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moni-logues · 1 year

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Paris

Pairing: Hoseok x reader

Genre: pwp/smut

Summary: It's your birthday and Hobi decided to surprise you with a flight to Paris so you could be together.

Content: oral sex (m. and f. receiving), throat fucking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, semi-public sexual activity (up against the window), there's a very little bit of crying during/after sex

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: sometimes you have some of the worst days of your life and are sure you will never, ever want to write anything (or live lol) ever again and then later, after one (1) SSRI and your period arriving, you are suddenly normal (lmao '''''normal'''') again, which is to say that, if I could have, I would have posted this on Monday when I should have because that's when it was @amethystwritesbts's birthday and this is FOR HER. So sorry for the delay, bb, and I hope you enjoy, no one else's opinion matters lmao byeee😘😘😘

“This is amazing,” you breathed as you turned a slow circle around the hotel suite, trying to take it in. “You know you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Hoseok answered, taking you by the hand and leading you to the window, out of which you could see the Eiffel Tower, so close you couldn’t see its top without craning your neck skywards. “I wanted to. Well, actually, I was going to apologise to you; I really wish I had been able to fly to you, rather than making you come all this way.”

Schedules were schedules and Hoseok was not always in control of his; if he had been, he would not have let anything take him from you on your birthday. Fortunately, he did at least have the resources to bring you to him, even if for a shorter time than either of you would have liked.

“Are you crazy? It’s Paris! I would’ve flown to the back-end of nowhere to see you, but this is Paris! This is incredible! Thank you.”

Hoseok wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you tight.

“Only the best for my birthday girl.”

He kissed your cheek and you hummed contentedly. You looked out at the glittering lights of the city of love and, yes, it was incredible, but it didn’t beat the feeling of your boyfriend’s arms around you, his hair tickling your cheek as he sucked little kisses onto your neck. You opened your mouth to speak; Hoseok stole the breath from your lungs as he opened his lips and bit gently down where your neck meets your shoulder; you gasped softly instead. Twisting in his arms to face him, you pushed back his hair and brought his face to yours.

The kiss was sweet and gentle for all of one brief second, then it was heavy and pressing and his tongue was swiping your bottom lip, gliding into your mouth, sliding over yours. You moaned as Hoseok stepped forward, pushing you against the French doors, pressing himself against you. You’d missed this: the taste of him, the smell of him, the hard bite of his teeth against your soft skin. You flushed, burning up already, pulling away just slightly, swallowing hard, blinking rapidly, trying to regain some composure.

“I think I like Paris,” you said, breathless and giddy, giggling.

He hummed with his mouth on your neck, a little buzz on your skin that sent goosebumps shivering across it.

“Paris, huh?”

“Yeah, Paris.”

He brought his face back to yours; his dark eyes sparkled and a grin spread across his face as he pressed his forehead into yours.

“Well, I love... Paris.”

“Yeah, I’ve really missed Paris.”

“I’ve missed Paris, too,” he whispered.

He touched his lips to yours lightly, but you wanted more. You pulled him closer, bit into the soft, sweet flesh of his bottom lip, and ran your tongue across it. He rolled his hips into yours and you could feel his hard cock already straining against its confines, pressing into you; the thought of it, your lips around it, your cunt squeezing it tight, sent sparks straight to your core. Hoseok tipped his head back when you left kisses on his neck, across his shoulder. Then you sank to your knees.

“Hey,” he said softly, pushing your hair from your face. “It’s not my birthday.”

You shrugged.

“Will be soon enough. And we won’t both be in Paris for it.”

You pulled his trousers down to his ankles and his boxers followed. Your mouth watered at the sight of him; your clit throbbed; he was hot and hard and he twitched when you opened your mouth and placed him on your soft, wet tongue. Hoseok groaned, looking down at you, your eyes wide and expectant. He threaded his fingers carefully through your hair and held you firm while he rolled his hips, sliding into the wet heat of your mouth. You sealed your lips around him and hollowed your cheeks, moaning to encourage him. He cursed quietly under his breath and pushed further, his cock trespassing on the tight clutch of your throat. You breathed carefully through your nose and, with your hands on the backs of his thighs, pushed until your nose hit his skin, your throat bulging with him.

He groaned as he pulled back out and started a smooth, slow rhythm, his own breathing also careful, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw slack. You blinked up at him as tears sprung and overflowed down your cheeks, as drool pooled in your mouth, slid down your chin, dripped onto your chest. He opened his eyes and looked down at you with black, laser-focused eyes; he usually hated making a mess but not when it was you. Not when your eyes were shiny and wet, your tears glistening in the light like stars; not when the collar of your T-shirt was dark with drool, the long column of your neck, bulging, dripping; not when your throat was so warm and tight, squeezing as you half-swallowed against him; not when he could see your hand between your legs, rubbing circles over your leggings.

You were uncomfortably wet beneath them, your underwear sticky with it, your walls quivering in anticipation of him already. Your heart was racing and your desperation sat low and heavy in your core, the aching for him almost painful. You were about to pull back, stop, stand and finally divest both yourself and him of your clothes, finally get him naked and get him where you most wanted him, but he beat you to it, stepping backwards and dropping out of your mouth with a gasp.

He fell to his knees in front of you and crashed his mouth into yours with enough force to knock you backwards, hitting the French doors with a thud.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Sorry, baby. You ok?”

You only nodded, leaning in when he pulled you forward, leaning back when he lifted your T-shirt over your head. You threw your hands behind your back, unclasping your bra and shrugging it off your shoulders as he pulled at the waistband of your leggings and underwear at once, tugging them to your knees, waiting for you to stand so he could take them all the way off.

He kicked off his trousers and boxers, still around his ankles, and ripped off his shirt, leaving them piled on the floor, forgotten already.

You wondered if anyone could see you, your bare body pressed against the cold glass, several floors up but not high enough to go unnoticed. The thrill of it made you shudder; you wanted everyone to see, everyone to know. That he was yours. That only he got to fuck you like this. That only you got to fuck him like this. You whined as he pressed two fingers into your tight, slick heat, gasped as he ground his palm into your clit, unable to stop your hips jerking and rolling against it.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” he growled in your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Yeah,” you gasped in reply. “Well, I real-, I really ah, missed.... Paris.”

You felt his smile stretch across your skin and the little jet of his hot breath as he chuckled on his exhale.

“Paris, huh. You want to get fucked by Paris, do you, baby? Want all of Paris to hear you whining and moaning and coming with me?”

You could only respond by doing just that, whining and moaning, and, as his fingers curled firmly and repeatedly against your front wall, and the heel of his hand pressed hard against your clit, and his mouth sucked hot, wet kisses on your neck, you came. Your legs shook as sparks shot through you, electric heat buzzing from your core to your extremities, shivering through you, sprinkling your skin with goosebumps. Your knees buckled and Hoseok caught you, took your weight as you steadied yourself. You breathed heavily with your forehead against his shoulder and let him lift you, but then he was turning to take you to the bed—

“No,” you said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. You shook your head. “I want you to fuck me here.”

His eyebrows shot to his hairline and his tongue flicked out over his bottom lip. He gently let you go, your feet touching back down onto the plush hotel room carpet. He caged you in against the glass, traced your body with his eyes, fisted his flushed dick, still wet from your mouth, and finally fixed you with a smirk.

“You want me to fuck you against this glass door? You want everyone to see?” His voice was low, almost taunting, travelling straight to your cunt.

“Yes,” you answered, your own voice high and tremulous with need.

“You want everyone to know how good I can give it to you, huh?”

You nodded fervently.

“Good. Then I’ll give them a show.”

He dropped to his knees and wasted no time re-acquainting his mouth with your thighs, the crease of your hip, your lips, your wet, quivering core, your clit, swollen and sensitive. You keened and your back arched against the door, your hands grasping the soft curtains before thinking twice and grabbing his hair instead. He moaned as you tangled your fingers in the soft, dark strands, tugging and gripping.

A plea was forming on your lips, for more, for something to fill the aching emptiness in your cunt as his tongue laved over your clit; Hoseok pushed two fingers into you and then a third; the request died on a hitched breath, filled before you had to ask. He moaned against you, the vibrations in his lips buzzing against you as he played you perfectly, practised and precise.

Your nails scraped his scalp when the pleasure bundled up within you, coiling tight like a spring. You were shaking with it, trembling as it crept faster and faster towards its crescendo, then shuddering and jerking as it burst free. Your body flooded with heat as you gushed into Hoseok’s face, over his hand, down his wrist. You sank, weakly, to the floor, shivering under the warmth of his touch.

He pressed a kiss against your shoulder and another on your collarbone, leaving sticky prints on your flushed, glowing skin. With arms that felt like lead, you pulled on his hair again, bringing his face to yours, mashing your lips against his, opening your mouth to him, tasting all of you and a little of him and still desperate for more. With his hands around your waist, he manoeuvred you, lay you down, one side of you cold against the glass, the other warm in the heat of the room. He began to pepper kisses across your chest, swirling your nipple in his mouth, grazing it with his teeth, moving across to the other.

“Hobi, please,” you panted. “Please just fuck me. Don't wait any more. Fuck-- please, please.”

He knelt above you, looking down at you with a wide smile. He leant down and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Your wish is my command, birthday girl,” he murmured, his lips moving against yours, before he kissed you again, deeper this time, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, eliciting a weak moan from yours.

He pulled back to line himself up with you and watch himself disappear into the hot slip of your wet cunt. He groaned and paused, fully sheathed, luxuriating in the feeling of your walls quivering against him, tight and stretched. He grinned at you as he rolled his hips and began to thrust, hard and slow. Your fingernails scraped at his arms, climbing, pulling him down. He rested on his forearms, nudged your nose with his, and you took whatever words he was about to say, swallowed them down with your lips on his. He groaned when you lifted your legs, hooking them over his hips, your pelvis tipping so that the head of his cock brushed repeatedly against your g-spot like a hotkey for pleasure, over and over again.

Your head was swimming, flooded, drowning in him: the soft sweep of his hair over his forehead, little damp strands stuck with sweat at his hairline; the softness of his warm skin and his breath washing over you; his quiet grunts of effort, his whispered praise, the way your name sounded tripping off his tongue, the hitched breath and interrupted curse when you clenched him tighter. It hadn’t even been that long that he’d been away but it was long enough.

You squeezed him with your legs, trying to press him closer, bring his chest to yours, to meld yourself with him, to make up for all the time—recently and not so recently—that you’d been apart. It never got easier. And at moments like this, you didn’t know how you survived it, being without this, being without him. With your whole heart and your whole body, you loved him: his taut, lithe body and the way it moved; the mastery he had over it and your body, too; his bursting heart, bright and full and open; his kindness and his generosity; his tenacity and the way he held you, strong, securely, close against him when you needed it.

As you lurched towards your third orgasm, your heart leapt into your throat and tears pricked in your eyes again—only partly his dick’s fault. Tension coalesced in your abdomen, strength drawn from your limbs, pulling tightly inwards, then erupting forward. You shuddered and gasped and Hoseok gasped above you as you gripped him tight in the vice of your climax. You could hear him, cursing right next to your ear, as if from another room, muffled, far away as you slipped under the waves of an overwhelming pleasure.

Hoseok came before your cunt stopped spasming, as your thighs still trembled, just as your breathing hitched again and your bottom lip wobbled, tears threatening on your waterline. He felt you shudder as he let himself go, painting your insides white, milking himself in the fluttering of your clutched-tight walls.

“Hey,” he said softly, turning towards you, a frown pulled tight on his face. “Hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

You brought your hands to cover your face and shook your head, feeling silly that his concern made you cry harder. You were tired from travelling, discombobulated, overwhelmed, wrung out, fucked out, that’s all. You took a deep breath—tried to take a deep breath as it stuttered in and then wobbled out again—as he pulled your hands away and brushed the tears from your cheeks. He kissed the tracks left in their wake, sweet, soft, little kisses that held the slightest tang of salt.

“Baby,” he asked again. “What’s wrong? Are you ok?”

You closed your eyes and held your breath, literally shaking out your hands as if that was where you held your feelings.

“I just-” you began, opening your eyes to look at him, “- I just really missed Paris, that’s all.”

He laughed softly and pressed a kiss to your lips.

"I missed you too, baby. I missed you, too."

#hoseok x reader #jhope x reader #hoseok smut #jhope smut #hoseok fic #jhope fic #bts x reader #bts smut #bts fic #HAPPY BELATED AMETHYST DAY EVERYONE

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cvrnelians · 1 year

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black sheep

dark!eddie brock AU - After years of struggling with your mental health, you are relieved to be diagnosed with and treated for bipolar disorder. You finally feel strong enough to move to New York and pursue your dream as an artist.

When you respond to an ad for a newspaper interview for World Mental Health Day, you meet Eddie Brock, a reporter that you instantly take a liking to. You write it off as a silly, one sided crush, and continue to focus on yourself and your career. But not long after your interview, you start to feel like someone is watching you.

Perhaps Eddie Brock likes you a little more than you think…

warnings: stalking, manipulation.

You were not sure why it caught your eye.

Interviewees Needed for Article - Pay $50 per interview

We at The Daily Bugle are looking for individuals with various mental health diagnoses for an editorial as a tribute to World Mental Health Day. Pseudonyms allowed if preferred. Participants of any age are welcome.

Having just moved to Brooklyn, you figured you would download the app for the local newspaper, The Daily Bugle. You sifted through the upcoming events, remaining optimistic that you would at least attempt to be social. Being a freelance artist, you mainly wanted to keep an eye out for any potential job leads. You considered posting an ad of your own to promote your small business, but you weren’t sure you could call it a business quite yet. At times, you weren’t even sure that you could confidently call yourself an artist. Even so, you had managed to sell enough commissions to land yourself a tiny apartment in the city.

The ad was simple and straightforward. You probably wouldn’t have even found it if you hadn’t scrolled all the way down. It wasn’t the paid gig you were looking for, but fifty dollars was fifty dollars. If there was one thing you were completely sure of, it was that you were a qualified candidate for this article.

Your official diagnosis, courtesy of your psychiatrist, had been an unexpected relief. Bipolar II. You routinely beat yourself up for not coming to that conclusion on your own, for not realizing it sooner. You had been on and off various SSRIs for years, ever since you were a teenager, and they had either not worked at all or made your symptoms worse. You learned a lot about yourself in hindsight. Your mother always referred to you as a “night owl.” Little did you realize, all of those late nights spent creating more paintings than you knew what to do with were the product of hypomania. Your depressive episodes were always far worse than your hypomanic episodes, the last being your most severe. It nearly landed you in the hospital.

Finally—finally—after years of trial and error, you decided to start seeing a new psychiatrist about six months prior. You credited her for changing your life, for helping you find a medication that not only helped you function on a basic level, but helped you to thrive. You had wanted to move to the city ever since you graduated high school. With the way your mental health had been deteriorating, you never thought you would actually do it.

But you did, and you did it all on your own. As lonely as you felt and as broke as you were, the thought made you smile. It gave you hope.

After a few minutes of staring at your phone, you figured you would give it a shot. If you wanted to protect your privacy, you could just use a pseudonym. Or maybe, just maybe, the article would provide you with an opportunity to promote your art. Startled, you heard a raspy and exhaustion laden “Yeah?” on the first ring. Whoever this man was, it sounded like he had just woken up.

“Um…hi,” you said awkwardly. “I’m inquiring about an ad that I found in The Daily Bugle, the one about World Mental Health Day? Do I have the right number?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Hey.”

You could hear the person grumble on the end of the line, almost as if he was stretching.

“Are you still conducting interviews? I tried checking on the app, but it didn’t say when the ad was posted.”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, that stupid thing. They just launched it recently. They’ve been trying to get it up and running for ages. They’ve had some kid who’s not even qualified working on it.”

“Ah,” you said. “That explains a lot actually. It kept, like, zooming in and out as I was scrolling through?”

“Hah, figures. I deleted the thing from my phone two minutes after I downloaded it. It crashes pretty much every day. The website sucks, too. Honestly, you’re better off just buying the actual paper, but no one does that anymore.”

The man cleared his throat.

“But yeah, I’m still doing interviews,” he said. “Where in the city are you located?”

You agreed to meet at a hole-in-the wall cafe nearby. You had never been there before.

“It’s quiet enough that we’ll be able to actually hear each other speak, and secluded enough that no one will hear what we’re discussing. I, uh…I know this stuff is really personal and hard for people to talk about, so I want to give you that respect. We can go to a more popular place if you’d be more comfortable with that. Or we could meet up at the park. If you need proof that I’m a real reporter, my name’s Eddie Brock. You can google me…or search for my articles on that app we love so much.”

You smiled to yourself. You liked Eddie Brock.

“No,” you said. “The place you suggested should be just fine.”

Luckily, you didn’t live too far from one another. The coffee shop was only a ten minute walk for you. You got there before he did, ordering yourself a large coffee. The place was kind of shabby, but the old woman at the counter had a kind face. She made you feel seen, like you weren’t just a number in the vast metropolis that was New York. She reminded you of home.

You shoved some cash into the tip jar and walked over to an open booth. As Eddie had stated, the place wasn’t very crowded. You had quite a few spots to choose from. You sat there for a few minutes, your fingers fidgeting as you took large sips of your coffee and scrolled through Instagram. As rundown as the place was, you had to admit that the coffee was pretty spectacular.

Fifteen minutes after you were supposed to meet up, a man in a worn out leather jacket stumbled through the doorway. He seemed to have some trouble opening the door, pulling at the handle despite it being a push door. You couldn’t help but smirk, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing. As he walked in, the woman at the counter shook her head.

“Eddie, I’ve told you ten times now!” she said.

They both spoke in unison. “You have to push the door open.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, May,” Eddie said. He suddenly dropped what appeared to be a motorcycle helmet on the floor, causing you both to jump.

“Jesus Christ…” he grumbled.

“The usual?” May asked, already turning towards the cappuccino machine.

“Yup,” he said, placing some crumpled up bills and a bunch of coins on the counter. He peered around the cafe at the very few patrons, his brows furrowed. You gave him a little wave.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, barreling towards you. It was quickly becoming clear to you that Eddie was not the most graceful person in the world.

“Hi,” you said timidly. The prospect of talking about your mental health issues with someone you didn’t know suddenly felt very intimidating. You stood up from your spot as he reached out to shake your hand.

“Eddie Brock,” he said, giving you a smile that instantly put you at ease. It wasn’t one of those polite, surface level smiles that acquaintances typically doled out. It seemed genuine, like he was actually happy to see you. “Nice to meet you.”

He sat down and placed his helmet on his side of the booth.

“You rode your motorcycle here?” you asked. Ugh. Obviously. Why were you so awkward?

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry I’m late. I try to be on time for my interviews, but it’s rare that I’m ever on time for anything. I did run into some heavy traffic today, though. I swear.”

“It’s alright,” you said. “I’ve got all day.”

“Day off?” he asked, smiling warmly at you.

“Um…” Every day was a day off for you lately. “Yes…?”

May slammed his drink on the counter. “If you want your drink, you better come over and get it, Eddie. I’m not a waitress.”

Eddie playfully rolled his eyes. “Hold on, hold on,” he said in mock exasperation. May stood with her hands on her hips. He picked up the mug and tipped it up at her. “Thanks, darlin’.”

May smiled and shook her head again, redirecting her focus on cleaning off the counter.

You took a sip of your drinks at the same time as he sat back down. You shot him a knowing look.

“Good, right?” he asked. “This place is a real gem. I’ve been coming here for a while now. May takes up a big chunk of my paycheck.”

“No joke, this is probably the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had,” you conceded.

“Right?!” As you eyed him more closely, it was plain to see that he was both freshly showered and a bit hungover. He smelled like mint and aftershave, and his hair was still slightly wet.

“Alright,” he said, rubbing beneath his eye with his knuckle. “I’m not going to ask you to tell me a little bit about yourself. As a reporter, I hate that question. I really, truly do. The answers are almost never honest or authentic—not completely, anyway. I like the complete story, the real one. Besides, this isn’t a job interview, and I’m not going to put you on the spot like that.”

Okay. You really liked Eddie Brock.

“If anything I’m asking makes you uncomfortable, though, tell me and I’ll scrap it. It’s an editorial. It’s meant to empower people with mental illness, so you control the narrative. If we finish up this interview and you start feeling remorse, tell me and I’ll scrap it, as long as you tell me before the first of the month. Once I submit it, there’s nothing I can do. But you’re getting your fifty bucks either way.”

You nodded. “Got it.”

“Alright. You ready?”

You nodded.

“Let’s get down to business, then,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Is it okay if I record this? I won’t post it anywhere. I’ll delete it after I finish the article, I just need to transcribe it.”

“Yeah, that’s no problem.”

The conversation was really fluid and natural for what it was. It felt like a normal, everyday discussion. Initially, he just asked you a lot about your job and your life before moving to the city. He would occasionally interject and tell you about himself, providing the right amount of give-and-take to make you feel at ease. He was originally from San Francisco. He moved to New York for college and wound up staying after he graduated. He had been a reporter at The Daily Bugle for a few years, and preferred to delve into some serious investigative journalism whenever the opportunity presented itself. He dabbled in photography, too.

It was around ten minutes in that he started asking you about your mental health. It was bizarre just how comfortable you felt with Eddie, more comfortable than you had felt with anyone in a very long time. It was like a dam had broken. The words came out of you before you could stop them, perhaps because you had spent so much time alone since moving to the city, without anyone to talk to. More likely, though, it was because you knew you wouldn’t be at risk of oversharing. He actually wanted the whole scoop. That was what he was paying you for.

More than that, though, it seemed like he was truly listening—like he actually cared. There was something about the way he looked at you.

“I don’t think I’ll even need that audio file,” he chuckled. “I don’t know if you could tell, but I feel really…invested, I guess is the right word, in your story.”

“Sorry…” you said. You weren’t sure why you were even apologizing. You swore it was just a natural reflex for you. It was something for you to work on.

“I just want you to know, it means something to me that you told me all this.”

You let out a nervous laugh, averting your eyes towards your coffee. You ran your pointer finger over the edge of the mug.

“No,” he said, placing his hand over yours. “I’m serious. Look at me. Look up at me.”

When you looked up, you were caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze, the unwavering sincerity there. The color of his eyes was interesting; not quite blue, not quite green. Hazel. Kind of pretty, really.

“This isn’t just another story for me. The fact that you trusted me enough to be so honest…I don’t take that for granted. Thank you.”

You gave him a small smile. He grabbed your hands and enclosed them with his, squeezing a tiny bit before letting them go. “I’ll do right by you with this article. I meant what I said about you controlling the narrative. You have any regrets, you call me and it’s gone.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” you said. “It’s been really nice talking to you. And thank you for the money. I almost feel tempted to give it back to you.”

He waved his hand flippantly at you, as if the gesture would wipe that thought away completely.

“Oh, by the way. Did you want to use a pseudonym? I’m totally fine with that. But—and this is not to sound patronizing—I think using your real name would be a great opportunity for you to promote your business, and I would like to give you that opportunity.”

You were somewhat hesitant to do so given the personal nature of the article. You had initially replied to it because the offer of a pseudonym meant that you had nothing to lose. But when you thought about it, you needed more than just this fifty dollars to tie you over, and you could really use that kind of exposure. Not to mention, you were tired of being made to feel ashamed of your diagnosis. As scary as it was, being open about it was consistent with your values. It helped set a precedent. You quickly gave him your social media handle, along with the name of your website.

You both sat in silence for a while. Your drinks were finished. You had already thanked each other for your time. There was no reason to stick around. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to get up and leave. You felt a little drained from releasing all of that pent up energy, and you assumed Eddie felt tired from listening to all of it. How long had it been—an hour? Two? That was a lot of talking.

“Can I ask you something?” you probed, the words escaping before you could stop them.

“Ah, now it’s my turn to be in the hot seat,” he mused. “Maybe I should order another coffee.”

“Why did you want to write about this?” you asked. “Was it something your boss assigned to you, or were you just interested…?”

Eddie paused for a long moment, thinking to himself.

“Well,” he said wistfully. “I would be lying to you if I told you that I didn’t have my own issues. I think we all do. Some people—” he gestured towards you. “—are just more honest about it than others. I wanted to take on this project because I have a personal connection to it, and I think it’s important for people to talk about. To tell you the truth, I got fired from my job a few months ago. Not for long, but long enough for me to sink into a pretty deep depression. I didn’t get out of bed for a while. I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t checking my mail, I wasn’t paying my bills, I wasn’t even showering. It was really dark for a while. I know there are other jobs out there, but I felt crushed. I was lucky that they decided to bring me back on. I pretty much had to beg for my spot back, but I’m here now nonetheless.”

“I’m really sorry, Eddie.”

He shrugged. “It could’ve been much worse, but thank you.“

“Can I ask why you got fired?”

Another sigh. “I was writing a piece about this serial killer that was terrorizing the city for a good six months or so. That story became my whole life. I ate, slept, and breathed that case. It meant that much to me. I wanted to be the one to catch and expose the killer. I genuinely felt like I had the capacity to do it, like I was on the edge of finding the truth.

“I ended up finding out who the killer was. At least, I thought I did. I told the police, and they ended up conducting an investigation. They turned up with nothing, but I was just so sure of myself. I ended up publishing the story in The Daily Bugle. I didn’t ask my boss or any of the editors for permission. I did it entirely on my own, which you’re never supposed to do. I sort of…snuck it onto the front page. It took a lot of finagling, but I was desperate. I really wanted people to know who this guy was. It wasn’t even about my ego as a reporter at that point. I didn’t care about breaking the big story anymore. No one at work believes me when I tell them that, but really I just wanted to protect people. That was all I wanted.”

“It wasn’t the guy, was it?” you asked.

He ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

“That kid that I mentioned, the one that created the app? He was the one that caught the guy. My boss wrote an article exposing me for doing what I did after talking to him. He was the one who got me fired. Peter Parker.”

Even though you agreed with what Peter did, you liked Eddie enough to want to make him feel better about the situation. He was only human, after all. His intentions had been good, but the way he went about it had been godawful.

“That’s a stupid name,” you blurted out.

He chuckled wryly. “Yeah, I thought so, too. But he helped protect the city. I didn’t. Not to mention, I accused an innocent man of something he didn’t do. I tried to have him incarcerated. What if he had been? I feel terrible about that every day. I’ve tried reaching out to him to apologize, but he hates me. I can’t say I blame him.

“Even though the story itself wasn’t about my ego, the fact that I screwed up so royally and lost my job bruised my ego quite a bit. It was just so humiliating. I’m lucky my family doesn’t give a shit about what I’m up to, because if they found out what happened, they would torture me about it until the end of time.”

You suddenly felt lost for words. All you could come up with was, “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

He gave you a light smile and turned to look out the window.

“I always say that I came to this city because I wanted to try something new. I wanted to live in New York; see the sights, become a real journalist, carve out a path of my own. Now that’s all true, but the real story is that I probably would have gone anywhere to escape where I grew up. Ask anyone in my family, and they’d be happy to inform you that I’m the undisputed black sheep.”

In spite of his wrongs, the look on his face tugged on something within you. You loved your family, but you could relate to feeling like an outsider. It was glaringly obvious that your parents would always like your older sister more than they liked you. And why wouldn’t they? She was smart, hardworking, beautiful. She had a well-paying job and a perfect little family of her own.

And she wasn’t bipolar.

“It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was nasty towards that Parker kid long before he broke that story about me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not in my nature to be a bully. I used to beat up kids like that in school,” he emphasized, raising his hands defensively. “But something about that boy reminds me so much of my little brother, and I hate my brother.”

“Why?” you asked. “Was he a jerk?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all, actually. That’s the worst part. When I was much younger, I loved my brother. He was a nerd, and I was always very protective of him. But when I got to be around—I don’t know, thirteen or fourteen—things changed. My parents saw him as the golden child. They practically worshipped the ground he walked on. I kind of understand it now. He was a good kid. He was smart, he did well in school, and he was just so nice. Good-natured, eager to help out. Like that Parker kid. I was a bit of a rebel, so…”

He took a large gulp of his coffee. “He’s a doctor now, the little prick.”

You laughed. “Probably a very good doctor, I’m guessing?”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” he said. “Neither do my parents. I don’t really speak to him if I can avoid it. He used to try and reach out to me, but he doesn’t anymore unless it’s around the holidays. Whenever I’m caught up in an episode of self-loathing, I’ll unblock him on Facebook so I can see what he’s up to. I’m sorry to bore you with all this, though. I know this ain’t about me.”

“Y’know, I could definitely picture you being a little rebel,” you said, a grin spreading across your face. “Did you have a motorcycle as a teenager, too?”

He shot you a look. “Oh, I had a motorcycle alright…if you could call it that. It was seriously a deathtrap. I bought it off Craigslist for five hundred bucks, long before I got my motorcycle license. I would ride around the neighborhood without a helmet on and rev the engine to try and impress girls. I still have the tattoo I got illegally, too.”

He turned his head downwards and lifted up his jeans to show you his ankle. On it was a faded red anarchy symbol with very shaky line work.

You laughed.

“Wow. Badass.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I was so embarrassing. No wonder why my parents didn’t like me.”

He gave you the money he promised and even bought you a coffee for the road. He informed you that the story would be published the following month, the morning of World Mental Health Day. You parted ways with a friendly hug. Part of you was hoping that he would ask if you wanted to hang out sometime, but you quickly shoved the thought from your mind. He was a writer doing a story. Just because he was nice to you one time didn’t mean that he owed you his attention. Even if you would never see him again, you felt grateful to know at least one person in the city. Actually two now, having met May.

The following week was a strange one, to say the least.

It started off promisingly enough. On Monday morning, you received an order on your website for some small prints you had done a while ago. It was all from the same person. They wanted the prints shipped to a P.O. box, and they had listed their name as ‘Alien Symbiote.’ You had to laugh. If there was anyone out there that you wanted as a customer, it was someone that referred to themselves as ‘Alien Symbiote.’

You swiftly mailed the prints out and decided to stop by that cafe Eddie had introduced you to. You wanted to start off your week seeing a familiar face, and May did not disappoint. She gave you your drink to-go with a smile and a “Hope to see you back here soon!”

"Don’t worry,” you reassured her. You will.”

You made your trip to the cafe quick. A part of you secretly hoped you might see Eddie there, but that made you feel like a massive creep. If he was going to show up any time soon—which you highly doubted, given how hectic his job probably was—you skedaddled before he could. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. You just really, really wanted that coffee.

You took a stroll through the park for half an hour or so before sitting down on a nearby bench. You put your headphones in and set to work on some random illustrations in your sketchbook. You must have listened to the same song thirty times—as you were prone to do when you found a new song you liked—before you finally got sick of it and changed it to something else. Hours passed as you scribbled, shaded, outlined and erased anything and everything that crossed your mind. Lately you were on a wildlife kick. The cornfields and pastures you drew made you feel a little homesick. You stopped yourself before you would inevitably cry, and focused on running errands instead. Walking around with music playing in your ears made grocery store runs much more enticing.

When you got home, you collapsed onto your bed to take a late afternoon nap. Just as you were about to fall asleep, you felt a nice breeze circulating throughout your room. You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze shifting towards your window—which had been left wide open. You couldn’t remember opening it; not that morning, not last night. You typically kept all of your windows closed and locked, but you had woken up feeling pretty exhausted. In fact, you were waking up pretty exhausted most mornings. You wrote it off as a side effect of your medication. Maybe you had opened it while you were getting ready and left it ajar without being fully aware of what you were doing. You left it as it was during your nap. You would make sure to shut and lock it when you woke up. The breeze was just so nice.

The next few days were when things got weird.

Your psychiatrist from your hometown had referred you to a new psychiatrist a few blocks from where you lived. You knew you could trust her referral. Your new psychiatrist had a very warm presence. He exceeded your expectations. When you brought up the tiredness you experienced from your medication, he said there was likely an easy fix. He suggested that you try a new medication. If it didn’t work out, you could always switch back to the old one. You were a bit wary at first, but he reassured you that a large number of his Bipolar II patients recounted positive experiences with this particular drug.

It all started on your late night walk home from the pharmacy. You took out your headphones for a brief moment to untangle the wires, and that was when you heard it. There was a set of footsteps walking directly behind you, almost like they were trying to keep pace with you. You whipped your head around, spotting some typical passerby. A family, two women laughing, a guy walking his dog. You figured that maybe a cat had skittered by right next to you or something.

But it happened again the next night. And the night after that. And in the afternoon, and in the morning. You kept hearing those footsteps right behind you. Sometimes when you turned around, you could see another shadow in addition to yours, only for it to quickly disappear. It felt like someone was watching you, like someone was following you. You tried to reason with yourself that this paranoia was due to your new medication, but you remembered hearing those footsteps the night prior to even starting it.

There was other stuff, too.

You kept forgetting to lock your window at night, which was strange, because you could never remember unlocking it. You woke up on Friday to find that you had misplaced a few of your drawings. After scouring your entire apartment to find them, you realized they may have fallen out of your sketchbook during one of your many walks through the park.

It didn’t help that your new medication was making you nauseous. Your psychiatrist had reassured you that this was a typical side effect within the first two weeks, and that it would most likely pass after that point. If it didn’t, you could always try something else (as frustrating as that idea was). In spite of the nausea, you were starting to feel less tired in the mornings, and you hadn’t been experiencing any racing thoughts or depressive symptoms.

You lost your headphones at some point in the midst of this, which was disappointing. Although you received a few commissions via Instagram that week, you didn’t want to factor a new pair of headphones into your budget this month. You figured you would wait for another online order or commission until splurging on yourself.

Your concerns about money and issues with nausea seemed to have no effect on your coffee intake, however. You stopped by to see May every few days, more than willing to spend as much as you needed to in order to get your fix. On Friday afternoon, May stopped you before you could head out the door.

“Eddie was here this morning,” she said. “I think he’s been looking for you. He asked if I had seen you at all this week.”

You felt a rush of gaiety at her words.

“Really?”

May nodded. “I told him it was none of his business until he bought something. And then when he bought something, I told him it was still none of his business,” she chuckled. “But then he tipped me, and I relented.”

You wondered if the number you called him with was a landline at work or something. But it couldn’t have been. When you first spoke to him, it sounded like he had literally just woken up, unless he had fallen asleep at his desk. Maybe he received a lot of phone calls due to the ad, and wasn’t sure which number was yours in his call log.

May leaned towards you and gestured for you to come closer to the counter. When you leaned in, she whispered, “I think that man is a little sweet on you, to tell you the truth.”

You felt your stomach flip, and you suddenly felt flustered. You really wanted to believe that. It was hard not to like Eddie. He was kind and perceptive and real. But it was more likely that he wanted to speak with you about the story. As disappointed as that made you feel, you were happy to help him out in any way you could.

“Thanks, May,” you said, clearing your throat. “I’ll get in touch with him.”

🕷

You laid in bed, scrolling through your phone as a Hulu documentary blared at you from your tv. It didn’t take long to find Eddie’s number. The only other people in your call log since moving to Brooklyn were your mom, your sister, and a few telemarketers. You typed in his number like you were about to text him, then deleted it. You did this several times. You wanted to contact him, but you also didn’t want to seem like some clingy weirdo that lacked boundaries.

But he had been looking for you…

You set your phone down on the dresser next to your bed and restarted the documentary. You hadn’t been paying much attention to it, and it seemed fairly interesting. Maybe you would text him in the morning.

When you were just on the verge of sleep, your phone startled you awake. Someone was calling you. You scrambled to turn down the volume on your tv. With blurry vision, you reached to grab it, your fingers fumbling as you got ahold of your phone. You moved your finger across the touch screen and held it up it to your ear without even really looking at the number that was calling you.

“Hello?” you said with a yawn.

“Hi. This is Eddie Brock, the writer from The Daily Bugle? I conducted an interview with you about a week ago.”

You immediately sat up. “Yeah! Eddie. Hey.”

If you weren’t mistaken, it was like you could hear him smile through the phone.

“I’m sorry to be calling so late,” he lamented. “If you want, I can call you back sometime tomorrow at a more reasonable time. You sound a little tired.”

You looked at the clock. 9:15pm. Wow. Given all the naps you so enjoyed, it wasn’t like you to fall asleep so early in the evening.

“Nonono, it’s totally fine. It’s really not that late. How are you?”

“Ah, well. Overworked. Underpaid. You know the deal,” he said. “How have you been?”

“Not too bad. May told me you were looking for me?”

“Yeah,” he said with a breathy laugh.

Did he sound…embarrassed?

“I’m so sorry to bother you with this, but I was hoping I could see you again sometime soon. I have a few more questions I wanted to ask for the article. Also—if this makes you uncomfortable, stop me now—the bossman suggested that we get some photos to go along with it.”

“Photos?”

“Yeah, a few pictures of the people I interviewed; only the ones that were okay with sharing their identities, obviously. They won’t be printed in the actual paper, but they’ll be posted online when the story comes out.”

You mulled that over for a second. It was scary thinking of people seeing what you looked like and knowing so much information about you. But if you wanted to promote your business and be seen as a legitimate artist, you figured there had to be some price to pay. Besides, if anyone decided to take a peek at your social media after reading the article, they would end up seeing your face, anyway.

“You can say no,” he said, his words adamant. “We can just finish up some more questions for the interview, or we can forgo those altogether. I know this is a lot to ask from you, and I have more than enough material t—”

“No,” you interrupted. “No, Eddie, it’s fine. I’m totally okay with that. If I’m willing to fully reveal my identity, I think it’ll help normalize my diagnosis in some small way. It shows people they shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

“That’s what my boss said, and I mostly agreed. I just don’t want to risk it being exploitative on any level. But are you really sure? The last thing I want to do is waste your time.”

“I appreciate that. I’m sure.”

“There’s just one little thing,” he said.

“…Okay?”

“I’m going to be the one taking the photos. I actually started off as a photographer at The Bugle before I landed my writing gig. We can shoot them literally anywhere you want. The sidewalk, the park, your apartment, wherever. But I can find you a female photographer if you’d be more comfortable with that.”

“No, I trust you. But if the photos turn out bad—which won’t be your fault, I assure you—I’m not above begging you to throw your camera into the ocean.”

“Don’t get it twisted,” he said with a laugh. “I think you’re gonna make my job very easy…”

Then, more quietly, “…being such a beautiful subject and all.”

He was just being nice, you told yourself. He didn’t really mean it. He just needed to get photos for his article, and he was probably schmoozing you to persuade you to do it.

Even so, it was nice to hear, especially coming from him.

🕷

Okay. So you didn’t know Eddie super well. It was probably not the best idea to invite this virtual stranger to your apartment. But there was something about him that made you feel safe, as ridiculous as that sounded. Maybe it was because he told you about his dynamic with his family, a dynamic that you were all too familiar with. Or maybe it was just your new medication, which you were developing a few concerns about.

You could feel yourself becoming increasingly scatterbrained as of late. You kept losing things; paintbrushes, your favorite shirt, the sketchbook from your freshman year of college. Once every few days, you would arrive home to find something out of place. Your window was unlocked, the cabinet drawers in your kitchen were left open, your blankets were all over the place when you thought you made your bed that morning. You even started to wonder if your apartment was haunted, but you were experiencing that same uneasiness every time you went out.

Wherever you went, you could swear you heard a set of footsteps trailing behind you, especially at night. But whenever you turned around to see who it was, no one was there. The worst part was the heavy feeling of eyes on you at all times. You weren’t sure why, but you could feel this energy in the air like someone was watching you. One night while you were attempting to cook, you spotted someone out of the corner of your eye. They were across the street, a shadow staring up into your window. When you looked outside, however, all you saw was the normal rush of people walking along the sidewalks. You started keeping your curtains closed at all times and bought a few cheap lamps to try and create an illusion of natural light. Even though you knew you were just being paranoid, your blackout curtains made you feel just a tiny bit more comfortable.

A teeny, tiny bit.

But you wanted to give this new medication a chance. Apart from the paranoia, you felt pretty stable. You weren’t buying anything impulsively or lying in bed for days on end. You woke up most mornings feeling refreshed and energetic, and kept yourself on a routine as you worked from home.

When the day came that Eddie visited you, you were really happy to see him. It was borderline pathetic. You stood up from the couch as soon as you heard his motorcycle pull up outside. You peered out the window to find him struggling to open the front doors, pushing instead of pulling. You chuckled as you watched him curse at himself and lean his head back in defeat, finally jarring them open.

When he knocked on your apartment door, you waited a few seconds before opening it. You didn’t want to appear as eager to see him as you felt. You pulled all the curtains open and turned off the lamps. It was a sunny day out, and you didn’t want him to think you were weird. As soon as you swung the door open, he smiled brightly at you.

“Hey,” you greeted him shyly.

“Hey you,” he said, as if you were old friends reuniting after a long time apart. He dropped his helmet onto the floor and pulled you into a tight hug, twisting and lifting you up slightly as he did. That same smell of mint and aftershave wafted through the air. Your feelings of paranoia and uncertainty felt like a distant memory.

He shifted his focus to your marginally messy living space. Although clean, you had paintings on canvases of various sizes stacked up all along the floor. Your charcoal pencils and oil pastels were strewn across your desk, along with a pile of unfinished commissions.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

“I know it’s complete and utter chaos in here. I meant to clean up before you got here, but I’ve been kind of bus—”

“No,” he said, approaching one of your paintings on a larger canvas. You had completed it a while ago, a still life of the house you grew up in. He lifted it up and examined it carefully. He turned towards the other canvases and rifled through them.

He turned back towards you and raised his eyebrows. “You made these?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Not my best work, but—”

“If this isn’t your best work, then your best work has to be, like…godly.”

You snorted. “Eddie.”

“I’m serious!” he exclaimed. “I mean, I’ll admit it. I’ve creeped on your social media, and you were as talented as I thought you would be. But these are on another level.”

You figured you would spend the day walking around the park—which you did—but only after Eddie took you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You talked for hours, so much so that you hadn’t realized how few questions he had asked that were pertinent to the interview. You mostly just chit chatted about your daily lives, and thoughts and feelings on various topics. Your favorite movies, books, music, places. Your dream vacation, your favorite stores. He didn’t ask to voice record any of it. The only Daily Bugle related thing you did was pose for a few photos in the park, which you refused to even look at.

“I’m going to tear myself to shreds if I see them,” you said over your second cup of May’s coffee. “I’m serious. Don’t show them to me. I want you to have photos for your article and I don’t want to be annoying and ask you to retake a bunch of them.”

“We can retake as many photos as you want,” he said sympathetically. “But you really do look great in these. No surprise there.”

You could seriously get used to being complimented by Eddie Brock.

It was dark by the time you decided to call it quits. You couldn’t believe how quickly the day flew by. Eddie couldn’t, either.

“The article will be published in a few weeks. If by any chance you want to see the photos, you can take a look at the website. They should all be there.”

“Or, y’know. The app,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes. “No, not the app. Never the app.”

True to his word, the article came out the morning of World Mental Health Day. It was beautifully written. He had inserted well-researched facts and figures throughout, and paid respect to the subjects he interviewed, maintaining and promoting their dignity. The photos he posted were really good quality, edited in black and white. Apart from you, he had photographed around five other people. Yours was at the very bottom of the page, a candid photo of you laughing. You were pleasantly surprised. You actually looked kind of nice. He had even printed your website and social media handle in bold.

You shot him a text, opting not to call him during the workday.

Eddie, oh my god! It’s amazing!!!! Thank you so much!

You received a reply just a few seconds later.

Like I said, you made my job easy.

In the hours that followed, you received an overflow of commission requests and hits to your website. You were beaming as you replied to the incoming messages. Not much later, you received another text from Eddie.

Bold question for you. Would you want to grab a celebratory drink sometime?

Um…YES. Was that even a question? You let out a happy sigh as you texted him back.

As long as I’m buying. I owe you big time.

Later that night after finishing a few commissions, you set to work on a sketch for Eddie. It was risky, but you wanted to help him see his hometown through new eyes, just as you had been doing lately. You wanted to recreate San Francisco as something beautiful and safe for him to take the edge off of some of his crappy memories. He told you he always enjoyed visiting the Wave Organ when he felt bummed out. You took that tidbit of information and ran with it.

In contrast to the elation you felt, you were startled from a deep sleep the following morning by a jarring nightmare. As you were sitting in bed working away on your Wave Organ illustration, a gel-like string came through your open window and curled itself around the walls. Your eyes widened as more and more of these long, black strings came through the window. You sat there stunned, unable to move as they took up larger and larger amounts of space within your tiny room. Suddenly, a head poked its way through your window. It was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen. It looked like some kind of alien you had only ever seen in movies, with giant white eyes and sharp teeth. It was massive and looked insanely strong. It moved closer and closer towards you, clutching onto the edge of your bed with its claws. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of you. You couldn’t cry, couldn’t scream. You could barely breathe. After staring at you for a few seconds, twisting its head to the side, it poked its tongue out at you and let out this awful roaring, screaming noise.

Without even thinking, you flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook as soon as you woke up. You picked up a charcoal pencil and etched the creature onto the page in under an hour. You weren’t sure why you felt so compelled to recreate what you saw. It was like something else was controlling your hands as you drew. When you finally finished, you threw your pen down on the page and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

🕷

“Bold question,” Eddie said, clinking his beer against yours. You hated beer, but he was adamant that the hole in the wall bar you met up at had a beer selection that even you would enjoy.

“Oh no. Not another one,” you joked, taking a sip of your drink.

Huh. He wasn’t wrong. Your beer (which he refused to allow you to pay for) was actually pretty good.

He leaned his cheek against his fist, sliding his elbow across the counter.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You raised your eyebrows. “I don’t. Why do you ask?”

He smiled, taking a swig of his drink. “You would think I’d have asked you before. I really should have. I mean, I’m pretty invested at this point…but yeah, no. It’s good that you don’t have a boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. “I would have to agree. I don’t have the best track record when it comes to those.”

“No?” he asked. He placed both his elbows on the counter and draped his wrists along the edge, leaning closer towards you. He was looking at you like that was some kind of challenge, like he knew something you didn’t. “I think I can change that.”

You felt an inkling of courage at his words, reaching into your bag to pull out the Wave Organ drawing in its silly little dollar store frame. You were slowly starting to accept that Eddie Brock had a crush on you, maybe an even bigger crush on you than you had on him, if that was possible. You really, really hoped he wouldn’t think your thankful gesture wasn’t cringeworthy.

He craned his head around you to peer at the drawing. “What’s that?”

“Well…” you said, taking a deep breath. “I’m not sure if I can ever properly repay you for what you’ve done, but this is my attempt.” You held it out to him abruptly, resisting the urge to clamp your eyes shut.

He gently picked it up, pulling it closer to his face to get a good look.

“Is this…”

“The Wave Organ. I felt really sad when you told me about all the bad memories you had growing up. You mentioned that this was one of the places you liked to escape to when you were feeling low. I know this in no way erases those memories, but I wanted to give you something that could help you see San Francisco from your own, untainted point of view. I hope one day the city won’t be as ruined for you as it is now. It’s not just your family’s home. It’s yours, too. No one gets to take that away from you.”

He stared at the drawing for a long time before squinting his eyes shut and clearing his throat. He twisted his head to the side to crack his neck and cleared his throat before opening them again.

“Man…you’re getting me a little choked up over here,” he said, his voice gravelly. He set the frame down on the counter and wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye. Maybe it hadn’t been the best move to give him such a personal gift in such a dingy bar. It wasn’t your intention to make him upset or bring the mood down. You placed your hand over his, scrambling to come up with a good apology.

“Eddie, I—”

“This just might be the best gift anyone has ever given me,” he said, brushing his thumb along the side of your hand.

He looked like he actually meant it.

And then he leaned in and kissed you. It seemed like it was simultaneously the shortest and longest kiss in the world. You got totally lost kissing him, forgetting that you were in a public place, forgetting everything.

Yup. You really, really liked Eddie Brock.

After a couple of hours, you decided to call it a night. Neither of you even really drank that much. You had one beer to his two, with lots of water and some stale chips in between. Before you could start on your walk home, Eddie stopped you.

“Hey, would you, um…would you want to come back to my place for a little bit?”

You raised your eyebrows and smirked.

“It doesn’t have to mean what you think it means, ya little goofball. I would be happy to just hang out and watch a movie with you. Like, actually watch a movie. If there’s anything I have an excess of, it’s popcorn. The good kind, too. Not that microwave shit.”

“Huh,” you mused, pretending to exaggeratedly think it over. “The good kind of popcorn, no microwave shit. A tempting prospect.”

You had to admit, you were kind of curious about what his apartment looked like. Eddie had somewhat of a messy vibe to him. Being just as engaged with his work as you were (if not more so), you figured he probably had a ton of paper and pens and post-its all over the place.

“And you’d get a free ride out of the deal with a very safe driver. I’ll even let you wear my helmet.”

You had never been on a motorcycle before.

“Well, no. I’m not letting you wear my helmet. I’m making you wear my helmet.” Before you could say anything, he pushed your hair back and slid the heavy black helmet down over your head. Once it was fully on, he lightly knocked on the side. “Gotta protect that beautiful little noggin.”

“But what about you?” you asked.

“What about me?” he asked, motioning for you to come closer as he got on the bike.

“Don’t you need a helmet?”

“Like I said, I’m a very safe driver.”

He wasn’t, but you didn’t mind.

🕷

Eddie Brock’s apartment was just what you had expected. It was very him, with brick accent walls and hardwood floors and a massive leather couch. There was a large bookshelf in the corner of the living room next to the kitchen, which was pretty clean if you ignored all the mugs and portable coffee cups in the sink. The space was dimly lit in spite of the vast quantity of light fixtures he had positioned everywhere. The living room was cluttered with random pieces of furniture he didn’t seem to know what to do with, and the coffee table had piles of papers stacked up on top of it.

“Well, this is it,” he said, tossing his keys onto the counter haphazardly. “I’m sorry it’s such a mess. Honestly I hadn’t been expecting any visitors tonight, so…”

“No?” you asked, leaning back against the fridge.

“You would think I’d have a hunch about these things, right?” he asked, pouring you a glass of water. “But no. I don’t know, I really was hoping you would want to come over here sometime, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous. When I really like someone, I try not to build my expectations up too high. I’m kind of surprised you’re here with me right now, actually. When I texted you this afternoon, I figured it was kind of a longshot.”

“Really?” you asked. “I thought it was pretty obvious that I had a massive crush on you.”

His face lit up as he shrugged his jacket off. “You had a crush on me?” he asked incredulously. “For how long?”

“I did. I do. Like, from the first time I met you.”

“Really?” he asked. “From when we did the interview at May’s? Are you sure?”

“I mean, that’s not something I’m typically uncertain about,” you chuckled. “I honestly thought you might have picked up on it.”

“No. Not at all! I wish I would have picked up on it. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so nervous sending you that text today if I had an inkling that I had a shot with you.”

“Why did you send it if you felt like you didn’t have a chance?” you asked playfully.

He shrugged. “I mean…can you really blame me for trying?”

He encouraged you to get comfortable on the couch as he set to work on the popcorn, none other than Jiffy Pop. You were surprised to find that he had a ton of DVDs in addition to being subscribed to a variety of streaming services.

“What are you in the mood for?” you asked.

“Hmm…” He turned his head towards you as he moved the pan over the stove. “Would it be weird to say horror?”

“Say no more.”

You settled on John Carpenter’s Halloween.

“Oh, where’s your bathroom?” you asked.

“Just down the hallway to the left. The lock doesn’t work, so…yeah. I won’t come bursting in on you.”

You laughed. “Good to know.”

After fixing your smudged eyeliner, straightening out your shirt, and taming a few stray hairs, you started heading back towards the living room.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.

In the crack of a doorway was a familiar assortment of colors and lines. You pushed the door open just a tad bit more. There it was, just as you suspected: a collection of prints you had sold from your website the month prior. Your heart warmed at the thought. Eddie was the one that bought them. Eddie was ‘Alien Symbiote.’ He wanted to support your business without you knowing. He meant what he said. He really had liked your work.

You had no clue why he picked such a hilarious pseudonym, though.

You peeked down the hallway to see if Eddie had caught you snooping into his bedroom, but his back was turned to you as he worked on the popcorn. You weren’t sure why, but you pushed the door open just a tiny bit more.

You weren’t quite sure what you were seeing at first. What you were looking at was so overwhelming, so completely and utterly destabilizing that your mind couldn’t process it right away. There was just too much to take in. Eddie’s bedroom was much like the rest of the apartment, homey and cluttered and warm. But this type of clutter was…different.

Along his desk were piles of papers in complete disarray. But even through the mess, it was unmistakable.

Those were your drawings. Those were your headphones. Those were your paintbrushes. And that was your sketchbook from freshman year of college.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

Your mind was spinning. There had to be some rational explanation as to why Eddie had those things. Your things. Things you thought you had lost or misplaced. Maybe you left them at May’s and he just so happened to find them and pick them up for you. That was a possibility, wasn’t it? That was a perfectly viable, reasonable explanation. Eddie wasn’t some kind of freak. Surely he wasn’t stalking you.

But you knew better.

Most damning of all was the bulletin board hung up above his desk. You could barely count the number of photos that were pinned up along that wall. There were photos of you walking to the post office, photos of you drawing in the park, at May’s, in your apartment. There were photos of you laughing, photos of you texting, photos of you watering the plants along your windowsill, even photos of you sleeping.

You felt like doing several things simultaneously as your nausea kicked into overdrive. You wanted to scream, cry, hide, jump out the window. You wanted to melt through the walls and avoid having to see him ever again as you bolted out of the building. You looked to the window to check for a fire escape, to no avail. It had to have been just outside the living room. You wondered if you could make it out there without him noticing, but that would be impossible. Eddie was super perceptive, and apparently hyper aware of your every move.

Almost every move. You had discovered his little…whatever this was without him knowing.

Not only was Eddie Brock a stalker, he was also a reporter. It was as if he was following you with the same fervor that he would a corrupt politician or a local hero or anyone else he was writing some in-depth exposé about. It was just so jarring. Only a few seconds ago, you felt lucky and hopeful about getting to know him better. Now all you wanted to do was erase yourself from his memory entirely.

If you lingered there any longer, you knew he would start to suspect something was up. You took a few deep breaths, trying your best not to hyperventilate. You crept down the hallway into the living room as quietly as you could. You looked back and forth from the kitchen to the living room a few times, making sure he wasn’t looking your way. Just when you were about to open the window, you heard his voice.

“Looks like we’re in business!” he exclaimed, walking towards you with a large bowl in his hands. “Now I know I talk a big game, but I’m like 99% certain that this will be the best popcorn you’ve ever had in your life.”

You whipped around instantly. Every muscle in your body felt tense and rigid. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. You just stared at him.

A look of concern flashed across his face. His gaze shifted towards your hands, which were visibly shaking. “You alright?”

“Um…yeah, no. I’m fine, Eddie. I’m just not feeling very well…”

You could feel the pinpricks of tears in your eyes. Shit.

“I think I need to go home. It’s late and I think I should get some s-sleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, setting the bowl down on the coffee table. “C’mere, I’ll give you a ride h—”

“No!” you cut him off, your voice louder than intended. Then, more quietly, “No, no, that’s okay, Eddie. I can walk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s late. I need to know that you got home safe.”

His words made your stomach turn. He didn’t need to know anything.

“No, Eddie. No.” You pushed past him as you walked towards the kitchen counter, where you had left your phone. “I’m just gonna head out.”

“No, wait,” he said, jutting out in front of you. His hands hovered over your elbows. He was really close to you. Way too close. He smiled at you; a nervous, cloying, shifty smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You could feel warm tears rolling down your cheeks. Your breath became labored as you struggled to speak. “Please just let m—”

His face fell.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

You reached to grab your phone, but he was quicker. It shouldn’t have surprised you that he ripped your phone out of your hands, but you let out a little gasp when he did. You attempted to claw it away from him, but he pulled it out of reach every time you tried. His other hand was held out defensively, lightly pressing against your sternum as you lunged at him.

“Give me my phone!” you yelled. “Eddie, give me my phone!”

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked. Baby. That stupid, sickly sweet concerned look was still plastered on his face. You felt a rush of anger burn through your chest. He really had the audacity to act like he meant you no harm, like he was exactly the person you thought he was, to call you baby. But you weren’t just angry at him. You were also angry at yourself. How did you not see the signs sooner? Were there even any signs?

“Give it back to me now! You can’t just take my phone from me like that. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Calm down. Just calm down! I’ll give it back when you tell me what’s going on,” he said. It was clear that he was slightly panicked, too, trying his best to keep his voice even. “I…I thought tonight was going so well.”

“Yeah?” you mocked. “Yeah? Me, too!”

After one final attempt at reaching for your phone, you gave up and darted past him towards the door. He tossed your phone onto the couch and jumped out in front of you once again, gripping onto your upper arms.

“Let go of me!”

You were hoping if you screamed loud enough that the neighbors would notice, but you couldn’t hear anything outside of the apartment.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

“Oh no, we’re not gonna do this,” you sobbed, backing up against the door. He followed, caging you in.

“What are y—”

“Stop acting like you don’t know what’s going on!”

“Baby, I don’t know what y—”

“I found your room. I saw it. The pictures, the drawings. That’s probably not even all of it,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like you. It was rough, raspy. “For the last month I thought I had been going crazy, that I was losing things. But you had them all along. All that weird stuff in my apartment—the window, the cabinets. All those pictures…you’ve been following me. Why?”

He stared at you with a look akin to a deer in headlights. Panicked and confused.

“WHY?” you repeated, making him wince.

He let out a breathy sigh, giving you that same nervous smile as before. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You pushed him only for him to shove you back against the door. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was examining you carefully, his brow furrowed. It wasn’t a judgmental look so much as a contemplative one.

“When you’ve been manic, have you ever had any hallucinations?” he asked.

“What?” you asked. “No. I don’t have full blown mania, I have hypomanic episodes. You know that. What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ve read up on this,” he said, as if he was trying to level with you. “After I interviewed you, I did a bunch of research on bipolar disorder.”

Oh, I’m sure you did.

“And I read that if you’re having a really bad manic episode or if you’re sleep deprived, it’s possible for people with bipolar disorder to experience psychosis. Sometimes you don’t even have to be manic or sleep deprived to have hallucinations or delusions.”

Oh my god.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious with this right now? Are you hearing yourself? You’re really trying to tell me that what I just saw was all in my head?”

“Baby, please just listen t—”

“I thought you were disgusting, but this is fucking vile,” you snapped.

“Come on. It’s me! You know me. Do you seriously think I’m some kind of creep? Do you seriously think I would hurt you, or violate your privacy like that?”

“I know what I saw!”

“Have I ever once made you feel unsafe?”

“YES!” you yelled. “You’re making me feel unsafe right now!”

“Just LISTEN to me!” he yelled, shoving you against the door once again.

You almost screamed when you heard it. A separate voice was yelling in unison with Eddie’s; a louder, deeper, distorted voice. An otherworldly voice. It conjured up an image in your mind of that thing you saw in your nightmare—tangling its way along the walls, tilting its head at you, roaring so loud that it startled you awake.

Maybe you were hallucinating.

“No!” you yelled, pushing him as hard as you could. You ran down the hallway and he followed, grabbing you from behind. You hit and kicked at him, escaping his grasp every few seconds before being trapped once again. You were stumbling and clawing at one another as you moved closer and closer to his bedroom door. “You want to prove this is a hallucination? Let me see your room!”

“Wait!” Eddie yelled, blocking you from elbowing him in the nose. “Nonono, wait. Hold on. We’re not going to my room. I’m not going to entertain this delusion. Okay? You shouldn’t have gone into my room in the first place. Are you listening to me? If you’re having a psychotic break right now, you shouldn’t—”

You kicked him in the stomach as forcefully as you could, catapulting yourself onto the bedroom floor. You landed hard, but you couldn’t focus on the pain in your elbows. All you could see was the window in front of you. It was wide open. You could have sworn that it was closed when you first entered the room. Most alarming, though, was the inky black shadow crawling its way from the corner of the wall, out of the window. Your breath hitched in your throat.

“Wh…what…?”

When you turned your head to look at the bulletin board, there was nothing pinned to it. No photos. Not a single one. Even the desk was free of clutter. No papers, no headphones, no paintbrushes, no sketchbook. The only remaining item of yours were those prints he had purchased, propped up along the wall just as they had been a few minutes ago.

You sat in stunned silence.

Eddie caught his breath, curled up in a ball just outside the doorway. He was cradling his stomach, looking just as stunned as you were. He didn’t make a single move towards you. “Are you seeing anything right now?” he asked breathlessly.

“I…”

You had never cried so hard in your life.

🕷

“I don’t understand. I’ve never experienced psychosis before.”

You were lying on Eddie’s couch with wet hair and puffy eyes. You had asked if you could shower at his apartment to try and calm down, and he was polite enough to let you. He even sat outside the door to make sure you didn’t fall, and offered you one of his t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts when you got out.

You really didn’t deserve his kindness.

You were lying against his chest, your hands lightly gripping onto his flannel. He had one arm wrapped around your torso while the other lazily played with your hair and massaged your scalp. You were still shaking pretty badly, but his warmth was helping to soothe you.

“Didn’t you switch medications recently?” he asked.

“Yeah. Do you think that could have caused it?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Maybe. I had a weird feeling about it. It was making me really paranoid.”

You were both quiet for a few minutes as Halloween provided the space with background noise. Eddie had asked you if you wanted to turn on something more lighthearted considering the circumstances, but you refused. There was something about horror movies that made you feel safe—like those things were just fiction, the product of a writer’s imagination. Those things weren’t happening now, and they would never happen to you.

The silence between you took your mind to some dark places. You felt absolutely mortified that you had put Eddie through whatever the hell that was. He had been nothing but kind to you and this was how you repaid him?

“You must think I’m insane,” you mumbled, burying your face in his chest.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “No. I would never think that. You’re a lot of things. Insane isn’t one of them.”

“It was like I was hearing two voices at once,” you said, your stomach twisting. “Your voice, and this…other one. It didn’t sound human. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

He wrapped both arms around you, burying his chin into the crook of your neck.

“Tomorrow morning I think you should call your psychiatrist,” he said.

“It’s a Saturday. They’re not open,” you said matter-of-factly.

“Well,” he chuckled. “I think you should call and leave a message.”

“I definitely don’t want another issue like this one. I’m just so tired of all the trial and error. It’s been such a long road for me with this.”

As the credits rolled, you turned and looked up at him. You were about to ask if he was up for Halloween 2, but when you saw the look on his face, you decided against it. He looked a little irritated. How could he not be? You had just accused him of being a stalker and gotten into a full-blown physical altercation.

“Do you want me to go?” you asked. “I can go.”

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t want you to go. I really, really don’t. It’s just…do you ever feel like your life is one monumental screwup?”

“Um. What?” you asked.

“It’s just…it upsets me a little bit, y’know? This is in no way your fault, and I know you couldn’t help it. Hallucinations can be really vivid. But it’s damaging to know that you would think so badly of me to immediately conclude I would hurt you like that.”

Your heart sunk as he continued working his fingers through your scalp.

“Eddie, I don’t think badly of you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, giving your hair a light tug. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“That’s not fair. If you could see what I saw…it looked so real. It was all there when I first walked into your room, I’m telling you. And then it was gone, just like that.”

“What did you see when you were in there?” he asked.

“Pretty much what I told you. Some stuff that had gone missing from my apartment, pictures of me all over the place. It looked like some twisted shrine or something. It was really terrifying. If you saw a shrine of yourself in my room, wouldn’t you be scared, too?”

“Like what, if you were stalking me, you mean?”

You nodded.

“Hah. Well…I can’t say I would be too upset about that.”

“Stop,” you chuckled.

“Kidding, kidding,” he said. “I’m being an idiot. I’m sorry. I don’t expect any kind of apology from you or anything. That wasn’t your fault and you were just as scared as I was. It’s just that all this time I feel like you’ve gotten the chance to see me for what I am, you know? The actual me. Not this horrible person that everybody seems to think I am. It’s been so rare for me to find people that are truly willing to get to know me, and things had been going so well with you. I didn’t want that to change. I’ve been terrified that I’m going to mess it up somehow, and it hurts that, even for a split second, you saw me just like everybody else in my life does.

“This is going to sound awful, and maybe it’s an ego thing, but I kind of…I don’t want you to look up to me, that’s not what I’m trying to say. But I do want you to know that you can trust me. Like, I want to be the one that you call when you need something. Or even just for no reason at all. I want you to feel like you can call me whenever you want.”

“If I called you whenever I wanted, you would probably block my number,” you said.

“No, I definitely wouldn’t,” he laughed, smiling softly. “I just want you to feel safe with me, that’s all. And I want to help you figure this medication thing out.”

You sighed. “I just want to be normal. I’m so tired of this, Eddie.”

“I know. And I know you can do it on your own, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to go through any of this alone anymore.”

You had a sinking feeling that Eddie didn’t know what he was signing up for. You already felt terrible about what had happened tonight. You weren’t sure if you or he could handle any even remotely similar reoccurrences.

“Eddie—”

“No, I mean it. As long as you want me around, I’m not going anywhere.”

A state of calm overtook you as Eddie shut the tv off. In spite of all that happened, you were overcome with a sense of ease and weightlessness you hadn’t experienced in years. He was just so warm, and he made you feel accepted in the wake of your most embarrassing moment. You were just about to drift off to sleep when your eyes snapped open.

You had never told Eddie that you switched medications.

🕷

shoutout to all my fellow bipolar girlies lol <3 love u, stay safe <3

#yandere marvel #yandere eddie brock x reader #eddie brock x reader #dark!eddie brock #yandere eddie brock

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