#audrey munson

[eyesaremosaics]

Audrey Munson—americas first supermodel.

From ghostly muse, to the insane asylum.

[purbleplaces]

Munson with buzzer the cat in 1915

Audrey Marie Munson (June 8, 1891 – February 20, 1996) was an American artist's model and film actress, considered to be "America's first supermodel." She was the model or inspiration for more than twelve statues in New York City, and many others elsewhere. Munson appeared in four silent films, including unclothed in Inspiration (1915). She was one of the first American actresses to appear nude in a non-pornographic film.

By 1915, she was so well-established that she became Alexander Stirling Calder's model of choice when he became Director of Sculpture for the Panama–Pacific International Exposition held in San Francisco that year. Her figure was "ninety times repeated against the sky" on one building alone, atop the colonnades of the Court of the Universe, roughly modeled on St. Peter's Square in the Vatican. In fact, Munson posed for three-fifths of the sculpture created for the event and earned fame as the "Panama–Pacific Girl".

In 1919 Audrey Munson was living with her mother in a boarding house at 164 West 65th Street, Manhattan, owned by Dr. Walter Wilkins. Wilkins fell in love with Munson, and on February 27 murdered his wife, Julia, so he could be available for marriage. Munson and her mother left New York, and the police sought them for questioning. After a nationwide hunt, they were located. They refused to return to New York, but were questioned by agents from the Burns Detective Agency in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The contents of the affidavits they supplied have never been revealed, but Audrey Munson strongly denied that she had any romantic relationship with Dr. Wilkins. Wilkins was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the electric chair. He hanged himself in his prison cell before the sentence could be carried out.

The Wilkins killing may even have marked the end of Munson's modeling career, although she continued to seek regular newspaper coverage. By 1920, Munson could not find work anywhere and was reported as living in Syracuse, New York, supported by her mother, who sold kitchen utensils door-to-door. In November 1920, she was said to be working as a ticket-taker in a dime museum.

In the summer of 1921 Munson conducted a nationwide search, carried by the United Press, for the perfect man to marry. She ended the search in August claiming she didn't want to get married anyway. On October 3, 1921 she was arrested at the Royal Theater (later the Towne Theater) in St. Louis on a morals charge related to her personal appearance with the film Innocence (the reissue title of Purity), in which she had a leading role. She and her manager, independent film producer Ben Judell, were both acquitted. Weeks later, she was still appearing in St. Louis, along with screenings of Innocence, enacting "a series of new poses from famous paintings".

On May 27, 1922, Munson attempted suicide by swallowing a solution of bichloride of mercury.

On June 8, 1931, Munson's mother petitioned a judge to commit her to a mental asylum. The Oswego County judge ordered Munson be admitted into a psychiatric facility for treatment on her 40th birthday. She remained in the St. Lawrence State Hospital for the Insane in Ogdensburg, New York, where she was treated for depression and schizophrenia for 65 years, until she died at the age of 104.

-Wikipedia

[countesspetofi]

Civic Fame, colossal statue on the roof of the Manhattan Municipal Building. Sculptor, Adolph Alexander Weinman; Model, Audrey Munson. She stands 30 feet tall and is the second-largest figure in Manhattan, dwarfed only by the statue of Liberty.

[thegentlemanscallywag]

Audrey Munson, 1915.

[perfettamentechic]

20 febbraio … ricordiamo …

20 febbraio … ricordiamo … #semprevivineiricordi #nomidaricordare #personaggiimportanti #perfettamentechic

2020: Claudette Nevins, nata Claudette Weintraub, attrice statunitense. (n. 1937) 2019: Gaia Germani, attrice italiana, iniziò a sfilare e a prendere parte a dei fotoromanzi. (n. 1942) 2019: Chelo Alonso o talora Alonzo (pseudonimo di Isabella García), è stata una ballerina, attrice e showgirl cubana, attiva nel cinema italiano a fine anni cinquanta e nei primi anni sessanta. (n.…

[dewitty1]

Beauty (1921)

by Frederick McMonnies, New York Public Library (1902–11), Midtown,476 Fifth Avenue & 42nd Street, Bryant Park,Manhattan, New York, NY, USA

Architect: Carrère and Hastings

Beauty is depicted seated on Pegasus. Above is inscribed: Beauty, old yet ever new!/Eternal Voice and Inward Word (John Greenleaf Whitter, The Shadow and the Light).

 The model for the statue was Audrey Munson.

[localemofreak]

Random Eddie Munson headcanon-

He had- if not still has, a massive crush on Audrey Hepburn.

Thank you.

[countesspetofi]

She lived to the age of 104, spending more than half of those years in a mental hospital. She died in 1996.

Audrey Munson, America’s First Supermodel

While you might not know Audrey Munson’s name, you’ve almost certainly seen her likeness somewhere. Munson’s figure can be found in bronze, copper, and marble across New York City, and, in fact, all over the United States.

The model posed for some 200 artists throughout her brief career, earning her nicknames like “Miss Manhattan” and “the American Venus,” along with a reputation as the most well-known muse of early 20th-century America. But after an attempt at a film career fizzled out, Munson struggled to reclaim her place among New York’s artist elite. Even as Munson’s image lives on in sculptures and other works, her story is an often overlooked part of art history.

[certifiedtrashmouth]

6 bitch

TRACK 6 - as it was by harry styles (eddie munson x fem!reader)

a/n: this could have gone very sad, but i wanted to write something softer. :-) just some shortness and sweetness.

“in this world, it’s just us. you know it’s not the same as it was.” 

Laying here with her, the entire world melted away. The street lights were nothing more than highlights in the shadows casting across the walls of the bedroom, the sound of a siren in the distinct merely white noise. None of it mattered to Eddie; the only thing that mattered was the feeling of her head on his chest and her warm fingertips dancing over his stomach in soothing circles beneath his shirt. All he wanted to care about was the sound of her deep breaths, timing perfectly with his own. 

He had spent the night out with friends. A loud dinner at a nicer restaurant, discussions of simpler times as they compared what their lives were now. How they had all moved away from their hometown, how they were all official adults now. Steve had just gotten a job as a school counselor, Nancy was running her own local newspaper, Dustin had just been accepted into his first choice college - they were all growing and changing, leaving behind the people they once were. 

Eddie found himself panicking halfway through the night, getting lost in his own head as he had listened to his friends indulge in the details of their new lives. He missed them, awfully. These days, they could only find one or two days a month if they were lucky to catch up this way, a stark change from the way they used to see each other every single day. Everyone was always busy. Everyone was always on the move. 

He had changed too. The moment he’d graduated and saved up, Eddie had moved to the bigger city. He was playing small gigs here and there as a solo-act, taking classes at a community college. It’s not like he had stayed the same, but on nights like tonight, it reminded him of just how much he had changed. And it was usually fine, manageable, but tonight had simply felt like a bit heavy of a reminder. 

But then he came home to her. 

She was something that had been a part of his change, too. In a chance encounter as he packed up one night after a show, she’d approached him. All shy smiles and fiddling hands as she complimented him on his performance. He doesn’t know what had gotten into him, but he found himself offering to buy her a drink, because she was a pretty girl, and she was talking to him. One drink turned to two, which turned to three. Stories were told, names were learned, and numbers were exchanged. The rest, as some would put it, was history. 

“What are you thinking about?” she murmurs against his shoulder, leaning her head back to get a good look at him. 

He looks down at her, enamored by the way the shadows dance across her cheek bones and how her eyes still shine with just as many stars in them as they did that first night. “Just thinkin’ about how things change.” 

“Good change, or bad change?” 

He thought about the last year with her. How she had gone above and beyond for his birthday, going so far as to even contact his Hawkins’ friends and bring them all into town for one night. That night, he’d gotten multiple ‘she’s a keeper’ talks. He thought about their first few dates, and how goddamn nervous he had been for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. She still came back for more, even after that date in which he’d accidentally locked them out of his van, and it inconveniently began to pour down rain. She still wanted to see him after he’d spilled his wine onto her during their first time eating at a nicer restaurant, making him curse and nearly cry before she took his hands in hers and promised him it was fine. The shirt could be replaced, but the moment couldn’t. 

“It’s a cute story for the grandkids, right?” 

When she said that, he saw a fear in her eyes. She was worried she was talking about the future too soon; it was only their third date. 

She wasn’t. He had decided he wanted to marry her by the second date. 

Everything about Eddie Munson’s life had evolved and changed from what it once was, and it was for the better, and it was thanks to her. For the first time in twenty-five years, he saw a future for himself, and he saw it with her. 

“Good change,” he promises with a whisper, reaching down to cradle her jaw before bringing his lips to hers chastely, “Such good change.” 

She hums against his lips, a small smile cracking. He rolls them over, caging her in with his arms as he hovers over her, drinking in her every feature. The way her hair spills out around her against the pillow, the way her face is so breathtaking even with sleep lines on her cheeks. 

“I love you,” he quietly confesses, the words still lighting her up like it was the first time he’d ever said them, “I love you so fucking much.”

“And I love you,” she says in return, bringing a gentle hand to his cheek that he nuzzles into without hesitation, only pulling away to press a kiss to her palm. 

He dips in for a proper kiss, his hair falling down like a curtain around them as their lips meet. 

Things were always changing, and always would be. But sometimes, it changes for the better. Sometimes, it changes so you can meet the right girl at just the right time, and maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Eddie Munson’s life may not be the same as it once was, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

[groovyangelkisses]

mentally eddie and i are going as seymour & audrey from little shop of horrors for halloween <3

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

rip eddie munson, you would have loved little shop of horrors (1987)

[emvisual]

Audrey Marie Munson fue, probablemente, la primera supermodelo. Sirvió como inspiración, desnuda, vestida, semidesnuda, para más de 15 estatuas que están por todo Nueva York.

Conocida también como "La señorita de Manhattan", "la muchacha de la Exposición", y la "Venus de América". Comenzó su carrera cuando un fotógrafo la vio por la calle con su madre.

[ghost-proofbaby]

the way you make me feel yearning will never fail to amaze me, friend.

it’s such a shame to me that i can never find beautiful words to tell you how your own pose and poetry makes me feel, because goddamn, it deserves so many awards. i adore the way you paint scenes, the way you describe the emotions, the way i’m sucked in from your first line until the last.

but alaaaaas. i digress. i’m gonna go back into the corner and yearn now, thank you for sharing as always i love love love 🖤

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 10

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 10/? 4.6k. Series Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, November 11th 1985

The fog was lifting in you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What am I doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” you said breathlessly.

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

The animal inside you preened. 

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “But?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Flutters — straight to your core.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached under the desk and grabbed your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

“You don’t remember?” 

“Remind me.”

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

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

He squinted smugly. “You did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Glad to give you an excuse then.”

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

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

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

You’re having a good time baby

But that won’t last

Your mind’s all full of things

You’re living too fast

Go out and enjoy yourself

Don’t bottle it in

You need someone to help you

Stick the needle in

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were ready to take it to the Hideout.

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

More hollers and drum fills.

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

“No, Symphony of Destruction,” countered Gareth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low ooh emanated from the guys. 

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

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

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

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

“Ooh so cultured,” Dave taunted.  

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

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

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

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

“More than you!”

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

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

Eddie glanced around nervously, “What?”

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

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

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

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

The boys erupted in wheezing cackles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did know what he wanted.

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

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

Gareth threw a drumstick at him.

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was before you met Dan. 

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

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

Before he left behind an ice in you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You thought about the last time you felt this way.

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

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

______

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

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

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

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

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[cranberrymoons]

wanna help my worlds collide?

prompt: threesome, double penetration in two holes (kinktober) tags: rated e (18+) hellcheer doubleteaming steve until he cries, that's the whole fic

—

Chrissy’s sweet.

That’s the impression Steve gets the first time he meets her, leaning against the wall at a party hosted by their shared boyfriend. 

She catches sight of him and makes a beeline for him right away, marching across the room on skyhigh heels without missing a step. There’s something predatory in her walk, a glint in her eye, and it lights Steve up like a fucking Christmas tree as she comes to a stop in front of him

It’s that kind of a party – people in lingerie and collars, a few on leashes. The Halloween theme carried out to its logical Eddie Munson conclusion of “vampire sex den”, or whatever it is he’s going for with the number of black and red pillar candles he’s got burning all over the place.

And she’s dressed to match: black dress and black heels with red soles, cherry red nails and lips, but even still. It’s not the kind of place you’d expect to meet someone like Chrissy, looking more like she’s wearing an Audrey Hepburn costume than anything you’d find in a place like this. 

She looks like half the girls he went out with back in high school: sweet and bubbly and warm. A nice girl. 

Well, that and the six-inch stilettos.

Her eyes light up when he tells her his name, and she leans closer and says,

“Oh my god.” Cheeks flushing pink, big toothy grin spreading across her face as she settles a hand on his arm. “Are you that Steve?”

And he smiles, tilting his head to the side. “Guess that means you’re that Chrissy.”

Her laugh is light like a bell, and he feels himself drawn in. He can tell exactly what it is that Eddie sees in her, feels a little like he’s staring at the female version of himself, and he makes a mental note to tease Eddie later about having such a distinct type.

[continue on ao3 || 4,702 words]

tag list of people who showed interest and/or outright begged me to tell them when this was posted lol: @withacapitalp @stargyles @imfinereallyy @spoookysix @wynnyfryd @starryeyedjanai @shares-a-vest @penny00dreadful @griefabyss69 @hornedqueenofhell @hbyrde36 @vegasol @salamandergoo sorry if i missed anyone??

and of course last but not least happiest of birthdays to @steventhusiast!!!!!!