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eilidh-eternal · 2 months

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You don't like silence

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.

Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.

You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together.

A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon.

Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.

Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down.

Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things.

Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.

Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know.

They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.

Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.

Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.

You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper?

She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny.

Probably not so frilly, then.

Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.

Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.

The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.

There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.

He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.

A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.

Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring.

The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.

Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”

He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.

You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.

“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.”

He’s leaving? Without Isobel?

It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel.

Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.

Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving.

He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him.

“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?”

Christ, this woman…

“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”

Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line.

Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”

“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”

“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”

Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”

“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.

He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.

Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes.

If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.

Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.

“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”

“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”

The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest.

The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.

He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave.

He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.

He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement.

The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.

When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.

He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight.

So he calls.

One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.

This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.

“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.

“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner.

How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?

“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”

“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.

“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.

“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.

“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.”

Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone.

“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.”

He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.

“And you want to start tomorrow?”

“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.

There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She’ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”

Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely.

Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.

He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds.

He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.

“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”

“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”

“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”

“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.

“I am,” he lilts.

“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.

“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”

He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.

Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.

He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk.

The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.

Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down.

Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road.

She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric.

She’s leaving.

Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.

“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”

They’re both leaving.

Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.

A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.

Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.

“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.”

You’re staying, and they’re leaving.

The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.

“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.

“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.

She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.

You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.”

He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.

There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.

“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.

You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.

Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”

You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.

“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.

He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”

“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.

“Tomorrow morning.”

The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.

When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady.

You’re drifting out to sea again.

“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.

“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.

Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.

He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea.

“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.

“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.

You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.

The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.

“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.

“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.

Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes.

“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”

You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.

“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.

“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”

“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.

Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”

“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.

You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.

“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”

With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”

“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression.

This hurts him as much as it hurts you.

“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.

His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.

“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.

His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn.

There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.

“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.

You were wrong.

The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.

You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.

You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.

“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”

You’re falling, and they’re leaving.

There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown.

“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.”

You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.

So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.

And then he leaves.

Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.

She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.

Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”

“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.

“Both of them. The three of ye.”

“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”

Next>>>

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queers-gambit · 7 months

Text

Affirmation King

prompt: ( requested ) attending university as a full-time student is hard, but your boyfriend makes some of the stress worth it.

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 3.1k+

note: author gives unsolicited advice in the form of sharing a citation website to make college essays a little easier! this is not meant as promotion or anything, it's just your author trying to share a resource they know of.

warnings: cursing, small hurt large comfort (reader snaps a little at Carmy but he handles it like a fucking pro), author gives unsolicited college advice in the form of a recommended website, reader is in a masters program and not undergrad, fluff.

The 16 inch screen glared into your retinas, fingers feeling numb from the hours pounding away at the loose keyboard. When the screen started to warble and darken, your head ducked down slightly to try and preserve your visual; glaring up at the offender when they pressed the screen closed after forcing you to retract your hands.

"You're cute and all, but not so cute as to interrupt me like that," you deadpanned, eyes wide and burning from your lack of lubrication via blinking.

"You've been sat here for hours, it's time for a break."

"Funny when I say that to you, it's always, 'Get outta my kitchen.'"

Carmy smirked, "Come eat something."

"Let me finish this essay and - "

"No, it's time for a meal."

You felt your irritation spike, narrowing your eyes slightly, "I'm on a deadline, Carmen, so either be fucking helpful and productive or get the fuck out of my space. I've got work to do and you're just slowing me down."

He offered a patient look, asking, "Is that what you really wanted to say?"

You paused, then shook your head, "No... May I try again?"

"Of course," he nodded.

"I appreciate you trying to... Alleviate some of my stress," you spoke slowly, stringing the sentence together in realtime, "but this project isn't something I can ignore right now, so, I'd like to finish this thing before we do whatever else."

"Better," he teased, knowing you ran a short fuse when stressed out and overworked. "What's got you riled up?"

"I have this 20-page paper due."

"20 pages!?"

"It's not that bad, honestly, once you have your thesis together," you chuckled dryly. "it's just time consuming and meticulous."

He frowned and stepped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, mocking in a sarcastic tone, "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"I'm so tired," you pouted up at him. "Do I really need this degree? This is so much stress for such a little thing such as a piece of paper that cost me $50k just to say I'm allowed to join the work force."

"Hey, hey," he laughed. "Just remember what you're working towards. You're one assignment closer to your internship turning into a full-time gig, right?"

You nodded, "You're right. I want that job so bad... I just hate how busy I feel - it's like, how can I remember to eat let alone write 6 different response posts to my classmate's work?"

Carmy nodded with empathy, "Just remember that end goal, baby. Keep grinding, keep moving. Almost at the finish line, right?"

"Right," you nodded with a smile. "Thank you, angel face."

Carmy smiled at you before softly asking, "Want me to bring you anything? Something to eat, drink, a condom?"

"Stop quoting Mean Girls at me!"

His hands shot up in defense, deflecting, "I was just trying to be a gracious host. If the missus wants anything, I'll make sure she has it."

"Pretty sure 'missus' is a term used for wives - " His groan made you laugh lightly, then covering, "No, thank you, baby, I'm okay. I should only be about another hour or so...?"

"All right, yeah, sure. I'll start dinner in 30, okay?"

"Sure," you smiled, already distracted again as you lifted your screen again to stare at the Word document that had been haunting your hard-drive for about 3 weeks now.

"Hey," he interrupted, "don't forget your glasses."

"Thank you," you mumbled, reaching for the special, blue-light filtering glasses Carmy had gifted you when you first started your Master's program. He claimed staring at a computer screen was going to cause long-term damage (he read an article) and got you a pair, which, you had to admit, made a huge difference.

Your hair was raked into a new bun as you reread the last of your essay, trying to get back in the academic mindset in order to finish the last bit of your assignment. There were textbooks spewed around your work table; laptop plugged in, highlighters and pens and notebooks within reach and a nearly-finished bottle of water was set to the side. You wrote ferociously once you got back on the right mental track, feeling your headache stir to life as you blindly reached for your water bottle.

However, when you picked it up, you blinked in mild shock when the bottle was heavier than before. Glancing over, you realized Carmy had replaced the bottle because there, under where it had sat, he left you a handwritten note:

replenish what you lost from crying!

You chuckled, knowing you were a stress cryer and when tackling big assignments like this, you were ten times as stressed as usual. Still you worked, even putting your headphones on to play soothing background noise - like rainfall. Your neck cramped, back ached, temples throbbed, and hands were cramping. Still you worked, using sticky notes to flag the important quotes you wanted to use from your textbooks and notebooks. Your stomach growled, your eyes begged for reprieve, chest felt tight, and shoulders were too tense.

Still. You. Worked.

Deadlines were important to you, and while you were a professional procrastinator, you always turned everything in on time - no matter your mental state. You could smell whatever Carmy had started cooking, focused on writing as you only used spellcheck as you went - and still you worked. You knew you surpassed the hour limit you told Carmy, but you couldn't stop, you were so close to finishing, it almost put tears back in your eyes, but this time out of relief. You only paused to look at online sources and apply chapstick, cracking your tightly-wound knuckles, and when you finished the last body paragraph of the essay, grinned to yourself.

All that was left was your conclusion, to create a bibliography, and to edit - but you were almost home free!

Suddenly, you jumped in fright when a hand planted on your shoulder; whipping around to see your boyfriend's own startled expression. "Sorry," Carmy apologized with a wince when you removed your headphones, "didn't mean to scare you, just wanted to check on you."

You nodded, 'Yeah, no, I'm almost done. Like give me 20 minutes, almost done-almost done."

He smiled softly, "Dinner's ready when you are."

"I'll be there soon, thank you, angel face."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Uh," you cocked your head, "you know what? Maaaaybe..."

"Really?" He grinned, perking up. "You never let me help!"

"It's not really work, per se," you amended, "but would you mind letting me read this out loud to you - see if it makes sense? The mark of a good writer is to act as if the audience knows nothing about the subject and make them understand, and you're exactly that."

"Lemme hear it," he nodded, taking a seat, "I might not be much help but I can still try."

You agreed and finished typing the outline of your conclusion, then scrolled to the top of your word document, and explained to him what your class was before starting to read. He listened intently, sitting on a spare stool with his elbows resting on his knees; keeping him leaned forward to provide his undivided attention. You managed to reword a few sentences, only noticing they didn't make sense when you read them out loud. Once or twice, Carmy even offered an alternative phrasing you liked - making the changes and rereading, then continuing through your assignment.

By the end, you were able to beef up the conclusion and Carmy was grinning at you in pride. "That's real good, baby," he complimented, "it all made sense and rolled nice together. I think that has to be an 'A'-worthy paper."

"You should be the one grading theses, my professor's the worst," you frowned. "It's why I got so in my head, I got a fucking 76 on my last essay and need to do really well on the next few to help average my grade."

"What about the tests?"

"We don't have any, this class is all about writing material and turning it in," you pouted.

"Hey," he spoke seriously, making you look at him in question, "I'm really proud of you."

You giggled nervously, "Oh, yeah? Why? What for?"

"For doing this," he nodded to the desk. "Look at all you're doing, baby, there's no way I'd ever be able to keep up with this kinda shit. You're doing such a great fucking job - I want you to remember that. What you're doing ain't easy, but you're handling this like a pro."

"I cry, like, everyday..."

"So what? You still get shit done while emoting - call that multitasking, baby."

"Got me there."

"Seriously, though, you're not told enough what a fantastic job you're doing; how strong and resilient you have to be to deal with this kind of stress day-in and day-out. I see the hard work you put in," he promised, "and I want you to know how fucking proud I am of you. It's all gonna be worth it one day, but until then, I love watching you grind through school. I might not take the classes with you, but I'll help however I can, whenever I can."

"Thank you," you whispered. "It's really nice to hear... I feel myself burning out and it's nice to be reminded that what I do now will influence my future. Validates me in feeling stressed out, you know? Sometimes, I feel silly 'cause, like, there's so many bigger things to be upset about and here I am, stressed out at a place that's guaranteed to stress me out..."

"It's not silly, it's normal. College ain't easy," he reminded, "and you're just trying to keep yourself afloat."

"Yeah, but there's bigger things in life than something trivial as my education."

Carmy scoffed at you, shaking his head, "Ain't no way."

"What?"

"My girl just said her feelings are trivial... Nah, she said her emotions about her education is trivial," he shook his head again. "Should wash your mouth out with soap - talkin' crazy like that. Baby, you know, first and foremost, your education is high on our priorities list, but your emotions? You think they're trivial? Nah, if anything causes you to have any emotion, it's valid - it's not something silly or redundant."

You pouted slightly, "You always know what to say."

"Hungry?"

"You're the perfect man," you laughed, looking at your document again and humming. "Okay, so, lemme just cite my sources and turn this in."

"Then you wanna have date night?" He smirked.

"No, no, I'm so tired - "

"I meant we can stay in."

"Oh, then count me in!"

"Change into something cozy when you're done, we can watch a movie with dinner. Yeah?"

You agreed, accepted his kiss of encouragement, and then took his leave to reheat the dinner that had surely cooled off. It didn't take long to cite everything when you used an online citation source website - that IS N O T plagiarizing! It's a handy-dandy tool you discovered your undergraduate freshman year by an actual professor. It was as simple as choosing which style, APA or MLA, and then to either paste the URL of the website you need sourced or you type in the book's information. Hit the generate button and BAM! A perfect citation for your bibliography every single time.

Or if you didn't like that, you could always just Google citation examples and do your best to write it out yourself. But the website, Citation Machine dot net, was a great tool. After perfecting your in-text citations and saving your work, you uploaded it to your university's assignment portal, crossed the essay off your to-do list, and stretched on your feet.

Cleaning up your space minimally, you hustled to your bedroom to get a quick hot, relieving shower, change, and then met Carmy in the kitchen. "Hey," you sighed with a soft smile.

"Hey, doll. All done?"

"For tonight," you groaned, "but tomorrow's a new day with new assignments."

"That's a future problem we'll handle at a later time," he eased, showing you your dinner plate. "Ta-daaaa!"

You grinned, "Oh, baby, this looks amazing!"

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured as a full-time student right now, nobody was gonna remind you what incredible job you're doing, so, I'm more than happy to step up to the plate. And what better treat than your favorite meal, huh?"

"Thank you," you whispered, pecking his lips.

You often thought his love language was "food", but then you realized it was technically under the acts of service and quality time. He loved cooking for you - it was like a gift. He loved cooking with you - it was time spent bonding. He loved introducing you to new dishes - it's a present! He loved when you let him give you a culinary lesson - it was time well spent.

"C'mon," Carmy lead you to the living room, both crashing on the couch you had been gifted from your grandmother's house when she was put in a nursing home. Normally, you wouldn't have splurged on something like this, but considering it was free, you and Carmy were happy to use it. Settling together on the couch, you got cozy under a shared blanket and Carmy flicked some movie on for background noise, but instead of watching, he just asked you about your coursework.

You told him what you could, shaking your head and huffing about how annoying your program was. How hectic. How jam packed and fast-paced it all seemed to be. How your head felt like it was spinning. How you couldn't nail down workable coping mechanisms and just felt totally out of control. You were spiraling.

You needed this rant session.

Carmy listened intently.

He never once tried to say, "oh, but if you had time management," or anything like, "if you do THIS instead..." or some bullshit, "my way works better." His bright and wide blue eyes watched you the entire time, sighing when you got to the end of your meal and vent session.

"It just feels like, I turn in one assignment, I get three more right after. Turn in those three, and all of a sudden, there's another 10!"

"Does the syllabus say anything about that?" He wondered.

"No, it just said what our reading schedules were and when major assignments are due. But those dates all got shuffled around that it feels like a train wreck. You know, if the original schedule was kept from the syllabus, I wouldn't feel so worked up! It's the rearrangement and added assignments without warning that's throwing me off."

"That doesn't sound easy," he validated. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, you're doing more than enough," you whispered, pecking his lips. "Thank you for dinner."

"I made dessert, too."

"No!" You gasped with a grin.

"Mhm - wait here. I'll grab it."

"Wow, dinner, movie, and dessert?" You teased, "I'm being spoiled tonight."

"You've been working your ass off for weeks now," he smirked, standing from his seat to pick up your plates, "this is the least I could do. I know I said it, but you know how good a job you're doing, right? Damn, baby," he chuckled, "ain't no way I could ever handle shit like that on the regular."

"I could't do what you do, either."

"We all balance our crazy different. Want some tea? Wine?"

"Tea would be great."

"Comin' up."

When Carmy returned, you pulled the blanket back to let him sit again with the dessert plate between you both; two steaming mugs of tea sat on the coffee table. "What's this?" You wondered, seeing a sort of pastry.

"Marcus told me 'bout this," he chuckled. "Kinda like a poor man's version of this one thing he makes. So, look, it's Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, right? In the middle, there's raspberry preserves - or jam if you want that instead. It's baked then drizzled in melted white chocolate."

"Wow, you got all fancy on me," you beamed.

"Hardly, more like I was a little impulsive after hearing your essay. Figured you could use some dessert - you really earned it, baby. You always earn dessert," he grinned, "but tonight, you were kickass. Know that? Hear me?"

You shook your head, "This is nothing compared - "

"Hey, hey, nah," he interrupted, "nah, nah, don't do that, don't try to invalidate or downplay yourself. Look, shit is always hard in college, right? But you handle it so well, I can see the work you're putting in and the little reward you receive in return, and know that shit's gotta add up for you. But my baby just keeps cool, does her work, and does what she can to earn the grades she does. Right?"

"I mean, I try to..."

"You succeed. C'mon, lemme hear you say it. 'I kick college's ass.'"

"I kick college's ass."

"'I work hard.'"

"Carmy - "

"Saaay it!"

You huffed, "I work hard."

"'I'm an incredible hard worker.'"

"I'm an incredible hard worker."

"'I am only human.'"

Another breath in, repeating, "I am only human."

"'I am a success.'"

"I try to be a success."

"That wasn't the quote."

"Well, I don't know if I'm succeeding because grades aren't finalized yet and I have - "

"No, no, no," he smirked again, "you're still successful 'cause you're doing such a kickass job. You could get a fucking 'D' on something, and guess what? You're still successful 'cause you don't let this tear you down, you learn from mistakes and apply whatever lessons you learn to your upcoming assignments. Some people say you might even learn more from losing and failing than from undisputed success. Look, I'll be honest, I thought my job was hectic as shit, but hearing your essay tonight? Goddamn, you're not just beautiful, but so fucking intelligent, too. Baby, I was shook - that sounded like some academic paper that college kids need to defend their thesis or some shit. Something scholarly, not some assignment you gotta hand in by a deadline so you just wrote down whatever. So, give yourself credit and tell yourself you're a success."

With a long, deep breath, you answered earnestly, "I'm a success."

"Good girl," he muttered, handing you a fork finally. However, unlike Mikey all those years ago, you didn't launch your utensil at anyone and used it to cut off a corner of pastry.

You moaned when you tasted the gooey goodness. You managed through a mouthful, "Mmhhh! Mhm! Mhm! If you make this every time I have some assignment pissing me off and stressing me out, I'm afraid I'll get used to this treatment."

Carmy grinned, "You deserve whatever dessert you want, whenever you want. Huh? Yeah? Lemme hear you say it."

With another grin, you mused, "I deserve whatever I want, when I want it... And however I want it!"

"Atta girl!"

"You're so fucking corny," you laughed lightly, feeling as if you were falling in love with him again, "but thank you, my Affirmation King."

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

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theshadowedqueen82 · 20 days

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Solar Eclipse PSA

Who is excited for the solar eclipse? I'm very much looking forward to it, but also wanted to make a quick PSA!

DO NOT LOOK AT THE ECLIPSE. Looking at the sun can cause SEVERE damage to your eyes in seconds! Your retina has no pain receptors so you will not feel this damage, but it can cause blindness and all kinds of vision problems! Please stay safe!

How does one safely observe the solar eclipse? You can get eclipse glasses: they might be sold out at the moment, and you're going to want to look for ones with an ISO rated solar filter. Anything else is too weak! Even with these eclipse glasses you still shouldn't look at the sun for too long, since your eyes will still need breaks.

The much safer method is looking at the sun indirectly! A pinhole camera can be quickly made from household items like a cereal box or a shoebox. Google how to make one, there's a million tutorials. You could even punch a hole in a piece of paper and hold it over the sidewalk. The important thing is you're looking at the image of the sun shining through the hole, and NOT at the actual sun itself!

The WORST thing you can do tomorrow is pull out your phone and try and take a picture of this eclipse. Phone cameras, video cameras, and pretty much every modern lens is designed to capture light, so it will just end up amplifying the harmful radiation from the sun. It's not safe even if you're wearing eclipse glasses: cameras need their own filters to safely look at the sun! Either film your pinhole camera's projection, OR just google videos of the eclipse. Institutions like NASA have telescopes built for looking at the sun and will be able to get some nice pictures without you being in any danger at all.

Stay safe, and I hope you all enjoy the eclipse!

#psa #solar eclipse #solar eclipse 2024 #science

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project-retina · 3 months

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Wait combat abilities?

Agent, I hope you took a refresher course on hostile situations before coming here, I think you are going to need it!

"yea what is that abou-"

before phoenix can finish that thought, prism's speaks, a but hurriedly.

"anyways, it's much easier to replace human agents with robots if the humans are dead, anywho. Robutler. you know what to do."

with that, prism's hologram dissipates, and robutler begins to aim a laser at phoenix's head.

"Agent Phoenix, thanks for showing me how to be an amazing agent! sorry that I have to kill you, but, its alright!"

"I'll carry on your legacy as Agent Robutler!"

"That doesn't even have the same ring to it!"

the laser shoots, and phoenix is able to deflect it with the soundboard just in time.

#project: retina #ask blog / webcomic #project: r.e.t.i.n.a #[agent phoenix]#[handler]#[reggie crane]#[robutler]#[Dr. Roxana Prism]

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queens-nightmare · 22 days

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So uh- thanks for being an active Ahit au

[A submission]

Soooo A lot of people have ditched the fandom I notice and all the really best stuff is like no longer in production. I just wanted to express my gratitude for you helping keep it alive by making this wonderful Au.

To express said gratitude I decided to draw an image that would burn itself into your retinas.

Yep- its me again- third time making fan art. But this time its TerminalMontage.

== Submission ends here ==

What is TerminalMontage…?

Anyway, thank you for being grateful that I am not leaving xD Yeah, I am happy to be an active force in the fandom. I will finish this project >:3c I learned a lot about project management with this comic and it helps me with keeping this going.

But I hope you appreciate the time people did put stuff out for the fandom to see during the time they were active in the fandom. Let’s not forget people’s interest can change and we should just appreciate the moment, the now! :Dc

#submission #queen's nightmare AU #does this count as #Vanessa's mail #probably #I make the rules for that dont I?#time is fleeting #appreciate the present and don't feel bad about the past being the past

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ironychan · 2 months

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Today's explorations brought us a couple of new birds. The first one was only today on a technicality, because it was a very wee hour indeed when Valdez let herself into our tent and woke me up to tell me there was a really weird animal outside and she knew I'd want to see it. Kibwana refused to get up, but Reynolds and I followed her to an old log, where we found this:

It looks something like a cross between a crane, a grey owl, and an anteater. It and its fluffier offspring were crouched by the log, tilting their heads back and forth to listen, and then they'd lick out with long tongues to catch insects. They didn't seem to need to open their beaks to do this, and I'm not actually sure they could open - I never saw them do so. If the adult needed to pull more of the log apart, it would use the four-inch blunt talon on the end of each otherwise useless wing.

Reynolds says the way the feathers fan out around each eye is actually an adaptation for hearing - it funnels sound into the ears like a radio dish. The adult bird was clearly aware of us and looked directly at us several times, but since we weren't coming any closer it didn't seem bothered as long as we didn't make any sudden movements. Eventually it got its fill of ants and wandered off.

We asked Valdez what she was doing so far from our campsite in the middle of the night. She said she wanted to get further from the fire (which we leave smoldering so the wildlife won't get too nosy) in order to look at the stars. Apparently she's been mapping them. She's even invented several constellations based on tools and animals. I guess we all have our little keep-sane projects.

She was telling me more about it around lunchtime, while the two of us were scrounging for edible plant material, when we got today's second bird. This one was a bastard.

It was very tiny, mostly black on top with an ochre-coloured underside patterned with black v's, and a white mark on the back of its neck. It was also very round with tiny feet and absolutely adorable. I couldn't believe how lucky I was when it landed on my arm and put its beak right up against my skin. I figured it was licking up sweat for salt or something. I was wrong.

After a second or two I realized a bead of blood was forming where it touched me, and when I took a closer look I saw that it actually had a very long, needle-like upper beak that had gone right into my skin without me even feeling it, and a very short lower beak that it opened to let its little tongue lap up the blood. I'm sure I took this in for just a split second, but it felt like I stared at for an hour, unable to move. The image is burned into my retinas. I keep seeing it when I close my eyes.

I hollered and shook it off me, and it flew away. Boonmee put some alcohol on the puncture and told me to watch it carefully for signs of infection. Other than that there's not a lot I can do but wait and see how many diseases the little bugger gave me.

We took several suggestions for the name of the vampire bird, but seem to have settled on Reynolds', which was White-Naped Syrinx. 'Syrinx' is a character from Greek mythology and also the root word from which we get 'syringe'. It is also apparently the word for a bird's voice box. This would be much more interesting to me if I didn't have a hole in my arm.

Somebody suggested calling the anteater bird an owlvark, but Vandebeek said 'aardvark' means 'earth pig' in Dutch, so a more accurate name would be 'aarduil'. When somebody writes a bestiary for this future, we now know what the first page will be.

#the last humans #speculative evolution #aarduil #white-naped syrinx #mariposa valdez #peter przybylski #yes the aarduil is inspired by my friend the mononykus #dunno why i picked this up again i guess i just wanted to draw creeshurs

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vendoramachine · 3 months

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random headcanons

velvet & veneer

pretty self explanatory. i needed someplace to dump all these stupid little thoughts. also, as the younger sibling of an older sister, these are all just me self projecting our relationship <3

- vel is mildly dyslexic and it’s been a sensitive topic for her entire life (yet she still makes fun of veneer for not being able to do math)

- veneer had both of his ears pierced, but his left ear eventually closed up cus he doesn’t wear his earring on that side (ifykyk)

- velvet’s anger issues has made her throw things at veneer on multiple occasions

“do you remember that time i accidentally hit you and you threw that moisturizer container at my head?”

“…..”

- both had a very intense phase where they were obsessed with pokémon, specifically, team rocket

- jesse and james were both of their gay awakenings

- velvet always used to practice painting nails and doing makeup on veneer, that they never really grew out of it (she still does it for him <3)

- they never apologized to each other properly after getting upset with each other

“…you hungry?”

“…yeah. i’ll go with you to check the fridge.”

- strangely enough, vel asks to sleep in her brother’s bed if they don’t have anything going on the next day

- vel is one of them VIOLENT ASS SLEEPERS who kicks everything within radius, and her feet are always cold as fuck

“vel… vel, stop kicking me… v-velvet, YOUR FEET ARE COLD!”

- but ven is a blanket hog so they hate sleeping in the same bed but still do it cause it’s oddly comforting for them both

“veneer, it’s cold, bro… give me the- STOP TAKING THE BLANKET!”

- for some reason, they’re always coming at each other’s taste

- “i really don’t know what you see in ritz.”

“yeah? well, at least i didn’t fall for a random fan from the crowd.”

“BITCH-“

- their favorite places as kids were costco and ikea (don’t ask i just have a feeling)

- vel needed glasses as a kid, but she always hated how they looked on her, so she never wore them. ever. her eyesight is still lowkey shit.

- they both took violin and cello lessons as kids, but they thought it was mad boring and left (they don’t remember a single thing about it)

- velvet will fuck up a raw ass steak (so raw that you might as well give her an entire fucking cow), eating it with her bare hands like a wild animal

- as kids, they always talked about bailing each other out if one got arrested (but they both got arrested so that’s out the window 😻)

- “ugh, orange is so not my color.”

“girl, fuck you mean? you look better than all the bitches here.”

- ritz and orchid always go together to visit their criminal lovers in prison

- vel hates the feeling of gel, but does it for the aesthetic (veneer hates it too)

- veneer got his drivers license after vel, but she gets the WORSTTT road rage, so he doesn’t trust her and drives them everywhere

- vel has literally almost stabbed her brother with her sharp crown thingy

- veneer constantly asks his sis what he should wear because he’s too scared of being insulted

- both of their retinas have been burned by all the flashing cameras

- surprisingly, most of vel’s high school homecoming dates were men. nobody except veneer even knew she was a girl kisser until she turned sixteen

- they have matching robes. for sure.

- veneer is a shopping addict ( velvet carries his bags every time cus she thinks his complaining is annoying )

“ugh, my arms-“

“shut up. give me your bags.”

- vel had a giant ass rottweiler when they were in middle school that always scared the shit out of veneer, so that’s why he was so fucking scared of rhonda (velvet’s dog was really sweet tho 😢)

- ven coughs so hard from inhaling too much of vel’s perfume

- vel has a crippling fear of heights and veneer is the same with small spaces

- veneer is terrified of horror movies, and vel tells him to stop being a pussy (one jumpscare and you’ll see her clinging onto her brother)

- vel laughs her ass off every time her brother is mad because she can’t take his twink ass seriously

- these two turn into monsters when it comes to nintendo games (specifically mario kart)

- vel had the nintendo switch and ven had the nintendo lite

- they bought two so that they could have separate animal crossing islands, but ended up living on the same one anyways

- veneer loves the little clink that his shoes make

- never let either of them near cinnamon rolls. ever. (their asses will demolish entire buildings for that stuff)

i’ll probably add more to these later on, so watch out! i’m working on the requests, so watch out for those too!

#trolls band together #trolls 3 #velvet and veneer #velvet trolls #veneer trolls #fanfic #fanfiction #headcanons #funny shit #dumb headcanons #random ass post #lesbian #lgbtq #gay

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eddies-house · 11 months

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Cheese Dust

Bus Driver!Eddie x Teacher!Reader

8.2K Words

A/N - I saw this post and had to do something with it so here it is 🥴 also, somewhat proofread but not fully, lmk what y'all think

Masterlist

High pitched childish screams and laughter filled the hallways decorated in various school projects, some with copious amounts of glitter and others with feathers hanging on by a thread of dried hot glue. The beginning of the school year was always tiresome yet exciting, new groups of personalities filled your classroom abundantly. In the past few weeks you’d identified the students who would give you a difficult time, those who would participate willingly, and those who were shy and would take a minute to come out of their shell. Each one was welcome with open arms in your book, teaching was something you’d wanted to do for the sake of kids who didn’t have such great school experiences. Your mission was to turn that around and make school a place where your students would look forward to coming every day, a safe space where they would never have to fear being judged for not knowing as much as some of their peers. Not having the best luck with teachers and your academic life yourself, it was your priority to at least be the voice of the slightest bit of change. Even if you were the only one trying and every other teacher in the school saw you as weird.

Summer was ending and Fall was on the cusp of taking over, a slight breeze blew in through the metal doors into the building as students rushed out, hurrying home. Your dress would’ve gone up with the breeze had it not been for your hands tugging at the bottom in a quick move to save your dignity. Being known as the teacher that’s flashed everyone would be your nightmare especially since your coworkers already had some kind of disdain for you. Maybe it was because you were younger? All of them were over forty, the majority being older than fifty. Being in your twenties may leave them with a sour taste in their mouth, a side effect of being old and bitter towards the youth of America. The exact problem you were trying to combat as a teacher yourself since all you had experienced throughout school were old as hell teachers who had no patience for children or teens. Why they chose a profession working with them, you’ll never understand.

Keys clutched in between your fingers, you exited through the heavy door, the sudden wind taking your breath away momentarily before you basked in the lovely afternoon sun you had yet to become acquainted with all day, being lodged in your classroom for eight hours save for the fifteen minutes of recess. But even then you were condemned to the shade at the picnic tables near the building to finish grading a few assignments, not being able to enjoy the warmth of the sun against your skin. Eyes squinting at the brightness, you held a hand above your eyebrows to provide your retinas with some relief although your body thanked you for the vitamin D.

It was your first day of bus duty, the rotation was still being figured out the past few weeks but they seemed to have sorted it out which meant it was your turn. Strolling over to the bus loop, giant yellow school buses lined up around it, you stationed yourself toward the very end where no other teachers seemed to be. Three of them were chatting in the middle of the sidewalk, paying no mind to the students sprinting around them to get to their designated bus. Catching a glimpse of you at the end of the loop, they sneered, one of them, an older gentleman with a greasy brown combover peppered with gray, a mustache, and very beady blue eyes obviously gesturing toward you, not ashamed to let you see. Your gaze shifted toward a crack in the pavement, humiliation flushing through your body. You shouldn’t give him the satisfaction, you know, but there’s something so sinister about singling someone out and finding joy in making them feel so small.

Letting a puff of air out of your cheeks, you fumble with your keys in between your fingers, twirling them around while you shuffle your feet back and forth, avoiding the stares of your colleagues. “What the fuck is their problem?” a voice, smooth with a tinge of rasp, speaks. Tilting your head up ever so slightly toward the bus in which the voice originated from, a man with brunette curls, wild and a bit frizzy lazily walks down the bus steps and places himself next to you, eyeing the individuals in which he was referring to. His torso is adorned in some kind of a band shirt underneath a denim vest littered with patches and pins, the back displaying ‘DIO’ from what you can see as he stands beside you. He wears some ripped up black jeans with a chain dangling at his side, finished off with a handcuff belt buckle. In one of his back pockets is a bandana and in the other is what you can assume to be his neon vest that all bus drivers were supposed to be wearing. At his words you only shake your head, staring back at the ground. The mysterious guy points his finger, his hand showing off three chunky rings, pointing at your coworker who had humiliated you seconds ago. “He looks like a perv. He even allowed this close to the school?” The older teacher catches the guy pointing at him, snarling his way, his fellow bullies, two other middle aged women sporting the same disgust. At this you can’t suppress your laugh, your hand coming to cover your mouth to hide your joy.

Kids ignore every adult’s presence as they hurry onto the buses, some running past you at lightning speed, no doubt hoping to score the very back seat that everyone fights over. The man next to you has no shame in calling out the foul behavior of your coworkers. “What’re you lookin’ at porn stache?” he shouts through cupped hands. A playful shove is given by you and you catch a sparkle in his huge brown eyes, forcing you to linger your gaze on them a little longer as the molten chocolate buttons encompass you. You don’t even notice the way ‘porn stache’ clutches his chest in astonishment. “Stop!” you whisper, embarrassed but satisfied. A gentle smirk rests on his pink lips as he turns his attention to you. “What? I call it like I see it.” he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the bus and crossing his ankles. A student approaches the bus, her dress is blue and she sports a high ponytail in her dark hair, scrunchy matching, bangs ruffled from the school day. She looks too old to be in elementary school so you conclude that she must be a middle schooler as Hawkins Middle shared the bus loop with Hawkins Elementary. “Sinclair.” The bus driver’s dimples are on full display as he greets her. Her eyes roll while she begins stepping onto the bus. “I don’t know you at school, remember?” She scolds him. “Yes ma'am.” He puts on a southern drawl, snapping his fingers before pointing at her as she makes her way onto the bus.

You’re in awe of him, he’s so care free and different from everyone else. So effortlessly himself and you don’t even know him. “Listen, if that guy ever gives you a hard time, say the word and I’ll give him something to be embarrassed about.” His chin tilts toward the still chattering teachers. “Them too.” He points out the other two women. You’d never learned their names come to think of it, you were on your own island within the school. “Oh, that’s not necessary.” Waving him off, your fingers toy with a loose thread at the end of your dress. “I’m used to it.” You tell him truthfully. A nod is offered as he contemplates his next words, biting into his lip thoughtfully. “Shouldn’t have to be.” The words are simple yet reasonable. You dodge them anyway. “Sorry, what was your name?” Attempting to change the subject, you remember to pay attention to your surroundings as your sole job was bus duty which entailed making sure students got on the buses safely and no one was left behind. “Eddie” He answers as he checks his watch, the last thing he wanted was to be late. A single pissed off parent and he’d be written up. One write up for him actually meant getting fired due to his reputation.

Your posture straightens, a way to appear more professional and authoritative not just among the students but mainly the other teachers that thought less of you. A girl could try but ultimately your aura was more welcoming than intimidating which only gave them more ammo more often than not. “Are you not going to give me yours?” Eddie asks with a raised brow. Now you were distracted between talking to this random bus driver and trying to prove that your colleagues didn’t get to you. Glancing across the bus loop at them, you give him your name although you’re only halfway involved in the conversation now. “Why do you give them the time of day?” His sudden inquiry catches you off guard, your focus darting to the metal head leaning his weight against the bus, eyes squinting in the sun. Who was this guy? You weren’t sure how to process him, his edgy looks and his attitude were something you’d never been faced with before, coming from another small town yourself.

Hawkins became your new home when the district transferred you a year ago for a higher salary to replace one of their teachers who had retired. You couldn’t refuse since you were basically being paid crumbs at that point. In the past year, you’d never come across him despite the population being so small, it only made you more curious. “Excuse me?” You answer, a hint of offense laced in your tone. This so-called Eddie guy pushes his weight off of the bus and straightens out, lengthy legs stepping closer to you. “I’m just saying, if you stop caring what they think you’ll be untouchable. It’s kinda my thing.” His hand motions in front of him as if presenting himself to you. Opting to ignore his advice, you continue involuntarily keeping your peripherals on the snobby teachers. “Not really an option.” You mumble, pulling at a hangnail anxiously. A scoff escapes Eddie, his tattooed arms coming to cross over his chest again as he stands in your view of the other teachers, forcing you to look into his large coffee colored eyes. “It’s the only option. Otherwise you’ll go insane. Trust me, I would know.” There’s a detection of sympathy within his features, eyebrows slightly knitting together and a barely there frown.

The hint of confusion on your face indicates to him that you have no idea who he is or what his status among the Hawkins social ladder is. And he doesn’t have the faintest concept of yours either though if he were to gauge it off of your physical appearance he would conclude that you had a doting husband at home, were more than likely settled in Loch Nora with a nice two story home and a pristine lawn, belonged to the local country club, and all in all, were too good to even be talking to him. In fact, he couldn’t comprehend why you hadn’t told him off yet until your features communicated to him that you were oblivious to the hierarchy that plagued Hawkins. Before you can provide a response he’s piping up again. “How long have you been in Hawkins? If you don’t mind me asking.” He asks the question as if he’s trying to put a puzzle together. Looking him up and down, you decide that you don’t want to give up the information seeing as you’d just met the guy and there was no way to know of his intentions. “I’m sorry, why is that any of your business?” Your tone is standoffish. Buses began to let off that puff of air you hear when you know they’re about to leave, Eddie glancing around as he steps closer to his bus. Shaking his head, curls dancing along with the motion, he apologizes. “No-I-I didn’t. I’m sorry, it's just—I’ve never seen you before and you don’t seem to know–who I am?” He ends his sentence with a sigh, eyes closing in defeat. Now he just sounds like an asshole, berating you because you don’t know him but the truth behind it is the exact opposite of what it looks like and what you think. Eyes widening at him as if to say how dare you?, you begin taking a few steps back. “Oh, did I miss the memo or something? I’m sorry, I must have skipped over you on the brochure.” You sarcastically chide. He’s frantically waving his hands in front of him, face burning bright red as he tries to undo the interaction. “No, no, no. That’s not what I mean!” Eyes bulging out of his skull, he glances behind him into the bus then to his watch. “Fuck!” He whispers under his breath. “Okay–I really need to get these kids home but–” Looking less than impressed, you cut him off mid sentence. “Uh huh. You don’t need to make an excuse, just go.” You offer through clenched teeth. With one last groan, he rushes up the bus steps, boots stomping behind him as he quickly shuts the door. Through the open bus windows you hear him shout “Alright, sit the hell down or you might end up in the windshield!” If you had any friends, there was no way to rationally explain what just occurred to them.

–

Your work life and home life remained the same, bland. It was hard to make friends in your twenties as a teacher in a town that was densely populated with older folks. When you did attempt to go out and meet people your age, they really paid you no mind, already set in their ways with no incentive for a change. Lonely was the best way to describe how you felt. Neglected by those around you who you’d attempted to at least mingle with but no one would bite. It was a tedious game of trying to appear more confident than you were at work and appearing nonchalant outside of work in hopes to attract some friends. A hopeless back and forth that left you starving for attention, the kind of attention that was gratifying and that went both ways.

Your students were of course the light of your life and each one of them brought an undeniable warmth into the shadows of your existence. There was only so much that could provide to you though, they were all eleven and it probably wasn’t healthy to have the only positive attention in your life come from kids. Kids that weren’t even yours nonetheless. They loved you, absolutely loved you. Each morning a majority of them would squeeze you in a hug or at least ask for a high five. It was fulfilling to know that at least your mission in making the school system the tiniest bit better was playing out. The class was always excited to come in and learn, something that should automatically just be a given but unfortunately wasn’t in the grand scheme of things since the entire system was broken. At least you could sleep peacefully with the knowledge that your students appreciated you the same way you appreciate them.

As the next week came to an end, you were elected for bus duty again, clutching your keys in your palm as always and leisurely making your way out to the front of the school. The kids were extra excited since you’d begun a unit on plants and organisms. They each got to take home a clay pot with a seed they planted and watered in class. Over the weekend they were instructed to leave it in sunlight and talk to it about anything under the sun so that it would have encouragement to grow. You’d let them know that plants that had a friend to talk to were more likely to grow bigger and stronger than plants that had no one at all. When little Samantha asked if she could decorate her pot, you were elated and urged the rest of your class to also do something creative and told them that you would all do a little showcase on Monday. Now each of your students were quickly but carefully making their way out of the front of the school while carrying their soon to be plants, huge grins plastered on their faces.

Heading toward your selected spot for bus duty, away from the rest of the grumpy teachers, you stood alone and took in each child that passed. Each had an insane amount of energy, a buzz from the idea of the weekend just starting. You’d come to learn that the older teacher just across the way from you, ‘porn stache’ was actually named Mr. Wilson at a recent staff meeting. His reputation among students was less than satisfactory, they even go as far as saying he’s the worst teacher in the entire school. The other two women you were still unsure of but you figured you’d get an impression sooner than later. You would think that since you’ve worked at the school since last year, you would have been enlightened, however you remember how hostile the environment is and it makes sense.

Bus number eighty six pulls up in front of you, the exhaust letting out air as it breaks. A couple of students waiting nearby eagerly now stand in front of the bus door before it opens. Once it does, they’re racing to the back of the bus, screeching at each other and shoving one another playfully. Down the steps, clunky black combat boots step one at a time before big doe eyes meet your gaze. You’d forgotten that his bus would probably occupy the same parking space next to the curb so really it was your fault that you were met with him again. As his eyes land on you, he’s retreating back into the bus and slumping into his driver seat once again. Avoidance. Who were you to care though? The guy had some kind of an ego, saying you didn’t know who he was. Who did he even think he was? Some kind of king of Hawkins? You’d never even heard of him a day in your life and he was a bus driver for crying out loud. Not that there was anything wrong with the job but there was no need for him to be on his high horse.

The sudden chirp of one of your students, Jill, caught your attention as she ran up to you with a few of her friends, one being from your class, a boy named Harry and the other kids you didn’t recognize which meant they were from another class. She explained to you how excited she was for the new unit on plants, her own pot held in between her small hands. Jill goes on and on telling you about how no other teacher has ever done something like this, at least in all the years leading up to fifth grade. Harry chimes in to say that he can’t wait to come into class on Monday to see how everyone decorates their own pots. Your heart feels gooey, the fact that your students are comfortable with telling you that they’re actually looking forward to coming back to school is the biggest reward in your eyes. The way they banter and joke with you has the other teachers scowling your way, Mr. Wilson included. Instead of paying any mind to them, you continue to focus all of your energy on your students as they so deserve. You learn about Jill’s new puppy her dad surprised her with and you request that she brings in a picture as soon as she’s able to, enthusiasm dripping from your voice. Another student that isn’t in your class speaks up saying “I wish you were my teacher!” with a whine. At this you offer a small smile. “Well, I’m sure your teacher is just amazing!” You respond graciously. They all grumble in disagreement.

From his driver’s seat, taking in the scene of you on the sidewalk with your students, Eddie can’t fight the slightest upturn of his lips while you interact with them so sweetly. At the moment he only wishes he had someone like you when he was that age. Instead he was always met with harsh threats of being kicked out and sent to juvie for things that weren’t even worth that kind of punishment. His teachers couldn’t give less of a shit about him, he even believed they would hold him back just to cause him embarrassment and not cause he failed his classes. If that were the case, summer school should’ve been offered to him to up his grades but it never was. When his Uncle asked about summer school being an option for him back in middle school, the school administration simply told him they were full.

Eddie hated teachers with every fiber of his being and he had reason to, each one he ever had was always ready to set him up for failure and kick him to the curb. He was only a kid and the adults who were in charge of teaching him and helping him only caused more mental abuse in addition to the physical and emotional abuse he experienced at home before moving in with his Uncle. But he got over it and it made him hopeful that you seemed to treat the kids well and indulge in their child-like behaviors rather than disciplining them every time they raised their voice a bit higher than necessary. You seemed genuine in your facial expressions and the way you would make sure each child received equal attention from you as they put their two cents into the conversation.

Your smile faded as a fed up Mr. Wilson approached you and the students, his face feigning irritability as he cleared his throat, breaking up the fun you were having. The way you shrunk down on yourself had Eddie leaning forward in his seat to catch every detail of the dispute he knew was about to happen. Mr. Wilson addressed you by your name sternly before completing his thought. “You must know that our students need to get home in a timely manner, we can’t have you holding them up with all the chit chat.” The condescending voice of an older out of touch man has you internally cringing. He talked to you as if you were stupid, as if you were some little girl he didn’t deem worthy of his time and that he could simply get rid of with a snap of his fingers. Your students scurry off, frightened and you scold yourself for stuttering in your response. “M-Mr. Wilson we have plenty of time still. Bus duty doesn’t end until everyone is on the buses and as you can see, we still have a lot of kids left.” You point out the groups of students still littering the front of the school. “And it’s Friday. They’re just excited and I think it’s my job as their teacher to let them express that!” You defend yourself, voice still somewhat shaky which you could just kick yourself for but nonetheless you are standing your ground. A scoff is earned from the old man before he begins reprimanding you again. “I think it’d be wise for you to listen to those with more experience than you. As a man, I think it's my job to keep our ladies in line.” He spits, the words hitting you in the face. Eddie, still watching from his spot, determines whether he should step in or not. On one hand he could tell the guy off however he feels that would go against the whole point since he would also be a man stepping in. On another hand, gender doesn’t even matter, he’s always had it out for that motherfucker from the day he confronted him about not wearing his neon vest and expressed his distaste for his tattoos while also bringing up that he was living up to that Munson name. He should’ve punched him right there but thought better of it seeing as it would only add to the things people could say about him.

Formulating a reply in your mind, you attempt to physically appear unbothered even though emotionally you could never understand the thought process of a man under the influence of a power trip. “I think it's none of your business what I do, personally, Mr. Wilson. Have a great weekend.” You dismiss him as he would you, turning to face the buses in front of you and pretending he no longer existed. An attempt is made by him to pursue the argument however you ignore him and start slowly pacing around as if on patrol while waving to a few students. He gives up, staring at you like you had just murdered his family and then eventually making his way back to his clique of older teachers.

For a brief second you glance over to ensure he’s gone when a smirk appears on your face at your small victory. That’s when a familiar voice graces your ears. “That was metal as fuck.” Eddie. He’s no longer afraid to step out of his bus, maneuvering around a student he nearly ran over accidentally before moving aside and bowing as he gestures to the door dramatically for them to enter. Standing in front of you, he has a grin on his face. You shrug at his praise, offering no words. “No, seriously. Next time you shouldn’t hold back, just fully let ‘em have it.” A slight joke to lighten the mood as he punches the air with his fist but he means it. You breathe out a laugh as you stare at the weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk. “If I don’t hold back he could probably get me fired. I bet he’s even trying to find a way to have me fired for what I just said to him but it won’t really hold up since I was nice.” A frown makes its way across his soft features, his boot crunching a pebble beneath it as he thinks. “Welp. I’m in your corner. Don’t know how much good that’ll do you but I’ve hated that motherfucker since the day I met him.” He flashes you a smile while blinking his dark lashes at you. You hum in appreciation. “Even though I don’t know who you are?” You mock his words from last week, trying to hide the smile that's tugging at your lips. A look of sadness emerges on his face before being buried again by his charisma. “Sweetheart…” The word rolls off his tongue so effortlessly and before you can even protest the nickname he’s further explaining his stance. “I didn’t ask if you knew who I was because I’m some cocky asshole with a god complex. It’s quite the opposite actually.” He lets the anticipation build while you raise a brow for him to continue, him pacing around the sidewalk in a joking manner, almost like he had to go to the bathroom. “I’m the town satanist, didn’t you hear?” Now flashing jazz hands at you, his composure somewhat gives away a weakness. Amusement paints your expression and a laugh escapes your lungs, he couldn’t be serious. And he wasn’t as he began to go into a few details to aid in your confusion. “At least, that’s what they’re all so sure of.” His bitter tone gives you some insight on the situation as he shrugs. “I’m not. But because I look like me, talk like me, y’know…they just assume shit. Cause I play DND, they think I’m a cult leader.” Eddie fidgets with his rings but keeps his tone lighter as if this didn’t bother him. Shock takes over as you listen to him, your jaw drops. “And I probably just scared you, so I’ll just be on my bus.” He uses his thumb to point behind him while sticking his other hand in his back pocket that was stuffed with his neon vest. “No!” You’re surprised at your involuntary reaction but he stops short of the bus door and waits, arm braced on the frame. “I-I’m not scared. I just…wow. Those are the stupidest reasons to start a rumor like that.” You offer a sympathetic smile and he gladly takes it. “Honestly, I just use it to my advantage. People don’t mess with you if they’re scared of you. Has its perks.” An optimistic viewpoint on such a fucked up situation but it only draws you to him more. The last students saunter up to the bus and Eddie checks the time as he backs up onto the first step. “I gotta go.” Voice now soft, maybe even timid? His face reflects a tenderness and his irises hold some kind of promise in them. Nodding, you wave gently and with that he’s off with a final wave and a genuine smile that you hadn’t seen on him yet. It was enchanting.

–

Eddie the bus driver tampered with your mind all weekend and suddenly you were more than happy to take over bus duty if any of the other teachers requested. His gentle nature packaged in a rugged demeanor lured you in, the thoughts about him just kept manifesting in your mind–his deep dimpled grin, crazy curls, tattoos that now that you think about it made him that much more attractive, and of course those eyes–ugh those eyes would be the death of you if you ever had to look into them again. Which you were planning to do of course which meant you were plotting your own demise. Deep molasses pools that warmed you from the inside out, they were as addicting as the soda fountain at the gas station down the street from your house that you stopped at every day after work. They even replicated the syrupy cola color and you felt as though you could become hooked if you weren’t careful. So chocolatey almost like brownie batter that you couldn’t resist dipping your finger into, so sweet and so fulfilling. Even in the sun they were this deep, rich, cocoa brown that you’d never had the pleasure of seeing before you met him.

The scraping of a metal chair against the tiled floor of the teacher’s lounge snapped you out of your visions. Suddenly you were faced with the reality of your now cold leftover pasta staining your tupperware container as it sat atop the wooden table, a few teachers chattering while some headed off to catch up on some grading. What you would give to just continue drowning in those eyes rather than sitting in a room with a bunch of older adults.

Around two weeks later you still hadn’t ended up with bus duty, much to your disappointment. You were growing impatient, the only thing you were looking forward to was those big brown eyes and the charming man who possessed them. On the bright side, your students’ plants had just begun to sprout which left them overjoyed. Each individualized pot held in it a tiny sprout, a new little life that they were responsible for. It only pushed them to want to learn more and the way you taught it definitely helped ease a lot of the more boring aspects of the lesson.

A week later, you were finally approached with taking over bus duty for one of the other teachers who needed to take off early to pick up their own child who had gotten sick. Although you wouldn’t wish sickness upon anyone, you were ecstatic to hear that you’d been assigned to take over, trying to hide the upturn of your lips.

Once 3:15PM rolled around and the bell rang, your students threw their backpacks over their shoulders and bolted out the door, shouting a goodbye to you as you yelled back at them to walk while laughing at their antics. Giddiness fills your bloodstream on the way to the bus loop and your hands get shaky with anticipation. He shouldn’t have this much power over you however you feel that he’s probably the only guy in Hawkins you’d met that you would allow that power to. Something about your previous interaction with him had you yearning.

Reaching your selected spot, you wait patiently for bus eighty six to pull up. And when it does, the muffled riff of some metal song is blasting, growing even louder once the door opens. The music stills as he saunters off the bus in his typical uniform of a band shirt, denim vest, and ripped up black jeans. As his eyes meet yours while he steps onto the sidewalk, a little grin adorns his face, dimples on full display for you. “Hey, you haven’t been around for a while.” he mentions, fighting to get the door all the way open as it was beginning to close on its own halfway, slamming his bodyweight into it which seems to do the trick. “I’ve got my own things to do.” You banter with him, a hand on your hip. He fakes offense as he brings a hand up to his chest with a gasp. “Things other than babysitting the bus drivers?” His eyes crinkle at the corner in the cutest way. “I’m shocked.” He says in monotone before you both erupt in a fit of giggles. “I see you got the radio on full volume today.” You tease, referring to the booming music from earlier. “Oh yeah, I had to tinker with it but I finally figured it out. Really sick setup, it’s a pair of pliers holding the wires together.” He shoves both hands in his back pockets, something you’re starting to pick up on as a nervous habit. “Don’t tell anyone.” He whispers playfully with a hand covering one side of his mouth to shield from the other teachers. You laugh while staring at him in wonder. Stepping closer to you, just inches away, he raises his eyebrows while lowering his voice. “No seriously, I could probably get into a lot of trouble if you rat me out. They’ll be too stupid to figure out exactly what I did but y’know as a satanist and all…they’ll pin somethin’ on me.” You can’t help the cackle that escapes you, the ugliest sound you could’ve let out. It only makes him put on bigger dimples for you. “I’m sorry, I know you’re serious. It’s just so ridiculous.” You tell him through breathy laughs. He nods his head in agreement and chuckles along. This is the closest he’s ever stood to you and you’re now noticing the spice of his cologne and the scent of tobacco which strangely comforts you. “I am serious, but it is funny. I’ll know if you rat me out though.” He warns, his face adorably stern. “What? The teacher that no one talks to is gonna rat out the only person that actually will?” You give him a blank stare as he clicks his tongue. “Okay, that’s fair.” He decides. The two of you are still going back and forth, deep smiles embedded into your features as if no one else existed when the party comes to an end.

Mr. Wilson abruptly ends the conversation you and Eddie had been engaged in by clearing his throat in that annoying way he does. “Munson, I see you’re not wearing your vest again.” He talks down to him. Eddie’s eyes roll into the back of his skull, not at all hiding it from the man. “I can assure you, it’s right here.” He slightly turns and points to his back pocket where the bright vest is hanging. “Well I would think you’d be wearing it where everyone could see that you’re in fact a bus driver and definitely not some predator.” Mr. Wilson’s words are laced with venom, you can pick up on the vendetta he has against Eddie–he certainly doesn’t care about the vest, he’s just using it to pick a fight. “Listen, man–” Before Eddie can continue, you step in. “--Mr. Wilson I don’t know if I would be talking when you’re the one dress coding all these girls every single day. Are you purposely looking?” Eddie is taken back by your forwardness but also he can’t help the smirk as he takes in Mr. Wilson’s reaction. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, stunned. You await an answer patiently but nothing comes as Mr. Wilson scurries away like a frightened cat. It seemed he wasn’t able to handle when others would throw his own flaws back in his face. “Well, fuck.” Eddie sounds impressed, watching the man hurry into the building.

–

Over the course of a month you and Eddie continued to have harmless conversations that would sometimes leave you flustered, he was just so handsome and he was by far the funniest guy you’d met. You clicked with him, something you’d never experienced before, there was an undeniable chemistry. Even some of your students would make kissy faces behind Eddie as you talked with him, causing a rush of blood to heat your face.

On a Tuesday in late October, you had been filling in your grade book after school, working at your desk in the front corner of the classroom with most of the lights off to ease your eyes. The room was starting to fill out nicely with many projects you and your students had done throughout the last few months. Their plants had grown significantly and sprouted some leaves. Each one made its home on the shelf toward the back window of the room and every weekend students were free to take theirs home. They even had names, a piece of masking tape stuck to the front of every pot with them written in everyone’s handwriting.

Your train of thought was interrupted while you jotted down some notes to assist a student with a subject they were struggling in. A figure at the door had you glancing up only to be met with disappointment as you realized it was one of the teachers that would always gossip about you. You’d never heard what they said but you were smart enough to understand that looking in your direction and pointing every so often definitely meant you were the main subject. Her blonde hair was cut in a bob and she wore red rimmed glasses, perched at the edge of her nose. The dress she wore was covered in these ugly flowers that looked like puke. She had to be around sixty. You didn’t even know her name but you had the slightest inclination that she was going to tell you. Sure enough as she greeted you, she introduced herself as Mrs. Perry, another standard name. Making the air uncomfortable, she sat herself on top of the corner of your desk like she owned it. “I wanted to talk to you about something that myself and the other teachers have noticed.” She announces. All you wanted to do was roll your eyes but you refrained. This was about to turn into some kind of lecture about how you did your job wrong in their eyes. This conversation had happened before only with another teacher named Mrs. Dennis, who seemed fairly friendly at first but really just proved that she was like everyone else by letting you know that your ways of teaching were too progressive for their school.

You acknowledged Mrs. Perry with a hum for her to continue, signaling that you were listening to whatever nonsense she was about to bless you with. Her lipstick was way too bright for her complexion, that you could see even in the dim lighting of the room. “We were all worried…” she trails off vaguely. “Worried about what?” You ask, now a smidge curious. They were never worried, they were always at most concerned. Usually with your teaching techniques. “Well you see, we’ve noticed that Munson boy has been bothering you at bus duty. Now I know you probably were too afraid to say anything but—"”—Excuse me?” You cut in, a tone containing bitterness. “Dear, we all know who he is, what he’s done. You know he’s a cult leader, don’t you?” She looks at you with sympathy, as if to tell you that’s okay, little girl, you didn’t know any better. It made you want to absolutely vomit. You’re unable to grasp onto any words, a heavy and shaky sigh leaving you. “He listens to all that satanic music too, god what awful noise. It must’ve been terrifying having to face him all this time, you need to be careful. He might try to exploit you, if you understand what I’m trying to say…” “Okay, enough! You know what I don’t understand? I don’t understand how you people get to go off and judge anyone who is even the slightest bit different than you! You do it to him and you do it to me! And you wanna know something? Eddie is a hundred times the man than all the lowlife ones that work in this very school! Do you know that every one of them cheats on their wife or has some kind of a creepy problem with staring?” Your rant temporarily ends and she begins chiming in again. “I’m assuming you don’t know about his criminal background. How he’s an accomplice to his dad’s life of crime? He’s just like him and you’re going to end up like his mother if you don’t get out now.” Her voice is full of malice, trying to shred any sliver of purity you saw in Eddie.

You have no knowledge of Eddie’s past but based on your experience with the people of Hawkins, you had no intention of listening to any of the things they said about him. “I’m sorry, I can’t listen to any more of this. You people really don’t know how to mind your own business. Have you personally ever talked with Eddie?” You ask with a fire in your eyes. The woman is rendered speechless for a moment and then speaks back up. “No, but—“ “—No, nothing.” You finish, slamming your grade book shut and shoving it into your bag, heading for the door and gesturing for Mrs. Perry to exit your classroom so you can lock up. She attempts to reason with you some more but you won’t have it, holding a hand up in front of you to stop her as you storm down the hallway. Eddie Munson was the sweetest man you’d ever come across and you’d be damned if you were going to let everyone talk so lowly of him solely because of rumors and a bunch of hearsay.

—

The next time you have bus duty it comes up in conversation that Mrs. Perry tried to sway you away from him and advised that you get out while you can. “No fucking way.” Eddie has an amused smile plastered on his face as he munches on a bag of chips you’d grabbed from the vending machine. Nacho Cheese Doritos, his favorite. “Yeah, she just kept saying things. Was calling you a criminal, and even if it’s true it’s none of her business!” He can’t help but feel his heart swell three times the size his chest is capable of holding. Even if he were a criminal, you would still talk to him. That’s what he heard. While the rest of the population avoided him like the plague, you flocked to him willingly even if you weren’t sure whether it was true or not. You were giving him a fighting chance and that’s all he could ever ask of anyone ever, a luxury he never really was granted. “And then she said I’m gonna end up like your mom and that your dad—“ Immediately you stop talking as his breath hitches, his Doritos falling to the ground and his eyes void of emotion while he seems to be in another realm.

You're left without a clue as to what to do as he completely checks out of reality. “Eddie?” You softly whisper. “Eddie? Did I—I’m sorry if I said something I shouldn’t have, I was just going on and on and—“ “Don’t be.” Suddenly he’s back with you, grabbing his chips from the ground and crumpling the remaining snack in his hands, the foil bag crinkling loudly. “People uh, people like to—bring up my mom. My dad. They like to compare me to him.” His composure wavers for a second as he squeezes the noisy bag in his fist. He regains it and straightens himself out, looking directly into your eyes intently. “I don’t wanna get into it but, I’m not like him. Never will be. If you wanna stop talking I get it.” Your heart shatters as he lets a slice of vulnerability shine through. How could he think that because of one thing a woman said to you that she didn’t even have the slightest idea about, that it would send you running? Maybe other people had done so before you? If that was the case you wanted to personally ruin their lives and avenge whatever broken parts of Eddie’s soul they left behind in pieces. “Eddie, why would I want that?” You question sincerely.

You catch a panicked shift in his eyes as they move from left to right, he’s unsure of where to go from here. “If I like you I’m not going to stop talking to you because these people can’t handle anything other than their set in stone suburban lifestyle.” Your voice is gentle and you even venture to step closer to him, just barely grazing your fingertips against his only to realize his fingers were still dusted with nacho cheese. “Your fingers are still dusty.” You joke in a voice quiet enough only the two of you can hear. At this he cracks a smile, pulling one of his curls over his face in a bashful manner. “You like me?” He asks with rosy cheeks however his tone is teasing. “Mhm.” You hum back with a bite to your lip and a nod. “How much are we talkin’? Cause if I ask you out right now and make a complete dick of myself I’ll never recover.” He’s still twisting one of his curls around his finger, his opposite arm tucked under his bicep in a shy stance. A step closer to him and you’re breathing in each other's air. The kids around the bus loop are all too occupied in getting home to notice the flirtation happening among them which you were thankful for. “If you don’t ask me out, I may never recover either.” You eye his entire face, taking in the way his lashes dust over his cheeks while he gazes down at you, the hint of stubble threatening to break through his skin, and his pillowy pink lips that you’d hope to taste one day soon. “Are you busy Friday night?” He asks, bringing the hand that wasn’t layered in cheese dust to brush against your knuckles. Or so he thought. “Eddie!” You scoff, cringing at the gritty texture against your skin. “Sorry, sorry. Let me try again.” He holds his contaminated hand behind his back while allowing his other to brush his thumb over yours. “Will you go out with me Friday night? No Doritos, I promise.” He crosses his fingers in front of his face with a boyish smile. “Although you’re the one who gave them to me—“ “Eddie!” “Sorry, moment ruined again. Let’s go from the top.” He takes a deep breath but before he knows it, you press a kiss to his heated cheek, smiling up at him with a shy grin and your hands clasped in front of you, swaying from side to side as if this were a movie. He was really starting to think he was, there’s no way you were real. “Pick me up at seven?” You bat your lashes at him and he swears he could die happy then and there. “Yeah.” He whispers like it’s a secret among the two of you. “Wanna kiss you so bad right now.” He says hushed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I think they’d tack on a sex offender charge though if I tried since we're in front of a school so you’ll have to wait.” He smirks jokingly, you laughing with him. A series of woops and yells are heard from Eddie’s bus, a few of your students and some others not in your class cheering you both on, leaving you a flustered mess as Eddie just waves at them, nacho dust still coating his fingertips.

Quickly before he has to leave, you pull out a pen from your pocket where you’d always kept one just in case during school hours, jotting your number on his inner arm. “Call me.” You tell him with a close mouthed smile, attempting to contain all of your happiness. “You know I will, sweetness.” He purrs, offering you a scrunched up nose with a grin.

~end~

Masterlist

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #bus driver!eddie #teacher!reader

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silver-ink-iron-words · 1 year

Text

Hey there, my hiatus is over

I realize I promised to have this up a couple weeks ago, but hey at least I'm here now

Hope you all like it. And thank you so much for these messages, they really helped motivate me in the periods where I was struggling to write

----

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

A Bird in the Hand, Part 8

The civilian hobbled about the kitchen in full view of the windows, collecting cardamoms, cloves, tea leaves, ginger – before dumping them into the pot to brew. The sight was peaceful, soothing, domestic.

The assassin raised his gun and took aim.

“[Civilian]!” The villain burst into the room grinning from ear to ear. The assassin’s aim swerved, and he halted his momentum just before firing the gun.

“Welcome home, darling,” the civilian said, holding out a cup of tea for the villain.

The villain took the cup and placed it on the counter, instead taking the civilian into their arms. “God it’s been a day. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of seeing you.”

The assassin paused. The villain wasn’t supposed to be home yet. He’d lost his clean line of sight on the civilian.

The villain was too strong to kill – their shadows healed them at lightning speed. But targeting the civilian? What a perfect way to strike the Achilles Heel of the villain’s entire operation.

The assassin tilted his head, and watched the pair. The villain held the civilian securely, the two of them practically melting into each other. The civilian sang softly, and they both floated as a single unit in the gentle river of a melody.

The assassin once again had a clear shot on the civilian. He considered taking it despite the risk, just on the mere principle of seeing two people so happily in love while his home city burned.

But he paused. He thought he’d caught a detail, a little movement. And while it was possible he was projecting, years of bitter work in this business had taught him to trust his instincts.

When the villain first walked through the door, the assassin could’ve sworn he saw the civilian flinch.

---

“What are you getting out of this?” the assassin asked.

To the civilian’s credit, they didn’t scream. The assassin could see them tense, coiled and ready for a mad dash back to the house. But at least they didn’t scream.

The assassin jumped down from the tree, close enough to be a threat to the civilian but far enough still to remain out of the sight of any henchmen. He noted the civilian’s muddy gloves, their kneeling posture, the tall yellow flowers they’d been carefully pruning piled next to them in the grass.

“Like to garden?” the assassin said.

“Who are you?”

The assassin was disappointed, a little bit. His targets – the ones he actually spoke to – always asked the mundane questions. They were never perceptive enough to understand that all the “why”s and “how”s and “where did you come from”s would go unanswered. He’d sort of hoped that someone like the civilian would be different.

“I’m someone with an interest in saving lives,” he said “Now, since I like you, I'll ask again. What are you getting out of this?”

Evidently, the civilian was the expressive type. Their eyes flicked to their trowel, then the surrounding gardens, and lastly to the house some hundred meters away, never realizing how each movement of their retinas projected their thoughts to the assassin.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” they said finally.

The assassin leaned against the tree. It was a deceptive stance in which he looked relaxed and unthreatening, but could spring into action at a hair-breadth’s notice.

“One day, [Hero] is at the top of their game," he began. "The next day, main street is nothing but craters. And then some two-bit villain that no one remembers suddenly becomes god of the city." He crouched down to meet the civilian’s gaze. "Makes you wonder if there isn't a puppeteer somewhere, holding strings."

The civilian blinked. “Did you come up with that on your own, or is that the commonly held belief about me?"

“Are you saying you didn’t shack up with [Villain] willfully?”

The look of revulsion that crossed the civilian’s face said it all. The assassin’s grin widened. He loved being proven right.

“Okay.” He stood up, dusting off his pants, and held his hand out to the civilian. “Let’s go.”

The civilian glanced between the assassin’s hand and his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Didn’t you hear my bit about saving lives?” He reached for the civilian, but they lurched away.

“Listen,” the civilian said. They slowly rose, their bad leg making it awkward. “You do not understand what is going on here. If I disappear, [Villain] will look for me.”

“Most villains do,” the assassin agreed. “Feels nice to be wanted, don’t it?” He took a careful step towards the civilian, but again they moved back.

“You’re not listening. [Villain] will kill you.”

The assassin shrugged. He leaned forward a tiny bit more.

“Help!” the civilian yelled. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, both equally surprised by the civilian's outburst. The civilian took in a breath. Then, louder, “Help please!”

The assassin was gone long before the guards even entered the gardens.

---

The civilian was a decent actor. The assassin had to give them that.

The couple went about their evening routine like usual – a warm welcome home, dinner, an after-meal tea, and then finally cuddling. The villain’s head rested on the civilian’s chest and the civilian read a paperback, all while Sinatra played on an old record in the other room. The assassin might have even bought it, if the civilian had turned the page of their book once within the last forty-five minutes.

“I would like to discuss something,” the villain said, their eyes still closed.

The civilian’s expression twinged. “Hm?”

The villain opened their eyes, and adjusted so that they were looking the civilian in the face. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Of course.”

“And do you love me too?”

“Of course.”

The villain smiled, and that almost seemed like it would be the end of it. But then their hand went to the civilian’s jaw, shadows emanating from their fingertips. “So then why did my henchmen see you talking with a stranger in the gardens this afternoon?”

The civilian’s eyes widened. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, I know what it is.” The villain’s shadows warped out like talons, and the civilian jerked back in pain.

“I don’t know who that person was. I wasn’t trying to leave.” The civilian’s voice was strained. “I love you too much to ever do that.”

“My dear, if only I could believe you.” The villain held the civilian down in their writhing. They leaned in until their faces were nearly touching. “What will you do to prove you are willing to stay?”

“Whatever you want. I – ” The shadows entered the civilian’s throat, choking them and cutting off their words. Tears sprang to the civilian’s eyes.

“Come now, love.” The villain lifted the civilian in their arms. “I need to show you what happens when you let your affections stray.”

And then, just before the villain reached the door, they stumbled. The movement was awkward and wobbly – one moment they were striding confidently across the room and the next their knees were on the ground. The civilian dropped to the floor with a yelp.

The villain grasped their head as though in pain. All their shadows had evaporated. "What? . . ."

“Holy fuck,” the civilian said, scrambling backwards. “Holy fuck it worked.”

The villain jerked their gaze up. “What did you do?”

The civilian burst out laughing.

"[Civilian]!" The villain tried to move forward but swooned, only just catching themself with their arms outstretched.

“Angel’s trumpet,” the civilian said, struggling to get their laughter under control. Their wild eyes went to the empty mugs on the table. “Brugmansia candida. Symptoms include difficulty with speech, delirium –” their gaze slid back to the villain, “– and paralysis. I’ve been told it also makes for a rather delicious tea.”

The assassin’s memory flashed to the tall yellow flowers the civilian had been pruning.

“You – ” The villain tried to stand up, but collapsed down again on their knees. “I’m going to kill you.”

“I doubt it.” The civilian rose from the floor wearing a triumphant grin, and limped to the opposite wall. “You never seemed quite unhinged enough to destroy your own power source.” They opened a closet door and pulled out a backpack.

"What are you doing?" the villain asked, their voice hitched in fear.

"Leaving, of course." The civilian went to the kitchen cabinets and threw in supplies. They returned and slung the bag over their shoulders. "As much as I want to stick around and see if I brewed enough to kill you, I best get going. I'll say one thing though." They leaned down and grabbed the villain's chin. "You repulse me, [Villain]. And I never once loved you."

"I will find you." The villain's limbs began shaking as they watched the civilian move away. "It will take mere weeks. Days, even! I don't care how much of this city I have to destroy."

The civilian's footsteps paused.

The villain's words quickened, growing eager. "That's right, [Civilian]. I will ruin this city. Stay here and you save countless lives. Mothers, children, innocent people who –"

The civilian strode back and kicked the villain in the chest. "You try anything like that, and I'm killing myself."

The assassin watched with growing respect as the civilian limped out the front door, the villain screaming their name all along the way.

-----

Taglist:

@d-cs , @asrasmysoulmate

#civilian x villain #villain x civilian #villain #hero #villains and heroes #heroes and villains #whump snippet #whumpblr #whump drabble #whump writing #writeblr #writing snippet #captivity #before any botany peeps come for me #I know this is a mischaracterization of the symptoms of angel's trumpet #but creative liberties and whatnot #seriously though don't fuck with angel's trumpet unless you want to visit the hospital #not a prompt

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