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trashmouth-richie · 2 years ago

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Eddie x Fem!reader

master list

summary: feelings burst. Fluffy. Fluffy fluffy. Eddie helps reader when she finds herself in a bind.

warnings: no minors gtfo- eventual smut in the series.

W.C: 11.8k 🫣

A/N: per usual thank you the my beta readers @sweetsweetjellybean

Clunk

Clunk clunk humm

You were already late for work this morning and now this? Must be a fucking Monday. This must be that bitch karma’s payback for you talking shit about Eddie’s van the other night when he backed it up to the garage to unload some shit he salvaged from the junkyard.

“You would think that since you’re a mechanic, you could tune up that piece of shit so it isn’t so fucking loud.”

Eddie scoffs and rolls his eyes, unloading another arm load of car parts from the back of the van to the middle of the garage, “don’t dog on the shaggin’ wagon, you know how much ass I get in this thing?”

The unspoken agreement you had with Eddie the other night after spilling your guts about your past, gave you more patience towards him than ever before. Instead of finding him repulsive, you two were almost friends.

“No I don’t and also I don’t care.” you say taking a bite of a ham sandwich.

“More than a public toilet seat,” Eddie boasts, “Ladies love it, feel like I’m Shaggy or something.”

More like his other four-legged snack-loving friend.

“I really hope you use a rubber, don’t wanna extend the Munson blood line anymore than you have to,” you bite back.

“Oh sweetheart, I always wrap it with the groupies, especially watching Jas bounce from Gareth, to Big D to Walt all in one night.”

“Well look at you, Mr. Perfect bill of health.”

Eddie smiles widely a stupid grin plastered on his face, “I’m so good at the doctors they even give me a sticker. ”

Now here you are, stranded at the gas station east of town, past Merrill’s pumpkin patch. Losing all faith in your sanity, you slam your hand into the steering wheel one more time. Your chunky boots clunk across the pavement as you pull the door towards you, a dingy brass bell dings overhead, alerting the gas station attendant that someone has entered the store.

“Back again?” the balding creep with the greasy combover presses. His coke bottle thick glasses full of breakfast pizza slime from his fingers from pushing them up on in place after sliding down the oils on his nose. A brown paper bag with orange spray paint sitting next to it sat on the counter, and a tinge of orange around his mouth.

With no time for small talk or shooting the shit with the local bachelors of Hawkins, you simply need to borrow the phone and call… fuck. You didn’t want to have to call Boom’s, but the other shops didn’t open yet, and you didn’t know any of them. The decision was made.

“I need to use the phone,” you say laying your hands on the counter.

“No can do, this is a business line,” he spits, bits of his barely chewed breakfast falling from his over stuffed mouth.

Irritated beyond belief you say through gritted teeth, “What? My car broke down, I need to have it towed.”

Showing no sympathy, the combover greaseball says, “That sucks, don’t it,” a throaty chuckle erupts from him. Clearly the man got off from making next to little effort in helping someone.

“Listen,” you say peering over the counter to read the slobs name tag, “Ralph— you’re going to give me the goddamn phone so I can get my car towed, or I’m going to tell your boss about your little huffing habit. Got it?”

His cheeks crimson at your threat, “…what’s the number?”

After dialing it wrong three times, Ralph’s oversized fingers and his altered mind getting hung up on where the 4 was on the dusty rotary phone, you hastily reach across the counter and grab it and the Hawkins phone book. Flipping through the worn yellow pages, finding the number yourself and slotting your fingers in the appropriate places to get the number correct, it finally starts ringing.

Angrily tapping your foot, the serenade of dial tone ringing loud in your ear.

“Boom’s” a bored voice says, after ehat seems like hours of waiting.

“Hey, — is Eddie there?”

A scoff is heard from the other end of the phone, followed by an annoyed voice, “Why who wants to know?”

You don’t have time for childish games with whoever this fucking prick is. “Jesus Christ what is it with assholes today? Is he there or no?”

“I don’t know, you stupid bitch— why don’t you tell me if Eddie is here or—”

A scuffle is heard as the phone falls to the ground.

“What the fuck did I tell you? Huh? I’ll drop your ass just name the time and place mother fuck— hello?”

“Eddie?” You ask exhaustedly.

“Tooty? Oh shit, you miss me so much you’re making calls to my work?”

“E—” you begin, frustration rising.

“Or did you call to gossip? Ooooh, tell me all about the salon drama, is it that blonde again, damn just slap her already I know you want to.”

“Ed—!”

“Shit if you’re worried about going to jail I’ll come bail y—”

“Edward Joseph Munson!”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, “Did you just use my full name? I only hear that when I’m in trouble with Wayne.”

“Will you listen to me?! I need help. I’m at the gas station east of town and my car won’t start.”

“What? What happened?” Eddie asks, his joking tone immediately fading to concern.

“I have no idea, but I’m already late for work—can you come pick me up?”

“Usually this is where a please would be.”

“Eddie!”

“Ooh even begging?”

“Goddamnit,” you say under your breath, “Eddie will you please, come get me?”

“That a girl, see that wasn’t so hard. So where are you?”

Eddie rolls up in an old orange and white tow truck, head banging with a cigarette hanging limply from his bottom lip. “So what happened?”

“Well I drove here, got gas, and then it just wouldn’t start.”

“Damn, I wonder if your starter is out.”

“Great, so what the hell does that mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure if it is that or not, but if it’s not that— it means that your car is probably going to need more work than it’s worth, but I won’t know until I get it in the shop.”

“Son of a bitch.” you curse, covering your face with your hands and tipping your head back up to the sky. Could this fucking day get any worse?

After buying the house last year, your savings were completely wiped out, the last few months you had been pinching pennies trying to build it back up

“I’ll tow it, but I don’t think Boom has any loaners right now,” Eddie explains, “but since I’m such a kind, handsome, good roommate….”

You roll your eyes.

“I’ll bring you to work.”

Shock evident on your face, “You sure?”

“I mean its either that or the city bus, and last I checked—Hawkins doesn’t have one.”

Eddie agrees to give you a ride until your car is fixed on one condition, the band gets to use the garage for practices again. Too tired to fight with him, you give in.

He backs the truck up, moving the steering wheel with one hand the other hanging out of the window, his tongue poked out through his lips. He jumps down from the truck and maneuvers the wheel lift into place by your front tires.

The muscles in his forearms jut out, tattoos dancing with each movement and covered in a thin sheet of sweat as he grabs the chains from the flatbed and hooks them along your front tires, securing them into place. Your car is lifted slightly giving enough clearance to be able to tow.

“Ready?”

Bouncing along side Eddie in the tow truck you sigh heavily, “fuck, I hate Mondays.”

“Okay, Garfield,” Eddie chuckles, turning down the radio and glancing towards you, a cigarette balanced between his teeth, “could always be worse,” he digs into his front pocket for his pack of cigarettes and hands them to you.

You smile weakly and take the pack from him, plucking a tanned filter from the pack and shoving it between your lips. Before you can even say that your lighter is in the car, he’s leaning over. A scratched zippo with a fading design on it, in his hand already flicked open, the flame threatening to go out with the help of the lazy breeze through the open driver’s side window. It’s the same lighter he’s had since you first bummed a cigarette from him when you were thirteen.

Leaning towards him you put the cigarette into the flame, inhaling deep— the cowboy killers burning the pinky tissue of your lungs. He flicks the lighter closed with a metallic snap and smiles out of the corner of his mouth at you. Suddenly your lungs aren’t the only thing burning.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to avoid the skips in your stomach, “I usually prefer menthols, but I guess, these’ll do,”

“Always gotta bust my balls dontchya?” Eddie laughs, a stream of smoke billowing out from his nose. “Hey, uh— I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but that gas station is rated 5 stars on the creepiest place in town.”

You glare your eyes at him, absolutely not having it, “they have cheap gas.”

“There’s a reason for that, and every drug dealer in town sells out of there,” Eddie scolds.

“You would know,” you say in a hateful tone.

“You’re right,” Eddie protests, looking at you earnestly, “I would know— it’s not a good place to be— no matter what time of day, so stay away from it.”

You knew he was trying to look out for you, and from what Steve said, — he blamed himself for the things Chad did to you. But it was never his fault, he didn’t know just like most of Hawkins didn’t. You lived with the Wheeler’s and not even they noticed until you walked home that night. You decide to let it be. For once in your life agreeing to what he had to say.

“Alright,”

Boom’s was on the opposite side of town, the rest of the drive you listened to Eddie hum along to the radio and snuck a peek at him playing air guitar. Despite him being so foul, and a royal pain in the ass, he was actually a decent human being.

No other men in their twenties could help you through your panic attack, aside from Steve. But Eddie? He was different from Steve in ways that you couldn’t grasp. You didn’t find yourself staring at Steve. Even if you had been swimming with him on more occasions than you can count. Sure he was good looking, but you never once understood why the girls at the pool practically flocked to him. Eddie hardly ever wore a shirt around you and your stomach ached each time you saw his broad shoulders and tattoos. Steve was like a brother to you, he scolded you and gave you advice, all with his hands permanently attached to his hips. A mother hen among his friends. Eddie teased and taunted you, his irritating behavior and the way he chewed his food, the way his hair was everywhere in the bathroom, the way his hair looked when he was fresh out of the shower, a towel slung on his hips. The way his hips made a ‘V’, small trail of hair from his belly button to his waistband. Fuck.

Is it hot in here?

What the hell were you doing?

There’s no way.

No fucking way.

Nope, not today.

Not ever.

…

But what if?

Eddie couldn’t understand what was going on with you in the passenger seat. Instead of bitching at him like normal, you were staring out the window. Looking as if you were fighting a storm in your cute little head. Maybe you were reliving the past. Silently suffering through something that he should have been there to stop. But judging from your reflection against the dirty window, you didn’t seem to be crying.

After that night, Eddie was putting in more effort to make sure you felt safe. He gave you distance. Avoided the bathroom in the morning, and stopped making dick jokes altogether. He still joked around, still acted like an idiot— but his perverted meter was dipped into the green zone, the safety net.

He meant what he said, you didn’t have to be afraid with him around. And he would do whatever he could to prove that to you. So when you called Boom’s earlier and asked for help— he dropped everything to make the trek across town to pick you up. Especially when you told him the gas station you were at. Known for being the skeeziest one in town, he worried about you being there alone.

Seeing the tow truck pull into the parking lot, Sean and Aaron had their noses pressed against the glass, the cheap flimsy blinds hung crooked over their heads.

“Damn,” Aaron exclaims, “you were right, that is her.”

“Told you, Munson hasn’t shut up about her since he moved in. Wonder if Chad knows where she’s been hiding.”

Eddie parks the tow truck and you both climb out. He gives you the keys to his van and tells you he’d be right back. Walking into the shop with a whistle on his tongue, he goes into Boom’s office. He’s sitting at a worn down wooden desk. Papers, and receipts clutter space where a framed family picture might be. A steaming styrofoam cup of coffee in Boom’s left hand suggested he stopped at the donut mart, and a dozen of glazed holes from heaven would be sitting in the break room, their sweetness tantalizing the crew all day.

Eddie raps his knuckles against the yellowed paint by the door frame.

‘Yep,” Boom chirps without looking up, reading the daily arrest records in the Hawkins Post.

“Hey, I brought Tooty’s Escort back, I’m going to bring her to work quick and when I get back I’ll move it.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Boom gripes, not looking up from the paper, sipping the coffee slowly.

“Dunno, I’ll take a look at it— “ Eddie shifts his weight from one foot to another, “I was wondering if I could maybe work on it after hours, or on the weekends.”

Boom considers what Eddie is saying, “off the clock?”

“Yeah, or maybe I could take some of my tools home? Work on it there?”

Boom thinks for a while, taking a sip of his coffee. His pudgy finger hovering near the name “William Hargrove” mulling over if he knew him. He finally looks up, “Whatever you wanna do, Eddie, you’ve got keys—I trust you.” Boom offers, “just don’t let those other two jackasses know what you’re doing and who for— that’s all they’ve been yappin’ about since you left this morning.

Eddie rolls his eyes, “I’m just helping out a friend, don’t know why they give a fuck.”

“Personally, I don’t give a shit— but you’re my best mechanic, and those other two are on their last strike with me. One more time I read their name in this paper and they’re both out of here, and when that time comes— I’m sure they’ll be lookin’ for someone to blame.”

The familiar scent of stale weed and a spilled rotting beer in the back of the van flood your nose. Even though his van was a dirty pile of shit and it stunk like hell, you’re thankful for Eddie taking time out of his day to help you.

He could have easily told you to fuck off, hung up on you the minute you called. But he didn’t. He kept good on his word even when he didn’t have to. He doesn’t owe you anything and yet here he was, proving to you again, that he could be someone to rely on. You peer at him through your lashes, falling deep into a spell of fondness. He was always clean shaven, showing off his babyish features. If you didn’t know his age you wouldn’t guess he was over twenty two, his youthful pale skin a glow like the moon across a lake at midnight. The deep browns of his eyes squint in the bright sun, his dark eyelashes almost kissing his cheeks. His thick ringed fingers tapping on the steering wheel as ‘Holy Diver’ plays gently in the background. The bob of his Adam's apple jutting out as he swallows and takes a drag from a cigarette.

You barely recognize your own voice when you say barely above a whisper, “thank you, by the way— not just for today but for the other night,” your fingers go back to the same nervous habit, twiddling the end of your cream lettuce hem shirt.

“Of course,” he says, a look of shock on his face, “I know I like to give you shit, but I wouldn’t leave you stranded somewhere.” He looks over at you lazily and smiles. The kind of smile associated with cool guys on tv, the kind of smile that’s crooked and truly only on one side of the face. And for the first time, you smile too, letting the warmth radiate through your body, venturing into places that you have to readjust your crossed legs to avoid entirely.

Pulling into the backlot of the salon, where you and Nancy smoke cigarettes and read trash magazines, you jump out thanking him again, the creak of the door slamming back into the frame as you wave goodbye.

“What time?” Eddie yelled after you, silently admiring the way the sun catches your face, highlighting your features, the slight breeze catching your hair, he can’t help the smile that dances on his lips. “What time are you off work?”

Walking back to him, he’s leaning his head back on the head rest, an arm hanging out of the window, a stupid grin on his face.

“My last client is at five and it’s just a cut, so probably six o’clock, why?” A creep of jittery shock threatens your nerves, fluttering your stomach and sending waves of fluster through your body.

“Thought I’d pick you up, unless you wanna walk home?” He smirks, tracing the small paint chip near where his fingers set on the door.

Biting your lip and moving back on your heels you make your way back to the door, “Okay.”

“Alright, I’ll be back at six.”

“Six” you repeat, turning on your heel and walking into the salon.

Eddie has thought about you all day, the cards of life and the hand you were dealt were shitty. But he was happy he was around to help in any little way he could. He thought maybe he was crazy, seeing shit when you smiled at him, a sort of shyness in the way you flirted by dipping your head into your shoulder almost giddy at him picking you up.

But that couldn’t be.

The rest of your day was monotonous. Shampoo sets, perms, cuts, rinse and repeat. The long haired metalhead hardly left your mind. When it’s just you and Josie left in the salon after your last appointment, it’s 5:30. She sits down, exhaling loudly. Her long dark braids trailing to her waist, cascade down the length of the chair as she leans back.

“Broke down again? Girl, you need a car that actually works.” Her hot pink fingernails dip into a bag of skittles, popping them into her mouth.

“I know,” you sigh, throwing yourself into your salon chair, “hopefully in the next few months I’ll have enough saved to get myself a new one.”

“So how did you get here? If we had someone else in the salon today I would have came and picked you up,” her mouth puckered into a sucking expression as she pops another skittle into her mouth.

“My roommate… he works at Boom’s so he towed it there and then brought me to work,” you express nonchalantly.

“Ooh the rich one who you used to work with?”

“Steve?” You say with a laugh, “No, Eddie Munson.”

“Eddie Munson? Why does that name sound so familiar? Ohh the infamous Hawkins bad boy, my cousins used to run around with him, some club or somethin’ ”

“Yeah, that's him, he’s turned himself around quite a bit since high school though.” The annoying need to defend him is obvious in your tone.

Josie’s eyes go wide, “Wait—“ she says, pointing a pink nail at you, “he had a girlfriend. He’s living with you? Shit, you’re a brave one.”

Heat creeps to your cheeks, the thought of Eddie having a secret girlfriend that you didn’t know about was almost torture on your soul, “no, no girlfriend… that I’m aware of at least.”

Speak of the devil and he will be present.

Opening the door with the sun waning behind him, peeking an orangy-yellow glow through his unruly curls, stood Eddie. His coveralls are full of motor oil and brake fluid. Black grease is smeared across his face, and his hands. Bandana still snug around his head.

“Oh shit,” Eddie blurts, eyes scanning around the room, bouncing from your face to Josie’s. Clearly uncomfortable in such a clean establishment. “Sorry, I’m uhh, a little early.”

Josie’s eyebrows are turned up in shock, her mouth slightly agape. “Damn, you’re the roommate!?”

Before she can embarrass you any further you blurt, “Josie, this is Eddie,” holding out a hand and pointing, introducing him to her, “Eddie this is my boss and the owner of the salon, Josie.”

Eddie waves with his fingers, “so you’re the one lookin’ after our girl here, the mechanic?” Josie asks.

“Uhh, yeah that’s me.” he puts a hand on the back of his neck and rubs it slow

Josie stands and walks towards you, a clicking of her heels and munching on her candy as she grabs your hand and drags you upwards, dragging you to the back of the salon.

Eddie looks around the room. The salon is decorated in light washes of pink and green and flowers decorate almost every surface, White painted baskets hang from the ceiling holding fake flowers. The salon chairs are black as are the mats under them. Green sinks in the back and cabinets overhead. Two mirrors on each wall and station with a name and family pictures decorate them. Eddie can’t help but notice that where you were sitting, there are only three pictures. A photo of you and Nancy looking like it was taken last summer, you’re holding up the keys to the blue ranch style house he now calls home. Another picture is of you Robin and Steve, in green Family Video Vests in front of the counter. You and Robin are both pulling one of Steve’s ears and he’s making a monkey face. The last picture is of you and Eyeball as kids, a portrait more than likely taken at a JC Penney’s.

“Don’t forget to lock up, okay? Enjoy your day off tomorrow. Eddie, be good to her!” Josie calls from the back, the heavy metal door slamming as she leaves for the night, a smile painted on her lips, shaking her head.

You walk back towards Eddie, he’s sitting in your chair, poking around at all of the different brushes and curling irons that were on your station. Your tired eyes scan him and find him in the mirror. “What is all this shit?”

“My tools to style, cut and color people’s hair.”

You’re standing behind him. You hesitantly grab one of his curls in between your fingers, noting how silky and smooth his hair is despite the split ends. “You could probably use a trim, Eddie. When was the last time you had your hair cut?”

“You think these curls have been in a salon? Please! I cut it myself thank you,”

“I can tell,” you mutter under your breath, going full hog and untying his sweaty bandana and tossing it onto the counter. “Come on, let’s go wash your hair, and then I’m gonna give you a trim.”

“You’re not cutting my hair.” Eddie protests, arms crossed and resisting.

“Your ends are dead, if you don’t take care of it now, it’ll keep going further up and then you’ll have to shave your head.”

Eddie practically trips standing up quickly. “Those are fighting words.”

“Do you really think I’d do that?” You ask in a bored tone.

“Actually no, but— okay fine! Only because you went to some fancy school.”

Eddie stomps over to the sink and sits down with a plop in the smooth cushioned black chair. You follow behind him and place your apron back around your neck, tightening it around your back. You lean his chair back telling him to lift his head from the headrest as you gather his curls into the basin.

Turning on the water and testing the temperature on your wrist, like a mother testing a bottle making sure it isn’t too hot for a baby, you gently put the spray into the ends of Eddie’s hair, gently working the spray up the length of his head to his scalp.

“Is the water okay?”

“Ow, holy shit!” Eddie yelps, his body flopping around like a fish out of water. You immediately turn the faucet the other way, apologizing profusely until you realize Eddie is shaking with laughter.

“Oh fuck, … you…” more laughing as he chokes out his words, “should have seen your face.” He mimics your face and bursts into a fit of giggles, you aren’t sure how long he would have kept it up if you didn’t put the hose directly into his face and throw a towel at him.

“Wipe that grin off your face or I’ll wax your eyebrows.” You spit at him, letting out a small laugh.

Mumbling from under the towel is faint but you swear you hear the word bikini.

Eddie finished cleaning his face and lays his head back into the sink again, you don’t ask this time but immediately start wetting his hair. “So,” he says, closing his eyes, so water won’t get in them, “I think I figured out what is wrong with your car.”

“Oh really? Is it going to be an easy fix?”

Not wanting to admit to you that he was working on your car for free or that he would borrow as many tools as he had to to get your car fixed, he settles for a half truth.

“Shouldn’t be too bad, gotta get some parts ordered for it.”

You let out a groan, “oh God— how much are they?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said, don’t worry about it, now treat me like one of your clients and tell me all the hot gossip in your life.”

Taking three giant pumps from the white shampoo bottle in the cabinet, you gently massage it into his scalp. Letting the cool smooth pearlescent liquid suds up. His hair feels like brown ropes of silk in your hands. All the years of having your hands in someone else’s hair were nothing compared to the odd feeling of lightly working the suds into Eddie’s mane. Baby soft. Luxurious in ways that contradicted the metalhead image he wore so well like a coat of armor.

You weren’t the only one admiring the way his hair felt in your hands.

Eddie is fighting hard not to melt into a puddle right there in Josie’s salon. Your hands were like magic against his scalp, your nails lightly scratching small circles against his skull. He was sure he’d fall asleep if he kept his eyes closed for any longer. It was the closest thing he could compare to what heaven would be like. Hints of tropical coconut mixed with crushed pineapple filled the air. He didn’t even realize you were talking until he opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of your mouth moving over him. Your face was concentrating on the story that you were telling, but it fell on deaf ears. He was in a trance. The scrape of your nails against his head was almost pornographic to him. The way your eyes were trained on the job at hand. The way your lips parted and moved as you told the story. The animated look in your eyes, sparkling with each slow blink, your eyelashes teasing him.

He had never noticed the features of your face before. Usually if he was this close you were staring up at him and pointing one of those glorious fingernails into his chest, yelling at him— eyebrows pulled in, your face set in a scowl. But now here you were, scratching an itch he didn’t know he had. Filling a void he wasn’t aware was missing. He could die right now and he wouldn’t even know it. It was almost orgasmic the way you were making him feel, all with just simply washing his hair.

He caught himself before you could notice it. He crossed his legs and willed himself to think of anything else. Shutting his eyes and imagining the least sexy thing he could think of. Not wanting to ruin the moment between you both and make you never want to trust him again because he had got an accidental semi while staring at you while you were wrist deep in shampoo, scrubbing his scalp like a woman in the 1800s washing clothes on a board in the creek bed.

Nobody had ever washed his hair before, that he could remember at least. He never wanted it to end.

“…but that’s crazy right? Like she’s a psycho!” The hazy fog of lust finally left Eddie’s mind, his other four senses returning. Looking at your face and seeing that you were hurt by the story you had explained, and ashamed that he wasn’t even listening, he agreed, not even knowing if he should.

“What a bitch.”

You giggled, smiling down at him. Finally realizing you had been scrubbing his hair for almost five minutes, lost in the story. A stupid distraction to force yourself away from the feeling of the silk length of his hair, the way it felt in your fingers. Not wanting to let it slip away. You gather it all in one hand and grab the hose with the other, starting at the crown of his forehead, you rinse the suds from his hair.

Bubbles circle the basin. Disappearing down the drain along with the same shared feelings of lust and yearning. Shoved down deep away from the surface, hidden beneath hardened surfaces, shielded away from the inner depths of the softening heart.

You ended up cutting half an inch from Eddie’s curls, careful to not lose yourself in his hair again, almost cutting yourself in the process. Hee watched with wide sad brown eyes with each snip. “It’s like I’m watching you cut parts of my soul away.”

You roll your eyes, “It’ll grow back, and when it does it’ll be healthier and longer.”

His bangs were the next to be trimmed, not even half an inch taken off. You place a leave-in conditioner spray to keep his curls soft and to help with the tangles. Knowing full well that Eddie didn’t even own a hair brush.

When you finish and are sweeping up his curls, Eddie stands shaking his head like a dog and running his fingers through it. “Alright, I’ll admit, it does feel better.”

Since the agreement was made for the band to practice every other day of the week in the garage, Eddie had been bringing you to work, and picking you up. On days the band wouldn’t be practicing, when he dropped you at home, he would leave immediately after, sometimes not showing up again until midnight. Coming home tired as all hell, and just like you had done weeks before, a Tupperware of food with instructions on how to warm it up taped to the lid, would be waiting for him in the fridge, each and every time.

There was no more yelling from you when the three members of Corroded Coffin showed up. There were also no more beer cans or greasy food wrappers on the ground either. Instead a trash can sat in the corner, and Eddie paid for pizza after you ordered it.

Actually the band was pretty good. You would never tell him that, that would simply go to his head. And with the ego he already had, he didn’t need another boost of confidence, leave that for the groupies. So every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday night the band got together, playing covers from their beloved 80’s metal Gods and sometimes original songs they would write. All of them thankful that you let them practice in the garage, Big D picking you up into a bear hug and swinging you around like a rag doll.

“Jesus Christ, D, this is why the ladies run from you, you’re too aggressive, put her down!” Eddie barks. A pang of burning in his chest at the sight of you in someone else’s arms.

Big D sets you down and apologizes, “sorry Toots, and hey speaking of ladies, whatever happened with you and those hotter than hell twins?”

“Oh shit, Gareth hollered, “Fuck dude they were all over him, surprised he’s even able to walk with the way they were strung around him like cats in heat. You usually can’t wait to tell us about it, bragging until the next gig about it at least.”

“That’s cause he probably didn’t do shit, too chicken shit to handle them.”

Your stomach flips, so it wasn’t something you remembered wrong, there were two girls that Eddie had brought home that night. A strange feeling of angst washes over you, coating your mind with uncertainty mixed with inadequacy. Your cheeks warm, embarrassed by the way you are feeling. Excusing yourself to go order the pizza, you don’t see the way Eddie dismisses the guys, blowing them off with a “why don’t we keep our sexcapades to ourselves.” Or the way he throws a full beer at Big D.

After ordering the Corroded Coffin special, two large pepperonis, two large sweet and swine, and an extra large order of cheesy breadsticks— you go into the cupboard and bring out several bags of chips and five paper plates. Your favorite, sour cream and onion, and Eddie’s favorite, cool ranch Doritos. You let your mind wander. Thinking about him with those two girls. Realizing this is probably where he went at night after he dropped you off.

No need to feel like that when he was just your roommate, you shake the jealousy from your head. Just Eddie. Barely a friend. Yet he was still going out of his way to take you to work every day, till doing the chores you both shared. You let the silly feelings drop, carrying the chips and plates to the garage, shutting the door behind you. Pulling up your usual lawn chair, listen to the band play and finish painting your toenails.

When the boys end the song, they start again on the conversation they had started before playing, “dude I’m not dressing up as KISS again this year,” Jeff whines to Gareth “took me forever to get that white paint off my face. And don’t even get me started on the eyeliner.”

A spray of beer soaks the ground as Eddie spits it out, laughing hysterically about the memory of watching Jeff struggle lining his eyes like Paul Stanley. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “yeah I agree, I’m not painting your ugly mugs again this year, what else are you thinkin’?”

“We could all be different villains from scary movies. Freddy, Jason, Michael Myers’s, and Pinhead.” Big D suggests, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Nah, no chicks wanna fuck something scary. I don’t know about you— but I tried all of last Halloween to get some tail and no girl would even look my way with all that clown paint on.” Gareth huffs twirling his drum sticks in his fingers.

“What about you Tooty?” Eddie asks earnestly, “Do you and Robin go bar hoppin’ on Halloween or do you usually stay home like an old lady knitting sweaters and handing out black licorice and molding fruit?”

Making a face at him, you paint the last coat of polish on your toe nail. “Actually, Nancy and I usually throw a party. Costume contests, kegs, beer pong… we kinda go all out.”

Eddie picks his jaw up from the floor, scoffing, “no way— Nancy Wheeler and you, throwing a rager on Halloween? I don’t buy it.”

“Call Steve and ask him, he’s the reigning Cherry Lane Halloween costume contest winner for two years running.” You say with a smirk on your lips, stretching your legs and crossing them at your ankles, the pretty maroon polish catching the dim light in the garage. “You guys are more than welcome to come, obviously it’s on Halloween night, and the only stipulation is to bring a good costume, and $5 for the keg.”

Eddie moves his tongue over his teeth, twisting his body to look at his band mates, all three of them shrugging and nodding. “Yeah, we’ll be here,

“Yeah, if you think you’re up for it. Sure.” You say nonchalantly.

The smell of mildew and damp carpet currently being air dried with a fan stung your nose. The soggy basement and the crumbling foundation of Sally’s Secondhand in downtown Hawkins was a hidden gem and only open in the afternoons on Mondays and Wednesdays, but they had decent prices and good quality items when you were in a pinch if you could learn to breathe through your mouth for the time you were there.

“So how’s the roomie situation going?” Nancy asks, holding up a hand mixer with two mixing parts and a wooden handle labeled for .10¢. You had scored gold when you found a gently used, practically brand new waffle iron. It was wedged between two cook books for only $2. The same one Karen Wheeler had used on Sunday mornings. You were hunting for discounted Halloween decorations still not sure on what you were going to dress as and Halloween was this Saturday, Nancy was searching for spare camera parts for Jonathan and a toy cowboy hat for her costume that she wouldn’t tell you about.

Putting a masking taped bundle of forks into the blue plastic grocery basket, your forks magically kept disappearing everytime Eddie brought leftovers to work, you let out a sigh, “It’s going okay, better than it was in the beginning. He’s fixing my car up and I cut his hair a few weeks ago. I um.. also told him about Chad.”

Nancy stops dead in her tracks, blue eyes wide, her small mouth agape, “wh-what?!” Nancy was shocked at the news, you nonchalantly delivered like saying ‘fine’ when some asked how you were. She knew how frightening that situation was for you, it was scary for her too. Seeing someone she loved and cared about hurt in ways she couldn’t even fathom.

“We ran into him while getting groceries—like a month ago. I had a full blown panic attack, and Eddie, he helped me through it.” You go into detail explaining everything that had happened. Leaving out the part of you being comforted by Eddie and the gentle way his thick hands caressed you while you sobbed into him like a child who lost their cat.

Nancy's face goes from shock and softens into content, “wow, honestly didn’t think he had a caring bone in his body, he always seemed like such an asshole.”

“I mean he still is, don’t get me wrong— I don’t think he’s giving donations to the local churches or anything, but he seems a little more reserved, if you will,” you say, adding a floral embroidered set of towels for every day of the week to your basket.

“Hmm,” Nancy says with raised eyebrows, and nodding her head, a silent confirmation of approval. Always looking up to Nancy, almost as if she was your real life sister, you admired her. She was always put together, whether you were shopping during the week or at home, she was stylish in a way that said, I will run the world, and have dinner on the table at 6. Her white huarache sandals matched her high waisted pink pastel shorts and white button sleeveless blouse. Effortlessly stunning.

Moving along the aisles you and Nancy both finger through the clothing racks. Pulling out neon prints and a pair Madonna—esque white lace gloves, they probably belonged to that muppet singing idiot, Tammy Thompson. Chuckling at how fashion trends in high school were borderline ridiculous. a denim vest in your size with safety pins on each hem gave you an idea for your costume. Finding everything you needed you were ecstatic to put it all together.

The carpet squashed beneath your feet the further you got into the store. The back room held vhs’s, records, tapes, and books. The records were in a milk carton next to a shelf of adult themed books. The fading sharpie written sign reading “Adult fiction for Women 25 cents” posted bold along the top of the shelf. Nancy discreetly placed, “Thursday and the Lady” by Patricia Matthews into her basket, covering it with matching salt and pepper shakers, a crimson tinge to her rouged cheeks.

Diving into the records you flip them towards you as you lazily scan through them. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, Thriller by Michael Jackson, Abbey Road by the Beatles, Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, stuck to the back of it was a small single, Ode to Billie Joe by Bobbie Gentry. It had been years since you heard it, tucking it into your basket, Nancy clears her throat nervously, the blush evident in her cheeks, “I’m ready if you are.”

The Saturday of Halloween the salon was closed, giving you Robin and Steve plenty of time to decorate for the party tonight. Eddie was working but was scheduled to get off around 5, just in time to come home and get his secret costume on.

Orange pumpkin printed garbage bags filled with autumn foliage lined the streets of Cherry Lane. Toilet paper streamers were in Mr. Derry’s tree, a prank the seniors of Hawkins High did to him every year, including egging his front door. Vinyl witches hung from doorknobs. Plastic ghosts holding jack-o-lanterns littered lawns. Fake strings of cotton resembling cobwebs with bendy plastic spider thrown around like glitter, lay atop shrubs. Orange lights were wrapped around the trees in your front yard, flimsy ghosts made of white sheets were hung from the branches. It was a child’s Halloween paradise.

“Higher, no lower, well now you’re just doing it wrong.” Steve was in charge of Robin who was in charge of decorations. The beer pong tournament would be in the basement, every strand of Christmas lights you could find were lighting the ceiling, table set up and cups in place. The tournament bracket started with Mike and El playing against Jeff and his girlfriend Ash. The kegs would be delivered later. Buckets ready for ice sitting on the deck. Robin and Steve were still arguing over who had the better costume last year. Twisting black and orange streamers together and hanging them in the doorway to the bathroom.

In the kitchen, you’re finishing up the Jell-O shots, small clear dishes full of cherry red jello made with everclear. A bitter threat to anyone brave enough to eat them. The spinach and artichoke dip is prepped in the fridge, along with 10 packages of crescent rolls, 5 packages of hotdogs, the fruit cut and ready to be put into Steve’s horrendous Jungle Juice that you would actively be avoiding. Nancy and Jonathan were bringing pinwheels and rotel dip. Dustin and Susie are in charge of bringing candy. It’s going to be a blast.

“Be right back,” Robin and Steve call out as they leave to go get their costumes. Putting the finishing touches on your costume your hand shakes with nervousness while swiping mascara on your lashes, the pre party jitters wracking your nerves. The ring of the doorbell startles you. The obnoxious ringing should be a dead giveaway but you don’t recognize it until the door is wide open and you’re face to face with Jesus Christ himself and three nuns. Or as you knew them, Eddie, Gareth, Jeff, and Big D.

You aren’t sure whose mouth is hanging open more. Yours or Eddie’s. Eddie is wearing a long sleeved cream colored gown, complete with a crimson sash. His usual black leather boots on his feet and a crucifix in his hand.

Eddie is the first to laugh, hands held out like he’s blessing the house before he enters it. “Aww sweetheart, you really are my #1 fan aren’t you?”

You are dressed as the most annoying on the planet, pain in the ass, voted most perverted of all of Hawkins: Eddie. When shopping with Nancy you found the vest, adding a few hand sewn patches and the best replica of Eddie’s DIO patch on the back, even shoving a pack of reds into the pocket, it looked pretty good. A twin of the aforementioned jackass. Borrowing Nancy’s cheap leather jacket when she went as Sandy from Grease last year, and putting holes into a pair of jeans and washing them as many times as you could to fray the edges, it was perfect. Complete with a horrible curly wig that you thought was a life dog upon seeing it.

“I was going for scary and scary annoying,” you shrug, “think I nailed it.”

“As hilarious and surprisingly accurate your costume is, the real winner for the party is going to be us” He gestured to him and the nuns. “figured I’d go as something that everyone says I need more of and you recognize the boys right? They’re dressed as your friends from work.”

The kegs finally show up and Eddie blesses the delivery man before he leaves. Fully throwing himself into character. Dustin and Susie are the first to arrive, dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire and Sally Ride, the first woman astronaut to go into space.

Dustin laughs so hard he cries at your costume. “Oh my God please you have to say, ‘forced conformity, it’s what’s killing the kids!’ Please Tooty Holy shit!”

Mimicking Eddie perfectly you saunter away and scream about society and how good Metallica is.

“Oh haha, so funny Tooty,” Eddie pouts, holding a beer funnel in his hands, “come on Henderson let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.”

The backyard is sprayed with foamy beer as Dustin very much can not put his money where his mouth is. Gareth’s up next, chugging like a champion and doing a lap around the backyard like he won a trophy. Eddie and Jeff shotgun beer, Eddie winning by a mile. Laughing and putting his hands in a praying gesture to bless Jeff for his shortcomings.

The rest of the party goers show up, Nancy is dressed like Annie Oakley wielding a fake shotgun and a straw cowboy hat and a long brown dress with fringe hanging from the shoulders. Jonathan and his long haired friend Argyle arrive behind Nancy dressed as Sonny & Cher. Argyle had given up the fast moving life in California once a Surfer Boys pizza arrived in Hawkins. He delivered to the house so much during the nights that Corroded Coffin was practicing that he had your order prepped and ready to go by the time you had called it in. He’d show up so blitzed out of his mind that he’d forget he was at work, sharing his different strains of weed with all the Corroded Coffin boys.

Robin and Steve are in the kitchen, ladling jungle juice into empty cups. The duo dressed as Thelma and Louise, Robin wearing a black muscle shirt and sunglasses, and Steve wore a white tank top with a neckerchief. Both talking in horrible southern accents.

Eddie is standing next to Argyle in the living room both holding almost empty cups of the forbidden jungle juice, deep in conversation about something called Purple Palm Tree Delight, but knowing them, it had nothing to do with a lavender paradise. You reach around Eddie to grab a pinwheel, taking a bite when Argyle, clearly stoned, goes wide eyed leaning into Eddie his eyes still transfixed on you he whisper yells.

“Yo, I swear to God, I just saw two of you.”

“Argyle it’s me, Tooty.” You explain standing next in front of them trying not to laugh. “This is the real Eddie, I’m just dressed like him for Halloween.”

Argyle leans forward and whispers into your ear, “Yeah okay man that’s what the aliens would say before they clone us and take over.”

He leans back and takes two big steps backwards, eyes wide in a horrified daze, before disappearing down into the basement.

“Don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but that guy smokes way too much.” Eddie chuckles, downing the rest of his jungle juice and eating the fruit at the bottom of the cup.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” you warn him watching with your own gut twisting as the sweet juices of strawberry slither down his chin and down the slope of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says, smacking his lips, “I’m twenty six years old, I can handle my liquor.”

“Okay,” you reply, “just so you know, the fruit soaks up all the alcohol and Steve presoaks it all in everclear the night before. Last time he ate all the fruit he spent an hour in the bathroom crying about his love life or lack thereof. And besides, we have to play in the pong tournament in a half hour.”

“We?” Eddie asks, lips turned up and a slight blush to his cheeks, “I didn’t sign up for beer pong.” His dark eyes pour into yours.

Heat creeps up your neck as you reach for a Jell-O shot cracking the lid off and circling the dish with your finger before sucking it into your mouth.

“I signed you up,” you say, reaching for another Jell-O shot, “everyone had a partner but Argyle and Will, so I paired you with Argyle, and I’m with Will,” you slide your finger around the Jell-O dish and suck the cherry gelatin into your mouth, savoring the bitter bite to your tongue before you crush it between your teeth.

“You better bring your A game Munson,” you say, taking a step into him and poking him in the chest, “because I don’t lose.”

Eddie isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol that’s making him feel this way or you but suddenly he can’t stop blushing, laying the charm on thicker than peanut butter, “oh really?” he asks intrigued, “Well babe, I don’t think you know this but I’m the Forest Hills Trailer Park Pong Champion for eight summers in a row, so technically,” he’s leaning forward now, whispering low to get his point across. Your breath hitches in your throat, you can feel the tickle of his lips against your ear, his hair is brushing against your face, the faint smell of motor oil stuck in his curls, “I never lose either.”

He pulls back and your eyes lock. The heat flooding your cheeks burn, the ache in your stomach travels south and pulses with want. You can’t deny it to yourself, even dressed as Jesus Christ, Eddie is the best looking guy you’ve laid eyes on, and you were melting at the way his dark eyes gazed into yours, a smirk placed on his lips as he brushes his tongue over his bottom lip to catch the remnants of the horrific fruit juice. His eyes never leave yours as he takes the Jell-O shot dish you’re holding and sets it behind him on the table. The tension could be cut with a knife, thick and heavily hanging in the space between you both. Eddie opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by El screaming for Mike to get to the backyard instead of puking in the kitchen sink. Her Alice in Wonderland wig askew on her head and holding Mike’s mad hatter hat between her hands.

Running to open the sliding door you get it open just in time for Mike to projectile vomit off the deck.

“Christ, what did he eat?” Eddie asks from behind you, “damn Mike you’re such a pussy!”

“His dumbass didn’t eat all day and when he got here he decided that Jell-O and fruit would be a good option.” El says, rubbing his back as he pukes again and again, “I don’t feel bad for you Mike!”

Wiping his mouth on his forest green jacket sleeve, he murmurs, “Babe, I’m fine, seriously, a few pieces of bread and I’ll be in tip top sh—“ puke splatters wetly against the grass again.

You grab El’s hand and squeeze, “let me know if you need anything, okay?” She nods and smiles sweetly.

“C’mon,” Eddie says behind you, “let’s go so I can kick your ass in beer pong.”

You turn your head, half facing him, “game on, Munson.”

The sharpie bracket on poster board continued moving forward thanks to Steve’s basketball knowledge. Jeff and Ash beat Mike and El, Nancy and Jonathan beat out Gareth and Big D in a very close came both opponents having one cup left. Steve and Robin were beat out in the first round by Dustin and Susie, something King Steve would never be living down. Nex on the bracket to play would be you and Will playing Argyle and Eddie. Honestly it should be a piece of cake, a walk in the park. Will wasn’t the most athletic but last year him and Jonathan got second place against you and Nancy so the odds were pretty high. One thing you were absolutely certain of was that you would not be losing to Jesus and Cher tonight.

The basement is packed with everyone besides the ill Mike and faithful El. Argyle and a pink lensed Will are in the corner smoking a fat blunt the sequin jacket he’s wearing sparkles through the haze of smoke and the catches the lights. You haven’t seen him since Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding. But he’s letting his hair grow out, finally letting the bowl cut Joyce insisted on him having all throughout middle school and high school go. Steve has Dustin in a headlock for teasing him about winning against Mr. Hawkins High basketball star of 1985.

“Ya know for once, I was actually good, like really good, Steve overthrew the last cup and it was game over once Susie got the ball. She’s strangely amazing at beer pong. Probably found the mathematical equation from the distance of the table and her elbow to the solo cups.” Robin rambles on, only stopping to get her breath. “How are you? I haven’t seen you all night. Killer costume by the way, if you can’t beat ‘em be ‘em right?”

Robin and her absolute no filter mouth, always make you laugh, linking your arm with hers, “I really like your and Steve’s take on best friends driving off a cliff together to evade police.”

“JESUS CHRIST!” someone yells from upstairs.

Not missing a beat, Eddie can be heard returning the exclamation. “You rang?”

Rolling your eyes and looking his way, you laugh when you see him, holding up his arms in praise.

Robin’s voice bringing you back to the conversation, “Epic right? Steve thought we could be conjoined twins but then decided against it when he figured there was a small chance he could possibly get lucky tonight when that black haired girl at his job kept hinting that she wanted a date with him.”

“What!” you shout, “He never told me this!”

Robin rolls her eyes and takes another drink from her too foamy beer, “he’s nervous, I think he really likes her but doesn’t wanna fuck it up like he does everything else.”

Steve deserved to be happy and to have someone love him. He was always making sure everyone else was okay, you smile at the thought of him with a girlfriend.

“So,” Robin presses, wiggling her eyebrows, “Eddie looks good tonight,” a wicked smile dances wildly on her lips.

“I’m not at all buzzed enough to have this conversation,” you say, taking a peak at Eddie through your eyelashes, he was laughing loudly at something Steve had said, head thrown back, exposing his neck.

Will joins your side, reeking of weed and heavy musk cologne. “Tooty!” He squeals, wrapping you into a tight hug, “the house looks so fucking good I can’t believe it, also I heard that you’re living with Eddie? I’m going to need all the details!”

“It’s so good to see you, look at your hair!” You say holding his arms. Will threads a hand through his hair and laughs a little.

“Thanks, it’s new but it’s kinda growing on me, now, spill it. Tell me everything.”

“Next game!” Nancy announces, advancing her and Jonathan to the next bracket. “Argyle/ Eddie vs Tooty/ Will.”

Will grabs your hand and drags you to the beer pong table, “after?” He asks and you nod your head.

Eddie and Argyle are standing on one end, you and Will on the other. The cups are arranged into a triangle and filled with the warming pitcher of keg beer.

“You ready to go down groveling, sweetheart?” Eddie sings from across the table, eyes squinting when he leans on the edge of the table smiling at you.

Your stomach flutters, taking a long swig of Will’s jungle juice, staring Eddie down as you gulp the vile liquor and fruit punch combo down, “You ready to get your ass kicked, Munson?”

“Woo! That’s balls back ba-by,” you sneer, hooting and hollering as Eddie begrudgingly tosses the balls back your way. It was almost as if Argyle and Will weren’t even there, this game was between you and Eddie. You were definitely buzzed, between the warm beer and the Jell-O shots you had eaten you were feeling good.

When you miss the first cup, Eddie makes devil horns at you and howls at the moon like an idiot. You sink the next cup, earning a high-five from Will, and a sly grin from Eddie as he removes the cup and chugs the warm beer. He’s secretly excited that you’re so happy, letting loose, in your element, surrounded by your loving friends. You glowing with a sense of freedom. In that moment when your eyes caught his, he knew he was in trouble, you were wrapped around his finger and he didn’t think of hardly anything else, but you, your beautiful smile, the way your hair caught each light you were under. He was in deep, and for right now, he was perfectly and utterly okay with that.

It’s Argyle’s turn and he surprisingly sinks both cups, being awarded with balls back, as you and Will each take a cup and drink the suds down. Trying to distract him, you whip off your Eddie- esque wig and toss it towards Eddie, shaking your hair out like a wild woman.

Unphased by your antics he does it again and you groan. Four in a row? This guy was half asleep the entire game and all of a sudden he’s an athlete? They only have 1 cup left. Tension rises and the room goes to silence at Steve’s request. Argyle sinks it. Eddie erupts into cheers grabbing Argyle by the shoulders and jumping up and down.

“Redemption attempt!” Steve shouts, giving Will the ball. Will takes it with nervous fingers, blowing the ball to dry it slightly as you chug the last cup. He only has two cups to make. Will tosses the ball and the room goes silent, it feels like it’s in slow motion, or maybe that’s the alcohol. The ball soars through the air, bouncing against the rim of the cup lapping up the foamy beer, before it falls off and teeters off onto the table.

Argyle raises both hands in the air, “VICTORY!” the room erupts with cheers. Will apologizes profusely but you hug him tight, telling him you were happy he was your partner.

“Next game is Jonathan/Nancy vs Jeff/ Ash starting in 20 mins!” Steve hollers. The basement clears out as people go upstairs to use the bathroom and refill their drinks.

You expect Eddie to be gloating, cocky beyond belief. But he’s the opposite, coming up to you slowly, head bowed, upper teeth practically biting his lower lip in half.

“Good game sweetheart,” he says barely above a whisper, “not gonna lie, I really thought you guys were gonna win.”

Holding your chin high, face only inches from his, the brown pools of colored whiskey stare into your eyes. Placing a hand on his chest, the alcohol gives you enough of a push to cross the line. The thin gauzy material of the gown he’s wearing is sticky with sweat and warm from the heat radiating from his body. “Told myself I wouldn’t lose to Cher and Jesus tonight.”

Eddie let’s out a throaty laugh, “can’t believe he pulled that off, he didn’t make a cup all game.”

“Guess you get to continue wearing that tarnished crown, speaking of wardrobe… where the hell did you get this outfit?”

“You know that church across from the police station?”

“The one with the Jesus statue inside?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and gives you a knowing glance, waiting for you to catch on.

“No way! Eddie! You broke into a church and stole an outfit off of a statue?”

“Amen,” Eddie says roaring with laughter, “ahh c’mon you can’t tell me it wasn’t a genius idea.”

Rolling your eyes, “I wouldn’t exactly call it genius, but funny? Yes.”

He laughs again, “not everyday I get a compliment from myself,” he says eyeing your costume, “you do make a pretty cute Eddie Munson if I say so myself.” he wasn’t even thinking anything of it, just blurted it right out.

Flirting came easy to him almost as a second nature, he was never nervous around women, usually finding the game of sex not just something he was good at but conquered with ease. But this, here, with you? Was a slippery slope. A different game for him entirely. He was a pawn amongst you and you were the queen, striking down whoever came near, holding all the power.

Your cheeks heat from his compliment, blood rushing through your body and warming your skin, he holds your hand to your chest, stroking your fingers with his thumbs.

A thousand bolts of lightening ignite you, he smells like smoke, ashy and burning, the cheap keg beer on his breath as he smiles softly at you.

“Tooty!” Steve calls from the top step, clinging onto it for dear life, “are you down there?!”

You’re the first one to break away, pulling your hand from his grasp, threading them together at the last minute, finger tips clinging to each other like velcro. The flames between you both extinguished fast, no oxygen left in the room to keep it going.

Getting to the bottom step and turning, you give him one last glance and a small smile, before trotting up the stairs to Steve.

Eddie opens the patio door to find Gareth and Big D blowing smoke into the sky and talking about the best DIO song.

“Shit man, where have you been? Didn’t your game end like 15 minutes ago?”

Eddie thinks of a lie quick, “Taking a piss why you wanna watch?”

“That’s weird,” Big D questions, “cause Gareth just came out of the bathroom unless there’s a magic bathroom you haven’t told us about.”

“What are you guardian of the toilet?” Eddie says slotting a cigarette between his teeth and flicking his zippo open.

“I mean he’s got a point,” Gareth interjects, “where have you been tonight, turning water into wine? Or are you healing the blind?”

“Cool it, Whoopi,” Eddie bites, “the fuck does it matter where I was or wasn’t?”

“You’ve changed dude. Used to be a ladies man, different chick every night. Smoking and drinking all night watching the sunrise. Fuck man you were hell on wheels. Then all of a sudden you move in here and you’re acting like the Pope, fixing up her car off the clock, bringing her to and from work, you’re like her fucking babysitter.” Gareth exclaims.

“Fuck off man, she’s Eyeball’s sister, and I’m just looking out for her.” Eddie grits through his teeth.

“Or,” Big D suggests, “you like her, I mean you still haven’t even told us about the twins— and you stare at her like she’s about to combust at any moment.”

“Yeah and what do you two know about anything?” Eddie spits.

“Clearly not shit, but you’re all fucking riled up about a girl you don’t like.” Gareth flicks his cigarette and goes inside, Big D following.

The door opens again, “listen man, I’m not in the mood for your stupid fucking advice.” Eddie groans, turning to see Steve standing at the door, an empty pitcher in his hand. “Shit, sorry, thought you were Gareth.”

“Nope kept my habit at home,” Steve says with a chuckle, setting the pitcher on the edge of the deck, “nice party, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, “ya know when Tooty first told me that her and Nancy threw a party every year I didn’t believe it, turns out I was wrong about her, seems to be a theme of mine lately.”

“She doesn’t let a lot of people in, but once you’re here, it means she trusts you, respects you.” Steve explains.

Eddie smiles softly, ashing his cigarette.

“She cares about you, ya know? She might not want to admit it— may even be scared to admit it to herself, but she likes you.”

Eddie gives him a look. Sure you were nicer to him, not threatening to kick him out anymore. You had let the band practice in the garage, even staying out there to hear them play. But that didn’t mean anything did it?

“How many times do you think she’s cut my hair?” Steve inquires, leaning next to the railing on the deck beside Eddie.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says honestly, “a dozen?”

Steve chuckles, “Never, not once, never even offered. You think she made elaborate meals for Nancy when they lived together? Wrong— she barely touched the stove. You move in and she’s changed, for the better. It’s like she’s coming back to life, and the only common thing in that equation, is you.”

Eddie mulls this over, could Steve be right? “I don’t know man.”

“I may not be Mr. Relationship but I do know Tooty, and you’ve softened her edges. Tamed that frightful girl we all love and adore. She’s got walls up, keeping people out, but not around you, not anymore.”

Eddie hangs his head, his heart bursting with sad euphoric bliss. He couldn’t go about this like any other conquest. And with you it would never be how it was with the other women. Faceless broads in mini skirts, praising him, doing whatever he wanted them to. He never saw you in that way. Holding you on a pedestal about the rest. He hadn’t been in a relationship in years. One too many times of being cheated on was enough for him. But you were hurt too, more so than he was. He was still licking his wounds with anything willing and able. You? You were a shell of yourself. He couldn’t act on this like he would with anyone else. He cared about you too damn much to make you feel like you couldn’t trust him again.

“And I know you care about her. Everytime I look at you you’re staring at her like a sad little puppy.”

Eddie looks up then, looking at Steve like he held all the answers to life’s questions. He turns and leans against the deck, elbows on the railing just how Steve was facing the house.

“Yeah, you’re right, I do care about her, more than anything. So what do I do?” He asks Steve.

Steve shrugs, letting out a loud sigh, “keep doing what you’re doing, she knows you care about her, just don’t disappear on her.”

Eddie turns his head from Steve and catches sight of you through the patio doors. He can see you taking a Jell-O shot with El, Robin and Nancy. A sleeping lump of clothes on the kitchen table with black hair must be Mike. You light up the room as you laugh when Robin makes a repulsive expression after taking her Jell-O shot. He can’t hear your full laugh, it’s faint through the glass. But, he doesn’t need to hear it to know the sound—having heard it more and more the last few weeks, the way you throw your head back when something is really funny, sometimes covering your mouth. He’s certain he’s never seen anyone more angelic in his life. Like you have sucked all the air from the room, even dressed in a sheer mockery of him, you’re radiating a glow that makes his heart swell. He has never cared about anyone the way that he does for you.

Seeing him through the doors standing next to Steve, he has a smirk on his face. A sudden rush of shyness creeps up your neck and you turn away from him, but you reciprocate his actions, smiling at him. A small gesture that melts him on the spot.

Eyes trained on you but still talking to Steve, Eddie beams, “I’m not going anywhere.”

A/n: see you in volume vii

Hope you all enjoyed this. There were some little hidden Easter eggs in this chapter, go to my askbox if you found them 💕

readmore eat my ass or this line you decide, whore.

—

#eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie x y/n #stranger things season 4 #stranger things #eddie munson smut

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blackseafoam · 3 months ago

Text

Marked Part III

A Bad Batch x Red Dead Redemption crossover AU (with illustrations)

PART 1 - PART 2

Word count: 2002

CW: Stuff you'd normally find in a western story. Swearing, smoking, gun touting, bullet wounds, horse jokes.

“Why do you keep looking over there? The job is as good as done, Arthur.” Javier gestured with his whiskey glass, elbows planted on the bar top.

“Yeah, have a drink. We earned it.” Lenny nodded with his beer.

“Slow down, Summers, remember the last time you came here to ‘wind down’” Javier jabbed, snickering.

“Shut up, Esquella.” Lenny muttered into his glass as he raised it.

Arthur barely noticed the two bickering. His mind elsewhere. There was a nagging feeling those three soldiers weren’t done fighting yet. The energy between those men was almost as if they could talk without speaking. Their expressions clearly showed they were not ready to give up yet. Like an animal in a snare, biting and scratching to its last breath, chewing off its leg to get away if it has to.

He sipped his whiskey but kept one eye dutifully on the front of the Sheriff's office, just in case, even as the sun went down and the warm light of lanterns and candles became the only way to see.

BOOM. Every glass on every table shuddered at once. Lenny choked on his drink.

Dutch’s boys knew the sound of dynamite all too well. Arthur got to his feet and ran outside, closely followed by his inebriated posse.

The side of the sheriff's station was blown wide open, a gaping hole in the wall revealed the inside of the holding cell, and prisoners nowhere to be seen. Arthur cursed, making eye contact with the deputy inside, on the other side of the bars, standing frozen in shock.

“Damn, these guys might be even crazier than us.” Lenny huffed. Javier sighed with frusdration.

“Goddamn. I can’t believe it.” Arthur couldn’t help but sound a little impressed.

Arthur’s attention went to the muddy ground, to the scrambling footprints, four, no, five sets of boots led toward the main road, then disappeared.

“They got on a wagon, come on.” Arthur growled, then turned to get his horse. This bounty was now officially giving them a run for their money.

“Do you think they heard that?” Wrecker laughed as soon as his brothers climbed aboard the wagon. With a flick of the reins they were off as quickly as Murray could pull the full load. Tech, being the designated driver, climbed to the front and took the reins. They headed south out of the town,the opposite direction of their old camp. It almost felt good to get into some action again, almost.

“Where’s Meggy?” Hunter huffed as he took a seat.

“In here!” His seat spoke. Echo huffed a laugh as Hunter stood in shock and opened the crate. The three siblings in the cargo area shared a reunion hug.

“How touching.” Crosshair caught up to the wagon on Havoc, rifle trained to the sky in one hand, reins in the other. The jet black steed’s nostrils flaring with excitement. “Celebrate later, we’re being followed.” He cast a glance over his shoulder.

Three horsemen coming up from behind caught the light of the train station on the edge of town. Barely visible at this distance, but closing fast.

“Did you bring our guns?” Echo began moving the supply crates to barricade the rear of the open wagon.

“In here!” Meggy handed him a saddlebag from the floor.

Echo moved one crate toward the front of the wagon. Hunter motioned Meggy to take cover behind it. “Do not move from this spot until we say so.” He said sternly. Meggy looked at him with eyes wide open, nodding and sitting frozen still. The intensity in his expression taking her aback.

Wrecker loaded his sawn-off shotgun, Echo spun his pistol, and Hunter turned the safety off of his revolver. Tech urged the horse to continue as fast as he dared into the night. He wasn’t familiar with this road but from his vague recollection of maps it was relatively straight.

The first shot rang out, splintering through the back of the driver’s seat. Missing Tech’s hip by inches. Being on the wagon meant their aim would be marginally better than their pursuers at full gallop. Hopefully.

Sure enough, it was their three escorts from earlier that came into view in the moonlight. One of them took another shot, but it went wide. Hunter and Echo returned fire, forcing the bounty hunters to spread out evasively. Meggy watched in horror over the crate, covering her ears and not daring to move a muscle as she crouched in the corner. Her limbs shook with adrenaline.

“We are not going to outrun them, we need a plan!” Tech called over his shoulder.

“No way we’re surrendering!” Wrecker bit out as he rolled into the back to take cover.

“I have an idea.” Tech gritted his teeth and veered the wagon onto the train tracks.

“TE-ECH, what are you do-oing!?” Echo yelled, the seriousness in his tone cut by his jostling voice. The wagon wheels bumped violently as they rolled over the railroad ties.

“Blackwater!” Is all he said in response.

Echo didn’t have time to ask more questions, as more shots rang out. A shot went straight through Hunter’s side, and into the crate protecting Meggy.

Hunter staggered, Echo noticed. “Hunter’s hit!” He announced. Hunter was still firing after he stumbled to his knees, Wrecker stowed his shotgun went to his brother’s aid. His close-range weapon wasn’t much help in the firefight anyway.

“We still need more distance!” Crosshair spat, his expression steeling as he thought. He knew that as soon as their enemies caught up with the wagon, it was all over. And they were getting uncomfortably close by the second.

The massive railroad bridge that was Bard’s Crossing stretched high over the yawning mouth of the Dakota River before it spanned out into Flat Iron Lake. Tech was leading them straight for it, an absolute madman, but probably one of the only people who could pull it off. Crosshair couldn’t help but smirk at his brother, the lunacy of the situation.

In that moment, Crosshair realized what he needed to do. He slowed Havoc to a canter. The stallion grunted, wanting to stay with his herd.

“Crosshair, what are you doing?!” Wrecker called out, crouched over Hunter, trying to staunch the hole in his side.

“Buying time.” Crosshair said, releasing the reins to cock his rifle. Using his seat to further slow his horse.

“This isn’t part of the plan!” Tech started to slow Murray.

“Too bad, it is now. GO! I’ll meet you in Blackwater.”

Tech nodded reluctantly, and urged Marauder back up to speed.

“This is not good, we shouldn’t split up!” Echo lowered his pistol, watching Crosshair and Havoc disappear into the darkness. “Running off to be the hero never works Crosshair!” He futilely called after his brother.

After the bridge, Tech steered the wagon back onto the road uncomfortably close to an oncoming train, thankfully still going slow as it left the nearby station. He cast an apologetic wave at the conductor who was visibly angry. They pulled the wagon over as soon as possible, Tech held up the driver’s lantern to check on Hunter. “How bad?” He was almost afraid to ask.

“A little worse than a graze, but I don’t think it hit anything important.” Wrecker reported.

“I’d… beg to differ, Wrecker. Feels pretty important.” Hunter huffed a small laugh which became a groan.

Echo rummaged through the kitchen crate for a whiskey bottle. Handing it to Hunter, who took a long swig before returning it. His face scrunching in anticipation before Echo splashed the stinging liquid onto the wound.

Tech finished by cleaning and staunching the wound with fabric from their triage kit, leftover from the war. They hadn’t had much use of it since then. After the train went by they were left in hanging silence. The tension began to abate, though worry about Crosshair still hung in the air. Wrecker looked out toward the bridge as if he could see his brother through the darkness if he tried hard enough.

Echo turned toward Meggy, still cowering in the corner of the wagon. Still doing exactly as Hunter instructed, staying put. Her face was lined with horror and her eyes were wet, as she hugged her still shaking legs.

“Hey, hey Meggy. We’re okay.” Echo went to her side. She glanced at him, then looked back toward Hunter and Tech. “Here, uh, come sit up here.” He took her elbow. The poor girl looked shell-shocked as if she were the one who’d been through a war. She took his offer to get up off the floor and sit on a crate with him, still shivering.

Crosshair halted Havoc, still on the bridge. He could already hear the hoofbeats of his pursuers pounding on the wooden struts. He deftly uncaulked his rifle and stowed it in the saddle as he slid off. Walking several paces toward the enemy, he raised his hands toward the stars above.

The gang got on their way again. “The closer we are to Blackwater, the safer we’ll be.” Tech assured, steering Murray to ford a shallow creek, letting the loyal beast take a long drink of water before continuing on.

“Why’s that?” Hunter croaked, taking another swig of whisky while trying to get comfortable against a sideways barrel close to Meggy’s seat.

“A few weeks ago the Van der Linde gang were here, and… left quite the mess.” Tech snapped the reins and Murray continued at a walk. “The gang robbed the Blackwater ferry. $150,000, according to the paper.” He added.

Wrecker whistled in amazement. “That’s a lot of cash…”

“It was a bloody affair, the Pinkertons got involved.”

“We should probably stay far enough away from the town if there are feds about, not to mention in case Meg–, I mean our wanted posters have made it out here.” Echo pointed out, casting a glance at Meggy beside him, still as a statue with Echo’s jacket draped over her shoulders. Hunter looking at her with concern, despite being the only one bleeding.

“Meggy, are you okay?” Hunter put the bottle to the side and reached out to her, wincing as the motion tugged painfully.

“She’s not hurt...” Echo pondered. “I think she’s scared, but she hasn’t said anything.”

“I’m okay.” Meggy nodded, and a tear ran down her face. She wiped it quickly, hoping no one saw.

Her brothers continued to console her as the wagon continued into the dark.

Arthur, Javier and Lenny rode up on the lone dark-clad outlaw with guns drawn.

“You’re coming with us.” Lenny spat, leveling his pistol.

“I would like to come to an arrangement.” Crosshair called out. “I have… a proposition.”

Lenny and Javier looked at Arthur, who raised his chin in interest. “Let’s talk somewhere we aren’t about to get crushed by a train.” He responded after a beat of consideration. Crosshair spun around and saw the light of an engine appearing on the other end of the bridge, when he turned back around Dutch’s boys were trotting back to solid ground. Crosshair mounted up and followed.

“You sure this is a good idea, Morgan?” Javier chided.

“Let’s hear him out. It’s our only option now.” Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Blackwater.

Between two prairie hills just outside Blackwater, the Bad Batch gang had settled in for the night, huddled against the wagon with a small campfire. Coyotes yapped nearby, and the crickets added to the chorus with their own nighttime song. Meggy laid on her bedroll between Hunter and Wrecker. Tech took the first watch after he untacked Marauder and brushed him. All five of them were silent with worry since the wagon wheels stopped. Every little sound had Tech looking up from what he was doing, hoping it was Crosshair catching up with them. Wrecker took the next watch, then Echo. Meggy and Hunter were allowed to sleep off the ordeal. The night slid by with no sign of their absent brother.

Taglist: @dragonrider9905 @omegafett99 @griffedeloup @happydragon @fionas-frenzy @dizzy-9906 @coruscanti-travelguide

Author's note:

"It didn't hit nothin' important!!" That scene from the Ballad of Buster Scruggs kept playing in my head while I wrote this. I might add some more illustrations to this later, cuz I still have some ideas, but for now I just wanted to get this OUT THERE. I've completed a rough outline of the whole story at this point, and I'm so excited for the stuff at the climax. I have no idea how many chapters this will be but I'm trying to keep each one around 1.5 - 3k words.

I am so grateful for the positive feedback on the first two chapters thank y’all so much! I am certainly not the most experienced writer, and have been kind of hard on myself with this chapter, but had to keep remembering that this is all just for fun and doesn’t have to be perfect.

#tbb x rdr2 au #writing #the bad batch #sw tbb fanfic #sw tbb #tbb omega #tbb crosshair #tbb echo #tbb wrecker #tbb tech #tbb hunter #hunter whump #western au #rdr2 fanart #bad batch fandom

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herejusttosufferalong · 4 months ago

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Hello, SEX anon again.

Fuck me, do we need another distraction? Like a really loud, sexually laced one? I feel like it's a good time, no? YUP. Bend over, let's do this. I'm gonna take this to some strange places, ok? It's what the situation demands, I'm afraid... some of us have turned to cannibalism, and the only meat I want to be chomping on is... so, yeah... like, if you need to get some holy water, rosary beads... uhm I'd suggest doing that now. Skedaddle. QUICK.

Firstly, I must explain my absence. Something needed to be done. I did it, I goddamn did it. I sat my partner down and I told him how the Queen got me thinking... pondering. Questioning. Too much fingerling potatoes and lips and ta-tas altering my mind chemistry. You feel me? You picking up what I'm putting down? No? Ok, cool, me too. Well. I didn't know how that would go down. Well. Let's just say some men really like that shit. Well. What day are we even at? Well. Who am I, even? Thank you, my Queen, you've opened me up like Pandora's box, my partner is forever grateful. And wherever you go, I will follow, and whatever you say, I will do, and whatever you are, I will be, and whatever... just. God you're pretty. And if you say Mr. Men is A-OKAY, I will believe you, with my very soul, because you see all and heal all and. God you're attractive. And if you say he's a good boy, and if you say he's good to women, and if you say... whatever you fkn say I will worship those words that come from thine mouth. Without question. Without pause. MY FKN QUEEN. And I can't stop looking at his thighs in jeans, for god sake, let that man be healed, because I will drop to my knees my Queen. THIC. BULGING. Delicate hands tracing up his... Glory be. Lie down? Bitch, tell me where. Too strong? Nah, just enough.

So yeah, that was that. I heard L&N watched fingerling potatoes episode with the whole cast. HAH. You see the photo? L&N in the middle, no one beside them, looking like teenagers caught kissing in dad's old station wagon. Fkn lol. Who comes up with this shit? Who thought, yeah so let's get your colleagues together and as a group watch you guys finger bang, kissing moans, loud fkn moans, needed to play Pit Bull so loud to drown out the sex moans? And there's everyone watching, mouths agape, thinking shit are we watching... are we intruding on? Oh, you didn't hear cut? Oh, you got a hickey? Oh, well... That happens... uhm... sometimes. No never to me personally, or anyone I know, or ever heard of in my life.. But, uhm. Cough. You guys are great, wow. FUCK. No wonder everyone was squirming when asked about it on the red carpet. Can you imagine? Mhmm, YUP. Zones out for a sec. I mean, gee wiz, next you'll be hearing they got Queen's wee Catholic mum to watch her daughter get cherry popped by Mr. Men amongst a rabid group of horny little devil stans. AHAHAHAHA... oh wait... Shonda, what's wrong with you?

Yo, was that good enough? You good? Let go of the tension? Frustration? Slutty smirk. I fkn love this universe.

💜🥃

Welcome back 😘

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katyawriteswhump · 2 months ago

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WIP tag game!

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

The beyond awesome @wheneverfeasible tagged me! I was going to try QWERTY, but yeah... no Qs forthcoming so I stole some SYRUP!

So, here's some WIP excerpts, including some oldies I really need to get back to. This was a good excuse to dust off those files, so...

Less than zero pressure tags for some lovely moots and lovely tumblrs I haven't connected with in a while (my bad!) @tea42 @yesdangerpls @estrellami-1 @hey-rach247

@kal-ology @berenwrites ... word is, TOAST.

...

Screw it. Steve’s an Omega. He’s not a freakin’ pushover, plus there were pups in danger. Okay, not his, and in fact only a few years younger the him, but that was total irrelevance. It was his duty as much as anybody’s to look out for them—in fact, presenting as Omega had been a goddamn relief, explaining a lot about his protective instincts toward younger kids.

From my forthcoming Whumptober Omegaverse fic #1

There's 18+ stuff to follow so...

“You want that?”

All Steve could do was gawk at him, incredulous. “I always wanted you, Eddie. Yeah, I was kinda surprised at the start, because sex had never been, like, fun for me before. And I’m not saying what we did wasn’t totally fucked up, but… Honest to God, Eddie, that first night, you spent more time with your fingers up my ass—driving me crazy—than your dick. The only part which was fucking hard labor was how you aaalways needed me to come too! Guess that meant you always cared if I was enjoying it, so… I wasn’t lying about much, okay? No doe-eyed guilt trips, huh?”

From The Freak in the Penthouse chapter 15

Really, truly, Steve wasn’t sure if he’d be able to come again so soon. Either way, it was fun finding out. By the time Eddie gobbled him deep, cheeks sexily hollowed and with a super-sexy glint in his eye, Steve was pretty much at the point of no return, and the soft undulations at the back of Eddie’s throat slayed him dead.

From The Freak in the Penthouse chapter 15

“Uuuuuh, how exactly did you two wind up at Lover’s Lake, anyhow?” asks Dustin, who’s getting incredibly nimble with his crutches. Steve remains out of it, so Eddie and Robin hook his arms over their shoulders and start dragging him between them back toward Nancy’s station wagon. “I mean, we thought you were in the Starcourt base—"

“Good job you weren’t,” interjected Nancy. “Oh my God, you have no idea what’s been going down there.”

“Yeeeeah, actually, that’s precisely where we were,” mumbled Eddie. “And the apocalyptic flood? Okay, you might have to ask Steve about that. When he wakes up.”

From The Power of Love chapter 19

“P-please.” Steve begged, and for or the first time, he struggled against his bonds in his need to remove the blindfold. “What’s happening… Jesus… Holy Shiiiiiit! E-eddie? Pleeeeeease!”

Still no answer. Just scorching hot breaths, and deep grooooowl that resonated to the marrow of Steve’s bones. At the same time, mega-confusingly, the pillow-soft lips nuzzling Steve’s throat sure as heck belonged to human Eddie. The body slamming him, too, wasn’t abrasive scaly… but Holy shit! That was a definitely gigantic, scaly dragon cock that slowly nudged his dripping wet passage apart.

From Dragons’ Pet chapter 3

#wip ask game #omegaverse steddie #steddie #omega steve harrington #monster eddie munson

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upontherisers · 7 months ago

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in the cold spring

a/n: i'm in a writing mood recently! disclaimer: i haven't read mota or on a wing and a prayer yet so i do not know anything about jack kidd's life beside what is available on the 100th bomb group's website, so consider some details ~exaggerated for dramatic effect~. title is from ml burch's "i feel like giving you things" and this fic is about neither the cold or the spring, but it fits.

Goddamn Air Exec.

Jack says goddamn Air Exec from the moment Bucky tells him that Hughlin recommended him, through two rounds of meetings with Harding—call me Chick—and Bowman—call me Red, through moving into the ops barracks, through shaking a thousand hands, and through getting a desk. Goddamn Air Exec. Goddamn Egan, goddamn Hughlin, and goddamn Air Exec.

His crew, his fort, and his dignity all because Bucky purposely flunked out of the tower. And Buck vouched for him! Goddamn Cleven and goddamn Air Exec. All of his training out the window for a desk in a corner office. He can’t even see the runway through the blinds, just the backroads of East Anglia and occasionally the Land Army girls and their cows. Five hundred hours of flight school for a desk in a corner office and a secretary.

“A secretary?” he asks as Harding points at a small station outside Jack’s newly-labeled office.

Chick nods. “Yes, Lieutenant Keene.” He looks around the busy floor, eventually settling on who he’s searching for. “There she is… Hazel!”

A head pops up from the mass of moving bodies and paper and a woman quickly makes her way across the room, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As she approaches, she’s smiling with a brightness that goes all the way to her warm, round brown eyes, hand outstretched for another yet another handshake. Goddamn Air Exec, but he’s less bitter about it.

“Jack, I assume you’ve met Lieutenant Keene—”

“Hazel, I insist.” Her grip is firm and as warm as her eyes.

They met the few times when he had to go to Bucky’s office—his office now—and she was waiting at her station outside. He remembers her as polite but busy, inoffensively curt. Not one of the staff who blathers away, overly chipper and overly interested in the reason for his visit, but also not one of the ones who snaps at him to sit and wait and then ignores him like he’s the reason they’re losing the war. Hazel’s friendly and effective, a good temperament for a C.O. He wonders why she’s in here and not up in the air.

“Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Jack, I insist.”

Her smile widens just so, and he has a feeling that they’re going to work well together.

She turns to Chick and nods to where she came from. “Last of the after actions for the 418th—” Jack pretends that doesn't hurt to hear. He should’ve been up there with his boys. Goddamn Air Exec. “—I’ll have ‘em to Sheila in fifteen, and I’ll be at my desk after that, in case you need anythin’.”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking to him, and he mumbles an ‘of course’ at his shoes. He’s a man who gets waited on now; it would take some time to get used to. She departs with another smile and heads back into the fray.

As Chick leads Jack around the rest of the space, showing him charts and maps and a million other semi-familiar faces, he remains acutely aware of Hazel. She’s speaking to a WAC as they go over some maps, marking here and there, her encouraging smile no doubt prompting stellar work from the younger girl. He’s reminded of Ev, the way his friend’s genial countenance can turn a boring day kicking around the hard stand into a respite and a rough flight home from a mission into a night at a comedy club.

Then he misses his friends—Ev, Dougie, Crosby and the man the navigator has become since getting kicked off of the Crash Wagon. He misses hearing DeMarco and Cleven bicker as they climb into their fort, that damn dog never far behind as Lemmons likes to sneak him out onto the hard stand. He misses the feeling of sitting in his seat and the controls roaring to life under his fingers as he hears his crew get ready at their guns. He misses looking out the window to see Ginny settling into her cockpit to his right, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and popping her gum into her headset receiver to set off Knick Knack at her navigator’s seat.

He even misses Bucky and his plane-to-plane chatter, always vigilant, always watching out for his squadron, his group, and the rest of the wing. He misses the man Bucky can be in the air as opposed to the faux-apologetic fast-talker that landed Jack at a desk in the first place. Goddamn Air Exec.

But then he comes back to Hazel and the scrunch of her nose as she stretches her arms above her head with a yawn. She slumps back onto the desk she’s sitting on, looking around the room curiously before meeting Jack’s eyes and nodding. He nods back before Chick drags him off to some new wonder.

She’s at her desk in fifteen minutes like she told him she would be and sticks her head into his office with a smile. She smiles a lot. “I’m back. Holler if you need anything.”

By the time he can look up from the file he’s puzzling over, she breezes back to her desk and immediately busies herself at her typewriter.

He doesn’t know what to do with her. The other C.O.’s have their secretaries do the standard—take memos, keep their schedules, make coffees—but that seems insulting. She’s here to win a war; he wasn’t going to send her scrambling for sugar. On the other hand, it’s insulting not to utilize her, as sharp and reliable as she is. His father would find her a task and a ring, which he had with his last three secretaries. Jack had no intention of using his rank like that. He’ll find something for Hazel to do. It just has to be the right thing.

And he searches for too long, it seems, because after three days of greeting her when he arrives in the morning and occasionally asking her where certain stationery was stored, she steps into his office post-lunch and plops down in the chair in front of his desk with a sigh. Her eyebrows raise and she wears a bemused smile as she folds her hands in her lap. She reminds him of Bucky for a moment.

“Was it something I said?”

He shakes his head. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice his lack of engagement, or perhaps would lean into not having much on her plate. “I’ve never had a secretary before.”

“Most men haven’t.” She leans forward and starts picking at a chip in the wood of his desk. “Your job is my job, too.”

“You seem busy enough.” She does. Every time he looks out into the hall, she’s up to something, whether it’s at her desk, in the filing cabinets along the walls behind her, or somewhere on the ops floor. She knows what she’s doing; he’s the one who’s lost.

Her mouth purses. “Not for long. I’ll be done with the backlog Bucky left by EOD.”

“I’m sorry he left so much—”

Her exaggerated eye roll surprises him. “That’s the point, Jack. It’s too much work for any one man.”

Goddamn Air Exec.

“But that’s why you got me. We’re a team… so,” she raps his desk twice, “put me in, Coach.”

He wants to say something, to have an important Air Exec order or some example for her to follow, but as he looks into her expectant face, he comes up short. He hasn’t eaten yet today, but he’d shoot himself in the foot before he ever made her go to the mess for him. She reads him like a book, which only further rankles his sense of command.

“Well, what’s all this?” She spreads her hands over the papers in front of her.

“Interrogation logs, new crew files—” He points at a pile Chick’s aide had delivered that morning. “I need to get those back to Harding as soon as I sign them.”

“Sign ‘em now and I’ll run ‘em over.”

“No.” This is exactly what he’s been avoiding, assigning her utter tedium.

She pushes the papers toward him. “C’mon.”

He blinks at her before opening the file. It’s some report or inventory request, or both or neither, which he has no idea why he has to sign, but he’ll do it because that’s job along with waiting around and going to briefings and briefings about briefings. Not even a week in and he was ready to crawl out of his skin or at least out the window. Chick denied both his requests to fly so he’s truly stuck in this office for who knows how long. Goddamn Air Exec.

Two signatures, three, four, five—Hazel points to hidden dotted lines, flipping through the pages without a second glance, and Jack can’t help but feel like she’s tying his shoes. That probably flew with Bucky, but it wouldn’t with him. They gave him the promotion because they knew he could do the job well and he agreed. This is something he could be good at. A team of subordinates was a perk of the job, expected for a man of such a station, and he’s grateful that folks were will to help out, but he’d grown up watching secretaries turn from aides to mother-wives and he doesn’t want that for anyone, especially a gal as nice as Hazel. He’ll find something for her to do.

He signs the last page and closes the file as Hazel stands, hand outstretched. Pausing for a moment, he doesn’t pass it over quite yet. “I don’t want you being my errand girl.”

She reaches across the desk and plucks the file from him. “It’s my job.”

She turns on a graceful heel and heads out across the floor, making it to Harding’s office and back before he could find it in him to stop staring at her confident, unaffronted gait. Bright laughter—the brightest he’s ever heard—bubbles out of her as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and takes a seat at her desk.

“You could’ve signed three more reports in the time that took me. Now I’m gonna have to wait for you.” She tsked. “Wastin’ both our time.”

She’s tying his shoes again and that lights a fire under his ass for the rest of the day. He clears the files that had accumulated on his desk plus two rounds of parts inventory from the hard stand and he gets a memo off to London requesting more birds. He feels satisfied by the time he flicks off the light and gathers his jacket and coat. It sure wasn’t flying, but it felt like making a difference all the time. He didn’t know he could do that from behind a desk.

It takes some soul-searching, but he manages to light his own fire for the rest of the week. He maintains his composure through the worst of it, a long fog delay that had half his pilots climbing into the tower to beg him for clearance, a ‘misplaced’ delivery of Mae Wests that somehow ended up with the 418th before they came to ops, and another declined request to fly from Harding. Goddamn Air Exec.

The job gets easier each day, especially with Hazel right outside the door. It does feel more like a team than subordination as they move around each other, trading reports and memos without having to speak. Still, she’s a few steps ahead of him—coming through the door before he can call her to pick up a file, finding this or that form before he can realize he’s misplaced it—but he’s determined to catch up. He comes in early on Saturday and has the summarized after action reports in Chick’s office before Hazel’s arrived for the day. It’s a good feeling when her eyes go wide in surprise and her cheery mouth finds its usual smile.

“Well, I suppose we’re even now.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “not even close.”

If they’re really going to be a team, he’s going to even the playing field. No more having her play governess. Neither of them are here to clean up after someone else.

That evening, Hazel is leaning into Chick’s doorway as Jack leaves for the day, chatting with Sheila.

He mumbles a ‘pardon me’ as he passes and her face lifts at the sight of him. “Major Kidd! We were just talkin’ about you.”

“You were?” he asks as they fall into lockstep on their way out.

“We were sayin’ how nice it is to have an Air Exec who knows what he’s doin’.”

“Bucky tried his best.” He’s lying.

She knows it and she snorts. “He was fun to have around, certainly.”

It’s quiet as they walk. The flights have stopped for the day and if he strains his ears he’d be able to hear the crews working away on the hard stand, but there’s no need for that now. That’s another thing he’s learning—when he’s doing the job and when he’s not. With the warm evening air and the blazing sunset in front of them, he’s grateful for the time off the clock.

He looks at Hazel and is struck by the sight. The light washes her dark cherrywood skin in a velvet glow, sending shadows of her lashes and her nose across her face. He’s suddenly jealous of Bucky and he doesn't know why. She catches his eye and smiles. Blanching, he clears his throat and stares at the ground. His boots are the cleanest they’ve been since he’s been in England now that he’s out of the grease and dust of the planes. Goddamn Air Exec.

They’re nearly at the ops barracks when he realizes that he doesn’t know where she’s going. Does she live in the barracks? Is she one of the girls who’s at a billet in town? Why doesn’t he know? Shouldn’t he know? She’s never in the mess and is so rarely at the Silver Wings. He wonders what she does with her time. He realizes he doesn’t know much about her at all, not her hometown, her family, where she was before the Air Force. The Oberlin pennant on the wall in his office had prompted her to ask into his life, but that’s because she’s always where he is, but he’s never where she is. He wants to be.

“Where’re you headed?”

She comes to a stop. “Home.”

“Where’s that?”

Her wry smile makes his heart skip a beat as she turns down the path leading toward the enlisted barracks. “Good evening, Major.” She never calls him that.

“Some of us’ll be at the pub tonight—Chick, Red, Bucky… it’d be good to see you.” He takes a half-step toward her so as not to yell the offer, maybe she’ll take it if he’s gentle. Part of him hopes she’ll say yes. He wants time with her outside of keeping the group on its feet, just an hour to hear her laugh, to ask her where she gets that charming accent from, to ask her for a dance. Part of him hopes she’ll give him one more good smile and walk away, that she’ll remind him there are rules, lines to be maintained. He’s not going to become his father.

“Good evening,” she repeats and he watches her go. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the ache in his chest as Cros yells at him from across the way. He’ll have his night and she’ll have hers.

He’s not sure if he should apologize for being out of turn when he sees her next, clear the air and make it clear that he’s not… he isn’t going to be that man. He reasons to himself that wants to know her as a teammate, in the same way he’d come to know the members of his crew. It’s what any good leader does. There’s a short speech ready to go when he enters HQ Monday morning after seeing the forts off.

She greets him as politely as she always has, but he gets the feeling he probably wouldn’t be able to tell if she’s upset. Her cards are meticulously close to her chest while she learns about the people around her. It’d be a good quality in a C.O. He thinks of all the women he’d just sent to Norway—Ginny, Vera, Amelie, Suzanne. Hazel would fit right in.

There’s a small box on his desk, no sender address upon investigation. “Hazel?”

“Yeah?” she asks as she gets up from her desk.

“Do you know who this is from?” He’s popping open one end with his letter opener.

“Oh, well,” she starts, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe, “it’s from my momma” Her inflection is that of an embarrassed and entertained daughter.

A swath of white silk flutters to the floor and he picks it up. It’s a scarf decorated with rows of small and large flowers. From… from her mother?

“I—I, uh, I wrote her about you and she insisted on sending it. Bucky got one, too, when he started.”

He couldn’t recall Bucky ever wearing a scarf. “What’d he do with it?”

She scoffs. “God knows. I don’t think he remembers getting it. It was one of his… one of his mornings.”

“Hungover?”

“Still drunk.”

Closing distance, she takes the scarf from him gently and tosses it around his shoulders. She’s so near now as she starts tying it and he can look at her while she concentrates, her eyes glittering with that hope that never seems to fade. Does her mother have the same eyes? The same round apples of her cheeks, the lovely point of her chin? And her perfume, the faint hint of roses he occasionally gets during the day now in full force as she works. He feels flush and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to put his eyes or what to say. A woman who’d only heard about him in letters sent her daughter to war and is sending him beautiful scarves. That’s the kind of woman who would raise Hazel.

“I always tell her that this is unnecessary, that y’all have mommas of your own to fuss over ya,” she says as she adjusts the knot at his neck and smoothes her hands over his shoulders.

“I—I don’t,” he stammers out.

Her eyes widen and he hates the kick in his chest. “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry, Jack, I had no idea.”

He waves her off but can’t quite find the words. There’s a yearning suddenly, one he left in the dark years ago, and he doesn’t know what’ll come out if he tries to name it. Hazel puts a comforting hand on his arm and looks at him sympathetically. “Well, I’ll tell my momma to keep sending scarves… only if—if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I could use a few more of these,” he says, glancing down at the knot at his neck. He probably looks ridiculous wearing it without the rest of his flight gear, but the accomplished smile on Hazel’s face is worth it. He’ll bear all the stares in the world if it keeps her smiling.

She gives him one more once over before returning to her desk. “It’s a good color on you.”

“Matches my eyes?”

“Something like that.” She winks.

His stomach flips; he thinks of his father and three weddings.

“Oh,” she calls, “you can keep it on.”

He raises an interested eyebrow.

“The Telergma mission, you’re going. Chick sent authorization this morning.”

Three days later, Ev’s the only one who comments on Jack’s new gear after they finally get the all-clear for engine start.

“That from Franny?” his co-pilot asks. It’s a good guess; his sister would send something like it.

“Lieutenant Keene’s mother sent it.”

Ev scoffs with a shake of his head. “Your secretary’s mother is sending you scarves? Goddamn Air Exec.”

Yeah, Jack thinks, smirking out the window and sitting a little taller. Goddamn Air Exec.

#my writing #hazel keene #jack kidd x oc #masters of the air #straighten up and fly right #jack x hazel #some of y'all have neat little banners for all of your works and i want one of those i just don't know how to make them #also this ended up being way more of a jack character study than a true intro to hazel because i wrote it in his pov instead of hers #also i can't decide if this universe is in present or past tense. who's to say

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takeiteasyonmeimstilllearning · 3 months ago

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hot take on a real life Jigen

I know that Monkey punch modeled Jigen on James Coburn, but hear me out. Robert Mitchum is Jigens spirit animal.

1stly, voice. They have the same timber. (Idk what else to call it) I would definitely say epcar and Mitchum are in the same category. Kobayashi is similar too but he is more animated, going into falsetto and such. I also think if jigen sang he would be baritone and talk-sing his way through lyrics.

2ndly, Mitchum's grumpy old man vibe just radiate Jigen imo.

Mitchum quotes:

They got so they wanted me to take some of my clothes off in the pictures. I objected to this, so I put on some weight and looked like a Bulgarian wrestler when I took my shirt off.

The only difference between me and my fellow actors is that I've spent more time in jail.

I gave up being serious about making pictures around the time I made a film with Greer Garson and she took a hundred and twenty-five takes to say no.

[on his acting talents] Listen. I got three expressions: looking left, looking right and looking straight ahead.

People think I have an interesting walk. Hell, I'm just trying to hold my gut in.

When I drop dead and they rush to the drawer, there's going to be nothing in it but a note saying 'later'.

I never take any notice of reviews - unless a critic has thought up some new way of describing me. That old one about my lizard eyes and anteater nose and the way I sleep my way through pictures is so hackneyed now.

Years ago, I saved up a million dollars from acting, a lot of money in those days, and I spent it all on a horse farm in Tucson. Now when I go down there, I look at that place and I realize my whole acting career adds up to a million dollars worth of horse shit.

I never changed anything, except my socks and my underwear. And I never did anything to glorify myself or improve my lot. I took what came and did the best I could with it.

[asked what jail was like] It's like Palm Springs without the riff-raff.

John Wayne had four-inch lifts in his shoes. He had the overheads on his boat accommodated to fit him. He had a special roof put in his station wagon. The son-of-a-bitch, they probably buried him in his goddamn lifts.

There just isn't any pleasing some people. The trick is to stop trying.

Sure I was glad to see John Wayne win the Oscar. I'm always glad to see the fat lady win the Cadillac on television, too.

I kept the same suit for six years - and the same dialog. We just changed the title of the picture and the leading lady.

[asked why he took on an 18-hour mini-series] It promised a year of free lunches.

How do I keep fit? I lay down a lot.

[1969] How the hell did I get into this picture anyway? I kept reading in the papers that I was going to do it, but when they sent me the script I just tossed it on the heap with the rest of them. But somehow, one Monday morning, here I was. How the hell do these things happen to a man?

[1948] I'm a natural hermit. I've been in constant motion of escape all my life. I never really found the right corner to hide in.

[1968] The Rin Tin Tin method is good enough for me. That dog never worried about motivation or concepts and all that junk.

[on working with Faye Dunaway] When I got here I walked in thinking I was a star and then I found I was supposed to do everything the way she says. Listen, I'm not going to take any temperamental whims from anyone, I just take a long walk and cool off. If I didn't do that, I know I'd wind up dumping her on her derrière.

[asked what he looks for in a script before accepting a job] Days off.

[on Jane Russell] Miss Russell was a very strong character. Very good-humored when she wasn't being cranky.

They think I don't know my lines. That's not true. I'm just too drunk to say 'em.

Look me dead in the eye and Tell me this isn't jigen

#daisuke jigen #jigen #lupin 3rd #lupin iii #lupin the third #jigen daisuke #jigen lupin the third #robert mitchum #Robert mitchum quotes #Robert mitchum is Jigen Daisuke's spirit animal #Both are grumpy #sassy #Don't give a crap about a lot of things #Takeiteasyonmeimstilllearning talks

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miivrs · 4 months ago

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talking about my faves, my wording will not be scholarly or intelligent rather completely zany and incomprehensible

god i LOVE the entire junkyard killer arc + the relationship between malcolm and john and just how complex it is to me. there was SO much going on and every scene, line, etc. burns a hole in my retinas. watkins was our first non “villain of the week” and that’s probably why im so attached to him, but god i love that we really get to see and understand why he does what he does. and he’s smart , I LIKE THAT. i like that he makes malcolm really truly struggle. i love their little cat-and-mouse type thing. john makes malcolm go through hoops and plays him like a stupid little fiddle and i love it. he makes malcolm’s brain (and body) hurt.

and the dialogue they share on the phone/in the basement is AN ABSOLUTE FEAST FOR ME and i love reading way too much into it. seeing how the power dynamics flip LIKE FOUR TIMES is just. UGH. their first call where things are mostly neutral, their second call where things get CRAZY, then FIVE MINUTES LATER their first face-to-face and john traps malcolm, their THIRD call where john now realizes he can manipulate malcolm and finish his mission, and then we get an ENTIRE EPISODE of what im 1000% sure is watkins leaving a breadcrumb trail JUST so he can get malcolm alone(remember guys, john is actually smart), which leads me to ALONE TIME. THE WHOLE EPISODE. and now they’re both fighting for dominance, malcolm with his new knowledge and watkins with his. well, aggressions LMAO.

their meeting was totally by chance (watkins definitely says otherwise), and i wonder what things would be like if malcolm had maybe met watkins under different circumstances (like NOT breaking to a junkyard to look for an abandoned station wagon because, lets face it malcolm, you broke in) because during their first call watkins seems..fond? of the whole junkyard meeting..he even SAYS he doesn’t want to hurt malcolm, so maybe at this point he’s over it?? so i wonder, if malcolm wasn’t a killer catcher and let watkins do his thing, would that have been the end of it? would either of them seek out the other? but that would be BORING im glad they decide to chase eachother its fun.

jesus they make my brain hurt. alone time shows us how they both try to hit jabs at eachother and stay superior, and really no one’s winning lmao. malcolm’s eating john alive via psychoanalysis and john has malcolm STABBED and CHAINED TO THE FUCKING FLOOR. oh i love them…

now, i have many MANY personal thoughts about them, but specifically john and his side of the relationship. the things he says/does to malcolm feels obsessive, and characters like that are always my favorite to dissect. hes so goddamn manipulative and its great. probably once of my favorite things about this arc is when he just ABANDONS HIS MISSION???? (M: “Force me to atone to my sins?” J: “I’m finished with that work.”) and for what??? just one guy? because this one guy who stabbed you when he was 10? we already know that john actually does not have a deep grudge against malcolm for that (or maybe he does…) so why bother trying to LEGITIMATELY CONVERT SOMEONE when you could have just killed them???

because he needs malcolm. like how he needed martin. (sort of but now in a cool new fresh way)

SIRENS ARE BLAAAARING IN MY HEAD. who wrote this dialogue you need to be shot dead (positive). malcolm not afraid to call him out and say “hey you’re a little bit of a codependent freak aren’t you??” also the “I don’t care what you think.” “Of course you do.” DONT. TALK. TO. ME..

why does he need malcolm?? because he’s the nearest target? because he’s the next best thing to martin? because they share such a complex connection spanning 20 years that he can’t left go of? WE MAY NEVER FUCKING KNOW..and mannnnnn dont even get me started on this shit..

this is about YOU and ME and that fucking scar. and them he gives him AN IDENTICAL ONE (probably much less painful but still) god WHAT was the POINT of that. and to that i say it is because watkins feels the need to deepen their connection (or he’s just fucking kooky but thats boring) and now they have matching scars wow so best friends core now they’re intertwined (even more than they already are..) fate (by the hand of god) brought them together and now he needs to make sure it stays that way.

and then we get this..

“Face it, you’re just like me. You judge, you hunt.” oh my GOD im gonna be SICK……… “mick hes just misreading malcolm’s character because he’s narcissistic” im gonna stop you right there because this is my blog and john watkins is my character ever since the pson writers made him complex and then threw him in a damn box (which is another scene i will ramble about at another point) if you use your brain that is literally the bare bones of what malcolm does, what defines his job. john has found the median, the simile, the connection (the one that he NEEDS so he can excuse himself and his actions and also to cope)

AND THEN..AND THEN…….

during this scene AND I SWEAR IM NOT TWEAKING as malcolm is trying his last ditch attempts and stopping watkins from actually murdering his family we SEE JOHN HESITATE..we see it i swear to god. i swear god for just a fleeting moment he actually considers what malcom is saying. but alas. he says “if i get help i’ll lose my sparkle” and goes anyway…

and then the fucking box scene, our very last look at watkins.

i hadn’t noticed it the first time i watched it because i was so hyped but around my second or third rewatch i caught it and heard it and physically shriveled up and died. our very last scene of him and (to me) its GUT WRENCHING. malcolm kept to his word and locked him up in the dark. but i find it so peculiar that watkins is crying. because, if anything, wouldn’t he be pissed?? kicking and screaming and rolling around in that damn thing? makes me wonder…what might have happened in the time between when malcolm wallops him with a fucking crowbar and when jessica reunites with him. what did malcolm say or do??? malcolm bright youre an awful sly little manipulator and you’re damn good at it and yes you use it for “good” but the way you did a 180 on those power dynamics. malcolm you are dangerous..

and that’s my extremely unnecessary deep dive and extreme analysis of john watkins and his relationship with our beloved malcolm bright. watkins really is one of my favorite characters that i feel could have been so cool if they had just given him a little more time or something like that. they are so complex to me in ways i haven’t even mentioned in this text post/probably forgot while i was typing this but i really wish we could see more of them even though what would happen. lots could happen, that’s what. now here’s my pitch for season 3 that revolves around just them where-

#prodigal son #malcolm bright #john watkins #long post #i could go on and on about them #i’ll be genuinely shocked if anyone reads this the whole ay through lol #i dont care if im reaching with a lot of this

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allhailthe70shousewife · 1 year ago

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Every year at this time I can’t help but think about this boss I once had who would not let her kids have any Xmas. She would spend a huge chunk of money for Xmas gifts for her best friend and also to make up these ridiculous gift packages full of cheap plastic crap from Oriental Trading Co. to send out as promotion to clients. She’d even drop decent money on her employees for a holiday party. And then she’d drag her kids (they were both under 12 the years I worked for her) and husband off to Thailand or India for these whirlwind vacations -traveling overnight on trains and all sorts of stuff for two weeks over the break.

Every year when it was time for the kids’ school holiday pageant she’d bitch up a fucking storm about how stupid it was. One year I heard her asking her kids if they’d care if she didn’t go because it was boring.

Neither of those kids ever got a single Xmas present. Her son would cry every year, beg for a Xmas tree, ask why they couldn’t stay home, etc. I felt so sorry for that kid.

He has got to be college age by now. I hope he’s found a way to have the Xmas tree of his dreams. And I hope someday he has a family of his own and he can have the Xmases he always wanted with them.

Both of those kids were born in Los Angeles and neither one of them ever got to go to Disneyland either. She hated it, thought it was “stupid” and “boring” as well.

And this was an older mom. Had those kids on purpose. But goddamn if her wants didn’t ALWAYS came before theirs. If her housekeeper/nanny couldn’t stay late to watch the kids so she could go drink champagne at Chateau Marmont on any given night it was a tragedy. Wasn’t very nice to her husband either. Every year she leased a brand new Mercedes station wagon for herself but the husband had to drive an old banger 1992 Honda because she felt “he didn’t need a nice car” and “it would be wasted on him”.

She was a real piece of work. Why do people like that even have kids?

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things-about-cars-in-posts · 11 months ago

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hello! as a celebration of me finally getting my driving license (shoutout to my instructor, he is an absolute saint and has forever changed my perspective on cars and car nerds), i thought i'd ask about your opinion on the cars my family owns — the Škoda Fabia I (the specific one we have is a combi from late 2004. slowly perishing, mainly of rust) and Kia Cee'd (2013??). is there anything remarkable about these two?

Ah, the Ceed, as Kia cowardly renamed it in 2018, in a decision I deliberately reject as I keep on referring to it as Cee apostrophe d, as Top Gear liked to call the earlier model they gave celebrities to go try to get themselves killed on tape, Tom Cruise getting the closest because of course it would be him.

Notice how nary an ounce of steering was given up whatsoever. Man was just balancing the car with the throttle in the true racing driver spirit of "If I die I die and if I don't this'll be a good time".

However, this is a bit of a sidetrack, as that's not your car - that'll be one o' deez, which whether as a 5 door...

...station wagon...

...or its bafflingly named coupe version (Pro_Cee'd????)...

...looks sharp as a goddamn tack in my books. In fact, wanna know how that's not just cheap flattery? That station wagon was actually the car I was pushing for our family to get when ours needed changing! Life didn't grace us with the opportunity, however, and so we ended up replacing our grey Citroën Picasso MPV with another (the ole' Xsara Picasso to C4 Picasso pipeline) which served us decently over a couple years before developing woes and getting passed on to family friends more willing to deal with them. Weird car, that C4 Picasso. Most of the steering wheel didn't turn.

Now, you may ask why those French folx would do that. And the answer is in the word French. I can just imagine the designers asking feedback about the handbrake and getting all giddy as they look at them struggle to figure out where it is. Actually, go on, you try!

Wait, wait, we're once again getting sidetracked, we've still not addressed the Fabia! And that's a crime, because it was a hugely important car for Škoda: as Volkswagen's involvement with the company had turned from shareholder to owner its involvement in the cars had turned from help to codevelopment, making the Fabia a humongous departure from Škodas of old. However, for the latest Octavia, no closer to those hunksajunk, the rave reviews had been no match against Škoda's brand image, which was so terrible that even Wikipedia feels comfortable saying they were laughing stocks.

So for the Fabia, Škoda turned to marketing agency Fallon London for a very bold advertising campaign. So bold in fact that I didn't even stumble into it through my passion for cars, but through my study of marketing. And it's so simple you could miss it. (...it's in the lower right.)

This simple idea, and how hard they doubled down on it...

youtube

...completely turned Skoda's fortunes around, in a brand repositioning so successful that all of Fallon's Škoda-related ads received awards. Including this one.

That's not even an ad for Škoda. That's an ad for themselves.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

#i've heard great things about the spaciousness of the Fabia wagon #also sorry for making you wait well over a month - see one of my last posts about why #anyhow so cool you got your license!!! how's it going? and please do tell us about the instructor!#kia cee'd #skoda fabia #skoda octavia #the great catchup

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elekinetic · 2 years ago

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Sending u asks for plane.

Okay, imagine the party take a trip together and they have to fly.

How does the plane ride go? Like does anyone have plane anxiety, do they eat way too many snacks, etc.

um. we don’t have to talk about how you sent this the LAST time i was on a plane.

OKAY so sticking w my personal headcanon that karen and hopper negotiate government payouts to all of the kids (full college rides, trusts, etc) as reparations for the utter bullshit they’ve been put through (and in exchange for their silence), i think the party takes a group vacation after they graduate high school. their parents are super hesitant to let them out of their sights, but they deserve some fun and dustin has an aunt in florida so it’s not even like they’re gonna be all alone, okay?

getting to indianapolis from hawkins just to get to the airport is a nightmare. the party had a sleepover in the wheelers’ basement so that they could just get up and go the next day, but one crazy movie marathon and two bottles of cheap sparkling wine nancy slipped them later, it is a struggle to pull their asses out of bed. the party has never been particularly punctual, so maybe it takes holly shouting down the stairs and dustin whacking his friends with pillows for them to get a move on. they have to be at the airport in two and a half hours, and it’s a three hour drive. well, usually. lucas climbs in the driver seat of the wheelers’ station wagon (mike: “shouldn’t i drive? it’s my car!” everyone: “NO.”) and races down the indiana highway, pushing 95 in a 70. it’s fine! he’s a great driver, really, and there’s no one out cause it’s five am (jesus christ) and listen as long as NO ONE tells their parents, it’s fine. el insists they blast the radio, and max — who basically pushed mike down the stairs so she could call shotgun (that’s not what happened, asshole! it totally was! guys, c’mon. what? he started it!) — indulges her ever madonna loving whim. will smiles and grooves along while dustin and mike white knuckle grip their seats.

they pull up to the airport and get their luggage checked with like, ten minutes to spare. they get settled into their seats with a sigh of relief, way in the back of the plane. they all sit on the same side of the plane, two sets of three seats right in front of each other. el, max, and lucas sit in the front, with will, mike, and dustin behind them. dustin immediately pulls out a blanket, pillow, sleep mask, and earplugs (“you’re laughing now, but i’m gonna sleep like a goddamn baby while you fuckers whine about neck pain all week.”) and promptly passes out. el and max quiz answers in a teen beat magazine she picked up from a newsstand (“is that really necessary? we’re already late!” el, gravely: “it is the most necessary.”) max idly curls her hand around lucas’ as he flips through an old comic.

will tries to doodle random passengers on the plane, but mike is freaking the fuck out and they haven’t even taken off yet. so, will shuts his sketchbook, props his chin up on his elbow, and asks mike what he thinks of this new campaign concept he heard about. mike starts rambling about how yeah sure, reintroducing mirakil is a cool concept but his motivation makes ZERO sense now that his family is dead and c’mon, lipiria is RIGHT THER—-hey! [max shoves her seat back at the same time dustin elbows him.] he gets so wrapped up in his spiel that he doesn’t even realize they’ve taken off til they’re a quarter into their flight. he’s still super anxious and gets up like three times to walk around the aisle before will makes them switch seats. mike can’t stop bouncing his leg, and his knee is pressed right up against the seat in front of him (because the leg room on this plane is abysmal, and he made sure to let everyone know that when they first sat down). el pops up and turns back to him:

“i understand why you are upset. we are in a very big metal box and are very high up. it does not make sense why we are not falling to our deaths.”

“um, el, i don’t know if that’s helping him—“

“i make things move with my mind, mike. that does not make sense. stop kicking my seat,” she huffs, and plops back down to her seat. mike goes red. will stifles a laugh. max giggles from where she was seemingly asleep on lucas’ shoulder, who’s eyes are twisted shut, asleep.

dustin wakes up just as they touch down in florida. he does not hesitate to share his frustration that they did not save ANY airline peanuts for him. (he refuses to hear them when they tell him that the peanuts weren’t even that good, or when they point out that he has a peanut allergy.)

#this is. extremely late. but i answered it on a plane!#byler #lumax #mike wheeler #will byers #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #el hopper #dustin henderson #stranger things #stranger things (ella's version)

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cerebricarchives · 1 year ago

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Fly It High

*After failing to enter the front door of the household of Caleb Ramos, where a TOJ Code Orange threat is taken place, Green Thunder tries the backdoor by going over the stone molded fence to the pool, to which he falls flat on his ass.*

⚡: AH DAMN! Augh...walk it off, boy. Walk it....huh.

*Green Thunder notices the pool needed some cleaning work, as weird pale creatures are surfaced on the pool, looking like veiny worms with dozens of legs, all of them not moving. GT gets up to investigate the pile of odd bodies, even getting a pool net and foolishly pokes at them.*

⚡: Well whatever the hell happened...damn seemed like an agent already got here. The hell are these th-

*In a smashing instance, a window from the second story breaks through with a worm creature plopped on the floor. In a moment it scurries it's little legs around, finding it's footing as Green Thunder is taking it lightly*

⚡: EUGH what the FUCK! The HELL is that goddamn thing!? No no no, I'm out, I'm-

*In a second instance, a man donning a bright shining blue armor jumps out of the window and lands right on his feet next to the crawling creature. Green Thunder backs up as the man swings a battle axe glowing with green and blue neon lights onto the floor, slicing the creature in half, all the while he gutturally screams in a thick Gaelic accent. As he kicks the pieces off to the pool, he looks up and notices the man in the green suit piece of tech, scared shitless.*

🪓: This doesn't concern you, false knight! Go back to your little cave.

⚡: Whoa okay. Time out, time out. =doing the time out gesture= Hold up, what the hell, what's going on? What happened here?

🪓: Star Spawns happened.

⚡: What?

🪓: =points battle axe to the pile of bodies soaking in the chloride dyed pool= Least I remind you of the Ancient's ways, corrupted by the master, where meteor showers or aurora borealis happen, the stars fall upon the Earth. You're lucky enough I showed up, otherwise your Trinity of Justice would have to keep them alive before they turn into worse beings.

⚡: =squats down eyeing the monsters= They look like the XenoQueen got it on with the Eraserhead baby...well you know when it was grown up and uh...well anyways if it will make you feel better I'm not with the ToJ. I'm on my own here, and I'd have to assume you are too?

🪓: I'm different from you, wandering warrior.

⚡: Right well I bet you heard about a Code Orange Threat here. Caleb Ramos, a professor from Riverstone University. Advanced biology but toyed around with making house flies the literal size of houses some dozen years ago. What made you so special that you happened by the area?

🪓: Fool that you are to misunderstand what's going on. If I may properly introduce myself, I am the combined son of Odin and Zeus. I was chosen by the true Heirs of the Ancients to protect the planet from The Master's plan to corrupt you beings much like he did with the Ancients. Wielding the Axe of All Knowns, Armor of the Southern Isles and power gifted from the True Heirs to undo the Master's plan, I am Thy Neon Viking!

*A breif pause happens as Green Thunder has to collect what this cosplayer has ranted in the past minute*

⚡: So...where's Caleb?

*Thy Neon Viking points his axe once again to the pile of bodies, especially to one where it's belly looks full.*

⚡: =Shakes head= Okay, I don't know what kind of nut job thing you got goin' on pal, but right now we got anomalies in the pool, an MIA civilian and by any moment an actual agent is gonna come by and for our sakes, pin this on the both of us. You and I gotta zip.

🪓: In a moment. =Turns around to the glass sided back door= There maybe some more Star Spawns. I'll hold them off back, you can just go.

⚡: You know I kind of realize something....out there in the drive way there was a station wagon. Looked pretty gritty, with a mismatched door. With a big screen TV at the back. =Looks over Neon Viking's shoulder, peering through the glass door to see a pretty bad scuffle. Tossed chairs, weird black goo on the walls, a nice clean outline where a TV would be hanging on the wall= So what's going on?

🪓: Hey like I said, Viking business. Okay so what, I broke the screen. You know what they say...uh...always recyle!

⚡: Buddy....=takes a big whiff= yeah that's skunk weed al-

*In a flashed moment Neon Viking jabs his fist to Green Thunder's stomach, whereas he holds onto the impact, putting his legs together and falls right by the poolside. Groaning in pain, Neon Viking runs right out to the door, smashes right through the glass door and goes through the spacious fancy household with his battle axe grinding through the floor, more like he's dragging it behind.*

==============================================\\\\\

#heroes die #A01 #creative writing #superhero #scifi

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cabinet-of-ecologies · 1 year ago

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I wish I hadn't gotten to the point where I actually believed my advisor really cared about me as a person enough to go out of his way to help me. I wish I hadn't tied my senior project to that belief. I need to get to these goddamn islands but I can't do that if he doesn't tell me when the boat is going there!!! I found out they went out to s***** to band cormorants a couple weeks ago and FUCK man yes I'd been out there already but if I can't get to new research sites I can at least return and make sure the data on the sites I have is solid!!! And I found this out from a friend, not even from him! He's been avoiding me like the plague and barely let me come out to the research station because it was *too many more things for him to worry about* (I was going to get on the boat and get of the boat and camp on the island if there were no beds. I would have brought my own goddamn food if that was an issue. Jesus christ.) And then when I was MED EVACed from the research station with STROKE SYMPTOMS (I'm fine it was a weird reaction to my nausea meds but we didn't know that) he was so worried but I saw him 3 days later and suddenly I was just some guy he knew who would be able to tell him where he could go park his car. Like fucking hell!!!!! He could have at least asked if I was okay!!!

Like. I don't know. I tied my fucking wagon to this pony but now I really wish I hadn't. I don't know what is going on or why after 3 years of pretty damn consistent encouragement and support he's suddenly decided that he doesn't actually want to be involved anymore. I saw the warning signs but I thought if I was stubborn enough to get this project off the ground he'd join me in the air but that has not happened. It feels like instead he's standing on the ground with darts, filling my balloon with holes.

Whatever. This is maybe a dramatic post but I am seriously losing my goddamn mind and it has gotten to the point where it is sta r ting to interfere with my day to day functioning.

#vent post #if you go to school with me and dont want to see angry posting about my advisor: dont click through #personal ///#truly some insane metaphors and similes used here idk what to tell yall

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thewestern · 4 months ago

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Chapter 28

It was about lunchtime when the Newfy Four rolled into Edge City, and Grace, for her part, was wondering if there was a place to get, like, a sandwich around here. Waffles this morning had fallen through for some reason, after Kitty had talked them up. The Mick made scrambled eggs instead, which to be fair were fluffy and delicious, but not quite sufficient for soaking up the five-or-so Pack Lights she’d consumed the night prior. So a burrito or something would’ve really hit the spot. And then maybe for dinner they could order from that new Indian place whenever they got back from whatever this was. Grace was always thinking two meals ahead.

Zeke was also hungry, but the feeling didn’t consume him in the way it did Grace. Maybe because he was more accustomed to it. Or perhaps it was the sight of this strange place eclipsed his senses. You see, Zeke had never seen a Western film. Why would he have? (Ask your nephew, or whoever the next person you talk to who’s under twenty-five. Bet you twenty bucks they haven’t either.) Nor had he been to a rodeo or a square dance or even a kitschy, cowboy-themed steakhouse. So, apart from some tertiary sources, such as an Old West-themed episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants, he had no cultural frame of reference for this facade. Of course, it was laid out like any small town, with storefronts arranged along either side of a Main Street. But Zeke had never been to one of them either. Sure, his ancestors had great-migrated up from the postbellum south. But he was a mid-major city slicker, born and bred. So happening upon a place like this, a single-prostitute Potemkin village with a podunk patina, Zeke may as well’ve landed on another planet. It’s a funny feeling, to be a stranger in a strange land, and one that’s harder and harder to come by, in a world where everybody’s been there and done that. Come to think, closest you can probably come, assuming you’re a jam band virgin, is finding your nearest show. You don’t even have to by a ticket. Just wander around the parking lot. The natives call it Shakedown Street. It’s quite a bizarre bazaar.

As for the Mick, this wasn’t his first rodeo. (For a matter of fact, as a boy he’d been a champion mutton buster.) And while he hadn’t seen it all, he had arrived at the age — call it a quarter-life crisis — when it sure as hell seemed like he’d done. Every movie a remake. Every episode a rerun. Every song a cover. Every painting a print. But, alas, he couldn’t stop watching or listening. Don’t stop or you’ll die. Thus here he was Edge City. Just another place he had to be.

Kitty pulled the station wagon to a stop outside the General Colin Powell Store. Parking in EC was a breeze. She opened her driver’s side door first, and all three cascaded after in clockwise order, stepping out onto the thoroughfare. This would have been the appropriate time for a tumbleweed to come tumbling across the frame. Rather, the unmistakably skunky odor of a different kind of weed altogether wafted toward them from the other side of town. Led by Grace, like a cartoon wolf following her upturned nose toward an unprotected pie on a window sill, they ambled anachronistically toward it, until the yurt came into clear view. With smoke billowing out of the reservoir tip of its bulbous moon roof, as well as seeping from the seams in the canvas walls, it looked like a goddamn sweat lodge in there. As if somebody had opened up Pandora’s Hot Box. Approaching the structure now in earnest, Grace fell back behind Kitty, who looked to Mick, as if to say, you do it. And so he did, opening the French-Indian doors with both hands so that the fog enveloped him like the smoke monster from Lost, his and Kitty’s favorite show to watch during their collegiate courtship, quite often after smoking a bowl themselves. It didn’t linger, however. Rather it dissipated to reveal the only way this was ever going to end.

Ah … drag, said the Mick, as sincerely as somebody could say something like that. It was genuinely how he felt, and not to mention about all he could muster, seeing a lifeless form hanging there above him.

(For those of you perverts wondering about the logistics of all this, the genuine John Brown gallows had been rolled into the yurt from outside the jail. To be clear they didn’t come with wheels. Uncle Ernie had them affixed for sake of conveniance. If he only knew.)

The as-yet-rising haze obscured everything above the knee. However, like the Wicked Witch — or more like that poor Oompa Loopa who offed himself … IYKY — he could identify the body by the kicks. Boots, more like. Billy’s trademark Tims. Then the pants, which looked comfortable enough for eternal rest. Velour loungewear, quite baggy and sagging well below the waist. Soon it became clear that the track jacket matched, which … you already know. Co-branded embroidery Wolffenbeir x Roc-a-wear collab. (Since he had it made on spec, this was a one-of-one piece, not unlike Billy himself.) On his breast, he wore a tall tee, another wardrobe staple. (Inspired by various luminaries of business, notably Steve Jobs, as well as such O.G.s of the rap game as Run D.M.C and N.W.A., Billy had taken in his final months to fashioning a uniform of sorts out of this bespoke sweatsuit and garishly large white blouse. One less decision to make every morning — although, more routinely he roused in the early-to-mid afternoon — would afford him more time for making money moves, as he explained to an as-yet unmoved Yayo-L).

Shining brightly around his neck, right below the hangman’s noose, was a twenty-one link silver chain. Encrusted with diamonds, a waning lunar countenance, wearing sunglasses and a wry smile. (This he only busted out for special occasions.)

The dregs of the marijuana cloud lifted to reveal his death mask. He must have hollowed out the stuffing. For they had, at long last, located Bertha. Sitting atop Billy’s presumed head, like a pagan crown of thorns.

The Mick looked Billy up and down. Had he ever seen a dead body before? IRL, obviously. Rather than, how did we get here, or where does one go when one dies, that was the question that sprung to mind. Perhaps an attempt at parsing this real-time traumatic experience from the bibliography of carnage one can reasonably assume to have compiled as a consumer of popular culture in the violent cross-section from late eighties action canon to early aughts internet snuff. He hadn’t, was the conclusion at which his internal monologue arrived. However, of course, he had. His grandfather had died in his sleep one night. The following morning all the grandchildren were brought in to say goodbye. How had he forgotten that?

Grace, as a self-professed, last-of-her-dying-breed butch bull-dyke, didn’t consider herself a hugger. Apparently, though, death brought out the lipstick lesbian in her, since she bear-hugged the closest person to her, which just so happened to be Zeke, into whose ample embrace she buried herself. For his sake, this turned what would have otherwise been quite a melancholy occasion into perhaps the happiest of his young life. Although he was on the inside overjoyed to have Grace fallen into his arms, and he in turn right back into love with her, Zeke had the good sense to project outwardly a solemnity deserving of the moment.

Kitty, for her part, responded not by thinking of her own feelings. That’s no shots at the others, either. It’s just that Kitty was a different cat. Nor, however, did she think of Billy, but rather of his mother. For we reserve our thoughts for those the dead leave behind, as did she when she said:

We should get him down.

No, please don’t.

And there she was. Hildy.

Crime scenes aren’t to be disturbed. (Suicide has been almost universally decriminalized in the developed world. For a fact, so-called right-to-die statutes legalising physician-assisted euthanasia are increasingly de rigueur. However, it is still often considered an unwritten Common Law crime, even in some U.S. states, which could prevent the victim’s family from seeking damages from some or other culpably negligent party, assuming of course the deceased had been of copis mentis.)

Irregardless of whether the investigation in this case seems perfunctory. Deep down even I knew this day would come. Studies have shown suicide to be hereditary, paternally in particular.

(As to which parties Hildy’s referring, best leave that for you, the reader to parse. Suffice it to say though that having suicidal tendencies were about as close to a family tradition as the family Wolff had, apart of course from Der Sonntagsessen. Hell, they all thought about it from time to time. [Often during Der Sonntagsessen.] And while most didn’t fully commit — commitment issues were another common-held family trait — maybe they dipped their toe in now and again. Maybe leave the car running in the garage, just a little bit. Catch a buzz. Or what about seeing how those meds compliment one another — would it really be so bad? Hey, how long can do you think I hold my breath in this infinity pool. Half-hearted attempts. Heck, even the dogs got in on the act. Now, naturally, we can’t know for certain the extent of their intent to cause self-harm, but they were both known for ingesting foreign objects. Clothing accessories such as stockings or mittens, household appliances including a chunk bitten off a vacuum cleaner, as well as various other small items, were a staple of their diet. One of them once ate an incandescent light bulb. Swallowed it whole without it breaking. To a pooch of lesser means, this would have no doubt spelled a death sentence. But not to these two, because each time they ‘et something they weren’t supposed to — between them their cadence was around semi-quarterly — Hildy would pony up to co-pay the five-to-fifteen thousand bones it took to have the something surgically extricated from their abdomens. She had written the habit off as a garden variety eating disorder — also hereditary to Hildy, albeit on the maternal side. However, more than one psychiatric veterinarian hypothesized that with each incident, the canines perhaps expressed an intent. One of hope that their owner would cut her losses, put them out of their misery and thus release them from this prison which were their deeply inbred bodies and utterly meaningless existences, as man’s best friends to a woman never had any use for one.)

I bet she starts a lot of conversations with, Studies Have Shown, thought the Mick, aghast at this lady’s la-di-da reaction to discovering her dead son, as were they all four except for Kitty. Just that morning, she had already heard Hildy deliver her maternal lament. Like she saw it coming. Kind of how newspapers pre-write their obituaries for super old or terminally ill famous people, which Kitty had heard somewhere they did.

Sorry for your loss, said Grace, perfunctorily. Still she was clutching onto Zeke, who would have absolutely offered a more heartfelt condolence, were it not for the fact that on account of his being shown such affection by Grace, he may never speak again.

Oh, don’t be sorry. Not for me, anyway. Be sorry for my little boy. If you can summon the sympathy. I know for our lot it’s in ever-shorter supply. Sure, it’s true he had every opportunity, but believe me when I say he never stood a chance. Maybe because I failed him when I handed him those opportunities. Or maybe I overestimated his capacity to seize upon them. We were so different in that way. While in other ways we were perhaps too similar. Such that we never really found peace with each another. But I loved him. Maybe I wasn’t the mother he wanted. They say becoming a parent changes you, but they never specify how. But I did love him, in my way. And more than that I always wanted the best for him. For us. I still do. I wish him the best.

It was part eulogy, part confessional, part passive aggressive diss track. All Hildy. Her all over. And she didn’t shed a single tear as she delivered her remarks. Not because she thought she shouldn’t give in to her emotions. Rather because she physically couldn’t. Her ducts had been long since dammed up, probably as a side effect of some or other cosmetic procedure. Or maybe the well the well had done dried. After all, ahe used to cry all the time.

There’s a note.

The Mick had sat down to collect himself at the computer desk, where Ernie’s Edge City employees would clock in and out and file complaints against him with HR. The monitor glowed white with a word processing document.

Perhaps you should delete it. Whatever he said, I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Do me a kindness and contact the proper authorities. I’m in mourning.

With that, Hildy peaced the fuck out. She gone.

The Mick, for his part, took her words to be the sad coda to this entire strange saga. He was ready to get the hell out of Edge City, return to his life of brewing beer and never think about any of these people again, hopefully. But before he did, he wanted to read what Billy wrote. He had spun into his life like a fucking tornado. But the Mick still felt he owed him the courtesy of hearing out his last fucking words. And, hey, maybe then he could learn something from all this.

Ahem.

Suicide Cypher

Bars by B. Wolf

(Spit to the tune of Stan by Eminem)

Dear Missus I’m too good to listen to my son

Here’s my last pitch to you

You can’t pass on this one

Nah, I’m just playing, though

I ain’t saying it’s your fault

That’s on some bitch made shit

That ain’t your boy at all

He’s just tired, yo

This grind’s got him tripping

When’s a pimp ‘sposed to sleep?

If you can’t ever let ‘em catch you slipping

I learned that shit from you, mom

I took that shit to heart

But living up to it’s like this beat

Shit go so fucking hard

So I’m gonna hit you with this fire

‘Fore they pon me in the flames

See you in hell, Hildy

Now say my mother fucking name

Okay. So much for learning something. But more than ever did he feel sorry for him. And as well for her. The feeling would prove to be fleeting.

#novls of tumblr #kamala harris

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