#vessel angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writethrough · 3 months

Note

How about a comfort fic with Vessel/reader? Your choice on if Vessel comforts the reader or the reader comforts Vessel!

Just Like Rain

(Vessel x Gender Neutral Reader)

Synopsis: Your anxieties overtake you, and Vessel is there to guide you through them.

Warnings: Self-deprecation, thoughts of unworthiness and self-hatred, language, unintentionally cathartic for me

Word Count: 1557

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting this, anon! I'm so excited for you to read my first Vessel fic!

A little housekeeping for those who have read through my Request Guidelines, and may be confused about me writing for a real person when it says I don't. That is still the case, but Vessel is a character when it comes down to it. So, I feel comfortable writing for him, especially in the way I've written him here.

Also—and I hope this goes without saying—I will not entertain theories and rumors about any of Sleep Token's identities.

Enjoy the music for what it is, as the band intended. And I truly hope you enjoy my interpretation of Vessel.

The burn felt good. The steam made you breathe heavier, but you didn’t want this to be easy. You wanted to feel every inhale—stand under the water until you were seared from within; until it felt like you were in your body and not a whisper away from being dragged into oblivion.

You choked back a sob; still so fearful someone would hear you when you were the only one home.

There was no reason for you to cry.

So many people had it so much worse.

But here you were, on the verge of panic because you didn’t feel like yourself. You didn’t even feel human.

You wished you could put a name to it, but you couldn’t.

What was wrong with you?

Why did you have to feel like this? It came out of nowhere. Like you were struck by a fucking semi.

You just wanted it to stop. You wanted to feel normal, to not have these sudden bouts of...of what? Melancholia? Sadness? Anger? No word seemed strong enough for it.

All you wanted was to rip it out.

Your tears fell harder.

The water cooled. You turned the knob further.

And then there were arms around you.

You tensed, choking back your sobs and covering your mouth as if you could hide what he had already seen.

Slowly, carefully, as if you would break, Vessel turned you to face him.

Without a word, he cupped the back of your head and brought it into the crook of his neck.

You refused to remove your hand.

All it did was make your shoulders tremble.

His fingers traced up and down your arm, more of a breeze than a touch. His other hand slid down to the back of your neck. The pressure of it spread through your body.

Your hand dropped from your mouth and tentatively found its way to his chest. And as he inhaled, you let your hands travel to his back as you stepped closer.

He held you there, head resting atop yours.

It was only when you shivered that you realized he had turned you, blocking you from the piping hot spray.

You sniffled, finally looking at him.

He cupped your cheeks, brushing away the tear tracks, then pressed his forehead to yours.

Let us go to our room, my love.

His words passed into your mind. You nodded.

He stopped the water, helped you out of the shower, and dried you both.

He guided your limbs into your sleepwear and covered himself with loose black pants. He looked almost...human...like this.

You couldn’t help thinking that he was more human than most everyone out there.

---

Your day started out fine.

You woke from a wonderful dream—one Vessel had created. A peaceful afternoon beneath a willow tree, snuggled into his side, his fingers trailing along your forearm, down to your fingertips.

He had tilted your face toward his, kissing your forehead. You had closed your eyes, and when you opened them, you were in bed, his lips still pressed to your skin.

You got ready for work, Vessel watching as you moved through your room to the bathroom and back. He enjoyed observing you. The personal rituals you did for different occasions, different times of day. Perhaps the one he enjoyed the most was when you asked for his opinion when your ensemble was complete.

He’d stand from his perch on the foot of your bed and step toward you as if in a trance.

“You are breathtaking, my love.” He always spoke it. He wanted you to hear the power in the words—the power you held over him.

You left, and Vessel would gather with the others. You’d ask him about his day, but admittedly, you were still confused about everything they could do—everything they were charged with doing.

Maybe that was where is started.

You didn't understand. Could never understand.

And a chasm opened.

You were so fucking stupid.

You deserved to feel like this.

Insignificant.

Unneeded.

Unwanted.

Everyone was better off without you.

He’d be happier without you.

All these fucking noises.

Why was everything so goddamn loud.

Dogs barking. Cars honking. That fucking clock that wouldn’t shut the fuck up!

It all made you so angry. Why were you so angry?

You had to make it stop.

That’s how you ended up in the shower. At least there you could control the noise. You could feel it mark you. Let the heat punish you.

A hand on your back pulled you back to reality.

Let me see you, darling.

You didn’t move, wished you didn’t need to breathe.

He didn’t deserve this. He needed someone as extraordinary as him, someone who could understand. You could barely wrap your mind around how vast he was; he was everything, and you were—

“You are my heart.”

A sob escaped. You had forgotten. Too consumed in your own thoughts that you forgot to keep them from him, to stop projecting them.

He whispered your name, and all you heard was his heartbreak.

You refused to look at him, covering your mouth to keep your cries back.

“Please,” he urged. “Please believe me. You are the most precious to me. Do not think of yourself with such loathing.”

His hand rested on your side, a silent plea to face him. When you didn’t, he forced you to. He never did that—used his strength against you—but this was an exception.

“I am the one who does not deserve you. My existence is burdensome to you...but I am too selfish. I cannot lose you. I will not leave you willingly. I...I will stay by your side...until you demand otherwise.”

It pained him to imagine it. He was so bad at hiding his emotions. And yet, it was what you needed. That break in his voice parted your darkness. The thought of him ever not being here scared you.

“I don’t—” You hiccupped. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Darling,” he breathed, sympathy and relief in that one word. “Come here.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist while his settled over your shoulders.

“My place is by your side,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me here.”

Squeezing, you nuzzled your face into his neck. The edges of his mask-like features settled you into reality. He was here and so were you, and you were together.

You sniffled; throat too thick to speak.

I love you.

His mouth pressed into your crown.

You are the one I cherish most.

At the end of your exhale, relaxation enveloped you—a heaviness only he could instill.

You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t need to. You just needed this day to be over.

Sleep, my beloved. And awake anew.

---

You didn’t dream that night, and you were grateful. It was the kind of emptiness you needed.

When you opened your eyes, you were facing Vessel. Your fingers were touching, bodies apart but connected, always.

Sometimes it was difficult to tell if he was awake. Even facing one another, the spaces where his eyes should be neither opened nor closed. His breathing was what gave him away. But not this morning. Today, it was the way his pinky finger wrapped around yours.

Dearest one.

It moved through your mind like a gentle breeze, and it sounded like “good morning.”

He seemed to move before you did, anticipating you shifting closer, so his arm wrapped around you and his hand caressed the back of your head.

You are rested?

You hummed. He always asked when you both knew he didn’t need to. His insecurities needed the reassurance that he had helped you.

Yes. Thank you.

You punctuated it by gliding your lips along his throat and placing a kiss above his Adam’s apple.

The purr that erupted pulled the corner of your mouth up. He was always responsive in the mornings, less guarded before the walls of your bubble faded.

What are you feeling?

Not “how,” but “what.”

Inhaling, you took stock of yourself. You recalled your pain from yesterday, but that already felt so long ago. Like your mind was trying to protect itself after what it put you through.

All you really felt was him.

Safe.

His head tilted downward so your foreheads touched.

That pleases me.

You rubbed your nose with his. Content to simply feel him.

The others and I have decided I shall remain with you today.

It had taken you a while to get used to the connection him and the rest shared. Honestly, you were a bit jealous. After all, how convenient it was to cancel plans just by thinking about it. He probably did it in the seconds before you woke up.

So, what should we do?

Anything that will make you happy.

That sincerity always made you pause and scrutinize him. How could anyone truly mean that?

Yet somehow, he did. Every time.

And if I said this?

You traced curves and swirls onto his back, reveling in the strength you felt within. Sometimes you swore his power was tangible.

“Then I shall continue to warm your bed.”

Your flush was instantaneous, and you knew he could feel it against his neck. But before you could stutter a reply, your stomach growled.

“Perhaps breakfast first?” he asked.

You nodded. “Definitely.”

Taglist: @steph-speaks because one of my only points of pride is introducing you to ST.

Comment or message me if you wanna be tagged in future Vessel fics!

#sleep token #vessel #vessel sleep token #sleep token vessel #vessel fluff #vessel angst #vessel oneshot #vessel one shot #vessel x reader #vessel x you #vessel fanfic #vessel fanfiction #vessel imagine #vessel imagines #vessel x gn!reader #vessel x gender neutral reader #sleep token band

199 notes · View notes

grismavessel · 4 months

Text

Vessel AU: Pecharunt's Rot

The vessel au is about powerful legendary/mythical pokemon taking up human hosts/confidants e.i like Resirham and Zekrom would want hosts that embody their ideals for comfort and human connection or e.i like Arceus needing a helping hand in the form of turning someone into a puppet and guiding them along. Could be malicious, could be co-habitable and comfortable.

Kieran draws the short end of the stick.

Kieran finds Pecharunt before returning to the blueberry academy in Unova and strikes a deal. A devil's bargain.

Kieran is given strength and more willpower to become the best and strongest trainer, in turn, Pecharunt in brought to new lands and hitches a ride with Kieran.

Pecharunt isn't strong enough to just dip in and out of physical reality, it's no legendary, but it takes the form of Kieran's hair band and a 'scarf' instead to stay close.

While Kieran trains to become the champion, Pecharunt spread's the toxic chain to the pokemon in the terrarium. It corrupts the pokemon and infects the pokemon with malice and poison. The pokemon get stronger, but they also get weaker.

So does Kieran. He sleeps less, eats less, he's so unlike himself that Carmine can't even recognize her little brother anymore.

Unbeknownst to both Kieran and Pecharunt, their bond and traits are so similar, they blend into one another. Fusing into an amalgamation of toxic mentality of winning and never accepting losing, of take take take until they're nothing left.

Kieran starts to look stranger, act stranger.

(Also I threw in Volo because the main story of the vessel au has him getting no attention whatsoever from any cool possessive dieties so I had to give him more L's)

(feel free to use the design with credit!)

#kieran's not having fun!#angst #pokemon #pokemon fanart #pla #pokémon legends #volo fanart #pokemon volo #volo #kieran #pokemon kieran #pokemon indigo disk #pokemon teal mask #pokemon au #vessel au #vessel au pecharunt #pecharunt #digital art

487 notes · View notes

mediumgayitalian · 14 days

Text

The crooked, creaky door of the cluttered infirmary storage room pushes open and slams shut in the span of a second, just barely allowing someone to dart through. Nico jumps, banging his head on the shelf he’s hiding under, chomping full force on his lip to bite back a shout. The shadows, on lucky reflex, bend around him and shroud his face. The rest of him he tucks further into the forgotten corner between two filing cabinets, holding his breath.

Under the unflattering light of the single swinging lightbulb, Will looks dull.

A thin headband attempts to hold back his frizzy hair, although it does very little. Curls stick out oddly and many shorter hairs are plastered to his temples and the back of his neck. His skin is unusually lacklustre, even pale, except for the high flush around his cheekbones. The bruising under his eyes rivals Nico’s. He has been wearing the same scrubs for the last two days.

With one last look at the closed door, nothing but garbled voices filtering through the heavy wood, he slumps. He drops his face into his chapped and bleeding hands, heels pressed into his eyes, and holds them there for ten seconds, twenty. Slowly, with trembles so minute they are at first glance unnoticeable, his shoulders begin to shake. The long fingers flexed and tensed around his forehead curl tightly, and he twitches, whole body trembling, teeth sunk hard into his bottom lip to stop his chin from quivering.

It does not work.

The first sob is quiet. He catches it quickly, forcing it back down, breathing heavily through his nose and out his mouth to beat it back. The second follows quickly, though, and it’s harder to choke down. When his face crumples, his resolve goes with it, and his knees hit the floor, sharp crack swallowed by the stillness of the room. He curls forward until his nose nearly hits his knees, hands sliding through his hair and over his ears and settling finally clutching together in the dip of his chest, bouncing with every heave of his chest. It’s quiet, his crying, enough that every dropped tear can be heard as it hits the dusty floor. The only time his sobs are ever audible is when he opens his mouth, trying desperately to soak up enough air to catch himself, to carry himself through.

Mute horror holds Nico’s tongue hostage.

He’d escaped in here the second Will had been called away this morning, dragged for the umpteenth time to handle a crashing patient or a complicated hymn or to soothe someone’s nerves. For the past two days he’s been doing his best to monitor Nico and a handful of other front liners who’d exhausted themselves in battle, but his focus has been split and the infirmary has been crowded. Whenever he runs off to put out whatever fire had cropped up — sometimes literally — the whispers start, the glances, the skin crawling up Nico’s back. Nico can hardly tell anymore what’s the shadows and what’s the people around him, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like they’re waiting for him to bust out a scythe and a black hooded cloak and start reaping.

The storage room is supposed to be an escape. Out of the way and forgotten as it is, it is supposed to be the place he can hide for an hour, escape the heavy gaze of the rest of the camp, collect himself before braving it all again.

Clearly, though, he’s not the only one who thinks so.

There’s something disorienting about seeing Will Solace cry. In the few times Nico has spoken with him during his visits to camp, he’s been a barely-contained explosion of energy, whether talking Nico’s ear off with updates about people he barely knows and references he hardly understands or cussing him out for overextending himself. He’s used — as much as he can be to someone he’s only beginning to really get to know — to his wildly flailing hands and widely playful grin, his loud drawling voice, his painful, constant brightness.

His hands, now, clench until they’re bloodless, trembling. There is no hint of his wide smile or twinkling eyes, because his face is hidden by all the hair that his given up on the pretence of the hairband, and the only sound from him are his gasping breaths and swallowed-back sobs. Nico watches him because he cannot look away. He flinches because every cry, every rough, scraping inhale, sounds like shattering rock, like an iceberg breaking off a glacier.

A quiet beeping startles them both.

For a stretch of time Will is motionless. The beeping continues, steady and soft, bouncing off the cluttered shelves and fading before they echo. After the third round — and Nico counts, if anything for something to do besides watch the chafed skin on Will’s hands crack and bleed with every flex — he drags himself upright, nails drawing lines in the thick dust of the floorboards, and rests back on his heels. He breathes for a moment, shuddering, hands pressed flat to his face; in, beep, beep, beep; out, beep, beep, beep. None of his breaths are ever steady, but he wastes no more time, swiping under his eyes and pinching his cheeks to restore his face to some of its usual colour. He grips onto each board of the shelf to his right as he yanks himself upwards, hand over hand, until he’s stretched, finally, to stand, although there remains a slouch to his broad shoulders.

The beeping continues, emanating from the watch on his left hand, growing softer or louder as he trails his fingers over the shelves from one end to the other, from the first, the second, the third. He pauses finally on a collection of bottles, turning them carefully to read the labels, then tucks them each gently into his already bulging pockets until he is left with what he must carry between his fingers.

The shadows bend to cover Nico again as Will turns, unknowingly facing him, and pulls himself suddenly straight-backed, chin set high, shoulders squared. He smiles, wide, fractured, squinting his eyes deliberately. The beeping stops. He breathes, in, smile, out, nod, and turns, striding, back to the door, opening it with flourish and swiping the dust off his clothes.

“Found them! Sorry it took so long, I really had to look —��

The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

Nico stares at it with bile churning in his too-empty stomach.

———

art by the incredible @clingonlikeclingwrap

253 notes · View notes

spacebaby1 · 3 months

Text

MY BEAUTIFUL SON (PART 2) (Gojo Satoru × Mom!Reader Ft: Megumi)

"Gumi, come here," he ran towards you jumping in your arms, your four years old was already impatient to run around in the huge backyard and play.

"Ahu, he can't stop running?" Gojo chuckled walking towards both of you and ruffling Megumi's black hair, your son groaned but giggled followed when his father messed his already messy hair, "Don't do that to his beautiful hair," you fixed Megumi's hair; to no use it kept standing up like it was since he was a baby. "Ya, my strongest boy." Gojo gently pinched his son's cheeks. You slapped his hand away, "Don't hurt my precious little boy," you pouted, earning a pout from Megumi as he laid his head on your chest.

A hand on your shoulder made you flinch awake to look around; you were in Megumi's bed. You turned towards the person who woke you up, Gojo's mother, "you need to eat something, the guests are gone." You shook your head still holding Megumi's uniform shirt in other hand, "I am not hungry, Ma." She sat on the bed beside you and gently took your empty hand in hers, "My Dear, there aren't enough words to console a child's loss. Megumi was-"

"Please don't say was, don't talk about him like h-he like h-h-he's g-gone," your breathing hitched as you tried to speak in a low voice, you looked at her with puffy tearful eyes, "I want to hold my son in my arms again, I just need to see him smile, i-i-i would give my life for him, why not me? Why him? He's a kid-?" You burst into painful cries. Gojo's mother hugged you, gently caressing your hair, "I want my son back, please."

Gojo's mother insisted she stays with you but you told her that you need to be alone and she can go home since she's probably tired, you entered the living-room and sat beside the wall staring at the picture of Megumi with all the flowers around it; he loved flowers so much even though no one knew that about him, your silence was cut short when someone entered the living-room at first you thought it was Gojo but it was Yuji and Nobara; they still haven't left even if it was already ten at night, in all honesty they were scared to leave you alone.

"You didn't go home? It's late" you spoke barley a whisper, you cried your voice out. They both sat beside you on either side, "we didn't want to leave you a-alone," Nobara spoke and you could tell she was fighting back tears from the way she spoke. "Can we stay a little longer, please?" You know they won't leave even if you told them so you nodded and sat there in silence, Nobara was sobbing at this point trying hard to not be loud with her sobs; the kids were tired as much as you were if not more.

Nobara laid her head on your lap, sobbing on your skirt. You tapped gentle hand on her shoulder while Yuji leaned his head on your shoulder crying, and you placed your other arm around his head; letting both kids cry on you. They too missed Megumi and loved him dearly. "Shh, don't cry, you are strong Nobara and Yuji you are my strong boy; don't Cry or Megumi will be angry at both of you." You tried to chuckle but that made them cry even more.

Yuji hugged your side and cried hard, "I am sorry Auntie that I wasn't strong enough to save Megumi, please forgive me-"

Nobara sobbed hugging your lap "I am sorry I wasn’t there, forgive me Auntie."

"Hussh! None of that! Don't you dare think it's either of your fault, don't say those things ever again." You spoke trying hard to not cry yourself, "I could never blame any of you, don't break my heart with such words." They both cried themselves to sleep on your lap that night, Carefully you got up trying to not wake them up, leaving the living-room you saw Satoru sleeping on the doorsteps of the living-room; he was here the whole time and didn't leave your side just too scared to come near you and that you will push him away like you did earlier; you tried to tell yourself that it wasn't fair and he lost a son to but who's plan was it in first place to take Megumi in the fight?

You walked past him and went to your room and brought extra pillow and blankets for the kids; you came back and carefully placed pillow under their heads and blanket on them so they won't get cold; you placed a blanket on Gojo too; you weren't that heartless, just in pain.

Sleep didn't come easy to you and the night felt long just staring at the picture made your heart numb, your phone buzzed and you avoided it but it kept buzzing nonstop, without taking your eyes of the picture you answered the call, "Hello?" Your voice low and full of exhaustion. You were expecting it to be Gojo's mother or one of your friends, but the voice on the other side made your heart stop for a minute when you heard a low answer, "Mama? Where are you?" Your eyes widened and hands shaking in confusion, unable to think if this was a dream or reality. Were you dreaming again? You held the phone with both hands now trying to stop your hands from shaking, "G-Gumi? Megumi? Baby? Is that you?" There was a shuffle, and this time it wasn't Megumi. It was another voice you recognised well, "Y/n? It's shoko, come down to hospital now, I called Satoru but he's - "

"S-Sh-Shoko was th-that, I-" you got up hurried out of the room almost tripping over your feet when you shook Gojo to wake up him up and immediately he jumped awake noticing your shaking figure infront of him with your phone in your hand, "Sa-Satoru tak- the the the hospital-Shoko, she she i- Gumi I he-heard hi-Megumi, my, ou-" you could barely breath let alone speak and it was terrifying Satoru as he held you gently, "Hey, calm down, shh, Hey," he brushed your hair off your face, "Breath darling, Breath-" you shoved the phone in his hand and he finally noticed it was on call, "hello? Shoko?" You noticed how his tired eyes widened, "W-we'll be the- Come on, Darling, are you okay? Breath," he shut the phone before helping you stand and you urged him to walk. He glanced inside the living-room; the kids were asleep, he grabbed your hand and ran out of the door barely able to process what Shoko just told him over the call.

You were shaking in the passenger seat as Satoru drove insanely, luckily there weren't many cars at two in the morning, Satoru could hear your loud hitched breathing. The ten minutes drive to the hospital felt like hours until Satoru parked the car in the most uncommon way before getting out and help you out as you both literally ran inside the hospital to where Shoko was.

You got closer to the door and felt your legs go numb breathing heavily you pushed the doors open and felt your heart stop for a minute. There stood Shoko beside your son; he sat on the table dressed in hospital gown; your Megumi, your son was sitting infront of you looking absolutely exhausted, his eyes were barely open, you felt as if you will just wake up and it will all be a dream but you kept walking with heavy steps feeling your legs numbing with each step but that feeling stopped when Megumi smiled at the sight of you and you ran to gather him in your arms.

"Gumi, oh my boy, why did you leave? Why did you make your Mama cry?" You cried holding him closer, Megumi knew that the deal he made with Sukuna whatever it was, it was worth it because he was back in his mother's arms, "Oh my child, My beautiful boy, you scared me." He hugged you tight, "I'm so sorry Mama, I would never do it ag-"

"OF COURSE THERE WILL BE NO AGAIN!" You pulled away and looked at him, he smiled weak at you and you planted kisses all over his face, forehead, and hair over and over the hugging him, "I was so scared Mama, I w-was so sac-"

"Shhh, you're here with me, Mama is here," Megumi couldn't shake the fear and the darkness that he felt for the last few hours. Is this how it feels to die?

Megumi looked behind you as he lifted his head from your shoulder, he saw his father standing there, eyes coverd in tears not saying a word, he had the look of guilt, fear and relief in his eyes all together, "D-Dad," Megumi called causing you to gently to pull away from Megumi to turn and look at Gojo.

Gojo sobbed worse than Yuji and Nobara when he took Megumi in his embrace, "Gezz old man, don't remember seeing you cry like that before" Megumi joked hugging his father back resting his head on his chest, "I'm sorry Gumi, my boy, I am so sorry I am an idiot an absolute useless of a father and I'm so sorry I let that happen to you, oh God. I am sorry please forgive me, I should've known better, I should've never let you near that damn school that damn life. I'm so proud of you, I love you and I would die for you in a heartbeat if you tell me to do that right now. Gumi! Please don't you ever leave me again like that, I will die without you, don't do that to your Mama, I don't want to see her in pain like that ever again."

Megumi held on Satoru's jacket and cried, he never seen his father upset let alone sob like that; it broke his heart to see his father like that. "It was my fault, all mine, I should've left when you told me to, I would never disobey your words Dad, I was so sacred."

"You went there on your own?" You asked in a whisper and Megumi nodded looking at you still holding on his father, "D-Dad told me to leave again and again b-but I wanted to help, I-I couldn't leave Dad alone, I'm sorry." All this time and everything you said to Satoru and not once he said that he wasn't the reason Megumi was gone; even when he's son wasn't there Satoru refused to rat him out on you, this made you remember all the times Gojo took the blame from things Megumi did; especially accidentally breaking things.

Gojo pulled away letting Megumi reach for you and hugging you, "You'll never ever, ever do a thing like that ever again, I can't lose you again, Megumi, I can't." Shoko had gathered some clothes for Megumi to change before she went away after you talked for a while; she too had a long day. Few minutes later Megumi got out and immediately hugged your side as the three of you walked to your car.

"Mama, can you stay with me here? Please?" Megumi asked as you helped him to backseat, you looked at Gojo and he nodded before closing the door when you got in beside him, he immediately nuzzled into you; it was clear that Megumi was still scared. Gojo took of his jacket and placed it over Megumi before getting in the drivers seat and starting the car, you swear that you saw a faint black line on Megumi's arm that disappeared as the moment it showed up as you were holding his hand and he had his head nuzzled on your shoulder. Satoru made sure to drive carefully this time.

You really didn't want to wake Megumi up when you reached home, so you sat there in the car for few minutes before Satoru turned to you and nodded, carefully you woke Megumi up, "Sweetie, we are home," he blinked nodding as he got up.

Megumi was holding onto you as he walked still limping a bit and few faint bruises on his face that were still there, Gojo races to open the door but it was flung open, "MEGUMI!" Both Yuji and Nobara pushed Gojo away and jumped to hug Megumi earning a grunt from him as they both lunched on him crying their eyes out. Shoko had texted Yuji when he woke up to find both of you gone and she told him everything.

"WHERE DID YOU GO?" Nobara sobbed

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?" Yuji cried.

"WE ARE SO SORRY MEGUMI!" They both cried. Megumi hugged them both even though he wasn't able to move a lot, "WE LOVE YOU, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE US, MEGUMI." Nobara cried causing Megumi to chuckle, "I'm Home, don't cry you two silly, I won't go anywhere." You hardly were able to help him walk since Nobara and Yuji refused to left go of Megumi as he walked; they basically held him inside and he stopped when he saw his picture covered with flowers in the living-room; people came for him?

"I'll remove that in the morning," Satoru placed a gentle hand on Megumi's hair, "you need to rest now, okay?" He nodded when Nobara and Yuji walked him to his room as you followed behind. When the kids were gone you grabbed Satoru by the hand and walked inside the living-room shuting the door behind you, and you slapped his shoulder causing him to jump in confusion and you slapped his shoulder again and again, "W-what did I do?" He asked, confused. "Why didn't you tell me? Why? Why didn't you tell me that you told "Megumi to leave"? Huh? Why did you not tell me the truth?" You asked, trying to keep your voice low, and it cracked when you asked him, "Why did you let me say all those things to you, Satoru?" You grabbed his jackets collar, "I was so mean to you, I screamed at you, said horrible things to you," your hand let go of his collar and now rested on his face as he sat on the couch arm looking at you, "I would never want to blame our son, never." You hugged him to your chest, "I am sorry I said such horrible things to you. Please forgive me-"

"Darling, I love you." He kissed your hand and you smiled with tears in your eyes, "I love you, you idiot." He chuckled, playing with your finger he spoke, "Let's go, leave this place, somewhere far away, I am done being the strongest, I am done sacrificing my life and I los-i almost lost our son for nothing, let's go, okay?" You nodded hugging him, "Yes. Satoru, we'll leave as far as we can. I just want to be with my two beautiful boys." You kissed his hair before resting you cheek on his head.

Megumi was sitting in the middle of his bed while Yuji and Nobara had their arms wrapped all over him on his either side; he seemed so unbothered with their actions; instead he had his arms wrapped around them both as they spoke to him.

Even when they wanted to stay awake it was already early morning and Nobara was half asleep on Megumi; still not letting go of him, "Ha, Yuji you should sleep and we should let Nobara sleep too, she can barely keep her eyes open." He gently tapped her head to which she shook her head groaning, "N-No, we can stay awake," Yuji got up and helped Nobara up as you and Satoru got their futon in Megumi's room because he asked you too and they were for sure not leaving him anytime soon, "Yeah, you need to sleep and we should let Megumi rest." You Told Nobara to which she nodded before getting on her futon and you placed her blanket on. Yuji came round to hug Megumi one last time before going to his bed, you came and sat beside Megumi's bedside, "you okay?" You brushed his hair to side and he nodded, "I'm just happy to be home,Mama." You kissed his forehead, "I'm happy you are home, sleep well sweetheart. Call for us if you need anything, okay sweetheart?" He nodded before he got under the covers and with the the three of them were fast asleep.

Every move, every word made Sukuna fum with anger. How could you be so nice? How can a mother be this sweet? Megumi was too tired to feel it when Sukuna took over, and got up making his way towards the living-room, he sat down and scoffed at all the flowers that were placed for Megumi, Sukuna knew that people in his village probably celebrated when he was killed and sealed away.

You were fast asleep when you opened your eyes to find Megumi making his way to the living-room so you got up looking at the clock it was still four in the morning and pretty dark outside. The lights were off in the living-room but you could make up that Megumi was sitting on the floor in front of his picture; unaware that it wasn't your son but the king of curse himself; Sukuna. He saw you made your way beside him and gently resting your hand on his head before sitting beside him, "couldn't sleep?" You asked looking ahead just like him, he didn't dare to speak but just shook his head, you hummed motioning for him to rest his head on your lap; he turned his face to look at you and you did the same but luckily for him, you couldn't see much in dark. Your eyesight problems prevents you from seeing anything in dark even the dark marks on your Son's face that belonged to Sukuna but he saw your gentle smile and without thinking he placed his head on your lap, as if it was Megumi's body reacting on your words; after all you were his mother.

You gently soothed his hair, and hummed a song then you softly spoke, "From the moment you were born, you became the sunshine in my life I was so happy when I found out I'm gonna have a baby, from the moment they put you in my arms, it became my life's work to keep you from harm," you chuckled, "you were so little and I was scared that a harm will come to you but you are strong just like your dad and even more, don't tell him I said that. I never had much in my life, never had the love of a parent in my life, you changed that but I wanted to give you all my love, I never want anything to happen to you, and I know you're grown now, but my heart doesn't realize that. In my heart, you will always be my sweet baby boy, my sweet boy. I want you to know how proud I am of you and how much you mean to me, You are the best gift I've ever received. God blessed me with you, and I would want to be your Mama in every lifetime." You leaned down and kissed the top of Megumi's head, but Sukuna was the one who reserved it. He blinked when he realised that he had tears rolling down his eyes. Why was he crying? Is it because his parents never wanted him in the first place because he was a monster? He wanted to snap your neck then and there; he knew that was a lie. You were a perfect mother that he didn't have.

"...Ma," he whispered and you soothed his hair, "yes, Darling?" You answered to which he shook his head and just snuggled to you as you hummed to him till he fell asleep, slowly the dark lines faded away from Megumi's face as he slept.

#jujutsu kaisen #angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo satoru #jjk megumi #megumi angst #child megumi #megumi fushiguro #jujutsu megumi #gojo satoru angst #gojou satoru x reader #jjk satoru #dad Satoru #reader is megumi's mother #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #Sukuna Megumi vessel

303 notes · View notes

joshotime · 2 months

Text

Lonesome

#come get yalls angst #my art #doodle #hollow knight #the hollow knight #pure vessel #pale king #hk pale king

295 notes · View notes

tirkras · 3 months

Text

WIP

So, Nori was not really good mom in the perfect vessel AU🫡

I'll probably draw the concepts of a small Uzi later

#art WIP #I'll render it later #I told you that there will be a lot of angst #Someone take away Nori's parental rights #md the perfect vessel au #the perfect vessel au #murder drones #yeah #artists on tumblr #my art stuff #fanart #scetch #murder drones au #murder drones uzi #murder drones nori

302 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 5 months

Text

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER SIX: IS IT OVER NOW?

LET'S FAST FORWARD TO THREE HUNDRED TAKEOUT COFFEES LATER, I SEE YOUR PROFILE AND YOUR SMILE ON UNSUSPECTING WAITERS.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.8K+

☆ A/N: if i could put the entirety of the lyrics to this song on here, i would. it's! their! song! (side note: these idiots need to start making progress before i tear my hair out i mean it. they make me think about jumping off of very tall somethings)

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

masterlist

The coffeeshop that Eddie chooses isn’t one you’re familiar with. It’s smaller, more hidden, tucked away in an unsuspecting corner and disguised from prying eyes.

It wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you’re sure his thought process on choosing public locations differs from yours now. One wrong move, and he’s sure to end up on the cover of another magazine. Actually, one wrong breath, and the public eye probably eats him alive.

He’d sort of brought that upon himself, building up such a polarizing reputation all by his own hands.

“Ever been before?” he asks as the two of you stand in line, the scent of espresso burning your nose and the hiss of steam wands cutting straight through the soft chatter of fellow patrons.

You only shake your head. No words to ease his clear anxiety as you watch him shift his weight between his two feet and his hands dig deep into his pockets.

“It’s pretty good,” he continues to ramble, looking up at the menu rather than you, “They’ve got decent hot coffee, and their lattes aren’t too bad. I like the vanilla one best, which is probably boring but-”

“Eddie,” you interrupt him sternly, “What happened to not talking?”

He scoffs a little, finally turning to look at you. “We aren’t seated yet. Once we get a table, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

You highly doubt that.

It’s torture being this close to him for this long. The accidental bumps of his elbow against your shoulder that send you jumping from the contact. The way you nearly stepped on his foot when you’d shuffled out of the way for someone, and your apology got tangled on your tongue when he’d reached out to steady you. In small moments, when he’s too busy glancing nervously around the cafe, you spare him longer looks. Since he first came tumbling back into your life a mere week ago, you’d been staunch on your stance that he had changed beyond measure. But here, out at a coffee shop with just the two of you present along with all his nervousness, you can see glimpses of something familiar beneath the surface. The way he bites his lip, the way he fiddles with his rings, how he’s occasionally humming tunes beneath his breath as he avoids eye contact with you – you hate it. You hate every aspect of it, and all the painful nostalgia it stirs within you.

It reminds you of your first date with him, back in Hawkins. All the confidence he’d exuded at that Halloween party you’d met him at had disappeared the moment he got you alone sober. As if he had felt the weight of what this would become from day one, as if he knew just how much of both your future’s rested in one stupid date.

You almost get lost in the memories before it’s your turn to order at the counter.

“Just a vanilla latte, please.”

You can see his small smile out of the corner of your eye. A small trace of triumph is clear as day as you order the exact thing he just said was his favorite. It wasn’t intentional, but there’s no use trying to convince him of that.

It’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. It just sounded good after he brought it up.

“I’ll have the same,” he tells the barista behind the counter, moving to pull out his wallet.

On your first date with him, you had bickered endlessly about who would pay. And you nearly do it again – you nearly reach out a hand to stop him and insist you could pay for your own coffee on instinct.

It would be so easy to let history repeat itself, to watch your greatest hits reinvent themselves at this moment. Maybe, this time around, the two of you can get it right.

You don’t move a single muscle as he hands over his card.

He murmurs out a soft thank you when it’s returned to him with a receipt, and you’re already turned to scout out a table to sit at.

There’s plentiful booths, a few high-tops by the front windows. There’s even half booths lining one wall of the cafe. If you were out on your own, all of these choices would be perfect. You’d take a seat at any of the tables and be content, especially the high-tops that offered the perfect opportunity for people watching between work.

You choose a table in one of the back corners. Somewhere darker, and far from everyone else in the building. Somewhere hidden.

“Here?” he questions, hesitating behind you as you drop your bag down beside one of the chairs.

“Something wrong with this table?” you ask over your shoulder, hand gripping on the back of the chair as if it could ground you.

“I mean… not really,” you turn and look at him over your shoulder, “It’s just kind of dark back here, and you used to like sitting by windows-”

Your throat tightens at it – the acknowledgement that he remembers. That he can recall anything from the past, of you, of your time spent together. Part of you had been convinced he’d taken a sledgehammer to the past, shattered it into something unrecognizable and abandoned it altogether.

He hadn’t. It should have been obvious, but he hadn’t.

“Maybe I’ve changed,” you cut in, gaze unwavering as you dare him to challenge you on the fact, “Besides, I don’t want to be distracted while I work.”

You won’t lose this game; whatever he’s currently playing at, you can’t afford to lose. You are not the girl he remembers, and he is not the man you’ve mourned for two years. Both of you, it seems, need that reminder.

He joins you at the shadowy table without another word.

You take to setting up your laptop and notebook, powering up your devices as you flip back open to your pages of contacts and physical notes already taken. Your eyes refuse to find his the entire time as you log in, as you open up to that damn refusal from the latest venue, as you sigh harshly out your nose at that bitter reminder of failure.

When they call your names for the lattes, he’s up and retrieving them without you even asking him to.

In your short time alone at the table, you lean forward to rest your forehead on the palms of your hands. It’s exhausting – being around him, pretending like you wouldn’t have enjoyed the view out the window, facing the reality that his mess had once again become yours. Every inch of your skin prickles with the need to run. And yet you don’t. You could have told him no, easily turned down his offer for coffee. But you didn’t, so now, you’ll live with the consequences.

“One vanilla latte,” Eddie appears, setting down that takeout cup of coffee down in front of you before he takes his seat, “I didn’t know if you’d want any extra sugars, but if you do, I can grab them-”

“Thanks,” you interrupt blandly, lifting your head from your hands as you watch him sit down his own coffee. You really, really didn’t want to hear him ramble anymore.

Didn’t want to ponder how it’s almost as endearing as the first day you met him. Didn’t want to think about how each syllable that falls from his lips strikes something deep in you, something stained and something yearning for erasure of a past both of you can’t change now. Didn’t want to keep caving so damn easily.

You are meant to be furious. You have every right to be; he left first, he stopped loving you first, he broke this first. You’ve had two years to gather up all your grief and all your anger, package it nicely with a bow on top, and that is what you should be handing over to him right now. Not forgiveness, not understanding. Certainly not endearment.

Something in your chest still shudders at the sight of his wince when he tries to sip the hot latte too soon, effectively burning his lip and tongue.

“So, you come here often?”

What the hell happened to not talking?

It’s not him to blame – it’s you. The words tumble out embarrassingly quickly. You had a plan, why weren’t you following the plan? Get a free coffee, get a break from the office, maybe manage to have some sort of breakthrough while away from that stuffy building. You weren’t supposed to be talking to him.

And he knows it. Damn it, does he know it as his lips curl at their corners ever so slightly, “Yeah. It’s convenient, nice and close to the studio.”

Where the fuck had all his rambles disappeared to? What are you supposed to do with such a short, such a normal response?

“Right,” you nod, acting as though the location of his studio would be common knowledge to you, “Right, no, of course. It’s good to have a convenient coffee place.”

He leans back in his chair, nervousness misting away and some sort of confidence creeping in instead. Fuck him.

“Do you have one around here?”

He’s testing the waters, seeing just how much conversation you’ll allow. The threshold should be none. Zilch. A resounding absolutely not.

“I usually stop by the Starbucks closest to my apartment.”

So much for that.

“Starbucks?” he crinkles his nose, and dear Lord, you need to look away. Save yourself the heartbreak, because those wrinkles are almost a replica map of the ones you remember back in Hawkins when he’d make faces at you across the Hideout when someone would approach him with boring conversation he wanted no part in. The same disgust, the same silent conversation between you transpiring, “I thought you were always a coffee snob. Hated that shit.”

You had been. When he had known you, you had hated that subpar commercial coffee.

“Like I said,” you swallow hard, looking down to your keyboard, realizing the conversation needed to end, “People change.”

Did you change, though? You still hated the taste of your morning coffee, cringed at either the burnt bitterness or overwhelming sweetness you could never find peaceful equilibrium between. A thousand different orders, a thousand different experiments, and you still had yet to find anything that satisfied your caffeine cravings.

Kind of like how you window-shopped at the bars. How you’d look over various men that Romina pointed out, and only shake your head before picking out something wrong with them. Something that wasn’t to your usual taste, something that wasn’t him.

You finally take a sip of your latte as Eddie nods, muttering a soft, “Guess so.”

It’s perfect. The latte isn’t too sweet, isn’t too bitter. It’s exactly what you’ve been searching for these last two years.

“They have really good muffins,” Eddie continues on, mimicking you by taking another sip of his drink. This time, he doesn’t burn his mouth, “Cinnamon rolls, too.”

The small talk is nearly killing you. You should go silent on him, begin to work on figuring out the venue situation. But you watch the way he fiddles with the sleeves of his leather jacket and can’t help but remember the old one with safety pins holding together the sleeves. Finally, you cave outwardly.

“What kind of venue do you want?”

It’s not small talk, but it’s not personal talk. It’s just you swallowing your pride, and shocking yourself by reaching out for the help everyone has pestered you with offering the last week.

“What?” Eddie’s eyes widen, no longer rubbing the fabric between his fingertips.

“The venue for the party,” you elaborate, “What are you looking for in it? Small? Big? Private? Rooftop? I’ve tried asking Matt, and he’s given me nothing to work off of.”

Eddie slowly lifts his hands to lay on the tabletop, watching you with such careful eyes that you can see all the lack of trust in them. “Does it… matter?”

You scoff, and before your brain or heart can warn you against it, you’re scooting your chair around the table to be closer to Eddie. You pull your laptop along with you, shifting it so that both of you can see the screen as you bring up your list of options. A colorful spreadsheet: rejections highlighted in a muted red, the ones you haven’t heard back from highlighted in soft orange, the ones you’re unsure of and haven’t even sent out queries regarding highlighted in a nearly transparent yellow.

Only one is highlighted in a pastel green. The one with a rooftop option, as well as several downstairs rooms. The one you thought seemed the most like Eddie.

“Yes, it matters a fuck ton,” you explain, pointing at a random line as his eyes dart about your impressive display, “The ones in red are ones that already rejected me, but most are larger venues you’ve played in the past. By the way, why have you destroyed so many green rooms?”

“I get bored,” he flatly replies, leaning in with squinted eyes, “What does that yellow mean?”

“Those are ones I’m unsure about. Either too big, too small, or too exclusive.”

“And orange?”

“I sent out an email, and haven’t heard back.��

“And…” he pauses as he reaches that venue, “And green? Why’s there only one green?”

It occurs to you he’s the first person to not turn their nose up at your extensive organization. Everyone else had thought it was stupid, wasteful, to spend so much time on the spreadsheet. No one had asked you to explain the color system before, usually hardly glancing at the screen before brushing you off.

No one had even questioned the green line yet.

“Green is the one I think…” you trail off, unsure of why you’re so afraid to admit the meaning. You sort of feel foolish; that terrible imposter syndrome managing to creep up on you as you doubt your judgment, “It’s the one I think might be the best fit. It probably isn’t, I don’t know. Honestly, I can take it off the list-”

“Show me the venue.”

“I really don’t-”

He interrupts you by saying your name sternly, looking away from the screen to glance at you with raised eyebrows, “Just show me. It can’t be any worse than…” he looks back over the list, letting out a snort, “Jesus, Webster Hall? Yeah, they’re not letting us come back any time soon.”

“What did you do to them?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Most of the venues wouldn’t divulge the messy details, only staunchly say no and promise they had their reasons once you mentioned Corroded Coffin.

“I’ll tell you if you show me the green venue.”

He knows he’s won when you finally click onto the still open tabs. You’d opened the hyperlink for every single different room, ranging from the large main one to the petty small one on a rooftop. You start with the largest room, and Eddie eagerly drinks in the details on the page.

He whistles softly, only loud enough for you to hear, “Quite the venue.”

“This is just the first room.”

He looks at you, clearly shocked, subtly nodding for you to click through the rest of the tabs. His reaction is fairly consistent as you show each new room, new capacity, new option. You can see the way his face lights up – you had been right.

Your judgment was correct. You hadn’t been an idiot, shouldn’t have doubted yourself. It almost makes you feel as if there’s still a chance that you still know him. Somewhere deep down, beneath your layers of stained armor and his layers of reckless defenses, you still know him.

“It’s… good,” he says softly after reading over that final tab you had opened, “Like, really good.”

You exhale in relief, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he leans back in his chair, “I don’t think we’ve ever played that venue before, either, so… no wrecked green room to hold over my head.”

You should stay on track and focus; you are making progress. After a week of hopelessness, you were finally not feeling like an absolute failure. Better to keep the train moving forward than to halt right now.

And yet, your mind picks up on that green room comment again, and you can’t help it – all your focus flies out the window.

“Why do you fuck up all those green rooms? And don’t just say you were bored,” you ask, curling your hands around your still warm cup of coffee, “I mean, I get it – the rockstar image or whatever – but isn’t it… isn’t it more trouble than it’s worth when it comes to scheduling tours?”

He shakes his head softly, curls tumbling over tense shoulders, “Definitely not for the rockstar image.”

“Then why?” you turn your head, ignore the screen, focus on him. On his scruff and the bags under his eyes, on the cracks in his chapped lips.

On that distinct look overtaking his face that says you overstepped.

“Forget it,” you weakly say, taking back your words to the best of your abilities without being able to pull them back onto your tongue, tuck them back into that box of anger and grief, and curiosity now, apparently. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Either way, it’s good that these guys have nothing against you, right?”

“They still might,” Eddie shrugs, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, “Word travels fast between venues.”

He says it so sadly, it’s hard to think of a proper response. You know he brought it upon himself. There’s no room for sympathy at this table, in this cafe.

But it still only adds to your motivation to do this job, and do it well. A parting gift to Eddie; a way to silently swallow the pride leftover from a messy breakup, and apologize for the way you’d left without a trace. Right then and right there, you decide that’s what this has to become. For your peace of mind, and possibly for his.

“You want a rooftop,” you don’t phrase it as a question, but as a statement as you yank your laptop closer to you, fingers flying over the keyboard, “A rooftop with a nice view, that’s what your email said.”

“I mean, that’d be nice-”

“You all want an open bar,” you add, continuing to type loudly enough a few people glance back towards the dark corner. You pay them no mind, your determination taking over, “And it needs to be smaller than your normal shows according to Matt. That doesn’t mean we have to limit venues by capacity – we could just limit ticket sales.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open ever so slightly, watching you in awe as you start a new document. Making a checklist of just what was possible. No more spreadsheets littered with reminders of rejections, of what you weren’t sure you could get for the band. It would be nice to have a list of the venues you couldn’t contact now, but there was no need to let their names glare at you every time you reviewed your plans.

“We need a top three for venues. What are your top three?”

You finally pause your clacking to look at him. Still stunned, still under the spell of watching you come to life.

It used to be this way back in Hawkins, too. Whenever you took over on a school project, or a new gig for Corroded Coffin. You could do this. You would do this.

“I don’t-” Eddie starts, before taking a deep breath, “The only venues I really know by name are the ones I can’t perform at. The ones that banned me.”

“Awesome,” he shrinks back a little at that, almost in disbelief, but it was awesome. Not that he’d gotten banned, but that you had somewhere to start, “Send me that list. Type it up on your phone right now, and send it.”

“To your email?” he questions, already doing as you’d commanded of him.

You consider it. Your email was already overflowing with work related notions, and brimming with those goddamn rejections you had yet to delete and move past.

Personal email was out of the question. You only checked it for coupons from your favorite online shops and notifications from your mother’s Facebook.

You snatch his phone out of his palm, and don’t look up at him until you navigate to the contacts app, hit the small plus sign, type in the magic number that you don’t check to see if he actually deleted two years ago. You just assume he did.

Your number.

“Text it to me,” you instruct him as you pass the phone back. His hand still hovers where it’d been when you’d taken the cell phone, as if he’s frozen. “Now, please.”

You don’t care if it’s stupid to do, it’s necessary. He’ll probably just delete it once you finish this final favor, this final gift to him to send him off and out of your life for good.

“O-Okay,” he stutters, and not even a minute later, your phone buzzes with a text.

You flip it over, keep it angled so Eddie can’t see the screen.

New text from ROCKSTAR ♡ !

He may have deleted your contact, but you’d never deleted his.

You’d tried to, make no mistake. Spent plenty of late hours staring at that haunted number, even tried to backspace it away a few times. But every time your thumb would hover over the delete button, your hands would shake and knuckles would ache. Every time you’d manage to fully backspace the number away, it was no use; you still knew it by heart, still retyped it and saved it as if nothing had ever changed. There had been a short week of having his number blocked, but you’d given up, unblocked it then sometimes still sat and waited for another round of calls from him begging for a chance to just talk.

You always seemed to have one foot in the door, one foot out with Eddie. Always stained, never cleaned of him.

It didn’t matter. After these next three months, you’d delete it. You told yourself you would, for real this time. You’d erase him, properly let him go until you forgot the sound of his voice and couldn’t even recall the first three digits of his phone number. You would. You had to.

You flip the phone back over and face it down on the table, looking up at him, forcing a polite smile. It kills you – it startles him.

“Alright, Mr. Rescue Party. Shall we begin?”

—

You never return to the office.

Hours later, when the sun was setting and the table was littered with empty coffee cups bought by Eddie to continue to fuel the two of you, you receive an email from Lydia.

Leaving and locking up the office now. Hope the meeting with your client went well. See you tomorrow.

You blink rapidly at the message, hardly being able to process the time. It was nearly seven.

“Okay, so, that venue was a no-go,” Eddie says as he approaches the table again, finally stepping back inside from calling your green venue. The two of you had decided it was time to stop sending off emails that could be easily ignored – you were tracking down numbers and calling them directly, now. Forcing them to give an answer then and there rather than putting you off for weeks, “I was right about word traveling between those assholes- What’s wrong?”

He stops just before he pulls out his chair, leaning down with his forearms pressed into the back of the seat when he notices your expression of shock.

It had been easy, too easy, to waste away the hours with Eddie. And, sure, the main distraction had been planning and putting everything into action. Eddie had narrowed down his top three venues, you had found a few businesses that would service an open bar and had begun to gather quotes. But it hadn’t all been business.

Small things had slipped in. A short conversation had been had about the best bars in town when you’d begun that side quest, Eddie admitting which bars in town let him frequent them while offering the most privacy (not many, unsurprisingly) and you’d listed a few of the clubs your coworkers liked to frequent. No overlap to be found. But then, there had been the joking after Eddie called one of his other top three venues and put them on speaker, allowing you to hear the way the owner chewed Eddie out for the time he’d caused chaos at a show that wasn’t even his own. The moment the owner hung up, Eddie had made a face, somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, until you’d finally spoken up and mocked one of the last things the owner had said before the dial tone.

“Don’t you ever call here again,” you’d jokingly mimicked in a deep and comical voice, wagging a finger in Eddie’s direction in fake scolding.

It hadn’t even been that funny. But the two of you had still descended into giggles like two children, until tears pricked the corners of your eyes and your stomach ached just a little bit.

Small moments. Small exchanges. Things that were personal, things you wouldn’t have done with a normal client. Things that had a full day slipping away from you quietly in the darkest corner of a coffee shop you never even knew existed mere blocks from your work.

“It’s seven, Eddie,” you tell him as if he should be just as taken back. He hardly blinks an eye, “We’ve been here seven hours.”

“And?” the creases between his brows finally smooth, standing back up straight, “We’ve been getting shit done, and we’ve been paying customers the entire time. I don’t see the issue.”

The issue is the way you made work not feel like work.

The issue was the cycle you had been fearing, avoiding, and falling victim to ever since he’d been waiting for you in that conference room that very first day. Every time Eddie would inch back into your vision, whether right before you as he was now or in the form of emails you’d find yourself reading over before bed, you were forgetting the anger. It kept feeling like a time machine, sending you right back to that very first night. Before the fame, before the hurt.

You have no idea how you’ll manage to keep this to just a parting gift.

“I just…” your words fall short, because he’s technically right, “I didn’t realize we’d been here that long.”

Eddie takes his seat with a nonchalant shrug, “Easy to lose track of time when you’re actually getting shit done,” he stops, blanches at his words as he stares at you as if he thinks he’s just insulted you, “Wait, I- No, I just mean- I don’t mean you weren’t getting things done before. I swear.”

You’re not offended in the slightest, “I know. But to be fair, I really wasn’t. I’m sorry for doubting how helpful you’d be when you showed up earlier today.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Apologize?”

“No, discredit yourself,” he stresses. And you hadn’t noticed it, but your two chairs had seemingly grown closer over the hours as his knee bumps your thigh, “You… I’m not an easy client. You were handed a shit deal, plus Matt really wasn’t giving you anything to work with. I wasn’t giving you anything to work with.”

“I’m working for the entire band,” you remind him, remind yourself.

All it does is remind you of even more people you miss. Gareth, who was the little brother you never had back in Hawkins. Jeff, who had been one of your closest confidants. Craig, who would’ve answered your phone calls even in the dead of night. All friends you gave up when you walked out on Eddie. You always forget that – you didn’t just leave behind one person, you left behind an entire life.

Eddie’s phone buzzes, and he makes no move to grab it, “Have they been helpful?”

You stare at the phone, waiting for him to reach out. He doesn’t.

“Sort of.”

Another buzz. Another unanswered message Eddie clearly has no interest in responding to.

“Sort of? What did they ask for in their lists?”

Another buzz. Finally, you break free of whatever conversation Eddie’s trying to have, and lean forward to grab his phone and pass it to him, “You need to check that. What if it’s Matt?”

Eddie doesn’t glance at the phone, only crosses his arms, effectively tucking the phone out of your sight as well, “He can wait. What did the other guys ask for?”

You can hear the next buzz, more muffled against his t-shirt and beneath his jacket.

“Eddie.”

“Sugar.”

He knows the nickname is a weapon against you. He uses it more deliberately this time, not letting it just slip out as it had at the office.

“Open bar, fuzzy robes, normal things,” you finally spit out, trying to not let the echo of him calling you that name to worm into your brain and begin to rot you away, “Now, check your phone. Please.”

This time, when the phone buzzes, Eddie removes it from being trapped beneath his armpit and actually looks at the screen. You know immediately you were right; his face falls as he reads over the missed messages, all his teasing fading and that air of light-hearted arrogance being sucked out of the space between you two.

You don’t need to ask, but you do anyways, “Rockstar duty calls?”

He looks up rapidly, mouth already forming the word no, but you shake your head to stop his lie.

It’s fine. It’s entirely acceptable that other people need his attention, that he has other affairs to tend to. You had gotten used to it when the two of you were dating and he first made his big break, you shouldn’t expect a change now when you were nothing more than a stranger working for him. It shouldn’t sting, and you shouldn’t feel a small fraction of you hopeful that he’ll be defiant and insist on ignoring those duties.

Today was only ever meant to be one cup of coffee. The fact that you two had lost track, fumbled and turned one cup into four, was only a blip.

“I get it,” you say, sinking back into your chair. And you did, you really did. It was easier now to understand than it was back then, back when this very type of situation started the domino effect that was the beginning of the end, “You should go if they need you. You are a rockstar, after all.”

It’s a hard sentiment to say without a trace of bitterness, but you manage. He’s a rockstar. All his hopes, all his dreams, have finally come true. He gets to breathe, he gets to be rowdy, he gets to hear crowds scream back all those lyrics you’d watched him write in his bedroom back in Hawkins. He got everything he wished for.

You should be happy for him. If this arrangement is going to work, you have to be happy for him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks you as he shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans, standing and beginning to gather empty coffee cups.

“Work,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you glare at the laptop, already feeling preemptive frustration at the thought of picking up where you’ve left off today, alone.

It’s not just because you want Eddie to join you on the project. It’s not Eddie’s help that you specifically want. It’s just nice to have someone to help shoulder the load with you, right?

“At the office?”

“That’s where I usually work, yes.”

“Come to my place instead.”

Time almost freezes. He’s standing there, nearly all of the empty latte cups balanced in his arms, and looking at you as if he hadn’t just asked the most insane possible thing of you.

“Eddie,” you speak softly, carefully, as your arms drop from your chest, “I don’t think that Lydia would be okay with that-”

“I’m a client,” he points out, “Besides, you’ve been stressed about this project, and I like to think I helped with that today.”

He did. God, he did.

“Just think about it,” he’s nearly begging. Beneath the lowlights of this cafe, features dancing with the reflection of some Christmas lights pinned up to line the top of the wall as they cast an aesthetic glow of gold over the surroundings, Eddie Munson is begging for your time, “You have my number. Think it over tonight, and just text me if you decide you want to. I can send over my address.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Probably not,” at least he’s being honest. But quickly, it becomes apparent he’s misinterpreted you as he continues on, “You’re probably going to get photographed by paparazzi when you show up if you’re not careful, and if they figure out you’re there to see me, you’ll probably end up on the cover of some lowlife magazine-”

“That’s not the part I’m concerned with,” you lament, finally choosing to stand now. The last thing on your mind is publicity, or cameras, or magazines, “I mean, I don’t think it’s a good idea to make this,” you motion your arms between the two of you, “A habit.”

His face falls ever so slightly. A soft drop of his eyebrows, a gentle pinch of his lips. You swear, you watch him nearly drop one of the coffee cups before he regains composure, “It won’t be. It’s… It’s just work, yeah?”

Just work. Just a project. Just one final parting gift. This is nothing more than a source of closure for the two of you, a slamming of the door on that chapter of your life where the boy standing before you was your end-all, be-all. He’s right – it’s just work.

Your voice hardly comes out a whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll think about it,” it takes everything in you to level your words, to keep them from shaking, “I’ll ask Lydia, and I’ll let you know.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and you can’t ignore the way it puts the glimmering lights on the ceiling to shame. No shade of gold, no twinkling reflection on the windows overlooking the busy street, can compare to the knife his hopeful smile strikes in you. It’s the type of smile that aches, that resonates, that haunts.

It’s the kind of smile that tells you you’re going to bleed for this, no matter how much you resist.

“Cool,” he nods, finally taking a few steps back, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, maybe?”

The kind of smile that tells you the bloodstain is never going to wash out, whether this is all just for work or not.

“See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

The idea of closure is about as tangible as smoke and mirrors as he leaves you alone in the dark corner of the coffee shop. It almost hurts as much as it did the first time he walked out to be a rockstar.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @@loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious

join my taglist!

#my writing #ghost's writing #maroon #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #rockstar eddie munson #will she go to his place the next day? will something happen at his apartment? will i go insane by the end of writing this fic? who knows !#certainly not me #as the writer it is not my place to know these things #i am just a vessel for my visions #they frustrate me endlessly #as always #if it ain't good do not tell me #this is burning slower than i expected #wah

327 notes · View notes