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circeyoru · 1 month

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Collection of Overlords _ Part 6 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 (here)

Alastor nearly dropped the tray containing your food when he felt your darkening aura. He immediately got over and set the tray of food in front of you while explaining what was cooked for you. Ignoring the obvious death glare you were sending across the table at Lucifer who was still proudly introducing you

It was amazing for Alastor to see you silently seething with annoyance yet do nothing. Perhaps it was because Lucifer has yet to step out of line? Or because you had your dose of terror because of the Vees?

You were introduced as the mentor of Lucifer when he came to Hell all those years ago, meaning you were older than ancient. A hellborn, so you were able to travel throughout all of Hell, basically to other Rings that’s why you weren’t around for so long

Now the ‘Collector’ title was an interesting one. They didn’t know you hold the souls of the Overlords, they only know you hold a number of souls at your command. How you can do so while being a hellborn was beyond them. But they were aware that there were hellborn nobles, and that’s what they chalked it up to

Still though, it doesn’t help the fact that your cover was blown

“Dear student of mine.” You spoke softly with a smile. Alastor got a chill at the gentleness and eerie feeling of an incoming scolding.

“Yes, Teach?” That got Lucifer’s attention as he stopped with his flattery and turned to you with a brighter smile.

“Do shut up now.”

Your disguise dropped, revealing your true form to the others. Your eyes now closed, and an aura of authority and power radiated from you that commanded control and pressure

You politely asked Lucifer to leave the seat and continue with the hotel tour with his daughter. You had Alastor sit down while you two enjoyed a meal together. Alastor took the liberty of casting a barrier around the two of you to ensure privacy and uninterrupted moments

Peacefully, you listened to Alastor as he told you tales of what happened during his 7 years absence. The poor deer was gone looking for you after he realized your absence was a bit uncalled for, even going as far as to submit to demonic summoning in the human world to see if you would call him back to your services

It was amusing and you chuckled at the silly stuff humans had your deer do, Alastor’s cute ears pinned back at your mocking laugh, but returned to their position with joy when you said you meant to offense

So Alastor continued to share his stories to entertain you, all while you listened and enjoyed his cooking with a content smile gracing your lips

Never has he asked question about you, for you’ll never tell. You have your secrets and sacred knowledge and information that is only for your knowing. He knew, everyone else in your elite collection knew. All they ask for was your presence and support in their time in this Hell realm

It was obvious how while you have all this power to squash them like mere insects, you never did so and instead supported them and given them a title that would be feared. You established a system for them that will be recognized by all of Hell

“I was afraid you’d be gone forever, My Liege.” Alastor’s ears drooped down.

You smiled, “Forever’s a long time. I should know. I’ll never be gone, no need to fret.”

Alastor remembers that day well, when he was approached by you. The shadows he controlled ran rampened, out of his control. He was suddenly brought to a forest, he saw the city buildings over the treelines, but he couldn’t leave this forest no matter what. Even when he tried to use his powers and his more demonic form, nothing worked. Something kept him there by force

For the first time since his descent to Hell, he felt powerless and caged. There was no one in that forest to exploit or ask questions. It was truly just him

It felt like he was held prisoner yet not since he was free to do as he pleased. He could conjure things, so his daily necessities were met. Then there were the deers that were nothing like the hell creatures, it was one he was familiar to back when he was alive. So he enjoyed the game of hunting

It felt like he was well-provided. All but his freedom to leave

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but there were whispers here and there. Creatures that were a blend of ravens and crows were in the trees watching him, Cages as they introduced themselves

The Cages whispered ideas into him, he ignored them. Then they continued to repeating the same thing to him. He had enough and tried what was suggested to him. For some odd reason, it worked. It was like a power upgrade from what he was capable of, a boost if you will. The Cages spoke words of praise that felt oddly pleasant

From then on, he looked forward to the Cages’ suggestions. Everytime he accomplished what they proposed, compliments came to him with a wash of comfort, then another tip came. He found himself growing more and more reliant on the connection he had with the Cages and anticipated their presence every time his eyes opened from a nap or long rest

Yet the time came when all the Cages seemingly disappeared from the forest. He searched high and low, turning desperate for their presence again. He long forgotten his goal of escape since this place made his entertainment worthwhile and his power was growing

At the sight of that one Cage, he followed it. He knew then, it was on purpose, everything that happened had a purpose. The Cage led him to you. You who sat in the clearing tending to a number of Cages that were around you

When he materialized out of the shadows and saw your form, he felt like he was in a trance. That presence he was feeling through the Cages, it was all so strong around you, passing by those winged creatures, he confirmed it was all you. Everything that happened here was all your doing

Instead of rage and bloodlust like he had in the beginning of his time here, there was a longing of passion and an urge to stay by your side so he wouldn’t be separated from you. He didn’t understand it, but he knew you were the key to his pillar. No, you are his pillar

“Radio Demon, Alastor. Overlords before you has met me one way or another.” Your voice was so angelic that it felt like a crime that you’d be in Hell. Wait. He was in Hell? It felt like paradise. “I have a collection of souls at my disposal and I control the Overlords I have picked to be in my collection.”

“I wish to join.” He spoke so urgently as he fell to a kneeling position with his eyes staring at your form, he felt like if he delayed, it was life or death.

A melodiously chuckle came from your curved lips that was a small smile. Your hand that had a Cage perched on it flicked and the Cage was airborn. You offered your hand to him, “If you do, you’ll be giving me your soul. I’m sure you know what that means.”

“I don’t care.” Alastor spoke with confidence firmly. “As long as I am by your side.”

Alastor held his heart stop when your eyes opened, it was captivating that his eyes focused on that the moment your eyelids revealed them to him. It felt it it was his birthday present and Christmas gift all wrapped in one. He saw his reflection from your eyes, the softness of your hand broke him from his trance, and the joyous tone from your voice got him melting into you, “As you wish. My Dear Alastor.”

Over the next few days, you have been observing the hotel residence after you little reveal

Lucifer was acting like a kicked puppy but soon recovered after you joined him in making breakfast for the others. He happily started singing and skipping around to make your smile last. Of course, he apologized for not realizing you were trying to hide your identity

You brushed it off since what’s done is done. Better now than later since no bonds were formed just yet. It was similar to how you gave Alastor a taste of what was to happen after he gave you his soul that day. The entire situation in the forest was to show him that he was free yet caged in your hold, he knew what he was getting into

Well, Alastor did seem to be the type of soul that wanted dominance so you did that to test and see if he can obey commands before offering him your contract. You expected him to fight for control longer and more fiercely, yet that wasn’t the case since he committing to you and proving himself the moment he saw you

Charlie was an interesting case. There was some time where she was more careful with her words around you, perhaps scared that you’d snap at her like you did with her father. And the fact that you were his father’s teacher that he respects and prides himself with associating with you. But then when Alastor gave her a word of caution that you weren’t as scary as you seem, then she took her chance

You got it through to her that she could act the same with you as before. She did not hesitate after that, of course, still keeping in mind some boundaries. She was back to her cheerful and fun self around you. Even enjoying feeling like a grandparent was taking care of her and spoiling her. Though that didn’t mean you were lenient with her that you’ll overlook things

You offer advice from time to time when Charlie was busy planning activities. You advised her on how to use her authority and power when necessary, her kindness is her strength and weakness. More on the latter since this was Hell, a number of demons will take advantage of her and push her down. Sure she can fight back, but it wouldn’t be enough when they are perfectly aware of what buttons to push

Vaggie showed obvious suspicion and caution around you. She went as far as to avoid you and not stand in your path. When it was obvious Alastor listens to you without another word, it raised even more red flags in her mind because you were that powerful. Lucifer speaking highly of you was even worse

She heard of ‘The Collector’, some demons she killed when she was still an exterminator screamed that The Collector will reign supreme or that a terrible death will be passed down as judgement to them. Hellborns move to other circles when it’s extermination day, some might be unlucky to escaped but exterminators weren’t taught to tell the difference between hellborn and sinners

When she was abandoned in Hell, she learned that The Collector holds a vast ocean of souls at your command. It was a terrifying thought to know that if you wanted, war can beginning at the drop of your command

Hell has 7 Rings, each represents a sin and only the Pride Ring has sinners of human souls. But Heaven was just that one. A paradise on top of the clouds. Now that angels can be killed, if you so wished, can’t you take over Heaven as well?

You were aware of all Vaggie’s little fears. You didn’t mind it at first, but her paranoia was getting out of head when she tried to deter the others to stay clear of you. Namely Charlie since you have been caring for her since you was too young to even remember. Though being the sweet princess she is, tried to have Vaggie under you weren’t a threat

A duel, you offered Vaggie. If she won, you’d leave the hotel and never step near any of them under any circumstances. Alastor nearly snapped when Vaggie pushed you to offer since an absurd wager, you own all of Hell, why would such a rule even apply to you? But you raised your hand to Alastor so he’d calm down. If you win, well, Vaggie will stop with all this ‘you’re the bad guy’ talk

Everyone came to watch. Charlie tried to persuade Vaggie to call it off but failed. Meanwhile, Lucifer urged you to hold back since this was his daughter’s beloved girlfriend. You planned to do so anyways and everyone stayed on the sidelines

Vaggie readied her spear and summoned her wings. You smiled, your form changing to a familiar one. Carmilla. You skillfully dodged all the attacks Vaggie launched at you as though you were dancing. While the duel was still ongoing, you pointed out Vaggie’s flaws and weak points before you attacked once and the winner of the fight was decided

Afterwards, Vaggie was persistant in asking for your fighting lessons and techniques. It got to the point where Alastor would try to move you to another spot so that his time with you wouldn’t get continuously interrupted. To his dismay, you found amusement in the entirety of the situation

“How dare you try to steal what precious time I have from me!” Alastor glared at Vaggie.

“This is a connection between warriors! You butt out of this edge lord!” Vaggie remarked back.

You merely chuckled at the exchange and never said anything to side with either.

Angel hid his discomfortable of you from the others and acted as his usual self, as much as he can. The only ones that noticed his awkwardness was probably Husk and you. You had a hunch it was due to the fact that you own too many souls to count, he was under contract with Valentino. The poor soul

Pity as though it may be, it was his choice to be under that sorry excuse of an Overlord in the first place. He’s merely living the life he signed himself for. The same for Husk

Now Husk had the best reaction. He was the latest Overlord to be rejected from your collection, but not the fastest. He didn’t get anything guidance like how your current Elites (excluding the Vees) had, certainly never having Alastor’s treatment as well. For you saw gambling as a dangerous bet to support in. Where there’s a win, there’s always an even bigger lost

This was something you warned Husk after accepting him as an Overlord among your ranks. It certainly didn’t help when he was hosting more and more gambling parties and inviting other Overlords to join in. They participated but were quick to give him their input and warn to change a domain since you’ll be more supportive of it

Husk didn’t listen. He was winning and was blinded by that. So the other Overlords counted down till Husk was removed from the collection. It didn’t take long for your Overlords to realize they had a chance to pin down the former Overlord Husk to their command and show you their ability. Alastor took the job and the role of relying that he was abandoned

He didn’t know, he never knew. He reflected on that and found times when his fellow Overlords tried to help him and teach him the ropes, since these things aren’t something you’ll tell them. You like it when your Overlords are independent when they need to

So he shifted his focus like you advised so long ago. He gained the ability to read demons like a book as time gone by, so much so that he’d love to show it to you, but Alastor would never let that happen

When he saw you near, he tried offering you a drink or two. He wanted to talk, to say that he was sorry and that he was wrong. It’s always when he got to a suitable time to tell you that you were pulled away by one thing or another

He thought he lost his chance again until you met him in the hallway when he was retreating to his room to get some shuteye

“Husk, my former soul.” Your words made him freeze and turn to you, there was that small smile on your face that made you look so serene and neutral to everything. “I hope you continue your time here in service to the dear Princess and the hotel as Alastor has assigned you.”

“But I…”

“Until I call for you.” You cut him off as your smile widened, “Don’t worry about anything and try to build your power back, I see that you have learned your lesson.” You snapped your fingers and a card with an eye design on it appeared, you passed it to him, “Alastor knows my thoughts on the matter, so I hope you won’t disappoint me again.”

Husk bowed deeply, his wings relaxed that they touched the floor almost entirely, “Yes, I will, Master.”

You chuckled and showed him a hologram of him protecting and caring for Angel. “Do you know?” Husk looked up, unsure of why you showed him something like this. “That an Overlord can challenge another to gain the soul contract that’s signed?”

Husk’s eyes widened at the message you conveyed.

You made a hush motion over your lips as your eyes peeked open, “Let’s keep this between us. If you manage to prove yourself, there’s more to come and more to receive. Though that all depends on your willingness. Husk.”

Note: I'm so curious on your thoughts for this one~ There's Alastor's little backstory to how he became the way he is and then the little ending here~ Hehe

Well~ Like I said before, the next uploads are for {Unwanted Soul}

Circe Y.

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daydreaming-nerd · 2 months

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Young Love and Old Money (Cassian x Female! Reader)

Young Love and Old Money Masterlist

AN: Sorry I’ve been a little MIA recently. I was pretty busy last week, but I’m back now and I’m so excited to be writing this series!

Summary: She was the most beautiful woman in Prythian, sister to the High Lord of Night, and now she is the soon-to-be wife of Eris Vanserra. Despite her many titles and her aura of unattainability, Cassian can't help but fall deeply in love with the princess of the Night Court. But will it be enough to stop her impending wedding to a man who is sure to destroy her from the inside out?

Warnings: Sexisim, trauma from under the mountain, Rhys isn’t the nicest in this but he has his reasons.

Word Count: 3,458

As I sauntered down the hallway towards my brother's study, I couldn’t help but feel my palms sweat and my heart race. It was the first time he had ‘summoned’ me in such a manner since we had escaped from under the mountain. That was a year ago, and ever since we made it back to Velaris he had been different. Colder. Not that I could ever fault him. Rhysand and I’s time under the mountain was grueling, but it was far worse for him. First he sacrificed his freedom to save Velaris, then he sacrificed his body to save me.

My whole life I had been told I beheld a beauty that was otherworldly. However, I had no powers to go alone with my looks. Once I got older rumors across Prythain grew of two siblings of night. Rhysand, who would be the most powerful High Lord to ever grace the land, and me, his younger sister who was born without magic but given the most coveted gift of all. Some even said that Rhysand stole my magic away in our mothers womb, making him the most powerful high fae alive and leaving me with nothing but a pretty face.

At first I loathed the idea of being powerless, but I soon realized the power my beauty had over others. High Lord’s begged for my hand left and right, males of reason and education would lose all inhibition around me. I quickly became The Jewel of Prythain, a name that was used far more often than my own. The second Rhysand and I’s mother and father realized that, they locked me away. Me and my virtue were far too good a bargaining chip to be let loose into the world. At first it was jarring, having all my freedoms taken away. But Rhys would always come home and tell me the tales of him and his new friends Cassian and Azriel. In a way I got to live through him and I was forever thankful for it.

When our parents died Rhys gave me more freedom but I neglected to take them. I became close with our cousin Mor and even spent time with his friends Cassian and Azriel, but that was the extent of it. I had grown so used to living in solitude that I didn’t long for much more. His time as High Lord was short lived, soon after the death of our parents Amarantha came into power and Rhys was to be taken under the mountain. As the princess of the night court, I had no other option but to go with him, or risk Velaris.

The second we were down there Amarantha sunk her claws into him. Rhys fought and resisted her, and for a few weeks he had been able to keep her at arms length. All of that changed when Hybern came to check on the state of things. He took one look at me and ordered Amarantha to hand me over to him, to be his whore. I had never been so scared in my life, and I had no idea what to do. Rhys spoke up and told Amarantha that if she kept me safe he would go to her bed willingly. It was enough for her to spare me, but it never spared me from the grief of knowing what Rhys was putting himself through to protect me.

50 years came and went until we were finally free from under the mountain. I remember the smell of night blooming jasmine gracing my nose as Rhys winnowed us home. Mor was the first to greet us, then Amren. Finally Cassian and Azriel flew to the townhouse and the sight of all of our old friends was almost unreal. As I watched them all embrace us, my eyes couldn’t help but float to Cassian. Had he gotten taller since I last saw him? Bigger muscles? More handsome?

After settling in Rhys changed. He was harsher, colder, no doubt the things he experienced under the mountain still plaguing him. He stayed in the townhouse while I took up residency in The House of Wind, both of us needing time to ourselves to process what had happened.

I had lived in the House of Wind for a year now, only seeing my brother once a month for family dinners, and I suppose today. I approached his office doors and knocked quietly.

“Come in,” his voice boomed, more High Lordly than I had ever heard before.

I step in the door and shut it quietly. For what reason? I’m not sure, there was just something about this new Rhys that made me feel so small, especially now.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask my brother, standing before his desk.

“Yes I did,” he started, sifting through papers. “I wanted to tell you that I finally read fathers will and there’s something in it that concerns you,” he says.

“What?” I ask in disbelief. While our father wasn’t a cruel man he never paid much attention to me, focusing all his attention on Rhys, his male heir.

“He has it written in his will that he struck a deal with Beron and Eris Vanserra years ago.” Rhys says sliding a paper over to me. “The Autumn Court will give us their armies if you marry Eris.”

I glance at the paper Rhys has handed me. Sure enough in fathers hand writing is a contract signed by all three parties. An agreement I was never told about until now.

“Hybern is on the move and Azriel say’s that he will dock on our shores when he arrives. I think now is as good as ever to call in the contract.” he states leaning back in his leather chair.

“You want me to marry Eris?” I ask, hoping it wasn’t true. I knew very little of the Prince of Autumn, except that he was a sadistic brute who had a way with women.

“Not just me sister,” Rhysand drawls sensing a fight. “It was our fathers will as well. I have every intention of finishing what he started. We leave tomorrow for the Autumn Court. You will meet Eris, and Beron and I will go over the details once more.”

Part of me boils at the idea of what my brother is saying but then I remember why our mother and father locked me up. Why every High Lord thirsted for me under the mountain. I could still hear their voices uttering, “There’s The Jewel of Prythian” and, “The most beautiful female of Prythain,” completed with, “I heard that Rhysand stole her power in the womb leaving her with nothing but her beauty”

This was my fate from the moment I came of age. A bargaining chip to whatever High Lord or Prince was willing to pay the most for. I wanted to scream and cry and beg Rhys not to make me do this. But then I thought of all he sacrificed for me under the mountain. I could do this for him.

“Then I’m excited to meet him brother,” I said, giving a fake smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Rhys smiled, the tension from his shoulders dissipating at my words of cooperation. “You are dismissed to begin preparations for tomorrow.”

I nod my head and take it as my queue to leave his office. The second the double oak doors close I feel my heartrate pick up and I’m suddenly dying for a breath of fresh air. I walk quickly to the front door, my dress billowing behind me as I try to keep my tears from falling. I sit down on the front steps of the townhouse and let the spring air blow across my face. My tears fell slowly but surely as I let all my composure go.

My mind raced with thoughts of Eris, all the terrible things I had heard of him over the many years. How other High Lords were terrified of the day Beron passed and Eris took his place. If they were terrified of him as a ruler, how scared should I be to have him as a husband?

A shadow slammed into the ground outside the townhouse pulling me from my thoughts. I tried to wipe my tears away and act like nothing was wrong, but I knew better than to think I could fool my Spymaster for one moment.

“Hey are you okay? What’s wrong?” Azriel cooed. Azriel and I had gotten close since I came back from under the mountain as he and Cassian also lived in the House of Wind. He had taken on the role of big brother since Rhys was battling his own demons.

“I just got done talking to Rhys,” I sniffled, feeling the large Illyrian sit next to me. “He says I have to marry Eris.”

“Vanserra?” Azriel clarified and I nodded. “He can’t be serious, Eris is a monster.”

“Apparently our father had it arranged years ago, but I didn’t know about it till now. We’re going to the Autumn Court to meet him tomorrow.” I explain, wiping my eyes.

“Well I guess that explains why Rhys called me down. Do you want me to talk to him? Maybe I can stop this.” Azriel says, taking my hand in his.

“No it’s okay. Rhys is right, war is coming and if this marriage can protect you and Cassian as well as our people then I’ll do it. Besides, Rhys sacrificed so much to keep me safe under the mountain, I owe it to him to do this.” I sigh, feeling my breathing calm down as Azriel rubs circles on my hand.

“You shouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself for Velaris and you shouldn’t be trying to even the score with Rhys. Rhys did what he did because you’re his little sister and he loves you, not because he wanted an IOU,” Azriel explains, continuing to rub circles on the tops of my hands. His scared and calloused hands soothing me.

“Maybe, but I’m going to do it anyway. I won’t let this city down or my brother,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“Then you are the bravest princess I know,” Azriel says, kissing my brow. “Not that I haven’t always known.”

“Thanks Az,” I smile, bumping my shoulder into him.

“I’m sure this meeting won’t be very long, want me to fly you home when I’m done?” Azriel asks.

“That would be great, thank you,” I smile, even though my eyes are still glassed over.

With that Azriel went inside to talk to Rhys, leaving me outside to take in the fresh air. I sat watching the people of Velaris going about their daily lives. Couples holding hands on the Sidra, children playing in the streets. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Autumn Court would have a place like this, and even though I was still here I couldn’t help but feel a bit of prophetic homesickness.

The next morning was full of primping and trying on a million gowns. Rhys had sent Nuala and Cerridwen to make sure that I was groomed to perfection. Even though they had taken hours I couldn’t help but fuss over every detail while looking in the mirror in the living room of the townhouse. After I made sure that the pins holding in my crown were secure I smoothed my hands over my dress a million times, trying to wipe the sweat from my palms.

“You look beautiful,” crooned a deep voice.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, bumping into the table under the mirror and knocking over a vase. I turn to find Cassian standing next to me, red siphons faintly glowing and looking handsome as ever.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” he smiled, picking up the vase and turning it back upright.

“It’s okay,” I smile. “It’s my fault for being so lost in thought.”

“Everyone ready?” Rhysand asks stepping into the room where Cassian, Azriel and I have been waiting for him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I sigh, stepping towards him so he can winnow us to the Autumn Court.

The second we arrive I’m greeted with a cold chill running up and down my arms. The smell of wet leaves and woodsmoke surrounds me, and if I wasn’t being brought here to be sold off like cattle I might even say that I liked this place. Rhys led me up the stairs to the palace, Azriel flanking Rhysand’s side while Cassian flanked mine. The closeness of him almost made my skin buzz with excitement. I mentally slapped myself, reminding my brain that I was about to meet my future husband.

The palace of the Autumn Court is beautiful to say the least. The marble floors are bathed in amber light from the various chandeliers that hang from the ceiling and swaths of deep red and golden fabrics are all over the rooms. A set of large oak double doors opens before us and I’m greeted to the sight of Beron Vanserra sitting atop his throne, his eldest son Eris standing at his side.

Eris was tall and lean. His eyes were like molten fire and his mouth turned up at the sight of me. If I didn’t know a thing about his character I would’ve said he was handsome. The throne room was intimidating and I couldn’t help but notice that only one throne sat atop the dias. Apparently The Autumn Court didn’t believe in High Lady’s.

“Rhysand, welcome to my court,” Beron greeted us, stepping down to walk towards Rhys.

“We are honored to be invited,” Rhysand smiled with a charm that only he could possess.

“This must be your sister y/n,” Beron smiled. “Step forward girl.”

I wasn’t sure if Beron’s voice was like a spell that propelled me forward or if I was just so scared my body was acting on instinct. But the second the command left his mouth I took two steps toward him.

“Very nice,” Beron drawled as circled me like prey making my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I see that all the stories of her beauty are true. Can you vouch for her purity, Rhysand?”

“I can assure you that she remains untouched,” Rhys says and bile nearly rises in my throat.

“Wonderful,” Beron claps his hands together. “Eris why don’t you and y/n take a stroll around the terrace while Rhysand and I finalize the details.”

“With pleasure father,” Eris says, stepping down from the dias towards me taking my hand in his. “You are even more beautiful than the stories say,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to my hand.

“You flatter me Prince Eris,” I smile, allowing him to lead me outside.

“I’ve been told that flattery is one of my many talents,” he smirks as the fresh Autumn air hits my face.

We walk until we reach the bannister of the terrace. I lean against it, peering out over the valley below us. Bright bursts of reds, oranges and yellows flow throughout the land, the setting sun making the scene picture perfect.

“Over there are the kennels where I keep my hounds,” Eris tells me, pointing to a large red barn off to the left.

“That’s right, I’ve heard you’re a magnificent hunter,” I smile, craning my neck to see more of the barn.

“It’s true, I’ve been hunting for years. I’ve tried thousands of other hobbies but nothing gives me quite the thrill that hunting does,” he explains and I can sense the double meaning in his words.

“What’s that over there?” I ask, pointing to a patch of land riddled with targets, bows, swords and what appears to be a fighting ring.

“That, my dear, is where my brothers and I train, and that’s where our sons will train once they can wield a sword,” he explains and his words make me sick.

“And if we have a daughter?” I tease trying to keep the conversation light.

“Then she will be a pretty little wall ornament for a future High Lord, just like you are,” he says brushing a hand down my bare arm. “But know this, you will bear me a son.” he growls and it feels like an order.

I swallow hard trying to keep the tension rolling through my body from gracing my face, “Of course my prince,” I say turning towards him.

From the corner of my eye I see Cassian leaning against the door watching the two of us, and I wonder if he has been here the whole time.

“Who are you?” Eris sneers.

Cassian straightens up, a playful glint in his eye, “I'm merely the humble guardian of your future wall ornament, ensuring she remains as exquisite as she is now." He says with a charming smile that would normally bring me to my knees. Instead it was taking everything in me not to laugh.

Eris’ jaw ticks at Cassian’s tone but he remains ever the calm and collected prince he was brought up to be. “Very well then.” was all he could say before we were interrupted by my brother and Beron.

“Look at them, they already make a very handsome couple,” Beron says to Rhysand.

“I can’t argue with that,” Rhysand smiles. “Come sister we’re going home, you and Eris will have time to talk later this week.”

I don’t argue or ask questions as I am dying to get out of this wretched palace as soon as possible. I bid my goodbyes to Eris and take my brother's hand as he leads me out of the palace and winnows us away. It isn’t until the scent of jasmine fills the air that I let myself finally take a deep breath. I barely have a moment to think before Rhys speaks up.

“Things went well, but Eris has asked for the contract to be changed,” Rhysand states.

“In what way?” I ask, fearing the worst.

“He wishes for you two to court for a month, if at the end of that month he finds you agreeable you will become his wife,” Rhys states.

In a way part of me is relieved, if at the end of the month Eris decides he doesn’t want me anymore I’m free. Free from this marriage, free to stay home with my family.

“Then I guess I’ll have to continue to spark his interest,” I say, my words betraying me.

“Precisely,” Rhys nods. “Azriel come with me I have a mission to discuss with you, Cassian fly y/n to The House of Wind.”

“On it boss,” Cassian replies jokingly, turning to me. “Ready to go?” he asks me.

“More than you know,” I sigh, tossing my arms around his frame and letting him fly me out of the townhouse.

I had always loved flying, I remember when Rhys first summoned his wings and was learning how to use them. He would come home with cuts and bruises all over him that Madja had to clean up. She always joked that he spent more time being bandaged up than he did in the air. But the day that Rhys finally learned how to fly he rushed to tell me all about it. Later that night he snuck me out of the townhouse and took me on a flight around the city. I had never felt so free in my life.

I felt the same way now as the wind whipped my hair behind me, Cassian’s warmth seeping through my clothes keeping me from getting cold. I tried to not breathe in his scent of cedar and leather, but with my face so close to his neck it was hard to ignore.

A sudden gust of wind had us blowing sideways and I gripped his neck tighter, peering down at how far the drop would be.

Cassian chuckled, “Don’t worry princess I got you,” he assured me, holding my body a little closer to his own just to ease my worries.

“I know you do,” I laugh nervously, trying to act unaffected.

“Are you sure? Because you’re still gripping my neck like you’re going to topple out of my arms.” Cassian chuckles again.

I loosen my tight grip, feeling embarrassed. “Sorry,” I murmur, trying to cover my blushing cheeks.

“No need to apologize,” he laughs, touching down on the balcony outside of the living room.

“Thanks for taking me home,” I say softly, turning towards the door.

“Of course, anytime,” he smiles before taking off into the sky again.

I watch his form disappear into the clouds and as I make my way into my room I can’t help but long for that smell of cedar and leather.

Part 2

Taglist: @crystalferret202, @nickishadow139 , @graceshifts , @writeroutoftime , @heyyitsnat21,

#cassian x reader smut #cassian angst #cassian smut #cassian acotar #cassian x reader #cassian x you #rhysand acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader smut #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel smut #rhysand smut #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand #rhysand angst #rhysand fluff

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powderblueblood · 4 months

Text

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

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

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

Dear Mom,

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

She’s not like you.

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

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

But she does have your book.

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

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

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

Anyway. I miss you.

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

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

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

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up until the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A bunch, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

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

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that is?”

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

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

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

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

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

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

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

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

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

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

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

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Is he?”

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

“You should just talk to him.”

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

“That’s not what I–”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

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

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

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

“I don’t know–”

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

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is that?”

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

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

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

“Wh– why would it…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

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

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

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

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

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

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not?”

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

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

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

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

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

“You are a fucking card shark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

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

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

“Try me.”

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

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

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

“Not a word,” you press.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t even really–”

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

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck!’

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

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

IT’S A FREAK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey Billy!”

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

“Cute fucking prank!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

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

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

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

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

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

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

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

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

Again, nada.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

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

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

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

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

—

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

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

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

“It’s keeping me awake!”

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

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

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

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

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

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That song sucks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

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

He did this for you.

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

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

Downright idiotic.

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

Thought you were a smart girl.

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

He can feel how wet you are.

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

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

You do not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Or at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I–”

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

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

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

She looks tan.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

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

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

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kingluffy5 · 4 months

Note

GRRRRR IMAGINE TAILUNG ( from kungfu panda ) WITH a leopard reader who has a smaller body than him, LIKE IMAGINE WITH THE SIZE DIFFERENCE HOW NICE CUDDLING WOULD BEEEE

All right so obviously I have to change some things around in terms of story. In this Tai Lung when finding out he is not the Dragon Warrior decides to continue training at the Jade Palace as a master, he is considerably less violent but will still be sassy, and in this au he is actually good friends with Po. This one will be small do to a lack of specificity on what you want and nothing to really base off of.

Tai Lung x Leopard Reader (GN)

Tai Lung has been training for a while and Y/N just wants to cuddle

3rd Person P.O.V.

Sounds of kung fu could be heard from the pool of sacred tears as Master Tai Lung was training with the Dragon Warrior, Po.

“If that is all you can do Panda I just might claim the title of Dragon Warrior yet,” Tai Lung jokingly mocked as the two dueled.

“Don’t start thinking this fight is over just yet Tai Lung, KICK OF AWESOMENESS!!!!” Po yelled as he kicked at Tai Lung’s stomach.

“Po you know I can easily block that right?” Tai Lung said as he flips Po over him.

“Yeah but it gives me the chance to do this,” Po revealed as he stepped on Tai Lungs tail.

“AHH! Mother of - ”

“Tai Lung are you still training!” A voice yelled, one that is able to strike fear into the hearts of legendary warriors such as Tai Lung, Po, and even Master Shifu himself.

1st Person P.O.V.

Here I am walking all the way up to the pool of sacred tears when Tai Lung said he would be done training hours ago, after the recent attack on the Valley by Kai he started training more and more and it is like I barely see him any more. I get he wants to train to protect the people of the Valley but I still want him to come home before I go to sleep.

Once I get to the top of the mountain I see Po and Tai Lung shivering which is weird because even if we are this high up it is still pretty warm out.

“You promised to be home hours ago,” I angrily reminded my partner.

“I’m sorry dear you see we just lost track of time,” He said honestly and guiltily.

“Heroes of the Valley my butt you two would lose your heads without me and Shifu here to make sure you don’t overwork yourselves come,” The statement came from a place of care as me and Tai Lung were partners in every way, romantically, as well as in Kung Fu. While I do not train in the ancient art and am smaller than the likes of him and Po, and would likely easily lose most fights, I make sure Tai Lung takes care of himself.

“You’re right dear, let’s go home and rest,” He suggested.

— — —

We ate dinner in silence and were now in bed, also in silence.

“Are you still made at me Y/N?” He asked.

I growled in response, confirming his question.

“I’m sorry that we were training for so long, and I know it probably does not make up for it but we did genuinely lose track of time,” He apologized.

“But why do you have to train so much? I want you to be home more,” I asked.

“When Kai attacked I was almost powerless to stop him, I didn’t want to have that feeling of you not being safe anymore, I want to always be able to protect you,” He said.

I suddenly curl up into him and bury my face into his chest, “Just shut it you big lug,”

#kung fu panda #tai lung #tai lung x reader #dragon warrior

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gatheringbones · 7 months

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[“Later in the day, while Heather and I were making the bed and talking about the chores we needed to get through the next morning, she used a male pronoun in regard to me. “Well that’s gonna be weird, huh?” I said. “Not saying ‘he’ for me anymore.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean I want to transition. I want to become a woman… fully.” She paused and fell silent. I think the revelation that I was a transsexual truly hit her in this moment. She slowly started to comprehend that this didn’t mean I’d simply be cross-dressing around the house. It started to hit me, too. I wanted to transition genders, and there was a lot more to that than just hormones and surgery. Neither of us fully understood what it meant yet, or where to start.

The next day Andrew and James met me at the studio to talk about plans around the album and the future of the band. Jordan came, too, as he was again filling in as our manager. Until then, I’d been telling them that I was writing a concept album about a transsexual prostitute—the metaphor behind the feeling of having whored myself out to a record label was thinly transparent since James, Andrew, and I were all processing our own post-traumatic stress disorder from the past couple years of music industry hell. Previously, I’d been able to sneak a few subtle metaphors about my dysphoria in here and there. But an album focused entirely on it? I didn’t know how to explain that, and the new songs were not sticking with the guys.

James could make out a few lyrics to the title track through his in-ear monitors: “You want them to see you like they see every other girl / But they just see a faggot.” “Hey, man,” he said between takes. “Are you saying ‘faggot’ on this song? It sounds like you’re saying it a lot. Are people gonna be cool with that?”

I realized that the reason the words weren’t connecting with them was that they didn’t have the context. So I came out with it. I didn’t mean to, I just wanted them to understand. I couldn’t hold back the momentum of the day before. Once the truth was spoken, it could be contained no longer.

“It’s about me, and how I’m a transsexual. This is something I’ve been dealing with for a long time,” I told them. Once I started explaining it, I couldn’t stop. It was like an out-of-body experience where I saw myself, but was powerless to hold back the flood of words. “I want to start living as a woman, and to be referred to as Laura. This is something I’ve thought about a lot and isn’t going away, so I might as well embrace it.”

No one knew what to say once I finally stopped rambling. The three of them just sat there in the studio control room, looking down at their feet or at whatever lit-up piece of audio equipment their eyes could find, focusing anywhere but on me. We’d had some heavy conversations over the years—emotional moments where we’d told each other off or outright quit the band—but nothing compared to this. Andrew’s usually warm smile was locked in since I started talking, and it looked like it was going to melt off his face. His skin flushed red, trying not to flinch. There was nothing any of them could say. I broke the silence by asking them to come smoke a joint with me. We got high standing in a circle in the open back doorway. “OK, well,” I said. “I guess that’s all we’ll do today. How about we try again tomorrow?”

We shared the most comically awkward group hug, a horrible mess of pats on the back and overly extended stiff arms. They left, and I locked the door behind them. Oh fuck, I thought. I called Heather and told her that I had just come out to them. It felt unreal to speak these secrets aloud, hearing myself verbalize thoughts that had only ever existed in my head.

The guys had an hour and a half back to Gainesville to think about all that had just been unloaded on them. James has since told me that as he sat there stoned on that long drive home, a lot of memories over the past 15 years suddenly started to make sense for him. My lyrics, my behavior on tour; one by one, he had tiny flashes of realization about me in this new light.”]

laura jane grace, from tranny: confessions of punk rock’s most infamous anarchist sellout, 2016

#laura jane grace #trans literature #currently reading

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mhaikkun · 9 months

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CRIME CITY

definitely gonna clean this post up once I have all my character profiles confirmed and make a more formal story introduction, but I thought I'd do a fun little update on all the characters we've met already as well as a general overview of the plot!

crime city follows winter, florist by day and ruthless murderer by night, in a city ruled by criminals each time the sun sets. the mayor? law enforcement? decorative. useless.

in order to achieve his own goals, child prodigy-turned-crime lord winter lies, steals, and kills — and, when the occasion calls for it, enlists the help of the many outlaws on his list of acquaintances.

but winter, too, is being hunted.

here are the current cast:

WINTER (THE RAVEN)

there are only three things anyone can ever claim to know about him: one, he always smiles; two, he is always dangerous; and three, he always wears black. is he mourning someone?

revered as "the king of hell," this strange ghostly man hates rain, doesn't drink, and used to be a detective.

BRENDOLINE BARBARA (THE LADY)

the mayor's daughter. frustrated by her own powerlessness and the facade of her father's position, she became a vigilante. winter must be destroyed, and, as the saying goes, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

how hard can it be when you find yourself falling in love with the man you want to kill, and who wants to kill you?

GIOVANNI MERCURO (THE SNITCH)

a croupier who runs the "snake eyes" gambling house, giovanni will glady offer you valuable information — that is, of course, if you can win against him. if he likes you enough, maybe his sleight of hand will come in handy for your pickpocketing needs.

believing it to be the height of carelessness to be complacent and predictable in a city crawling with vermin, he refuses to be consistent. he never wears the same hairstyle twice, never plays the same game twice, and never sleeps with the same person twice.

ASHCROFT (THE SNIPER)

a hitman for hire with the air of someone who used to be noble. rarely getting jobs due to his exorbitant prices, when he's out of money and out of work, he plays the saxophone on street corners and in bars for loose change.

as far as assassins go, he's pretty resourceful. after all, his sax doubles as a sniper rifle.

FALK (THE BLOODHOUND)

hates tardiness and thinks dogs are annoying and difficult. he does not appreciate the irony of his criminal title.

once a military man, an inflicted injury forced him to develop his already keen sense of smell into the formidable skill he has today of hunting people down using only their scent to compensate for his impaired vision.

#crime city #original character #oc #mhai art #mhai oc #I am Begging you to ask me questions abt them HSDJKSDFHJKSDFS #they're on my mind literally all the time

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itsmoonpeaches · 3 months

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Title: Eye of the Hurricane

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

[NOTE: I had to create this gif as no existing gif that I wanted of this scene previously existed in the gifs search. This gif belongs to me.]

Word count: 1,004

Rating: G

Summary: Poseidon cannot change fate, but he can be there for Percy when he is needed the most. In the only way a god can.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sally asked, her voice tremulous as the storm Poseidon had conjured outside upon his arrival. “I know you shouldn’t but maybe just to hear his voice.”

It was easy for a god to covet things, to wish for wants, and demand them to appear. It was easy too for a god to change perceptions of reality, if only to bend the rules for a moment. Poseidon tasted that potential for a sliver of time when he glanced back at the patterned pane that separated him from the young boy. He could see glimpses of Percy through that inch of glass. A boy with eyes like the sea, with blond windswept hair, and a mustard yellow sweater.

Thunder shuddered the walls of the diner, rumbling in those few seconds that brought the truth back into focus and reminded Poseidon who he was…a god who could do nothing.

It was difficult for a god to be powerless.

Poseidon forced himself now to never glance in Sally Jackson’s direction—to never tempt himself with forming something permanent with the mortal he loved.

“One day,” he said so only she could hear. “One day, when he’s ready. When he knows who he is and where he belongs. And fate has revealed to him his true path. On that day…I’ll be right by his side.”

The scent of smoke and burning chocolate syrup mixed with sundae ascended from the tall glass cup that divided them. He could still feel the tingle of desperation in his ichor, the call of a human to his domain.

He allowed himself one look. One last look at her before he left. Her eyes were closed, the single tear that had escaped her eye finished its journey down her cheek, and he imagined what it would have been like if he could hold their son between them instead of holding their distance.

When he left, he knew the rain had continued its deluge upon that little town in Upstate New York. He permitted it to happen. What else could he offer?

That autumn day, he stood on the beach at Montauk. Alone because the humans who went there thought the waters too cold apart from the summer season. The ocean lapped at his feet, the breeze a welcome comfort.

Montauk was not his most awe-inspiring work. The waves were turbulent, the climate too unforgiving to warrant many seasonal visitors. Not like plenty of his other haunts where the sands were powder and the ocean a clear sapphire when much of the world froze. But Montauk was an aspect of him. Of rocks, surf, and pebbles hidden in shores. Of sharp sea glass, short cliffs, and gray waters.

Montauk was Sally. Montauk was Percy.

Poseidon stepped into the tides. He descended as easily as he always had. A current roared overhead, so strong that it could drag any careless swimmer under in a matter of seconds.

“Lord Poseidon?” chirped a hammerhead shark in his mind. “Lord Delphin wishes to meet with you about the upcoming dolphin migration from the Carolinas. The riptides might deter them from moving any faster.”

His eyes snapped to the shark. The creature stiffened with fear.

“Riptide,” Poseidon said. He looked above him once more at the same current that had pushed him below.

“Ye–yes,” stammered the shark. “That is indeed part of the problem.”

“Or it is part of the solution.”

The water bubbled and Poseidon disappeared. He called upon a force of old, a force he had not called upon for thousands of years since the time of Heracles. That familiar thing tugged at his core and in the palm of his hand, burning and thriving.

And so, when he reappeared, he was on the shore of Long Island Sound. Night engulfed him. Apollo completed his duty. There was silence on the beach.

He walked through the forest and past curious wood nymphs who melted out of trees. He felt their eyes. He felt their words. He let them pass.

Upon the hill, he saw the Big House, its glass shimmering with starlight. A shadow shifted on the porch.

“Chiron,” he remarked as he approached.

The centaur looked startled. Chiron unfolded himself from his resting position on the deck, a mortal book about architecture in his hand. “Lord Poseidon!” he exclaimed. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

Poseidon hummed. He lifted his hand, the object he had willed into existence thrummed on his skin. "I have a task for you."

“You have laid a shroud of Mist over it, I see," Chiron observed.

Poseidon nodded. “The world outside is dangerous. Humans do not understand our world. I do not expect them to.”

"It is a curious choice to disguise a weapon as a pen."

“A gift,” Poseidon corrected. “One day, there is sure to be someone who needs it more than I.

“The story of this blade is a tragic one, but it does not have to be. You must keep it in your possession. Do not let anyone who is not worthy take it. Do not let anyone know you have it.”

“How will I know who is to own it?” Chiron asked.

“You will know.”

Chiron studied him, and Poseidon felt like a demigod would if they were one of the centaur's pupils.

“The blade is called Anaklusmos," explained Poseidon. "Riptide.”

The name rolled off his tongue, and like a whirlpool forming in the deep, clashed against the currents that had prevented him from remembering it. A reminder that even the powerful were not invincible.

“The master of that blade will drown their enemies in the depths of the raging sea. It will protect them.” He glanced away. “I will protect them.”

Chrion took Anaklusmos from his hand.

Poseidon knew this desire of his was a fool’s quest for the impossible. But though a god could not change fate or ancient laws, he could try.

Poseidon was the sea. His son was born from defiance.

Also available on ao3.

#pjo #pjo tv show #pjo tv show spoilers #flash fiction friday #a fool's quest #fff237 #percy jackson #poseidon #sally jackson #posally #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the olympians #itsmoonpeaches fanfic #pjo fanfic

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nientedenada · 10 months

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Skink-In-Tree's-Shade

Can I talk to you for a moment about my lord and saviour Skink-in-Tree's-Shade?

Morrowind has these NPCs who stick in my mind, despite not having much dialogue. No one in Morrowind has much individual dialogue to be honest, except for Dagoth Ur who is nice and chatty and sends you letters and erotic dreams.

Skink-in-Tree's-Shade has more dialogue than most. He's the head of the Mages guild in Sadrith Mora. Let that sink in! He's an Argonian heading the Mages' guild tiny outpost (they have a big room to themselves!) in the middle of Telvanni territory. This guy has balls. He's made the Telvanni respect him.

Locals of Sadrith Mora will offer reluctant praise.

"Of course, most Mages Guild wizards are pathetic clowns. But I must admit, that lizard that goes by the barbarous title of 'Skink-in-Tree's-Shade' is a very astute practitioner, almost as sage and learned as Telvanni aspirants five times his age. But I have heard he carries his anti-slavery politics a little too far, and much farther than Imperial law allows."

The implication is he is using his position in Sadrith Mora to help slaves escape and the Mages guild must know this.

Neloth's Mouth says of him:

Skinks-in-Trees's-Shade seems like a decent sort... for an Argonian. But he has an unhealthy interest in vampires."

The unhealthy interest? He's actually searching for a cure! He sends you to find the testimony the Temple suppressed from a guy cured of vampirism. I would call this a healthy interest myself. Again, this guy has balls.

Last but not least, Skink-in-Tree's-Shade enables my favourite resolution of the Mages' guild quest. Arch-Mage Trebonius is more and more erratic towards the end of the Mages questline and ends up ordering the assassination of the entire Telvanni council and telling you to find out what happened to the Dwemer. You can fight him or decide to live with him as Arch-Mage, but If you bring him up to Skink-in-Tree's Shade, he says

"[if you are Argonian] Ah, the current Guildmaster. It is rumored that he was promoted to his current position to get him out of Cyrodiil. It is one of the weaknesses of the soft-skins. They can have power without wisdom." [Else.] "Ah, the current Guildmaster. It is rumored that he was promoted to his current position to get him out of Cyrodiil. It is a shame that men can have power without wisdom. It is different for us lizards."

Then hands you a letter to deliver to Trebonius. It's a letter from Chancellor Ocato firing Trebonius as Arch-Mage and replacing him with you. Skink-in-Tree's-Shade saw how badly Trebonius was fucking everything up, and quietly wrote Chancellor Ocato to get him fired. Skink-in-Tree's-Shade, head of this very small, powerless chapter of the Mages guild, has the ear of the Chancellor of the Empire, and when he has had enough, he gets what he wants.

This guy is obviously a powerful and influential wizard who has come to Sadrith Mora because his work there is important and abstained from climbing the career ladder back in the Imperial City. He won't even try for head of the Morrowind guild. But in this finale, you finally get a sense of his full reputation and influence.

#tes lore #niente lore #morrowind #tesblr #skink in tree's shade

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halfway-happyyy · 2 years

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california king bed (jake seresin)

AN: the one where jake seresin realizes his selfish tendencies could cost him everything. inspired by this ask. fluff and a dash of smut exist below the cut ♡

warnings include: consensual penetrative vaginal sex, some oddly specific details in here friends, so sorry it's part of my process sometimes, minors DNI.

characters: jake 'hangman' seresin x female reader

Jake Seresin is falling in love with the woman sleeping soundly beside him.

It’s much too early to be contemplating such things, yet despite that, a morning sun bathes her in a pale glow, highlighting the parts of her that no one else gets to see as up-close as he does. A front-row show to the world’s most wondrous woman.

He knows it’s love because everything else he’s ever experienced has paled in comparison to what he feels when he’s with her. Where he had never before bothered to know a woman as intimately as he knows her, he can tell anyone who'll listen what her favourite films are. He can name- with infuriating confidence- the types of flowers she wants to make up her future wedding bouquet, the titles of the tattered paperback westerns her beloved grandfather used to collect, that her socks stay in the laundry basket a full week before she finally summons the strength to put them away. He knows he’s in especially deep because the precarious stack of unread novels next to her side of the bed never ceases to make him smile anytime he catches sight of it.

She shifts then, rousing him from his reverie. Her body is entirely nude save for the white cotton sheet draped over her front. He counts the freckles that scatter her back like constellations, and the urge to reach out and trace them is almost entirely overpowering. He refrains from touching her though, because as much as he wants to wake her, he also wants this moment to himself. In the silence, he can admit that he is on thin ice with her. He knows that the fight they had last night could very well have been one of their last, and he realizes without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants a lifetime more of heated arguments with her. He wants the fights and the makeups; the fucking and the loving, and the life- the good bits and the gory bits. He wants all of it with her.

But she is fine sand and he is the hourglass that encases her and sometimes- like last night, he feels powerless to stop her inevitable departure.

“I worry sometimes that I’m not cut out for relationships.” The alcohol in his veins made his tongue loose- made being honest with her as effortless as breathing.

She laughed, but any humor behind it was frozen inside a block of ice the size of Texas. “So what? The last seven months were a trial run? ‘Let’s see if Jake Seresin can do this… and if he can’t oh, well. Onto the next one’.”

“It’s not like that…”

She folded her arms across her chest in defiance. “Then tell me what it’s like because I care, Jake. I care so much. But if you can’t let me in…” Her expression hardened, as if a shadow passed over it. “If you won’t let me in, I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest in the glowing morning light; watches her eyes dance beneath veined lids, wonders briefly what kind of dream she’s having and if it’s as lovely as she looks right now. He gazes at her a little while longer; wants to memorize every miniscule detail of her face lest she opens her eyes and decides she’s finished with it all. But her eyes do slide open a little while later, her pupils constricting to pinpricks at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. She doesn’t smile at him like she normally does when she greets him in the morning and that rattles him a little if he’s honest.

“I’m sorry for last night.” He offers finally, his voice gruff and heavy from recent sleep.

She watches him, her expression unreadable. “You were just being honest.”

He closes his eyes, wants desperately to get what he’s about to say, right. “I do well on my own. I always have. It's why I choose not to share the sky with anyone, it's certainly why I choose not to involve myself with anyone.” He clears his throat. “I have spent so much of my life thinking I was above loving and being loved back, and for some reason that all went out the damn door with you.”

I have spent so much of my life thinking I was above everything, period.

“Women like me come along once in a lifetime, Jake.” She inches closer to him, her fingertips find the jut of his chin, forcing him to gaze at her. “You know that don’t you?”

He nods his head furtively.

“I realize how close I came to blowing this all up last night. It’s the last thing I want to do.”

The weight of the vulnerability that comes along with that confession feels like it may just crush him if he’s not careful.

Her face hovers mere inches above his; her warm breath as it ghosts over his lips causes him to shiver against her in unabashed anticipation. Bending forward, she captures his lips in a kiss that while languid, is also painted with a dash of scarlet passion. This was what they needed after a night of stifling silence. Knotted bedsheets always offered them a solace not found anywhere else on earth; their bed had a habit of bringing them back together when they strayed too far from one another.

He's already entirely ready for her when she breaks their kiss to straddle his thighs. He can tell she is too by the way her arousal trails down the velvet-soft of her inner thigh, over the head of his cock, and down the underside of his shaft. The sensation of it causes his eyes to roll back in his head as he grips himself firmly in his hand and lines himself up at her entrance.

Placing both hands firmly on his shoulders, she lowers herself onto his impossibly hard cock and begins to ride him slowly, and deeply. She drops her head to the hollow crook of space between his neck and shoulder blade and peppers kisses to the warm skin there.

Jake can barely string together a coherent thought; she’s always taken him so well, but there is an intimacy to this time that causes a lump of emotion to swell inexplicably in the hollow of his throat. His large, deft hands roam the dips and valleys of her back; he feels her muscles bend and flex as she rides him like her life depends on it and being close with her like this after last night, just feels like coming home after a long, exhausting mission.

She pulls away to gaze at him, opens her mouth to say something, but a desperate whimper escapes in place of any actual words. Jake stifles a groan and cups a palm to the apple at her cheek, nodding at her.

“I know, baby. Keep going.”

And she does.

She fucks him until her hips still and Jake feels her spasm around him. His name is a breathless scream on her lips; the electric and all-encompassing heat of her orgasm drives him ever closer to the precipice of his own and Jake wonders briefly if this is what heaven is like.

“It’s too good, baby.” He gasps as she continues to pulse around him, and when she doesn’t immediately stop, his fingernails leave crescent-moon indents in the soft skin of her hips as he tosses his head back and comes into her in thick, hot waves.

She stays connected to him longer than she should, and when she lifts herself off of him, the sudden loss of intimate contact is almost painful. Pressing a kiss his sweat-damp forehead, she disappears for a little while. Her absence is felt long enough that Jake wonders momentarily if she left, but then she enters their room a couple minutes later with a bowl of strawberries which she places on counter next to his side of the bed.

“I love you.”

It has nothing to do with how good she just fucked him, or that she brings him freshly washed strawberries in the mornings, or even that she waits for him while he spends most of his waking moments in the clouds.

He loves her because where everything else in his life is difficult or heavy, loving her is the easiest decision he’s ever made.

“I love you too, you cocky bastard.” Her words are warbled around the strawberry in her mouth, and as she tosses a wink his way, Jake can’t help the hearty guffaw that tumbles from his mouth in happy waves.

#have i been on a rihanna kick lately? ill never tell #jake seresin #hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin smut #jake seresin imagines #top gun: maverick #tgm #glen powell #smut #writing #drabble #california king bed

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realbeijinger · 4 months

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Another semi-coherent rant on climate change, the value of idealism, and TGCF (I finally finished!)

Well, I finished Tian Guan Ci Fu. And, oh man, if you read my last post, you’ll know that I was terrified that the entire novel would be a criticism of blind idealism. But I am SO glad I was wrong!!! Looking back on what I wrote before… it’s kind of hilarious how worried I was. I was so sure that I knew where it was going, was so busy preparing myself to be offended/emotionally crushed, that I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe MXTX had a similar worldview to me all along.

In my defense, aside from the line, “Something like saving the common people… although foolish, it is brave,” everything seemed to point toward the idea that trying to do good is pointless. I mean, up until the moment when Xie Lian was lying with a sword in his chest on the streets of Yong’an, all of his efforts to do good had essentially been in vain. He hadn’t been able to help anyone.

And then, when the one guy stopped and gave Xie Lian his hat, I dunno, I just cried. It was so perfect! Like, ugh, damn you, MXTX! So sneaky… destroying us, just to bring us back later!! It was such a small, insignificant win, but it was exactly what Xie Lian (and I) needed. I love the line, “Just one person was enough!” Just one person doing something selfless. It’s enough to give us hope.

It really resonates with me because I think a lot about how to maintain hope. In terms of the climate crisis, I feel like Xie Lian—completely powerless. I want to stop eating meat, use less plastic, spend more time on environmental activism, but honestly, what do any of these things matter? The meat industry is not going to change because I choose to stop consuming. Even my activism has a completely negligible effect—whether or not I join a protest or write a letter to my congressman will almost certainly not be the deciding factor for any climate legislation, no matter how much effort I put in.

And yet, I still want to. I love the moment when Xie Lian chooses to get stabbed over and over rather than create a second plague of Human Face Disease, and White No-Face asks him in shock, “Why??”—as in, why would you ever do that? And Xie Lian responds: “I don’t have a reason—just because I want to! Even if I explained it to you… Useless trash like you wouldn’t understand.” This line is so great. Xie Lian can’t explain it to White No-Face, because, in truth, it isn’t entirely logical. It can’t be explained by reason. I want to do my measly, unimportant part to help the world… because I want to. Because it feels right. Because it’s my way of keeping my heart, of maintaining faith that there is some good in this world worth upholding. (As an aside, I love how the English title of the live action drama—which we may never get to see, God damn censorship!!!!—is called “Eternal Faith.” Of course it refers to Hua Cheng and Xie Lian’s faith in each other, but I think it also means having eternal faith in the value of doing good, despite centuries of experience that seem to show its pointlessness.)

As I talked about in my last post, if you zoom out far enough, nothing really seems to matter. Everything we love and care about will one day be gone. And yet, I believe we still have to act like it matters. This is the basic tenant of existentialism, and I think MXTX portrays this philosophical paradox really beautifully.

It’s funny, because I think MXTX has a lot of profound things to say, but in an interview I read, she warned against viewing her work too deeply, saying, “I am not a guru.” I get that she may not want the responsibility of giving people spiritual advice, but I do think she presents some really fascinating, really novel, philosophical ideas. So, sorry MXTX, but I’m about to analyze TGCF like it’s a piece of freakin scripture. Soo here we go…

The main theme she comes back to again and again is that fortune is limited, so the only way you can do good for others is by taking fortune from somebody else. Which leads the characters to a bunch of ethically impossible choices: the people of Yong’an and the people of Xianle can’t all be saved (Xie Lian must choose who to help), neither can the people of Wuyong and the surrounding kingdoms (Prince of Wuyong must choose), and Shi Wudu can’t save his brother from a tragic fate without taking fortune from an innocent person. When the characters try to avoid choosing, and try to “play God” by creating a “third path,” it just invites disaster.

But is this really true? Is fortune actually limited? It’s an idea that reminds me of Buddhism and Daoism, but also seems kind of revolutionary… (I like to think I know something about Chinese philosophy but it could certainly be a thing and I don’t know). I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in limited resources, and the idea that nature tends toward balance. I think conceiving of it this way, as a pool of fortune, is really interesting.

It reminds me of this Meme:

In other words, who is the protagonist and who is the villain is entirely based on perspective. And, according to the laws of nature, we all must survive by eating others, or causing others to starve (i.e. avoiding being eaten).

I tried to think if this is really true in all areas of life. I’m a teacher, and one of the ways I convince myself that I am doing good in the world is by helping my students—preparing them well for college so that they can get into good schools and follow their dreams. But then, is this just taking fortune from others? If I do prepare my students well, and as a result they all get into top universities, does that mean they are taking spots away from other students? Am I simply just helping “my own,” at the expense of others?

One place where I see this concept play out very clearly is with our modern, industrialized society. As I mentioned in my last post, we live in a world of abundance. Most of us have enough food to eat, live in houses with electricity and running water, and don’t worry about a whole host of diseases endured by our ancestors. It seems we have done what Xie Lian couldn’t—we have expanded the well of fortune for most of humanity.

But this fortune wasn’t spontaneously created. It was taken from other species. It was borrowed against our own future, when climate change will likely destroy this world of abundance we have created, causing untold suffering. In truth, when it comes to prosperity, there is no such thing as a free lunch.

Even now, when we ought to be enjoying our fortune, most of us are not happy. We want other things. We take food, clothing, and shelter for granted, creating even bigger, more lofty demands—a bigger car, a better house, a machine that’s sole purpose is to make bread. In fact, it seems like whenever we make things “better,” the goalposts just move. I recently read a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, which mentioned that with the advent of washing machines and vacuum cleaners, everyone assumed there would be more free time. Yet, the real outcome was that standards of cleanliness just changed. Suddenly, people expected you to wear fresh clothes every day and have a perfectly dust-free home, which meant spending just as much time cleaning as in the past.

And according to psychologists, getting what we want doesn’t really make us happier. Instead, something like getting a promotion causes our happiness to spike, before it quickly returns to baseline. The psychologist Dan Gilbert writes that the purpose of our emotions is to act like a compass—to tell us which direction to go in. If you feel good, you can continue the way you are going. If you feel bad, you should probably turn—make a change. But if you get what you want and become permanently happy, your compass is now broken. It’s stuck in one direction and becomes useless.

All of this is very Buddhist, of course. Suffering is not caused by our external circumstances, but our desire to change them.

Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe in “fate” or “fortune.” But I believe this all points to something deeper that MXTX is getting at: which is that we cannot fundamentally make a better world, for the common people, or for anyone. This idea of “better” doesn’t really exist. The world is as it is. Trying to alter that is like playing God. And like Xie Lian says, “In this world, there are no true gods…”

So, what do we do? How can we survive this absurdist tragedy of life? I don’t think we can just throw up our hands and not give a shit—that way lies depression and Jun Wu-style cruelty. We cannot lose our heart. But we also can’t try to fix everything.

One thing I find a bit difficult about MXTX is she is very clear about the impossible situations our characters find themselves in, but not really clear about the solution. She seems critical of the characters’ actions (I’m thinking also of Wei Wuxian here), but what exactly does she think they should have done? In other words, what is the point?

I spent a long time thinking about this. And I realized that Xie Lian was able to get back on his feet, find happiness and make peace with himself. How did he do this? Ultimately, I see Xie Lian’s solution as having three parts: self-sacrifice, gratitude, and purpose. Which all sounds very academic and maybe not that profound on an emotional level. But hear me out. Because, in the end, I think these choices are incredibly beautiful. They are the kind of thing that make me feel like reading TGCF was actually a spiritual experience, no matter what MXTX says. That makes me admire Xie Lian and want to follow him (like the God he is).

Okay so first: self-sacrifice. If fortune is limited, and the only way to make others’ lives better is to take fortune from someplace else, then there is really only one place you can take it from without hurting others—yourself.

So, part of Xie Lian’s solution is to take fortune from himself and give it to others. It’s why he asks for a cursed shackle that disperses his fortune, so that his fortune will naturally flow to those around him. It’s, of course, a very small thing. He is no longer playing God, or trying to “fix” the world on a grand scale. He is simply, in his own, quiet way, serving the common people.

My desire to give up meat and to spend more time on activism—these things feel like big sacrifices for me. And yet, they will have a very small impact on the greater situation in the world. They’re a drop in the ocean. I still want to do it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to care, or think that these things matter. Yet, this is the trade-off Xie Lian was willing to make. I really admire him for it.

I believe self-sacrifice is actually a really important, beautiful thing, that our society has forgotten the value of. We are individualistic—obsessed with our own wants. As I mentioned previously, our expectations have risen, so we buy and buy and buy. We are unwilling to rein in our consumption. I know a lot of people baulk at lifestyle changes as a solution to the climate crisis, and I agree that putting pressure on individuals instead of governments or corporations is misguided. But, first of all, there simply aren’t enough resources on earth to sustain our current levels of consumption. And, second… I don’t think we can completely let individuals off the hook. What is society anyway, but a collection of individuals? If we are going to address this thing, it’s going to take a massive movement—bigger than the civil rights movement or the works’ rights movement or the women’s movement. It’s going to take millions of people worldwide getting out of their own heads, their own lives, and concerning themselves with the greater good. That requires immense sacrifice.

Which takes me to gratitude. In order to be willing to sacrifice, you have to appreciate what you already have.

People often talk about gratitude these days as a path to mental health. Instinctively, it sounds like an uplifting, positive thing. And it is… but it also entails having a relatively negative worldview. It means remembering all the horrible things that exist in this world which we are lucky enough to avoid on a daily basis. You stepped in some dog shit? Well, that sucks, but you could have stepped into an open manhole and broken your neck! So! That’s something to be grateful for.

We are all so lucky. I’m sure everyone reading this has pains and traumas and challenges. This isn’t to diminish those, but, I hope, at least we all have at least one person to love. That’s all Hua Cheng had, and it’s what kept him going. Just one person was enough. And most of us, I hope, get to eat food every day, get to sleep in a bed, get to play video games or read novels or write poetry when we are sad. Not everyone gets those things.

Xie Lian, of course, was the king of low expectations, because he knew his future was going to be bad. He had intentionally accepted bad luck for a lifetime. So, there was no point in hoping for things to get better.

I think this attitude is best shown by his interaction with the Venerable of Empty words. The Venerable of Empty Words feeds off people’s fears. But Xie Lian didn’t really have any. When the Venerable of Empty Words warned him that his hut will collapse in two months, his response is, “Two months? If it’s still standing in seven days, then it’ll be a real miracle.” Because his expectations are so low, he’s essentially immune to fear. I can’t help but think that if you could really think this way, it would be a kind of superpower. It reminds me of the famous quote by spiritual teacher Krishnamurti, “Do you know what my secret is? You see, I don’t mind what happens.”

And so Xie Lian is okay with everything. He can sleep anywhere, crash boulders on his chest for money, not eat for three days, regularly suffer corpse poisoning, and still be okay.

Which leads to my third point: purpose. Xie Lian is able to endure such hardship because his expectations are low, but also he knows all his suffering has a purpose. “If I am to become a God of misfortune, then so be it,” he says. “As long as I know deep down that I am not.” He is okay with being laughed at or avoided for his bad luck, because deep down he knows he is doing the right thing. People can withstand a great deal if they feel their suffering has meaning. In Man’s Search for Meaning, the psychiatrist Victor Frankl’s writes about the horrors of living through a concentration camp, and how over and over, it was creating purpose that allowed him, and others, to find motivation to survive. Which I think has an important lesson for self-sacrifice. People are willing to sacrifice a lot, if they feel their sacrifice has purpose.

I get it when MXTX says that she is not a guru, and maybe it’s a lot to ask of a danmei novel to take spiritual advice from it. The book wasn’t necessarily perfect, and I do have some critiques (which I was gonna add here, but this thing is already wayyy too long). But… I do think I found something really meaningful in this story—some inspiration. I want to follow Xie Lian’s example, and live with gratitude and acceptance, while keeping my faith in doing the right thing. In other words, WWXLD! (What Would Xie Lian Do?)

#tgcf #mxtx #heaven official's blessing #tgcf meta #tian guan ci fu #climate change #xie lian #hualian #danmei #chinese bl

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crystallizedday · 1 year

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Mkay, so I just woke up & I feel like spitting some facts today while I’m still in my BATDR hyperfix, especially since I’m pretty sure not a lot of people have this idea as well & I wanna get it out there somehow.

So…

The Ink Demon is like… written SO fucking well in this game, or at least as I interpret it.

& I figured this shit out like GRADUALLY.

The first tid bit that hit me like a fucking truck was how CANONICALLY the Ink Demon is in DESPERATE need of any kind of love and affection. While it’s hinted at a little bit in the games, the smoking gun comes from the VOICE ACTOR FOR INKY HIMSELF Sean Crisden.

Yes, I looked through his entire Twitter to find this again just to prove I’m not insane.

Like… even if Sean isn’t caught up entirely on the lore, there’s no reason he would say this only knowing the Ink Demon through his lines. After all, my guy has to be told about the character to voice him, so for him to address this pretty much makes it as close to being confirmed officially as we can.

The second thing that hit me like a truck was the YouTuber Pastra’s review video on the game, where he details how the Ink Demon’s mocking in the last chapter is towards HIMSELF, not Audrey, & he’s just projecting all HIS shit onto her.

Not even I caught this, since I always thought Inky was right about the “your life is a lie” thing due to her not being fully human.

But then Pastra emphasized the “mistake” bit. Audrey wasn’t a mistake, far from it. The Ink Demon, BENDY, was. HE was a mistake, born solely to be a living mascot to entertain, & when he came out WRONG, he was locked away, neglected, abandoned by the man who created him.

So he looks at Audrey, someone who was made by the same man who made him, someone who was treated so much better because of how she came out “perfect”, & tries to bring her down on the same level as he is by berating her.

& while this is stretching a bit, him comforting her at the end feels a bit like he’s trying to comfort himself, tricking himself to believe there is SOMEONE like him, someone who was ABANDONED & lied to, & thus giving Audrey the opportunity to live so he can indulge in that comfort.

It’s a BIG stretch, but god DAMN is it a gut puncher!

Like I’m sure he also did it to manipulate her & shit, but like… he can have MORE than one reason to do shit, & if he really did try to comfort himself like that, if that really is true… then I’m gonna fucking sob, man.

BUT THAT IS NOT FUCKING ALL!!

Cause I got ONE MORE mind blower I had, mainly (but not entirely) on my own after that one!!

& it has to do with Baby Bendy.

A LOT of people think Inky got his mind split in two when he was imprisoned as Baby Bendy due to how different he acts around Audrey.

But I beg to differ.

I think the Ink Demon is ABSOLUTELY still conscious & in control as Baby Bendy. He just couldn’t do shit to anyone before Audrey came about & accidentally freed him (cause I am ALSO subscribed to that theory Pastra addressed in his video), so he just minded his own business.

Perhaps his new emotional responses spoken of in the Keepers’ tapes come from him being more powerless & vulnerable where the only thing he COULD do was cry.

& the reason he acts so friendly towards Audrey once she meets up with him near the city? Because she was kind to him, she actually gave a shit about him. She apologized to him about hurting him & wanted to take care of him.

NEVER in Inky’s life has he EVER had someone genuinely care about him & his well being, something he always wanted from ANYONE but never got. So when he finally has that opportunity with Audrey, he jumps to it, going along with it, even if he desperately didn’t want to visit the Gent labs again.

More evidence of this is detailed in a post by @jupiter-jellies titled “Ink Demon VS Vesty” which I really like (I apologize for the tag, I don’t know if there’s an easier option to showcase the post itself, but I still wanna credit you nonetheless) as it makes sense of the sequences of events that happen from when Baby Bendy first joins your party to when he disappears & the Ink Demon comes to stop you from entering the Keepers’ area. Seriously, that shit blew my mind when I read it cause it explains WHY Baby Bendy went missing & why the Ink Demon would try to stop Audrey from going THERE in particular.

It just makes sense that the Ink Demon was still HIMSELF in both forms, he just acts differently to compensate for his lack of powers & to be given the love & affection he always wanted.

… But then it gets sad.

Cause the more I thought about it, the more fucked up it became. The ONLY time the Ink Demon EVER got someone to reach out to him & make him feel cared for… is when he’s in a “perfect” form. Only when he was cute & innocent & TRAPPED against his WILL could he be EVER loved, that if only he came out RIGHT in the first place, then he would DESERVE all the love that Audrey offers him.

If Joey & the others neglecting & abusing him when he came out wrong when he was JUST created didn’t solidify this idea in his head, Audrey treating him like a friend in his “perfect” form & an enemy in his true form DEFINITELY sealed the deal to him.

& it only gets worse.

I was re-listening to Joey talking to Audrey at the tail-end of the game to try & snap her out of the dark mindset Inky put her in when I realized something.

The Ink Demon was RIGHT THERE, listening to his abuser talk directly to AUDREY the ENTIRE TIME, telling her how she was loved & how she’s not this monster, that she was his pride & joy, his ONLY success…

& that PISSES Inky off.

In INKY’s point of view, only after Joey had a creation that WASN’T an abomination did he suddenly have a change of heart, that all it took was to get something he always wanted to be a better person as he completely ignores his biggest mistake that was RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.

That… has GOT to sting, really bad, to feel abandoned AGAIN in favor of the “better sibling” that Audrey was.

I have a feeling that he didn’t crush Joey SOLELY so he couldn’t get through to Audrey. I think he also did it because he couldn’t take LISTENING to him talk like this anymore, to be reminded that he was a failure that didn’t deserve the love that Audrey got, & lashed out to shut Joey up.

This is ALL very headcanon-y, but… it really does paint the Ink Demon in a more complex & tragic light.

The Ink Demon was NEVER just a mindless monster that killed whatever it wanted on sight. He was capable of emotion, & he could’ve potentially been capable of being something so much more if only he got the proper care & reassurance he DESPERATELY needed.

& GOD I love his character for it, he’s my favorite character in the game BY FAR because of this, GOD I hope this is canon so I can give massive props to the writers for this game!!

#bendy and the dark revival #batdr #batdr spoilers #bendy and the dark revival spoilers #ink demon #ink bendy #bendy #baby bendy #audrey #batdr audrey #audrey drew #joey drew #sean crisden #ink demon character studies #day’s morning ramblings #thank you for reading my essay XDDD #I apologize for the shitty quality for the cutscenes #i just wanted to throw some images in here to spice up the rambling & compliment it a bit #hope ya don’t mind

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purgemarchlockdown · 5 months

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Mikoto being so heavily associated with the female characters while Kotoko isn't is really intriguing with how he's so heavily sexualized in MeMe and plays into a lot of horror tropes.

The bathtub and the shower scene are common locations in horror, especially for Women. With one of the most iconic horror scenes Ever being the shower scene from Psycho, in which a woman is murdered in the shower.

Not to mention the lyrical pattern of calling back the title of the first MV that all the girls, except for Kotoko, follow. With Mikoto actually calling back to the title of his T1 MV in Double and having it be such an important part of it that they call back to it in the Trial 2 Album. Something originally pointed out by oboetmasuka here and candckirby who also mentions Mikoto's role as the "Final girl" and his consistent pregnancy metaphor with how John is called a newborn.

I think the way Kotoko connects to Masculinity is subtler but just as important, her interrogation question shows she's not attached to it, but she doesn't seem against it or anything.

(Kotoko Interrogations)

T1Q10: What do you think about the word 'feminimity'? A: It's one of the means you can take. It's something you can freely choose depending on the scene, so it's not something to cling onto.

Kotoko doesn't wear anything traditionally feminine but she doesn't lean super masculine either...except.

Okay so, 1moremilgram-enjoyer made this really interesting post about Kotoko's cap you can read here. Basically her cap has the name Jacques Roulet on it's front. Jacques Roulet is the name of a Male Serial Killer who killed two children and claimed to be a werewolf.

This cap appears in her outfit in Harrow:

But also appears in her T2 Design:

Establishing some sort of connection between him and Kotoko.

If we're reading into this Further. John and Kotoko are actually very similar in their want to become someone's "savior" as that's what gives them a sense of purpose.

John's an interesting character in this dynamic. Because if Mikoto is the helpless princess, John is the faithful prince. Coming to save his pitiful damsel whose too weak to protect himself.

(Mikoto T2 VD)

John: It’s true that I was the one who wanted to destroy everything… and the weakness of Boku, who couldn’t stand up for himself all alone, might have been the origin of that. But… that’s all there is to it. Is that a sin?

Mikoto has little to no agency and he Knows This. He doesn't know what's happening, is confused and terrified all the time, and feels like he's on a train with an unknown destination. He feels powerless and like he has no control. While John tries his best to help him, but ultimately harms him, cause John will do what He thinks Mikoto needs without knowing what Mikoto wants. Something he seems regretful for.

Hey, I just wanted to save you So why did it come to this?

However, Kotoko does have some sense of Power and Agency and actively Holds this over others.

From the begin I've never asked for your understanding! My actions, one by one, are bringing earth closer to peace. Useless Weaklings should just shut up and let me protect them!

There's nothing inherently wrong with wanting to present more masculine or feminine. However, there is a problem with enforcing strict and rigid roles onto people, especially if those roles enforce systems of power that allow for the exploitation of groups of people by elevating one group and putting down the other.

Even if the gender roles the two fit in are flipped, it is still playing into unhealthy ideals of gender and society that perpetuate abusive systems of power.

(Utena Scripts)

Voice: Was the ring from the prince meant as an engagement ring? Voice: That part was good, Voice: but because of the strength of her admiration for the prince, Voice: the princess made up her mind to become a prince herself! Voice: But is that really good for her?

(I got it in!)

I think I might have to wait for Deep Cover's MV to release to fully discuss this, but this is really curious to me.

#milgram #kotoko yuzuriha #mikoto kayano #milgram thoughts

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ithuriels-criativety · 3 months

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How to write a harmless character (meaning someone who can't or will not physically fight)

There seems to be a misunderstanding between a harmless character and a peaceful one. The peaceful do not want to harm anyone, the harmless is incapable of doing so. None of them are bad traits to apply to a character, but the limits many others possible traits, so there is a list of very few characters that represents this traits (mainly the "harmless" trait).

Peaceful characters that belong among the main ones tend to be retired soldiers or someone with great skill in combat. It is not uncommon for them to be put in a critical situation where they need to use their knowledge, be it to protect someone or any other reason. I advise you, writer who are interested in this kind of character, to avoid making your character being underestimated, this is becoming a cliché that push away many readers.

Well, my actual point with this post is to advise about the "harmless" trait, based on my experience as a reader of course. Here it goes...

✨The harmless type✨

Most of the time this characters are kids, old people, woman or non-combatants civilians (basically mobs), which is infuriating! I am sure that upon reading the title you had thought one of this, so why don't I give you some examples of my creativity since you do not have enough? (I am kidding, I'm sorry).

The character who was once a great warrior known on the whole realm for their skills and now is just an empty shell. It would be really interesting if even being powerless now people respected them or he had students who would look after them.

Someone who was born with a weak body or an illness that couldn't be cured but wouldn't kill them. Being weak doesn't mean they're powerless, this character can be really smart and lead someone else or be a powerful person in business or politics and not to be ignored even by people with strength enough to wipe them out of the earth.

A person who has all they need to be the strongest or one of the best warriors but for some reason choose to not fight; be it a pacifist or someone traumatized and hater of violence. Make sure that they don't know how to fight if it is the second option! They may not learn how to after overcoming the trauma, something like "I don't need to fight to be who I am" or something (Personally, I like a lot the plot of them just not being into fighting; having all the genetics they need to be strong and just choosing to be peaceful and out of trouble).

Having their strength blocked by something that could be self inflicted. May it be a "curse", an injury or just not being allowed to use everything they have.

There are very few literary works that involve a truly harmless character that is well built and I can't even remember any who does to recommend, but you could be the one to add to this scarce list.

That's it. Feel free to add more prompts to it or use the ones I displayed here.

#writers on tumblr #writing prompts #character idea #character traits #harmless #original character #harmless character #prompt list #story prompt #fic prompt #writing prompt

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theoreticslut · 2 years

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「 how will i know? 」

eddie munson x fem reader

summary: eddie finds you working as the solo member of the prom committee and takes it upon himself to help you, solely because he’s wanted more time with you ever since he comforted you that one time a few years before.

requested: no

word count: 5.7k

warnings: stress/anxiety, implied insecurities/low self-confidence, kissing, fluff

a/n: i’m in such an eddie mood, but i feel like everything i’m writing for him sucks when compared to all the other fics I see for him. even though mine are kinda cute, i feel like they’re boring?? :/ so i’d love to hear your guys’ input if you’d be willing to give it.

It’s no secret that Eddie Munson actively shits on the popular crowd - the golden girl cheerleaders and their golden boy basketball counterparts. He hates how they wholeheartedly accept societal norms and expects everyone else to do the same.

His blatant disregard of said societal norms and his theatrical ways - among other things - has earned him the title of ‘freak,’ however you think he’s anything but.

You’ve been watching him as he boisterously shares his opinions, typically during lunch, since starting high school. It’s hard not to when he purposefully makes himself the center of attention. It’s not like you mind it though, if he’s got everyone looking at him, then you get to blend into the background as you admire him.

He may be loud and defiant, not to mention quite flirtatious, but he’s such a kind person. So many people overlook that fact, though.

You’ve seen how he takes in freshmen and gives them a place to belong. You’ve overheard how passionate he is about his different interests. You’ve even been on the receiving end of his kindness once before.

It was about a year and a half ago, and you hadn’t been doing too great for a couple months. You were having issues with your so-called friends at the time, you were struggling with the material in a handful of your classes, and you were being bullied a bit by some upperclassmen. Not to mention the fact that your parents were divorcing, setting high expectations for you as a way to cope with their feelings of powerlessness.

You weren’t doing well, and it had all caught up to you one day. You had gotten a barely passing grade on an assignment you worked really hard on, and you knew your parents weren’t going to be happy. They wanted to keep up the image that you were a perfect, happy family although you were far from it.

On top of that, the few popular upperclassmen girls that liked to bully you decided today would be a great day to do so. You had gained a little weight with all the stress you were in, and the shirt you had decided to wear didn’t quite hide it. Of course the girls had to point your weight gain out, cornering you in the ladies bathroom after school and making comments that were more than hurtful.

To say the least, it hadn’t been a good day, so you found yourself in an empty hallway and started crying. Eddie had stumbled upon you, and instantly felt his heart ache. He didn’t really know what to say or do, but he couldn’t leave you sitting there by yourself, crying.

...

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You hear someone ask, their voice oddly comforting.

Looking up, you find the one and only Eddie Munson. The guy you’d been secretly admiring for the last year and a half. Of course he’d run into you on probably the worst day you’d had in years.

“N-nothing.” You hiccup, carefully wiping at your cheeks and all the tear tracks that had been created.

“Nothing? Really?” He questions, cocking a brow at you and you can’t help but find it attractive. He’s a walking masterpiece, you’d swear it.

“Y-yeah.” You mumble, sniffling as you choke back more tears.

“Most people don’t cry over nothing. Unless you’re one of the odd ones, something must be going on.” He smiles lightly, his signature teasing tone present.

You can’t help but let out a shaky breath as you feel your resolve breaking. Everything has been far too much for too long and you can’t take it anymore.

“I just…I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

As he coaxes more information from you, he settles himself beside you on the floor, hugging his knees like you are but focusing all his attention on you.

“Everything?” You state, although it comes out as more of a question.

“That seems like a problem.” He jokingly comments, trying to lighten the air and cheer you up even the slightest bit.

He hates seeing such a beautiful girl in so much pain. He’s noticed you around school before, but never got your name.

Regardless, he’s always found you cute. You’re quiet, blushing so easily whenever someone compliments you or puts you in the spotlight, and he finds his stomach twisting in knots every time you do.

You don’t have many friends, but the few times he’s seen you talking to someone and they draw a smile out of you, he swears his legs turn to jelly. Like you, your smile is shy, but oh so warm and bright.

It honestly pains him to see that warmth and brightness so dim right now. He can’t imagine what could have brought you so down.

“You could say that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He offers, eyes gentle, warm and inviting as he looks at you.

Although you often hesitate, and usually stop yourself, from sharing your feelings, you find that you really would like to share with him. He seems to want to listen - seems like he wants to make you feel better.

“If you’ve got the time to listen to my sob story?”

“I’ve got all the time in the world, princess. Spill.” He smiles, and so you do.

...

You told him about your parents and their unreasonably high expectations of you. You told him how lonely you had felt among your friends because they never seemed to listen to your problems, but came to you the second they wanted to vent or needed advice.

You shared how you were struggling in multiple classes, and how much that was stressing you out. You told him about your bullies and the stunt they pulled, how they called you a pig and oinked at you between teasing you for tearing up and telling you how you’ll never fit in.

You admitted to him just how tired you were and how sometimes you wanted to just give up completely.

He never interrupted, though. He let you share what you wanted to, and gave you his undivided attention. He didn’t judge you when you had started crying again lightly, nor did he belittle your feelings. He listened to you and for once you didn’t feel like a burden.

When you had stopped talking he frowned at you, feeling your pain, but gave you his honest opinion on everything you shared. He told you that if he were you, he’d drop your friends and wouldn’t even bother trying to live up to your parent’s expectations.

He told you that all you needed to do is enough to make yourself happy, and that it didn’t matter if it fell short of the expectations set for you or by you.

After it all, though, he reminded you that it’s okay to not feel okay and that sometimes all you need is a little time for yourself.

You swear that he sat there with you for an hour just comforting you, but you doubt he even remembers it. Surely he wouldn’t remember some girl he found crying to herself in an empty hallway, not when he’s done so much since then.

Regardless, his kindness has only made you fall for him more over the last few years. Not like you could ever tell him that you’ve got a crush on him, though.

For starters, you haven’t ever talked to him aside from that one day in the hall. Secondly, he’s far too cool for him to know who you are, let alone return your crush.

That thought alone kills you, but it is what it is at this point. You’re graduating this year and you’ll move on to something else where you’ll probably rarely see him. You can handle these last few months without risking embarrassment.

~.~

You sigh, looking around at the mess that currently is one of the - many - empty classrooms of Hawkins High.

You had found yourself on the prom committee, somehow becoming the leader of such, and right now you were looking around at all the decorations that still need to be made. Unfortunately, the rest of the committee is rather…laissez faire.

Hence why you were currently looking at the mess that is the room late on a Friday afternoon just weeks before prom is supposed to happen.

The decorations have to get done someway or another, so grabbing out your Walkman, you start playing your favourite mixtape you made and get to work.

~.~

Eddie can’t help but whistle as he walks the empty hallways of Hawkins High. Hellfire had ended about a half hour ago, the campaign playing out really well which excited him.

He was getting ready to leave, making his way through the halls towards the front entrance, when music from a lone classroom caught his attention.

As far as he was aware, no one else stays at school after hours on a Friday. After 4-ish, the school is practically a ghost town aside from him and Hellfire.

His curiosity gets the best of him as he seeks out the music, recognizing it as some pop song that’s been popular on the radio as of the last year. He’s pretty sure it’s by Whitney Houston or something, but he never really listens to anything but metal.

Finding himself outside of one of the other empty classrooms that Hawkins has, he can’t help but peek through the window to see what’s going on.

Inside he sees you dancing, surrounded by a mess of paper and craft supplies. He’s honestly not sure what any of it is or what you’re doing with it, but he doesn’t care. Not when you look so beautiful dancing with no cars in the world.

~.~

“Oh, wake me, I’m shaking; wish I had you near me now, uh-huh.” You sing, dancing to the upbeat music.

“Said there's no mistaking what I feel is really love.”

Needing a break from the work, you find yourself abandoning the shimmery stars as you begin to dance around the room.

“How will I know if he really loves me? I say a prayer with ev’ry heartbeat.”

“I fall in love whenever we meet; I'm asking you what you know about these things - how will I know if he's thinking of me?” You belt out, smiling as you twirl around the room, using a sponge brush as a makeshift microphone.

Ever since you first heard this song, you’ve only ever thought of Eddie, as pathetic as that might sound. You’ve barely said anything to him, and yet you’re singing a love song with your mind full of him.

You can’t help that he’s got an intoxicating smile with those big brown eyes that aren’t often anything but warm. You can’t help that his voice and laugh create a wave of butterflies in your stomach. You can’t help that his hair looks like it needs to be played with, or that his hands look like they need somebody to hold onto.

You can’t help that Eddie Munson is your biggest weakness.

“I try to phone but I'm too shy - can't speak! Falling in love is so bittersweet; this love is strong, why do I feel weak?”

As the song continues, you find yourself just falling into the music - singing right along and dancing like there’s nothing in the world that could stop you. You can’t help but widely smile, the song - and the thought of Eddie - giving you an instant boost of serotonin.

“Ooh, how will I know? I fall in love.” You smile as the song gradually fades out and the next one begins.

You definitely needed that, taking a moment to just enjoy the serotonin rushing through your brain. If only you had the courage to tell Eddie you like him.

“That was cute. Looked like you were having fun.”

At the deeper voice you can’t help but jump, turning around to find the one person you had just been thinking of.

“Eddie! My god.” You exhale, trying to catch your breath from the shock.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“N-no, it’s alright. I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Neither did I. Heard your music and had to see what was going on.” He explains, looking around the room at all the paper and craft supplies.

“What is going on?”

“Oh. Uh, welcome to the prom committee.” You state, giving him an awkward half smile as you wave your arms at everything.

“You’re the only member? Hate to break it to you, but that’s a rather sad committee.” He jokes and you can’t help but chuckle, not really believing he’s here talking to you.

“Yeah…everyone else had other plans. Just like they always do.”

You can’t help but sigh, frowning at everything that still needs to be done and how you’re the only one doing any of it.

“How long have you been here working on this?” He suddenly questions.

“Uh, I-I got here about 3:30?” You offer, not knowing what time it currently was to give him an actual answer.

“Three and a half hours? Shit.”

“Th-three hours?!”

“Oh my god this is never going to get done.” You panic, feeling a headache come on at the thought.

“Hey. Don’t stress yourself out. It looks like you’ve got a lot done, and prom isn’t for another three weeks or something right?”

“Yeah…yeah. I’ve just…never mind.”

“What?”

“No one else has really been helping.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead as the headache sets in.

“Well that’s a shit thing to do.” He retorts, feeling for you.

“Yeah…yeah, it is.”

A moment passes where neither of you say anything, but your mind is running with everything you still need to do. Not only do you need to finish the stars, but you need to make the little, holographic streamer decorations and the table favors, not to mention the photo booth accessories.

“Have you had dinner yet?” Eddie suddenly asks, pulling you out of your spiral.

“N-no. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.” You admit a little bashfully.

“Would you like to grab something with me? There’s this diner on the outskirts of town that’s really good.”

“Y-you want me to get dinner with you?” You question, not believing he’s actually asking you that.

“That’s what I just asked you, isn’t it?” He teases, his beautiful smile appearing on his face.

“Yeah. I just, I didn’t think - do you even know who I am?” You question, clearly confused by his want to take you to eat.

He chuckles, smiling as he nods.

“I know who you are, y/n. So what do you say? Dinner? You look like you’re going to hyperventilate if you keep working on this.”

“Y-yeah. Okay. Dinner would be…nice.”

“Great! Let’s go then?” He smiles, encouraging you to grab your things and go.

As you do so, you still can’t wrap your head around the fact that this is happening. You didn’t think he knew who you were, let alone ask you to dinner with him.

~.~

“So you’re on the prom committee? How’d that happen?” Eddie asks as he picks a fry up from his plate and takes a bite out of it.

“Honestly, I’m not really sure.” You admit, chuckling lightly as he smiles.

“I think I may have volunteered, but didn’t realize I was?”

“Ahh, so you were manipulated into the position.”

“I guess so? I don’t know. It’s not the worst thing I could be doing.”

You shrug, dipping a fry in some ketchup before popping it into your mouth. Feeling a little too awkward to make eye contact with him, you don’t realize that he’s just sitting there watching you, an amused smile on his face.

“So after all this decoration making and planning is done, do you actually get to enjoy your hard work?” He questions, drawing your attention to him.

“I…don’t really know. I mean, I’ll have to set up the place…and take it down,” you sigh, frowning.

“I’m not really sure I want to attend prom in the first place, though.”

“Really? You don’t want to attend your senior prom?”

Risking a glance up at him, you find him watching you with raised brows that slowly drop into a furrowed look.

“I mean, isn’t that what most girls dream of?”

“Typically, yeah.” You chuckle.

“I just…I don’t know. I don’t have a date, and the only friend I really have has work that night. I just, I don’t really see the point in being a wallflower all night.”

“Understandable, but it’s your senior prom. You don’t really get another chance to go to one.” He comments, watching you as you play with your food, attempting to busy yourself.

“I know, but I couldn’t be missing that much anyway, right?”

“Couples will be all over each other, someone will spike the punch, and some popular cheerleader and her basketball boyfriend will get king and queen. It’s the same as any other dance, really. Right?”

“So I’ve heard.” Eddie replies, keeping his eyes on you as he munches on another fry.

“It’s not like I’d be the only one not going, anyways. But I don’t know, I’ve got a couple weeks to decide.”

He nods, taking your hint and ending the topic there. At least for the time being.

~.~

“Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.” You mumble, absentmindedly singing along to your mixtape as you carefully paint the rims of the glass centerpiece containers.

Ever since Eddie found you here working Friday evening, you’ve been taking a few hours after school each day to work on the decorations, still worried you’re not going to get them all done on time.

“Working alone again?”

Jumping slightly, you nod lightly as you send the briefest of glances toward the man.

“Of course. You don’t see anyone else here, do you, Munson?” You comment, heart racing as you talk to him.

It’s kind of pathetic, actually, just how nervous you get in his presence, let alone trying to talk to him.

You can hear him chuckle but can’t bother to look back at him as you focus on the current glass vase you’re trying to paint.

“Would you like help?” He questions, voice closer than it was before, making you jump.

Turning your head you find him standing over you, looking at what you’re doing.

“You want to help?”

“If you’ll let me. Wouldn’t want to stress yourself out doing it all.”

“O-okay then. Do you want to take this over for me? I need to design the tickets before I forget any longer.”

“You got it.” He smiles, taking the seat beside you and stealing the paint from you as you set the vase you were working on down, having finished it.

~.~

“Can I ask a question? Or a few, I guess?” You start, looking at Eddie as he sits at the table while you’re sat on the floor a few feet away working on the photograph backdrop.

It’s been just about a week now that he's found you after school and offered his help. He even spent his Saturday morning helping you after you mentioned you’d be there.

You definitely enjoy his company and appreciate his help, but you’ve got these questions nagging at the back of your mind.

“Go ahead.”

“Why have you been helping me with all of this? I’ve never known Eddie Munson to take part in school activities, especially those that cater to societal expectations.”

You hear him chuckle and you can’t help but glance up at him to catch his beautiful smile and bright eyes.

“While you’re not wrong, I don’t know. You seemed so stressed about all of it, and I don’t know, I couldn’t let you do that, I guess.”

“Why though? I’m no one special…”

“I mean, we weren’t friends or anything before this. Why would you care about me being stressed?” You question, cutting him off before he can speak, knowing he had a retort of some kind to your prior statement.

“I don’t know, you seem too cool and kindhearted of a person, I guess.”

“And how do you come to that conclusion? How do you even know who I am? I don’t really do anything to stick out.”

At your question, a silence falls between the two of you for a moment as you keep working on the backdrop, too nervous to look up at him. Little do you know he’s got a bright smile on his lips, watching you.

“You were a…sophomore, I believe, when I first talked to you.” He states, making you pause your work.

“You were crying in the hall after school.”

“I know. I’d been having a rough few months.” You murmur.

“Mhm. I think I sat with you for an hour or more just listening to you.”

“I’d noticed you long before that day, and even though you were always shy and quiet, I always felt like you were pretty optimistic and positive. Watching you cry kind of broke my heart.” He chuckles, shaking his head as he lightly smiles.

“It broke your heart?”

He nods at your retort, your brows cocked at him in disbelief.

“Kind of, yeah.” He chuckles, watching as you shake your head.

“I mean, here you were - this beautiful, quietly warm girl who blushed anytime someone gave you attention - crying by yourself in an empty hallway. I couldn’t just leave you there like that.”

“Anyways, I never knew your name, but I had to figure it out after spending the afternoon with you. You know, in case I stumbled upon you crying again.”

You can’t help but chuckle as he almost seems to start rambling.

“You’ve kind of been on my mind ever since.” He states, an ever so slight blush dusting his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. There’s something about you, I swear.”

You smile, letting his words sink in as he smiles at you, watching you process the conversation.

“You know, I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for listening to me that day. I really appreciated it.”

“If I’m being honest though, I couldn’t believe you would sit there and do that. I mean, I’ve always kind of liked you, but I never thought you’d take the time to sit and comfort a nobody.” You chuckle, a warmth filling your cheeks as you shy away from his gaze.

“You’re far from a nobody, y/n.”

~.~

You find yourself sighing, bouncing your marker between your thumb and index finger as you sit at the lunchtime ticket booth - otherwise known as a plastic foldout table that had seen better days and a cold, uncomfortable metal chair.

Being the only one that’s actually done any preparation for prom, it’s only natural that you’d be the one to sit and sell tickets during your lunch hour.

“Hey, y/n!” Robin greets, bounding behind the table with you.

“Hey, Robin.” You smile, your attention flirting over to the energetic dirty-blonde.

“You mind if I help you?”

“Not at all. I’m actually getting sick of selling these.” You chuckle, sighing.

“Well then I’m here to relieve you. And buy a few tickets of my own.”

“What? Really?!” You gasp, watching as she writes down the transaction before making herself change and grabbing two tickets.

“Mhm. Keith offered to cover the store on prom night which left me free. At first I still didn’t plan on coming, but Steve convinced me to. Even offered to come as my date! As a friend of course since our relationship is strictly platonic with a capital ‘p.’”

“I’m excited for you, Robin! I hope it’ll be fun.”

“What? You’re not going?”

“I don’t know yet. You weren’t going to go, and I don’t have a date. I didn’t want to stick to the walls by myself all night.” You frown.

“Now that you’re going, though, maybe I’ll consider it. I’d have to find a dress though, and I don’t know. It seems like a lot of work.”

“You should definitely come! I’d hate to experience our senior prom without you.”

“I-Eddie! Hey.” You greet, finally noticing the man standing at the table in front of the both of you.

“Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.” He states, smiling as he motions for you to continue.

“No, you’re fine. What’re you doing?”

“Well, I’d like to buy a couple tickets, if I could?” He states, catching you off guard.

“Y-yeah, sure. Two?” You stutter, not able to stop from wondering who he could possibly be going with.

“Mhm.”

“Okay, and your date’s name?” You question, going to write down the transaction.

“Y/n y/l/n.”

“Me?!”

“If you’d be willing to go with me, yeah.” He smiles, warm eyes watching you as you fumble over yourself, having dropped your marker.

“Otherwise, I’ll be needing a refund.”

Looking over at Robin, who looks just as shocked as you, you turn back to Eddie.

“Y-you want to go to prom with me?”

“Mhm. What do you say?”

“I-I guess we’re going to prom, Munson.” You smile, stomach flipping at his beautiful smile directed fully at you.

“Great. Better find yourself a dress.” He smiles, grabbing the tickets from you with a wink before walking off, leaving you dumbfounded.

~.~

Watching Eddie as he walks through the crowd with your drinks, you can’t help but smile. You still can’t believe he decided to come to prom, and with you as his date at that.

Sure, you have been spending a lot of time together this past month, but you didn’t think you two had gotten close enough for this. Not that you were complaining in the slightest.

He was stunning, nearly taking your breath away when he picked you up earlier. You never expected him to wear a tux, and you were perfectly fine with that. Lord knows he wears his black skinny jeans perfectly well. He did find a button down shirt, though, and even got you a corsage.

“Your drink.” He smiles, finally making his way back to your table.

“Thank you.”

Taking a sip as he does the same, you avert your gaze as you feel him rake his eyes over your body - just like he’s done numerous times since picking you up.

“You really look amazing.” He compliments, trying to study every aspect of your appearance.

When he saw the dress you were wearing, he swears he nearly lost it. You’ve always been beautiful, but this dress fit you perfectly. It was rather simple - a solid, deep red colour in a satin material. The strapless, sweetheart top highlighted your chest without being revealing. The skirt puffed out only a little, making it formal without being over the top.

Then, aside from the draping of the material, the only other decoration was a simple little bow off to the side where the dress gathered at the slit. You had paired it with a pair of silver heels that brought you from his chin up to his nose, which he kind of liked. If he found the courage, those couple inches from your heels would make it so much easier to capture your lips with his.

You had opted to keep your makeup more neutral, but he still thought you looked stunning. In his eyes, you didn’t need any extra help to look beautiful.

“You look pretty amazing yourself.” You shyly smile, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I still can’t believe you’re here, to be honest.”

“How come?”

“You’re kidding, right? Eddie Munson, who notoriously shits on societal expectations, at prom. I mean, have you ever even gone to a school dance before?”

“Mm, not that I can recall. Then again, never found anyone I actually wanted to go with.” He comments, quirking a brow as he winks at you.

“Which I also don’t believe.”

“Which part? That I’ve never found anyone I wanted to go with or that you’re the one I wanted to come with?” He gently teases.

“Both, if I’m honest.”

“Well both statements are true, princess.”

You can’t help but bite your lip to keep from smiling dumbly, but you’re pretty sure you fail at that when he smiles back at you.

~.~

Prom is slowly winding down, only about an hour and a half to two hours left before it’s over, and you haven’t really danced too much.

You didn’t think Eddie would care to, and you also don’t like being the center of attention, which you - irrationally - feel is the case when you dance.

So far the only times you’ve danced is when Robin drags you onto the dance floor to dance with her or her and Steve. Each time, you’ve had fun, but found yourself retreating back to your table with Eddie before long.

Little did you know he watched you each time you danced though. He loved how happy you looked, just having fun with your friends.

He wanted to dance with you himself, but couldn’t bring himself to ask you yet. Not until a familiar song started to play.

As the intro plays, you find yourself swaying slightly to the beat of the song.

“Let’s go dance.” Eddie suddenly encourages, surprising you.

“R-really?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” He smiles, grabbing your hand and pulling you out to the dance floor.

Robin smiles at you as you pass her, and you can’t help but send her a slightly panicked expression, not sure what you’re currently doing.

Before she can really say anything back with her expression, Eddie pulls you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist as the other holds your right hand.

“There’s a boy, I know, he’s the one I dream of.” He goofily sings, drawing a smile from you as he moves the two of you to the beat.

“Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above.” He continues, smiling widely as you start to giggle.

“Sing with me. This is one of your favorites, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

“Then join me.” He challenges, smirking at you as you smile, both of you still swaying and moving to the song.

“Ooh, how will I know?” You sing, giggling as he sings the echo to you, slightly leaning in so you can hear him.

You pause for a moment, simply watching him as he does the same. It’s not until he raises his brow with a smirk do you start singing again, smiling like a dork.

“How will I know if he really loves me? I say a prayer with every heartbeat.”

“I fall in love whenever we meet; I’m asking you what you know about these things.”

“You’ve got a beautiful voice.” He states, dumbly smiling down at you, loving how you shy away from his compliment, a blush rising to your cheeks.

“Shut up.” You mumble, dropping your eye contact with him as you bite your lip.

“You’re adorable when you get all shy, you know that?”

“Am not.”

“Are too. I can never get enough of it.”

You gape at his comment, not sure how to respond. Although he’s practically directly contradicted you, you can’t believe he’d actually like you.

He doesn’t seem to mind your lack of response, though. He just keeps swaying the both of you, spinning you occasionally which draws a slew of chuckles from you.

Even as the song ends, he keeps his hands on you, dancing to the next song as it starts. You have to admit this is rather nice, and fun if you dare say so.

“Because your kiss; your kiss is on my list” he sings to you, smiling as he does so.

“Because your kiss, your kiss is on my list.” You sing back, not able to stop the smile on your lips from growing as his eyes seem to sparkle at you joining in with him.

“Because your kiss, your kiss I can’t resist.”

“Because your kiss is on my list, of the best things in life.” He murmurs the end of the song, having pulled you close to him as you were dancing, a soft smile on his lips as he looks into your eyes.

A few seconds pass where the two of you simply stare at each other, a million thoughts running through each of your minds as the next song begins - this one a little slower.

“Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take I’ll be watching you.”

You can’t help but feel your stomach somersault as he sings to you, his voice low as he leans in close to you.

“Every single day, every word you say, every game you play, every night you stay I’ll be watching you.”

Enjoying his voice, you let yourself relax into his hold as he carefully sways the both of you, not caring who may or may not be watching the two of you.

He’s only wanted to hold you like this for four years now. Now that he's got you in his arms, he’s not going to let anyone disrupt the two of you.

“Oh, can’t you see you belong to me?” He murmurs, mouth next to your ear as he sings, hoping you can read that he’s not just singing to you, but letting his feelings pour out.

As the song nears its end, you find yourself looking up to him, his wide, brown eyes looking down at you.

“Eddie…” you murmur, not sure where you want to go with this, but knowing you want to say something.

“I want to kiss you…” he announces, voice soft as he searches your face.

“Then do it.”

A brief expression of shock passes over his face before he smiles, leaning down and capturing your lips with his while he cups your cheek with the hand not wrapped around your waist.

“I think I love you.” He admits, smiling as he continues to kiss you.

“I think I might just love you too.” You chuckle, hearing Robin somewhere in the background gasping and cheering as you and Eddie kiss.

“Good. I was really hoping you would.”

“You’re not the only one to have someone on their mind.”

“Oh yeah?” He questions, brows quirking.

“Mhm. You, Eddie Munson, have been on my mind for a long time. Even before you first talked to me.”

“Hmm. I’m very glad.” He smiles, kissing you softly once more.

“How about we get out of here? They don’t expect you to pick this all up until tomorrow anyways, right?”

“Luckily.” You smile, chewing on your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to leave with him.

As he smiles at you, you know he feels the same. Especially as he kisses your lips once more before leading you off the dance floor and out of the gymnasium all together.

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