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powderblueblood · 2 months

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YES! NO! OKAY! I DUNNO!

ronnie and eddie volunteer at the hawkins high carnival to start their senior year off wrong right. wc: 2.4k warnings: eh, none. swearing. era-typical misogyny and shit. ronnie ecker gay as hell. was this inspired by the opening scene of bottoms (2023)? maybe! mind your business! requested by the lovely @joejoequinnquinn

“The thing is, man, when Ms. Kelley calls, you answer.” Ronnie shrugs through a mouthful of kettle corn and Eddie can almost hear the like Ghostbusters! She doesn’t even need to say it.

“Kelley did not call you, first of all–”

“--well, no, we met at the market. Which is way more intimate, if you think about it. Romantic.”

“Second of all, this is a total fucking betrayal of your anti-school spirit ethos.” Eddie, with his wound cloud of cotton candy stuck in a cone, gesticulates wildly. Dude’s even scaring away the flies that might dare land on it. "What, you’re all pep squad now because you gotta nosebone some teachers into giving you scholarship recommendation letters? Volunteering for the fucking carnival?” His hands go up, a makeshift bandleader for the jaunty circus soundtrack that twinkles through the humid September air. “What’s next, the Young Republicans?”

Ronnie’s whole face crushes in disgust. As per usual, she’s overestimated his perception in these matters. Dumbdumb is totally missing the point.

“Edweiner,” she says, adjusting the strap of her overalls, “What I think you’re failing to essentially recognize here is the fact that–look around!--there are girls here.”

Damn fuckin’ skippy. Cheerleaders, nerd girls, regular girls, artsy girls, band girls, chess club girls, girls all wearing marginally hipper clothing than they usually would. Because the Hawkins High school carnival is prime hunting ground for hookups.

Not that Ronnie's looking for any such thing, but it doesn't hurt to see how the other half live.

“Yyyyeah, girls that have spent the last four years ignoring u–”

Okay, ixnay. Ronnie cuts Eddie off right at the knees, shoving a full palm into his face.

“Mmmm, glass half full me for a hot sec,” y’know, god knows what brought this optimism on for Ronnie. Maybe her job directing lowly freshmen toward the gaming booths, maybe it’s the kettle corn that kind of tastes like carpet, but she’s rolling with it, “These are girls that are still in fuck-it-it’s-summer mode. Girls that are entering their senior year of high school. Girls, okay, girls who may have finally realized that the social hierarchies of Hawkins are total bullshit and want to start off their year with a bang.”

She and Eddie stop in their tracks, identical brown eyes staring each other down.

“A finger bang,” Ronnie encourages.

Eddie blinks, slow and spacey, like a cow.

“Fruuuhm you.”

Again, with Eddie’s shaking of the fucking cotton candy. There’s a wasp trapped in there right now. “Are you fucking high right now? Are you insane?”

“Technically, yes!” Ronnie can smoke and bike, it’s fine. “Hereditarily, jury’s still out!” Eddie sorta cringes at that one, and she smirks. “See, I can make those jokes, because of the loopy mom of it all. You can’t make those jokes.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Cue disheartened shrug. ”But. Y’know. We can leave.”

Her metalhead comrade grimaces, Reeboks kicking through the grass as a bunch of freshmen scatter in his path.

Ronnie sighs real big. “We can leave… if you’re too chicken to stay.”

Pump the fuckin’ breaks. Ronnie keeps walking a few paces, intentionally leaving Eddie in her dust.

“Ronald James.”

And then she pivots. All that’s missing is Ennio Morricone playing from the heavens. Or the PA, whatever.

“Edward… ward.”

Eddie squints, his heavy brown knitting furiously. “You just call me a chicken?”

And Ronnie shrugs, cool as crushed ice. “If it walks and it buh-kawks.”

Scoff. Scoff. Scoff. Eddie’s whole torso is wracking with scoffs, he’s like a courtesan dying of consumption with scoffs, he’s about to keel over with scoffs, he quite simply can’t believe–

“Quit hawkin’ up hairballs and square up, pardner!” Ronnie yells.

Enough with the theatrics! It’s like clicking in a seatbelt, the way their competitive nature with each other activates. Just add chicken and they are off, Eddie flinging his cotton candy to the wayside, the sticky mess hitting a nearby kid. The two of them jostle through the carnival, tracking on up to the sad-looking shooting gallery that’s being manned by one of their greasier classmates that neither of them recognise. Eddie, that big-handed buffoon, beats Ronnie to the punch of slamming down his fluorescent green tickets.

“Hi! I’d like to shoot to kill, please,” he booms.

The kid just stares at him, shifting to the left. “‘kay. Whatever. It’s three turns.”

Ronnie rolls her eyes as Eddie slams the pellet rifle into his shoulder– she’s seen his hand-eye coordination, alright? It sucks dick, the dude can barely walk in a straight line. It’s a miracle he can play guitar at all!

Ptew! The first of the little tin duckies barely makes it away with its life, narrowly avoiding a blow to the head from Munson. Ptew! Second one, not so lucky.

Eddie, roving around with the rifle for his final victim, yells to Ronnie. “Looks like havin’ a dad with a rap sheet pays off, Ron!”

Ptew! Third and final. Eddie’s face peels back into that terrifier of a grin that’s like, okay, calm down, Bozo the Clown.

“Pfff… beginner’s luck,” Ronnie tuts.

“Like you’ve ever even held a gun before,” Eddie says and pivots back to the kid manning the booth, who’s passing him his prize. “Hold on, nonono, gimme that bear. The like, the zebra print one. With the fuck me eyes.”

The volunteer carnie doesn’t budge. “You only hit two. The bears are if you hit three. You win green Papa Smurf if you get two.”

And gingerly, Eddie accepts the little off-brand Smurf. Where do they get this shit? Does it fall off the back of the same truck that carries Bev’s off-brand liquor at The Hideout or what?

Whatever, Ronnie grabs the rifle from him and settles it against her shoulder. She can already hear Eddie tutting like, there’s no way and don’t embarrass yourself, Ron, but the thing is–ptew!--you don’t get to be as good of a drummer as Ronnie Ecker–ptew!--without learning a little precision.

Ptew!

“What?” she shrugs to an open-mouthed Munson as the pimply kid passes her a big ol’ overstuffed bear, with the fuck me eyes painted on and all (weird feature. Ronnie might regret having this in her bedroom later on), “Like it’s hard?”

Eddie huffs, because that’s a boy that hates to be shown up even if he spends so much of his loser ass time being shown up. But, it’s usually not by Ronnie, so!

They keep movin’ through the fair, like that old folk song goes, two heat seeking missiles looking to outdo each other. Ring toss? Piss. Cornhole? Are you fucking kidding me? Balloon darts– okay, so they maybe blew their wad a little early by going straight to the gun range but there’s gotta be something…

Then, Ronnie spots it, because it’s all flailing and water and choking and drama and shit.

Dunk tank.

She yanks Eddie over by the collar.

Whoever the poor sucker was that they’d been dunking made an extremely dramatic exit. Ronnie overhears something about, ‘What do you mean, you never asked him if he could swim!’ squawked from the irate mouth of one Nancy Wheeler. Because of course she’s involved in cruise directing this, somehow. Like, where does she get the time? How does she have even a minute gap in her schedule for this? How can someone look so pretty when she’s stressed?

Then, next thing Ronnie knows, ol’ Blue Eyes Wheeler is walking towards them. Orbs of azure all ringed apologetic and Ronnie’s rooted to the ground, she can’t move, she can’t think–

–and naturally, Nancy’s looking at Eddie.

“I would usually never, never ask this…”

“He’ll do it.” She says it without hesitation, without thinking, without considering Eddie, like, at all.

Which naturally makes him bark, “I’ll do what?!”

“Be the dunkee. Be the dunked man,” Ronnie hisses, eyes flicking from a confused Nancy to an enraged Eddie.

“Oh god, would you? Please?” Nancy asks, almost begging– and look, the girl knows how to turn on the charm. She might not be Eddie’s type, not in eight million bajillion lightyears, but it’s near impossible to say no to her. “You can swim, right?”

“And it’s just about time for his yearly bath! So! Heh!” Ronnie gasps a little too loud for her own good, earning a gravitational pull back from Nancy and Eddie. No? No giggles for that one? Fine.

Eddie just shakes his head, sour expression immovable because he knows there’s no saying no to this– it’s for charity. A dumb charity he doesn’t care about, sure, but it’s for charity and also a girl is asking him and also he is determined to not look chicken. Ronnie knows this. It’s why she keeps winning.

“Yeah, Wheeler, I’ve been known to doggy– hold this,” and Eddie pushes green Papa Smurf into Ronnie’s chest, peeling off his jacket on the ascent to the dunk tank.

Nancy lingers by Ronnie a second, resting her forehead against her clipboard.

“Oh, thank god. We might actually make our donation target–like, everybody’s gonna want to drown him.”

A beat. Nancy raises her permed head, glances toward Ronnie.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“You did.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh, I get it.”

Nancy flutters on by, muttering something like a thanks and a good luck and an I really hope he can swim.

Now, to his credit, Eddie makes for a pretty great picture of defiance as he straddles the plank, still fully dressed in his Hellfire shirt (Ronnie’d call nerd, if she wasn’t also wearing hers) and his shredded up jeans. Then it occurs to her that he may not have completely disrobed because he’s not wearing underwear. And that’s disgusting. Moving on.

Ronnie lets him have it, for a while anyway. Nancy was onto something– an alarmingly hefty line of would-be dunkers start to gather, everyone from cheerleaders to underclassmen trying to prove something. Not to side with the idea of gender conformity or whatever, but the couple of cheerleaders that step up to the mark don’t quite throw hard enough to hit. The sophomore that follows them is thrown off his game immediately when Eddie pretend-lunges at him, devil horns at the ready.

Gareth, their newest freshman recruit and Ronnie’s personal drum mentee, sidles up beside the tank to hype up his fearless (pffft) leader.

“Doin’ pretty good up there, Eddie!”

Loud enough for Ronnie to hear, Eddie hollers, “Piece of fuckin’ cake, freshman…”

“Gareth…” he mumbles.

“...I’m gonna be bone dry ‘til the end of this shift.”

Well, y’know, so like, he asked for it.

Ronnie tosses their hard won stuffies to the side and elbows a couple of basketball players out of the way. Cue watch it, freak!, yadda yadda, who cares, give her the ball!

“That’s what the last girl who hooked up with you said, right?” Ronnie bats to Eddie, stretching her arms above her head like a pitcher.

If she’s not mistaken, he’s relieved to see that she’s cut the basketball boys (who’ve got much more experience tossing balls than she does) out of the way.

“Ecker, I’ve seen you in gym class! You throw like an amputee! Bring it!”

Again, he asked. So Ronnie goes ahead and winds up.

Eddie, in all of his your ass should have learned by now have you not been watching do you not see the signs ego, turns to Gareth.

“See, Ronnie doesn’t seem like much of a girl but she does throw like o–”

Boom! And the metalheads goes down into the murky depths, not unlike Gareth’s DnD character that Eddie so mercilessly merked at the last Hellfire session. Ronnie doesn’t hold back a cackle, seeing Eddie resurfacing like a drowned river rat and spluttering.

“Ffflfpfpfl! Fluke! That was a flu–” he jabs a finger through the mesh to something behind Ronnie’s head, “Wheeler, that was a fluke throw!”

“Is he floating? Oh, good.” Oh. Nancy’s back. Nancy’s back and she’s watching Ronnie. Oh. Oh that’s… Ronnie makes the grave error of glancing over her shoulder to see Nancy grinning, clipboard bound to her chest. “She’s got two more to prove it, Eddie.”

“Just take the–” Eddie struggles to make it back to the plank, sodden clothes and all that shit, “Just take the ball because she’s not gonna get–”

Bullseye! See, that’s how you don’t choke in front of a pretty girl and all the rest of your classmates, dude, you just wind it up and get it done! Ronnie’s buzzing with a touch more adrenaline now, and it’s going straight to her mouth.

“Come again, water boy?!”

“Water boy?” Eddie babbles once he floats upward again, struggling under the weight of, I don’t know, his waterlogged hair to straddle first position.

“‘Cuz you’re wet.”

“Not your best. Not your b–”

Not even a full sentence out and Ronnie’s put him back under again. Hello. Why has she never tried out for softball. Would that be too obvious. This is kind of making her wacky, a little.

“What was that, Munson? Whawassat?” Ronnie stomps as the poor bastard tending to this wretched machine helps a soggy Eddie back onto dry land. “Couldn’t hear you over the sound of women’s rights! Can I hear it for women’s rights?! … Ladies?”

Zero response. Crickets. Nancy Wheeler’s even disappeared.

Scooping up their stuffed creatures, Ronnie’s shoulders sag– and she narrowly gets out of the way of Eddie, who’s racing towards her, helicoptering his soaked hair.

“Don’t be– don’t be shaking your Lassie locks at me like some damn dog! Jesus Christ… my sweater.”

“My apologies to the Gap by way of the Salvation Army,” Eddie sneers, draping a towel over his head as he struggles to put his shoes on.

“One more?” Because Ronnie’s nothing if not sympathetic, alright? Dude’s drenched. She'll let him win this one.

Squelching, Eddie nods. And just like that, to their left, shining like a beacon with a trail of suckers lined up outside…

“One more… to prove we’re not…” …staffed by a multitude of cute-as-a-button beauties…

“We’re not chicken…” …glowing with the radiant halos of fuck it, it’s summer, fuck it, it’s my senior year…

The Kissing Booth.

Ronnie and Eddie each wear a thousand yard stare.

Eddie, for reasons pertaining to freakdom and Ronnie, also that, but jacked up to a degree of potential social pariah. God, could you imagine? Could you imagine if she had the nerve to go completely fuck it, completely hetero-nuclear and march on up there with her dollars in quarters dug out of the couch and be like, Yeah, Tina Burton. Lay one on me. Oh, you’re switching shifts? Oh, that’s okay, I can wait… And who is that? Nancy Wheeler? Well, hell! Isn’t it just my gay lucky day!

Because Ronnie can imagine. Is imagining.

“But I'm… I’m kinda cold.” In truth, Eddie’s kinda turning blue. That September chill is starting to set in, finally… so it’s back to the parking lot they go.

“And I’m kinda hungry. You shouldn’t kiss people when you’re hungry, right?”

“No, that’s how they discovered cannibalism.”

“Right. So let’s–”

“--Big Boy Burger?”

“For the big boys, yep.”

#published by powder #r. ecker by powder #e. munson by powder #ronnie ecker vs the world #ronnie ecker #eddie munson #cant tell if this sucks dick or not but like screw it we're here to mess around #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #i guess???

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powderblueblood · 5 months

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The level of detail and thought you've put into hai is incredible!

I have a question. I love how you've described Eddie as a rizzless loverboy (my favorrite kind) so I need to know how he managed to get with an ice queen like Nicole. Not to mention some stuff with Chrissy later and even Cass but I'm most curious about Nicole, especially since she's a former friend of lacy's and he describes her as the one person who's meaner than lacy. I need details. How did it all go down? i like to imagine that she approached him. What makes me sad is that I think she probably did it just to say she lost her virginity but I also like to think that they all find him hot but they just wont say it because he's the town freak

NONNY COME THROUGH I LOVE THIS QUESTION!!!!!! hard agree on nicole approaching him because she's nasty as fuck in all the wrong era-typical ways and he's scared as hell of her (like, she really could bite and not in a cute way). but i also agree about these girls secretly being endeared to him. i mean, we saw it with chrissy-- he has a knack for making people feel safe in vulnerable little moments. but unfortunately, people (teenagers) are also diiiiiiicks

so fuck it, let's blurb it out! or

EDDIE MUNSON STAMPS NICOLE SUMMERS' V-CARD (NOT A BOARD WAXER, NOT IN MAUI)

content warning: swearing, wildly unsexy implication of sex, nicole summers sucks dude, teenagers scare the living shit out of me, me attempting to incorporate dnd terminology, GRANNY ECKER KLAXON, there's also an easter egg in this for the rest of the story if you know where to look word count: 2.6k (lol what)

part of the hellfire & ice universe (duh!)

FOREST HILLS TRAILER PARK, 1982-ISH

She's gotta be doing community service.

It's Easter, right, so this has gotta be like... a Jesus thing. But she doesn't seem like a Jesus person.

It's the only precedent that would explain what Nicole Summers, jaw jutting out in an exaggerated scowl, is doing serving Meals on Wheels to the less fortunate dwellers of Hawkins' favorite trailer park. Her red hair blazes in the sunlight, searing into his retinas--

But that could also be the weed talking.

"Ma'am, like, I don't know what to tell you, you're signed up to receive these."

"And I don't know what to tell you, little girl," Veronica Ecker Sr., affectionately and fearsomely known as Granny to him, grits from the doorway, "but I'm perfectly capable of cooking my own darn food."

Eddie's been lingering around the Ecker trailer, see, waiting for Ronnie to be freed from yet another M*A*S*H appointment with her grandmother ("Ever since she stopped going to church, it's like, all Alan Alda all the time," quoth Ronnie) and run through his latest Hellfire campaign.

"I'm not saying that you don't, I'm just saying that--"

"You're making me miss my program."

"I'll eat it." Eddie doesn't know who said that or why it sounds like his voice, until he figures out that he said it, which is why it sounds like his voice. Jesus, that shit he lifted from his dad was strong.

Granny Ecker and Nicole Summers elicit almost identical reactions of annoyance once they clock that he's there, lingering in the outfield.

"Junior, if you don't--"

"Oh my God. Ew."

Eddie plants his hands on his hips, half in the hopes that this might look authoritative, half mirroring Granny. "Well, y'know. Waste not want not."

Granny considers him, then apparently considers that this might not be such a terrible idea. Her laser focus directs back to Nicole.

"I don't give a shit. I'm not eating that tripe."

"I'm not just-- authorized to pass off meals like that. There's a system."

"Wait, you need clearance for stuff like that? In Meals on Wheels?" That'd be Ronnie's voice, head popping over her grandmother's shoulder. "Oh, hey, Eddie."

"Hey, Ron. You ready to--"

"Veronica, get back inside. I need you to hit that thing back to record when M*A*S*H comes back on. I don't want any commercials on my darn tapes."

"Oh my God, forget it!" Nicole breaks, stalking towards him with a foil-wrapped tray. She stays a safe distance away and thrusts it towards them-- something something freak cooties, some new line of bullshit that her and her dumb little clique had come up with in middle school. "Here. I don't need the whole freak council weighing in on this."

Eddie takes the tray and considers the shiny foil wrapping. His reflection is all distorted in there, a funhouse mirror but way, way worse. This makes him compelled to be unwisely honest to Nicole, who's already making tracks away from him. He jogs to catch up, foil crinkling as he moves. "Well, now I feel bad."

"Don't."

"It's like robbing from old people. Maybe you should give this to another old person. Like a super skinny one. Who might need two."

"Fuck 'em."

"Gee, Nicole, you're really buildin' that stairway to heaven, huh?"

"Ugh. What?"

"The meals-- the Meals on Wheels. It's a nice thing to... do. Fuckin'... forget it." Eddie stops dead; he might be loaded right now, but he knows which side his bread is buttered on. And he hasn't got any bread. He thinks it might be mashed potatoes, green beans and some rubbery chicken. Anyway, he turns heel-- this conversation isn't going anywhere.

"Hey, freak." The derisive nickname comes calling from Nicole's end. Ring-ring. "Are you stoned right now?"

"De-pendsssss," Eddie murmurs, the 's' sound going on for like five minutes, "Are you... a cop right now?"

Nicole busts out a giggle. It's kind of a pretty noise, if a little grating. She's kind of pretty. Eddie remembers when she had braces in middle school and whenever she'd pick on him, she'd kind of spit on him too. Gross. But still kind of pretty.

"I know how you can make it up to me."

Jump-freaking-cut and Nicole Summers is sitting with Eddie in that creepy wooded area near Forest Hills, making a miserable job of rolling a joint out of a dusting of his dad's weed and a torn-open Pall Mall. His buzz has kind of come and gone, and in its wake the knotted, deadened trees are looking extra gnarly.

"God, I suck at this."

You don't suck. You just need practice, is what Eddie would say if it were anybody else sitting with him, but all he manages is, "Eugh."

Because she does suck. And he's too nervous to further verbalize himself. He holds his hand out and she drops the comically conical attempt at a joint into it.

Deftly, Eddie re-rolls it just like that. "Practice, baby. Only way to Carnegie Hall."

"Wait, what?" Nicole murmurs, brow furrowed.

Eddie wishes he didn't phrase it like that either. "Um. Nothing. How come you're doing Meals on Wheels?"

A guttural sigh comes right from the center of her chest, which Eddie can almost see, thanks to her super low-cut tank top. Her cleavage is all freckled and hiked up, thanks to the Wonderbra that he's been painstakingly avoiding tracing the outline of with his eyes. "My fucking aunt. She's like some do-gooder Christian nutso, she runs the whole thing."

"Oh--" but Nicole's not done. She kicks a toeful of dirt up just as Eddie ignites the end of the joint and takes a harsh pull.

"I'm stuck with her this whole break because my grades were shit. I'm supposed to be in Maui, y'know."

Eddie wordlessly passes the joint on. Knew it was a Jesus thing. And like, boo-hoo, he guesses? He doesn't have any real pity for Nicole Summers right now, because overall she fucking blows. She's mean as hell, for no good reason.

Ronnie came up with a good analogy for it one time; like, put up against that chick Lacy that she hangs out with, Nicole is mean like a bad dog. She just keeps barking and barking and barking and barking and it is relentless and it's busting open your eardrums and she's snarling and you're too scared to get in her way so you just tolerate it. Even if it fucks up your whole day.

That Lacy girl, though, she's mean like a guillotine. One sharp drop and you're done. Dead. Headless horseman.

"I know which one is worse-- Nicole, obviously, because it chips away at you and it's so freakin' loud. But I know which one I'd prefer," Ronnie had said, "I feel like if Lacy comes for you, you've really earned it. Like, you possibly deserve to perish."

But ultimately, curiosity will be the death of Eddie Munson. And so will girls. And so will boring Spring break Sundays.

Nicole half-chokes on a lungful of smoke and Eddie's got to pat her on the back so he doesn't get nailed for her murder or whatever.

"God. Gross," Nicole gripes on recovery. "Ugh. My whole family is in Maui, but I'm stuck here and like-- I even told people I was going to Maui and it's like-- so fucked."

"Totally." Eddie makes pincer fingers towards the joint. "Don't bogart that."

But Nicole is holding it aloft, totally off on her own journey, and Eddie wonders if the weed has hit her that fast or if she's just completely self-involved.

"I even sent postcards to people, pretending I was in Maui. If you wanna know something really pathetic."

It takes a second for Eddie to decipher it, but it seems like she's saying that she's been sneaking around Hawkins incognito all break because she told all of her sucker friends she was in the Central Pacific.

"You completely said that sentence backwards."

He notes that down to tell Ronnie about later.

"Shuddup, freak."

"Man, it is so completely uncool of you to keep calling me a freak when you're literally smoking my weed."

"You took my Meal on Wheel."

"Meal on Wheel for a well-rolled joint does not an even trade make, Summers!"

"So why did you say okay?!" Nicole barks, and Eddie finally gets a grasp of that joint. He's up, he's off the log they were occupying. There is a buzz to be had here, a good time rolled tight up in these flammable papers and he is not about to waste it by letting Nicole Summers verbally wail on him.

"Because I am obviously a veritable moron of the highest knight's order and I had time to kill before M*A*S*H was over!"

That rhymed.

Nicole looks up at him with her green eyes narrowed, this horrible, puggy grimace wrinkling her face. And then she says something so beyond the realm of Eddie's comprehension that he's sure the weed is turning on him.

"Do you wanna, like, hook up?" Nicole says-- scratch that, Nicole snarls.

"What?!" So this level of fuckery doesn't make sense to Eddie because nobody's around. Like, if Nicole takes a shot at the freak and Hagan and Carol and Tina and Lacy and Cass aren't around to hear it, did it even happen?

"I'm serious," Nicole deadpans. "I kind of... look, so I kind of wrote to some people that I hooked up with someone on vacation and, like... I could make that not a whole lie."

"Nicole," Eddie says, in a tone about as measured as he can manage, which is not very because his balls seem to have vacuumed themselves back into his body, "Are you asking me to aid and abet your elaborate scam in which you're currently pretending you're in Maui getting, what... railed by like, a surfer?"

"Wow. That's actually kinda close to what I've been telling people."

He would later find out that she said her premiere paramour was a board waxer.

Eddie inhales a lungful of smoke so deep and so urgent that it makes him feel like Hunter S Thompson-- that is, to say, certifiably insane. Because Eddie's never been... Like, he's made out, or whatever, and grazed a boob like once, but...

In an ideal world, he would not be in the woods. In an ideal world, there might be some perfect declaration beforehand, and he might be indoors, and he might be wearing cleaner underwear. In an ideal world, it would not be Nicole Summers.

Roll Perception. Is this really how it happens? Maybe she secretly... likes me?

The D20 in his brain lands a nat one.

Yeah, maybe. But you've been wrong about that before.

Nicole gets up, and he can just about see the cogs turning in her head, trying to intimate an expression of sultriness. It's such a thin mask that he can basically see her rolling her eyes behind it.

"C'mon. You can't tell me you haven't... thought about it," she tries, dropping her voice in volume and pouting her lips.

And Christ, Eddie hates to be such a guy about it, but... you hate to look a gift horse in the formerly-braces-clad mouth.

I haven't thought about it. I think you suck. But I also think this might be my one shot at something for a long, long, long, long, long--

"God, quit thinking about it and kiss me, freak."

It's almost hot, it's like lukewarm at the very best, which is good enough for Eddie so he goes for it. Lips on lips, but Nicole apparently doesn't follow rhythm very well. There's a lot of dry macking, not a lot of... sensual action. He's almost starting to feel sorry for her.

But then-- well, let's just cut to the chase since that's the flavor du jour, then her hand is on his dick. Through the jeans, obviously, she's not a belt ninja but it's very much there. Flesh and tendons, palming at him.

In this situation, Eddie's not a hard sell. Badum-tsssss.

He uses one hand to hook around the back of her neck, tilting her head toward him-- using this opportunity to kiss her right, or what he assumes is right, while she's distracted. Nicole cannot focus on two things-bad kissing and dick handling-at once, unlike Eddie, who uses his free hand to feel her boobs.

"Siddown on the log," she breathes. Just what you want to hear in the heat of passion.

"Uh-- okay," and he does what he is told. Because she's still a pitbull, at the end of the day.

"Do you, like, have anything?"

"Like... the clap?" Eddie sorta-squeaks as Nicole positions herself over him, one knee either side of his thighs. She's got good balance. Is she in cheerleading? Or is that the other mean one?

"No, you fuckin'-- like a condom."

"Oh." His heart sinks. There's a box of Trojans that Ronnie jokingly bought him after he tried to lay a smacker on her-majorly misguided move, by the way!-but he doesn't--

Wait, shut up. They were literally having this argument the other day, he and Ronnie, about that tiny pocket on pairs of jeans. You know the one. Ronnie was trying to explain that it was for cowboys to keep their watches in, whereas Eddie was arguing that there's no way that cowboys need a watch, dude. They go by the sun in the sky. Like men, so the pocket obviously had to be for emergency prophylactics.

He'd even demonstrated, slipping a good ol' Troj into the tiny fold!

Eddie, in his over-excited state, almost knocks Nicole off the log trying to dig the rubber out. "Voilà."

"Whut," Nicole mumbles.

"Do you take Spanish?"

"No, French."

"... okay."

Here it is. This is it. He's about to get his dick out in the scary wooded part by the trailer park where he once tried to dig a hole to China. Fuck.

But all of a sudden, Nicole is fumbling. Her movements are suddenly weird and unsure and reserved and tight. Badum-- fuck off.

"Hey, y--y'alright?" Eddie murmurs, almost brushing her hair off her face. But that feels too intimate. Even considering the circumstances.

"Have you... done this before?" she says, lips pursed and small as she fiddles with his belt.

"Um." To truth, or not to truth? That is to lose any and all hope of losing one's virginity. "I--"

"I haven't."

A little moment of silence hangs between them. That's not a bark. That's a real girl in there.

Eddie swallows, despite the precipice of opportunity. He finds his throat is very dry, sandpaper going down. That feeling-- it's a distinct sensory recall. A favor someone once did him at a birthday party.

Because Nicole's a dick, but she's still a person.

Not that she'd give him the same grace.

Oh well. Building his stairway to heaven, and all that shit.

"We don't... have to." He nods, resolutely. Partially for himself. He even puts a hand over Nicole's, where it lingers on his undone fly. "Seriously."

Nicole's eyelashes flicker and she stares at him for a drawn out beat. As if she's considering him. Really considering him. Outside of the bullshit dichotomy in which they live. A crease eventually settles in her brow, looking at him like, are you serious, loser?

"No, I obviously want to."

Want to with me? he nearly chances.

"Just don't be, like... weird about this after," she instructs. "It never happened."

"I'm not gonna. It didn't." That sounds too soft, so he snorts a little at the end.

Eddie barely has time to ask her if she's okay before it's lights out for him.

The most unforgettable thirty seconds of Eddie Munson's pubescent life up to that point begins with a scoff (his) and ends in a scoff (hers).

But that dog ceases barking for at least three weeks following. No biting in the hallway, no harassment in the parking lot. Even when Hagan sniffs around him, Nicole doesn't jeer on. She averts her eyes.

It's no declaration of love, but at least he got a free dinner out of it.

#powder room talk #Anonymous #hai brainrot #blurbs #e. munson by powder #eddie munson fic #i GENUINELY dont know what to tag this as it was so unexpected #but thank you for the ask nonny ily!!!!!!#another theory? nicole denial is a river in egypt. you and robin dykely as you so call her Are Gay #r. ecker by powder

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powderblueblood · 13 days

Text

BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984.

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this.

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it.

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from.

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome.

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.”

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow.

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again…

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo!

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious.

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!”

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads.

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up?

We were kind before; we can be kind once more…

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm.

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again.

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed.

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him.

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.”

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating.

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too.

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery.

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep?

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses.

This is the royal court. They float above it all.

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings.

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants.

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone.

And finally, Lacy Doevski.

The Almighty.

She is a mythic bitch.

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed–

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates.

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer.

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table.

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch.

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.”

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick.

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned, “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.”

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.”

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over.

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof.

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts.

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important.

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face.

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down.

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic.

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful!

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way!

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt.

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe.

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set.

Just a dream.

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you.

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me.

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox.

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days.

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic.

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on.

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her.

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.”

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body.

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way.

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to.

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

#published by powder #r. ecker by powder #hai brainrot #ronnie ecker #stranger things fic #l. doevski by powder #this is really just wish fulfillment for me it's been stuck in my maladaptive head for weeks

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powderblueblood · 2 months

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Gimme a classic Ronnie and Eddie mess around! Like, what is their greatest conquest to date, what pranks/hijinks have they pulled over on the beleaguered people of Hawkins?

it's the eve of, y'know, that.

the big departure.

the long goodbye.

ronnie and eddie have started referring to it as phillip marlowe-ing in order to, y'know, skirt around the issue of her leaving for new york because it's not as if either of them are wont to express their feelings here, jesus christ. well, except in the case of--

"alright, RJ, i got one for ya. top five hawkins fuck yous, let 'er rip."

ronnie prrrfftts out a breath and nearly keels over in her rusted, rickety, fold-up lawn chair that they've perched in front of the ecker trailer. it's a balmy summer night and ronnie's full of beer and eddie's merging onto nostalgia boulevard.

"where could i possibly begin, dude?"

a hawkins fuck you is another colloquialism shared between 'em. because when ronnie and eddie pull off a prank, it's not just a prank. okay? it's a statement. this is something that ronnie insists upon, something eddie blames on her 'punk rat leanings', but the personal is political, okay! and you know what else is political?

"number five, naturally, we gotta go small and loving-- shakin' up a can of soda before we give it to gareth. it's fresh, it's funky, it's harmless."

cigarette ember gesticulating in the dwindling light, eddie adds, "and it helps him remember his place."

"bingo. do not forget to keep that shit up when i'm in new york," ronnie says, pointedly pointing, "i don't wanna fuckin heaaar about you gettin' all soft on him and lettin' him run around without a face full of sody pop."

"it's what the munchkin deserves," her similarly be-banged brother agrees. "why does he keep falling for it, ya think?"

"because he loves us, you dumb-dumb," ronnie closes her eyes and sticks her hands behind her head, scratching under the band of her ball cap. "alright, number four... shit, kaminsky and the glue seat. it's gotta be, right? what a totally perfect maelstrom of humiliation."

"christ, and when he couldn't get up without tearing his fucking pants and then kelley comes in--"

"she had to think he was rodded up, dude! signed, sealed, delivered, pervert on school grounds!"

eddie guffaws, big and hearty in a way that makes ronnie join him. "i couldn't believe you dreamed that shit up on your own, you little do-gooder."

ronnie reaches for her beer and takes a pull, sobriety edging to the point where she's seeing twice as many fireflies as usual congregating around her porch light. her voice turns gravelly and serious.

"a c minus will do crazy things to a man."

"jesus, you sound like--"

"don't even say it."

slumping down in his squeaking seat, eddie scoffs. "number three, make with it."

ronnie's mouth twists, absently plucking at the label on her bottle. this is real now, this is crunch time. whenever they usually play top five (top five transformers, top five cheerleaders you'd mow down with a dirt bike, top five cheerleaders you'd save from getting mown down with a dirt bike if you knew they'd make out with you after), ronnie'd get a little overwhelmed once they broke the top three. that's a lot of pressure, y'know! three, magic number, all that shit!

but it's nostalgia boulevard. it's sentimental city. certain things stick out.

ronnie tosses a balled up piece of label at eddie. "foam party at the hawk."

her best friend's mouth perks up and he bats a big ol' bastard of a hand at her. "you're just sayin' that."

"i'm not! that was... i mean, that revolutionized the hawkins fuck you genre!"

"yeah, well, that's what they get for showing it's a wonderful life in july."

"you and your girlfriend dawn dishsoap gettin' freaky in the air vents."

"i could've gone to juvie for that one. if they caught me."

"this is what i'm sayin'!"

click, click. eddie lights another cigarette and ronnie nearly asks him for one, but knows she'll regret the taste of gross tobacco breath in the morning. "but it's still not number one, or number two," he points out.

"well, no, because number two is steve harrington's bald patch!"

a resounding SMACK! as both ronnie and eddie clap their hands together on cue, breaking into peals of soundless laughter, so much so that i'm gonna have to explain this fucking bit to ya, aren't i?

steve harrington's bald patch was a glorious era of time where ronnie was once caught attempting to see something through the arc de triomphe of steve harrington's hair. this prompted steve harrington to be like, what are you staring at, weirdo, or something to that effect which ronnie didn't appreciate. so she was all, dude, you might wanna... get that looked at... that... patch on the back of your head...

and somehow, by some grace of some satanic deity, it caught on.

every time ronnie or eddie were within staring distance of harrington, they zeroed in on the back of his head, exchanging looks of disgust, mild concern, but never amusement so he'd think it was real. and furthermore, they were worried for him. because who wouldn't be worried about steve 'the hair' harrington's hair? it was basically the hawkins high mascot.

and who had more school spirit than ecker and munson?

"ohhhh, shit!" ronnie yelps, wiping at her streaming eyes. "think he ever went and got that rogaine?"

"uuuggghhuhuh, who gives a shit!" eddie drums on the armrests excitedly, the both of them belly-sore from laughing. "number one, ecker! the big catch, c'mon! better be as good as what i'm thinkin' of because if not..."

ronnie lets the last dregs of their laughter peter off into the night air before she answers. the night air, the last night's air, the last night she'll sit out here with eddie talking shit, being teenagers, being go-nowhere do-nothing kids from the trailer park. her stomach twists, but she doesn't let that stop her.

"well, duh," she swallows, after a the last pull of beer suds from her bottle, "graduating."

it takes eddie a second. "you're an asshole."

ronnie's cheeks straight up ache.

"i know."

how the hell is she gonna survive new york without this?

"and i'm very proud of you, asshole."

ah, shit.

"i know."

#powder room talk #whatis-much #ronnie ecker vs the world #r. ecker by powder #e. munson by powder #oh of CUOuUurse i had to go and get a little angsty there at the end i'm a glutton i cant help myself #the disgusting brothers......#published by powder

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powderblueblood · 1 month

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that stuck to eddie’s ribs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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powderblueblood · 2 months

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THE RONNIE ECKER MOTHERFUCKIN BREAKDOWN (fast and dirty version)

for @mopeymopeymouse and anyone else who hasn't read flight of icarus + fair warning, my ronnie is a little canon divergent probably? a touch more chaotic than what we're given in FOI anyway

so okay, here's the official backstory

ronnie is obviously no durrr a resident of forest hills trailer park who befriended eddie when they were eight years old. she moves to the trailer park after her dad passes away and her mom gets institutionalized. she lives with her granny, a woman that's hard as nails but soft in the middle (see: keeping wayne munson in turkey casseroles), a woman that loves a goddamned M*A*S*H rerun (baby don't we all).

ronnie is a lot like her granny in that way; a touch more on the goofier side of toughness, but that doesn't stop her from putting eddie munson in his place when she needs to. especially after the time in seventh grade when he'd tried to kiss her, like fucking gross dude what the fuck was that! a little noodling on that made ronnie realize she didn't have crushes the way other people had crushes. she might not even have them at all.

a little more on the official side-- she's corroded coffin's first drummer (that's right, gareth emerson, you're filling some big motherfucking shoes), she's a founding member of hellfire club and in 1984, she gets a full ride to NYU. she's tall as shit. she wears overalls and baseball caps (looking like, quoth eddie munson, 'the ghost of a tiny farmer' when she was a kid). she's ride or die. she's cool as hell. she's going places.

ronnie ecker is also scared as all hell to go places because, yeah, she's got the smarts and she might even have the nerve but does she have the wherewithal to hold it all together? she doesn't fucking know! there are a lot of nights she spends freaking out in the bathroom mirror, wondering how close of a genetic scrape her mom's mental illness is. wondering how much the fact that she's from a trailer park will help or hinder her progression in, like, the real world. wondering if she can stay upright if she makes a break from this town without her twin pillar, her brother in bullshit, eddie munson next to her. wondering, y'know. just... wondering.

she's got this facade of nerdy anxiety that drops pretty quickly once she's a) got a set of drumsticks in her hands or b) at that hellfire table or c) fucked with and then you'll see that, yeah, she is all nerve. white hot and wicked, goofy and gorgeous and cool as the moon, with a huge mouth and a stupid, dirty sense of humor.

it might be ronnie ecker vs the world. but she is gonna make it in spite of all that.

#ronnie ecker vs the world #THAT'S KINDA THE IDEA ANYWAY #r. ecker by powder #ronnie ecker #published by powder

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powderblueblood · 2 months

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oh my god can we see ronnie in the HF&I universe but when she’s got a crush/dating someone? the dynamic of eddie ribbing on her would be TOO good

"i can't talk about it."

"ron--"

"no, i literally cannot talk about it."

"ronnie--"

"eddie!"

"it's okay!" eddie says, almost soothingly, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum of the hallway. "listen, all god's children. i liked a cheerleader too, once."

ronnie pivots in the middle of the hall, long limbs flailing like weaponry in a way that makes eddie fall back. fall back! chest all tight and cheeks all hot and standing there in a living entanglement of embarrassment.

"then again... my cheerleader," and by my cheerleader, this asshole means the brief, fleeting crush he had on one christine cunningham, "didn't almost definitely have..."

"that you know of, bitch!"

and suh-woop, ronnie takes back off down the hall with eddie hot on her tail in a jangle of chains and denim and shit.

running away from her feelings: it's a very real, physical affliction! especially when she's been marinating on a crush this long! this is no munson's hot girl of the week, this is no jeff's NPC hellfire spouse du jour, this shit is...

this shit is bright brown eyes and a big cresting wave of a bang and taut thighs and a yell that ricochets off waxed gym floors and blueberry bubble gum and petal perfume and such a total cliche and never in a million years and there's always a maybe, i like a fantasy as much as the next tabletop role playing game playing girl and...

goddammit, she'd been doing really well with keeping this shit under wraps!

before she knows exactly where her feet are carrying her, she's busting through the door of the newspaper room, dark save for the light of one green desk lamp.

"do not barrel in here when i'm holding a fucking x-acto knife," come the off-puttingly serene, cerebral tones of lacy doevski from the back left corner.

ronnie, heaving, slams the door behind her. what with being ten feet something tall, she can outrun munson pretty easily, but with lacy here? she's run straight into the jaws of something else.

"why aren't you at the pep rally?" ronnie gasps and hisses, the strangled tone apparently catching lacy's attention.

"excommunication, mostly," she says, blade glinting. god. i mean, ronnie knows they're friends and all, but it's moments like this that she really gets it. the whole doevski draw. "why are you hiding in here?"

then, from beyond the door in a way that makes ronnie's spine go rigid with annoyance, you've got fuckin' eddie bigmouth. knocknocknock!

"hey! ecker! you're not supposed to be innnn there, ecker, lacy said something about an x-acto knife and not wanting to be disturbed--"

ronnie glances to lacy, who just shrugs, a dumb little wistful little dumb little look on her stupid face. ugh. they're disgusting.

"unless this is like, some kind of girl thing, in which case--... no fair. lemme in-uhh."

"let him in," lacy says.

"i don't wannuuh," ronnie whinges.

"ron, if you don't let him in, he's gonna scratch at that door all afternoon and i'm not gonna meet this deadline and then i'm gonna have to use this teeeeny tiny little knife here to gut you both," all said with the casual airs of please and thank you. eddie's got his face smooshed up against the glass.

fuck.

ronnie yanks the door back open and her day one pain-in-the-ass stumbles through.

"hi!" eddie calls to lacy, momentarily distracted as he makes a beeline for her. thank god. "hi."

they do some horribly unsubtle couple-y bullshit where he sorta dances around her desk and she warns him not to come any closer but is smiling the whole time and ronnie flops down into fred benson's chair, wondering if this kind of horseshit would be appealing if it were her and--

"ronnie has a crush on a cheerleader."

the x-acto knife clatters to the desk. "what!"

"and i know which oooone!"

"eddie! fuck!"

"spill!"

"don't!"

"eddie..."

"she was spyin' on her under the bleachers--"

"munson!"

"--i mean, i think she almost had that floor routine down if you catch my drift--"

"--cut to the chase--" "--fuckin' shut! up!"

but before ronnie can up out of that chair and like, i don't know, knock eddie out or sit on him or something, lacy's wound around him like a snake. in-a-gadda-da-vida, this chick, she defies resistance. saying that, if the roles were reversed and it were ronnie and--

lacy's all, who is it and eddie's all giggling into her neck and it's disgusting.

but then he tells her, and her face falls.

"veronica ecker!" ronnie's friend lacy is a great scold-er. she's got a scold like you wouldn't fuckin' believe.

but ronnie wants to shrink into her skeleton. she wants her bones to turn to dust. poof, and nothing's left but a little baseball cap for these ungrateful bastards to remember her by. all 'cause she has what might be construed as conceptually a little romantic inkling for--

"tina burton?!"

ronnie sighs, dragging her hands over her face. "i realize this is morally unsound given your current social predicament, lace, but--"

in unison, the indefatigable duo of cornfed gomez and morticia over there go, "--the crabs, dude!" "you could do so much better, ronnie, you fool!"

#powder room talk #potatobeanpies #maisie this made me go BONKERS LMAOOOOO #AND YOU KNOW SHE'S BEEN INTO HER SINCE LIKE. KINDERGARTEN #they try to shove robin and ronnie together and theyre just commiserating about their long held fixations on OTHER GIRLS HAHAHA #hai brainrot #ronnie ecker vs the world #r. ecker by powder #e. munson by powder #l. doevski by powder #published by powder

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