#burroughs x reader

[frickingnerd]

all the feelings that we hide

pairing: seth burroughs x gn!reader

summary: seth can't quite get out the words to confess to you, but luckily you already know what he wants to tell you

seth had rehearsed what he wanted to tell you, but the moment he laid eyes on you, all the words just disappeared from his mind. talking to people had always been hard for him, but talking to you was even harder. with no megaphone or peacekeepers in sight, he felt so vulnerable. too vulnerable to finally say those three little words he had been meaning to tell you for months now. 

"seth…?"

his head shot up and he looked at you. 

"you don't have to say anything if you aren't comfortable…"

you assured him with such a warm smile, that seth got even more nervous. how could he ever relax around you when you were just so damn perfect? 

"i– i'm not sure what you are talking about…"

he tried to play dumb, but he couldn't fool you. not when you knew him so well. better than he knew himself. 

"i don't need you to say it out loud, seth. your eyes show me how you feel. they tell me anything your mouth can't say out loud…"

you gently reached out your hand, cupping seth's cheeks and looking him deep in the eyes. seth couldn't help but melt as you touched his cheek, softly leaning into your touch. and he couldn't take his eyes off you either. his eyes, brimming with affection for you. 

"i love you too, seth~"

#seth burroughs x reader #seth burroughs #seth x reader #burroughs x reader #seth #burroughs #x reader #master detective archives raincode #master detective archives rain code #master detective archives #master detective archives: rain code #master detective archives: raincode #master detective archives x reader #peacekeepers #fluff #oneshot #drabble #confession #confessing #x you #x y/n #x gn reader #mdarc #mdarc x reader #rain code

[sdr2lovemail]

Sometimes I hate having side characters as my favorites. I know I’m never seeing him again, especially because he’s like in jail now or dead. I’ll miss him forever. In mourning, I bought the only piece of merch he has, an acrylic stand. I will now go write self insert/x reader fanfiction to fill the Seth Burroughs shaped hole in my heart.

#mod vamp speaks #rain code #liveblogging #seth burroughs #rain code x reader

[judgementdaysunshine]

Michelle Burroughs Masterlist

In progress

#michelle burroughs #dazed and confused x reader #michelle burroughs x reader #dazed and confused

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet. 

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself. 

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette. 

But she does have your book. 

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls. 

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–… 

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you. 

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath. 

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything. 

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips. 

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth. 

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum. 

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table. 

Up until the end. 

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that. 

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does. 

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference. 

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat. 

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.” 

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.” 

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting. 

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed. 

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated. 

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain. 

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat. 

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad. 

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again. 

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend. 

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid. 

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him. 

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?” 

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows! 

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again. 

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little… 

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow. 

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention. 

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.” 

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly. 

“I always finish,” he tells you. 

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases. 

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language. 

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him. 

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book. 

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him. 

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.” 

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store. 

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment. 

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip. 

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching. 

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym. 

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face. 

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask. 

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug. 

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good. 

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–” 

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair. 

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been! 

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?” 

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.” 

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting. 

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major. 

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session. 

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had. 

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance. 

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?” 

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned. 

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through. 

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.” 

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all. 

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson. 

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable. 

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself. 

You need me, kid, you come and find me. 

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing. 

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign. 

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever. 

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him. 

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on. 

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little. 

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long. 

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take! 

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation. 

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer. 

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance. 

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more. 

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.” 

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk. 

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused. 

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…” 

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.” 

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles. 

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully. 

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?” 

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes. 

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does. 

“Then I’m real sorry.” 

“For what?” 

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses. 

The second is that trademark Munson smile. 

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs. 

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing. 

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?” 

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray. 

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand. 

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take. 

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her. 

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part. 

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it. 

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats. 

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again. 

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either. 

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.” 

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction. 

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.) 

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet. 

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine. 

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck. 

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards. 

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.” 

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.  

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk. 

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended. 

“Not a word,” you press. 

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you. 

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.” 

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything. 

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it. 

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever. 

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.” 

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up. 

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person. 

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang. 

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time. 

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you. 

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal. 

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now. 

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately. 

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly. 

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.” 

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind,  you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers. 

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.” 

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes! 

“I don’t even really–” 

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.” 

“I don’t have twenty bucks.” 

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles. 

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb. 

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so. 

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement. 

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another. 

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes. 

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be. 

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom. 

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything. 

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time. 

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker? 

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness. 

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?” 

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip. 

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior. 

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions? 

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker. 

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.  

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall. 

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!” 

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face. 

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…” 

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.” 

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me! 

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you. 

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision. 

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan. 

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck. 

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand. 

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.   

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him. 

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!” 

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword. 

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him. 

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp. 

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–” 

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that! 

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter… 

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”  

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys. 

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely. 

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing. 

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse. 

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you. 

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced. 

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe. 

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again. 

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers. 

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side. 

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another. 

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat. 

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under. 

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go. 

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst. 

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?” 

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk. 

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!” 

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith. 

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise. 

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down. 

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down. 

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself. 

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away. 

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind. 

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.” 

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.   

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything. 

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why. 

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.” 

“Hear ye, hear ye.” 

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks. 

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post. 

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present. 

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.  

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.” 

“It’s keeping me awake!” 

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out. 

“Lace, just wait for the professional.” 

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping. 

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads. 

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy. 

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…” 

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow. 

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.” 

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else. 

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained. 

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this. 

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours. 

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass. 

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek. 

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split. 

And your curious tongue flicks at it. 

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable. 

He did this for you. 

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap. 

Downright idiotic. 

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck. 

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties. 

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand. 

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast. 

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you. 

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move. 

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago. 

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia. 

She looks tan. 

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space. 

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand. 

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession. 

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office. 

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on. 

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does. 

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily. 

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves. 

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out. 

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked. 

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

[teddy06writes]

Lost Words

Alfie Solomons x gn!autistic!reader

Warnings: I guess the way I describe readers feelings/emotions? (all based on personal experience)

Prompt: I had a bad day at work, and this is a coping mechanism

Premise: After a long day at work stress you out to the point of shutting down, Alfie helps you calm down.

{I swear I'm gonna write hurt comfort for Alfie with the roles reversed I just need more motivation}

{also I'm thinking of doing an Alfie fic based on Much Ado About Nothing if anyones interested in that}

From where you were hiding inside your blanket cocoon, you heard the door to the house creak open, and Alfie calling to you that he was home. Cyril, who had been leaning against you, let out a whine, and shuffled to all but slide off the bed, before trotting off to greet his other owner.

You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to burrough further into the blankets. What only seemed to be a moment later, you heard Alfie entering the room, still cooing at Cyril.

"You alright my dove?" His voice was surprisingly gentle, coming from somewhere near the foot of the bed.

You couldn't find it in yourself to respond, and you heard him move closer, before he was gently pulling the comforter away from your head, humming worriedly, "Dove?"

You peeled your eyes open to find him peering down at you, concerned etched onto his face. Alfie's hand reached out to brush hair from your face, almost automatically before he caught himself, muttering, "RIght- sorry, love, sorry..."

He ran a hand over his beard, "You're havin' a quiet day then? Lost all your words cause of work, hm?"

Slowly you nodded, and he hummed again, muttering something to himself before disappearing from your field of vision. When he reappeared a moment or two later he'd stripped down to his shorts and undershirt, and began to gingerly climb into bed beside you, careful not to touch you.

"You just take your time then, love, and when you get all your words back you can tell your Alfie what's going on, yeah, dove?"

Alfie waited patiently, looking at you, not quite expectantly, but with some sort of reverence you couldn't place. Slowly, one of your hands snuck out from where it had been tucked firmly under your chin, to grab his hand where it rested on the mattress.

When you looked back up at him in aprehension, he seemed to understand, nodding, "'s alright, love."

You squeezed his hand tightly, and he squeezed back, albeit a bit more gently. It was times like this that you felt you could never truly express how grateful you were to have Alfie, who seemed to be the only person who ever truly understood you complex feelings, and never misunderstood what you meant just because you were 'wired different'.

Slowly you worked your way closer to Alfie, until he was able to wrap his arms around you, squeezing you just tightly enough to provide relief from the itch that had worked its way under your skin. You buried your face in his chest, absently running your fingers over the soft fabric of his undershirt.

"That's it love," He murmured, his chest rumbling, "You just take your time, my dove. Aflie's got ya."

Eventually, when you would find your voice returning, you would tell Alfie about your day, rambling on about the good and the bad about how it all became to much, and he would listen. But for now, you were content with laying in comfortable silence, the two of you lost in your own little world.

#peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders x gn!reader #peaky blinders x autistic!reader #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x gn!reader #alfie solomons x autistic!reader #autistic!reader #teddy06 writes #teddy06 #teddy 06 #teddy06writes

[webraciszekbastion]

Masterlist

Requests Opens !

Legend:

One Shot - Cup of Tea 🍵

Headcanons - Cup of Coffee ☕

My thoughts on games or characters - Bubble Tea 🧋(NO request)

Fluff - Chocolate Cookie 🍪| Hurt/Comfort - Dark Chocolate 🍫| Angst - Sour Lemon Cupcake 🧁| Suggestive - Angel Food Cake 🍰| Platonic - Piece of Pie 🥧

Master Detective Archives: Rain Code

Yuma Kokohead:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Shinigami:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Kurumi Wendy:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Yakou Furio:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

👻 Yakou Furio x Reader who is a Horror Fanatic 💀☕🍪

Vivia Twilight:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

📖 Vivia Twilght x Baker!Reader 🥐☕🍪

📖 Vivia Twilight x Artist!Male!Reader 🎨☕🍪

Halara Nightmare:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Fubuki Clockford:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Desuhiko Thunderbolt:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Zilch Alexander:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Pucci Lavmin:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Aphex Logan:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Melamie Goldmine:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Zange Eraser:

☔ Some Headcanons from Rain Code ☔☕

Yomie Hellsmile:

Martina Electro:

Seth Burroughs:

Guillaume Hall:

Makoto Kagutsuchi:

All Master Detectives:

All Peacekeepers:

All Characters:

Project Eden's Garden

Damon Maitsu:

📖 Fem s/o Ultimate Novelist who works non-stop, without taking breaks. 📖 ☕🍪

Cassidy Amber:

Desmond Hall:

Diana Venicia:

Eloise Taulner:

Eva Tsunaka:

Grace Madison:

Ingrid Grimwall:

Jean DeLamer:

Jett Dawson:

Kai Monteago:

Mark "Mayhem" Berskii:

Toshiko Kayura(Only Platonic):

Ulysses Wilhelm:

Wenona:

Wolfgang Akire:

All Characters:

Danganronpa Despair Time

Teruko Tawaki:

Xander Matthews:

Charles Cuevas:

Ace Markey:

Arei Nageishi:

Rose Lacroix:

Hu Jing:

Eden Tobisa:

Levi Fontana:

📖 Fem s/o Ultimate Novelist who works non-stop, without taking breaks. 📖 ☕🍪

Arturo Giles:

Min Jeung:

Veronika Grebenshchikova:

J Rosales:

Whit Young:

Nico Hakobyan:

All Characters:

Danganronpa F: Shattered Hope

Enigma:

Cancel:

Yaxi:

Grisp:

Cross:

Scarlet:

Moraiteru:

Pocket:

📖 Fem s/o Ultimate Novelist who works non-stop, without taking breaks. 📖 ☕🍪

Corza:

Rock:

Rox:

Twin:

Rissi:

Anon:

All Characters:

My suggestions for the real names of the characters 🧋

Super Danganronpa Another

Yuki Maeda/Utsuro:

Akane Taira:

Ayame Hatano:

Haruhiko Kobashikawa

Kakeru Yamaguchi:

Kanata Inori:

Kinji Uehara:

Kiyoka Maki:

Kizuna Tomori:

Mikako Kurokawa:

Mitsuhiro Higa:

Rei Mekaru:

Satsuki Iranami:

Teruya Otori:

Tsurugi Kinjo:

Yamato Kisaragi:

All Characters:

Super Danganronpa Another 2

Sora:

Emma Magorobi:

Hajime Makunouchi:

Hibiki Otonokoji:

Iroha Nijiue:

Kanade Otonokoji:

Kokoro Mitsube:

Mikado Sannoji:

Nikei Yomiuri:

Setsuka Chiebukuro:

Shinji Kasai:

Shobai Hashimoto:

Teruya Otori V2:

Yoruko Kabuya:

Yuki Maeda:

Yuri Kagarin:

All Characters:

Danganronpa (He)Artless Deceit

Akira Hayasaka:

Chiemi Hattori:

Chou Yoshida:

Hideyoshi Kurosawa:

Itsumi "Bani" Yoko:

Izanami Hoshimiya:

Katsuhiko Minamoto:

Kiyoshi Fujioka:

Kyouran Murashita:

Otome Hanayama:

Rei Fukuno:

Satoru Tachibana:

Shion Morita:

Takeshi Yamamoto:

Tomoya Morita:

Yumeo Arakawa:

Denshi Shigenobu:

All Characters:

Your Turn to Die

Sara Chidouin:

Joe Tazuna:

Keiji Shinogi:

Kanna Kizuchi(Only Platonic):

Q-taro Burgerberg:

Sou Hiyori:

Reko Yabusame:

Nao Egokoro:

Kai Satou:

Gin Ibushi(Only Platonic):

Kazumi Mishima:

Alice Yabusame:

Ranmaru Kageyama:

Hinako Mishuku(Only Platonic):

Naomichi Kurumada:

Mai Tsurugi:

Anzu Kinashi:

Shunsuke Hayasaka:

Sue Miley:

Tia Safalin:

Rio Ranger:

Gashu:

Midori:

Meister:

All Characters:

All Floor Masters:

#master detective archives x reader #project eden's garden x reader #danganronpa f shattered hope x reader #danganronpa despair time x reader #super danganronpa another x reader #super danganronpa another 2 x reader #your turn to die x reader #master detective archives: rain code #rain code #danganronpa #your turn to die #master detective archives #masterlist #danganronpa despair time #danganronpa f shattered hope #danganronpa f #project eden's garden #danganronpa another #danganronpa another 2 #sdra2 #yttd #mdarc #danganronpa heartless deceit #danganronpa (he)artless deceit #danganronpa heartless deceit x reader #danganronpa (he)artless deceit x reader

[80s4life]

We Have Time

Word Count: 1,554

Status: Suggested!

Ask: can i request something for mitch kramer? (dazed and confused)anything pls im desperate🙁

**ADDITIONAL INFO** mm it could be anything really!! either like. what it would be like dating him, or when they meet on the last day of school at the emporium & she’s like woodersons little sophomore sister?

@: a wonderful anon that will forever be mysterious!

Fandom: Dazed And Confused 1903

Relationship: Mitch Kramer x Wooderson!Reader

Summary: The beginning of summer break opens up new opportunities: discovering new things, meeting new people, and making new memories. Only, this summer seems to sparkle a little brighter, meeting a boy that makes your heart to somersaults.

Warnings: fluff, alcohol and marijuana consumption, teen romance (reader is turning 17 soon, Mitch is 16), sexual allusions (Slater and Pink trying to make something happen), language

Masterlist Dazed And Confused Masterlist

Taglist: @snapessecretdiary​ @tangledcopperstrands​

{gif is not mine, credits go to @dazed-and-confused-appreciation​}

Being David Wooderson’s younger sister has its perks...amongst many downsides. To list just a few, you know a lot of the older kids at your school, do shit you’re legally not advised to, and are invited or know of any or all parties happening and when. And, being a sophomore, you have personally been able to master your drink taste and the types of parties you truly enjoy: fruity drinks that match the heat of the summer parties yet to come. 

Hitching a ride on the back of a truck with Jodi, Simone, and Michelle, you all gossip and compliment each other’s outfits, going over the endless possibilities for the summer as the school year officially ends this year. Michelle and Jodi were clad in bell bottoms and short tops, Simone settling for a classic tee and jeans, while you basked in the summer air with simple bell bottoms, a nice belt, boots, a cropped tank, and a button-down shirt tied in case of the night getting on the chillier side.

Finally, parking on the curb beside numerous other cars, you confidently make your way into the Emporium, eyes grazing over the multitude of sexed up men and women, and of course, the newly recruited teens coming of age.

“There she is! The life of the party!” Don slings an arm around your shoulders, lightly tugging your head into his abdomen to scruff up your hair.

Pulling on his coveralls, you jab at his stomach, giggling as you make out of his head lock. Groaning, he lets up with a struggled smirk, straightening up quickly when Pink, Slater, and Benny come stumbling in the billiard, already a bit tipsy.

Slater’s eyes catch yours, making a smoking motion with a clumsy smile, walking up to you for a hug. “How’s you going, Tiny?”

“I’m pretty good, can’t say much about you though, huh?”

“What? I’m living my best life.”

You laugh, about ready to get in a tit-for-tat with Slater before a younger boy, not much younger than you, comes crashing through the Emporium’s entrance, Fred right on his heels.

“Hide me! Hide me! Hide me!” he yells, accidentally knocking into you, which throws you off balance and on the floor beside Pink’s feet.

“I’m gonna knock your teeth in, you Skimpy Pile of-!” Fred screams, being held back by Pink, who’s nicely patted your shoulder as he helped you up, and Don, who just wanted to get one drink in before shit hits the fan.

“O’Bannion! You better have good reason for throwing my ass on the floor!”

Instantly, Fred stops struggling, looking you dead in the eyes with a twinge of fear. “I don’t need one.”

“Oh hell yeah you do,” you warn, standing up to him despite your height difference, “That’s Jodi’s kid brother.”

“I know, that’s what made the chase more fun,” he gives you a shit-eating grin, “Then he slashed my tires when I was chasin’ him through the fucking woods!”

“Yeah, alright, I’ve heard enough. Turn your ass around before I beat ya with your own board alright, O’Bannion?”

Standing for a few seconds more, he goes to say something else, but settles for muttering “bitch” as he storms off, going to mess with someone else, claiming “he wasted his time.”

Turning around with a small flustered smile, you do a curtsy as the group of boys cheer you on. “Stop it,” you flush, crouching back down to meet the eyes of the boy that’s been running around the whole neighborhood, “You alright?”

Staring at you blankly, he comes at a loss of words as he takes in your beauty. Finally he stutters after a moment of silence, looking you up and down sheepishly, “U-uh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I could’ve handled him on my own. I mean, I have been handling him all day. But, thanks?” he boasts, taking your hand as you offer it.

“Of course you did. Anyway, if you have a problem with him, just tell me. My brother will handle him if I won’t,” you grin.

Grinning back, he mutters an, “Okay,” as Pink and Slater take him away, going to get him some beer.

Don, silently watching your gaze, giggles as he notices the two of you still staring even after a great distance was put between you two, “You might wanna wipe that drool before someone mistakes you for a toddler.”

“Wh- I am not drooling! I’m just making sure he’s okay! He’s been chased by O’Bannion since school broke out!”

“Mhmm. Well, in that case, there’s nothing to worry about then since he didn’t get beat.”

“Exactly. I was just checking.”

“Alrighty then!” he concludes, giggling as he takes a swig of beer and join the group of boys in question.

After a few moments of talking, the boys leave the Emporium completely, leaving you to clear your head and enjoy the night. You are not crushing on a little boy, you silently scold yourself. But, the fact was, he wasn’t a little boy. If he was a kid, then you were, no matter the year difference that makes you “superior.”

After some time spent playing pool, dancing, flirting, drinking, and trying to get Wooderson out of trouble, you finally crash down on a discarded couch, catching your breath. The break only lasts a second, unfortunately, as you feel a force plop itself on the other end of the rickety cushions.

Lifting your hand from covering your eyes, you dart them to your left for a split second, doing a double-take as you realize who’d shown up. “H-hi,” you stutter, initial shock masking any further discussion.

“Hi,” Mitch smiles, a little more confident than he had when he first met you. “You wanna go somewhere more private?” he asks, checking over his shoulder at Slater and Don, winking at them.

Lightly grasping his cheek, you turn his head back around, “I would, but that’s if I don’t have to share a room with them,” you smirk.

He coughs as his cheeks turn red, “Well yeah...”

“Come on,” you chuckle, grabbing his hand and leading him up the flight of stairs, finding a desolate room, and ducking into it with a lock on the door. 

Twirling slowly, you plop yourself on the bed tiredly, Mitch still standing stiffly at the door. “I ain’t gonna bite ya, besides, what they don’t know don’t hurt them out there.”

Silently, Mitch makes his way over, lightly filling the spot on the bed beside you, laying on his back and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Catching the expression, you groan, “What did they tell you?”

“W- Well- Nothing.”

“Oh no, did they tell you to try and score?” you sit up, shivering in disgust.

“Yeah, they told me that’s how to be a real man.”

You smile sarcastically then turn to Mitch seriously, “Hey, you don’t need to have sex to be a man, okay? If there’s anything my parents taught me, it’s that the right man won’t pressure you, the right time will come naturally... Are you a virgin, Mitch?”

His face flushes a deep red again, going to scratch his neck out of habit. You don’t need him to answer to know, “Don’t worry, so am I. And quite frankly, I’d be more comfortable keeping it that way for a while.” The room goes completely silent for around 10 minutes before you pipe up again, “If you want, it’s been long enough for your first time to be up,” you smirk, “So, if you want, you can leave and say we did it. It’ll ease both of our pressure. Or, we could stay here a little longer and just get to know each other. I’m fine with either.”

Exhaling deeply, Mitch’s whole body goes lax, “I’d like to get to know you,” he smiles, turning on his side to face you and you do the same.

Now it’s your turn to blush, “That sounds nice.”

For the rest of the night, you stay holed up in the bedroom just passing time talking, telling stories of your early childhood, and just generic things like your interests. You’d found Mitch to be quite the talkative and humorous type after getting comfortable, and Mitch was more than delighted to hear your silky, natural laugh. He found it adorable, or in more context, you adorable.

There was lots of hand holding and soft kisses on the nose, forehead, and cheek. And by the first signs of the sun peeking through the blinds, you kissed his lips sweetly, walking him up to his doorstep in hopes of seeing him again, “If you don’t get killed, do you want to hang out on Wednesday?”

“Hell yeah,” he smiles broadly, “How about a movie at the drive-in?”

“It sounds like a date, Mitch,” you grinned, blowing an air kiss as you make your way back to the sidewalk. 

“Definitely,” he whispers, watching you disappear before entering the house. I’m gonna marry her one day.

#david wooderson #matthew mcconaughey #female reader insert #reader insert #mitch kramer #mitch kramer imagine #mitch kramer x reader #wiley wiggins #wiley wiggins x reader #wiley wiggins imagine #jodi kramer #michelle burke #ron slater #michelle burroughs #milla jovovich #simone kerr #joey lauren adams

[frickingnerd]

cuddling with seth burroughs

pairing: seth burroughs x gn!reader

tags: fluff, established relationship, mention of yomi

seth is always cold, so when you cuddle with him, you always wrap yourselves in a blanket!

it's always cold and rainy in kanai ward, so cuddling up underneath a blanket is always more comfortable!

seth only relaxes when he's around you, as his job stresses him out constantly. working underneath yomi, he never knows if he'll be subjected to his whims

seth speaks very quietly, but hearing him is never a problem when you two cuddle, as he's so close to you anyways

when you and seth cuddle, he falls asleep very quickly. after just a few minutes, he's out like a light in your arms

so you only cuddle when you got time to spare, usually in the evening after he gets home from work!

#seth burroughs #seth burroughs x reader #seth x reader #seth #burroughs x reader #burroughs #x reader #x you #x y/n #x gn reader #headcanons #fluff #master detective archives: rain code #master detective archives x reader #master detective archives #rain code x reader #rain code #raincode #mda x reader #mda #mda:rc #mdarc #mdarc x reader

[gruntled-druzhina]

I would like to add a sad addendum to a meme: From Tarzan of the Apes

"Eh" he nutted.

#literature #snape x reader #edgar rice burroughs #tarzan #harry potter #scuffed image quality #yes i could have just typed it but i chose not too

[slashingdisneypasta]

Human!Freddy Krueger x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: What The Fuck Now, Freddy!?

Notes:

This is not inherently romantic, at all. Or sexual. Just... Freddy being a bastard, and you are caught in the crosshairs- and are forever linked with him because of it.

I've been listening to Lizzie, a lot lately- and this is inspired by 'What The Fuck Now, Lizzie!?'

Also- I'm thinking this will have a part 2. Due to the ending not being quite enough. Maybe a part for the court proceedings!

Plot: Many will know the story of that terrible day Krueger essentially snapped- killing his wife, Loretta Krueger. She saw the basement, they say, and he didn't like that. Their daughter saw the whole thing and suffered a traumatic response to seeing the sight of her mother, strangled to death, by her father- and forgot the whole thing.

But if she were to remember something, one day.

She may remember something no one knows about that day, aside from Freddy himself.

She may remember, that someone else was there.

She may remember you.

//

Alternatively- you're being blackmailed by Freddy who found out you, another supposedly Plain Jane in Loretta's 'mothers club', is cheating on your husband and calls you up to help deal with the mess he made. Because who else did he have?

Warnings: Okay lemme see, its basically a potluck of triggers. Hm. Murder, swearing, cheating (You, on your husband. Not with Freddy), getting rid of a body, a child gets traumatised (Obviously, Kathy/Maggie), Freddy himself, mention of the basement and all that entails, reader with a very questionable moral compass. Look, I think if you can watch Freddy's Dead, you're good here.

I'm just heading out the door, to go grocery shopping - or, at least, that's the story I tell my husband. When really I don't do the grocery shop until the day after tomorrow. He never notices... - when the phone rings. By very nearly tripping over my feet in my endeavour to catch it before the ringing stops, I manage pick up the phone with very little injury besides an achy, slightly twisted ankle. "Hi! Hi, sorry, I'm here. Hello?"

Pouting, I sit down at the kitchen table; Rubbing my poor ankle to sooth the pain, which would soon diminish anyway. Still- I'm sorry, ankle. I'll try to chill.

When the voice on the other end reveals who it is who's called the house, I lose all need to be pleasant. Damn. I really need to memorise this goddamn number... so I can not answer it. "Whatcha wearin'?"

"Thank god Harrison didn't answer this, you fuck." I deeply roll my eyes. Thank god Har's out. No, this is not my mister, not the man I was going to meet just now- but its bad, enough. In an entirely different way. Its stupid, blackmailing, son of a... hundred maniacs. "What do you want?"

"What a way to answer the phone, Y/N. Gee, seems like every time I we talk, I'm learning how you really aren't in the right place, are you? Cheating on your poor husband, swearing... These aren't really signs of the perfect suburban house wife, is it?" Gritting my teeth, I keep from lashing out. I've learned, if you stay real quiet, Freddy wont have anything to pull from and will get bored quick. "Why so silent, hm?"

"... " Oh, fuck me. I cant help it. "Wondering where you get off judging me on being 'suburban', actually."

"Anywhere I like, thanks."

Oh... oh. Gross?

He doesn't see the disgust tearing my face into two perfect halves right now, but my silence must be enough as he laughs. The sound is directly into the phone, and harsh on my poor eardrums. Ugh... "Oh for gods sake... What are we? Fourteen years old?? Come on- why'd you call?"

"Uhhhh... " Quickly, midway through that drawn out 'um' sound, Freddy's voice transitions, and gets a whole lot darker. Something deep in his chest dislodging, to make it so. Perhaps, his heart. "Well... you might wanna come and see for yourself."

"Uh, I don't think so. I have somewhere to be right now- "

"Oh well you don't, anymore." And its clear what he isn't saying- or else I'll tell Harrison about Carter and set your life on fire. "Tell your boy toy you're takin' a reign check for the day. I think you'll last. In fact... after you come over here, you might be out of the game for a couple a hours at least- maybe days."

Hold on, hold on Freddy what the fuck- "What!?"

"... Believe it or not, I didn't actually mean for that one."

Moron.

~

Nevertheless, no matter how just... off setting, Freddy is, I had to when he asked. I had to jump when he said so.

Because if not, then he would tear my life apart.

So here I am, about to knock on that big red door he lives behind, wondering what I'm walking into. Where's Loretta? Where's Kathy? How long will the visit be? I told Carter I'd be an hour or two late- any longer and I wont see him at all today. Which would absolutely suck.

Just after my knuckles come down on the wood the first time, a hand comes down on my shoulder and I immediately jump out of my skin... then slowly look around.

There's Freddy, a cheeky grin on his face. It does nothing to set my nerves at ease. "Ugh... Why are you out here?"

"We're going to the backyard. Lets go." Taking me by the shoulders, he marches me around the side of the house, instead of through it for some reason, and into the familiar backyard. I've been here numerous times, as Loretta likes to hold our club meetings here - Barbecue's, tea's... that sort of thing. Just to let the kids play together and so the adults can enjoy some adult conversation. Its a nice yard... but depending on what her horrid husband is about to show me, it may not be considered as such anymore... - , but I'm now starting to develop a sick feeling in my stomach.

Honestly- I don't know much about Freddy at all. Yes, I went to school with him, but that doesn't mean much when he was a freaky loner kid the whole time. I remember he killed the class hamster once- that's about the only splash he ever made in the news pool; But it definitely stuck.

Yes, Loretta cleaned up his image a fair bit since getting married, but now he's blackmailing me, and as far as I know I'm now alone with him.

Suspicious of him suddenly, I slip out of his grip with a dirty look flashed his way. Don't touch me.

He just rolls his eyes, leading me around some hedges.

And then everything stops.

Him, me, the air; The air around me, the breeze, the breath in my throat.

There lays Loretta, on the ground. If I was really really naïve, I could imagine she were sleeping... or passed out, at least, due to the way she's sprawled out. No one would lay down like that willingly.

But... her eyes are open.

For a moment I'm tempted to kneel down; Take a closer look. Find out how, myself. Is she bleeding anywhere that I cant see now? Are her lips turning blue? If I moved some short red hair out of the way- would their be marks on her neck yet?

But then I come to my senses...

And freak. The fuck. O u t.

"What, the fuck, did you do!?" I whip around, looking at Freddy now which entirely new eyes. I mean, before I sure wasn't fond- but now I'm filled with something new, looking at him. Something a lot worse, something that makes me want to run. Run, and hide, and stay there.

And all these, even though he hasn't really changed. He still wears a mischievous smirk, stony blue eyes eating up my reactions... like always. But this time its just so so much worse. "Made some dead weight- now you're gonna help me get rid of it. So!" Finally, though its been only a matter of seconds, he turns his gaze off of me and I'm glad. That gaze is far too heavy. "Ideas?"

Only for a moment am I lost for words, struggling to push anything out. "I... I'm sorry??"

His gaze returns to mine, but this time my eyes are hard as his are dark. "Help. Me. Get rid of her. Fucking. Body. Or do you want your dirty laundry aired for the whole community to hear?"

Before I can help myself, I let out a sharp laugh, only succeeding in making Freddy's scowl deeper. "Freddy- this secret's a lot bigger, then mine. Sure, I might get divorced- but you're going to prison!" Does he get that? He's g o i n g to j a i l. Crossing my arms, I try to avoid looking at my ex-friend's body. I cant. "I'm sure as hell not gonna be in there with you, for being an accomplice."

I really cant look at her... I can only focus on Freddy. And that takes a lot of energy- its taking everything in me, in fact. Everything I have. But I have to. If its him or her, there's no choice.

But... then a creepy smile spreads across his face- a vast polarity to the frustrated glower of before. It makes my blood run cold.

"Ohhhh..." He looks almost ferocious, even in his composed state. Like a monster. Like any moment a fanged, inhuman creature is going to burst out of him and I'm going to wake up, and this will have been a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. The kind where that creature haunts me for a long time, after its over. After this over.

He's going to haunt me.

"You must think this is my first time... " My heart turns to ice, mouth hanging a little open... what the fuck have I found myself a part of!? Suddenly all the children's disappearances on the news lately come to the forefront of my brain... "Sweetheart, give a man his dues. I'm a hard working kinda guy... " I watch his gaze flicker to a door - the back door? No... The basement door, - and when a filthy smirk pulls at his mouth, my heart flies up into my throat. God, it makes me feel sick. I want to be violently ill. "My first was my adoptive Dad... pretty sick, huh?"

The fact that he didn't say anything about the basement, makes my imagination go wild. I swallow it down, though.

I just need to get out of here, and never think about this again.

And to do that I need to help Freddy get rid of this goddamn body- and... probably... testify at court... As the panic starts to finally rise up in my, right up to fill my throat, I immediately take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Okay... " No time to freak out. Now's the time for action.

Gaze flickering to Loretta again, I try to acclimatise to the sight. I think its a lost cause, though. "How did you get rid of him? Your Dad?"

"No, that's not gonna work. He was a drunk dead beat, and I just had to tell the police some guy's he owed money to came over to the house." Freddy grins happily at the memory, but then just as quickly, scowls at his poor deceased wife's body- that certainly cant fight back. I just tack this onto the long list of reasons I hate him. "Lore's such a goddamn goody goody- we cant do the same thing. You don't think I woulda thought of that??"

"Hey." I snap, hands braced on my hips as I flash a glare his way. "This is not the time to get defensive!"

"Whatever... "

Then- suddenly, something occurs to me. Confused, I look around; A deeply horrified feeling disturbing my stomach. "Hold on... Where's your daughter?" Seeing no sign of her anywhere, I definitely start to panic again- especially when I look to Freddy and just see a pert look in his eyes as he looks back at me, a smile that strikes something horrid inside me. My eyes narrow. "You sick fuck- where the fuck is she!??"

"Under the bed."

"What the fuck does that mean!?" I exclaim, frustrated and freaking out. He did not- he did not! Killing your spouse is one thing, but the kid?? Your own kid??

I don't wait around for him to be cryptic some more, and rush right into the house to look for her. Under the bed, under the bed, under the fucking bed...? Which fucking bed!? Forcing ferocity out of my voice, I carefully call out to Kathy. Hoping to god she answers. I try to sound normal. Maybe a little bit cheerful; Excited.

But my voice wobbles.

"Kathy?? Sweetheart, its Y/N! Are you hiding? I have something for you... " ?? You have something for her, Y/N?? God... now you have to figure out some kind of treat.

You know what? Whatever. We'll figure that out later.

Lets just hope we aren't searching for a corpse. I'd definitely be sick, seeing a child... the way Loretta is...

Shaking my head and clenching my fists, I try to focus on Kathy.

I check under the bed in the guest room because it comes into view first and she isn't there, then her bedroom and she isn't there either... and get a sick feeling as soon as I enter the last bedroom. Freddy's and Loretta's.

God, I've never been in here before but its like a museum peace now. A horrible one. Like if you would walk into the Titanic... or the Borden house.

"Kathy? You in here?" Flicking on the light I kneel down on the ground, and check under the bed.

And something immediately crashes over me, as the sight of her covering her eyes down there. It isn't exactly relief, because this whole situation is still phenomenally fucked up for her, but I am selfishly glad to not have to see her body... crumpled, just like her mother.

"Hey sweetheart," My voice quivers slightly now, but I quickly swallow. No. No. Now, you must be strong Y/N. "Its just me. Your Daddy was looking for you, and couldn't find you! It got him worried!"

"I... I don't wanna see Daddy. He hurt Mommy." Kathy doesn't remove her hands from her face, and stays firmly by the wall- too far away for anyone to grab. My heart sinks.

Slowly straightening up again, I try to take that piece of information in. Turning to the doorway, I see Freddy there. he must have followed me. I didn't even notice. Slowly, and quietly ferociously, I say; "She saw?!"

He has the good sense to look embarrassed, even if it is just to make fun of me. "It was spur of the moment... " He shrugs. "I didn't have time to get a babysitter!"

What a fucking excuse. For gods sake.

I'm definitely dealing with a psycho- if that was even a question before now.

Swiftly, I look down under the bed again, because I'm afraid that if I continue to engage with him- I'll scream, and I'll lose my breath, and I'll scare Kathy even more. She's at the forefront of my mind; That's all I can think about.

But what to do with her after I get her out from under this bed, I don't know. I cant give her back to her father... but I cant hand her over to the police either because that would involve telling them about Loretta, and... Freddy will definitely kill me, for that.

This is a nightmare of a situation.

I'm just opening my mouth to say something - what, I don't know yet, - when she speaks, instead. "Is he there?"

"... Yes." I wont lie to her; That would be treating her with not nearly as much respect as she deserves.

When she takes a deep breath and rubs her eyes, as if just trying to keep herself together, my heart clenches. God... and to think I might not have picks up Freddy's call today. I would have been leaving her with this. For the first time today, I'm morbidly glad I came.

She speaks in that loud, hissy way that kids think is a whisper. "Can he... can you please make him go away?"

Immediately I straighten back up and look to Freddy again, my eyebrows raised halfway up my forehead. Like well? "Get out."

"I don't think you're in a position to make demands here, bi- "

"Do you want Kathy to live down there now!??" I snap, trying not to be scared. Not really feeling scared, actually. Just happy to have a reason to tell him to get the hell away from me.

A deep frown creases his mouth, deeply unhappy about the situation, but steps back. I only hear him step out of the way of the door, but its good enough. Quickly, I get up and close the door - fighting with myself not to slam it, - and lock it.

Then I return to the floor, and see this time Kathy has uncovered her eyes. She looks so small, smaller then she actually is, and she looks like she's shaking. Little red bows and piggy tails in her hair are messy from crawling under the bed. "He's gone, sweetheart. And I locked the door."

She just nods, so I take the silence as a chance to offer my hand to her. "Take my hand, sweetie? Come on out from under the bed. Its cold down there, and no one wants you getting sick." I need to upkeep the family friend bit, I need to sound caring and collected. I need her to trust me.

Her big eyes, not Loretta's colour or Freddy's, look nervous as hell. And she shakes her head.

Taking a deep breath, and I conjure all the sincerity as I can. And mean it. My eyes soften and I try really hard, to resent myself as someone trustworthy- which is hard, seeing as I've never really been that. I mean, I'm cheating on my husband. I told Carter today the same lie I told Harrison when i knew I was going to be late. The only person I think who knows the truth behind all my lies is Freddy. That says something about a person, that the only person who knows them is a psychopath.

But I want to, I need to, be good for this little girl. And there's no time for me turn my life around so it has to start with this. How fucked is that?

"... I promise, I'll take care of you. He wont hurt you."

After a few whole minutes, in which I stay silent because yes she's a child, but she's still thinking, she crawls over and takes my hand, letting me lead her out. Crawling into my lap as I cross my legs under her, she buries her face in my shirt- hiding. "You promise?"

Taking a deep breath, because I've really done it now, I offer my pinky for her to see if she turned her head. I know Freddy's listening to all of this through the wall, but I try not to freak out. "Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear." She peaks out from my shirt, and curls her little finger around mine. Okay... "Y/N... I'm scared."

"Yeah... Me too, sweetie."

What am I going to do?

#Freddy Krueger x Fem!Reader #Freddy Krueger x Reader #Slashers #Slashers x Reader #Fem Reader #Freddy Krueger #Loretta Krueger #Katherine Krueger #Kathrine Krueger #Maggie Burroughs #Oneshot #Freddy Krueger x Reader Oneshot

[witch-hazels-musings]

Sorry if this is so insensitive to ask, but at this point I'm desperate.

How do you write so well?

I've been writing for over a decade. I enjoy writing sometimes, but I've been nonstop comparing myself to everyone else for a while now, and it's destroyed my motivation to write. And a part of me has always wanted to be an author.

Do you have any tips on ways to improve my writing?

I do a lot of research for both my stories and how to construct my writing. You're really good at hitting both quality and quantity in your writing, while I feel like it's incredibly difficult for me to even do one or the other most of the time. I don't want to half-ass my work, but it's very easy for me to get...burnt out, iykwim.

Sorry for the ramble, really. I just don't know what to do anymore :')

ah! -- well bless you - I hope you can find yourself to love the works you do and know that only you could ever write the stories that are in your head. Each authors experiences bring them to where they are right now and help tell, shape that story!

I feel I may slip into a lecture - this is my advice and thoughts / processes only! (here we go) -- got a bit long, below the cut

I write with emotion in mind -> sensations of the body, thoughts in the mind, feelings in the heart (living creatures are naturally empathetic - we relate to emotions pretty easily so it’s a great way to get readers to connect with the action / character / story) 

I avoid just saying what the character is doing over and over again - he did, then did, then followed with. -> So, if I notice i’m doing that a lot I’ll go back in and add flourishes to the sentence (descriptions, actions, emotions, thoughts of the character) 

Example: 

1. He sat on the bed, then reached for the lamp that sat on the nightstand. It turned off and made the room dark. He stood up to walk toward the window to gaze outside, but the rain made it hard to see (staccato, choppy)  

2. He sat on the bed, the blankets which should be neatly placed under him were a disheveled mess, much like his current state of mind. The lamp on the table made his eyes squint and, in an effort to shield his face from the light, he turned it off. With a heavy sigh, he lifted his worn body from the bed. It creaked and he wondered if it was from his bones or the ancient frame that held the mattress. His feet moved forward, his mind distracted, until he came to the window but as he looked out across the landscape it was shrouded in a murky grey and obscured by the rain that fell across the glass.

You may notice I also avoid repeating certain words in the same paragraph - if I used the word ‘window’ I don’t want to use that word again, so instead I describe the qualities or ingredients of a window (like an alchemist who puts everything out on the table and then points at what they want) 

I pick and choose the actions to focus on - and i try really hard to make sure that whatever I’m describing it accurate AND CONSISTENT -> if you are going to describe a hand placement, make sure that hand placement is considered with what else is going on (continuity is important) 

read articles - search things like: How to write a good *x* seen, how to describe facial expressions, ways to say said (lol) -- researching and looking at examples is how we learn more! If you aren’t doing this every once in a while, you’re missing out**

when I edit works -> I read it slowly top to bottom (some like to read it bottom to top, so whichever) and i’ll usually speak it out-loud to make sure the phrases sound good and clear - i read all my works (and if i’m exhausted, I put it off till later and come back with fresh eyes) 

I based my writing off my love for a specific author because i loved the way his sentences were designed (Edgar Rice Burroughs) -- so i’d say if you love an author, analyze how they write. break it down, see if you can recreate something similar as practice

----

i’d also say - practice practice - write something small EVERY DAY -- that’s why I created Teyvat Memories, it’s helped me continue to polish my works over and over again

Again, these are just thoughts that i have after analyzing my works. everyone may be different and every author is different - but these are the rules I follow 

(( OH OH - gosh, also get Grammarly on your phone/computer - like it’s my saving grace because even when I edit i’ll miss something awful lol ))

idk if this helps but here you go lol! don’t give up!! if you love to write, keep GOING - and on that day that you write something and it makes you cry, cheer, shot with excitement, I  hope you will share your joy with me <3 <3 

#hazelmail #witchhazelFAQ #hazels writing tips #writing tips

[asahipleaseloveme]

Okay Monica, I'm going to need you to stop being so accurate. Okay, but no joke, Tarzan is my favorite Disney "prince". Like, I LOVE him haha to the point that I actually read the first book. Not the Disney book haha but the book by Edgar Rice Burroughs. So Miche as Tarzan, YES PLEASE! Then Goshiki hahahaha I was CRACKING up because he totally would be young Hercules! Hahah

And Asahi being so sweet and hairy like the Beast. I love that so much!

Tarzan is severely underrated in my opinion (as is Miche which is one reason why I think this is a good comparison haha)

Goshiki is a precious bean and he tries his best.

Asahi as the beast was the whole reason why I had this idea haha

(I'm thinking of writing a fairytale au with Asahi x reader, but at this point I don't really know who I want to be the cursed one haha)

#this is so fun

[livingmybestfictionallife]

Two Dharma Bums

Request (anon):  Ayo I saw that you were taking request, can I have some platonic Klaus x reader? Maybe klaus just kind living with the reader and them bein all domestic n shit

Summary: Klaus and the reader bond over their shared love of the beatnik counterculture and Kerouac. Klaus convinces the reader to come with him and travel across the country to live out the reader’s dream of the freedom displayed in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Also, I’m sorry if it’s rough. It’s unedited and quickly written.

A/N: No pronouns are used for the reader, so this can be female!reader or male!reader. Also, Klaus is 10000% a beatnik in this time period and would have thrived with Burroughs, Ginsburg, and Kerouac.

Arriving in 1960 Dallas with nothing but the spirit of his deceased brother clinging to him, Klaus desperately tried to suppress the anxieties that immediately plagued him. Why was he here? Where were his siblings? Was he the only one who made it? What made him so special and deserving of life over his brothers and sisters? What was he going to do now? 

After days without anything more than a passerby’s leftovers, Klaus was desperate for something to eat. He stumbled down street as he followed the familiar aroma of diner food. Growing up so close to Griddy’s, Klaus knew the smell of a moderately priced home-cooked style meal, and his stomach immediately twisted into angry knots of starvation. Without thinking anything through, he flung open the door and dropped himself into a booth near the front of the diner. Compared to the attire of the other inhabitants of the diner--the men’s nicely pressed trousers paired with comfortable overcoats and the women’s long skirts and petticoats--Klaus’s tattered and sleeveless army shirt, laced leather pants, shaggy hair, and dirt covered face instantly earned him the full attention of the diner.

All eyes being on Klaus wasn’t something he would normally turn down. His family knew he loved being the center of attention, and normally, this much attention would be cause for a snarky comment about his importance; however Klaus was tired. He was too tired to think about anything other than how much he wanted to sleep and eat, and that exhaustion led to his eyes drifting shut despite Ben’s continual pestering him to stay awake.

“Um, Y/N,” a young woman holding a notepad and pen said in an attempt to get her coworker’s attention.

“Yeah?” Y/N asked as you turned to meet your coworker’s eyes. With a furrowed brow, you examined her face. She normally wore a kind expression, full of smiles that earned a lot of tips, but her brows were furrowed and she wore an obviously concerned look over her face. Discreetly, she held her pen pointed in the direction of the front of the diner. The ball-point landed on a man with dark hair and grimy skin leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out across the booth and eyes fallen shut. “That’s my section today, isn’t it?” Y/N asked as the girl nodded in a way that instantly made Y/N assume she was thinking, ‘Better you than me.’

It was a chilly twenty-three degrees, which is fairly colder than normal for a Texas winter, and Y/N could see the man in the booth didn’t seem to be dressed appropriately for the weather that was only getting colder. The man shivered suddenly as Y/N reached the booth, and he shot upright as if he had been startled awake.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. Welcome to Norma’s Cafe,” Y/N greeted the man with a half-smile. “What can I get for you?”

“Water, please,” the man said in a somewhat pathetic and empathy inducing tone, “and if you have any crackers, I’ll take those too, please.” As the door to the diner opened, Y/N couldn’t help but notice the man begin to tremble as the bitter air found its way to his exposed skin.

“Sure thing,” Y/N sighed upon witnessing the tragedy that was this homeless man. Already, Y/N’s heart was softened into feeling complete sympathy for the stranger. After returning to the kitchen to fill up a cup with water, Y/N grabbed a pot of hot coffee a mug, and a plate of toast before returning to the table. “I put in an order of the special for you as well. I hope you like your eggs scrambled,” Y/N said and placed the tray of drinks and toast in front of the man.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he hurried to repeat the single syllable until the server turned around to face him again. “I can’t pay for this. I don’t have any money.”

“It’s on me,” Y/N said with a reassuring smile.

“No, I’m fine with some crackers. I’m skinny, I don’t need a lot of food,” he tried to argue with the kindness of the stranger before him.

“You’re my last customer before my shift is up,” Y/N said with a shrug. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” Once again, Y/N rose in an attempt to wait in the kitchen for the food she ordered for this man only to have him protest one more time

“Can you at least keep me company? Maybe I can repay you with my witty sarcasm and great sense of humor.” A slight chuckle escaped Y/N’s lungs.

“You know I have to leave first to get your food, right?”

“So that’s a yes?” with a roll of Y/N’s eyes, a gentle smile fell over Klaus’s face. He was slightly surprised that Y/N decided to sit in the booth across from him as he ate, and even more so when he was encouraged to tell his ludicrous tale of how he ended up in Dallas in the first place. Their conversation was chaotic and jumped from so many different, interconnecting threads, somehow managing to find its way back to the point of origin after discussing Klaus’s past and Y/N’s seemingly illogical dreams and fascinations.

“Either you have a ridiculous imagination or your a beatnik like Ginsburg or Kerouac,” Y/N huffed and an entertained smirk flashed in Klaus’s direction.

“I’d consider myself to be more like Burroughs,” he retorted with a laugh as he finished the last of his food and sipped on the last of his coffee.

“Well, you certainly look like a dharma bum,” Y/N commented with an endearing and longing gaze. It had been a dream of Y/N’s to be able to pick up and leave, taking minimal belongings along on a journey across the country to a destination that had yet to present itself. Since reading Kerouac’s works, this dream had began to manifest as a pest in Y/N’s mind, constantly scratching at the part of the brain that controls impulses.

“In a way I am,” Klaus responded as he thought back over the course of his adult life. “I’ve never had a place of my own, no place to call home or people who wanted me around for longer than a few weeks at a time. Then there was the war, then ending up here.” His voice seemed to trail off as his mind went through everything he’d experienced in his short thirty years.

“I’ve read ‘On the Road’ and ‘The Dharma Bums’ so many times the spines are falling apart,” Y/N admitted. “There’s something so enchanting about that lifestyle that I can’t help but long for the open road and the uncertainty of where I’ll end up.” Y/N could see the ideas turning around in Klaus’s head as he thought over the words that had been dumped between them.

“Do you have a car?” It was a short and simple question that was answered with a nod of Y/N’s head. “Then let’s go.”

“Just like that? No thinking anything through? You don’t have any ties or anything keeping you here?”

“I just told you my true story. I have nothing and no one,” Klaus stated, subsequently earning an annoyed grunt from Ben. He could tell Y/N was thinking the offer over and the idea repeated in both of their heads like a broken record. “Come on,” Klaus urged, “You’ll be surprised by how easy the act of leaving is, and how good it feels! The world is rich with possibilities,” he loosely quoted the line from On the Road that circulated throughout Y/N’s mind.

“I have nothing to offer anyone but my own confusion,” Y/N responded with another quote, hoping Klaus would understand.

“What are you getting here that you can’t get anywhere else?” Klaus prompted. He had leaned across the booth and was excitedly staring into Y/N’s eyes as his heart raced at the possibility of not having to be alone anymore. “Because in the end...” A hopeful smile formed on Klaus’s face as he began yet another famous quote from Kerouac.

“You won’t remember the time you spent working in an office or mowing your lawn,” Y/N continued.

“Climb the damn mountain!”

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

As weeks turned into months and months turned into years, Y/N and Klaus traveled across the country, hitching rides from farmers, truck drivers, and anyone who was still kind enough not to discourage the allure of being a vagabond.

Stories and poetry were the fuel they doused on the fires of their freedom, and always they found themselves immersed in the artistic and melodic talent of telling tales the other seemed to posses. Throughout their happiness and sincerest sense of freedom, they would occasionally find themselves seeking the comfort of one another. At night, often when the music, poetry, and stories had fallen asleep with their traveling companions--Klaus’s silver tongue and ability to fabricate realities out of small truths had accumulated quite a large following throughout their journey--their minds would drift. In these moments of perceived weakness, that they let their vulnerability shine through to one another.

“What’s wrong?” Y/N asked upon noticing Klaus sitting before a fire beneath the stars of California.

“What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?” Klaus asked, once again mirroring the words of Kerouac to allow for the deeper meaning to seep into Y/N’s soul.

“It seems like what you have done, in starting an unorganized cult, is the most absurd thing that could have happened in all of the endless possibilities presented to you at every decision you’ve made.”

“But what about my family. What if they’re alive and they’re looking for me? I thought the love of the people I surrounded myself with, the like-mindedness of the commune, would be enough.” Y/N lowered to be beside Klaus as he stared up at the stars. Silently, the pair sat, feeling the heat of the fire against their faces, until Y/N leaned against Klaus’s side and he fell gently into the genuine human connection.

“Unlike Kerouac, I’m not a believer of Buddhism, but finding enlightenment is an important theme throughout his novels. Maybe the enlightenment you’ve found is that this life that you’ve found on the path that you’ve taken isn’t the one that you’re searching for,” Y/N’s wisdom rolled through Klaus’s mind as he fell backwards into the grass in frustration.

“I took this path in hopes of gaining happiness,” Klaus sighed angrily as he slammed his fists into the soil beside him. “I failed my family and I failed at this; this concept of letting go and accepting the endless possibilities before me!”

“You didn’t fail,” Y/N stated firmly in defiance of Klaus’s self-depreciating words. “Experience is the only thing that can teach you. If I were to give you only water and crackers all that time ago back at the diner, we wouldn’t be in California right now. If you chose a different diner to fall into, you would have never met me, and your life would be even more miserable,” Y/N joked and nudged Klaus’s arm in an attempt to invoke the smallest of smiles in his face. “If I would have ignored your idea of taking to the road as two dharma bums searching for a sign for where our lives were supposed to go, I’d probably still be wasting away as a server in that diner. Just because you got to the place we set our course for doesn’t mean you’re at the destination you need to be at. It took getting here with all of these people following us, following you, for you to realize where your passion and happiness lies.”

With a tear in each of his eyes, Klaus sat up and pulled Y/N close to him. As he felt Y/N’s arms fall around him, a reassuring sigh left his mouth and the tears of joy fell onto Y/N’s shoulder. Klaus tightened his grasp on his friend, and hesitantly spoke. “Thank you, Y/N. I know this distance is what you wanted and that the road was kinder to you than to me, but I have to go back to Dallas. I’ll miss you, but I’m grateful to have met you.” Slowly, Klaus rose from where he sat and blew a kiss to the person who had been at his side through it all. It was all he could do as he hid the pain of losing the first person who had shown him kindness three years ago.

“My path is with you. You’re my friend, Klaus, but more importantly, you’re my family now. If not for you, my life wouldn’t have changed. If not for me, yours could have gotten worse. Our paths were intertwined for a reason, and I’m not going to ignore that. When you need me, I’ll be there. That’s what family is for.”

Klaus smiled as Y/N strode to his side and the pair hurried off towards the van. The same thoughts and anxieties that flooded their minds when they left Dallas floated in their minds like a veil of mist that clouded their vision, but this time was slightly different. Sure they had many miles ahead of them, hardly any money to afford the trip back, were in dire need of sleep, and didn’t know the way back, but they knew where they were headed and why, and they had each other, and that was enough for now.

Tags:  @multifandom-ramblings, @bisexual-with-adhd, @ne0n-gh0st, @thehanwen @helena-way07 

#klaus hargreeves #umbrella academy klaus #klaus x reader #the umbrella academy klaus #number four #the umbrella academy number four #tua four #tua2 #tua klaus hargreeves #hargreeves #Robert Sheehan #klaus hargreeves x reader #anon request #the umbrella academy season 2 #rob sheehan

[wingedsapphic]

Relax: Spencer Reid x Female Reader.

You had Spencer close his eyes, but with how wiggly he was you were debating on just blindfolding him. The brainiac of a boy was gone for nearly three weeks on one of the most gut wrenching missions.

You and the brainiac had beem dating for nearly nine months, and you decided your boyfriend needed some well deserved relaxation.

"(Y/N), you know I hate surprises." He mumbled as you grabbed his wrist.

"Hush Spence, now step up there is a curb." You guided your boyfriend over the bump of concrete. The familiar scent of polish hit your nose.

"Reservation for (Y/LN)." You smiled at the sweet man at the register.

"(Y/N), are we at a salon?" He asks before opening his eyes.

Infront of him was a cute salon, the walls were a gentle cream color and the walls had paintings of flowers and fashionable women.

"Suprise!" You smiled at him while also following the worker to your seats. "Spencer this is Abigail, Abigail this is my boyfriend Spencer." You knew the workers here by heart, you've gotten your nails done here for years.

"Hello." Spencer gave a nervous wave before sitting his butt down into the chair.

"I'm picking out the colors, you sit and get relax Spen." You smirked deviously, before nearly skipping over to the polish colors.

Spencer's brows furrowed, nervous about being touched by a total stranger. He grabbed the remote and turned it on to the lowest setting. It was strange, to say the least, but it was rather relaxing. He dipped his feet into the water, it was warm, and had small gel pearls in it. He scrunched his nose at the texture before he heard a snort and looksd to see you, his wonderful girlfriend, laughing at him.

"Come on Spence, lets get loose." You sat in your own chair, refusing to show your boyfriend the color you chose for him.

You watch your boyfriend jerk as Abigail began to lotion his feet, gently clipping and filing his toenails into more manageable shapes. His eyes were focused on her hands, slowly masaging in more lotions and oils. The girl then pulled out what is something akin to a lemon grater, and Spencer flinched away, a stuttering breath leaving him.

"Sorry, I am just, ticklish." He admits, relaxing back into his seat.

Abigail then takes out a few hot rocks, gently masaging them over his calves and feet. You have never seen Spencer so relaxed before. He closes his eyes, a small smile adorning his face. They trimmed his cuticles and even hydrated his skin. The last step was to paint his toes, which you close a translucent purple polish. You could only see the purple at the right angle. You chose this polish knowing your boyfriend's favorite color, but also acknowledging that he has to be professional for his job. You also hoped maybe sometime you'd be able to convince him to do a manicure also.

You handed the receptionist your card, gently grabbing your boyfriends hand, you led him back to your car. Spencer hadn't spoken the whole time, but his face showed the ultimate result, relaxed.

"You ready to go home Spencer? I have a movie night planned for us, and some chinese food." He perked up at chinese food.

With a laugh you begin to drive home, using the bluetooth function to call in an order for your favorite Chinese place. Once home, you and your nerd of a boyfriend sprawl onto the couch.

"Did you have fun today Spence?" You ask, a small smile present on your lips.

"Of course I did, this was the most relaxing thing I've done in a while." He gently pats your head.

"Do you think I could ever convince you to get your hands done as well?" You ask, a sly lilt in your voice.

"Maybe, but for now lets eat and then sleep." He kisses your forehead and you both become comfortable.

You knew you had him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months later, Spencer walks into the BAU bull-pen looking refreshed and relaxed. His team mates cocked a brow at the boy as he pulls out his pencil, waiting for his case file.

"You okay Spencer?" Emily's bemused voice cuts through his distracted haze. "We get one weekend off and you look like you slept through the whole thing."

"Wait no Emily look at his nails." JJ covers her smiling mouth and looks to the other girls.

"Dude are your nails purple?" Derek asks, striding over and picking up the other mans hand. "And soft, what the hell Pretty Boy?"

"My girlfriend and I got medi-pedis together, we were celebratinng our year anniversary." Spencer removes his hand from Derek's grasp.

"Are your toenails purple too?" Rossi asks, a smirk adorning his features.

"Oh uh, no actually they are (Y/FC), they match (Y/N)'s nails." Spencer replies with a smile. "It was good, this weekend, it was nice to just RELAX."

~~

Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer.

William S. Burroughs

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds oneshots

[onelittlebookgeek]

Book Challenge 2020 (100 books!!) (I did it!!)

After forgetting to track my reading for three years, I started recording my reading on Tumblr last year again, and I’m committed to continuing that this year!

This year is my final year of my Bachelor’s Degrees (I’m finishing English in June) and I’m planning to do a gap year from September on, so now more university after June (at least as far as 2020 is concerned).

I do not really foresee any issues or obstacles to reading this year, except of course finishing my thesis which will probably take quite some time, so I do expect a decline around April until early June. Although I do have a lot more time off in my gap year, I used to read a lot of mandatory books for my studies, so I don’t know whether having a gap year will mean reading more books. Since I’m not doing any university studying, I am interested in reading academic books by myself, studying by myself. Those books are often longer, denser and just take more time to get through; consequently, I might read fewer books in the same amount of energy and time spent reading.

To make a (somewhat) long story short: my expectations are in line with the amount of books I’ve read in the last years, so I’m expecting to read 75 books this year!

Update: it’s mid-October and I’ve already read 99 books this year, so I’ve finished my original goal of 75 books! Now I’m going for 100 books (which should be easy to do, and after that we’ll just see how it goes!).

The crossed book is the one I’m currently reading, I’ve written reviews for books that have a (x) behind them, with the (x) being a link to my Goodreads review!

Update: Today (November 23) I’ve read 114 books so I’ve finished my challenge of 100 books! Right now, I’m still 25 books ahead schedule! Let’s see if I can keep that energy up!

January

The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin (5/5) (x)

Serpent and Dove (Serpent and Dove #1) - Shelby Mahurin (4/5) (x)

Lethal White (Cormoran Strike #4) - Robert Galbraith (4/5)

Weirdos from Another Planet (Calvin and Hobbes #4) - Bill Watterson) (5/5)

Selected Poems - E.E. Cummings (5/5) (x)

Niets zal ons redden maar een beetje liefde is oké - Henk van Straten (Dutch) (4/5) (x)

, said the shotgun to the head. - Saul Williams (4/5)

Loud and Yellow Laughter - Sindiswa Busuku-Mathese (3/5)

Fireborn (The Aurelian Cycle #1) - Rosaria Munda (4/5)

Sylvia Plath Poems Chosen by Carol Ann Duffy - Sylvia Plath (4/5) (x)

The Comedy of Errors - William Shakespeare (3/5) (x)

Nieuwe Herinneringen - Remco Campert (Dutch) (2/5)

Dido, Queen of Carthage - Christopher Marlowe (3/5)

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo - Taylor Jenkins Reid (4/5)

Alles wat er was - Stine Jensen (Dutch) (3/5)

Zij in de geschiedenis - Alies Pegtel (Dutch) (4/5) (x)

Good Omens - Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (reread) (5/5)

February

Prometheus Bound - Aeschylus (3/5)

The Lost Hero (The Heroes of Olympus #1) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

The Son of Neptune (The Heroes of Olympus #2) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

So You Want to Talk About Race - Ijeoma Oluo (4/5)

The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus #3) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

Educated - Tara Westover (3/5)

Prometheus on Caucasus - Lucian of Samosata (3/5)

March

Reading Old English: A Primer and First Reader - Robert Hasenfratz (4/5) (x)

Still Foolin’ ‘Em: Where I’ve Been, Where I’m Going, and Where the Hell Are My Keys? - Billy Crystal (3/5)

The House of Hades (The Heroes of Olympus #4) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

Quick Question: New Poems - John Ashberry (1/5) (x)

Exploring the Language of Poems, Plays and Prose - Michael H. Short (3/5) (x)

The Call of the Wild - Jack London (2/5) (x)

The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus #5) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

April

The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot (reread) (5/5)

And Still I Rise - Maya Angelou (4/5)

Poëzie in Utrechtse Muren - Ingmar Heytze (Dutch) (5/5) (x)

To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf (4/5)

Mijn dood en ik - Remco Campert (4/5)

Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster - Mike Davis (3/5)

Native Son - Richard Wright (2/5)

Dido, Queen of Carthage - Christopher Marlowe (reread) (4/5)

May

The Plague - Albert Camus (4/5)

Absalom! Absalom! - William Faulkner (4/5)

Modernism’s Mythic Pose: Gender, Genre, Solo Performance - Carrie J. Preston (2/5)

James Joyce and Sexuality - Richard Brown (3/5)

June

Daisy Jones & the Six - Taylor Jenkins Reid (4/5) (x)

Modernism, Sex and Gender - Alison Pease and Celia Marshik (3/5)

The Burial at Thebes: Sophocles’ Antigone - Seamus Heaney (4/5)

The Host - Stephanie Meyer (reread) (4/5)

The Hunger Games (The Hunger Games #1) - Suzanne Collins (reread) (4/5)

Catching Fire (The Hunger Games #2) - Suzanne Collins (reread) (4/5) (x)

A Terrible Beauty is Born - W.B. Yeats (4/5)

Mockingjay (The Hunger Games #3) - Suzanne Collins (reread) (4/5)

White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism - Robin DiAngelo (4/5)

Are Prisons Obsolete? - Angela Y. Davis (4/5)

The Final Empire (Mistborn #1) - Brandon Sanderson (4/5)

Everything Leads to You - Nina LaCour (2/5) (x)

The Tempest - William Shakespeare (reread) (3/5)

July

Hag-Seed - Margaret Atwood (4/5) (x)

American Slavery (A Very Short Introduction) - Andrea Heather William (reread) (3/5)

Angels & Demons (Robert Langdom #1) - Dan Brown (4/5) (x)

Mythos: A Retelling of Myths of Ancient Greece - Stephen Fry (4/5) (x)

Mean Time - Carol Ann Duffy (3/5)

Lijfrente - Vrouwkje Tuinman (Dutch) (4/5)

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (The Hunger Games #0) - Suzanne Collins (3/5) (x)

Sonnets from the Portuguese - Elizabeth Barrett Browning (3/5)

A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf (reread) (5/5)

The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold (4/5)

Onbreekbaar - Hans Hagen (Dutch) (1/5) (x)

The Penelopiad - Margaret Atwoord (reread) (4/5)

The Importance of Being Ernest - Oscar Wilde (5/5)

Het goede leven: een briefwisseling - Piet Gerbrandy & Andreas Kinneging (Dutch) (2/5) (x)

Constructions of the Classical Body - James Porter (3/5)

August

The Complete Poems - Anne Sexton (4/5)

The Kissing Booth (The Kissing Booth #1) - Beth Reekles (2/5) (x)

The Daily Show: The Book - Chris Smith (4/5) (x)

The Duchess Deal (Girl meets Duke #1) - Tessa Dare (3/5)

Between the World and Me - Ta-Nehesi Coates (4/5)

Fragments - Heraclitus (transl. by Brooks Haxton) (2/5) (x)

Animal Farm - George Orwell (reread) (5/5)

The Hidden Oracle (The Trials of Apollo #1) - Rick Riordan (reread) (4/5)

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue (Montague Siblings #1) - Mackenzi Lee (reread) (4/5)

Kitchen - Banana Yoshimoto (4/5)

Catilina’s Riddle (Roma sub Rosa #3) - Steven Saylor (2/5) (x)

When Dimple met Rishi (Dimple and Rishi #1) - Sandhya Memon (1/5) (x)

Adulthood is a Myth (Sarah’s Scribbles #1) - Sarah Andersen (4/5)

September

Normal People - Sally Rooney (3/5) (x)

Not All Dead White Men: Classics and Misogyny in the Digital Age - Donna Zuckerberg (4/5)

Sadie: A Novel - Courtney Summers (4/5)

The Myth of Sisyphus - Albert Camus (4/5)

Vloedlijnen - Piet Gerbrandy (Dutch) (4/5)

Red, White and Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston (reread) (4/5)

This is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Junior Doctor - Adam Kay (4/5)

Envelope Poems - Emily Dickinson (4/5) (x)

A Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot #10) - Agatha Christie (3/5) (x)

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man - James Joyce (4/5)

October

Titus Andronicus - William Shakespeare (4/5) (x)

The Mysterious Affair at Styles (Hercule Poirot #1) - Agatha Christie (4/5) (x)

Het verhaal van Aeneas - Vergilius (trans. to Dutch) (reread) (4/5)

If Beale Street Could Talk - James Baldwin (2/5)

Lesbia, Verzen van Liefde en Spot - Catullus (Dutch) (transl. by Paul Claes) (4/5) (x)

The Nightingale - Kristin Hannah (4/5) (x)

The Cat Inside - William S. Burroughs (reread) (5/5)

The Murder on the Links (Hercule Poirot #2) - Agatha Christie (3/5)

November

Such a Fun Age - Kiley Reid (3/5) (x)

Narratology and Classics: a Practical Guide - Irene de Jong (3/5) (x)

The Murder of Roger Akroyd (Hercule Poirot #4) - Agatha Christie (4/5) (x)

The ABC Murders (Hercule Poirot #11) - Agatha Christie (4/5)

The Great Cat (Poetry Collection) - ed. by Emily Fragos (3/5) (x)

Weapons of Math Destruction - Cathy O’Neil (4/5)

The Northern Lights (His Dark Materials #1) - Philip Pullman (4/5)

Vincent van Gogh en zijn brieven - Leo Jansen (Dutch) (3/5)

My Dark Vanessa - Kate Elizabeth Russell (4/5)

The Fill-In Boyfriend - Kasie West (reread) (4/5)

Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot #3) - Agatha Christie (1/5)

My 2019 challenge

My 2016 challenge

My 2015 challenge

My 2014 challenge

My 2013 challenge

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