#also a good majority of them were just doing it to be mean spirited and continue egging the guy on as if he doesn’t have a life?? do y’all??

[niteshade925]

Saw these tags in a reblog of my Chinese museum posts, and thought I have to make a response just so everyone is clear on how archaeological studies are carried out in China:

^Well, the Shaanxi Archaeology Museum is a Chinese museum displaying artifacts found in China, it's not the British Museum lol.

But anyway just so everyone knows, modern Chinese archaeology has a rule, which is that unless it's absolutely necessary, an ancient tomb/mausoleum should not be disturbed. This means that many of these artifacts in the museums are found in a few main ways:

Tombs that absolutely had to be excavated because there were clear signs of grave robbing present, for example when tunnels left by grave robbers were found near a known tomb. This is called "excavating to rescue" (抢救性发掘), it's done by teams of archaeologists, the artifacts found will then be studied and eventually find a home in museums in China. In comparison, actual grave robbers would steal artifacts and sell them for money; many stolen artifacts would end up in auctions, mostly outside of mainland China. This is why there is no "general positive sense" in the phrase "grave robbing with grant money" when it comes to archaeology in China. Modern Chinese archaeology and grave robbing are simply not comparable in any way whatsoever.

Tombs that absolutely had to be excavated because new infrastructure will be built in that location. Such exacavations are also included in excavating to rescue. Examples include tombs in Xi'an city that had to be excavated because a metro was being built. Since Chinese people and Chinese culture are native to China, there are no ethical problems whatsoever, this simply a question of what matters more, the welfare of living Chinese people or the abstract afterlives of ancient Chinese people. Obviously, the welfare of living Chinese people is a more important matter. As for the argument of "but this goes against traditional culture", first, a culture is only alive if the people of that culture is alive and doing well, otherwise that culture is as good as dead; second, a major part of traditional Chinese culture IS focused on the welfare of descendants (ex: the belief that the spirits of ancestors will protect their descendants), so I'm sure our ancestors would be proud to see us doing well.

Tombs that were excavated because archaeologists were absolutely sure that artifacts discovered within would make major contributions to the study of Chinese history. This is pretty much the only exception to the rule of "excavating to rescue", and it is very rarely allowed. An example is the Xia-Shang-Zhou Chronology Project (夏商周断代工程), where the main focus is to gain a clearer picture of the timeline of ancient Chinese history, when dynasties began/ended, when major events may have happened, etc.

Artifacts that were found when arresting grave robbers. These are called "recovered artifacts" (追回文物).

Artifacts that returned to China from foreign countries, these are called "returned artifacts" (回归文物). A big portion of these artifacts ended up in foreign countries precisely because of grave robbers, and another big portion were and are still lost for the same reason as why the British Museum has so many artifacts from around the world.

Artifacts that were discovered scattered throughout China. There are three facts to consider here: 1) China has a long history and as a result, there are vast amounts of existing artifacts; 2) tombs are material things and thus are subject to the elements; 3) not everyone is an archaeologist. Combine these, and you have situations were valuable artifacts were found in places like the chicken coop of a farmer (this is how the eagle-shaped pottery ding was found).

Donations. Some artifacts were family heirlooms that were donated to museums.

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Mistaken Identities (dp x dc)

Danny had been doing his thing, looking around, making sure he didn't alter anything in the past, minding his own business. Officially, this was supposed to be a trip to gather more blood blossom samples for Team Phantom to study, but he had ended up being a little sidetracked. Apparently though, puritan times made for beautiful forests, sue him if he was enjoying a moment of peace in his otherwise crazy life. So here he was, relaxing for the first time in way too long when this guy just barged into the clearing. Danny straightened up with a yelp which had the guy stopping in his tracks before he turned to look at Danny.

"Be not afraid, child. I mean you no harm," the man said.

Danny squinted as he looked up at the half-shadowed face of the man that seemed vaguely familiar.

"Boy?"

"Uh-" Danny managed as he realized he was supposed to answer. "Oh yeah, no problem, man."

The man tilted his head which directed Danny's attention to his weird buckle-hat. Sobering up as he recognized the clothes from his previous jaunt in the past where Sam had almost gotten burnt at the stake, he mentally congratulated himself for turning back into a human before his nap. He really didn't want to end up trapped in blood blossoms by witch-finders again.

"Are you lost?" The man said, as he edged closer. "Do you require aid?"

The halfa jumped to his feet. "Nope!" Danny said before letting out a nervous laugh. "No aid, I'm all good. Thanks though."

The man opened his mouth to say something before another voice, higher pitched stopped him. "You are back!" A woman wearing a simple dress, with a few birds fluttering around her like a Disney princess approached them.

"Annie," answered the man.

"Come," she said before leading him away with only a glance towards the teenager. The man let himself be dragged away, but not before a last few words. "If you are ever in need of assistance, please do not hesitate."

Danny waved his hand. "Yep. For sure, dude. Thanks!"

Then before the man had turned away completely, the woman grabbed his hat playfully which revealed his face completely to the weak moonlight, and coincidentally to Danny's view. The couple disappeared between the thick foliage as Danny sat, struck dumb with what he had just witnessed.

"Oh my god," he whispered to himself. "That was Bruce fucking Wayne."

Danny had seen enough rag magazines and newspapers with his face printed on the cover to recognize the billionaire for sure. What the hell was he doing in Puritan times? Then, it hit Danny like a brick. Natural portals. They weren't common, or stable and they'd been known to spirit away people randomly. Clearly, they also had some pretty severe side-effects including amnesia considering the old-timey speech pattern Mr. Wayne was using.

There was only one thing for it, Danny clearly had to bring Mr. Wayne back to the present. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but also because a missing billionaire was bound to attract a good amount of attention and if anyone connected this to the ghost zone... Well if the GIW was bad now, Danny didn't want to know what other kind of unsavoury people would pop up if ghosts were better-known. Just imagining the Justice League getting involved was giving Danny the shivers. No, the best thing to do was get Mr. Wayne back to his time and hope he wouldn't remember much of what had happened and wouldn't dig into it further.

Just as he was nodding to himself, he heard a scream coming from not too far away. He transformed before flying towards the noise, only to find the woman he'd seen before with Mr. Wayne being captured by a bunch of men wearing the same kinds of hat.

"She's a witch! Burn her!" He heard someone yell. "Hang her dead!" Someone else said.

This was giving Danny some major flashback to Sam's very own witch burning and without wasting a second, he phased the woman right out of their grips and flew them away from the angry mob.

As soon as he landed and let go of the woman, she turned to him and gripped his arm instead. "You have to help him!"

"Help who?" Danny asked, wincing.

"Mordecai!" she said, her grip tight.

"Is that the man who was with you earlier?" the teenager asked.

The woman nodded before pointing southeast. "He is in the caves, fighting the dragon!"

Danny didn't waste anytime before flying in the direction she had pointed to. Going intangible helped with speed, and he phased through the ground, going straight for the aforementioned cave. He just phased through when he caught sight of Mr. Wayne. As he got closer, he could feel some sort of energy radiating from the man. Just then, the energy started building up and Mr. Wayne started to go transparent. Panicking, Danny did the first thing he could think of and absorbed the mounting energy to himself. It felt like a shot of adrenaline except way, way stronger and for a moment everything blanked out, before the world came into focus again. When he looked around, he couldn't find a trace of Mr. Wayne, but from the energy left over he could tell exactly when he had landed. The Golden Age of Piracy.

"Goddamit!" Danny yelled as he once again felt Bruce Wayne slip through his grasp as he stole away the potent energy from the billionaire's body before it could follow wherever he was going next. First it had been pirates, then the Wild West and lastly it was 20th century Gotham, clearly the natural portal had been all kinds of fucked up for Mr. Wayne to have been dragged from time period to time period. It was a miracle he was even still alive, the poor man! Danny let out a harsh sigh as he parsed out through the information the energy had left him with. This time he'd gotten the information for the two next time-jumps, which meant, Danny could get ahead of this for once and finally catch Mr. Wayne before he could jump again.

With a steadying intake of breath, Danny took out the Infiniv-map and set his destination before he let himself follow through. As he got through he could hear a bunch of different voices, all talking over each other.

"-distortions mean what I think it-"

"-not fair!"

"-time is breaking-"

"-only leave his body once he's dead."

Danny paid no mind as he locked eyes on Mr. Wayne who was lying in Wonder Woman's arms, in a black bodysuit, looking worse for the wear. The same energy as before was emanating from him, though this time it was even stronger. Danny approached carefully, invisible before he put a hand onto Mr. Wayne's chest and concentrated on drawing all the energy into himself. It wasn't like the other times, the flow was faster and he was having trouble staying focused as more and more flew into him. His brows scrunched in concentration, and unbeknownst to him, the invisibility dropped.

All the heroes in the room turned to look at the suddenly appearing white-haired teen who had a hand on Batman's chest. As they stared in confusion, the teen started to glow. It grew brighter and brighter before everyone had to shield their eyes as there was a pulse of bright light that died down almost immediately after. Wonder Woman had to blink the spots out of her vision as she felt the weight in her arms start to shift and let out a groan. "Bruce!"

She set him down and helped him put his head between his knees, as she gently stroked his back. Superman settled on his other side while Red Robin just sat in front of him, still half-believing Bruce was really back.

"What happened?" Bruce mumbled. "The omega radiation, I thought-"

"I'd like to know that too," Green Lantern said before he turned towards the glowy kid who was still blinking his eyes as if to chase away afterimages.

"His energy signature is the same as Darkseid," Raven said, her own eyes having not left the teenager since he had appeared.

"You don't mean..." started Superman as all the heroes turned to look at the kid slowly. The latter finally looked up as if sensing he was the focus of many eyes and cringed as he met the combined stares of the Justice League.

"Yes," Raven answered. "This is Darkseid's son."

[knightofthenewrepublic]

The Battle of Manhattan didn’t go the way the Fandom thinks it did; we need to address the “massacre” of the Titan Army!

The Battle of Manhattan is the most pivotal event of the first series. And we see the entire thing exclusively from Percy’s point of view. He takes us through the thickest of the fight from one end of Manhattan Island to the next, and shows us a desperate fight of good against evil.

But we have another point of view for the battle, one that comes from the demigods of the Titan army, and one that informs us of a far different, darker side to the conflict. One where an entire army of children is massacred by the victorious Olympians, without a thought or even a care. It’s a shocking, confronting side of the struggle that most fans don’t seem to be aware of. 

But it’s also completely inaccurate. 

Now I love Alabaster; he’s one of my favorite characters, and I want nothing but the best for him. But he’s a demonstrably unreliable narrator. I don’t even mean that he’s intentionally dishonest; but he’s very badly misinformed about what actually happened. And that gives the fandom three major misconceptions that need to be cleared up. 

Alabaster gets the casualty ratio for the battle wrong (the Olympians had more than he thinks).

The Titan army has far fewer demigods than most fans think (not much more than 50 at the most).

Alabaster does say that there was a “massacre” at the end of the battle, but most of the TA demigods had deserted before that!

Part 1) The Olympians Have High Casualties

“It was a massacre. If I remember right, my mother told me that Camp Half-Blood and its allies had sixteen casualties total. We had hundreds.” (pg 219)

This is the only time we get a specific number for Olympian casualties, but it just doesn’t match up with what actually happens in the books. Looking back at all the deaths we do see:

Charlie Beckendorf -1

one [Hellhound] got hold of an Apollo camper and dragged him away. I didn’t see what happened to him next. I didn’t want to know. (pg 182) -1

Michael Yew -1

A young dragon had appeared in Harlem, and a dozen wood nymphs died before the monster was finally defeated. (pg 203) -12

“We lost twenty satyrs against some giants at Fort Washington,” [Grover] said, his voice trembling. (pg 203) -20 Giants smashed through trees, and naiads faded as their life sources were destroyed. (pg 243) -1< Enemy archers returned fire, and a Hunter fell from a high branch. (pg 244) -1  Too many of our friends lay wounded in the streets. Too many were missing. (pg 257) -1< The flagpoles were hung with horrible trophies –helmets and armor pieces from defeated campers. (pg 282) -1< The Drakon lashed out, swallowing three californian centaurs in one gulp before I could even get close. (pg 288) -3 Poison spewed everywhere, melting centaurs into dust along with quite a few monsters, (pg 288) -1< The Drakon snapped up one Ares camper in a gulp. (pg 291) -1

Silena Beauregard -1

Leneus -1

a body covered in the golden burial shroud of Apollo’s cabin. I didn’t know who was underneath. I don't want to find out. (pg 303) -1

Oddly enough, we actually miss the moment that was probably the worst for the Olympians, the final push by Kronos that breaks through their line. After Clarisse slays the drakon and the monsters are driven back again, Percy and co. take the opportunity to go up to Olympus. Percy gives Pandora’s Pithos to Hestia, and then contacts Poseidon via his throne. It’s just as he finishes that Thalia comes up and tells them that Kronos is coming again, but they miss the fighting.

By the time we got to the street, it was too late. Campers and Hunters lay wounded on the ground. Clarisse must have lost a fight with a Hyperborean giant, because she and her chariot were frozen in a block of ice. The centaurs were nowhere to be seen. Either they’d panicked and ran, or they’d been disintegrated. (pg 312) -<500

And finally, Kronos does kill some people on Olympus itself.

A few minor gods and nature spirits had tried to stop Kronos. What remained of them was strewn about the road: shattered armor, ripped clothing, swords and spears broken in half. (pg 322) -1<

The specific deaths we have mentioned during the battle amount to 48 at the very least; and that is an extremely conservative estimate that only includes the deaths Percy has the time and presence of mind to witness in all the carnage. Considering how many others must have happened, factoring the sudden disappearance of the 500 centaurs in particular, it was likely in the hundreds. And most of the centaurs probably ran at the end, but even that would have involved heavy casualties.

It’s true that actual demigods were a smaller fraction of Olympian forces, and so would have made up just a fraction of losses. The number 16 might actually make sense if it were just the number of campers lost, but that’s not what Hecate said, she said total.

It might be significant that Hecate is the actual source of this misinformation. Would she have reason to lie to her own son, or might she herself be out of the loop. Right now, we just can’t know. 

And she might be underestimating Titan Army losses too. Considering how many times a wave of several hundred monsters tear into Manhattan, and get thrown back by the Olympians only to return later with no discernable drop in numbers, until the army is finally routed entirely, it wouldn’t surprise me if the TA actually took a thousand or more casualties. But those would be overwhelmingly monsters, because:

Part 2) Less Than Fifty Demigods Were Even In The Titan Army

To prove that there could not possibly have been hundreds of TA demigods killed at Manhattan, we need look no farther than Alabaster's own account.

“There was a war between the gods and titans last summer and most half-bloods–demigods like me–fought for the Olympians.” (pg 218)

So the TA could not have had more demigods than the Olympians; and they had about a hundred. There are forty campers to start with, who are quickly joined by the Hunters, who now have thirty members. Then, in the last hours of the fight, they are finally joined by the Ares cabin, which brings another thirty (jeez Ares, you animal!). So Olympus has an even hundred demigods. (The Hunters aren’t necessarily all demigods by birth, but I don’t think Alabaster would make a distinction based on that.)

So the TA has less than a hundred demigods, significantly less. I would argue they probably had no more than fifty because that lines up with the only solid numbers we ever get for them. And every time the TA is described, demigods are a clear minority. First, look at the foes Percy encounters when he infiltrates the Princess Andromeda:

I saw monsters patrolling the upper decks of the ship–dracaenae snake-women, hellhounds, giants, and the humanoid seal-demons known as telkhines . . . . . “I don’t care what your nose says!” snarled a half-human half-dog voice—a telkhine. “The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meatloaf sandwich!” “Meatloaf sandwiches are good!” a second voice snarled . . . . . a telkhine was hunched over a console . . . . . a half dozen telkhines were tromping down the stairs . . . . . past another telkhine . . . . . And in the fountain squatted a giant crab . . . . . a couple of dracaenae slithered across my path . . . . . As I was running up the stairwell, a kid charged down . . . . . Laistrygonian giants filed in on either side of the swimming pool . . . . . demigod archers appeared on the roof . . . . . two hellhounds leapt down . . . . . The crowed of monsters parted . . . . . Giants jeered. Dracaenae hissed with laughter . . . . . throwing monsters off their feet . . . . .I knew him, of course: Ethan Nakamura . . . . . two giants lumbered forward . . . . . Panicked monsters surged backward . . . . . one of the dracaenae hissed . . . . . I pushed through a crowd of monsters . . . . . Monsters yelled at me from  above.

That was a quick summary of all the enemies Percy and Charlie encounter on the Princess Andromeda, I’m not crazy enough to try and write the whole chapter. But it’s pretty clear there are only a few demigods amid dozens of monsters. We hear the same thing from Poseidon later, that “there were only a few demigod warriors aboard that ship”; we might question whether or not Poseidon is a trustworthy source, but the evidence does back him up.

When we finally get to the battle, the disparity of demigod numbers in the TA is again evident:

The bronze image showed Long Island Sound near La Guardia. A fleet of a dozen speed boats raced through the dark water toward Manhattan. Each boat was packed with demigods in full Greek armor. At the back of the lead boat, a purple banner emblazoned with a black scythe flapped in the night wind. I’d never seen that design before, but it wasn’t hard to figure out: the battle flag of Kronos. “Scan the perimeter of the island,” I said. “Quick.” Annabeth shifted the scene south to the harbor. A Staten Island Ferry was plowing through the waves near Ellis Island. The deck was crowded with dracaenae and a whole pack of hellhounds. Swimming in front of the ship was a pod of marine mammals. At first I thought they were dolphins. Then I saw their doglike faces and swords strapped to their waists, and I realized they were telkhines—sea demons. The scene shifted again: the Jersey shore, right at the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel. A hundred assorted monsters were marching past the lanes of stopped traffic: giants with clubs, rogue Cyclopes, a few fire-spitting dragons, and just to rub it in, a World War II-era Sherman tank, pushing cars out of the way as it rumbled into the tunnel. (pg 167)

Here we see the first wave of the Titan Army as a three pronged attack (which Percy says on the next page collectively numbered at least 300) and only one of the units has demigods. It’s the one that Kronos leads, so it’s probably meant to be a more elite unit, at least at first. 

We don’t know for sure how many there are. Speedboats are usually made to carry 4-6 people so a dozen would be possible 48 to 72. Considering Alabaster says there were significantly less demigods in the TA than the Olympians, I would guess it’s on the lower end; and that does match another number we see in a moment.

This fleet never reaches Manhattan, since Percy bribes the East River to swamp their boats. Those who say many TA demigods were killed in the battle might point to this as Percy causing a bunch of kids to drown; but Alabaster never mentions a mass drowning in his narrative of the battle, and he would have been on one of those boats, so it’s safe to say they just went for a swim.

(And Kronos was with them, which means that a very angry titan lord was suddenly pitched into the river and had to swim with the rest of them. That’s not really relevant, I just want everyone to know that.)

Percy is then immediately told that “Another army is marching over the Williamsburg bridge.” This fourth prong of the attack, led by the Minotaur, also has no demigods in it.

An entire phalanx of dracaenae marched in the lead . . . About a hundred more monsters marched behind them. (pg 182) More monsters surged forward —snakes and giants and telkines—but the Minotaur roared at them, and they backed off. (pg 186)

But more monsters keep advancing because by the time Percy kills the minotaur and the demigods charge and rout the whole group, it had grown to 200

Finally, the monsters turned and fled—about twenty left alive out of two hundred. (pg 188)

So the grand total for the first TA attack was 500 soldiers or more, with only 40-70 of them demigods. And after the monsters on the Williamsburg bridge retreat, those demigods show back up.

Then I saw the crowd at the base of the bridge. The retreating monsters were running straight toward their reinforcements. It was a small group, maybe thirty or forty demigods in battle armor, mounted on skeletal horses. One of them held a purple banner with the black scythe design.  The lead horseman trotted forward. He took off his helm, and I recognized Kronos himself, his eyes like molten gold. (pg1 188)

This is the only time we get anywhere close to a specific number when TA demigods are concerned. It would have been the same group that was sunk in the East River, who then had to swim for Brooklynn; which is where they are now trying to take the Williamsburg bridge. This reinforces the idea that the number of demigods in the boats was only a little more than forty, since they would not have suffered more than a few injuries in the sinkings.

I’m going to come back to this moment later to demonstrate how Percy refrains from killing other demigods, even in his Achilles state, but the other important thing to note is that this is the last time Kronos organizes his demigods into a unit that he leads personally. After they fail to break through here, Kronos just has them take on a secondary role, and puts his faith in bigger and bigger monsters to lead the charge instead.

The Titan Army units on Long Island then spend the evening marching the long way around Manhattan (for some reason) because they make camp for the night in New Jersey, at Medusa’s old lair. Percy again describes demigods as the small minority.

Hundreds of tents and fires surrounded the property. Mostly I saw monsters, but there were some human mercenaries in combat fatigues and demigods in armor too. A purple-and-black banner hung outside the emporium, guarded by two huge blue Hyperboreans.

And this is only part of the Titan army, because there are more troops north of Manhattan. 

“Tell my brother Hyperion to move our main force south into Central Park. The halfbloods will be in such disarray they will not be able to defend themselves.” (pg 237)

The army that marches into central park is bigger than the one camped in New Jersey. And it is made up exclusively of monsters. 

At the north end of the reservoir, the enemy vanguard broke through the woods—a warrior in golden armor leading a battalion of Laistrygonian giants with huge bronze axes. Hundreds of other monsters poured out behind them. (pg 243)

There is not a single mention of a demigod. However they’re already joining the fight in other places. 

When it flew above the rooftops, I could see fires here and there around the city. It looked like my friends were having a rough time. Kronos was attacking on several fronts. (pg 251)  

After Percy kills the Clazmonian Sow, the momentum of the battle shifts. With his main force failing to deliver a knockout punch, Kronos has his remaining armies spread out to put equal pressure on the entire defensive line, and catch it in a massive envelopment.

Midtown was a war zone. We flew over little skirmishes everywhere. A giant was ripping up trees in Bryant Park while dryads pelted him with nuts. Outside the Waldorf Astoria, a bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin was whacking a hellhound with a rolled-up newspaper. A trio of Hephaestus campers fought a squad of dracaenae in the middle of Rockefeller Center . . . . . The hunters had set up a defensive line on 37th, just three blocks north of Olympus. To the east on Park Avenue, Jake Mason and some other Hephaestus campers were leading an army of statues against the enemy. To the west, the Demeter cabin and Grover’s nature spirits had turned Sixth Avenue into a jungle that was hampering a  squadron of Kronos’s demigods . . . . . I spotted a familiar silver owl banner in the southeast corner of the fight, 33rd at the Park Avenue tunnel. Annabeth and two of her siblings were holding back a Hyperborean giant . . . . . The next hour was a blur. I fought like I’d never fought before—wading into legions of dracaenae, taking out dozens of telkines with every strike, destroying empousai and knocking out enemy demigods . . . . . At one point Grover was next to me, bonking snake women over the head with his cudgel. Then he disappeared in the crowd, and it was Thalia at my side, driving monsters back with the power of her magic shield. Mrs. O’Leary bounded out of nowhere, picked up a Laistrygonian giant in her mouth and flung him like a Frisbee. Annabeth used her invisibility cap to sneak behind enemy lines. Whenever a monster disintegrated for no apparent reason with a surprised look on his face, I knew Annabeth had been there . . . . . Kronos was riding towards us on a golden chariot. A dozen Laistrygonian giants bore torches before him. Two Hyperboreans carried his black-and-purple banners . . .

“THEN THE WINGED HUSSAARSSS AARRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVED” SABATON BLASTS ON ELECTRIC GUITAR

 Sorry, sorry, I mean then Chiron and the 500 centaurs arrived!

Kronos’s forces looked as confused as we were. Giants lowered their clubs. Dracaenae hissed. Even Kronos’s honor guard looked uneasy. Then, to our left, a hundred monsters cried out at once. Kronos’s entire northern flank surged forward. I thought we were doomed, but they didn’t attack. They ran straight past us and crashed into their southern allies . . . a shower of arrows arced over our heads and slammed into the enemy, vaporizing hundreds of demons. (pg 258)

This is how the second phase of the battle ends. And during the entire night, out of a sea of monsters (hehe) we only see one unit of TA demigods. And it’s the last time we get any reference to them participating in the battle.

After being driven south, the TA apparently did another long march, because they make camp northeast of Manhattan.

The Titan army had set up camp all around the U.N. complex. The flagpoles were hung with horrible trophies—helmets and armor from defeated campers. All along First Avenue, giants sharpened their axes. Telkines repaired armor at makeshift forges. (pg 282)

Ethan is the only demigod mentioned this time. And he doesn’t appear to take part in the next attack, aside from releasing the drakon. We get less of a description of the enemy army this time, but it’s all monsters.

The rest of the battle wasn’t going well. The centaurs had panicked under the onslaught of giants and demons. An occasional orange camp T-shirt appeared in the sea of fighting, but quickly disappeared.  (pg 289)

Of course the Ares cabin arrives, the drakon kills Silena, and Clarisse kills it. It’s another rout for the TA.

The monsters retreated toward 35th Street. (pg 298) There was no answer from the enemy. Slowly, they began to fall back behind a dracaenae shield wall, while Clarisse drove in circles around Fifth Avenue, daring anyone to cross her path. (pg 299)

After that we have the final phase of the battle, when the Titan Army finally breaks through the Olympian lines. But once again, we have no reference to demigods other than Ethan.

The Titan Army ringed the building, standing maybe twenty feet from the doors. Kronos’s vanguard was in the lead: Ethan Nakamura, the dracaenae queen in her green armor, and two Hyperboreans. I didn’t see Prometheus. (pg 312) “ROWWF!” Mrs. O’Leary bounded toward me, ignoring the growling monsters on either side. (pg 315) There were thousands of [skeletan soldiers], and as they emerged, the titan’s monsters got jumpy and started to back up. (pg 315)     The armies of the dead clashed with the Titan’s monsters. Fifth Avenue exploded into absolute chaos. Mortals screamed and ran for cover. Demeter waved her hand and an entire column of giants turned into a wheat field. Persephone changed the dracaenae spears into sunflowers. Nico slashed and hacked his way through the enemy, trying to protect pedestrians as best as he could. My parents ran toward me , dodging monsters and zombies, but there was nothing I could do to help them. (pg 318).

The fight continues like this, until Typhon is destroyed, and the defenders are joined by the gods, and Poseidon’s army of cyclopes. It’s then that the Titan army is “massacred.” Most of the fandom thinks that the demigods were killed too, but that’s not the case.

PART 3: The TA Demigods Deserted Before The Final Battle

As Alabaster remembers it:

the war didn’t go our way. I fought on the battlefield against the enemy, but most of our allies ran. Kronos himself marched on Olympus, only to be killed by a son of Poseidon. After Kronos’s death, the Olympian gods smashed any remaining resistance. It was a massacre. “We weren’t all destroyed,” Alabaster said. “Most of the remaining half-bloods fled or were captured. They were so demoralized they joined the enemy. (pg 219)

When you look at this narrative, and compare it to The Last Olympian, it’s actually more complicated than the TA demigods simply getting massacred.

Al says that while he was fighting, most of his allies ran. That’s odd, because we don’t see the relative numbers of monsters go down at any point. What we do see, is the number of demigods go down.

As I illustrated in Part 2, the Battle of Manhattan has four distinct phases. Phase one, that ends when the Williamsburg Bridge is destroyed. The second phase, that starts when Hyperion attacks Central Park, and ends when the Party Ponies arrive. The third phase, which is all about the attack of the drakon. And the final phase, when Kronos breaks through.

We only see TA demigods in the first two phases; they attack the Williamsburg Bridge in the first phase as part of the Kronos’s main force, then in the second phase they’re relegated to a supporting role by hitting the defenders western flank. And that’s the last we see of them. After that, Etahn is the only demigod left standing in the TA. Alabaster must be somewhere in the background, as a retcon, but there’s no one beyond the two of them.

You might think that they’ve just already been killed by this point. After all, Percy blows up the Princess Andromeda, then goes into an Achilles Curse fueled berserker mode several times in the first two phases of the battle. Surely he must have killed hundreds of kids, right?

No, not even close.

Maybe not any at all.

On the Princess Andromeda Percy finds lots of monsters, but the number of demigods he finds could be counted on one hand. And the first one he meets; Percy spares him and tells him to get his friends and evacuate. We can’t prove whether or not any demigods were killed in the blast; we just know that the two we can confirm were still on board, Ethan and Alabaster, both survived. And when Alabaster recounts it, he doesn’t mention any bad losses at this point.

As for the Curse of Achilles, it doesn’t send Percy into anything like the berserker state some people think of it as. It might seem like that when Percy lets loose on the Williamsburg Bridge:

You’re going to ask how the whole “invincible” thing worked: if I magically dodged every weapon, or if the weapon hit me and just didn’t harm me. Honestly, I don’t remember. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let these monsters invade my hometown. I sliced through armor like it was made of paper. Snake women exploded. Hellhounds melted to shadow. I slashed and stabbed and whirled, and I might have even laughed once or twice—a crazy laugh that scared me as much as it did my enemies. (pg 188)

But when push comes to shove, Percy can control the Curse, and what he does during it. That last moment was when he was fighting nothing but monsters. But when the TA demigods arrived, Percy pulled his punches like he always does.

I tried to wound his men, not kill. That slowed me down, but these weren’t monsters. They were demigods who’d fallen under Kronos’s spell. I couldn’t see faces under their helmets, but some of them had probably been my friends. I slashed the legs off their horses and made the skeletal mounts disintegrate. After the first few demigods took a spill, the rest figured out they’d better dismount and fight me on foot. (pg 189)

Percy is still in complete control of what he’s doing; even when the worst happens.

“Annabeth!” I turned in time to see her fall, clutching her arm. A demigod with a bloody knife stood over her . . . . . I locked eyes with the enemy demigod. He wore an eye patch under his helmet: Ethan Nakamura, the son of Nemesis. Somehow he’d survived the explosion on the Princess Andromeda. I slammed him in the face with my sword hilt so hard I dented his helm. (pg 190)

Percy really has all the reason to hate Ethan at this point; after Percy spared his life in Antaeus’ arena, Ethan still joined the side that had been ready to write off his death, and deliberately helped Kronos achieve his physical resurrection. Because of that Percy’s friends and even-Riordan-doesn’t-know how many mortals are going to die in the next few days; and on top of all that, Ethan just stabbed the love of his life.

And all Percy does is knock him out, maybe a little harder than necessary. He makes no effort to kill him. Those aren’t the actions of a berserker with no control.

In fact, the knife turns out to be poisonsed. And Ethan now has an idea where Percy’s Achilles Spot is, and might tell Kronos. And even after all of that, Percy doesn’t seriously think about killing him as an option.

“I’ll bonk him on the head harder next time.” (pg 241)

But more on topic, there is no reason to think the TA demigods have particularly high casualties in this phase of the battle, though they have a few:

Our archers shot a volley, bringing down several of the enemy, but they just kept riding. (pg 189)

Though it’s vague if they are hitting the riders or the horses. In fact, it might actually be Kronos who’s responsible for more of their losses.

[Kronos] struck the bridge with the butt of his scythe, and a wave of pure force blasted me backward. Cars went careening. Demigods—even Luke’s own men—were blown off the edge of the bridge. (pg 192)

I will die on the hill that between this, Ethan, and other implied moments, Kronos killed more of his own demigods than Percy did.

In the second phase of the battle, when we see the TA demigods attack again, they’re in a very different situation.

To the west, the Demeter cabin and Grover’s nature spirits had turned Sixth Avenue into a jungle that was hampering a  squadron of Kronos’s demigods. (pg 255)

This is the only thing we see the TA demigods do as a group in this phase; and they’re fighting people who are using very defensive tactics, more hampering than harmful. They’re not likely to lose many fighters. A few of them do cross Percy’s path in the chaos, but even at his most Achilles fueled chaos he never loses control.

The next hour was a blur. I fought like I’d never fought before—wading into legions of dracaenae, taking out dozens of telkines with every strike, destroying empousai and knocking out enemy demigods. (pg 257)

He talks about killing monsters, but always “knocking out” demigods. Finally, that phase of the battle ends when the centaurs show up. Did the centaurs kill any demigods? After all, Percy said they “trampled everything in their path.”

Well the only report we get on the TA demigods puts them to the west. When the centaurs attack, they come out of the north east and drive the enemy south, and start off a wave of panic that ripples down the enemy lines ahead of them. The demigods were probably running before any centaur reached them, and might have had better chances of being trampled by their own monsters.

So if the TA demigods aren’t taking many losses, where do they all go in the third and fourth phases, when we don’t see any except Ethan?

They desert. 

Alabaster: “I fought on the battlefield against the enemy, but most of our allies ran.”

I think the demigods of the TA signed up with no real idea of what would happen when they fought the Olympians. They thought they were going to have a sure victory. 

Chris Rodriguez said it in SOM:

“I hear they got two more [drakon] coming,” [Chris] said. “They keep arriving at this rate, oh, man—no contest!” (pg 122)

Alabaster C. Torrington said it in SOM:

“Kronos wasn’t supposed to lose! You said the odds of winning were in the Titan’s favor! You told me Camp Half-Blood would be destroyed!” (pg 196)

And they probably weren’t well prepared for the war either. At one point Luke says they will fight well because he has been training the army. But most of them join because they are the children of minor gods who swear for Kronos, and that doesn’t happen until the end of BOTL, after Luke has been possessed. Most of the TA demigods never got training from him; including their two highest ranking members, Ethan and Alabaster. It’s no wonder most of them weren’t prepared.

As I was running up the stairwell, a kid charged down. He looked like he had just woken up from a nap. His armor was half on. He drew his sword and yelled, “Kronos!” but he sounded more scared than angry . . . . No way was I going to hurt him. I didn’t need a weapon for this. I stepped inside his strike and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall. His sword clattered out of his hand. (pg 18)

And the demigods might not hold much loyalty to Kronos, a violent and temperamental eldritch horror!

Ethan moistened his lips. “He’s still fighting you, isn’t he? Luke—” “Nonesense,” Kronos spat. “Repeat that lie, and I will cut out your tongue. The boy’s soul has been crushed.” (pg 236) “But, my lord,” Ethan said. “Your regeneration.” Kronos pointed at Ethan, and the demigod froze. “Does it seem,” Kronos hissed. “that I need to regenerate?” Ethan didn’t respond. Kind of hard to do when you’re immobilized in time. Kronos snapped his fingers and Ethan collapsed. (pg 284)

And the demigods might have witnessed a darker side to his army that we didn’t.

Back on my first visit to the Princess Andromeda, my old enemy Luke had kept dazed tourists on board for show, shrouded in Mist so they didn’t realize they were on a monster infested ship. Now i didn’t see any sign of tourists. I hated to think what had happened to them, but I kind of doubted they’d been allowed to go home with their bingo winnings. (pg 15)

So, the demigods deserted. After the second phase of the battle we don’t see any at the Titan camp at the U.N., or taking any part in the last phases of the battle. They had been fed false promises, were treated badly, and were being sent against enemies out of their league.

“Most of the remaining half-bloods fled or were captured. They were so demoralized they joined the enemy.”

All except two, Alabaster and Ethan. The son of Nemesis, who has already given so much and is so desperate to see something good and fair come out of it; and the son of Hecate, who was promised victory, and is desperate to avenge the death of his siblings. Ironically, the two demigods who stayed loyal to Kronos the longest, did so because they had faith in their godly parents.

So if there was no “massacre” of TA demigods at the end of the Battle of Manhattan, why is Alabaster so insistent that there was one? 

“Yes,” Alabaster said bitterly. “Camp Half-Blood decided that they would accept any children of the minor gods. They would build us cabins at camp and pretend that they didn’t just blindly massacre us for resisting. (pg 220) “But I’ll never bow to the Olympian gods after the atrocities they committed. Their followers are blind. I’d never set foot in their camp, and if I did, it would only be to give that son of Poseidon what he deserves.” (pg 221)

Well, it’s because the children of Hecate suffered the most in the war. She didn’t have as many children as other gods, and Alabaster was the only one to fight in it and survive. He claims he convinced “most” of his siblings to join; but if Hecate does not have many children, and he is the only survivor of the battle, how are there still enough of his siblings to decently fill a cabin, it’s likely “most” was only slightly more than half. The sad irony is that the fact that the smaller group of demigods had more casualties than the larger ones (and it sounds like not just more proportionately, but more in actual numbers), also kind of disproves that there could have been a large massacre that affected them all.

Alabaster was a scared, frustrated, exhausted kid; who convinced his siblings to fight in a destructive war, and was the only one of them to survive. To him, that is probably always going to feel like a brutal massacre.

[sillyjpeg]

BOOK OF BILL WEBSITE CHANGE

this contains MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE WEBSITE CHANGE. if you want to find shit urself, dont read this!!!

also this is part one of probably many bc i cant fit everything in here. curse you image limit

i wont be going over alot of the not as important stuff, but still go explore the website for it because i got alot of good laughs!

RIGHT OFF THE BAT. In the top right corner of the screen when the lightning flashes, there are words revealed carved in the wall. it reads: VALLIS CINERIS. when this is typed into the computer it gives this video:

haunting. really giving me analog horror vibes. wasnt sure what else to do with this though.

I also noticed that on the candle in the right side of the desk, there is a code

this is decoded used the rune code, and translates into CURSED. when put into the computer, this is what is given back:

interesting.

One of the first things me and my friends did was go through the main characters names. the most interesting one of these for me is definitely Stanley, but i want to go over Pacifica first because Stanleys is LONG.

When you type in Pacifica you get this:

I love her signature btw. BUT if you type in Platinum Paz, you get somethin very, very interesting.

This may not be in the right order so forgive me, but at the end of that code, if you use a shift decoder (im so smart sue me)

it says: "STAY AWAY FROM HER CIPHER. SHE HAS THE PROTECTION OF THE LUMBERFOLKS SPIRITS"

pacificas character development has always been special to me, and this was honestly chilling. in the book of bill we see that she has nightmares about the lumberjack, and this shows how much guilt she carries. her finally finding her peace with what happened made me smile :)

but as nice and heartwarming as this is, were moving on to STANLEY PINES! and oh BOY are the stanley lovers having a field day. so first of all, if you type in Stanley, it will take you to a few different links. including gold chains, brass knuckles, an 8 ball cane, a fez, and a colonel neck tie. funny right? if you keep entering his name, this pops up:

Below this is a bunch of things with the label of being shameful. one of them is very interesting but im gonna put some lighter stuff first for the sillies.

i need alex to show us the photos from the hunky drifters catalogue alex can you hear me please i mean WHO SAID THATTTT WHO SAID THATTTTTT

ALSO NO ONE COMING TO HIS FAKE FUNERAL EXCEPT HIS MOM :( she loved her little free spirit stanley

ALSO- him stripping for flour in Tijuana, again, i need photographic evidence.

his ex wives list also made me giggle. he was MARRIED TO OLD GOLDIE????? also Marilyn being Eda made me giggle, i love the fact that they got married at some point. get them back together please. also stan having smaller hands than ford and being self-conscious about it stan i love you mwah mwah mwah

ALSO FILBRICK TRYING TO SELL STAN FOR GETTIN AN F- PLEASE

anyways now onto the section at the bottom of the Wheel of Shame page!

Its titled : HOW HE BEAT ME. im not adding a photo bc ur guy is running out of room :(

you have to click on this repeatedly to get anything good out of it, so i took the liberty of milking it for all it had!!! i didnt take screenshots of everything because some of it was redundant, but here are the interesting and or funny bits:

just reiterating, this is not all thats in there, im just putting parts that stood out to me. please take the time to go through all this urself bc its a TREAT.

now into the crazier stuff

hes obviously having some sort of breakdown, just like we see at the end of the book of bill. the last page i decoded myself, and i got this using all the different decoders:

"THROUGH LQS SFSE CN EVERYONE IVE EVER"

for "LQS SFSE CN" i used the original bill cipher code, and im not sure why it gave me this. a smarter, better decoder probably has the answer.

i can theorize a few different things on what this could possibly mean even with it not being all decoded. the one that comes to mind is "I can still see through everyone ive ever met" maybe knowing too much? but without the middle part decoded i cant say much. if you have the solution for this please leave a comment as any help would be greatly appreciated. this all did drop a few hours ago so i doubt many people are working on decoding all this.

UPDATE!! I TRANSLATED IT WRONG.

IT SAYS “THROUGH THE EYES OF EVERYONE IVE EVER”

this makes alot more sense. bill can see through others eyes so it most likely is refering too how he possesses people and sees through their eyes. In the book of bill he shows how angry he is having to watch the Pines family be happy.

It says that when he closes his eye, he can still see through the eyes of everyone hes ever…possesed? probably. So can Bill still see through Ford, or maybe Dipper, and he cant turn it off. Whenever he closes his eyes he is haunted by the happy life he failed to destroy. To see through their eyes.

This poem using gambling as a way to describe Stan's life choices really struck me. the more i thought on it the more it made sense. he gambled that Ford's project would probably still work, gambled with all of his sham products. His entire life has been a betting game. The most interesting thing about all this is the end of the poem. It reads

"IM STILL ON YOUR MIND"

this has been a theory for awhile in the gravity falls community that if stan got back all his memories, including ones about bill, wouldnt bill come back? for me this confirms the theory, and opens up a whole new can of worms which i will talk about later.

I have reached my image and video limit, but expect more posts!

stay weird yall :)

[erendur]

Maedhros needs a hug.

I think we all agree (well, most of us at least), that Maedhros needs a hug, at the very least.

So I was thinking, what if he was adopted by a group of lesser fire spirits after he threw himself in the chasm (I could bet good money on the fact that a fanfic has already been written based on that idea, but am too lazy to check).

The chasm he threw himself in is probably a major, big-ass one - he’s a Fëanorian after all, I think he would leave in style. So there were bound to be at least a few lesser fire spirits hanging out there, with not much to do. Corrupted evil spirits have plenty to do, what with torturing people, murdering them or creating monsters, but the non-corrupted ones probably have plenty of time on their hands.

So suddenly, there's this gorgeous Elf throwing himself in their chasm. And they’re super thrilled, because the Ainu of Valinor get plenty of pretty elves hanging around them, but the lesser spirits of Middle-Earth, not so much. Plus, when they get closer, they notice that it’s not just any Elf, but a Fëanorian, a super-fiery one, one they’ve probably sneakily had a look at when he was in his Father’s forge at some point (I’m convinced fire spirits regularly sneaked into Fëanor’s forge fire to have a good look at him and his family of fiery hotties).

I’m imagining a kind of Monthy Python’s Holy Grail’s Castle Anthrax situation there : they all jump on his fëa as fast as they can, to make sure he doesn’t escape towards Mandos’s halls or any funny business like that, and of course Maedhros doesn’t put up much of a fight given that :

He’s super tired, even in disembodied fëa form ;

He very much does NOT want to go to Mandos and, as far as he had planned ahead, was determined to give him the slip. He’s already been imprisoned once, thank you very much, he’s not doing it again.

So when Mandos finally comes looking for him, the fire spirits hide him in under a fire blanket and pile of throw pillows or whatever the equivalent would be in a fiery chasm, put on their most innocent look, and say they’ve seen nothing.

“An Elf ? Why would there be an Elf in a fiery chasm ? We haven’t seen any Elves around here. And even if we had, they’d been gone by now. In this direction, yes, over there. Nothing to see here, no Sir, certainly no murderous fiery Elf.”

Mandos doesn’t press the matter too much, because he’s got a group of Avari Elves that have eaten poison berries to take care of, and he already feels the start of a headache coming.

Maedhros spends the next age or so being absolutely pampered by the fire spirits, who can’t believe their luck. They braid his fëa hair and make him fiery buttered crumpets. They chill on the fiery sofa and they make him laugh by telling mean jokes about the water spirits and making funny impersonations of Ulmö. I’m picturing an Odysseus/Calypso situation there. He’s having a nice time. He’s got no one to manage, he’s not in charge of any siblings, he’s got no hopeless war to fight and no Oath to fulfil. He can finally relax with his fire spirit pals.

Eventually, someone spills the beans to Mandos. Of course, it’s a water spirit. They’ve been eyeing Maglor for an age, holding their breath as he gets closer and closer to the water, hoping - surely, this time he’ll go in !- but he never does, so since they can’t get their hot pet Elf, it’s unfair that the other ones do.

Mandos decides to kill two birds with one stone on this one, and sends Fingon to get him. He’s been trying to get rid of Fingon for almost as soon as he’d arrived - “You did a magical rescue ! Manwë sent you his eagle ! You waged a war against Evil ! You died a heroe’s death ! You have nothing to do here !” - but Fingon has always stubbornly refused to be reembodied until Maedhros had at least arrived. He’s got five other Fëanorians plus a bunch of their followers who also refuse to leave for the same reason. He thinks he’s finally got a solution.

So by the time Fingon arrives in the fiery chasm, Maedhros has chilled and relaxed enough that he is able to consider the whole atone for his sins in Mandos thing in a more sanguine way. It will be mostly fine. He did some terrible things. He won’t be tortured. He’ll be ok. Fingon will be there. So he only puts up the bare minimum of a fuss before following Finno.

“I can’t go back, I’m an accursed kinslayer. Everybody there reviles me. There is no hell so profound that is sufficient to punish the tenth part of my sins…” (He has spent hundred of years hanging out with Maglor, who has some serious Drama-Queen tendencies, and also came up with that last line before Marguerite de Navarre).

“Come on, Mae, not everyone reviles you, there are many people who are waiting for you there, and you’ll get reembodied eventually…”

“Do not insist, dear friend, I am the most accursed of the accursed, I’ll never finish atoning for my sins, I'll be cast aside, universally hated, like I deserve…”

“Maitimo Nelyafinwë ! Stop it this instant ! You’re going to Mandos now, and you’re going to be reembodied, and you’ll give a kiss to your Mom you’ve been waiting for you all this time !”

So he leaves, much to the chagrin of the fire spirits. Well, at least, they all had a good time.

[ravers8fantasy]

Punch out!! Characters if they did ghost hunting in some random scary abandoned manour ಠ_ಠ

its halloween szn!! They are in groups based on what circuit they are to cover more ground and chaos happens lawl I might make write a lil thing about this but who knows...

Sorry for any spelling mistakes!! I was rlly tired when I made this!!! also this is kinda alot of yapping so be warned....

minor circuit: third floor, 3 bedroom, 1 toilet, storage

von kaiser:

'Doesnt' believe in ghosts and says this idea is stupid (he is actually terrified of ghosts especially poltergeist's and wants to go home)

his flashlight ran out of battery at one point when he was by himself and he started running around and screaming for help

Because he kept saying ghosts didnt exist, he got into an argument with a very annoyed Disco kid

The team split because of it so it became Joe and disco on one side of the floor and hippo and kaiser on the other

He opened the door to a bedroom and heard a sound from somewhere underneath the bed. Bro screamed and fled for his life

Literally flinching at every single sound, he is starting to scare hippo because he literally looks like he is one scare away from a heart attack

Glass Joe:

Currently sitting in the 2nd bedroom on the floor after realising that the door's hinges had broken so he was stuck.

Brought a camera, ended up swapping it for the spirit box disco got from Piston who had gotten it from doc louis which, he found kinda odd

Got jumpscared by his own reflection in the bathroom next door, disco was laughing so hard at him

Then the shower turned on by itself with a loud hiss and they both ran out screaming thinking a ghost or demon was gonna idk tickle them or smth-

Disco was too scared to use the spirit box by himself in the dark in the 2nd bedroom so joe offered to do it

absolutely has no idea how to use a spirit box or what to say if it actually picks up a frequency

"bonjo- I mean, hello?...."

"............."

"uh.... Im joe.. I like bread do you?"

".........yes"

"oh! Well awh that's great mabye your not so scary-"

"....must run..joe."

".......o-oh merde why me"

Disco Kid:

"Joe take deep breaths okay- DEEP BREATHES JOE BREATH IN 1,2 AND OUT"

He helped plan this with Hondo and Sandman, Disco LOVES horror films, so he thought he was going to be a pro at this paranomal stuff

He kept yapping about how good he is at ghost hunting and basically just didnt stop talking

But when he realised Joe was stuck in the bedroom, he started freaking out and ran to find the others

Disco was excited to explore... Emphasise on WAS cus now bro is crying and screaming like zombie ghost Jason Voorhees is chasing him with an axe

Is using joe's camera as a flashlight but he keeps accidentally flashbanging himself in the face so now he is screaming in terror and pain bless

King hippo:

Bro is literally eating a packet of crisps whilst this is all going down he is unbothered af

Hippo doesnt get scared that easily so he was like the group's rock until the argument between disco and Kaiser

Got such a shock from the shower turning on thought that when he grabbed the sink it broke

hey its an old house of course its not going to be the most structurally intact😈 ...

Did NOT like the sight of the 1st bedroom, especially the doll which he swear's blinked at him

Hippo pointed out he could hear screaming from one end of the floor to kaiser, so they both quietly creeped their way and peeked around the corner....

It was just Disco, who told them what happened. Hippo managed to get the door unjammed by literally running into it so it flew off its hinges

They may of also released something else as well. Joe thinks he saw something pale dash into the darkness whilst they were walking away from the bedroom...

Major circuit: middle floor, living room, music room and master bedroom

Piston Hondo:

"OH SHIT THE PIANO WHERE'S MY SALT WHERE IS IT, DON WHERE DID YOU PUT IT."

Really wanted to go ghost hunting with the others despite his extreme paranoia and superstition

Has a note book, he writes down any thing paranormal which happen (he has also filled in a corner with doodles because he is getting more scared as the night goes on)

Since he is the fastest out of them, he often runs back and forth to check on the camera's in the corridor

Bro is running this place like its the military, he is making everyone (including Tigers clones) investigate

Thought he saw a ghost and yelped like he was being murdered... But it was just Don in the distance checking his toupee in a mirror

Bear hugger:

"do you think the ghost's dont like us invading their property?" - seconds before he fell deep asleep

Him and his emotional support squirel are NOT very happy to be here

Was keeping his cool, until he heard someone screaming and got a bit scared (very scared, he is very much scared)

Keep's jumping whenever the floorboards creak in the living room, he points out how the building isnt very structurally stable😈...

Following Piston around because unlike the other two, Piston seem's like he actually knows what he is doing (he doesnt, he is using his knowledge from TV)

Fell asleep in the piano room so he didnt notice the piano playing by itself lol

Great tiger:

"I think if the ghosts didnt want us here, they would of killed us already- THE PIANO IS PLAYING ITSELF YO"

He was so down to do some hunting, he even brought a sleeping bag because he thought they were gonna have a sleep over in the master bedroom

Started scrapping with a piece of loose wallpaper on the floor because he thought it was a ghost trying to get him

Used his clones to help, has one on the upper floor so he has a vauge idea of what happened with Joe

Also got jumpscared by his own clone whilst rounding a corner and it was just standing there (happened multiple times)

Heard the piano playing by itself and got so excited he was literally jumping up and down whilst the others freaked out

Don flamenco:

"OH MY GOD OH WE ARE GONNA DIE- THE PIANO ITS- NO ITS THE END- I WILL NEVER SEE MY CARMEN AGAIN"

Thinks a demon is lurking around every single corner on the floor

Bro is acting as if he is actually in a horror film, his ass is NOT helping look for any potential ghost's

Stopped by a mirror but swore he felt someone looking at him so he screamed like a fucking SOS SOS alarm and knocked the mirror over

Got so scared at one point he literally started crying, he doesnt even believe in ghost's as well

Eventually got the courage to go into the living room, but of course he had make it dramatic :

"hey Don, I dont think its a good idea to go in there, the floor was kinda weird pal.."

"no compañero, I MUST do this, I MUST get over my fear of the unknown"

"uh I think Bear is right Don come back to the corridor"

"listen Don, your are NOT the terminator"

"NO. I know im not... For I am THE Don flamenco, I do this for you my brothers, for the future... and for CARMEN MI-

Don then fell through the floor. And everyone started screaming. Womp womp dw he is fine it wasnt that much of a drop. None of them noticed a pale figure sneaking behind them though...

World circuit!!! : ground floor - parlour, kitchen, maid quarters and entrance

Aran Ryan:

Is more interested in what valuables the rooms are hiding than what ghosties are lurking because he knows he would fight a ghost if it appeared in front of him

Sandman asked if he brought anything useful and bro pulled out a ready to make molotov cocktail kit he had prepared

Hid inside a coat of armour and chased bull around until he fell over and got a nose bleed and some bruising

Says he got chased by something but, no one believes him because he also lied and said it wasnt him who chased bull around so-

Because of that he ended up getting told to "STAY TF IN THE PARLOUR ROOM" by Sandman, so now he is solitary confinement by himself and started to make the molotov cocktail

Was interupted when a very confused Don fell through the roof and landed on the sofa, followed by alot of screaming from the rest of the major circuit from above

Soda popinski:

Dude is unbothered af he just wants to drink juice fr

Well he was until he saw the pale ghost thing which chased Aran, now he just wants to leave

Got jumpscared by a stray tiger clone and split his juice, got mad and started trying to fight it

Laughed at bull getting chased by Aran in the armour, also laughed at macho when he screamed embarrassingly high after accidentally ringing the maids bell

Was NOT happy when he ran out of juice from stress drinking after hearing screaming from up stairs

Started running to check but because he is so tall he ran into the top of a door frame and fell back like slipping on a banana peel

Bald bull:

keeps telling everyone to shut up because everyone is just screaming now

Keep's knocking stuff over when investigating, thats pissing him off

Stressed af after Aran scared him with the armour stunt

I dont think his scream would be that bad it would kinda be like an "ARGGH"

He screamed like that when he saw the ghost at the end of the corridor and ran away screaming like he was actually going to die

Got into a massive argument with macho about the toilets, bull said he would wait for macho to finish but macho kept saying he is terrifyed and that something would get him

Super macho man:

Keeps posting about it on socials

"hey dudes!!! Totally wicked in here Aran wae 'grounded' by Sandy LOL"

"hey dudes!!! @.DonFlamenco just fell through the roof mega lolz!!"

"hey dudz !1 soda is unconscious. Not good not swag"

"ghosts are bogus ghosts arent real its all bogus right gang?????"

Doesnt believe in ghosts he kept saying its all a bunch of bogus

Was screaming bogus even whilst being chased by the pale ghost around the kitchen

Keeps screaming about everything. He literally saw bull walk out of a room and he started screaming

After he got chased by the ghost he genuinly thought he was going to get possesed by some demonic entity he was crying hysterical

At one point really needed to use the toilet and got into an argument with bull because he said he thought something was gonna grab his ass if he used the toilet so he wanted someone with him

Sandman:

Trying to keep himself together, but so much is going on around him he is now really jumpy and is ready to call it a night

Was trying to listen out for any strange sounds in the maid quarters, could only hear macho screaming

Also got chased by the ghost after he was seperated from the rest, was gonna fight it but realised how stupid that would be and look for him

Also ended up screaming at macho that no ghost was gonna grab his ass in the toilet and to just go in there by himself

So, so confused about everything, became even more confused after finding Don and Aran looking at the major league from the hole which Don fell through

Got everyone back outside somehow, by the end of the ghost hunt he was also pretty terrifyed by that old place

OKOK that was alot of yap holy moly but all done!!! Hope you enjoyed. (◍˃̶ᗜ˂̶◍)ﾉ”

*☼*―――――*☼*―――――*☼*―――――*☼*―

"so doc! Did I scare them?"

"well mac baby, I think you did more than just scare them..."

Ta da! Mac was the ghost all along😼 he wasnt allowed to go with them to investigate because of his age so Doc suggested he should play one massive prank on them instead (spirit box was actually a walkie talkie, mac had a costume, hid underneath beds etc) sorry if this was alot to read!! Sorryy!!!!

[breelandwalker]

Wolf Moon - January 24-25, 2024

Shake off the cold and sing to the sky, witches - it's time for the Wolf Moon!

Wolf Moon

The Wolf Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of January. The name is said to be derived from the sound of wolves howling with hunger while prey is scarce in the midst of winter. Given that we now know that wolves howl mostly for communication, my personal opinion is that people huddled in their homes during a very dark and dangerous time of year probably noticed these sounds a lot more readily with little else to occupy their time as they waited out the winter, and thus were set to worrying about ravenous beasts invading their villages and farmsteads. (It's worth noting that wolves preying on livestock was a very real concern for most people outside major cities for many centuries, so this isn't entirely unfounded.)

The name also calls to mind the howling of the wind during winter storms, or whistling around the eaves during the long cold nights. And for those of us who might not have been careful with our spending over the holidays, I might cite a tongue-in-cheek reference to the wolves being at the door when those credit card bills come due.

[For those not familiar with the phrase, to have "a wolf at the door" is a saying that refers to some imminent hardship or disaster. In modern parlance, this is usually applied to poor finances or looming bankruptcy.]

This month, the moon peaks at 12:54pm EST on January 25th, so the moon will likely appear to be full on the nights of the 24th and 25th, depending on where you are in the world.

Some North American indigenous names for the month of January and its' moon are Cold Moon (Cree), Center Moon (Assiniboine), Severe Moon (Dakota), Ice Moon (Catawba), and Spirit Moon (Ojibwe). Other names include Mantis Moon (South African origins), Quiet Moon (Celtic), and Moon After Yule (Anglo-Saxon).

What Does It Mean For Witches?

As a new year dawns, it's time for rest and reflection before we set out on the next phase of our journey. While the cold weather lingers, take some time to sit by the fire, literally or metaphorically, and take stock of where you stand, what resources are available, and what you plan to do with them.

Check in with your near-and-dear following the mad rush of the holiday season as well. Make sure that friends, family, and community members around you are doing all right. Offer support and kindness where you can, but don't overextend yourself. It's your time to recuperate too, and it is good and healthy to set boundaries which allow time and space for yourself.

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

Winter is a prime time for storytelling. Back in the days before internet or television or radio, people would often read to each other or tell tales to pass the time. Consider re-reading a favorite book that inspires you or exploring some region of folklore or mythology you've been meaning to look into. If you have children who are of an age to enjoy stories, read them some of your favorites or introduce them to something new. Share stories and discussions with your witchy circle too!

While you're at it, take a moment to examine the role that folklore and stories play in your practice. If you subscribe to a particular mythos, be it through deities or just general belief, consider which parts of it resonate the most with you and why.

Consider also the lessons of the winter season - the necessity of rest between periods of growth and activity, and the role of death, cold, and darkness in the natural cycles of life. What do these things mean to you and your practice? Are they a source of fear or fascination? Do you come alive in the winter or bundle up and wait for spring? How can you best remind yourself to pause for breath as the year goes on?

And of course, the beginning of a new year is an excellent time for goal-setting and divination. You're making resolutions for your mundane life, so make a few for your craft while you're at it, and pull out your cards or runes or pendulum for a New Year forecast on how things might go.

Happy Wolf Moon, witches! 🐺🌕

SOURCES & FURTHER READING:

Bree's Lunar Calendar Series

Bree's Secular Celebrations Series

Wolf Moon: Full Moon in January, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Full Moon January 2024: Discover the Wolf's Thrilling Spiritual Meaning, The Peculiar Brunette.

Moon Info - Full Moon Dates for 2024

Calendar-12 - 2024 Moon Phases

Image Source: What Is A Wolf Moon?, The Fact Site.

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#54: The Missed (1.06)

gif cred: @nerd4music

All those years without Richonne on my screen, they were dearly missed by me. And I love how after all those years Richonne spent apart, they now get to express how deeply they missed each other too.

Also, it was nice to realize that the regal Richonne bedroom location wouldn’t only be shown in the teaser as they revisit it several times throughout episode 6. And this first time they cut back to it is one of my favorites 🥰...

After Beale tells Rick that today is “a day completely about tomorrow.” in the briefing room, we get this lovely scene of Rick and Michonne resting in bed.

I like how the cut to this bed scene seems to imply that this moment with Michonne is what Rick is thinking about while in this meeting with Beale. I know now that Rick is back to his senses and fully intent on going home with her, the CRM can hardly keep his focus anymore. Because for Rick, now it’s just about handling business and finally heading home with his wife. 

gif cred: @ricksmarlene

On the bed, Michonne is facing away from Rick and I love that her wedding ring is visible on her finger. Also the way they were getting it on in that teaser, you know Michonne’s a little understandably tired. And I'm inclined to think she knows she has to rest facing away from him because they know how irresistible they are to each other - so if she faces him they’re surely going to be back up on each other. 😊

It’s really sweet seeing Rick rubbing her back with his thumb and then especially sweet is when he says another one of my favorite things he’s ever said as he tells Michonne, “I missed you so much. Words can’t even say it right.” 😭

gif cred: @nat111love

Since returning to himself and coming alive again Rick has got Michonne multiple gifts, got down on one knee with a ring, and expressed in several ways how much he loves her and can’t live without her, and yet he still feels like he hasn’t quite found the way to truly capture how much he’s missed her. 🥲

Rick Grimes’ heart will never fail to make my heart melt. He loves her so much. Just when you think that’s already been made clear, this love story goes and makes it even clearer. Also, the fact that he told Michonne she never has to thank him ever meanwhile he's still eager to search for all the ways to let her know how much he missed her. 😭

And I love that he’s telling Michonne this here after everything they’ve been through - telling her that while he was away, it was her that his heart ached for every day.

gif cred: @nat111love

(Side note: I was just thinking again about how it really does track with Rick's character that he would decide to die once he felt he'd lost Michonne for good in TOWL. Because even in TWD, a light turned off in Rick anytime he thought he lost Michonne. Rick's resilient spirit is not easy to break, but his will to fight and live always takes a major hit whenever he thinks Michonne has been taken from him. 🥺 Especially because to love someone as strongly as Rick and Michonne do means to grieve them just as strongly when they're taken from you.)

Another headcanon that I always envision is that at some point when they’re settled back home, Rick shares with Michonne just how close he came to permanently ending it all during his darkest moments in the CRM.

Like when he says 'words can’t even say it right' it makes me think that part of that is because it’s hard to fully convey the depths of despair he felt when he thought he’d never see her again. He movingly opened up about it in Episode 4, but when you love and feel as deeply as Rick does you know what he expressed in ep 4 probably still feels like the tip of the iceberg to him in capturing exactly how he felt while apart. 

But fortunately one of the longest standing elements of Richonne’s soulmatism is their interconnectedness. They feel what the other feels and understand each other without even having to explain, and so I adore that Michonne responds by saying, “You don’t have to. I know.” 😭

gif cred: @nat111love

She says it so tenderly and assuringly. I love that this is her response because it has layers to it. One; it’s freeing Rick from feeling like he even has to find the words because she already knows and trusts how much he missed her. I mean even just from every time he kisses her it’s more than clear.

It reminds me of their ily scene in season 8 when Rick tells Michonne he’s sorry and she says “You don’t have to be.” She’s always so understanding and so good at lifting away anything that could make Rick feel like he hasn’t done enough.

And then two; best of all is that Michonne is saying Rick doesn’t have to find the words because she missed him that much too. 🥺

She knows exactly what it felt like to have her heart ache for him everyday they were apart. I’m sure when she told Nat that she could feel Rick out there in ep 2, what she felt was the immense longing he was emitting and it felt akin to the immense longing within her. 

And once again, this reminds me of the Top 10 Richonne scene in TWD when Michonne tells Rick she knows he’s okay because she’s okay too. I love that since season 4, these two have always had this unique connection that allows them to know each other intimately and innately and share the same feelings at the same level.

So after all these years, how badly they missed each other doesn’t even have to be said because it’s something they both know and felt equally. 🥲

Then, after Rick and Michonne express that they know how deeply they’ve missed the other, Rick then wants to know another thing -  if they’re crazy lol.

gif cred: @nat111love

I love that he just asks outright, “Are we crazy?” And yes they absolutely are and we love them for it. 😌 I mean, one of the first things Richonne beautifully bonded over is that they interact with dead people. They have a lot going on in those minds of theirs.

Michonne knows they’re crazy too so I love that she answers, “Certifiable.”

I think Rick asks this here because he knows they’ve concocted a whole plan to essentially go right into the belly of the beast and expose the most powerful military on the planet as their quick stop before going home together. Just a short little homebound detour, ya know? 😋

Ordinary people would probably be too afraid to risk taking this on, but Richonne said...

Like forget 'go big or go home,' Richonne knows they're capable of going big and going home. And they were smart to devise a plan that's more of a secretive inside operation rather than attempt to start a whole war against the CRM or something.

I like how Michonne’s response shows she has embraced the crazy in both her and her husband, so she’s just calmly ready to go through with this plan. 

gif cred: @nat111love

When they say this, there are then several TWD clips shown of memorable Rick and Michonne moments. They show Rick when he killed Pete, Michonne when she tore the Governor up and left him with one eye, Rick leaping from the RV onto a Walker in The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be, and Michonne killing walkers with her katana on the beach.

These scenes were included to show that the two are in fact a bit off their rocker but to me, these clips really just emphasized why Rick and Michonne are the baddest to ever do it. 💁🏽‍♀️🔥

They cut back to Rick as he listens to Beale’s spiel - his thoughts clearly elsewhere and his crazy clearly bubbling up to the surface slowly but surely.

gif cred: @nerd4music

Then there’s a nice and ominous callback to the TWD pilot as Michonne finds a stuffed toy bunny lying in the middle of the floor.

A soldier can be seen carting in even more stuffed animals in the background which has a chilling element to it because it lets you know that somehow children are involved in whatever destruction the CRM has in store. 😰

gif cred: @nerd4music

It’s an interesting visual with these children’s toys contrasting the cold and sterile environment. And it also had me like...CRM, what exactly do y'all got planned because...

Michonne picks up the bunny, curious, and then hands it over to a soldier. Then I’m hit hard when she thinks about her kids and they show flashbacks of Michonne with Carl in Clear, Michonne and Rick running to get Carl to the infirmary in No Way Out, and Michonne being pregnant with RJ on that horrible day when Joycelyn and her Children of the Corn attacked her. 😖

There's also the great moment when Michonne and Judith took down walkers together with their swords, and when she had a family group hug with Judith and RJ during their beach day. 😭 Michonne with her babies never fails to warm my heart. It's such a reminder that she's come so far in her journey. 🥹

And to me, any viewers' claims that Michonne "didn't have an arc throughout the franchise" and was a "stagnant character" are easily disproven when you really pay attention to Michonne’s story. People are entitled to their opinions of course, and in my opinion, Michonne has such a moving arc in TWD and TOWL.

Some seem to think that because she’s been extremely competent since Day One that means she didn’t grow. But if anything, I've found it particularly impactful how Michonne's story explores the distinct growth journey of someone so competent and capable. Someone who could have easily just lived life as the "efficient weapon" but learned to put her walls down and also live life as a human being with plenty of multifaceted emotions expressed over the seasons.

Plus, while a lot of Michonne's early days of the apocalypse weren’t shown, she wasn't always okay mentally, having struggled to recover from the incredibly hard losses of her toddler, boyfriend, and refugee camp. 😔

We saw that she obviously took the losses extremely hard and went crazy carrying her dead boyfriend and friend around on leashes. Like, imagine if Rick carried Lori and Shane’s corpses around on a leash. It was a bit insane to have been carrying around the walker-version of people super close to her.

I believe I remember Michonne told Ezekiel that when she put Mike and his friend on leashes it was first and foremost to torment herself and punish them, and it was only secondary that she realized they actually had a practical use to shield her from other walkers as well. So it makes sense that Michonne previously acknowledged she was a “crazy lady with a sword” when she found team family. 

And for Michonne to go from the 'crazy' closed-off lone wolf that her trauma turned her into, to being a sound leader, adored wife, and cherished mother surrounded by the love of her family was truly beautiful to watch organically evolve over the years. 👌🏽

So then, after seeing clips of young Carl, Judith, and RJ, they land the Grimes kids montage with the absolute gut punch of seeing Rick and Michonne burying Carl. 💔

I’ll always be broken up over the wrongful death of Carl Grimes btw. He’s forever missed. And while Carl may be gone, he is certainly not forgotten by us or his parents...and that’s made fully evident as the TOWL finale goes on. 👌🏽🥲

[thatfoxnamedfinley]

Ten Heartbeats...aka The Way of Kings thoughts

Holy fuck my friends

holy FUCK

this is the longest book I've ever read while simultaneously being one of the best books I've ever read

Friends, students, juvenile delinquents. LEND ME YOUR EAR.

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT, this is going to be a long one baby LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo

Them: Ok so everyone say their favorite character on three. Okay? One, Two, Three! -

Me: Szeth! Wait...er...I think actually it's Dalinar. Wait...but, Kaladin...er...and Syl too. Well, maybe...Wit...er...possibly Teft? Rock! Er...

Them:

The characters are EXCELLENT. Fascinating. Probably because the world building is so solid that they are able to all stand on their own in their own stories.

I know a big complaint is Shallan's parts in the beginning half (because we're so thirsty for Kaladin and Dalinar's stories) but I still really liked them. I know Capsule isn't the guy's name (spelled Kabsal I think) but I'm calling him Capsule. That's the one part I wasn't a huge fan of only because I'm not a fan of romance in anything I consume. There was a payoff at the end but still.

Now, I DO think that Jasnah CARRIED Shallan's chapters because a lot of what Shallan was trying to do revolved around Jasnah and stealing her Soulcaster and what Jasnah was researching and who Jasnah's father was and how intelligent Jasnah is. I actually found the philosophy of her killing those men in the alleyway to make Shallan more open minded to different ways of thinking to be quite brilliant. I also knew through other avenues of the story (Dalinar's POV) that what Jasnah was researching was major and the lore we would get from Shallan's POV would be invaluable to the world building. ESPECIALLY towards the back half when Shallan was drawing weird things and Capsule made his move to assassinate Jasnah (with bread and jam LMFAO bro)

The scene of Shallan running away from those creatures she was drawing was genuinely frightening, especially when she reached out towards the hand that was near her (in her drawing) and felt something there. I was like

And the soulcasting and that both she and Jasnah can do it without a soulcaster because...??????????? oh dont worry we dont know yet

And wtf is Shadesmar

like WTF is that place? WTF is there? What is it? A different plane? Are spren there? Are voidbringers there? Are not all spren good? Like, I know there are painspren and deathspren and rotspren and the question has continued to be asked if the spren are drawn to things or if they create them. But they seem to have limited intelligence (minus maybe Syl). But there's no reason to believe that maybe there are spren that aren't malicious; we just haven't seen them yet. They're in Shadesmar bitch

(side note, anticipationspren and gloryspren may be my fav, I can imagine them as little sprites with their hands raised in the air, lit af)

OH AND BITCH the revelation of the Parshmen being the VOIDBRINGERS????????????????? BITCH WTF

When it was mentioned the Voidbringers "hummed in song" I was like WAIT A FUCKING SECOND THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY

like WTF IS HAPPENING and when Jasnah was like "girlie, these bitches are ingratiated into every aspect of our society" Shallan and I were BOTH like

Kaladin and Syl. Baby boi and baby girl.

do not TOUCH me when Syl was holding up her little arms in front of the highstorm to try to shield Kaladin from it

When she brought him a leaf to make him feel better

Saying she tripped some men to get back at being mean to Kaladin and she was so proud of herself

At moments she gave Kaladin a reason to live and she was AMAZING. BOIIIIIII when she appeared a full woman next to Kaladin and the look on her face and the echo of his father's words making him go back and save Dalinar. Syl appearing like that honestly carried so much weight, especially when you find out she's an Honorspren. Spirit of oaths. Of promises. And nobility. And all of a sudden that moment and that battle had so much more gravity. I can close my eyes an imagine her hair blowing around her face as she watches Dalinar's banner fight to survive and the moment Kaladin realises he HAS to go help them....

BOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

ok wait wait wait my heartrate is increasing let me travel back a little bit

Kaladin and the process of getting his Bridge Four homeboys to trust him was

Rock and Teft are LEGENDS. Rock being the first one to really see Kaladin as a leader was iconic.

I'm listening to the audiobooks (if you are unaware and this is a first book posting of mine you've seen) I'm a REALLY slow reader. I get distracted and I have ADD so I need to be moving and doing other things (even if it's just COLORING while I listen, I can't just sit and read but I'm trying to get better at it), and there's a bookmark+note I left on chapter 21:

"Rock, I fear, may be an actual legend"

I actually ended up liking Teft a little bit more than Rock by the end of the book but Rock being the first one to actually be open and willing to Kaladin's leadership made me really like him immediately.

I liked Teft a lot because he was the one constantly checking up on Kaladin and asking him if he was okay, giving him space when he needed it but still staying close to him and I thought that was really sweet. When you're depressed, sometimes someone just needs to BE there with you and Teft seemed to understand the burden of leadership. And of course it helped that he saw Kaladin glow like a flamespren on steroids after Kaladin survived a highstorm.

All due respect I'm so glad he survived the highstorm cause, *COUGH* prophecy *COUGH*, but Sanderson described him as basically flapping in the wind like a wet sock

I liked when they were doing the assault to save Dalinar (SADEAS YOU FUCKING BASTARD OH I'LL GET TO HIM) and Bridge Four was watching him fight with his spear and they were all watching in awe and the Teft snapped out of it like OUR BRIDGELEADER NEEDS US COME ON MEN

And they all charged I was like

I came around on Moash too eventually XD

Lopen was funny cause he had like 15 cousins that owed him favors and I'm like BRO WHO ARE YOU

Hoid being Sigzil's old master was a pleasant surprise. When he was telling that story to Kaladin by the fire I was like "Wait a minute is he also a Worldsinger?? He knows all this SHIT!" Then when it was revealed I was satisfied. A pleasant tie-in to that character that made the world seem more connected.

My working theory is that spren gave the Radiants their powers and they have to do like an "equal exchange" thing (like Shallan with that voice that wanted something) for their powers to fully manifest. I don't know that you're "BORN" with powers so much as chosen by a specific spren with a specific power. But girl, idk this is just what my brain is thinking after lying in bed with scrap paper like

Dalinar.

Stoic boi. Soft boi. Emotional boi. Pent up boi. Sadeas and Dalinar have this exchange in which he has this to say about Dalinar. From Chapter 26, ahem, let me read it:

"It's odd, how a leader's influence can affect his men," Sadeas said. "So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They're so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others."

[...]

"But don't you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn't it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?"

"Yes," Dalinar said.

[...]

"And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?"

*folds sheet of paper away* And not only does this sound like the beginning of a very intense gay fanfic (note that my bookmark note in the audiobook read as follows: Yo Sadeas, this pillow talk is WILD rn bro. "Do you still feel the Thrill?" BRO WE'RE ON A HUNT FOR A CHASMFIEND RN THIS IS *NOT* THE TIME MY GUY), but Navani echoes something similar later. Dalinar does too when they finally accept their feelings for each other. He says he HAS to live for something or else he spirals out of control. The Codes, Gavilar, the book. If he gives himself any "leeway on the leash" then he rages. I found that to be ever present in his character, always having to calm himself down and ESSENTIALLY do breathing exercises when people pissed him tf off.

I found Dalinar's POV quite captivating. A warlord, a feared warlord, who has visions of...crazy shit during these highstorms and really goes through this internal conflict of if he is mad or not and if he should abdicate to his son. His boon and curse are unknown to us from the NightWatcher (although alluding maybe his curse has to do with his wife as he doesn't even remember her name).

During the battle at the end with the Parshendi when Sadeas abandons him I had several thoughts and feelings during this

1.) Kaladin choosing to go save him was fucking EPIC. When Dalinar sees them charging back to them, a single lone bridge crew...using THAT as a hope and fighting through the army....GOOSEBUMPS BRO

2.) I think that Parshendi that said he had "finally found" Dalinar after searching for him was Odium. I really think this. The odd respectful saluting towards Dalinar...it was all so odd but it makes me feel what I felt since we saw his very first highstorm vision. Dalinar is chosen. A lot of our MCs are. For what, I don't know. But they're chosen for this Everstorm coming.

3.) SADEAS. You insidious POS. From Dalinar's POV, it was written so well that I actually thought Sadeas was an ally. Maybe I'm a dumb mother fucker. I did NOT anticipate Sadeas betraying him. I really didn't. It's a trope and I should of seen that shit from a mile away but I didn't.

4.) It's actually heatwarming how much Adolin loves his father. during his brief POV's he thinks about him a lot in a very loving manner and it's actually lovely to see that the relationships he has with his two sons are HEALTHY. In Chapter 12, Adolin states the reason he fights is that he can never forgive the Parshendi for bringing his father so much pain after the assassination of his brother. That's like...super sweet! He even states in the same chapter that he thinks his father is the greatest man alive. Seeing a loving, healthy dynamic between a father and his son was actually super, super special and unexpected. He still had moments where he challenged his father and Dalinar LETS him but he spends a lot of his time trying to understand his father's thoughts and I can't WAIT to see more of this dynamic as well as more of Adolin and Renarin (I have a feeling this dude will be a dark horse later) in later books.

World building is great. I literally felt like I was dropped into this world with no explanations, expected to figure everything out. While there are frustrations in that maybe, I really liked it. It took me about a week to work through this book (I read along with the audiobook, like someone was reading to me at night) and many a night was I awake til like 4am listening and thinking about it. In my bed all curled up, listening and imagining the world. Giggling sometimes, gasping. Clapping vigorously. I almost cried once.

THIS is how stories should be felt. Like I'm by a fire, wrapped up in a blanket given to me from another world, lost in the stories of the stars when I look up. One of the best experiences I've had with a book and I'm truly looking forward to the next book.

Until next time *salutes*

side thoughts pulled from audiobook bookmarked notes:

Dalinar giving up his Shardblade for Bridge Four and all of the bridgeman was kinda hot, ngl

Syl may be a GOAT

"Brightlord Sadeas," Wit said, taking a sip of wine. "I'm terribly sorry to see you here." LMFAOO WHAT A CUNTY ICON i love Wit

wait if men don't write how does Szeth know how wtf (Szeth is an actual baby angel and he may be the side character I want to know the most about. Super super interesting)

Teft kinda clutch

"What is that?" Gaz said, pointing. "Bridge Crew. Carrying what I believe is...yes, it's a bridge." Kaladin is lowkey a comedian

wait where tf did Gaz go later on

Bridge Four nodding knowingly when they see Kaladin talking to air LMFAOOOO I fear this bridge crew is iconic

[ashleyleygraves]

If I were to make the next Zelda game, what would I change?

Bring back underwater traversal and real Water Temples.

If you were to think about any iconic Zelda item that isn't a weapon, you'd most likely think about the hook/clawshot. I like that we can climb, but I miss the claw/hookshot. Personally, I'd have the Skyward Sword climbing mechanics where you can climb a little bit but not much, but make it so that the hook/clawshot can go on any surface. Even better is a double claw/hookshot so you can swing around like Spider-Man

Linkle. That's right, from the original Hyrule Warriors spin-off game. It would be cool if we got to choose to play as Link or Linkle at the beginning of the game. Make it so that Link can't get into Gerudo Town without a disguise like in Breath of the Wild, but also make it so Linkle can't get into Goron City without a disguise, that way it's even and there's no major advantage.

If Linkle can't be an option, I'd have Link be a different race than Hylian. Tears of the Kingdom already teased us with this concept with the Ancient Hero. Before TotK, the closest we got was Ocarina of Time/Majora's Mask Link who thought he was a Kokiri but found out that he was in fact Hylian and also had ghost masks to shapeshift into other races. (Or you could also add Linkle as this race too. But I think that's a bit much)

20 hearts OR harder enemies. With BotW, Link had 30 hearts. In literally every other Zelda game he had 20. With 30 hearts, it was a decent change in normal mode, but in Master Mode, it made it essential. Enemies did more damage and evolved from their normal mode counterparts. In TotK, Link has 40 hearts and no Master Mode. The enemies do basically the same damage as in BotW's normal mode and sometimes even far less with the decayed-unfused weapons. So I would make the series go back to 20 hearts or have Master Mode as the default difficulty.

A new fast travel system. Look, shrines were a good idea. Especially for a fast travel system, but if we're getting rid of the 10-20 extra hearts how I would do it, we need something else. For this, let's turn to Skyrim for just a second. The fast travel system there is broken because every cave, tower, dungeon, etc. is a fast travel point, but let's look at the towns/cities and important landmarks: they're fast travel points once we discover them. So let's turn those things into fast travel points in this hypothetical Zelda game. Now, what about the less significant parts of the map? Well, a few train stations around the map with a train. I mean, trains are in the Zelda universe. Spirit Tracks literally is about that, so it wouldn't be a big deal. I had this idea back in 2021, and now even fucking Fortnite has a train around a map with a few train stations in random spots.

This one will make a bit more sense if you read my "If I were to make a Zelda game, what would I keep?" post. Heart Pieces/Stamina pieces. You could go the normal route with 4 pieces makes a full thing or go Twilight Princess style with 5 pieces makes a full thing. These would probably be given as quest rewards in quests that are Side Adventures rather than Main Quests or Side Quests. Side quests would give you rupees or a rare item and Main Quests will give you more story progression.

Bring back the "one-and-done" races like the Kokiri, Twili, Minish, Zonai, Lokomo, etc.

[bizaar]

Endless Summer ✧

Part 4: Dead Man's Party

Cruel Summer Masterlist

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pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+ minors dni), fluff, horny-loser!Eddie, brief descriptions of sexual fantasies, bullying, mentions of parental abuse, mentions of drug and alcohol use, boys being gross, swearing, and so, so SO much pining

word count: 23k

a/n: once again, if anyone knows the original creator of the gif below, please let me know so I can tag them, I’ve had these on my laptop for over a year and I’ve lost all my credits!!

Dreams are weird. 

Here he stands in the vacuum of a white and foggy nothing, with absolutely no context as to how he ended up there or what he is even supposed to be doing, and yet Eddie is oblivious to the fact that there is anything amiss. 

This is normal, and more to the point this is where he is meant to be, standing out in the middle of this nothing which is slowly revealing itself to be the side of the road, despite a complete and total lack of distinguishing features to establish it as such.

He gets the faintest suggestion of a feeling that he is waiting for something, but before he can stop to ask himself what for, a voice fills the air. 

“Eddie!”

Of course, he knows instantly who is calling – there are only a handful of people who so casually address him by his first name (the vast majority of his peers electing to stick to his last name or some mean-spirited nickname).

Fewer still of that small grouping happen to be of the fairer sex, but even if he didn’t immediately know, who else’s voice would he be hearing out here in the misty mire of his dreams?

 It is music to his ears, and when he turns to look, there you are, already rolling down the window of a sleek car that is most certainly not your dented, soup green Toyota Corolla. 

That’s normal. 

“Hiya Sweetness…” he says, grinning and, even in a dream, hyper conscious of trying not to sound too thrilled that you just so happened to happen upon him in this void of nothing by the side of the so-called-road – what are the odds? 

“Where are you headed?” You ask, leaning seductively over the car door and giving him full vantage of the tiny red bikini you’re wearing – somehow, you’re suddenly also in a pool. You’re in a car, but you’re in a pool. 

And that’s still completely normal too. 

“Home,” Eddie says, gesturing down the long stretch of nary a thing with a long sweep of his arm, “That-a-way.” 

You smile, pink tongue poking through the lines of your teeth, and you lick your lips long and slow. Vaguely, he can’t help but get the sense that Moving in Stereo is playing somewhere in the distance. 

“You want a ride?” You purr, pushing your tits up and looking not so much like yourself as you do an amalgamation of half a hundred different pinups and playmates who have kept Eddie’s company over the years.

“Sure,”

The answer pleases you immensely and the atmosphere grows thick with the heady weight of your approval. 

Your teeth shine in pearly lines behind ruby red lips as you jerk your chin up and bat your eyes all pretty. 

“Hop in and I’ll suck your cock,” —

THUMP THUMP THUMP. 

The banging on Eddie’s bedroom door rattles it in its frame, lancing through his bleary subconscious and startling him into waking. 

The bubble of his dream pops with a fizzle, and just like that, you and the unknowable side of the road are replaced with the socked in atmosphere of a filthy bedroom and a gruff middle aged voice speaking at him through layers of warped hollow core. 

And just when things were starting to get good — ain’t that just the way. 

Lying face down in the rumpled sheets of his unmade bed, Eddie opens his eyes to the real world, and any lingering essence of the dream immediately begins to fade, replaced instead by the voice of his uncle and a sharp rattling door handle. 

“Get up, Ed!” Wayne calls. 

Eddie imagines it is meant to be the warning of an impending entrance, a gentlemanly way of telling him to make himself decent before anyone has to witness (or be witnessed in) any untoward morning actions.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been caught jerking off when he’s supposed to be getting ready for school. 

“No fuckoff,” Eddie moans, burying his face into the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut until he sees stars, willing them to take the shape of nondescript pool-cars and bodies in tiny bikinis — it’s not working, and now the door is creaking open.

“You better get your ass up if you wanna have time to shower,”  

He pulls the pillow over his head and whines out a moody complaint. 

“Five more minutes,” Eddie huffs, not caring about showers or school or whatever other bullshit reason Wayne has decided it’s so important he get up right this very moment. 

The man couldn’t be more urgent if the goddamn house was on fire.

“I’m not gonna tell you again,” Wayne says without any real tooth behind the threat.  

If his eyes were open, Eddie would have rolled them. 

In the bad old days, his father wouldn’t have bothered with such a luxury. Al Munson would have told his son once, and if he failed to heed that warning, a very rude awakening was sure to follow, one which varied in levels of violence depending on the old man’s mood and whether or not he’d started drinking yet. 

Eddie is no stranger to waking under a flipped mattress or splash of cold water (or warm beer). Sometimes, he can even still feel the burning of the cigarette his father stubbed out on the bottom of his foot when he failed to get out of bed on the first morning of the eighth grade, but these days he can rest easy knowing his uncle hasn’t got the same penchant for that kind of insanity.

He just likes to stand in doorways and offer cryptic prophecies like he thinks he’s the old man on the mountain or something.   

“She’s gonna be here any minute,” Wayne stresses.

And Eddie has got no earthly idea what kind of bizarre empty threat that is supposed to be — until he remembers the G rated source material behind his dream. 

The reason he was standing on that very real stretch of side road as your little green car came rolling up at precisely the right moment. More importantly, he remembers the plans you made after. The van is dead and he’s catching a ride with you to school today. 

“Oh, shit!”  

He is only vaguely aware of the sound of his uncle retreating and muttering to himself, something to the tune of “oh, sure, now it’s oh shit.” 

When he reaches for his Kmart Special digital alarm clock, which isn’t worth its weight in batteries, Eddie puts a fist into its winking face and punches it clear off his nightstand. Then, he upends himself over the side of the mattress and goes spilling out onto the floor as he leans over to reach for it. 

Lying upside down in a jumbled heap of pillows and blankets, he smashes buttons until the device creaks in his hand and winks off.

“Come on you — fucker!” 

It’s only when he gives it a hot-tempered shake that it comes back on and reveals the terrible truth.

It’s 7:22, and the returning memory of the previous afternoon’s coordination sends him into a blind panic.

You very clearly told him that you would be back at 7:30, leaning out your car window (and most certainly not offering to suck his cock) after you’d dropped him off. 

“How’s that sound?” you asked.

And because he’s the most insufferable human being on the planet, he gave you a sleazy, shit-eating grin and said, “Like a hot date.” 

The van is temperamental on a good day, but it had been acting up from the moment he turned the keys over that morning. Every couple of weeks it gets the notion in its head that it’s going to flirt with going to that great big used car lot in the sky, and every couple of weeks Eddie forces it to limp home where it can sit for a few days and think about what it’s done, but it’s more or less reliable. 

So it’s no wonder he went about the rest of his day with nary a thought in that head so stuffed up with yearning and dirty dishes and Shakespearean bullshit that it would leave him stranded on the side of the road. 

Now, he has eight minutes to pull his shit together before he’s expected to resume his sudden tenancy to your passenger seat. You’re on your way – ETA any minute, so says his uncle – and it sends him into a flurry of movement.

When he checks the clock again hoping maybe he read it wrong the first time, he is alarmed to find that it’s already been a full minute since he last looked. 

“Oh, shit! — shitshitshit!”

Why, oh why, today of all days, did he have to sleep in?

After a moment of aimless scrambling and trying to remember how to function, so recently removed from dreamland, he hears the familiar thumping cadence of his uncle’s gait coming back down the hall and Eddie feels the phantom throbbing of cigarette burns, bringing with them the consequences of a call unheeded. 

He can almost hear his father slurring “I’m only gonna tell you once,” and Eddie’s heart rockets up into his throat as he thrashes to free himself of the tangle of blankets. 

Wayne is still coming down the hall, and Eddie tries to read the man’s mood just by the familiar thump thump thumping – can footsteps sound angry? A traumatic childhood tells him, yes, they most certainly can.  

“I’m up!” Eddie shouts, standing up with enough velocity to very briefly strike him with the bends, dizziness sending dark spots exploding across his vision, “I’m up, I’m getting dressed!”

He whirls in useless circles and teeters hard to the left as his head swells and swims, hoping the suggestion of frantic movement will deter his uncle from rushing him any more than he already is.

“Fantastic,” Wayne deadpans from the doorway where he stands watching the frenetic display, “Alright with you if I take a piss?”

Oh. He’s about to tell the man to do whatever he wants, then he makes a move for the adjacent room and Eddie remembers all the things he still has to do. 

“No! Waitwait no don’t I gotta get in there! I gotta–” he shouts in a garbled rush as he flies past his uncle and slips in to the bathroom, shutting the door in the man’s face and flipping on the light.  

He’s got his toothbrush in one hand and a stick of deodorant in the other before Wayne can even protest the shortstop.

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” he demands, voice cutting through the wooden barrier like a crash of thunder.

“I’ll be right out!” Eddie promises around his toothbrush, with a cloud of minty drool oozing down over his chin to drip into the sink.

On the other side of warped hollow core, he hears his uncle retreat back down the hall, grumbling, but he’s already sunk into a haze of brushing and reciting force of habit lines of poetry.

Some kids learn to say the alphabet while they brush, others do it to the tune of Happy Birthday. When Eddie was a kid, his mother had him brushing to the tones of Edgar Allen Poe, and even after all this time, he still can’t shake the habit.

Once upon a midnight dreary,  while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore… 

But Poe is nothing if not just another long-winded Eddie, one with no remorse for this one who happens to be pressed for time, so he elects to go for the abridged version. The ghosts are just going to have to forgive him for that.

He brushes and spits, and rinses, all with those gloomy stanzas running endlessly through his head.  

While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door… 

Thump thump thump.

…quoth the raven – 

“Can you get the door?” Eddie calls, and hears the vaguest hint of a disgruntled rumbling as his uncle heaves himself up from the Laz-E boy. 

Half a second later, there comes the telltale sound of the front door creaking open, followed very quickly by your voice, and Eddie’s stomach does a cartoon flip-flop and screams an incoherent exclamation – you’re here! 

And it’s only then that he notices how he can see all his tattoos and his nipples and his belly button staring back at him in the mirror. 

You’re here and he’s not dressed. 

“Oh, my God!” 

He’s still standing there in his goddamn undies, separated from you by only the shortest distance imaginable, and now he’s spinning in those useless circles again, half-naked and desperately looking for something to cover his shame.

Eddie’s never spent a moment of his life wishing for something as frivolous as a bathrobe, and yet, as he attempts to decide if it’s more scandalous to wrap a towel around his waist or simply live his boxershort truth, he’d give his right nut to be that fancy.

The cold comes rushing in as he eases the door half an inch open and attempts to evaluate the situation, crouching low and listening intently (as if making himself smaller is somehow going to make him less naked). 

Eddie hears you greet his uncle from two rooms over. 

“Good morning, Mr. Munson,” you say, and he winces.

Because he knows Wayne does not abide being called anything but his name, and he prays to any higher power that may be watching that the man is suddenly and miraculously cured of his hideous tendency toward being an insufferable twat. 

“Wayne,” his uncle says gruffly – Thank you, God – followed quickly by the muffled sounds of further conversation and the heavy thunk of the door being shut. 

“Yer that friend of Ed’s, right?” Wayne’s voice comes floating down the hall. “The one from the bar?” 

Of course he had to say it like that. 

Never mind everything else Eddie told him about you after he got home that night last week — no, you’re just his friend from the bar. 

“Yep, that’s me,” you say with no small amount of humor tinging your voice. 

“Heard you had to rescue him from the side of the road—” Wayne starts.

“That’s not what happened,” Eddie shouts, instantly forgetting that he is meant to be listening in secret.  

The last thing he needs is to draw attention to himself in his undressed state, but he can’t just sit there and let his uncle embarrass him like that, not in front of you. 

Of course, there’s nothing overtly embarrassing about the notion that you rescued him, only the way Wayne insists on saying it. 

The van died, Eddie started to walk, you came along and offered him a ride. Nothing more, nothing less. Of course, he failed to be anywhere even remotely that casual about it when he had to explain the lack of his van to Wayne later that evening, and therein lies the problem.

Wayne knows Eddie likes you, even if neither of them have overtly broached the subject.

And of course, now that he’s been discovered lurking, Eddie knows he can’t linger, so he moves as quick as he can. He is a pale flash of skin in the dark, scrambling the distance between the hall bath and his bedroom, a few steps made frighteningly unnavigable by his stunning lack of clothing. 

Eddie briefly glimpses you as he goes, standing politely in the living room with your hands laced behind your back as you turn and take in the ramshackle decor of Casa Munson.

He wishes he’d had time to clean, but since he already used what little time he had lying in, chasing his sickly-sweet dreams, he’s just going to have to live with the state of things as they currently are… and hope that there is nothing too seriously embarrassing lying out, waiting to scandalize you.

He doesn’t need a rerun of what happened with the pinup in his locker. 

“Hiya Sweetheart!” he calls, daring one second more before he slips into the velvet dark of his room.

“Oh — hi! Good morning!” Eddie hears you say distantly, and the acknowledgment causes his insides to flutter and bloom with sunshine lollipops and rainbows.

Having a crush is so fucking embarrassing, and Wayne is more than happy to exploit that.

“Oh, goddammit — you still ain’t got pants on?” He calls. 

You giggle distantly, and Eddie slams his bedroom door. 

The clothes scattered to every odd corner of his room are what he would refer to as “more or less clean” … which is to say, not. Normally, that would be fine, but fine is simply not good enough if it means sharing the sealed proximity of your compact little car, especially when he didn’t have time to shower. 

Suddenly, Eddie is wildly paranoid that he’s radiating a particularly heinous funk that is going to send you running for the hills. That’s never been something he’s been particularly concerned about, and it’s wildly disconcerting.

After all, what is a group of guys if not a raucous cloud of sweat and body odor and farts? That’s just one of those things – a gen-u-ine fact of life. Guys don’t give a shit about that kind of stuff, they barely even notice it if not to laugh, but girls? 

Girls care. 

Some of the far more precious members of the sex tend toward offense by that kind of stuff, and while Eddie has no clue as to your disposition, no amount of sniff testing garners any answer about whether or not he stinks. 

All Eddie can smell is his room, and his room smells like it always does – like weed and dirty clothes and the underlying guff of something harsher. It does nothing to instill confidence in him as he begins the hectic process of dressing.

He zips his jeans and reaches over to punch the strip vent at the top of his window in the hope that a little fresh air might shine some light on the emergency at hand. He is tragically disappointed to find no change, save for the November cold ekeing in and flash-freezing him with goosebumps. 

Eddie doesn’t know what to do. 

He can’t go out to ask Wayne for his opinion on the matter, not with you standing there and not with his pack-a-day sense of smell (or lack thereof). Then again, even if he dared to pose such a vulnerable question as “do I stink?” while standing in the presence of the object of his undying affections (regardless of what Wayne knows about that) the only answer he would be sure to receive is a resounding “to high heaven”, regardless of the truth. 

So, Eddie resorts to a seldom-used plan B: cologne, and lots of it.

If he can’t smell good naturally, he’ll douse himself in the stuff and hope for some kind of miraculous happy medium.

“Hurry it up, Ed,” Wayne calls from down the hall, and it presses him into action. 

Don’t rush me! He wants to howl, but he’s worried that doing so will make him sound far too much like some whiny little freak who slept in past his carpool date (ding ding ding, you are correct sir), so he swallows the intention and leaps across his mattress to ease the door open.

“I’ll be out in two minutes, I swear,” he calls down the hall, doing his best to tear his room apart as quietly as possible as he begins searching for the half-empty bottle of cologne he’d received as a Christmas present a few years back. 

In the other room, Wayne makes a harsh sound, something like a grunt twisted out of shape by the first rattling of a smoker’s cough.

“Where’ve I heard that one before,” he mumbles, undoubtedly to you. 

Eddie doesn’t have time to worry about whatever conversation is sure to follow such an aside, or whether Wayne has already gone and whipped out the baby pictures. 

The thought is terrifying – and here’s one where Ed took off all his clothes to run in the neighbor’s sprinklers, just look at the rash he’s got on his little butt – NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! 

He needs to get out there, he needs to get you out of here, and he needs to find that bottle yesterday, but he has no idea where to start looking.  

He hasn’t seen it in months – years even – and he barely even remembers if it was something halfway decent or just run-of-the-mill bargain bin trash. 

Then again, Eddie distinctly remembers one instance at the Hideout of a sloppy-drunk middle-aged woman leaning over the bar and pulling him forward by the front of his shirt while he was wearing it. She batted her eyelashes and told him he smelled nice, and sure, she was just trying to get laid, but a compliment’s a compliment, and those are hard to come by for a guy like him in a town like this.

Naturally, even with his dresser drawers upended onto his bedroom floor, Eddie can’t find the bottle of dollar store cologne, and he’s well beyond out of time.

So, he reverts to Plan C, which is to tear an insert for a fragrance called Sex Bomb out from between the sticky pages of a well-loved Hustler magazine (the original home of his since discarded locker playmate). 

He gives himself half a dozen paper cuts rubbing it across the length of his chest and under both arms before throwing on the closest shirt within reach, which just so happens to be an old Hellfire Club t-shirt with a greasy pizza stain on the front. 

He barely has half a moment to try and look at himself in the mirror around Sweetheart before Wayne is shouting down the hall again.

“You’re gonna be late!” he calls, with long emphasis on the “late”, because what he really means is he’s going to make you late, and you’re just too polite to say anything about it.

No time to change, he’s just going to have to live with the stain. Eddie doesn’t even bother tying his shoes before he shrugs into his jacket and heads for the door. 

Then, at the very last second, he stops short as he remembers your tattered copy of Dune sitting on his bedside table. He contemplates returning it and the precious contents scrawled across its pages, then spies the dusty paperback sitting on his floor, wedged beneath the stumpy, broken leg of his desk. It’s an easy choice to make 

Eddie drops to his knees and relieves it of its terrestrial duty, then watches blankly as the bench lists and sends everything piled high on its flattop crashing to the floor.

Whoops. 

“…Everything okay in there?” Your voice comes filtering down the hall. 

“Yep,”

He makes a mental note to clean it up later (never) as he tucks the book into the back pocket of his jeans and whips his door open. 

Wayne is back in the Laz-E boy when Eddie finally emerges, and you’re perched on the edge of the couch with your hands tucked neatly into your lap. 

He’s relieved to see that, despite the morning grump, Wayne at least had the decency to offer you a seat. More importantly, Eddie is relieved to find the conspicuous lack of the family photo album spread out between you. 

Which means no baby pictures – Thank fucking Christ. 

“Hi,” you chirp when he arrives, jumping to your feet and crossing in front of Wayne and the television with an apologetic smile.

Before Eddie can reciprocate the greeting, your eyes flit down and your brows jump.

“Uh-oh,” you say, and drop into a graceful crouch to take his laces in hand and – his heart throbs in his chest and he flashes a panicked look at Wayne – you take the time to carefully tie his shoes. First one, and then the other. 

And has anyone ever been treated with such purposeful care? Such reverence? 

Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD.

He’s so not normal about anything happening here – this flagrant act of decency, perpetuated so easily and without a single prompting instance. You, fixing something simply because you noticed it was out of place. 

Something far too big for so small a gesture begins to swell and throb in the space behind his lungs and Eddie feels an unbearable heat blooming across his face as the television vomits a muted stream of morning show prattle to back your benevolent care. 

His heart is beating itself into concussion against the prison bars of his ribs by the time you come back up to meet him. 

“There,” you say with a shy, satisfied smile, “Now you’re perfect.”

It hits him like a fist to the gut and leaves him genuinely winded. In the grand scheme of things, those three little words do more to wreck Eddie than your dreamland doppelganger’s proposition ever could. 

Whatever happens, however the chips may fall and whether you ever make it past this moment – this beautiful, perfect, bizarre fucking moment – this tiny little nothing (it’s everything, you’re everything) will be enough to sustain Eddie for the rest of his life.   

A thousand miles away and to his immediate right, he hears his uncle release a slow breath as salt and pepper brows climb toward his receding hairline.

“Whoa,” Wayne mutters as he bears accidental witness to something that feels unbearably important, and Eddie hopes to God that you don’t notice the way he’s turned feverish, suddenly sweating underneath all his layers.

“Ready to go?” you ask.

He nods a stupid rubber up and down and lurches to the left to whip the door open and hold it for you. 

“Let’s hit it,” he says.

Your car keys jingle as you duck down under his arm and slip back out into the world, the invisible ticking clock of arrival bearing down on you, though not so much that you forget your manners.  

“Oh — bye, Wayne,” you call over your shoulder as you start down the steps, “Nice seeing you again!”

Before he commits to following you out, Eddie whips around to give his uncle one last giddy look - did you see? Did you hear what she said? Can you believe any of the magic you just witnessed?! – grinning so widely he can feel the muscles in his cheeks creaking as they pull nearly past their limit. His face could tear off at the seams, and he wouldn’t give one hot shit about it, because now he’s perfect. 

You said that – you actually said that — so it must be true.

Wayne just shakes his head, already flipping through the pages of the latest issue of American Gardener Magazine.   

“Have him home before dark,” he calls, and even that kernel of irreverence is not enough to put a damper on Eddie’s euphoria, despite the way it twists a chord of bewildering embarrassment in his midsection.

He shuts the door with a slam, clears the steps in one mighty leap, and feels the vicious stab of pins and needles exploding in his knees when he lands and breaks into a short jog to keep pace with you.

Thank God the van is such a clunky piece of shit – imagine the scenario where he didn’t get to receive this gift of a morning, where you didn’t pull over to the side of the road to rescue him from his relatively short walk home and kindly offer to drive him to school. Just imagine.

He can’t, he won’t, he refuses – he really hurt himself jumping off the steps like that.  

“How’d you sleep?” Eddie asks, trying not to limp under the duress of his knees demanding to know why he is the way he is, and feeling his heart palpitate when you stop at the driver’s side door to look back at him.

Despite the chaos of the previous two minutes, it feels so incredibly correct seeing you like this. You’re familiar as childhood, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, first thing in the morning like you’ve carpooled every day of your lives since you were kids – imagine that. 

“Good,” you tell him, smiling secretly as he meets your gaze over the top of your little green car – you open the driver’s side door with a pop, and you tease him, “Wayne says you slept in,”

Eddie scoffs, and mirrors your action, sliding easily into your passenger seat – falling into, more like – and knocking his head on the door frame as he does. Ouch. 

He’s not used to riding in vehicles he doesn’t have to climb up into. 

“Wayne says a lot of things,” Eddie winces, thankful as his blundering goes unnoticed.   

You pull your door shut with a hard thunk and when Eddie does the same, it seals you in together. For a moment, he’s overwhelmed to be so completely blanketed in the aura of you. 

Your space, your car, your perfume – he’s losing his mind and he hopes beyond hope that it all lingers in his clothes and hair for days to come, just so he can revisit this moment in the cold blue hours of the impending mornings he is doomed to spend without you.  

Before he can settle too far into the despair of that future, Eddie lifts up to fish the book out from where it’s been sandwiched between the seat and his back pocket and angles it toward you.

“Candygram.” 

“Oh!” You say, taking it and looking it over, “Oh…what’s this?” 

“A book,”

You scoff, and somehow you manage to make the sound lighthearted and kindly. 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious, I can see it’s a book…” 

Eddie pulls his shoulders up defensively.

“I just thought it might be up your alley.” He stays facing forward as he says it — casual, calm, cool — but can’t help but steal a sidelong glance in your direction to try and gauge your reaction, “Y’know, since you seem to like sci-fi and all…” when his explanation goes without a response, he reaches over to tap the cover, “Heinlein’s a good place to start. He’s pretty much king of the genre,”

You turn the book over in your hands and hold it up so you can see the worn, lined cover to The Moon is a Harsh Mistress – no title has ever sounded so unbearably trashy until this very moment.

Much to Eddie’s patent glee, you bite your lower lip in an attempt to stifle a smile when you open the cover and see his fourth-grade chicken scratch etched into the title page – Properetey of Eddie Munson.

A relic from the days before the word “property” had come across his vocab sheet, and back when Eddie Munson was still just a little boy with a ninth-grade reading level who couldn’t spell and lived in a three-bedroom house with two whole parents. 

Go figure.  

He’s not even embarrassed to share that with you – mostly because he’s glad you like his little gift, but also because it buys him a little more time with your private annotations. If sharing a peek into the murky lens of days bygone is the price for such a private intimacy, he’ll happily pay it.

A mind’s eye for a mind’s eye.  

Satisfied, you lay the mass-market paperback on the dashboard for later and twist your key in the ignition. 

The engine turns over with a gentle rumble — a strident contrast to the phlegmy, hacking roar he gets from the van — and suddenly, butterflies are replaced with gut-wrenching nausea as the radio kicks on and Eddie is forced to endure hearing a miserable three seconds of Crazy Little Thing Called Love. 

He yelps – actually yelps – and slaps the dial over to the next station, which delivers nothing but blessed static.

It fills the car and sets his hair standing on end, and he tries not to look too conspicuously guilty of anything as he begins to feel the heat of your startled gaze on the side of his face.

“Everything okay?” 

“Yeah… about that…” he begins lamely, trying with everything in his power not to think about that scorching, tumultuous summer or how goddamn strong Stacey Keats’s thighs were, squeezing around his neck and shoulders while she attempted to suffocate him. “... I got nothing, sorry.” 

You blink back at him, wide-eyed but ultimately forgiving of such an act of sudden spastic violence.

You regard him with a cautious smile, “…No Freddie for Eddie, huh?”

“Uh… hah, no. I mean … just not that song.”  

“Fair enough,”

It’s already in his head though, and Eddie is just about ready to spend the rest of his day buffeted with trauma flashbacks of losing his virginity when you pull the gear shift into reverse, and put your hand on the back of his headrest as you twist around to back out.

Thrust into such intimate proximity – this close, he swears he can see the individual hairs of your lashes, curled up so perfectly to kiss your shadowed lids – he forgets there ever was such a person with stunningly muscular thighs named Stacey Keats. 

It’s just you and him and this cloyingly sweet atmosphere, seeping into every fiber of his being. Eddie tries not to stare at you too intently and knows he is failing miserably when he watches you flatten your lips against what he imagines can only be a smile.  

“You smell good,” You say softly, and he barely hears you over the roaring of his blood thundering through his veins.

He thinks he manages to force out a choked “thanks” but he can’t be sure with how quickly his senses are abandoning him. 

It occurs too late that he ought to return the compliment. Your perfume is in his sinuses now, with the faintest undertone of shampoo and something sweeter, which he can only imagine must be the natural smell of your flesh. It comes together in a stupefying combination that turns his tongue fat and fills his mouth with saliva as it envelopes him in a sickly sweet embrace.

Eddie has to grit his teeth just to keep his head above water. He knows if he isn’t careful, and if he lets it overwhelm him, he’s in danger of doing something insane like telling you he loves you.   

Being a person is a particular sort of agony, he is coming to learn.  

You aren’t even touching him, and still he feels the ache of your hand’s absence when you take it back from the headrest to take hold of the steering wheel — he can’t really be that starved for touch, can he? He’s not actually that pathetic… 

“You can put something else on if you want,” you say, gesturing to the well in the passenger’s side as you complete your three-point turn and begin the long, bumpy trek back up the drive to catch the turn off to Kerley Avenue.  

Yes please, anything to distract from the way his heart is beating itself senseless against his ribs. 

Eddie surges forward to fish a rectangular box out from where it’s been stashed beneath his seat and flips up the hard vinyl lid, revealing a collection of cassette tapes – your music. 

“Ah ha!” he cries, unable to separate the total and abject weirdness bubbling up alongside his mounting excitement, “Avast ye, me hearties! Ex marks the spot – buried tray-sure!”

In the apparent inability to function normally, Eddie’s subconscious inexplicably turns pirate, which is utterly mortifying and something that – to his knowledge – has never happened before.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and it will be nothing more than the first signs of an inoperable brain tumor and not just his painful inability to be normal, but beside him, you do your best to swallow an undainty snort of laughter and fail miserably. Thankfully it is not a mean sound, then again Eddie is not entirely sure you’re capable of such a thing.

It helps to alleviate some of the humiliation of the previous moment as with hungry, waggling fingers, he peels back the curtain to take one more coveted peek into your secret world. 

For a long few moments, neither of you speak, but he can feel you trying to split your attention between him and the road as he takes steady, focused inventory of your taste in music. 

It’s all more or less what he would have expected – a lot of 70s rock, some pop, some disco. There are a few surprises in there, like the Alan Parsons Project and Supertramp, but Eddie sits pleased with the run-of-the-mill presence of Fleetwood Mac, Bowie, and Kate Bush.

For as much as you continue to surprise him every time you spend any amount of time together, there is a strange comfort in knowing that you’re not actually all that hard to pin down. You like exactly what he expects you to like, and somehow that makes it feel easier to know you. 

When he sits in silent regard of your tapes for too long, you start to fidget, and when the silence persists even after that, he can sense a tangible nervousness leaching out of you, clouding the atmosphere like blood in water.

“Just… try not to judge me too hard, okay?” you finally say, “I’ve been told my taste is…hmm… eclectic?”

It comes tumbling out of your mouth like a dirty word you’re shy about using and Eddie bites the inside of his lip to try and temper the wicked little smile forming there. 

“That’s not always a compliment,” he hums, imagining the fights you must have with your shitty friends over what to play and, more than likely, losing out over their preferences — it’s Belinda Carlisle over Pink Floyd, every day of the week, and how you must suffer for it. 

“Believe me, I know.” You say, “I mean, try explaining to your PTA treasurer mother why you’re listening to a band called Judas Priest –”

“Judas Priest!” he shouts, a little too loud for such an enclosed space. 

He didn’t mean to say it like that, but how else is he supposed to react when you hit him with such a ridiculous concept?

The reaction makes you jump, and suddenly you’re staring back at him in owlish surprise — he almost feels bad about that, even as he begins to laugh.  

“What?” you ask.

“Please. Now you’re just trying to impress me,”

Your brows furrow over your pretty eyes, making a crease between them, and Eddie has to resist the urge to smooth it out with his thumb. 

“No, I’m not,” you say. 

He calls your bluff. 

“You do not listen to Judas Priest,”

“Yes I do,”

“No, Sweetheart, you don’t, and that’s totally cool! But let’s just be honest with each other here.”

“How dare you.” You gasp, feigning complete and abject offense, “You don’t think I can rock out?”

Eddie snorts, because no, actually, he doesn’t. You, all sweetness and sugar (with a mother in the PTA – because that absolutely tracks, he bets you were a girl scout too) headbanging and growling out the chorus to Exciter like you think you’re Joan Jett or something? 

Absolutely not, and your mouth falls open as you come to realize this fact. 

“You don’t!” You gasp, “Well excuse me, Mr. Rockstar, but I thought I was supposed to be Corroded Coffin’s biggest fan! What happened to that, huh?” 

“Listen,” Eddie starts with a diplomatic hand, “I’m sure you think you’re hard, listening to all that bubblegum shit they play on the radio — Twisted Sister and Def Leppard, am I right?”

You set your jaw and your face flushes with the faintest hint of pretty, indignant color. 

“So what?” You press, 

“So, I’m just saying, there’s metal and then there’s metal.” He continues, “Maybe you’ve got a little Zeppelin on your rotation, and I’ll even buy the occasional foray into AC/DC, but Judas Priest? Come on, Babe — don’t kid a kidder.”

He’s testing the waters with that sneaky little term of endearment, that’s for sure, and with the way you’re sitting there gawping at him, Eddie is almost sorry he tried it. 

Maybe he’s read the room wrong and getting a little too familiar too fast, but maybe you’re trying a little too hard to convince him of something that is so blatantly untrue it’s laughable.   

Your face twists into a mask of genuine annoyance then, and Eddie can’t help but fixate on how much attention you’re putting into glaring at him and not watching the road – it makes his insides squirm with repressed nerves and latent images of cars in ditches. 

How he ever managed to let you start this car when neither of you is wearing your seatbelt is beyond him – he guesses he’s just that sick with the fever of you – and he’s suddenly kicking himself for so blatantly antagonizing you. It’s all fun and games until you’re upside down on the side of the road.

“Next…” Eddie starts, casually reaching over your head to snag the belt, pull it across your lap, and buckle it into place. “...you’re gonna tell me you listen to Iron Maiden,” 

“I do listen to Iron Maiden!” You cry, head snapping back to the front and swatting his hand away. 

Eddie snorts out a scoff.

“You’re such a liar,” 

“And you, Eddie Munson,” you begin. “Are an unbelievable snob.”

It forces a startled bark of laughter out of him, once again too loud for the enclosed space – that’s a first. He’s been accused of a lot of things, but never of snobbery.

“Prove me wrong,” he says, grinning wickedly and leaning dangerously far into your space.

Your seatbelt doesn’t let you get far, but you rise to his challenge anyway, and suddenly you’re nose to nose.

“I will!” you insist, “Keep looking, Smart Guy, since you’re so damn sure – go on. All the way to the back.” 

Ever eager to please, Eddie resumes his inventory with renewed interest, rapidly flipping through the likes of Elton John, the BeeGees, ABBA, John Denver, and half a dozen other bands, none of which are even remotely within the vicinity of what you so calumnously claim to listen to. 

On and on, he is greeted with the top forty of this decade and the last: Tears for Fears, Loggins and Messina, Queen, The Clash, Dusty Springfield, The Go-Go’s, Jefferson Starship, Paul Simon, Duran Duran, ELO, KC and the Sunshine Band – the list is neverending. 

The further he goes, the surer he gets, shaking his head and chuckling smugly to himself. 

He’s so right, and you’re so busted. 

“There’s no way you listen to–” and then, like happening on a unicorn, he finds it. 

Stuck in at the far back between Mötley Crüe and (lo and behold) Iron Maiden, is the Screaming for Vengence album, on glorious cassette tape. 

Buried treasure.

All further taunting immediately dies on his tongue as he suddenly gets a very good taste of his own foot. 

“HA!” you shout, and it rings loudly in his ears, “I told you!” 

You snatch the tape from his hand when he holds it up and immediately feed it into the player. After a moment of mechanical whirring, the car fills with the introductory riff of You Got Another Thing Coming, and Eddie is stunned – truly stunned. 

Judas fucking Priest. 

“Oh, my God,” he says, “How is this possible? How did I not know you were cool?”

“Because you’re a snob!” You punch him in the shoulder and it’s not half as startling as the way you bloom before his eyes, “And I’m a stunningly mysterious creature with many secrets to behold!” 

While both of those facts are inarguably true, Eddie has never seen you so excited. Who knew riling you up was the key to opening the door to your life? It stirs a dangerously mischievous urge in him as he tucks that revelation into his back pocket for later. 

Still, he’s never wanted to know more about someone than he does right now. Eddie is ravenous to know everything there is to know about you, and he’s trying so desperately to be cool about it.  

“I’m serious — how’d you get into Judas Priest? Girls like you don’t listen to music like this.” 

You grin.

“A snob and a chauvinist. You’re oh-for-two there, Buddy-Boy — but if you must know…?”

“I must,” 

You cast a sultry sidelong glance at him and Eddie is instantly shot full of holes. 

“I was exposed at a very young and impressionable age,”

Which means someone sat you down and picked out a song special for you, knowing you’d love them before you even knew you had the proclivity for metal in you. Eddie is suddenly so incredibly jealous, that he feels like he could burst. What a devastatingly intimate thing to have missed out on – how he wishes that could have been him, young and dumb and unlocking something so important in you as an entire genre of music. 

It’s not fair that he’s had to wait this long to get to know you, and that he’s missed out on years of having a friend like you. He suddenly can’t believe he went so long not knowing what he was missing.

“Who did this to you? Tell me everything,” Eddie pleads, “The suspense is literally killing me.”

You bite back a grin and turn your attention to the road as you explain. 

“You went to Hawkins Middle, right?” You ask, and he nods, electing to say nothing about what a hellish experience it was, smack dab in the middle of the single parent, Alan Munson days, “Remember how they used to do a talent show and everyone had to participate for good sportsmanship or whatever?” 

And then, something begins to tickle the back of Eddie’s brain, something far too good to be true.

“Sure do.” He says, trying not to sound too excited about what he suddenly thinks he knows.

He tells himself he doesn’t know exactly what you’re about to say, (because he doesn’t want to get his hopes up) but suddenly he’s leaning into your space again, hanging on your every word, and despite his better judgment warning him to temper his expectations, he knows exactly what you’re about to say.

And it is too good to be true.

“So, most people would just pull some bogus thing together and call it talent, because they had to, right? But then, there was this group of kids who just woke up and decided they were gonna put together a fully functioning metal band for the show…”

Holy shit holy shit holy shit–

“...and they weren’t good, but it was crazy, because of all the things they could possibly play, they get up there and whip out Exciter like that’s a totally normal thing to happen at a middle school talent show–”

Eddie’s mouth falls open as he is bombarded with memories of the earliest days of Corroded Coffin, those first practices in the Hawkins Middle music room, back when the band was him, Jeff, Doug Teague, and Ronnie Ecker. 

Talk about a blast from the past – what a fucking trip.

“You’re kidding,”

“I’m totally serious. Bunch of twelve year olds playing in a Judas Priest cover band,” you say, like it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever heard.  

Eddie bites back the urge to correct you (Corroded Coffin is not a cover band, they are a band that happens to do covers) and he keeps waiting for the punchline, for the other shoe to drop, but you’re still just going on and on like you’re blissfully ignorant of what exactly you’re confessing to him, here on this random Friday at 7:40 in the morning. 

You continue with a casual wave of your hands, daring to release the steering wheel just long enough to get your point across.

“Anyway, it’s like I said – young and impressionable. But it sort’ve blew my mind, and I’ve been listening to them ever since– in secret, of course, because, girls like me don’t listen to music like that,” You say, making a point to drop your voice in abject mockery of him. 

For half a moment Eddie can’t tell if you’re joking, telling him all this as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about, and as if he wasn’t the one getting pulled off stage for playing Exciter at his middle school talent show. 

And then it hits him. You don’t know. 

Oh, my God. He can’t believe this. He cannot believe you don’t know. How can you not know?

“Dude… that was me.” he says, unable to keep it to himself for another second, “That was me!”

You give him a dubious, sidelong glance as you reach the intersection and roll to a stop.

For a moment, you don’t speak, you just stare, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, jaw set in a quizzical press. 

“...shut up,” you say slowly, and yet you don’t outright reject the notion, the way he had earlier with you. 

Eddie doubles down, and he knows he’s talking too fast, too loud, but his blood is pounding with the revelation that you’ve been in each other’s orbit – affected each other – for much longer than twelve measly months. 

“That was my band! That was Corroded Coffin! We got together and learned to play Exciter in like, two weeks, and we were awful and nobody clapped!”

Your eyes go wide as realization hits you like a brick, and then you gasp.

“Oh, my God, I remember that!” you shout, “Nobody clapped! Eddie! That was you!?”

There he goes grinning his face off again. 

“That was me!” He shouts, “I made you cool!” 

And then you scream. It is a loud, giddy thing that fills Eddie’s chest cavity with a bright, uproarious, infectious joy that wells so big so suddenly, his ribs crack open and it floods the car in a matter of moments.

For a second, you’re both insane with it, shouting and laughing and talking over one another as you slap and pull at each other’s jackets, capering and cajoling like you’re the oldest, closest, best of friends that ever were and ever will be.

It’s disgusting and it’s wonderful.

While you��re too busy playing to notice, the light changes, and two sharp beeps from the impatient driver idling behind your giddy shenanigans alerts you to the green. You don’t stop talking, even as you flip your indicator and take the turn that will begin the final stretch to school.

You’re still laughing and breathless when you pull into the parking lot, which is already flooded with cars and bodies and the everyday flurry of pre-bell action, none of which you notice because you’re both too busy battering each other in questions – do you remember this, did you see that, were you there when so and so did this that and the other.

Come to find out, you haven’t just been in orbit of one another. You’ve been right fucking there. All your lives, you’ve been each other’s unknowing shadow, and Eddie can’t stand knowing that you were so close and he was too stupid to notice you there until you were staring him in the face.

He’s completely out of his mind with the giddy atmosphere in this car – if he were thinking rationally, he might crack the window just so he can try to breathe, but you’ve got him full force now, completely unfiltered and unfettered.

It occurs to him distantly that most people never get to experience this much of him, he doesn’t often get the chance to be so unabashedly himself, and he might want to dial it back a bit, just to save a little face. But it’s intoxicating to be so completely seen and to have his energy matched, and now that he’s started, he can’t stop. 

“Did you see us play at the winter show in ‘81?” He asks, pulling his knee up and twisting in his seat to face you as you shift your car into park and pull the break. 

“No,” you say, almost apologetically. “I was tragically still sequestered to Hawkins Middle…”

And Eddie was a bright and shiny Freshman at Hawkins High, steeped in that happy little limbo between escaping his father and having his heart curb stomped into the pavement.

“...why, what happened in ‘81?” 

“Aww, man!” He starts, “You missed out, it was awesome. We got pulled off stage and everyone got put on academic probation for Satanic Ideations,”

Finger quotes don’t even begin to cover all the drama that went along with that and the untoward allegations he has long since stopped trying to beat. 

Your eyes go wide. 

“Is that how all that Satan stuff started?” You wonder aloud, “I remember when people started saying that, but I never knew why. I always thought it was just too much Dateline or something,” 

“Yeah, that coupled with all my Dad’s shit and a heavy dose of Iron Maiden in the ninth grade, and here you find me. Eddie Munson: Satanic Freak.” 

He drops his voice to a theatrical cadence and gestures widely as he says it, fully intending to give himself a fix of your laughter, but your response is surprisingly muted. 

Your brows pinch briefly before smoothing over again, and you hum thoughtfully, dropping your gaze to stare pensively into space as you settle back into your seat.

For a moment, the silence is unbearable, and when you finally speak, Eddie has to try and breathe out as quietly as he can so as not to be caught holding his breath. 

“…well,” you begin, “For what it’s worth – I never bought in to all that,”

It might have been startling were he capable of being startled by anything you have to say about him anymore. After this morning’s onslaught, what’s one more little kindness to come tumbling from your lips?

“No?” Eddie asks, crossing his arms over his knee and dropping his chin down to rest there, “You’re not subscribed to the Hawkins Christian Coalition?”

You pull a face. 

“You’re not scary enough to be a Satanist, even with all those tattoos and chains and everything you do to try and look tough.” Your gaze flits back to him, “You don’t scare me,”

Eddie’s heart crawls up into his throat and begins to throb there, threatening to strangle him with every solid beat. He’s been hoping you feel that way, but it’s been a long time since he learned not to hope for things.   

“Not even a little?” He asks, voice dropping to a muted timber as the atmosphere suddenly becomes unbearably charged with intimacy. 

You shake your head. 

“How come?”

Then, you stick him to the spot with a shy quirk of your lips. 

“Because I’ve seen you in your underwear,” you say innocently, and his guts seize.

What was that he was saying about not being shocked? 

Eddie’s mind goes blank and his mouth falls open – and here he thought he was being so stealthy. You erupt into a fit of infectious laughter, and what is he if not powerless but to laugh right along with you? 

It’s bizarre, sitting here like this, with his head buzzing and the muscles in his face and abdomen aching from laughing so hard. He can’t stop, every time he thinks he’s coming down, you break into another fit of giggles and pull him right back over that cliff again. 

He’s never felt higher than he does right now, and it takes a long, long time to touch back down again.  

“Man — where the hell did you come from?” Eddie asks when he finally manages to catch a breath, “How come I don’t remember you from back in middle school?”

“I don’t know,” you tease reaching out to tug at the frayed strings lining the hole in the knee of his jeans – he has to resist the urge to take your hand, “Maybe you were already too cool and famous to notice little ol’ me,"

Eddie can’t tell if you’re making fun of him, and with what you say next, he finds that he doesn't expressly care.

“I feel like we would’ve been friends if we knew each other back then,” you say, “Back in middle school? It could’ve just been this — you ‘n me — all the time, and none of that other bullshit. Us against the world… I think that would’ve been better…”

And have truer ever been spoken? You're right. It would have been better to live in that far-off universe where this was his reality and his days were filled with mornings like this one, laughing and shouting and loving instead of bracing for impact and dreaming for something better.

Eddie tries to imagine how your friendship would have softened a hundred different blows from a hundred different hurts, how different so many things would have been, and his heart throbs for what he didn’t realize he was missing.

Of course, then again, if you’d been his friend back in those days, it would have put you in the path of his father, and if only for that reason, Eddie is so incredibly glad he never knew you until now. 

Wayne has got that wild penchant for embarrassing him, sure, but he’s harmless. The same can not be said for Al, who was always more of the “search and destroy” type than the “you wanna see some baby pictures?” kind of Dad. 

He wouldn’t have been able to sit by and just let Eddie have you. He would have ruined it, and by extension, ruined you, and Eddie can’t even think about that. He won’t, so he focuses on you here and now, sitting so pretty with your face curled into that soft, wistful smile, saying all the right things to break his heart in the best possible way. 

He has to clear his throat to keep his voice steady. 

“Yeah,” he says unevenly, and if you notice the change, you don’t show it. “Me too… I've been thinking about that a lot actually…”

“You have?”

Eddie pulls his shoulders up in his best approximation of a casual shrug, even though nothing about this feels at all casual.

"Why? Is that weird or something?"

"No, it's not weird," you tell him, "...you're kind of a big softie, you know that? Under all that armor?"

You reach out to tug at the collar of his jacket and Eddie huffs out a breath, averting his gaze so that you won't see his eyes sparkle with the wonder of being seen.

"Yeah, but don't tell anybody," he says, "I've got a reputation to manage,"

You hum out a gentle laugh and shake your head, looking almost secretive, sitting there and smiling for no reason save the atmosphere and such a fond, shared sentiment. 

Suddenly all Eddie wants to do is squish your face between his hands and tell you how much you matter to him, how important this all is, and how it’s gonna last forever in his heart of hearts. 

In a hundred years, no one will remember that either of you existed, but he’ll always remember the way you dropped down to tie his shoe, and the ease with which you spoke when you offered a kindness you could not have possibly known would break him into a hundred thousand pieces. He imagines those pieces radiating out in a shockwave through time and space, embedding themselves in the fabric of the universe where they’ll live on indefinitely. 

Fueled by that thought alone, Eddie can’t help himself. He’s starting to learn that he is greedy for your innermost thoughts, and he desperately wants to be let in.  

He knocks your knee with his, and it feels so devastatingly intimate it threatens to make him blush.  

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” He asks – the school bell will be ringing any minute now, but he’s going to use every second of that time, if it’s the last thing he does. 

Your shoulders jump.

“All the fun I missed out on,” You hum, and it hits him like a fist to the gut, “...I mean, just imagine all the time I could’ve spent hanging out with Uncle Wayne,”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but even that is not enough to dampen his affection for you, not entirely. 

“He’s a shithead, but he’s not so bad when you get to know him,” he says. 

“I like him,” you say, “I think he’s nice.”

It’s another little kindness you have no idea he needs so badly. They're still a family, Eddie and Wayne, as odd a couple as they may be, and it is such a relief to hear that you like his little broken family.

Eddie blooms under the approval he didn't realize he was looking for.

"Oh," he says, "You do?"

“Yeah," You say, smiling sweetly, "He said he was gonna show me your baby pictures next time I come over,”

Eddie frowns.

You have a funny little way of undercutting sincerity like that – maybe because you’re scared to be too vulnerable for too long – and he can’t stand how endearing it is. 

Maybe it’s because he feels the exact same way, and maybe it’s because of how his affection for you is growing faster than he can manage it.

Even just in the time it has taken to get from his driveway to this parking spot, his fondness for you has swelled exponentially. He'd offer you his heart if you asked for it, and the thought is terrifying, because of how easily (and how badly) you could hurt him if you chose to.

He doesn't think you will, because he likes to hope that you feel the same about him (you like his family, why would you want to hurt him after that?) Still, you will not be seeing those pictures, under pain of torture and death.

He’ll burn his house down before that happens.    

“Congratulations,” Eddie says, grinning, “You’re officially banned from the house,”  

You laugh out loud, and for half a second he thinks all that madness is about to kick up again, but then, your smile drops and all the levity goes out of you as your gaze shifts to the right, just over his shoulder.

The shift in mood is jarring enough to draw his attention, and when he turns to follow, he sees it too – Carol Perkins, making a beeline for the little green Toyota.

“Well, shit.” He says, insides squirming with anticipation of the sudden and violent death of this moment. His moment.  

You sigh, and Eddie watches with no small amount of despair as you begin fumbling with your keys and your seatbelt and anything else you can get your hands on. 

Show’s over, everybody out of the pool. 

“… I guess she’s still pissed…” you say. 

Still, because Carol had been your original passenger the previous afternoon before you deigned to swoop in and replace her with Eddie. She’d sat with her arms crossed and her lips curling as you traded greetings and the initial back and forth that led to the events of this morning, and she made no effort to hide how against the ride-giving she was.  

Before Eddie could pull the handle (or try and navigate getting into your two-door car with Carol sitting so summarily opposed to such an action) she slapped the doorlock into position, like someone’s snotty brat kid throwing a public tantrum.

“I’m so fucking serious.” She hissed, “If you let him into this car, I will get out and walk.”

You leveled her with a dangerous look then, the likes of which Eddie had not yet seen grace your features, and it made his insides squirm. 

“Then get out and walk.” You said through your teeth, and the silence that followed was unbearably weighted.   

Presented with two options – get out or make room – Carol lost her shit (as seems to be her standard operating procedure.)

“— you fucking psycho! You’re gonna feel so bad for me when I get fucking murdered on some backroad—” she snarled, and then, like fate, the Harrington wagon whipped past, and in half a second, Tommy Hagan and Steve Harrington were there to bear witness to the first step to something Eddie can only hope for – that you would once again choose to swap your shitty friends for someone like him (not just someone like him, but him exactly).

He supposes you’re both going to hear all about it as soon as you break the vacuum seal of this car. 

He is hit then with the sudden and desperate urge to beg you not to do it – maybe you don’t have to go to school today. Maybe you can just drive somewhere and keep talking and laughing and never let this moment end and forget the law of the land and which sides you both stand on.

Maybe you can just stay together like this forever.

Awful lot of maybes for a ten minute drive to school. 

The rush of cold morning air is sobering in the worst way when Eddie pops his door handle and steps up out of your car and the perfect little biosphere of your aura. 

You appear on the other side a moment later and shield your eyes against the sun. 

“You want me to distract her so you can make a run for it?” he asks.  

The corner of your mouth twitches in a humorless smile. 

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing,” 

He can already hear the beginning rattle of Carol’s tirade like poison daggers hurled at his back – undoubtedly meant for you. He might have done something to try and shield you from that, but he’s still loopy from the giddiness of everything that just happened in the car, so he snorts out a burst of laughter. 

He’s still smiling stupidly when Carol arrives. 

“What, is this just gonna be a thing now?” she says, “You’re suddenly a packaged deal?” 

“Nice to see you too, Carol—” Eddie tries, mustering as much sleazy charm as he can manage.

“Shut up.” she snaps like a slap to the face, coming to a short stop at his side, “Are you coming tonight or what?”

Of all the questions someone like Carol has ever posed to someone like him, this one leaves him a little more than dumbfounded. 

“ Come again?” 

Carol’s features pinch with the prelude of a rage she quickly swallows.

“To the party, Dipshit.” She drawls.

Eddie looks to you, for assistance as much as in expectation of the same kind of droll, sarcastic response you’ve been giving all morning, and is almost shocked to watch when the color drains from your face instead. 

He wants to laugh about it, he wants you to put him at ease by doing just such a thing, but with the low autumn sun reflecting the faded color of your car into your face, you suddenly look like you’re going to be sick, and Eddie can only respond in kind.  

“What party?” He asks slowly, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to tremble with the prelude to some terrible revelation like he is about to realize this has all been some hideously mean joke.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, “Don’t worry about it,” 

But he is. He’s violently worried about whatever it is he’s missing out on here, and it’s twisting him up bad enough to move him toward panic. 

Eddie hates that Carol is the one to voice those exact concerns. 

“What do you mean don’t worry about it?” She snarls, “We talked about this—”

“Carol—” you warn, slipping back into that dark and dangerous look you’d adopted the afternoon before, “Shut the fuck up.”

Her eyes go wide and she recoils – actually recoils – like you’d reached out with the words and slapped her across the face. Eddie wonders when you last spoke to her so directly, if ever, and the air begins to bubble with the impending row.

He has half a mind to excuse himself because in the wake of the ongoing conversation, he suddenly doesn’t feel so steady on his feet, but Eddie can’t resist the sense of duty he is saddled with to stick close by, in case you need him to pull you out of the fire. 

“Did you even ask him?” Carol demands.

You set your jaw and breathe out hard through your nose, gaze flitting briefly over from where you are busy boring holes into your so-called best friend to regard Eddie with a strange, guilty look.

“Can we talk about this later?” You ask, and he doesn’t know why, but it hits him like a fist to the gut. 

The first inkling of wretched rejection lays prickly fingers at the nape of his neck, and despite the roots he puts down, that sick sense of vertigo intensifies. 

“You didn’t, did you?” Carol says. 

When you remain silent she rolls her eyes and grinds out an aggravated snarl. 

“Jesus Christ, I have to do everything around here.” She says, then turns over to regard him with a droll, uninterested look, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry, “She's having a party tonight, and she was supposed to invite you, but I guess she chickened out — anyway, you should be there,”

Hurt feelings are blood in the water to someone like Carol Perkins, and Eddie does his best to swallow them down as he struggles to pull his armor into place. He tells himself doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that you’re having a party and didn’t invite him, and he doesn’t care what that suggests. 

“...Why should I be there?” He asks, trying his best to mimic Carol’s apathetic tone and feeling his voice quaver. 

He doesn’t care. Really he doesn’t, so why does it hurt so bad to think you don’t want him around with all your other friends?

Overlooking the obvious reasons – your friends are terrible, he has no interest in socializing with them, they have no interest in socializing with him – he suddenly can’t stop his head from spinning with a hundred different ugly little suggestions.  

“God, you’re really that stupid, aren’t you? You’ve been trying to get into her pants, right? That’s what this whole thing is about? So bring your stash tonight and see what happens,” Carol shrugs, “Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.” 

The silence that follows is shockingly loud and Eddie feels it screaming in his ears, telling him that this is the other shoe dropping, this is what it’s been all about – all of it.

You’ve just been using him to pass the time while your friends are away, the minute they come back you’ll drop him – Stacey’s friends are back and their mean, cackling laughter is so loud, it draws everyone’s attention. Everyone is turning to stare, everyone is watching the Freak get his heart broken.   

“We’re just friends…” he says flatly, trying not to look at you as he does and cringing under how hideously false it sounds. 

It’s easier to lean on the lie and make it feel like truth in moments so vulnerable as this. He wishes you would say something, and yet he’s not sure he could stand to hear whatever it is you might have to say, because what if you agree?

After everything you’ve been through in the last few weeks, over the last half hour? He’s not sure he could endure that, it might break him. 

Carol just rolls her eyes. 

“So, what? You’ve never heard of friends with benefits?” She says, “And if you’re her friend, then you’re my friend too, and if we’re all gonna be friends now, I don’t see why we all shouldn’t benefit,” 

She’s said the word too many times and it’s been whittled down to a blade that stabs Eddie in the chest with every violent utterance. 

“What is your problem?” You demand a thousand miles away and to Eddie’s immediate left.

He doesn’t know when you came around to his side of the car, but suddenly you’re standing next to him, and he is busy grappling with the powerful urge to step away from you if only to try and protect himself.

Carol ignores you and holds him trapped in her gaze like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  

“You come to the party and bring weed,” She says, “She’ll open those little legs for you, and at the end of the night, everybody will be happy. What’s the problem here?” 

“Carol!” You cry, but with such a hideous truth hanging between you, it’s too little too late. 

He’s never swung so hard from euphoria into unhappiness – it’s a violent startling sensation that leaves Eddie feeling like he’s swaying. 

This is why he doesn’t let himself get his hopes up. This is why he stays in his own goddamn lane and minds his own goddamn business.

Eddie feels like he’s going to be sick. 

I thought you said you loved me… 

In the distance, the bell begins to ring and the parking lot steadily begins to empty. Carol gives you one last parting look before turning those viciously saccharine-sweet eyes on him, and Eddie feels something inside of him crumble. 

“Bye Eddie, see you tonight,” She calls in a malicious sing-song, skipping away. 

You linger where she leaves you, watching her disappear into the steadily thinning crowd.

For a long time, neither of you speak. The air feels very thin, and suddenly Eddie can’t catch his breath. Something deeply recessed in him urges him to run. Something small and vulnerable, familiar as childhood and in desperate need of protection, something he’s suddenly so sorry he ever considered offering to you. 

“...Eddie, I’m so sorry.” You begin, “That was… I don’t know what that was–”

“You talked about it, huh?” 

“No! No, not like that …” You insist, and then you pull a guilty face and drop your eyes to your sneakers, “I mean, technically we did. She brought it up, but it wasn’t like that, I swear. I don’t even want to have this stupid party.”

He’s heard enough. Never mind that his feelings are hurt you didn’t invite him in the first place, but to find out everything has been hurtling toward the inevitable way it always plays out? A sleazy hand on his thigh, bashful batting eyelashes, and a loaded confession of “...I don’t have any cash on me,”

Eddie Munson is easy. Eddie Munson trades weed for head. 

No need to stand on ceremony and take the whole beating if he doesn’t have to. Eddie turns on stiff legs and starts back across the parking lot, headed for the safety of the trees and leaving you standing there as the late bell brings to chime. 

“Eddie, don’t go–” You call, and he flexes his fingers against the buzzing static suddenly burning in his palms – his vision blurs and his chest fills with something black and angry,  “I’m sorry!”

He doesn’t care, and he spends the rest of the morning in misery.

For lack of anywhere else to go – and because he refuses to slink home with tears on his lashes and his tail between his legs after the way he left, just to have Wayne utter the dreaded curse of “told you so,” – Eddie hoofs it out to where he left the van parked on the shoulder the afternoon before.

He shuts himself up in the back and lays curled on his side in the dark, counting down from a thousand and doing everything in his power not to think about how perfectly wonderful the morning had been until it wasn’t, and how perfectly wretched everything is now. It hurts so badly he can barely breathe, and he hates hates hates just so he doesn’t have to feel that hurt. 

Eddie hates how tightly around your finger he’d let himself get coiled, he hates how vulnerable that’s left him feeling, and he hates how stupid he was – what was he thinking giving his heart over like that?

He should know better, but this time was supposed to be different. 

That’s how it always works, though, isn’t it? The world lulls him into a false sense of security, and just when he’s let his walls drop, just when he deludes himself into thinking he’s finally getting something made special for him, it pulls the rug out and he cracks his head open on the pavement. He doesn’t know why he’s still so surprised every time it happens, except that you were supposed to be different.

Everyone told him you were different.   

You weren’t supposed to hurt him like that, and yet he knew you had the capacity for it. He knew he needed to proceed with caution (isn’t that exactly what Wayne told him that night after he got home from the Hideout, brimming with butterflies and positively glowing in the aftermath of you?) – and still he let you do it anyway. 

Eddie thumps his head against the floor of the van hard enough to send a burst of dull muted color flashing across his eyes, and when it still doesn’t banish the image of you from his mind, he does it again, and again, and again.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid…

He allows himself to wallow in that patent despair until the steadily rising sun makes it too hot to remain closed up any longer. And even then, all he does is shrug out of his jacket and resume his miserable solitude with his head in his hands. 

Back to his regularly scheduled programming, whatever that means. He’s not going to that party, that’s for sure, and the next few weeks are going to be miserable because of it. 

He’s going to have to avoid you and all your shitty little friends, and he’s also going to have to endure all the whispering and staring and snickering behind his back, ramped up to eleven because he dared to rise above his station and court somebody so hopelessly out of his league. 

Worse of all is how he’s going to have to avoid his friends, who are all going to want to know with wide-eyed horror how this could have happened? How could it not? And why is everyone acting so surprised that it did?

It’s not like that, I swear, your voice pipes up from somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere he’s going to have a very hard time extracting you from, I’m sorry! You call, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry– 

And despite his best efforts, Eddie believes you. Everything that happened this morning, the week before at the Hideout, and the week earlier at the picnic table not so far from here – all of that matters. He can’t discount that, no matter how hard he tries to shield himself from the hurt it makes him feel now. 

People don’t just look at each other the way you look at him when it doesn’t matter, they don’t say each other’s names the way you say his or perform act upon endless act of necessary kindness as a means to justify a sticky little end. He has to believe it matters, and after everything you’ve done for him, he has to at least give you the benefit of the doubt, even if at the end of the day he’s reading the room wrong, and you only want to be his friend. 

Somehow, the notion hurts worse than the idea that you’ve only been paying attention to him to hook your friends up with free weed, which he tells himself you’re not. That would be too outlandishly cruel, and even despite that nagging little call, begging him to defend himself from such a hideous possibility, Eddie has to believe you want to be his friend.   

“Fuck!” he grinds out, scrubbing his hands over his face until his skin begins to burn, “God dammit,” 

He doesn’t want to be your friend. He wants so badly to matter more to you than that, but Eddie never gets the things he wants, so he decides that he can swallow his pride and be your friend, even if it makes him miserable. 

He’ll put himself on the back burner if that’s what it takes to be near you, and he’ll go to your stupid party tonight, even if he’s not actually invited.   

——————————————————————————————————

When you told him his place was on your way to school, he didn’t expressly believe you, but Eddie never imagined you’d be coming all the way down from the top of Cornwallis and doubling back again just to pick him up. Awful long way to commute for just a hookup. 

He’s busy trying to calculate how much gas money he owes you as he hops down from the van – back in action, two hundred dollars and a full afternoon spent under the hood later – and slams the door, stuffing a plastic bag of substance into his back pocket. 

It’s a meager haul, he didn’t have time to hit up Rick on top of everything else he had to do just to work himself up to coming here tonight, but Eddie figures it’s not going to kill these assholes to share. 

Anyway, he’s not here for them. He’s here, because he’s taking a chance that it’s worth trusting you, and trusting himself that it will in fact be worth his while to step out of his comfort zone.

Only this is very far out of that little green zone. 

Eddie hates parties.    

Your house is what would typically be an unassuming home built in the tract style of the 60s and 70s, similar enough to the one across the street to be from the same catalog, if not nearly identical. Tonight, however, it is a beacon of activity you can sense a mile away. 

Eddie imagines it must look worlds different when it isn’t teeming with wildlife and thrumming with the base and drumline of the overloud music playing within.

As he crosses your front lawn, he tries not to get caught imagining the alternate universe where he’s coming to your house for the first time under entirely different circumstances — dinner with your parents.

He brings flowers and wears nice clothes and does all the right things to make that good impression which has always eluded him. In spite of the odds stacked against him, at the end of the night your father shakes his hand and your mother tells him he simply must come back for Christmas, and you walk him out to the van, wrapped in a conspiratorial huddle as you tell him how well he did, how your father doesn’t approve of anyone, and how he just got finished telling you what a fine young man he is.

It’s an outlandish flight of fancy, sure, but it’s all he’s got to bolster him as two meatheads come spilling out of your front door and down your steps, entangled in the throes of testosterone and budding alcoholism. 

Eddie steps over them and pays no mind to the couple busy playing tonsil hockey on your front porch as he slips through the front door and into the house. Your house. Not the way he wants to be seeing it for the first time, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

He’s barely over the threshold and already his skin has begun to buzz – this better be worth it, because he’s missing Hellfire Club for this, and Keith already tore him a new asshole for daring to bow out of the session. Eddie knows he can’t kick him out of the club for missing one game, but the consequences will be dire. 

He’ll probably kill his character off in some deeply insignificant way and make him spectate through the rest of the campaign, and Eddie will sit there and take that disrespect because there are more important things happening tonight than fighting the Thessalhydra.

D&D will still be there for him next week, but if he doesn’t play his cards right tonight, you may not be, and that’s not a chance he’s willing to take.    

Eddie makes his way through the party, through the violent, seething throng of co-eds actively making bad decisions, and tries to take in the place through the haze of teenage mayhem.

He wants to say your house is nice, but who could honestly tell through all the mess? He wonders idly who among this group of maniacs is going to have the presence of mind to stay after and help you clean this up, but the thought is quickly forced out of his head by wave after overstimulating wave of noise. 

He can hardly think for how loud it is.

In an attempt to get his bearings, Eddie makes his way to the kitchen, which he learned very early on during nights and weekends like this, is always a good place to center oneself amid such chaos.

The kitchen is typically the center of a home and a safe space at a house party because it’s where the losers tend to congregate – the people who don’t know how they got invited and have no idea what they’re doing here. For some odd reason, Eddie hopes it's where you'll be too.

If he's lucky, maybe he can coax you out into a quieter space to try and smooth things over before he has to have any of your terrible friends inflicted upon him.

Color him wildly disappointed then to find Tina and Carol, standing over an electric red bowl of something into which they’re upending bottles of vodka and gin.

Jesus Christ, Eddie manages to make himself think with no small amount of effort (because the kitchen has provided no respite to the noise) They’re gonna kill somebody. 

He is halfway through making a mental note to warn you to steer clear of the witch's brew of instant inebriation, wherever you may be, when your friends finally notice him. 

“Omigod hi!” Carol screeches, too loud and over-friendly to be sober, it puts him immediately on edge, “I didn’t think you were coming after that stunning little tantrum you threw earlier.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Tina starts, leering at him and sending a shock of chills crawling up Eddie’s spine, “When stray dogs get a whiff of good pussy, they come running,”

It’s not the most intricately crafted insult he’s ever heard, though Eddie imagines that has something to do with the booze. 

Still, his insides heave when the pair erupt into a fit of mean, tittering laughter. He breathes a deeply agitated sigh and waits for them to stop. He’s not going to leave, no matter how badly he wants to, because he’s here to make things right. 

That’s all that matters to him. 

When he doesn’t react, the humor very quickly goes out of them, and Carol sticks him to the spot with daggers in her eyes. 

“Well? Did you bring your shit or what?” she slurs. 

Or what is a good question, but Eddie’s long since learned that it’s better if he keeps his mouth shut in situations like this. Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and produces the bag of contraband, and both girls react with immediate disappointment.

“That’s it?” Carol says, snatching the bag from his hand. 

“It’s not like you gave me a lot of notice,” Eddie presses. “You’re lucky I even had that,”

Carol makes a phlegmy sound of disgust in the hollow of her throat and rolls her eyes. Then, Tina produces a crisp twenty-dollar bill and snaps it at him, like he should be wildly impressed by such an amount.

Never mind that what he just handed over is easily worth double that, he’s not going to argue — he can always count on getting robbed blind at these functions — now, he just wants to see you.  

Eddie swallows any dirty feelings attempting to rise in him over what the transaction suggests – he brings weed and you get laid – and crumples the bill in his fist, focusing on the way it folds as he dares to ask where you are. 

“Whatever – she’s probably in her room sulking,” Carol says with a dismissive gesture, saying something under her breath that sounds a little too close to “fucking loser” as she turns her attention back to the electric red caldron bubbling over with poison and the promise of bad decisions.

He can't tell if she's talking about him or you.

“Which one is her room?” Eddie asks, and Tina’s eyes flash with malignant glee.

“And wouldn’t you just love to know?” she says, grinning, and he doesn’t know why it feels like being lied to.

It’s not as if either of them were ever going to take him by the hand and lead him to you. In their eyes, he is only here for one reason, and now that the transaction is complete, he’s on his own. 

He doesn’t know why he expected anything less. 

As Eddie turns back toward the party and readies himself for what is promising to be an exhaustive search – the house is not that big, but good God if it isn’t filled beyond capacity – he gets stuck on the suggestion of faded lines etched into the door jamb.

Beside each tick in the wood, there are clearly written heights and age definitions by year. He can’t help but reach out and run a fond, reverent hand over the gentle care taken to keep track of your life and wishes someone would have thought to do the same for him.

“Why are you just standing there?” Tina snaps, “She’s waiting for you.”

Eddie fails to suppress a flinch as he takes his hand back. He gives her one last parting look, one which is met with sneering, smirking disdain, then steps down into the living room.

“Be gentle with her,” she calls as he starts back into the house, “It’s her first time!”

They erupt into more of that mean laughter, and Eddie has to bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood just to endure it.

Of course he’s heard that rumor, and talk of your inexperience has ramped up increasingly as people have begun to notice the pair of you dancing around each other, but he can’t help but think of how you would be mortified to know they’d just offered the secret to him. It was not theirs to tell.   

Still, he takes hold of the knife of that last parting gift and carefully removes it from his back, tucking it away where it will remain safe with him, forever if need be.  

It’s a lot of trial and error to finally happen upon the right door, and Eddie has the misfortune of walking in on not one, but two pairs of writhing bodies in various states of undress, going at each other like the world is ending – one in what he imagines is your parent's bedroom, and the other in the hall bath. 

Sure, maybe he ought to have started with the door covered in plastic butterfly decals, but isn’t there a saying about judging books by their covers?

Anyway, how is he supposed to know which room is yours? He’s never been to your house before now, and the music is inordinately loud, too loud to think straight.

Usually, that’s not something that bothers him, usually he likes that, but Eddie doesn’t usually spend his Friday nights socked into a singular space with everybody who hates his guts, and it’s all come together to knock him woefully off kilter. 

Then, as if the punctuate the thought, someone shouts something unintelligible and the room erupts into laughter – something about nerds or freaks or any of the other infinite hurled insults that batter Eddie daily, and he is reminded, once again, that he is missing Hellfire for this.

He knocks and presses his ear to the door to try and scan for any kind of life within, beneath the thrumming of the music – if somebody doesn’t turn the noise down, they’re going to blow the speakers. 

“Go away!” Your voice comes shouting through layers of distance and solid core. 

Bingo. 

Normally, he might have done you the courtesy of heeding such a warning, but tonight he doesn’t dare.

All the things Eddie has to say to you are best not done through a wooden barrier, especially surrounded by so many intently listening ears, so he takes a chance – and a breath. He twists the knob and lets himself in. 

The atmosphere in your room is instantly better than the rest of the house, and it is thankfully much quieter in here.

Like finally closing the lid on something, Eddie is relieved to find that he can finally hear himself think again as he shuts the door and braces his back against it.  

You respond to the intrusion on your sanctuary by pushing up from where you’ve been lying on the bed with a pillow over your head and hurling it across the room

“This room is off —oh, Eddie!” you yelp, curling your lips inward and instantly losing steam the moment you clap your eyes on him. 

The pillow strikes the wall beside him with middling force, and he watches it slide flaccidly to the floor.

“Hiya Sweetheart,” Eddie offers, forcing himself to try and sound casual as he says it, “Sorry I’m late,”

You don't respond, you just sit there staring back at him with wide-eyed wonder, and he is struck with a sudden bolt of unbearable shame for having ever doubted you.

He wants to tell you he missed you, but he swallows that intention because it's only been twelve hours, and he's not trying to look that pathetic in front of you, even if he still feels a little sore about the way you left things that morning.  

Eddie clears his throat and reaches up to pull at his neck, making a show of looking around your room and trying to hide the rush of nerves he is suddenly feeling.   

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding, huh?” He’s in your bedroom — oh, my God — he’s actually in your bedroom. 

He is a visitor from Mars, taking his first look at the scenery of a brand-new world, and he’s not too shy to admit that it is thrilling.

It’s just as bad as it was back in your car, only dialed up to eleven, because this is the hub, the mothership, your den of secrets, and Eddie is desperate to take in as much of it as he can as quickly as possible, in case you really mean it and are about to kick him out.

Posters, pictures, books, stuffed animals, bed sheets, pillows, trinkets, clothes – you you you yOU YOU.

He has to make himself stop and breathe because if he keeps going like this, he’s in danger of keeling over right there on your bedroom floor. And wouldn’t that be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him?

In the distance, the party rages on, separated by layers of wood and plaster and paint, and Danny Elfman begins to wail “Oh I think you like it, like it, being told what to do…”

He can’t help but wonder who among that crowd would be so bold as to put on Oingo Boingo, and he almost says something about it, but when he notices how small and fragile you look, sitting there, tucked in among your pillows, the notion goes out of him.

He doesn’t want to tease you, but under the circumstances and the lingering miasma of his hurt feelings, he doesn’t know how else to interact with you.

“You know, I’ve been looking all over for you,” he starts slowly, venturing a step forward into your domain and watching you with careful, unblinking eyes as if you were a venomous snake, poised to bite. 

“You have?” you gulp.

Eddie nods, moving closer. 

“Yeah, weird move to invite someone to a party then disappear,” he says, then shrugs, “But what do I know? Maybe that’s what all the cool kids are doing these days.”

The attempt to stir something from you goes over like a lead balloon, and you remain where you are, watching him with wide, unblinking eyes. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say, and unlike Carol, you sound genuinely stunned about that.

Still, it puts the gentle fear of rejection in him and Eddie has to put down roots to keep himself from retreating a step.  

“...should I not be?” He asks, and you surge forward.

“No! No, I’m so happy you’re here–” You start, scrambling toward the end of the bed as if you’re suddenly desperate to be near him before second-guessing the act. It sends another flurry of mixed feelings tearing through his body. 

“ …I looked for you …” You say, dropping your eyes bashfully, “After school.” 

Eddie makes a thoughtful sound and tries not to picture you sitting in the parking lot, long after it has emptied out, waiting for him to show up. Of course you would want to drive him home, even after the fight you’d had (if you could even call it that) because you’re just that nice.

He hates to have disappointed you like that, and it makes him feel all the worse about the way he reacted and all the nasty little thoughts he spent the day wallowing in.

Before he can even think to verbalize any of that, you explode. 

“Eddie, I’m so sorry! All those things Carol said? I promise you, that’s not what I want out of this,”

“...out of what?” he asks after a moment of silence, because his feelings are still hurt and he can’t help but poke that bruise just a little.  

“Out of this,” You stress, gesturing between you, “You and me. I wanna be your friend. I promise I’m not trying to use you for anything. I just want to be your friend,”

He feels the corner of his mouth twitch and contemplates how best to navigate the new waters of your relationship/friendship/whatever this thing is between you, especially now that he knows you’re a virgin. Frustratingly, it paints every one of your previous interactions in a new light, despite how he's been telling himself that it doesn't matter.  

Eddie wishes that information could have made its way to him through you, just so that he could have been a little more cautious with his actions – his flirting – but he never gets the things he wants, he just rolls with the punches. 

And the only way he knows how to roll with this situation is to poke fun at it. 

“So, you mean you haven’t been waiting in here all night, consumed with lust and just dying to see if I’ll show up?” 

Another swing and a miss. 

It was supposed to make you laugh – a throwback to the good part of the morning – but all you do is sink forward to rest your head miserably in your hands. You make a terribly melancholy sound and your shoulders heave, and after a moment, Eddie realizes with a bright burst of panic that you are quietly trying not to cry.  

Oh, shit.

It’s paralyzing in the worst way, and he feels instantly awful. He came here to make things right, and what does he do? Open his mouth and spit poison all over the room – that Munson Magic, funneled through his warped lens. 

Eddie has to remind himself for the hundredth time since he decided to come tonight that he isn’t mad at you. He’s taking a chance that you were just as stunned by Carol’s behavior that morning as he was, and he’s sinking down on the end of your bed, exercising the utmost caution with every one of his glacial movements. 

Your shoulders tremble with the effort of holding something in as you take a deep, watery breath and force it out through your fingers, and Eddie’s fingers twitch with the urge to put his hand on your back. He doesn’t dare, because with the lingering effects of the venom he hadn’t realized was still coursing through his veins, he’s afraid he doesn’t know how to be gentle with you. 

A long and sticky silence blooms between you as you both wait for the other to speak – someone in the next room screams, the house erupts with muted laughter, and Oingo Boingo continues to push your speakers to their limit.

“… I’m sorry about the way I acted this morning,” Eddie finally says, taking yet another chance at being unflinchingly honest and quietly marveling at how brave he suddenly is, “I guess I got my hopes up for something, and got my feelings hurt, and instead of facing it I walked away. I do that… when the going gets tough, I get going … but I want you to know that I wish I’d stuck around…”

When he looks, you’ve sat up, and you’re blinking back at him with a look of utter horror. 

“You’re sorry?” You yelp, eyes flooded with tears, “No, I’m the one who should be sorry! If I thought for one second something like that was going to happen…? I would’ve… I wouldn’t have… I don’t know. I would have done things differently.”

He pulls his shoulders up and can’t make himself tell you that the feeling is mutual. It would have been nice to have you stand up for him, but he understands what it’s like to be paralyzed by a moment, so he forgives you for that, even if he isn’t ready to verbalize it.  

“I know,” he mutters, tracing a loose spiral into the rumpled fabric of your quilt. 

“I’m so sorry, truly and deeply, from the depths of my soul. I’m sorry and I’m mortified, and I totally understand if you never want to see me again,”

Eddie sighs.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be here if I felt that way,” he says, “I don’t make a habit of showing up for people I don’t want to see – I’ve usually got more self-respect than that…” Of course, that brings to mind all the times he’s done exactly that, and he feels himself pulling a face at the blatant contradiction, “…usually…”  

Another one of those silences settles over you, and you sit together listening to the thrumming static of a sound system being pushed to its impending doom.   

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask, looking miserable as you shift to pull your knees up and hug them to your chest.

He can hardly stand how small and sad you look – nothing like that should ever grace your features, and Eddie moves before he can stop himself, reaching out to pinch your cheek between his forefinger and thumb.

“’Cause you’re a freaky little weirdo with bad friends and I feel sorry for you,”

Funny how that’s the joke that finally lands.

You laugh, a soft, watery thing, which comes burbling out of you on a burst of breath as you jerk out of his touch. He is instantly lesser without the searing press of your flesh – even so innocently as that – but finally, Eddie feels some of the weight of the earlier day lift from his heart.

Even with the party raging on behind you, the atmosphere feels almost as good as it did that morning, with the pair of you socked into your car and losing your minds together.

Somehow, it makes everything that happened between then and now simultaneously worse and a little less significant, and Eddie is tired of thinking about it, so he puts the matter to bed.    

“Look,” He starts, “Carol is a gaping asshole, alright? Everybody knows that, so let’s stop pretending this isn’t old news and move on with our goddamn lives. Let’s go back to the good part.” He’s moving again before he can stop himself and grips you by the shoulder, “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

You nod, and he gives you a gentle shake for good measure – your secrets are safe with him. You’re important to him. You matter to him, and he hopes beyond desperate screaming hope that you feel the same.  

“So, let’s just be friends,” Eddie says, and you surprise him by surging forward to throw your arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” you say into his jacket, hugging him tight, and he is woefully unprepared to accept such a sudden burst of affection.  

He cannot be this starved for touch. He refuses to be that pathetic, and yet he’s fighting every screaming instinct he has to constrict you in his arms and bury his face in your hair, because Eddie doesn’t remember the last time someone hugged him. 

He’d forgotten how good it feels to be held, to be wanted, and part of him isn’t sure he’s ever really known the feeling. It’s a frighteningly somber thought to have at a house party on a Friday night, and yet as you continue to hold him, his heart is suddenly in his throat and that insane urge to confess his feelings is sitting on his tongue like a hot burning coal. 

The idea of opening his ribcage and giving you his heart is suddenly so tantalizing that Eddie can feel his resolve slipping – he doesn’t want to be your friend, he wants to matter to you, he wants it so bad sitting there on your bed wrapped up in your embrace, that he feels insane with it.

Thankfully before he goes doing anything too foolish, he can hear his uncle’s voice of reason warning him to “proceed with caution and leave room for Jesus” (the second part less serious than the first), so Eddie clears his throat and gives you a neighborly pat on the back, like something Wayne would have done.

It makes him feel stupid, he knows he should have just hugged you, but despite his best efforts, when you release him, he watches you rock back on your knees and feels you take his heart with you.

Just like this morning after you’d deigned to so charitably tie his shoelaces, Eddie is suddenly unbearably warm under all his denim and leather.

You scrub your hands across your face to try and banish any lingering wetness on your cheeks and offer him a weak smile, happily changing the subject as something immeasurably charged threatens to pass between you, and he shrugs out of his jacket as quickly and casually as he can, desperately hoping that you don’t notice if he’s blushing. 

“How bad is it out there?” you ask, scrunching your features as if you’re afraid to ask.

Eddie sucks a breath in through his teeth and contemplates lying to you, just to spare you the hard truth – it’s a disaster, the house is a lost cause, there’s no hope in ever getting it clean again, you’re going to have to move.

“You’re gonna want to burn your parent’s sheets,” he says diplomatically, “Seriously.”

It takes you a moment to pick up what he’s putting down, but when you do, your eyes go wide and your shoulders drop. 

Somebody is having sex in your parent’s bed (and in your hall bath, but that’s neither here nor there).   

“Oh, my God—” you moan, “Who?”

He feels his face screw up as his subconscious unhelpfully drums up the image of the frenzied bunnyfucking he’d walked in on in your parents' bedroom, and he sucks his teeth. 

“You know, I never quite mastered the art of identifying people by their bare asses…”

You scoff, but you’re clearly too pressed to see the humor in it – maybe in a few days, when the heat has died down. Then again, maybe in a few years when no one remembers they ever even went to a party up at your place.

Eddie will remember, if only because this moment and the press of your arms around his neck has been seared into the back of his mind, but nobody cares what the town Freak remembers, and there is a quiet comfort in that. 

“You should also know that your speakers are this close to going the way of the dodo,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “I mean, listen, I know you’re eclectic and all, but I’m guessing those are probably your Dad’s and if he’s anything like mine – which, for your sake, I hope to God he’s not – you’re gonna catch a whole lotta hell for killing a nice sound system like that with Oingo Boingo.” 

Your lips quirk shyly.

“I can’t take credit for that,” you say, “It’s Jonathan Byers’s tape – he let me borrow it,” 

Eddie can feel himself pulling a face, try as he might to remain neutral about the idea of you trading music with somebody else – with Jonathan Byers. And after that beautiful moment you had this morning? 

Maybe he is reading the room wrong, and he’s just the next name on your roster as you make your charitable rounds with all the social misfits of Hawkins.

It’s a terrible feeling, one that wells up so suddenly that Eddie has to jump up from the end of your bed, just to try and get away from it and the image of you picking up Jonathan Byers for school and tying Jonathan Byers’s sneakers and laughing and playing and—

“Jonathan, huh…” he huffs, jealousy driving him three steps forward to knock haplessly into your dresser, where he immediately begins aimlessly picking up and putting down all the little trinkets he disturbed with such a frantic movement, “What’s that about?”

In the attached mirror, Eddie sees your shoulders jump innocently.

“Nothing. Sometimes we hang out,”

He plays at making a little porcelain horse canter across your dresser and tries not to feel the twinge of nausea those four words spike through his midsection.

Sometimes you hang out.

Boy Howdy, he sure hates hearing that, and he hopes to God he never comes up so casually in Jonathan’s presence.

“…and he just… gives you tapes?” he forces himself to say, not actually wanting to know what he’s really asking you.

This time, the subtext is not so murky that you don’t pick up on it. 

“Yeah.” You say slowly, lips twitching, “So, what?”

Eddie pulls his shoulders up.

“So nothing, it’s just … if I’d known you were in the market for trade-sies, I woulda brought you something good to listen to… not this bizarro new wave shit.” He says, gesturing to the bowels of the house where Grey Matter is still inexplicably playing.  

You narrow your eyes at him when he turns to face you.

“…Is that you being a vicious snob again, or are you seriously getting jealous right now?”

It’s a ridiculous notion, one which Eddie is offended to have thrust upon him.

“Me? Jealous? Not a chance,” He lies, like a lying liar, “Also, how dare you? I don’t get jealous,”

You bite your lip in a failed attempt to stifle the slow smile creeping up across your face, and for reasons he cannot explain, it makes him feel suddenly and painfully shy.  

Okay, he’s jealous, so what? He’s jealous that you’re out here trading cassettes with someone else. Big deal. It’s not like he went out on a limb giving you that book or anything or that he imagined you were having a special moment when he was looking through all your music earlier.

It’s not like he’s so desperate for your approval and your attention that he came all the way out to this stupid party, even though he’s been suffering what felt very much like the prelude to heartbreak all afternoon.

It’s not like he’s missing Hellfire Club or that he spent the better part of an hour trying to get Garreth on the phone just so he could get your home address, and it’s not like he ransacked the emergency fund Wayne keeps to get the van working so he could be here, standing in your bedroom with you looking right through all his bullshit.   

It’s not like he’s in love with you, or anything so mortifying as that. No, nothing like that at all.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” Eddie says, dropping his gaze in a desperate attempt at self-preservation – he immediately clocks the faintest suggestion of a teddy bear hidden beneath your bed, and his bloodstream fizzes with unbridled affection.

“Like what?” you ask softly and the sensation intensifies. 

“Like you’re so smart and can read my thoughts.” Eddie hums, feeling hideously vulnerable as he snags a kinky lock of his hair and drags it across his face – hiding, “Anyway, what do I care about who you’re dating? Not my business – not my circus, not my monkeys,”

The next three seconds of silence are the longest anyone has ever experienced in the history of life on Earth, of that he is certain.

“…I’m not dating Jonathan Byers.”

When he finally musters the courage to drag his eyes up from the stuffed animal peering up at him from beneath your bed skirt, Eddie gives you a long, hard look and tries like hell to decide if he thinks there is a “but” coming swiftly down the line.

He waits and he looks at you, and you just keep looking right back at him until the standoff starts to feel something similar to “home free”.   

“You’re not?” He finally asks.

The corners of your mouth begin to curl, and you continue to hold his gaze.

“No,” you say,  

“Okay, good.” 

“Why’s that good?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, flopping back down onto your bed with enough purposeful force to jostle you, “You lied to me, by the way.”

“When?” You ask.

“Yesterday, when you said my place was on your way to school.”

Your brows jump up toward your hairline and you adopt the guilty look of someone caught red-handed. You had said that, before you promised to come back and get him that morning – you said “it’s no trouble, I can swing by and get you – it’s on my way, any way,”, so who’s the lying liar now?

You take a deep breath in through your teeth, hold it, and force the words out on your exhale. 

“Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly on the way…”

Eddie levels you with an unimpressed look.

“Sweetheart…”  

It’s way out of the way – driving past and doubling back, adding fifteen minutes to your commute on top of how late he was already running out of the way. 

Far enough out of the way that you can’t even pretend it isn’t.

Your lips curl sheepishly as you pull your shoulders up to your ears. 

“I mean… can you blame mel?” 

It makes him feel unbearably smug and paints the rose-tinted memories of that morning in a brand-new cherry-flavored haze.

Eddie’s heart thumps against his ribs and he hums thoughtfully, trying to play cool, despite feeling the exact opposite about how hard you campaigned just to come and get him this morning. 

“So… I guess that means you kinda like me, huh?” He tries – you flush and quickly pull a pillow into your lap, averting your gaze.

“Who says?” you ask.

He could keep pushing it, if he were feeling mean. And he is, because he wants to see a little more of that pretty color bleed into your face, but doing that would mean putting himself further on the line than he already is, because what if you turn the question back on him? 

No, he’s not that brave.  

“You sure ask a lot of questions for a girl hiding out at her own party,” Eddie says, plucking at a string hanging from a seam in your comforter and trying with everything in his limited power not to get too hung up on the fact that he’s lying across your bed.

How many times has he imagined doing this in how many different ways? Even so platonically as this?

It’s just another one of those things that is oh-so-casual, suddenly second nature, like he’s been doing it every day of your lives.  

First, he’s riding in your car and flipping through your cassettes, and now he’s in your room, lying on your bed, with his head propped up on one hand, and there you are, sitting close enough that he could reach out and touch you if he so dared – does he dare?

No, probably not. You’re not there yet, despite the hug and all the previous touching.

Somewhere to his left, he’s vaguely aware of hearing you groan in disgust.

“Please don’t call it that.” You say, heaving out an aggravated sigh and burying your face in your hands, “This is not my party,”

Eddie reaches down to snag the fluffy ear of your stuffed bear from where he can see it peeking out from under the bed.

He brings it back up for air and props it between you, half out of decency because he’s just realized that you’re wearing a skirt and he can see the faintest suggestion of your pink panties peeking back at him from where you’re sitting cross-legged.

“Go on, Sweetheart,” He says thickly, “Tell it to the bear.”

Self control, he tells himself, averting his eyes. Self preservation. Self destruction, as his eyes flit down to steal another peek, and when he gets home? Self care.  

You shift forward to snatch the teddy up, unfolding your legs to stretch out demurely in front of you, and placing it reverently beside you in the pillows. Eddie is struck blind with a powerful sense of relief mixed with disappointment, and the faintest pang of jealousy, because that’s where he wants to be.

“It’s just not fair.”

Tell me about it. He thinks, trying not to frown at the bear from where it sits leaning against your hip and grinning back at him.

Bastard.

“They all decided they were allowed to come and hold me hostage in my own home just because my parents are out of town, and they can’t imagine not throwing one of these shitty house parties every week.” You say, “I don’t even know most of the people out there, and the ones I do don’t even like me. Nobody likes me, Eddie…”

He’s listening, he swears he is, but he’s also looking at your legs, stretched out and crossed so daintily alongside him. He traces a line in the comforter beside them because he’s not bold enough to do so along the expanse of your skin. 

“Aww c’mon,” He says, “Somebody here likes you…”

The comment goes largely unnoticed, and the bear keeps grinning at his failed attempt at flirting with you.

Loser, it taunts.

You’re thankfully too distracted by the fires of your indignation to notice when Eddie drags it down by its foot and whips it back under the bed.

Stay down there, Fucker. He thinks as you continue, practically frothing at the mouth as you go, oblivious to all that is happening around you. 

The genie is out of the bottle, and she is – evidently – fucking pissed.  

“I don’t know why I even bothered. I told them I didn’t want them coming here, but nobody cares about what I want. This whole thing was some great big ploy to get Steve Harrington to come down from his throne but he’s not even here because he’s off playing pretend that he’s this nice guy so he can get into Nancy Wheeler’s pants and somehow that’s my fault, because everything is my fault, right? It’s my fault Steve didn’t come to this stupid party and it’s my fault that they’re all cannibalizing each other trying to get his attention. It’s so fucking pathetic.”

Of course it is, but the last thing Eddie expected from tonight was to receive such a titanic info dump on the current state of affairs of the inner circle, and it’s all he can do just to try and keep up.

“Hold on… who are we talking about – Carol or Tina?” Eddie asks, “Or Tommy?”

He needs to make sure he gets all the details right for when he tells the guys about this later – Adam is gonna love this, goddamn gossip hound that he is.  

“Does it matter?” You deadpan, “They’re all the same – all they do is sit around fighting over whose turn it is to gargle Steve’s balls,”

Eddie’s brain lights up in a hundred different places with a hundred different images, most of which involve exactly what you just described (which he is trying not to picture). The rest involve you and himself recast in those leading roles and he feels his temperature steadily begin to increase. 

“Wow.” he chokes and clears his throat in a futile attempt at banishing the image as he is unceremoniously reminded of the dream that had been so tragically cut short. Hop in and I’ll suck your cock– he has to shift to try and conceal the way all that thinking has started to affect him, “…You–uh– you really just said that.”

As the fires of your anger begin to dwindle and fade, the air of your tirade settles, and Eddie watches as you begin to realize everything you just said.  

“...sorry, that was a lot.” You mumble, “I guess I’m upset,”

“You’re my goddamn hero is what you are — hey, you wanna do me a favor and go repeat all of that to the room? I’d love to see Carol’s head spin around.” Another swing and a miss, “So, all of that being said… let me ask you this – if you’re so miserable, why do you stay friends with them?”

“I mean… how would I even begin to make new friends? Who’s gonna wanna hang out with me after Carol’s finished with me.” 

Eddie drums a muffled beat out over your comforter and after a moment of contemplative silence, volunteers himself for the task with a tantalizing wag of his fingers. 

You huff out a watery sigh of laughter and shake your head, reaching out to crush his hand in your fist.

“You don’t count.” You say, and Eddie might have taken genuine offense to such a notion if he wasn’t so fixated on your sudden point of contact.

“Babygirl, I’m the only one who counts.” He presses, flexing his fingers to steeple them with yours.

Much to his patent dismay, you take your hand back, and he pushes up, folding his legs and sitting upright because what he has to say next has to be done with his chest. 

“Hear me out, okay? Because this might sound a little crazy…” He starts, “What if you just … stopped hanging out with them?”

You glare back at him, but Eddie doesn’t really think your ire is meant for him.

“As if Carol’s gonna let me go quietly like that–”

“Fuck Carol–” He spits, he’s so sick of hearing about Carol fucking Perkins he could break something – he won’t, but he could, “You’re really gonna spend time sitting around thinking about her after all the shit she’s pulled? Just the shit she’s pulled today? Grow a little spine there, Sweetness, it’ll do you some good.” 

“It’s not that easy—” You whine, and Eddie doubles down, rising up on his knees and snatching your desperate, flailing hands out of the air.

“Yes, it is,” He says, holding your wrists together, “It actually is.”

You heave a world-weary sigh that has no business coming off of you.

“Eddie–”

“What are you so scared of? She’s bad for you, Sweetheart – I know you know that. Cut her out before she kills you.”

You grind out a desperate sound and just like that, your head is in your hands again – you double over, leaning far into his space, and this time he’s powerless to stop from resting a hand on your back because he knows.

He knows life is hard enough with bad friends but with no friends…? He’s been there, and it’s a miserable existence he wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially not you, but he cannot stand by and watch you suffering at the hands of the worst people he knows. Not when there’s something that can be done about it. 

Eddie might suggest that he’s got a whole group of friends who would be happy to have you (maybe) but things are starting to get a little too heavy for his liking.

The atmosphere is filling up and getting hard to breathe, so Eddie pivots and pulls your hands away from your face – because since you’re touching now, apparently he’s just going for it, every chance he gets.

Cool.   

“Come on. Look at me.” He says gently, and slowly, you unfold yourself to meet his gaze, “How long have you been friends… ten years?”

You nod.

“And d’you really wanna waste another ten years feeling like that just because starting over is … is what? Scary?” Eddie doesn’t wait for you to answer, “Of course you don’t. Carol had her chance to be nice and fun, and she blew it, okay? She decided she’d rather be the wicked bitch of the mid-west, and now she can fuck off back to Oz, ‘cause — hey, look at me — I’m your best friend now, okay? I’m your best friend… and I’m gonna warn you now, Sweetheart, I’m not good at sharing.”  

You give him a look, one that says ha-ha very funny, and Eddie almost takes genuine offense to it.

“It’s so funny how you think I’m kidding. Just wait, you’re gonna wake up tomorrow and it’s gonna say Property of Eddie Munson tattooed across your forehead,”

“Just make sure you spell it right this time,” you say, and this time, Eddie does not think that kind of irreverent undercutting is very funny. 

“Gee, thanks,” he huffs, watching you settle back into your pillows, “I’m only tryin’ to save your life here.” 

You giggle, but he can tell you’re not convinced, and it’s driving him a little crazier than he expected something like this might. Maybe that’s because it feels a little too much like he just asked you to choose him over Carol and you’re leaning steadily toward no. 

 “This is nuts,” Eddie says, shifting up to settle over you – he leans with one hand braced on the mattress over your hip and stares down at you, laying there nestled in among your pillows, “You’re really gonna make me beg?” 

“I’m thinking about it,” you hum, and he feels that unpleasant skittery feeling threatening to return, so Eddie shifts away, preparing to vacate the spot on your bed, but you snag him before he can get very far.

 “Alright, I’m just kidding… don’t go.” You say, taking a fist full of his shirt and holding him to the spot, “I’m done with Carol.”

He twists back to look at you, and when you don’t show any immediate signs of teasing, he shifts around to lean over you again, caging you in with both hands this time. 

“For good?” he asks.

You nod. 

“For good.”

“And you’re gonna come hang out with me instead, right?” Eddie stresses, “You’re gonna sit with me at lunch and trade tapes and books with me and not Jonathan Byers,”

“I knew it!” You gasp, pushing up into his chest and shoving him away – before he can protest, you slip off the side of your bed and plant yourself on the floor, “You are so goddamn jealous.”

“I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page here, Sweetheart.”

“No, you’re just trying to boss me around,” you huff, crossing your arms and sitting with your back to the mattress, tucked in between your bed and dresser with your knees pulled up. 

And Eddie, unable to stomach such a separation, slides down to follow you.

He settles in beside you, hip to hip, and watches you with no small amount of amusement as you try to play mad at him.

“I told you I don’t like sharing.” Eddie says, nudging you with his shoulder, “Not with Carol, and not with Jonathan.”

You roll your eyes. 

“...If you must know…?” you start, gaze sliding sideways as you wait for him to give you the expected follow-up.

“I must,”

“Those interactions begin and end with me babysitting his brother. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

And isn’t that the tastiest little morsel of forbidden knowledge he’s ever had the pleasure of learning? Eddie knows he’s grinning at you, and he’s trying not to leer, but holy wow.

“You’re a babysitter?” He gasps, trying not to make it sound too sleazy as he stretches the word and holds it in his teeth. “Cool. Tell me everything.”

It makes sense in a wet-dream fantasy sort of way, like the version of you leaning out of the car and licking your lips on the other side of his raunchy little REM cycle.

You give him another one of those looks, and it opens up a path of clairvoyance between you. Eddie’s not blind to what other guys would say – what kind of fantasies that knowledge would set minds belonging to the likes of Tommy Hagan and his cadre of meatheads to spinning.

And he knows what you’re going to say – you’re getting ready to head him off at the pass. To assure him that it’s not nearly as sexy and glamorous as what trashy teenage slashers would lead him to believe, and Eddie would remind you that he’s not, and never has been, like the other guys – the seven seconds in heaven he just spent looking up your skirt not-withstanding.

“There’s nothing to tell,”  you say. “It pays the bills,”

Eddie scoffs, trying and failing not to stack up the world of difference between your home and his. He bets your place is nice, when it’s not full of screaming hormonal assholes, a lot nicer than a rusty doublewide on the wrong side of town.

“What bills have you got living in a nice place like this, huh?”

You’re not rich, by any stretch of the word – Eddie can tell that just based on the car you drive and your Crate & Barrel catalogue of a living room – but you’re not struggling either. He doesn’t imagine your parents spending much time deciding whether it’s better to shop for groceries or pay that month's power bill, and you seem to know that as you twist over and give him a strange, pensive look.

“See that box over there?”

You turn his direction to a circular blue tin sitting on the far end of your dresser, tucked in between a music box and – Eddie is immensely pleased to see – his tattered copy of The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.

Even from here, he can see that there is already a bookmark tucked into its pages, and it makes him feel unbearably smug to have been right about that – he knows what you like.     

Eddie lifts up and uses the motion as an excuse to put a cheeky hand on your knee, reaching over to fetch it for you and watching keenly as he settles back in against you.

Visions of loose sewing supplies dance in his head as you pop the lid, and you reveal a treasure of rolled, stacked, and waded-up bills, crammed into every nook and cranny of the Royal Danish cookie tin.

Money. A whole lotta money.

“Ho’mama!” He says, immediately reaching over to take his very own fistful of dollars, “— what’d you do, rob a bank?”

Eddie opens his hand and lets all the presidents rain back into their little tin hideaway, and you make a harsh sound in the back of your throat.

“More like stash every dollar I’ve made since I was thirteen.” you say matter of factly, “This is my George Bailey fund,”

It's startling to hear that name come tumbling out of your mouth, like the clanging of a bell. It sends him catapulting back into a sepia-toned memory, standing on a chair to peer into the top drawer of his mother’s dresser, and hearing her tell him the same thing about her own meager stash of bills, much smaller than yours.

“Someday,” she’d said, pulling him close – distantly, Eddie can still feel the vibrations of her gentle Tenessee drawl, moving through his body as she spoke the same words then that come slipping through your lips now.

“… I’m gettin’ out of this crummy town and I’m gonna see the world,” you say, affecting your best transatlantic accent, putting in all the right inflections at the right places and blowing Eddie’s brains clear out of his skull.

They’re plastered all over your bed and the back wall, that ooey-gooey grey matter, of that he is certain because you’re shrinking further and further into yourself with every moment of silence that passes between you.

What are the odds that you would have the same thought, the same intention – he is only vaguely aware of the look he must be giving you, if only because of how you grow suddenly sheepish under it.

“…Jimmy Stewart?” You try, “It’s a Wonderful Life?”

Eddie blinks hard to try and disperse the haze of his two lives colliding with such a violent cacophony, and when it lingers, he shakes his head – he knows. Of course he knows, how many times has he watched that movie with and without his mother? Enough to know that he’d throw a lasso around the moon for you if you asked.

He’d pull it down so you could swallow it, and the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and toes, and the ends of your hair. Even if not that,  he’s seen it certainly enough times not to have to have the concept of George Bailey and Bedford Falls explained to him.   

“No,” He says too late, “I mean – yes. Yeah, I’ve seen the movie, I’ve just…” he doesn’t know what to say, he’s literally speechless, so he takes a page out of your book and cuts that vulnerability off at the knees before it can settle, “…I’ve never seen such a terrible impression,”

You snort, and the money disappears as you slap the cover of the tin back into place.

“That’s mean.” You say, setting your life savings on the floor beside you.  

Eddie crosses his arms over his knees and after a breath of sullen silence, shifts over to lean against you.

“You started it,”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks as the atmosphere grows once again heavy and super-charged with that high Eddie’s been chasing since the morning.

You reach out to trace the burnished ridges of his rings, and before he realizes what’s happening, you tentatively lace your fingers with his.  

He holds his breath and lets you take his hand, still sitting so close to you, and a pensive silence falls over the room. You sit side by side, holding hands, and Eddie wonders if he could have even imagined something like this happening this morning when he slid into your passenger seat, so blissfully happy that you’d deigned to stoop so low to even tie his shoes.

And now you’re holding his hand.

The music is still playing in the other room loud enough to rattle the walls of your bedroom with each thrum of the bass, but neither of you seems to notice anymore.

It might as well have been your own individual heartbeats for all you know.

“Eddie…?” you say thickly.

“Hmm,”

“…Can I ask you something?”

He can feel you looking at him, and when he turns, your eyes flit down to his lips. 

Oh boy. 

Behind his teeth, his tongue grows restless, and he can’t stop it from darting out to swipe across his lower lip. He watches the faintest tinge of a blush spread across your cheeks as he does it and sees just how hard you have to work to drag your eyes back up. 

You like him. He doesn’t know why he keeps convincing himself that you don’t when you’re sitting here like this staring at him like that. 

Eddie nods, and you get caught on a shallow, stuttering breath as you try to inhale.  

“Promise you won’t laugh?” you ask.

“I won’t.”

Your brows come together over your eyes, and you suddenly look so sincere, he can’t help but feel a pang of violent remorse for every time he’s ever even thought about teasing you.

“You have to promise.”  

“I promise.” Eddie makes the sign of an x across the left side of his chest. “Hope to die.” 

You breathe out, long and slow, and flex your jaw as you hold him in your gaze.

“I don’t want you to die, I just wanted to know if…” you trail off, take a deep breath, “Would you kiss me?” 

It hits him like a brick to the face and for half a second, Eddie forgets how to breathe. He swallows hard against the way his throat has gone so suddenly dry and feels his life flashing before his eyes rather than really seeing it. He’s too blind to see it – his vision has gone spotty with a headrush, and it takes every single ounce of his self-control not to sway under the force of it.  

“You want…” he starts, and finds that when his voice fails him, he has to start again, “You want me to kiss you?”  

You nod.

Oh.

That’s what he was hoping you’d say, but Eddie spends a lot of time hoping for a lot of things that never end up happening, so it’s not what he expected you to say. And despite all the time he’s spent sitting around fantasizing about this exact moment – about the way you’d bat your lashes and lick your lips before giving him a soft, slow smile –  he doesn’t know what to say.

His functionality for speech has abandoned him entirely, so he just hums out this weird, pensive noise that is caught halfway between a giddy laugh and a desperately wanting whine.

For half a blinding second, he’s afraid it’s going to scare you off – because what the fuck was that?! – but your brows come down, and your lips twist up, and the next thing he knows, you’re laughing.

He’s laughing too. Because you want him to kiss you.   

You haven’t even been Amigos Oficial for twelve hours and here you are blowing past those barriers at the speed of light.

Life is so wonderful and weird sometimes.  

You want him to kiss you. You, want him. Genuinely and truly.  

Eddie’s mind is clawing at the planes of his skull, screaming desperately for release, and his heart…? Well, that fucker’s stopped beating all together. It’s dead on arrival.

You’re suddenly so close, closer than you’ve been all day, closer enough that he’s suffocating in the sweet, cloying scent of your perfume and your shampoo and your skin.

You smell so good that it kickstarts his salivary glands, and he has to swallow down the sudden excess of spit in his mouth.

“Eddie…?”

“Okay.” he says unevenly, “I mean — yes. I’ll… I’ll kiss you … uh…” he clears his throat, “When?”

You suck in a sharp breath and hold it and pull your shoulders up to your ears as you scrunch your features in that specific little way Eddie so desperately loves.

“I’m free now?” you offer, and – CLEAR – Eddie’s heart leaps back to life, bruising itself on his ribs and punching a breath out of him.

It’s violent, and it hurts a little in all the best ways, and it takes him a moment to learn how to work his brain again.    

“Oh – right – um … o-okay.” He says.

And then, he watches something indiscernible flash across your eyes in the wake of such a hesitation and you immediately begin to backpedal.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to,” You say quickly, and isn’t that the worst thing anyone has ever said? “If that was totally off base…? If you don’t want to–”

“No! No, I do – I want to.”

“Do you?” you ask, so painfully hopeful it makes his insides throb with an unabashed wanting he is powerless to ignore. 

“Yeah… actually… I really do.” He says, growing shy again and swallowing it for his own sake, “…been thinkin about it for a while now.” 

“Oh – you have, have you?” You giggle, grinning as you tilt your head sideways to press your shoulder to your ear. “...okay, good.”

Eddie shifts further into your space and braces a hand on the floor at your hip.

“Great.”

Your gaze flits down, and you bite your lower lip to try and get control of the smile that is steadily growing wider and threatening to split your face in half. Like always, you fail miserably, and nose to nose, you can’t stop yourself from looking. Eyes up, then down again.  

“Excellent.” You purr. 

Eddie takes your face in hand and watches your eyes flutter shut as he tilts forward. He can feel your breath fanning his face in gentle, anxious puffs, and he savors this moment. The anticipation of the next step – the deep breath before the plunge. 

“Fan-tastic,” he whispers, gently knocking foreheads with you and breathing in your sigh as the tension reaches a boiling point. 

For over a year, this is all he’s wanted, all he’s thought about, and now that it’s here, he’s almost afraid to go forward with it. Not because he’s worried it won’t be everything he’s imagined and more, but only because, somehow, Eddie knows once he does this, there’s no going back.

There is a tangible fear that comes with that, despite the urgency he feels, imploring him to hurry up and kiss you already. He wants nothing more than to do exactly that, but he can’t help but linger in these final moments before his life changes forever.

He wants you to look at him when he does it, and bear witness to that change because after you, he’s never going to be the same again. He hopes you like the person you make out of him because people have been careless enough to mold him before and they haven’t always liked the results.  

Eddie thumbs the hollow beneath your eye, as if to banish an imaginary teardrop, and gently nudges your head back. He watches you, and he waits, hearing the way your breathing hitches as your lips part. After a moment, your eyes flit open curiously, bathing him in the warm glow of your attention, and only then is he ready to kiss you. 

BOOM.

Your bedroom door bangs loudly against the wall as it comes flying open, and Eddie has never been on his feet faster.

Shot full of adrenaline, his fingers twitch at his sides in anticipation of being told to “put his hands up”. But instead of the cops and your parents and a whole host of other authority figures ready to crucify him for deigning to drag you down to his depths, it’s just Carol standing there, leaning against your doorway, looking far too pleased and much more sober than she was the last time he saw her. 

“Hands to yourselves, Perverts,” She drawls, “There are underaged people in the audience.”   

Eddie’s got no idea what the hell that is supposed to mean, he only knows that if he doesn’t manage to regulate his heartbeat, he’s actually going to keel over and pass out.

And then, a high, squeaky voice cries your name, and suddenly you’re shouting right back.

“—Dustin!” You squawk, twisting around to peer across your bed at the smaller body that has appeared in your doorway, “What are you doing here?!”

The boy, who cannot be any older than twelve, has no front teeth and stands there furiously lisping back at you.

“What are you doing?!” he fires back, “What the hell is going on here? And who the hell is that?”

You ignore all three of his high-pitched questions in favor of one of your own.

“How many times have I told you – you have to knock!” you stress, and Eddie is half convinced that no one has ever spoken with such authority, even he feels chagrined about it.

Sometime, in the last few minutes, the party ended with a fizzle, rather than a bang, but neither of you has seemed to notice this with everything else currently going on. 

“Yeah Kiddo, you almost got an eyeful of something you could never unsee,” Carol stresses, leering across the room at Eddie, who suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. 

“Is that your little brother?” He asks.

It feels like a stupid question to be asking, considering he’s fairly sure you don’t have any siblings, but then again, what does he know except that he's panicking and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so embarrassed in his life.

“No,” You huff, “That’s just the kid I babysit.”

“Just?!” the kid – Dustin, evidently – shouts.

Eddie looks at you, then at him, then back at you, and while he’s no expert on people’s younger siblings, he’s fairly certain he’s missing something.

“I thought you said you babysat Jonathan’s brother.” He says, offering you his hand as you begin to stand.

“I do,” you huff, putting your fingers in his and letting him pull you up, “But mostly I babysit this little shit.”

“LITTLE SHIT?!” He’s gone so red he’s almost purple now. “That’s it, this is over – right now!” 

He turns on his heel and storms back into the hall. 

“Dustin—” you call, to no avail.

“Right! Now!” He reiterates and disappears into the house.  

“What’s that mean?” Eddie asks.

Beside him, you breathe out hard through your nose and your shoulders drop.

“He’s gonna tell on me.” 

It’s almost funny, in a wholly bizarre, completely bewildering sort of way. 

If either of you were paying better attention to the rest of the house, and the sudden and conspicuous lack of music, or overall chatter, you might have noticed that something is suddenly very different about the front room.

“Oh, by the way,” Carol starts once the kid is gone, eyeing her manicure and still looking far too much like a cat in cream for Eddie’s comfort, “You should know, somebody called the cops.”

“What?!” You yelp.

“Yeah, I don’t know – something about somebody bringing drugs? You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Eddie?” she purrs, and behind her, he gets the first glimpse of flashing red and blue lights, painting the room through your front windows. “Anyway, they’re looking for you.” 

His stomach bottoms out, and just like that, there goes the other shoe. That’s what this was all about, the real reason Carol wanted him here so badly tonight. 

He doesn’t know if she called them or if it was one of your neighbors, but here is the Hawkins PD, coming to break up a party and cart him off to jail if he doesn’t get out of here right now.  

Before he can even begin to form a plan of escape, you seize Eddie by the front of his shirt and drag him around to your bedroom window. “You have to go!” 

“Oh, brother,” Carol sighs, “What kind of chivalrous bullshit–”

You force the window up in its frame with a deafening shriek, and the cool autumn air comes rushing in, clearing the air and Eddie’s mind of everything that just happened in the last two minutes.

“Go now!” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out your window and gone the second his feet his the grass, and suddenly this all feels a lot more familiar than he’s happy with. Leaving a party out some side window and hitting the breeze while the Hawkins PD descends is pretty much par for the course for these little get togethers.

Except this time, there is the added bonus of being able to hear you distantly arguing with Carol – you accusing her of putting in the call, and her stridently defending herself against such a hideous (and likely true) accusation.

Beyond all of that he sees Jim Hopper, marching up your front lawn and into your house while his deputies try in vain to catch all the stray fishies pouring out of your home in droves. If Carol is telling the truth – which, to be fair, it is highly plausible that she is not – the chief of police is entering your house with the sole intention of rooting him out, and when he doesn’t find him, when he hears the talk about where Eddie’s been all evening, it’s going to be pretty easy to surmise what happened.  

You’re gonna take a lot of heat for what you just did for him, and he doesn’t know if you realize that.

How many little selfless acts can you perform for him without a second thought? And how can Eddie stand here and take it without doing something to repay you?

He has to do something, but what can he do? 

Well, it occurs to him that he can do exactly what you just asked him to do, as would only be right. 

But that’s crazy, right? He doesn’t have time for that kind of ooey-gooey “lasso the moon” nonsense when he ought to be long gone by now. The last thing he needs is to get caught and spend the night in jail, waiting for Wayne to get off shift and bail him out.

He doesn’t need to be running from the cops, either – he’s got a pair of handcuffs nailed to his bedroom wall to remind him of exactly that – but it occurs to Eddie that he can’t just leave, not without thanking you. Not without saying goodbye.

What kind of friend would he be if he did that? Certainly not your best friend, and certainly not more. 

He’s stupid, he’s foolish, he’s taking his life into his hands — he’s skirting back across the grass and hitting your windowsill with a muted thump.

When Eddie pops up, you’re still standing there, too preoccupied with fending off Carol to notice him looking in. The coast is clear, for now, so if he’s gonna do this, he better do it fast.

He reaches up to tug at the hem of your sleeve, and your name is out of his mouth before he has time to think better of it. You turn, and brace your hands on the windowsill to lean out and look down at him with wide, confused eyes.

“Eddie,” You gasp, “What are you still doing here? You gotta—”

He lifts up on his toes and kisses you. It’s only a quick, chaste brush of the lips to the corner of your mouth – he calculated wrong and misaimed – but it’s enough to send an electric shock ripping through both of your bodies. You freeze and go rigid, and behind you, Carol snorts out her disgust.

“Oh, fucking gross—” she gags.   

When Eddie drops back down his face is on fire, but he doesn’t wait to see what happens next.

He turns and runs, leaving you standing there, hanging halfway out your bedroom window as the first inkling of the police chief’s voice comes booming through the house.

“Okay – party’s over!” Jim Hopper shouts as Eddie escapes into the night, grinning wildly and laughing because, despite his better judgment, he’s pretty goddamn sure he's in love love love, and he’s home free. 

[windvexer]

This is in reply to a very long ask, which I would prefer to summarize.

As a young child, Anon and their mother left an abusive situation and moved into a new house.

When they moved, Anon began suffering from severe violent and grotesque intrusive thoughts even though they were a young child with no prior exposure to these things.

In order to cope, Anon shut out these thoughts as much as possible.

When Anon moved out of the house, these intrusive thoughts stopped and never returned.

Now, some years later and coming from a more stable place, Anon believes that these intrusive thoughts had a supernatural source. Not from a haunting spirit, but from the home itself.

Anon finishes the ask with: "So I think shutting out spiritual energy has become so deeply ingrained in me that I just can't get a proper practice going. Aside from getting good at warding to fill that role, I was hoping you had some advice on breaking down that barrier a bit?"

Anon, I hope I've correctly summarized your ask. I'm looking at it now on the other half of the screen to respond to what you wrote.

I am not going to comment on mental health issues. As you've said yourself, this is something you've worked through and doubtless you are very aware of the mental and emotional impact such a life transition could have on a young child.

Since I'm not qualified to speak on mental health or self therapy, let's move forward with the assumption that you did experience something supernatural - that something about the house, or within the house, was causing those thoughts.

It's my experience that the scariness of a supernatural event is often unrelated to how "powerful" that event was.

Many people who experience overwhelming negative spiritual contact tend to set out with the point of view that because these events affected them so strongly, that the event must have been caused by a very powerful force.

When I was in my first apartment, there were old hard water stains in the toilet bowl. My room mate scrubbed and scrubbed all day with zero progress, and declared the bowl to be permanently stained.

I went in and dumped some toilet bowl cleaner in, and the stains came out in about five minutes.

Despite all the work, my room mate had failed to use the necessary cleanser to actually resolve the problem.

It's just the same thing with unwanted spiritual contact. People use the wrong tools for the job, and declare the situation hopeless.

But more likely than not, the people who tell me they are struggling with debilitating spiritual symptoms have never tried any act of magic to resolve them, at all.

And more likely than not, the very first ward they try will resolve it.

Supernatural problems may be very difficult to resolve through mundane means, but they tend to be easy to resolve with supernatural means.

In my experience, a vast majority of people experiencing overwhelming spiritual contact can resolve the problem with basic warding.

I know that you're not in that old house any more, but I want to emphasize that dealing with these sorts of problems is really not as difficult as most people think.

You shouldn't set yourself up to think that it will take months of study to craft a serviceable ward, or banishment, or cleansing. Doubtless you could do all of them right now, if you had a decent recipe book in front of you.

I believe you could probably do this even if it was the first spell you had ever cast.

My first piece of advice is to ward pretty well. If you do not want to deal with surprise spirits popping up, I would recommend a pretty heavy-handed ward that limits most spiritual ingress.

This isn't because lots of spirits are guaranteed to appear, although in my experience it can happen to new practitioners. It's just about creating a safe space where you feel confident exploring the things around you.

A personal protection, such as a protective amulet, is also very helpful. For people really worried about spiritual protections, I recommend two; an "everyday use" amulet, and a very "heavy" protection likened to a suit of armor.

Protections need to be maintained. If you want to be a witch, learning how to monitor, feed, and manage ongoing protections is an important skill for beginners. Working with wards is an excellent way to learn this.

You should learn one method of cleansing and one method of banishing. These can both be more mild, "everyday use" sorts of spells. By this I mean you don't have to go nuclear - again, even very mild magical action goes a long way towards resolving supernatural problems.

I recommend this because it is very helpful as a witch to learn that you can control your environment, and start unlearning helplessness towards the vibes.

Many people who have an affinity towards the supernatural become helpless towards the dreary and damaging fogbanks of deleterious energy that settle around people and places. They become helpless because they don't know how to resolve it; it's just there, and it's something they experience, and that's that.

But you don't need to do that, because you have the tools to correct it.

Begin practicing, as often as you have an opportunity to do so, the art of adjusting the vibes. Teach yourself how to cleanse and revitalize spaces so that it's enjoyable to let your guard down and soak up what's around you.

Unlearn any internalization: "ugh, every time I'm in this room I feel terrible, even though I shouldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me." Begin pushing back. Fix spaces. Protect against unsavory people whom you can't avoid.

This undertaking, by and large, will teach you plenty of magic.

You should consider getting reacquainted with your spiritual senses through energy work, not through contacting gods or spirits.

This really eliminates the worry about contacting "something out there," and lets you focus on just playing about with some energies.

It can be danged useful, too. Learning how to shield - even something as ubiquitous and basic as a sphere of white light - can be significantly helpful towards blocking out unwanted supernatural contact.

Try warding your space for peace of mind, and then practicing some of the common energy work exercises: energy balls, grounding roots, cycling energy through the body and earth, breathing energy in and out, raising shields, channeling energy into objects, centering/reclaiming energy, and so on.

If you'd like to work with spirits, try talking to a tree that gives you really good vibes. Trees are often - but not always - remarkably friendly, especially domesticated trees in urban or suburban areas. They also tend to be more talkative than rocks.

You don't need to leave offerings or set up a contact schedule or anything. But if you feel that you're prepared to start reaching beyond yourself, a tree is a decent guy to start talking to.

Magically speaking, some people really have tapped down their own psychism and connections so much, that it becomes an actual blockage.

If you're trying to do magical or psychic work and you can't shake a weird feeling that something is actually in the way, like a boulder blocking the path, then this is of course a magical boulder and should be addressed through magical means.

You can try three things:

The first is personal cleansing of any sort, but especially done with a focus to remove magical blockages and barriers. Be aware that this may need to be done multiple times over a period of weeks, or longer, to take effect. If multiple cleansings are necessary, this is preferable over intense "lightning strike" cleansings that can rip things open.

The second is to give yourself permission. In your original ask you mention being familiar with shadow work, and so perhaps you are familiar with the idea of granting yourself permission or authority to engage in things, which deep down you are nervous of doing.

The third is to build a shrine that honors your own psychism and your own connections. Almost imagine that you are building a shrine to a lost god, forgotten for so long that he's turned to ash and dust. Burn candles, light incense, and give offerings to your own ability to connect. Lovingly tend to it, and treat it as a wayward spirit who now needs to be called home, nurtured, and restored to its rightful throne.

[beatrice-otter]

Genuine question for you, since iirc you're a pastor? Are there other ways to understand the Great Commission? I am not a Christian, but I am trying to be friendlier to Christians. My problem is: evangelism has deeply hurt my people through colonialism, forced conversions, and supercessionism. I cannot be neutral about this. On the other hand, I know it's a central Christian teaching and it's not so easy to just uproot things that are the word of God to their practitioners. I don't want outsiders forcing interpretations or suggestions on my people so in the spirit of interfaith understanding, is there a Christian way (or ways) of understanding it that doesn't force Christianity on the rest of us?

The Great Commission, as practiced, has done a lot of harm to a lot of people (understatement).

Short answer: no. Long answer: yes.

If your question is, "is there a way of interpreting that specific passage so that it doesn't mean Christians should try and convert people to Christianity," the answer is no. It's cut-and dried, and it's by itself--it's not a single verse in the middle of a longer passage of teaching that can be recontextualized. 'Then Jesus came to them and said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”' (Matthew 28:18-20). That's it. Boom. Done.

But there are two major factors in how it actually plays out that have HUGE impacts on everything about it.

The first is power. When Matthew was written, Christians were a persecuted minority. The idea of Christians being fed to lions and whatnot was largely a myth, the persecution was never as widespread nor as harsh as Christians remember it being, but it was still a thing. Christians had little or no social power in the larger community; a very large proportion of Christians were poor and/or women and/or enslaved. "Making disciples" could only happen when the prospective disciples voluntarily decided that following Jesus was the right thing to do because they could see the difference it made in the lives of Christians around them, or because Jesus' words touched something in their hearts. That is a very different thing from a colonial power coming in and imposing Christianity by force, and then trying to eradicate anything that doesn't fit within Christianity.

We get a lot of examples of how that worked in practice; the entire book of Acts is "what did making disciples look like in the early church." And what it looked like was ... tell people about Jesus, and if they don't want to hear, then don't bug them about it and move on. We also have Jesus' instructions to his disciples, when he sent them out to preach the first time: if people want to listen, great, stay and teach. If not, move on. (Note: at this point, their preaching would not be proselytizing Christianity, because Christianity didn't exist yet. Jesus was one of a fairly large number of traveling rabbis wandering about Judea teaching whoever would listen. The disciples were being sent as Jewish teachers into Jewish communities--this is before any of them believed that Jesus was the Messiah.)

In the 4th and 5th Centuries, Christianity became welded to the Roman Empire and became a tool of Imperial unification. Most Christians of the time seem to have thought it was a good thing because power! authority! wealth! and yet it warped a LOT of stuff about Christianity. Pacifism got jettisoned immediately, for example. There are a whole bunch of Jesus' teachings that are fine or beneficial when practiced by people with little or no social power that become toxic when they are the Official Position of the power structure. The Great Commission is one of those teachings. And now, of course, any thoughtful Christian has to reckon with that. Even as we lose our political and social power and hegemony (and I believe that's a good thing!), we've still got to reckon with the toxic and harmful ways we've used that power in the past.

Which brings us to the second mitigating factor, which is "what relative importance do you put on the Great Commission?"

That command is three verses long. Matthew has 1071 verses. The Great Commission is therefore only .2% of the Gospel of Matthew ... and it's not found in any of the other Gospels, or anywhere else in the Bible. There are 3,779 verses in the Gospels (the books directly about Jesus' time on Earth) and 7,957 verses in the New Testament as a whole (the specifically Christian books of the Bible). The Great Commission is mentioned once for three verses. Add in the Hebrew Bible (which Christians call the Old Testament), and the Christian Bible is 31,102 verses long.

And yeah, Jesus sent out disciples to preach ... but not to outsiders. And yeah, Acts is all about spreading the Gospel to new people, but the Gospel message is not "you need to learn this and pass it on like it's a pyramid scheme." Not to mention, Acts is very specifically clear that they are going out and spreading the Good News because the Spirit is calling them. Not just "Christians should go out and tell people" but "this specific person should go to this specific place and tell this specific person about Jesus." It's not about humans choosing to go out and conquer the world for Jesus, it's about following the call of the Holy Spirit. So if the Holy Spirit isn't calling you to proselytize ... shouldn't you be listening for what the Holy Spirit is actually calling you to do?

If you add in the book of Acts and count it as part of the Great Commission, that's 1,010 verses out of 31,102. We're up to 3% of the Bible, but still only 3%. Then we turn to the rest of the New Testament, and it's just not there. Paul spends a lot of time telling his churches what they should believe and how they should act. You know what he doesn't tell them? He does not tell them they should be going out and converting other people. Paul himself spends a lot of time making disciples, but he is not concerned with whether or not those disciples then go out and make other disciples. He has his ministry; theirs is to be the Body of Christ.

How much weight do we give to three verses out of 31k+? How much time and attention do those three verses require of Christians? When Christianity was the religion of the great imperial and colonialist powers, it was given a lot of weight because it provided a religious justification for imperialism and colonialism. But that's not an inherent reflection of how important it is in the Bible itself.

Most Christians in most times and places have not spent much time worrying about making disciples out of non-Christians. Even if you lived next door to non-Christians, it's not something the average Christian spent much time thinking about. It wasn't something theologians spent much time thinking about, and not something ministers spent much time preaching about, either. If God called you to be a missionary, great. If you were such a good example of Christianity that your neighbors saw your example and wanted to become like you, even better. But "making disciples" was not a major concern ... until you get to the massive wave of colonialism in the 19th Century. All of a sudden, it became this major thing. Every Christian was expected to participate in one way or another--missionary societies sprang up like weeds, dedicated to learning about missions to "heathens" and raising money for missionary work. The Great Commission came to the front and center of Christian teaching just as colonialism was coming to the front and center of European and American political concerns. This was not a coincidence.

Let's contrast that with another foundational commandment, shall we? The Great Commandment: 'Jesus replied, “The most important [commandment] is Israel, listen! Our God is the one Lord, and you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being, with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this, You will love your neighbor as yourself. No other commandment is greater than these.”' (Mark 12:29-31) Now, besides the fact that Jesus himself says that this is the greatest commandment, it's recorded in multiple Gospels (cf. Luke 10:27-28, Matthew 22:36-40). Also, Jesus is quoting! The "love the Lord your God" part comes from multiple places in the Hebrew Bible (most notably the Shema Yisrael, Deuteronomy 6:4-9). "Love your neighbor" comes from Leviticus 19:18 and is the driving theological point behind a lot of the Law and the Prophets (in the Hebrew Bible) and the Epistles (in the New Testament).

Moreover, the Great Commandment is the lead-in to one of the most important parables, the Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30-37). And while it doesn't explicitly appear in the Gospel of John (which is a very different book than the other three Gospels), John has the Farewell Discourse. After the Last Supper (but before his arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane), the Gospel of John has a timeout where Jesus spends three whole chapters giving his disciples one last lecture and then praying for them. And while that lecture covers a lot of topics, one of the ones it keeps hammering home is love of God and love of neighbor.

The Great Commandment doesn't come out of nowhere, nor is it isolated. It is laced throughout all of Scripture. Multiple books of the New Testament are meditations on what it means to love God and love your neighbor.

The Great Commission, on the other hand ... is three verses.

When "loving your neighbor" and "make disciples" conflict, which one should we follow? I know which one I choose.

[enquiringangel]

The Lost Boys and the Major Arcana

Since a couple of people have asked, here are my thoughts re: The Lost Boys characters/scenery as the cards of the tarot’s major arcana. I am trying to interpret based on the movie rather than diving into pure headcanon land, so some characters who are less developed in the movie don’t get so much attention as the main players. Sorry!

My knowledge of tarot is a hodge-podge and I don’t claim my understanding of card meanings to be absolute. Far from it. The deck I refer to when discussing imagery of the cards is the Coleman-Smith tarot (more commonly known as the Rider-Waite-Smith, but fuck that, Pamela Coleman-Smith carried that project)

Here goes:

0 - The Fool - Michael. The Fool of the tarot is at the beginning of a journey. As with all journeys, there are both opportunities and perils. The common depiction is of a young man carrying a bindle and walking towards the edge of a cliff, looking upwards instead of at the path in front of him. One meaning of this card is a warning to look before you leap, something which Michael could have done with hearing.

As far as imagery goes, this would work with both Hudson’s Bluff or the train tracks, Michael depicted as about to step off the firm ground of past experience and to plunge into what’s unknown.

1 - The Magician - David - If our Fool is our neophyte, The Magician is our adept. The Magician is depicted as a robed man surrounded by the symbols of the 4 suits of the minor arcana. An infinity symbol above his head, he points up with one hand and down with the other, reflecting the occult maxim: ‘as above, so below.’ This is a card about (among other things) competency and mastery.

As leader of the boys and Michael’s initiator into vampirism, David fits this role.

2 - The High Priestess - Star - The High Priestess is the gateway into the mysteries, and she knows more than she will reveal. The answers are there, but she won’t just give them to you. (Sound familiar?)

3 - The Empress - Lucy - A card about nurturing, generative and creative forces, this is only fitting as it’s Lucy’s role as a good mother figure that ultimately spurs the entire plot of the movie.

4 - The Emperor - Max. The Emperor is about authority. Not necessarily a person, but having authority in a certain domain. And authority - in the paternal, patriarchal sense - can be oppressive.

5 - The Hierophant - Max - This card is about traditional values and conformity. While being a vampire is transgressive, Max manages to be a boring middle-class white man who literally has a suburban house with a white fence.

6 - The Lovers - Star, Michael, David-. As far as readings go this doesn’t always refer to a sexual relationship. It is about relationships in general, kindred spirits, and about choices. Joel Schumacher considered these three the main characters, and it is ultimately the links between them that drove Michael to go down into the cave in the first place.

7 - The Chariot - Grandpa’s Ford - It’s about movement, both in the literal sense but also about taking action. The car has a rather key role at a critical juncture. The motorcycles could also work.

8 - Strength - Sam - We’re talking strength of the inner kind. There are a few contenders for this one, but I gave it to Sam because it’s only because of his refusal to give up on Michael that the human characters and half-vampires were able to be saved. Thorn can be the lion.

9 - The Hermit - Grandpa - The Hermit is a wise figure who knows more than you do. As the name implies this figure is often alone or keeping a distance from people or events, sometimes for the better. Sometimes not.

10 - Wheel of Fortune - The Carousel - Round and round we go, and sometimes we win the games that come with the ride, sometimes we lose.

11 - Justice - The Frog Brothers - The thing about justice is that it is very subjective. But if you think of some other ways this can be interpreted, such as getting consequences, and finding the truth, then maybe you can see why I chose Edgar and Alan here.

12 - The Hanged Man - Marko/Paul/Dwayne. This card is about staying the same, stagnation, being held in a transitional state. So like, being a vampire who can never grow up. I’m sure you see where I’m going with this. Plus, their little upside-down selves would go perfectly on this card.

13 - Death - Welcome to Santa Carla (Murder Capital of the World) - This card is rarely about actual death/dying. It’s transformation - the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Santa Carla is a nexus of change and beginnings/endings for all the characters as a result of the events of the movie.

14 - Temperance - Star - It’s about balance; too much of anything being bad for you, etc. Star manages to avoid killing and has done for some time, while Michael was a vampire for like half a day and nearly ate his own brother. Lol.

15 - The Devil - The Wine Bottle - It’s a card about worldly desires, sexuality, addiction, hedonism… All things inherent to vampirism.

(I was originally going to do David here, and he would’ve worked. The traditional image is of a Baphomet-style figure surrounded by a man and woman in chains…but the chains look like they would come off easily, if only they stoppes to remove them. Picture David in his wheelchair, smirking, with Star and Michael to either side.)

16 - The Tower - Edgar (climbing the ladder to the sleeping vampires) - major upheaval. Catastrophe. Shit is about to hit the fan.

17 - The Star - Star - Her name is actually not the reason she was chosen haha. This card is about hope, overcoming adversity and finding contentment. Star never gave up on becoming human again, and she was certainly content at the end of the movie.

18 - The Moon - Marko/Paul/Dwayne/David - Illusion. Deception. But on a more positive note, deals with intuition.

19 - The Sun - Laddie - This is a card with feel good vibes. Happy families, achievements, abundance… But on the flip side can indicate naivety and blind positivity. This card typically depicts a young child, so yeah.

20 - Judgement - Michael - Judgement differs from Justice in that it’s more like taking stock of your own circumstances. Michael is ultimately the one who has to make the choice about which half of his half-vampire nature to embrace.

Also consider he shares his name with the archangel…

21 - The World - ??? - The end of a cycle. But where there are ends there are always beginnings. Opportunity knocks, and another Fool gets ready to set off an a journey…

I couldn’t think of a character or scene that worked to express this, except maybe Max’s fiery death/the aftermath of, so I left it blank.

Edit: it’s Sexy Saxophone Man. He’s The World.

[porcelainseashore]

Coffee & Secrets (4)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Rookie Cop! Leon x Barista! Fem! Reader

Summary: As a cozy coffee shop owner in Raccoon City, you’re no stranger to visitors seeking comfort, quiet, and warmth. When a rookie officer named Leon finds a kindred spirit in you, it sets in motion a chain of events that forever changes the course of your lives. An alternate universe set in Resident Evil 2 Remake and inspired by the game Coffee Talk.

Content & Warnings: Canon divergence, coffee shops, romance, slow burn, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, fluff, slice of life, swearing

AO3 Link

Chapter 4: Plans

“Claire?”

You had whirled around with a mop in your hand at the unexpected intrusion, catching sight of the familiar redhead grinning like a Cheshire Cat at the door. It was partway into your cleaning routine—one you usually completed before the shop was open.

Your eyes flew to the sign at the entrance. Well, that explains it. You had left it on the other way round by accident. Oops.

“The one and only,” she crooned. “Told you I would come back.”

“A woman of your word,” you acknowledged in appreciation. Discarding the cleaning equipment in the closet, you took down the postcard you had pinned to the fridge with a kitsch souvenir magnet.

She swiped the card from your hands mischievously, asserting, “So, I believe I’m long overdue for a drink?”

“What would’ya like to have?”

“Definitely something with caffeine in it,” she declared, placing a hand on her hip as if she meant business.

Fanning herself with the postcard, she proceeded to confide in you about her recent life changes. “I can’t actually stay long, Mr. Bertolucci’s got me on doc review tonight.”

You halted suddenly in the middle of preparing the drink, a wooden spoon suspended in the air, green powder swirling like dust motes around the tea bowl. The chashaku and the chawan.

“You’re Ben’s new intern?” you questioned, giddy with excitement.

“Yeah…? It’ll count towards my college credit. I’m a journalism major,” she clarified before teasing, “That also means I’ll be in town for a while, so you better get used to me! Say, you know the guy?”

You laughed soundly as you whisked the matcha into a thick paste with a traditional chasen. Looks like he took your suggestion to heart after all. “He’s a regular.”

Steaming the full-cream milk to perfection, you frothed it up before adding it layer by layer to the paste, your hand moving with practiced precision to create a delicate pattern in the bowl. When you were satisfied with the piece, you gave it to Claire, and at the same time, pointed to the armchair in the corner. “Usually sits over there and works through the night.”

“Yeah, he’s really passionate about it,” Claire concurred, cupping the bowl that she received from you with both hands. “I like that he doesn’t take anyone’s bullshit.”

“Just make sure you get enough rest too,” you reminded her. “Have plenty of breaks.”

“Thanks, mom…” she quipped, rolling her eyes as she punched your shoulder playfully. “So, how’s our all-star cop doing?”

“Leon?” you asked casually, busying yourself with arranging the drinkware and ingredients even though you had already laid them out the night before. “He pops by every so often.”

“Like, every day…?” she probed.

How did she—?

You paused your fiddling and peered up at her. “Who told you that?”

A devilish smirk emerged. “I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.” She took a sip from the bowl, her face lightening up in contentment. 

“He kept jabbering on about you, hounding me to visit your shop. Not that I wasn’t planning to myself already,” she sighed exasperatedly.

“Oh.” You continued where you left off, this time taking a dry cloth to polish the glassware for the umpteenth time. If you squinted hard enough, there was always a speck of dust you missed.

“It seems you’re now very interested in that glass,” she said, exposing the truth of the matter behind your evasiveness. 

Damn, she would make a good journalist.

“He likes the menu, speaking of which, how’s the Matcha Latte?” you changed the subject smoothly.

“I’m sure he likes a lot more than that,” she muttered into the bowl before raising her voice to reply, “I love it! It tastes like the real deal—”

Suddenly, the door flung open, and you could hear Ben calling out with a sense of urgency, “Redfield! I got something on the footage, you might wanna check it out!” 

He tossed a roll of film over to Claire, who dove and caught it like a baseball player in a major league game. Then, he craned his neck in your direction. “The strongest coffee you've got, to go. I think we’re onto something here!”

Giving him a mock salute, you whipped up the Triple Espresso that he was fond of and poured it into a takeaway cup, fastening on the lid as you handed it over to him.

“Life saver,” he mumbled, slipping you the cash for both drinks with a generous tip before dashing out of the shop with Claire in tow, who managed to yell out a quick “Bye!” as she ran after him.

You only had a few minutes to rest until you heard a loud commotion coming from the outside. Hurrying to the door, you could make out the voices of Leon and another boisterous man, as if he had drunk something stronger.

“This the place?”

“No, Ryman, I’m not taking you in there! Let’s get you home.”

“Why? I’ve got two legs, don’t I? Never asked for a babysitter.”

“You won’t like it anyway, it’s not a bar.”

“Aww, come on, rookie! Gotta show me this girl you’re head over heels for!”

“It’s not like that! And don’t call me by that name!”

“Or what, Kennedy? You gonna sue me?”

At this, you swung the door open, and the two men stared at you sheepishly from the entrance. “Would you like to come in?” you gestured towards the shop behind you amicably.

The dumbfounded look on the brunette’s face gradually morphed into a smug smirk. The sharp smell of alcohol wafted from his breath. “How could I say no to a sweetheart like you?”

You noticed Leon cringing internally at the man’s flirtatious behavior as they both ambled in. Passing by, Leon gave you a weak smile before drawing close, whispering apologetically, “Sorry about my colleague, he can be quite a handful.”

Your lips stirred, but no words came. Maybe you didn’t have any for what you wanted to express. Instead, your hand moved on its own accord, touching his shoulder and tracing down his arm. He shivered in response, his breathing uneven as he reached up and clasped your hand in his, brushing his thumb against its back. “I—”

“Hey, Romeo, over here!” the other man shouted from across the room, already seated snuggly at the counter row.

Letting go, your hand dropped limply back to your side as Leon ripped his gaze away, grumbling at the interruption as he sluggishly lumbered over to its source.

“Anything I can get you?” you asked as you shifted behind the counter.

“Hmm, that’s a loaded question, sweet cheeks. What wouldn’t I like to have?” the man laughed, only to have it cut short with an ‘oof’ when Leon nudged him in the ribs.

“Right, where are my manners? The name’s Kevin,” he followed up, extending his hand which you shook while using the other to rub his side sorely.

“We were just at Jack’s Bar,” Leon informed you, his words chosen carefully. You managed to read between the lines of what he was hinting at and swiftly whipped up one of your special remedies.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Kevin inquired eagerly as you laid out two portions of the mixture before them.

“Try it,” Leon answered for you as Kevin picked it up gingerly, examining it as if it were some kind of odd specimen.

“Bottoms up,” Kevin muttered, as he downed the pearly, alabaster liquid in one go. 

His face first twisted into an amorphous shape until his features relaxed and he nodded in approval. “Herby, but pretty damn good. What the hell is it?”

“Cough syrup,” you jested. It took them a while before they got the joke and joined in the laughter.

“Tell me if you still have a hangover tomorrow,” you instructed after they had settled down.

“What am I, the test subject?” Kevin blurted out. “And this, the cure?”

“It’s worked on most people,” you shrugged.

“Cute. Anyway, did you slip my friend here a love potion, ’cause—ow! Hey! What the—”

“Ryman…” Leon warned, as you watched the events unfolding before you with amusement.

You saw Kevin mumble something into the irate officer’s ear about “being his wingman” before turning towards you with a charming smile. Then, he addressed his colleague again, “Talking about minxes, what did you think about that lady in red today at the station?”

All at once, Leon’s face darkened and his mouth curled into a frown. “I don’t trust her.”

Patting his back, Kevin concurred, “Neither do I, Kennedy. She can flash that fancy FBI badge all she wants, but I smell bullshit.”

“Chief Irons seems to take to her.”

This seemed to annoy Kevin even more as he spat, “Chief Irons is a—” but then paused, realizing the situation he was in. Glancing at you, he sighed, “Yeah, foul mouth, my bad.”

“I don’t mind,” you admitted, guessing that the man was trying to keep up appearances for the sake of his friend.

“Keep an eye on her,” he advised Leon, who seemed to agree with him for once. “I’m gonna run some background checks. Doesn’t sit right with me how she can access all our private files like that.”

Fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, he offered it around, but the both of you declined politely. Dumping some cash on the table, he hopped off his seat and grunted, “Well, I’m gonna leave you two lovebirds for the night.”

Before Leon could utter a single word, Kevin yanked him by the collar like an older brother roughhousing his younger sibling and said, “You better get in there before I do, rookie.” 

With a brazen laugh, he ruffled the blonde boy’s hair and sprinted for the door, leaving whoever was left behind to clean up the mess he made.

Burying his face into his hands, Leon groaned loudly as you snickered at him. “Cool guy,” you mentioned.

“He’s a piece of work,” came his muffled reply.

“I’m sure he just wanted the best for you,” you comforted.

There was an audible snort as Leon took his face out of his hands and peered at you. “What season do you like the most?”

You almost stumbled backwards at the abrupt change of topic and being thrust into the spotlight again. “Now, where did that come from?”

“I’m curious.”

You searched his eyes, but upon realizing he was not going to let up, you humored him, “When the air turns crisp and the daylight shifts tonally, so everything is awash in amber.”

He perked up, his smile widening as you continued, “And the smell of pine, spice, and bonfire just floods your senses.”

“The time before nature goes into hibernation—I know, I love it too,” he finished your sentence.

“Did you go hunting a lot back home?”

“I swear—” he laughed.

You had an idea of what he was referring to. “It was just a hunch.”

He nodded. “At this rate, you must be psychic. But yeah, I did. My dad brought me.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Mm-hmm. He taught me to take only what we need,” he recounted wistfully. “And those walks in the woods—god, I miss that. Just having the time, space, and quiet to think.”

Finally, he gazed at you, swallowing as if there were a lump in his throat. “I know this is a long way off, but… would you like to come with me next fall?”

“I’d love to.”

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[weaveandwood]

The Bard and The Blade Chapter 2: A Small Continent

Wyll/Named Tav | Slow Burn | Read on AO3 | Entire Work

Summary:

Rosalind has a poor showing in battle and the mission is a complete failure. Will Wyll change his mind about accompanying the party now?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before taking a large gulp of her wine, which he instantly topped up.  “For what?” He laughed. “For having a bad day? It happens to everyone. I have had a number of days end just like this, returning to camp with my metaphorical tail tucked between my legs, my only solace at the bottom of a glass of wine. Now…I can honestly say I haven’t died in the middle of a fight,” he smiled as he teased her, hoping it would help lift her spirits. He wasn’t ready to admit to her that the sight of her lying lifeless on the ground sent a cold dread through him, even though they had only known each other a little more than a day at that point.

AN: This chapter was born out of the fact that I am playing on Balanced mode (and am Not Good at the game, even though I enjoy it immensely) and a glitch in my Investigate Kagha quest. I'm hoping to update this fic every 2 weeks, alternating with Weave & Woods. Also big thank you to @druizard for the banner!

Dying the second day of their adventure wasn’t part of Rosalind’s plan, but as she woke up gasping for air with her three party companions standing around her, it was clear that was exactly what happened. She groaned as she sat up, her now pounding head in her hands as her elbows were balanced on her knees. 

“What happened?” She asked the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with Gale, Astarion, or especially Wyll out of sheer embarrassment.

“Wood Woads,” said Gale. “Nasty buggers, they got us all pretty good.”

“Speak for yourself, wizard. I am perfectly fine, thank you very much,” said Astarion, a hint of amusement in his voice. Rosalind glanced up. Gale and Wyll looked way more beat up than Astarion. She assumed he used his sneaking abilities to get around the majority of the fight. She had been friends with plenty of rogues growing up in the Lower City, she knew how they operated. 

“As I was about to say,” Gale said as he leveled a look at Astarion who was no longer paying attention, having moved on to look around the small island for chests that may have loot in them. “Luckily, we had taken down most of the mud mephits and the other Wood Woad before you went down. Wyll here got the final blast in right after you…well right after you died.” 

She looked at Wyll, who was staring off into the distance, not making eye contact with her. While she had to admit he looked extremely handsome as the sun shone on his face, this had clearly not been a good first impression on her part. He was probably rethinking their deal right at this moment and was plotting how to leave their camp and capture Karlach on his own, leaving her in the dust. She thought about resurrecting the Wood Woad to take her out again or crawling into a large tree trunk and never coming out. Maybe she could get Gale to cast an invisibility spell on her so she could slink off for good. All three sounded like good and valid options at this point. 

“Weren’t we supposed to find some sort of clue here about Kagha?” Astarion yelled from behind the large tree trunk. The whole reason they came to this area was to see what shady deal Kagha was getting into based on the letter they found in her quarters and hopefully try to talk her out of performing the ritual that would seal the Emerald Grove and set the tiefling refugees out on a road far too dangerous for anyone who wasn’t trained to fight. “There’s nothing here!”

Rosalind took Gale’s now outstretched hand and he smiled at her as he helped her up from the ground. What a good, kind man. She was glad she pulled him out of that rock. She walked stiffly to Astarion, groaning and rubbing her back as she did. “What do you mean, there’s nothing here? There has to be!” She was desperate for something to go right today. 

“Darling, I’ve looked in every chest, under each rock, and in every nook in this tree. There’s nothing. Either someone else got to it first, or we were duped and there never was anything here.”

She sighed. This was not her day at all. “Alright, let’s head back, I guess.”

As they walked the path through the swamp back to the grove, she found herself falling in step with Gale while Wyll and Astarion led the way. Gale was easy to talk to - partially because he loved to talk, and partially because wizards had always been so interesting to her. The way they practiced magic was so studied, so precise. Sometimes watching a wizard cast felt cold, calculated, formulaic - less about artistry, more about precision. Gale was on a different level - the way he moved his hands was faster than any wizard she had ever seen, and the spells he chose had a certain flair to them, either in the type of spell he chose or when he chose to cast them, which resulted in the most dramatic effect. An artist can always spot another artist, and Rosalind felt a kindred spirit in Gale. 

“You know,” he said softly as he slowed down, putting more distance between the two groups, “I think Wyll was angrier when you went down than he was during the goblin fight yesterday. An instant after you fell, the Wood Woad who caused your demise was nothing but ash. He was also the one to revive you. Astarion and I didn’t even have time to attempt to dig our scrolls of revivify out of our packs before he was already chanting the verbal components at your side.” He smiled, a knowing tone in his voice. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

Rosalind stopped in her tracks, her mind racing. Wyll revived her? Instantly, she was giddy as she pictured him pushing everyone away to rescue the downed, fair maiden. She giggled internally at the thought and caught herself starting to blush. On the other, more practical hand, it made complete sense. He’s a hero - of course he’d rush to her rescue out of a sense of duty. Part of the job. Just another day. She knew that. And the anger Gale described? Well, that was definitely because she was a failure and put them all in danger. Any thoughts she had of him potentially fancying her disappeared as quickly as they came, replaced by deep embarrassment again at being unable to hold her own on the battlefield that day. Living in a large tree trunk for the rest of her days now seemed like the most appealing option again. 

Maybe a family of raccoons would take her and her tadpole in. 

******

The mood at camp that evening was subdued. Wyll noticed everyone seemed to take their cues from Rosalind, effectively the party leader at this point, and Rosalind was not in the best of moods. She sat away from the rest of the group, using her fork to stab at the remnants of whatever vegetables remained in her bowl of stew Gale had prepared and muttering to herself.

He recognized that mood.

He grabbed two cups and a bottle of wine and walked over, sitting next to her on the ground. He saw her freeze for a second before looking up at him. She had the biggest blue eyes with flecks of gold. He hadn’t taken the time to appreciate them fully the other day, but he was sure he’d notice their beauty all the time now. He filled one cup and handed it to her before filling his own. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before taking a large gulp of her wine, which he instantly topped up. 

“For what?” He laughed. “For having a bad day? It happens to everyone. I have had a number of days end just like this, returning to camp with my metaphorical tail tucked between my legs, my only solace at the bottom of a glass of wine. Now…I can honestly say I haven’t died in the middle of a fight,” he smiled as he teased her, hoping it would help lift her spirits. He wasn’t ready to admit to her that the sight of her lying lifeless on the ground sent a cold dread through him, even though they had only known each other a little more than a day at that point. 

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t remind me. I have a scroll I can give you to replace the one you wasted on me.”

He placed a hand on her arm, the contact making her look at him. “It wasn’t a waste, Rosalind. It would never be a waste to revive a valued member of a party.” 

She sighed. “I’m not sure exactly how valued I am. I am sure everyone here thinks I’m awful and would leave me on the side of the road in a heartbeat. Well, maybe not Gale. I’m just…new to this. Fighting, traveling, roughing it. All of it. I’ve only been outside of Baldur’s Gate just a few times, and one of those times led to me being kidnapped by mindflayers. Once this is over I don’t think I’ll be venturing outside the city again for a good long while,” she said and laughed nervously, finishing her wine. 

Wyll took a drink, observing the rest of the party. Lae’zel kept to herself mostly, sharpening her blades each night. He had heard her admonish Rosalind for dying, ordering her to train with her during any free time from now on. Gale, Astarion, and Shadowheart sat together, laughing quietly at something. Gale looked over at them a couple of times as Wyll watched. He thought he saw a smile, a nod directed at Rosalind. Wonder what that is about? He turned to look at her and caught her staring at him, her chin resting on her hands. She quickly tried to look away, but he noticed the blush rising up her neck. He smiled to himself. 

“Refill?” he asked, holding up the bottle of wine, now half gone. 

“Please,” she replied, holding out her cup. 

“So you’re from Baldur’s Gate?” He asked, wanting to confirm that his suspicions on her identity were correct. 

“Oh! I guess we didn’t really get a chance to talk much. Eventful day yesterday, what with the kidnapping, the crash, and the battle with the goblins. I think I fell asleep 10 minutes after setting up my tent. Anyway…” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m from Baldur’s Gate, born and raised, in a manner of speaking. You’ve already figured out that I’m a bard. Hmmm, what else? I mainly perform in coffee shops and taverns in the Lower City, sometimes the Upper City - but those are few and far between. I’ve been asked to perform at private events and bigger venues but I turn them down every time. One must keep their reputation intact, you know.” She rotated her cup in her hands as she spoke. “Do…do you ever stop in Baldur’s Gate on any Blade of Frontiers missions?” She asked. 

He shook his head. “I was raised there, but left seven years ago. I was seventeen with an eye for adventure and haven’t been back since. I did enjoy seeing bards perform in the Lower City Plaza when I was a teenager though.”

“I used to perform at that plaza! My first paying gig was there. I was so nervous!” She smiled, her face lighting up as she reminisced. “It was such a big place, and it was the weekend so of course it was busy with people not even pretending to pay attention to me. I remember it so vividly! I wanted it to feel intimate so I cast dancing lights but instead of the cool blue they normally are when I cast, I changed them to be warm yellow, like candlelight. I thought I was so creative,” she laughed. “I think maybe twenty people listened to me that night, but I’ll never forget it.” 

Wyll couldn’t believe it. It was her - The Sunlark. What a small continent it was. 

“I wonder if our paths ever crossed before this. It’s such a huge city, it feels unlikely. But I got that gig when I was seventeen, and if I’m doing the math correctly, that would have been when you were sixteen, so there’s a chance,” she said, looking at him again and catching him smiling at her. “What are you smiling about?” She asked, taking a sip.

“I remember you. I saw that performance.” He finished his wine, the bottle now empty. 

He heard her choke on her wine and had to hold back his own laughter. “You did? And you remember it after all these years? It was either really good or really bad to be that memorable,” she laughed nervously. “Hopefully good, though,” she added.

The fire cast a diffused warm glow onto her, reminding him of that night. “Good enough for a sixteen year old boy to skip drinking with his friends at the Elfsong. And good enough to remember a pretty bard’s beautiful singing after seven years,” he said softly as he looked over and saw her shy smile, the faint blush returning to her cheeks. His gaze traveled over her face, taking in the faded bird tattoos, the scar above her eyebrow, her freckles, the scar cutting through her full lips. They looked soft. He saw her beautiful blue eyes do the same, pausing when they got to his lips. He realized suddenly that he had been leaning toward her, their bodies closer now than they were when he sat next to her. All it would take was him leaning in just a little more…

No, there wasn’t time for that. He cleared his throat and stood up quickly.

“It’s getting late, I should get to my tent. Tomorrow we hunt down Karlach and we’ll need all of our strength to capture that infernal devil. Goodnight, Rosalind, thank you for the conversation.” He bowed to her before turning and walking across camp.

******

Rosalind smiled to herself as she finished the last of her wine. He had seen her perform. He remembered her. He called her pretty . Gone was the embarrassment of the day. Gone was the desire to run away. Gone were the feelings of doubt and insecurity - at least for now. She was positive she’d make more mistakes, most likely tomorrow. But none of that mattered because the Blade of Frontiers complimented her singing voice. She would float on the cloud she was now on as long as possible.

Not quite ready to end the day, she went across the campsite to sit between Gale and Astarion, laughing at jokes they were telling at each other’s expense. Her favorites were the ones about Shadowheart’s permanent scowl - even Shadowheart managed to crack a smile at a couple of them. As the wine flowed between the four of them, however, the attention turned to her. 

“So, Rosalind,” Astarion crooned. “You and Wyll looked rather…cozy over there.” 

Oh, no.

She felt her cheeks get hot, sure they were turning bright red. “We were just talking,” she said, taking a long drink. 

“Please, the two of you looked like you were two seconds away from -”

“Now, Astarion,” Gale interrupted. “Rosalind and Wyll are young. Surely you remember what it was like to be so young after the heat of a battle? I could hardly blame them for their…closeness.” Rosalind choked on her wine again. Somehow it sounded even worse coming from Gale. 

“No, no. He was just cheering me up! It was a hard day, what with dying and the mission being a complete failure. That’s all. We both grew up in Baldur’s Gate, so we were reminiscing.” Gale, Astarion, and Shadowheart all exchanged a look that implied they didn’t believe her for a second. 

She looked up at the sky, squinting at the moon, now high overhead. Does that even mean anything for nighttime? She thought, suddenly wishing she had taken the time to learn just a little about life in the wilds and not focus her entire childhood on just surviving in the city. “Well! Look at the time! We should probably wrap this up - big day tomorrow, capturing a devil and all! I’m just…I’m just going to go to my tent now.” She turned on her heel and raised her hand to give an awkward wave. “Good night! See you in the morning!” She heard the sound of muffled laughter as she entered her tent. 

She took two deep breaths, thinking again about her conversation with Wyll. She smiled as she climbed into her bedroll, grabbing her small notebook she kept for jotting down notes, potential lyrics. She wrote “fire, wine, soft lips, almost kiss” on a page and closed it, holding it to her chest. 

“Sorry family of raccoons, I think my tadpole and I are going to be sticking around here,” she laughed to herself.