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0v3rcast · 1 year

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Gnaw (2)

(Warnings: same as the previous chapter, found here.)

One of the largest issues with going from a simulated Teyvat to an actualized Teyvat is the sheer size.

The bridge outside of Mondstadt, which takes the Traveler like fifteen seconds to cross in a sprint? That's a good two minutes of walking at the least.

The rest of Mondstadt is massive, too, of course, but it's absolutely gorgeous. Perfect grass, clear rivers and ponds, rather imposing cliffs...

Maybe the people are a little unfriendly, but hey! The land itself makes up for your now-in-the-negatives social life.

Besides, this much air and sunlight are probably a good thing. You aren't too hot, there isn't like half of a forest worth of pollen up your nose, the breeze is really nice, and nobody's come to try and maul you!

As far as sightseeing tours go, this ain't the best. But it'll do.

Plus, you're pretty sure that the theoretical tour guide probably wouldn't let you pull up all the dandelions you wanted and blow on them to make their seeds go everywhere.

There's a faint gnaw in the pit of your stomach. You've eaten some berries, a carrot you found in a crate, and another Sunsettia, but you just can't shake the feeling.

The best way your mind can think to describe it is that your teeth are dissatisfied. You didn't do enough with this meal. It just sorta happened.

Perhaps you're going insane.

(On a distant cliff, the wind brings your breathing to an Archon, who sets down his lyre and raises a bow.)

There is a faint whistle on the air, one you swear you've heard before. Then it hits you - the sound of an arrow!

By some instinct, you hurl yourself aside, slamming into the grass and dirt.

A brilliant arrow is lodged into the ground at an angle that would have firmly made itself at home in the back of your skull. Had you not just launched yourself aside, you would be dead.

And then you hear another whistle.

You scramble up onto your feet and take off in a dead sprint. Anemo-powered arrows narrowly miss you four times as you zig-zag and duck behind stones or trees.

...you think you know who this is, or at least have a damn good idea.

Venti. Barbatos. Tone-deaf bard. Alcoholic lyre dude. That one.

You curse him out under your breath. The arrows seem to be coming faster all of a sudden.

The next arrow doesn't come down with a whistle. It comes down with a scream. The Anemo-charged arrow, cloaked in a blade of wind, pierces your back and launches you through the woodlands with enough force to demolish trees like matchsticks.

You skid to a stop, a fine path of devastation and upturned soil behind you, and your head lolls up on a shattered neck to stare blankly into the sky as you slip away into darkness.

(Dendro hisses at the other elements, their vast roots curling in anger. "We should have kept them out until this was solved!"

The others say nothing. Talking will do little to protect you, and those who raise their hands against you must be punished.)

Barbatos has a nightmare that night, after killing the one who stole the face of the World-Shaper.

He has been torn from his false face, cast into the heart of a vast hurricane, the wind itself screaming in hatred and rage, every whisper now purely poisonous. Every failure mocked, every mistake repeatedly shoved into his face, and every sin accounted for.

The wind wails, slipstreams like claws raking across his elemental flesh, battering him as he's tossed from gust of wind to gust of wind.

(He is unaware that to any observer, it would look like he was a rather hated captive ball in the world's most esoteric pinball machine.)

A voice tears itself from the monstrous storm around him, echoing in the bone-shuddering blasts of thunder.

Vile little wisp! You would dare to raise a hand against the divine most holy, our maker?!

He doesn't understand, and any chance he'd have to think or speak is repeatedly knocked from his head as he crashes into walls of wind firm enough to be stone.

Immense pressure crushes down around him, stalling him in place as if grasped in the enormous hand of a titan, and he cries out at it squeezes.

He looks up as he tries in vain to wriggle and flee, and he sees. Every part of him freezes in horror.

I am Anemo. The embodiment of sky, of breath. I am the Taker of Voices.

He is brought closer to the core of light at the center of the apocalyptic current.

I had such hope for you. A God of Freedom, one who would see the oppressed liberated from their miseries! One who would cast the sadness and hatred from his people to the winds, where they would be forgotten!

One who would spread the laughter of the First Breath to all corners of this world.

One who would be their protector, hearing misfortune on the winds and striking down those who would spell disaster for us all with the wrath of a great storm.

But you have failed. You have taken up arms against the one you were made to cherish with hatred in your heart.

You have forgotten your own freedom. The freedom to think for yourself, to act without orders. To go against what is known down a new path.

He cries out as some kind of tether is cut from his body, ripped away into the vortex.

You are my Archon no more. I shall find one more suitable to the task.

Perhaps in time, the Maker will find you pitiable enough to reinstate you as my envoy to Teyvat.

Enjoy your freedom, Venti of Mondstadt.

He plummets, the wind abandoning him entirely. The ground opens, a ravenous maw, stones and bedrock ground down like sharp fangs, and he falls into a lightless darkness.

He wakes, screaming and sobbing in equal measure.

He cannot feel the wind. He cannot hear it.

At his side, the light of the false Vision gutters out, dimming until not even a spark of Anemo remains within.

(Within a frozen palace, the light of the Anemo Gnosis dulls, waiting for a host to be chosen anew.)

consciousness returns to you in bits and pieces, your entire body an immense ache. Your joints are so sore you can barely move them without feeling the urge to weep.

Your nose is filled with the scent of the ocean. You can hear waves, and ever so faintly, the calls of birds. You feel safer here, somehow, as though this place is devoid of other intelligent beings.

Your eyes close again, body exhausted and unable to resist the siren call of unconsciousness in a space without threats.

On your back is a new scar, a spiral of gold starting between your shoulderblades and reaching out towards your ribs.

(Gnaw Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche @iruiji @itz-luna @itsredactedlove @thatdeadaquarius @ssak-i @imyme20 @crierofirony

Thank you all very much for your interest.)

#genshin sagau #sagau cult au #sagau gnaw #genshin angst #part 2 #it is haunting me a tiny bit #so i'm gonna construct #Something Terrible #because that's what i do when i write #make mistakes i enjoy #beating archons over the head with a brick #reader has a terrible time #hopefully one of you likes this

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word-wytch · 1 year

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 10

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 10/? 4.6k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Progress report — subtle strides in secret and deals not forgotten.

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

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

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

Chapter warnings: flirting, rule breaking, mild exploration through touch, cheating mention

Monday, November 11th 1985

The fog was lifting in you.

You could tell when the laundry beckoned to be folded after weeks of neglect. When the act of folding it was something you wanted to do.

When the boxes that had become part of the scenery in your living room suddenly seemed like they didn’t belong there. When you wanted to cook more than just things you could put in a microwave.

You would wake up on the weekend and ask yourself what you wanted to do with the little free time you had in the space between the chores, and the errands, and the papers you had to grade. You would ask yourself what records you wanted to listen to instead of just turning on the radio to fill the space with noise. Instead of exhausting them all without consideration.

You had been asking yourself a lot of questions over the last two weeks. The loudest of them all — What am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question every morning as you brushed on your makeup and felt more beautiful than you could remember, even since before your life came crashing down this summer.

You would ask yourself again as you sifted through your closet, as the hangers screeched against the metal pole to dig out a dress from the back that you hadn’t worn in ages. Cream colored linen, tea length, with short puff sleeves, a square neckline, and buttons down the front. It tapered at the banded waist and flowed outward in an A line.

The question would rattle like a pinball in your mind as you stamped your punch card in the main office. As the receptionist complimented the dress that you had on.

It would sit like a weight in your stomach as you made small talk with the other teachers. As you sat in one of the old scratchy chairs in the teachers’ lounge that suddenly bothered you less and opened the lunch you found the energy to pack again.

It would echo in your thoughts like the clicking of your footsteps down the hallway.

What am I doing?

It was a question you didn’t know the answer to.

All you knew was when the wind caught your dress from the haste you made toward your classroom, the smile you stole from him as you passed brought silence to it. That the way he looked at you made all noise, all else, cease. That it made you feel as timeless as he said you were.

There was a change in him too. It was subtle, as all things were in your relationship with Eddie Munson, but ever since some force beyond yourself possessed you to utter even the barest inkling of your feelings, he was bolder.

He would sit very close to you, oftentimes with his shoulder angled behind you. An action equally as thrilling as it was terrifying. He had done this before on a few prior occasions but never like this. Never for this long.

He always took his jacket off so you could feel his arm graze against yours as he reached to turn a page or grab a pencil.

He would do these things so often that there was a quiet, secret part of you that wondered whether it was time to rearrange your classroom so that your desk was out of sight of the doorway. You shot the thought down the moment it intruded. As long as the desk was within eyeshot, you could ration that the possibility of being seen would hold you both accountable and encourage good behavior. That was what you told yourself anyway.

The problem was that Eddie Munson wasn’t that concerned with good behavior.

Every time he sat beside you, your eyes, in the closeness of his proximity, would find another feature to admire.

Today it was the rips in his jeans. The way you could see his skin straining against the slits in the fabric. How your eyes could gather the strong angles of his kneecaps and for some reason, this was doing things to you. You would steal glances at them, down and to your right, as he leaned forward in his seat next to you.

It was always next to you. It had been for the past two weeks.

He pointed at a drawing of a humanoid demon looking creature with horns and a tail in the monster manual laid out in front of you on top of his history textbook.

“So this is the tiefling race, which is what I played years ago before I took over as DM. I was a tiefling bard, which is like a sort of, uh, musician spellcaster.”

That was another change — how frequently he would get off topic, and how often you would let him.

“Very true to life then,” you said with a little chuckle.

His lips curled into a hardened smirk to smother a blinding grin.

“You think so?” There was a whisper of pink in his cheeks.

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” you said breathlessly.

Then he did something he hadn’t done before — he put his arm around the back of your chair.

The animal inside you preened.

Heart racing, you turned your head ever so slightly, allowing your eyes to trace the barely there stubble that peppered his jaw before they wandered to his lips — soft, broad, and still smirking. You were close enough to feel the delicate hairs that strayed from his wild curls brush your cheek. Close enough to feel the warmth radiate from his arm against the linen of your back, like a bubble of protection, or some other magic found in the pages sprawled out before you.

It was hard to think of anything else but you managed. “What do you think I would play?”

“Mmm.” His hum was a warm vibration at your ear. It sent a ripple to your core. Ringed fingers drummed against the back of your seat. “Well, an elf, obviously,” he chuckled. “As for class, let’s see…”

You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, scanning you as the gears turned in his head. It was quiet in the room, and in the hallway. Quiet enough to hear your heartbeat in your ears. You wondered if he could too.

“See I wanna say wizard because they get their magic from reading books, but…”

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “But?”

“I think you’re more of a healing type."

“Oh yeah?” Your soft chuckle filled the silence and you allowed yourself, for just a moment, to relax a little bit. To lean into the warmth of his strong shoulder, enveloped in the safety of the secret you both shared. You could catch his scent from this position more than ever. The warm musk emanating from under his arm. The whisper of shampoo and cigarettes. That soft, indescribable scent of his skin. It almost made you dizzy.

“Yeah, like a cleric, only they get their power from worshiping deities and… I don’t know if that’s really you either.”

You hummed. “Where do you think I get my power from then?”

His voice was soft but certain when he answered. “Within.”

Flutters — straight to your core.

“Maybe that makes you more of a sorcerer then,” he pondered, tipping his head towards you. His breath feathered your cheeks, lids heavy over deep chocolate eyes.

You met them with a breathy chuckle, feeling so girlish all of a sudden. As if suddenly you were not behind the big desk, but a much smaller one.

The pads of his fingers brushed your arm. So delicately that at first you thought it was just a consequence of their proximity, but when they began to trace tentative, tickling circles, it was evidently intentional.

You swallowed, your skin beneath his touch like a livewire. Every delicate hair on your arm picking up on the movements of his calloused pads, amplifying them like a radio signal straight to the animal part of you.

He held you in his gaze, eyes wide like a question. But when the corners of your mouth gave way, gave their soft permission, the corners of his did as well. As did the corners of his eyes, crinkling in that way you loved so much.

His fingers got braver. The circles widened into strokes. His thumb got involved. Still, you could feel his heart pounding into your shoulder. Feel the nerves emanating from under his touch. Feel the want, the care, the ache, the frustration.

It might have been seconds. Minutes. A small, stolen eternity.

Until a voice echoed in the hallway. Suddenly there was that question again — triggered like a pinball machine, loud and intrusive as it rattled in your mind. Your eyes shot towards the door. His followed.

Eddie took his arm away, and you wondered if the strangled whine that left your chest was audible to him too.

Silence prickled the space between you, ears attuned to the noise coming closer. Eddie’s eyes were fixed on the door, his strong brows furrowed in what you could only interpret as annoyance. The voices grew louder, then passed, fading into distant echos.

The footsteps left behind an ache. Palpable, pervasive. Eddie sighed and looked at you, to which you could only respond with a resigned huff of your own. You must have looked as pitiful as you felt, because what he did next took you by surprise. It always did, even if this time it was something he had done before.

He reached under the desk and grabbed your hand.

It didn’t matter that he’d held your hand before. It didn’t matter even if he’d held it a hundred times. Your heart still leapt in your chest. The pinballs still fired off inside your head with lights and sound effects.

But when his warm thumb rubbed circles over your icy knuckles, slow and deliberate, soothing and caring, the sounds got muffled. The flashing dimmed. Until there was nothing but a landscape of bones, and tendons, and the meat of his soft palm. Nothing but the valleys of the space between his fingers when they ventured further than they had ever gone before — in the spaces between yours.

Your back might have arched. Your eyes might have rolled back into your head if you hadn’t closed them so quickly. You wouldn’t know because the only thing you were aware of anymore was the velvet interior of the space between Eddie’s fingers. How they filled the space between yours in a warm, comfortable stretch.

There was a line and both of you had crossed it. Held hands and jumped over it like a broom. You knew it, he knew it. There was no going back. And knowing this, there was another question you had been asking yourself for the past two weeks — how far would you go?

Would it stop at holding hands? Eddie wasn’t exactly the patient type. You’d spent enough time with him to know that much.

You opened your eyes to the classroom. Your classroom. To the rows of desks lined up like soldiers. To the chalkboards, and bulletin boards, and concrete walls. To the big desk in front of you. To the open door.

Pinballs again. Ricocheting like thunder. Your pulse in your ears, your stomach in your seat.

You glanced down at your hands intertwined, hidden from sight in the shadow of the large, looming desk. You admired how the heel of his hand cradled yours. How perfectly they fit together. The way your forearm rested against his, warm and soft. How secure it made you feel. There was a tug in your heart, deep and thrumming. You squeezed his hand for one more precious second… and let it go.

“I— I think we should, um,” you swallowed and gingerly shut the monster manual. The ache was back, shooting through your chest like daggers.

Eddie looked at you, the loss of your hand palpable in the subtle pain of his expression. “Right,” he said plainly. There was a knowing there too, an understanding that replaced it more quickly than you expected.

He scratched behind his neck with the hand you could still feel the ghost of. “So it’s uh, progress report day.” You could tell by the look in his eyes that he was going somewhere with this.

You raised your eyebrows. “I’m well aware.”

He tipped his head towards you. “I believe we had an agreement.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Remind me.”

Eddie reached into the pocket of the jacket that hung on his seat and procured a paper folded into thirds. “You told me that if I got a B in any of my classes that you would let me read one of your stories.”

Your eyes widened. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

He squinted smugly. “You did.”

You glanced toward your grading binder on the upper lefthand corner of the desk and grabbed it, “If I’m not mistaken though, you have B- in my class,” you said, thumbing through the pages to find fourth period. “Yeah, see?” you pointed to it. “Technically not a B, all those missed assignments from September still count I’m afraid,” your voice was playful.

Eddie’s mouth curled into mischievous little grin as he opened the paper in his hands, “Oh I’m not talking about your class. I believe the agreement was for one class. Any of my classes.” He pointed to a line on the page. “I got a B in shop class.”

You leaned closer, honing in on the clearly printed B above his finger. “It’s — it’s still not the final report, just a progress report.”

“It’s still an official report,” he said smugly.

It was almost as if he could see the gears turning in your head, the dread setting into your features.

“See, I’ve kept the promises I’ve made so far,” he brought a hand to his chest, “I think it’s only fair that you make good on yours,” he said, squinting again.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bring it in on Wednesday. But… it’s— it’s not totally finished. There’s still quite a bit of editing that needs to be done and—“

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. More than fine. Captivating, actually, if it’s anything like the author.” His smile was tinted with childish excitement. His eyes with a warmth made you shiver.

You tucked your hair behind your ear to distract from the heat creeping into your cheeks. “It’s been forever since I’ve even looked at it to be honest. Years actually.”

“Glad to give you an excuse then.”

______

It was a typical Tuesday night.

A typical night of the flimsy windows in Gareth’s tidy garage trembling at the raw, unhinged, cranked-up-to-eleven power of Corroded Coffin.

“Hand of Doom” was cleaning up nicely. Dave’s bassline was solid. Gareth’s drums were neat and timely. Jeff was nailing the chord progression. Eddie’s vocals were well equipped to handle Ozzy’s range.

You’re having a good time baby

But that won’t last

Your mind’s all full of things

You’re living too fast

Go out and enjoy yourself

Don’t bottle it in

You need someone to help you

Stick the needle in

There was a perfect balance of space for his vocals to breathe over the walking bassline, then crescendo into pure instrumental power.

A power he could feel as he attacked the strings. An agency at his fingertips as they tapped out a howling melody over the chugging chords laid out for him by Jeff and Dave, over Gareth’s thundering kick drum.

A power that could sweep him up and away, carry him far from the crushing weight of the stares of his classmates, far from the looks of disappointment on the faces of the other teachers, far from the heaviness of his feelings.

Swept away in a wave of sound, there was only space in his hindbrain for the patterns his fingers made on the fretboard. For his breath to leave his chest in wailing song.

The last chord of rung out through Gareth’s garage with a thunderous rattle.

All four of them looked at each other with smiles and nods. Gareth banged out an extra drum fill. Jeff chugged out approving strums.

They were ready to take it to the Hideout.

“Nice work, gentleman,” Eddie shouted into the mic, met with whoops and hollers. “I think we’re ready for another, whaddya say, boys?”

More hollers and drum fills.

“How ‘bout Ace of Spades?” offered Jeff.

“No, Symphony of Destruction,” countered Gareth.

Eddie noodled out a mindless melody. “I dunno I’m thinking War Pigs.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “We just did Sabbath, dude.”

“Yeah, we just did Sabbath well,” Eddie pressed.

“Why don’t we do something different, like a Rush song or something?” suggested Dave.

Gareth snorted. “Rush isn’t metal. We’re a metal band, dude.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you couldn’t handle a Rush song anyway.”

“Could too, asswipe. You know what, yeah, let’s do Rush. I wanna see those fat fingers of yours fingers of yours find their way around the bassline,” Gareth laughed.

“Shut up!” Eddie hollered. “Everyone just think about it and we can vote on Saturday. We’ve got like half an hour before we’ve gotta leave anyway.”

“I can’t Saturday, remember? Me and Cindy are going to a movie.”

A low ooh emanated from the guys.

“What ‘cha end up picking?” asked Jeff.

“Back to the Future. Cindy still hasn’t seen it.”

Dave balked. “Seriously? Does she live under a rock? It’s been out since like, July, dude.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Yeah, seriously. Cindy doesn’t go to a lot of movies, she’s into like… books and stuff,” he said, a touch of pride colored his voice.

“Ooh so cultured,” Dave taunted.

“Dude shut up, you’re just jealous ‘cause I have a date. I feel like that’s a good one though, right? I mean it’s got action and a sorta romance but it’s not too serious?”

Jeff shrugged, “Yeah I dunno, do girls like those kinds of movies?”

Gareth gave a puff of air through his nose. “Depends on the girl, they don’t have a hivemind, Jeff.”

Dave snorted. “Like you know anything about girls.”

“More than you!”

Dave rolled his eyes. “You got one date you haven’t even been on yet — doesn’t make you an expert.”

That’s when three of them turned to look at Eddie.

Eddie glanced around nervously, “What?”

“You’ve like… been with girls before, right?” asked Jeff.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah.”

Truthfully, Eddie would hardly consider himself an expert on women. But in a garage full of virgins, his few summer flings would render him one by default.

“Yeah, haven’t you like,” Dave raised his eyebrows suggestively, “Done it?” He gestured with his hands, his index finger moving in and out of the circle he made with his other.

The boys erupted in wheezing cackles.

Eddie snorted. “Yeah I’ve done it,” he said, heat creeping up his neck.

“Ok then, so like, what should Gareth do on his date?” asked Jeff.

“Yeah what should Gareth do to… you know,” Dave chuckled lewdly.

Gareth scoffed. “Dude I’m not trying to score on the first date. Cindy’s not like that. Besides, I’m not a total sleazeball.”

By Gareth’s definition, Eddie certainly would be. He could count the number of actual dates he’d had on less than one hand. The number of girls he’d slept with on about the same. Actually, it was rare that a date coincided. There was the girl he met at a carnival the summer he turned 17. That was short-lived. Then there was another girl who spent July with her grandma at the trailer park. He was 19 then. They would fool around in the woods outside of Forest Hills before she moved on too. That winter he would meet another at the Hideout, just passing though. She never even called him back. Could he really consider any of them dates?

The boys quarreled amongst themselves and Eddie found his thoughts drifting as they always did — to you. The truth was he had no idea what he was doing. What he did know was how good it felt to be next to you. To touch you. To hear your thoughts on anything at all. To lace his fingers between yours and watch the sigh as it left your body. To pretend that you were his for one stolen moment.

What he did know was that he wanted to take you on a date. Like a real, proper date. He wanted to buy you flowers and open doors for you. He wanted to sit down across from you over dinner, to see your smile in a candlelit glow, to pay for it at the end.

What he did know was that he’d never felt this way about anyone before. What he also knew was that he could do absolutely none of these things with you in public.

But he did know what he wanted.

“I dunno, man. Just like, buy her a ticket, get her some popcorn, be a real person,” Eddie offered finally.

“And get a spot in the back of the theater so you can —” Dave turned around, moving his hands up and down his body like he was making out with his bass.

Gareth threw a drumstick at him.

______

It was a typical Tuesday night.

A typical night of coming home later than you wanted after a pointless faculty meeting.

The breath you took in the crisp air outside the door to your apartment was deep and ragged as you turned the key. You could still feel the tacky chalk on your fingers as you pressed open the door. The echos of the questions you would answer over and over to raised hands still ringing in your mind. The adrenaline still coursing through your chest, tight and constricting. The mask that still weighed heavy on your face.

You shut the door behind you and removed your boots, and the mask.

The sun was going down already. Dim and quiet. Not a single sound for your tired voice to fight anymore.

It was nothing like your house in Indianapolis, the old craftsman bungalow that you had loved so dearly. A real house with character and charm. A kitchen with a big gas stove, and a dishwasher, and actual counter space. A dining room with a table big enough to host Thanksgiving.

It was a place would never have been able to afford on your own. Not on your meager teaching salary. Not in a city like that.

You might have been able to afford something small here in Hawkins, if you’d saved for it long enough. One of those little one-story shoebox homes built in the 50s near the neighborhood you grew up in. But buying a house just felt so permanent.

You hung your keys on the hook by the door. There was no character in the plain white walls of the entryway. None you could gather in the hall leading past the nook of your kitchen into the wood paneled confines of your living room. No space for a dining room table.

But the carpet still cradled your aching feet. There were still your records, and posters, and television exactly where you left them. There were still your books overflowing on the meager shelves you were able to squeeze into your bedroom. You couldn’t take the built-in craftsman cabinets with you when you moved. There was a lot you couldn’t take with you, and other things you wished you could have left.

There was one box you hadn’t unpacked yet. It was sitting in your closet, pushed back into the corner under summer dresses and winter coats. It was a box you hadn’t even unpacked at your old place in Indianapolis. One of those boxes that traveled with you from place to place ever since you packed your dorm room up for the final time your senior year.

Sliding open the slatted wood door, you reached under the clothing and dragged it out into your bedroom. It was not that big, but it was heavy.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet and hooked your fingers under the cardboard, folded in on itself to keep it shut without tape. It took a good tug to untuck one of the panels. Dust powdered the air as it sprung open.

It was hard to remember the last time you’d opened it, let alone everything that was inside. You sifted through the contents as the memories returned to you.

There were a few notebooks, an old journal, a few Polaroid photos you had forgotten about. Just you and your roommate doing stupid poses, hanging off of the bunk bed you shared like children.

There were many things that were more or less junk. Things that at the time of packing you just couldn’t seem to part with, like an old party hat from your roommate’s 21st birthday — crumpled and creased under the weight of time. You remembered decorating it with her and your other friends at the table in the common room. You all looked ridiculous wearing them on the town, going from bar to bar, your bright colored hats standing out like beacons against the backdrop of the January snow.

There were other things — a few postcards from friends brave enough to study abroad. A folded world map that once hung in the living room of your first apartment, the one you scrounged for with your best friend. In hindsight it was even smaller than the one you had now, and it had two bedrooms. It felt big to you then.

That was before you met Dan.

Before you settled into the craftsman he’d purchased in the historic part of town. Settled into routines and scheduled fancy date nights. Settled into planned family outings and weekends home in Hawkins where he would surprise your mother with news of his promotion at the law firm over dinner. News of the computer he’d purchased for you. News of your engagement.

Before you added more things to the box. Things that didn’t fit into you schedule anymore. Before you’d moved it here.

Before he left behind an ice in you.

There was one thing in the box that you expected to find. It was a black three-ring binder. Unassuming, but most important.

You cracked it open and stared down at the first page of your novel, quietly bracing yourself for the contents. It had been ages since you’d looked at it. You wondered if the years of separation between the you of the present and the you who wrote it would determine whether it was actually any good or not. In your memory it was.

You thumbed through the pages, silently critiquing your choice of verbs, your lack of variety in the dialogue tags, how tangibly painful it was for you to set scenes.

The story was there though. That was the thing that mattered most. The verbs could be changed, better tags could be added, the scenes could be more fleshed out. But the story held water.

Most distinctly of all, you remembered the thrill of writing it. The rush of being flooded with ideas. The hours you would spend in the car that flew by in a vivid daydream on the weekends you visited Hawkins. How every song on the radio seemed to fit the telling of your story.

There was a dreaming taking root in you again. Yesterday. Now. For the past two weeks. You felt it like the rush of wind that caught your dress as you glided down the hallway. The airy softness that pervaded your thoughts and made you want to dance.

You thought about the last time you felt this way.

The last time you did something for you and only you.

The last time you pursued what it was you really wanted.

______

A/N: You didn’t think I was going to leave Chekov’s unfinished novel sitting on the mantle did you?? ;)

A technical note — the tiefling race wasn’t introduced to the game until 1994 but we’re going to ignore that because I think it’s really fitting for Eddie. :)

As always, I deeply appreciate any and all comments -- keyboard smashing, theories, small novels, all of it. Hearing your reactions to my story fuels me in ways that I can only begin to tell you.

Please reblog and help others to find my precious creation! ✨

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @newlips @kasbite @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blue-mossbird @alottanothing @bebe0701 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieddiesgf @alizztor @godcreatoreli @shotgunhallelujah @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @luna-munson83 @eddiemunsonsbitcch @tlclick73 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @quinnsfineline @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @emily-roberts @averagemisfit03

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me

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takenbypeter · 1 year

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Hello it’s me again! Peter Maximoff x non-mutant reader. Peter is super excited about something and he’s running around the room like a ball in a pinball machine. The reader is trying to grab him so he can explain what it is. When they finally do catch him, Peter hugs them back EXTREMELY tight, trying to “stay still” (boy is probably vibrating). The rest is whatever you come up with. :)

His Excitement Running Strong

Peter Maximoff x reader

Words: 729

Authors note: well hello again so lovely to see you again and thank you for the request as always, it is always welcome.

“Peter!” You shouted, poking your head down to peek into his basement before your legs followed. He called you on the phone excitedly, very excitedly, mentioning to come over, because he had big news.

The last time he had “big news” it was nothing more than his favorite game having a new edition. That got him excited but nothing like this. When you called for him down the stairs all you heard was, “you’re here!” Before a gust of wind started traveling around the room.

“Woah,” you exclaimed, breeze immediately passing by you. Peter’s all over the place, practically bouncing off every corner and you can’t even keep up. You try to grab him but of course you’re basically miles off because he’s already moved on by then.

It was at that moment that you wondered if having powers yourself would make this a whole lot easier. Although you didn’t have any powers and couldn’t really catch him, there was still something you could try.

Collecting some nearby shoes and basically whatever you could find, you made a little barrier on the ground. The pla was simple, you were going to make him trip. It was a long shot and no doubt he could just avoid the obstruction but hopefully he’d be too distracted by his big news that he’d just fall right into your trap.

And to your genuine surprise, it worked…maybe a little too well. You watch in shock as he hits the ground harder than you expected.

“Peter!”

Dropping onto your knees you turn him over onto his back, “are you okay?” His expression still remained quite happy as he sprung up into a seated position, but before he could make any movement, you wrapped your arms around him, tight. You figured this way if he goes haywire you’ll just go with him.

“Wow, you’re practically vibrating,” you mutter while he imitates your earlier movement, wrapping you into a tighter hug, “don’t let go. If you let go I might not be able to stop.”

“Okay I won’t let go, but what’s got you so excited?” You ask peering up at him. His grin widens revealing most of his teeth and you smile back still confused due to lack of any more information. But luckily you don’t have it wait much longer to get it.

“Charles said you can come see the mansion.”

Your smile dropped, not quite expecting that. “I can come to the mansion?” You repeated, processing his words.

“Yeah, I asked Charles and he was iffy at first but he came up to me later and told me it was alright.”

Your arms loosen around him but he still holds onto you tight, “isn’t that kind of serious? I mean I’m not a mutant or anything.”

“It’s rare, but few non-mutants have seen the place,” his previous expression falls slightly into a forced one as he picks up the expression of concern written on your face, “aren’t you excited?”

Your eyes met his, noticing that your own mood was causing his to falter, “no I am! I mean this is awesome! I’ll get to see a new part of you, the teacher part,” you added rainsing your eyebrows and leaning into him a little, before leaning back again.

“I just…feel a little nervous that’s all. I’ll be the only one there without powers or anything…cool. Won’t it be…awkward?”

“Maybe.” Peter leans back a little to get a better view of you, while you look up, “but I’ll be right there with you, giving you the whole tour, I’ll never leave your side. It’ll be great, I absolutely promise you.” He gave you another squeeze, “I’m so excited for you to see everything.”

You couldn’t fight off the happiness that was spreading off from him again and honestly you were surprised by how enthusiastic he was about the situation especially considering how nonchalant he always acts about the whole being a part of the x-men thing.

But still, his words did reassure you that everything would be fine, and like you said it was a whole new part of him that you’ve never seen before. “I can't wait Peter.”

Sure it may be awkward and you were still anxious, but it was still exciting having him be able to share this part of his life with you and you couldn’t wait to see it.

#peter maximoff fanfiction #peter maximoff imagine #peter maximoff fanfic #peter maximoff x reader #quicksilver fanfic #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver imagine #quicksilver fanfiction #x men x reader #xmen fanfic #xmen x reader #xmen fanfiction #xmen imagine #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #request #requests

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usedtobecooler · 1 year

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tom walks by as you're bending over to clean somethnig in the arcade; cut to you spread out on the pinball machine with his face buried between your legs.

yeah okay and what if i died

warnings: oral f receiving, public sex i suppose, inappropriate use of arcade machines

tom grant was trouble. and he wasn’t always, but now he was. and more so, he was trouble for you. since he and ruth had split up and she ran off with jade in the middle of the night, leaving you to pick up the job related shit storm and him to pick up the pieces of his fragile little heart. bless him.

and there had always been a thing between you both. completely innocent until that point, because tom was in love and had been since he was fifteen and wouldn’t jeopardise it. but at the staff closing party for the caravan park, you’d both gotten too drunk and he’d dragged you back to his little static, fucked you on his couch and marked you up for everybody to see.

the next season had come around quickly, your presence expected. and the second you stepped foot through the door he was crowding you up into the linen cupboard and railing you like he’d not had a good fuck in the four months you were gone. he probably hadn’t. just his own right hand for company.

and you try to ignore him whilst you’re emptying out the penny falls machines, you really do. but it’s a weirdly hot day in may and you’re in these tight little shorts that aren’t uniform coded, and he’s using every excuse to brush up tight against your ass, feigning that he’s got to get some new tool or he’d left something behind. and he’s driving you crazy, he knows what he’s doing.

“that’s it,” he announces the next time he comes round, chest flush to your back as he marches you over to the pinball machines, and you guffaw, the unexpectedness taking you by surprise, shocking you into submission. he spins you around to face him, pushes your ass up against the edge of the machine, “up here.”

you sputter on any stupid response you’d of had, jumping up onto the cool glass and spreading your legs for him to step between. he doesn’t, though. drops to his knees instead and shoves the towel-like fabric of your shorts to the side, stifles an eye roll when he realises you’re wearing no underwear, but can’t relax his face enough to stop the goofy smirk etching his features.

he dives in like a man starved, and you cry out in response, your white nikes digging into his back as you wrap your thighs around his head, pulling him in tight. and he’s so good at this — fucks his tongue in and out of you, swirls up to your clit, suckles gently then glides back down, in this vicious cycle of too much but also not enough.

your fingers wind into his curls, and he moans into your cunt in retaliation, the vibrations on your core breaking your skin out into goosebumps, has your belly jumping as a heat pools. he slurps and licks and sucks on your folds with heavy hands on your thighs, keeping you spread open just enough, just how he likes. and you come, hard — thighs tensing around his ears as your hips jolt off the machine.

when you come back down, breathless and feeling like you’ve been punched in the gut, tom’s in your face, kissing you and licking into your mouth, letting you taste yourself until you’re moaning again, pulling him in, desperate to feel his cock in you. his fingers, even. anything he’ll give you.

but instead he breaks away, cheeky smirk back on his face, mischief dancing in his sparkly eyes, and they hadn’t sparkled for a while, “better clean this machine up, love. somebody’s made an awful mess of it.”

#tom grant x y/n #tom grant x you #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn fic #drabble #smut #x reader #mine

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rainnmaybank · 1 year

Text

Safe once again

vance x reader (GN)

masterlist

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warnings!!: mentions of bad parent relations, breakups

like most nights, this one was miserable. rain poured down drenching the aura around. y/n was wet down to the bones. small flows of lightning swam through the clouds lighting up the surrounding.

it seemed to be fight after fight, i didn’t matter if it was with their parents, friends or best friend. no matter where they went arguments sparked and burned them.

that night was worse then it ever had been, her mother spoke words she knew she didn’t truly mean. y/n never forgot words spoken out of anger.

the words rang through their head over, and over, and over again. “maybe you should leave, all you’re doing is annoying everyone”

in y/n’s mind that translated to we don’t like you, we don’t want you. like being kicked out by the only people you ever loved, heart wrenching pain snuck it’s way though their veins the farther they ran.

no particular place in mind, y/n just needed to get away from it all.

the storm rolled in quicker, wind picking up and thunder rumbling closer. the grab-n-go. of course that as the only place still open at this time of night.

y/n pushed on the door, ringing the bell over their head mixed with the howling noise of nature.

there was nothing they could do but wait for the storm to lessen. roaming around the store to seem busy, boys pushed and shoved each other around the infamous pin ball machine. she knew who was there.

y/n kept their head down, tear stained cheeks didn’t mix well with fluorescent lights.

eventually y/n had came face to face with the last aisle, the end showed the boys whom had been making all the noise.

y/n paced themselves walking down that row, not wanting to reach the end to quickly.

to say y/n was sad was an understatement. anxiety crept through their veins now, all that they had know just threw them away. deep sense of dread flooded their mind, heavy thoughts ran like a river. feeling how it felt to no longer have unconditional love, nobody ever realizing how damaging that really is.

every step brought them closer to the end, pace after pace. their mind never silenced. it spoke so loud they hadn’t noticed how close they’d gotten to the boys. stopping themselves before running into them.

y/n raised their head only to be faced with the one and only boy who’d ever broken their heart.

vance.

for a moment it was like the whole world had stopped, their mind stopped, the sounds muffled in her ears.

he was exactly what they needed, what they missed. even if both of them were chaotic, they brought unspeakable peace to mind.

like starting death in the face, beautiful calming death. their worst nightmare but only need. they didn’t dare to speak a word in fear their voice would fail them.

like stabbing in their heart, pain intensified over their body, they weighed heavy to the ground.

vance glared over feeling the presence of someone not in his little group, a smug look covered his face till he noticed it was y/n.

his hands stopped playing as his mind lost focus, friends behind him confused looked at eachother then over at y/n, reading the room they stepped away from the two.

vance stepped away from the pinball machine examining y/n’s face as he approached them.

“you’ve been crying” damn those fluorescent lights. y/n spoke lightly “no i haven’t, it was the rain” they waved their hand towards the window. “yeah right, i wasn’t born yesterday y/n, what happened?” his hand moved brushing stray hair from their face

the warmth floating off his body was enough to crack y/n, tears swelled within their eyes once again, parting their lips and taking a deep breath y/n went to speak

vance stepped closer rubbing his thumb over their cheek, his voice was gentle in a way you hadn’t heard in a some time “tell me what happened” y/n slightly leaned into his hand as they began to speak.

“my mom…” was all they got out before the water works hit, that was all vance needed to hear pulling them into a tight hug.

vance waves bye to his friends as he took y/n out helping them into the passenger seat of his truck.

knowing the last place y/n would want to go was home, he took them to his place. his parents weren’t home.

y/n glazed outside watching rain drops racing down the window, the lightning light up their small town in ways it never had before.

stormy nights are just like stormy thoughts.

vance had brought them inside, handing them clean dry clothes and starting the shower, y/n was chilled to the bone from the cold drops of the sky.

he waited for them outside the door, sat against the wall thinking to himself.

the bathroom door creaked open to reveal a much warmer looking y/n, his heart skipped beats at the sight of them in his clothes once again.

pushing himself from the floor his body moved faster then his thoughts as he embraced them.

y/n had no fight left within, falling into his arms.

a safe place that never seems to run out of safety.

that’s what he was for them.

vance took them back to his room, “get comfy i’ll be right back” y/n nodded, exhaustion filled every inch of their body, back clashing into the mattress their eyes laid heavy.

it wasn’t long before vance had returned handing them a glass of water and a plate with their favourite cookies on it.

y/n smiled sleepily accepting his offer

they spoke few words as they shared cookies, warmth finally wrapped around the pair as y/n’s eyes closed small hums coming from their lips, vance smiled to himself taking the glass from their hands placing it on the nightstand.

he turned off the lamp beside him, wrapped his arms around y/n he sighed holding their body to his own.

vance was at peace once again.

y/n was safe in her mind.

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