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mouschiwrites · 2 months

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Ninjas x reader with a pixiecut?

I went threw a bad slump and didn't brush my hair for months and now it's so matted I have to cut it all off if I can't get it done by Monday 😭 I just really love your writing and i wanna see how the ninjas would react to a reader with long hair chopping it all off into a pixiecut ♡♡♡

I'm so sorry friend; but I know you'll look gorgeous no matter what you do with your hair! And the ninjas think so too ;)

Ninjago - Ninjas' Reaction to You Cutting Your Hair

Kai

I am a "Kai the hair expert" truther

So of course he's always concerned about your hair and its health

When you had long hair, he was always reminding you to take good care of it, but he never really enforced his reminders

So when you turn up one day with cropped hair, he's just like :O

"What happened?? Did you not take good care of it? Was it matted?"

He runs over to you and starts feeling your hair for himself, probably deducing exactly what went wrong in his little head

He just runs his hands through your hair for a while, and he finds himself already getting used to the new cut

He tells you that it doesn't look bad; no, it looks pretty great actually!

But if he suspects that you cut it for hair health reasons, he's going to start cracking down on you taking care of your hair

Don't worry, he has an arsenal of tips and product recommendations

And styling tips, now that it's shorter like his :D

Hair care night becomes a weekly ritual for you guys, and Kai always looks forward to it

Even if/when your hair grows out again, you keep this tradition going because you both love it so much

If not for the fabulous hair that results from these nights, then for the intimate feeling of applying products to each other's hair and brushing it out and stuff :)

Jay

I feel like Jay's the type of guy to be enchanted by big changes

He was absolutely enamored by you when you had long hair, but when you turn up with short hair...

It's the night he first saw you all over again: love at first sight

That's not to say that he loves you any more now, he just falls in love with another side of you (if that makes sense)

He asks why you cut it, more excited than condescending or anything

Whatever you say he just nods (was he even listening??), telling you how amazing you look

Get ready for him to be staring at you nonstop for the next..... forever probably

And he loves each new style you try as it grows out again (if you let it grow out)

He just adores seeing you in different styles; it's like having a whole array of Y/ns to love

He definitely surprises you with new accessories and clothes that he thinks will look nice with your current style

And he's always on the hunt for more.....

He can't pass by one clothing store without looking at the mannequins like "hmmm, Y/n would look good in that!" or "that would really complement Y/n's eyes when they do [x hairstyle]"

Even if he doesn't buy it, he'll take a picture so he can send it to you imagine you in it

Cole

Okay this is going to sound bad but. I don't think Cole would notice right away

He's not so much a "looks" guy

Don't get me wrong, he thinks you're gorgeous, but he's more holistic in his love for you

He loves your personality, your voice, the way you carry yourself... your appearance is just another item on a very long list of reasons he loves you

So when you turn up with short hair one day, he just smiles at you and asks if you did anything interesting today

"Pfff—Cole. Look at me and ask that question again."

"Oh.. OH!! Your hair!!"

He tells you it looks great :)

I don't think he'll say much beyond that; like I said, your appearance is just one reason he loves you

And he always thinks you look fantastic anyway

He always tells you you're beautiful, and he's not going to stop just because you got a haircut

He'll be pretty oblivious if you grow it out again, too, though

One day he'll just be like "hmm hang on... Oh! You've grown out your hair again!! Looks great babe :) <3"

Zane

He'd notice right away

And in the most non-judgemental, completely unbiased, solely curious voice, he'd ask:

"Why did you cut your hair?"

He's not disappointed or excited or anything, just genuinely curious

And he listens quite intently while you explain, nodding along agreeably

He liked it when it was long; he loved to play with it and try intricate styles

Just to keep his hands busy, y'know?

But that doesn't mean he was sad to see it short

If anything he just sees it as a challenge to try new hairstyles!

He LOVES playing with your hair, long or short

Be prepared to try out like 50 different styles within the first month

It's usually late at night when he tries them out, so you don't have to wear them in public if you don't want to

But he thinks you're beautiful in every style, and he will be very proud if you actually sport one of his styles out in the world

Though he likes the way you style it better; he thinks that it's just so... you

And it doesn't need saying that he can't get enough of you <3

Lloyd

It takes him about two seconds to notice, then he just freezes like a deer in headlights

And he's not subtle about it either, if you don't see him staring, you can definitely feel it

He won't say anything—you'll have to break the silence

"So, uh... what do you think?"

He blubbers for a moment, words failing him

He was just so surprised, and he didn't know what to make of it

He doesn't actually even have an opinion at first, he's too shocked

But he comes around to the new look pretty quickly

He decides that you're so gorgeous that you can rock any hairstyle

So he'll just look back on your long-haired days like "huh. they killed it back then, too. dang."

If anything the change has made him more conscious about the fact that you literally always look beautiful, and he starts reminding you more often

Especially when you try out a new way of styling it

Get ready to be called beautiful 100x more often, even as your hair grows out again

Nya

She is ECSTATIC when she sees your hair

Literally squeals:

"Oh my—! YOUR HAIR!!"

She runs over to you and immediately starts messing with it

She loves it!!

She loved you with long hair, too, she's just so surprised that you'd do something so radical and have it look THAT GOOD

She was, like... smacked in the face with beauty

She jokingly asks why you don't do such drastic changes more often

But then when the excitement wears off a bit, she'll ask if there was a reason you cut it

She'll be understanding no matter what you say, but if there was a problem she's going to help you fix it 😤

She's a do-er like that

I also think that she, like Kai, knows a thing or two about hair

Maybe not to the same extent, but she'll know how to help you if you need it :)

And she knows all the little tips and tricks for dealing with short hair, which she's more than glad to share with you

I also think that she'd be able to give you a little trim every now and again if you want to keep it short :)

Thank you for this request! And thanks for reading, take care doves <33

(divider by saradika)

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oftenwantedafton · 4 months

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The Perfect Girl - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Summary: Dave Miller sees you hesitate. Perhaps reluctant to stay alone in the dark. Perhaps some sense of self preservation is finally kicking in, making you wary of following a virtual stranger more than two decades older into the recesses of an abandoned restaurant.

No one knows you’re here.

Anything could happen.

Also available on AO3

Fate brings you into the man calling himself Dave Miller’s path on a Monday afternoon.

You’re in line ahead of him at a kiosk at the mall, where a vendor sells bags of artificially colored and flavored popcorn. There are a variety of unusual offerings like chocolate orange and strawberries and cream and peanut butter and jelly, the latter dyed purple and yellow. That was a personal favorite of his.

You’re next. You take a step forward and Dave moves right behind. He hooks a thumb in one of the belt loops of his security guard uniform pants and fiddles with the heavy ring of keys. There are so many. He doesn’t even know what half of them are for, in truth; only concerned with the ones that matter.

He can smell your fragrance from here. Not some cloying perfume that older women seem to favor, but something fruity and vibrant. A body spray of some sort perhaps. He also detects a light floral scent from your shampoo. You’re not long out of the shower, he thinks.

You order Wacky Watermelon. The kernels are colored red and green. You rummage in your purse. A tidy little thing, compact, thin strap, single compartment. It appears you’re a little short on cash.

“I’ve got it,” the security guard says, stepping beside you, reaching for his wallet.

Your cheeks flush. Such a pretty pink hue. “That’s ok, I…”

“It would be my pleasure.” He smiles. It’s a large one, lips stretching over sharp looking teeth. A bit intimidating.

“Oh, okay. Th…thank you,” you stammer.

So now you are indebted to him. At least, that is how he sees it. You collect your bag of popcorn and smile nervously.

“I’ll treat you next time. I just got a job working over there.” You point to a clothing store for young adults. He can hear the music blaring inside from here. The mannequins in the storefront windows are currently wearing distressed denim leggings and cropped hoodies. The fashion of today’s youth is something that eludes Dave, but then again, he supposes every generation has their trends. He’s seen bell bottoms and leg warmers come and go. Earth tones and neon. Now this blatant exposure. A jarring mismatch of wanting to be covered but also exposing tantalizing amounts of flesh. And he was not supposed to look. Well.

You don’t appear to subscribe to that same sense of style. Your clothing is demure. Everything covered. Not too tight. Hinting at nothing. Leaving it to the imagination. He likes to imagine.

He nods and a piece of the dark hair that’s a bit untidy falls over his brow. He sees you swallow thickly. How lovely your throat is.

“So I gotta get back. I’ll see you around.”

Oh, indeed you will, he thinks.

***

It’s Thursday. It’s pouring outside and the mall is crowded, people driven to find activities indoors. The pizzeria would have been very busy on a day like today, if it was still open.

He wanders the dusty rooms. Brushes fingers over the joysticks and buttons on the arcade cabinets. Draws back the stage curtains to view the animatronics frozen in place, waiting patiently for a future peformance. He’ll wake them again, when the time is right. He returns to the security office and surveys the monitors. There are intruders on occasion, but they’re rare, as the restaurant is actually concealed behind a wall, its existence forgotten. Those that do happen to stumble into it, well. They don’t live to tell the tale. So it remains hidden, secret. Like his real identity as the former owner of the establishment, William Afton.

He eases back into the office chair and it creaks loudly in the stillness. He can spare a few more moments before he returns to his actual job patrolling the shopping mall. How tedious it is. Assisting customers when they’ve locked themselves out of their cars. Giving directions, usually to the restroom even though there are mall directories everywhere. The occasional shoplifter. Reuniting lost children with their parents. That last task was especially difficult to keep a straight face during. It’s a waiting game, something to do to fill the in between times, until he can begin the work again. At least it gives him an alibi, an excuse to be near his old restaurant.

He’s thirsty.

The soda vending machines are empty, of course, the supplies of the franchise’s stock long depleted. No more Freddy Fazbear’s Fizzy Cola or Bonnie’s Bodacious Orange Blast. He’ll need to get something from one of the vendors in the food court. Perhaps you’ll go with him, pay him back as it were.

He has found you coming into his mind all week.

He’d seen you a few times during his patrol. Paused to watch you refold sweaters and organize pants hanging on a rack when he thinks you’re unaware. Sometimes he waits for you to notice and he waves and smiles. A softer gesture, no teeth. You wave uncertainly back.

The wheels drag across the floor as Miller pushes back from the desk and rises to his feet. It’s time to leave his beloved pizzeria. For now.

***

You’re in high school. Senior year. Eighteen, an only child. Parents divorced. You’ve just purchased your first car. Want to study Archaeology, specialize in Egyptology.

You’re babbling, alternating between nibbling on a chocolate bar and sipping lemon lime soda. Dave patiently listens to the prattling. He likes the way your glossed lips look wrapped around the straw, the suction you apply. He takes a sample of his own cherry soda and leans back. The metal cafe chairs in the food court aren’t the most comfortable, especially since his legs are so long, his six foot four frame cramped. But he’ll endure it, and gladly. The chatter and the discomfort pale in comparison to what he wants to take from you.

“How long have you worked here?” You ask him, taking another bite of milk chocolate.

“Two years, nearly.”

“What’s the most interesting thing that’s happened? Like, did you ever have to call the police or anything?”

“There are the occasional shoplifters. Nothing dramatic.” The security guard takes another pull from his drink.

You look a little disappointed. “Oh, okay.” The candy wrapper is empty. He can hear the ice rattling around in the nearly empty cup. Your time together seems to be running short. “Well, I gotta get back. It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise. I appreciate the beverage.” He finishes his drink and dumps it into the trash bin nearby.

Dave accompanies you back to the clothing store. There’s no reason for it. You don’t need an escort or a guide. But it’s an excuse to be by your side a little longer. You’re wearing a different body spray today but this scent is equally as appealing. Vanilla. Warm and sugary.

“Have a good rest of your shift,” you say, stepping back into the store you’re employed at. Dave watches your thread your way between the shelves and the racks and he thinks he’s going to bring you into the darkness of the pizzeria very soon.

***

The following Sunday. Sunny, mild, the perfect spring day. The mall is less crowded, customers seeking the good weather outdoors.

Dave braves the music and enters the clothing store you work at. You’re leaning against the counter. He’s watched you wipe down the same clean space five times in as many minutes. Keep glancing at the clock, eager for the shift to end. You’re clearly bored.

The security guard joins you at the counter and leans. Narrow hips much higher next to your curves. Arms folded over a gray shirt with black epaulets. Long and lean. The heavy ring of keys jangling when he shifts positions.

“Is it me, or is today incredibly dull?”

“Oh my gosh, yes,” you agree immediately.

“What time do you get off?”

“Two.”

“I’ve got something to show you.”

The phrasing throws you off. He can feel you stiffen a bit beside him, your breath catching.

“I’ve found an old arcade walled up at the other end of the mall. Thought maybe you’d like to go explore. It looks pretty interesting.”

“Oh!” You exclaim. He feels the tension ease in your limbs. Back to trusting again. “That’s kind of neat.”

“Don’t tell anyone about it, okay? I don’t want people to find out. It’s just our little secret.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll come back at two to get you.” He pushes off from the counter, raking a hand through the dark locks that are just a touch too long.

“Okay.” You sound a bit uncertain. But the deal has been struck. It doesn’t matter if you’re a bit wary.

He’s got you right where he wants you.

***

Dave Miller doesn’t really need the flashlight.

He knows his restaurant by heart, of course; knows the placement of every machine and table and chair and counter. But he has to illuminate the path, for your sake.

You follow close behind him. He has a habit of stopping abruptly and you collide against his spine more than once. You don’t see his feral grin.

He beams the light around so you can see the remains of the pizzeria’s glory: the claw machines and the pinball cases, the partially stocked prize counters and the arcade cabinets.

“What’s behind the curtains?” He sees you looking curiously at the stage.

“Animatronics.”

“Like Chuck E. Cheese?”

Miller scowls. “A superior version. They copied Freddy Fazbear’s.”

“It’s a shame there’s no electricity. I would totally give some of these games a try.”

“Oh, there is. I just have to hit the switch. It’s way in the back near the offices. Are you going to come with me or stay here?”

He sees you hesitate. Perhaps reluctant to stay alone in the dark. Perhaps some sense of self preservation is finally kicking in, making you wary of following a virtual stranger more than two decades older into the recesses of an abandoned restaurant. No one knows you’re here. Anything could happen.

“I’ll come with you.”

Dave grins. “Follow me.”

#william afton x you #william afton x reader #dave miller x reader #dave miller x you #william afton #dave miller #fnaf fanfic

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rehfan · 1 month

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La Belle Dame avec Merci -- Chapter 3: Sadie Hawkins Is a Bitch

Eddie Munson x Unpopular!AFAB!fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ readers only please - minor children DNI! – No Upsidedown; reader is technically a virgin; mutual pining; Eddie has trust issues; emotional hurt/comfort; female masturbation; male masturbation; emotional manipulation; reader is kinda shitty to Eddie; reader gets better; angst; more angst; Eddie’s mom is dead; small act of accidental physical violence; Uncle Wayne is the best

Tagged: @bluestuesday / @ali-r3n / @winchester-angel / @iletmytittiestitty-russ / @mewchiili / @chaoticgood-munson /

DO NOT POST TO ANY OTHER SITE. My words are mine and mine alone.

Inspired by @/hard-candy-writing ‘s ORIGINAL POST

MASTERPOST LINK – AO3 LINK

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

Sadie Hawkins could kiss your ass. Frustrated with yourself, you pulled at the gaping neckline of the oversized sweater you wore over your turtleneck. You knew it wasn’t really oversized because when it was on the mannequin in the store, the headless female form had her shoulders completely exposed. That was the way it was supposed to be worn: babydoll style. You bought it in a fit of insanity, obviously. But it was the only thing that no one in the school had seen yet and, after all the money you had spent on it, you wanted to do something with it. Something slightly daring, sexy and alluring. For Eddie.

You had to wear the turtleneck underneath because your parents wouldn’t allow you out of the house wearing just the sweater as the mannequin modeled it. You stuffed your tank top into your bookbag. The plan was: change out of the turtleneck and into the tank at school and then change back again before you went home.

As you stuffed the material down deep under your books, like you were attempting to smuggle a key of cocaine through airport security, you could feel your heart beating in your chest. You would never have believed that you were the sort of girl who would bring clothes to change at school because your parents would object to what you tried to leave the house in, but here you were. Acting like all the brainless, superficial, preppie girls who slutted it up for their boyfriends at school. You caught your look in your bedroom mirror and mouthed: “Who are you?” as your mom called you down for breakfast.

Embracing your fate, just before homeroom, there you were: off-the shoulder sweater with complimenting tank top underneath, with your Jordache jeans pegged at the ankles, and your pure white keds. It was very Flashdance only without the leg warmers. You had also managed to put some make-up on your face. Nothing garish, but just enough to make a difference. You looked cute, but not too cute. You were ready for battle.

Sadie Hawkins was the yearly dance where the girls got to ask the guys. The gender-flip was meant to be the cutesy appeal, but honestly, it kind of made you sick. This was a dance neither one of you wanted to attend, but you also wanted to show up with Eddie and freak everyone out. To do this, you had to look like you had bothered to put in some kind of an effort. After all, fake dating needed just the right touch to make things believable.

It had been three solid days since you had straddled his lap in the library on that fateful Monday and actually pressed your mouth to his. Since then, it had only been not-close-enough-to-touch-but-close-enough-to-look-like-kissing fake kissing in the halls lasting only for the time that the jocks or party kids were around. You didn’t have the heart to actually kiss him again. Not that you didn’t want to. He was certainly growing on you and got your sense of humor. But after kissing him the first time, it registered as cruel with you to do that to him over and over again and calling it fake.

You hadn’t formed an actual plan with Eddie on Monday. All you knew was that the looks you kept getting from pockets of people in the halls of Hawkins High was giving you a wonderful feeling. You had a secret and they weren’t allowed to know. You felt like a puppet master leading all of them along and it gave you a rush that pleased you immensely.

For his part, Eddie couldn’t prevent the surprised look on his face when you approached him in the halls for the second time that Monday. He was amazed that you were keeping up the ruse at first. After the third day of your face being so close to his, but not actually touching him, his brain was screaming at him to make it make sense. Your perfume filled his senses. Your breath was on his cheek. You were right there, but he had no permission to do anything. He couldn’t just kiss you. That would mean you would stop, right? A line crossed. And he didn’t want you to stop, did he? By the end of Wednesday, his confusion melted into resentment. You were clearly playing a game he didn’t want you to win.

At first, it was easy; you rushed to him with a fake-kiss me quick before pulling him to you by the collar and pressing your face close to his, one eye on the crowd of passing kids, then breaking away with a thanks see ya before disappearing yourself. But as time has worn on, you could tell Eddie was getting more and more itchy about keeping up the foolishness. The last time you tried at the end of day yesterday, he took your hands away from the sides of his face and pressed you up against the locker. He drew close. Not actually making contact with you as always, but simply staring you down. He didn’t look pleased; his eyes filled with a threat: go on, I dare you to try it for real. So you didn’t. He was clearly irritated.

You were going to have to give him a little more to keep him sweet.

You had grabbed his present that morning and had stuffed it in your bag as well as your tank top. You tried to be thoughtful, but you weren’t made of money, so it had to be something meaningful, useful, and cheap. And since you didn’t know much about him, you hoped this would do the trick.

You knew his love for D&D and weaving stories from his participation in Hellfire. You knew of his struggles with history - at least that wasn’t part of the lie when someone from the evil cliques put his name into the tutor request list. You also knew he loved metal music. He wore the emblems of them all over his clothing like a knight wears armor - not to mention the guitar pic that hung around his neck like a talisman. So, armed with the knowledge that you did have about him, you went out and purchased a gift. You just hoped it was enough to encourage his continued participation in the charade.

As you made your way down the halls, you noticed all of the decorations for the upcoming dance. They only served to make you even more nervous. The sweater was daring alright: you felt downright naked. You saw him at his locker before he saw you. “Hey handsome.“

Eddie shut his eyes. Yours was the last voice he wanted to hear. Unfortunately for him, it was also the only voice he wanted to hear. One week into this and it was a new form of torture to be around you every day. The last time, he found strength enough to resist you. But only barely. He had to do better.

“Cupcake!“ he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. He faced you full on, crossing his arms and leaning against the lockers with one shoulder, knowing what you’d come for. It was a moment - just one - where his heart skipped several beats at the sight of you. Jesus fuck, you were gorgeous.

“How are you today, snookems?” you smiled, hands behind your back holding your bag.

You were literally a siren. A witch in fairy-princess garb. Only now you were really trying. Your tits were right there. And your lips were a cherry red. And you smiled like that at him. But it was all a lie, wasn’t it? It was all for show. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Resigned, Eddie thought: get it over with now, and let’s get on with our lives. He closed his eyes and puckered.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” you said, “there’s no one here.”

Eddie was disappointed. Wait. Why was he disappointed? Shouldn’t he be relieved? He shook it off and asked: “So why are you here then?”

You stamped down a wave of annoyance at his irritation. “I’m here to give you this.” You dug in your backpack and came up with his present. “Happy three day fake-aversary, I guess,” you said, managing a half smile and shrug.

His head drew back, and he looked incredibly skeptical. “And what is this?“

“Like I said: happy fake-aversary.”

Incredibly suspicious, he took the box from you and examined it, turning it this way and that, shaking it and bringing it to his ear. “No ticking.”

“No ticking,” you confirmed.

“Then I guess I better see what’s inside,” he said and took off the lid. His eyebrows went past his bangs in surprise. A set of six steel strings for guitar were inside.

“How did you know I played?”

You shrugged, pleased that he was at least giving you a half grin. “Lucky guess,” you said, “or maybe a clue you leave everyone?” Here you glanced at the guitar pic that dangled on his shirt. “I don’t know. I guess I just had a feeling.”

He huffed a small laugh as he glanced at the pic. “Well, now I feel bad,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything, buttercup.”

“Go with me to the Sadie Hawkins thing on Saturday and we’re even.”

His peal of laughter probably echoed in the gym on the opposite side of the school.

“Will you shut up!” you whispered to him harshly. “You’re going to blow our cover, jackass.”

“Oh! So sorry, my little peach cobbler,” and just for emphasis, he pinched your cheek causing you to pull away from his touch reflexively, “I forgot that we were still trying to trick the school into thinking that you aren’t the Ice Queen they think you are.”

“Hey! This is to help you too!” you argued.

“Yeah, I’d been wondering about that. How do you figure?” he asked. He was genuinely curious. After all, his life hadn’t changed much since the school was set on fire with the rumor that the two of you were seeing each other. He was still an outcast. Only now, he was an outcast AND the guy who managed to corrupt the vestal virgin of Hawkins High. He saw how the girls looked at him differently. He wasn’t blind. But he leaned in toward you; he wanted to hear your reasoning for this game.

“Well, you’re supposedly dating the undatable girl, right? The untouchable one. Guys have been shot down hard by me. Yet you managed to melt the Ice Queen. Surely that’s gotten you at least a reprieve from all the “freak” talk. Right?”

Eddie shrugged. “Not the biggest change in the world.” He wasn’t being touted as a hero, and there were still whispers going on behind his back about him. But the tone of the whispers had changed. And, as he gave it some thought, he hadn’t been shoved in the shoulder or shouted at in the cafeteria anytime in the last few days. It was as if all the guys were trying to figure it out. How did Eddie Munson, the freak of Hawkins High, hook up with the Ice Queen? “But yeah, I guess there’s been a mild shift in the air.”

“See! Now don’t you want to see all their jaws drop when we attend the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

He internally recoiled at the idea of going to a Hawkins High dance. Deep in the pit of his stomach, a sour roiling developed; that same warning against the seduction of the witch-fairy. “I can live without it, to be honest, sweets,” he said. “And besides,” he added as an afterthought, “I don’t have a thing to wear.”

“You don’t have to dress up for Sadie,” you said. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s not a formal. It’s just a gathering of the youth with music and a photo op.”

“Ohhh no. Nope. No way. I am NOT having my picture taken attending a high school dance,” he said, shoving your present and his books in his locker and grabbing a notebook and his English textbook. “Thanks for the strings, but no way, angel. Not me. You’ve got the wrong dude.”

You could see that he clearly wasn’t going to go. And if you were honest, you didn’t really want to go with him if he was going to be like this. You did not want to force a boy to dance with you who absolutely hated the music and the company and the atmosphere and the gentle swaying back and forth. He would be a miserable human. And so would you for asking him to do it.

A couple of cheerleaders passed by, glancing at you and giggling. Fuck them, you thought. And fuck Eddie’s belligerence. “Well, think about it anyway. I’ll see you in biology. Let me know then.” Maybe you could think of a way by then to make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear.

“I’m letting you know now, cupcake,” he said, slamming the locker door shut and spinning the lock. “It’s not happening. Lose the dream.” And with that, he stalked down the hallway and disappeared around the corner, proud that he was able to resist you and your feminine wiles.

“Shit,” you said to the empty halls around you. The second bell rang. “SHIT!” You raced down the hall to history, praying Ms. O’Donnell would believe your lie about having to use the bathroom before class.

Maria looked at you funny when you got there, breathless. “Fooling around with Munson has you running late today?” she asked, giggling.

“What? No,” you said, unloading your history books. “Why?”

She thumbed in the direction of one of the cheerleaders that had passed you. “Stephanie told O’Donnell you were running late because you were making out with your boyfriend in the hall. She saw you.”

You felt yourself blush. “Jesus,” you muttered. The class began. “We weren’t making out,” you whispered.

“Then what were you doing?” she asked, keeping her voice low as well.

“Just talking,” you said.

“How can you be with that guy? You know he sells drugs, right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you said, “I don’t get involved with that. That’s his business.”

“Yeah but how can you kiss him? He probably tastes like an ashtray,” she said and made a face, sticking a finger down her throat and pretending to gag.

“You go around licking ashtrays to find out what it’s like, do you?” you asked her. Maria made a face.

O’Donnell got everyone to work on an assignment in silence. You read through the material and began writing the answer to the essay question O’Donnell had written on the board. Between every sentence, you thought about how Eddie tasted. That first day, yeah, he did taste of cigarettes. It had been a closed-mouth kiss, so it was subtle but there. All your other kisses weren’t even kisses, just closeness. But on all those occasions he had a distinct scent of gum or mints or toothpaste. It was as if he were trying not to offend you. Was this the same boy who wouldn’t go to the dance?

He was a mystery. One you had yet to figure out. But what wasn’t a mystery was that he had his pride. And that, you couldn’t fault him for. After all, you were the same. He didn’t want to be thought of as so stupid as to need a tutor. He didn’t want to attend a dance where the music wouldn’t be to his tastes and his dancing might be made fun of. He didn’t want to fit in like that. He was labeled an outcast. He had embraced it, leaned into it, owned it. At this point, it was part of his personality. There was no way he was going to attend a dance where the requirement was to fit in - not after being the outcast for so long.

You sighed as you proofread your essay before turning it in to Ms. O'Donnell's desk. As you sat at your desk again, you knew what you had to do; you had to be kind. No amount of gifts would crack that stubborn pride of his. There was no way Eddie Munson was going to a dance at Hawkins High. And there was no way you were going to force him to. It wasn’t right. You wouldn’t like to be forced to do something you didn’t want to do. It wasn’t fair.

You would tell him in biology that he was off the hook.

~080~

“Very reminiscent of “La Belle Dame sans Merci” only with a twist ending, Eddie. I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with the poem,” said Mr. Hutchinson, passing back Eddie’s essay from earlier in that week. Eddie genuinely liked Hutch. Especially since he had a love for fantasy books like Eddie did.

Eddie gave him a curious look and shook his head. “No? asked Hutch. “I thought you might have been drawing from it, but just in case, I brought a copy of it. It’s at my desk. I’ll get it to you after class.”

At the end, just before the bell, Hutch placed the poem on his desk. It was not lengthy, but the first stanza was told from a different perspective than his story. “Read it a few times over and see the similarity between your story and this one. It’s remarkable that you’ve never read it, but still came up with a similar concept as Keats. Have you been done in by a woman’s charms recently?”

“Ice Queen,” whispered someone as they passed his desk to leave. Eddie’s eyes followed the offender across the room, a scowl on his face. He hated that name. You were just a chick. A chick who valued her grades more than she did parties or sports or sex. That’s all. Just because you wanted to be treated like more than a piece of meat didn’t mean you deserved to be shunned.

You were just a chick. One who had been outcast like him. One who deserved respect. One who was thoughtful and caring enough to buy him guitar strings, even though they were probably a bribe to get him to go to the dance. But you were also a chick who wouldn’t kiss him for real because… why? Just to keep up appearances without offending him? Or just because his first and only kiss was so lousy, but now you were committed? Still, you were a chick who was funny. And smart. Who wasn’t out to treat him like a piece of meat, at least, lousy kisser or not.

One who probably deserved to be taken to a dance. Just once. Because none of these other clowns would have what it takes to do that. And Eddie had it within his power. He could be the one to do that for you. He imagined spinning you around on the dance floor. That smile on your face. What harm could it do?

He’d let you know in biology that he thought it through and he’d go.

~080~

By the time biology rolled around, you were resigned to your fate. Gail passed by and you waved at her. She took that as an invitation to say hello. “So… you and Munson?” She was just as skeptical and curious as the rest of the school.

“What can I say? He’s got pretty eyes.” It wasn’t a lie. He did. “And you’re the one who ditched me anyway, so…”

She shrugged. “He gave me a twenty to switch tables. Still… Munson?” she asked, making a face.

“His name is Eddie,” you said, offended but not surprised that she was so easily bought, “and he’s kind of funny. And very creative. He’s got, I don’t know… a good heart. You know, for this tough guy.”

“Hmm, okay I guess. To each his own,” she said. “Just so long as he doesn’t get you hooked on cocaine or pregnant or anything.”

“Jesus, Gail! It’s not like that at all. He’s… a good dude. Just,” you said, grasping for a word you didn’t quite know. “He’s Eddie. He’s a breed apart. His own person. And he makes me laugh. Where’s the harm in that?”

“And the metal music?” she asked. “You’re into that? Because Jeff told me that Eddie and his band - Jeff and Eddie are in a band - they play at the Hideout on Tuesdays - he says they've gotten pretty good. But I’m sure you knew that already. Being Eddie’s girlfriend and all. So you must like their music too, huh?”

“I don’t mind it,” you said, not having any idea about his band until just then, but you were willing to fake it to keep up appearances. Your heart swelled with a bit of pride knowing that your instincts about what to give him as a gift were indeed spot on and completely appropriate. “I really like some of it. Good music to clean the house to.”

Gail laughed at this and said her goodbyes, moving back to sit with Jeff. Eddie came in moments later and set his things down. Scooting next to you on his stool, he said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and before you ask - no, I did not have a lobotomy.”

“What?” you asked, genuinely clueless.

“I think we should go,” he said, leaning toward you, invading your space, as was his way when he was excited about something. His one hand was settled in front of you on the lab table you shared. It looked strong. It was distracting.

“Go?” you asked, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

“Yeah,” he said, “you, me, we - we should go to the dance.” The space he occupied was vacated temporarily as he took off his jacket and sat on it as usual. The absence of him that close to you was like a physical ache. Before you had time to wonder about it, you had to remind yourself to breathe. He was wearing a t-shirt today and his arms were gorgeous. You had never touched him outside of the fake kissing, not casually, but in this moment, you felt like a woman possessed.

“Oh,” you said, tracing a finger over the puppet master on his forearm, “I was going to let you off the hook for that.”

“You were?” He was trying to focus on your words, but your fingertip was distracting him. He moved his arm so that you had better access.

“Yeah,” you said, freezing your motion to look into his eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to be miserable just so I can mess with people’s heads. You don’t deserve that.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “I don’t like them. They don’t like me. If I showed up in one of the places where they felt all normal - you know, if The Freak came into their dance - it would be cool to ruffle their preened feathers. If only for a few hours.”

He had you loosely caged in, one forearm on the table in front of you, the other along the back of your chair. If he wanted to, all he would have to do was lean in six inches to kiss your bare shoulder, kiss your neck, nibble at your ear, take your mouth with his. And you would let him too. Mostly because he had never initiated anything between you two before. It was always you who had been fake-kissing him. Never the other way around.

You wondered what would happen if he did. Would you instantly melt into him? Would your knees go weak? Would you moan into his mouth?

You blinked slowly at him, desperately attempting to piece together the words he had just finished saying. He was asking you to ask him to the dance, right? Did you understand him correctly? “You don’t have to, Eddie. You really don’t. I want you to be happy. It’s bad enough I’ve been making you pretend-kiss me for the last week. I wouldn’t want to push you too far. You deserve to be with someone who isn’t a stack of lies in a trench coat.”

He wanted to ask: Is it really all a lie? Are you fake? He needed to know. He knew you started off that way, but he remembered the look you gave him when he finally pushed back that day. Shocked, lips parted in surprise, eyes alight with something else. He wanted to ask you about all that. Was it all a joke? Every part? And he wanted you to say no in the worst way. He needed you to say no. No, Eddie. You are the one I want. And was he? Was he really?

But just then Harris began his class. Eddie waited anyway, looking to you for some sign. But you didn’t do anything but turn to the page indicated and click your pen. He did the same, but he provided his ringed left hand turned up and right next to yours on the lab table between you both just in case.

Mr. Harris cleared his throat to begin class. All you both could do was turn back to your studies, but Eddie’s left hand turned palm up, the giant ring on his forefinger nudging the back of your hand. He had looked a bit hurt when you told him he deserved someone who actually cared about him. Was this him reaching out for comfort? You needed your right hand to jot notes, but when you weren’t writing, you brushed the back of his with your own, eventually turning his hand and linking your pinky with his, warm and welcoming.

You watched him out of curiosity while he wasn’t looking. This was the first time he had touched you, without you initiating anything and it was so gentle and subtle. This was not meant for the others to see and be grossed out. This was him communicating to you. No other people were invited.

Eddie felt you link your pinkie with his until you had something to write, then you were gone, only to come back seconds later to link up again. You just let him touch you. You kept coming back to touch him. And it wasn’t so obvious that others might notice. It wasn’t something that could be used for display. And you were allowing it. That was different. Could it mean that you really did give a damn? You didn’t mind him touching you?

But the touch was too intermittent. As the class went on, you were gone for longer and longer times. He wanted more.

Mr. Harris drew a complex diagram on the board. When he turned his back to the class, Eddie’s hand disappeared from your touch and slipped underneath the table. Suddenly, you felt your stool being yanked closer to him. Eddie didn’t meet your look at all. He just wrapped an arm around your back, hand resting on your hip opposite. Once he settled there, he glanced your way. You didn’t look mad. Startled, but not mad. That was good.

You waited for him to do more. To try something else. He didn’t. His hand simply rested on the curve of you, warming the flesh there. The weight of his arm wasn’t bothersome either. His scent was stronger here too: mint and Old Spice and cigarettes. You caught his eye as he measured your reaction.

And then you did something Eddie didn't expect: you smiled.

You smiled because you didn’t mind this at all. You shifted your book and notebook over and settled in next to him, taking your notes again as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Because it kind of was. Eddie went back to taking notes, easy as you please.

When Harris turned back to write something else on the board, you looked to Eddie and brushed his hair aside, pinning it behind his ear. Turning to you, his eyebrows raised, you whispered, “We don’t need to go to any dances. I hate them too, actually. We can do something else if you like. Wherever you want.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Of course,” you said. “Anything for my fake fella.”

That was the wrong thing to say. You saw something die in his dark eyes. Regret filled your throat. You hurried to apologize, the intention making it to your eyes - but the words never made it to your lips.

“If I’m not interrupting your conversation by teaching, I would like to continue,” said Mr. Harris.

Blushing, you cleared your throat and bent over your notebook.

Eddie stared at you for a beat, weighing up the last look you threw him before Harris interrupted. Finally, he turned to the teacher. “I’ll allow it,” said Eddie with a dismissive brush of his hand. Laugher went up from a few in the class.

“Oh thank you, Mr. Munson. So happy I have your approval,” the teacher said and went back to his lesson.

Harris continued his lecture and the two of you studiously took notes for a while. You shot him a quick sorry under your breath. He answered you with a glance that you hoped meant forgiveness. And you were sure it did, because his hand never moved from around your body.

Eddie being so close to you, being so quiet, with his arm still around you, you felt yourself melt a little at his touch. Not just because he was apparently comfortable, but because something inside you told you that he needed you to comfort him. To let him know you meant it when you said you were letting him off the Sadie Hawkins hook.

Eddie put his head down and took a note or two on the life cycle of the butterfly and wondered himself why he cared so much about you. More than that, why did you trust him? Where was all this coming from? Like in this moment now: you were soft under his hand, just letting him settle there. He could feel your right knee against his left. Were you moving closer? Did he really feel that?

He risked a side glance at you, but you had your thinking face on. One hand cradling your head, tilted away from him, exposing the line of your neck. The other hand gripped your pencil, scribbling a diagram of a chrysalis as Harris drew the same and labeled it on the board. He could lean in and kiss your neck if he wanted. You might have objected if he did, but he could do it. Taste your skin. Bury his nose in your hair afterward. Take in your scent. Eddie’s cock twitched slightly. He shifted in his seat. You brought your head up slightly and looked at him. His eyes met yours.

He echoed your sorry from earlier, trying like hell not to blush. Jesus, what the fuck? It was all fake. All of it. Why couldn’t he get that through his thick skull? You didn’t actually like him. You were just tolerating him for the sake of appearances. That was all. It was like a business deal.

Get a fucking grip, Munson!

“Ugh, get a room, you two,” said a harsh whisper from behind you both.

Glancing back simultaneously, one of the preppie party kids made a face at you both. You regarded each other, bemused. It seemed, at the end of the day, you were both enjoying the charade. Harris was drawing the butterfly now. You gave Eddie a look: well? A silent question in your eyes.

Permission. You were asking his permission. Holy fuck.

He didn’t think. He didn’t want to spare the time to doubt himself. Immediately, he leaned in and kissed you, his eyes open the whole time, gauging your reaction. You stared back, unable to resist being the focus of his entire attention.

He saw flecks of different colors in your eyes that he had noticed before from the prior fake kissing you had done, but they continued to fascinate him; they weren’t just the solid color they seemed to be from afar. Your touch was gentle. Your stare unwavering. He felt himself slide into a future with you as his girl. With you smiling at him as he played his guitar. With you playing with his hair as he lay in your lap and wove you a story. Date nights, fights, anniversaries, make up sex. Sex. With you. Fuck. Flickering images of skin and sweat and moaning. Clutching sheets. With you in his arms afterward. He lost himself in you until Harris’ voice pierced the silence. Eddie blinked and backed off, bent over his notebook once more. And his hand on your hip was gone.

The kiss itself was only a few seconds long. Yet, it was during that kiss that you saw it for the first time: Eddie Munson’s vulnerability. A thing so precious and fleeting, the rarest of butterflies. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, Eddie turning back to make a note of the life span of the Painted Lady butterfly.

He had never kissed you before. The first kiss had been your idea - one that you dared not repeat. But this? You stared at the side of his face for several seconds before snapping back to the classroom task at hand. The bell rang.

Eddie was up and gone without a glance back at you. Something had clearly happened for him and he was obviously embarrassed. Shit. Gail was there waiting for you as you mulled things over. She cleared her throat and knocked on the table. “Earth to-

“Yeah yeah,” you muttered. “Right with you.” You gathered your things and moved on to your next class.

There would be no next class for Eddie. He needed air. Out in the crisp late autumn morning, his van sat on the edge of the parking lot. He gained it quickly and sat himself behind the wheel, slamming the door shut hard.

“What the fuck!?” he shouted to himself as with shaking hands he shoved the key into the ignition. “What the ever-loving fuck!?” He drove off school grounds with no particular destination in mind. He just needed a quiet place to think.

He wound up at Peaceful Rest Cemetery. He knew where to go from there.

He was alone. Just him, his mother’s grave, and a fresh soft pack of cigs he had bought only that morning. He sat on the tiny stone bench at the foot of her grave and stared at her name. In that moment, his mind was blissfully blank. He lit up.

After three draws on his cig, the nicotine hitting his system, he was ready to talk. “I don’t get it, Mom,” he said, “I don’t get her at all. I mean- I get the whole fuck the in-crowd thing. God knows I get that. But me? Am I supposed to represent the anti-in-crowd type?” He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I do. But what I can’t figure is: it’s not only me. I mean, she could have picked Gareth or Jeff or any of the other guys in Hellfire. Shit, she could have picked that dweeb that works on the school paper. But no. She picks me.

“And why? Because I was there; I was convenient. Because I was sitting right across the table from her when that last straw cracked the camel’s back in two.” He drew on his cigarette again. “That’s it. That’s all. I was just the right guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now my dick wants a vote. Jesus Christ.

“I really don’t need this chick, Mom. I don’t need her using me. But you know? You remember that song that used to play on the radio when I was a kid? The one you would sing along to in the car?”

He closed his eyes and sang softly:

You just keep on using me/ until you use me up

“That one? Yeah. She’s like that. And a big part of me hates it because I know she’s using me, but then there’s a part of me that can’t believe it’s happening because she’s just… so fucking amazing. She’s smart and just a little sexy but she doesn’t even know it. She walks around looking like that and, Mom, she has no idea! It’s crazy. The sweater she had on today alone… Jesus.” Eddie blinked, remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “Sorry, Mom. But you get it.”

“She’s too good for me though. I know that. And I know what you’re going to say, Mom. I know you’re going to say that I am good enough, but I live in a trailer park with my uncle. And her? She lives over in Loch Nora with the other rich kids. Which isn’t necessarily better, but she has folks, you know? A mom and a dad and they both love each other and their little baby girl. I mean, I haven’t met them or anything, but I just know, you know?”

He took three more puffs and blew the smoke into the air until it mixed with the clouds above him. He watched them go, turning and laying down on his back on the bench, feet planted on the ground, his free hand behind his head as a cushion.

“I had a dream about her last night.”

Another smoke cloud blew out to join its brothers, shifting in the afternoon air.

“I dreamt that she was a fairy princess and I was a knight and she stole my horse and gave me honey to eat from a wooden spoon.”

Another cloud of smoke rose slowly above him.

“Fucking Keats, man.”

His mother didn’t reply. The grass rustled against her stone as the wind blew it around. The caretakers should mow soon. Eddie wondered if he should write a letter to them not to touch his mom’s grave. To tell them that he liked the longer grasses and how they sounded brushing up against her stone. Like she was whispering to him. Comforting him.

“I think I’m falling in love with her, Mom.”

“I didn’t mean to. It’s only been a few days of this shit, you know?”

“I’ve got to tell her to stop.”

“I can’t let her do this anymore.”

He finished his cig and sat up, crushing out the last embers on the underside of the bench and tossing the butt across the graveyard. He gave his mother’s headstone one last look. “Falling in love with someone so fast is what got you killed. That’s what Wayne said.”

He stood, hands in his pockets, cold now. “Of course, he was really drunk when he said it. But he said it. And I believe him.”

“Bye, Mom. Good talk.”

#fanfic #writing #joseph quinn #joe quinn #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #fake relationship #la belle dame avec merci #lbdam #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao3 writer #slow burn

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trans-queen-administrator · 6 months

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One of my friends asked what some of my favorite moment in Worm are and I've narrowed it down to just a few but how am I supposed to choose between "they seem like good people" I lied, or the second lung fight with the caterpillar in the eye to win, or Taylor breaking out of the burning building Coil trapped her in, or her terrorizing people while drinking tea, or when Taylor tries to 1v1 Leviathan to save people and gets her back shattered, or when Rachel saves her afterwards, or when we learn Rachel carved the names of her dogs into the monument, or when Taylor almost kills Triumph with bees, or the Mannequin fight, or running through the streets to warn people about Shatterbird's scream, or the fridge, or cutting Noelle in half, or just how hopeless the Noelle fight seemed before that with Eidolon caught, or Eidolon and Glaistig Uaine's fight with Scion, or Phir Sé's time bomb engulfing Behemoth and just obliterating him only for Behemoth to keep going, or Chevalier's interlude where he goes out to fight Behemoth alone despite being injured, or String Theory, or the wards therapy interlude where Lily can't get over how Taylor's words are stuck in her head, or Labyrinth and Burnscar reuniting, or Legend looking at the lie detector after the meeting, or Taylor hovering over the ocean knowing she doesn't have the battery in her flight pack to get back, or Aster getting shot, or the oil rig fight when Taylor crawls back up as a monster after being cut in half, or the horror of Alec's interlude, or Bonesaw having a crisis because Contessa said like 4 words to her and oh hey that parallels with you needed worthy opponents I never noticed that, or Taylor telling Eidolon and Scion to fuck off and leave, or Scion's entire interlude, or Number Man's interlude when he thinks about what it means of powers if Jack Slash's loves how he does stuff, or Kevin Norton, or Taylor ruining the chili, or the cafeteria scene where she's outed but talks her way out, or maggots in his eyes monday, or her turning herself in, or her talk with Dinah when she realizes that there's a solid chance she becomes Coil and keeps Dinah around because it's useful, or her killing Coil, or her killing Alexandria and Tagg, or the Cauldron raid where she swings a death knife through a crowd to hit one guy, or her requesting Lung cauterize her arm, or when Piggot is kidnapped and she fucks up the Undersiders just by talking, or Taylor's attempt to become besties with the Simurgh, or the Simurgh singing a lullaby to Lisa and Taylor, or the tea party with Nilbog, Taylor, Jack, and Riley, or the moment she reunites with her team post-timeskip, or when Glenn shows her a video of her being horrifying and she only thinks about her passenger moving her in it, or when her passenger makes her choke on a cockroach to save her, or going shopping with Lisa for fun, or when she helps Rachel at the shelter, or when she goes home with Brian and meets Aisha, or when we see Dinah for the first time and it's fucked, or when Taylor has Amy fuck with her brain knowing she won't come back from it, or when Lisa finally opens up and tells Taylor about her trigger, or when Taylor goes blind, or when Clockblocker keeps asking her questions in the car ride to Echdina, or when Scapegoat takes her injuries and freaks out, or when Sundancer tears off her costume and walks through the portal after killing Noelle but the pavement is cooling around her because she'll never escape her power or what she just did, or Fortuna's interlude, or Rachel stepping into Khepri's range because she trusts her, or Lisa tearing into Taylor with words after she sees what happened, or the realization she can't read anymore, or the fight with Dragon where she thinks she killed her, or all of the fight with Scion where she's controlling thousands of people while her brain deteriorates, or "finally, everyone was working together," or the talk with Contessa at the very end? How am I supposed to choose?

#worm #parahumans #the best moment is when Taylor becomes the worm and she beats everyone with her worm powers #that part was really well done #I FORGOT THE MIASMA KISS FUCK #how much other shit did I forget #this may be my worst formatted post of all time #ramble #half of these aren't really seriously in the running for my fave #but they're still good #and I just got into a fugue of listing every single good moment

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nonnieapple · 7 months

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⛈☂ Mall Emo, Mall Time, Mall Crime!☂⛈

• (human!Marshall Lee x reader) • r a t i n g: t e e n & u p • 2 1 0 3 w o r d s • p o s t e d 04.10.2023 🌧 navigation • s u m m a r y: what do you do when the cashier at a store is a dick? cheese it!

You couldn't wait to see Marshall again. Even though you had seen him a few days ago, you couldn't help but brim with happiness at the thought of seeing him again. You felt electrified, no matter how dumb that sounded, it was exactly how you felt. You smudged on dark eyeliner, pulled on your skinniest jeans, decked out your wrists with enough bracelets to cut off circulation, and wrapped one too many belts around your hips.

Two to be exact.

When you saw Marshall you practically strangled his waist with your grip. He sighed and hugged back.

"Are you trying to kill me or are you just happy to see me?" He said, strained. You pulled back enough to see his face. His beautiful, otherworldly face, his piercings, and his relaxed, dark eyes, which had a red undertone.

"I am never letting you go," You mumbled as you embraced him one more time before pulling away.

"Way to break a promise." He laughed, raising his brows and walking by your side to the entrance of the AAA Mall, one of the only malls around.

"I meant that in a more… metaphorical sense." You shrugged with a smile. Even the annoying mall, with all its lights and people and sounds, couldn't make you upset around Marshall. You were low-key obsessed with that man. In a mostly healthy way.

You walked through the mall, having been there quite a few times before. Why meet in a mall? There wasn't… a particular reason. It was one of the only notable places around. Sometimes you got food there that was edible. The vibes were okay, and Marshall liked staring at the Gridsound displays from time to time. Now that you thought of it, that was the biggest reason.

The AAA Mall wasn't crowded most days either, and you two, both unemployed artists, went there on the dead days- Monday through Friday. When the stores were a relative ghost town. That suited your sensory and human sensitivities. Nothing was worse than people staring at you. Besides the dry sound of dry skin on extremely dry paper, or nail filing. It felt like the sound itself filed down on your teeth. You never quite figured out why people stared. Was it your fashion? Were people that bored? Theorizing was useless. All it did was make you more anxious.

You looked up at Marshall. When you just started hanging out, he asked why you were looking at him like that, but eventually, he accepted that at times you stared like a cat at the nearest object. He was understanding, and whenever you needed some help, he was there. He was a good guy. A little bit of trouble, but you were too, and that was fun.

"It's cold in here. I can feel my blood turning into ice cubes…" You shivered, speeding up your pace as you looked around at blank mannequins and generic posters of conventional-looking white people. The embodiment of salt as seasoning.

"Hm?" Marshall blinked, glancing at you. "I think it's fine." He slipped his hand into yours, and you gasped.

"I'm convinced you're cold-blooded," You murmured, his hand cool and dry, his black nail polish chipped under your fingers.

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?" His calm voice was not suited for the absurdity of that phrase.

"Dude… why the hell would you ask me that?" He feigned immense devastation at your sound question.

"So, you wouldn't?" He stopped, giving you the saddest look.

"You should've been a darn actor…. of course I would. Now let's move, my something is about to fall off." You pulled him behind yourself gently. You passed by a breakfast diner called Kingdom. Not even. Their pancakes were super soggy.

Every store was a carbon copy of the next and the last, clothes so blank they were fit for a pharmaceutical ad. Warning- buying these clothes might be deadly. You'll die of boredom. Unless you only wear a shirt and nothing else. You know what they say, public indecency is a fashion statement! For the record nothing is wrong with being basic; it's fun to make fun of capitalistic copycats which probably don't even let their workers pee in a bottle, all for an off-white cardigan fit for a widow cosplay. You could even get a handkerchief in the pharmacy nearby.

Marshall slowed and you both marveled at the display- the store. Electric guitars with glossy, colorful, and rich exteriors, mics that cost as much as two pairs of eyeballs on the black market. The store was also filled with various tech. The interior was red and orange, covered with a checker pattern. No one was inside, only the cashier. They were taking a nap on the counter. Soft music played on the speakers. The sign above the entrance flickered. "Gridsound", lit up by a warm glow.

Around the corner was one of the most interesting shops in the AAA Mall, which said something. Flame Topic, a huge corporation trying to make money off people with an alternative style, essentially the same widow cosplay repackaged in a leathery, dark package.

You passed by it as you waved to one of the clerks, a person you knew, Flamber. A funky name for a funky person who was much better than that store but didn't wanna be another unemployed hoodlum.

The store right next to it was an exceptionally empty craft store, Raggedart. The cashier had resorted to doodling in a sketchbook, seated between the aisles. He wore a frumpy, muted in color, messily stitched-together sweater. You turned your head to the side.

Gum & Dia. The owner was Dia Gumm Baldwin, an older woman who had as much scandal surrounding her as she did money.

You hated that store and all of its tacky fast fashion, but the belts seemed okay. Just the belts. You wandered around it, pondering if you should get anything. Marshall was encouraging, at times to fault, so you stayed quiet as you pictured your life with a particular pair of socks. Riveting stuff.

There were a handful of people in the store, and its open nature made you worried, your shoulders tensing and nails digging into your palms. A clerk in all green and a green hoodie over their head with spikes atop it spoke to a couple of customers, gesturing to another section of the store.

You stood closer to Marshall.

"The cashier is looking at me funny… they can't handle the autistic swag," You whispered. He chuckled.

After a lot of meandering around the store, you settled on some belts. Marshall didn't seem interested in getting anything, instead inspecting the enticing crap around the checkout as you paid for your crap, setting the money on the register.

The cashier, a woman with brown hair and a crazy look to her glared at you. She looked so mad you'd think she was staring at an arch-enemy of hers.

"That's not enough."

You dug through your wallet, but no matter how many times you counted the money, you couldn't get the number right, or you didn't have enough money, hell knew, by that point your brain was shutting down.

Your mind blanked, your heart filled with panic and nonsense. You shook, feeling cold yet hot, everything in your eyes blurring and time stopping yet going too fast at the same time. It felt like a nightmare- a nightmare where a tsunami was about to wash over you, and you stood stupid, frozen by icelava. The scenario? Entirely different. The feeling? The utter dread? The same.

You didn't only stand stupid, you felt stupid. You wished you could control it. Control the anxiety.

Marshall found your hand. You didn't react, hand limp and cold. You tried to ground yourself. You were floating off into nowhere mentally as the judgement of the customers and cashier built.

"Ugh, what a weirdo, how can it take so long to pay?" Said a person behind you in line. The person next to them snickered.

"Can you please move it? What, are you scared or something?" The cashier had an air of suffocating smugness about her, glaring at you. You searched for a shred of understanding in her face. She flicked a crumpled-up check at you, and you could only stare in horror.

"Probably one of those people afraid of the world. One of those "mentally ill" ones, you know, the ones seeking attention," Whispered one of the people behind you as though you didn't hear. Not like they have a shit if you did.

Marshall strained to not strum the cashier a new one, also standing like a deer in headlights. An all too familiar reaction to conflict from him. He leaned down to you.

"I'm not saying we should take the stuff and run, but, if you want to, we totally could," He whispered, standing up straight right after as if he hadn't said a thing to you.

Your eyes darted to the register. Your mind went fast, thinking of the pros and cons. It all merged into a big lump of panic. You were filled with feverish worry.

You grabbed the things, gripping them for dear life, running toward the exit as fast as you could. Marshall was nearly perfectly in sync with you.

You ran out of the store and the belts beeped loudly, security chasing after you. Your mind and muscles screamed at you, but you yelled over them.

"You're way too supportive!" You addressed Marshall. You glanced back. The guards were hot on your trail of petty theft. They pulled out their walkie-talkies and gave you icy looks from under deeply furrowed brows. Their thick black and white uniforms, making them look like penguins, slowed them down significantly.

"Sorry for being nice and great and the best," Marshall murmured with utter seriousness as you breezed past the front entrance and past to the parking and beyond. You turned around and around until you were far enough to catch a breather.

You both panted. Your heart burned with cold fire and you buzzed and shook with excitement.

"I don't even want these…" You blinked slowly at the belts in your hands, the post-shoplifting clarity hitting you like a Mitsubishi 3000GT VR-4 Spyder. Your panic had begun to ebb and it felt awful. Also like getting hit by a Mitsubishi 3000GT VR-4 Spyder.

Marshall looked down at what he had grabbed with even more confusion than you. He had grabbed random crap. A pair of chains with crosses and a black face mask with a cat on it.

"Neither do I care about this chain. Do you want it?" He asked unsurely. Your eyes sparkled. Shinies.

"I'll have that." You grabbed them out of his hands, dropping them into your pockets.

"I care more about those assholes judging us," Marshall sighed, leaning against a wall. You hummed and frowned.

"I don't get it, is it so hard to stay outta our business? Do I have a sign on my back saying JUDGE ME?" You raised your arms to the heavens.

"I sure didn't put one there," He replied with a mischievous tone. You huffed, glancing at him up and down.

"You wouldn't do that."

You looked at your back.

"It's true, I care about you. It's my dirty secret." He turned away, covering his face dramatically.

"Awww! You're rotten!" You shoved him ever so softly. He looked to the side.

"In more ways than one." You fastened the belts around your hips, tags still on. Marshall raised a brow, silently questioning your sanity. He should've done that when he met you. Too late now.

"If anyone questions me I'll turn them into protein powder." You smoothed out your clothes, crossing your arms.

Marshall opened his mouth. He closed it, giving a thumbs up and a shaky grin.

"Let's go to the City Of Thieves bar and then home." You stretched, walking. He followed without question. He tended to do that, especially if you were in a new place, he was like a lost puppy.

"Home?"

"My apartment." You glanced at him.

"Sounds good." He smiled softly, reaching his long arm around your shoulders.

You waited at the bus stop. The bus rolled in, coming to a slow halt. You got on and made your way to the last seat which was almost always empty. The bus was pretty empty too.

"I am not paying for this bus," You whispered to Marshall as you stared outside at the sunset. His grip tightened around your shoulders comfortingly, pulling you into him.

You could hear his smirk.

"Me neither."

#reader is autistic btw #idk why but i don't like this one #☂️#a d v e n t u r e t i m e #w r i t i n g #marshall lee x reader #fionna and cake #marshall lee

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player1064 · 2 months

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Literally obsessed with the ask fics you’ve been doing, thank you 🥰 my suggestion to throw in is something on Jamie being whipped as hell…. I just love that as a concept and the latest STF where Gary’s instinct is to demand he provide him with clothing alternatives made me think of it hehe… like something regarding everyone knowing Jamie’s basically at his beck and call

JAMIE! IS! SO! WHIPPED!!!!! this is honestly such a core part of my carraville belief system anyway like ngl I do try sprinkle a bit of it into most of my fics so YES I loved writing this!!!

---

“Alright guys, we’ve got a fifteen minute break and then I need you all back in your seats,” a producer calls out once they’ve cut to the match.

Immediately, everyone on the set of Monday Night Football starts bustling around, setting up equipment or wandering over to the craft table for something to eat or drink.

Jamie rushes off without a word, and David stands up to do the same but ends up hovering awkwardly next to the desk when Gary doesn’t move from his seat, just gets his iPad out from under and starts to type furiously on the little bluetooth keyboard.

“You’re not coming for a coffee?”

“Huh?” Gary blinks up at him. “Oh, no, Carra’ll get me one.”

David gives Gary a disbelieving look but goes off to get his own refreshments anyway. By the time he gets back, Jamie’s wordlessly setting a mug down next to Gary’s elbow, along with a couple of custard creams. He doesn’t wait for Gary to acknowledge him (which he doesn’t), just sits back down in his seat and starts scrolling on his phone, glancing up across the desk with a smug smile when Gary picks up the mug to take a sip.

“Where the fuck is Jamie?” Gary asks as he whirls around Sky studios lobby, not stopping for long enough for anyone to actually respond. “James! James, you twat, where are ya, I ‘ave to be back in Manchester for five, can’t believe you’re makin’ me wait –”

“Alright, alright, keep your tits on,” Jamie says as he rushes in, coat only half pulled on. “Jesus, it’s your fault I’m late, y’know. You left your airpods in the dressing room, I ‘ad to go back and get them ‘fore I was stuck with your whining for the next four hour.”

Gary frowns, pats his pockets, then looks at Jamie bewildered when he finds nothing. Jamie drops the case into his hands.

“How’d you even –” he starts, but Jamie’s already hurrying towards the waiting car.

“I always get so hungry while we’re commentating, wish there was a – a runner, or somethin’, who could go get us some snacks.”

Jamie, who’d been about to start saying something into his mic, shoots Gary a glare and then starts raving about brilliant possession. While he’s talking, though, he uses his foot to push his bag out from under his seat and towards Gary, gives him a little kick in the ankle for emphasis.

When Gary opens the bag there’s a few packets of hula hoops, some chocolate bars, a packet of wine gums, a couple of apples which he studiously ignores, and some granola bars. He grabs a few things so that he doesn’t have to go rummaging again later, then holds out one of the chocolate bars to Jamie.

Jamie glances at the offering and shakes his head, waves it away. “Not big on sweets, am I?” he says once he’s put his microphone down.

“Jamie – Jamie, can you c’mere for a second?” asks Gary, waving him over to where he’s stood talking to Wrighty.

Jamie gets up from his seat and walks aver, looks between the two of them expectantly. “Yeah?”

Gary reaches up to pluck the glasses from his face, which gets almost no reaction from Jamie beyond a surprised blink when Gary’s hand first approaches him.

“See, Wrighty, look at this,” Gary says, as if Jamie were nothing more than a mannequin. “He’s way blinder than you or me, I dunno how ‘e’s not always crashing into things when he’s not got them on.”

“I think you’re right, check out the magnification on these things!”

“Ugh, Jesus, what kind of place only takes cash?” Roy complains, searching through his pockets to no avail. “And to only tell you after they’ve made your order, now I just look like a prick. Do either of you boys have any notes?”

Gary and Jamie both say no, and Roy’s about to turn back and go to the counter to tell this poor teenager that he can’t buy the food after all, when Gary squints at Jamie suspiciously then holds up a finger to say hold on to Roy.

“Shame, that, ‘cause them sandwiches look really good. An’ I only had a piece of toast at breakfast.”

“Not my fault you’ve not been grocery shopping in two weeks,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. At the same time, though, he’s reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his wallet, pulling out a ten pound note and handing it to Gary.

Gary grins triumphantly and hands the note to Roy.

“Glad ‘e’s got too heavy to pick up now,” says Paul with a nod towards Gary. “Else he’d be jumping at us every time Salford scores.”

“Oi!” Gary reaches out to whack Scholesy in the arm. “I am not fuckin’ heavy, d’you mind? If I wanted to jump at people I’d jump at people, ta very much. I’m just more civilised now, like.”

“No, Gaz, y’just know that if you try it we’ll both end up on our arses looking like twats. You prob’ly don’t even have the leg strength to –”

“Jamie!” Gary cries out, interrupting him. “Jamie, go stand over there, would ya?”

Jamie raises an eyebrow at him but gets up off his seat and goes to the flat platform at the back of the stand. Gary follows, then without warning does a pathetic little run-up and launches himself into Jamie’s arms, his legs wrapped tight around him.

Jamie gives a little humph under his weight, which Gary ignores to raise his hands in the air in celebration. “Ha!” he says, “see, Scholesy, told you y’were talkin’ nonsense!”

“Gary, y’great lump, are you planning to stay up ‘ere much longer? Not sure my old man knees can take it.”

“Shush, you.”

Jamie shushes.

#not sure if in this one they're together yet or not. funnier if they're not and jamie's just. insane.#and gary doesnt realise how insane jamie actually is about him. but everyone else is like oh my fucking god #thanks again for the suggestion!#carraville #drabbles

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theprettynosferatu · 11 months

Text

He was upset. His team had lost, and that meant the day was, by fiat, a Bad Day: it was a shared sort of communion among fans to ride the same wave of emotions every Monday, depending on the results of Sunday’s game. Usually it was a binary affair: good days after victory, bad days after defeat. Sometimes it was somewhat nuanced, and those days were tricky to him. Maybe it was a victory against a much worse team, or a defeat that nonetheless made the team look good. Sometimes anger was decreed against a ref, a coach or the team’s owners. In any case, that particular Monday the mood was, quite simply, bad.

He turned off the sports radio and got off his truck. Yes, Bad Day, no doubt about it. The kind of day that would have made his dad sulk and down a few cans of beer. He probably should buy a six-pack, he figured.

It was then, as he filled up his truck, that a horrible thought came to him for the first time. He didn’t feel bad. No, that had to be wrong. All his friends felt bad. It was a Bad Day after a bad game. Of course he felt bad. Or tried to, at least. It all seemed… foggy. There was a veil somewhere inside him, obscuring his sight. Had he ever truly felt bad about sports? Or happy? Surely he must have. He watched the game every Sunday, did he not? He joined his fellow fans in the emotional rollercoaster of the season every year. It was part of being a man, of having that shared sense of belonging, not to mention something to talk about. Then why did he feel so… indifferent?

He caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror. His goatee could use a trim. Then again, there was nothing wrong with looking a bit scruffy. He was a working man, after all. Rugged. He wasn’t sure if he was handsome or not, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to care, or at least he was supposed to act as if he didn’t. His friends didn’t call themselves handsome or ugly. They just… were. So that was all he intended to do.

Was “just being” so hard for everyone?

He was being a little bitch, trying to chase his own tail in some weird psychology spiral. Snap out of this bullshit, he told himself before climbing back on the truck. The sports radio made him feel a bit better, because listening to fellow fans he felt something like sadness.

There it was. The Bad Day. Thank God. He was a fan. He was normal. He could leave all the twisted crap behind.

But he never did. That day, in that gas station, a beam of light had started filtering through a crack, and it would not be denied.

When a dam breaks, it seems to be an instant phenomenon, with a sound like thunder and a river washing away everything in its path. This is, of course, an illusion. A damn breaks over the course of months, even years. It starts breaking in small fissures, in abnormal readings on equipment, in miniscule signs of surrender to the terrible pressure it tries to hold back. All things that are easy to ignore, easy to brush off.

His own mental dam groaned with what he had come to see as “weird moments”.

They came in many forms. Sometimes, perhaps twice a year, he would jump scared at the image of a stranger in his apartment, before realizing he was looking at a mirror. It usually took him around a minute to reconcile the figure before him with himself, to align the stranger in the glass with the notion that it was, in fact, himself. A weird moment, easy to brush off. Other times the weird moments came in dreams: strange landscapes full of mannequins wearing dresses of all colors; a cute nervous laughter at a bar, coming from his own mouth; a sense of peace, of everything being right in the world as he tried on a pair of panties. He left these dreams with an uneasy feeling, not because they were scary, but because it was terrifying how… right they felt. But he reminded himself of the simple fact that dreams were not reality and moved on with his day. Easy to ignore. Just weird moments.

He let his goatee grow longer. He didn’t particularly like it, but he felt he had to. He started mixing in whiskey with his usual intake of beer, despite the fact he found its taste foul. He didn’t go out chasing pussy, and that fact weighed on him immensely. Some of his friends spoke of their conquests, even married ones. Others called the first group pigs, but somehow the insult came with a hint of admiration, he suspected. Not all men were pigs, of course. But picking up some chick every now and then… that would make him feel better, right? Give him something to boast about. And yet, he could never bring himself to actually do it. He felt small. Weak. He drank more in those days.

It was during one drinking binge that the weirdest of the weird moments happened. Half asleep, most drunk, he started visualizing himself at a bar… no, not a bar, he decided. A coffee shop. Why not a bar? He couldn’t tell. He imagined himself striking up a conversation with a blonde bombshell with legs like- no, not blonde. Redhead. And not a bombshell, either. More… pretty but a bit shy. Alluring, in her own understated way. Deep, beautiful eyes that spoke of a quiet intelligence. He saw himself almost mid conversation with her.

“Hayley. My name is Hayley.”

He wanted to get to know her. It didn’t feel like a pick-up. It felt like… a conversation.

“Happy? I don’t know. I think so? Maybe?”, he saw himself saying in reply to a question he never actually heard.

Hayley blushed and had a hard time finding words.

“I- I think everyone deserves to be happy, you know? It’s like… sure, there are bad people, but… maybe I’m naive. I don’t know. I just think everyone deserves to find whatever it is that makes them happy. And that can be hard work! Figuring out what happiness looks like, I mean. A lot of people put so much effort into stuff that they think will make them happy but it won’t so they rush over to the next thing and the next thing and they get so angry and… I'm sorry, I’m rambling! But… maybe happiness isn’t so… big, you know? Maybe it’s something simple”

“Like what?”

“Truth, maybe? I don’t know. Don’t you ever feel like… Oh, nevermind me. I’m rambling again”

“No. You aren’t”

“I’m happy you think so! I don’t even know my own head sometimes. I feel… trapped, I guess. Like something went wrong somewhere, you know? Like things aren’t what they should be. Like happiness is there, just across a thin pane of glass… but I can’t reach it. Does that make any sense?”

It did.

“I’m not sure”, he said.

“Well, neither am I. But I do feel better talking with you. Don’t you get the feeling like we know each other from somewhere? Like… this is familiar, isn’t it? You don’t feel like a stranger that came to talk to me at a coffee shop. You feel like… a friend? No, it’s not that. It’s something else”

“Not a lover”

She blushed.

“No. Not a lover either. So sorry! That was so rude of me!”

“It’s not. I said it first”

“Not family, not friends, not lovers… what’s, like, closer than all those things?”

“I don’t know”

He opened his eyes. There were weird moments and weirder moments, and then there was whatever he had dreamt up. She felt so real… unsettlingly so.

Hayley. She said she was called Hayley.

III

“Normal” is a relative term, and therefore so are deviations from its iron-clad grip. He wondered if a weird moment could be called a moment if it never ceased, or if it continued being weird if there was no longer anything to compare it to.

Every night he dreamed of Hayley. It was rather particular in that he didn’t seem to be a part of his own dreams. He looked out from somewhere behind her eyes. He looked at her life, a life that didn't exist. He saw an entire history, her childhood and adolescence, her fears and hopes, her shy, demure allure as she started dating, her sad nights after bad encounters, her joy after meeting a good guy, a cute guy… her heartbreak as they both realized they weren’t good for each other. Hayley liked to read, mainly nonfiction. She liked movies. She enjoyed many things, and he wasn’t sure he truly enjoyed anything in the way Hayley did. Every night Hayley felt more real, and every morning he felt less and less solid. His waking hours seemed less… fully realized than his dreams.

And then there was the spillover. That was the only way he could conceptualize it. Every now and then he found himself brushing long red hair from his face, only to realize he didn’t have long hair at all, much less the beautiful, copper-red hair his hand tried to move out of the way. He laughed sometimes, a tinkle of a laugh like a clear bell, extinguished by the stunned looks of his friends. It wasn’t his laugh escaping his mouth. It was hers. He cleared his throat and made his voice deeper than usual, lest his friends believe he was anything but one hundred percent man.

It was alarming, sure. But he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. His father often said most aches and pains just went away by themselves, especially when he had suggested seeing a doctor as a child. Maybe this would go away by itself, he figured, trying not to remember that when he had asked for a doctor it had been appendicitis and he had ended up having emergency surgery. No, this wasn’t like that. It would surely get better.

It didn’t get better.

The first phenomenon that truly scared him were the blackouts. They weren’t like drinking blackouts, which he felt were good and normal and manly: they came at any time of the day, regardless of his drinking, and when he came to he found himself listening to music he had never heard, a brand new playlist on his phone; he found himself in front of a store, looking through glass at cute dresses on display; he found himself inside quaint bookstores, holding some weird book or another. His main concern was his work: what if he had one of those episodes while driving his truck? It could be dangerous, but more importantly, impossible to hide from his peers. Maybe he should see a doctor, but that reeked of weakness. He could handle this, whatever it was.

He felt as if a strong wind was sanding him down, like a rock being molded over millennia, only in fast motion. Time was starting to get harder to pin down, to measure. Maybe he was having more blackouts than he realized.

And every night he stopped being himself and Hayley lived her life in his dreams, a realm she had conquered utterly.

There was a part of him, a tiny part, that every now and then had to admit there was something cozy about his situation. He didn’t feel alone anymore. He knew Hayley, knew her better than he had ever known anyone else, could almost hear what she would say in any situation, how she would feel, what she would think. He enjoyed having conversations with her in his head: even if he couldn’t hear her, he could guess every reply, every laugh, every small inflection of her voice.

What did it matter if sometimes he couldn’t tell if he was thinking or he was thinking what she would think? What did it matter if sometimes his replies felt more like hers than his own? He could control it. He could make sure his friends didn’t notice. He could drink more so those moments would be chalked up to his drunkenness. He could do it. Hayley could be his secret.

“She don’t look like it, but I tell you, she has some primo ass under that uniform. That gym bunny, hard as steel badonkadonk. I can tell, man. And tiny girls are fucking fierce in the sack”

“No way. No way. How’s she gonna work out if she works all day at this diner, dude? I’ll bet you she’s flat like an ironing board under them pants. I mean, she’s pretty and all but she ain’t no bombshell”

“Listen jackass, you said it yourself. She works all day here, so she eats here, right? Does she look even a tiny bit fat? Fuck no, she doesn’t. Look at your fries, man! Dripping greasy! Do you think she can eat this place’s food and not get fat without working out? Hell no. She’s taking the food and turning it into one hundred percent, knock-your-teeth-out firm ass. Bet my life on it”

“Full of shit, this guy. What do you think?”

His friends looked at him.

“A woman like a violet. Discreet. Simple. Yet she fills the valley with her perfume”, he mumbled.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s from Valley Flower. A book”, he said.

“Look at this guy! Did you really read a book called Valley Flower?”

He hadn’t. He was sure he hadn’t. Cold sweat slid down his back. He had never heard of that book. Was it even a real book? He had to know.

He held the book in his hands, shaking. Valley Flower.

“Oh, gifting it to someone?”, said the bookshop owner.

“I… sorry. Gifting it?”

“Well, yes. I mean, you already have one”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. How do you know if… if I have this book?”

“Sir… you bought it from me last month”

To be continued...

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#writing #fiction #short story #fantasy #writers on tumblr #romance

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