#groundhog day prompts

[ceilingfan5]

#30 Taakitz

read here or on ao3!

It starts as a normal enough day, although Taako fell asleep before taking out his contacts last night because he was so worn out he just crawled into bed at like 7:30 and then it was game over, so he wakes up in his undies and his work undershirt and has to fuckin’ scramble to shower, and spotify chooses to play four ads in a row about the same stupid credit union, and then the song choice? Hey, the song choice? Heat of the Moment. 

But whatever. 

He trips over some shit he left on the floor, a bag with stuff that he finally moved from his car to his apartment, random asses and ends, and smacks his elbow on the wall hard enough he has to drop everything to find a bandaid, and he’s combing his hair with his fingers on the way out the door, stomach rumbling because he missed breakfast, and he speeds to work the backway and hits a pothole and his car makes a funny noise, which, you know, bodes well. He parks and rushes, clocks in, and bumps into the handsome manager from another department, who smells like a man candle, and smiles like a stock photo, and gives Taako a pat on the shoulder that just slightly lingers. 

“Hey, Taako,” he says, already with his customer service glow turned on too bright. He gives his obnoxious green polo shirt a tug, and Taako imagines being given the opportunity to kiss that tummy. He imagines taking it. “How’s your morning going?”

“Ehhh, y’know, blood, chunks, the usual.” Taako intentionally says something concerning and then doesn’t elaborate. He likes getting Kravitz’s attention. But another employee comes in after Taako and shouts for Kravitz, who’s instantly distracted. 

“Haha, uh oh. Sorry to hear it. Well, here we go again, right?”

Kravitz glances back at him kind of apologetically, and then starts to say something else, but Taako shakes his head and moseys to the cheese counter, tying on his stupid lime green apron and putting up his long hair. 

And it is truly a work day from hell. Ren spills the mozzarella juice on the floor, and when Taako goes to get the mop, the stock manager yells at him for taking the wrong one, even though they all know Robbie busted the other one. Some old lady asks Taako for a cheese that isn’t spicy, and when he jokes about that, she tells on him. And then Lucretia is on his ass, and asks him if he even cares about the Grocery Adventure Mission Statement, and he has to say yes ma’am of course he cares ma’am so he doesn’t lose his fuckin’ job, and when he gets back from being yelled at, again, some other idiot is at the cheese counter trying to return a basketball, which gets dropped, because it was taken out of the packaging of course (but why would that disqualify a return. To the cheese counter. God, isn’t the customer ever right anymore?) and it knocks over Taako’s sign that says don’t tap on the glass, it scares the cheese, which he secretly worked really hard on, shh, don’t tattle, and it gets nasty and they have to throw it away, and when he is having five consecutive quiet seconds for a joke funeral, the alarm goes off because someone went out the wrong door, and security busts ass through the cheese zone, and Magnus socks Taako on the arm but misses his shoulder and hits his sore elbow. Some idiot watches tik-toks at full volume in the breakroom, over top the sports news nutwork, which is also at full volume, and also Taako forgot his lunch. And doesn’t have any cash on him for the vending machine. And no one will give him any, and he gets caught with his arm up ins, and has to play it off all cool like a joke and not like he’s a wet tiger about to start eating faces. 

And when he goes back to the cheese counter, Kravitz is standing there, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, and he gets real embarrassed, maybe because Taako’s giving him the Kubrick stare, unfortch, and he just goes, “See you tomorrow?” 

And Taako goes, “What, you’re done?” 

And Kravitz goes, “Yeah, sorry, wish I could hang out longer.”

And Taako goes, “No you don’t.” 

And Kravitz laughs awkwardly and walks away. And cheese business continues as per usual, including a horrible Karen that gets real mad at him for telling her that her crumbly pick ain’t gonna grill her any cheese awards, and her kids won’t like it anyhow, and he gets tattled on again. And when he finally gets to go home, he notices one of his tires is low, and he has to go home via the gas station air machine, which makes the worst noise he has ever paid two dollars for the privilege of enjoying for five minutes. And he resolves to go to the tire store tomorrow, if he makes it, and goes home, eats an entire bag of chips in one sitting, and falls asleep on the couch. 

And wakes up in bed, with his contacts still in. 

He peels his eyes open, and tries to math that one, because he knows he was wiped, but not like…that wiped, right? But the time makes him frantic and he forgets it in favor of a shower…which is 4 consecutive credit union ads…and Heat of the Moment. 

And he trips on the thing and busts his elbow. 

And then he sits on the floor, even though he doesn’t have the time. Because there was no bandaid on the wound, and there was no wound to want a bandaid, until he tripped. And today is yesterday and he is in hell, actually. 

“FUCK!” he hollers at the top of his lungs. But he hurries to work anyway, because what the fuck is he supposed to do?

Avoid the pothole, at least. 

“Hey, Taako, how’s your morning going?” Kravitz smiles at him, all plastic and ready for a day of retail Barbie, and Taako squints at him. 

“Uh, you know, little bit of blood, little bit of horrendous de ja vu?”

And Kravitz winces, but someone shouts for him, so–

“Haha, uh oh. Sorry to hear it. Well, here we go again, right?” 

“Right,” Taako says slowly, rolling it over in his head.

Kravitz starts to say something else. But Taako shakes his head and fucks off to cheese alley, and has the same, exact, fucking, day, again. It’s nightmarish, and not even in the normal retail way. Like in a literal fucking time loop way. 

He catches the basketball, though. 

By the end of the day, he’s hungry and he’s ready to lose it, and Kravitz comes by again, and Taako snaps at him-

“What the hell do you want?” 

And Kravitz shuts his mouth, shakes his head in apology, and just walks away. And Taako his ice cream and chips and freezer mac and cheese and all of the chocolate chips in the baking bin for dinner. 

And when Taako’s last chance phone alarm goes off again, and he wakes up in bed with his contacts in, he screams bloody murder when he sees the date. 

He doesn’t shower this time. He dry shampoos his hair and ties it up, and just puts on two coats of deodorant and hopes for the best. He does beef it, (who put that shit there!!!! fucker!!!) but he knows where the stupid bandaids are now. He eats fucking breakfast, even if it is a protein bar that kind of tastes like toothpaste. It’s fucking something. And he drives the long way to work, and he gets there on time, instead of truly last minute.

And instead of bumping into handsome man candle Kravitz, who could be a model, or a kiss instructor, or keep a heart shaped locket warm, he seeks him out, and when Kravitz looks up from his locker and sees Taako standing there with his you-can’t-say-it’s-greasy braid and the dark circles under his eyes and the intense intent within them, he lights up like a fluorescent oasis. 

“Taako!” he says, delighted. “I’m surprised to see you- not that you’re never early, it’s just…” he clears his throat lamely. “You’re never early.” 

“Yeah, only why would a guy like Taako wanna waste his time here if he wasn’t gettin’ paid?” Taako says, leaning back so so so casually against some other fucker’s locker and folding his arms. His elbow hurts. He wishes he’d picked out a pikachu bandaid, but the shuckle one will do.

“True,” Kravitz says, sheepish. “I just- you know, punctuality- it builds…a reputation, um. Anyway. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Nothin,” Taako says, sooooo casual. Achingly casual. “Just wanted to say hey.”

“Hey,” Kravitz says a little more softly.

“Hey,” Taako says, with an intense smolder, and Kravitz grins and bites his lip with his perfect teeth. Fucker could afford braces. No no, no resenting. Not yet. “You got any plans for lunch?”

Kravitz brightens somehow, which is a real surprise, given how bright he’s already acting. But…It’s more real, somehow. “I’ve been meaning to show you my secret spot, would you want to-?”

“Is it quiet?” Taako says, maybe far too urgently. 

“Yes,” Kravitz says, firmly enough that Taako knows he knows about the tik-tok guy. And Taako nods very seriously. 

“It’s a date,” he jokes. 

“Is it?” Kravitz’s eyes widen a little behind his pretty glasses. Taako’s cheeks get hot suddenly. 

“I mean what I say, and I say what I mean, unless I categorically don’t. Anyway, bye.” And he bolts, before Kravitz can figure him out. 

He glances back though, and sees him smiling to himself. A real one, not a customer service one. 

Taako moves the mozzarella tub so it won’t spill, and he catches the stupid fucking basketball, and recommends a mild cheese, not a spicy one, and when Grocery Adventure Radio plays Heat of the Moment, he only flinches a little. And when the alarm goes off and Magnus barrels through, Taako high fives him so he doesn’t hit his elbow. And Taako is handling some other dumb shit without bristling too bad when Kravitz shows up at the cheese counter, looking kind of nervous and excited in equal measure, and Taako takes his lunch break with him, and Kravitz shows him the boiler room roof access, and the broken padlock, and the chill spot outside the view of the cameras. 

“I thought you were a rule-follower,” Taako accuses, eating the premade sandwich he swiped when stocking the gruyere and only complaining about the lack of a dimensional profile a little. 

“Yeah, well,” Kravitz grins. “I get bored. I enjoy a game here and there, you know, to make things a little more exciting. As long as I get my job done at the end of the day, what does it matter?”

And Taako nods, grinning. 

“You’re better than I gave you credit for, Krav.” 

And Kravitz beams. 

Their lunch break isn’t nearly long enough, and Taako ends up standing at the edge of the roof looking down past the bird fence, wondering about a billion things, about time loops and capitalism and gravity and exhaustion. The sun considers setting, and then jumps right into it. 

And Kravitz, handsome Kravitz, who smells like a man candle and whose face could sell paper towels and who showed a secret side of him just because Taako asked, puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You know, it’s hard?” he says, and takes a breath. “It is, it’s hard. But there’s good bits, you know. Things that make the day worth it, rather than the same can of beans dumped in your lap every day.”

“Yeah?” Taako says, staring at a brilliant, flaming orange-magenta  grocery store parking lot sunset. They’re always prettier than they have any right to be. And he has to be here for three more hours. It isn’t fucking fair. 

“Yeah,” Kravitz says, honestly. “I like seeing you every day.”

“Yeah.”

“And I liked having lunch with you?”

“Yeah?” Taako tears his eyes away from the sunset, and looks at an even prettier sight. Kravitz pushes his hair out of his eyes and quietly resolves to tie up his long locs better before he gets back to work. Taako thinks about the day before, and the day before, and the day before, and hopes that tomorrow can fucking be tomorrow, and that this was the lesson he was supposed to learn, and not some other stupid dumb fucking bullshit, because he’ll just let it loop at that point, fuck it, he’ll stay home and learn how to play guitar and speak four languages and perfect his auntie’s applesauce cookies through trial and error, finally, because he can’t find the damn recipe card. 

But no, no. This feels right. 

“Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

Kravitz’s relief is palpable. 

“Oh good,” he says. “I didn’t have a chance to share my Michael Winslow style sound effects, and we’re definitely late.”

Taako has to laugh. 

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Mmmm, the mystery continues. Bye!” And Kravitz races him down the stairs, Taako laughing right on his tail. 

And when Kravitz comes to visit the cheese counter before he leaves, he slides Taako a slip of paper with his number on it. Taako dreams of kissing him under the moonlight. Or on top of the cheese counter. He’s not that picky. He winks at Kravitz, and Kravitz turns and ducks his head like he knows he’s blushing, and Taako laughs, feeling a lot less heavy than he has in a while.

And Taako goes home after work, and showers, and makes the best damn grilled cheese, twice, and puts on his actual fucking pajamas, and takes out his contacts, and right before bed, he just texts Kravitz,

thanks 

And he crawls under the covers, and for once, is ready for tomorrow to come. Maybe he’ll even pick up that bag. 

Maybe. 

#happy groundhog day #sorry you found out. im actually a huge dork #taz #taakitz #tazb #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #fan5fics #taz balance #taakitz fic #thank you!! #prompts

[arcsimper5]

Fic concept I am struggling to write:

Fives gets stuck in what I'm opting to call 'Groundmott day'.

Either he's on Kamino so he can save Tup, or on the way to Corsucant when he wakes up.

And every time he's killed or the day ends, he goes straight back there. And at first, he's frustrated.

Then he realises that a) he can't die, and b) there will be no permeant repercussions for his actions.

Cue him being an absolute delinquent.

Commandeering the shuttle and flying it straight into the Chancellor's chambers, killing them all. He wakes up again.

Shouting and screaming to Shaak-Ti about Nala-Se trying to drug him, which stops that, and then he speaks to the Chancellor, who starts off being all 'so you thought you could ruin my grand master plan. See, my end goal is....

and Fives just shrugs and replies 'Giving out order 66 to kill all the Jedi. Yeah. Boring. Can I use your lightsaber?"

And the Chancellor is just like

But Fives is so non-chalant, and he knows everything and the Chancellor is like 'who is this clone?' and panics and kills him.

And Fives wakes up again.

So he escapes like before, except this time, he doesn't try to kill the Chancellor. He kisses him. Square on the lips. And runs while he's paralyzed with shock. Heads to 79's and find Kix. Tells him about the time loop, about the chips, about everything. Says he's going to reset at midnight and that Kix needs to tell him someone only he would know, so he can convince him quickly if time runs out.

And it just escalates and escalates. In less and less time, he manages to gather more and more people.

But I just love the idea of the Chancellor being all 'oh, poor little clone, here come into my office and you can tell me everything'

*door closes*

Palpatine: Ahahaha you have become trapped in my web, little fly, you see...

Fives: Chips in every clone, Order 66, Jedi dead, you bad, rule galaxy, yeah, got it. Can I try and kill you so I can escape now? I've got stuff to do.

Note: this came to me at 3 am when I felt sick and couldn't sleep and I cannot write it without it being all serious and blegh.

Can someone help? Can anyone help? Nobody knows!

#tcw #star wars the clone wars #star wars #clone wars #the clone wars #arc trooper fives #tcw fives #captain rex #fic prompt #sort of #groundhog day but make it star wars #someone please help this is driving me insane #im at work right now #i should be working #instead im typing this

[harmonyandco]

Harry and Hermione are stuck in a week-long time loop. After a number of failures trying to break the loop, they start arranging vacation loops where they goof off without trying to break the loop. One of those loops, Hermione decides that she wants to try acting out her perfect wedding. Only time doesn't reset after they get married.

@johnburtonlee

#johnburtonlee #harry x hermione #prompt #harmony #groundhogs day #time loop #marriage #fake marriage #au #love this #someone write this

[stealingyourbones]

Bones, get my other kneecap, I can let the family have that.

Groundhog day type of time loops happens when a minor event gets the time stream a little bit "muddied", not enough to bring the darkest timeline, but bad enough that the future would be mildly inconvenient. They manifest on Clockwork as hiccups.

What would be an inconvenient situation, that has to be relived for many loops, would be the most interesting to be setting of a story like that? What could be trigger to end it?

For me, it could Jack going to the DMV and trying to successfully renew his driver's license.

(Groundhog day is an old movie, so in case anyone doesn't know, a dude has to relive a specific day, and whenever he sleeps or dies, he wakes up in the morning of the same day, he spends the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of years reliving the same day, remembering everything. And believe it or not, this movie is considered to be a comedy)

ooooo there are SO many interesting situations that are minor and could be used to create an interesting story...

Could be an interesting 5 + 1 fic situation. people just go through really minor situations over and over and then the one time that they realize wth is going on or one time that it's a BIG reason the time loop is occurring.

Dick got the wrong coffee order on his way to work in BCPD.

Flash vibrated his molecules in the wrong way

Jason stopped at a red light

Connor listened into the wrong convo while flying around Metropolis

Bruce simply woke up at the wrong time

Danny kicking a pebble that he wasn't supposed to on his way to school

Jazz sitting down to study for a test and writing something down that she shouldn'tve

They all could have solvable reasons for fixing it. Possibly just figuring out the "Right" way to do said action, Fighting a Big Bad or finding a Magic User/Ghost that can fix the issue, or simply that there is no real way to fix it. It just fixes itself on a random loop with no explanation. The curiosity and wondering why the loop didn't end on that specific iteration would haunt them forever.

#oh i am a hoe for Groundhog day loop AU's #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc comics #writing prompts #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #bones replies #metaldog564

[yersina]

Something han brothers

It starts with a cough.

-

“This treatment is still experimental,” his doctor says, as if this is just a normal procedure that’s been done a thousand times and not something that was just invented recently for a disease that only appeared within the last few years. “We’re still uncertain what the full range of side effects may be, but from previous accounts, it could include anything from confusion and memory loss to flattened affect and anhedonia.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Yoojin says as patiently as possible. He read the pamphlets. He signed the consent form. He knows what he’s getting into. 

She gives him a steady look. Yoojin wonders if it’s pity that he sees in her eyes. “Alright, then. Let’s get you breathing properly again.”

-

At first, he thinks it’s a cold. In fact, he’s excited to call it a cold, because it’s the simplest explanation and he hasn’t been able to look to the simplest explanation in so long. He coughs a few times while he’s in a dungeon, takes some cough medicine when he gets out, and calls it a day. 

After all, what else could it be? 

But the cough never quite worsens and never quite heals, always lingering in the back of his throat like he’s trying to cough up something that’s refusing to come out of his body, and it scares him, it terrifies him, because he knows what it means. 

It’s just a cold, he repeats like a mantra, and relearns that he never quite managed to figure out the art of lying to himself. 

-

After all the warnings that the doctors and nurses had given him, all the trepidation that Yoojin had pushed down in favor of grim determination, he feels… fine after the surgery. Tired and sore, but that’s normal, they assure him. Nothing a healing potion can’t fix. 

“What’s your brother’s name?” a nurse asks him after she listens to his breathing.

“Han Yoohyun.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-one.”

“What’s his current occupation?”

And down they go on the list of questions that Yoojin had signed off for them to ask after the surgery. It’s almost funny, in a way—he still remembers how much he’d agonized over these questions, how he’d coughed out flower after flower while writing the answers. It’d hurt, he remembers, and yet he’d still held doubt deep in his heart over whether he should go through with the surgery, even as he was penning his signature. The doubt seems paltry in the face of the relief of being able to take a full breath of air, now. 

“It seems like you’re in great condition,” the nurse tells him with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he answers with an echoing smile, and knows that he truly means it for the first time in years. 

-

The first time that he pulls a petal out of his mouth, he stares at it for an interminable moment. Somehow, he didn’t expect it to be red. 

“Oh, shit,” he hears from next to him. Yoojin turns his head to see the doe-eyed, dewy look of one of the hunters that he’s clearing the dungeon with. Song Dohyun, he thinks his name is. A little older than Yoohyun, probably—he feels a tickle in his lungs and reflexively cuts off that train of thought. “Hanahaki, right?”

Yoojin lets the petal fall from the cup of his palm. “Yep.”

“I’m sorry,” Song Dohyun says, still managing to emulate a sad puppy. “I hear that it’s really painful.” It is. Yoojin shrugs and adjusts his gloves so he doesn’t have to keep looking at the mournful expression. He hasn’t had to talk to someone quite so… earnest in a while. “Are you… thinking about getting the surgery?”

Thankfully, the leader of the dungeoning group calls for their attention before Yoojin has to really wrap his mind around the question. 

-

Out of curiosity, he takes the bus with the route that he knows passes by a billboard for Yoohyun’s guild to get home from the hospital. He’s been avoiding it for almost a year now even though it’s the only line that goes directly to his apartment. 

The bus ends up passing by the location too quickly for Yoojin to catch anything other than the silhouette of Yoohyun’s head and shoulders against a fiery background. It’s anticlimactic, for something that Yoojin has been so desperate to avoid for such a long time. Still, it’s his brother on a billboard—something that neither of them ever would have imagined for themselves just a few years ago. 

Good for him, Yoojin thinks deliberately. It comes with none of the malice and jealousy that had plagued him for so long and brings a lightness to his chest that lingers for the rest of the bus ride home. 

-

It takes two weeks for Yoojin to start carrying tissues around. A month after that and Yoojin is having to stuff whole blossoms into his pocket in between punching overgrown rats and collecting ingredients. It’s fast, he notes dully. Faster than he would’ve expected.  

It takes two months for him to start coughing up blood.

There’s a pamphlet for a hunter-specific doctor hanging on his fridge, one where the number and website to set up an appointment is circled in black Sharpie. On the other side of the fridge is a photo of Yoojin and Yoohyun from years ago, decked out in winter gear and covered in snow, laughing together and not looking at the camera. It’s one of Yoojin’s favorite photos of them together. 

One day, while he has a sleeve—black, because he’s getting tired of doing laundry—pressed to his mouth as he coughs, he slides it back into the photobook it came from and thinks about how he’s had to do this twice now. He wonders if it’s making the disease worse somehow.

The pamphlet stays up on the fridge.

-

When Yoojin gets back to his apartment, he surveys the space and realizes how impersonal everything looks. Over the years, he’d gradually taken down or thrown out anything that reminded him of Yoohyun, and the hanahaki had only sped up that process. And the things that had reminded him of Yoohyun had been… everything.

He starts by taking out one of the winter blankets that he’s been keeping in storage, one that he’s been putting off using because Yoohyun had been the one to pick this pattern, and he wasn’t sure if it’d bring back other painful memories. While he’s there, he pauses over a box of photobooks, untouched since he’d shoved it there in anger and misery a few years ago. He’d forgotten it existed.

It takes him hours to flip through the photobooks again, looking at the pictures with new eyes and a touch of curiosity. Everything had been so painful before that he can’t quite remember what it felt like when these photos were first taken. It’s sort of like there’s a black hole in his memory, except instead of amnesia, it’s only his feelings that he can’t remember. 

It’s a bit strange, to look at his own history and feel detached, so he takes one that he likes and puts it in a place of honor on the fridge. Maybe he’ll warm up to it, eventually, and remember.

He leaves the pamphlet up there too. Just in case.

-

“Hi,” he croaks into his phone. His stomach had been churning from downing too many healing potions in a row, so he’d been experimenting with just letting the coughs happen. Now he’s starting to regret that a bit. “I’d like to make an appointment.”

He gives the nurse his information and stares out the window of his apartment while she looks up his records. “What are you coming in for?”

“Hanahaki surgery.”

-

After a few days, Yoojin’s… not quite sure what to do with himself. He still keeps an eye out for dungeons, but it lacks the fervency that used to fuel his actions. He’d needed to prove himself, needed to know that he could survive on his own and wasn’t trapped in the shadow of someone who didn’t give a damn about him, and now he… doesn’t. It leaves an empty space in his life that grows more and more unnerving the longer he stays in this apartment that’s both empty of and filled to the brim with emotion.

That’s the problem, he’s starting to realize. It’s not as if he’s been wiped of all emotion—far from it. It’s that he doesn’t have any emotions related to Yoohyun anymore. 

And who is he when he doesn’t love his brother?

-

“Han Yoojin.” 

Yoojin smiles wanly at the doctor who’d been assigned to him the last time. What are the odds? “Hello, Doctor Kim.”

She gives him a look before flipping through his chart. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here again. You were one of our best successes, you know. Hardly any side effects. What’s giving you trouble now?”

Yoojin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clear plastic bag filled to the brim with red anemones, the flat round petals a stark contrast to the pink carnations that he’d shown her last time. “It came back.” 

#mycookiesvenomousyestheybite #sina writes #fanfiction #sctir #s classes that i raised #hanahaki #i'm not sure if it's clear?? but this alternates between the 'present' when yj gets his surgery #and the 'future' where his hanahaki comes back again #my other idea for this prompt was a time loop/groundhog day au #where yh is trapped in the time loop and the point is to reconcile w yj #but alas this story wrote itself first :')

[queerxqueen]

need a byler fic where mike gets stuck in a time loop where will keeps dying and he has to figure out how to save will & make it to tomorrow while also realizing he’s in love with will when confronted with losing him over and again :))))))

#byler #byler fanfic #byler prompt #PLEASE WRITE THIS SO I DONT HAVE TO #mine #byler fanfiction #happy death day and groundhogs day and spn the mystery spot vibes

[sunny-rants]

Demisexual/romantic character gets stuck in a time loop and slowly falls in love with someone who’s always had a hopeless crush on them, kind of a reverse Groundhog Day

#time loop #groundhog day #demisexual character #demisexual #demiro #demiromantic #demi #writing prompt #story prompt #fanfic prompt #fic prompt #fanfiction prompts #aspec #acespec #arospec #asexual spectrum #aromantic spectrum

[winterspiderpurrs]

Okay so Groundhog Day movie was on and it made me think....

Tony keeps repeating the same day and it isn't until he chooses the correct partner for himself does it stop repeating.

Maybe it takes a few tries but he goes through this people:

Pepper

Steve

Bucky

Natasha

Peter

Stephen

Maybe a combo of them????

Honestly you could have it as anyone you like. I feel like this would be a fun prompt for anyone to do!

#writing prompt #groundhog day #starker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #starker prompt #tony x stephen #tony x bucky #tony x steve #tony x natasha #tony x pepper #ironshield #ironspiderstrange #ironstrange #ironwinterspider #ironwinter #ironspider #ironwidow #winterspiderpurrs

[knifwp]

Prompt #9

MC dies and arrives before the devil. They are forced to relive the worst day of their life. They are given all of the things that could fix whatever had gone wrong. But whatever they try to fix will eventually get ruined again.

#writing #creative writing #writer #writeblr #prompt #writing prompt #fic prompt #writing ideas #creativepromptsforwriting #devil #reincarnation #groundhog day #the movie #kinda

[dsmp-writing-prompts]

DSMP Writing Prompt | Groundhog Day

Tommy finds himself experiencing a rather annoying time loop, one without a specific duration (the longest one so far lasted a month, the shortest only an incredibly annoying day), but each time he inevitably dies (in often embarrassing ways) one way or another and ends up at the start of the loop. This, however horrific it already is, would have been his only concern were it not for the dreadful murder he somehow seems to be a witness of each time it takes place.

Getting to know the victim, Wilbur, he grows attached and decides to attempt to prevent his recurring murder. Over time Wilbur grows to believe Tommy and his odd predicament, so they work together to end the loop once and for all..

#crimeboys #wilbur #tommy #dsmp writing prompt #writing prompt #dream smp #free to use #tommyinnit #dream smp au #crimeboys au #dream smp fanfic #dsmp writing idea #happy death day #groundhog day #inspired

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

Dropping my spring theme tomorrow because I am impatient and want winter to be over

#its groundhogs day its close... enough... #FUCK I DIDNT HAVE A PROMPT PLANNED FOR TOMORROW I COULDVE DONE THE TIME LOOP ONE #mb's two am rambling

[spacecapybara]

A creepy groundhog day movie

It could be quite easy to make groundhog day movie a creepy horror film. The days still move on but everyone but our protagonist forgets the last day and keeps thinking its still the same day when they wake up. Each morning the protagonist wakes up and takes their meds and has to go through the day. However, their meds are the only thing that helps them remember, they don’t until they take the meds and once their meds run out they will be trapped in the loop too.

#venting stupidity #movie idea #writing prompt #movies #groundhog day #creepy #horror #Not like the spooky scary monster horror but the existential dread of a seemingly inevitable fate worse than death

[creativepromptsforwriting]

AU Masterpost

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Groundhog Day Prompts

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[credince--writes]

Would König ever get rough with "reader"? Like he thinks his size and strength is intimidating enough he doesn't want to be too rough so he's always gentle until they practically beg him to be rougher.

One Would Think

Prompt:

One would think the large man would have reservations about his strength, it is rare he is able to be soft. To be gentle.

König x Fem!Reader (More medic prompt because I am a one-trick pony)

Find all my König shit on AO3

One would think the large man would have reservations about his strength, it is rare he is able to be soft.

To be gentle.

The reservations of his touch- nearly hesitant some nights. Others gripping and grasping, tugging on your flesh as if he constantly questioned if this was real.

It all spiraled from a moment of weakness. Medics weren't supposed to be injured, after all. The transport (of you, as well as some supplies) had been ambushed as you moved through the desert.

You were out in the wilderness for three days.

For three days you clung to the truck's corners- barely slept. The dwindled supplies and caked-on blood and dust holding the seams of you together.

Finally, they had exfiled you.

The radio chatter was confirmed with the sound of trucks approaching, hesitantly popping your head out as if you were a groundhog peeking for its shadow.

König was there, exiting his own truck and stalking toward you before grabbing hold of your shoulder and squeezing.

He wasn't one for much PDA- but you knew what he meant.

..

You were dog tired, and by the time you'd both crawled out of the shower (him half holding you up, washing your hair, and kissing every inch of skin possible in the small space) you'd both made it into the room.

Your room.

Our room.

You'd managed to escape with just some bruised ribs, you'd laughed dryly at the thought of 'just'. You can't remember how many times you'd said the phrase yourself. But feeling it was entirely different. It wasn't just- but you suppose it just was.

You leaned into König, hands trailing up onto his shoulders and leaning in for a kiss. Soft, slow, capturing the small sound of surprise he'd make as you leaned forward and cupped his cock through his shorts.

He reached for you, then stop.

"You're hurt." He protested, quietly trying not to push. His paws for hands barely hovering over your skin.

"Stop." You replied. "Stop-" You sighed out. "Just for tonight- I... I don't want to feel weak. Don't coddle me, unless I ask."

His head leaned forward, forehead against forehead.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"I want to feel you, but I don't want to be treated like glass- just-" You paused, trying to find the correct words.

"I don't think you are weak, Shatz." He nearly whispered out.

"Then show me."

His hand lowered, grabbing hold of your hip and pulling you closer into him- pressing your tits against his chest. He started moving, walking you back up to the bed and pushing you down against the soft surface.

As your back hit the bed, you suddenly felt your body flipping over- your tummy slapping against the bed and your ribs screaming. Letting out a whine of pain at the unexpected pressure against your injured rips, he leans forward, back draping against you.

"Are you sure?" He asks, once more cautiously dragging his hand down the expanse of your spine.

"Please."

His hand slid down the spine, over the swell of your ass, and a single finger pushed into your cunt without a tease, pumping into it lazily as he spoke into your ear. "When I heard about the ambush I was so worried about you Shatz." He exhaled, the familiar sneer finding its way into his voice and you could visualize perfectly the little twitch of his lip quirking upward. "They made me wait three, fucking, days."

He slipped another finger into your cunt, pumping it in and curling it up against that spot.

All you could do was open your mouth and pant.

"So imagine how I feel walking up to that truck and finding you- injured- covered in dirt and blood?" He questions, pushing his hip against your ass and dragging his clothes cock against it.

"H... How did you feel?" You gasped out, a particularly cruel curl of his fingers as he ground his cock into your back.

"I wanted to kill, Shatz."

There it was.

That voice-

The one you'd only hear with him in the field, maybe once or twice after a particularly bad mission.

The sneer.

The cockiness.

He only ever spoke to you in a calm tone- muted. Sure, you'd catch a faux sneer or a cackling laugh. The glint that shone in his eyes when he could smell fear.

But he never directed it at you.

"But I wanted to take care of my kleiner Arzt, so I took you home."

"Yea." You moaned, leaning your head back and feeling your ear brush against the side of his face.

"So I am taking care of you, am I not?" He pumped his fingers, thumb reaching up and spiraling around your clit.

The feeling of his thumb pushing against the bundle of nerves made your entire body clench- a squelching sound mingling with the whine of pain escaping your throat as your chest tightened.

"Ah, I am taking care of you. Your pussy is so wet..." He fell silent, testing his fingers in and out. Completely pulling them out before plunging them back in. "You like it, no?"

"I like it! König please-"

"I knew you liked it, I can feel your cunt tightening around my fingers." He stated, so matter-o-factly it felt like he was testing you, speaking down to you like you were too dumb to really know what you liked or not.

His fingers left you, and you nearly whined at the loss of him. He must've noticed the confused frown falling on your features, his free hand snaking up around your throat and lifting your body flush against his as he stood back up. Pushing his knees onto the mattress as your bare back became flush with his chest. A finger from your neck curling up and tucking itself into your mouth, pushing down on your tongue and forcing your mouth to hang open.

His hand pulled from your cunt and yanked down the waistband of his shorts, cock springing free in the process as he grabbed it, leading the head to press up against your entrance.

"Show me how badly you want it." He urged, accent thick with lust.

His hand gripped your hip, and you nearly saw white spots in your vision as his hand squeezed around your neck. The pads of his fingers on your hip digging into your skin- harsher than you'd ever felt before.

You rocked, desperately back down onto his cock, shifting your hips back and forth and letting out little moans and groans of effort as his large cock speared into you.

"Is that it?" He questions, the snark dripping from his voice as his hand left your throat and let your body drop forward onto the bed. Your arms reach out to catch yourself but his hand grabs the back of your head and shoves it down into the mattress.

He snaps his hips back and forward once, fully sheathing himself inside your tight heat.

He groans, head leaning down and panting hot breaths against the shell of your ear. "So good for me." He praises. There's a slight tremble to his hands as the hand on your hip detaches, grabbing onto the soft flesh of your sides, pushing up against your breasts, and grabbing hold of your nipples.

"Let me take care of you Shatz, make you feel good." He says so sweetly, rocking his hips back and forth as you acclimate to his size. The wet squelch of your pussy fills the void expanse of sound in the room.

You felt it, the back slide of him easing back. The hesitancy in his voice, trembling in his hands.

Your arm reached back, hooking around the back of his neck as you pushed your back flush against his chest, leaning to the side and capturing his mouth in a kiss.

Tounges meeting and fight against one another, a thick trail of saliva connecting your mouths as you lean back panting for breath.

"König, please." You whine.

"Please, what, Shatz?" He asks, nudging his mouth against your neck as he starts to suck up your neck.

"I can feel you holding back."

He doesn't respond for a moment, as if he was trapped in his thoughts as he continued to rock back and forth slowly.

The shift happens in an instant.

His hand reaches up, wrapping his fingers into your hair, and yanks your head to the side.

Then he bites down on your shoulder before pulling his cock out and pistoning back into you.

You can feel the tremble again, as if his whole body is vibrating with energy as his thrusts become rougher, snapping in and out of you.

The pull of your hair back as he continues to suck on the soft skin of your neck, makes your insides flutter with the combination of sensations.

You choke out a whine when his cock rams against that spot deep within you, your head trying to lean back against him. Chest heaving with the dull throb of pain in your ribs as you try to catch your breath.

"Thought I was going to lose you, Shatz." He speaks, and his voice cracks. His grip was so firm you were sure there would be the handprint remnants of the bruising, desperate grip on your body.

"I can't lose you," he adds to it, hand dropping down and finger circling your clit.

You weren't present in your body, it felt like. It was as if you were on cloud nine, the feeling of his strong grip grounding you to the present. Making it feel so real- letting you know that this was real.

That he was here.

That you were okay.

Your body tenses- constantly rubberbanding from going limp to tense at a moment's notice. The cord pulls tight in your stomach as you try to shy away from his hand on your cunt, the burning build of pleasure becoming too much.

"Cum for me, I know you're close." He growls in your ear.

It'd be rude not to listen when he asks like that.

He follows soon after, the deep grunts with the thrust of his hips.

He pants, leaning forward with his arms caging in around you so he doesn't put any unnecessary weight on your chest.

"Are you ok?" He asks, a mild worry poorly hidden in his tone.

"M'good." You mumble, rolling over and letting out a wince at the groan of your ribs. "Never better." You add.

He reaches forward, pulling you close and holding you to his chest as he pulls one of his shirts over your body. Helping with your arms as you start to become much more aware of how much pain you were in.

"We shouldn't have done that." He says, hands going back to the constantly hovering, never touching.

"I'm the doctor here." You reply, groaning and laying down.

"I don't want to break my doctor." He replies.

You snicker. "Can always get a new one."

He tenses- gaze hardening as he cups your face.

"I never want a new one, mein kleiner Arzt."

#könig x reader #könig x you #mwii #call of duty mw2 #Konig x reader #konig x reader smut #konig imagine #Konig x Reader- Shatz

[tropetember]

Enemies / Friends / Strangers To Lovers

Police / Detective / (Super)Hero // Crime / Mafia / (Super)Villain

Hurt/Comfort / Sickfic / Whump

Coffee Shop / Tattoo Parlour / Flower Shop / Other Retail AU

Rockstar / Actor / Model / Famous AU

High School / College / University AU / 80’s Teen Movie AU

Historical (Regency, Ancient Greece/Rome, Prehistory, etc) / Modern / Futuristic AU

Time Travel / Time Loop (eg. Groundhog Day) / Amnesia / Coma

5+1 / 3+1 (Five Times + One Time)

Accidental Confession / In Vino Veritas (Drunk Confession/Drunk Dial)

Business Partners To Friends To Lovers / Competitor Businesses / Office AU

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Slice Of Life / Domestic / Found Family

Monstrous (Human/Monster Romance) / Cultural Differences / Language Barrier

Marriage Of Convenience / Arranged Marriage / Matchmaking / Blind Dates

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Genderswap / Rule 63 / De-Aging / Age Changes AU

Canon Rewrite / Fix-It / Everybody Lives / Everybody Dies / Major Character Death

Mythology / Supernatural / Fairytale / Wingfic

Accidental Baby Acquisition / (Single) Parent AU / Babysitting

Mutual Pining / Requited/Unrequited Love / Angst With A Happy Ending

Fake Dating / Didn’t Know They Were Dating / Accidental Dating / Accidental Marriage

Repression / Emotional Constipation / Sexuality Crisis (Gay Panic)

Holidays & Celebrations / Proposals / Prom

Fusion / Crossover / Harlequin / Rom-Com (eg: Hogwarts, Pacific Rim, Daemons, Hunger Games, The Princess Bride, Pride & Prejudice, Love Actually, 10 Things I Hate About You, etc)

FREE SPACE

Link to Hard Mode Prompt List

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#tropetember #prompt list #fanfic prompts #bubbline #thiam #dreamling #wesper #tododeku #kiribaku #dexmas #destiel #goldenheart #spirk #steddie #tarlos #ineffable husbands #blackbonnet #avatrice #fate the winx saga #thomas barrow

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 13

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 13/? 8.4k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Catalyst — an agent that provokes or speeds significant change or action.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: angst, drama, implied partner abuse, harm to fantasy creature 

Monday, December 9th 1985

Eddie propped his cheek against his knuckles as he watched you from the back of the classroom, just like he did every day. You were radiant on this one, brimming with excitement as you lectured on your favorite subject.

“We’re still in the planning phase for our short stories, but now that you all have a general idea of what you want to write about, I want you to start putting together an outline,” you prompted.

His eyes traced down the back of your blouse to where it met the waistline of your trousers. His hands still itched to hold you there. Burned was a better word now. He watched your hand scratch words onto the board with a nub of chalk, following the bend and curve of your fingers as they formed letters. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. You and him, behind the big desk every Monday and Wednesday after school. You; trying to focus on his schoolwork. Him; trying to focus on you. You; letting him get away with it. 

There was plenty of studying happening too. In between studying the curve of your lips, the hue of your laugh, and the bones of your knuckles under his thumb, there were shining moments were something would click and he would solve an equation. Perhaps it was something to do with memory association or whatever textbook word you used to describe the psychology of learning, but something about the way you presented things made it easier for him to absorb. Perhaps it was your gentle patience, or your intuition. Knowing when to press forward and when to back off. Knowing how to show something differently than he’d been taught. Maybe it was just sweeter coming from your lips instead of Ms. O’Donnell’s. 

Eddie shifted in his desk as you clicked the end of your sentence against the board with a flourish. Stretching against the confines of the tiny chair, he hunched over the slab wood barely big enough to fit his notebook, and picked up his own chewed utensil to copy what you’d written. Maybe it was the bulk of his jacket, thicker and warmer with padding for winter, but suddenly he felt claustrophobic.

You whipped around brightly to face the class. “Alright, who remembers what three things inform character action?”

The question was met with restless silence. A cough. A sniffle.

With a defeated sigh, you turned back around to scratch desires, fears, and misbeliefs onto the board.

Glancing out the window at the pale grey sky and naked trees, Eddie counted on his fingers the number of months until there would be leaves on them again. 

Five. 

He just knew it would be an agonizing winter. One that dragged on and on, long after the groundhog saw its shadow. Huffing, he stared down at his beat up spiral notebook, blue lines blurring in his tired vision. The pen went slack in his hand. He closed his eyes and listened to your voice.

“I know these are short stories, but in the end something should have changed internally or interpersonally for your characters as a result of the plot. Remember, the plot is what happens, the story is how it affects the characters,” you said, jotting down the last bit.

It took on a different tone in front of the class. More rigid and professional, louder so it carried to the back of the room. It lacked the warmth and softness that it held when he was next to you. He imagined, for a sweet moment, how it would sound even closer; against the shell of his ear as you breathed a sigh beneath him. The gentle feather of your lips as they traveled south, just below his ear, where his jaw met his neck. In the playground of his mind, he could show you what a man he really was. Here, his hands were free to wander wherever they wanted; dip into the valleys of your clavicles, over the hills of your breasts, around the bend of your waist, the peaks of your hips, the mound of your—

A snicker broke his reverie. When he opened his eyes, Jason’s were already on him. 

“Taking a nap, Munson?” he mouthed mockingly.

Eddie rolled his eyes and seethed as he glared down at his notebook again. He shifted against the back of the hard plastic chair, against the tight cage of the desk. Finding no relief, he huffed and stared blankly ahead at the chalkboard, at the beige concrete wall, at the big desk, and then—at you. The gap had never been more enormous. An ocean of desks, a gaping chasm between where he was and where he wanted to be.

He must have looked downright pitiful, because the look you returned brimmed with a soft concern. In the two seconds he held you, Eddie released a deep sigh. Then you were back to the board.

“L-let’s start by highlighting the main point of each scene,” you said quickly, turning as you cleared your throat. Eddie caught your hand dart behind your neck before it fell promptly to your side. “Basically, why a scene exists and what it needs to accomplish. Does it provide information about the characters or move the story forward? Remember, these are short stories, so we want to make each scene really count.”

Eddie gripped the chewed pen and dutifully copied what you wrote. He knew he could have asked you later, had you explain it all again, given him tips, and pointers, and strategies, even helped him with his outline. But he wanted you to see that he was trying. He wanted you to see that he cared. He was always bad at school. Bad at paying attention. Bad at turning in assignments. Bad at following rules and keeping his mouth shut. 

He wanted to be good for you. 

When the bell rang, chair legs screeched against tile, notebooks crinkled, zippers ripped open and shut in a frenzied cacophony. Eddie hung back until the room filtered out. Until the only person left was you. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he padded up the long isle of desks until he reached yours. A standard routine.

“Hey,” he said, just like every other day. Just to savor another couple seconds in your presence, alone.

You looked up at him from the mess on your desk as you did countless times before, same tired smile, same soft eyes, same response. “Hey.”

Eddie rocked back and forth on his heels, holding your gaze for a little too long. “I’ll—uh, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Your face grew bright and warm, a glint of summer against the pale, grey sky. “Yeah, see you later, Eddie.” 

There it was, the thing he really came for — his name. He sighed a smile and gave a single nod, turning slowly toward the door. 

______

By the time he made it to chemistry class, Eddie was ready for a nap. Maybe it was the pizza that sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the fact that, yet again, he had stayed up entirely too late, lost in your world. 

But he couldn’t just stop, not when Cybelle was being attacked by a ferocious fenfink — like a weasel, only much larger. Sharper claws, bigger teeth, and fatally attracted to something Cybelle had on her person. They were packing up camp in the morning when it happened. Perhaps it had been drawn to the smell of sweet Myrnish breakfast cakes, or the herbs stuffed inside Cybelle’s mask, or perhaps it was her gold amulet that sparkled in the glow of the fire. In hindsight, they really should have picked up a sword in Fenwood. Not that Lazarus had ever swung one. Not that he would trust himself to when the beast was grappling with the neckline of Cybelle’s coat as she struggled to fling it off her. Too much movement. Too many opportunities to miss. Instead, Lazarus had done the only thing he could manage to do in a panic, which is to grab the animal’s back and try to pry it off. 

The path through the boglands was narrow with small allowance for a camp site. On either side lay deep, murky water spotted with mounds of moss and pale, petrified trees. The fenfink didn’t give up easy. It tore at her silk with its claws, sniffing and growling at her crescent moon mask as Lazarus tugged at its furry body. As Cybelle’s boots threatened stumble back over the berm of the trail and into the wet abyss, Lazarus tugged as hard as he could, but the animal snatched a lifeline; a shiny gold chain that glimmered in the pale blue light of the early morning. 

It bent Cybelle forward at the neck. Time froze as her golden promise, his future, dangled in the space between them. Her hands fumbled at the animal’s rear claws to unlatch them from her abdomen. Eyes desperate, mask askew, Lazarus knew what he had to do. One good yank and the chain would break. She would be free, and he could hurl the beast into the bog to buy them time.  He knew it could be done, in theory. What would become of the treasure, however, would be left entirely to fate. 

In the glittering twinkle, he saw his cottage, his garden, his full size bed, his curtains billowing in the salty air. It swayed and skirted across the taught chain, dangling dangerously close to the edge of the murky water.

With a strangled cry, Cybelle worked the claws free of her dress, and he was left with a split second to decide. The golden tether winked in the fire’s glow. Fear flickered in her umber eyes. With a firm, decided tug, Lazarus broke the chain. Time slowed to a halt as the glimmering treasure launched upward with the force of it all. Cybelle stumbled back over the berm, grasping desperately at the air. It followed the arc that she took, hovering just out of reach. She just about bumped it with her fingertip, but the cold, wet shock at her back knocked the wind out of her.

Lazarus watched his dreams tumble into the water, helpless to stop it. As he grappled with the snarling beast, his eyes caught the last golden glimmer of hope before it plunked beneath the inky surface of the bog. He pivoted quickly, launching the creature in a heartbroken rage, and it flailed in the air before its headfirst collision with a tree scattered the birds for miles.

A wet, sobbing cough from the other side of path sent him scrambling toward it. Cybelle was a mess. Clambering on her knees, waist deep in a peaty, black filth that soaked through her gold coat. Her hands raked desperately, blindly, at the thick decay beneath the murky water. 

Lazarus stumbled over the mossy ledge and into the bog, extending his hand, but she could not meet his eyes.

“I-I can find it,” she choked, sucking what little breath she could muster as the soaked fabric clung to her face. “It-it is somewhere here… I heard it.” 

His heart sunk deeper than the treasure. “Please, Cybelle,” he pleaded. 

“I can find it,” she insisted weakly, and another desperate grasp beneath the water sent her tumbling further down. 

He dove in after her then, sinking deep into the muck to grab her by the waist before she slipped beneath the surface. Cybelle was persistent, twisting in his arms as sobs shook her tiny body. He simply gripped her tighter, drawing her toward his chest and out of the water. Her struggles paled to his strength.

“Please,” she whimpered, stamping his white linen shoulders with muddy hands. “I can—I can…” she could barely catch a breath, silk crescent now crooked and blackened with peat. 

With both arms clasped tightly around her back, Lazarus shushed her. “It’s gone, Cybelle.” He could not hide the mourning in his voice.

She shut her eyes with a defeated grimace and went limp. Tears burned her lash line as she sobbed against his chest. They opened when she felt a finger brush behind her ear. Gingerly, slowly, Lazarus hooked his fingers through the loop of her mask, eyes darting back and forth between hers in a wordless request for permission. Her stillness granted it, and with that, he peeled it away.

In the pale blue light of the early morning, waist deep in muck and mire, Lazarus saw Cybelle. Not for the first time ever, but for the first time like this. Raw, and ragged, and inches apart. She inhaled deeply, freely, and for the first time when she breathed out, there were no barriers between them. They stood there a moment in a captivated stillness with nothing but the hum of frogs and song of birds.

Cybelle was the one to break the silence. “We might as well turn around then,” she wavered bitterly. “I have…” her breath hitched, “nothing to offer you.”

Lazarus sighed, shaking his head as he raked in her soft features. “Your company,” he began, “is enough.”

Cybelle shut her eyes, blinking tears over her lashes to streak trails through her the dirt on her cheeks, and for the first time, her muddy arms drew around his waist, and she embraced him.

Eddie pressed his heated forehead to the cool slate of the lab table and shifted his stool back against the floor with a loud screech. Images of fenfinks, and pendants, and bog mire danced behind his eyelids. He could hear the weary exhaustion in Mr. Westfield’s voice. He didn’t even need to look up to know he was leaning against his desk and running his hand through his thinning hairline as he’d done a hundred times before at the top of sixth period.

“Alright, so today we’re going to be creating magnesium oxide. Magnesium plus oxygen. Get it?” The question was answered with sleepy eyes and a few stray sniffles. Mr. Westfield sighed. “Right. Since the school can’t afford enough bunsen burners for all of you, this week you’ll be splitting up into pairs.”

The room came alive, eyes meeting eyes as claims flew across the room. Eddie peeked over his arms at the table in front of him. Tina was practically falling out of her stool as she reached for Chrissy on the other side of the room with grabby hands. 

Mr. Westfield looked thoroughly unamused by the commotion. “I’ll be assigning them.”

The classroom groaned almost unanimously. 

“Hate to be a party pooper,” he started, his tone indicating quite the opposite, “but you’re here to learn, not to chit-chat. Ok, let’s see here…” Mr. Westfield adjusted his glasses on his nose as he scanned down the list of names in his attendance book. 

A restless silence fell over the room as the students awaited their fate. 

“Looks like we have an even number, excellent. Tina, you’ll be with Bobby.”

Eddie could see Tina’s eyes roll through the back of her head. 

Mr. Westfield peered up from his glasses. “Don’t act so excited. Ok, then we’ll have Ricky and Carmen, Sally and Janae…” he went down the list of names, checking them off and scribbling them on the side of the sheet to keep track.

Eddie sat up and glanced around the room as pairs were made, mentally checking off classmates as their names were called, ears perked and primed to hear his own. As the ones who remained dwindled and dwindled down to only two, his pulse quickened. 

“Ok and then that just leaves Ms. Cunningham,” he punctuated with his pen, “and Mr. Munson.”

Fuck.

Eddie turned his head slowly, reluctantly, toward the other side of the room where Chrissy Cunningham sat, and was met with a soft, coy smile. He swallowed and whipped his head to face forward. 

Un-fucking believable. If there was a God, which Eddie sincerely doubted, he sure had a twisted sense of humor.

Since their brief confrontation in the hallway following Tina’s Halloween party, Chrissy had, to his honest surprise, respected his wishes and kept her distance. It never stopped her from looking though. Stares, he would discover, were something you could feel. Burning into his temple from behind the curtain of his hair in class, heating the back of his neck at his locker as her perfume wafted up the hall. It was almost a daily occurrence. 

As the classroom rearranged itself in a cacophony of screeching stools and shuffling backpacks,  Eddie remained planted right were he was, thumbing at the bent spiral of his notebook, mind racing as his eyes glazed over. It was less than a minute before he smelled that familiar perfume and heard the stool next to him scoot against the floor.

“Hey,” came a voice like powdered sugar. 

Eddie looked up from his notebook with a slow hesitance. “Hey.”

“I…grabbed you some safety glasses and an apron,” she said, setting the items on the counter.

Silently lamenting the idea of spending the remaining hour wearing them, he gave a single nod and thanked her.

The room bustled with chatter as Mr. Westfield came around to dole out the bunsen burners, crucibles, scales, and other small tools. “You got a hair tie, Munson?” he asked.

Eddie patted himself down and feigned disappointment. “Fresh out I’m afraid.” 

“I’ve got one,” Chrissy interjected, rolling a powder blue scrunchie from her wrist to swing from the curve of her finger.

Eddie stared at it a second as it dangled in the space between them before snatching it. “Thanks,” he conceded. As he twisted the satin band around his curls to form a low ponytail, he could feel the heat from her gaze. It lingered as he put on his goggles, even as he tied the ribbons of the stiff apron behind his back. 

Wayne, perceptive as ever, had been right all those years ago outside the auditorium. He did, at eleven, have a crush on Chrissy Cunningham, but there were only so many times a person could ignore him before he got the memo. Before he figured out he wasn’t worth their time. It wasn’t the first time it happened. In fact, Eddie had become so accustomed to getting looked through instead of at that he’d made it a lifestyle to stand out. To talk loud, and dress loud, and play loud. To bite back, and shirk rules, and cause a scene. And over the course of a year he barely remembered, he’d left whatever feelings he might have had for her exactly where they belonged; in the graveyard with everything else he would rather forget.

But for some reason this year was different. He wasn’t sure what switch flipped that caused her to suddenly see him. Maybe it was because she was tired of her meathead boyfriend and needed a distraction. Maybe it was because he looked especially dangerous this year. Maybe it was because he’d been held back so many times that he’d become more forbidden than ever; an odd and tempting fascination. 

Eleven year old Eddie would have been elated. Twenty year old Eddie was, to put it simply, annoyed. 

Mr. Westfield returned to the front of the classroom to give instruction, and Eddie tried his best to follow along with the handout. 

The room sparked to life with the hiss of gas and the whump of it igniting from all corners. As the tall flame dance in front of him, Eddie tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that tempted him to dangle the sleeve of his flannel a little too close so he could escape to the nurse’s office. Freshman Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice.

Chrissy turned on the scale between them and set the empty clay crucible on top of it as instructed. She leaned in to record the weight and copied it onto her worksheet. Eddie did the same. According to the worksheet, the next step was to add the magnesium and weigh it again. 

“Make sure the coil isn’t too tight,” advised Mr. Westfield, “you’re gonna want to leave room for air.”

Eddie picked up the clay triangle, doing his best to stay focused on the task, and set it on the metal ring above the flame as demonstrated. 

“I think the ring is too high,” said Chrissy, leaning in to twist the clamp loose enough to lower it. “It’s gotta be like, in the blue part of the flame I think.” Her arm grazed his as she reached into his bubble, and suddenly he was back on that couch, feeling the her phantom fingers on the pins of his vest again, gold halo crooked, lips ghosting cherry alcohol. Eddie shot his gaze forward.

“Ok, now place the crucible in the center of the triangle,” Mr. Westfield instructed.

Eddie grabbed hold of the metal tongs and used them to pinch the pale clay vessel. Chrissy leaned closer as he lowered it to rest above the flame. 

Then they would wait. In the waiting, the classroom grew louder. Tina stood by her stool, arms crossed, eyes cast sideways in annoyance as Mr. Westfield came over to address the lack of flame coming out of her bunsen burner. 

Eddie sat there in tense silence, eyes fixed forward as the flame licked the crucible with its blue heat.

“You know, this definitely beats equations,” Chrissy remarked with a soft chuckle.

He couldn’t really argue with that. Eddie didn’t say that though, instead he just nodded quietly. 

“Say um,” Chrissy thumbed at the gummy eraser of her pencil, “Jason hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

Resentment rose up from the graveyard. “Define trouble,” he groused.

Chrissy sighed. “He can be a real asshole sometimes,” she admitted, to his surprise.

Eddie took a deep breath. It was vivid — the way she stumbled off that couch. How she nearly tripped over her own shoes. How Jason barked at her. The crazed look in his eyes. The fear in hers. “Sometimes?” he bit back.

Chrissy toyed at the hem of her skirt. “He’s not all bad.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the inflection of her voice, or the way her eyes cast down in shameful denial, but it transported him — all the way back to that small kitchen table, feet dangling from the chair as the red wax in his hand filled in the flame from a dragon’s mouth. He could see his mother in the kitchen doorway, her finger coiled tightly around the telephone cord, uttering the same words to a concerned voice on the other end. 

Eddie hardened his lips and shook his head bitterly. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make him good.” 

“Alright folks, listen up,” Mr. Westfield called out, drawing the attention of the class. “Next you’ll add the oxygen by lifting the lid to let some air in.”  

With a sudden, determined movement, Chrissy reached across him to grab the tongs, bracing herself against the slate table. She gave them a few clicks before pinching the handle to lift the small, clay lid. A reaction occurred; blinding and white, igniting the gap between crucible and lid in a flickering flare.

They jumped back in unison. 

“Try not to stare,” advised Mr. Westfield with monotone enthusiasm. “You could damage your eyes.”

Timely advice. Eddie blinked the white dots that clung to his vision away, and a smile caught him by surprise, betraying his steely resolve. 

Chrissy caught it, and her sea green eyes found his from across the bunsen burner as she lowered the lid again. “That was awesome,” she whispered wildly.

It was kind of cool, he had to admit. He would take playing with fire over staring numbly at numbers on a page any day. Eddie peered over the rim of his plastic safety glasses and offered a tentative smile. 

The heating continued, allowing for air every once in a while until finally there was no more reaction. There wasn’t much to say. Eddie removed the crucible from the burner. Chrissy added water from the pipette until the contents formed a paste. Eddie returned the crucible to the heat. The water evaporated. In the silence of their cooperation, in the passing of tools and scribbling of notes, Eddie wondered how long it would be before Chrissy came to her own conclusions. If she would ever figure out that even though Jason wasn’t all bad, she could do so much better. 

Not with him, but on her own.

Clutching the crucible in the tongs, Chrissy set it on the scale for the final time. They both copied the weight onto their worksheets — different than when they started.

With five minutes to the bell, the cleanup was frenzied; a clammer of equipment hastily returned to shelves and boxes backdropped against the hissing water of half a dozen sinks. Even Mr. Westfield had given up on volume control in favor of tidiness. Eddie rid himself of the dreaded apron and goggles just in time for the bell to ring, and with that he snatched his backpack from the floor and followed the flow of his classmates out the door. 

It wasn’t until he made it to the hallway that he remembered. Reaching back behind his neck, he felt it; ruffled satin. The owner was only a few feet ahead, ponytail swaying in ruffled white cotton as she walked. 

“Chrissy!” 

Her footsteps slowed, eyes brimming with a coy mischief that shot dread down his spine when turned against traffic to face him.

______

“Outlines are due on Friday,” you called to your class as you wiped down the board, a cloud of chalk dusted the air as you swiped the soft eraser over the letters. Like the wave of a magic wand, the bell had turned your practically snoring class into an eruption of noise. Before you could hear a pin drop, now you had to shout. With two periods left in the day, you wondered how many more times you would answer the same question. How many more times you would ask one only to be met with coughs and tired eyes.

Your feet hurt. Even the boots you had chosen for comfort and practicality were causing an ache in the soles of them, the hard heel putting too much pressure on your own. The lukewarm coffee you’d savored during fifth period had long since run its course through you. Glancing up at the clock, you realized you had about five minutes to take care of business or be forced to suffer for the duration of seventh period as well. Setting down the eraser, the decision was easy.

Your tired feet clicked down the crowded hallway with a sense of urgency that seemed to evade the rest of traffic. Scent pockets of perfume, mint gum, cigarettes, and body odors wafted through the air as you hurried past the rows of slamming lockers, dodging a pair of students overcome with the temptation to roughhouse, one grabbing the other by the backpack and yanking, sprinting ahead so his friend couldn’t catch him. You sighed, voice too tired to conjure discipline. 

As you picked up on that strange, familiar scent of the approaching science lab, your eyes, like a magnet, were drawn to a familiar silhouette, standing just outside the door. You would have recognized him anywhere, picked him out of a crowd of thousands. Flutters bloomed in your chest. His long, dark curls bounced as he shook them out with his hand, like he was scratching the back of his head. 

It was enchanting; the way he did just about anything. The way he moved, his sharp elbows and quick hands, the bright timbre of his voice, how his energy could shift on a dime from a soft breeze to a ripping gust. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. Conversations that strayed from educational to casual. Lingering glances. Secret touches. Stolen moments. Never speaking the truth of your heart. Never offering more than your hand. 

The flow of students swept you forward, and as you passed, a figure emerged from behind where his shoulders obscured. In the seconds that slowed to a crawl, your eyes gathered volumes. 

Strawberry blonde, petite, clutching a book to her soft, white cardigan. Sparkling eyes under soft blue shadow, cocked head, fluttering lashes, a smile bright enough to draw a moth.

Craning your neck back as traffic surged, you searched for his eyes.

Eddie didn’t see you.

You blinked, hard, and snapped your gaze forward over the sea of students as your heart leapt into your throat. 

It was fine. 

Click.

It was nothing.

Click.

He’s allowed to talk to people. 

Click.

He didn’t see you.

Click.

Of course not, it’s crowded.

Click.

It burned, like the image was seared into your retinas. Her clean, white sneaker coyly toeing at the tile. Teeth that teased at plump, pink lips. Heavy lidded eyes. Arched back. Delicate fingers curled around a textbook spine. You tried to blink it away.

It was fine. It was nothing.

You rounded the corner for the faculty bathroom, relieved to find it empty, and shut yourself inside. The tried old light bathed the room in a yellow wash. You locked the door and stood there for a moment, heart racing, chest heaving in the quiet reprieve from the bells, lockers, and voices. Space for your thoughts to grow louder as you went about your business.

Why shouldn’t he talk to some girl? There was nothing wrong with that. In the glimpse that you caught of his face, it was lacking in distinct expression. Listening. Nothing worth noting. It was hers that really stuck with you. Her rosy cheeks and perky ponytail. The way she batted her eyes and licked her lips like she wanted to make a meal out of him.

Eddie Munson; summer wind. Tall and roguish, charming and animated, full of surprises. It was shocking he was single. Downright unbelievable that no other woman in this entire school would harbor any feelings. There had to be at least a handful that cast shy gazes as they passed him in the hallway. At least a few that floated curious whispers across lunch tables. In the dark corners of your imagination you had always figured, you’d just never seen it. And now the image wouldn’t leave you. Sticky. Clinging like you’d stepped in gum. 

You met your tired eyes in the mirror above the sink. Timeless, it mocked, as the whisper of lines became canyons. 

On the other side of the door was sea of young women. Free to talk and gawk and get into the sort of trouble he surely had a taste for. The kind of trouble you only had the freedom to imagine. How long before the novelty of you wore off? Before his restless hands sought something more? Something he could grasp in broad daylight? Someone who could keep his stride, share a milkshake or a bucket of popcorn?

You cast your welling eyes downward, turned on the water, wet your hands, and pumped the soap.

It started subtle, last spring. Started with the way he looked at you; a flame that dimmed to embers over months of dinners spent alone, plates gone cold, beds left empty, leaving you with nothing but to wonder how he looked at her. 

Time moves quickly for young men. You of all people would know it. Like a wildfire; hungry and insatiable, devouring everything in its path. It renders promises of meaning, leaves the past in charred remains. It surges ever forward, seeking fuel. 

It left behind an ice in you. Stalling over the sink as the world surged on outside, you felt it seize your chest again.

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Twenty years old. Restless. Reckless. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You weren’t an item. You were nothing.

The water was scalding. Bubbles erupted as you worked up a lather. Scrubbing your knuckles, your palms, the space between your fingers where his had nestled once. 

No. You weren’t nothing. 

The bell had you flinching; a loud and shrill summons back to your post, your place, your duty. 

You were his teacher.

Pinballs. Louder than the shrieking bell. Louder than ever before. You didn’t dare meet your eyes again, frightened of what sort of monster would stare back.

What am I doing? 

You turned off the water and paused, hands weeping over the sink. 

It was foolish, to play with fire. It was foolish just about anywhere, but here the walls were made of tinder, the desks of charcoal. His fingers like matches, striking you with every touch. But oh, how you craved the heat. Close enough to thaw you; the ice deep in your chest, weeping as it melted, pooling in your lap, making puddles on the floor.

Droplets fell to the tile as you turned to grab a paper towel. It soaked through, blooming dark, wet patches as the brown paper blotted up the dampness.

You shook your head bitterly. No. You certainly weren’t nothing. You were a phase. A passing fancy. An odd fascination. You would never make it to May. You’d be lucky if you made it to January without losing his interest entirely.

You crumpled the soggy paper in your fists and threw it in the trash. Blinking back tears, you pressed your hand to the door and took one deep, final breath as you prepared to face the world again — to put on your mask and perform in front of twenty pairs of judging eyes.

The gap was enormous. Cavernous and treacherous. He deserved someone he could be with in public. Someone he could take to a park or a movie. Someone he could go to fucking prom with. 

With a ragged exhale, you pressed open the door.  

He deserved someone his own age. 

The hall was a flurry of slamming lockers, a scattering of the few straggling students who rushed to find their classrooms. The wind cooled your heated face as you marched, one foot in front of the other, to your post. Shoulders back, deep breaths, sore feet making echos off the polished tile. 

He’d get tired of you too.

Click.

Click.

They always do.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The hall stretched on like an Escher drawing, twisting and distorting in your vision as you neared your classroom door. Tears threatened your lashes, and you huffed them away with a determined shrug of your shoulders.

As your fingers grazed the cold metal handle, you caught your own eyes in the glass. Sad and droopy, welling with longing and resentment. On the other side you could already hear the commotion, the questions, the stares, the awkward silence. The bell rang again — a final warning. 

With a heavy sigh, you turned the handle.

______

Eddie twisted the ridged dial of his locker in his fingers, left and right until he heard a click. Popping the door open and slinging his backpack forward on his shoulder, he unloaded three weighty textbooks into the dark, cluttered enclosure. He grabbed his thick, leather coat, tucked it under his arm, and slammed the door shut. 

In the absence of the books, and of the dimming noise as it filtered out through the front doors and into the parking lot, he felt another weight lift in him. In a matter of minutes, the mindless chatter, the tried scenery of this dull prison, the days worth of stares that clung to him like glue would fall away as he passed the threshold of your door. 

With every step he took, Eddie felt lighter. The slamming lockers didn’t phase him, the weird looks from freshmen went right through him, even the shoulder check from a jock coming around the corner glanced right off. In a million years he never would have expected to feel relieved to stay after school, or a pep in his step as he approached a classroom, but in a million years he never expected to find you behind the big desk. 

He could feel the warmth already as he approached your open door. Hear your laughter at his stupid jokes, feel the heat of your arm graze his, catch your hand, and you, by surprise. But when he turned into threshold, knuckles raising out of habit to rap against it, he was met with a different scene.

You didn’t look up. Not even when tapped his knuckles to the wood in a shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits pattern. Head cast down over a sea of papers, you looked like you were drowning. He padded slowly toward the big desk, face dropping as he noticed another detail: the wooden folding chair—his chair—sat empty and open. Across from you.

Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor with a heavy thump, making his presence known. “Hey,” he started, tentative and cautious. 

It wasn’t until he was practically towering over you that you finally looked up at him, face heavy, expressionless, tired. “Hey,” you stated plainly.

Eddie craned his head and searched your eyes. “You ok?”

You blinked and swallowed. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

He stood like this a moment, vision locked with yours, dark eyes roving, searching. When you offered nothing more, he simply nodded once, strolled around to the front of your desk, grabbed the back of the chair with a determined slap, and dragged it around to where it belonged — beside you. 

He took his place in it; draping his coat over the back of it like always, creaking the wood with his weight as he plunked himself down.

You resumed wading through the sea, heavy gaze cast over it. 

Eddie toyed with a pencil on your desk, tapping the eraser to the wood as his eyes bored a hole into the side of your head. You just kept on roving, shoulders tense, lips worried. He could have been invisible, watching you from a hole in a poster, or a crack in the wall. You offered him the same level of attention. “Something’s wrong,” he confronted, unable to take the frigid silence for a moment longer.

You sighed and set your pen down. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” your hand worried the back of your neck, “…a lot, this time of year, work wise.” Your eyes met his only for a second before casting downward again at the pages. “Here, let me clear this up.” Your hands busied themselves with the mess, shuffling the paper into a clumsy, hurried pile.

“No—no, it’s…it’s ok.” He scooted his chair closer, feeling so useless all of a sudden, burdensome, like his presence added to your task load. He wanted to help, to alleviate the tension, but his hands simply fumbled in his lap as you collected the clutter with your chalk dusted knuckles. As you tapped the pile of papers against the desk in haste to form a semblance of a pile, his hand gained a mind of its own. 

As if possessed by its own separate consciousness, an impulse deep and thrumming with the need to soothe, it took up refuge in the place between your shoulders; warm and firm, drawing slow, caring circles at your blouse. 

You froze, papers stiff against the surface, gaze straight ahead. His hand followed suit, freezing, twitching, arm locked in its extension.

“Y-you should—” you stuttered, blinking wildly as you found your breath. “Why don’t you go grab your schoolwork?” you asked with a curtness that startled him.

Eddie lurched his hand away like you were a hot stove. “I—I’m sorry I just… w-wanted to help. I’m sorry.” His mind became a whirlpool, swirling with worry as his stomach did backflips. He fumbled with the zipper on his backpack.

“No—no, Eddie, I’m… I’m sorry,” you lamented. 

He’d never seen your face so fraught. Like you’d stepped on a cat’s tail, chased it through the house with apologies. 

“It’s not your fault, it’s…” You swallowed, breaking his gaze. You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to. 

Mine.

He was losing you. 

He should have expected it by now. What could he possibly offer you anyway? His hand? A few stolen moments? Some flirty comments to make you feel good about yourself for a second or two? 

He wondered when the other shoe would drop. When you would open your eyes and see this for what it really was — that you were a grown ass woman with a college degree and a real career, and he was twenty years old repeating his senior year of high school for the third fucking time, selling drugs to teenagers, and oh, your student for fuck’s sake. 

It wasn’t lost on him; that he was playing tee-ball in a big league stadium. He stared into the crumpled contents of his backpack with a deep, shaking breath, and pulled out his notebook. It fell from his hand with a dejected slap against the big desk; juvenile amidst the tidy assortment of office supplies. The spiral was bent and crumpled, the cover worn soft from abuse. He sat there a moment and stared at it as the heavy silence swallowed you both. 

Your lips hardened to a bitter line, eyes cast down over the evidence of your position. Over the evidence of his. You wouldn’t look at him, like you were afraid to. Finally, after a suffocating minute, you spoke — frigidly professional. “What do you want to work on today?” 

The question sent a hot rage coursing through him. So that was it, then? Business as usual? Pretending like nothing happened? That none of this was real? Eddie sat back in his seat and boiled with a gaze so intense it could have burned right through you. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of an answer. Not until you gave him enough respect to look him in the eyes when you asked the question.

You just sat there, frozen, shoulders locked, eyes cast down at the big desk for an agonizing moment that stretched well past the point of comfort. His gaze was unrelenting, fueled by stubborn indignation. You felt it. He knew you did, because when you finally did submit your eyes to him, you flinched. 

He almost felt bad for it. For causing you to shrink so small, to look so fragile, like how you did when you’d relinquished a fragment of your past, when the impulse to soothe you drove him to your hand. The impulse rose again, as did some annoyance by it; the grip you had on him, even in his most determined anger. 

“What?” you choked out, barely above a whisper.

You knew damn well what. The audacity to ask sent heat coursing through his veins again, but the look in your eyes, like cornered prey, quelled the fire enough to sigh his way to a level-headed response. “You’re acting different,” he said simply. 

You swallowed, breaking his gaze like you’d been caught. It would be insulting to deny it. He could see the gears turning over in your head, the thoughts forming careful words behind your eyes, but in the end, all you could muster was, “I’m sorry.” 

It was a weak admission. It answered nothing, really, other than confirming his suspicions. But it was something. He wanted to press, to poke, to pry, and get to the bottom of what caused this shift in you, but in the silence of the classroom, with floors that echoed and walls that listened, words like “you won’t let me touch you,” seemed too far too direct, far too pointed. In the end, it was your eyes that said the most; welling like pools with all the words he knew would pierce the ever thinning veil, poke holes in your shared secrets, make them monstrous and real.

In the end, your eyes just tugged him forward, made him soft and pliant until all he could muster was decency. “It’s…” he sighed, raking his hand through his hair, “it’s fine.” Soft as he intended it, he couldn’t hide the broken edge.

There was little relief in sigh you gave, heavy and ragged. Your fingers grazed the curled, beaten corner of his notebook with a caring reverence that made him wish that he was paper. 

He wondered how much longer it could go on like this, before you craved something more than he could offer. Before you tired of secret touches and passing glances. Before some hot-shot with a convertible saw you at a bar somewhere and swept you away. The crushing realization hung heavy in the space between you, the gap more cavernous than ever.

Eddie twisted his rings in his lap, fingers burning. It was a miracle you’d let him touch you to begin with. But you did, and he had, and by god, he refused to go back. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Not when you’d let him into your world, given him more than he ever thought possible — a sliver of hope. For you. For himself.

When the silence became too much for him to bear, he broke it with your name.

Your first name.

Bitter grief melted to soft shock as your lips parted, eyes widened. At last, he had your full attention. 

With a deep breath, he started. “I don’t… know what happened. If it’s something I did o-or something someone said, or, fuck,” he ran hand through his hair, exasperated, words trailing off into nothing. 

“Eddie,” you started, eyes softening deeper; into sympathy, into pity. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he snapped, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him. 

You swallowed, shaking your head, but before you could give an answer he didn’t want to hear, he continued.

“I know, it—it’s ludicrous, this whole thing. To think that I—” he breathed a bitter laugh, “that you,” he glanced at the door. 

But instead of shutting him down with the ugly truth, you leaned closer, like your whole world hinged on him. He saw it then, hope, glimmering like a golden treasure in the tremble of your lips, in the pinching of your brow, in the welling of your eyes that threatened to spill over.

“I know,” you whispered, like it caused you pain. 

Slowly, Eddie raised his hand to rest on top of his notebook, a fractional distance from yours. Close enough to feel your heat, to catch the subtle tremble of your knuckles. So transfixed by the curve of your delicate fingers beside the broad, ruddy angles of his, that had he not dared to draw his eyes away, he might have missed the tear that pinched through your lashes when you closed them.

Slowly, bravely, he inched his pinky forward. Just close enough to graze yours. It was a phantom of a touch, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, when he looked up, he was surprised to see a whisper of a smile. A sad, soft thing, like it was breaking through layers to surface. Emboldened, he raised his pinky, ever so slightly, to gently stroke yours. The gesture was small and silly, but enough to earn a puff of laughter through the smile that cracked the gloom upon your features.

It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing that he had ever said.

Maybe it was the fact that he was too stubborn, or perhaps too stupid for his own good, but the sheer audacity of what came out of his mouth next surprised even himself. “Um, my band is playing at the Hideout tomorrow—a-and—” he swallowed, gaining composure as he raised his eyes to your level with conviction. “I want you to come.” 

It was all he could offer. An experience. 

Your jaw dropped. 

“I think—I-Iwant you to see some of the new stuff we’ve been working on. I think you’d like it,” he peddled on.

“Oh, Eddie I—” you shook your head. “I don’t know, I mean—”

He doubled down, brows level and serious. “We—we don’t have to come together. Hell, bring a friend, bring several. It doesn’t have to be a big deal if we don’t make it a big deal. People go to bars all the time.”

As you worried your lips in your teeth, he could see the scales tipping back and forth, weighing the odds and risks against the want. “Oh god, I don’t know.”

“You’re allowed to exist in public. You don’t just like… fold your arms and retreat into the walls here at night,” he laughed.

It snapped a chuckle out of you, like sunlight peeking through the clouds. “Oh yeah? Tell that to the students I run into at the grocery store,” you quipped. Then, as quickly as the sunlight came, the clouds were back. You surveyed the room and dropped your eyes in pensive worry. 

Eddie stroked his pinky over yours, slowly, sweetly. “Please?”

You gave him a look, one that threatened resistance but hiding just beneath it, surrender.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he persuaded, “just me on stage, and you in the audience cheering with your girlfriends or whatever, well, hopefully cheering. I mean ‘Hand of Doom’ is still a crapshoot sometimes but,” he breathed a laugh. 

With a chuckling shake of your head, your resolve crumbled like sand in front of his eyes. 

“You can boo us too, wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve got tough skin.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. “I’m not gonna boo you.”

A wicked grin cracked like lightning across his face. “Not gonna, you mean you’ll come then?” 

You sighed, deep and heavy, shifting the scales back and forth.

Eddie tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” you deadpanned.

His umber eyes glimmered, wild and auspicious. “Well then, do what you want,” he said, sitting back in his seat like the decision was easy.

Want. A shelved, forgotten thing, like something you’d lost in the move. Something you’d tucked away long before that. Left to grow stale inside a box, in the back of a closet, in a place you barely remembered. 

It sat beside you now, loud and unignorable, with lips that begged and eyes that pleaded. And you, in all your years of practiced discipline, could no longer deny it. 

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Restless, frenetic, warm, and compelling. 

With a dignified sigh, and a verdant conviction that peeked through the ash, you turned to him at last, and surrendered.

______

A/N: So begins the craziest week in the whole story. Two words: Donkey Kong. 😈

The next chapter might take me a little longer than usual just because it's a moment we've all been waiting for and I want to make sure it's absolutely perfect.

Also, I've been featured on a PODCAST so if you want to hear me talk about this story and specifically the appeal of reader insert fics, check it out HERE!

✨ As always, nothing encourages me to continue writing this story more than hearing from you. Seriously, please give me your thoughts, your theories, your keyboard smashes. Hit up my inbox, my DMs, whatever suits your fancy.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @storiesbyrhi @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @trashmouth-richie @big-ope-vibes @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @alienthings @eddiemunsonsbitcch @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes

#seriously guys I'm stoked about this one #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me