smalltownbeautyqueen

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

the warm spot at the bottom of the stairs

Pairing: Ghost!Spencer Reid x Chubby!Fem!Reader CW: Fluff, Mild Angst, Soulmate AU, reader has dreams, mentions of sex/masturbation, mentions of death, cursing, reader feels like she knows him but they've never met, let me know if I missed anything please! Summary: After inheriting your grandfather's estate, you fall in love with the man from your dreams. He just so happens to be in your house, too. Disclaimer: Reader is always written with a chubby/bigger person in mind but in this she's literally not described aside from the fact that she has hips, a stomach, and legs on her body. WC: 9k (this is what happens when you let a man cook) This fic is genuinely my baby. I love soulmate aus with all my heart and soul and also love the dynamic of falling in love with a ghost. Enjoy this please, I tried <3

You swore the heat radiating off the sidewalk was enough to melt the soles of your shoes down to liquid. The sun was unforgivably angry today, glaring down at the world like it had a score to settle. You were less than thankful, as the death of your grandfather had stolen any desire you once held for warmth. The brutal dichotomy of the cold pit sitting in your stomach and the burning heat of the day only added to the sour taste in your mouth.

This house was fucking huge. 

You had no idea how your grandfather managed to hide such an enormous investment from everyone in his life but he’d managed the task seamlessly. Nobody even knew what he was giving you at first. The reading of the will and testimony left nothing but confused relatives until they had found the address that marked the estate. Some were jealous of you, some were confused, some even asked if they could come live with you once you got settled in. You had been absolutely floored when you learned he’d given you a house. Being fresh out of university, you were moving on to grad school while simultaneously preparing yourself to live with your mother until you could afford anything besides student debt payments. 

Now though, you had a castle, with no clue why a house this big was given to you of all people. You were your grandpa’s only grandchild and were by far one of the least deserving of such a generosity. Sure, you were close, but never abnormally close. You talked once a week on the phone and were glued to his side at family gatherings - but he saw your aunt everyday, and spoke with your mother much more than he ever did you. Was it pity? Maybe he saw this as the only plausible way of you escaping the fate of leeching off your mother. Hopefully he didn’t think of you so lowly. 

You mentally cursed at the dull ache in your legs that persisted even after stretching. You had been driving all day with a car packed full of stuff that needed to be hauled into the house, and only yourself to move said stuff. You said a short plea in your head to not let the pain hinder your speed and began walking into the house to view the inside. The estate was isolated, huge fences of greenery surrounded the place, adding to the pleasant sight of budding flowers throughout the front yard. Even without the towering hedges, though, the nearest neighbor was miles away. Great, you thought. Any concerns of your car being robbed while you were gone were extinguished as quick as they came, but you locked the car regardless. Force of habit. 

The heat was only lessened slightly when you reached the interior. You made a mental note to get the A.C. turned on, no way a temperature like this was a liveable one. You’re sure the numerous floor-to-ceiling windows were the culprit. They were excessive. Beautiful - of course - and you were thrilled at the amount of light they let in, but you could basically see the heatwaves permeating through the stained glass. Your eyes caught on the odd choice. The slightly colored glass making the mansion feel mildly like a church, the thought coming to you quickly and stripping any of the minimal comfort you held moments prior. That’s weird, you thought. Your grandpa had never been particularly religious. He was a man of faith - said grace before dinner and thanked Jesus for every day he lived, but never to this extent. He was rather progressive for a man his age.

The kitchen could have easily fit a team of 12 and you wondered if there had been staff at one point. There was no sign of any employees, and you prayed there weren’t any left working. The last thing you wanted was more responsibility in your life. You took your time walking the house, marveling at every painting and polished chandelier that was now an asset of yours. The house was gorgeous, you’d give at least that much to the old man. The centerpiece, of course, was the large spiral staircase leading to the second floor. As large as the house was, it held only two stories. Getting it’s square footage from length, rather than width. It was equally as glamorous as the house it resided in, however it filled you with a certain devastation you couldn’t place. As though your most primal self rejected the idea of it. That’s silly, you thought. You wanted to go upstairs, you were definitely not avoiding half of your house because a couple of your neck hairs stood at attention. The only real peculiarity was the heat pooling at the very bottom of the staircase. The kind of heat that seemed to thread itself into you, intertwine itself with your very being. The rest of the house was cold and accusatory, if your grandfather ever did live here, any of his warmth was flushed out by his death. This was the only spot in the whole house you felt calm, cared for. You could bask in it, weirdly fascinated with the little pocket of humanity that sat there. 

It was more difficult than you’d expected to pull yourself out of it, and you could have sworn you felt arms trying to pull you back in. Ten minutes into your new life and you were already on edge. Negative feelings didn’t seem to penetrate the spot at the bottom of the stairs, so you physically felt the wave of unease when it struck you upon exiting. The upstairs was creepy. The abundance of windows was apparently only a trend on the first floor, as the second floor held dark, dim hallways. The whole thing, it seemed, was lit up by ancient lamps that lined the walls. It reminded you of the Shining, and you wondered briefly if maybe your mother would let you move back in. There was a bedroom right near the staircase, and you decided it would be yours. It could have been the smallest one for all you knew, the only thing you cared about was a quick escape if such a thing was needed. Something about the house put thoughts like that at the front of your mind. 

You don’t recall ever being a paranoid person, nor a believer in the supernatural, but this house was watching you. The feeling of eyes on you was simply too strong to write off. What a warm welcome. 

—

It had been a week, but the nights so far had been sleepless ones. The people you called on day one were just now getting around to starting the A.C. so you were hoping for a decent rest tonight. The fridge was stocked, your things mainly unpacked, and the house started feeling a little more like you with each day. Although, your friends were more or less convinced there was a ghost living with you. You spoke of the feelings you had, plus the fact it was an old and mildly creepy house, and they were off and running with theories. One of the tamer ones consisted of the house being an old church - given the windows - and that the eyes you were feeling were perhaps an old priest who died here. You were less than fond of that idea, but you would take it any day to the other propositions of old mental hospitals and certain death. You made a mental note to never again let your friends speculate on situations you couldn’t get out of.

You argued that a malevolent spirit wouldn’t invoke such a comforting sense within you. You felt watched - yes - but it wasn’t as though you felt stalked. It was much worse, actually, you felt lonely. Loneliness was never a battle you fought very hard in. You had hobbies, and you had friends. The desire for a romantic companion usually took the back burner if it was even a thought at all. People questioned the topic - you were pretty, smart, capable - what more could somebody want? They asked if you were insecure, if you liked girls, told you that you were wasting your “prime years” and needed to find someone - but it was never that simple. You just didn’t get it. The feelings others spoke of were unfamiliar ones to you. You held your breath for a long time before realizing that it probably just wasn’t for you, that you were built a little differently.

Needless to say, you were uncomfortable with the sudden sensation. It felt like seeing the moon in a glass jar - something unfathomably beautiful but something you were unable to hold. Lord knows it wasn’t from a lack of desire, though. You’re sure you reeked of longing, able to suppress the lot of it but unable to stop some from slipping through the cracks of your fingers. And with no obvious direction to cast it, it just clung to you and seeped back into your skin. 

–

“No, dude, I’m telling you shit’s fucking weird.” You shoveled popcorn into your mouth as you spoke with your friend. This was the third call since you moved in. “Every night I wake up at like two in the morning and just for a split second I feel it. It’s like I'm lying on someone’s shoulder or something. And - oh my god - the amount of times I get stuck in that fucking warm spot on the stairs is gonna drive me crazy.” 

You could hear her laughing at your frustration on the other end. “What do you mean you get stuck? Y/n I'm getting worried about your mental state.” 

“No I’m telling you, I walk in this one - like - warm spot and I enter some kind of trance. Like I want to leave but I can’t - Jesus!”

“Are you alright?” Your friend was quick to ask, hearing you cut yourself off mid sentence. 

“No! This shit is haunted I swear. My kitchen lights just turned off for no reason. If I die here I’m blaming you and Kelly for not getting me out.” You were being dramatic, you knew that, but it was starting to feel justified. You don’t remember a time in the last week you felt truly by yourself.

“Hey don’t blame us for your own choi-” She started speaking, but you lost her. 

“Hello? You there?” You tried calling her again but the usual buzz of the dial tone was dead silent, the lamps that were illuminating the house followed soon after. Phone lines were the first to go in a power outing. No fucking way the power just went out. You felt around in the dark for the drawer of the end table. There had been a flashlight on the counter when you’d first arrived. You threw it in the end table because you had no clue why it was there - you were thanking God you’d done so while also praying the thing had batteries in it. You wrapped your hand around the object and said one more plea to the stars you wouldn’t have to be without light until tomorrow. Somebody must have been listening, as the room lit up when you hit the ‘on’ switch of the flashlight. 

You’d seen the fuse box towards the south end of the upstairs hallway, sitting between a Da Vinci replica and a mirror taken straight from a movie star's wet dream. I’m gonna die was the only thing you could think at a moment like this. You were for sure going to see glowing red eyes at the end of the hall and die a horrific and bloody death. Thanks grandpa. The warm spot was a welcome refuge from your journey to certain death, and you embraced the sense of  peace it brought you at a time when your heart was surely beating too fast. You held the light in front of you as you ventured up the stairs. The top of them seemed cartoonishly haunting, you thought momentarily that you would fit perfectly into a Scooby Doo episode. It was vast and dark, having multiple pathways you could walk down, but you set your sights on the south hall and did your best to disable your peripheral vision. It was right there. You just had to reset the power and you’d have your precious light back. Who puts a fucking mirror above a fuse box? 

You held the flashlight between your teeth as you focused on your task. Open and reset. Open and reset. It was truly as simple as that and then you could be done. Go watch a midnight rerun on TV and pray that the spirits would leave you alone. Open and reset. The switches were flipped off - you didn’t think that was normal but what did you know - so you flipped them back on and heard the hum of life returning to the house. Thank God. Your nerves dissipated almost immediately. You were alright, no ghost had it out for you. It’s an old house, and would probably experience things like this a lot. You could do that again if you had to. You looked up, though, and ate your words. There was definitely a man behind you. If you had been trying to look at him, you would have seen he was young, tall. You probably would have thought he was attractive, but you had no time for that. You whirled around, yelping at the sight of him and mentally preparing to defend your life. It proved futile though, he was gone as quickly as he came. There was nowhere he could have gone that fast, so as much as you were certain he was there, you settled for him being imaginary. It was dark upstairs, and you were scared out of your mind. Surely your eyes were overcompensating for the paranoia that was racing through you. You walked back to the couch on guard and decided to call your friend back tomorrow. It was nearly twelve, and you knew she had work tomorrow. You could cope using TV and proper lighting to comfort you until sunrise. What’s one more sleepless night?

“You boys let me know if you need anything.” You heard the words in your own voice as if listening to a stranger. 

“Sure thing, doll.” All the men were in uniform. Gray fabric covered their bodies, adorned with hats of the same color. Soldiers.

You walked back behind the front counter as the bell above the door continuously chimed at the arrival of new guests. Orders were being shouted to the cooks. You stared at the bold letters painted on the large graffiti piece decorating the wall, “Cathy’s Cooking.” A greasy apron covered the light blue dress beneath it - waitress attire. The smell of fried eggs clashed hard with the scent of sanitizer you were using to wipe down the counter. Bells rang to signal orders were ready to be taken out to guests, and you discarded the rag you used to mop up spilled coffee. 

“Thanks, Benny.” You nodded to the chef as you took the food plates to table two. He nodded back at you before returning to flipping bacon. 

“L/N!” Your manager barked at you. “Take your break. Be back in thirty.” He was a friendly man, though he got a bit hostile under pressure. 

You couldn’t be more thankful for the break. It was hour 6 of your shift and you were beginning to think he might never let you off. You removed the apron as quick as possible and excused yourself out the back entrance to cool off in the alley way. It got hot as hell during rush hour, so the way the slight breeze nipped your cheeks felt like heaven. 

“Tough shift?”

“Jesus!”

He started laughing as you startled, turning to face him. “‘Fraid it’s just me, honey.” He walked towards you as you grinned at him.

“You scared me, Spence.” 

He shook his head, mocking you. “I’m so sorry.” Drama queen. “How ever will I make it up to you?”

You giggled at that, and wrapped your arms around his neck as he got closer. He put his hands on your hips, leaning you against the brick wall of the alley. You could feel your lungs open up when he kissed you, always feeling like you could breathe better when his lips were on yours. He was your God given destresser. He still donned his uniform but had opted for taking the hat off, he knew you hated when his hair was hidden.

“That’s not very nice, Reid. I thought you were a gentleman. What would your boys think of you being so mean to a lady?”

He smiled a bit at that. “You like when I’m a little mean, Y/N.” 

Fuck. He had you there. 

You looked to the side for a second to snuff out some of the tension. “How long are you here for?”

“We’re in town for two weeks. Gotta catch a boat up to base 14 on the 20th. Supposedly they’re preparing for a big fight.”

You frowned as you made eye contact with him.“I get so worried about you. About all of you. I don’t know what I’d do if - you know if something happened.” He’d been a soldier for a little while now, joining when he turned 18. He’d kept his hands on your hips, and you started to run your hands through his hair, a nervous habit you picked up when the two of you first got together.

“I know, honey. But by the time it’s done I’ll be off my leash. I do this and we can run away together.”

You looked at him the way you always did - with such admiration and love that he often had to look away before it went to his head. He swore he looked at you the same, but you knew deep down nobody could love anyone as much as you loved him. You laughed a bit at the elation you got from just his presence. 

“I got lucky with you, Reid.”

He just shook his head. “Give yourself more credit, L/n.”

Your consciousness hit you like a truck and you realized before long that sun was shining through the windows. You’d fallen asleep sometime between ultimate terror and fleeting hope of your survival. And that dream - dear lord what the fuck was that dream. It was more vivid than you thought possible. You always forget most of your dreams when you wake up, but this time it felt like forgetting would be a betrayal. You could recall word for word every single thing about that dream. It was as though you saw a movie of your own life. A feeling so familiar you could taste it but just far enough to escape your grasp - and boy were you reaching. Not to mention the man. You didn’t know if this was some sort of coping mechanism you were inventing in your head but that was definitely the same man from the mirror last night. An imaginary friend. You had an imaginary friend as a grown woman. Terrific. 

–

“You’re never going to attract a suiter with such a tragic expression, my dear.” This had to be the third time your mother had roused this point in the past hour. 

“These dances are dreadful, idiotic nights of captivity that do nothing but mock the existence of genuine companionship.” The irony of you saying this while patting your cheeks with rose pigment was not lost on you. “Let me scrub myself raw and willingly restrain myself in hopes a man will see me and fall in love.” You spat out the last word with enough vitriol to hopefully drown yourself in. “Maybe he’ll like me so much he’ll lay claim and I can live on to be his housewife and half a person. How I've always dreamed of letting a man decide how much value I have.” You were flustered by the end of your spiel, looking at your mother through the large vanity with the tentative hope of a child asking for sweets. 

“You read too much, darling. Those little romance books of yours are nothing but nonsense.” She was a professional at writing you off by now. “You know plenty of women who are perfectly satisfied with their lives. This is how we do things, Y/n. I don’t understand why you insist on fighting it so intently.” 

She was never truly angry at your defiance, only tired. You could never tell if she was tired of you complaining or if she, like you, was tired of living this way. Your mother had married young - even for the times - and you knew your father left much to be desired in her life. They were basically repulsed by each other, only joining in union to produce a child. Your mother had been thrilled to have a daughter. Your father would trade you if he could, but he made do. The ultimate lack of affection between the two of them made you ill. You weren’t much older than your mother had been, you could very well end up trapped and child-bound in a loveless marriage.

“I would rather die alone than end up with my father.” You spoke, she sighed. 

“I know.”

You stared at her through the mirror for a moment longer, then you rose from your chair. Your makeup was done, your look now complete. You noticed your mother’s eyes start to well up at the sight of you and she started to walk closer. 

“My beautiful girl.” She smiled, forbidding the tears to venture down her cheeks, and held your shoulders. “You deserve a man who will worship you. Your future husband will be the luckiest man on planet Earth.” A gentle prompt, but a prompt nonetheless. You knew she loved you, but she carried more shame as you got older. Having only a daughter was something frowned upon, but having only a daughter hellbent on avoiding marriage was something that weighed on her. 

“I’ll see you in the carriage.” Then she was gone, kissing your cheek and taking her exit to go talk with the director of the communal ride. Carriage was being generous, it was more like a one-way wagon to the local suiter’s ball. You watched her leave with a sense of grief so intense it nearly toppled you. She deserved a man like that too. 

-

This was your third ball of the month. The pool of potential partners diminished with each one. People would often take whatever they could get, meaning less and less people even needed these nights anymore. You walked in with your mother, hand resting gently in the crook of her extended elbow. Your father stopped attending with the two of you a while ago. You believed he’d given up hope of a man ever choosing you - Lord knows he wouldn’t. Scanning the crowd, you saw little to look forward to. The music was pleasant, you would dance with a couple men who seemed bearable at best and criminal at worst, indulge in some of the enticing pastries and teas, and then you would leave. Back home until your mother dragged you out the following week for another one. With your current rate, you assumed you would end up marrying the vagabond that perused your neighboring streets. Taking another look around, you thought you might prefer that. 

You made your temporary home in a corner chair, letting your mother excitedly drag prospects up to you and watch dejectedly as they ruled you out as an option. You felt bad for her, considered caving in and finding a man to give you a child, but you remember swiftly how long the years take to pass when you’re miserable. The chair gave you a good view of the room, you could see the entrance and the dancefloor filled with enticing women waiting for men to notice them. You could feel the sweat start slicking your skin beneath the corset you wore. It was too hot in here. 

If you hadn’t been so determined to ignore the occasional advances of bored men, you would have missed the small group entering the area. Two women and two men, you wondered briefly if it was two couples, but discarded that thought. This wasn’t a place for couples. You felt your heart physically lurch at the sight of the last man in the row of four, as though your heart was running to greet an old friend. Had you seen him before? Surely you would have remembered such a visceral reaction. You averted your eyes before he could notice you. You don’t remember ever wanting to be noticed by a man - especially not this badly. You allowed yourself the escape of your own thoughts, getting lost in your head to pass the time and focus on anything other than what was probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

You looked up, he was standing above you. The chair next to you had been taken all night, the same woman had been sulking in her seat, and you found comfort in the fact someone else was unhappy to be here. She was gone now. Someone was definitely messing with you. 

“Not at all.”

Your mouth was drier than it had ever been. You wondered if your lips remained stained from the color you applied earlier. You’d done nothing but sit all night and yet you were praying nothing had happened to your makeup. 

“Why are you alone in a corner?” 

“Men tend to be repulsed by my pessimism. I also happen to hate it here. Serves for a less than desirable combination.” You refused to let your sudden attraction diminish your stubbornness. You hated the self-consciousness racing through you, no man had the right to take your assurance in yourself. 

“Why do you hate it here?” He wasn’t being mocking. He seemed - genuinely - a little sad at the thought of you being unhappy. 

“Well, sir, I am of the belief that these dances are nothing but congregations of people settling for lives that won’t make them happy. They trade excitement for safety as though the presence of security has to mean the presence of misery. I don’t think anyone can know the true meaning of love in our current state as a society.” You didn’t look at him as you spoke, instead staring out at the people dancing. “I hold no desire to settle. I am capable of making happiness on my own. Most men don’t like the thought of me not needing them.” 

You were almost positive you lost him. You were betting on him not being there when you looked, preparing yourself to bite the bullet and cope with tonight’s losses. Maybe your mother would agree to leave early. 

You heard him chuckle softly. “Sir.” He repeated your words, finding humor in the formality. “My name’s Spencer.” He added. “And I also happen to hate the purpose of these events. I’ve never actually been to one before, but I’m new to the city, and something about tonight was begging me to come out.” 

You were absolutely bewitched by him. “I’m Y/n.”

“Fitting.” He smiled, a smile directed at his own thoughts, as though something in his mind had clicked. “Will you dance with me?”

The music had slowed severely. You scoffed at his proposal, but you were taking his hand as if you’d been waiting on this. Maybe you had been. You were grateful for the ballad that was playing, never having been one for upbeat dancing. He led you gracefully, and for once you felt yourself relinquish power. With a mind like yours, a man’s company was almost never wanted. With this one, though, you laid your heart at his feet as if you’d done so a dozen times before. The heat of his hands was seeping through your dress, and his eyes were locked with yours. 

“I feel like I know you.” A confession. He had an effect like that.  

“Maybe you do.” 

–

Two in the morning. Everyday you’d woken up at two in the morning from a different dream involving the mysterious ‘Spencer Reid’. You friends had kindly dubbed him the “Man of your dreams” following the stories you told them. You’d been a housewife, trying to welcome him home from work before he laid you down and made an altar of your dining table.You’d been the daughter of a king, at one point, falling in love with his favored knight. Shamefully, that one haunted you. Reappearing in your mind during intimate times when you needed a spark. You’d never been one for desire either. When your friends started preaching the wonders of sex to you during your highschool days, you felt no pull towards the act. Just another it you didn’t understand. Now, though, this house served as an aphrodisiac. You lost count of your streak by day 13, and were now just begging whoever put this apparition in your home for the strength to keep your hand out of your pants. 

Spencer had become more like a roommate rather than an unwanted guest. You saw him in most reflective surfaces around the house. You felt him everywhere. He sat at the table with you, watched TV with you, he would wait by the door when you got home from work. Sometimes, your hand or your shoulder would run hot. Physically hot, like he was putting his hands on you. You wondered if he was around during those times, but if he was there he made sure you didn’t know it. You were gaining a sort of intuition for him. The thought Spencer would like that struck you numerous times when you were window shopping or when you tried on an outfit. You were starting to think maybe you were just crazy. Perhaps a ghost who seemed to be your soulmate and made you incredibly horny was how all psychotic breaks started. 

Weirdly, through your bizarre dreams and inconsistent sleeping patterns, this was the most well rested you’d felt in a while. Waking up at two am was routine now, sometimes you managed to fall back asleep afterwards but most times you were up dwelling on the images your mind had shown you that night. You thought maybe your body was just adjusting - surely it was nothing supernatural giving you energy - just the adaptivity of the human brain. One persistent thing you couldn’t adapt to, though, was how much you missed him. The increasing number of times you woke up to being the only occupant of your bed was starting to wear you down. You feel like you’d spent lifetimes with this man and yet he was someone you never knew. You'd seen the two of you fall in love countless different ways except the one that actually counted - the present. 

“I genuinely don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Another phone call, another conversation about your rapidly declining mental state. “I have fallen in love with a figment of my own imagination. Surely this is some demented form of narcissism.”

“I don’t think it works like that, Y/n.” Your friend was terrible at comforting people. It probably didn’t help that you hadn’t been fully honest with her about the severity of your situation. From where she was standing, you had learned to lucid dream and now that was bleeding mildly into your real life. Not the biggest deal, maybe you were just lonely. 

“It’s a ghost, dude, I’m fucking telling you. There’s no way I’m imaginative enough to conjure all this shit up.” 

“You know his name right? Go down to the library and look him up. If he’s a ghost then surely there’ll be something to find.”

Holy shit. She was a genius. “Oh my God you’re so smart. I love you. You just saved my life. You’re God’s gift to the planet. Who would I be witho-”

“Jesus Christ will you just go? Stop kissing my ass and start driving. I want details when you get back.” 

You don’t know if you’ve ever been so eager to get to the library of all places. If you could snag a computer spot then you could put an end to all of this. He wasn’t real, realistically you knew that, but you had a fool-proof way to check. If he was real you were going to have to come to terms with the fact you could see dead people. Well, a dead person. You had never seen any before Spencer. You’d never seen Spencer either, not before the house at least. They say you can’t make up faces, that if you see someone in a dream then you’ve seen them in real life but you were incredibly doubtful of that by now.

Spencer Reid. Thankfully the man didn’t have a particularly common name. You hoped there would be limited matches, less to look through. Pretty soon you could accept your own mental insanity and maybe ask your mother to spot you for some therapy. Well, moment of truth. You watched each letter be typed in with baited breath until his full name was in the search bar. Even just looking at his name brought that sense of calm. You were hopeless. Until, apparently, you weren’t. 

Brilliant Dr. Reid dead at 26

Former FBI agent Spencer Reid found dead in his home

Spencer Reid co-workers speak out on his legacy. Where to go from here?

You scoured every article you could find, analyzing every pixel of every image available. This was your guy. Same Spencer Reid from your dreams. Same Spencer Reid that stands behind you in every mirror of the house. Holy shit who was this guy? He was a little older than you, died last year in the summertime. Each article painted a brutal picture of his death, speculating on how the doctor died but never comfirming anything. Only that he was dead when paramedics got there, the sight of his covered body being extracted from his home was one that would stick with you. His home. It was the same house you were living in. It’s possible your grandfather was renting it out. That’s probably why nobody ever knew about it - he wasn’t living there. You didn’t know when water started pooling in your eyes, you only realized them as they started falling down your cheeks. You didn’t even know him. You didn’t even know him but you felt like someone just sucker punched you and were about 60% sure your lunch was coming back up. Jesus. 

There was no way you could tell your friends about this. The majority of your brain was pleading with you to rationalize this. Maybe you’d seen one of the articles before. Maybe your grandpa talked about him. Holy shit he had known your grandpa. Every individual thought you had was identifiable and that was far too overwhelming for your brain to handle. You signed out of the computer and went to go sit in your car. Could you even drive like this? Your hands were shaking so bad there was a good chance you’d crash the car before you got home. It’s twenty minutes, you thought. You had to go back. Staying away from the house any longer felt like a punishment. You can make it twenty minutes.

–

“No, no. Like I said it was just some old guy who wrote a book. No sign of my Spencer.” You were lying straight through your teeth. You figured it didn’t truly matter. If you sat here and told the entire story of finding exactly who you were looking for online, you think she’d have checked you into a facility. 

“Maybe if you believe hard enough you can manifest him.” 

“Wow you’re hilarious. Remind me again how I ever lived my life without such a humorous presence.”

“I question that same thing everyday, Y/n.” You could hear the smile embedded in her words.

“I’ll let you go. I know Dylan is probably waiting on you. Thanks for checking up on the Spencer chronicles.” You felt slightly bad. She was on her honeymoon currently, and instead of spending time with her new husband, she was listening to your stories of fraternizing with a ghost. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sure it’s weird as hell. Call me up if you need to, yeah? Hotel has unlimited calls so I can talk all night if you need to.” She was an angel in this world.

“Thanks, same goes here. If you get sick of your husband you know where to find me. Remember to use protection.” 

“Alright, nevermind. You may suffer by yourself for all I care.” She laughed while she threatened you.

“Bye, honey. Love you.” You should have felt alone, but you never did. He was most likely here with you. 

The exhaustion had well and truly crept up on you. You planned on getting home and calling your friend immediately, but you ended up needing a good few hours to cry and pace around the house. You weren’t scared - it was essentially the opposite. The complete lack of fear bred so much confusion that you didn’t know how to cope with the amount of frustration on your shoulders. You paced the house hoping to find him. You wanted to be near him. You harbored the immature hope that knowing who he was would grant you the ability to see him. Did you even know who he was? He was a doctor, an agent, but who was he to you? Is that what you needed to know in order to see him?

Now, sitting on your bed, you felt like you’d been through the ringer. The mental gymnastics of the day weighing heavily on your body. You needed to go to sleep. You wanted to go to sleep. In the last week or so you’d noticed a certain excitement regarding the promise of another tale, another dream. They were so extravagant, not even in the details of them, just in the consistency of pure emotion. You could have been fighting dragons or sitting on the porch in rocking chairs. If he was by your side, there was always this certain euphoria surrounding the two of you. A feeling reserved just for you and him. God you missed him.

– 

You woke up slowly to a familiar bed beneath you, this was your house. The window was open, curtains blowing cautiously as the mild chill of the Fall breeze wafted in and dusted over your collarbones. It wasn’t this cold last night. You felt the breeze again on your whole body, and realized you were lying naked on top of the ruffled comforter. Had he pulled the blanket off you?

“Are you cold? I didn’t think to shut the window when I got up. I was kind of rushing to get my stuff.” You noticed then that he was sat behind a canvas, angled so he could glance between you and the task at hand with ease. He noticed you furrow your eyebrows, and even managed to catch the minuscule tense of your muscles as you prepared to sit up.

“Stay still for me, honey. I’m almost done.” He was adding feather-light brushstrokes to the piece, a finishing touch of his you now recognized from watching him paint so much. 

“This isn’t a very good pose, Spence. You know I’m not the most photogenic.” You referred to the fact you had been sleeping as he painted, limbs not organized and environment chaotic. Notoriously unfavored things by the man. Maybe he was hoping to capture a candid version of you. 

He exhaled a laugh. “How rich coming from you.” His lips quirked upward as he continued adding touch-ups to his art. “Something about you this morning…I don’t know.” He shook his head like he was talking to himself rather than you. “You just looked…mesmerizing.” He shrugged, brushing off the sentiment. “Felt wrong to just look at you.”

Dumbfounded was the only word you could think to describe yourself. He’d painted you before, mainly from the neck up for practice with faces, but this was different terrain. You were nervous to see the piece. You thought of your hips, your stomach, your legs. A silhouette he’d sworn time and time again was worthy of worship. One he wanted to treasure. You hoped you’d see a glimpse of yourself through his lens, hoped all that adoration would show on the canvas. Once he was finished with it, he turned it so you could see. It was breathtaking. His talent never failed to leave you speechless. 

“I feel like I should be paying for this.” You joked, but still felt as though something should be given in return. He stood from his stool and joined you on the bed.

“I assure you, I’m well compensated.” Your face ran hot. “Can I hang it?”

“Spence, I’m naked-”

“Not downstairs, Y/n.” He chuckled. “I’d put it there.” He nodded to a vacant wall space on the right side of the room, entirely visible from his side of the bed. 

“You want me watching you sleep, Reid?” 

He grinned at you, shaking his head slightly at your remark. “Just wanna be able to see you.” He held your eyes. “I’m hoping looking at you before I go to sleep will give me good dreams.” You hummed in sarcastic agreement, your gaze falling soft a moment later.

“You can if you want to.” He looked relieved. 

“Thanks, honey.” He looked stunning in the morning light. The sun hadn’t risen too long ago, and he was only covered partially by a pair of joggers. He was practically luminous, the bare skin of his chest looking golden in the sunlight. You stuck your hands out to feel him, and you felt as though you were trying to touch heaven itself. He leaned down to be closer to you, he always said you felt magnetic. 

“You should let me paint you like this more often.” 

“Is that right?”

“Mhm”

And, just like before, you could breathe again when he kissed you. Truly breathe. It was times like these when he felt like your oxygen, like pulling away should be sin. Lord knows you would suffer any version of Hell for him. 

–

Your frustration seemed to have doubled in your sleep. Two am. You were gonna find that fucking painting. It wasn’t in the spot he left it - you would have noticed a giant painting of yourself naked on the walls, but you double checked to be sure. You threw up every light switch you came across and started scavenging through the upstairs. There was a certain tug in your body - when you didn’t find it in a room, you knew it wasn’t there, something internal telling you to look elsewhere. It was only when you were halfway done with the downstairs raid that you remembered the storage room. You’d found it when you first moved in, a room full of dust and white tarps covering furniture and other indecipherable shapes. It had to be in there.

You wrecked havoc on the tiny room. Tearing off layers of fabric quickly, leaving little thought to where you were throwing them, completely tunnel visioned on finding the painting. You came across a covered square the same size as the canvas had been. It was coated in so much dust that the covering looked ancient, and you were begging any conceivable being to be merciful, to let you have at least this if you couldn’t have him. You unveiled the shape to find the same vibrant pigments you’d seen just hours before. It was you, draped over the comforter and basking in the hue of the morning. This was it, you thought. Holy shit this is real. You had no grounds to deny this anymore. Spencer was a real guy, clearly he’d died in this house and clearly the two of you had lived enough lives together to fill months of sleepless nights with. 

What did this mean for you? Were you a clone? Were you and Spencer both clones? Were you living in a simulated reality and all of this was actually a ruse calculated to induce reactions in the brain that could then be studied? Oh my god - were you a ghost too? Had you died and were now stuck in some form of purgatory?

You felt sick with it. You didn’t know you were capable of bearing such intense metaphorical weight. You needed to see him. Maybe if you went to sleep, you would realize you were having a dream and could figure some things out. That’s so stupid. You mentally scolded yourself for even thinking of such a dumb idea. You needed to speak with him. You needed him to tell you what was going on. Of course him and everyone in your life who could have known him were six feet deep. A seance, maybe? Perhaps  just buy a ouija board and wing it. You’d seen the most of him when you were asleep, that had to be the key to figuring this out. Please dear god let it be the key to figuring this out. You took the painting and headed back upstairs. Maybe it could serve as a medium, you thought. That’s a thing, right?

You don’t think your bed had ever seemed so uninviting. You remember how grateful you’d been to finally sleep on your first day here. It was a pain in the ass hauling a mattress up a spiral staircase and the moment you realized you were done was a relief to say the least. Now you stared at it and your mouth ran dry. What if this didn’t work? What did you even want to happen? Were you going to rummage through your dreams and play detective to piece together what might have happened in your past? No degree of mental antagonizing could push you off course by now. He was real. You know he’d been a real man, and surely the painting of you meant you’d known him as something other than a ghost. You were simply praying this would work out how you wanted. You needed a semblance of closure, even just a small one.

–

The room was dark, making you double check if you opened your eyes in the first place. You hadn’t had a dream. This was the first time in months you had fallen asleep and woken up without having lived a different life. You felt tears forming in your eyes. The disappointment you felt was so immeasurable that your brain practically short circuited trying to find a way to process it. You knew it was a long shot for everything to be fixed overnight, but you’d expected something. Like he was reading your mind, the bed dipped down, him now occupying the space next to you in bed. 

You were worried your head might fall off your neck with how quickly you turned to look at him. The moonlight came beaming in through the window, like she was your secret ally, giving you enough light to finish your battle. It lit him up, practically shining through him like it would a crystal. He was ethereal. You stared into the same brown eyes you’d been looking into for months and felt your resolve give way from within you. You could have looked at him forever, you wanted to look at him forever, but you crashed hard into him. You would have fused your soul to his at that very moment if you were able to. Nobody had ever drawn out such a reaction - you needed to feel him. It was the proof you had been begging for, he was here, he was tangible. You could finally know what it all meant. 

You felt his chest jolt as he chuckled at you. “I missed you.” You could hear the smile in his words. 

Choking on a sob, you spoke your response so quietly you could barely hear yourself. “What the fuck is going on?” You knew tears were probably soaking through his shirt but he just held you against him. “Please tell me you know what’s happening.” You were muttering your words quickly, sharply inhaling between your sentences as air refused to stay in your lungs.

He ran his hand up and down the length of your forearm, a motion so familiar and so comforting you’re sure your knees would have buckled if you weren’t lying down. “Just relax, honey. I can explain everything, ok? I just need you to breathe right now.”

It was hard to maintain your oxygen through the sobs begging to get out of your chest but you were nothing if not stubborn. You needed an explanation. If that was his condition then so be it. You took a deep breath, regaining your ability to inhale and exhale at a regular pace. You could see the room better now having been awake in the dark for a while, so you tried to focus on anything that might help. The painting. You stared holes into that thing and forced your breathing to even out. 

“I was really proud of that one.” His words held an instinctual twinge of fondness, still smiling as he spoke. Like now that he had you, he could describe any horror of the world and still be happy with you in his arms. He looked back at you, tracing his thumb along your jaw. “You seem to get prettier with every lifetime.”

Even as the overwhelming confusion wrecked your brain, your body was completely in tune with him. Warmth seemed to spring to life in your stomach, his words bypassing any guards you had to root themselves within you. He regarded the situation so lightly, so casually. He wasn’t worried about slipping away, or running out of time. He would have given you a decade to calm down if you needed it. He seemed content with just calling you pretty, as though he’d waited a century to touch you again. 

“My dreams, were they -” You paused. You didn’t even know what to ask him. “What were my dreams?” Were they real?

He took a moment to just stare at you. The smallest, knowing smile on his face and a look of pure adoration in his eyes. He knew what you were asking. “They were us.” Fucking obviously. If you were any more on the edge of your seat you would fall off. “All the lives we’ve lived together.” Jesus.

“How long ago-”

“Two thousand years, 5 months, 27 days, and-” he leaned up slightly to check the clock “14 hours.” Giving you the cutest tight-lipped smile when he finished talking like he didn’t just say you’d been in love for two millennia. 

“So we’re soul mates?”

“Essentially.” He nodded. ‘Soulmates’ was close enough. 

“But - is everyone like this, then?” Did all your friends have this too? Everyone in the world? “Everyone has a soulmate?” Your friend’s on her honeymoon right now. 

He laughed a little and shook his head. “No, no. It’s just us.” What was so special about the two of you? “For all I know of at least. Your uh…your husband-” He hesitated for just a second, fingers digging into your skin just a fraction harder. “He found out about us. Had his mother cast a spell. He thought he was punishing us, I think. Figured we’d get sick of it after a while. Poor guy, all he did was condemn us to eternity together.” He held no genuine pity for the guy, more amusement at the thought of his plan actually succeeding. 

“How long have you been here?” You hadn’t bothered to check when the articles were from, too busy trying to keep your head on straight to look for the publication date. 

“A year.” A year of him alone in this house. God, you couldn’t even imagine. “I started having dreams of you. Everyday I just felt, like, something pulling me away from where I was. I knew your grandfather from an old case I worked and everything just seemed to happen.” He reminisced fondly, like the memory didn’t hurt him. “I don’t even really know how I died. I just remember having a party one night, and how the hallway looked from the bottom of the stairs.” Oh my God the warm spot.

“When you moved in I was thrilled but - fuck, honey, it was torture.” He delivered the line like it was a joke but his eyes were watering. “I couldn’t talk to you, I couldn’t help you - I couldn’t fucking touch you and it was unbearable.” His hands hadn’t left you since you woke up. Making up for lost time, you guessed. There was one question you were brutally aware of, something that persisted in your head even as you tried to enjoy the moment. 

“Why can I see you now, then?”

He sighed, so full of devastation that it was clear he’d been preparing for this. “You can’t.”

“What?”

“You’ve seen all our lives, Y/n. This is the only one left.” He was so delicate in his explanations. His palms soothing over your face as if trying to physically soothe the sting of his words.

“Wait what does that-” What was he talking about? “I don’t understand.”

“To be honest, I don’t really understand it either.” He exhaled at his own ignorance, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. “For the first time, I don’t know what’s gonna happen when you wake up.”

“Wake up? What do you mean wake up - Spence I’m awake.” You held onto his wrist that was near your face for emphasis, his hand still caressing your face. “I’m awake.” 

His eyes were definitely watering. “No, Y/n, you’re not.”

“Spencer.” You’d never said it so sadly before. Tears were in your eyes for the second time that night. You would have done anything to carve this moment into stone. Sit here in his arms until time forced you into your next life. 

“It’s ok, honey.” He was always reassuring, always safe. “We’ve done this for two thousand years, Y/n. You’re bound to get a little unlucky sometimes.” His optimism in the face of such a crushing development almost made you sick. Some things never change. “I finally have you back, alright? Just lay with me for a while. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We’ve got plenty more lives to live.”

You halted the tears in your eyes, sniffling once to reign yourself in. “Ok.” You laughed, a little tearfully, and kissed him with all the love you had to give. 

Plenty more lives to live.

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

Milkshakes and Leather

(Eddie Munson x gn!Reader)

You've been pining after a certain metal head since freshman year and you finally got up the nerve to ask him out.

Word count: 872

Content warnings: food mention, cussing, kissing, eddie and reader being sappy

You had been pining after Eddie for so long. It's so long that you have finally caught up to him in grade. It had been three years of admiring the back of his beautiful curly head and trying to hide your smile when he climbed on the cafeteria tables for his many grand proclamations. Finally, a week before summer break, you had worked up the nerve to ask him out. 

Now, the two of you sat in a slightly sticky booth in a diner a few miles outside Hawkins. "Are you okay?" Eddie's concerned tone shook you from your quiet contemplations. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?" you ask, confused. "You're shaking like a chihuahua that's gotta take a shit," He explains. A bead of sweat makes its journey down your brow. "Oh," you mumble, embarrassed. "I'm just cold." You had lied to your dream boy. It was 80 degrees outside; no one in Indiana was "cold."

 You had been so nervous and excited about this date that you couldn't contain it. Eddie smiles at you, sending another kaleidoscope of butterflies through your veins. He reaches across the table and picks up your hand, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. You look into his eyes and notice a slight pink blush spread across his cheeks. Your moment is interrupted by your server returning with your milkshakes and fries. Or... milkshake? You thought you had ordered two milkshakes, but there was only one glass and two straws. 

"Thanks, Steve," Eddie smiles up at your server. "It was Robin's idea," Steve explains. Confused, you look over at the blonde who winks at you in return. "Hey! Look at that!" Eddie exclaims. As you turn your head your cheek is confronted with the sticky wetness of whipped cream. "Eddie!" you squeal. He bursts into laughter at the look on your face. "God, you're so annoying," You tease. He winks at you as he pops a french fry in his mouth. "You know you love me," he flirts back. The two of you finish your shared milkshake and fries and leave the restaurant. 

Eddie bumps his shoulder into yours as you walk down the street to where he had parked his rustbucket of a van. "Oh! I love that jacket!" you stop in the middle of the sidewalk, causing Eddie to bump into you from behind. To steady himself, Eddie wraps his arms around your waist pulling you to his chest. You shiver, although this time the reason wasn't your nerves. "Stay here for a second, 'kay?" Eddie tells you. "Mhm," you respond. He darts into the store with the cute jacket in the window. You figure he needs to use the restroom, seeing as how he drank practically a gallon of Mtn. Dew on your date. 

After a few minutes, a pair of hands cover your eyes. "I got you a surprise..." Eddie sing-songs, as he removes his hands from your face. "What? You didn't have to do that." You turn around expecting to see a bouquet of flowers, instead, Eddie is holding the leather jacket you had been admiring in the store window. "No way!" Your mouth gapes in shock. "Eddie, this is too much!" You hold the jacket to your chest. "Well, I remembered you were cold at dinner, so I thought this might warm you up." He explains. "Try it on!" Eddie urges. You slip the supple sleeves over your arms. "Thank you so much!" You gush.

 "You look beautiful." His voice is lowered to a near whisper as he steps closer to you. The tension between you is palpable. A warmth spreads across your cheeks as you close the gap, giving Eddie a quick peck on the chin. "Is this okay?" You ask. "Yes," Eddie responds breathlessly. You kiss him, slow and gentle at first, then deeper as he grabs the back of your head to pull you further into the kiss. Eddie kisses like his life depends on it. You separate, feeling dizzy and giddy.

 "Eddie, I have to tell you something," you start as Eddie grabs your hand and you begin walking again. "Of course. What do you need, Babe?" Eddie responds. "I'm not cold." You blurt out. "Okay," Eddie seems confused. "I never was cold," you explain further. He looks at you, his brows knitted. "What do you mean?" Eddie asks. "You were shaking." "I was so nervous that I guess it had to come out one way or another." You respond. Eddie begins to laugh. "What?" you ask. "You were nervous?" He asks incredulously. "Yeah, of course I was," you answer. "Sweetheart, I was so fucking nervous I had to smoke a cigarette before I knocked on your door. I mean, do you know how metal it was for you to ask me out?" He exclaims. "Really?" You ask. "Of course!" Eddie smiles at you. "And you're not mad I lied to you?" You ask. "Never." Eddie shakes his curly head. The two of you smile at each other. This is exactly what you have been dreaming of for the past three years.

A/N: thanks so much for reading! any interaction is welcome! dividers credit: @dollicacy cover image from pinterest

#winter'swritings #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things au #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #pining #eddie stranger things #self reblog

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

MY KINK IS KARMA | Music Video

for @deankarolina

#chappell roan #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

hello sweetheart, i read your prompt list and saw this one "hug?” “clingy, much?……” but hugs them anyway and my heart melted, i don't know if you already did this, but can we have something like that with our sweet but grumpy eddie? 🤍

ty for requesting! — eddie doesn't know why you're avoiding him (fluff, ditzy!reader, 0.9k)

Eddie lost sight of you ten minutes ago. 

You were squished between Robin and Steve on the loveseat last he saw you, giggling into your solo cup while they belted Total Eclipse of the Heart to you — at you — over the music and in their best Muppet impressions. 

He only remembers it so vividly ‘cause he was jealous. Not jealous because you were subjected to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’s drunken antics, of course, but jealous because you were with them. And so, so far away. 

Now you’re gone, and he misses you like a stray dog — aggressive and hungry and hurt. He walks up to Steve in the kitchen just the same. Hair wild. Button eyes glittering. Slightly reluctant. 

“Where’d she go?!” he shouts over the music, half-muffled into his drink. He uses the plastic cup like a shield ‘cause he doesn’t want people to know he’s missing you. The metalhead freak from the wrong side of town isn’t supposed to need the ball of sunshine from the suburbs. 

But alas.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Steve slurs, half-distracted as he pours himself a drink. He doesn’t need Eddie to tell him who she is. There’s only one person in the whole world he’d go looking for. “She went outside with Robin, I think—”

Eddie spins on the worn heel of his sneaker before the words can properly leave his mouth. He ducks through the bustling, drunken crowd and finds you sitting lonesome on the porch outside. Prettier than the full moon and all the stars in the velvet black sky combined. 

He walks to stand beside you, shoes thunking heavy on the wooden deck. You tilt your chin to smile brightly up at him while he slips a cig into his mouth. He cups the stick as he lights it. Pretends that’s what he came out here for. Not to see you, of course. 

Definitely not.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he mumbles beneath the cigarette in his mouth.

“Robin just left,” you answer plainly, half-shy.

“Why didn’t you come find me?” he asks with an air of nonchalance, still trying to play it cool. ‘Cause there’s nothing less metal than yearning.

You shrug. “‘Cause you were busy?”

It’s easier than telling him that you thought he wanted the space. Or that you actually spent the whole night aching to hang on his side — too scared of embarrassing him in front of all his friends to act on it. 

You know who you are just like you know who he is. Bubblegum pink doesn’t always go well with black. It gets in your hair. Makes everything go all sticky. It’s an acquired taste you know Eddie’s still getting used to — too much of it, and his stomach will start to hurt. So you figure it’s best to keep your distance.

You just didn’t think he was as grieved by it all as you were.

Eddie scoffs. I’m never too busy for you, he wants to say. He might’ve if he wasn’t such a coward. Instead, he blows smoke from his lungs and jokes, “I wouldn’t call keeping Argyle from crowd-surfing in the living room busy, sweetheart.”

A laugh tumbles from his plush lips. The golden sound falls over your skin like stars. You smile absentmindedly back at him as you rise from the creaking rocking chair. You plant your feet ahead of his and smooth your palms beneath his leather jacket, over his warm sides.

Eddie meets your twinkling eyes with narrowed chocolate ones. “What?”

“Hug?” you ask in a mousy voice.

The boy laughs like he’s too cool for affection, though he’d be lying if he said your offer doesn’t have his chest sparkling something fierce. He flicks the cig to the ground — sheepish gaze going with it — before snuffing it out beneath his sneaker.

“Clingy much?” he scoffs.

You nod with a proud smile. 

Eddie’s chest swirls with an unfamiliar feeling. You’re strangely brave about all this — affection and love and all things sweet enough to make him gag. 

It makes him feel like he can feel brave, too.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you with all the intensity of someone wanting to swallow you whole. You hug him back just the same. “I missed you,” you murmur with your cheek squished against his chest.

“Then what’re you avoidin’ me for, huh?” he teases, chin bobbing against your head.

You pull slightly back to squint at him. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’ve been hangin’ out with Steve and Robin the whole night,” he grieves, hiding his sincerity behind boyish theatrics. With a feigned pout that feels totally real, he says, “And you didn’t even sit next to me when we played Never Have I Ever.”

“I thought you wanted the space,” you confess in a hushed voice.

His face screws up like he’s tasted something sour. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know…” you shrug. “You always talk about how much you like being alone and stuff, so—”

“Well, yeah! I like my space— just not from you!”

It’s likely the least metal thing he’s ever said.

“Oh,” you hum, mouth contorting into a sheepish beam. “Well… Sorry.”

“Yeah. You should be,” he scoffs, mostly joking. He pouts softly and pulls you back into him again, nosing at your hair until his chapped lips brush your temple. “Just don’t let it happen again, alright?”

#eddie munson #stranger things #winter'slibrary

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

Remnant

Vincent Renzi x reader Vincent finds a woman living in Miss Voyter's former chalet and finds a new outlet for his feelings. Wordcount: 1,670 Warnings: Attempt at comedy, one swear word, Anatomy Of A Fall spoilers, ghosts for comedic effect

Vincent sighs and lights a cigarette just as the sun sets behind the mountain. He is sitting in the driver seat of his car, which is parked outside the chalet. It's been empty for months, since Sandra-

Miss Voyter, he corrects himself.

 Since Miss Voyter sold the cabin and is turned into some sort of B&B thing just as Samuel intended, she would say.

Miss Voyter and her son moved back to Germany after the case, Vincent remembers. He then wonders why he's parked outside their former chalet.

As of late, he finds himself driving up the uphill road to the cabin, maybe to think or to reminisce. Maybe he's trying to heal from a wound he would never acknowledge.

The lawyer, who is now gaining popularity since that widely-broadcast case, stubs out his cigarette and starts the car. What am I doing here? He mumbles to himself. He tosses the cigarette out the window and moves to start the engine. Someone suddenly shows up by the side of his car.

"Hey, did you just come here to throw your shit? Pick it up!" A woman yells, standing a few paces from his car. Vincent feels embarrassed. He decides to suck it up and apologize.

"Je suis desole, madamoiselle... " He steps out of the car and picks up his rubbish. He then looks up at the woman, who seemed a bit stunned.

He stuffs the stubbed-out cigarette in his pocket and smiles apologetically at the woman. He feels his face heat up.

"I've seen you come here a few times; are you following me?" The woman stumbles through her broken French.

"Oh, no... I'm just..." Vincent doesn't know what to say. "I'm a lawyer." He attempts, as if it explains anything.

"Am I in trouble?" She replies. Vincent tries to take advantage.

"Depends. How long have you lived here?"

"Three weeks. Why?"

"Nothing, Make sure to lock your doors at night." 

Vincent tries to escape from the situation he's found himself in. He begins to open his car door and longs to just drive back to the city.

"What? Wait! What do you mean? Is that some sort of threat?" She takes two steps closer to him. 

"Threat? No! What do you mean?" Vincent stops. He looks at her, surprised to see her face clearer now that he's up close.

"They say this house is haunted... Someone died here. Is that true?" She whispers, almost afraid to mention it out loud. At this, Vincent chuckles.

"That's just silly." He answers her as he settles himself in the driver's seat.

"Wow, and you think standing outside someone else's house isn't as dumb? You could be a pervert for all I know!" She stands next to his car door, addressing him through the window.

Vincent decides he's tired of defending himself like he's in court. Instead of answering, he hands her his business card.

"You're a lawyer?!" She asks after taking the card in her hands. Vincent offers her a kind smile before starting the car and driving off.

------------

That night, she sits alone in the bedroom of the rented cabin, playing with the lawyer's business card. She still wonders why she felt odd around Mr. Vincent Renzi.

"That guy's probably some sort of stalker..." She jokes to herself, tossing the business card next to her phone as she opens her laptop and types his name on the search bar. Good news! The name matches the face. Bad news: He is featured in a couple of news articles.

She browses through them and reads about the success of his recent case, which happens to be quite popular. It's not bad news after all. Mr. Renzi was defending a woman who was suspected of murdering her husband. She was ruled out because the death was proven to be a suicide.

She goes deep into the research rabbit hole after staring at a couple of photos of the said lawyer taken from press release interviews. She then discovers that the scene of the crime was the house she was staying in at the present. She then organizes her thoughts after reading through several articles.

1. Mr. Renzi is indeed a lawyer. 2. He is quite handsome. 3. He had reason to come by the house. 4. Someone had died here, and therefore; 5. The house is haunted.

She gasps, and her skin erupts in goosebumps. She looks around the dark room and feels the darkness staring back. Was it just her imagination? No, there's a cold wind enveloping the room. The windows are closed. There's some sort of noise in the attic. Footfalls? Walking down the stairs? Outside her room? She panics and picks up her phone and the card next to it before running down the stairs.

Who to call? The cops? What if they think you're insane? The owner of the house? What's he going to do—ward off the vengeful spirit who's about to kill you? 

She looks at her phone and pulls up the phone app to call the only person who can help her.

"Hello? Vincent?" Her voice trembles. She was outside the house, trembling, both because of the cold and the fear of what could possibly be inside the house.

"Oui, c'est moi; comment puis-je vous aider?" He answers in his charming French accent. She briefly wonders what he just said.

She quickly told him her name, although she doubted he would recognize her.

"Its me, the one from the cabin? I think there's someone in the house!"

-----

Vincent stays with her on the phone throughout the whole fifteen-minute drive. She seems to have calmed down a little, shivering mostly from the cold and less from fear. The moment he arrives, he immediately spots her outside the chalet. As the car stops, she runs toward him.

"What happened?" He catches her like its the most natural thing. 

"Someone died here, right?" She looks up to him and positions him between her and the house.

Vincent sighs. "Is this about the haunted thing again?"

"You never answered me! I fact-checked your business card, and everything made sense!" 

Vincent rests his forehead on his palm. He is still wearing his green home slippers, their bright color catching his eyes. 

He tries to catch his breath after his mini-heart attack, expecting her to be in danger. 

So this place is actually haunted, and she begins to feel a little sorry for him. She looks up at the house, noticing she failed to turn on the lights. Is there a figure in the attic window? Her mind might be playing tricks on her, but she is genuinely scared. She moves closer to the lawyer who is standing there, watching her.

"What?" Vincent pretends to be annoyed with her.

"Can you help me inspect the house?"

"I'm a lawyer, not a cop."

"You were observing the house this morning..." She mumbles.

Vincent sighs. He can't seem to say no to this woman.

-----------

"There. Happy now?" Vincent faces her with his hands on his hips. All the lights in the house are on, and Vincent checks the attic, making sure there are no "vengeful spirits" there to hurt her. She seems to be satisfied.

"Okay.... Thank you..." She mumbles sleepily in the living room. Vincent can't help but smile at how she looks right now.

The lawyer hesitates to leave her there, sleeping in the living room with all the lights on.

"Go on now; get to bed." He tells him, sounding like he's scolding a toddler.

"Okay. Goodnight." She walks up the stairs slowly. She now feels very comfortable around him, which is a wonder since she scolded him just this morning.

Vincent smiles to himself as he drives home.

--------

The minute Vincent wakes up the next day, he checks his phone for any texts from the woman in the chalet. He got her name when she called him last night and has been repeating it in his head since. Unfortunately for him, there were no calls or texts from her. He watches his phone closely in case she reaches out, but the only messages on his phone are text ads and messages concerning work.

As that Sunday progresses without her reaching out, the grumpier Vincent becomes. 

So he heads out there.

----------

She had just come back from town, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and produce. As she steps up and comes into view of the house,. He is surprised to see another car parked and a certain lawyer standing by the stairs.

"Where were you?" He tries to sound nonchalant.

She raises her basket, showing the obvious.

Vincent seems out of words. She is about to ask, 'Why are you even here?' and he would have no answer. Vincent looks down hard, trying to find the answer on the gravel. Ah, there it is.

"You deserve to know the truth." The lawyer blurts out suddenly, just as she was about to ask something.

"About what?"

"The man who died? He died right here," Vincent bluntly says, pointing to the spot next to them. "So, yes. This place is very haunted." 

She gasps in surprise. She wasn't expecting him to believe her bullshit excuse to see him again that night, right? You guess he's one of those superstitious small-town folks.

Vincent waits for her reaction. She hasn't reacted the way he hoped. He expected her to be shocked and cling to him, but no, she just stands there and stares at the gravel. 

"Hey, did you hear what I just said? This place is hau-"

"Do you want to grab coffee sometime?" She decides to just go straight to the deal, a slight smirk playing on one side of her face. Now it's Vincent who takes a breath of surprise.

"Um... Sure?" Vincent finds himself replying. He can't believe this turned out well for him when he literally had no roadmap for what he was trying to do.

"Okay. Let me just put these inside the house, and we can head to town together?"

The lawyer nods. She smiles and comes out of the house a while later and walks with him to town.

part 2?

#vincent renzi #anatomy of a fall #winter'slibrary

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

The Farm Opens At Six

Pierre Chavanges x reader (Swann Arlaud in Petit Paysan!🐄) Coming home from Paris to your little town, you encounter your childhood friend and discover something that's always been there before. Word count: 3,216 (whoa?!) Warnings: Canon-typical violence, spoilers for the movie

The blue lights of the bowling complex make you feel even more dizzy after a couple of drinks. The Cow Prince Pierre Chavanges all of a sudden invited the boys (and yourself, by extension) to hang out, just like you guys used to hang out in high school. The oddest thing about this was that it was Pierre himself who initiated it.

Several rounds of bowling and even more rounds of drinks later, Pierre and JD have a heated argument in front of the alley. You're not sure who's angry about what, but Pierre walks out of the bowling complex after rolling his final ball.

He's been out of himself lately; the former gentle-hearted man has turned into the most anxiety-loaded, stressed-out dairy farmer in all of France. You follow his quick strides and knock on the passenger window as he pulls his truck out of the parking lot

"Hey, can I get a ride?"

"Ask Fabrice." He frowns before changing gears, keeping his eyes straight.

"No, he's drunk." You get in the passenger seat, not waiting for an answer. 

"Your house is far out of my way." He sighs.

"That's fine; I can walk from your house." You try to get comfortable on the seat. Vincent doesn't answer. The truck is now on the road, driving steadily back to his family farm.

"Or I can stay over-" You begin, but he cuts you off.

"No."

A good distance from town, you continue to observe Pierre. He has dark bags under his eyes and a crease on his forehead. He's had a stick up his ass since this week, and he hasn't told you or anyone anything. He's driving flat out through the dark road, and you're worried he's going too fast, especially because he had a couple of drinks.

"I know there's something going on, Pierre. You can tell me. I can help." You ask with a gentle tone this time.

"No." He shuts you down.

"Is it me? Are you mad at me?" You attempt to make him spit out the truth. Pierre chuckles. "Did Paris turn you into a narcissist?" He asks. It stung, but you ignored it to get to the bottom of his sour mood. "Well, is it the farm?" 

You just don't give up. Pierre grunts because he's annoyed that you're snooping into his business. He wishes you'd go back to your big city and forget about him like you did when you left after high school. He angrily scratches at the back of his neck, not noticing the skin there is bleeding. He snaps out of his trance when you yell out his name. He feels your hand grab the cold skin of his arm, pulling his hand away from his neck. Pierre immediately steps on the brake, and the car halts a few paces from his house.

He looks at you and sees the fear in your eyes. He immediately feels sorry for putting you through all that. Pierre tries to run his hand through his hair, but your hand stops him from moving.

"Don't scratch it; it's bleeding!" You hold his arm tighter, afraid he might hurt himself again. "Is it your health? Is that what's bothering you? Are you sick?" You ask, fearing for his answer.

"I'm alright. Please let me go." He sighs and gently pries your hand off his arm. He's no longer angry. All that's left now is sadness and distress. He avoids your gaze, knowing you're about to cry about him.

You slowly let go of him. You're scared for your special friend. He was always the quiet one in school, standing on the sidelines and joining in on the laughter when something was funny. He was that lanky kid who knew a lot but never really overachieved anything. He was the forgettable type. All the other batchmates from school don't remember him well, but you do. You came back to your little town to see how the youngest Chavanges kid is faring, and you've heard from the baker's daughter that Pierre is doing okay.

He still doesn't say anything, and now you feel like you've crossed the line. You sling your bag on your shoulder before moving to open the car door. The lights on the porch of his house illuminate the truck's interior when you notice something. You look to your feet, and then to Pierre's, and then you laugh.

"What's wrong with you?" Pierre sounds exhausted. You kick your feet up on the dashboard to show him what's funny.

You were still wearing the bowling shoes, and so was Pierre. He regarded you as if you had the worst case of insanity possible before giving up and chuckling to himself as well.

You're sure you weren't laughing about the shoes anymore, but something was funny because Pierre was laughing too, and oh, his laugh. Was it the porch light, or did the world suddenly seem a bit brighter? Pierre looks at you and pulls out a cocktail umbrella from your ponytail. You both laugh again, and it feels like you were both fifteen all over again.

A few minutes pass as you wind down, still chuckling and giggling. He leans his head on the steering wheel, and he keeps his eyes on you. Both your faces were flushed with the drinks, the laughter, and maybe something else. 

At least he's smiling now, you note to yourself.

"Will you please tell me what's bothering you, Pierre?" You gently ask, slowly moving your hand to his.

Pierre's smile fades. He's reminded of the dead cow stored in the milking shed. The sadness in his eyes returns, and you don't miss the shift in his mood. The crease on his forehead comes back, but in his eyes, there's only confusion. The same look he used to have back in high school when the lessons became too difficult. He exits the truck, his movements rushed but careful. He then enters the house, leaving the door open. An invitation.

This was progress, you tell yourself. You get out of the truck and land on the rented bowling shoes, not entirely missing your Dior sandals. As you enter the house, you are filled with a sense of nostalgia for your younger days when you would visit the Chavanges house during the summers or after school. Pierre comes out, dressed in work overalls and holding two pairs of boots.  

-------------

You stand next to him inside the milking shed after swapping the bowling shoes with the work boots he left for you. He stares at the dead cow, rigor mortis kicking in. On it's head was a gaping hole. You are left to piece these facts together when Pierre begins roping the cow's feet, dragging it out, and tying it to the tractor.

He comes back a while later to clean the shed. This time, he lets you help with scrubbing the floors and disinfecting the railings. He chuckles to himself when you clumsily knock over a bucket.

"Do you remember when we were eight, you said you wanted to be a dairy farmer's wife?" He asks while draining the blood from the floor.

"Um, yes..." You wonder where this conversation is going, ignoring the splashes of blood and soapy water on your Balmain shirt and jeans.

"That's unlikely for you now, is it?" Pierre is smiling. The whole situation is confusing you.

Your favorite dairy farmer finishes up by spraying disinfectant in the shed. You stand outside just as the sun comes up, waiting for him to finish.

"You can't go home looking like that." Pierre comes out of the barn, carrying a calf in his arms.

"Oh, look at that! He's so cute!" You ignore what he said and begin petting the calf as Pierre walks by to the house, still carrying the calf. Weird, but okay.

"What's going on? Why are you bringing him into the bathroom?"

"He needs a shower." Pierre answers plainly, as if it explains anything that has happened in the past 24 hours.

He still hasn't kicked you out of the house, which was a good sign. You observe him gently bathing the calf. Pierre lets you reassure the distressed animal as it attempts to leap out of the tub. The calf seems to favor you when you pet him and let him sit in the tub while Pierre rinses the soap out of its fur.

"So, to answer your question, yes, I am still qualified to be a dairy farmer's wife." You chuckle while running the towel down the calf's body.

"Not in those clothes, missy. You smell like a whole manure pit. No farmer would want you." He smiles teasingly as he takes off his work suit. You spot the wound on his neck. There are also red stains on the back of his shirt where patches of the wounds bleed through. The teasing mood doesn't last.

"Your turn in the tub. Let me put antiseptic on that." You sternly tell him as you point at the wound on the side of his neck. Pierre wanted to protest, but he was exhausted, and the look in your eyes made it seem like you would not take no for an answer.

------

You return to the bathroom as soon as Pierre calls you in. He sits inside the tub, his bare back facing you. 

"I think you just want to see me naked." He mumbles, trying to make jokes to distract him from the sting of the antiseptic that you were pouring.

"I'm building up my farmer's wife qualifications." You play along as you pause, letting the pain abate for a bit. After a few seconds, you pour over the last patch on his shoulder. He grunts at the pain.

"Also, Pierre? Don’t flatter yourself. It's not that impressive." You say it jokingly as your gaze points to between his legs. He gets mildly offended and shoots off playful insults. Pierre's face flushes in embarrassment and annoyance, but at least not in pain.

He lets you take a shower and lends you some fresh clothes after he finishes. You catch him on his laptop when you walk out of the room, wrapping a towel around your hair. Biniou, the calf, lays comfortably on the sofa. Pierre doesn't move away when you sit next to him. You were hoping he'd watch football or some TV show, but he's watching a news report. His attention is laser-focused. His hands fiddle with the collar of his shirt, trying to stop himself from making the wounds worse.

"A disease?" You ask, trying to follow through with the report while taking his hand away from his shoulder.

Pierre hits pause and sits up to face you. Your hand remains in his, like its the most natural thing in the world. He begins explaining to you the whole cow disease debacle. His eyes hold your gaze as he passionately explains what he had thought. You tried your best to follow through with what he was explaining because surely you were getting lost in his eyes. 

"Do you understand? I'm trying to save the herd." Pierre finishes. Both your hands are in his much larger ones now. He looks down and takes in your soft hands, contrasting his rough and calloused ones.

"Pierre... I don't think..." You don't think this is salvageable. He thinks so too, but he's got to try. He nods, fully understanding what you mean. 

“B-but what about you? Those... on your back?" You stutter, fearing his answer.

"I'll be okay." He smiles slightly. Somehow, the warmth of his hands bring comfort to you.

---------------------

"You skipped breakfast..." You appear in front of Pierre as he works on the pulsator of his milking machine. The usual crease on his forehead is there again. You refer to this as Pierre's work-mode face. He lightens up a little when he looks up and sees the plate of bread, eggs, cheese, and meat you brought for him.

"Oh, you can just put it inside. My hands are still greasy." He shows you his hands.

You shrug and lift a forkful of scrambled eggs to him. He stares at it, feeling hesitant.

"Come on! Do you want me to make train noises? Choo choo!" You laugh. He obliges you with a bite. His face flushes with playfulness and laughter.

"I'm not a child!" He chews his breakfast.

"I know. But someone has to look after the farmer while he's looking after his cows."

Pierre's face flushes, overwhelmed by the feeling of love-

"Oh! Bonjour, Pascale!" Your first impulse interrupts you as you watch a silver Opel pull up. You immediately regret waving at her because Pierre's sister is now eyeing you suspiciously. You? Alone with Pierre at this time of the morning? Wearing clothes that are obviously not yours? 

In your defense, you were worried for Pierre. Although his back was beginning to feel a little better, he needed your help putting cream on his back before bed for the last few nights. You also helped him make healthy meals while his parents were away. He lets you sleep on the couch with Biniou, which was rather comfy. Pierre stacked you with soft pillows and blankets to make sure you're warm and comfortable.

Pascale walks into the tool shed and pulls Pierre away as they have a serious conversation. You return to the house and hang out with Biniou for a bit, waiting for Pierre to come back.  

-------------------

After Pascale leaves, Pierre is back in his dour mood. You hoped he'd be chatty today. He had a great sense of humor, and his voice always made you feel at home.

Huh, you never expected to feel at home with Pierre. Over the past couple of days since bowling night, you hadn't returned to your family home. No one cared to look for you, which was good because you were enjoying your time with Pierre, reliving your childhood together.

"Can I come in?" You knock at his bedroom door. Every night, you help him put cream on the healing wounds on his back. Most of the time, they sting, but you make sure to go hard on the teasing just to distract him.

Pierre doesn't seem to be in a teasing mood when he opens the door. His shirtless form sits on the edge of the bed and hands you the cylinder of cream.

He doesn't react when you make contact with his warm skin. You are grateful that it doesn't bother him anymore and the wounds are beginning to scab.

"Pierre? You okay?" You wanted to ask what Pascale had told him. He sighs.

"It's over." He's given up.

You don't know what to say. The farm is his life, and now that he's forced to give up his life's work, you're afraid it might take a toll on him.

"Will you stay with me?" He asks, taking your hand after placing the cylinder on his bedside.

And, of course, you stay.

His bed was a lot cozier than the couch. A lot warmer too, with him next to you. 

He falls asleep first, his head turned in your direction. You see him as a child again—the boy who has never cared about making it big. He was always so perfectly content with his life in the countryside.

"I'm certain that you're going places." Your teacher once told you back in grade school. She was right; you made it in Paris and maybe beyond, but at that moment, you confidently told her you'd rather be a farmer's wife while eyeing Pierre next to you. The entire class laughed. Pierre felt embarrassed. The teacher took it as a joke, but it was what your heart longs for and where your heart belongs. To be with Pierre.

In the morning, Pierre wakes up, mildly startled to see you asleep so close to him. Your head rests on the same pillow as his, and he notices his arm slung around your waist. It feels like the most normal of things. The natural order of your relationship. It has been weeks since he slept this well. Pierre observes your face, which is so gentle and peaceful. He wonders if you're dreaming, and if you are, is he there in your dreams?

Then, as if your minds are one, he sees your eyes shift under your eyelids. Unconsciously (or not), you snuggle closer to Pierre. His heart melts. Then, your eyes open to see his face so close to yours.

A moment passes, and you don't know how long. You lose yourself in his eyes.

"Good morning," he whispers, making sure to keep the peace in the early hours.

You smile. "What time is it?"

"A bit over eight..." He glances at the wristwatch he wears, even when he sleeps.

"Aren't you supposed to check on the cows?" You wonder. He's normally up at six, sometimes before sunrise.

"No." He answers, and his arm tightens around your waist. You presume there was something about the conversation he and Pascale had yesterday. You let Pierre enjoy this calm morning, which you know is a very rare thing for him.

Little did you know that this would become a regular thing.

Gravel crunches outside as cars pull up at ferme Chavenges. Police cars. They have come to put down the whole herd of "infected" cows, leaving Pierre with nothing. 

"Hey, stop, wait!" You try to stop the cops, but even Pascale couldn't do anything. At least they let Pierre milk the cows one last time. He takes you back to the house. Someone knocks a while later and takes the calf too.

You were too distraught to notice the time. The sun had set. You were still on the couch, with Pierre holding you. You felt incredibly sad about the whole situation.

That night, Pierre takes you to his bedroom. Just like last night, he lays you gently on what is now your side of the bed. 

"Maybe you should head back to your folks tomorrow. You're headed back to Paris on Saturday, yes?" He asks, caressing your hair gently.

You nod.

"Okay. Get some sleep." Pierre kisses the top of your head and turns the lights off.

On your last morning at the farm, you wake up before Pierre. It was still a bit dark outside. You hoped it was raining so it could wash the stench away and save Pierre the effort of cleaning up.

Oh, Pierre.

You look down on him, sleeping next to you. His gentle lips are parted as he snores lightly. It makes you chuckle. You can't leave. Not now, not ever.

"Pierre?"

He snores.

"Pierre? I need to tell you something."

"Huh? What?" He says, keeping his eyes closed.

"Can I stay?"

"What?" He opens one eye.

"I think I want to start my internship here."

Pierre opens both eyes now. He is very confused. "Are you sleep-talking?"

"I said I wanted to be a farmer's wife. I'm ready to start training today, if you'll have me."

It takes a moment for Pierre to understand. He chuckles and then pulls you back to bed, snuggled close to him. He brings up the covers and wraps his arms around you.

"The farm opens at six."

#pierre chavanges #bloody milk #winter'slibrary

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

#swann arlaud #vincent renzi #anatomy of a fall

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

“If The X-Files was a 90s anime.”

credit: MabooCraboo on imgur

#x files #scully #mulder #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

My Roman Empire is Joe Keery playing on guitars

#joe keery #djo #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

Milkshakes and Leather

(Eddie Munson x gn!Reader)

You've been pining after a certain metal head since freshman year and you finally got up the nerve to ask him out.

Word count: 872

Content warnings: food mention, cussing, kissing, eddie and reader being sappy

You had been pining after Eddie for so long. It's so long that you have finally caught up to him in grade. It had been three years of admiring the back of his beautiful curly head and trying to hide your smile when he climbed on the cafeteria tables for his many grand proclamations. Finally, a week before summer break, you had worked up the nerve to ask him out. 

Now, the two of you sat in a slightly sticky booth in a diner a few miles outside Hawkins. "Are you okay?" Eddie's concerned tone shook you from your quiet contemplations. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?" you ask, confused. "You're shaking like a chihuahua that's gotta take a shit," He explains. A bead of sweat makes its journey down your brow. "Oh," you mumble, embarrassed. "I'm just cold." You had lied to your dream boy. It was 80 degrees outside; no one in Indiana was "cold."

 You had been so nervous and excited about this date that you couldn't contain it. Eddie smiles at you, sending another kaleidoscope of butterflies through your veins. He reaches across the table and picks up your hand, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. You look into his eyes and notice a slight pink blush spread across his cheeks. Your moment is interrupted by your server returning with your milkshakes and fries. Or... milkshake? You thought you had ordered two milkshakes, but there was only one glass and two straws. 

"Thanks, Steve," Eddie smiles up at your server. "It was Robin's idea," Steve explains. Confused, you look over at the blonde who winks at you in return. "Hey! Look at that!" Eddie exclaims. As you turn your head your cheek is confronted with the sticky wetness of whipped cream. "Eddie!" you squeal. He bursts into laughter at the look on your face. "God, you're so annoying," You tease. He winks at you as he pops a french fry in his mouth. "You know you love me," he flirts back. The two of you finish your shared milkshake and fries and leave the restaurant. 

Eddie bumps his shoulder into yours as you walk down the street to where he had parked his rustbucket of a van. "Oh! I love that jacket!" you stop in the middle of the sidewalk, causing Eddie to bump into you from behind. To steady himself, Eddie wraps his arms around your waist pulling you to his chest. You shiver, although this time the reason wasn't your nerves. "Stay here for a second, 'kay?" Eddie tells you. "Mhm," you respond. He darts into the store with the cute jacket in the window. You figure he needs to use the restroom, seeing as how he drank practically a gallon of Mtn. Dew on your date. 

After a few minutes, a pair of hands cover your eyes. "I got you a surprise..." Eddie sing-songs, as he removes his hands from your face. "What? You didn't have to do that." You turn around expecting to see a bouquet of flowers, instead, Eddie is holding the leather jacket you had been admiring in the store window. "No way!" Your mouth gapes in shock. "Eddie, this is too much!" You hold the jacket to your chest. "Well, I remembered you were cold at dinner, so I thought this might warm you up." He explains. "Try it on!" Eddie urges. You slip the supple sleeves over your arms. "Thank you so much!" You gush.

 "You look beautiful." His voice is lowered to a near whisper as he steps closer to you. The tension between you is palpable. A warmth spreads across your cheeks as you close the gap, giving Eddie a quick peck on the chin. "Is this okay?" You ask. "Yes," Eddie responds breathlessly. You kiss him, slow and gentle at first, then deeper as he grabs the back of your head to pull you further into the kiss. Eddie kisses like his life depends on it. You separate, feeling dizzy and giddy.

 "Eddie, I have to tell you something," you start as Eddie grabs your hand and you begin walking again. "Of course. What do you need, Babe?" Eddie responds. "I'm not cold." You blurt out. "Okay," Eddie seems confused. "I never was cold," you explain further. He looks at you, his brows knitted. "What do you mean?" Eddie asks. "You were shaking." "I was so nervous that I guess it had to come out one way or another." You respond. Eddie begins to laugh. "What?" you ask. "You were nervous?" He asks incredulously. "Yeah, of course I was," you answer. "Sweetheart, I was so fucking nervous I had to smoke a cigarette before I knocked on your door. I mean, do you know how metal it was for you to ask me out?" He exclaims. "Really?" You ask. "Of course!" Eddie smiles at you. "And you're not mad I lied to you?" You ask. "Never." Eddie shakes his curly head. The two of you smile at each other. This is exactly what you have been dreaming of for the past three years.

A/N: thanks so much for reading! any interaction is welcome! dividers credit: @dollicacy cover image from pinterest

#winter'swritings #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things au #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #pining #eddie stranger things #my reblogs

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

baby reid is everything to me you don't get it. you can't take him from me. i wont let you. he's mine and he's in my pocket rn. i take him out at bedtime and tuck him in all nice and warm and smooch him on the forehead and spoon him. he's mine. back off.

#i keep him on me at all times #in my pocket fr #prev tags #spencer reid #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

Aaaaah one more, why not.

#hes so broad #joe keery #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

lip bite. lip bite.

#got me giggling and kicking my feet #joe keery #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

“Death is temporary, I’ll love you forever” 🪦🖤

Anyway I’m in love with Lisa Frankenstein and did this 5”x7” oil painting in four hours last weekend. On Clayboard, frame thrifted. Bonus timelapse:

#i love talented people #this is so beautiful #lisa frankenstein #fanart #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

txf textposts part 6

#the x files #dana scully #fox mulder #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

i can't stop looking at this photo. the red eyes. the leg of bi curiousity. the absolute cunt of it all. it's iconic.

#lisa frankenstein #cole sprouse #kathryn newton #winter'sloves

[smalltownbeautyqueen]

Lisa Frankenstein (2024)

#lisa frankenstein #headers #winter'sloves