#edlacy

[powderblueblood]

FOUR TIMES YOU WERE STRUCK INCAPABLE OF IMAGINING YOUR LIFE WITHOUT EDDIE MUNSON

(+ one, of the many, where he felt the same about you)

part of the hellfire & ice universe eddie munson x f!reader, reader is nicknamed lacy, you know the drill, minors dni only warnings are for fluff and eddie and lacy being cute and in denial word count: 2k tagging @chiefbonkpruneegg happy birthday pal <3 enjoy this nonsense

TRACK ONE: LET'S STICK WITH TELEVISION FOR TWO HUNDRED, ALEX

You and Eddie balance on either side of Ronnie Ecker's couch like faithful gargoyles, armed with soup and homework. Ronnie's caught the worst end of some green-gooed virus, so you two have taken it upon yourselves to deliver the necessities; tomato soup with extra hot sauce ("To snot out the demons," quoth Eddie) and history homework. But something on the television sucked you both right in, Poltergeist style, as you entered the Ecker trailer. Some hot young thing called Alex Trebek, captaining the maiden voyage of a brand new Jeopardy.

"You know who would kill on this show?" Eddie says, settling himself on the armrest to Ronnie's sniffling left.

"Guh, who?" Ronnie asks, huffing the steaming vapors of the spicy tomato soup like it's paint fumes.

You're pitched on the other armrest, pointing the rolled up history homework toward the screen. "What is the White H--US Treasury, are you fucking stupid?! Have these people never seen a twenty dollar bill before? What is the White House!"

You toss a glance over to Ronnie and Eddie for reassurance, just in time to catch them sharing a look. A good ol' Lacy know-it-all look. "Oh, shut up. as if I have more useless information rattling around in my brain than--"

Both you and Eddie snap at the TV in unison, "Who is Elvis Presley!"

Your turn to share a look. Game on? Game on.

It rolls on like that for a couple of categories, Ronnie sipping her soup straight from the container between you, hiding a smile as you and Eddie gradually bark louder and louder. Who are the Marx Brothers! What is 'break a leg'! Who was Napoleon!

"What, you're paying attention in History all of a sudden?"

"I'm a solid C student thanks to you, baby."

It occurs to you suddenly and begrudgingly and all at once; Eddie's right. You would kill on this show. But more than that, you want to wipe the floor and wring Eddie Munson out like the mop that he is.

"The greeting which opened each episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents."

"What is," both of you, in perfect Hitchcock tonality and without missing a beat, "Gooooood eeeeevening."

TRACK TWO: LIKE IF BECKY SHARP WAS FRIENDS WITH A BIG GOOFY HOUND DOG

Your first honest-to-god paycheck from the Bookstore was a fat wad of tens and singles plus change and it was handed to you in a brown paper bag. Invest this wisely, said Ivana, so of course, you followed your heart and your hard earned cash directly to the thrift store.

The front bell ding-a-lings and you walk through the door holding your moneybag aloft like the biggest, blue ribbon winning-est gourd at the county fair. You are proud as hell, because you did this! On your own! This isn't your daddy's money, this isn't the result of a once-toyed with idea that you might make a really good cat burglar, this was yours all yours!

"Put that down already! It's like you're wearing a sign saying mug me!" Eddie, bringing up the rear, yanks your arm back down by your side.

You laugh, mirthful and Hepburnian. "More like try me! I'm a working woman now, Eddie! I can hold my own! I can buy boots, guilt free, no strings, no blood money!"

"Uh-huh. consider that glass ceiling of having an after school job well and truly," he picks up a lamp from the scarcely populated homewares section, mimes slow-motion smashing it, "shattered!"

"Plus!" you cheerily pivot on your heel, a spring in your step that cannot be unsprung, even by Eddie's welcome to the real world, jackass flavored attempts. "Who would ever dare try and rob me when I've got a big, tough guard doggy like you three feet behind me at all times?"

Eddie's eyes narrow, like he's not all the way peachy keen on how you've pointed out your inseparability. But. He doesn't deny it either. A broken-stringed tennis racket bops you on the head.

"You owe me gas money."

"Shut up, please. I am shopping."

TRACK THREE: BUSTER MOVES

We'll always have the movies.

You sit, glassy-eyed, in your regular seats at the Hawk as The Cook starring Buster Keaton ticks along on the screen ahead of you. This Keaton retrospective, which you had been looking forward to for weeks, which you had been threatening to drag Eddie to for weeks, is going down a little... bland.

Not even that over-the-shoulder gaze that has Keaton beaming lasers of lust right into Virginia Rappe's skull adds any spice. You don't even bring up the whole scandal with her and Fatty Arbuckle, which would ordinarily be fertile territory to plow through with Eddie as a rapt audience.

In fact, you don't even tell him to kick his feet off the seats.

You've zoned out, because you still have the chill of the penitentiary's visiting quarters under your skin. Your dad and his cruelty that the bulletproof glass couldn't dull. The usual escape to the movies bit isn't doing the trick.

Then, you feel shaggy waves tickling your shoulder.

"I can do that."

"What?"

Directly in front of you, Buster is giving it his best Salome, his dance moves all angles. This display of pure deadpan goofiness was what made you obsess over Keaton in the first place, falling head over heels for a man who kicked it long before you were born.

And to your immediate left, you have Eddie Munson in your ear, telling you, "I can do that."

"No you can't," you say, and it doesn't sound like half the challenge it usually would.

Then, in a jolt that makes the whole row of rickety theater seats shake, Eddie's on his feet and stripping off his jacket. And before you can utter some totally perfunctory what're you... he's hot footing it down the steps to the splash zone, the front row, of the screen.

"You know I've seen this movie a million times?" Eddie says, projecting his voice right out like he's performing a one man show. Munson: Meditations on Dumbassery. You sit upright, glancing around to double-triple check that you're definitely alone in the screen. And you are-- Hawkins doesn't have as much a taste for the non-talkies as you do. And you were pretty sure that Eddie didn't either, and yet...

"Are you serious?" you ask, a laugh starting at the back of your throat.

"Does this look like a call and response? Let the maestro work, please," Eddie chides you over his shoulder, turning his back and hopping in place like a boxer about to take the ring.

And then, all of a sudden, he's... dancing? Sort of? Well, he's certainly moving his body, but it's nothing like what Buster's doing, and it's nothing like anyone's ever possibly done and not been hospitalized for, because the way his limbs are moving is borderline inhuman and you are laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing in a way that feels like Eddie reaching right through the fog of your horrible, dissociative feelings and bringing you back into the light.

You toss popcorn at him and he totally fails to catch it in his mouth, his face lit up in shades of black and white by the projection.

"A million times, huh?"

Eddie, breathless, shrugs, "Alright, I lied. But you laughed."

Point to Munson.

TRACK FOUR: LIBERATING MY MAGAZINES

It was a favor that he'd agreed to before you even offered to buy him breakfast after, a favor that didn't need sweetening up. As his van rolled into Loch Nora, Eddie's brows knit a little bit-- and you wondered how much of him regretted saying yes so hastily.

"On a scale of one to felony..."

Your house hadn't been sold yet. Repossessed, sure, but not sold. It stood there, darkened and quiet and gathering dust and the sheer sight of it being the only house on your street with an overgrown lawn made your chest feel tight. You bet the neighbors had something to say about that. You bet the neighbors had a lot to say about you. Curtains were no doubt twitching when you and Eddie pulled up in front of your old driveway.

"It's fine. It's my stuff, anyway."

About a half hour later, Eddie drops a pile of slightly-weather beaten copies of Rolling Stone bearing your name and old address onto a table in the diner, the remnants of your now-cancelled subscription.

"You gotta wonder what they're putting in that new print format that kept those things from totally composting."

"Thank god they didn't! I need to finish that Tom Wolfe serial or I'll die," you declare as he picks up a menu and you rifle through the pile. "Order whatever. It's on me."

Eddie snorts. You're still carting around that dwindling brown bag of cash. "You don't have to do that."

"No," you say, eyes darting around to anywhere but his face, "but I want to. For helping me to liberate my magazines."

"Lace. I'd happily liberate your magazines without the promise of pancakes," his mouth twists into this little grin you can't help but think of as sweet, "but they do help."

"Order enough to keep us here for a while," you say, and pass him a Rolling Stone.

The next while passes silently between you two, passing issues back and forth until one of you picks out something the two of you can fight about. Eddie twists his rings around when he's reading; you gather this from the looks you keep sneaking.

It feels eerily relaxed. Slightly domestic. And by the end, over-caffeinated with the way you two are soundlessly cackling over an imagined world where the cover of Springsteen's Born in the USA isn't an ass shot, but a full-frontal dick shot. "But where does he put the flag?!"

It's one way to kill a Saturday.

SECRET SONG: SWAPPING NOTES

In the relentless waves of the morning crush to get to his next class, he almost misses you-- just like he'd like to almost miss this next class. But then, there you are with freshly-manicured nails digging into his elbow.

For whatever reason, you've taken it upon yourself to make sure that Eddie Munson doesn't skip! At least, where you can help it.

"Yoohoo! Spanish is this way," you say, reorienting him in the right direction in that insistent little way that you do. Eddie's pretty sure that if he sat on you, you'd snap, yet he lets you completely manipulate his clearly superior physical strength anyway.

"We're not in Spanish together!" he tries, a last ditch to get you to turn around so he can ditch.

"No, but French is juste par là so you are pas de chance, my friend!" you tell him with a stare that says I've been tracking your movements like a hunter, dumbass. See my big spear? From that gargantuan folder you're clutching, you dig out a paper. "I have that thing you wanted me to look at."

"Sssshut up, I don't need everyone to know," Eddie flushes. It's not homework he begged to copy from you for once. It is actually this comparative essay that he actually thinks he might not have completely screwed up. But he kind of wanted a professional not-screwer-upper-of-homework's point of view, so... that's why your little red pen marks are all over it.

"Why, whose reputation am I sparing?" He sees your point. You are basically walking arm in arm with him. You. "But, y'know, I was right about you! The thought is there, the execution just needs a little fine tuning."

"So it was..."

"Not amazing! But not awful. I've done my edits and you can just copy as per-- but absorb them, please, okay? Learn something?"

Eddie's head rolls back on his neck with this petulant groan and he almost clocks a freshman at elbow level, shaking his arms in total frustration. God, now you were giving him homework on top of his homework? He should have just paid you to do the homework!

"I hate when you want me to better myself! Shit!"

"Well!" you say, in that bright, adorable, annoyingly-self satisfied way, "I wouldn't do it if I didn't see potential, so suck on that."

#published by powder #e. munson by powder #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #edlacy #blurbs #need to stop tagging things over 2k as 'blurb' #anwayy your honor i LOVE THEMMMMM this is just silly and fun #cba making a banner i'm too tired #hai brainrot #l. doevski by powder

[su8arandspite]

[ it’s not that’s we’re scared; it’s just that it’s delicate ] delicate: damien rice

@powderblueblood you asked for fan art, and you shall receive

#not my best work but oh well #fan art #edlacy #kayley speaks #Spotify

[andrehardysr]

1958 Edgar winner... #crimewriter #hardboiled #homage #negrodetectives #edlacy #puredope #toussaintmoore (at Los Feliz, Los Angeles)

#negrodetectives #hardboiled #puredope #crimewriter #edlacy #toussaintmoore #homage

[moschops911]

McGinnis28 by McClaverty on Flickr.

#illustration #robertmcginnis #edlacy

[notpulpcovers]

McGinnis28 http://flic.kr/p/q2vVkD

#illustration #robertmcginnis #edlacy

[powderblueblood]

YES, NURSE RATCHED - a hellfire & ice retelling of chapter eight's most pivotal moment, from eddie's pov

a special treat for my love @deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth eddie munson x f!reader, reader is nicknamed lacy, reader's last name is also mentioned, this is lore-filled and handsy so if that's not your thing keep it truckin, minors dni i do not like you go away warning for strong language, smut inthe form of public fingeringgggg, drug usage, extremely bad parenting (al munson klaxon), evoking the feeling of a comedown, billy hargrove gets his shit rocked, excuse all typos it's redacted o'clock and i'm a little buzzed word count: 2.6k

The first thing you should know about the following occurrences is that they are preluded by a whole lot of next thing Eddie knows. Things snapping his attention to the left, to the right, knocking him over the head, rearing up on him with little to no warning.

Number one? His dad showing up at Reefer Rick’s, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived and frantic, putting on a pantomime of being so psyched to see his boy! Rick snapping to attention and falling into his role of affable associate of Munson Senior immediately, despite the apology he’d tried to press against Eddie right when Al crunched the gravel of his driveway. What followed was a bender that Eddie couldn’t help but give into. Al has that effect on people, even him, even Eddie in his angry, angsty resoluteness that he should know better. 

You try knowing better when you're all bewitched, bothered and bewildered and shit.

Cue cut lines and records blaring until daylight broke over Lover's Lake– then Eddie, rising at noon but barely landed from his previous (ill-advised and bad-parentally-supervised) high, got it in his head that he ought to show up for school. At least for a little bit. 

Because they’d tossed your last name around a little last night, Al and Rick. Doevski this, Doevski that, in weird, vague terms that Eddie didn’t all the way understand. And the more weed he smoked and the more Jim Beam that got passed around, the less he remembered.

Which, dumb, right?

You’d tell him that was dumb.

You’d tell him he should have stayed sharp, listened up, gathered information.

He passed out on Rick’s sagging couch, mind searing with nothing but thoughts of you nagging him for intel.

Eddie woke up cotton-mouthed with your name on his lips. 

He needed to see you.

To catch one of your avoidant, barely-there glances as you flit through the hallway or maybe even spy you smoking a cigarette on the outdoor bleachers, reading in silence with Ronnie or Wheeler.

He’d think of what to say to you in the moment; probably spurned on by the sneer you’d give him– which he’d totally have earned, for having the nerve to ignore you for so long. 

Forgive me, he'd say, hands held aloft in Christlike composure, I just couldn't look you in the eye knowing you were getting willingly boinked by some Ivy League sweater monkey.

And then you'd have to admit your little bullshit college boyfriend wasn't Ivy League, and he'd prod you with that for a while, and things would eventually ebb back to whatever shade of normal you two were pretending to be. So? Okay!

But.

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s peeling into the parking lot and the first thing that he sees, bada bing, is you. All however many feet of you, steel true and planted on the hood of Billy Hargrove’s fucking Camaro, wielding a baseball bat like a sword.  

Eddie’s heart stops for the full entirety of a what fresh hell is this filter-focused second before he skids the van to a halt and launches himself from it. 

He advances this helluva scene just in time to hear you holler out, right in front of God and everyone,

“One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!” 

Eddie’s tread stutters and he wonders if this is what people mean when they use the expression taken out at the knees. Can he get a fucking encore, please? 

But then there’s the issue of the rabies-ridden Hargrove, the kid who’s snorted so much of Eddie’s dubiously cut supply that it’s no wonder that word has gotten around that he can’t keep his johnson rigid. There’s a thread dangling somewhere that makes Eddie wonder how familiar you are with that concept but. Alas. Digression. 

Hargrove calls you a cunt, and Eddie’s vision is replaced with a swathe of red. 

How ‘bout you try playing it cool, hearing someone talk to your girl like that, after a night of fun family drug-taking? 

Wait. His what? Hold on--

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s side-swiping Hargrove like a dirty bumper car, yak yaks something kind of funny (he hopes) and does not turn to look at you standing backlit like a holy fucking statue. Because he knows you’ll look beautiful up there, white hot with rage, holding a weapon poised for minor automotive destruction. He can’t handle beauty, not right now. Because of that thing from before with his knees. 

“...now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

It’s impossible to say whose hair trigger that tugged first, yours or Eddie’s. That’s like chicken vs egg. That’s like Han vs Greedo. That’s like, irrelevant. 

That baseball bat clatters to the pavement, a hearty overture to Eddie’s surge of empowerment, of rage, of insisting that she isn’t, I’m not, she isn’t, I’m not, nobody talks about her like that–

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s sitting beside you. Outside the principal’s office. Hand split open and aching, nose backed up and a little bleeding, coming down like the fucking Hindenberg. Reckoning with the fact that he wouldn’t need to be a little morning-after zipped on coke to throw a punch for you, if it came down to it. If it came down to it, he would have tried caving in Billy Hargrove’s other eye socket. He would have made him look like the Elephant Man if you needed him to. 

He liked that Eraserhead movie you made him watch. 

“He needs an ice pack…”

The soft mumble from you makes Eddie take this breath that makes his chest feel like it might concave. You, you. Reckless, unbuttoned, unlaced, off-kilter you, that still had time to snap at him after he’d tried to freeze you out, that still had eyes that asked him did it hurt? 

Eddie eavesdrops on as much of your grilling with Higgins and the hot guidance counsellor as his damaged eardrums will allow. Temporary insanity. Disgusting prank. He wonders what that’s about… and again, didn’t even think to question what brought you onto the hood of Hargrove’s car. He just saw you. He just acted.

He just keeps doing that. 

And then he hears. College. Application deadlines are within touching distance. 

“I can turn this around.”

Of course. Eddie hadn’t even thought about that, because he’s him. And it was something you were probably worrying yourself sick over, because you’re you– you wanted out of here. To get up, go, be someone great.

“New York, ideally,” you’d said to him once, tightrope walking across the broken bleachers outside; you’d been waiting around for him to give you a ride home, but he had a deal to make first. You were weirdly patient, weirdly pensive that day. “Someplace I can go and burrow in and absorb everything and grow out of a crack in the sidewalk, new.” 

Eddie’d held your hand, helping you step over a gap in the bench, “Not taking Manhattan by storm? Hurricane Lacy?” 

You–and he remembered this–had held onto his hand for a few more minutes, a cigarette dwindling in the other. Your fingers were cold; they clutched at his a little tighter when you spoke again. 

“No. Not Manhattan, not midtown, not big business. I have precipitated a change in my weathervane.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means that someone taught me the difference between being important and being significant.” 

Back in the room. Eddie drawls out some stupid crack to Higgins, who he’s still supplying with enough benzos to take out Jonestown a second time, which is the only reason he hasn’t been booted out of Hawkins High for absolute and final good. And then you’re alone again, the two of you. Together. 

“Wanna get out of here?”

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s spending the last of his energy like it’s burning a hole in his pocket, horsing around on the nurse’s saddle stool while you rifle through her office. You are all edgy and commanding because you have no idea how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me.

Good. He likes you better like this, at least for right now. Likes to watch you attempt to pirouette on the razor’s edge of your relationship to one another, mostly because your attempt is more graceful and easier to watch than his is. And he likes to watch you. Watch you do anything, really. 

Watch you snap at him to get on the bed. Fuck. 

Watch you tear and dab at his busted knuckles. Fuckfuck. 

Watch you talk about Cat People and press his hand to his chest and tell him he’s injured and wrong and watch you watch searing, singing alcohol on his split lip dry up. Eddie watches your eyes brighten and darken with curious affection, like those twinkle lights that fade in and out, steady as breathing. His breathing is anything but steady. His knees have come apart, letting you stand between them.

You dab and he lets this broken sound loose from him, because the proximity of your body to his feels like a fresh fucking spring breeze and god, god, the way you’re touching him with such gentle, measured movements, like you’ve choreographed every one–

You’re so exact. You’re so organized. He wants to unexact you.

Eddie uses his good hand, not that either of them are really any good, and presses as much of you into him as he can. The flush of your front, the flush of your mouth, he even has to stop those shorn denim-sheathed legs of his from wrapping around your hips. Eddie’s grip, it travels, hitching tweed up the curve of your ass. 

You don’t push him away like he figured you might, you don’t indignantly demand what is going on?! You don’t. You weave your hand up the line of his thigh, to the hard edge of his crotch where he is straining, a rigidity that’s been building since you went all Nurse Ratched on him. 

A rigidity that’s hard to keep down around you, badum-tsssss. 

Fuck.

Eddie almost knocks the word loose with a low groan that’s pressed into the supple flesh of your cheek, your lovely blushing fucking cheek, a cheek he goes to kiss or bite or something but misses by a hair because you’re straining your neck back. To look at him. Not soberly, he hopes. 

Someone down there is wishing him death by dick.

Not the wettest, wildest, filthiest dreams that he’s had about you (and categorically, there have been many) could have prepared Eddie Munson from the earth-shattering consequences of this tiny gesture. Your tongue, perfect and pink, darts to his lip, stinging and sore and comes away with the tiniest drop of ruby-red blood sitting on its tip. 

And you suck his bottom lip between yours, eyes fluttering closed.

Eddie’s cock jumps as his heart does, not a second out of time, as you clamber up, into his lap– so completely un-Lacylike, so totally… unexact. How, in all the vastness of Heaven and earth and Middle Earth and Hell and the Bookstore and the closet and his bedroom and the van could he be so fucking stupid?

“Just friends, right?” Eddie is deaf to how pained it comes out sounding.

His good hand travels. He finds your thighs, the softness there giving way to easy indents for his fingers and he knows, he knows that this is where his hands should be–unless, higher could be good? Higher, high up past those offending, incriminating lace top stockings that drilled through Eddie’s mind like an ice pick, giving him whatever the opposite of a lobotomy is. Haunting him with a fervour, begging him to snap them, but there’s no fucking time for that, god it hurts but there’s no fucking time for that because you. Two. Are. In. The fucking. Nurse’s. Office. 

But the world has ceased turning. 

Eddie’s mouth opens in a silent attempt at a moan as his fingers push past to the beating, radiating core of you that the throbbing, radiating core of him longs for. 

You’re so wet, and soft and lush and it rings through is head like a fucking hallelujah, you’re wet, you’re wet for him.

More than anything, he needs your encouragement–he needs to know that you want him to keep going. That you want him, that you want him, that–

You nod, frantic and undone, and Eddie kisses you for it just before he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing. But nothing in his body tells him to zoom out–in fact, the only thing he wants is more in. More you, more of you wrapped around him. He moves his hands with a clumsiness usually uncharacteristic of him, fucking guitar guy, fucking painting miniatures and shit guy. But it works, according to you and the way you keen against him with your beautiful, spit-shining lips parted and pulling against his. 

These little noises, chirps and swallowed moans of yours– it’s like music. He wants to choke on them.

Eddie’s voice kind of cracks open again, letting a little air and a touch of begging out. He strains, pained, cock aching against the hitch of denim. “Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Because you’re lonely, and Eddie knows that, with his fingers stroking you deep. You’re lonely, or would be, were it not for him. And it feels like now, in the heady swirl of these few moments that are stretched into an infinity, that he’s using it against you, but he’s not. He should be the one doing this for you, he should be the one making you feel this way, making you tremble even as he clumsily thumbs at your clit, because he thinks knows you and he thinks you want it unmeasured and unshackled and washing over you in a wave of sheer blind devotion and that’s why his tongue is all over your neck. 

That’s why his knuckles are split. 

That’s why there’s no malice in Eddie’s voice when he croaks, “Just friends? Lacy?” as you rock and spasm, hands clutching him around the shoulder and whimpers barely deadened against his lips. He can feel the texture of your pinched brow against his own. 

He wants to clutch you as close as he possibly can, but he’s got one good arm and it’s between your legs.

Between your legs. Jesus fucking Christ. 

Sobriety hits like a tidal wave as your breath returns to its normal rhythm; Eddie’s doesn’t quite have the same rebound. He’s still huffing a little, out of exertion or out of nerves, as he slips his hand out from under you, brushing what was off on his jeans. A small patch of his own bodily fluid collected there too, making sure he’s wearing the both of you like Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter as he walks around for the rest of the day. 

Eddie, throat starting to tighten up, pulls you in for one kiss, to give you one last taste of where he’d been split open for you. Melodrama dances around it; shades of we shouldn’t have, but we did, but we can’t, but now I have to fucking live with the fact I cracked open this Pandora’s box and I’m sorry. 

Or something to that effect. 

And you see right through him, because you always do. Hair in a muss, lips flushed, adjusting your skirt, re-exacting yourself, you clean up any evidence that this had ever happened. At least, on a surface level. 

Eddie dares to look at you once more, and you dare to look back at him. And thank god he’s sitting down, because that look shoots him right through the fucking aorta. You, wide-eyed and small-looking, pupils darting and unsure, are asking him why. Pleading with him, why. Why do this. Why now. Why at all, ever, why did you have to. Even though you know. 

“I–”

“No, I know. I know. I certainly know.”

Because you’re Lacy. You know everything. 

Eddie does think about going after you for a second, after your curt nod and dash through the door but he knows that it’s a zero-sum game. He has nothing good to say. It’s not even you that’s rendered him speechless– funny thing, you usually do the opposite. You always give him something to say. He just has nothing good to say. Nothing worthy of you. 

So he sits there, on the examination table, waiting for the mythical Nurse Lydia to tend to his wounds. 

First he’ll will himself soft, then he’ll will himself sane. 

Famous last words.

#published by powder #e. munson by powder #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fic #blurbs #edlacy #hai brainrot #this actually helped me crack a little thing i've been stuck on in chap 9 so thank you for that!!! #Spotify #l. doevski by powder

[powderblueblood]

everything looks better on me (especially you)

eddie's missing something and lacy gets a new accessory. (825) cw: fluff the house down, thank GOD these two get to be CUTE for once in their stinking lives. happy valentines day palentines part of the hellfire & ice universe

that looks familiar.

the note bounces over your shoulder, landing in a crumpled little ball for you to unravel on your desk. first period. monday. history with kaminsky, enforcing tyrannical rule by reading about the ottoman empire at an excruciating pace. the morning is passing at it's usual torturous tick, only helped by the warm reassurance of eddie, sat in place behind you.

you make sure to shake your stupid hair all over his desk as you pass back your reply.

oh, this old thing? you like it?

eddie holds his breath as he watches you slide the slip of paper by your ear for him to snatch, fixated on the flow of your neck to your shoulder. said flow, which he so frequently admires, is now obscured. a wrap of fabric around your neck that he knows well. real well. super well. part of the uniform well.

you'd thought it'd be a cute look--a coquettish little necktie element to set off your otherwise rote skirt-and-satin blouse set. a nod to sexy librarians, contrarians, know-it-alls with edge-- oh, okay, fine. who are you fucking kidding. you wore it around your neck because you knew it'd make eddie's dick twitch from a thousand yard reach.

you knew it'd make him go all doe eyed and grin stupid and maybe even make him do that thing where he hides behind his hair. you love that. it makes your heart flip like a speed freak olympian. makes you want to shove him to the ground and make out with him until he suffocates.

you knew it'd be a statement, too. i'm intentional about every single thing i've ever put on my body. i want you. i want this.

you reach up and wind the end of eddie's bandana around your little finger.

you think you hear his breath hitch. (you totally do.)

you look really pretty.

eddie catches you off guard, y'know. with his earnestness. with how hard he means things.

really pretty.

he'd left his bandana on your bedroom floor the night he stole away out your window. remember? "i'm coming back for you, lacy doevski?" all that? well, you'd found it after getting third-degree cross examined by your father and lay awake with it held close to your face. it'd gotten caught on a pin or something and tore, so you darned it back together with your limited sewing skills. you didn't want to give it back right away--it's such a part of the eddie munson ensemble that it made you feel like you had a real piece of him with you, 'til you could see him again. which was only 48 goddamned hours, but let's slice off a little slack here.

and so came this morning. and you wound it under your collar, tying a windsor knot.

you feel him lean in a little closer to tuck the note next to your shoulder.

really REALLY PRETTY.

pretty enough to meet me in the bathroom? you write, tossing it back to him with a stretch. you don't wait for an answer as the bell trills.

moments later, eddie has you pinned against the wall of that bombed out boy's bathroom (say thank you lack of school funding!), pressing his lush, pink lips to the line of your jaw.

he makes your whole body feel as tingly as tv static.

eddie's forehead finds yours and you don't have anything in you but to sigh and smile, just a breath away from his mouth.

"hello," you say, watching the sparkle in his dark eyes.

"hi," eddie mumbles, grinning away. he brushes a knuckle down the side of your face. "pretty. pretty. you're so pretty, lace."

god, even the way he says it knocks you clean out. pritty. like there's some tennessee twang still left in the highest reaches of his voice.

your lashes flutter. you're lightheaded and girlish and you can't for the life of you stop smiling.

eddie's smile breaks into a little laugh, breath brushing against your nose.

"what's so funny?"

"you like something i wear," he croons, fingers brushing the knot of the bandana, settled beneath your collarbone. "you like me."

"so what if i do?"

"you like me. i melted you."

"i wouldn't call this melting," you chuckle softly, but your eyelids drop and chin tilts back as eddie brings his mouth to your neck. "this is defrosting at best."

"you tryin' to say you want it... wetter?"

"shut up, eddie."

"i could get you so soaked with this wit alone..."

a delicate snort. "ladies and gentlemen, the friars club presents..."

"mm, you lost me."

"i'll tell ya later."

his hands travel all over your body, groping you with a sweetness driven by desire. eddie is all want when it comes to you; wants to touch you, talk to you, listen to you, lay with you. bug the shit out of you.

and you want him too, is the thing. it's reciprocal. you're wearing it right around your neck.

you could both die happy before fourth period.

#e. munson by powder #hai brainrot #edlacy #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #shortest blurb ive ever written probably shoutout to me #this is so lazy chill good times i just love them #published by powder #l. doevski by powder

[powderblueblood]

Lacy bullying Eddie (affectionately) into having a sleepover (not sexual, initially) with her with facemasks and deep conditioning treatments and nail polish because she can’t look at his dry ends and the clogged pores on his nose or the hair between his brows because he’s unfairly pretty and she misses girly sleepovers a little bit maybe perhaps

THIS IS EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER WANTED UUUUGGHHHH and it starts like this

“so you’re entering me into the witness protection program.”

“what? sh—“

“lace, you came in here with full artillery. look at this thing.” thunk. it’s just a little cosmetics case! a midsized cosmetics case. alright, it’s a decently sized cosmetics case. christ. “i’m expecting, like, reconstructive surgery.”

lacy stares a clean hole right through him.

“you were the one that said you could use a little pampering. stressful times and all that shit.”

“yeah, but i meant—“

“you meant a blowjob.”

“i… maybe.”

“and i’m not ruling that out! just… sit down. let me make you pretty.”

smash cut to like, an hour later and both of them are trying desperately not to smile so as not to crack the facades of the quick hardening mud masks they have on. (lookin’ at her in that little robe, it’s not the only thing in the room that’s quick hardening if you get what i’m say—alright.) eddie, in a bright green concoction designed for extraction and lacy in a ghoulish white version made for maintenance— because she’s on top of this shit, don’cha know.

eddie’s reclined between lacy’s legs, his head resting against her chest. his hand in hers, she’s using those nimble fingers to work lotion into his knuckles and callouses.

(“is this really necessary?” “if you ever wanna put those fingers inside me again, it is.”)

in the background, they’ve got lou reed spinning.

if lacy had to illustrate a perfect moment…

“this feels…”

“say something stupid and i break your fingers.”

“nooo,” the word curls in his mouth like smoke, “it feels… nice.”

lacy struggles against a smile. for the sake of the face mask. of course.

“i was the manicure boss when we’d have sleepovers. me and…” she trails off. eddie blinks. “i’m deceptively good with my hands. for a rich girl.”

“oh, i know that better than anybody— ow!” eddie squirms as she pinches at him lightly; pinches her back on her thigh. “what else did you harlots get up to at those sleepovers? practice kissing?”

“god, you’re such a caricature of a boy sometimes,” lacy tuts. “but… mm. maybe.”

“yeah? who was the best?”

“wouldn’t you like to know.”

“i would, dipshit, s’why i asked.”

“this faux lesbianism better not be titillating you, freak.”

“you’re not even giving me anything to work with, cheerleader.”

lacy sighs, so deep out of her chest that it shifts eddie’s head a little. his curls are wrapped in an old t-shirt on top of his head, y’know, to sop up whatever sauce she put on ‘em when they got out of the shower.

she hadn’t thought about those sleepovers in a minute. powdery perfume and the smell of hair burning from carol’s room when cass would accidentally go too hard with the hot rollers. wild, loud laughter. everyone balancing on the life raft of her canopy bed.

“t is for tina who used too much tongue…” lacy starts and eddie snorts, “h is for heather who sometimes got handsy…”

“oh shit, my mask!” eddie gasps, but she rubs his chest, bare and soft from the lotion she’d slathered on him earlier.

“don’t worry about it, you’re already cooked.”

“oh?” he chirps, hauling up and around to face her. she can’t contain herself, him cast in gill-man green. “so i can take this shit off now?”

“jesus, you’re the creature from the black lagoon!” lacy guffaws, and here eddie comes with those tickling hands, fingers making a rapid crawl up her legs.

“oh yeah? you gonna be my little, uh— whatsername—“

“julia a—hhhahah—julia adams!”

“lemme make you pretty, she says, lemme make you pretty—and look at me now!” eddie rears up on his haunches, arms flung wide, “i’m a monster!”

lacy, face mask flaking, can barely catch a breath from where she lies on his sagging mattress— and before she knows what’s what, she’s being hauled up bridal style, carried to the bathroom to ‘reverse this green-skinned curse you put upon me, witch!’

eddie quietens right down when lacy passes over his pretty features with a warm washcloth, careful and gentle, patting in face cream after she dries his face off. her touch, again, delicate and dedicated. like nothing eddie’s ever felt from another human being.

not since he was little, at least.

he leans forward, clutching at her waist and pressing his face into her belly from his seat on the closed cistern. and squeezes her ass for good measure.

“did heather ever get this handsy?”

lacy, carefully unwrapping his conditioned curls, smiles. the weight of him around her feels so good. so grounding. makes her feel solid.

“just the once. you got big shoes to fill, munson.”

#powder room talk #anonymous #lmao A BLUrb on accident who ME???! #hai brainrot #edlacy #thanks anon ily #l. doevski by powder #e. munson by powder #published by powder

[powderblueblood]

how would they handle a pregnancy scare?

TW pregnancy scare i guess WHOOPS it’s ANGSTY in here lmao

HAHA. well!

“did this take this long the first time we did it?”

oh, you mean the first time they did it when lacy bought nancy wheeler’s pregnancy test and they had to wait around in the freezing broken boys bathroom in the middle of midwinter to see if harrington had sired something?

“no,” lacy says, extracting her little finger from her mouth where she’s chewed it to mince, “time has slowed down to a glacial pace in order to punish me for my sins.”

eddie, sitting in the bathtub, attempts a grin. he’s not feeling too spiffy either. “getting locked out of wed?”

“coming off the fucking pill.”

how late is she? late enough to mention, late enough to worry. see, lacy’d been on the pill since they began this little world-axis-shifting dalliance of theirs so she and eddie had enjoyed the luxury of bareback, so to speak. she had put a lot of faith in that thing, but it so happened that she started getting these splitting migraines and low, low, low moods so her campus doctor had suggested that she come off the pill for a little bit. see if that changed anything. hormone imbalance and all that.

problem was, it was kind of hard to remember that she had come off it. those first couple of times, it was kind of an event, lacy making sliding that condom onto eddie almost ritualistic in a way that had him near to busting. but a time or two after that, it kinda… slipped their mind.

it happens. right? or is she stupid all of a sudden?

eddie’s a good boyfriend. drove her right to the drugstore, walked her right up to the counter so at least if the clerk gave her a dirty look, he was giving it to both of them.

but there’s just… something…

“you haven’t… changed your mind or anything?”

the last time they did this, eddie had asked her if she wanted kids. they hadn’t gotten together yet, but the tension between them was like a pot boiling over. spitting everywhere.

“i fully reserve the right to change my answer given the fact that we are eight-shitting-teen years old.”

but now she is twenty. her twenty first birthday looming, in fact.

eddie, doe eyed, watches lacy like he knows she’s got a knot in her chest, because she does. he watches her hands curl over her face, shoulders tense.

“not even…”

because a good girlfriend would say yes, right? a good girlfriend would be like, yes, of course, because i worship the ground you walk on, because i should drop all notions of my life without a second thought at the mere suggestion of a kid with you, because it would make you so happy. and i love you, so much. all i want is to make you happy. i’d eat the sun if that meant anything to you.

that’s what a good girlfriend would do, right? that’s how she would act. overjoyed. dreamy eyed. we’ll make it work, baby, you and me.

and there’ll always be the notion that we shackled each other to this town we purport to hate. and i’ll watch you avoid becoming your father and you’ll watch me become mine. and a little bit of my mother, too. and wayne will still hate me, even moreso for trapping you here. and in between, there’ll be this baby who didn’t ask for any of this at all.

“you can’t hate me for this,” lacy chokes. “i’m begging you.”

i was raised in resentment and i would never risk doing that to another child.

eddie feels sick. he hauls out of the bathtub to wrap his arms around her but his heart is hammering in his ears.

of course he wants this. and when he pictures a kid that theoretically has his eyes and her nose, he gets scared when he can’t really see her in those visions. others, sure. they’re clear as day. eddie knows what their wedding bands will look like, and what she’ll look like brushing her hand through her hair when she’s wearing it.

but he doesn’t see lacy glowing and barefoot, even though he’s tried.

“i don’t… lace…”

elizabeth munson was twenty when she had eddie. al was a little older. she’d snapped her life in half to uproot from memphis to hawkins, only to die six years after.

eddie really tries to make it not feel like a crusade to better his father’s wrongs, when he imagines it. you know?

“because i love you so much, i love you so much that i couldn’t take it,” lacy’s voice cracks in time with his heart, “if you hated me for this.”

a horrible thought flashes through eddie’s mind. would you do it if it meant i would never hate you?

“i love you,” is all he says into her hair, “i really, really love you.”

they stand on the cold tile of the bathroom for a long time. two people very much in love, and seemingly at odds.

eddie peers over lacy’s head at the watch on the counter.

“alright, sweetheart.” feels impersonal. he never calls her that. that’s for the outside world.

lacy picks up the stark white strip from the test tube, and her voice shakes.

“well. a lot of drama over… nothing. i’m sorry.”

eddie watches her shrink into herself, and would easily sock himself in the jaw if he thought it would do any good.

“hey!” his dazzling smile comes into her view, and she nearly buys it for a second. “forget about it, okay? who needs some fucking loser baby, right?”

but what eddie means, in that present moment, at twenty years old, is until next time.

and what lacy knows, in that present moment, at twenty years old, is there won’t be one.

#powder room talk #anonymous #edlacy #hai brainrot #e. munson by powder #l. doevski by powder #published by powder

[powderblueblood]

“i have a problem that has HIS NAME SCRIBBLED all over it.”

eddie munson & lacy doevski are enemies to friends to idiots to accomplices to lovers and even criminals too in HELLFIRE & ICE

#well. this scratches an itch #hai brainrot #edlacy #eddie munson x oc #stranger things oc #eddie munson fanvid #eddiemunsonedit #lacy doevski #powderedits

[powderblueblood]

FUSE, MEET FRICTION.

– eddie munson & lacy doevski barely surviving their genetic fate in HELLFIRE & ICE.

#eddie munson x oc #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!oc #eddie munson x fem!reader #hai brainrot #edlacy #powderedits

[powderblueblood]

You know what's just burrowed into my head? given how often poor Camilla was forced to say the word daddy on that show it made me picture lacy saying it to Eddie but in that I'm clearly making fun of you, I'm not into that stuff kind of way but he's our beloved pervy loserboy so of course he short circuits over it anyway. I hope she finds out just how much of a perv he can be now that they've done the do. I mean the whole thing with her pen in the very first chapter? and the shower scene when she had to stay over? I would love to know how she'd react

18+ MINORS DNI i accidentally went crazy on this? god bless you anon happy valentines day

l i t erally she is shoving eddie out the door of the newspaper room after a heavy makeout session where she's got him all wound up and whining on purpose, sing-songing something like, "c'mon, hurry up! everyone in the drama room is gonna be looking around that dungeon, wondering where-oh-where is daddy?"

and eddie just shoves himself between the jamb and the closing door (painfully, for a multitude of reasons) (reasons pertaining to his cock) and hits lacy with the prey animal stare.

"huh? come again?" you'd like that wouldn't you badum tsss etc

but lacy like, knows and like, eats it right up, the way she draws out every syllable with a dirty little mockery of a snarl.

"better run along now, da-a-addy."

eddie manages to wrangle her in for one last kiss, stomach all butterflies and dick all cardiac arrest, "i'm gonna get you for that," and lacy's squealing into his ear, "and your little kitty too! shit! evil!"

"first and last time you'll ever hear it, i guarantee you!" liar!

but, evil actually comes in the form of lacy lifting a pair of her panties from the glovebox of the van later that night.

"hello? have you been doing my laundry or what?"

eddie gets a laceful in the face as she flings them at him. immediate snow white blush on his cheeks, this guy, because he's still toeing the line of being a little bit of a pervert with her. testing the waters. though, she had perched in his lap and watched him jerk off the other day, after specifically asking to which naturally made him cum neatly under the runtime of zeppelin's dazed and confused.

i wanna see how you do it. how do you touch yourself when you're thinking about me?

and she'd been all sweet, tits out and skirt on, running her hand up his chest as he pumped his cock in his fist (he hadn't been allowed to touch her), telling him how pretty he was, how much she liked watching him make himself feel good. eyes never leaving him. studying him like SAT prep. not putting as much as a fingertip on herself, but squirming against his thigh.

this is about me, he realized, heart warming, dick throbbing. she wants to make it about me.

eddie had cum, and had possibly narrowly avoided a hemorrhage of the brain due to how fucking hot that was, and was soon springing to back to life in lacy's palm. she had that effect on him; just when he thought he was spent, boom, he is risen.

he needed a solid fifteen minutes to process the aftershocks after she rode him til both their eyes were streaming, lacy stroking his hair and pretending like she wasn't trembling as much as he was.

if that girl isn't careful. he swears to god. wedding bells. big 'uns.

but. anyway. panties. panties he had been actively using as a gag when he jerked off on the rare occasions she couldn't come meet him. sure. whatever.

"you must've left 'em here!" eddie shrugs (wide-eyed, beautiful, you know the vibes), tossing them back at her, to which lacy rolled her fanned-out mascara'd eyes.

"and walked around commando? when have you ever known me to do that, smartass?"

true. she liked making him take off her panties with his teeth too much, and he liked watching the way she slid them back on. that little jump she did that made her ass shake.

which could be a part of the whole stuffing them in his mouth thing. listen, he didn't have time to ruminate on it.

guilty as all hell, he shrugs again, slapping his hands on the wheel. but eddie's heart is like, hammering. was that a step too far? nabbing her panties out of her room the last time he'd snuck in there?

there's this silence in the van for a couple beats that he hates, even though lacy resumes looking for a tape in the glovebox she's probably never gonna find.

"you know," she goes, eyes downcast, "if you wanted to borrow a pair, you could've just asked."

a stutter in the air. she knows just how to make his record scratch.

"whassat now?" eddie leans in, gripping the steering wheel for dear life.

"you heard me," and her mercurial eyes flash at him, gaze drawing down his body in that way that makes him sure he knows what it's like to do heroin without ever having tried it.

"just, tell me if you ever wanna try 'em on," lacy smiles, and eddie smiles, and eddie also dies somewhat, "i wanna see how cute you look when you're hard in them."

and look, we haven't even begun to think about lacy's reaction the first time he jokingly calls her mommy.

#powder room talk #Anonymous #e. munson by powder #edlacy #hai brainrot #father john misty voice je ee e esus christ girl

[powderblueblood]

eddie: would you peel an orange for me

lacy, grabbing the stupid fruit: shame about your nerve damage

eddie: my what

lacy: your nerve damage. from jerking off all the time. cant even peel a clementine, you pitiful bastard

eddie: that’s a tangerine, you uncultured swine

lacy: who died and made you the orange king

eddie: my brush with scurvy

lacy: figures. thought I tasted blood earlier

#edlacy #hai brainrot #need them to canonically get over themselves so I can write 1400 scenes like this #radiohead voice you do it to yourself you do. and that’s what really hurts #eddie munson x reader

[powderblueblood]

eddie, ronnie and lacy go to a party and jason, carol and team have something to say about it. lacy will of course stand up for them and eddie is gunna be like ‘yeah she digs me’

god (and i mean this literally) but of course it’d be the christian pipsqueak.

so sayyy it’s a post steve and nancy breakup harrington rager and they’re in that weird nebulous stage where they’re like, ‘we can be friends, right?’ and nancy, naive is like, sure! and steve, desperate is like, totally!

so naturally nancy guilts lacy and ronnie along for moral support. and naturally still, lacy and ronnie go next to nowhere without eddie attached plus it’s a business opportunity for him.

lacy’s nervous, like white light white hot nervous, so she makes this whole to do about getting ready at ronnie’s trailer… not least of all because this is kind of her and eddie’s first major outing as a couple. as much as she doesn’t need to make a statement, she needs to make a statement.

and the statement is, ‘i love this man!’

she helps ronnie pick out a sufficiently gay little outfit, because you never know, and lacy herself emerges in a hot little something something that’s tight and glam and nipped in the right places.

(“i bet a lot of people are expecting you to show up in chains and fishnets.”

“well, a lot of people expect girls to trade out their entire personalities to match the person they’re… and that’s not me! so.”)

anyway, cue eddie groaning into a throw pillow soon as lacy steps foot outside of ronnie’s room. that’s the kind of reaction we’re looking for. a little commotion for the dress.

touching down at harrington’s compound, two different kinds of nerves hit. lacy’s, seeing as how she hasn’t been here since carol clocked her one and eddie’s, who grabs lacy’s wrist before they go in and looks at her wide-eyed and honest to god says, “do i look okay?”

“do you look okay?”

“yeah. just… yeah. i don’t know.”

“when have you ever worried about wh—“

“lace.”

so she looks at him. really looks at him in his tone-perfect cartoon character uniform getup, no different than always. then, oh. her heart ka-chunks. oh.

her fingers web tight with his and her head shake-shakes, but there’s a wicked grin on those snakebite scarlet lips.

“hey. munson up for me, wouldja?”

inside, your average outlet mall-styled bacchanal. jello shooters galore (you wonder if steve makes them himself). leading the charge, you maneuver toward the kitchen—and funnily enough, find that ronnie knows more people here than you thought.

“what? band’s crazy good for networking.”

but before any peace settles over the land and you can make you and eddie a triple whiskey something, a caw slices through the room.

“sorry—freak brigade doesn’t have jurisdiction here.”

jason carver. jasonnnn carverrrr, aryan nation incarnate with a real spotty saviour complex to boot.

eddie, over your shoulder, is twitchy. “told you this was a shitty ideaaaa…”

because, of course, eddie is used to lingering on the outskirts of parties like these for a quick escape, lest the very nature of his presence summon a beat down.

but fuck that, lacy thinks. they have just as much a right to be here as anybody else. more, even—nancy asked.

“carver, don’t you have some freshmen to proselytise to? i see the whole glory for god bit isn’t keeping you from scamming on your girlfriend.”

for her sake, you hope chrissy’s kept her curfew.

“you got a problem, slut?” like, is that his only line?

lacy nudges ronnie on the shoulder, pointing a painted finger at carver. “see? takes one to know one.”

“what did you say—“

he lurches toward them, barely restrained by patrick and carol. lacy throws her palm up—her free hand, because her other is locked tight in eddie’s. not letting go. putting herself between the them and the him.

“ah, ah, ah. who do you think you’re going for here—him?”

carver’s eyes flick to eddie, who hasn’t even said anything yet, he’s so goddamn tense. lacy pouts, shaking her head.

“please. you gotta get through me first, bible banger,” her voice drops, just so a snarling jason can hear. “and between you and me? i’ve learned some things.”

“i bet you have,” he spits, shuffling around a couple come on, dudes and they’re not worth it.

“better listen to your buddies, jase. go play ball!”

snarling, faltering, retreating. lacy catches an extra dirty look from carol as they move out to the patio, which she receives with a wink. woo! powerful!

ronnie hooks an arm around her neck, presses a kiss to her temple. “gee whizz, lacy, my hero! i would’ve liked to see you kick the shit out of him in those boots, though.”

and eddie, well. eddie’s no longer got that shelter dog look. eddie’s looking at her like she’s god.

“you,” he grabs her other hand, “you,” he hoists them into a waltzing position, “you…”

flush against eddie’s front, well. lacy can feel how appreciative he is.

“enough about me,” she purrs.

“bathroom?”

“please. master bedroom. they’ve got a water mattress.”

#powder room talk #anonymous #hai brainrot #edlacy #what again. elvis costello pump it up

[powderblueblood]

i need to know whats the most embarrassing thing lacy has found in eddie’s room and vice versa! (and ronnie too actually, cant forget our queen)

god this is so near and dear to my heart you have no idea

first thing, the overarching constant motif with this little non-throuple is whenever one of them leaves the room, they yell to the other, “DON’T SNOOP!” and naturally they immediately begin snooping.

eddie’s is the thick manila folder detailing (heavily detailing) the life and times of his fictional tiefling girlfriend who is named finore aurora. finore aurora. one more time i’m gonna give that to you, finore aurora. say that out loud. five times fast. that’s diabolical, eddie.

how does lacy know she’s his girlfriend? well, there are several longhand accounts of him dancin’ and romancin’ this creature which, though genuinely quite moving and beautifully written (and dirty!), make her feel like she is losing her mind. kind of out of jealousy, a little bit. so oftentimes, when she’s in a shitty mood, she’ll hit eddie with a little, “i don’t know, why don’t you go ask finore aurora, asshole?”

lacy’s took some digging to find because she’s an expert in the art of squirrelling herself away. but deep deep deeeeep under her bed is a shoebox with a little tape recorder. and in that tape recorder is a tape, which features lacy doevski… pretending to be interviewed. like she’s on dick cavett. like she’s on johnny carson.

eddie only got as far as lacy saying that, “no, i like being on tv… as long as it’s not my job. i like being on tv, it makes me feel like an american. it’s like owning a car,” before he heard her footsteps and he had to slip the tape in his back pocket because there was no way he wasn’t sparking a joint in the van and listening to her harp on for what turned out to be twenty full minutes. just talking to herself. waxing on about successful books she hadn’t yet written and society pages she hadn’t yet featured in. there’s a part where this supposed interviewer asks her something about loneliness, and lacy goes, “do i have a fear of loneliness? no. loneliness is an inheritance. i’m trying to figure out how to spend it wisely.”

that stuck to eddie’s ribs.

one day, in the van, seemingly apropos of nothing eddie does ask, “baby, do you miss owning a car? do you feel like… less of an american, no longer owning a car?” not a drop of blood is left in that poor girl’s face.

as for ronnie, this was a joint discovery made by the gruesome twosome. they were rushing out to the hideout for corroded coffin’s weekly engagement and ronnie asked them to grab something from her wardrobe—not realising that when they opened it, they’d find a bunch of barbie dolls, all sat in a semi circle.

“no way. i’ve known ecker since i was knee high to a grasshopper—“ “—okay, grandpa—“ “—and she’s so not a barbie girl.”

but you don’t know about women, eddie munson! you don’t know about the secrets they keep. the speculation of this little collection of wide-eyed, attentive dollies ranged from satanic ritual (real this time) to homosexual experimentation (“a dry run, before she hits the bars in college.” “what, like making out with the dolls? making the dolls make out?” “you’ve got so much to learn about girls, babe.”) to practicing for her valedictorian speech with a non-judgemental audience.

the last one was the closest, for ronnie’s real use for her cluster of barbies was… well, look. listen. before lacy, she had a zero sum of female friends. her life was incredibly testosterone filled, between hellfire and the band, and because of that, ronnie got a little stunted when it came to making friends with girls. so she used these barbies (which she did have since childhood, she just hid from eddie because ew… girl stuff… the horror of internalised misogyny) to have, y’know. girl talk.

she called it the state of the union, if that makes it any better. it doesn’t! lacy’s still trying to figure out a way to bring it up to ronnie because eddie’s too scared that the dolls might be haunted.

#powder room talk #potatobeanpies #hai brainrot #edlacy #ronnie ecker vs the world #r. ecker by powder #e. munson by powder #l. doevski by powder

[powderblueblood]

Feeing crazy, thinking about Lacy pegging Eddie

MINORS FUCK OFF LMAO

so the strap isn’t introduced into their dynamic until like…… maybe 96, post sequel reconciliation, but before that? you know lacy doevski is in them cheeks. she’s obsessed with eddie’s ass. it starts as a little caressing, a little biting, a little fingertip tease which turns into a couple of fingers and soon she’s holding that boy like a bowling ball and he is begging, he’s a whimpering rutting mess but he knows she’s gonna take care of him. she always does.

that doesn’t stop a shock of fear running up eddie spine the day that lacy joins him in the shower, spreading his cheeks and fingering him ‘til he’s nearly blackout and then being all, “how do you feel about me eating you out?”

first time she treats him so nice, because that’s how lacy is with her eddie. we’re talking the full pamper treatment, as mentioned before, but this time she’s carefully shaved right around his sweet spot (they’ve had a whole trimming discussion before, but this is more or less foreplay).

lacy spends what feels like hours kissing and licking that pretty little puckered hole of his, watching eddie squirm and moan into the mattress, hard cock leaking, ass up presented to her. she loves him like this, them like this, totally free of any bullshit hang ups, eddie giving himself to her completely. and eddie loves her like this, taking his pleasure in hand and nourishing it, making him feel liberated and loved enough to feel good.

and he’s got such a cute little butt, you know!

#powder room talk #anonymous #hai brainrot #edlacy #lacy doevski eats ass pass it on