#future mrs murray

[thethirdromana]

Dracula characters based on how likely they would be to eat a worm

Jack Seward There’s scarcely anyone in this story more likely to eat a worm than Jack Seward. As an experiment? Yeah, sure. When he was bullied at school? Almost certainly. Because a somewhat overbearing father figure suggested it? Without question. This man has eaten a worm before and he would do so again.

Arthur Holmwood Arthur is the son of a Lord, the Victorian 1%, one of the most wealthy and privileged individuals in one of the most wealthy and privileged countries in the world. Until the events of the novel, do we think Arthur Holmwood, future Lord Godalming, ever had to do anything he didn’t want to? Even in the horrors of the Victorian public school system, rank has its privileges. He would not eat a worm.

Quincey Morris An adventurous type like Quincey? He wouldn’t just eat a worm, he’d fry it in a little butter and cayenne pepper and do his best to enjoy it.

Lucy Westenra as a human I was going to say absolutely not. Surely she would be horrified at the very idea. But equally, Lucy is by far the biggest people-pleaser in the whole novel [edited to redact unreasonable slander of Jonathan Harker]. If she thought eating a worm would make someone she loved happy, she’d dig right in.

Lucy Westenra as the Bloofer Lady Small children have been known to eat worms, and Lucy has been known to eat small children. So indirectly, yes, she would eat a worm.

Jonathan Harker It strikes me that we don’t know much about the eating habits of any of the characters in this novel – for instance, we know which pub Jack Seward likes, but not what he eats when he’s there.

But we have a wealth of information about Jonathan, and we know he is the kind of man who will have an unfamiliar paprika dish for dinner, have “queer dreams”, then go down for breakfast and have even more paprika.

Jonathan Harker would eat a worm.

Mina Harker née Murray Mina would do anything for her friends and loved ones, and that includes eating a worm. But come on guys, really? You would force Mina to eat a worm after everything she’s been through? You monsters.

Van Helsing Van Helsing thinks astral projection is real and parrots live forever. He’s the first person to consider the possibility that Lucy is being vampired. This man has the most open mind in the entire novel. He is a deeply weird individual and he would definitely eat a worm.

Mrs Westenra Mrs Westenra is a respectable Victorian lady of the upper-middle or upper-classes, and under no circumstances would she eat a worm.

Unless it was the last-ditch treatment for her ailing daughter, I guess.

Dracula You know the song you might have sung as a kid – “nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go and eat worms?”

We know Dracula eats solicitors and Lucys, he doesn’t eat worms. But he should.  

Renfield Do I even need to answer this one?

#dracula daily

[burningvelvet]

random excerpts from lord byron’s diaries that feel like tumblr posts from the 1800s

“My mind is a fragment.”

“I am too lazy to shoot myself.”

“Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked—but not inclined to go any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a ‘loup garou,’ a solitary hobgoblin. True.”

“Sleepy, and must go to bed.”

“Whether ‘Hell will be paved with’ those ‘good intentions,’ I know not.”

“Got up—redde the Morning Post containing [..] a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual.”

“I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and fortunately there is nothing to do.”

“Last night, party at Lansdowne House. Tonight, party at Lady Charlotte Greville's—deplorable waste of time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted—nothing acquired—talking without ideas:—if any thing like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on which we were gabbling. Heigho!—and in this way half London pass what is called life. Tomorrow there is Lady Heathcote's—shall I go? yes—to punish myself for not having a pursuit.”

“What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of Seed which may be spilt in a whore’s lap – or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream – might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Buonaparte.”

“Oh that face!—by te, Diva potens Cypri, I would, to be beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy.”

“I have found increasing upon me (without sufficient cause at times) the depression of Spirits (with few intervals), which I have some reason to believe constitutional or inherited.”

“I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d., 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?”

“Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it?”

“Redde a little—wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says is bad company. ‘Be not solitary, be not idle.’—Um!—the idleness is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to wither them,—and yet—and yet—always yet and but—‘Excellent well, you are a fishmonger—get thee to a nunnery.’—‘They fool me to the top of my bent.’” (Quotations from Hamlet)

“I wish I could settle to reading again,—my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into reality;—a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne—the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.”

“As to opinions, I don't think politics worth an opinion.”

“Tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to my ears—to be redde on the banks of the Ohio!”

“This journal is a relief. When I am tired—as I generally am—out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.”

“Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos. I won't—it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) what?—the gods know—it was intended to be called poetry.”

“I will not be the slave of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head—how it aches?—the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him?”

“If I had to live over again, I do not Know what I would change in my life, unless it were for not to have lived at all. All history and experience, and the rest, teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and that what is most to be desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give us but years? and those have little of good but their ending.”

#i should have posted this for his bday #lord byron #byron #romanticism #english romanticism #diaries #history #dark academia #funny #tumblr memes #byron memes #geneva squad #poetry #poems #poets #writing #english literature #literature #lit #literature aesthetic #dark academia aesthetic #gothic literature #lgbt #aesthetic #art #literature memes #lit memes #history memes #percy shelley #mary shelley

[thestobingirlie]

future st characters’ jobs (and why)

kids:

dustin — middle school science teacher. i think he’d want to take after mr. clarke, and he’s the one that parrots his phrases more than the other kids, so i just feel like it fits. i think he’d enjoy teaching others.

lucas — nasa scientist. he has pictures of astronauts in his room, and that’s my excuse, because he just has the vibes, okay? he rides his bike to work, and he has a little “go green” sticker on the family car.

max — guidance counsellor/child therapist/social worker. something along those lines. i think she’d want to help kids that come from her kind of situation. she knows what it’s like, and she knows how they can isolate themselves, and i think she’d want to help.

mike — i think he’d go to college, get a degree, and then get a job that has nothing to do with lol. i see people having mike as a writer a lot, but i guess i just don’t see it. idk. some people are just gonna end up working in an office, and that’s okay lmao

will — artist will seems popular, and i can kinda see him as a comic book artist or something. but i also could see art as maybe something that’s more of a hobby, and it’s not his, like, career. i think about will the least of all the kids, sadly, so. i got nothing lol.

el — i think she works a lot of odd jobs. she wants to explore, and she wants to learn about the world. she dedicates herself to making jam, and she has chickens. there’s still a lot she doesn’t know, and i just don’t know if she’d settle down in one single career. actually i could kinda see her working at a museum for a bit. like a museum tour guide. she gets to have fun and learn! being cut off from the world for so long, i’d think she’d enjoy being surrounded by it.

erica — politician. she likes lying to people and commanding rooms lmao. i don’t think she’d be, like, president, but more just a small town mayor or something.

teens:

nancy — private investigator. i know that people think she’ll stick with journalist for the rest of her life, but i think she’d start to chafe against the control, and she’d want to do her own work and help people. she’s going through her murray era. but she’s less of a freak lmao

steve — stay at home dad <3 no but seriously, there’s a lot i could see with steve, but little league coach steve is very special to me. he gets to do something sporty, and work with kids

robin — i think she (and steve) work a lot of different jobs, and really jump around and have fun with it, and explore what they want to do. in the end, i think robin would enjoy a job where she can travel, and put all her language skills to good use.

jonathan — photographer. it’s the obvious one, but i think he’d enjoy freelance photography. he’d get to travel a little, and have some space from his family lmao.

argyle — i want to include argyle. but we really know nothing about him 💔 maybe a botanist or something lmao

vickie — i know she’s only a side character, but i don’t care <3 i’ll always be in love with truck girl vickie, so her as a mechanic is fun to me.

#put it under read more becuase this ended up long jeez #some of these i’m very attached to. and others i could totally change my mind. but i wanted to include everyone e #i didn’t mean to put that e there :( #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #mike wheeler #will byers #el hopper #erica sinclair #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #robin buckley #jonathan byers #argyle #vickie #stranger things #my post

[orionhere]

Behold

The Holee Trinity

Also spoiler from his affection story:

Note that I can only read a little of chinese & with help of translator lol, so I'm so sorry if there's some mistranslation😥😥😥

There's something wrong with his M.I.N.D that causing his consciousness overlap with each other (?) So in chapter one his memory is back when he was 9 years old. Ofc with the memory of 9 years old, he doesn't know us at that time, so yeah, he's kind of wary to us, Liv, and Lucia

"I'm 9 and a half years old" Lee bantering with Asimov lmao

"Fragment of his childhood consciousness currently take over his frame. The age stage of specifics consciousness.... I'd say about 9 years old at most?"

"9 and a half years old, thank you." LMAOOOO

"I can understand what you're saying here, but it's impossible. I am standing here right now, how could this all just a fragment of my consciousness?"

"This is the truth, Mr. 9-and-a-half-years-old." ASIMOV 🤣

Hey, Mr. eye with dark circles, can I touch this?

No.

I know how it works, so you don't need to worry I'd break it.

No.

ALSO HE'S SULKING WHEN HE'S BEEN TOLD 'NO' TWICE BY ASIMOV LMAOOOO

Skk gave him milk, hence the blushing face.

The next day, it's the consciousness from his time as an assassin. (During when he desperately need money for Murray's treatment) He misunderstood he was being taken captive and asking where the exit route is as he hold Skk hostage. Lucia restrained him.

Long story short, after Skk explaining the problem, he tells us about his job as an assassin to required money fast. Also he keeps asking about Murray's wellbeing (awwwww).

The next day, he and Skk go outside (under the assumption that Skk has a task for Lee). They went to Cerberus base, asking if Murray is there at that time, but he's not there. (But Vera appeared instead lol. Don't want Vera to know what's going on with Lee, they ran XD)

ICE CREAM DATE

So yeah, basically Skk buy him ice cream.

"It's... Sweet..." I'm gonna combust

During these consciousness problem, he would take notes on his notebook (Skk called it diary lol) to keep record.

Hence the childish-style writings from his 9-years-old version. "I accidentally grazed Skk's ear with my gun." "The infected is a monster, it's terrifying."

"Skk fell asleep on the desk with all of many reports and document about specialized frame around. Skk also been working very hard lately. Let's leave something as a thank you, maybe a gift." LEE😭😭

Skk, Lucia and Liv kind of prepare a party (?) for him in the end. During this, Lee's consciousness problem almost solve. Before that, Lee ask Skk what we would want as a sorry/thank you gift for all this problem. Skk want the "diary" that Lee used to keep record of his difference memories from before.

ALSO LEE SAYING THE "HEAT-REGULATION SYSTEM FAILURE" WHEN HE BLUSH AGAIN, I SWEAR TO GOD

Lee give Skk a chip that contain projection from his past consciousness (From childhood, Kurono era, early Gray Raven (Palefire frame) and Entropy frame era) as a thank you gift.

"Thank you for the milk... Skk. The future me is really lucky to have met an excellent commandant." (Kid Morian)

"I'm sorry again, Skk. I.... The ice-cream...it was delicious." (Kurono era)

Palefire just telling you that you have grown and all that stuff lol

"Even if the road ahead is dark, it's alright to shine side-by-side with a star like you in the night sky." (Entropy)

"I will always be "Lee from Gray Raven", and I will stand by your side." JESUS CHRIST THIS GUY IS BAD FOR MY HEART

Anyway, that's what I got from rough translation lol. Sorry if there's some mistranslation or I didn't convey the deeper meaning good enough (also bc I don't fluent in English so my vocab is limited 😥)

In conclusion, PROTECT LEE AT ALL COST

I'd say sorry to Chrome bc Lee just took your 1st place in my heart again😭😭

#punishing: gray raven #punishing gray raven #pgr #pgr lee #pgr cn #orion shittalk #pgr spoiler

[loudsnapdragon]

On The Sleeve of How It Used To Be

7/7 Chapters. 55,000 words. Robin Buckley/Chrissy Cunningham. Rated Mature. teen pregnancy, inspired by Juno (2007), background steddie, coming of age, childhood friends, no monsters AU. Ao3 loudsnapdragon.

Not-so-secret smalltown lesbian Robin Buckley makes a last ditch attempt at heterosexuality by scoring a one night stand with her old bandmate Eddie, but while the sex does successfully confirm the annoying complete disinterest in men she harbors, it kickstarts another clusterfuck for her to deal with. She’s pregnant. And despite her better judgement, she’s keeping the baby. Luckily, she finds a recently wedded Ms. Kelley and Mr Clarke looking to adopt. But to save herself from some of the mortification, of ya’know; blowing up like a hormonal balloon throughout her Junior year, she decides to not tell anyone who the daddy is. Not the daddy himself, not her parents, not even her favorite dingus. But as is the luck of your regular outcast pregnant sixteen-year-old, someone finds out. And like many secrets, Chrissy Cunningham doesn't make it easy to keep.

Excerpt under the cut.

If they were normal, then the sex would have been really sweet. Eddie would say something like, ‘I’ve wanted this for ages.’ And Robin would say ‘I know.’ And then he would say something goofy and cute like, ‘Wizard.’

But unfortunately for them, the second after she settled on his lap, her knees brushing against the faded leather of the Munson trailer’s shabby couch, she realised three things.

One: There is a limit to Eddie’s goofy cuteness. He is charming, but not charming enough to pull off a stupid catchphrase like ‘Wizard.’ And the first thing he said after he entered Robin wasn’t ‘I’ve wanted this for ages’, it was: ‘Is it meant to make that noise?’

Two: The goofy-cute limit is reached far quicker when Eddie is naked, his worryingly too pink erection pressing into her thigh.

Three: This probably isn’t Eddie’s fault. Because Robin understood, suddenly, but sadly too slowly as to stop the trajectory of her first brave adventure into sex, she’s definitely gay. Super gay. The dykiest dyke to ever dyke. This ain't a switch she can unflip like Chrissy did. 

She goes through with it. Because there’s a pesky hope that she could make this work. That she might be gay, but maybe Eddie’s long hair and big lips and dangly earrings could trick her gay ass mind. She finishes the ordeal thanks to a sachet of lube and a traitorous condom he theatrically whipped out his wallet prior. She’s never been a great actress, but she thinks, maybe this time, she’ll convince them all.

Eddie kisses her forehead after he finishes. Keeps on asking if she’s alright, so she knows she didn’t put on a good enough show.

Six weeks later, stone sky ripping into the clouds, the distant haze of woodsmoke trailing the horizon, the suburban roofs shining like jewels in the cold sun, she buys a bottle of Sunny Delight from Melvald’s and walks a loop-de-loop back to Main Street. She’s loath to admit it, but sometimes Hawkins really is beautiful.

‘Well, if it isn’t Birdie, the future mother to be, back again at the nest.’

She throws the third pregnancy test into the trash by the store’s entrance.

‘Jesus Murray, try some sympathy. How did you even get a job here.’

‘Joyce is sweet on me.’ Murray shrugs from behind the counter of Melvald's, holding the bathroom key back like a prize, waiting for her to pay for the fresh pregnancy test she tossed by the register. ‘This is your fourth test today, not like your latest orange delight is going to switch the pee-pee situation.’

‘God, silence old man. Just give me the key.’

‘Pay for the pregnancy test when you’re done. Don’t think it’s yours just because you marked it with your urine!’

She snatches the key and hides away in the store’s toilet, twisting her wrist under her crotch and peeing on the stick with a creeping familiar ease. She walks out to the store, slapping the test against her palm as she waits, trying to shake out the most likely result, considering her lack of period and extremely sensitive nipples, if what Brenda says is true. 

‘That ain’t no etch-a-sketch that can be undid, dearie.’

She throws Murray the finger, but sure enough, a minute later, that evil pink plus sign appears for the fourth time, cementing her impending doom.

So she does what she normally does when faced with impending doom. She buys a pack of Red Vines, ignores Murray, and cycles over to Steve’s place.

‘Are you going to go Sunnyvale or Women Now? Cos’ I remember Carol saying you need a note from your parents if you go to Sunnyvale.’

Steve’s parents are never home, so they’re spread out over the couches talking aloud about her impending doom, because the Harringtons are the type of rich to have three couches, all of them ugly.

‘I’ll think I’ll go to Women Now, cos’ ya’ know, they help women now.’

‘Yeah, I get ya.’ Steve says, sitting feet up on his couch. ‘How did you even generate enough pee for four pregnancy tests? That’s amazing.’

‘I drank ten tonnes of Sunny D.’

‘Jesus Birdie, that’s so much sugar. Your teeth are going to fall out.’

‘Doesn’t really matter if my teeth fall out if I’m dead first.’

‘Hey.’ Steve swings his leg down, throws a pillow over the coffee table and on to her couch, smiling when it hits her square on the forehead.

‘Ow.’

‘You’re not going to die. No one is going to find out. We’ll get it sorted, okay? Just tell me the time for the appointment and I’ll pick you up after.’

He looks so stupid. His floppy hair flat on his forehead, that Weird Al shirt he only wears to make Dustin happy, and those ugly basketball shorts that are two sizes too small, cos' like a freak of nature, he’s only gained thigh muscle since quitting the team. She wants to grab him by the apples of his cheeks and smush him a like a golden retriever.

‘You look stupid.’

He smiles. ‘Right back at ya.’

‘I’m going to abort the hell out of this baby.’

‘Fuck yeah, you are.’

#stranger things #stranger things fic #buckingham #chrissy cunningham #robin buckley #juno 2007 #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin/chrissy #robin buckley/chrissy cunningham #i think i'm happy with is but do not be surprised if be editing editing when i reread and see a million mistakes #its chrissy as michael cera and robin as elliot page #do u see the vision #i hope so

[showdownatthespacebuffet]

INITIAL ROUNDS MASTERPOST

Initial rounds for the ULTIMATE HOTDAGA CHARACTER bracket will begin soon

Each poll will run for one week -- two polls will go live a day

All the character pairings are listed below the cut

Farch VS Moofus

Papa Crab VS Weldon Burgereaux

Joblet VS Garce

Gina and Murray VS Raccoon Brandon

Steven Rootbeer VS Melba Dill

The Starship Minestrone VS Lisa Bratwurst

Maizey VS Gebra

Smeech VS Ernie Goondis (CHICKEN)

The Dark Master/Chili Pope IX VS Doctor Goondis (EGG)

Gene VS Future Brandon

Mike Soup/The Soup Baron VS Dan

Pam VS Rebecca

Lil' Mr. B VS Merga

Pauline Who Is A Pretzel VS Pauline Who Isn't A Pretzel

Conductor Craig VS Sausage Priest

Alice VS Christopher

#hotdaga #the hotdaga #hot daga #watcher #buzzfeed unsolved

[todaysdocument]

‘ . . .. you said we must have patience.  On hearing you say this, I felt like standing up and saying, "Oh no!  Not again." I respectfully remind you sir, that we have been the most patient of all people.’ Jackie Robinson to Pres. Eisenhower, 5/13/1958. 

Collection DDE-WHCF: White House Central Files (Eisenhower Administration)

Series: Official Files

File Unit: Negro Matters - Colored Question (6)

Transcription: 

Telephone

MUrray Hill 2-0500

[letterhead]

CHOCK FULL O' NUTS

425 Lexington Avenue

New York 17, N.Y.

May 13, 1958

[stamped top right]

THE WHITE HOUSE

May 14 11 36 AM '58

RECEIVED

The President

The White House

Washington, D.C.

My dear Mr. President:

I was sitting in the audience at the Summit Meeting of Negro

Leaders yesterday when you said we must have patience.  On

hearing you say this, I felt like standing up and saying, "Oh

no!  Not again."

I respectfully remind you sir, that we have been the most

patient of all people.  When you said we must have self-

respect, I wondered how we could have self-respect and re-

main patient considering the treatment accorded us through

the years.

17 million Negroes cannot do as you suggest and wait for the

hearts of men to change.  We want to enjoy now the rights

that we feel we are entitled to as Americans.  this we can-

not do unless we pursue aggressively goals which all other

Americans achieved over 150 years ago.

As the chief executive of our nation, I respectfully suggest

the you unwittingly crush the spirit of freedom in Negroes

by constantly urging forbearance and give hope to those pro-

segregation leaders like Governor Faubus who would take

from us even those freedoms we now enjoy.  Your own ex-

perience with Governor Faubus is proof enough that for-

bearance and not eventual integration is the goal the pro-

segregation leaders seek.

In my view, an unequivocal statement backed up by action

such as you demonstrated you could take last fall in deal-

MAY 26 1958 [stamped at bottom of page one]

[page 2]

The President  

Page 2     May 13, 1958 [page two heading]

ing with Governor Faubus if it became necessary, would let

it be known that America is determined to provide -- in the

near future -- for Negroes -- the freedoms we are en-

titled to under the constitution.

Respectfully yours,

Jackie Robinson [handwritten signature]

Jackie Robinson

JR:cc

#archivesgov #May 13 #1958 #1950s #Jackie Robinson #Eisenhower administration #civil rights #Black history #African American history

[chaosgremlinmunson]

No not November prompt:

Smut below the cut

18+ only, minors dni

ring gag/ used AS a toy

Kinktober prompt

"Bet you couldn't make it to the end of the month." Eddie said grinning over the videos he was putting in their play chest. "Face it Stevie you're desperate for it."

"Please," Steve replied, rolling his eyes, "I definitely could. I bet I could go longer than anyone else we knew if I wanted. What? Like it's hard?"

Eddie smirked, closing the chest and stood crossing his arms, a cocky eyebrow raised at his fiance. "Want to bet on it?"

Steve laughed, his hands on his hips, "Don't need to bet, I already know I can do it."

Eddie's grin grew feral, "We'll see, Sunshine." And winked skipping out of the room. He was going to regret betting him, he could feel it.

The first few days were easy enough, their work schedules had them like passing ships in the night, they'd see each other for less than five minutes and the other would be on the way out the door. That following week however, Steve was starting to regret every decision he'd made leading him to this. Tonight they would have the kids and the rest of the party at the house, and current his menace of a future husband was shimmying around the room in the shortest pair of shorts Steve had ever seen, he turned and leaned into Steve's space belting the lyrics to pour some sugar on me, and Steve wanted nothing more than to throw him into the bed and ravage him until he was a screaming blubbering mess covered in his come.

Steve took a breath in and walked to the living room sitting in his chair and waiting for the clock to wind down. Not too much longer and Eddie would have to behave. Hopefully.

The weeks spread on like that until 3 days before the bet was over. Yes, Steve had marked it on the calendar, so sue him. Eddie waltzed into the bedroom and glanced over at Steve, he pulled out a black gift bag and set it casually on the dresser, moving to do his nightly routine of braiding his hair like Steve had taught him to keep it from being so hard to tame the next day.

Steve looked at the bag, back to Eddie and the bag again.

"Is that for me?" Steve said, putting on his signature puppy eyes as he locked eyes with his love in the mirror.

"Maybe," Eddie replied, a small smile on his lips, he turned after tying off his braid, "can you be a good boy and last a couple more days? If not I might just have to throw it out. Only good boys get treats Stevie."

Steve was nodding, his face flushed, he rolled his hips trying to adjust himself, but Eddie noticed.

"Remember baby, you wanted this bet. Just thirty six more hours, hmm?" Eddie was teasing and if Steve had any brain power left he'd make a bitchy comment.

"I can be good Eddie. I'll be so good. Let me be your good boy." He whined pushing his palm down, willing his erection to go away.

Eddie hummed. And went to the shower ignoring Steve's pitiful whines who started picturing Hopper or Murray naked, then miss Henderson, Mrs. Douglas from senior year. He willed it to go away and laid down tears pricking his eyes. 

The next three days drug on, and on the final day he was watching the clock like a hawk. The second it hit the time he was up and out the door, clocking out and speeding home.

He got in the house kicking his shoes off and sped his way down the hall to the bedroom throwing the door open like a man possessed. 

Eddie was sitting on the bed with the bag in his lap, his favorite black lace lingerie on, and looked up at Steve.

Steve moved towards him, boxing him in on the bed and crashed bruising kisses to Eddie's lips, rolling his hips down into him, and nipping when Eddie gasped.

"Stevie, I got you a present." Eddie gasped as Steve's hand gripped his cock through the lace licking up his neck. "I want you to do whatever you want to me tonight. Anything." 

Steve pulled back a growl in his chest and crushed another kiss to Eddie's mouth.

"Show me." He said pointing to the bag.

Eddie knelt in front of Steve and opened the bag, taking what appeared to be a belt from the bag. He showed it to Steve, who quirked an eyebrow. Eddie placed the O ring in his own mouth and brought the belt around his head staring up at Steve eyes glassy. 

"Oh, my pretty baby. You want me to fuck your mouth? Hmm?" His voice was deep and raspy as he helped Eddie fasten the belt while Eddie nodded at him, his own hands face up on his thighs.

Steve stripped off his clothes, his own dick already ridiculously hard and leaking, he moved towards Eddie smack his cheek with it, who whined around the ring, his tongue moving in desperation.

"Nu-uh Eds. It's my turn, you be a good boy." Tears sprung up into Eddie's eyes as he nodded, Steve's hands wove into his curls, "if it's too much tap my thigh like we practiced." And without another word he moved forward going straight down Eddie's throat as they groaned in unison.

"Eddie, fuck, baby you're so good. Fuck." He was whimpering, his knees shaking as he fucked in and out of Eddie's mouth looking down at him while tears streamed down his face a glazed look in his eyes and could see Eddie's own cock twitching with every word of praise.

"Could you come like this, I wonder." Steve groaned again, his balls slapping Eddie's chin. "Or would you need me to slip you open on my cock first?" Eddie moaned in response, his throat constricting over the head of Steve. 

"Yeah baby? That what you need, me to split you open. Remind you who you belong to?" He tugged Eddie's hair as his eyes rolled back. A feral grin on his own face, and hauled him off of him, throwing him into the bed and climbing over him, ripping the lace from his small body.

"What's this?" Steve said as his fingers found a plug in Eddie's ass. "You hoping I'd take care of you tonight?" Steve leaned over him, nipping his collarbone, and releasing the gag. 

Eddie grabbed for him, but Steve flipped him over fucking the plug in and out of his hole that was only slightly smaller than Steve. 

"Steve, oh God, Steve, baby. Please please please." Eddie was babbling, his hips rutting back into the movement before Steve removed it and slid home taking up a punishing pace as they both screamed and moaned into the night. The climax was like stars colliding, all consuming, and Steve and Eddie lay there boneless. Eddie eventually turned in Steve's arms pulling him close. 

"I don't think I ever want to go that long without you again." Eddie whispered, his voice wrecked.

"Me either, Eds. I missed you so damn much." And with that they curled up and fell into a deep sleep wrapped around each other. The mess was tomorrow Steve and Eddie's problem.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #no nut november #steddie prompt

[the-moral-of-the-rose]

The Murray family in other books by L. M. Montgomery (could they mean THE MURRAYS from Emily of New Moon series?):

Murrays are Diana Barry's cousins:

"Then Diana’s cousins, the Murrays from Newbridge, came; they all crowded into the big pung sleigh, among straw and furry robes." (Anne of Greeen Gables)

Hester Gray's maiden name had been Hester Murray:

"He had one son, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work and while he was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray. She was working in a store and she hated it. She’d been brought up in the country and she always wanted to get back." (Anne of Avonlea).

Murrays are mentioned in Magic for Marigold:

"At Cloud of Spruce, just as with the Murrays down at Blair Water, it was a tradition that dying people must be taken into the spare room." (Magic for Marigold).

Bonus (could they mean Emily Kent neé Starr here?):

"And then—'ja hear her?—telling Mrs. Kent what I looked like when I was a baby? She's always at it. Catch Aunt Nora telling on a feller like that." (Magic for Marigold).

Of course, when Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea had been written, Emily wasn't even an embryo in Maud's head. Hester was supposed to come from Boston, while Blair-Water-Murrays were one of the first settlers on PEI, coming there from the "Old Country". So, Hester might have been no more than a very distant relative (if she was a relative at all, in the first place).

Still...I wonder if it was just a coincidence that Montgomery used the Hester's maiden name for a "chosen" family, or she wanted to somehow link a romantic story of a garden and endless love to a family that was known to be prideful and rather cool-headed?

And I keep wondering... did Maud give us a tiny glimpse into Emily's future in Magic for Marigold? It does seem likely.

#lm montgomery #anne of green gables #emily of new moon #magic for marigold #Murray family #I wonder if they appear in different books too

[textsfromthefifthbasement]

Gothic Lit Sexyperson Poll Round 2!

Round 1

Jonathan Harker vs. Lord Ruthven

Mina Murray vs. Sydney Atherton

Dorian Gray vs. Ghost of Christmas Future

Abraham van Helsing vs. Catherine Earnshaw

Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde vs. Jane Eyre

John Rochester vs. Gabriel Utterson

Heathcliff vs. Basil Hallward

Count Dracula vs. Adam (Frankenstein's Creature)

Lestat de Lioncourt vs. Roderick Usher

Louis de Pointe du Lac vs. Noemi Taboada

Carmilla Karnstein vs. Claude Frollo

Montresor vs. Quasimodo

Thomas Sharpe vs. Esmeralda

Erik (the Phantom) vs. Laura (Carmilla)

Fortunado vs. The Persian (Phantom of the Opera)

Headless Horseman vs. Christine Daae

Round 2

Jonathan Harker vs. Adam (Frankenstein's Creature)

Mina Murray vs. Basil Hallward

Dorian Gray vs. Mr. Rochester

Abraham van Helsing vs. Jane Eyre

Lestat de Lioncourt vs. Christine Daae

Louis de Pointe du Lac vs. The Persian (Phantom of the Opera)

Carmilla Karnstein vs. Erik (The Phantom)

Esmeralda vs. Quasimodo

#gothic literature #gothic literature sexyperson poll #dracula #frankenstein #picture of dorian gray #jane eyre #interview with the vampire #phantom of the opera #carmilla #the hunchback of notre dame

[freetobeeyouandme]

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

-------

Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

Previous Prompt < View Collection on Ao3 > Next Prompt

written for @bylerween2023

#bylerween2023 #day 6 #Supernatural Creatures #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #cw Blood #Dark Byler #my fic

[your-average-dad]

No Need To Say Goodbye-

your_average_dad on ao3

Mike Wheeler thinks he has been doomed by god. Lucky for him, all he is, is 12 years old.

-

Mike is not good at many things. Or any, for that matter. He’s not the brawn like Lucas, or the brain, like Dustin… In all aspects of a ‘team’, Mike doesn’t bring anything to the table. He knows this.

Except that he’s a damn good leader; making decisions, looking out for everyone else.

Looking out for Will.

He thinks, maybe, the one thing he’s good at is protecting people.

When Lucas was tripped by that asshole Troy back in first grade, Mike had checked to see if he was okay. He even offered his Spiderman Comic book to him. Sure, he didn’t stand up to Troy (god help him if he tried something like that) but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Lucas wasn’t seething with anger anymore, and Mike had gained a new friend. Someone to protect.

Dustin Henderson didn’t move to Hawkins until 3rd grade, and everyone knows that 3rd grade is the year where every friend group gets locked into place. When you decide on your ride-or-die’s all the way through middle school. It’s hard to be the new kid, and even harder when you’re in a small town. But Mike met this new kid in his science class, and Dustin was immediately folded into their little circle of outcasts.

The leader of the damned. Thats who Mike was.

Which is why, when Will wants to play hide-and-seek, he gives in. Because when he met Will on the playground in kindergarten, something in that useless heart of Mike’s told him that this kid would need someone who could he could rely on.

So here Mike is, counting to 50 in a spare bedroom like a 3rd grader (he’s much too old to be playing these games) all because Will wanted to.

After counting all the way up, he crept out of the room, and into the living area.

Lying soundly asleep on the couch was Mr. Murray Bauman, letting a snore escape his open mouth occasionally. If Mike looked closer he might have been able to see a string of saliva connected to the couch cushions from his lips.

First Mike checked under the couch, flopping to the floor and back up again when no one was underneath.

“This game is so stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

He shuffles through the rest of the living room, batting at the curtains and glancing behind furniture half-assed.

Mike doesn't like doing childish things. For god's sake, he's twelve! He should be doing more adult with his time, like... Talking to girls? Talking about girls? He's not actually sure what about talking to and about girls makes him more mature, but his parents are always nagging about the fact that he has no interest, and Lucas and Dustin enjoy talking about it, so he joins in.

He talks about Jane, that one girl in his English class who can never remember the difference between "two", "to", and "too". She's an incredibly sweet person; with long brown curls that she rarely ever cuts.

He had shown up once to school with a botched bowl cut, courtesy of his mother's phenomenal hangover. She had looked at him curiously.

"Your hair," she had stated.

Mike flushed. Of course he would. The haircut was humiliating. Absolutely no other reason.

"Yeah, um, my mom cut it."

Jane's curiosity melted into a frown. "Did that make you sad?"

Mike laughed softly. The teacher was going over past, present, and future-participles on the chalkboard. "No. Is it supposed to?"

She shrugged. "I do not like my hair short."

"Well, good thing it's so long then," Mike said, examining her ringlets. "It's pretty."

Jane smiled.

"Pretty."

She went back to frowning at her worksheet.

Short and sweet. That's something Mike liked about Jane. She shared very little about herself. And a tiny, selfish part of him liked it because it meant he could talk more about his own interests. Maybe that made him a terrible person. He wouldn't be surprised if he was.

It frustrated Mike more than could possibly be imagined that Will was jealous of Jane. Yes, she was nice, but he didn't care about her more than he cared about him. Not by a landslide. If they really were that close, Will would understand that, right?

Mike walks towards the guest bedroom door, his palm on the handle, when a thundering noise is heard from above.

Dustin comes clambering down the stairs in such a hurry, Mike has half a mind to think something is chasing him.

"Guys!" He yells as he reaches the edge of the stairs. He halts as he remembers the sleeping body of Mr. Bauman just feet away from him.

"Guys?" He whispers again, looking around. He doesn't see Mike just around the corner. Instead, he scrambles into the kitchen and starts whispering harshly. "Will? Lucas? Anyone?"

A cabinet in the kitchen opens, revealing Will with an annoyed expression.

"Dustin, I told you, you can't hide in here!"

Mike used this moment to creep up on them both in triumph. "Found you both!"

"What?" Dustin asked, blinking hard. "Oh! Hide-and-Seek! You guys are still playing?"

"Still playing?" Mike repeated. "We started like, 30 seconds ago, dude."

"I just told you that you couldn't hide with me," Will reminded him, climbing out of the cabinet. Mike reached out to help him up, but Will ignored him.

Frustration struck Mike in the gut. Was he still upset about Jane? It wasn't that big of a deal.

"30 seconds..." Dustin mutters. "No, no. That can't be right. I've been gone for at least an hour. Maybe longer."

"Gone?" Will repeated. "What do you mean?"

"The wardrobe!" Dustin yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He took in Mike and Will's confused eyes and sighed. "The wardrobe upstairs?!"

"Shh! Jesus dude, lower your voice. We weren't supposed to go upstairs!" Mike said, crossing his arms.

"Well I did! And you know what? I discovered something so far beyond your puny comprehension that it puts Tolkien to shame!"

"Does this mean I won?" Lucas asked, emerging from the spare bedroom. Damn, Mike was just about to check there before he was interrupted.

"That's not fair! Dustin lured me out with his dramatics!" Will said, crossing his arms.

"Forget the hide-and-seek game for a second!! This is so much more important!" Dustin exclaimed.

All three boys shushed him.

In the living room, Mr. Bauman stirred.

"What could possibly be so important?" Mike sighed.

"I have just discovered..." Dustin paused for effect, holding up jazz hands, "... A new realm."

Mike laughed. Lucas and Will's eyebrows rose.

Will spoke, his voice full of awe, "Wait, really?"

"Of course not," Mike shook his head. "You said yourself, the game started a few minutes ago. He wouldn't have had time for all that."

"I can only assume time works differently in-between realms," Dustin explained, mainly to himself. He pushes past Lucas and Mike, and starts up the stairs yet again.

Lucas rushes ahead of Mike and glares at Dustin from the bottom of the stairs. "Dustin, you dumbass, you're going to get us in trouble!"

"That is the least of our worries right now! There is a goddamn evil dimension filled with elves and dwarves on the other side of some random ass closet upstairs, and I discovered it all on my own!"

The boys blinked up at Dustin.

"Are you on drugs?" Mike asked.

Dustin rolled his eyes, "Drugs are bad for your brain chemistry, dipshit."

"A portal to another dimension, though? Inside Murray Bauman's bedroom? It's a little ridiculous, don't you think?" Lucas asked.

"Oh that is so typical of you two to try and bring logic into this. You believe me, right Will?" Dustin asked. All the boys turned to stare expectantly at the smallest among them.

Will winced. "I don't know... It seems a little out there..."

Dustin's mouth opened, and closed. Then it opened again, and a frustrated groan escaped before he closed it again. "Don't you guys trust me?"

"You've been wrong before," Mike muttered.

Dustin shot him a glare. "Follow me. You won't regret it." He dashed halfway up the stairs again before turning. None of them had moved. "Please?" He begged.

Will stepped forward, sympathy seeping through his eyes. "Looking couldn't hurt."

And as Will went up the stairs, Mike followed.

Unfortunately for the boys, an incredibly obnoxious bear had just awoken from its slumber.

"Excuse me!" Yelled a sleep-drunk voice.

Shit.

-

Mike had expected a scolding. Maybe even a threateningly raised hand. At the very least, he assumed they'd be sent to bed without dinner. And sure, Murray was pissed, but here he is, making risotto for the five of them, humming along to some obscure song blazing from a nearby cassette player. He's got an ugly ass apron on, and he and Lucas are helping him chop onions.

Dustin had touched his eyes with his onion-ridden hands, and is currently weeping uncontrollably in a corner of the crammed kitchen.

Mike looked over at Will, setting the table solemnly. Normally Dustin's antics would evoke a chuckle out of him at the very least, but Will didn't even look up. Mike briefly thought about rubbing onions in his own eyes, just to get Will to say something, but quickly decided against it.

He set down his knife, rinsed his hands quickly, and made his way over to Will.

"Do you need any help?" He asked, his voice picking up the familiar inflection that appeared the moment he spoke to his best friend.

"No, Mike, I'm fine." Will gave him a tight-lipped smile as he stepped around him to place the next napkin, fork, and knife.

Mike's eyebrows crinkled. If he thinks about it... It was honestly getting a bit dramatic, right? To be so hung up on some random girl that Will would begin giving him the cold shoulder?

"Well sorry for trying to help my best friend."

Will winces. What did Mike say wrong? Was his temper really that awful?

"I don't need your help, Mike."

Will stepped into the kitchen, politely asking Murray if there was anything else he could do to help prepare dinner.

Mike stood, stunned.

Then he ate dinner, stunned.

He even forgot to offer to clear the dishes after. Mrs. Wheeler would have had a cow.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Mike choked on his drink. “What?”

He looked to Murray on his left, smiling smugly at him over his glass of scotch. The older man gestured over to Will in the kitchen, rinsing dishes off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike scoffed.

"Please, you children fight like my Nana and Nono did." Murray takes the last sip of his scotch, the singular ice cube beginning to water down the intensity. Mike fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at the smell of the drink. Or the suggestion Murray had just thrown at him. Or both.

There are things that you feel, and there are things you keep to yourself. And if Mike has learned anything from his mother, ever the perfect housewife, it's that emotions are something you keep to yourself. Lock up in a box and tuck away to never ever see again.

So no, there is no trouble in paradise. Mike has no problem with the way things are right now. Or with the way Will is treating him. If there is any trouble about, it's Will's fault for making a big deal about it, right?

Or so he tells Murray.

Murray snorts. "Sure kid. Keep telling yourself that."

#stranger things #ao3 #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #byler #writing #current wip #crossover #mike wheeler #this kid is angst in a bag #fanfiction

[vickyvicarious]

So far, what I see between Jonathan and the one time Mina Murray wrote is that they think of each other, naturally as they're engaged, but also how Mina wrote that she wants to be like a real journalist, and fill out a planner (and not the ones with brief Sunday spaces!), with discoveries in new places. And currently, Jonathan has kind of been acting like a journalist about new places? so they are sort of synced in action while being countries away. But a nice indicator of symmetry since we have never seen them interact

Yes! They have a lot in common, and also are influenced by one another's interests. I won't spoil you but there's at least one later entry that puts a few details of the types of things Jonathan takes note of in some of his first entries take on a really sweet added meaning.

So far we have confirmed: the shorthand they're practicing together; the way they both prefer to wait and see how things turn out/find evidence rather than get too caught up in speculation; Mina wishing to emulate a journalist while Jonathan kind of did so in real time; shared interest in travel... Obviously they love one another but also you can kind of see their shared plans and hopes for the future in their entries even when they are separated and not interacting. They are both looking forward to working together in Jonathan's law practice (not his, Mr. Hawkins', but you know what I mean) and hope to travel and see the different parts of the world together someday. They are a very detail-driven and forward-looking couple. Even down to small stuff like both of them noting down what time they're writing, or what seems like it might be a shared habit of snatching up a small opportunity to write (his diary for Jonathan, her letter to Lucy for Mina) when they've got something to say, rather than waiting till later. The timing of them starting their diaries is kind of linked too, even if Mina doesn't begin hers until later (this is going off her intention to do so). Both of them want to begin as they set out to travel somewhere, and with the intention of potentially sharing it with one another. So it shows them wanting to share their life and experiences while separated, which is really sweet and informs their efforts to be more observant/descriptive. Especially since they both are expecting to have exciting or fun things to talk about when they decide to keep that record (Jonathan: seeing different cultures and places, Mina: spending a pleasant summer at the seaside with her friend).

#dracula daily #jonmina #jonathan harker #mina murray #anonymous #replies

[faeriemarie]

This ask is your free pass to gush abt your drs :>

YIPPEE MY FAVORITE ASK EVER EVER EVER!!!!!

okay so my main two right now are actually my fame dr (ballerina ofc) and my doctor who dr.

in my ballerina dr, i’ve been getting into it so much recently because i remembered that im gonna be shifting when im 12 and not 22. meaning i’ll be sitting in my bedroom over the summer waiting for the anastasia cast list to come out while listening to belle and sebastian on my discman (probably). spoiler alert: i am cast as anya and i have the perfect summer working on it. im also starting cambridge in the fall and im so excited!! i’ve wanted to study art history forever and this is going to be the best experience of my life. i love twee as well and getting to be there as it develops is my dream life. i can go to bishop allen concerts and be tumblr famous. there will be gifsets of me!! oh god i can’t wait. this is honestly just scratching the surface of this dr. in uni im gonna meet my girls. erin alvarez and leni liu who are also extremely young students like me. i remain friends with them for the rest of my life. god how i miss them. plus, soon i’m also getting cast in my very first acting job as effy stonem in skins and that’s how i become famous (also starting my lifelong friendship with co-star hannah murray). oh AND im gonna get my first boyfriend too. i’m so obsessed with toby regbo and especially him in the movie mr nobody which is how we meet. im cast as teen anna and we are so awkward and stumble around each other. i love him. i know we have to break up because he’s not my main s/o but being with him is gonna be so fun. i hope we stay friends in the future. we’re gonna go to bookshops and cinemas together. we’re gonna kiss in the rain and just be super cliché because why not?!?! oops okay this is getting long

as for my doctor who dr, i’m super excited for that too. i’m on the ninth series rn and i fucking love peter capaldi’s doctor like he might actually be my favorite. i’m so in love with him and bro the sonic sunglasses are actually doing um… things to me. i also just wanna time travel. like i wanna visit so many places throughout history and i wanna be super awesome and cool. i wanna go to warhol’s factory and have him make a film about me and i wanna go to the beatles’ first performance on the ed sullivan show. i wanna meet princess diana and watch a shakespeare performance at the globe. i wanna be in love with the doctor while he pretends not to notice my starry-eyed glances and pushes his feelings down because he’s afraid of falling in love. this is my dr where literally anything can happen. in my cr i’m just a boring girl who just scrolls on tumblr all day but with the doctor i’m a genius who can get us out of any situation. i’m brave and strong and perfect.

okay that’s it and i’m done. was this too much? it was too much 😔

#answered by marie ♡ #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #subliminals #desired reality #manifesting #manifestation #reality shift #shifting realities #shifting community

[brian-in-finance]

Names and FACES we know.

Murtagh, Dougal, Colum… ???

Thanks for the message, Anon. You’re referring to The Herald’s story, Outlander 'Blood of My Blood': Prequel to begin filming in Glasgow, where Matthew B Roberts says:

The title is a nod to Jamie Fraser’s marriage vow to Claire and there will be several names and faces that Outlander fans will know and recognise.

Many names will be familiar, but I think it’s misleading to say we’ll recognise faces. 🤷🏻‍♂️ Brian and Ellen married in 1716, which means everyone who still lives in 1743 when Claire first arrives through the stones is 27 years younger than when we meet them on TV. And… the story of Brian and Ellen’s romance begins before 1716, so the 1743ers are more than 27 years younger, BOMB time.

Which names might we recognise? You mention three obvious ones, representing the two principal clans. Will we see (young) faces to match my list of names? 🍿

Castle Leoch: Clan MacKenzie (Photo: Starz)

The MacKenzies are here!

Patriarch/Matriarch

Jacob (Seamus Ruadh) / Anne Grant

Children

Ellen (marries Brian Fraser)

Colum (marries Leticia Chisholm)

Dougal (marries Maura Grant)

Janet

Flora

Jocasta (marries John Cameron… future husbands, Hugh and Hector Cameron)

Groupies

Old Alec

Mrs Fitz

Ned Gowan

Marcus MacRannoch

Malcolm Grant

Rupert (not much younger than Jocasta

Angus (probably close to Rupert’s age)

Beaufort Castle: Clan Fraser (Photo: Starz, of Dean, the stunt castle)

Je suis prest!

Patriarch/Mistress (Brian’s mother)

Simon, Lord Lovat (The Old Fox) / Davina Porter

Children

Brian (Brian Dubh)

4 half-brothers, including Simon, Master of Lovat

3 half sisters

Groupies

Murtagh

John Murray

Mrs Murray

I’m hesitant to use dates here because discrepancies exist between sources he says mildly, but if BOMB continues into the early years of Brian and Ellen’s marriage…

Lallybroch: Fraser-MacKenzie home (Photo: Starz)

Children (in birth order)

Ian Murray

Willie Fraser

Jenny Fraser

Jamie Fraser

Robert Fraser (dies with Ellen during childbirth)

So, there are 32 familiar names whose not-so-familiar faces we might see in BOMB. 😃 Can anyone think of other names? Comment away…

Remember… in keeping with unpopular opinions, such as enjoying The Search and Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone, Brian is looking forward to Outlander: Blood of My Blood. Some people might suggest all Brian’s taste is in his mouth. 😂

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Inbox #Familiar names and faces in BOMB #Asked/Answered 14 December 2023

[loudsnapdragon]

it's Juno (2007) but buckingham.

On The Sleeve of How It Used To Be

robin/chrissy. minor steve/eddie. mature. 2/4 chapters. read on Ao3, loudsnapdragon. cw: teen pregnancy, brief mention of abortion, non-explicit description of awkward sex.

Not-so-secret smalltown lesbian Robin Buckley makes a last ditch attempt at heterosexuality by scoring a one night stand with her old bandmate Eddie, but while the sex does successfully confirm the annoying complete disinterest in men she harbours, it kickstarts another clusterfuck for her to deal with. She’s pregnant. And despite her better judgement, she’s keeping the baby. Luckily, she finds a recently wedded Ms. Kelley and Mr Clarke looking to adopt. But to save herself from some of the mortification, of ya’ know; blowing up like a hormonal balloon throughout her Junior year, she decides to not tell anyone who the daddy is. Not the daddy himself, not her parents, not even her favorite dingus. But as is the luck of your regular outcast pregnant sixteen-year-old, someone finds out. And like many secrets, Chrissy Cunningham doesn't make it easy to keep.

If they were normal, then the sex would have been really sweet. Eddie would say something like, ‘I’ve wanted this for ages.’ And Robin would say ‘I know.’ And then he would say something goofy and cute like, ‘Wizard.’

But unfortunately for them, the second after she settled on his lap, her knees brushing against the faded leather of the Munson trailer’s shabby couch, she realised three things.

One: There is a limit to Eddie’s goofy cuteness. He is charming, but not charming enough to pull off a stupid catchphrase like ‘Wizard.’ And the first thing he said after he entered Robin wasn’t ‘I’ve wanted this for ages’, it was: ‘Is it meant to make that noise?’

Two: The goofy-cute limit is reached far quicker when Eddie is naked, his worryingly too pink erection pressing into her thigh.

Three: This probably isn’t Eddie’s fault. Because Robin understood, suddenly, but sadly too slowly as to stop the trajectory of her first brave adventure into sex, she’s definitely gay. Super gay. The dykiest dyke to ever dyke. This ain't a switch she can unflip like Chrissy did. 

She goes through with it. Because there’s a pesky hope that she could make this work. That she might be gay, but maybe Eddie’s long hair and big lips and dangly earrings could trick her gay ass mind. She finishes the ordeal thanks to a sachet of lube and a traitorous condom he theatrically whipped out his wallet prior. She’s never been a great actress, but she thinks, maybe this time, she’ll convince them all.

Eddie kisses her forehead after he finishes. Keeps on asking if she’s alright, so she knows she didn’t put on a good enough show.

Six weeks later, stone sky ripping into the clouds, the distant haze of woodsmoke trailing the horizon, the suburban roofs shining like jewels in the cold sun, she buys a bottle of Sunny Delight from Melvald’s and walks a loop-de-loop back to Main Street. She’s loath to admit it, but sometimes Hawkins really is beautiful.

‘Well, if it isn’t Birdie, the future mother to be, back again at the nest.’

She throws the third pregnancy test into the trash by the store’s entrance.

‘Jesus Murray, try some sympathy. How did you even get a job here.’

‘Joyce is sweet on me.’ Murray shrugs from behind the counter of Melvald's, holding the bathroom key back like a prize, waiting for her to pay for the fresh pregnancy test she tossed by the register. ‘This is your fourth test today, not like your latest orange delight is going to switch the pee-pee situation.’

‘God, silence old man. Just give me the key.’

‘Pay for the pregnancy test when you’re done. Don’t think it’s yours just because you marked it with your urine!’

She snatches the key and hides away in the store’s toilet, twisting her wrist under her crotch and peeing on the stick with a creeping familiar ease. She walks out to the store, slapping the test against her palm as she waits, trying to shake out the most likely result, considering her lack of period and extremely sensitive nipples, if what Brenda says is true. 

‘That ain’t no etch-a-sketch that can be undid, dearie.’

She throws Murray the finger, but sure enough, a minute later, that evil pink plus sign appears for the fourth time, cementing her impending doom.

So she does what she normally does when faced with impending doom. She buys a pack of Red Vines, ignores Murray, and cycles over to Steve’s place.

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

‘Are you going to go Sunnyvale or Women Now? Cos’ I remember Carol saying you need a note from your parents if you go to Sunnyvale.’

Steve’s parents are never home, so they’re spread out over the couches talking aloud about her impending doom, because the Harrington’s are the type of rich to have three couches, all of them ugly.

‘I’ll think I’ll go to Women Now, cos’ ya’ know, they help women now.’

‘Yeah, I get ya.’ Steve says, sitting feet up on his couch. ‘How did you even generate enough pee for four pregnancy tests? That’s amazing.’

‘I drank ten tonnes of Sunny D.’

‘Jesus Birdie, that’s so much sugar. Your teeth are going to fall out.’

‘Doesn’t really matter if my teeth fall out if I’m dead first.’

‘Hey.’ Steve swings his leg down, throws a pillow over the coffee table and on to her couch, smiling when it hits her square on the forehead.

‘Ow.’

‘You’re not going to die. No one is going to find out. We’ll get it sorted, okay? Just tell me the time for the appointment and I’ll pick you up after.’

He looks so stupid. His floppy hair flat on his forehead, that Weird Al shirt he only wears to make Dustin happy, and those ugly basketball shorts that are two sizes too small, cos' like a freak of nature, he’s only gained thigh muscle since quitting the team. She wants to grab him by the apples of his cheeks and smush him a like a golden retriever.

‘You look stupid.’

He smiles. ‘Right back at ya.’

‘I’m going to abort the hell out of this baby.’

‘Fuck yeah you are.’

#stranger things #stranger things fic #robin/chrissy #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #buckingham #Juno #Juno (2007) #teen pregnancy #this is so self-indulgent and cringe-weird but i'm genuinely enjoying writing this and i kinda want ppl to see it