link)

Dedicated to @madigoround, my one constant Steddie cheerleader. I hope you like it! ❤️

It’s said if you truly want to get to know someone, tell them no. Watch how they act when they’re angry, when they’re sick, when they’re wrecked by grief.

The truth is, Eddie thinks, the way to truly get to know someone is to watch them when they think they’re not being watched.

So, Eddie watches people. He watches Tommy Hagan ascend the ranks of social hierarchy, climbing closer and closer to the top of the totem pole until he reaches the zenith and finds himself stuck with fake friends and a fake life. He’s mean, in the way that Eddie knows someone is mean to him and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Eddie leaves him alone, ignores him best he can, and hopes Tommy will have the dignity to do the same.

He watches Carol Perkins, faux-model that she is, use her body like a weapon, like a credit card. He knows that she knows that way only heartbreak lies. No one moves to stop her. Eddie knows she’s hurtling towards self-destruction. He knows she’s ignored at home.

He watches Steve Harrington. His ascent to popularity, then in the blink of an eye, his fall. How easily he shrugs off the mantle of King Steve, starts carting around middle schoolers.

How he flinches at loud sounds, abrupt movements, flickering lights.

Steve Harrington intrigues Eddie, is the thing. And Eddie’s never been the type to deny his intrigues. So he studies the fallen king more.

Some things make sense, after spring break. Some things don’t.

Steve has three smiles: the real one, the one everybody thinks is real, and the fake customer service one. He hardly ever uses the first. He’ll use the second a lot. The kids are dipshits, brash in the way only a teenager can be, unaware and uncaring of the effect their words have. Specifically, the effect their words have on Steve.

When they make jokes about his intelligence, Steve will force on a little half-smile, an unaffected air, even as his shoulders slump inward and his chin tips down.

Eddie sees it. He also sees what Steve looks like, eyes wide and wild, grinning and gesturing freely, as he discusses basketball with Lucas or football with Uncle Wayne. Eddie understands the stats he somehow manages to keep track of (even Eddie has notebooks for all his character sheets and all the math everything requires. He’s forgotten, more than once, how he’d done something for a past campaign, and digs through his notebooks until he finds it. But Steve pulls the numbers out of thin air, hardly even pausing as he finds them in his mental filing cabinet, and Eddie is impressed, to say the least). He knows Steve’s smart, even if it’s in a different way than the kids are used to.

He makes a point to mention it. Steve’s over watching the game with Wayne, and Eddie whistles as he listens in to their conversation from the kitchen where he’s making lunch. “That’s some memory,” he says, shaking his head. “I know I couldn’t keep all that straight.”

Steve blinks at him. “What, like all your D&D people?”

“Characters. You don’t want to see the amount of notebooks I have, trying to keep everything straight, and it still ends up all going to hell when I can’t find something.” He raises a challenging brow, daring Steve to argue.

Steve just laughs and leans back into the couch. “Whatever, man, I still think it’s impressive. I’ve been watching for years, it just kinda makes sense that I’d remember a few facts.”

“A few?” Eddie’s eyes light up. “Wayne, quiz him.”

Wayne snorts. “What’m I, your errand boy?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, just to be contrary. He grins at the snicker it pulls from Steve. “Please, Wayne?”

Wayne narrows his eyes at Eddie, then softens his gaze when he moves it over to Steve. “You up for it?”

Steve chuckles. “Sure, I guess. It’d be nice to see how much I actually know.”

For the next few minutes, Wayne gives a name and within a few seconds, Steve’s answered with stats about that person.

Eddie, ever the competitive soul, ends up invested, grinning and high-fiving Steve when Wayne runs out of names. “Knew it,” he said, happily noting the blush making its home on Steve’s cheeks.

“Ha,” Eddie jokes later, ribbing Dustin because he can. “Kiddo, that was worse than-” he thinks for a few seconds, then sighs and raises his voice. “Steve? Who was the guy who did the thing you and Wayne were mad about?”

Dustin judges him with his eyebrows. “Even if Steve had any idea what you’re saying, what makes you think he’d know-”

“Phil Simms,” Steve called back from the kitchen. “Great player, actually, just wrong team.”

Eddie hummed, enjoying the shocked look on Dustin’s face. “Nah, not quite doing it. Who’s the losingest team?”

Losingest team, Dustin mouths, mocking. Eddie notes that he doesn’t actually say anything this time, though.

“Depends. Jets started at ten to one, then lost their final five games. But the Giants beat the Redskins 17 to zero. They also beat the 49ers 49—heh—to three, but that was earlier in the season, and no one expected San Francisco to win anyways.” He walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a towel, a thoughtful look on his face. “Does any of that help?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie says, even though he has zero idea what Steve actually said. He’s staring, smug grin firmly affixed to his face, at Dustin.

Lucas, over on the couch, sits up straight and stares at Steve. “Did you see Montana’s comeback?”

Steve grins. “Fuckin’ wild, man, but I kinda hate Walsh for letting him. Like, I’ve been there, right? And that was…” he shakes his head. “Not good. Yeah, it’s been weeks, whatever, but an injury like that?” Steve crosses his arms, shakes his head.

Eddie stares, enraptured. Obsessed. Maybe, possibly, falling.

When the kids make jokes about Steve’s appearance, he’ll put a hand to the back of his neck and rub, force down the blush, avoid eye contact.

Eddie knows Steve’s not shy. So he doesn’t understand why Steve reacts like that until one day he compliments Steve. It’s a simple little line, you have gold in your hair, but Steve beams. Eddie’s left wondering about the difference, realizes there’s a certain type of compliment Steve’s received all his life, that probably ended up less than welcome at some point.

So Eddie makes it his life’s mission to make Steve beam the way he had the first time.

One time they’re out lounging by the pool while the kids splash around, beers in hand, talking about everything and nothing. Steve tips his head back to take a drink and Eddie realizes something. He leans forward to get a better look. “Your eyes are hazel,” he says delightedly, grinning at the flush rapidly showing on Steve’s cheeks.

Steve looks like he’d very much like to take a page out of Eddie’s book and hide behind his hair in that moment. He hides behind his beer instead, takes another sip as he waits for his face to get back under control. “Are they?” He asks, like he doesn’t know. He’s such a little shit. Eddie’s obsessed.

Another time, Eddie breaks in (is it breaking in if everyone and their mother knows where Steve puts the spare key?) and starts making breakfast while Steve’s out on a run. He almost swallows his tongue when Steve walks back in, sweaty and flushed, wearing shorts that God Himself must have sculpted just for Steve.

Instead of saying that, Eddie adopts an unaffected face and raises a brow. “Pretty sure there’s a fine for public indecency, sweetheart, and those shorts break about eight of those rules. ‘Course, no one’s gonna say anything when they’re on you.”

Steve laughs, light and happy as he accepts the water Eddie hands him. “And why’s that?”

“Because I think you single-handedly caused every gay crisis on the police force.”

Steve laughs hard enough he snorts, and Eddie’s immediately hellbent on hearing that sound again. “That so?” He asks, then pauses. “Wait, what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?”

Eddie shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Making breakfast. I wanted pancakes.”

“And you couldn’t make them at your place?”

Eddie just shrugs, a smile playing on his lips. Steve badly hides his grin as he shakes his head and turns around, citing a need for a shower as he heads upstairs. “Don’t burn the house down!”

“Betrayal!” Eddie yells back, grinning when Steve cackles again.

Eddie stares as Steve walks upstairs, enraptured. Obsessed. Maybe, probably, falling.

Eddie studies Steve. Studies him and watches him more and more. His mannerisms, his interactions with others. And he realizes something very interesting: Steve’s always the one to reach out.

He tugs Dustin into a teasing headlock, rubs his knuckles over the top of his head. Flings his arm over Lucas’s shoulders, pokes at Mike until he responds, bumps Will’s elbow with his own. Brushes his fingers over Max’s arm, pulls El into a hug. Robin is the only person who consistently pulls Steve into a hug, and even so, most of the time it’s teasing; a quick, sharp thing, jerky movements and practically pushing him away when she’s done.

So Eddie starts. Brushes his hand across Steve’s shoulders as he’s walking by. Poking at Steve’s cheeks to get a reaction. Quick, tight hugs, at first.

Or… that was the plan. The first time he pulls Steve into a hug, they’re alone, because Eddie does not want to have to deal with Dustin and his dramatics in that moment. So Eddie pulls Steve in, arms flung around him and squeezing in a half-joking manner, and Steve practically melts.

“Jesus fuck,” Eddie mutters, stumbling a little. “You good, Stevie?”

Steve pulls back, a blush making its way across his cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. It- it won’t happen again.”

Eddie frowns. “How the fuck is that what you got from it?”

Steve shrugs. “I know I can be… well, Nancy called it clingy, and I’ve had a few girlfriends in the past who called it clingy, and if it looks like a rose and smells like a rose, then…”

“Shit, Steve, no, that’s not- what the fuck were your girlfriends on? Why would they call that clingy? That’s not- Christ, Steve, if that’s clingy, sign me up. Seriously. Just warn me next time, we don’t all have the body of a Greek god, we can’t all carry our somewhat-acquaintances out of hell.” He grins at Steve, a half-thing that grows when Steve tentatively grins back.

“Body of a Greek god?”

“Oh, don’t go fishing for compliments, I know you, you’re not that shallow.” He rolls his eyes, smiles. Tentatively places his hands on Steve’s arms, just above his wrists. “You hear of something called touch-starved?”

Steve cautiously looks him in the eye. “I can guess,” he finally says, and Eddie pulls him into another hug.

This one lasts for something close to a minute, and Eddie ignores it when Steve takes a step back and molds his face back into shape. “Anytime,” he says quietly, like a promise. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agrees.

It happens again a week later.

Everyone’s over for Hellfire. Steve was in the kitchen, had been there practically since everyone had trickled in.

There’s a quiet clatter, an even quieter shit, then a pause before Steve heaves a sigh. “Eddie?”

Eddie furrows his brows in concern, motions for everyone to stay where they are, then makes his way into the kitchen, seeing Steve gripping the edge of the sink. “Steve?”

“I’ve been having a shit day,” he starts. “If… if you meant what you said. Last time?”

“Anytime,” Eddie swears. “Hey, Stevie, c’mon, the sink’s not going anywhere, let’s let go, yeah? Wanna stay down here or go upstairs?”

Steve makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Your game-”

“Will be there later,” Eddie finishes. “Here or upstairs?” Steve shakes his head, a sharp movement, and Eddie recognizes it. “Want me to pick?”

“Please.”

“Upstairs. Can you do it yourself?”

Steve makes another guttural noise, pulls away from the sink, and marches upstairs.

Eddie follows. All the way upstairs, into Steve’s room, pausing to close and lock the door. “We’re safe,” he says quietly, and opens his arms. “Stevie?”

Steve trembles as he allows himself to be hugged, hands fisting in the back of Eddie’s shirt, head guided to the junction of Eddie’s neck and shoulder.

Eddie pets a solid hand down Steve’s back, squeezing at his waist for a moment before bringing it up again, just below his neck. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re all okay, we’re all safe. What’re you seeing, Stevie?”

Steve takes a breath. It only stutters a little. “Had a dream ‘bout you last night,” he admits. “Kinda fucked me over.”

Eddie’s heart clenches. “I’m here,” he promises, and guides them onto the bed. “D’you want to be on top or bottom?”

He feels Steve’s brows scrunch against his shoulder. “What?”

“Some people need the pressure of someone on them. It’s grounding. For some, it’s too much.”

“Oh,” Steve mutters. “You on top.”

Eddie bites his tongue on the joke that wants to come out. “M’kay, c’mon, then, still not the one with the body of a Greek god.”

He feels Steve’s tentative smile as they roll over, a breath huffed into his chest. “Always liked Apollo.”

“God of the sun,” Eddie agrees. “Suits you.” He gets his arms out from under Steve, puts them on his shoulders. “This work?”

Steve hums. His eyes are shut. “Didn’t wanna take you from your game. Sorry.”

“And I told you it’ll be there later. If you need something, I want to help you get it. Simple as that.”

Steve sighs, tips his head to the side. His chin brushes the back of Eddie’s hand, and he does it again. “This works.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, watching Steve brush his chin over the back of his hand. “If there’s something you want, I need you to ask for it. I can’t read your mind.” Steve’s brows furrow as his eyes open, and Eddie clicks his tongue. “Close your eyes.” They drop shut again, and he nudges the back of his hand a little harder against Steve’s chin. “What do you want?”

Steve sighs again, gathering courage. “Want you to play with my hair.”

Eddie’s heart skips a beat. He brushes his hand up, traces the line of Steve’s silhouette, up his chin, his nose, around his eye. Drags the backs of his fingers across his forehead, surreptitiously checking for a fever. Nothing. Steve relaxes back into the pillows.

Eddie gets a hand in Steve’s hair and tugs gently, releasing to scrape his fingertips over Steve’s scalp. Revels in the hum Steve lets out. “Sunshine boy,” he murmurs. “Who takes care of you?”

“Sunshine boy?”

Eddie smiles softly, even though Steve’s eyes are still closed. “Gold hair, gold eyes. My own personal Apollo.”

Steve smiles. “You’re Dionysus.”

“Mm. God of drunken joy and madness.”

“And theater.”

“Oh, yes, how could I ever forget one of the billion things one of the billion gods was known for.”

Steve snorts. “Thank you,” he murmurs, hands brushing Eddie’s waist. “I shouldn’t need this. Any of it.”

Eddie cards his hand through Steve’s hair again. “But you do.”

“But I do,” Steve agrees with a sigh. “And you just… you’re selfless.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

Steve snorts. “You’re full of shit.”

“Yup. Selfless and full of shit. Sounds about right.”

“Oh my god,” Steve laughs, cracking open an eye to look at him. They both still, caught in each other’s gaze, realizing just how close they are to each other.

Slowly, so slowly, Steve looks away. “Go back to your game,” he whispers. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” Eddie responds at the same volume, and slowly gets up. He lifts his hand off the doorknob when Steve calls his name. “Yeah?”

“Stay? After?”

“Sunshine boy,” he says again, just to get that smile. “Yeah, Stevie. I’ll stay after.”

After comes sooner than either of them expect, but Dustin got sloppy, and what’s the point of one-shots if not to throw them to the wind when it all goes to shit, so there’s a lot of good-natured ribbing and thoughtless decisions and uncaring dice rolls before it ends and everyone’s packing up.

Dustin’s mom comes to pick up everyone who didn’t drive there, because she’s an angel of a woman, and Eddie makes excuses for why he’s staying until finally he doesn’t have to, it’s just him and Steve, and Steve’s looking at him with the softest smile and something that looks like adoration shining in his eyes.

Eddie opens his mouth to start, then shuts it with a shake of his head. “C’mon,” he says finally. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”

Eddie sits first, and Steve stands, hands wringing one another, until Eddie leans forward, grabs them, and gently guides him to sit next to Eddie. “There.” He holds one of Steve’s hands in his. “Do you want to start, or should I?”

Steve worries his lip. “Do we need to talk about it? If we both know what we’re saying?”

Eddie grins. “So if I were to start talking about buying little party hats for raccoons…”

Steve snorts. “Okay, you ass, point taken.” His smile falls. “You’ve been… really nice to me, these past few months. And that’s not why, not at all, but it doesn’t exactly hurt either. I just…” he shakes his head. “Why me?”

“Why you what? Why am I nice to you? Why have I been taking care of you? Why-” the question sticks in his throat for half a second. “Why do I like you?”

Steve smiles, bashful, and looks down at their intertwined hands. “All of the above, basically.”

Eddie taps the back of Steve’s hand thoughtfully. They both watch the movement. “Because you’re worth it,” he says simply. “Because no one else does it. No one else sees what you do for them. No one else cares. I do. I don’t think I was given a choice, honestly, you looked at me and I was fuckin’ gone. And I’m gonna keep doing this until you believe me. Until you believe that you deserve to take up space, to exist, to have wants and opinions and preferences.”

“It might take a while.”

“I’ll be right here.”

“I might never fully believe it.”

“I’ll be here forever.” He pulls their intertwined hands up to press a kiss to the back of Steve’s.

“It sounds like a lot of boring work.” His voice is high, thready. There are tears in his eyes that fall when he blinks.

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

Watery eyes narrow at him. “Did you just quote a fucking Greek tragedy at me?”

“Uh. Maybe?”

Steve snorts, shakes his head, and leans in to lay his head on Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s old news, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s head, feels his heart skip a beat when Steve responds by nuzzling his throat. “Is that it, then? We’re done talking?”

Steve sighs and tilts his head up so they can look at each other. “I like you too,” he says quietly. “Just… for the record. And I want this. And…” he bites his lip, then just as quickly releases it. “I wanna kiss you. Um. If that’s alright.”

“Sunshine boy,” Eddie murmurs. “Of course that’s alright. Get up here.” He pulls as Steve pushes up, meaning Steve overbalances and sprawls across Eddie’s lap. They stare, wide-eyed, at each other for a beat before bursting into laughter.

“Okay?” Eddie checks, even as Steve rights himself and scrambles the rest of the way onto Eddie’s lap, grinning as he plays with the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck.

“Perfect.” His grin grows and a tiny little giggle slips out, like he’s so happy his body just can’t contain it all anymore. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

It’s less a warning, more an explanation for why he’s so happy, and it has Eddie’s heart full to bursting in his chest as he slips his hands just under the hem of Steve’s shirt to rest them directly on his waist. “You are,” he agrees. He almost jokes—not if I kiss you first—but knows Steve needs this. “Take your time,” he says instead, even though he feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, like he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. His hands are steady, though, as are his eyes when he looks into Steve’s.

“Is it weird that I’m nervous?” He’s whispering now, so Eddie drops his voice to match.

“It’s a big thing. You’re allowed to be nervous. Is there any way I could help?”

Steve scrunches his nose up, then moves to rest their foreheads together. “Um. Close your eyes? Maybe?”

Eddie’s eyes immediately shut. “Take your time,” he promises. “Or we can wait. There’s no shame. I won’t be upset.”

“Yeah, but I will,” Steve jokes, and Eddie chuckles.

“There’s a movie,” he starts. “An old silent film that Wayne likes. I watched it with him because he said something about vamp, so of course my mind went to vampire. It wasn’t, to my dismay, but there’s a line. A seductress bewitches men by getting them to kiss her. One man’s about to kill her, like gun-to-the-head about to kill her, and she says kiss me, my fool.”

He can practically feel Steve’s grin. He can definitely hear it. “Which one am I?”

“Oh, definitely the seductress, have you seen yourself, sunshine? I’m the fool in this scenario. Or any scenario, really.”

Steve hums. “Dionysus.”

“Shut up.” He’s laughing, though, grinning at Steve’s giggle, then freezes when Steve’s lips land on the corner of his. “Oh,” he whispers when Steve pulls away.

Steve laughs softly, puts a thumb at the corner of one of Eddie’s eyes. “You can open your eyes.” He’s whispering again, and Eddie looks to see Steve staring at him, a small, wondering smile on his lips.

“Heya, sunshine,” he whispers, almost choking on the amount of emotions he feels.

“Hi.” He pauses, fidgets. “Can I kiss you for real?”

“Yeah. You want me to close my eyes?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just… kiss back.”

Eddie grins, wide and in love. “I was planning on it.”

Steve grins back, just as wide and just as happy. “Shut up.”

“And if I said make me…”

Steve giggles. “I might just have to,” he says before finally leaning in, slotting their lips together in a slow, sweet kiss.

He tastes like the pizza they’d been eating and the beer they’d been drinking, and underneath that is something so Steve, and Eddie wants to spend the rest of forever discovering that taste. When they pull apart, his eyes open—when had he closed them?—and land on Steve, who’s also in the process of opening his eyes. “Wow,” he murmurs, and Steve giggles as he rests their foreheads together again.

“Just about.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Steve whispers, so Eddie wastes no time in sealing their lips together again. It’s still soft and slow and sweet, and Eddie focuses on making Steve relax against him. He cards a hand through Steve’s hair, squeezes a little at the nape of his neck, runs it down his back, down his side, to knead at his hips. In response, Steve hums into the kiss, shifting a little to let more of his weight rest on Eddie’s lap. Eddie does it again and again, thrilled at the feeling of Steve finally relaxing fully onto him. They both pull away, lips wine-dark and tender, and Steve smiles, eyes still closed, as Eddie runs his hand through his hair one more time. “Keep that up and I’m gonna fall asleep,” he murmurs, and Eddie’s heart skips a beat at the trust in his voice.

“Maybe that’s my plan,” he answers. “I seduced you just to get you to take better care of yourself.”

Steve’s smile widens. “That’s the only reason?”

“Obviously,” Eddie teases. “Well, that and the fact that I’m ridiculously into you, but that seems like a separate thing.”

“Right,” Steve agrees, giggling. He opens his eyes and presses a quick peck to Eddie’s nose. “I’m kinda ridiculously into you, too.”

“Well,” Eddie says, because out of everything, of course this would be what takes his words away. “Good.”

“Good,” Steve agrees, laying his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie leans back into the couch, adjusting his hold on Steve so he’s as comfortable as possible. “G’night,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss over Steve’s temple.

He can feel Steve’s lips lift into a smile. “Night, Eds.” He presses a kiss to Eddie’s neck, and Eddie smiles as he tilts his head back into the couch.

He stares up at the ceiling, enraptured. Obsessed. Maybe, definitely, falling.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #touch starved steve harrington #I don’t think I’ll ever write him another way honestly #stranger things #steddie fic #st fic #Eddie has the patience of a saint #(mostly he’s just in love)#Steve is struggling #honestly idk how else to tag this #starambles

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boydepartment · 5 months

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hii :)) i saw ur requests and since i love how you do your piece of work, i was wondering if u could do enha texts when their partner (y/n) is failing one of their subjects at school? or smth like that? thank you!

enha texts + scenarios- when you’re failing your class!

a/n: OMG OF COURSE ANON!!! i really hope you aren’t failing any of your classes :( but i get it trust me. i am not very academic i’ll be fr

warnings- cursing

MASTERLIST

jungwon-

jungwon immediately after comes out of his room to watch you and jake try to tackle this math assignment. you were not wrong jake was terrifying while explaining calculus. eventually jungwon got bored and saw you needed a break so you both took a late night walk and got ice cream :)

heeseung-

heeseung surprisingly helped you a lot with your work. he doubted himself greatly but when it came to it he really did help you. he would read your books, try to get a grasp, and then explain it to you. heeseung is also super reassuring and holds your hand softly while explaining things.

jay-

making your studying session a competition was absolutely genius. jay had the rest of enha join the jeopardy game and it helped A TON. you would remember things because someone did something stupid and it’d trigger the memory in your head. eventually your grade rose and jay took you out 🫶

jake-

jake felt awful holding you in his arms and listening to you stress over school. he understood. as much as he enjoyed learning and growing, the numbers and grades always stressed him out to. it felt wrong to put a grade on learning. jake from this point forward made it his absolute goal to help you with whatever schooling you needed help with. to him it was a win win, he got to learn and help his favorite person.

sunghoon-

sunghoon didn’t know your history work from atom. he felt horrible that he couldn’t help as much as a tutor or something. however, he didn’t know all you needed was just someone there. your studying went smoothy with sunghoon leaning on you and feeding you when needed. he’d always remind you to eat and drink, to be honest you believed you only passed because of him taking care of you.

sunoo-

right when sunoo found out you were failing he immediately went to riki and begged him to help you with your language work. you were taking japanese and no matter how good you were at it the teacher just was not it. so you obviously needed extra help. sunoo hated to see you struggling so he would sit there next to you while riki attempted to help you as much as he could. if either of you got frustrated sunoo would have a 15 min break which consisted of ice cream and playing with your hair. then it was back to work

riki-

having riki in your home while you attempted to write an essay sounds like a nightmare. but to be honest, all he did was lay on you and go on tiktok as you typed away. you’d ask questions about a certain topic and he would look it up then text you the article for the bibliography page too. he really did help you even if he had no clue what the fuck MLA formatting was

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pumpkinpie59 · 28 days

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things that are canon in the tmnt 1987 series

donatello hates fish, especially raw fish.

michelangelo once got a job to deliver pizza so he could earn money

leonardo is an avid reader and loves the three musketeers

donatello gave up coffee at one point during season 3

raphael and michelangelo seem to be closest to the punk frogs and visit them often

all of them seem to have separation anxiety, leonardo the most.

all of them enjoy gaming, but leonardo has beaten every game at the arcade and is ridiculously competitive.

also since leonardo has beaten every game at the arcade and we know there’s math games there bc donatello said he likes them, either leonardo is good at math or he’s just a really good guesser

leonardo is a talented artist.

donatello has a college degree under the name “miss donna tello”

raphael enjoys creating disguises and is the most stylish of the turtles when it comes to their clothing.

raphael seems to have an interest in pirates

donatello has model planes in his room

leonardo is allergic to ragweed

raphael dislikes the supernatural, meanwhile donatello refuses to believe it exists despite seeing multiple ghosts in person.

michelangelo has perfect pitch

donatello cries at happy endings

donatello loves the noir genre/aesthetic, and likes to narrate what he’s doing like he’s in a noir film

the turtles were mutated straight into teenagers, and it’s implied several times they remember their lives before they were mutated, including their turtle family members. leonardo has drawings of his turtle relatives on his bedroom wall.

donatello has a kill count of 2 (from what i remember)

raphael briefly took a chemistry course

#pumpkin stuff #tmnt #tmnt 1987 #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #tmnt donatello #tmnt michelangelo #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 87 #thanks to some friends for giving me some recommendations and stuff i forgot

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scientia-rex · 4 months

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this may be a really dumb question… but what about some of the people who are (exploited on) shows like My 600 lbs Life? is there a point in time where weight loss is really your only option?

again, apologies for my ignorance.

The issue with weight is the same as anything else—if you hit a point where it’s interfering with your ability to live your life in a way that is fulfilling to you, it’s time to think about seeing a specialist. Bariatric surgery is risky, but there are people for whom it’s a reasonable choice. GLP-1 agonists are new and untested, but they’re a reasonable option for some people. But it always has to be a personal choice, based on what that person finds meaningful in their life. I have patients who will put themselves through many shoulder surgeries in order to continue playing their competitive sport of choice. I would never do that, because I don’t need my shoulder to work all that well in order to do medicine and bullshit online, my two great joys in life. Or to eat, or read, or pet my dogs, or decorate for holidays. But to that athlete, the idea of not being able to use their shoulder is excruciating—worse than the pain of the surgeries and the effort of recovery. For me, if you told me I needed surgery or a dangerous medication to be able to continue to write? I’d do it. Not even a hint of a question for me.

That math, the risk-cost-reward math, varies for every option, for every person, for every time point. It cannot be a blanket recommendation. I cannot say “every 600-lb person should have bariatric surgery.” It’s their body. It’s their life. THEY get to make the decision of whether the known costs and possible risks of bariatric surgery are worth it to them. No one else can or should make that decision.

Autonomy means the autonomy to exist in ways others might find irritating or inconvenient. It has to. So we need to fight for the rights of every single human to exist as they see fit, until or unless they are causing real damage to others.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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flowerandblood · 6 months

Text

Equation without solution

[ Michael • Gavey x painter student! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, angst, smut, trauma, mention of bullying, mention of physical and mental violence ]

[ description: Michael sees no point in worrying about anything, especially relationships, when all he needs is math. His calm, logical world falls apart when a female painting student asks him for help in calculating the best possible composition to create a portrait. Sexual tension, angst, a litte brat taming and domination kink, great childhood traumas. ]

The fragment with Michael in the trailer inspired me to write this. The whole discussion around this oneshot, whether it should be made at all, made me very tired. I don't think we'll get his backstory in the movie, but even if we did, I just felt like writing it - so here it is. Have fun reading.

Part 2 − Formula for perfection

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

Ever since he could remember, his father had explained to him that an intelligent man is not guided by emotions, but by logic. That's why he married his mother, that's why he went into the army. A long belt hung in plain sight in one of the cupboards of their house, so that he could use it to remind him this when necessary.

His father never hit him with his hand. He did not slap him, considering it humiliating for a man to do this to another man. Punishments were in the nature of a ritual, which he said he did not find pleasant either. He reiterated that only strong people survive in this world, that if a classmate beat him up at school he should not cry, but punch him back even harder.

He was afraid to tell his father when, once again after being hit by Creg, one of the school donkeys, his glasses broke in half. In panic situations he would run to his mother, who would look at him with terrified eyes and only repeat "quickly, your father must not find out".

He and his mother shared secrets, which she told him they could not tell his father so as not to upset him. Such things were the sweets she had hidden in one of the containers that pretended to be flour, or the savings she meticulously counted when he was away.

She would say that one should always be prepared, but he didn't understand for what.

One day he found a container of sweets standing by his bedside table and his mother had disappeared, leaving him and his father with only a short note, which his father tore up and said they would never mention her again.

He threw away pictures of her, all her clothes, everything, even his toys or his books, which she was the one who bought and read to him. He only managed to hide one, which was a maths exercise book that had slippery, oiled pages from which he could erase the results of equations at will and fill them in again with a dry erase marker.

This book became his favourite; he would only take it out at night when he was sure his father was already asleep and fill in all the blanks one by one, knowing them by heart.

He created his own ritual.

This calmed him down.

Later, however, these tasks proved too simple and tedious, he needed a challenge and asked his teacher, Mrs Rosaline, to recommend something to learn. She did so willingly, surprised by his diligence, and when he came in the next day saying he had solved all the tasks, she started sending him to maths competitions.

Maths was wonderfully logical and cool, you couldn't interpret it in different ways like poetry, you didn't have to get into the mind of the author of an equation to understand the result. Everything was preconceived and safe, a wrong result could always be explained, you could get to the root of it.

There was no reason to be sad, nervous or happy.

When, in high school, his tutor announced to his father that he was a genius and that he should start a career in science his father was furious. He said that mathematician was not a profession, that all his life he would remain the victim of fate that he had apparently always been destined to be.

He wasn't happy when he got into the best university in the country without any exams, he wasn't happy that he was one of the few to get his own dorm room and a big scholarship.

His father told him that he was already a man and not a boy, that he would not beat him with a belt to explain to him that he was not a genius but an idiot.

What he had learnt from his father was not to worry about such words. He would grin at him when he tried to explain to him what a mistake he was making with amusement and satisfaction as he watched the man who told him that emotions were a sign of weakness become enraged.

His father was weak.

He was emotional.

Even the army and the fact that he beat him didn't change that.

He thought that this was probably what his father, that is his grandfather, had tried to instil in him, but he had failed miserably.

He truly believed, however, that his father was right.

He didn't need emotions.

Numbers were enough for him.

He could calculate the probability of whether or not he would be able to communicate with someone by analysing quickly in his head with what frequency that person spoke about things that did not interest him.

He didn't consider whether he liked them and didn't even have any idea how he would have known that. He recognised that deciding on the basis of chemical reactions in his brain about his acquaintances was absurd.

Just because he didn't feel anything didn't mean he wasn't laughing or enjoying himself. On the contrary, he smirked a lot, usually while listening to other people's discussions or when he managed to get someone off balance.

Wealthy alpha males who owed the place he had earned only to their rich parents reigned around the university like kings, pretending to be intelligent, studying law, medicine or banking without having a clue what they were doing were his most common victims.

"I could never defend a rapist or a murderer. I don't know, it makes me flinch at the mere idea." Said Kyle once when they were sitting in the library, them pretending to study, actually sitting over open books they weren't concentrating on and talking, distracting him.

When he needed real focus he would study in his room, but when he felt like a bit of entertainment he would go out to listen to them.

It was better than a comedy in TV.

"After all, every man deserves a defence lawyer, he's innocent until the court hands down a final verdict." Matt, a boy who read a lot and could memorise things, replied, throwing quotes from his sleeve without much understanding of them. Kyle snorted, shrugging his shoulders.

"So what? Sometimes you subconsciously know this person did it by looking at them or the evidence is incriminating enough." He replied with a certainty that surprised him.

He corrected his glasses on his nose with his pointing finger, wondering how this moron was going to defend anyone in court if he himself was constantly undermining his client's innocence in his head while he himself wanted to be the judge against him.

"If it was as you say, there wouldn't be so many innocently convicted people in prison. Evidence seems incriminating until one new clue, piece of evidence or witness comes along that changes everything. It is the duty of the defence counsel to look for such details to the best of his ability, and not to judge his client unless he himself wants to plead guilty." He heard a second, frustrated voice and lifted his gaze, noticing a girl standing by the bookcase who had heard their conversation while looking for some book.

He recognised her only by sight, and knew that she had studied painting, so her person did not interest him at all. However, what she said frustrated Kyle and disturbed his nepotistic sense of superiority, so he gave this scene his full attention.

"I didn't know kids drawing with crayons knew anything about such serious matters as criminal law." He said piteously, a mocking sweetness in his voice, his gaze feigning warmth, meant to bring her out of her funk.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was looking at him like he was an idiot.

"I don't need to know this to realise that no amount of money will make you a good lawyer. I feel sorry for your future clients, because you will destroy them yourself." She replied, raising her eyebrows in amusement, completely unfazed by his insult.

It surprised him that she looked happy and pleased to see his angry face, not letting him get a word in edgewise, grabbing the book she was looking for and walking off towards her friends sitting at a table in the distance.

On his way out of the library he heard her voice, heard her laugh, light and unforced, glanced at her and their gazes met for a moment before he walked out into the corridor.

He had forgotten about her until an incident when, sitting in the university restaurant, he noticed Kyle walking past her and pretending to stumble, the entire contents of his cranberry juice spilled on her dress, leaving big pink stains.

"Sorry, are you okay?" He asked, feigning seriousness and concern, and she stood up, furious without even speaking to him, walking away.

He watched curiously as Kyle sat down with his friends and high-fived Matt, clearly pleased with himself, putting his arm around some silly giggling girl.

After a while, however, that girl came back, dressed up, wearing only a man's long-sleeved shirt all soiled with paint, covering the small part of her thighs that she apparently used as an apron while painting, socks and trainers on her legs.

He felt something strange seeing her soft thighs, thinking of the fact that he himself wore similar shirts, and took a sip of coffee from his cup, watching as she sat back next to her friends, saying something quickly, going back to eating her lunch, unconcerned.

She laughed.

He shuddered when their eyes met and quickly glanced at Kyle, who was watching her from afar, licking his lips, his leg moving in impatience, the girl he was embracing whispering something in his ear, but he wasn't listening to her.

He was thinking.

Usually when he had to move from one building to another he went through a side exit, so as to have a bit of peace and quiet, but on this day he decided to walk through the main square, walking on its right side, looking through the windows.

He was not at all searching for her with his eyes when he saw the rows of easels and people around the model, dressed in historic Renaissance costume.

He didn't feel the heat stroke at all and stopped involuntarily when he saw her sitting with her back to him, her canvas smaller than the others, she sat closer, focused only on the portrait.

He could see her underpainting, just an outline and a sketch, and the lines she had drawn to help herself.

The golden ratio.

He shuddered at the thought that she was deliberately using mathematical proportional division to achieve a subconscious effect of harmony in the whole composition, which was, after all, just a base for the actual layer with chiaroscuro and colours.

He gasped when one of his year mates slapped him on the back, asking what he was looking at, and when he saw what he was observing behind the window, he laughed.

"These artists. They will die poor, but at least in their mind they will have created something outstanding. Until a critic comes along who says what they've painted is ugly." He muttered with amusement, putting his arm around him as if they were good mates, although they were not.

He looked back and noticed with pounding heart that this girl was turning over her shoulder, looking in his direction.

His friend had said something about the Mona Lisa, about how ugly she was and that he didn't understand how that portrait could be considered the most beautiful in the world, but he was unable to focus on it.

The golden ratio.

The balance of the composition.

Her painting was thoughtful.

He was convinced that painters only recognised their own artistic intuition and thus created ugly paintings, which they then called contemporary art.

He didn't think about her, or at least tried to until his mates told him that Kyle was throwing a party, to which he was obviously not invited.

"Apparently he even invited the girl he doused with juice at the time as an apology. Bruce says he recently brought her flowers during her classes and that he seems to have a crush on her."

"Sometimes it's one step from hate to love."

He didn't like the uncomfortable feeling he experienced in his chest, a sort of sting and tightness in his throat. He went back to the equation he had just solved without listening to them further.

Even if someone didn't know there was supposed to be any kind of party going on, they had certainly heard it that Friday night, the music, laughter and screams from Kyle's room echoing loudly through the dorm.

Even though women weren't allowed in there there were plenty of them, he could hear them running to the toilet, squealing and giggling, driving him furious as he couldn't concentrate on what he was reading. He pulled down his glasses, massaging the space between his eyes with his fingers, closing his eyelids, trying to calm himself.

His emotions wouldn't change anything.

He shuddered when he heard a knock on his room and looked uncertainly towards his door. He feared it was Kyle and his pack who had drunkenly decided they would have fun at his expense.

He swallowed loudly when he heard her voice.

"Can I come in?"

He felt his heart start pounding hard, a multitude of thoughts running through his head. He tried to analyse whether he should do it or not, what she might have wanted from him, but nothing came to mind, there was a complete void in his brain.

God.

"Come in." He heard his own uncertain voice, and after a moment the door opened and there she stood.

She came in smiling and cheerful, happy for some reason, closing the door behind her, looking around his room as if she had come at his invitation, wearing a large long-sleeved sweatshirt with the university logo reaching halfway down her thighs, long light wool socks and trainers on her legs.

He wanted to say something, to ask why he owed this visit and what she wanted from him, but all he did was stare at her legs, at the small patch of her exposed naked body between her sweatshirt and the material of her socks. He felt a strong pulsing in his black sweatpants and swallowed loudly knowing what it meant.

Fuck.

He'd only fucked twice in his life, and they'd been fairly inept acts of physical intimacy between a man and a woman, where they'd pursued their fulfilment on him, not caring much about him, maybe even imagining he was someone else, some more handsome boy who just happened not to want to look at them.

It didn't bother him, because he didn't feel anything for them himself, they didn't even arouse his desire, but they were just very horny, and he decided that he didn't want to remain a virgin for the rest of his life.

It had been more of a relaxing than a pleasurable experience and he didn't understand why men were so overpowered by it, but now, looking at her, he felt his brain and his logic start to give up in favour of what was going on in his trousers.

"You didn't go to the party?" Her light, gentle voice snapped him out of his reverie, causing him to lift his eyes to her face, which, to his surprise, seemed very pretty up close, her eyes large and bright, framed by long lashes, her pink lips curved in a smile.

What made her so happy?

Why did she come to his room and ask such things?

"No. NFI." He replied dispassionately, lowering his gaze to her legs again, unable to contain himself, covering what was happening to him with a book. She blinked, furrowing her brow.

"What?" She asked with amusement and curiosity.

"Not Fucking Invited." He explained and she burst into soft laughter, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard anyone react like that to anything he'd said.

"Maybe it's better for you too. I went there for a while, but they act like pigs in a shed. A friend told me I could find you here so I thought I'd take the opportunity." She said calmly, walking over to his desk, leaning over his books. He wondered with a pounding heart how she had the confidence to just walk into a stranger's room and talk to him as if she had known him for years.

He chuckled and shook his head, running his hand over his face in an attempt to hide his nervousness and what his imagination was suggesting.

"Are you going to tell me why you came here, or are you going to continue wasting my time?" He muttered ironically, figuring that by doing so he would somehow discourage her or force her to stop pestering him.

He blinked and lifted his knees higher when she suddenly sat down next to him on his bed, as if just waiting for that question, excitement in her eyes.

"I've heard you're a mathematical genius and that's a very good thing, because I need someone to help me determine the right proportions for my painting."

She said quickly and he felt his heart beat harder, he got warm in his lower abdomen and all he could think about was wanting to back off and run away.

"Isn't the golden ratio and Fibonacci spiral enough for you?" He muttered, knowing that it was these two proportions that were usually enough for artists to create their compositions. She hit her knees with her palms as if he had said exactly what she assumed.

"No! I want to analyse it more, but I don't have the tools to do it. Nor an exact mind. I want you to help me, take a look at my sketch and tell me what you think could be improved. From a mathematical, compositional point of view." She said with an excitement that frightened him in a way, a gush of enthusiasm that he didn't know what to do, how to discourage her with.

"What's in it for me?" He asked, recognising that perhaps a materialistic approach would discourage her, yet she merely twisted in her seat, completely unmoved, apparently recognising that he was entitled to demand payment for his contribution to her work.

"And what would you like?" She asked lightly, and he swallowed loudly, his gaze involuntarily escaping to her thighs, to where he could see her bare skin.

He looked at her face again, hoping she hadn't seen it, but something in her gaze told him she had noticed it, her lips tightened. He felt his heart pounding like crazy, he felt like he was just going through some kind of heart attack.

"Do you want this?" She asked softly, warmly, and he threw her a shocked look, wondering if she was implying what he was thinking, his gaze escaping to her thighs again.

Fuck.

Did he want this?

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly, trying to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. He felt his pupils dilate as she corrected herself in her seat so that her sweatshirt lifted up slightly, he had a feeling that a millimetre would have been enough for him to see her underwear.

"You can touch me if you want. Just gently. Don't throw yourself at me." She said softly, a blush on her cheeks, her eyes warm and understanding, he even thought she seemed slightly embarrassed, her words sounding innocent despite the obvious subtext.

He wanted to tell her that she thought too highly of herself if she thought he was so desperate, but instead he just looked at her with his lips slightly parted, fighting with himself.

He wasn't sure if his mind controlled the movement of his hand, the way it involuntarily rose and gently touched her thigh, stroking it in a slow, steady up and down motion. He heard her sigh softly and a shudder went through her, saw her lean back and close her eyes.

He couldn't focus on anything other than the thought of how soft and firm her skin was, he wasn't sure he had ever touched anything more pleasurable. He felt both shame and thrill at the thought of how painfully hard he was, tightening his lips and swallowing with difficulty.

He glanced at her face again when, after a moment, she opened her eyes and looked at him with a warm, misty gaze, as if she had drifted away with her thoughts somewhere for a moment. She smiled, but there was no mockery in it, her expression had something of girlish innocence.

He didn't quite understand what was just happening between them. His mind wanted to classify this as a prelude to physical intimacy, but he wasn't sure he was right. He felt immense tension and lust, but also a sort of tightening in his pit, intrigue and anxious anticipation.

"If you want, we can kiss. You have such full lips." She said softly with some kind of admiration and sincere desire, from which he felt a tightening in his throat.

He wasn't good at choosing his words when it came to this kind of discussion, and he didn't know completely how to act, so he just stared at her, her thigh under his hand seeming to almost burn him.

Seeing the lack of any reaction from him and the clear shock painted on his face she moved a little closer to him, there was something encouraging in her movement and gaze, some kind of comfort and concern.

She was close, but far enough away to still not invade his space, giving him the sense that she was waiting for his decision.

He stared at her, feeling that his cock hidden in his trousers was about to explode, all swollen and throbbing and after a moment their lips pressed against each other in a sudden, wet dance of tongues and teeth, their hands clenched in each other's hair, the loud, lewd click of their saliva echoing in his ears louder than the muffled music coming from several rooms away.

"Be gentle." She just whispered into his mouth between their drawn-out, sticky kisses, and he hummed at her words, smelling the pleasant scent of her shampoo in his nose.

He grabbed her softly around her waist and seated her on his thighs with his arm around her, throwing his book to the side, rubbing against her from underneath, letting her feel what she had done to him.

He heard her sigh in contentment at feeling how hard he was, both of them beginning to pant loudly as she began to massage him with the motions of her hips, herself clearly taking pleasure from it.

He clamped his hands on her buttocks and drew in the air loudly feeling that she had no shorts on underneath, just her underwear alone, and for some reason it turned him on even more.

Had she planned this all along?

She moaned feeling his hands slip under the material of her panties and squeeze her bare skin with confidence, she ran her fingers through his hair as the tip of her pink, wet tongue ran over his upper lip. He felt a strong shiver run through his entire body and involuntarily began to pant along with her, having never experienced anything like this before.

Her touch, though filled with desire, was not cold and crude, focused only on her pleasure, her hands stroking his hair, his cheeks, his neck with tender, caring movements, her firm, full lips merely teasing him, not wanting to give him any more full kisses, so he only growled, frustrated, pulling her forcibly tighter, sliding his tongue deep into her throat.

He didn't even feel the need to undress her, the very thing they were doing now, the senselessness and yet purposefulness of it made him shiver, her certainty of what she wanted.

Was she really going to do this?

Sleep with a total stranger?

What was the logic in this?

He shuddered at the thought that maybe there was none.

None.

She wouldn't let him think about it, he drew in the air loudly as he felt her nimble fingers untie his sweatpants, slipping them down slightly, exposing what was underneath them, he felt his hard, throbbing manhood being enveloped by the cool air.

He saw her rise slightly, with a movement of her hand apparently pushing the material of her underwear aside, positioning herself above him as he grasped his length in his hand, automatically directing it between her thighs.

"− I'm taking pills − I'm clean −" She whispered softly and he just nodded, not knowing what more he could answer, looking at her with his lips slightly parted, feeling like his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

They both moaned embarrassingly loudly and squeezed their eyelids shut as she lowered herself onto him, slowly pushing him deep into her body. He could feel how wet she was, how her fleshy muscles pulsed hungrily against him, how tightly they wrapped around him on all sides miraculously enhancing his sensation.

She lifted herself up with a loud click of her moisture only to fall back down, riding him in a slow unhurried rhythm, and he just leaned down and sank his face into the hollow of her neck, taking in her scent, pleasantly sweet and fresh, panting loudly.

She embraced him, stroking his hair, clearly sensing his uncertainty, terror and desire mixed together. Unwittingly, his hips began to respond to her movements with sure, deep thrusts, to which she moaned loudly, something of helplessness and delight in her sounds.

"− do you want to stop? −" She mumbled softly, kissing his hair with gentle, warm click. He lifted his face finding her lips in a greedy kiss before turning her onto her back, recognising that he couldn't take it any longer, that his cock was about to explode.

"− yeah − I want to stop very, very much −" He growled frustrated at the way she was teasing him, resting one hand on the backrest of the bed in front of him, the other holding her hip tightly, sliding into her with rapid, quick thrusts from which she began to moan and pant loudly, startled, looking up at him with her lips slightly parted.

"− don't you feel it? −" He asked ironically, thrusting his cock so deep into her that he felt like he would pierce her stomach, her body arched backwards as if trying to escape from him, he felt his thighs all sticky from her juices, their bodies smacked against each other quickly with a loud, wet slap.

"− please −" She mewled and he felt a shudder as well as heat in his lower abdomen, something in the way she said it, in the tone of her voice, in her gaze made him lick his lips feeling that just a moment more, a few more thrusts and he was about to come.

"− please, what? − can't you put a fucking sentence together anymore? − you like it when someone fucks you so rough that you don't have words, huh? −" He hissed and groaned low as he felt her walls clench tightly around him at his words, her thighs spread wide in front of him, allowing him to slide into her as deeply as he wanted in a gesture of total submission.

"− I'm sorry −" She mumbled, looking at him helplessly like a rebuked child looking at a parent, and he thought he could devour her whole right now, fuck her all night if she wanted to, if she would react the way she did now.

"− good you're sorry − fucking brat −" He growled, panting loudly along with her and suddenly, without even knowing why, he kissed her greedily, impaling his cock into her with quick, brutal thrusts.

He felt her come, her walls began to clench on him greedily, not wanting to let him go, her whole body was trembling, she tried to push him away, sobbing and moaning with pleasure into his mouth.

He fucked her through her orgasm until he finally gave in and cum inside her, panting loudly, not recognising himself, his sounds or his reactions.

"− oh God − fuck − fuck − fuck −" He mumbled clenching his eyes, coming down from his peak, still moving inside her, hearing her loud breathing underneath him.

What exactly was that?

He collapsed on top of her, completely powerless, smelling the scent of her hair, her hands embracing his waist. They laid like that in the light of his bedside lamp, breathing heavily, listening to the muffled music, the screams and laughter from the party taking place a few rooms away.

He swallowed loudly feeling that he wasn't sure where his body ended and hers began, they were both all sticky from her moisture, her insides hot, pleasantly enveloping him on all sides, giving him some strange sense of security.

He thought it was for some of the hormones that are released after orgasm designed to bring partners closer together and bond.

He shuddered when he suddenly heard her soft, quiet voice.

"So what do you say? Will you help me?" She asked shyly, quietly, and he sighed heavily, silent for a long moment.

No.

"Yes."

_____

Part 2 − Formula for perfection

@at-a-rax-ia @daemonskelitsos @alphard-hydraes-blog @travelingmypassion

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munson-blurbs · 1 year

Note

eddie/wedding/tequila 🍻

Drunk Eddie is my favorite Eddie to write hehehe 💚

Warnings: alcohol consumption, Eddie is absolutely plastered, allusion to smut

WC: 989

Join my 2k followers celebration!

The band plays the final note of The Police’s “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” and begins the opening chords of “Truly Madly Deeply.”

“Okay, let’s slow things down for all the lovebirds out there,” the lead singer croons into the mic. “Grab your sweetheart and bring ‘em onto the dance floor.”

You make your way over to your table and extend your hand. “May I have this dance?” you ask sweetly, frowning when the metalhead shakes his head. A lock of his curly brown hair comes loose from the bun at the nape of his neck. “Why not?”

��I’d love to,” Eddie slurs, taking another sip of his drink, “but ‘m married to the love of my life. I only wan’ dance with her.”

Stifling a giggle, you sit in the chair next to him and rub his back. “I know that. Because I’m your wife, Eddie.” You motion to the diamond on your ring finger and the silver band on his. “We’ve been married for two years.”

“No fuckin’ way!” he exclaims. “That’s awesome. ‘Cause you’re, like, s’fucking beautiful.” He gasps. “Holy shit, my wife is beautiful!”

The scent of tequila wafts from his breath, and you crinkle your nose. “Eds, how many shots did you and Robin do?”

Eddie whines and throws his head back. “Don’t make me do math at a party!” He rests his head on your shoulder and grabs your hand, placing it atop his scalp. “Can you give me scratches?”

You oblige, kissing just above his ear. “C’mon, puppy dog,” you tease. “Let’s get you back to the hotel room.” Starting to help him up, you spot Steve making his rounds, bow tie undone and face flushed from dancing. You send up a silent prayer that Eddie won’t attract his attention, but it must get intercepted.

“Harrington!” your husband calls out. Multiple guests turn to face you; it is a Harrington wedding, afterall. “Get over here, big boy!” He stumbles towards the groom and claps a ringed hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve says with a chuckle. “Y’havin’ a good time?”

“The best.” Eddie is fully leaning on his friend now, and you mouth Sorry in Steve’s direction. “Dude, my wife is so hot.”

You bury your head in your hands; your cheeks are burning with embarrassment. “Let’s go, Eddie,” you insist, grateful that Steve appears unfazed by the comment.

“Stevie, you ever been in love?” Eddie asks, suddenly serious. His eyes are glassy and half-lidded; it’s only a matter of time before he falls asleep.

Steve looks around at the hotel ballroom, eyebrows raised. “Uh, yeah. I just got married, like, three hours ago. You were a groomsman.”

“Shit, yeah!” Eddie sounds as though he’s receiving brand-new information. “Congrats, man. Anyway,” he presses on, ignoring you tugging on his sleeve, “I jus’ want you to know that I, Eddie Munson, am also in love. With this girl right here.” He flails his free arm around until he finds your waist and pulls you into him.

“Well, I’m, uh, happy to hear that,” Steve manages, and you shoot him another apologetic glance before dragging Eddie to the elevator and into the hotel room. You can’t turn the key fast enough.

Eddie flops onto the bed, still fully dressed in his tuxedo and shoes. You take a moment to appreciate the silence before he pipes up:

“We gotta beat Steve.”

Despite your better judgment, you respond with an incredulous, “what?”

“We gotta beat Steve,” Eddie repeats. “We got married, but now he’s married, too. So we’re not winning anymore.” He pouts for a millisecond before sitting up suddenly, steadying himself on the sheets. “We should have a baby!”

You burst out laughing. “Babe, I love you. But I am not bringing new life into this world just so you can win some imaginary competition against Steve.”

“Fine,” Eddie slumps down, defeated.

You figure that will be the end of the discussion, but you should know better at this point. You’re rifling through your suitcase for a pair of pajamas when you hear the mini fridge door open.

“What are you doing now?” you hiss.

“‘M wooing you so you’ll have my baby,” he hiccups, pulling out a small bottle of Patrón and unscrewing the cap. “I call this one the ‘wraparound.’” Eddie proceeds to drag the bottle around his head, spilling tequila everywhere. “Oopsie daisy!” He cackles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

You pluck the half-empty bottle from his grasp and set it on the nightstand. “Eddie, get out of those clothes and Go. To. Bed.” you say through gritted teeth.

Eddie snorts. “If you wanna see me naked, you gotta take me out to dinner first.” But he obliges, sleeping as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you snuggle in next to him. He rarely drinks beyond an occasional post-work beer, so you’re glad he let loose tonight. You just wish you didn’t have to babysit him.

Eddie stirs, wrapping a tattooed arm around your waist. “My sexy lil’ wife,” he mumbles. “Prettiest girl ‘ve ever seen.” He nestles into the crook of your neck. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too, Eds,” you tell him, brushing the stray hair from his face and kissing his forehead. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “Big day tomorrow. Gotta make a baby so we can beat Harrington.”

“Yeah, okay,” you reply tersely, rolling your eyes.

But the next morning, after a cup of black coffee and two Advil, Eddie’s ushering you back into bed.

“I was serious about that baby, sweetheart,” he muses. “And not because of a contest with Steve.”

You smile, bringing your lips to his soft, plush ones. “Really?”

“Really,” he affirms, climbing on top of you and peppering your face with kisses. “But if there was a contest, we would totally be the superior couple.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

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