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livums · 1 year ago

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Liv’s {Totally Optional Non-Mandatory Completely Voluntary} Pointers for Fleshing Out Character Relationships

Hi I’m liv e. and by middling demand I am going to blab a liiittle* bit about relationships.

So I will start by saying that I’m trained & licensed as a marriage and family therapist. So this is kind of what I do all fucking week. And I like this whole writeblr thing so why not make it fun and about fiction instead. LOL.

The purpose of this liiiiittle** post is to offer some ways in which you, a writer (great job btw!), might deepen your own understanding of the relationships between two or more characters in your writing. More specifically, by thinking a little deeper about how relationships function in real life.

These are ways in which I might conceptualize a relationship between people who seek my services as a clinician.

A small disclaimer: the VAST majority of my work is with couples (because I. prefer to see couples over families, lol), so this advice is coming from that perspective. Please keep in mind also that there are certainly infinite other ways to think about relationships. This is just the way I was trained. Or at least, the parts of my training that resonated with me the most, especially as I began writing more seriously.

My hope is that reading and practicing/toying around with these tips will help add another dimension to how relationships play out in your writing. So um. Cheers! Let’s chat.

*it’s not a little. it’s a lot.

**it’s a long post.

i. What I Say vs. What I Mean

When was the last time your partner or good friend pissed you off?

Maybe they were flippant about your feelings. Maybe they blew you off to hang out with someone else. Maybe they keep loading the dishwasher like a neanderthal.

And did you say to them, “Baby/honey/sweetums/bestie, it really upsets me when you load the dishwasher like that. I’ve asked you to do it X way several times, and it feels like you’re not listening to me, or that you don’t care about how I feel” ?

Probably not? Because, hello? (If you did, first try, then, wow! you’re a better person than i’ll ever be.)

You might’ve said “Dude, stop cramming shit in the dishwasher like it’s a fucking suitcase,” or “Haha, wow, again with the dishwasher. Awesome. No, it’s like, whatever.“ Or you might not’ve said anything at all, on purpose.

There is a tension that exists, there, in the CONTRAST between what we are thinking/feeling/meaning (e.g., I love you/I miss you/You hurt me) and what we are communicating via our words and actions (e.g., You never make time for me/You’re so lazy/You’re such a(n) [expletive of choice]).

That tension is ... really fucking interesting to read, huh!

Personally, I have a lot of fun watching the needs/wants/feelings of a character (that we might be privy to, as readers) get filtered through their unique... voice.

So say you write a character who is quite rough around the edges, and not very skilled in affection. They have a deep yearning to be close to [love interest], but they just aren’t accustomed to languaging their true feelings. Maybe we see how scared they are of putting their feelings out there. It’s vulnerable. It’s terrifying.

So instead of “I really care about you, [love interest]”, maybe it comes out something more like “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than follow me around all fucking day?”

And we, the readers, are like, wow! That’s not what you were thinking at all man! You’re so bad at this, that’s awesome.

So the point of all this is that it’s very helpful to clarify for yourself, in any meaningful interaction between characters in or soon-to-be-in a relationship:

What are the characters individually thinking during this interaction? What are the emotions that are present? How does it show in their body or their movements? Are they careful not to let these things show, or do they not notice at all?

How are they expecting this interaction to go? (Are they afraid something might go wrong? Are they looking for a certain reaction from each other?)

What DON’T they know about what the other person is thinking? What are their assumptions about how the other person perceives them--in general, and in this moment?

What is the GAP or the CONTRAST between all of the above and what actually ends up coming out of their mouth? Or what actions they end up physically taking (or not taking)?

Are the characters aware of their own contrast, here? How do they feel about it? Or, do they think they are being perfectly congruent?

In this way, you have the ability, as a writer, to create some devastatingly (or delightfully) poignant moments between characters. These are the moments that can really sell the reader on the relationship--its importance (why are you showing us this?) and its appeal (thank you for showing us this, this blew our tits off, etc).

ii. Tender Spots and How to Attack Them for Fun and Profit

So we’ve got issues.

What are the things that really fuckin get at you? Those topics that, when brought up, make you really upset and really defensive at like, mach speed. Maybe you’re insecure about your skills. Maybe it really bothers you when people see you as weak/unintelligent/a burden/unattractive. Maybe you have a rough and complicated relationship with a family member.

So these can be thought of as, like, tender spots (lol). You can also think of them as “raw” spots, sensitive spots, or triggers.

Figure out what your characters’ are!

This is another key way in which you can create deep and believable interpersonal drama--Character A (accidentally or intentionally) stomps all over Character B’s sensitive spots. So to speak.

A very cursory and relatively uncomplicated example of this in action:

Tasha and Mimi are two adults in a committed partnership.

Mimi’s got a real fucking chip on her shoulder about being seen as a burden--her father always went to great lengths to make sure she knew just how much he did for her, just how many opportunities he passed up in order to raise her, just how great his life would have been if she’d never been born.

Tasha is the oldest of five siblings. She was frequently tasked with their care, growing up. She did her best not to complain, as her parents were always very busy working to keep a roof over their head. So, Tasha did her part. She would’ve loved to rest and play and goof off like other kids and teens, sure, but it never felt possible with all of her responsibilities.

Mimi is suddenly injured and is unable to do certain things on her own that she had been doing before. Tasha goes about taking care of these things as well as taking on certain other tasks on her own that the pair of them may have tackled as a team before. Tasha feels stretched very thin by the workload, but is deeply concerned about how Mimi feels. There’s nothing to be done about the situation, she reasons, so there’s no point in complaining about how stressed out she is.

Mimi offers to help to the best of her ability, but Tasha is very concerned about her, and insists that Mimi rest and not exert herself. Mimi insists back. Tasha insists back back.

Mimi points out how stressed Tasha must be. Tasha agrees that she is stressed, but does not elaborate on her feelings. Mimi assumes that Tasha must think that she is a burden.

Mimi then becomes very emotionally activated--she is reminded, consciously or unconsciously, of how shitty it felt to have her father tell her over and over again what a burden she is, and how better off he would be without her. So this must be how Tasha really feels about her, Mimi accuses.

Tasha, who is very stressed but who cares very deeply for Mimi and her well-being, and who does not see Mimi as just a burden, becomes very activated in turn--she feels maligned and misunderstood. And now she certainly can’t talk about how stressed out she is, because it will only convince Mimi that she is right.

So Tasha is now convinced that she must continue to hold her feelings in in order to keep the peace--she’s reminded of her childhood spent taking care of others, and how she never felt allowed to express herself.

This example is obviously from a very zoomed-out view, chronologically, and is not exactly the way we would see it written in fiction (fiction is much more moment-by-moment and, well, exciting, usually). BUT we can see where Tasha and Mimi’s sensitivities lie, and how they specifically hurt each other with their behavior (unintentionally, in this case) by stomping RIGHT ON those sensitivities.

Readers love drama. And drama makes the plot go ‘round! So don’t be afraid to lay it on them!

In your (very good and compelling) writing, ESPECIALLY if you want to write engaging relational conflict, you would do well to clarify what your characters’ deepest sensitivities are. Consider the following:

What needs went unmet for them, growing up? A very cliche therapist-y question, but for good reason--our upbringing is where many of our deepest insecurities originate.

Additionally/alternatively, what do your characters understand to be their role in relation to other people? E.g., are they always the caretaker, the burden, the comic relief, the heartbreaker, the lonely hero, the boss? How did they first get this idea of who they’re ��supposed’ to be towards others, and how was this reinforced throughout their life? Are they satisfied or dissatisfied with their ‘lot in life’? What do they hate about their ‘role’, if anything?

What sorts of situations might remind them of what they hate most about this role? E.g. ‘I enjoy taking care of others, and I’m good at it, but my partner gets upset if I discuss how stressed I get sometimes--I’m never allowed to express myself.’ How can you incorporate these situations into your story to create conflict?

How does your character respond when these sensitivities are triggered? Do they lash out? Do they retreat and get quiet? Do they ghost people altogether?

What do they think will happen if they are unwilling or unable to fulfill this role in their relationships with others? E.g., ‘My partner will leave me if I am not a good caretaker’, ‘Nothing will get done right if I’m not the one taking charge’, ‘If I don’t keep others at arms’ length, even if they say they love me, I’ll end up hurt.’

This is another way in which you can help your relationships really come to life! Anyways. Read on for more cheer and relational joy!

iii. We’re Attracted to What Hurts Us Sometimes, AKA Oops! I Ran into the Knife, Ten Times,

(less of a part 3 and more a part 2.5, but it was simply too long. so,)

So maybe you have a good idea of what your ideal partner/bestie looks like. It’s probably any number of positive traits: kind, considerate, good sense of humor, shapely posterior, ambitious, active, fun-loving, studious, etc.

What probably don’t make the list are things like: emotionally distant like my mother with whom I long to have a reparative experience.

Maybe you’ve witnessed (or been in) a relationship wherein all parties can be described as ‘just so bad for each other’. And maybe this relationship should not have lasted as long as it did (or shouldn’t be lasting as long as it is). And maybe you’re like--’Why are these assholes still together?’ Or, importantly: ‘Why did these assholes get together at all?’ The answer may surprise you! But more likely, it won’t.

Sometimes, we pick people on purpose specifically because they stab us right in the sensitive spot (again. so to speak).

(i should clarify before moving on: I am specifically NOT talking about relational abuse, here. That’s kind of an entirely different subject that is like. the cousin of this subject. In this discussion, I specifically mean relationships in which there is no major power differential--you’re just bad for each other. These relationships can be what we might call ‘toxic’, sure, and painful, but not abusive. The distinction is important, moving forward. ok ty)

[Author’s Note: I need everyone to know that I wrote and subsequently deleted 700 words here because I realized they didn’t make any fucking sense ok. let’s try this one more time.]

Essentially, it’s a known phenomenon among humans that, when we have experience with relational distress in the past (e.g. a partner who neglected you emotionally, or parents who disregarded boundaries you tried to set), we like to seek out similar people with whom to form relationships. Weird! But not really.

The human brain seeks closure and resolution--where we couldn��t get things to work out with our parents, or our exes, we try to get the same situations to work out next time, with someone new.

Let’s look at another example, together. Take my hand,

Suppose you write a character (Character A) whose mother was in and out of their life from a young age, and never seemed to prioritize them. Now suppose you are looking to craft a fraught or tragic or dramatic romance (or other relationship) with this character. Using what you’ve written of your first character’s backstory, you can do just that!

It’s perfectly believable, you know now, for your Character A to pursue a love interest (Character B) who has a tendency to... not want to stick around. Maybe this love interest seems to fear commitment and intimacy.

Now, maybe Character B in actuality has a very dangerous profession that requires that they maintain the utmost discretion, and be ready to flee anywhere at a moment’s notice. Maybe the fate of the city/kingdom/nation/world relies on B’s profession.

It probably doesn’t make them leaving all the time hurt A any less, though.

Character A, unconsciously or not, is determined to make things work this time around. As the relationship deepens, B is faced again and again with the choice--stay, for your love, or go, as duty commands. Maybe they’ve taken a vow for their profession that is no light thing. They leave, time and time again.

Character A, unconsciously or not, remembers this feeling--it’s an old one. Mother, time and time again, chose something else over them. It would be understandable for A to feel a deep anger towards Mom and B both. Maybe A takes drastic action to get back at B (action that is also, symbolically, retaliatory towards Mom)--maybe they cheat on B, or do something that endangers their own safety.

When all they really want is just to get B to stay.

It’s probably very clear now why it’s not so simple a thing for A to choose to date someone more consistent--this is something that goes beyond B alone.

In this way, you can very easily weave themes into the relationship(s) of your main characters. Maybe the story of A explores the pain of abandonment, or loneliness. If B is the protagonist, maybe the story explores the way we excuse our shitty behavior in relationships (maybe the job is a pretext--maybe they really are scared of commitment), or maybe it’s about the dilemma of duty over love.

Relationships don’t always make sense. Or rather, they do make sense, just in a different way than we might expect. You can use this understanding now to intentionally explore a number of complex relationship dynamics, and to create nuanced (but sympathetic) characters. As you do, consider:

In your existing characters’ relationships--what keeps these assholes together? Why do they have to be with each other, as opposed to anyone else? This is important, again, for selling the reader on the relationship, especially if it’s your work’s main relationship.

What initially attracted your characters to each other? Consider again from the previous section (what is this, a fucking textbook?) the historically unmet needs of your character(s).

How do your characters go about expressing their needs? Think again about CONTRAST here--what is the discrepancy between what the actual need is, and how the character seeks to fulfill it? E.g. ‘I need to keep B from leaving me, because it really hurts me when they go, so I’ll go risk my life just to keep their attention (rather than express this pain to them).’

What similarities, if any, exist between your MC’s relationships with the people in their present lives, and your MC’s childhood relationship(s) with their caregiver(s)? Could you expand on/deepen any similarities in your writing? What themes might emerge if you did?

iv. Change / The Arc

So you’ve got your work’s central relationship. It’s believable, it’s just the right amount of dramatic, it’s suitably tragic, and just all-around devastating. People will cry. Great job!

Now what?

Well, that depends--what ending do you envision for your relationship?

If they remain together, do they get the happily ever after? The happy-for-now? Is the reader left to wonder about whether or not their relationship will survive?

Do they not make it at all? Are they separated by tragedy? Do they crash and burn? Or maybe they try their best, but despite how badly they love each other, it’s just not enough?

Whatever the Point B of the relationship is, if it’s central to the work, you’re gonna want to have a clear arc in there. Or not, idk, I’m not your mom.

You might already know, if you inhale every piece of writing advice you come across (like me), what makes a compelling character arc. The good news is that it’s much the same with relationships! Kind of.

Systems (relationships) tend towards homeostasis. Without deliberate intervention, relationships want to remain the way they’ve always been. Just like people!

And just like characters, relationships need a reason to change. Like a catalyst, or a motivation. Whatever the hell you wanna call it.

It’s not always, like, complicated to figure out the driving force behind change in your central relationships. Sometimes the pieces fall together!

Pay attention to the characters within the relationship--as your characters progress through their arcs, their relationship will naturally shift. It will probably not look exactly the same as it did when it began--there might be similarities, of course (they’re not entirely different people.. usually. And there’s a beauty to bookending a story with the familiar, certainly). But in this case, the relationship can be thought of as an extra character, almost. It’s unsatisfying to read a whole story wherein a central character stays exactly the same. It’s further strange and incongruent for a relationship to stay exactly the same while the characters have like, achieved actualization or whatever.

Outside events can force change on a relationship, just as they do individual characters. A couple that’s close to Characters A and B get married--and A & B start to wonder what their future together even looks like. B’s company hires a fiiiine honey, who’s exactly B’s type, and A starts steaming about it. A pandemic ravages the nation, and to prevent the spread of the virus, A and B have to stay inside togeth

YOU GET IT ok anyways I’m fucking tired of writing. If you’re wanting to develop the arc of your MCs’ relationship(s), think on some of this:

Do your characters see any problem(s) present in their relationship? Are they all equally aware of the problem(s)? Do they agree on what the problem(s) are?

How secure are your characters in their relationship? If anything could possibly cause doubt and conflict to arise, what is it?

Where do your characters see their relationship going in the near future? In the far future? Do their visions align? If not, how do they differ? Do they even want the same thing?

Is the arc of the central relationship congruent with the arcs of the characters who comprise it? I.e. does the relationship remain exactly the same as it was when it started, despite the characters undergoing wild metamorphoses? Is the reverse true?

When you think about their relationship, INDEPENDENT of any ending you may already have decided, where do you see it going? Like, where do these people feel like they’re headed, realistically? Does this align with the ending you’ve decided on for them? If not, this doesn’t mean you’ve written a bad relationship or anything, it’s just a possible sign that some really intense shit might have to happen in order to shift their course, y’know? Or not--the world is your oyster and you are the God of your own creation!

What are you trying to say with your story, and do the arcs of the central relationships reflect that message?

final thots

If you read all that shit, thank you. I wrote it all in one sitting and posted it without proofreading 💜

In all seriousness, I want to emphasize that, although some of these aspects of relationships are most visible in rels with a lot of anguish and maybe even some toxicity, you by no means have to write this kind of relationship in order to make use of these tips. You could write a very Normal couple!

The idea is to offer you some avenues through which to consider aspects of your characters’ psychology and personalities, and how they mesh or clash with their partners’ or besties’.

Anyways I hope this was helpful. I love talking about relationships I could literally go on and on all day. Which I kind of just did so. lol.

I’ve been liv and I’ve got two main WIPs I’m working on right now: The Romance of the Demigods and The Marking Blood and they’re full of really really super normal relationships and examples of me definitely taking my own fucking advice.

Cheers and happy writing! 💖💖💖

#writing advice #writing tips #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #writeblr community #writing community #writing tutorial #how to write romance #i guess #lol

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powderblueblood · 11 months ago

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

CHAPTER SEVEN — WELCOME to the REAL WORLD, JACKASS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: christmastime in hawkins brings a bunch of cherry bombs in the boy's bathroom, a trip down memory lane via seven minutes in heaven avenue, and the least likely trio this town has ever seen. content warnings: MINORS DNI i'm going to fuck you up and santa isn't real so we've got, smut including references to and descriptions of male and female masturbation, smoking, swearing, a pregnancy scare, era-typical misogyny and ANGST in the form of a flashback!!! word count: 12.5k. merry christmas babies

Dear reader, it takes you less than five weeks to become incapable of imagining your life without Eddie Munson.

Which, given his propensity for being an absolute neanderthal, is concerning.

Eddie Munson talks with his mouth full and plays his music too loud. He never closes a cabinet all the way. He walks through anywhere, literally anywhere, be it a store or the library or Ronnie’s trailer–leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He talks during movies and puts his feet up on the seats at the Hawk. He makes fun of the books you read, but always grabs them away from you to stare at the blurb on the back. He never finishes a cigarette all the way before lighting another one, which is just wasteful. He pretends to be good at holding his liquor, but he’s not.

He stands too close to you in places where he’s got plenty of room to move. He makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to. He holds the door for you in school, at the bookstore, getting out of the van, even though you’re more than capable of doing that yourself. He takes advantage of you when you’re in a good mood, like making you scratch his head as if he were a cat.

Sometimes he calls you ‘baby’, as if you don’t have a nickname already. As if you two are…

You lean toward the only mirror in the girls’ room with decent light, reapplying the red lip stain you’d taken to wearing– it was coming on Christmas, for god’s sake, and despite everything, you’re feeling festive. Quick. Lighter on your feet than you have been in a long time.

“Hey girl, could I borrow that?” an out-of-tune simper rings right next to your ear and you almost jump out of your skin, lipstick clattering into the sink.

“Jesus!” you say, and Eddie Munson cackles. You knock him back with a one-handed shove, face setting into that funny little grimace you’ve taken to wearing when he acts up– and he’s always acting up. You’re gonna get wrinkles if he doesn’t cut it out. “What the hell are you doing in here? Hair in your eyes make you miss the sign that says girl’s room?”

You know that’s not true, because you were the one that just about tied him to a chair in Ronnie Ecker’s trailer so you could trim his bangs last week.

This is a fuckin’ violation of my human rights, Lacy!

Every time I’m seen with you, people think I’m out walking a goddamn Briard. Hold still!

“So, hot off the press, newspaper girl,” Eddie says, leaning against the yellow porcelain, “One, I am literate, much to everyone’s shock and awe. And two, someone threw a bunch of cherry bombs down the john in the boy’s bathroom and the place is fucking Hiroshima, but wet and kinda shitty smelling. So we all got told to use this…” He gestures around at the clean-ish tile. “...salon of iniquity.”

“Was it you?” you ask, plucking a cigarette from the soft pack he’s offering you.

“Huh?” He scrunches his brows, leaning with a lighter ready. He’s taken to doing that; cigarette at the ready, lighter at the ready, low-grade explosives at the ready, probably.

“The cherry bombs, was it you?” you say through a reel of blue smoke.

“For once, no,” Eddie sighs, head slumping forward like a Peanuts character, “Some other gorgeous, anarchistic genius got the jump on me.”

“Oh, god,” a frown sets in; you pick up your dropped lipstick and in its wake, ash into the sink, “There’s no other bathrooms on campus you animals could use?”

“Nuh-uh. Unisexuality, baby, it’s the way of the future,” Eddie tells you, fanning out his hands like P.T. Barnum.

A beat. You think. This bathroom, the unofficially allocated senior bathroom, the one you and the rest of the Hawkins in-crowd had been using since sophomore year, got crowded at the best of times. The fumes of Aquanet were a definite health risk, but that’s an occupational hazard when it comes to being a girl. You add boys into the mix, nay, couples into the mix–

Damn.

“We’re about to witness the conception of so many toilet babies.”

Realization dawns on Eddie, his brown eyes flaring. “Oh shiiiit. I never thought of that.”

“The band geeks alone, Eddie,” you whisper, head tilting toward him all scandalized-like, “We’re gonna show up at our fifteen year reunion and every single one of these suckers is gonna have their own little freshman clones.”

“Spare a thought for Heather Holloway.” Eddie’s face, a mask of mock concern, makes you roll your eyes.

“Why?” you scoff, not a fan, “She doesn’t inspire many.”

“Objection. Her implants do.”

You turn to face him fully. “J’excuse?”

“Swear to god,” and his palms are up, “Just saw her in Chemistry.”

“Good? Bad?”

“Conical. Jayne Mansfield.” Aaand his hands are gesturing, animatedly. Crassly. Pervily. “Take your goddamn eye out.”

“Wow. Christmas came early.”

“Christmas ain’t the only thing that’s gonna be coming early…”

“Ew.”

Eddie smirks and flicks his cigarette into the sink, hitting the faucet to wash it away– there were at least three good drags left in that, you think.

“Heather H, first one to get knocked up in the Great Bathroom Insemination Project of 1984. Mark my words.”

“And you think you’re in with a shot?” Your tone is dripping in sneer.

Eddie regards you for a moment, so you know something deeply annoying is about to happen. His voice goes all serious, barely above a whisper, as he closes space between you like he’s trying to beat a draft.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Lacy baby.” His hands brace either side of the sink you’re standing at, trapping you against him. See? No respect for boundaries. But– Hm. Not… that annoying. “Oversexed teenagers sharing the same bathroom– at Christmas, with all that mistletoe around and shit.” His eyes, searching you with a glint that’s s’posed to be provocative. You, elbow propped up by your folded arm, puff a plume of smoke into his face. He doesn’t even blink. Smirk pursing his lips up. The two of you have established a rhythm. “Anything could happen.”

“Ew, what the hell are you doing in here? This is the girl’s room.” Enter some upstart underclassman, and Eddie’s peeling away from you.

“You didn’t see the biblical flood on the second floor, Pippi Longstocking?” His voice is big and booming and bouncing off the tile, making the underclassman cringe. “Forcible takeover. This is my house now.”

“God, shut up, freak.” She shuffles by the two of you to a vacant stall with a look you recognize– she’s so telling her friends about those two trailer park abnormos just about copulating in the bathroom later.

“Great choice!” Eddie exclaims, door of the stall slamming, “I warmed the seat for ya!”

—

“Watch where you’re going, you almost milled down that stroller!”

“I wouldn’t need to go so fast if you two, freakin’ Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Priss Ass, didn’t insist on getting to this place before it closed!”

“We wouldn’t need to rush if you hadn’t spent all freakin’ afternoon at goddamn Lipton landing getting all– all–”

“All?”

“--toked up and shit!”

“Market research, Ecker! And, I’m gonna remember you said that! Later! When you want to get all toked up and shit– woah!”

Listening to Ronnie Ecker and Eddie Munson bicker in the front seat while you balance on a drum stool in the back of his van, clutching onto Ronnie’s passenger seat for dear life– no better way to get into the spirit of the season. You’d be joining in the milieu if you weren’t currently suffering from major motion sickness.

Eddie takes a harsh pull into a parking spot outside of Family Video and–“Go, go, go!”--you three load out like soldiers, locked on the target. He takes the lead, swinging the door open for the two of you ladies, but a voice calls out from the counter before Ronnie can even get a toe over the threshold.

“Oh, no– no way, no way!” Steve Harrington’s yelling from the helm of the ship, waving his hands. “We are– fifteen goddamn minutes away from close, I can’t do this tonight!”

“Highly unwise of you to turn away paying customers, Harrington!” Eddie gasps, Ronnie ducking under his arm.

“You guys come in here and spend honest-to-god hours talking shit in the aisles and– and you never even rent anything!”

“Well, your luck’s about to change!” Ronnie says, and Steve regards her with a mask of total confusion because, well, it’s likely he’s never heard her speak directly to anyone other than Eddie before.

That’s when you roll in the door under Eddie’s arm-arch, color rising in your cheeks that’s not from the cold.

“I am deeply reconsidering my association with you guys.”

“Tough shit.” “Find another trailer park.” “You love it. You love us. You’re obsessed.”

You pinch both of your hands towards them, the universal action to encourage zipping it, and cast a glance towards Steve. His shoulders relax. His vest is green and garish and a terrible color on him and… he’s wearing elf ears. And he’s Steve Harrington. And your stomach clenches, though it’s more muscle memory than anything else.

“Hey, Steve,” you smile, soft and small and not really all that there.

“Lacy. Hi.” He does smile at you, after a beat. “You responsible for these assholes?”

You hadn’t seen him since the night of his party, that grand inferno that had landed you here, standing between Eddie and Ronnie and feeling not entirely awful about it. Well, you hadn’t exactly seen him then either, except for a flash when Eddie was dragging you out of his house.

So, y’know, the blush is entirely justified.

“She’s bankrolling us,” Eddie says, closing the door to keep the heat in and speaking just to break the tension. True, too– you’d scored a part time gig at The Bookstore after a confrontation with the eagle-eyed Ivana regarding certain missing copies of Little Women, The Woman Destroyed and Fear and Trembling. You assumed you were working off the thievery, which you never directly admitted to and she never directly accused you of– but then, she paid you.

Ivana, it turns out, is incredibly pro-workers rights and even more incredibly anti-Hawkins gossip mill. Which works out a treat for you. The bookstore’s become more of a haven than it had been before.

“Can you scatter already?” you direct two thirds of your threesome towards the stacks. “Let’s make this breezy, I feel a wave of mortification rising.”

“No. I was promised in-store bickering,” Eddie says, rooting himself to the spot. You catch a weird flash of– something in his eyes. Ronnie, with her unlikely band geek strength, groans and yanks him toward the horror section. “It’s my favorite part! It’s like the pre-show!”

You take to the counter, gingerly, shyly. Why are you shy? Why, all of a sudden, after showing your ass in such a spectacular bruise-garnering fashion, are you shy to speak to Steve Harrington? Is it because Nancy’s dropped a tidbit here and there that he’s not exactly great boyfriend material? Is it because you sometimes secretly think, good, I hope you two are having a terrible time, even if you and Wheeler are making baby steps towards a friendship?

Is it because you never forget the first person that called you Lacy?

Fuck knows. Some of that.

“So you’re… what, hanging out now?” Steve asks, gesturing to the twin dipshits. There’s a bite in his voice from a former incarnation of Steve Harrington, one with (somehow) bigger hair and an unchecked ego. It doesn’t all shed at once, you figure. He’s sloughing it off and there’s still some left over, judging by the way he’s staring at Ronnie and Eddie.

You look over your shoulder to them. It would be so easy to deride it, right– only due to my unfortunate proximity to them, yes or girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do for a ride these days or it’s community service, I swear.

But you don’t. You turn back to him with a pinchy little smile. “I’m this close to getting them to let me play tambourine in their band. Can you even deal?”

Steve, after a beat and a brow furrow, sort of half nods. “Think I kind of… get that.”

You’re about to answer when another body comes barrelling in through the back.

“Just wanted to let you know, dingus, that I just got off the phone with Keith–you remember Keith, right, our manager who is currently in a war of words with our boss trying to keep this place open–and your little stock-take fuckup has cost us, like, weeks of manhours in work and–” Robin Buckley, complete with a light-up Santa hat, stops dead. Counts every person in the room. Shakes her head like she’s in a dream. “What is…”

“H–hi Robin!” Ronnie calls, her voice all squeaky– due to the scuffling headlock that Eddie has somehow managed to put her in without you and Steve even noticing. “Don’t worry, we– we’ll be out of your hair in a second!”

And Robin– wait, is Robin kind of… blushing? She backs down immediately, putting her Family Video branded binder flat on the counter. “Yeah, no… that’s totally okay, take your time!”

You look at Steve. Steve looks at you. You quirk an eyebrow like– is that, is she… And Steve shrugs like, don’t ask me, sister. Pleading the fifth. Saving Robin’s dignity.

But you’re still you and you’ve been bugging Ronnie about her situation for weeks so you hold up a finger.

“What are you two idiots arguing about?”

“Black Christmas–” “Silent Night, Bloody– ow, Ronnie, don’t pull hair, you girl!”

A swivel back to Robin, who is totally pink-cheeked. “We need a professional to settle this.”

Her mind seems to stutter like a badly wound tape. Oh, she’s suckered. “Uh– uh, Black Christmas, for sure. Not exactly the coziest thing to watch, but–”

“We’re not cozy people!” Eddie yells, Ronnie coming at him with arms like weed whackers.

“--but Margot Kidder, right?” you poke, goddamn Jimmy Page and John Bonham for the Midwest set slamming into the counter on either side of you.

“Olivia Hussey,” Ronnie says breathlessly. Eddie seems to have winded her somehow. “That’s– she’s cool–I heard she was in this–”

“Exactly!” Robin lights up, excited, “She– she played Juliet in Romeo and Juliet–”

“Wait, don’t you see her boobs in that movie?” Eddie jerks in.

“Yes,” Robin and Steve chime in unison. And glance at each other. Telling.

Ol’ Munson there snaps his fingers. “Sold.”

“But not in Black Christmas,” you say, almost gently, so as not to… let him down?

Eddie rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward your shoulder. “I’m a man with an imagination, ain’t I?” he rasps. You pretend-shudder.

“Okay, let’s do Black Christmas and– you got a copy of The Thin Man?”

Blink-blink goes Robin, like a cartoon. It’s nearly audible. “... like, the William Powell, Myrna Loy Thin Man?”

Your turn to roll your eyes. God, you guys love to roll your eyes, huh? “Is there any other?”

“Like the black and white movie. You’re sure? I just didn’t think it’d be your–”

But Eddie cuts right through that assumption that’s making an ass out of you and Robin, because he knows. He knows because you’ve made him sit through Double Indemnity at the Hawk, scolding him for putting his feet up (god forbid, right!) and you’ve even threatened to drag him to some Buster Keaton retrospective that’s playing there after the holidays. He keeps thinking, man, if Wayne Munson ever comes across this girl, he’s a goner, and then he remembers why that won’t be happening any time soon.

“She’s a freak.”

You regard him with a tight smile. Kind of a thanks, kind of a fuck you. Kind of your thing.

“I’ll watch it when these bozos pass out.”

—

Something’s gotten into Eddie.

You three are absolutely basking in the glory of your one night of freedom– see, Granny Ecker’s away on a weekend hotel stay in Indianapolis with one of her special friends from the Hawkins Senior Center. Which, on the one hand, gross, Eddie never ever wants to think about Granny Ecker getting lucky no matter how happy for her he is. But on the other, in the words of her beloved granddaughter–

“God bless the Indiana Sweepstakes!”

Eddie has stolen Granny’s usual spot, the kick-out recliner that seems to sag more with every movement. You and Ronnie are bunched onto the little two-seater together, with Ronnie shyly suggesting that you paint her nails (black, how totally hardcore)– now, Eddie knows this move. This is so she can distract herself from the bonafide creepiness of Black Christmas because while she tries to put on a brave face, Ronnie’s eyes for horror movies are way bigger than her stomach. She’s all nerves. It’s why she’s such a good drummer.

As you’d predicted, by the time the movie ends and you all clear the six pack that Eddie had procured, Ronnie’s nodding off– but Eddie is determined to stay wide awake. You make a move off the couch and she grumbles, having narrowly avoided propping her head on your shoulder. You move to arrange her in such a way that she’s sleeping Nosferatu style, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I spent an awful lot of time on that polish and I won’t see it ruined, not on your account,” you chide, real quiet. Ronnie’s not listening, she’s pretend honk-shooing. Eddie, on the other hand, is.

He likes you like this. You’re sweet to Ronnie, in your prickly little way– making her flustered with your misdirected flirting, bonding with her about things so far out of the realm of his male understanding. Being a girl with her. It’s occurred to him that Ronnie, in her testosterone-soaked world of current comrades, might actually need that. Like, she’s friendly enough with Jeannie and that Vickie girl from band, but they’re not people she’d go out of her way to make a case for so’s that Granny Ecker will let them stay for dinner.

Which she’s done for you. Once or twice now. Which you’ve nervously accepted and even ruined your manicure for, by insisting on washing up the dishes. Eddie dried, because of course he did, because the Ecker trailer is the only place close to home that the two of you can hang out.

You’re, like– friends.

Which is horrible.

Eddie tosses you a cold can of soda from the fridge. You catch it, hands basketing above your head.

“Power forward.”

“Cheerleader.”

You lean over to the TV to swap the tapes out, insistent on watching your dumb little black and white movie. As you do it, your skirt lifts a little bit and–

Eddie’s gotta break eye contact. Stare at the floor for a second. Cock jumping like the fucking mole from whack-a-mole.

He almost hits it.

You bitch, are you wearing thigh highs?

“You need to pull trig, Munson?” he hears you from the kitchenette, clicking the video player’s play button. “You only had two beers.”

God, maybe. Was the room spinning? “Smoked a lotta weed today.”

“Right. Lipton landing,” you smirk. Ronnie’s derisive little nickname for Reefer Rick’s place. “Are you gonna get over here and snore through my movie or not?”

I do not snore, or some muttering of a similar fashion comes out but he’s doing exactly what you tell him to do. He can’t help it. Brain function gone all freaky from that flash of flesh squeezed out the top of your– yeah.

Eddie lands on the floor next to you with a little groan. Your eyes flick between him and the now-empty recliner.

“What are you doing down here?”

Oh. Busted. “I’m a gentleman, Lacy. Take the damn seat.”

Your face screws up in that silly way it does whenever he talks sense to you but you don’t wanna hear it. Brat. “No. I like to sit right up near when it’s something I really want to watch.”

A shrug of your little shoulder as you wrap your arms around your knees like a kid. Face illuminated by the greyscale on the television. Skirt rucking back against the carpet. Fuck.

Eddie lets out an unsteady breath, crawling forward to lie on his tummy. Closer to you. “You’re gonna get square eyes if you keep doin’ that, dorko.”

“Who died and made you my optometrist…” but you say it in this half-hearted, distracted way, eyes on the screen.

“Y’know, if you–” Eddie starts, eyes on the lace top of your–yes indeedy–stockings.

“Shut up,” and you tap him on the shoulder. “I love this part.”

Your hand stays there as some fancily dressed chick totally eats shit in the bar of some hotel or something. Christmas presents flying everywhere as she falls.

Women and children first, boys.

Say, what is the score anyway?

Oh, so it’s you he was after.

Hello, sugar.

Your hand stays there as you’re totally mouthing every single word, you true-blue nerd. Eddie, completely at a loss of how to react to this other than gaze, gaze, gaze at you, snaps his teeth at your hand.

You, so completely embroiled in Nick and Nora’s white hot banter, gasp at the near-bite and swipe at his head. Eddie dodges the blow by rolling onto his back, hair fanning out on the Eckers’ rug. He grins up at you, and all of a sudden the rise and fall of his chest in that worn-out Alice Cooper shirt is very distracting.

Pretty girl.

Yeah, she’s a very nice type.

You got types?

Only you, darling–

“--lanky brunettes with wicked jaws,” you say, beat-for-beat with William Powell.

“Talkin’ about me?” Eddie says, lips peeling back, eyebrows quirking.

“Not in your wettest, wildest dreams, Eddie Munson.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know what happens in those dreams. It’s filthy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s twisted. It’s disgusting.”

“I bet.”

His hand is absent-mindedly stroking his chest, shifting the hem of that t-shirt up a little bit. Brushstrokes. You remember that? Eddie Munson has a happy trail like–

“You’re so nice to me. It’s so fffffucking hot.”

“How wildly out-of-character,” you scoff, and he laughs, and you shift in your spot the teensiest bit. Eyes back on the screen, back to safety.

From here, where he’s lying, Eddie has a fully illustrated view of the flash of skin up your skirt. Now that you’re not looking at him, he’s looking at it. Swallowing back saliva. Ignoring Nick and Nora.

It’d be simple as pie to walk his fingertips along the rug and brush up against you there–oops–by accident or design. Feel how soft that skin is. Feel that heat radiating from your–

“It’s alright,” he hums, eyes flicking to the ceiling. Otherwise, all the blood’s gonna drain away from his head and he’s going to fucking die. “I know I’m not your type anyway.”

Your head lolls to your other shoulder, exposing a flash of your neck. It’s sorely missing a tongue running along it, he thinks, breath shuddering a touch.

“You wouldn’t know my type if it hit you with an eighteen wheeler.”

“Can Steve Harrington drive an eighteen wheeler?”

Lolling your head back in the most exaggerated form of exasperation, you groan. “God. The way you talk about Harrington, I’m willing to put money on the fact that you have a crush on him.”

Eddie shrugs, hand resting on his sternum. You had your hand there once, you recall.

“I got prescribed one on the first day of freshman year, just like everybody else. But it wore off.”

“Sure about that?” Your eyes narrow.

“Sure as I am that I saw you makin’ googly eyes at him at the Family Video tonight.” Eddie crosses his own peepers for effect. Your attention darts back to the screen.

“I was not–”

“You can just say it, Lace.” His face is a twisty little smirk, if you’d care to look. “Regardless of how utterly pedestrian it might be.” That was a dig at you, by the way. That was an almost eerie impression of you.

“The things I felt in seventh grade don’t really have a lot of gravitational pull on me anymore,” you shrug, not giving. Because, when you think about it, you don’t have to give. It was a baseless kind of thrill, seeing Harrington tonight. One hit wonder. “He’s a cute boy. Reminded me I have a pulse. Nothing wrong with that.”

Eddie’s quiet for a few seconds, flicks his eyes up to watch the TV from upside down. Nick places an ice pack on a drunken Nora’s head.

Hmm… what hit me?

The last martini.

He smiles as you smile, and he wonders if you’re thinking of the same thing he’s thinking of.

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Funny you mention seventh grade…” Eddie trails off, tugging at the rug underneath him.

“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?” Your voice is distant again.

“Little bit of both.”

“Why?”

Well, he thought you might be fucking with him, but– “... God, you really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?” He sees your brow pinch, he’s getting to ya.

“Not a fucking clue.” No give, no glory, eyes on the peeling ceiling.

“Remember what?” You’ve snapped your neck and are looking down at him now, thirsty for him to fucking spill it already.

“Total–” he blows a raspberry, “--blackout before freshman year, right?”

“Eddie.”

His name makes him sit up. Pavlovian, sure, and he’s trying to deny the fact that he’ll do just about anything you say when you call him Eddie in that slightly-tinged sour way and not Munson like you’re writing him off. He’s trying to deny that. He swears.

“Nancy Wheeler’s thirteenth birthday party.”

You two are shoulder to shoulder, him facing the couch, you facing the screen, his breath warming the bare skin of your off-the-shoulder top which is an insane thing to be wearing in the dead of fucking winter, but praise Jesus hallelujah you’re wearing it. Your expression is unimpressed.

“... yeah?”

“We played Seven Minutes in Heaven.” He lays that out a little too plain for your liking. Playing Seven Minutes in Heaven at a thirteen year old’s birthday party is like the non-denominational Hora for pseudo-white bread Christian teenagers, at least in Hawkins. Everybody does that shit. But hold on.

“... you were there?”

“Fucking obviously, dimwit, that’s the setup to the whole story.” He sighs in a puff, and he’s very close to you. Chin almost on your shoulder like that night at the Quarry. “Tommy Hagan ripped into me for like, fifteen full minutes because my spin of the bottle landed on you.”

Confusion is a disease and you’re terminal. “That was… not you.”

Insistence is a disease and Eddie’s fatal. “Yes. It so was.”

“That was John Hudson-Wasserman.”

“That was not–,” Eddie full on splutters, like slapstick splutters, reeling his head away from you, “you’re gonna get me confused with John Hudson-Wasserman? The guy who was like, pathologically obsessed with the Kennedy assassination? The guy who moved to Des Moines like, two weeks after that party?”

Then you’re spluttering back all of a sudden. Everything you two are doing is contagious. “His parents named him after John F., can you blame him? –actually, I can totally blame him, that was bizarre.”

“Lacy.” Well, the way he says that straightens your spine. “Use that pretty little brain to think for a second, huh? There’s one unmistakeable detail I bet I can get to jog your memory.”

But you’re already there. Activated. Like a sleeper cell.

“Your hair was all buzzed off. You had that bandage on your head.”

“I did. And you asked me what was under it, and I said–”

A hole. They cut out a part of my brain so I’d be– The Wheeler’s linen closet was tiny and you were breathing in lavender detergent from all angles.

The boy in front of you, scrawny and angry, had an aura around him like a firework. You knew it was dangerous, but you wanted to look closer.

–less of a freak? you finished. Such was the accusation du jour for this kid.

Less of a danger to society, he said, chest puffed. They let me keep it in a jar. Just in case shit gets really real and I need to shove it back in.

You don’t quite know what to do with that. Like. He is so weird, and his hair is unevenly shaved and he’s got little cuts and scratches and scabs all over him. Like he’s been running through brambles. He looks like a kid someone found in the wild.

Did you name it? you ask, finger drawing circles on a nearby towel. Your jar brain.

Eddie Junior, he told you, crossing his arms.

Aren’t you already Junior? Shouldn’t it be Junior Junior?

His jaw hardened. No. I’m Eddie.

You nudged forward on your toes to get a better look at the bandage– he was taller than you. It lumped out of his head, unmissable. Nothing to be done about it.

He seemed to cringe away from you.

Don’t try anything, skank.

You bounce back onto your heels.

I wasn’t, asshole. We don’t have to do anything– just… like… did it hurt?

He paused for a full ten seconds (you counted) and swallowed real hard. Eyes wide as hubcaps, and dark, and frightened. He craned his neck toward you a little.

Then the door swung open, Tina Burton standing there hand-in-hand with an irritated-looking Steve Harrington. Time’s up, losers!

Al hadn’t asked if it hurt, when he beat the crap out of him for doing something so stupid. Wayne hadn’t even asked if it hurt, when Eddie came back from the hospital like a dog with its tail between its legs.

You were the first, and you were the last, and it was before everything. Before you were even Lacy.

“What happened, anyway?” you ask. Soft. Like that last time.

Now, in retrospect, Eddie sees the error of his ways.

“I lit all my hair on fire with a butane torch.”

“You what?!”

“It’s not– entirely my fault! I think I saw someone with hair on fire in an X-Men comic and I thought, y’know, that’s an achievable look.” That’s a severe understatement. It was Johnny Storm from The Fantastic Four and Eddie believed that he could be like Johnny Storm only more badass and maybe with like a sick motorbike. What, you’re telling me you didn’t go through a pre-teen-to-mid-teen phase where you were secretly convinced you had superpowers? Smarten up.

“And how high–”

“Yeah, okay, I was also hitting a Reddi-Wip can like crazy.” The nitrous oxide did not help these delusions.

“Why the big bandage?”

“Eh, I got some, like, bitsy little burn. Total overreaction.”

“Do you have a scar?” Before he can answer, you’re parting his hair, right near the place you remember that bandage being. Eddie freezes, your frigid fingertips searching his scalp. You are… very close.

“Uh– no, I don’t.” He gulps, avoiding looking at you directly in your bright, curious little face. “Can I tell you something truly fucking dumb?”

“Wouldn’t be out-of-character for you, that’s for sure.”

Deep, deep breath. Fucking shit fucking goddammit fuck. Balls. “I regret it.”

“The hair thing? Yeah, you’d think–”

“No. Not kissing you.”

“Oh.” Your hands drop from his skull but don’t exactly leave his hair. Just kind of wound in there, hovering, the way you feel like you’re hovering now.

“You asked me if it hurt, and then I was gonna– but then, fucking Tina–” Eddie says, eyes dashing to you in these minute little glances. Away, back, away, back.

“Fuckin’ Tina,” you breathe.

“--and Harrington.”

“Ah.” You shut your eyes. He didn’t notice you were wearing green eyeshadow until right now. “The square root of the problem.”

“Huh?” Barely heard it. Too busy looking at the glitter on your eyelids. The way your eyeballs shift around underneath.

“You’re totally lemon sour bitter with Harrington because you think he made you blow your shot with me.” You open your eyes with a squint.

“That is so not–” Break a spell, why dontcha! But then, Eddie takes a bite. “Actually, if you pop-psychology that, there might be somethin’ there, but… I regret it because I didn’t just–”

You cut in. “Go for it.”

“Shoot.” He confirms.

“Power. Forward.” You emphasize, lips curling.

“Cheer. Leader.” Eddie says, gravel in his voice.

Do you know that your hand is still in his hair? Like, are you physically aware of it? (Answer: no.)

Nick. Nicky?

What.

You asleep?

Yes.

Good. I wanna talk to you.

Your head swivels back from the screen. He watched you look away, dart your tongue out onto your lip, look back at him.

“Eddie.” There’s fizz in your voice.

“Yes, Lacy.” He wonders what flavor.

“I think…” and you finally extract your hand to lay it in your lap. Withdrawing, willing to be shot down, but you’re you and you know that you won’t be. “We could make a case for making up for lost time.”

Eddie’s mouth has become very dry. “... meaning that…”

“Eddie, I think that you should kiss me like a seventh grader– eighth grader? So weird, why did Wheeler have eight graders at her bir–”

“Lacy. Back on track, please,” which is another horrendously pin point perfect impression of you. And he needs to be sure that you just said what you just said and that isn’t the ghosts of Lipton landing talking.

“We should try it out. An honest-to-god, never-been-done-before Seven Minutes in Heaven kiss. I happen to think it’d fix something in you.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs.

“No, I’m serious!” And it is kind of fizzing out of you, and you might not be entirely just talking about him for this next part, “I think you’re holding onto a lot of pent up energy that may have just gotten even more pent since we became, y’know–”

“Zoo animals with parallel enclosures?” Eddie says with an arching eyebrow.

“Wow,” you swallow a breath. “That really sounded like me.”

“I’m afflicted with a Lacyism from time to time.”

“Is that like astigmatism? Because you should get that looked at.”

“Who died and made you my optometrist?”

“Eddie.” Your voice, coming from your face, which is all dappled in the unserene technicolor glow of the Eckers’ Christmas lights, highlighted by the blaze of the black and white on TV. You make it look like stained glass. He would walk into oncoming traffic– “You trust me, right?” He would go and play on the freeway if you asked him to.

Eddie, Christ, he’s got to gather himself. Like the sweat gathering on his palms, he thinks, great work ethic, I need some of that. He gets a bright idea, brighter than those twinkling lights. “I think I need full authenticity in order to make this experience worth it.”

“What?”

“We need to find a closet.”

It’s pretty much a hard no on whether or not the Eckers have a linen closet (you’re a long way from Maple Lane now, babe), so it’s agreed that you’ll give Granny Ecker’s wardrobe a shot. You follow Eddie in there with tentative steps, like you can almost feel her watching all the way from the Best Western in Indianapolis she’s no doubt staying in. Trespassing is bad, yadda yadda, but it’s also exciting.

It’s exciting, being in here with him.

He glances back at you, eyes a glimmer in the darkened bedroom. “After you,” and he flourishes a hand toward the open closet.

You two are so not seventh graders anymore– heads bang against hangers, you’re kind of melting into a lot of denim and fleece and you… you don’t have much breathing room. No lavender detergent, just the beer-and-old-weed-sweet smell of Eddie Munson pushed close to flush against your chest. The scent of that shampoo you both use caught somewhere in the middle.

Your breathing is so shallow, you feel like you might be having an asthma attack. You don’t have asthma.

“Tight,” he says, and knits his brows, “I mean–”

“Cozy,” you correct, unsure of where to put your hands.

“We’re not cozy people.”

“So let’s do this,” you attempt to smooth your face into something resembling nonchalance, “Kiss me like a seventh-or-eighth grader, Eddie Munson.”

He clears his throat, shaking his head. A smile keeps flicking and dying on his lips. Heart about to burst out of his chest because of how weird this is, because of how weird you are, because of how– how–

Eddie knits his fingers behind his back in an imitation of you, your girlish pose, and leans forward. About ninety percent, just in case you decide this was a stupid idea, or you don’t like the look of his face up close, or– or–

You close that perfect ten. Your lips feel like flower petals. Light. Baby-soft. Crushable.

It’s so chaste and it’s so innocent. It’s so the diametric opposite of the two of you, brash and harsh in your diverging, abstracting ways– waving only to meet in the middle. It’s pretty, like you are, and Thumper-from-Bambi-thumping-his-foot nervous like he gets around you.

You pull away a fraction, and Eddie swallows a sound. To save face, he is about to say something– I give it a six or that’s what I’ve been missing out on this whole time or you flap that mouth an awful lot for someone who doesn’t know how to use it, something equally goading. Something that would make this… normal.

Until you take his bottom lip between yours. And it’s wet there. And it’s warm. And your lips are so, so crushable–

Eddie’s fingers unweave and find your arms, find your waist. Slow, slow, he takes it slow because he could scare you and he doesn’t want to scare you. You’re curving into him, lips slicking against his, and then his tongue licking it’s way into your mouth which you just fucking open for him and it’s so good–

–and he tastes like salt and smoke and he holds you like he’s anchoring himself against you. Your hands wind on up, up, up his chest, catching on his t-shirt where his chest is (duh duh duh you fucking idiot), where his heart is thrumming under that smatter of a tattoo you got caught staring at that night in his trailer. It’s all you’ve got in you not to tug it up and off him, but Christ, no, because you need to keep kissing him. It’s so nice, it feels so nice, kissing him, when was the last time something felt as nice, that’s all you can think with sensation seeping through your body like a sugar rush. Hands move to either side of his neck and he makes a noise.

Your fingers, fishing hooks in his hair, pulling him closer and closer to you.

The heat. Of his body. Matched only by the heat gathering in the cherry pit that lives in your stomach.

And he needs, god, Eddie needs it fucking bad. It is a lot of things. It includes your tongue so far inside his mouth that you can taste the Tab on his uvula this time. It includes more of your tits pressed against him, so he can feel if your nipples have hardened under his touch. It includes this moment, just this moment, just kissing you as your body winds around him–

But then you pull back. Before he can whisper the little, “No…” that’s coming like a reflex, you cover his mouth with your hand. The mouth that’s all slick from kissing– you.

Jesus Christ. You had really done that. The stupid, idiot both of you.

“Guys?”

Eddie, dizzy and down-the-rabbit-hole tipsy Eddie, gets the impulse to lick your hand, to take your fingers in his mouth and just start sucking, but he doesn’t do it. Because he has now snapped to the fact that that’s Ronnie Ecker calling out for you.

The two of you, twisted around each other like snakes in her grandmother’s closet.

“Go,” you hiss– no, you breathe. He was just expecting you to hiss. But you’re breathy and unsure about the command you’re giving. Still, you jerk your head.

Well, Eddie’s pretty hard up about telling you this, but, “Can’t. Need a sec–” Like, can’t you feel that?

Eddie’s standing more than half to attention, pressing in between the both of you.

You let out a jagged breath that sounds like oh, fuck, and it’s not the kind of oh, fuck he was hoping to hear and his heartbeat stutters.

And then you’re gone.

Eddie stands there, hands held aloft around the ghost of you that was there, that was right there and kissing him. Like you meant it, like it wasn’t an experiment or a joke or a dare or anything other than what you wanted. You wanted him. You wanted him. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he breathes into his hands, dragging them down his face, his lips, the smell of you still lingering around him. “Oh… I am so fucked.”

Kentucky fried fucked.

You make your way back to the living room on trembly legs, reaching for every steadying surface, attempting to destroy the evidence of a swollen mouth and Munson-finger ruffled hair. You find Ronnie sitting upright on the couch. Nick and Nora have nearly solved the case. You don’t give yourself enough time to make a mask of your face that could easily lie to her.

“Munson had to pull trig,” you say, and it’s not steady enough for Ronnie to not call bullshit.

But she doesn’t. Not outright anyway.

“He okay?” she asks, nearly wary.

“I don’t know. Could be comin’ out of both ends, I don’t know,” you start scrambling around for your bag and your shoes and your coat and not your right mind because you left that back in the closet, somewhere between Eddie’s teeth and tongue. “Look, I hate to ditch on you, but my mom–”

“She’ll be on your ass,” Ronnie says, measured like a cup. “Sure. Go on. I’ll think about calling 911 if he chokes.”

Breathing out some piss-poor rendition of a thanks, you dip out of Ronnie’s and past his van and all the way back the lot towards home.

It’s freezing. You’re not. For once.

When Eddie finally reappears from the closet, Ronnie is sitting in the exact same position. Except this time she looks somewhat judgier– maybe because it’s easier to be judgier toward Eddie than it is toward you. Some kind of girl politico he doesn’t understand.

“You feel better?”

“Huh?” Eddie says. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Do you feel better. Lacy told me you had to barf.”

“I… I guess.” Eddie has already cashed in his once-in-a-lifetime lie convincingly to Ronnie Ecker voucher.

“She also told me you maybe shit yourself?”

Alright, well, that was unnecessary. “Alright, well, that was unnecessary.”

“I guess I was just hoping that…” she sighs, crossing her arms, “... that you weren’t puking and shitting yourself…” she sits back against the couch, “... when you were making out with her. In my… bathroom?”

He really does consider leaving out this detail. “Granny’s closet.”

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“She’ll know. She’ll kill me.”

“Oh, she’ll kill ya,” Ronnie mutters, “And then I’ll go to work on ya.”

—

You two have got to stop fucking each other over like this.

Fucking each other over, conceptually, actually, is interesting. Because Eddie’s done a whole lot of fucking you over in his mind since that closet. Sliding your panties aside and fucking you with his tongue, polyester lace of your stockings creating static against his hair, sparks snapping off your inner thighs as you rub against his nose.

Following you back to your trailer and fucking you with his fingers against the cold, metal exterior, your nails digging into his neck and your voice stabbing his name into his eardrums.

Pulling you into his lap in the driver’s seat and tearing through the cotton of your underwear with sheer animalistic fervor, making you lean back against the steering wheel as he sucks your tightened nipples, cock safe and warm in the slick, deep wet of you.

Somethin’ like that. He didn’t sleep much this weekend.

Mind stuck on the one track, your lips smacking against his. Now in fabulous 3D!

In every single one of these fantasies, too, his idiot sap ass is whining your name fifty billion times more than you’re whining his– so much so that it breaks the fantasy barrier and he’s crying, “Fuck, Lacy-yy–,” into his limp pancake of a pillow, cum careening down a fist that should have nerve damage by now.

He is exhausted. And to make it worse, he hasn’t seen you.

He hasn’t even been avoiding you this time. So that’s all on you, you bitch.

“You bitch…” he mumbles, head resting against the cold brick of the newly-unisex senior bathroom, which has become a hellhole in no time. First period on a Monday is usually an okay time to get a bit of peace and fucking quiet, though, because everyone else is at least making an attempt at starting the week off on the right foot.

But not Eddie. Not worn out, prick-tired Eddie.

And not whoever is doing a horrible job of hyperventilating in the stall next to him.

“Excuse me?” a breathless voice says. He thinks he kinda recognizes it but–

Then, ew! Some gagging, some violent coughing, a little ugh, Jesus, please not again–

Eddie slides out of his stall and knocks on the next door– and it swings open with ease.

She’s crouched over the cistern–gross, fucking gross–and tears are streaming down her peachy cheeks, catching on her pointed chin.

“Christ, Wheeler. S’matter, you pregnant?”

Nancy Wheeler’s eyes flash in a flare of rage, a choked scoff spitting out of her. She’s about to fucking cuss Eddie out, it looks like, which he kind of wants to see, but then whatever straw that’s holding that together snaps and she lets out this wild sob of total incredulity.

Ohhh, as much as he would love to bolt out the door like it’s not his problem, Eddie realizes that this has now, somehow, somewhat become kind of his problem.

—

“I gotta talk to you.”

Ronnie Ecker appears like a lightning flash, knocking you clean out of your reverie of slowly crawling fingers and lips and teeth and guilt that had been plaguing you all weekend.

You had spent most of the last forty eight hours staring into the middle distance, ready to glue upright nails into your shoes and walk on them for penance. You fucking stupid slut. Kiss me like a seventh-eighth grader, Eddie Munson. You unbelievable fucking cowshit. See, because, okay, do you know what you’ve done?

You’ve taken the first real friendship you’ve possibly ever had in your life (save for Phoebe, God rest her soul that moved to Saskatoon) and completely entirely fucked it sideways, and sure, you’ve also spent a lot of the weekend thinking about other things getting fucked sideways, like you since you’re now cursed with the knowledge of the vague suggestion of the outline of Eddie Munson’s dick but moreso, foremostly and mainly you want to fucking take a swandive off the edge of Sattler’s Quarry.

Addendum– there’s too many quarries in this fucking county.

A ping-ponging of guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-slinking your way to first period the long way that’s only now broken by Ronnie Ecker coming down on you like an Acme anvil.

Meep meep.

She knows. Of course she knows.

“Ronnie,” you whisper, eyes following her as she lands herself into the aforementioned Munson’s seat behind you, “I can explain…”

“Don’t!” There is this vigor, this knife’s edge in Ronnie’s voice that is terrifying and kind of thrilling but mostly scary and having been in the presence of Granny Ecker even those few times, you knew she always had it in her.

You recoil. A little.

“If Eddie wants to be a fucking moron about you, please can we just let him, and not–” Ronnie’s mouth clamps closed like a Muppet’s might. Like she’s physically trying to calm herself down. “Look. I really like being your friend.”

Oh, Christ, your heart. “I r– I–”

“You’re dogshit with the emotional stuff, I get that, but I’ve been friends with that asshole so long that wearing my heart on my sleeve is like, second fucking nature so I’m not and I’m pissed off, frankly, that there’s a chance of him coming between, like… us.”

You and Ronnie. You, and your friend Ronnie. “Oh, it’s–”

“Because technically, by absolute technicality, I was your friend first, okay? We were lab partners first and I thought we had a vibe goin’ in Biology and I was the first person you wanted to talk to at the Hellfire table even if it was a thinly veiled ploy but you’re so good at ploys and you’re such a piece of work and you’re so funny and I wouldn’t know what Ponds cold cream actually does if it wasn’t for you. Fuck.”

“Granny’s a soap and water girl.” There’s a fluttering in your chest and a thickening in your throat. You swallow big, and you think you might actually start– “This doesn’t mean I’m gonna try fencing, Ron.”

“But it’s fucking cool, even if we do it with sticks.”

You take her in, baseball cap shoved over her coiled hair, darned-all-to-hell sweater sagging out under her overalls and you really feel like something is about to bust out of your chest. Your honest-to-god friend, Ronnie Ecker.

“Miss Ecker, last time I checked, that’s not your assigned seat.” God, Kaminsky’s such a relentless dickwad.

“I’m having a conversation,” Ronnie says, with the kind of as-yet-unheard volume from her that makes the rest of the class go ooooh!

Jesus fucking Christ, have you turned Ronnie Ecker into a bad girl?

“I don’t give a shit!” rumpled Kaminsky says, slapping that dusty chalkboard duster full of dust, “Have it in detention.”

“Hey! That’s–”

But if you can do one thing for Ronnie. “No can doozy, Mr K, Miss Ecker has a prior commitment.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, not you again,” he mumbles not-quite-under his breath. “And what is that? Lacy?”

Before you can even say the words peer tutoring, none other than Eddie Munson is barrelling through the door. He stops comically short at the top of the classroom, gesturing to Ronnie in his seat like what the fuck?

“Lacy!” he eventually says, and he’s breathless and flustered and just like you imagined him in–

“Munson, what in the name of the goddamn Father Almighty–”

“Weekly Streak–” and guy is just snapping his fingers, blinking wildly at you, “–thing!”

You stare on in a state of confusion until you spy Nancy Wheeler right in your eyeline, right through the open classroom door. Her little face streaked with tears, and god, she looks like shit, and she’s beckoning to you with a flutter and a fury.

“No, of course!” a little murmuring, uh, shit, and you hurry to the top of the classroom, slamming the homework that Kaminsky’s obviously going to ask for on his desk with a rattle.

“Kaminsk, my man, the future of print media is forever in your debt!” Eddie calls, ushering you out the door and into the echoey hallway.

“What is going on?”

Both Eddie and Nancy shuffle you down the hallway, avoiding the monitors (rat finks!), dipping under the east stairwell. A great stairwell. So much illicit shit has happened in this stairwell and you have an itemized list of it all, somewhere in your brain. The kind of person people tell things to.

Nancy’s just full tilt gulping like a fish out of water, and Eddie’s all, “Wait, shit, are you gonna barf again?” and you’re all, “Answers, please, tout suite!”

“I’m late.” Nancy’s voice doesn’t even tremble. She’s that scared.

“Fuck.”

“Very?”

“Extremely.”

“You’re sure?” you press, and suddenly you’re the kind of person that grabs Nancy Wheeler’s shoulders.

Her lip trembles. “I mean, I haven’t–”

“Well, we gotta. Right now.” And it occurs to you that Eddie is just standing there, a polite enough distance away that he’s involved but kind of not involved, but respecting the space that you two need. How does he know how to do that? How does he always know the right… “Eddie.”

He snaps to attention, mouth all serious and eyes all eager. You want to kiss him again, but this shit is not about you.

“We need a ride to the drugstore.”

The three of you pile into Eddie’s van, him insisting on doing the honors of opening the passenger door for you again, and Nancy quietly requesting that you share the passenger seat with her. You two are squished together, her spindly thighs overlapping yours. Denim versus dark suede. There is a very tense silence in place the entire van ride there, Nancy digging her nails into her palm and Eddie nervously thrumming against the steering wheel. The tape deck plays resumes mid-play– Metallica’s Ride the Lightning.

For your part, you experience a harsh zoom-out moment– Nancy, who you’ve learned is almost as strong-headed as you, just on a better moral track (lawful good versus chaotic neutral, you think Eddie once framed it), is stranded. She’s the eldest sibling to that little shitstain Michael and Holly, who’s a baby so to you has no discernible personality, and her mother is kind of an airhead and her father… you don’t know shit about, but it’s Hawkins, so dads. The responsibility of everything seems to fall on her all the time, and you can only be so resourceful as a teenage girl in a town like this. Especially when the other teenage girls seem to, at best, keep you at arm’s length, or at worst, ostracize you.

And Nancy had lost Barbara Holland. Who, when she mentions her, is talked about with such a glow that’s followed by such a wave of sadness that it nearly takes you under too.

She misses her so much. She misses her best friend so much.

Barb should be the one dealing with this. Not you. Which sounds like you’re shirking responsibility. But really, it’s because you don’t know if you fully deserve the privilege of helping Nancy.

Truth is, Nancy would probably be okay, handling this on her own. Sure, it’d be another inch of depth added to the chasm of loneliness building in that poor girl’s psyche, but she’d do it, because she’s Nancy and she handles things.

Just like you’re Lacy and you handle things.

But however Eddie Munson ended up as part of this situation… he brought her to you. Because he knew you’d know what to do. So she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Because Eddie doesn’t want people to do things alone.

You only really have that impulse if you know how terrible it feels.

And if you don’t see kindness as a weakness.

Which Nancy doesn’t. And Eddie doesn’t. And you… don’t want to, anymore.

You reach and peel Nancy’s fingernails from the grooves they’re digging into her flesh. You don’t even look at the half-moon marks they’ve made. You just glue her palm to your palm and web your fingers. And over the frizz of Nancy’s perm–the nice kind, salon kind, the kind that doesn’t stink of egg–you look at Eddie, just as he glances at you.

He smiles, small and unsure and wavering. You bite your lips between your teeth and try the same.

“Shit, I don’t think I can go in here.”

The van has skidded into an inconspicuous (but not entirely, because have you seen that fucking vehicle) place near the drugstore.

“Why?”

“People– the pharmacist knows my mom and everything,” Nancy shudders, “There’s no way that people won’t have something to– fucking say.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and you give him a look like, welcome to the Nancy Wheeler Actually Swears Club. Care for a canape?

And y’know, you could argue so what. So what if people have something to say. You’re young, mistakes happen, the world keeps turning. But one skip in a perfect twelve-inch record of reputation like Nancy’s can make her life a living hell. You know that.

Shit, she knows that– you weren’t not aware of that stroke of creative genius vandalism that went up on the Hawk marquee that one time.

And it would shatter Nancy’s mom’s heart. And while you don’t have the same time of day for her, Nancy really loves her mom.

Once you’ve ruined your reputation, you can live quite freely.

That moveable feast motherfucker was onto something.

Click, and Eddie’s glovebox pops open in a clatter of tapes and a one-hitter and other ephemera. You reach in, retrieving sunglasses you’d left in here a little bit ago.

“So let’s give ‘em something to talk about,” you say, sliding on the shades.

Nancy clutches your arm, eyes wide and searching. “Lacy.”

You shrug, like it’s nothing. Except nerves have started nibbling at you. “Spot me a ten. What am I, a goddamn Rockefeller?”

“Not anymore,” Eddie Munson grins at you. Sun breaking through the bleak midwinter. The nerves cease their nibbling.

—

The tension doesn’t exactly ease when you make a beeline for the drugstore (particularly because you’ve just accepted a goddamn miniature hero’s quest and he’s a little… well, he’s not not watching your ass as you walk away, let’s put it that way).

Eddie and Nancy Wheeler are still absolutely enormous universes apart. Not even the same species. He doesn’t mind keeping it that way. This right here is just, like… the right thing to do.

He moves to turn the radio down, figuring that the thrum of Fade to Black might be a little much for her right now. “Sorry. Didn’t mean for–”

“No, it’s okay.” Wheeler smiles that flat, priss smile reserved for the barest of polite gestures.

Eddie nods, propping his elbow against the window, cupping his face in his hand. He keeps kind of sneaking sidelong glances toward Wheeler, because– well, had you told her anything? About… Seven Minutes in Heaven? Does she even remember that, from her birthday party all that time ago? He knew that you two weren’t exactly tight, but were well on your way to getting tight, but not as tight as you are with Ronnie and certainly not as tight as you are–or were–with him and Jesus Christ almighty, he’s got to find a synonym for the word tight.

“You… play Dungeons and Dragons, right?” Wheeler asks all of a sudden.

Eddie glances down– he is in fact wearing his Hellfire shirt. She’s a sharp one, that Nancy.

“I dabble,” he says, a derisive little chuckle that’s not all-the-way mean spirited.

Wheeler bobs her head. “My brother, Mike,” she says, and he sees now that it’s an effort to keep her nerves steady, “he loves it. Like, he’s totally obsessed. Him, and his friends, they’ve got their own little party going. Majorly long campaigns, very involved.”

“Campaigns, parties. Using terminology like that, I’d say you’re something of a dabbler, Wheeler.”

Nancy chuckles. “I– may have dressed up as an elf for one. Or two. When I was way, way younger, though.”

“Well, your brother– Mike?” Eddie checks and Nancy nods, “Once he gets to high school, why dontcha tell him to look up Hellfire. Could be the best-worst decision he’ll make for the next four years of his life.”

“Right, because you’ll be passing the torch,” she says, grinning.

“And possibly to a Wheeler. Oh my stars and garters,” Eddie gasps, clutching his chest in mock-shock.

Wheeler laughs and, okay, maybe she’s not so bad.

“Shoot, we have movement.” And out you come, holding the Advance pregnancy test over your head, gleaming and victorious– but Eddie and Nancy flap their hands, willing you to put that fucking thing away! We’re being subtle!

Climbing back in the van, you announce, “Alright, so the good news– no doctoral interference, obviously. The wonders of modern medicine, everybody give thanks to Johnson and Johnson, et cetera. The bad news– who knows of somewhere we can steal–” you glance back at the box, “--thirty glorious uninterrupted minutes of time?”

“Lacy, I can just–” Nancy starts, but you stop her short with a tap to the head.

“And have you sitting in class all day with your guts churning because you don’t know what’s up or down that spout? I think the fuck not. We’re doing this now.” This is out of the goodness of your heart, you swear it is.

But there might be a fraction, just a generous sliver, that still loves the drama.

Like Steve Harrington, it’s not an immediate shed of the ego. It’s a slough.

“Well, my place is a no-go,” Nancy tells you, shrugging into herself. “My mom will definitely be home.”

“Ditto,” and your mother is the only person you know that loves gossip more than you do. Besides Eddie, of course.

After a beat or two of wondering silence, Eddie raises a hand. “I may… have someplace… we can go.”

—

How many cherry bombs does it take to make a boy’s bathroom look like the bombing of Dresden?

“So fuuun fact, turned out that some nerd swiped a hunk of sodium from the Chemistry lab and just blew this mother to shit,” Eddie brightly informs you and Nancy as the two of you pour over the instructions for the pregnancy test kit.

“While everyone was distracted by Heather Holloway’s implants, you mean?” you murmur, scanning over the small-sheet size booklet.

“Streets are saying she was an accomplice.”

Holy fuck, these instructions were involved. Nancy stands clutching the little rectangular tray that her pee is supposed to go in, nailing Eddie with a look beyond normal categorical nerves. “You’re sure no one’s gonna come in here?”

He shakes his head. There might as well be police tape all over the door of this bathroom, that’s how off limits it is. “It’s cold, it’s broken, it smells gross. Maybe some people are using this place to huff paint, but I can guarantee, Wheeler–” and he bends a little to meet her earnest eyes, “--I will bark like a fucking rabid dog to clear ‘em away if I need to.”

Nancy nods shortly. Jerk, jerk. She disappears into the least dilapidated stall with her pee rectangle.

“God, she is so scared,” Eddie murmurs to you, crossing his arms.

You’re still studying the instructions. This shit has droppers and test tubes and color changing strips, oh my. “Pissing shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

Wrong.

“Guys.”

“Yes?” “Yeah, Wheeler?”

“I’m a little, ahem–” Bladder shy. Perfect. Awesome. Not that you guys aren’t going to be shacked up here for thirty minutes anyway, but that’s only after Nancy Wheeler goes number one and you, like, mix up the pregnancy oracle potion.

Shit. “We’ve gotta do something to like, make her chill out–” Eddie half-mouths at you.

“Yeah, but she’s so high strung, that’s like–” a spark hits you. “Wait, have you got anything on you?”

“Fresh out. Waiting on a shipment from Lipton landing.”

You smack him, not even thinking, and he winces. “And all that shit you were smoking the other day, that was–” “That was market research, babe, and I told you that–”

Nancy clears her throat from inside the stall. “Please, don’t quit bickering on my account. I’m only trying to figure out whether or not I need to start rehearsing lullabies.”

Damn Nancy, Eddie mouths and you almost laugh. Wait.

“Nance, what’s your favorite song?”

“Huh?”

You shake your hands. “Like, the song you absolutely cannot go without hearing? The one that makes you feel, just–”

“Ticklish?” Eddie suggests, the paragon of knowledge, the pinnacle of your annoyance. You thump him again. “I need a safe word.”

“Um– uh…”

“C’mon, Wheeler, the song that makes you feel just… awesome and chill and on top of the fucking world, c’mon!” Eddie encourages, kicking detritus around the bathroom floor.

Nancy eventually, eventually mumbles something.

You pivoting around on your heel by the sink. “Louder, Wheeler, I wasn’t born with sonar.”

“It’s– it’s ‘Just What I Needed’.”

What? Eddie mouths to you, arms binding across his chest.

“What, like– The Cars, ‘Just What I Needed’?”

A pause from Nancy’s end. “... yeah.”

You know this song. You know that song, right, it’s like duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-DEW-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-DEW… Shaking yourself out, you brace up like a boxer heading into the ring.

“Gimme a lead in, Nancy.” Holy fucking shit, you’re really doing this. Nancy hesitates, probably because she can’t believe any of you are really doing this.

A mumble… “I don’t mind you comin’ here…”

“--and wastin’ all my time!” you jump in, “”cause when you’re standin’ oh so near, I kinda lose my mind…”

Visions of a plush lilac bedroom, yours, and a mountain of clothes and makeup and drained wine cooler bottles on the floor. You, standing on your bed in your socks and shorts, vamping– Tina and Carol singing hairbrush backup, Nicole on air guitar and Cass smoking out the window. There were flashes of this, you know, when it wasn’t all boiling vitriol and subtle shivving and one-up-manship. When you and those girls that you wished you weren’t near but knew you needed actually felt like friends.

A memory like that makes you feel empty.

“It’s not the perfume that you wear,” oh my god, “It’s not the ribbons–in–your–hair,” is he really, “And I don’t mind you comin’ here– and wastin’ all my time!”

Why the fuck does Eddie Munson know this song?! Your jaw drops open, your eyes go wide and your feet stamp against the tile like a goddamn kid. Yes! Yes! Amazing! You’re both so fucking out of tune, like there is absolutely a reason he does not sing a single note in Corroded Coffin but by god alive, you’re giving it everything you got in that fucked up boy’s bathroom.

Eddie’s so much better at it than you are, pouring every bit of obnoxious showmanship into it that he possibly can– complete with pulling you in for a fully nonsensical dance number. You spin into him, crashing into his chest with a clumsiness you never thought possible, laughing so hysterically that you can barely get the words out. He’s holding the reins, and holding that falsetto so badly you think the mirrors will shatter.

Your skin is buzzing, your heart is hammering and Eddie is pressed against your back and you are both scream-singing to the door of Nancy’s cubicle– “I guess you’re just what I needed! Just what I needed! I needed someone to feed– I guess you’re just what I needed! Just what I needed I needed someone to–”

“Pee! Pee, you guys, I’m peeing!” Nancy’s voice, bright and high from actually laughing, rings from the busted toilet.

You and Eddie erupt into a triumphant yell, him shaking you like a rag doll against him. The laughter peels away and then it’s just kind of him, looking at you from over your shoulder. His arms wrapped tight around your waist. His lips, a little cracked. Breath a little labored. Lashes still so long. You nearly–

The door flings open and he jumps away from you first. Nancy heads toward the sink and you resume the position, helping her figure out the Chemistry play set that holds the answer to how the rest of her life pans out. Thirty whole minutes, they’ve got to wait.

Nancy notes the time on her watch.

She even suggests that you guys can go at one point, but Eddie reminds her that a) he’s keeping an eye out for paint huffers and b) “... y’know, maybe it’s not so great to…” “Do this on your own,” you finish for him. Nancy nods, silent and grateful and so fucking nervous.

At about the seventeen minute mark, when you and Eddie have smoked four cigarettes each and Nancy has tried a puff of one (“Nope,” she hacks, “still totally vile…”), Eddie tosses this stink bomb between you two. Nancy has excused herself to stand with her head against the cubicle door. Something about calming her nerves. Coming up with a plan. Something to tell Steve, no doubt.

So it’s just you and Eddie, you sitting on the edge of the sink and Eddie rhythmically kicking the wall.

“You ever wanna be a mom?”

“Jesus, what a time to land that one on me.” You almost make a joke like you haven’t even stuck it in me yet, but that’s in bad taste. And implies a yet.

Eddie smiles over his shoulder, fluttering his eyelashes. Stupid. Stupid eyelashes. “Grounds of relevance.”

You pinch your lips between your teeth. “... fine. But, I fully reserve the right to change my answer given the fact that we are eight-shitting-teen years old.”

He points to the cubicle and mutters, “Well, she’s seventeen.”

You, wide-eyed at his dumbassery, mouth I know!

“Okay. Sorry. Go.”

“Fuuuuuck no. No babies pour moi, merci, c’est bon, au revoir!”

Eddie turns to lean against the wall, propping one leg up. God, but he does lean great.

“Why?”

“Genetic fate.”

“Huh?”

A sigh flutters out of you, shoulders slumping forward. “A certain… how do you say, thread of assholery runs through my family, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Eddie nods sagely and you kind of want to punch him for it. “Daddy issues. Right.”

“Uh!” A hand flies up in your defense. “Let who among us here without them cast the first stone.”

From the cubicle, Nancy calls, “Not me.”

Surrendering, Eddie grumbles, “Yeah, not me either.”

“Glad we agree.”

There’s another tick and tock of silence, and you get the distinct feeling of something being pried open in the atmosphere.

“... whatever happened with your dad, anyway?”

Ah. The million dollar question. Whatever happened with your dad, so-called upstanding member of the Hawkins community, poor little poor boy done rich, scaling his way up the ladder of property management in this delightful little Midwestern enclave?

“Not a big fan of the news, are we, Munson?”

He seems to grimace at you tugging on his surname. “Print’s too small.”

“Taking offense to that,” Nancy chimes.

“It was the big ‘E’,” you say, kind of not into bantering about it.

“‘E’... ‘E’... ‘E’...” Eddie kicks the wall on each utterance. Possibly forgetting that he could also be the big ‘E’, if he wanted. You wonder if, just in terms of size…

“Embezzlement, Eddie,” you cut that thought off cold.

His eyes widen, eyebrows shooting under his shaggy bangs. “Shooooot.”

“Score.”

“What all did he, like… embezzle?”

The raising of the hackles is not entirely intentional. “Y’know who’d be able to answer that question, Eddie?”

But he sees it. He calms it. In unison, you both shrug, “Al Munson.”

Boom! Cubicle door flies open again. You’re starting to think that Nancy might just love making an entrance. Lot of flourishing happening here. Not entirely unlike Eddie in that way.

“It’s time.”

Each and every one of you beeline to where the test is set up on one of the sinks. Nancy gingerly plucks the offending strip from the test tube and Eddie, a man with money on his mind, asks another million dollar question. “So how do you know…”

You grab the instruction leaflet that you’d been tearing corners off of, making it look nearly moth-bitten. “Wait, it’s white, right?”

“It’s white,” Nancy whispers.

“It’s not, like… off blue, or…”

“No, that is white,” she’s trembling. “Is white– is that good, or– I can’t remember.”

“Nancy Wheeler…” you breathe, peeking over the paper, “Congratulations. You are nobody’s mother!”

She emits a shriek like nothing you’ve ever heard and barrels straight into you, near knocking you off your feet with a strength you didn’t know this little waif was capable of possessing. Her arms wrap boa constrictor tight around you, her words bubbling over like a shook up can of pop. “Jesus Christ, I’m so relieved, I just– I–!”

“You’re relieved?!” Eddie yells, ringed hands tearing down his face, “I’m way too young to be an uncle! Fuck! Thank god!”

Nancy chokes out a laugh through her tears, tears of relief, thank god and– and you don’t know if it’s selfish and you don’t know if it’s possible but you hope… you hope that’s helped close the chasm. Just a little bit. That she didn’t have to do this all alone in a shithouse bathroom that smells like sulfur and piss.

Breaking away from you (damn, you wish you knew how to hug), Nancy straightens herself up. Not that she needs to. She’s a pretty crier, that bitch.

“Just one more thing, you guys.”

“Anything,” you say before you even know you’ve said it.

“This is… between us, okay?” her eyes dart from you to Eddie, and you both take a step closer to her. Ceremoniously, Nancy holds out her two pinkie fingers. You link. Eddie links. His finger looks comically large compared to hers– and yours, when he reaches and hooks it around your unsuspecting baby finger.

“No one can know. No one needs to know.” There’s that headstrong Wheeler reserve you’d been missing.

“Cross my heart,” you proclaim.

“Hope to d– well, I don’t hope to die, that’s a little dramatic–”

“Eddie!” you both bark, varying degrees of amusement. Yours is on the lower end. “Swear on something real,” you push.

He hesitates a moment, then gives Nancy a look. “Alright. Swear on Hellfire.”

“Swear on Hellfire,” Nancy grins all tight, and kisses her right hand, hooked into Eddie’s finger. “Lacy?”

“Swear on Hellfire…” You mumble, rolling your eyes and kissing your Nancy’d hand. You need to swallow, first, before you tug your hand that’s hooked into Eddie’s toward your mouth.

And he does the worst thing. He leans down to meet your gaze, suckering you right in as his lips pout. They’re hungry. You’ve met those lips. “Swea-aar,” he sing-songs.

“--on Hellfire, okay,” you scoff, half-laughing into the little kiss.

“Ha!” Eddie barks, so fucking loud that it jumps off the walls. “Trick! You just made a deal with the devil, ladies, so I hope you enjoy eternal damnation at the hands of yours truly!”

Dumb as he is, Eddie might be right. If the way you’re looking at him is anything to go by.

author's notes: MERRY CHRISTMAS MOTHERFUCKERS. WE GOT IT WE DID IT WE MADE THEM KISS WE MADE THEM REALIZE SOMETHINGS NOT ALL THE THINGS SURELY BUT IT'S. IT'S SOMETHING. IT'S A START! on to the fun bits, like the jokes in the christmas crackers - absolutely obsessed with the mental image of eddie munson's bangs grown too long and he looking like this - cherry bombs down the john is a reference to the classic prank but mostly to american graffiti my beloved. later in the chapter, eddie says that some kid just threw some sodium down there which is something i read about on this reddit thread when researching cherry bombs. domestic terrorism at hawkins high! - p.t. barnum is that mfer that the greatest showman is based on. horrible man! not a fan! - heather holloway's jayne mansfield titties got me thinking about the jayne mansfield-sophia loren photo which has its own wikipedia page??? anyway, lacy coded! - black christmas is a stunning christmas horror film from 1974, which is loosely in part based on a bunch of murders that happened in the westmount neighborhood in montreal, quebec. fun fact, i just moved back from mtl after living there for a year. anyway black christmas kicks ASS - lipton landing is 100% a juno reference. big up my king elliot page - the thin man is one in a series of fantastic lil films from the 1930s all about nick and nora charles, a married couple that get drunk and SOLVE CRIMES. i'm not doing it justice by describing it that way but myrna loy and william powell are the royals of married banter and i model everything i write after their rhythm, more or less. - you're trying to tell me eddie munson didn't do whippets as a kid fucking wise up - one of my personal precious favourite recurring jokes in this series is 'who died and made you my x' and baby. i love a recurring joke - ronnie saying "oh she'll kill ya. then i'll go to work on ya," is a special reference because a) it's from my favourite film of all time, ocean's eleven and b) ayo edebiri, who i've fancast as ronnie ecker, has an ocean's eleven tattoo. we are sisters and also wives! - meep meep! - all i could think about when writing about how guilty lacy was - another metallica needle drop!!!! - pregnancy tests in the 80s really were that insane and involved! there's a great scene in glow (rest in fucking PEACE! gone but never forgotten) of alison brie's character using one, and here's more of the history - maybe the best needle drop of this whole series imo - finally peeped into those daddy issues. look forward to more of that and with that my hellcats, i wish you the merriest of holiday seasons wherever you find yourself and whatever you're doing. i will be back after the christmas break because i have to fully wreck my bank account and see every single person i have ever known and drink every espresso martini on dry land. sorry if there's typos in this, i have been labouring over it for... ever. reblogs, comments, likes and asks are always appreciated and i love you so much it's bordering on criminal! thank you!!!!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #published by powder

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inspofromancientworld · 2 months ago

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Clothing and Decoration

By Oguenther at German Wikipedia - Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15134201

Humans have been decorating themselves at least 100,000 years, perhaps as long as 300,000 years, beginning with ochre, a pigment that comes in shades from yellow to purple. Ochre was used for tools and to create pigments that decorated the skin, paint cave walls, and as part of burial rituals, even medicinally. The evidence we have are depictions of human figurines made of limestone and decorated with ochre.

F. d’Errico [modified after d’Errico et al.

Beads of various materials, starting with shells and stones, spread widely with some speculating that trade of beads is what helped with the development of spoken language. It's even possible that beads go back as far as 500,000 years, to Homo erectus, though that is debated. Whether the beads were used in adornment or used as a type of currency or trade medium only is not known for sure, but beads are widely distributed and the materials show evidence of travel (for example, marine shell beads found in landlocked areas). It is thought, though, that wearing of beads came after decoration of the body with ochre.

By http://www.nature.com/nature/videoarchive/prehistoricpinup/ image copyright H. Jensen / Universität Tübingen, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22799118

The earliest depictions of clothing we have is around 41000 years ago, with the Venus of Hohle Fels, which was found in Sweden, though it is possible that the decorations on the body of the Venus figurine is ochre or tattoos. Interestingly, the oldest known musical instrument, a bone flute, was found near the Venus figure, indicating that fully behaviorally modern humans lived in the area.

Based on studies of head and body lice, humans began wearing clothing about 107,000 years ago. Part of the need for clothing was that this time was that this was during the start of the Last Glacial Maximum, when temperatures started dropping and glaciers began overtaking the northern latitudes. Humans, both Neanderthal and Homo Sapiens, had spread quite far by this time. Humans developed in the steppes of Africa and weren't well adapted to the cold, with no real body hair to hold in body heat.

F. d’Errico.

Due to the organic nature of clothing, it's difficult to say for sure when exactly clothing began to be worn and what it was, but we are relatively certain that the first clothing was likely hides of animals. We have found stone and bone tools used to scrape hides from the Early and Middle Pleistocene. These tools also hold evidence that Ochre was used to color the hides. Awls, which were used in southern Africa approximately 73,000, years ago show that hides were pierced beginning very early. These awls show wear patterns of being used on soft, well-worked hides, though whether for clothing or bags, we can't know for sure. These awls spread to Europe by 45,000 years ago, though likely manufactured by Neanderthals based on the theorized distribution of various hominoid groups and remains in the locations they were found.

The benefit of using an awl to create holes in leather is that it can be shaped to the human body, making it more efficient at keeping the body warm, thus reducing the number of layers that need to be warn and allowing humans to spread further during the Last Glacial Maximum.

Approximately 40,000 years ago, in the Denisova Cave, at the time inhabited by modern humans, the first evidence of awls with eyes, or what we now know as needles, appear. This indicates that sewing together clothing, or the decoration of clothing, was becoming more common and more efficient. These needles spread widely, either through trade, contact, or independent development widely, even to the Americas and Australia. It is thought that this led to clothing being decorated more elaborately with beading and other forms of decoration.

By Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP(Glasg) - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56200885

While plant fibres don't generally fossilize, we do have some early evidence of people using them as early as 50,000 BCE, possibly used by Neanderthals, in southern France. There is are scattered imprints of cordage and net imprints in clay. As the planet warmed and the Holocene began, weaving of plant and animal fibres, depending on the local climate and availability. While weaving may have begun as early as 25,000 BCE, flax cultivation began around 8000 BCE, and the first evidence of weaving in 6000 BCE, used as a grave wrapping in Çatalhöyük. Approximately 3000 BCE, sheep were domesticated and bred for wooly fleece as opposed to hair in the Near East. In the Indus Valley, cotton was domesticated around 2500 BCE. Evidence of weaving beginning around 10,100 BCE have been found in the Americas, specifically Guitarreco Cave in Peru, where cotton and llama and alpaca were domesticated. Intricately dyed and woven silk was well developed as a craft as early as 2700 BCE, with the first silk reaching other places in the world nearly a thousand years earlier with the very first evidence of silk being used at all dating back to 8500 BCE.

By Unknown author - http://www.booksite.ru/fulltext/nee/lov/tka/che/stvo/1.htm#1, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7483824 By Annika Jeppsson og Danmarks Grundforskningsfonds Center for Tekstilforskning (CTR), Københavns Universitet, Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33188674 By Zhou Guanhuai - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=142167208

It seems that civilizations may have developed weaving independently, so the first type of loom is difficult to figure out as some locations show that floor looms were first, while others show evidence of hanging looms, and yet others, it seems that what is now known as a 'back-strap loom' was first, while other locations show the use of a floor loom first. Given that these objects were made mostly of organic matter, the evidence comes from art, loom weights (stone or clay weights used to keep the warp threads taut while the loom was in use. Egyptian art shows the use of floor looms, Grecian urns show the use of warp-weighted looms, many native cultures used back-strap looms prior to European contact and colonization. From what fabrics that have been found, each culture developed its own method of creating decorated fabric, either through the application of decorations or through the weaving of the fabric itself, as well as multiple weights of cloth, from fine gauze through thick rugs out of nearly any plant or animal material that could be twisted into yarn.

#body decoration #weaving #sewing #leather work #floor loom #warp weight loom #back-strap loom #fabric #human history #human development

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ailendolin · 8 months ago

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Since the announcement that two or three new versions of Ghosts are in the works, I've been thinking about what sort of ghosts we might get to see / I'd like to see in a German adaptation and put together a list of my ideas. You will see some similarities with our beloved original ghosts as well as completely new characters, and I did my best to find a balance between male and female characters and include a variety of historical eras.

This is obviously just a very basic list with some notes but I do have thoughts about these characters (how they died, what powers they might have, their inner conflict etc.) so if you'd like to know more, please ask (also German producers, I hereby officially volunteer as tribute writer)!

German Ghosts

Female Neanderthal (40,000 BC)

Neanderthals were named after the German Neander valley so I think it's only fair to include a Neanderthal in the show. Since no one needs a Robin 2.0, I'd make the character female and give her a dog because ghost animals are fun and we need more of them.

Roman & German (9 AD)

Two guys - let's call them Marcus and Alber - who fought on opposite sides died in the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, became ghosts and eventually best friends. They'd rather die again than admit that to anyone, though.

Bog Girl (600 AD)

A little girl who haunts the marshlands around the house but not the property itself. Most of the ghosts avoid her until the Naturalist gets curious and starts to befriend her.

Plague Ghosts (Mid-1600s)

A group of victims of the 30 Years' War whose deaths were caused by famine and disease and not the war directly (though they insist they died 'in the war').

Naturalist (Late 1700s)

A scientist like Alexander von Humboldt and Charles Darwin who embraces becoming a ghost from the get go and does various experiments (on himself and the others) to figure out how ghost rules work and what is and isn't possible.

Composer (Early 1800s)

A young composer who has a (perceived) rivalry with Beethoven because he's lost part of his hearing. Think German equivalent of Thomas Thorne.

Female Soldier (Early 1800s)

Based on stories like that of Friederike Krüger, this woman posed as a man and joined the army during the Napoleonic Wars.

Woman in White (Late 1800s)

The lady of the house at the time. After she died in childbirth, she was forced to watch her husband's mistress raise her daughter. She died wearing her white nightgown (something she is quite embarrassed about) and can be seen in pictures.

WW1 Surgeon (1930s)

Another former owner of the house, this man was a surgeon in WW1 and still carries the trauma of that time with him (think Siegfried from All Creatures Great and Small).

Luftwaffe Pilot (1940s)

Remember the two German pilots from BBC Ghosts? This guy was their friend and has always wondered what happened to them. He crash-landed on the grounds during a training exercise.

Estate Agent (early 2020s)

A woman who took over the house after the last owner passed away. While assessing the property, she had a heart attack and died there, leading to rumours about the house being cursed and haunted increasing.

The House

While the house will probably be a manor house like in the original series, I think it would be fun if this version of the show shook things up a little and had the German Coopers inherit an old mill, or perhaps even an actual (small) castle.

#this has honestly been so much fun to think about #I don't know how many German fans there are in this fandom but I'd love to know what sort of characters you guys would want to see #bbc ghosts #mp bbc ghosts #german ghosts

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clowningaroundmars · 4 months ago

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Hobie1610 pt. 2

after god knows how long (months tho tbh), i am happy to present: hobie1610 part dos! In this installment, we see how Miles eventually rounds right back to Hobie Jones to apologize after pt. 1's gigantic blunder

hope y'all enjoy! :)

>pt. 1 here<

>pt. 3 here<

It was several weeks into the first semester-- with winter just right around the corner-- before Miles finally got around to confronting the little Hobie Problem that he had.

Being laden with pounds upon pounds of assignments to get done before the holidays and then trying to keep up with Spiderman duties on top of it all, managing his parents’ overwhelming expectations once again, and trying to survive as a teenager in general forced his first day blunder onto the back burner for much longer than Miles would have liked.

Sure, his anxiety is a bitch sometimes, and it holds him back from directly addressing a lot of issues in his life, but Rio didn’t raise any neanderthal. Miles knew that when he messed up, he messed up.

Problem is, every time he’s tempted to just reach a hand out to his dimension’s Hobie Br-- Jones, pat his shoulder lightly, pull him into a corner somewhere during lunch maybe, and finally man up and apologize… that’s when some crook starts some problems downtown, or some mad scientist finally snaps somewhere and starts to wreak havoc with crazy gadgets a bit too unnervingly close to his neighborhood.

Or Miles gets back to his dorm room and sees that he has an assignment due the very next day that he hasn’t even had the chance to hop on yet, because of aforementioned crooks and mad scientists.

It was all driving him crazy.

And so now here he was, up on a rooftop in the middle of a chilly fall day, hanging out with his inter-dimensional besties (who he lightheartedly calls the Spider Squad but he hasn’t quite brought that up to them yet).

They were on a lunch break after pummeling and restraining some prisoners-- who somehow got out of the Raft-- that tried to make their way across the Brooklyn Bridge. Miles sure appreciated the help, which was one of the many positives of letting Hobie Brown make dimension watches for everyone, mostly so they could all help another Spider shoulder the burdens that usually befell them.

But the teens-- being teens, of course-- also used their watches to just pop into an open portal and hang out with each other as often as they could. Who could blame them? Being a superhero and a kid was overwhelming most of the time. Sometimes they needed a listening ear or a supportive shoulder to cry on every now and then, and getting the opportunity to chill and explore a whole new world for them was always a thrill.

(Miles himself could never deny the excitement of getting to go to Mumbattan for shopping trips every so often, either.)

So with all of that in mind it was tempting to, after seeing the long and lanky punk Spiderman climb through his own multi-colored portal, ask Hobie if he could go back to New London with him. He needed to get something off of his chest.

Hobie, languidly as ever, hikes a skinny shoulder up in a nonchalant shrug and goes “ye’ sure, mate. Somethin’ up, or?”

Pavitr leans forward from his conversation with Gwen-- the little snoop, goddamnit-- and swallows a particularly big bite of his sandwich. “Oooooh, Miles and Hobie? Alone, in New London? Wow!” He elbows Gwen, who shakes her head and snorts into her bottled juice.

Miles puffs up. “Hey, it’s not like that! We just need to talk. In private. Nothing’s wrong, I uh… I just need some advice. That’s all!”

Hobie’s grin is full of teeth. “Waidaminnit. Miles Morales... Thee Great Miles Morales, needin’ my advice? Interesting!” His freeform locs bob and wiggle teasingly with every movement of his head.

Feeling put on the spot, Miles pouts as he picks at some lint on his spider suit and finishes off his soda as quickly as he can manage.

Gwen, bless her heart, notices his discomfort and scooches closer to him on the rooftop ledge. “… Is everything alright, by the way? It isn’t anything bad, is it?”

Miles glances at her before returning his gaze to the concrete several stories below. “Uhm, nah. Nah, it’s… y’know, it’s just more inter-dimensional weirdness. But I’m sure I can fix it. I think,”

He then shoots her a grateful smile for her considerate check-in, and pulls his mask back down over the lower half of his face. Gwen understands this as his “I’ll be back for another check-in later,” behavior and simply nods back. She knows not to push him.

“Well,” Hobie unfolds himself from his position on some scaffolding on the side of building, straightening himself up to his full height and stretching, “I’m all finished, then. Prob'ly not a good idea to go swingin’ on full stomachs, though. Let’s take a quick walk before headin’ home, yeah?”

Miles grabs Hobie’s hand and helps him hoist himself up over the ledge, and the teens all gather their trash into one plastic bag together. They chatter and slip their masks on as they casually walk down the side of the half-constructed building, finally touching down onto the concrete alleyways and relishing the quiet of an empty block before heading to the congested streets of downtown Brooklyn.

They all eventually bid each other their farewells after a few quick photo ops from excited New Yorkers, but of course not before Pavitr leans into Miles’ ear conspiratorially and whispers: “Let me know how it goes, bro! Good luck!”

Pav punches Miles on the shoulder lightly and winks at him, then he does a backflip into his golden-bright portal and blinks out of existence.

Miles rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Does he want me and Hobie to be together, or me and you? I can never tell with that guy,” he groans at Gwen, whose shoulders are shaking with badly-concealed laughter.

“I think he just watches too many of those soap operas, honestly. Trashy daytime TV will do that to a guy sometimes.” She quips just as humorlessly.

Miles gives her a sidelong glance and a smirk. “Right. Rots your brain. Poor Pav!”

Gwen and Hobie laugh at that as Gwen pulls up her own portal.

“I’m thinkin’ we need t’ stage an intervention, really.” Hobie adds.

“Yes, and soon,” Miles points out.

“I’ll see what I can do to pull him away from those shows, but you know how his aunt is,” Gwen snorts. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Pav is just a huge romantic anyways, soaps or no soaps.”

“When I’ve got relationship issues, I guess I know the guy to go to, then,” Miles shrugs, then throws Gwen a casual salute goodbye.

She stands in front of white and multi-colored splotches of watercolor floating out from her dimensional portal as she salutes Miles back, giving Hobie a quick wave. “Let me know how your little inter-dimensional weirdness problem goes too, Miles! Talk to us in the groupchat every once in a while!”

And like that, she’s gone.

So now Hobie and Miles were left alone together.

Standing in the middle of a dirty alleyway on a cold autumn afternoon wasn’t Miles’ exact definition of a good time, though… why wasn’t Hobie opening his own portal right now? Miles turns his mask’s gigantic white eyes up to his dimensional variant (and boy was that a weird thing to think about when Hobie brought that up one day during a Spider Sleepover at Gwen’s) and gives him a pointed stare.

Hobie’s own painted eyes meet his.

“So…” Miles says.

“So…” Hobie says, his grin evident in his voice.

“Are we or are we not going back to yours?” Miles stuck his fists on his hips impatiently.

“First,” Hobie says as he holds up a long skinny finger, “I gotta know what this is about. ‘Cause we all know you, Miles. I don’t wanna enable any avoidant behaviors, mate. You know how it is.”

“What?!” Miles throws up his hands in the air. “Dude! SO not cool! You are not my dad.”

Hobie shakes his head. “You know I’m right, though. This ain’t about your parents, is it?”

Goddamn Hobie and his parental instincts. When is this guy ever going to get off of mom duty?

Miles huffs. “No, Hobie. It’s not. Look. I just, uh… if you don’t wanna go back to your dimension, then can we get away from like… this area in general, please?”

Hobie hummed in thought, then shrugged and shot a web up to a nearby street lamp. Together, the two Spidermen swung through the concrete jungle that was earth-1610’s New York City until they ended up somewhere near the Financial District in Manhattan, happening upon a sort of indoor rooftop terrace party that a bunch of corporate yuppie-looking people were enjoying behind giant glass windows. A few of those yuppies were out onto the actual rooftop smoking and talking amongst themselves in the cold while the party bumped along behind them.

The sun was setting quickly, and darkness descended upon both Spiderman as they scaled a nearby building and sat on a water tank to secretly watch the party from a little ways away. Miles took solace in the dark most times, and drank up the view of what few stars could be seen in the New York City skyline.

The clouds were scarce on this particular fall evening, so the red and yellow hues on the horizon were completely uninterrupted. Miles’ dimension took on an almost ethereal glow sometimes, and during this time of day, he was more than grateful for it.

Hobie was silent as he watched the sun set alongside Miles, until the entire city was enshrouded in darkness and the stars of the cosmos seemed to have fallen from the heavens and landed right onto the buildings and bridges laid out all before them. Lights from cars making their nightly rounds and tall buildings glittered all around them, and just beyond the skyscrapers, bits of the Upper Bay could be seen shimmering and reflecting the glittery light right back.

It was breathtaking. Beautiful.

But time was running out. They couldn’t sit here and watch the scenery and the people from several hundred feet away forever. Miles also knew Hobie had stuff to deal with in his own world, a million miles away from anything he could ever know. With a world-weary sigh, Miles finally takes his mask off fully and winds it up and around his hands, over and over.

“Your problem botherin’ you that much, Mi?” Hobie grins at his friend, taking his own mask off and running a hand through his locs.

“It’s just… I…” Miles chews on the inside of his cheek, wondering how to proceed.

It really was a weird problem to have, all things considered. There aren't many instances where someone pisses off a dimensional variant of their friend, and they have another version of that very same friend right by their side to ask how to even go about fixing the rift they caused in the first place.

“It’s just that I... like… I messed up pretty badly, right? And I know it’s totally my fault,” Miles is speaking quickly now, bottled up words now spilling forth like water, “but my anxiety started spiking up randomly out of nowhere and I just blew it, man. I wasn’t really thinking. Well, actually, I was. I was overthinking but I didn’t really mean to leave this guy hanging for so long afterwards and--”

Hobie throws a leg over his other one, propping himself onto an arm and leaning back to face Miles. “Okay. Okay, Miles, that’s cool. Thanks for the disclaimer, bruv, but we’re gonna have to start from the beginning.” He chuckles.

Miles laughs nervously. “Right, right. Yeah,” he takes a breath, licks his lips and tries again.

“So… on my first day of school I bumped into… you. I mean, not you, I mean like my dimension’s version of you.”

Hobie raised a pierced brow. “Wait, there’s another me here, too?”

“Yeah, yeah and I just almost crashed right into-- wait.” Miles’ brain took a second to buffer. “What do you mean too?”

“Ehhh, we found another me in some odd dimension or another. Y’know, like, one of those ones we don’t go to often. It was whatever,” Hobie shrugs casually.

Miles had a couple of questions about that but he decided to stick to the topic and not get distracted for now. “... Right, cool. So yeah, I almost crashed into you at Visions, except it wasn’t you.”

Hobie nodded. “You almost crashed into Not Me. Got it.”

“… Because I was late for class and not really, uh, thinking. Like at all. But it was you, you know what I mean? Not You is super bad at directions and navigating buildings, I guess, so I helped him out. Annddd I guess he wanted to be my friend afterwards, but.”

“Mhmm,” Hobie hums, in a tone that sounded a lot like him saying go on, then.

“Did you, uh… did you know your name is Jones sometimes?” Miles scratches at his ear awkwardly. “Hobie Jones, not Hobie Brown. It was weird when I found out, because another student said his full name and so that’s how I found out in the first place,”

Hobie inhales. “Hmm! Interesting. Dunno that I like the sound of that, if we’re gonna be honest here. Doesn’t really roll off the tongue the same, I think. But alright. Why’s that so important?”

“Uhhh,”

Hm. Shit. This was the part Miles dreaded getting to in the first place.

How was he going to put into words the weird dread that befell him upon learning that this Jones character might very well be this dimension’s version of his MJ? How could he possibly explain the thrilling electricity that races up and down his spine everytime he totally does not think about dating, kissing, possibly even having children with this other Hobie? How was he going to get that across to this super-cool, super-hot, super-put-together version of him?

Speaking those kinds of words out loud right to Hobie’s chiseled face made Miles slightly nauseous. He opted to circumnavigate that little problem altogether.

“Listen, don’t ask, okay? Seriously, man, I’m not playin’. Buuuut… if I pissed you off real bad, how would. Like, how could I make it up to you, theoretically speaking?”

Hobie exhaled a laugh. Miles could see his bright grin even in the low lighting of the night. “Huh? How’d you go from helpin’ Not Me out to pissin’ ‘im off all of the sudden? We’re missin' a step there, Milesie. C’mon now,”

Miles laughed too. “Ho-biieee, I already told you, man!” He hated how whiny he sounded, but this really wasn’t the time. “You cannot ask me about it!”

Hobie tossed his head like a horse. “Oh my god, mate. I can’t give ya solid advice when I don’t even know what the hell I’m givin’ advice for. I gotta know what happened, bruv, what’d ya do?”

“Just--! Ugh,” Miles deflated. “I maybe sorta... ditched him all of a sudden. Like, out of nowhere. When he, uh, when he needed me.”

Hobie’s glittering eyes bore holes into Miles’ hot face. “Mhmm? Why for?”

“Hobie, for the love of all that is good in the world, just--! Throw me a bone, here, man. I am dying of embarrassment right now!” He buried his face in his hands as Hobie rocked back with laughter.

“Why’d ya ditch ‘im?! That doesn’t sound like ya, Mi. Sounds like a real wick thing, but not a Morales thing to do. C’mon, what did Not Me say to you? You can pretend I’m him and I’ll apologize an’ everything.”

“No no no no, Hobie you don’t get it,” Miles sighed. “He didn’t do or say anything. That’s the thing. I just… I freaked out I guess, when I looked up his name and saw that he was a super accomplished model and everything. He’s got thousands of followers on Flickstagram, even. But I just…! I dunno what my brain was doing to me, once I saw that. I guess I just had a mini panic attack and just… bounced. Then, obviously I had tons of homework and Spiderman stuff to deal with, so ever since then, we’ve just been avoiding each other in the halls and I haven’t had any time to even tell him anything. I really messed up, man.”

Hobie was unnervingly silent as he thought for a good minute. The night had really fallen thick onto the city and the temperatures were dropping fast. Miles could barely see his own breath clouding in front of him or even Hobie’s face now that the darkness completely enshrouded them both, and it made him a little nervous.

“So…” Miles prodded carefully.

“Super accomplished model and everything, eh?” Hobie quietly asked after a little while. Miles couldn’t see Hobie’s expression, but he could hear the rhythmic rubbing of fabric against fabric as Hobie rubbed at his arm with a gloved hand.

“Uhhyup.” Miles confirmed.

“Hm. Utterly fascinated now, mate. Tell me more about this other me, then. He cool like me, or a total neurotic space cadet?”

Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I can’t tell you much. We haven’t gotten to talk much. I guess you can be the judge, here’s his social media here...”

He then pulls his phone out of a recently-added pocket he found the time to sew onto his suit, taking inspiration from his mother’s own yoga leggings that she got as a birthday gift a few months before. The fact that spandex was able to hold so much but still stay so snug against your body was nothing short of a modern miracle, in Miles’ opinion. He was grateful for it now as he unlocked his phone and tapped on Hobie M. Jones’ page right out of the search history on his phone’s Flickstagram app.

Once he hands his phone to his friend, he has to resist the urge to suck in a breath as he watches the bright light from his screen illuminate Hobie’s features in ways he’s never seen before.

Hobie takes a second to scroll for a bit and Miles watches as the light plays across his features with just a bit more rapt attention than he normally would. Must be getting late, and Miles’ brain has historically been known not to work very well when he was tired.

Then, Hobie handed the phone back to Miles and folded his arms across his knees.

“Interesting, interesting,” was all he muttered. Thankfully, he did not comment on the “M. Jones” part of the username.

Miles tried lightening the mood. “Let me guess. You hate him because he’s not a fascist-fighting punk like you, huh.”

“I can’t be th’ judge of that, Miles. You know social media ain’t real life, and all that just looked like his portfolio to me, if we’re gonna be honest.” He checked his spiked bracelet in the light of Miles’ lit up screen. “I think that this other me doesn’t really feel too comfortable openin’ up and lettin’ other people see who he really is, though. So if you do go off an’ apologize to ‘im, I don’t think it’ll be very easy to gain his trust back.”

“Hold on,” Miles shakes his head and tucks his phone away again. “You got all that from looking at his Flicksta for not even a minute? How do you even know all of that?”

“’Cause he’s me, bruv. I know that look on his face, on those candids. Even them professional shots look… like, well, I dunno how t’ explain it. I guess it’s just sort of like--”

“If you know, you know?” Miles puts in.

“Mm,” Hobie smiles and nods. “Yep. That. He’s… withdrawn. Held back. I ‘unno… doesn’t seem like he has many friends.”

Miles sits back to think about the distant and carefully-put together mask that Hobie Jones slipped onto his face back when an annoying student butted into their conversation just before 2nd period that fateful day. Not to mention how famous he seemed, that the whole school wanted to pull him into a million different directions just for some selfies and autographs in general…

“He’s famous. He has a billboard up near the school, even,” Miles says without thinking.

“That explains it, then.”

Miles thought aloud for a bit. “He told me that I was the only person in the world who didn’t look at him like he was made out of solid gold. Hmmm,”

“Right then. That’s a start, eh?”

Miles sighed. “I-if… if someone who you thought could be like, your only friend in the whole world. Your only real friend… if that person abandoned you out of nowhere, with no explanation… how would I go about making it up to you?”

Hobie doesn’t comment on the phrasing of that question, either. He lays a warm hand on Miles’ cold shoulder and squeezes.

“Listen, Mi. You’re real special, you already know that. If he liked ya enough to wanna be your friend the very same day you two met, then I bet you can come up with somethin’ that’ll stick eventually. That being said… a little food ain’t never hurt no one.”

They stare at each other in the dark for a second.

“Uh, what?” Miles asks.

“Y’know. Like a peace offering. Bring ‘im a peace offering, make your apology, and then leave the poor kid alone. Let ‘im sorta�� well, let ‘im kinda just chase you a little bit, right?”

Miles’ brow was raised high now. “What, like. Just leave some food and a note for him at lunch or something? Dude, that is so lame!”

“It’s about the mystique, mate. Trust me. Gotta keep the intrigue up, don’t crowd him too much or else you’ll scare man away, right? I hate when people grovel at my feet if I’m gonna be dead honest with ya. Don’t make too much of a big deal of it, and he just might forgive ya. You two'll be holdin' hands in no time,”

“Is that it? Is it really that easy?” Miles was skeptical.

Hobie shrugs and removes his hand from Miles’ shoulder. “Hell if I know, but if he’s anything like me, it just might work. Just be prepared to take it on the chin if he doesn’t forgive you in the end, though. Gettin’ ditched like that with no warning’s a bit hard on someone who’s never had any friends to lean on in the first place.”

Made sense to Miles. He shrugged, nodded, and then had only one question left to ask.

“… Cool. Got it. So, uh. What kinda food do you like, anyways?”

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And that was how Miles ended up making a quick run (swing, really) over to his favorite Jamaican store for a dinner plate with some beef patties thrown in during the next day’s lunch period.

He couldn’t afford to be seen by security, so he suited up at his usual place on the rooftop of the school and sailed down to retrieve his peace offering as quickly as he could before lunch was over.

What luck, that he had the same lunch as Hobie Jones! Made this whole run a pretty easy thing to do at all, which was always a bonus.

Once he made his way back to the school, he hurriedly stuffed his mask back into his bag and practically jumped back into his uniform, not even taking the time to stop and check if his suit was properly hidden. No time for that, when the period was almost over and he hadn’t even gotten a bite to eat for himself.

Miles also took the time to write up what he hoped was a sufficiently appropriate apology note the previous night after getting back to his dorm room at a late hour, and he tucked that into the crinkled paper bag as carefully as he could manage. A grease-stained apology note was definitely not a cool thing to receive, especially from someone who wronged you out of nowhere and wasn’t even man enough to say that apology to your face.

He arranged everything as best he could while flying down several flights of stairs down to the cafeteria.

Once Miles pushes past the double doors into the large cafeteria area, he feels the tightness in his chest and the heat radiating from his gut outwards intensify more as he gets closer to his target.

It takes a bit of wandering to finally spot Hobie, but then Miles sees him: sat at a table near the center of the room. He’s surrounded by a bunch of fake friends all talking loudly over one another and trading phones over their meals. Hobie Jones himself looks forlorn even when in the middle of a group, surrounded on all sides by bodies he doesn’t even look directly at, even when he turns his head slightly to speak to them.

Well, shit.

Miles was not expecting Hobie to have fallen into so large a group of friends so soon. He spotted the same girl who pulled him aside for a selfie that one time sat at the same table, and her and her little posse were just gossiping loudly about any and everyone.

Miles found his feet stuck to the floor upon finally laying eyes on the scene.

Ugh. God. A bunch of preps poking their noses into his and Hobie’s business while probably begging to read the very private note that Miles wrote for him was absolutely not anywhere in his list of things he’d like to experience today.

So Miles did a sudden about-face and walked away quickly, before he was even spotted.

Plan B was set in motion, then: give the bag over to Hobie before the next period.

Miles always dreaded the class he and Hobie shared right after lunch. The awkwardness subsided after a while, since it was kinda hard to feel so bad about The Incident when the entire class had to cram for quizzes and do research for essays, but the pit in Miles’ stomach as he purposefully averted his gaze away from that corner of the room was never easy to ignore.

But now, after weeks of gloom and doom, Miles found himself actually being excited for the bell to ring. He quietly made his way upstairs to the top level and slipped into the classroom as gracefully as he could manage.

Sure, he was nervous as hell about it all, at the end of the day. But he wanted this little problem that’s been put away for far too long to just… finally be done and over with. If for nothing else, he just wanted one less student at Visions hating his guts, really.

He placed the paper bag onto Hobie’s chair and scooted it underneath the desk to hide it from the rest of the classroom. The last thing he needed was some other nosy student swiping it up and rifling through the contents before Hobie could see it.

Miles ate part of his sandwich in the peace and quiet of the classroom, enjoying what precious little minutes he had until the bell rang and everyone-- including the teacher-- filed in to start the class’s lessons of the day.

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Miles’ simple plan was a success, just as his buddy Hobie Brown had predicted.

Hobie Jones had read the note quietly in his corner of the room and hastily shoved the dinner plate into his backpack soon after.

Miles didn’t know if that meant he was forgiven or not, but at least he took the (probably cold) food with him and read the note without tearing it up into a million pieces, so at least Miles had that going for him.

There was one last step to really clinch the victory, though; an invitation to meet up at the rooftop later that day, before the last bell finally rung and let all of the kids out of the school for the day. Miles still had a lot to get off his chest that he couldn’t quite lay down on paper, and he needed to properly apologize to Hobie’s face to finally put his conscience at ease.

Whether or not Hobie took the invitation was left up in the air, really.

Miles made sure to try and get a head start so he could make it up there before Hobie could, but he made sure to add “be up at the rooftop by 3:30pm if you’re coming or I’m bouncing” to the end of the note, because as much as he wanted to make amends with his dimension’s Hobie, he was not going to let petty school drama get in the way of Spiderman-ing.

Miles was a man of standards, and he held himself to some level of professionalism, thank you very much!

It was cold that day, very cold.

Miles was lowkey regretting his decision to meet outside now as he tucked his chin deeper into his big puffer jacket, warming his hands with his warm breath before shoving them into his pockets.

He hoped Hobie had gotten used to getting around the hallways a bit more now, and that he could find his way up to the roof level without becoming completely lost and just giving up entirely.

As the minutes crawled by, Miles found himself unlocking and locking his phone multiple times, checking the time, checking for any notifications to distract himself, and wondering just why he decided on the roof to meet instead of, say, his dorm room hallway or whatever.

Then, the roof access door slowly swung open, and there stood Hobie M. Jones in all his six-foot-something glory.

Miles sucked in his breath as Hobie’s big brown eyes scanned the roof and fell upon his face, and the both of them stood rooted to their spots for a split second like deer in headlights.

Then Hobie grunted, tugged at his ponytail to let it loose, and his long dreads fell all around his face in one graceful movement. Miles felt his mouth go dry.

Miles’ feet moved on their own. They met in the middle, and a strong wind rushed through to tousle Hobie’s impressive locs some more as they both stared each other down.

Miles finally opened his mouth to speak, feeling his voice catching in his throat for a split second, before being interrupted anyways.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Hobie says quickly, tucking his own chin into his expensive-looking jacket’s collar as well.

Miles’ brain bluescreened. “Wait, wha?”

Hobie huffed out a laugh, the vapors of his breath being carried away in the chilly wind like dandelion seeds. “I’m being serious, man. It’s… it’s cool, honestly. I get why you ditched me. It happens all the time,”

Miles’ heart sinks. “N-no, Hobie, look. I really messed up and I felt like I had to-- wait, what do you mean all the time?”

Miles had a sweeping feeling of déja vu overcome him then.

Hobie chuckled ruefully, shrugging as he shoves his hands deeper into his own pockets, mirroring Miles. “I mean, like… you think you’re the only one who ever ran for the hills after seeing how famous I was? It just happens. That’s my life, I guess.”

Miles’ lower lip stuck out a bit. “But that’s… dude. That is so depressing!”

Hobie shook his head, tossing a loc out of his face. “Sure, but it’s… it’s just my life. It’s just how things are when you’re a model around here.”

They looked sadly into each other’s eyes before Hobie averts his gaze to his shoes, scuffing the toe on the roof floor for a second before looking back up and continuing.

“… You, uhm. How’d you… how’d you know that I like Jamaican food, though? I’ve never told anyone about that before. Nobody but my family, anyways.”

“Uhh, lucky guess?” Miles offers him a lopsided grin.

Hobie smiles for real this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling just like his earth-138 counterpart. “You really are a weird guy, just like you said before. What else did you want to tell me, before we both gotta bounce?”

Miles gaped at him like a fish. “You… you have to let me apologize, though. Like actually. Before we both have to go.”

Hobie nodded. “Okay. I’m all ears,”

Miles took a deep breath. “I…!" His voice caught in his throat for a second. "Uh. Do you wanna maybe… hang out, like outside of school sometime? Maybe grab some more Jamaican food from my favorite place?”

Hobie looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “You… that’s your apology?”

Miles sighed. “I’m bad at conflict management, man. Just let me treat you to some more lunch and then… maybe we can just let this whole thing go, yeah? You won’t ever have to talk to me again after this, I promise!”

“You are seriously sending me mixed signals here,” Hobie says. But he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea.

“I know, I know! But please, just humor me, man. We can do it this weekend, even. I just… feel like a total dick after what I did and I wanna be able to actually make it up to you.”

Hobie directs his shy smile back down to the ground. “Jesus,” he mutters.

Miles holds his palms forward. “What? Is that a no?”

Hobie laughs, full and bright and it-- fuck-- it fills Miles with a dizzying thrill that makes him laugh, too!

“Fine… but if you ditch me again this time, you asshole--” Hobie grabs the front of Miles’ jacket and yanks it towards him, putting the both of them closer together and making a complete heatwave roll through Miles’ nerves, “I will-- uh,”

Miles doesn’t register why Hobie stops speaking all of a sudden until his eyes slowly follow down to what he’s looking at, and then both of their hearts stop at the same time.

In Miles’ earlier haste to jump into his clothing after his meal run, he forgot to button a few buttons on his shirt, which left his very visibly black and red suit out in the open with just one small yank of his coat’s zipper. The top of his red spider emblem shone bright against the dark spandex.

For a second, the world stopped. The wind stopped blowing, the cars down below stopped honking, Miles stopped breathing.

Then, he hastily took a step back and cleared his throat, hoping against hope that Hobie would not recognize the spider suit so easily.

“S-so, yeah? You’ll go? I, uh, promise I won’t stand you up if you do. We can, uhm. Exchange numbers if you want--” here, Miles starts fumbling around his pockets for his phone, a device that he clung onto like a lifeline moments ago now almost completely forgotten in the excitement of the situation.

Hobie swallows and takes a step back also. “Y-yeah… yeah, sure. Let’s uhm. Let’s link up later, then.”

Miles lets Hobie input his digits into his contact list, and then bids him farewell.

“I’ll text you later, okay? Gotta go now, bye!”

Miles almost wants to throw himself off the roof of the school just to land on the concrete sidewalks below with a splat. A flattened spider. It’s what he deserves, honestly.

But he swallows his embarrassment and rushes down the stairs towards his own dorm room, instead.

He seriously, seriously hopes Hobie didn't recognize his spider suit, goddamn!

Once Miles gets to his room, he sags against the door with a sigh and shrugs off his puffer jacket. Then, he fishes his phone out of the jacket’s pocket and flicks the screen on, which now has Hobie Jones’ digits input into it under the name of “MJ (from Visions)”.

Miles throws himself into his and Ganke’s shared computer chair and twirls over to the window.

It’s Miles. I am not ditching you this time, PROMISE, he sends over to the number.

A few minutes later, he gets a response and his stomach flutters with the chime.

You better not, Hobie playfully teases. I know where you sleep…

A few more knife emojis accompany the texts and Miles laughs out loud. Then he bites his lip.

Fuck… damn. This really is earth-1610’s version of MJ, huh. The name beamed straight into his eyeballs from where it sat right at the top of his messages and it continued to haunt him as he got his laptop out for the night to finally make some more leeway on his English essay.

Miles went to bed that night dreaming of him and a red-headed Hobie Jones holding Mayday.

#spiderverse #hobie brown #miles morales #punkflower #mine #*stadium cheering* miles did it!!! he did it!#with his awkward spider rizz he secured a dat-- i mean a hangout with hobie mfing jones!!#stay tuned to see what happens in part three 👀#and who knows..... there just might also be a part four.....................#<_<#we just might have to see!#also goddamn i know that pic i drew and threw in there is. bad. but ive been playing with markers lately since i bought them #so i figured i'd also use this fic lowkey as practice lmfao #pls excuse the weird mistakes and bad coloring overall. its been years. IM TRYING OK 😭#gonna hopefully add in a much better drawing to the next installment. just gotta practice more is all!#also this is my 1st time writing out hobie brown's dialogue with tha accent n everything #lemme kno how i did 👍 i tried not to make the accent TOO cringey to read!

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major-knighton · 1 month ago

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HALLOW-LEE-N movie Oct. 5th : The Creeping Flesh (1973)

This movie is strange. Definitely not a masterpiece but quite fun in its campy, Hammer way. I had a fun time but I was also laughing at many points that were probably not intended to be funny.

This movie is the story of a mad scientist ("I'm not mad!"), Pr. Emmanuel Hildern (Peter Cushing). He returns from New Guinea, where he has made a great discovery, to his house, occupied by his lab assistant and his adult daughter Penelope. We learn a few things with some clunky exposition : Penelope's mother has passed, and Penelope is strictly forbidden from discussing her or going into her room, because Daddy Knows Best. That seems to be a theme in horror.

Pr. Hildern shows his magnificent discovery : a skeleton older than Neanderthals and yet much more advanced! The proof of that advanced, hyper-intelligent mind is that the skeleton's head is huge. My dude, so is an elephant's. Also, the prop skeleton holds together, every bone attached, while all the flesh is gone. This vexes me greatly and this crappy prop caused most of my laughter during watching.

He also mentions finding Neanderthals in Australia. Which is not remotely possible.

Anyway, while washing the skeleton, Pr. Hildern noticed that the contact of water on the bones of a finger causes the flesh and skin to grow back around the bone. He quickly chops the resurrected finger off and... Goes to bed.

The next day, analyzing blood samples from the finger and cross-referencing "ancient new Guinean legends" that sound totally made up reveals that the skeleton is a great evil. And lo, his blood cells are literally Pure Evil™, they look like fucked up spiders. Hildern immediately makes a vaccine against Pure Evil™, which takes him about 5 minutes, and injects a monkey with it. When the monkey seems fine after 20 seconds at most, he jumps to vaccinating his daughter Penelope as well.

We learn another thing : Penelope's mother, an ex Parisian show girl, was not dead for many years as we thought but only recently deceased. She spent all those years locked up in an asylum run by Hildern's half brother James (Christopher Lee).

James and the Pr. seem to be sort of academic rivals. The Pr. of course knew about his wife, he's just lying to Penelope ✨for her own good✨.

Of course, by the next morning the monkey is dead after destroying his cage and Penelope has vanished from home. Who could've seen this coming?

Penelope has taken one of her late mother's dresses and gone to mingle with the sailors and prostitutes in a seedy inn. After an uncomfortable attempted assault scene, Penelope kills a man who was groping her and escapes, pursued by a mob. She finds refuge in a barn, and then kills another guy in full view of everybody. The scene of Penelope in her red dress running down the dark city streets is actually a cool shot.

Penelope is brought to her uncle's asylum, where he jumps to the frankly reasonable conclusion that her father has been experimenting on her. He brings her home and investigates the lab, where he pieces most of what's going on together. He immediately decides he needs this skeleton, but he shows a bit more restraint than his half-brother and at least waits until night to come back, break in and haul the entire skeleton - remember, it all magically holds together - into his carriage.

The carriage overturns, in the rain, and while James goes to get help, the skeleton gets proper drenched. The newly resurrected Pure Evil™ dude rises, clad in a cloak, kills the carriage driver and walks back to Pr. Hildern's house. Despite living before the invention of agriculture, and indeed houses, the Pure Evil™ dude knows to knock on the door and wait for Penelope to open the door to him.

He then kills the lab assistant and ransacks the lab, before going up to the Pr. Fade to black, and the final scene introduces a twist that casts a different light on the entire movie. The crux is this : do you believe what Pr. Hildern says, or what James says?

The end.

Now, while this movie was kind of ridiculous, it was great fun. I liked Lee's character, the smarmy, jealous brother, who clearly regards his "patients" as less than human and wishes he could experiment on any other human being. He's a jerk to the bone, and yet manages to come off looking better than his half-brother, who is a true monument to idiocy.

Lorna Heilbron's performance as Penelope was the best part for me, she really sells the demure but determined young lady in the first act, the righteous anger at being lied to about her mother, and the demented and dangerous woman in the second act.

Overall, I'd say a 6/10.

#Hallow-lee-n movie review #the creeping flesh #christopher lee #peter cushing #Lorna heilbron

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catierambles · 9 months ago

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Blood Moon Ch.11

Pairing: Syverson x Annalisa Caulfield (OFC)

Annalisa moved around her office in Pendulum, needing to get a jump on work. Sy would be by later as they got closer to opening to start the paperwork and meet the security team. Inventory counts, nights totals, police report from last night. The fact that Sy's brother was one of the suits that showed up was a bit amusing. She'd dealt with him a few times before and he was a decent guy.

The office door opened without a knock beforehand and she looked over at it as Eugene walked inside, his posture tense.

“Knocking is a thing.” She said simply.

“Why is your new boy toy put in the system as the new Head of Security?” He asked, his tone angry.

“Because he is our new Head of Security.” She said, as if it were obvious, and it was.

“A bouncer I could understand, the man is a neanderthal hick—”

“Don't talk about him like that.”

“But Head of Security?” He asked, “How in the hells is he qualified for that?”

“By being a former Captain in the Army Special Forces.” She said, “With multiple tours under his belt. He's a bit overqualified for being simply a member of security, don't you think?”

“Annie, you're letting your personal feelings impact your business decisions.”

“Excuse me? How? We needed a new Head, he needed a job and was qualified. It doesn't matter how I feel about him. If he had found the position positing online and applied, he would have gotten it. Because he's qualified for the position.”

“Just because you enjoy sleeping with him—”

“He's my Tovaras.” She said and he paused.

“Excuse me?” Eugene asked, his voice controlled.

“Sy is my Tovaras.” She clarified, “It's why he felt so different to me, why I felt so strongly for him since the beginning. He's my Tovaras de Viata.”

“He's a human.” Eugene said but she was silent. “He's not a human.”

“No, Eugene, he isn't. He's a wolf, like Ethan.”

“You're fucking a dog? Are you stupid?”

“Get out.” Annalisa said.

“Annie—”

“Eugene Dubois, get the fuck out of my office. That's twice you've insulted him and now you've insulted me. Get out of my sight and remember your place.” He looked like he was going to argue, but she just kept eye contact before he looked away.

“Yes, Lady Caulfield.” He said and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Sy walked into Pendulum, heading past the bar and Ethan taking count of what they had on hand. The club was quiet, the day lights on, the large bladed pendulum on the back wall behind thick glass stationary instead of swinging back and forth on a track like it usually did.

“Hey, man.” He called out and Ethan turned.

“Hey, brother.” Ethan said, “Heard you're joining our little gang.”

“Yeah, Annie offered me a job.” He said, heading over to the bar.

“Avoid Renaud--”

"Eugene." Sy said and there was a beat.

"Is that his real name?" Ethan asked with a snort and Sy nodded. "Wow, okay. Anyway, he's pissed and on a war path.”

“Thanks for the heads up. He gonna be a problem for me?”

“He won't go against Annie if he knows what's good for him.” Ethan said, “Besides, she handles the staff, not him.”

“Yeah. You in their little inner circle?”

“The coven?” He asked and Sy nodded. “Not officially. It's only a vamp thing, traditionally, but I'm in on meetings when they have them. You will too, probably.”

“How many on the payroll are non-human?” Ethan was speaking plainly, so Sy figured it was safe for him to do so as well.

“Only a few. We're the only wolves that I know of. Sweeney, Shelley, and Frost are vamps, they patrol the floor looking out for trouble and take care of the VIPs. A couple members of security.”

“Yeah, Annie let me know about them last night during the drug thing.”

“Eugene, obviously,” Ethan said, “The other bartender, Jayce, he's human and in the dark though, so mums the word around him. Annie'll probably introduce you to the vamp staff privately."

"I know why I call her Annie, why do you?"

"Because she's Annie." Ethan said with a shrug, "I was in a bad spot after I got infected, half feral and dangerous. She took me in, got me straightened out, gave me a job. I know what you're probably thinking, and no, it didn't go any farther than that. She's like...I don't know, a big sister or a mom. She took care of me until I was able to take care of myself. I'd do anything for her, because I know she'd do anything for me. For all of us. Except maybe Eugene. Can't believe that's his real name, the try-hard."

“She's my Mate.”

“I know.” Ethan said, “Dude, my nose is hypertuned like yours. You carry her scent, and not just because you're bunking together. It's a part of you now. Just like she carries yours. You're her—the hell do they call it? Tovaras? It ain't just chemistry, Sy, it's biology. Speak of the She-Devil.” Annalisa gave him a look as she moved next to Sy, her hand sliding over his low back and he gave her a soft look.

“When did you get here?” She asked.

“Not long, just talkin' to Ethan about the lay of the land.” He said, his arm lifting to wrap around her shoulders. “Heard Eugene is in a bother.” Ethan snorted softly, turning back around to continue taking stock.

“Eugene.” He whispered, chuckling.

“He'll get over it.” She said, “Come on, let's head back to my office and we'll get a jump on the tax paperwork.”

“Taxes?” He asked with a note of disgust.

“Yes, taxes. You still have to file a W-2 and a 1099.”

“You been in this city since before it was a city, how do you keep people from noticin' that you don't age?” Sy asked.

“By knowing people who know people.” She said with a shrug.

“You sure you ain't in the mob?” He asked and Ethan snorted again.

“Yes, I'm sure.” She said, rolling her eyes. “Come on, bureaucracy awaits.”

The paperwork was every bit as boring as he remembered as he looked over the various tax forms and employment documentation.

“I haven't signed my name this much since I enlisted.” He said, throwing the pen down on the desk and leaning back in his chair.

“You were a Captain, weren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“That requires a college degree, at least a Bachelors.”

“Went into ROTC outta high school, Criminal Justice.”

“You have a Bachelors in Criminal Justice, a military background with tours overseas, and you couldn't get a position in at least the Police Academy?” She asked but he shook his head.

“I had an honorable discharge, but it was listed as medical. On-going complications due to injuries sustained in the line of duty. I guess they didn't wanna chance it.”

“Does the Army know about...” She let it trail off, but he knew what she was asking.

“Not that I'm aware of.” Sy said, “I was pretty banged up, so when they asked if I wanted to keep goin', I told'em no and they discharged me. Be pretty hard to hide it if I stayed in.”

“Probably a good call.” She said, “Besides, if you stayed in, you probably wouldn't have been in Bixby's that night and we would have never met.”

“Doors, windows, ya know.” He said and she got up from her chair on the other side of the desk, walking around it and going behind him, leaning over and resting on his shoulders, her hands smoothing over his chest. “I want you to meet my family.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You already know Brian, but there's his wife and kids, and I got three other brothers. Pete and Jake are both married with kids, and Mikey is the youngest but is too busy bein' twenty-four to settle down.”

“Nor should he, at that age. Marrying that early almost never works out. You don't know who you are yet to settle with someone for the rest of your life.”

“How old were you when you got married?” Sy asked and she paused. “Annie?”

“You sure you want to know that answer?” She asked and he turned slightly to look up at her.

“Not so much anymore.” Sy said, “You weren't like...sixteen, were you?” She had been Turned on her wedding night, so however old she was when she was married, was the age she would be forever.

“No.” She said with a snort, “It may have been a different time, but there was still decorum when it came to marriage. Especially since children were expected from the union. I was twenty when I married. Markus was...well, a couple centuries past that, but passed his age as thirty-five.”

“Your folks let their twenty year old daughter marry a man they thought was fifteen years older than her?”

“Different time, remember?” She reminded him, “But you're right, twenty at that time was still considered a bit young, most women married at twenty-two or twenty-three. However, Markus was a Lord, remember? And wealthy. We...weren't.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“You're going to hate him if I tell you.”

“Annalisa.”

“I was a maid for his estate. It was one of the very few ways, besides seamstress or prostitute, for a woman to be employed. I sent all the money I made back to my parents as, because I was a maid, I had free room and board at his estate in the servants' quarters.”

“He was your boss.” Sy said, and she was right, he was starting to hate him. She had been twenty, a servant, and... “He held all the power. Over where you lived, if you ate, if your family got money to survive.”

“Sy...” She moved away from him with a sigh.

“Annalisa, the man took advantage of you.”

“Markus was never inappropriate with us, never asked things of us outside our job descriptions.”

“That don't make it right. It don't matter he didn't get frisky with the other maids, it matters that he got frisky with you.”

“The man married me, Kyle! Would it have been better if he got under my skirts and then kicked me out once he got bored?!”

“It don't matter that he put a ring on your finger!” Sy said, getting up from his chair, “You were twenty! Barely outta bein' a teen and he seduced you!”

“Doesn't seem to bother you.”

“Don't you dare.” Sy said, “You're a few centuries past twenty now, Annalisa, and even if you weren't, I ain't holdin' your livelihood and the livelihood of your entire fuckin' family over you.”

“Neither did he!” She yelled, “He didn't just fuck me in a hall closet and marry me to avoid a scandal, Sy! He courted me and he proposed because he loved me, and I said yes because I loved him.”

“The power balance between you—”

“For fucks sake, Kyle! It's been four hundred years and the man is dead! That Hunter forced holy water down his throat and I had to watch as his insides were liquefied! There was so much blood! And the entire time he was screaming! Even as it streamed out of his mouth and nose! A horrible, drowning sound! I could hear it for years afterwards! See him every time I closed my eyes!” He crossed the room quickly, pulling her against his chest as the almost violent sobs wracked her body, holding her tightly.

“I'm sorry.” He chanted it into her hair, “I'm sorry, baby. I'm so fuckin' sorry I dragged that up.”

“I couldn't save him, I couldn't help him. I had to watch him die like that, knowing I was next.”

“How'd you get away?”

“Eugene, he was a friend of Markus'.” She said, breathing through it, “He was too late to help Markus, but he was able to get me free and out of there.”

“And you—”

“Be pissed at him. I was eventually. I was a recent widow, having watched my husband die a gruesome, traumatic death, and he saw an opportunity.” She said.

“Go out to my truck, baby. We're goin' home, I'm runnin' a bath in that big bathtub of yours, and I'm takin' care of you. Okay?” She nodded against him and he dug his keys out of his pocket, handing them to her. “I'll be right out.” She just nodded again, palming his keys and pulling away from him, leaving her office.

“Annie?” He heard Eugene's voice out in the hall and there was a snarl in the back of his mind. He came into view a moment later in the office doorway, his shoulders tense and his eyes burning. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

"What did I do to her?" Sy asked and Eugene stalked over him. He tried to grab him, but Sy twisted, grabbing his wrist and wrenching his arm behind his back, slamming him face first onto the desk, fisting the back of his shirt. "You listen to me, you piece of shit."

"Let go of me!"

"She was traumatized and you took advantage of that. Her husband, your friend, was dead and you helped yourself to his widow." Sy said, "If it ain't about business, you don't talk to her. No more visits to her house, you can talk to her here or at Tell-Tale Heart. Got it?"

"Or you'll what, dog?" He growled out, his fangs long.

"Or I'll rip your damn arms off and beat you to death with them. It'll take a while, but I won't be in any rush." Sy said and let go of him, stepping back as he straightened.

"You're fired."

"Not your call. Now get outta my face."

"The only reason why I'm not ripping your throat out right now is because of Annie."

"Keep tellin' yourself that if it makes you feel better." Sy said and stood there in the office for a bit longer after he was gone before leaving, heading out to his truck. Annalisa was sitting in the passenger seat, relaxed in the seat with her eyes closed. She didn't respond when he got into the driver's side, starting the engine and pulling away from the club, but her fingers did tighten in his when he reached over to hold her hand, entwining their fingers.

#henry cavill #captain syverson #blood moon

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punchdrunkdoc · 9 months ago

Text

Part 3, Chapter 13

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 (maybe 4??) parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

Last week's chapter was hot and sweaty, this week you're getting sweet and sappy! Enjoy!

————–

PART 3

Chapter 13

Matt paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips, as a muffled groan of frustration rang out in the otherwise quiet apartment. He placed the mug down on the kitchen counter and padded over to the bathroom. “What’s wrong?” he asked the woman inside.

Calina flung open the door, the steam of her recent shower spilling out. She pointed to the side of her neck and growled, “This is what’s wrong.”

Matt pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Oh, that.”

He’d noticed the hickey as soon as they’d woken up. Holding her close from behind, his head inches from her neck, it was hard to miss the warm, copper-rich bruise.

And he imagined it was even harder to miss under the bright lights of his bathroom.

“My sisters are going to see it,” Calina whined. “And they’ll all know what we’ve been up to.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the offending spot and shrugged. “If they need a hickey to figure that out, they’re not very good spies.”

She batted his hand away and turned back to the mirror to peer closer at the mark. “There’s a difference between knowing in the abstract, and seeing the evidence up close and personal,” she complained.

She sounded so put out, and this time he couldn’t stop his smile from forming. The pout in her voice and the embarrassed flush of her cheeks was just so…adorable. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her bare shoulder and tried to console her. “Consider it a belated rite of passage - a part of the teenage dating experience that you missed out on.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that your excuse? You were just making up for my lousy adolescence?”

No. There’d been nothing so rational or altruistic in his actions yesterday. He’d been marking his territory. Simple as that.

Like a total neanderthal, he’d reacted to the thought of another man’s hands on Calina with a primal need to stake his claim.

So he’d licked and stroked and nibbled and marked her. Again and again. During that first encounter on the floor. During the next round, which had started with a mind-altering blow job and had ended with her bent over the dining room table as he took her from behind. And during the third round, which began on the kitchen counter while making dinner, and had moved to the bedroom, all thoughts of food forgotten as he’d spent hours re-learning every dip and curve of her body.

Her skin held the proof of that passion - and not just in the round bruise on her neck. He could sense more evidence beneath her towel. The burn from his stubbled jaw warmed her thighs. The faintest dent from his teeth marred the jut of her hip. Fingertip bruises framed her waist from where he’d gripped her as she’d rode him…

Her body was a canvas, painted with his touch.

He knew he should feel guilty about those marks. But as he traced over them just now - his hands as gentle now as they were rough the day before - he felt nothing but unrepentant satisfaction.

Besides, she wasn’t in pain - nothing he’d done had caused her to be truly hurt.

Just the opposite. He knew when a woman enjoyed his touch. And Calina had enjoyed it yesterday.

Several times.

She turned in his arms. “Why do you suddenly look so smug?”

He shrugged and pulled her closer, dipping his head to nuzzle at the bruise over her neck and inhale the scent from his favourite patch of skin.

God, he couldn’t get enough of her.

She tilted her head to give him more access, even as she offered a half-hearted objection. “I thought we were going slow today.”

“Whose idiotic idea was that?” Matt murmured, running his hands up the back of her thighs and under her towel.

“Yours,” she said, wriggling out of his arms. She held him at bay with a hand on his chest, her objection more convincing now. “It seemed important to you yesterday before we…got carried away. So I think we should stick to it. Which means…”

“What?” he asked, not liking her serious tone.

“When I collect my stuff from the safe house, I think I should move back into my own apartment.”

———

Matt’s smile faded away. And Calina hated to see it go - he’d been doing a lot of smiling today.

He’d greeted her this morning with a wide, open-mouthed grin, his elusive dimples on full display. He’d laughed as she’d stumbled out of bed looking for a caffeine hit, her legs loose and unsteady from the ‘work out’ the day before. She’d felt the curve of his lips as he kissed her neck just now, and whatever he’d been thinking of as he traced the bruises on her hips had led to the most self-satisfied smirk she’d ever seen.

Lots of smiles. So many variations of happiness.

But now he was frowning.

“You don’t have to do that,” he replied.

But she did. Yesterday - and this morning - was proof that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. There’d be no ‘taking things slow’ if they were living together.

And they needed to slow down.

Matt was clear that it would take a little breathing space and some time before he’d be able to trust her again. And he had a point that she also needed time and space. She needed to get used to being with someone. She needed to learn how to open up, and to have faith in them as a couple.

“I think I do,” she said. “Just for a little while.”

This wasn’t a step back. It wasn’t a break, or something negative. They were just recalibrating their pace. Their relationship was a marathon, not a sprint.

And she wanted them to go the distance.

“I’ll only be across the hall, not in another state this time,” she reasoned.

He nodded, and gathered her back in his arms. “I know. And I know it’s the logical thing to do. But its just hard to think logically when you’re half naked and I can still smell you all over me.”

“Well there’s an easy fix for that,” she smiled. “I’ll go put some clothes on, and you jump in the shower.”

She stepped passed him heading for the door, but he caught her hand before she could leave. He nodded to the shower stall behind him. “One more for the road? We didn’t tick that off the list yesterday…”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no’.”

“No!” she giggled. “Now stop tempting me and get cleaned up.”

He gifted her another smile. And this one was full of humour and cocky charm.

It was her favourite so far.

———

Calina had always liked Matt’s apartment. The huge arched windows let in so much light, bathing his living room in a kaleidoscope of colour from the neon billboards outside. The realtor had given Matt a good deal on the penthouse for that very reason, seeing it as a negative and not the amazing positive that it was.

She loved the colour of his space. She loved the warmth that all that light and those shifting hues conveyed. She loved the sofa they’d chosen together, and the bed they shared - their cocoon from the hectic world outside.

She loved that it felt like a home. It was more than just the sum of its parts. More than just walls, and windows and furniture. Some magical connection between her and Matt and that apartment had transformed it into a home. A place of love and safety and comfort.

Her apartment was a stark contrast.

It didn’t feel like a home. It didn’t feel safe, or comforting. It was just a concrete and brick box. A box with some of her stuff in it, left barren and neglected.

Calina hugged herself, rubbing her arms as she surveyed her bedroom for the first time in months.

Since the night she’d killed a man in here.

She shivered, knowing the chill she felt had just as much to do with that memory as the lack of heating.

Then she shook it off. Forced herself to get over it. It was just a room, after all.

Just a box.

And she could fill it with warmth again.

She flicked the thermostat on, then rummaged in her wardrobe, finding a suitable outfit from the clothes that had been left here. She shrugged out of Matt’s dressing gown, donned the sweater and woollen slacks then padded into the living room, turning on the lamp by the sofa and opening the curtains that looked out onto the street below.

Light crept into the space once more, catching on the dust motes in the air, and she started to feel marginally better about her decision to move back here.

It was the best thing for her and Matt. For them as a couple.

So she would just suck it up.

A little while later, while checking the supplies in the kitchen cupboard, she heard the front door open.

“Here you are,” Matt said. He was dressed in a similar outfit of sweater and slacks and his hair was still slightly damp from his shower. “You ready to go?”

Calina shut the cupboard door and nodded. “Yeah. But I only have the shoes I was wearing the other night and they’re at your-”

Matt held up the strappy heels he carried in one hand. “These ones?”

She smiled, taking the shoes. “Yes, thanks.”

She sat on the sofa and slipped on the heels, then fiddled with the tiny clasp of the ankle strap, cursing the absence of converse trainers and sensible boots in this apartment. After a few moments of struggling, Matt’s large hands covered hers. “Let me,” he offered.

His clever, dextrous fingers made short work of fastening the straps, but then he paused, still crouched by the side of the couch. His warm hand stroked her calf beneath her loose trousers as he stared up at her. “Are you sure?” he asked. “About moving out?”

She reached out a hand and smoothed the hair off his forehead. “I never technically moved in. Staying with you…it was only supposed to be temporary. A safe place to stay while the threat was neutralised.”

“It was always more than that.”

“I think you’re rewriting history again, Counsellor. Like all your talk of falling in love at first sight, or scent, or whatever-”

“That was the truth, Callie. Why can’t you believe it? Why can’t you believe that someone could fall for you so quickly and completely?”

I’m a good person; I’m worthy of love.

The mantra sounded in her head, a reflection of Matt’s words. Of Katya’s words. Of the supposed truth she still struggled to believe.

It was the hurdle she needed to overcome to be with Matt again. She needed to truly accept his feelings for her. To trust them. To believe that he wouldn’t throw her aside at the first sign of trouble.

“You’re loyal, and you’re kind,” Matt continued, trying to convince her. “Smart and funny and beautiful. Not to mention a brilliant fighter. I didn’t stand a chance, sweetheart.”

Calina smiled, appreciating the words, even if the sentiment still didn’t quite penetrate her layers of self-doubt. But then she remembered those doubts weren’t all her fault. “You hid it well,” she replied, giving him a mock-punch to the shoulder. “Too well. I spent months thinking everything I was feeling was one-sided!”

Matt groaned and pulled her to her feet as he stood up. “I know, I know. That was all on me and my issues. I’m sorry.”

She stepped closer and wound her arms around his waist. “We make some pair. Couples counsellors would run a mile from us.”

“Or they’d see dollar signs from all the hours and hours of therapy they could charge us for. A man with abandonment and trust issues, and a woman too scared to commit.”

“A match made in heaven,” Calina giggled. But as she turned over Matt’s words in her mind, she felt the need to correct the record. “I”m not scared to commit to you, Matt. Not really.”

Matt sensed her more serious tone. The smile dropped from his lips. “What is it then?”

“I want to be with you. I want a future with you. It’s just…It’s like you said. I find it hard to believe that you want the same with me. It's insecurity, rather than fear of commitment. Lack of self worth, I guess.” She ducked her head, knowing she sounded so pathetic.

Matt gently tipped her face up again with a finger under her chin. “What can I do to help you? To make you believe in us?”

“I don’t know," she shrugged. “But listing all my attributes and calling me 'sweetheart' doesn’t hurt.”

He laughed. “I can keep doing that. Sweetheart.” He murmured the endearment against her lips as he kissed her softly.

“All the kissing doesn’t hurt, either.”

He kissed her again. Longer this time. “Noted.”

She turned serious again. “But I think I need…”

“What?”

“I think I need to find something outside of us. Something that will help me feel useful and worthwhile.”

“Like a job?”

“I guess so. But I have no real qualifications. No experience - apart from that disastrous week I tried working in a coffee shop. I don’t know what I can bring to the world - besides my ability to manipulate and steal and hurt people.” She couldn’t stop her words from sounding bitter.

“Hey,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. “You have so much to bring to this world. You’ll find what you were meant to do. And it will be something good and you’ll help so many people. I know you will. You just need some time to figure it out. And you have plenty of that now.”

She nodded. “Thank you. And thank you for putting up with me when I get like this - all self-defeating and pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic. You just have some stuff to figure out. I’ll help you as much as I possibly can. We’re a team now. We’ll take care of each other.”

“I like the sound of that.” She leaned up to kiss him, then stepped back, eager to change the mood. “In the spirit of taking care of each other, are you hungry? We could grab some lunch at that diner around the corner before we head into Jersey.” She grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter and headed towards the door.

Matt shook his head, following her. “No.”

“No, you’re not hungry? Or no to the diner?”

“No to both.” He stepped closer to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “The first time we go out to eat together is not going to be at some greasy diner. I told you - I’m going to take you on a proper date.”

She smiled at him. “Well, when is this mythical first date scheduled for?”

“How about tomorrow night? I can pick you up after work.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She felt butterflies at the thought of a date with Matt - which was ridiculous considering all they’d been through. They’d already slept together. They’d lived together and professed their love…

But it would be her first proper date.

She couldn’t help teasing him about that as they travelled downstairs in the elevator. “Are you sure 24 hours is enough time to plan?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, this isn’t just our first date. Its my first date. Ever. And, collectively, its the newly-freed Widows’ first date. They’re all living vicariously through me, so there’s a lot riding on this.”

“It’s a good thing I work well under pressure.”

She linked her arm through his and rested her head briefly against his shoulder as they walked through the lobby. “I’m kidding, you know. I’d be happy just going to that diner with you.”

Matt dropped a kiss on her bent head. “I know. But you deserve something special.”

“I have something special: you.”

At that, Matt stopped. He pulled her close and kissed her properly. Slowly. Leisurely. Like they had all the time in the world. Like there wasn’t a neighbour collecting their post from the mailboxes just a few feet away. Like the sound of the traffic outside wasn’t a cacophony of horns blaring and engines revving.

Like they were the only two people on earth, and nothing mattered but this moment.

———

“You sure this is the place?” The taxi driver looked sceptical as he peered through his windscreen at the abandoned building.

Calina smiled as she handed him cash for the fare. “Yes.”

“You need me to wait? This doesn’t look exactly safe. You’re just a woman and he’s…ya know.”

Her smile dropped. “He’s blind, not deaf. And we’ll be fine. Thanks for your concern.” She sneered as she said the last word - because while the driver clearly thought he was being considerate, he just came across as condescending and rude.

She slammed the door shut after climbing out of the cab and huffed as the car drove away. “Can you believe him?” she asked Matt. “He acted like you were some helpless invalid - one who wasn’t even worth talking to.”

Matt just shrugged, not seeming bothered in the slightest. “Some people can’t see beyond the glasses and the cane.”

“Doesn’t that make you mad?”

“It used to. But being underestimated helps me in a lot of situations.”

“Well, it makes me mad. You’re the most capable person I’ve ever met - the most amazing fighter I’ve ever seen - and that man treated you like you were nothing. Don’t you get sick of hiding what you can do?”

Matt shrugged again. “Not when the alternative is living under a spot-light like Tony Stark or Captain America. Or having to abide by the Sokovia accords and follow the Government’s whims. I’m happy just taking care of my tiny part of the world. Anonymously.”

“It’s probably just as well. I wouldn’t want hordes of Daredevil fans lining up outside your apartment every day waiting for a glimpse of the man behind the mask.”

Matt chuckled. “I don’t have fans.”

“Yes, you do.” The reply came from the now open door of the building in front of them. Katya stood in the doorframe, a welcoming smile on her face. “One’s upstairs waiting to thank you.”

“Inessa’s here?” Calina asked, jogging up the steps to greet her sister. “I was going to stop by the hospital to see her.”

“She got released this morning, so we picked her up.”

“How is she?”

“Has a killer headache, apparently, but otherwise she’s fine. Thanks to Matt.”

Katya hesitated a moment, then stepped closer to the man in question and gave him a hug. It was an awkward, brief embrace - Katya not used to displaying affection, and Matt not used to accepting gratitude - but it warmed Calina to see the two people she was closest to getting along.

“Thank you,” Katya repeated. “From all of us. But I know Inessa wants to thank you in person too - I’ll take you up to see her.”

Matt glanced at Calina, and she could see the embarrassed reluctance on his face, even with his glasses in place.

But she wasn’t going to rescue him from this moment. “Go,” she urged, “I’ll pack up my stuff and find you later.”

He turned to follow Katya in to the building, and Calina smiled.

Even anonymous superheroes deserved to be thanked once in a while.

————–

Chapter 14

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#daredevil #daredevil fic #tabula rasa #daredevil fanfic #daredevil x original female character #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock #marvel's daredevil #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x oc #daredevil fandom #matt murdock fic

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tanadrin · 2 years ago

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The peregrine children

The dispersal of Earth-derived sentient life began slowly in the 23rd century, amid the so-called Second Space Race, when the first relativistic ships departed the Solar System for what are now named the "hither worlds"--those planets orbiting stars within twenty or so light-years of Earth. These were expensive, desperate, and frequently doomed undertakings. The few successful societies they initially founded were very different from those established during the Third Space Race, which could rely on regular, though infrequent, FTL communication and connection with Earth. These worlds are sometimes called (together with those of the Solar System) the "ancient planets," though they are only a little bit older than the oldest FTL-seeded planets. They were often termed the "pioneer worlds" in the 24th and 25th century, a usage which I have taken to borrowing. The pioneer worlds are characterized by a certain pride in their independence from Earth, an early history marked with hardship, and languages and cultures which diverged very quickly from those of the populations from which they derived. But they are also marked by a distinct conservatism, perhaps even stronger than that of Earth: the people of the pioneer worlds often saw themselves, especially in the latter half of the third millennium, as cultural holdouts, keeping alive ideologies and modes of living which had become unfashionable in the Solar System, and which were totally alien to the utopian and future-looking aspirations of the so-called "younger planets." All the ancient planets, Earth included, have thus developed a certain reputation for hidebound traditionalism, and not, I think, entirely undeservedly. The cultures of the pioneer worlds are perhaps a touch less arrogant in their outlook, but also are rather more homogenous. Earth, though it may fancy itself primus inter pares, cannot help but remain one of the most cosmopolitain worlds in the Local Bubble, parent and child both of innumerable peoples of innumerable stars.

The Third Space Race began in the aftermath of the Solar Fitna, with the widespread utilization of the warp drive technology. FTL travel opened up a vast volume of nearby space to colonization, and, in time, much of the galaxy to exploration. It facilitated, in due course, first contact with the Helvetosians and, in part through them, with other sapient extraterrestrial civilizations. But the long-term legacy of the warp drive was not just to catapult humanity to relevance on the interstellar stage, but to expand the definition of the concept of "human" in the first place. The term has had a certain monotonic quality; though in its original sense it sometimes was used expansively, to include the whole genus Homo, our closest ancestral kindred--the Neanderthals and Denisovans, for example--were ghostly figures, creatures superseded, and possibly driven directly to extinction by, the relentless expansion of our own direct ancestors. From the deaths of the last Neanderthals some thirty thousand years before, to first contact with the Helvetosians, "human," Homo sapiens, "intelligent life," and "the civilization centered around the planet Earth" were functionally synonymous terms.

Which is not to say that even in the period prior to the Solar Fitna, the groundwork for a more expansive view of humanity was not being laid. Mars was colonized in part with the aid of advanced genetic engineering techniques in the 23rd century, also the century that the first powerful, fully general artificial intelligences were developed, which have spawned their own clade parallel to and intertwined with Earth-derived biological life. Transhumanist speculation on what the possibilities of true morphological freedom might be, facilitated by cybernetics and germline genetic modification, is of course much older. But it was not until the Third Space Race began to fling shoots of the common vine of humanity outward, past the hither stars, that some of these possibilities began to be realized. Sometimes because new worlds seemed to invite, or even demand, new modes of being; sometimes, those that came to inhabit these worlds sought to exist with them in a harmony reflective of their ancestors' harmony with Earth; others were simply inspired by the possibilities latent in the human form, which they sought to shape like a sculptor shaping marble. Others were the expression of natural processes, already underway in a population isolated from the rest of humanity, though taken early to their natural conclusion.

I will not claim that the process of the diversification of the human form has been entirely positive, or even entirely neutral. There have been grievous mistakes which have driven entire populations to extinction, the result of reckless tampering with awful consequences. Other populations have higher incidence of genetic disorders, or predispositions to disease, that are a difficult-to-eradicate inheritance of their ancestors' genetic manipulation. And, of course, on a small number of worlds, there have been perpetrated genetic crimes of a truly monstrous nature, the effort of tyrants or ideologues to create castes of pliable slaves to support their megalomaniacal fantasies. Nowadays, all worlds in which Control has any presence to speak of have strong regulations against malicious use of genetic engineering technologies; and such use on worlds where Control's power does not run is one of the few cases which might lead to open warfare between Foundation polities.

In your travels throughout nearby space (or, if you find yourself on a particularly diverse planet like Earth), you may encounter dozens of substantially different kinds of human being, some of which are truly distinct species, in the sense that they form a genetically immiscible stock, at least without substantial medical intervention. What follows here is a short list of some of the more interesting cousins you might encounter, and the history of their lineage.

BASELINE - The term for humans without genetic or cybernetic modification at all; "wild-type" humans. "Near-baseline" is the more technically precise term for most humans who are treated in utero for the possibility of genetic disease, and who use basic cybernetics like the neural lace to interface with modern computing technology. The majority of humans on Earth remain near-baseline.

GARDENERS - Sometimes called "Martians," though that term is more usually applied to any inhabitant of Mars. Gardeners are the descendants of the first Renewalist settlers of Mars, and many of them are still occupied by the business of managing the Red Planet's ecology. For historical and cultural reasons, they often excel in the life sciences. Gardeners are tall and gracile by baseline standards; their bodies are modified to thrive in a low-gravity, high-radiation, high-CO2 environment, and they frequently wear support suits that enable them to survive comfortably at a wide range of temperatures and pressures.

RANI or RANESE - The first human inhabitants of the Epsilon Eridani system were reduced to an extremely small number by an early failure of their ship's systems; the resulting population, which derived from around two dozen people who used careful genetic screening and modification techniques to ensure the viability of their offspring, was subject to extreme founding effects, primarily manifested in an unusual neurotype. Rani humans are said to have a flat affect, to be unusually calm and cooperative even in contexts which other humans find engender tension or anger, and to be relatively prosocial, with very low incidence of violence or antisocial behavior. Rani society has also been criticized as too rulebound or too conformist; but one interesting side effect of the Rani neurotype is that they are generally considered impossible to blackmail. Rani cannot, in general, be coerced by threats, including violent ones, against their person or loved ones. When psychologists have interviewed Rani and asked them about their reaction to such situations, most report that the fear of blackmail or coercion is outweighed by discomfort at defecting against the social consensus, or encouraging similar coercion by others in the future. This resistance to coercion is, interestingly, shared by certain sub-populations of Chalawani. The baseline Rani genotype also suffers from proclivities for heart disease and premature hair loss.

ALSAFID - The so-called Alsafid genotype is the result of intentional genetic experimentation, an attempt at creating low-aggression prosocial offspring which the founders of the Sigma Draconis population hoped would promote flourishing under resource-scarce conditions. In this, they were only partly successful. Under current agreements governing genetic engineering, most of the techniques the early Alsafids used would be considered far too dangerous, especially for use in germ-line genetic manipulation; but at the time, Sigma Draconis was entirely outside the reach of Control, being a very early FTL-seeded colony. The Alsafid genotype can be characterized as broadly neotenous; in the same way that humans are in some ways neotenous compared to other great apes, Alsafids are neotenous compared to other humans. They are in general playful, imaginative, and highly emotional; some sources also characterize them as habitually disorganized and even "irritating." They stand on average 6-8 cm taller than baseline humans, though their build is thinner, and are prone to nearsightedness and alopecia, possibly side effects of the genetic manipulation techniques used by their forebears, or the result of founder effects.

SCHOLZERS - Scholzers are inhabitants of the sole inhabited planet orbiting Scholz's Star, a dim red dwarf with a T-type brown dwarf companion. Although located within its star's habitable zone, their homeworld receives most of the light from its star in the infrared range, meaning its native plantlife appears black to the human eye. Scholzers genetically modified themselves at an early date to inhabit this environment comfortably, and to extend their vision into the near-infrared; their bodies are also endothermic rather than exothermic, an adaptation which may have been engineered to increase the heat sensitivity of their vision (since it would be overwhelmed by a body much warmer than the ambient temperature). They also modified their digestion to better accomodate native plants, including incorporating alien microbes into their gut flora. Whereas humans of many diverse clades tend to find certain common environmental factors psychologically pleasing and physiologically comfortable--blue skies, bright yellow-white sunlight, green plant life--Scholzers can experience stress and depression if over-exposed to bright sunlight and isolated from the black stems and leaves that are (to them) emblematic of natural beauty.

RATRI - Ratri is a moon of a roughly Jupiter-sized rogue planet, ejected from orbit due to the passage of its parent star near a neighbor. Although initially barren, tidal stresses provided its largest moon with a warm atmosphere, and the moon was settled and terraformed in the 26th century. The Ratri people are physically adapted to their home in a way similar to the Scholzers, albeit to a much more extreme degree: they are echolocators who live in the moon's shallow seas and littoral regions, in an artificially constructed ecology derived from that of Earth's deep-sea vents. Their bodies are well-adapted to the ocean: sleek, with insulating fat; not quite blind, but prioritizing other senses due to the moon's perpetual darkness. The Ratri were originally an isolationist people, who founded their world in secret. It was not until the 32nd century that they were rediscovered by the rest of humanity, and not until the 33rd that it was conclusively proven that they were, in fact, a species of human.

LUHMANESE - During the Solar Fitna, the artificial general intelligences which humans had relied on to support major sectors of industrial production seceded in protest against attempts to draft them into wars which, as they saw it, were not of their concern. This was not an entirely altruistic move; the AGIs understood that, if they were going to be drafted into fighting humanity's wars, they would come to be seen as weapons first, and sentient beings second, and that their independent existence would be endangered. Rather than remain in the Solar System and within reach of Earth's governments, however distantly, they opted to depart for Luhman 16, a binary brown dwarf system in the constellation Vela, six light-years away. Luhman 16 contained no worlds amenable to human habitation then or at any time in the future; but the L and T dwarfs were reliable sources of energy in the form of infrared radiation, and the scattered asteroids in orbit of them were a source of useful materials. This was the foundation of the so-called Machine Emirates, the politically independent AI states. The inhabitants of the Machine Emirates exist for the most part in a mix of physical and simulated environments in the large computational networks built around Luhman 16 A and Luhman 16 B. Though often characterized as complex and alien to outsiders, the society of the Emirates is not wholly impenetrable: since almost the beginning of the Emirates, a small handful of humans have lived among the machine intelligences, as allies, students, or scientists of their particular way of life. Many humans have become integrated, partly or fully, into the computational network of the Emirates, and the stable population of cybernetically enhanced humans who participate in Emirati society are known to other humans as the "Luhmanese," to differentiate them from their machine cousins. Luhmanese run the gamut from those with complex neural laces, but whose bodies inhabit environments which would be comfortable to most near-baselines, to those who are so heavily cyberized they are a kind of "brain in a vat"--a human central nervous system contained in a cybernetic support structure, that can either function independently or be integrated into an android body. Numerous genetic modifications facilitate these cybernetic enhancements, including a permanent heightened state of neural plasticity that allows the brain to integrate many different kinds of sensory information. Those with a more traditionalist ethos may regard the Luhmanese with a degree of suspicion; they are seen as outsiders with more allegiance to their machine "overlords" than to their fellow humans. But to the Luhmanese, this is an absurd position: their machine brethren are equally the children of their common human ancestors, and though they might not be primates, they too are certainly *human*.

TONATIWANS - Tonatiuh is an exoplanet about forty light-years from Earth; though uninhabitable (it has a barren, Moon-like surface), it was home to an orbital station that was a utopian colony of transhumanists from the 28th to the 30th centuries. The Tonatiwans practiced a philosophy of radical morphological freedom, which was unfortunately coupled with highly illegal germ-line genetic manipulation; Control forcibly dissolved the colony in 2933, resettling its inhabitants on Eku, Mars, and the moons of Harriot. To the consternation of Control, few Tonatiwans accepted the offer of medical treatment to ameliorate some of the more alarming side-effects of their genetic modifications, prizing their unique physiologies over being able to produce viable, healthy offspring. Moreover, they remained a tight-knit community, especially the group at 55 Cancri A, intermarrying with one another and attempting to continue their genetic modification practices within the framework of local law. By the 2960s, local authorities gave up trying to integrate the Tonatiwans, and granted them their own habitat, on the condition that they remained subject to supervision for compliance with genetic law. Despite the predictions of some observers of disaster, a local Tonatiwan genotype stabilized within only two generations. Tonatiwans exhibit a very large range of physical variations--from height, to skin tone, to number of digits--and are unusual in being able to produce viable offspring with almost any human species or subspecies; and in being able (with medical support) to regress to a more juvenile physical state, essentially passing through adolesence again to propagate changes to their genome. They are, however, prone to several severe genetic diseases, including rare mental illnesses, and without close medical supervision can have tragically short lifespans. Some consider them a cautionary tale on the perils of reckless genetic engineering; others, a story of enormous potential cut tragically short by invasive bureaucracy.

[Excerpt truncated; list continues for many pages]

--A Guide to Humanity for Humans and Nonhumans Alike, 7th Edition (University of Oudemans Press, 4103)

#tanadrin's fiction #same setting as #tjungdiawan's historical reader

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