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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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so scarlet (it was maroon)

in which eddie gets everything he dreamed of - except you. based off of "maroon" by taylor swift.

→ warnings: smut, severe angst, hurt/no comfort, 18+ minors dni

→ pairings: rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

→ wc: 11.3k+

→ a/n: don't mind me, just trying to see if tumblr will let me finally post this. this is cross-posted from ao3 (and wattpad)

ao3

"When the morning came, we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf 'cause we lost track of time again. Laughing with my feet in your lap, like you were my closest friend"

“You’re fucking with me,” Eddie sits up to stare at you, lit joint still dangling between his ringed fingers and the last of his latest hit lingering in a ghost of white smoke on his lips.

“I’m not,” you laugh at his reaction, tilting your head forward just enough for where you were sprawled out on his bed to get a better view of him, “I’m scared to take cold medicine now.”

“There’s no way you got high off of the recommended dose!” he cackles, shaking his head in disbelief, a hand coming down on your shin to ground himself. You watch his shoulders shake with laughter, how his curls come down to curtain around his reddening cheeks and his reddening eyes, how his doe eyes are pinched shut and crinkled in the corners.

A map of a million lifetimes, branching out from the corner of those eyes. A million lifetimes, a million possibilities, a million futures. And every single one of them begins and ends with Eddie.

If you stare for too long, you’re going to say something you regret in your high, so you sit up as he had in order to snatch back the joint, “Stop babysitting. Aren’t you the one who’s always chastising me on ‘puff, puff, pass’?”

He feigns offense, mouth wide open and face scrunched up adorably so, as you take a delicate hit. The smoke enters your mouth quickly, wasting no time as it barrels down your throat and curls into every crevice of your lungs. Your chest aches slightly at the intrusion.

His eyes never leave yours. He watches the glaze continue to intensify over them as you slowly exhale. His thumb begins to trace gentle arches over the bare skin of your leg as his warm palm shifts upward, inching until it’s over your knee and resting on your thigh. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Learned from the best.”

“That you did, sweetheart. That you did.”

He holds his free hand back out for the joint, and your fingertips brush as you return it to him.

“So what? Was it better than this kind of high?” he teases before bringing it to his lips. They’re pursed in preparation, and you only lose your concentration for a moment before remembering to answer him.

“I dunno, Munson. You’ve got some good shit here but… Dayquil might be giving you a run for your money,” you mock, tilting your head and leaning in closer to him. He’s grinning again, looking up through shy lashes before he takes his hit.

This time he doesn’t exhale immediately into the cloudy air of the room. Instead, he takes you off guard as he shifts on the bed and pulls you closer. Soon enough he has you in his lap, draping one arm around your waist as he takes the hand not holding the joint and gingerly grabs your jaw.

You already know the drill. You’re familiar with the process of his shotguns as his fingers tap your cheeks and you let your mouth fall slightly open, leaning to meet him halfway. He still doesn’t exhale, not until his lips have grazed over yours lightly, teasing before he finally seals the two of you together. The kiss is messy, as it always is with him; your tongue can’t differentiate between the taste of him and the taste of the smoke as he presses the kiss deeper. You’re not even sure you breathed in enough to capture any of it, but none of it feels like a waste as he’s biting your bottom lip, hands pulling your hips impossibly close. The joint is eventually discarded on one of the ashtrays on his bedside tables as you lose yourselves into each other. His nose presses itself into flat against yours between hot breaths.

“We can’t-” you pull back, a trail of saliva chasing you before Eddie follows, capturing you in another kiss that you pull back from, “The joint-” another interruption with another desperate kiss, “The incense-”

“The incense will be fine, baby,” he insists, pouting slightly, “It’s not going to burn the house down.”

He kisses you once more, wasting no time to fall backwards into his pillows and dragging you with him. For a moment, you’re straddling him, hovering over him, but he quickly turns and presses your back into his sheets before he’s rolling over on top of you, caging you in. You don’t mind it. You never mind him taking up your space, your breath, your mind.

A hand comes up to rest on your neck as you take a moment to press both hands into his chest, forcing distance. His eyes snap wide open, and they’re shining like a dozen moons at once, even with his pupils blown out.

“And if it does? It if does burn down the house?” you whisper, hands beginning to wander, one finding its way up and around the back of his neck, toying with the curls in its path. The other smooths over his shoulder, prepared to pull him back in impossibly close even without an answer.

He’s looking down at you with all the love in all of Hawkins, in all of the world, as he smirks and answers, “Then I say let it burn.”

"And I chose you, the one I was dancing with in New York, no shoes. Looked up at the sky and it was maroon."

Within a year of graduation, Eddie had made it very clear he wanted to get out of Hawkins. Corroded Coffin had been slowly but surely crawling their way to popularity outside of Hawkins, and when the moment was right, he came to you with an offer you couldn’t refuse.

“Come with me. Move to New York. I know, it’s insane, but-”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Was it ever really a question, Eddie?”

He was it for you, and so when he’d been prepared to beg you on his knees to move with him, it had been a no-brainer. You packed up all your belongings without second-thoughts, said goodbye to the town that never really deserved either of you, and started your life in a big city.

The apartment was small and impossibly cramped, but the first night you two arrived, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was in the dingier part of town, or that you two were going to be penniless the next several months as you barely scraped by with rent. The moment you walked into that one-bedroom apartment, you knew it was yours, and you knew with certainty then that you had done it - you had escaped the bleary town and come out the other side.

“Holy shit,” he sighs as he places down one of the last few boxes you’d brought with you amongst one of the several piles littering the living room. You’re sitting on top of one particularly sturdy stack of boxes, the top one serving as a seat most likely filled with your books from home.

“Yeah,” you breath, looking around, completely stunned, “Holy shit.”

Eddie turns in a full circle, almost as if he was drinking it all in, before he faces you once more. His face is a blank slate only for a second before the serendipity and sudden gaiety takes over his features. He’s unexpectedly running in your direction, arms wrapping around you and lifting you off the boxes as you squeal, swinging you around effortlessly.

“We fucking did it!” he cheers over your giggles. When he finally finishes spinning you, letting your sock-clad feet find stability on the hardwood floors, he still doesn’t let you go. He only pulls you into his chest tighter, “We did it. We’re in New fucking York.”

You smile brightly, pressing your cheek painfully against his t-shirt, nodding as you echo, “We did it.”

The moment pauses as he pulls away as suddenly as he had picked you up, still radiating happiness.

“Hold on, wait here. I’ve got an idea.”

He jogs over to one of the stacks of boxes at the entrance of the kitchen as you just laugh, “Not like I’ve got anywhere to run off to, Munson.”

“You better not!” he calls over his shoulder, digging for whatever his brilliant idea was.

You disobey him indirectly by wandering across the living room, steps slow and careful as you approach the large window offering a lackluster view. All you could see, for the most part, was the large brickwall of the neighboring apartment building. It was old and faded, scattered marks of paints from clear graffiti at random intervals. The city had clearly tried to wash away the few remnants of whatever art the random city vigilantes had covered it with, but the reminders of what once was remained. A nod to the fact that sometimes, no matter how hard you try to wash away things, their legacy lingers stubbornly.

You don’t even hear Eddie setting up one of his old boomboxes with a favorite mixtape of the two of yours until it begins to play from the speakers, probably a bit more loud than you should have if you were attempting to be considerate neighbors.

But neither of you cared.

When you turn, you find Eddie approaching you steadily to the beat of the song playing. He takes a step with each beat, swaying his hips in clear exaggeration.

He’s only several paces from you when he holds out a hand, grinning like a fool as he says, “Dance with me, sweetheart.”

You take it, immediately. There’s not a trace of hesitation as you let the boy who held the sun in your eyes drag you across the barren living room, not even dancing to the beat but growing dizzy with love regardless. You let your own happiness mingle with his. As he spins you for the hundredth time, dipping you low and dramatically, you imagine that this is it - this is as good as it could possibly get. Because you’re with your boy, and you two are dancing to your own beat as the mixtape ends, and there couldn’t possibly be a more perfect person than him.

He brings you back up to him as he stands up straight, and not a word is passed as lips crash together. An eager kiss, all teeth and revelations and silent promises of forever. It’s saccharine sweet as his tongue passes over your lips, begging for more closeness. Your chests are so tightly pressed together that with each breath he gasps in, you’re forced to exhale.

“I love you,” he mutters, pulling back momentarily and staring into your eyes. His arms cradle you so carefully, as if scared that when he lets go, you’ll completely disappear from him, “I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real, so you better believe it, rockstar,” you reassure him, “Now shut up and kiss me.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he mutters, already so close to you that his lips brush against yours before he’s back on you, hot and heavy.

You’re not sure how exactly it happens, or who first starts encouraging the steps taken towards the hallway, but you end up with your back against the wall as Eddie leans completely into you. You both feel drunk on each other, giddy on your current reality. After a particularly harsh tug on his hair, in sync with a yearning squeeze on your hip, he whispers ‘jump’ into your kiss. Hands find the back of your thighs, molding them into his knuckles as he carries you into the bedroom.

The room is only filled with a few artifacts: boxes of both of your clothes, Eddie’s prized guitar propped up in one of the corners, and a mattress on the floor only covered in a comforter and no sheets yet. The afternoon light is golden as it flutters in through the open window, the sounds of the city muted by your breaths.

He’s impossibly gentle as he lowers the two of you down onto the mattress, careful as he lets you unwrap your legs and flop back. Even with his carefulness, you find your own eagerness causing your movements to be too rough, bouncing back slightly and bumping noses with him. You both take a break to laugh.

“Careful, you klutz,” he warns, balancing himself up on his forearms as he looks down at you in adoration. You don’t respond, instead lifting yourself to capture his lips in yours, pulling him down. Your teeth clash with his as you both continue to giggle into the open-mouthed kiss.

He gives in, hands roaming as they slip below your tattered shirt you’d worn for the occasion of moving. His warm hands find home on your chest, squeezing softly and thumbs flicking your already pebbled nipples in order to pull gasps from you. He lets his head drop to your neck, his messy curls tickling your nose as he presses wet kisses down your jugular. Each kiss is in sync with the heavy beating of your heart.

He stops when his path leads him down to your collarbone, sucking and nipping before releasing blooming skin to glance up at your face, twisted in euphoria. “This is real, isn’t it?”

His voice is so soft, you almost don’t hear him. But you look down at him, a boy made of contradictions - of sunshine and moonlight, of passionate and tender actions - and can only smile in serenity.

“Yeah, it is.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs to continue his worship, leaving no patch of supple skin unkissed.

"The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me, and how the blood rushed into my cheeks. So scarlett, it was maroon."

It could have been hours later or days when you’d finally tired yourselves out. It took an impossible amount of willpower, but eventually, you two had untangled yourselves from each other, leaving the warmth of your comforter to continue unpacking.

Or rather, you were unpacking. Eddie had taken to stretching out on the bed, back propped up on the bare wall behind him with his guitar in his lap, strumming mindlessly as he watched you begin to pull your clothes from one of the boxes. You took your time, smoothing out any wrinkles that had formed during the move, focused as you hung your shirts on hangers and put them away into their home in your new shared closet.

Eddie pauses whatever song he had been practicing when he catches sight of a particular shirt you pull from the box.

It’s a white t-shirt. Nothing impressive, but what piques his interest is the splotch of once-red-now-maroon painting the center of the fabric. It’s faded, feathered at the edges, but he knows the story behind that stain all too well.

“You really kept that shirt? Even after I ruined it?” he chuckles, shifting his guitar off his lap, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

You hold it up, laughing as well, taking in the stain that refused to wash out, “Yeah. Sentimental value or whatever,” you tease, looking down at him. You take his breath away like this, in nothing but his Judas Priest shirt that barely reaches your thighs, nothing but underwear on underneath, hair in tangles from your previous activities. But you’re glowing, a glow that he’s been lucky enough to witness on multiple occasions, and it takes everything in him to keep his hands to himself, “Never really wear it, though. Guess I should get rid of it, huh?”

“No,” he answers you far too quickly, “Never. Keep it forever. We can frame it, hang it in the hallway.”

You know he’s not serious, but the thought still makes you smile. You’d never really get rid of it, far too attached to the memories it held, even two years later.

Another Harrington party. Another sea of almost-adults getting far too drunk, far too rowdy. You’d been to your fair share of them, but they never really got easier.

There’s an excitement in the air you can’t place. Maybe it was from graduation, still nearly six months away but on the horizon nevertheless. Or maybe it was simply from the holiday - Halloween. Whatever it was, it buzzed through the air and across your chilled skin.

Your costume was last minute. A half-assed attempt at a pirate costume. It had been thrown together with things you could already find in your closet, for the most part - one of your more flowy white t-shirts, black jeans you’d taken scissors to the knees of in an act of temporary rebellion, heavy boots originally bought for hiking. The only real clues as to what you were had been aiming to disguise yourself as were the cheap eyepatch and doltish pirate hat you’d bought when shopping with your friends for the occasion. But you’d long forgone your eyepatch as the alcohol impaired your vision well enough without the loss of use in one of your eyes.

The hat was a cheap velvet-texture, deep maroon in color and an extravagant black feather barely holding on by the factory glue used to secure it.

Your friends had long since abandoned you. One of them went off with a jock who had caught their eye, the other getting dragged into a very serious game of beer pong. It hadn’t bothered you too much - it had left you to your own devices, nursing a cup of whatever punch had been spiked in a dark corner of the kitchen. You watched your classmates trail in and out for their own dose of alcohol without much interest. Until he walked in.

He was glued to the side of the host himself, Steve Harrington. You overheard a couple of scolding sentences coming from Steve’s lips, something about ‘cutting him off’ and how he needed to ‘compose himself’. It was entertaining, at the least, to watch the boy fumble with himself.

“C’mon, you’ve got to have more whiskey around here somewhere, pretty boy!” he whined, leaning into Steve as he lost his balance momentarily.

“No, Eddie! I mean it, you’re cut off! Now stay here or so help me God-” Steve appeared irritated, but was far more patient than you would have been as he carefully guided his friend to lean on the counter across the room from you. He left the room in a hurry, and you snickered under your breath as the predictable happened right before your eyes - once Eddie was left alone, he immediately began to pilfer for more alcohol.

It takes him a second, to your amusement, before he reappeared from the lower cabinets he had crouched in front of, letting out a loud ‘Aha!’ with a bottle of red wine in hand. He wasted no time in digging through multiple drawers as if it were his own house before he found a corkscrew, and the entire time, your eyes continuously flickered to the entrance of the entrance, waiting until Steve returned and would catch his friend red-handed (literally).

He never did, though. Eddie has enough time to begin struggling with the cork, curses and mutters falling from his lips as you watched on. You’re only pulled from your watchful gaze when you hear a loud pop, and hear a triumphant ‘Fuck yeah!’ from the boy.

Maybe you thought you should intervene, considering you were clearly not as far gone as Eddie, but you weren’t quick enough. You’d walked up behind him, about to announce yourself and stop him, when he turned suddenly, a red cup in hand that was nearly overflowing with red wine.

Eddie hadn’t expected you to be so close, hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone in the kitchen. Immediately, the cup collided with your chest and the red wine sloshed down the front of your shirt.

You gasped, jumping back slightly, as he cursed, “Oh, shit! Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Wide, brown eyes found yours, looking sincere in their apology.

He looked around before grabbing a random kitchen towel, unfortunately also a starch white, and began to try and dab at your shirt clumsily.

“No, no, it’s okay,” you insisted as you felt your cheeks begin to burn. He continued to attempt to rectify the matter, clearly panicked. You have to eventually grab his wrists, pulling him and the now-ruined towel away. He looked back up.

It was almost like slow motion. His eyes met yours and you felt time stop. Your fingers stay pressed into his wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse, for far longer than necessary.

“It’s fine,” you said once more, finally prying your grip from him. You might have been a little too drunk to care, and you’re sure that sober you would be disappointed in the comfortable t-shirt now being collateral damage, but for now, it didn’t matter.

“I had no clue you were there. I’m- Fuck, I’m drunk. I’m an idiot. Sorry,” he slurred, looking down at you.

You shrugged, playing it off, “Shoulda announced myself sooner. Don’t be sorry, it’s a problem for sober me.”

You really had liked that shirt. It was a shame.

“You know, if you really wanted more alcohol, they still have punch left,” you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder, in the direction of the crystal bowl on the counter you had just been leaning on.

Eddie’s face scrunched up in disgust immediately, “Ew, God no. That shit’s way too sweet.”

You bit your lip to fight laughter, “And wine is any better?”

“It can be, when shared with someone as pretty as yourself,” he has a shameless, flirty grin on his features, raising his eyebrows suggestively at you. You broke, laughing softly and shaking your head.

He had a point. The punch wasn’t very good.

“Alright, then, mister ‘you’re cut off’. I suppose I’ll join you in your antics,” you turned to the sink, dumping the remnants of your punch before turning back to him and reaching for the bottle of wine he still held.

His hand flew out of reach, tsking immediately, “Nope. Allow me.”

It wasn’t a good idea, but you let him take your now-empty cup regardless. He put it down on the counter and focused intently on filling it, nearly emptying the wine bottle as he topped it off just as full as his own had been.

“Jesus, you’d make a shitty bartender. You’re definitely overpouring right now.”

“Hush,” is all he replied as he finished the task at hand, setting down the empty bottle once he poured the last few drops into his own cup, attempting to make up for what was now soaking your shirt. It had started to dry, becoming cold and uncomfortably sticky, but you were too distracted with the boy in front of you to care. “M’lady,” he finally handed back the cup, looking far too proud of himself for not making another mess.

“Thank you,” you teased, giving a messy and exaggerated bow, careful to not spill the wine.

Once your glass is back in your own hand, his began to fumble into the pockets of the leather jacket he wore. It led to him spilling some more of his wine onto his own shirt this time, and you considered how lucky he was that he was wearing black.

“Here,” you gave him no choice as you gingerly took the cup from his hand, freeing him up to find whatever it was he was so desperate to find in his pockets. You take the moment to glance over his costume: he was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. On his face, a pair of small, circular sunglasses were perched haph-hazardly on his nose, the lenses a barely opaque red. You noted the obnoxiously long necklace swinging against his chest, a large silver cross at the end, “What are you even supposed to be dressed up as?”

He yanked a pack of cigarettes successfully from his pocket, grinning like a fool, “Ozzy Osbourne. Duh.”

“Duh,” you mimicked, handing him back his cup of wine before turning more serious,“From Black Sabbath, right?”

His eyes lit up. “You know Sabbath?”

“A little bit,” you shrugged, but that was enough for Eddie.

He slung an arm around your shoulders, cheesy grin and all, as he rattled the pack of cigarettes against your ear. “Say, you smoke?”

You didn’t, but for him, you did. “Yeah, yeah. I could use some fresh air anyways. Lead the way, rockstar.”

"When the silence came, we were shaking, blind and hazy. How the hell did we lose sight of us again?"

“Eddie, you have to call them back and tell them you’ll do it!”

“No! I can’t!”

“You can and you will.”

The fight had started over Eddie’s casual mention of a phone call he’d had earlier that day. It had been six months of New York, of bliss, of living in a pattern of waiting. Every day, you were both waiting; waiting for the next show Corroded Coffin would book, waiting for the next chance he’d have to send off yet another demo to another record label, waiting for the shimmers of what could be his big break. It had been comfortable while it lasted - the two of you were still wrapping your head around having your own routine. Of having something that’s yours.

The phone call today was the end of that waiting game.

The management of a slightly larger band, extending an offer to Corroded Coffin - they wanted them to be the opener for their next tour. It wasn’t an overly large one, it hardly spanned over three months and most of the venues were painfully small compared to what you believed Eddie should be playing, but it was an offer. Gigs, travel paid for, an opportunity for exposure right at his fingertips.

He had told them no.

“I’d have to leave. I’d be on the fucking west coast until December. I’d miss your birthday!” Eddie continues to argue. The two of you were standing in your living room, finally filling out. Shelves had collected framed photos, small knick-knacks that partially came from you and partially came from Eddie. You finally had a couch. It wasn’t a nice one, but it was a couch and it was yours. Something that belonged to both of you.

“You’d be playing shows! Selling merch! Gaining fans! This is your chance. Who cares if you’re not here for my birthday? We can celebrate over the phone, who cares?” your voice was breaking from frustration, not understanding how Eddie isn’t more excited. Instead of the joy you had expected to find on his face when he revealed the news to you, all you could see was fear. He was petrified. You finally drop your voice, taking on a soothing tone as you step in front of your boyfriend, taking his face in shaking hands, “Eddie, I’ll have other birthdays. But this? If you don’t do this… there might not be other tours.”

You could feel tears building up, some from exasperation, but most for the boy in front of you. This was his chance. He was your entire world, and you couldn’t let it pass him by.

He has tears mirroring in his own eyes, searching your face frantically, “I… I don’t want to be away from you. Not right now, not when we’re just figuring all this shit out.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tearily laugh, “Where would I even run off to, huh? No, stop this bullshit - don’t be an idiot. You go pick up that phone right now and tell that band they have an opener, and a damn good one at that. Right now.”

He’s frozen, leaning his cheeks into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. He just wants to live in this moment. He doesn’t want to think about the enormity of the decision in his hands - he just wants to stay here, in your arms, in the space you two had come to call home.

When your thumb swipes one of his escaped tears from his cheek, he caves. His voice is a ghost of a whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll go call them. But- But when I get back, we’re celebrating the hell out of your birthday, do you understand me? Fuck Christmas, Jesus has had, like, thousands of birthdays. When I get back, all I care about is you.”

You believe him. You believe him with your entire being, never once worrying about him missing something as trivial as the celebration.

“We sure will. Now go on, rockstar. Catch your big break.”

He finally smiles for the first time since he broke the news.

At the moment, all you saw was a world full of beginnings for your boy. This was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, and you couldn’t have been happier for him. The rose-colored glasses never gave you the chance to see it was the beginning for the two of you - the beginning of the end.

"Carnations you had thought were roses, that's us. I feel you, no matter what."

“I miss you.”

Those three months couldn’t have dragged on slower if they tried. But Eddie kept good on his word; every night, like clockwork, he called you. The two of you would take about anything and everything: he’d tell you about the latest crowd that included people who seemed to actually enjoy Corroded Coffin’s set, you’d tell him about the takeout you had for dinner after nearly burning your shared kitchen down, he’d mention the names of cities you could only dream of visiting, and you’d indulge him in theatrically stories of your latest customers from Hell at the small dinner you waitressed at.

“I know you do. I miss you too, Eds,” you sigh over the line, curled up on his side of the bed, even though it had finally stopped smelling like him. Long gone were the scents of late night cigarettes and woodsy cologne, replaced by a nauseating sweetness of your own shampoo and perfume. You hated it, but you’d never let him know that. Not when he seemed to actually be so happy. His breakdown over the offer seemed to fickle now, as it was clear he was enjoying himself. He was living out his dream. Something neither of you had fully processed yet.

“Hey, just two more weeks, right?” you whisper, eyes staring into the shadows across the room. Two more weeks. Fourteen days, and he was all yours once more.

It was your birthday. And it had been the most lonesome to date - a few coworkers had convinced you to go out for drinks after closing up the diner, but the entire time, you had just been anxious to get home and prepare for your phone call with Eddie. Just as the two of you had said, you had committed to somewhat celebrating over the phone.

“Do me a favor. Go into the kitchen real quick,” his voice instructs over the line, and you perk up slightly.

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me, sweetheart.”

You do as he asks, making your way out of the bedroom and down the hall. The apartment is dark, and a bit cold, but you don’t pay it any mind as you make your way to the kitchen.

“Okay, I’m in the kitchen. Now what?”

“The drawer to the left of the fridge. Open it.”

“Our junk drawer?”

“Yes, the junk drawer,” his tone is teasing, never growing irritated with your endless questions, “Open it.”

You hadn’t really touched the drawer since Eddie left, normally only discarded random pens and junk mail filling it. But you're shocked when you find the drawer more organized than you remember it - and in the center of it is a pack of candles.

“Candles?” you ask softly, a smile playing at your lips as your free hand reaches down to grasp the package. You flip it around in your palm, heart warming at the notion, but still feeling confused, “Babe, I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t exactly have a cake, or even a cupcake, to put these in.

“You don’t? Damn it. If only I had thought of that,” he hums in a teasing tone, making you lower the hot phone from your ear and glare down at his caller id that illuminates the screen, “Well. What a shame. Hey, do you know the time by chance?”

“Munson, I’m gonna kick your ass,” you mutter, turning to look at the clock over your oven, “It’s 7:59. What’s your game here?”

He doesn’t answer, leaving you further puzzled, instead mumbling what sounds like to himself, “Three, two-”

“Why are you counting down?”

“One.”

A loud knock echoes through the apartment, causing you to jump.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” you hiss over the line, gripping the candles impossibly tight.

“Go answer the door.”

“If you’re on the other side of it, I’m kicking you straight in the-”

“It’s not,” he interrupts, “I wish it was, sweetheart. It’s not. But just trust me, yeah? One last surprise, promise.”

You grumble your entire way to the door, still holding the package of candles as you stop in front of your front door. You pause, taking a deep breath.

��That doesn’t sound like you’re opening the door.”

“Give me a second. Jesus, for all I know, you hired a hitman and I’m about to be brutally murdered when I open this door,” you bite back, and you can hear his guffawing laughter over the line. Your chest burns, wishing you could hear it in person instead, imaging the glee on his face in the moment.

“Not a hitman. That’s for after we have life insurance, baby,” he drawls, and you finally muster the nerve to reach out and twist the knob. You swear you can hear chattering on the other side of the door.

It takes you some struggling as you refuse to let go of the candles, but when you finally swing the door open, you gasp.

There in the threshold stands your friends from Hawkins. Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, and Johnathan Byers. It’s clear that Nancy and Steve are mid-argument when you open the door, but Robin stands there, proudly showcasing a birthday cake in front of her, shit-eating grin on her face.

“Surprise!” she yells, capturing the attention of the rest of the gang that you and Eddie had left behind. Everyone faces you now, beaming, as you immediately go teary-eyed.

“Oh my God,” you gasp out, dropping the phone and candles to the floor, in shock. Steve steps in first, chuckling as he pulls you into a hug. It’s only then that you notice the bouquet in one of his hands, cellophane crinkling from how tightly he’s holding you. He shuffles the two of you out of the way just enough so that everyone else can enter.

“Your face! God, Munson was right, that was so worth it!” Robin barks as she steps up to the kitchen table and sits down the cake. She’s the next to hug you, yanking you out of Steve’s grasp and nearly crushing you, “Happy birthday,” she whispers happily into your ear, swaying the two of you as she continues to embrace you. You catch sight of Steve over her shoulder, wearing a look of amusement, chuckling and shaking his head.

Jonathan is the one with half a mind to pick up your abandoned phone and candles at the sound of muffled yelling over the line. He wastes no time, putting Eddie on speaker.

“Hellooo? World’s best boyfriend here, remember me? Wow. Can’t believe you’ve already forgotten me. Guess I’ll go fuck myself.”

You laugh as Robin finally lets you go, reaching up to swipe away the tears of jubilation.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “She’s in shock. Give her a second, Munson.”

Jonathan continues to hold your phone as you’re passed into Nancy’s arms and then his. Each whisper their own soft ‘happy birthday’, rubbing your back gently until your focus is back on the phone.

“Edward Munson-”

“Ah! There she is! She lives! And remembers me!”

“Fuck off,” you half-sob, half-laugh. It may not have been as good as him standing there, on your doorstep and embracing you, but it was damn good, “You’re so dead when you get home.”

“Dead? Wow. Weeks of planning only to meet my demise,” he sighs dramatically, “I suppose it’s a good way to go. At the hands of the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Beat that, Harrington.”

“Way to stay humble,” Steve chimes at the mention of his name, still grinning. He suddenly remembers the flowers in hand, suddenly thrusting them in your direction as he says, “From Eddie, by the way. He told me if we didn’t get you flowers, he’d castrate me.”

“And I meant it! That’s still on the table if you guys don’t make this her best damn birthday ever.”

“I’m sure he would,” you sniffle, reaching out and gripping the flowers. Your heart cracks slightly, not knowing how to tell him that despite how absolutely endearing the surprise had been, it’d be impossible for them to make this your best birthday.

He wasn’t here. It could only make the top of the list if he were here.

You feel no resentment, though, as you bring the flowers to your nose, smiling until your cheeks ache. “Red carnations. Pretty,” you hum, lost in the moment.

There’s a beat of silence before Eddie’s voice rings out across the room.

“Carnations? Harrington, I said red roses. You’re a dead man walking.”

"And I lost you, the one I was dancing with in New York, no shoes. Looked up at the sky and it was maroon."

Once Eddie returns home, it’s just as he promises - he almost doesn’t even make it through the door when his lips find yours at 3 AM, his suitcase thrown off somewhere to the side of your entryway. He’s too busy to care about anything else but you at the moment.

“Fuck,” he gasps between kisses, “I fucking missed you. God, I missed you.”

You’re silent as you nod in agreement against him, just eager to feel his touch once more. You’d waited three months too long for this moment, ever since he first left through that door for the tour.

“Needy, baby?” he teases, just as breathless as you are when the two of you finally pull apart, him kicking the door shut behind him. Your hands are grabbing weakly at the lapels of his jacket, too eager to be embarrassed, “God, always so needy for me. Just how I fucking like you.”

He’s always talkative, even during sex, but you have no patience for it tonight. “Shut up.”

“Aw, now that’s no way to greet your boyfriend you missed, is it, baby?” he eggs you on, looking down at you and your swollen lips with a wicked grin.

You open your mouth to snark back, but he refuses to give you the chance before he’s picking you up, lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Eddie!” you shriek, but laughter laces the protest. Your hands grip the back of his t-shirt as he begins to walk down the hallway, and you start to kick your feet out of defiance, but a sharp smack sounds through the quiet apartment as he playfully slaps your ass, putting an end to the kicks.

“Yeah, you better warm up those vocal chords,” he chuckles. The moment you’re back in your bedroom, he’s quick to toss you onto the mattress, finally mounted on a frame. The comforter flares around you, your head sinking into a pillow as Eddie is quick to remove his jacket and shirt, climbing up the bed between your legs, “Gonna have you chanting my name like a goddamn prayer, sweetheart.”

He removes your pajamas as he has a thousand times before, but it still doesn’t feel fast enough. You find yourself squirming, trying to help him pull off the flannel pants and t-shirt you’d stolen from his side of the closet, but he stops all movements immediately.

He shakes his head, hovering above you, his hair like a curtain around the two of you as your top lip brushes his bottom one and his mint breath fans over your face. “Slow it down for me, yeah? Wanna enjoy this,” he murmurs.

You obey, stilling below him save for your chest, rising and falling rapidly with waiting breaths. He finally dips down, his pick necklace tickling your collarbones as his mouth covers yours.

A culmination of three long months is spent into the kiss. All the restless nights, long phone calls, endless yearning. You can tell that he had missed you, longed for you, just as much as you had him.

It’s languid, the way your body reacts to each of his touches. As far as it was concerned, no time had passed. He does as he had said, taking his time, savoring each kiss he presses down your throat and over your breasts. He’s memorizing each crevice of you, every soft curve he’d dreamt of for 91 days.

Your squirming resumes when his hot breath reaches your navel, but he doesn’t scold you, bringing his hands to your hips and pressing them down into the mattress. “Let me show you just how much I missed you. Let me take care of you, baby.”

He’s enjoying it, the sound of your whines a better soundtrack than any of the music that had damaged his eardrums during the tour. His fingers dance over your bare skin, skimming right over the band of your underwear and tracing lines down your thighs. It’s agonizing - the waiting is terrible.

Terribly worth it, as it turns out.

When he finally decides to speed up his teasing, bringing a finger to brush across your clothed slit, you gasp. Your hands twist into the sheets at each side of you, but he isn’t having it.

“Now that’s not where those belong,” he mumbles, a hot breath over your panties sending shivers down your spine. He’s quick - his fingers suddenly hook into the waistband, and he’s pulling them down and off over your ankles with an eagerness finally matching your own. He throws them aimlessly to the bedroom floor, joining the rest of your discarded clothes recklessly. Neither of you care - you won’t be needing them the rest of the night.

He settles into the mattress, a leg thrown over each of his shoulders before he grabs your hands and guides them to tangle into his hair. He’s still taking his time, sucking his way up your inner thighs and leaving flowering bruises in his wake. Once he reaches where you want him to most, where you’re aching for him so pitifully, he pauses.

He repeats his earlier words, “God, I’ve missed you.”

He takes you by surprise as he dives right in, tongue flattening and licking a long stride up, starting at your entrance. His nose bumps over your clit before his tongue begins to dance circles, painting a secret language between the two of you over the sensitive bundle of nerves. One of his hands joins him, middle finger circling your entrance slowly before he presses in. He sets a pace quickly, pumping the finger a few times, tongue working magic, before he adds a second one. They curl with intention, pressing into the spongy spot of your walls that he knew like the back of his hand. It’s the exact spot that makes your back arch off the bed.

He pulls back his mouth, fingers continuing to pump and curl vigorously as he looks up at you dreamily. He eases one of his arms over your hips, pressing down, holding you in place.

He’s a dream. A goddamn dream. He’s finally here, looking up at you, grinning like a Devil as he watches you unravel at his hand.

“So pretty. Always so, so beautiful, but especially like this,” he says more to himself, but you hear him, a moan falling from your lips. His mouth returns to you, lips latching onto your clit, sucking harshly.

“Fuck,” you breathe into the still air of your apartment room, not caring if the neighbors hear but your chest too heavy to grow much louder, head fuzzy and all-consumed by him, “Eddie.”

He was right. His name falls from your mouth in pants, chanting to him as if he were your God.

It only spurs him on, fingers working expertly as he alternates between sucking and lapping at your clit. You can hear how wet you are for him, how close you are before the knot forms in your abdomen.

“Oh my God- Oh, fuck. Right there,” your hips buck involuntarily into his face, and he loosens his grip on your hips, letting you, “I’m gonna…G-Gonna…”

“Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he encourages, fingers curling harshly, “Cum on my face, baby. Do it.”

He puts his tongue back to work, You force your eyes open to catch sight of him, buried in your pussy, admiring how pretty he looked from this angle. The sight of his tousled curls, twisted tightly in your grip as you yank mercilessly, is all it takes for you to finally come undone.

A broken prayer, repeated over and over as a warmth rushes over you. Your vision goes white, eyes tightly screwed shut, toes curling and thighs clenching over his ears. It doesn’t phase him, continuing his assault until he’s sure you’ve come down. You have to tug on his hair, more intentional this time, to pull him away from you due to how sensitive you grow.

He rises, letting your legs fall limply against the mattress as he wears a boyish grin on his slick lips. Slowly, he makes his way up to you, back to the virtues of patience as he takes his time to finally kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a bitter sort of sweetness, as he cradles your face.

“You good?” he gently asks against your lips. You can barely move, nodding lethargically.

“So good,” you croak, a smile breaking out. Your eyes crack open to see him looking down at you with pure adoration, “I missed you.”

You start to run your hand down his chest, reaching the zipper of his jeans before his hand stops you.

“No, not yet. We’ve got plenty of time for that. Just wanna hold you right now, baby,” he nearly pleads. You can’t deny him, not with his eyes shining like that, so you allow him to fall into place on his side of the bed before you curl up against his bare torso.

The two of you stay that way for what feels like hours, his arms wrapped around you as he traces out constellations on your bare shoulder blades. Just outside of your solace, a bubble you’ve trapped yourselves in, you can hear the faint call of the city. Honks from cars on the street, shouts from pedestrians, the occasional siren. It’s all background noise to this moment.

“I have something for you,” he suddenly whispers as you teeter on the edge of sleep. You hum in response, lifting your head lazily. He pats you gently, signaling for you to let him stand before he walks to his discarded jacket by the door. When he returns to your side, he's gripping a small, white box, tied with a scarlet ribbon.

“A gift?” you ask, excitement helping wake you up as you sit up quickly, “For me?”

“For you,” he affirms, taking a seat beside you. Your knees bump as your hands fumble to take the box from him. A soft glow from one of the restaurants on your street floods between the curtains and into the room, a soft neon pink illuminating your features as you carefully unravel the red ribbon.

As the silk falls, you hardly can contain your excitement before lifting the lid off the box.

A necklace.

Your eyes trace over it, already fawning with appreciation for your boy, but then you catch sight of exactly what the necklace is.

“Your mom’s ring?” you can’t hide the emotion that shakes the timbre of your voice. It cracks into a million pieces.

At the end of the delicate silver chain, sits his mother’s ring. The one you hadn’t even noticed missing from his barren right hand.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, pulling you in and pressing his lips into your temple. You’re still too stunned, too overcome with a million and one feelings all at once.

“Eddie… I- I can’t… this is-”

“I want you to have it. I think she’d want you to have it, too,” he insists, taking the box from your grasp and lifting the necklace from its cotton cushion, “I know it’s not a lot, but I just… I wanted to get you something that let you know how important you are to me. Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart. This is- this is real to me. The kind of real that lasts forever.”

You can tell he’s growing emotional, too, as his feather light touch brushes your hair to the side, bringing the necklace up around your neck and clasping it securely. When the ring falls to its new home at the base of your neck, cool against your skin, you can feel tears falling. He’s quick to swipe them away, his own watery irises peering into yours.

“You’re everything to me,” he says this with vindication. With such assuredness it terrifies you, burrows into your bones and claims you.

In this moment, you know he has forever stained you. There was no washing this mark he has left you off - there would forever be a piece of your heart occupied by the brown-eyed boy in front of you.

All you can do is lean forward, hands gingerly threading through his bangs as you push them back to plant a kiss on his forehead. A crimson blush spreads across his cheeks and neck at the act of tenderness.

When you pull back, he immediately lifts his fingers to the necklace he’s just gifted you, fingers careful but determined as they tug you back to him, kissing you with everything in him. He pours his soul, his body, and his heart into it.

“I love you,” you exhale against his swollen lips.

“And I love you.”

You believe him, because he believes himself. That’s the thing about endings - no one sees them coming.

"The mark they saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones, the lips I used to call home. So scarlet, it was maroon."

The next year proves you right. After that tour, Corroded Coffin became a phenomenon. A record deal falls into the boys’ laps quickly, multiple one-off shows selling out locally before the news finally comes that they are officially in the position to record their debut album.

The two of you celebrate with cheap wine, but it’s as sweet as champagne in your contentment.

The recording of the album is brutal. Night after night, you attempt to wait up on Eddie, eventually falling victim to drowsiness before he would wake you with his arrival from the studio in the early hours of the morning. You never minded, only happy for his warmth as he crawled right into bed with you, collapsing into you and letting the world melt away.

Long gone are the days of struggling paycheck-to-paycheck as the boys’ can hardly keep up with printing enough shirts for their shows, merchandise selling out in the handfuls.

You catch sight of a young girl wearing one of their shirts one day in the grocery store, and can’t help the flood of pride that overtakes your chest. Your boyfriend, your Eddie, was finally having all of his dreams come to fruition; the world was finally seeing him as the rockstar you’d nominated him as since that first night.

You can tell that it’s tiring. Eddie is exhausted by the time the album is finished, but you can also sense the satisfaction he felt at finally completing it. When the first demo arrived, he wasted no time in electing you to be the first to listen to it. It was an entire ordeal - the two of you ordered your favorite take-out, curling up on your couch and pressing together as the same boombox that had played that mixtape on your first night in your home now plays his songs.

Your reaction was exactly as he had expected, as he had hoped for.

You had always been his number one cheerleader through it all. With each new song, you were gushing to him with admiration and reverence. Pointing out lyrics that tugged particularly taut on your heartstrings, praising the guitar solos and vocals he’d worked tirelessly to perfect. You don’t leave a single stone left unturned, claiming this was your new favorite album.

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re really stroking my ego here,” he warns, but his smile shines as brightly as your own.

“Eddie, this is… this is… it’s fucking incredible!” you cheer, completely at a loss for words. You weren’t exaggerating - to hear all of his hard work paying off, to have watched him grow from covering Metallica in a stuffy garage to this left you starstruck. You were in absolute awe.

He blushes, playing with his hair and bringing it up to hide his emotional reaction.

The album could fail. It could become nothing more than a whisper in the night, but the fact that you liked it was all that mattered to him.

You look at him earnestly, taking his cheeks in your warm and soothing palms, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Eds.”

And you were. You continued to be. The album was a hit.

It climbed the charts with ease, just as you expected. Local alternative stations played it on loop. You were sure to hear it at least once during taxi rides, and had even heard it playing softly over the speakers at the gas station on the corner by your apartment complex. Eddie had been with you, and took pleasure in getting to inform the cashier that it was his song playing, his band was on the radio.

It was New York, so the cashier couldn’t have cared less, but it made you glow with pride.

But with a hit album came a new slew of responsibilities for the band, including a headlining tour.

The night that the band’s manager called Eddie, informing him they were set to start planning the tour, he’d run into the room, so frantic you were worried something bad had happened.

“Holy shit!” he yells, causing you to shush him once you recovered from the scare he’d caused you. He ignores you, grabbing you off the bed, lifting you up and spinning you, just like the very first night, “Holy shit! We’re going on tour! A headlining tour! I’m going to be a goddamn rockstar!”

Once you process his news, you become just as animated in his arms, “What? No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way!”

“Oh my God!”

“I know!”

You hear banging on the wall from the neighbors, probably shouting at the two of you to quiet down, but neither of you can contain your excitement.

“I’m going to be a goddamn rockstar, baby,” he laughs deliriously, placing you back down so that you’re face-to-face with him, “A rockstar.”

“You’ve always been a rockstar, pretty boy,” you giggle, cheeks sore with elation, “The rest of the world is just finally getting the memo.”

The planning takes a while. Part of you is grateful, selfishly drinking in and enjoying the time you have left with him before you’re sure he’ll have to leave for an extended period. The names of cities you had never had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with once again enter conversations, talks of how far and wide the band would travel becoming Eddie’s favorite topic.

You’re proud of him, you really are. But reality seeps its way into the crevices.

What starts as the possibility of a brief, three month tour - something the two of you had already faced and defeated triumphantly - quickly turns into six months. And it doesn’t stop there. Six months could become eight, easily, with adding in a few pit stops to radio stations to guarantee continued radio-play. There’s talks of signings, of meet and greets, of music festivals. The more time given to planning, the more time given for the band’s popularity to grow even more.

The entire thing expands without consideration, lifting Eddie right up with it, right out of your reach.

The night before he’s set to leave for tour, your anxieties are getting the best of you. You had helped him pack, going over the list of necessities with him three times too many. He had everything he needed, packed tightly into a suitcase - everything except you.

That night, you sit on your side of your shared bed, watching Eddie pace with excitement. You feel guilty that your own anticipation can’t quite match his. All you can think about is how long he’ll be gone: eight months, two hundred and forty five days. Five thousand, eight hundred and eighty hours. Over three hundred thousand minutes. You’d done the math.

“Fuck,” he sighs, finally throwing himself down onto the bed beside you, “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

You can’t bring up your insecurity, your fears, to him. Not when he’s so happy. Not when he’s finally getting everything he’d dreamt about for so long, worked so hard for. No, it would be selfish to share your unease at the time and distance about to spread between the two of you.

Besides, you had done it once before. Not on this scale, of course, but you convinced yourself it would work out all the same. He would call as often as he could. He’d be coming home to you. It would pass - it would work out.

“It’s real, so you better believe it, rockstar.”

An echo of the past. A time that felt so far away from the two of you now. This time around, as you say them, you don’t feel the same joy coating your tongue.

Your tone is supportive, so Eddie doesn’t taste any of the disdain. Later that night, as he’s kissing you, hips rolling to meet yours in a sacred promise, fingers intertwined in yours as you pant each other’s names back and forth, he still doesn’t taste it. All he tastes is euphoria. And he brings you right to it with him, over, and over, and over again.

Euphoria tastes metallic by the end of it.

He leaves bruises painted up and down your neck, covering your collarbones and chest like an art piece hanging in the Louvre. You can’t help but wonder how long it will take for his marks to fade, for the physical reminder that he was here and in your arms to disappear from your grasp.

As he makes love to you, it begins to feel like a goodbye, because it is.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does.

The first month follows similarly to how his first tour did. Nightly phone calls, whispered love confessions and discussions of each other’s day. For a moment, you convince yourself that all of your fears and anxieties had been silly. They almost recede from your mind completely, fading with his love marks on your collarbone.

But then it begins.

Phone calls become less frequent. Every night because every other night, until they’re eventually weekly. At some point, you only have the privilege of hearing his voice over the line monthly. It is a slow burning fire, turning everything you had built with him to ashes. Conversations that once could drag on for hours turn to ten minute discussions that end in him rushing off the phone, someone on the other end of the line demanding his attention more urgently than you did.

You can’t even fight it. You need him, but they need him more.

You know you’ve lost him when he stops saying he loves you. It’s subtle, you don’t even believe he’s noticed, but one night’s phone call is cut particularly short, and the end arrives.

“Hey, baby, I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says, the line staticky with white noise, making it hard to hear him.

He’s never felt farther away, and they’re not even on the west coast leg of the tour yet.

“Oh,” you whisper, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. You miss hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”

“Of course. Go give ‘em, Hell,” you keep your tone light, but the tears have started to build up across your waterline, “I love you.”

The line goes dead before you can even finish your sentence. The dial tone echoes back to you, and it doesn’t matter how hard you strain, no words of affection can be deciphered in its deafening ringing.

That’s when you break.

The flood comes, tears racing down your cheeks as you roll over and clutch the pillow that you’re not even sure was once his. The bed no longer has a clear boundary, a side that belonged to him and a side that belonged to you. It’s all muddled together now. You’re not even sure you’d recognize the smell of his cologne now.

A heart has never broken so quietly. The sobs are there, but no sounds escape your mouth as you whimper. You had always known it would be hard, everyone had warned you, but you had always assumed you could take it, because Eddie would be by your side, hand slotted with yours as it was the two of you against the world. But now you stood in the storm, and the space beside you was eerily empty. It was all a bit much. A gaping hole forms in your chest that night, gory as it bleeds scarlet red for a boy a world away, and you know that there is not a single bandage in the world to heal it.

He doesn’t call back after that, and the hole tears larger.

There’s a few texts here and there. But none of them ever say the three words you so desperately crave from him. You feel like strangers.

After two months of radio silence, save for two text messages from him, you’ve made up your mind.

He never calls, so you never tell him. You gather what belongings can be called solely yours, which isn’t many, and you write a letter in your cowardice. You find an apartment on the other side of town. There’s a nice job waiting for you, something that pays better than waitressing.

You leave your key on the kitchen counter beside a vase with wilted carnations.

"I wake with your memory over me, that’s a real fucking legacy (it was maroon)."

Six months later, the ache never fades. He calls. When he returns from tour to find an empty apartment, cursive letter calling it quits, he calls. You almost consider changing your number at one point.

There’s a flood of text messages. Small letters on a shining screen filled with all the words you needed to hear so many months before. All of the things he should have said, now revealed too late.

You don’t reply, because if you reply, you’ll change your mind.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. That in order for him to achieve what he’d wanted, he couldn’t have someone back home weighing him down. You were a road bump on his path to everything he was destined to be, and this was for the best.

At some point, he gets the message. You wish he hadn’t, selfishly so, but he does. The phone calls stop. The text messages don’t light up your phone at midnight anymore. You keep up your end of the lease on your once-shared apartment, sending checks to pay your half of the rent until the lease agreement has ended. You have no clue if he moves. Returning to that side of town would simply hurt too much.

A new normalcy is found. It is a lonely one, but it is one all the same. Sparse phone calls are still exchanged with your friends from Hawkins, but none of them ever bring up Eddie. You’re sure they know, that he had told them, that they had witnessed the aftermath (if there had been any). They were always his friends first, though, and so when the calls dwindle, it doesn’t surprise you.

It’s a year later when someone mentions his name to you. You had kept up well enough with Corroded Coffin, the last remnants of your past life being something you couldn’t get rid of. You knew they were thriving; they were in the talks of releasing a second album, and going back on tour soon. His name is mentioned when a coworker brings him up.

They ask you if you want to attend the Corroded Coffin show with them next week. They have a spare ticket and would prefer to not go alone.

You lie and say you have plans.

But the only plans you have on that bustling night are the ones spent in your apartment. Your one-bedroom apartment is in a nicer part of town, better views out of the window now. When you pull back the curtains, you don’t find a brick wall forever tainted by what once was - you can see the entrance to a music venue that’s sign currently advertises tonight’s show.

CORRODED COFFIN, ONE NIGHT ONLY - SOLD OUT

You avoid the window at all costs as you get yourself ready for bed that night. Neighbors had already off-handedly warned you it would be a noisy night, claiming you’d feel as if you were at the show yourself based on proximity. On your way home from work, you bought earplugs.

But the night grows older, a chill in the air as the clock strikes ten, and you can’t help it. You’ve been laying in bed for hours now, earplugs in, only feeling the faint thrumming of intense bass for less than an hour when you finally stand up. You approach the window timidly, scared of what you find. Maybe a ghostly reflection of him, standing in the street, holding up a boombox playing a mixtape of your favorite songs.

It’s a bitter hopefulness that is full of childish dreams.

When you stand in your window, curtains pulled back and earplugs finally disregarded on your nightstand, Eddie Munson isn’t standing on the street. All that is there is the neon glow of a red sign that shatters crimson shadows across your cheeks.

He’s not on the street. He’s too busy on the stage inside, being the rockstar he had always been destined to be. The one he could be now that you had let him go.

All that you see as you look out the window is your own tired reflection, donning nothing but a wine-stained t-shirt and a delicate, silver chain around your neck, a ring you couldn’t bring yourself to return resting heavily between your collarbones.

"That’s a real fucking legacy to leave."

reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated! <3

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #oooo look at me trying to post this several months later #and at 2 am no less #i'm just in a silly goofy mood and curious #will it post? will it stick? will it get me thrown in shadow jail?#time will tell!#also i made that divider myself i'm very proud of myself #formatting is bad but hey #it is what it is!

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touyasdoll · 1 year

Text

Dadmas Day 3: Christmas Morning with Touya

Dadmas Masterlist

pairing: Touya Todoroki/Dabi x f!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: you have multiple children together, mentions of pregnancy & children, reader is wearing a nightgown, his dick is pierced, biting, your kids are cockblocks but they’re cute

notes: this was originally going to be a Father’s Day post and this is the whole reason I wanted to do Dadmas! I just really, really, really love the idea of Touya as a dad <3 he deserves more mornings like this.

Merry Christmas! <3

It’s Christmas morning. The chill from outdoors has crept inside overnight, but it’s the feeling of mismatched lips brushing against your neck that stirs you from your slumber.

It’s not a bad way to wake up; it’s one of your favorites, actually. One smooth. One scarred. Both coming together over your pulse point to send a shiver up your spine and pull a moan from your own mouth.

“Touya..” you murmur drowsily, giggling as his lips climb up your neck to trail along your jaw.

“Doll..” he echoes your nickname in the same timbre, playfully mocking you, as he often did.

You can feel the his smile against your skin when he briefly nuzzles his face against yours. It’s then that you realize that his hands are also wandering, slipping beneath the sheets to skim along your sides.

“I can almost guarantee you that we do not have time for this today,” you say as you lock eyes with him.

He leans over you, propped up on one arm to stare back into your eyes with a devil-may-care grin.

“Maybe a Christmas miracle’ll happen.” He shrugs, leaning in again to attach his lips to your neck.

“Oh, you believe in miracles all of sudden?” You ask sarcastically as your eyes fall closed again.

A soft sigh leaves your lungs as you gently stretch and relax into the sheets, tilting your head to allow him better access to your neck.

Maybe a Christmas miracle would happen. You cross your fingers.

“Believe in ‘em?” He scoffs, warm breath blowing over your neck. “I’ve seen one firsthand. How the hell else could I have landed you?”

He smirks and sinks his teeth into your skin, feeling rather proud of himself for that one, because he can practically hear you rolling your eyes when you echo his scoff.

“Must be all the smooth one liners,” you tease, letting your hands roam to seek out the only present that you’re really hoping for today.

You find it without much trouble. His morning wood is just inches from your thigh. You slowly drag your fingers along his shift before wrapping your hand around the barely contained erection, concealed only by his boxers.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, sighing as he readjusts to swivel his hips towards you.

He starts bucking them gently, shifting upwards into your grasp while he starts sucking on your neck again to stifle the desperate moans threatening to spill from his lips.

“Shit,” you moan, eyes briefly rolling back when his tongue finds that special spot on your neck. “Baby, do you really think we might have enough time?”

“We can make it quick,” he mutters impatiently, tossing back the sheets in a hurry as he moves to position himself between your legs.

The both of you are veterans when it comes to quickies. You thought you were good at ‘em before you had kids, but now? It’s an art form that you have perfected.

You reach down to haphazardly bunch up the hem of your nightgown and pull your panties to the side while he tugs his boxers down far enough to let his pierced erection spring free.

“Remind me to eat you out later,” he murmurs, eyes flitting to yours as he dons a grin that makes your pussy throb even before he guides the head of his cock between your folds.

“Maybe I’ll just sit on your face,” you muse, eyes fluttering closed and a soft moan escaping you when he shifts his hips.

“Merry Christmas to me. I hope you do,” he replies huskily, smirking as he sheathes his length inside of you in one smooth thrust.

Both of you take a brief moment to savor the feeling, intentionally quiet noises of pleasure flooding the room. You lift your hips, grinding them forward while his begin to roll. He’s just about to pick up the tempo when the sound of little feet start pattering down the hall.

“Babe,” you whisper, pressing your hands to his chest as your head whips towards the door.

“I hear ‘em. Just know this means I’m pounding the fuck out of you later,” he murmurs as he leans in to steal a kiss, a handsome smirk lingering on his lips when he pulls away to fall back into bed beside you.

He tucks his suddenly softening cock back into his boxers and you adjust your clothes while he grabs the covers and tugs them over the both of you.

“Ssh!” You hear your five year old’s voice in the hall.

She’s giggling despite her warning to keep quiet and so is your 3 year old son as the sound of their footsteps grow closer to your door.

You and Touya employ your acting skills, pretending to be fast asleep just before the door slowly creaks open.

“I told you they’re still sleeping,” your daughter whispers as she crosses into the room, creeping closer to the bed with her brother right on her heels.

“Let’s get daddy!” Your son suggests in the loudest whisper you’ve ever heard.

You peek one eye open to look at your husband, who can’t seem to help the warm smile that graces his features. You close your eyes again and wait, though it doesn’t take long for your children to make their move.

“Daddy!” Your daughter cheers as she launches herself onto his side of the bed.

“It’s Christmas!” Your son exclaims as he joins her, pouncing directly onto his father’s chest.

“Oof!” He grunts, a huge grin spreading across his face as he let’s our a jolly chuckle that could rival even old St. Nick’s. “It’s Christmas? So what? What’s that mean?”

He sits up to wind an arm around both of them, his tickling fingers getting to work immediately, sending both children into laughing fits as they try to squirm out of his grasp.

“Santa!” Your son squeals, scrambling towards your side of the bed as you sit up, smiling fondly at the scene in front of you.

“Yeah! Santa came, daddy!” Your daughter manages to inform him through her giggles while trying in vain to protect her ticklish sides.

“Good morning!” Your son greets you, tilting his head back when he plops down into your lap as your arms wind around him.

“Good morning, mommy!” Your daughter echoes his greeting as Touya finally takes mercy on her.

“Good morning,” you reply, beaming as you press a kiss to the top of your son’s forehead and then lean over to do the same to your daughter. “So you guys already saw the tree? Santa came and left us all presents?”

“Yeah! I saw my name! And brother’s and sister’s and yours and daddy’s too!” Your daughter excitedly informs you, practically bouncing on the bed, which seems to give her an idea, because she rises to her feet. “Let’s open presents!”

Her brother joins her, climbing out of your lap to stand up as the two of them start jumping up and down in the space between you while chanting for presents. Touya chuckles and glances over at you to exchange smiles before he stands and loops his arms around the kids again.

“Alright, alright, we’ll do presents,” he says as he tucks one beneath each arm and starts carrying them off, making them squirm and giggle. “We gotta get your sister first though. Why don’t you two go find one with your names on ‘em and mommy and I will be right there?”

He sets them down near the bedroom door and they cheer before they take off. You rise from the bed, watching him as he watches your children go. There’s a smile on his face, but he looks a little lost in thought. He doesn’t seem to notice you approach until your hand reaches out to take his and he snaps out of it.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” You ask quietly as you slip your arms around his middle.

He folds his arms around you in return, peeking at you for only a moment before he looks down, a little embarrassed by the sheer amount of emotions that he’s feeling.

“How lucky I am. Thank you, doll. For everything,” he whispers, placing a kiss to your scalp as he gives you a long squeeze.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you say softly, closing your eyes as you hug him back tightly.

He closes his eyes, holding you a little tighter while he sends off a prayer to any and every deity that he’s ever heard of. He never wanted to lose this. He’d lost a family once and he’d survived, but he wouldn’t make it through losing this one.

He feels a slight pressure just beneath his eyes and he knows what’s coming. Usually he tries to fight it, but he knows it’s hopeless this morning.

“Merry Christmas, doll,” he replies as a crimson tear slips over his cheek from under his stapled seam.

The baby starts fussing down the hall and you pull away, only to stop when you realize that she isn’t the only one who’s crying. You reach up to cup his face, delicately swiping the tear away with the pad of your thumb before your gaze finds his.

“Are you okay, baby?”

He nods, a tender smile on his lips as he cradles your head in both hands and plants a kiss to you forehead.

“I’ve never been happier,” he says sincerely. “I’ll go get her. You wrangle the other gremlins.”

With a gentle swat to your behind, he heads down the hall and you turn to look at him over your shoulder. A smile spreads across your face as you watch him swing open the door to the nursery and beam at your other daughter, who can be heard giggling inside, amused by the funny face he makes as he enters the room.

You shake your head, still grinning like a fool as you make your way towards the living room, where your eldest is doing her best with her newfound reading skills to sort out the gifts.

“Lemme help you, sweetheart,” you say as you pick up one of the wrapped presents from beneath the tree.

A few minutes later, Touya arrives with your 18 month old on his hip. She stares in wonder at the presents and start kicking her tiny legs while pressing on his arms.

“Down,” she requests in the most adorable, excited little voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, finding a place on the floor to plop down, so that he can set her free and keep a close eye on her.

He keeps an eye on all of you, basking in the wonder of a Christmas morning that he never thought he’d live to see, let alone celebrate with his own family.

He watches the children dance around while impatiently waiting to tear into their piles of presents. He watches you take you youngest daughter into your lap and help her tear away the wrapping paper on one of her gifts, which she finds more interesting than the gift itself. He watches you crawl over and reach way under the tree to retrieve a small, rectangular gift.

“This one’s yours,” you say as you sit down beside him and offer him the package. “Feel like it’s important to note that this one’s from me and not Santa.”

He furrows his brow, smiling curiously as he glances over at you before he turns his attention to the gift in his hands. He tears the paper away and finds a box, which he lifts the top of of to reveal a familiar looking white stick inside.

Pregnant is what it says.

You watch his face and are blessed enough to see the moment of realization on his face. His eyes go wide and he suddenly grins so wide that you’re worried he might lose a staple.

“I’m gonna be a dad again?” He asks excitedly, sounding the teeniest bit choked up, though he’d never confess to that.

“Yes,” you confirm, nodding your head as you mirror his elated expression.

He chuckles in disbelief and throws his arms around you, pulling you in to hug you tight and press his lips to your scalp again.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, pulling away to cup your face in his hand and kiss you like he means it, because he does. He’s never meant anything more.

Before you can respond, he pulls away and looks down at your belly, placing his hand over it gently.

“And I love this one already,” he adds softly.

Tears of joy threaten to spill from your own eyes now as you place your hand over his.

“We love you too. We’re just as lucky to have you, baby. All of us,” you say quietly.

He leans in to press his smiling lips to yours again, his head already filling with what next year might look like. The sounds of the children squealing and screaming fade away as he presses his forehead to yours to look into your eyes.

“Merry Christmas, doll. Thank you.”

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 5 months

Text

18:45 ー GOJOU SATORU. it's because you're the strongest that i have to stay with you; who's going to protect you otherwise?

"are you the strongest because you're gojou satoru?"

"or are you gojou satoru because you're the strongest?"

satoru never had the opportunity to answer suguru's question before he defected completely from their organization to pursue a pipe dream. but if gojou satoru had to answer the question, months later, he'd probably answer that it's the former.

he was born the strongest. his was a birth that shook the entire world all by virtue of his six eyes, the first user in centuries. there's no one else in the world like him.

he truly is the honored one. the one who is given the that are jobs too difficult for the weak and ordinary. the one many quietly scoff should handle everything at this point.

therefore, being strong is a given for him; limitless, the six eyes, all the bunk things he learned throughout his current three years at jujutsu tech. it's all pretty much been expected for him. there's nothing he can't do if he really put his mind to it. it's been that way since he was a kid.

nothing can touch him in senses literal and metaphorical. not unless he wants it to. he hasn't been touched by a foe since his run-in with the zenin reject.

that's why what he is experiencing presently is such an oddityー someone looking him over carefully for any signs of injury. "so you know this playing doctor thing is pretty pointless, right?"

"you're point?" you tell him as you continue to look over him carefully, gently moving his hands and arms before circling around him one last time. "and how are you feeling?"

"perfectly fine," he shrugs truthfully. the mission was light work, nothing special. special grade curses were standard for him by now.

you stand in front of him, finally nodding in approval, "alright, you can get the [first] stamp of approval then. you're all good."

"told ya."

"complain all you want," you place your hands on your hips, nose in the air with a petulant tone. "i'm always gonna check you over when you come back from assignments, mr. no one can touch me. and take these off," gently, you remove satoru's sunglasses from the bridge of his nose. delicately, you close them and rest them to hang on the collar of your shirt. "it's too dark to wear them. you'll trip."

you hold each other's glares for a brief moment before sporting a pair of matching grins. "welcome home," you tell satoru at last, not fighting it when he pulls you into a lazy hug.

it's nice being back. "glad to see someone missed me," maybe he might have missed you more though. you make a scoff of annoyance but you hug him back anyway. satoru's hold tightens. it crosses his mind for a moment the two of you should move in together after graduation. "it's too late to act like you didn't. i know, i know, my presence leaves a huge hole in your heart until i come back."

"says the one who calls me incessantly whenever i get assigned something," you cross your arms, grinning smugly.

"so you say," he shoos your words away. "but you're the one who was waiting for me to come back on the stairs. just accept the fact that you clearly missed me. extra arguments about any habits i might have are unnecessary," he holds his palm in front of your face just before you likely were about to remind him that he's the one who always waits for you to pop back up from missions on the school stairs like hachiko. "let's get back to the dorm, i'm starving."

you roll your eyes but you follow after him anyway while satoru slows his pace to match yours, hands swinging in the same orbit but separate.

"but seriously, you don't have to always check me over like that whenever i come back from a mission," satoru starts, holding back the urge to mess with the back of his head. maybe he should cut some of it off. "if anything, i should be the one checking you over." still, ever since august of second year, this has been your routine.

he comes back from a mission and you don't let him do anything fun unless you're 100% sure he's okay.

you reach over to hold his hand and give it a squeeze. satoru is the affectionate one between the two of you. even before you were friends and he merely enjoyed antagonizing you in his spare time in first year. he's never been hesitant to touch you.

first year it was poking your cheek or flicking your forehead.

second year he evolved to slinging his arm around your shoulders. august of second year was also when you shared a bed for the first time. the star plasma vessel went wrong in everyway possible and amanai and kuroi's bodies were stuffed in the jujutsu tech morgue. ascended, lost and empty, satoru found himself waiting in your bed until you got back to the dormitories.

when did he start associating you with safety? satoru isn't sure when that line began to blur, all he remembers is that your room is instinctively where his feet led him. in your room he stayed until you showed up again and in your room you let him be until the sun came up.

now in third year, affection was swapped between you both as easily as breathing. still, normally he was the one initiating it. it's nice when it's the other way around though.

"don't you remember what i told you last month?" you smile in the moonlight, swinging your hands between you both. "i'm gonna protect you, whatever way i can. that includes dealing with me looking you over for injuries even if it's very unlikely you're actually hurt. and i know the chance of us being paired up for missions is slim to none, but just know i don't care if you have your infinity. i'm your shield."

gojou satoru has never been told "i'll protect you" before.

but a week after you both turned 17, not only did you promise you'd never leave him, you told him that you'd protect him too.

your cursed technique has never been anything to brag about.

at least, maybe not until recent years. you called it 'rejection' but it ultimately just came down to your cursed energy solidifying into a shield. nothing satoru could really respect back when you were first years. saying he respected your technique the bulk of second year was a bit of a stretch too; second year was when he was toeing the line.

until recently, solo missions were never things you were sent on. you were back up meant to protect whatever combatant you were paired up with. satoru's never been one of them. why would he be when he's got his own shield?

how does one protect the strongest?

satoru doesn't need a knight. it's a fact everyone knows, hence why his assignments have been solo since third year. hence why even in second year he was never paired up with anyone whose abilities were defensive in nature.

yet despite that fact, it's been you and you alone who has ever told him ー gojou satoru ー "i'll protect you."

and you meant it.

"i meant what i said," satoru feels your thumb brush against the side of his hand. "you're stuck with me for the end of time. because if no one else is gonna look after you, i will."

"why?"

"because i want to."

"why do you want to?"

you both stop walking and your answer doesn't come as quickly as the rest. your eyes are a million miles away from where you're both standing in the middle of your too-large campus. it's not for the first time that satoru wishes he could read your mind. "you're someone very precious to me," you say at last with soft conviction. you're strong. first year satoru was dumb to think otherwise. yours is a quiet strength satoru still doesn't quite understand but he's happy to receive. "you already know that though."

"i didn't realize you liked me so much," satoru laughs dryly but his grip around your hand tightens. "better be careful, [first]. the people will start to talk. imagine what utahime will say."

"satoru," he looks at you again, really looks at you. your smile is expectant and comfortable as you look back. like what you're going to tell him is next is something he should be expecting and yet still you're so patient with him. "you know i'm in love with you, right?"

yeah.

first year you weren't much of anything besides classmates.

second year you were friends.

third year you're an unlabeled strangeness. you aren't lovers but you definitely aren't just friends, existing in a weird space between where neither of you say anything but it's obvious. it isn't like he's sharing a bed with shoko or nanami most of the week or holding their hands when he comes back to campus. he knows you're not caressing their heads every morning after you wake up, waiting until their fully cognizant before starting your day.

you love your friends. but satoru knows there's a tenderness reserved just for him the way his affection that lingers is reserved solely for you.

"'course i do," satoru finds himself chuckling humorlessly again. "about time you said it, though. no one wants to be rejected by the person they're in love with. what if i was misinterpreting all the signs?" there's no way he could have. still it was scary not knowing for sure. that if he did anything wrong you'd have backed away.

"you won't leave too, right?"

"it’s unfortunate to tell you but you’re pretty much stuck with me, satoru."

it's the promise he's most scared of you breaking and he never wants to be the cause of it.

"there's nothing to misinterpret," you playfully tug his hand to pull him closer to your side before leaning onto him. "i want to protect the one i'm in love with, that's all there is too it. you're worth protecting even if logic argues there's no point in me trying. i'm going to protect you and that's that."

"you're gonna protect me?" satoru whispers as dreamily as the first time he asked.

"yeah," you vow once again. "with all i've got; even if it's not enough."

it's enough. you're more than enough.

the winter winds brushing against the two of you warns that you should be heading inside.

satoru feels more than warm kissing you.

while this is technically part of the same universe as my last gojou fic 「i cherish you, halcyon days」 this can be read as a standalone as well. this takes place during the end of third year but before the start of the 4th year (jujutsu schooling lasts 4 years in canon)

but this how i always imagined the love confession would have gone

#look she's writing #timestamp #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #when will the brainrot end???#caved and made fluff because i felt bad about the angst. ish

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