#beep beep writes

[catilinas]

The wind blows their ghosts to the ground

line (loosely a translation of iliad 6.146-9) from memorial by alice oswald, embroidered onto a ginkgo leaf i found on the ground

[postracehair]

a small request

max verstappen x reader | 2k

even world champions deserve love letters. after missing the mexico gp, you're determined to see max have a good weekend in brazil. maybe all it takes is a handwritten note.

cw: fem!reader, being in love, softness, a track-side kiss, love letters. and google translate, sorry to any dutch speakers.

a/n: was this inspired by that video from austin? yeah, it was! sue me! also, written/posted before the gp, so. no race details <3 xx

__

You miss race weekend in Mexico. It happens. You can't be there every weekend, much as you'd like to be. You're even more peeved about it after, considering you quite like Carlos and wish you had seen him earn what very well might be his last win with Ferrari. But you're mostly upset because Max, though he won't say so, could probably have used your support.

Years of experience have him calm, cool, and collected despite the team troubles. Flippant, some headlines say. Mad Max, others. But you know he's probably just tired. Tired of the media, of the FIA, of the churning conflict between him and Lando -- something you all knew was coming someday, but maybe not so suddenly. The longest season ever continues to drag and drag and drag.

"Twenty seconds was...Christ, Max," you say. You know what happened, of course. You watched what you could, saw the sharp moves around the corner and heard the radios. It never gets easier, watching him take risks like that. Usually, everyone else backs off, but McLaren can see victory on the horizon and won't let it go. You can't blame them, either of them, you just wish it was all a bit less tense.

"I know," he says, voice raspy over the connection. "I -- well, you know how I feel about it. Don't want to say anything in case the FIA is tapping my phone."

You laugh into your hand so you don't disturb the other people in the airline lounge, not entirely used to places like this, still. Max has told you over and over that it's absurd for you to spend your own money when you're coming to see him all over the world. When you told him you moved things around so you could come to Brazil, he booked you the nicest ticket, per usual.

"Oh, ha, ha," you say. "Don't give them any ideas, Mr. Community Service." You sigh. "Do you need anything? Be honest."

"Aren't you at the airport already? Your flight should be leaving in --" A pause, like he's checking his watch -- "forty minutes."

You glance up at the departures screen. He's right, but you don't give it to him so easily. "Know my schedule, do you?"

"Well, I booked your ticket, so I should think so."

"Your assistant booked it, you mean."

He hums and you picture him in his hotel room, maybe at the window, looking over the city. "I know your flight information. Don't be silly."

"I mean it, Max," you say again. "Is there anything I can do to make the weekend better?" It's a bit of a useless question and you expect him to answer with a snarky get me a new car or apply for the position of steward.

But he doesn't. He clears his throat.

"I'm just glad you're coming," he says, softly. "I've missed you."

You never doubt how Max feels about you, but he must be pretty tired to admit it like this. He's all about actions, this man. Making sure you have what you need when you're at the track, arranging your travel, remembering your schedule. He shows you how much you matter, and that's more than enough. He never wants to make you feel bad for having a life beyond being his girlfriend. And this doesn't, not really. It just makes you ache, fills your chest with the hopeless affection you've felt for him for so long.

"I've missed you, too," you reply. "But I'd like to be useful."

"Oh, I can think of a few things, then," Max says, all of a sudden all cheek. Such a boy, sometimes. A boy in love.

You can't help but laugh, face hot. "Hush, you!"

He huffs. A few beats of silence, the comfortable, well-worn kind. Sometimes, when he's halfway across the world and up late on the sim, he'll call you just to hear you breathe.

"Max?"

"I -- do you remember what you did for my birthday?"

He'd wanted something small, quiet. There was a lot of work to be done with the team but three weekends off meant you had a little time to yourselves. A few days hardly leaving his place, a dinner with some of the guys, a cake you made yourself, hand-delivered in bed. Gifts for a very wealthy man are difficult, especially since Max doesn't seem to want much.

"Oh, the pillow with my face on it?"

Max laughs. The lounge loudspeaker announces that your flight is going to board soon, so you gather your things but keep your phone wedged next to your ear.

"No, the other thing," he says. He clears his throat and summons some of that World Champion courage. "The letter."

You'd written him a fairly long love letter, thinking it would be a nice thing to carry to the races you couldn't be at this fall. It was tempting to be embarrassed about it when you gave it to him the morning of his birthday, but his cheeks had gone pink and he'd buried his face in your neck.

"Oh, that," you say. The airport is busier outside the lounge and you push your case in the direction of your gate weaving between. people.

"You could write me another, maybe."

Max is direct. He is honest, at work and at home, but this surprises you a little.

"You do know I'm about to get on a plane to see you, right?"

He huffs, and you imagine his cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You asked!"

"I'll write you another love letter, Max Verstappen," you assure him. "I'll write you a hundred."

"One is a fine start," he says firmly. "You should be boarding soon, and I've got to go to the press conference. Text me when you've landed?"

"Of course," you reply, eyes rolling though he can't see. "I'll see you soon, okay? Love you."

"Love you, liefje."

On the plane, you tear out some pages from your journal. You'd prefer to have some nice stationery like what you wrote on for his birthday, but maybe this is more romantic, more real. Making do with that you've got because he asked.

In the last one, you told him your memories of when you first met. How your stomach swooped when you made him laugh, how his blue eyes wouldn't leave your dreams. In this one you tell him about when you first realized you loved him. How absurdly early you were sure, how badly you wanted to tell him for weeks. The way you remember every second of when you blurted it out -- his face, his smile. His voice in your ear, telling you over and over, geliefde, ik houd van je, zo veel. I love you, so much.

"You're working hard on that," someone says. You look up at your seatmate, a woman a few decades older than you with a heavy accent.

You feel a little like you've been caught doing something illicit, but you just smile at her. "For my boyfriend," you tell her. "A love letter."

She flattens her palm over heart and sighs. "How lovely," she coos. "I hope he takes care of you, too."

We take care of each other, you want to say. You could tell her about how he sends you postcards from every country he goes to after you told him you like to put them on your fridge. You could tell her how sometimes you text him during his streams to make him laugh on camera. How he remembers your favorites, how he saves you his special team gear, how he sends you flowers all the time. How he likes to sit on the couch, your toes under his thigh, fingers around your ankle. How you've been learning Dutch and how he patiently corrects your pronunciation. You could go on and on and on.

"He does," you say instead.

__

The plane lands safely in Brazil, but the pilot tells you that there is no open gate and that you'll be sitting for a while. You text Max.

stuck on tarmac, will be later than expected! :(

He must be in media responsibilities still because he doesn't reply until you finally get off the plane.

go relax at the hotel. i'll see you for dinner!

You find your ride easy enough and take a deep breath. The letter you wrote on the plane feels heavy in your pocket, and you just want to see Max. To be near him again. To give him this small thing he asked for.

"Excuse me," you say to the driver. "Do you think we could go to the track, instead?"

You text Max's assistant to say you're headed there, hoping it's not too much of an inconvenience. You're told he's almost done, maybe an hour left, and when you arrive you're led to his driver rooms. His shit is everywhere, per usual. Max is quite neat except in here -- Carmen once told you that George is the same. Clothes strewn about, his race boots unlaced and left in the way, warm-up equipment in a pile. On the table are a few of his things -- his wallet, a notebook, some papers.

Wait a second. One of those papers looks...familiar. It's been folded in three, the envelope it came in nowhere to be seen. His name is scrawled on the blank side in your hand and when you tug it from the pile you can see that it's creased, the edges a little more worn than when you gave it to him a few months ago. Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, actually carries around the love letter you wrote him. Brings it to the track. It's darling. You love him so much. You pull the new one from your pocket and set them side-by-side on the table where he'll find them.

You ask to be taken to the pit wall, please, so you can see whatever the drivers are doing on track. Some dedication, you're told. The timing ends up being perfect and you get there just as they're finishing. You lean on a gap in the barrier where, on Sunday, crew members will be holding timing signs as the drivers zip around the hot pavement. The crowd in the stands is loud, as always, and maybe you imagine it but it seems to get a little louder when you look out.

The guys are talking amongst themselves and a few of them wave at you. You spot Max as he turns away from Charles and you can't help but grin. His eyes meet yours under his cap and his entire face chances, softens, and he breaks into a jog. You lean out over the concrete ledge and meet him in a kiss that's more two smiles pressed together than anything else.

"This is a surprise," he says when he pulls away. Eyes sparkling, he shows no signs of rejoining the other drivers as they head to whatever their next thing is. Photos, probably.

"I missed you," you tell him. "I've left you something in your room."

"Oh?" He straightens the lanyard of your credentials with careful fingers.

You reach for him, palm on his cheek. His stubble tickles and he leans into it ever so slightly. It doesn't feel like there are thousands of eyes on you, not even a little.

"Yeah," you say. "As promised." Someone calls his name. "Go on, then. I'll be waiting."

He kisses you again, a quick brush of his lips on the corner of your mouth.

Later, you'll wake from your nap in the hotel room to those same kisses on your cheeks, your forehead. Max will gather you in his arms and tell you all the moments he almost told you he loved you, how he could hardly believe when you said it first. You'll tease him for how many times he's read that first letter and he'll cheekily say that's why he needs more. And you will write him more, you'll write him as many as he wants. As many as you can, for the rest of your lives.

But now, in front of thousands of screaming fans, he smiles at only you, boyish and pleased.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lap Pillow

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[risengrood]

i can't belive they put him in the web again.. anyways THAT TRAILER??? oh manners, excpect only wild theories to accompany this o' art in the future, in theory also now but, i forgor.

anyhoot the boys!!!

[stanpinesdykewife]

Are you still working on that angsty fic where the reader tells Stan he doesn't have a say in who they talk to or fuck? That little sneak peek alone had so much delicious drama, I'm so curious to know if you intend on finishing it.

YES yes i do! wow i can't believe you remember that!! yes, i plan on finishing it but my writer's block has been pretty heavy... but it means a lot that you asked!! i know i've been pretty bad at keeping my promises lately HAHA but since you asked and since i still can't tell you when i'll finish it, i'm happy to share a little more of that scene under the cut!!! hopefully this will help hold you over until i start churning out content again:

lady plumber WIP stan/reader (fem) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified angst and smut, 997 words (picking up from this snippet!)

“I'm not yours. I don't belong to you.” You catch the rest of your words in your throat. You don't want me. You don't want me.

For a few moments, Stan is speechless. He stares at you, his eyes searching your expression, his mouth opening and closing and opening again. You stand there, staring at each other, and the rest of the bar laughs and drinks and shifts around you.

Stan’s brown eyes shine in the dim lights, and he purses his lips. Darts his tongue out to wet them before opening them again, taking a breath in like he wants to say something. But you—fuck, you fucking hate that you’re doing this—your eyes flicker down to watch his tongue, and they stay there to watch the thin sheen of spit glistening beneath a pink spotlight. Your gaze lingers for a beat too long. When you look back up at Stan’s eyes, his brows are raised. Then he relaxes. His lips curl back into a crooked grin. You already know you’re fucked.

“Doin’ what?” Stan asks lowly, still looking at you. You finally look away, lowering your head to look at the back of your own hand, willing it to move. Stan’s hand comes up between your bodies, and he presses it against yours, and his touch is so gentle. His hand covers yours entirely. He flattens your palm against his chest. The hair there tickles the sensitive skin of your wrist. “Look at me, will ya?”

“I know you don’t,” Stan says cooly, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. The simile is apt, because when he takes a small step forward with his hands raised, you have half the mind to kick him in the head with all your strength before running away. But you’re frozen in place, like you’ve sunken six inches in mud and silt and your nice shoes are all fucked up but you’d do more damage trying to take them off. You don’t move as Stan comes closer, and closer, and your head is forced to tilt up to see his face.

“Stop,” you say, your voice sounding much too soft in the bustle of the bar. Your hand comes up, meant to dissuade him from coming any closer, but it doesn’t work. All it does is press your hand against Stan’s bare skin when he stands right in front of you, and your knees go weak at the warmth from his chest, the heat melting against your fingertips, all the way up your arm, warming you up from the inside out. You say, softer this time, “Stop doing that.”

You look up. Stan smiles down at you.

“Let’s talk this out,” he suggests, “somewhere more private.”

You fucking hate yourself.

You nod.

Twenty minutes later, Stan is pressing you facedown on your bed as he pounds into you from behind. He’s fucking you so well you can almost forget the shame boiling beneath your surface.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you whine, gripping the edge of the pillow. You're drooling into it, spit and moans and unholy little gasps falling out of your mouth and soaking the soft cotton. You don't care. Stan’s dick is so big in you, so deep, and the stretch feels so good. It's like your body's been waiting for him to come back, to make room for himself again. You repeat yourself, moaning into the pillow, “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Fuckin’—shit,” Stan curses, breathing heavily from behind you. He has a bruising grip on your waist, drawing you back every time he drives into your cunt. You don't expect an actual response from him, not really. So it's not your fault your heart skips when he says, “Missed you, too, babe. Missed this perfect cunt.”

“Yeah?” you ask, your breath catching in anticipation. Then Stan squeezes your waist, adjusts his grip slightly so his calloused fingertips are in that crook between your thigh and hip, and a low moan draws out of you. “You missed me?”

“Fuck—Yeah,” Stan grunts, fucking into you with fervor, and the swell of feeling in your chest makes you shudder, makes your face flush. “Missed the way you feel around me. So fuckin’ tight. And the way you sound when I…”

He trails off to thrust hard into you, forcing your body forward a few inches. Then he grinds, making you cry out, and one of his hands slips down underneath your hips to find your clit. He's so rough about it that you instinctively startle forward, but Stan just grabs you with his other hands and pulls your hips back to be flush against his. His fingers let up a little and you melt, moaning loud into the pillow, your hips rocking back, and forth, into his hand, back onto his dick, in your own perfect rhythm.

“Yeah. There it is,” Stan huffs behind you, a smile playing at his voice. But he sounds just as hazy and sex-drunk as you do, high with the incredible rush of breaking a dry spell for some good fucking sex.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if that's the best way to describe it. A tolerance break. A relapse. You wonder if you’re addicted to fucking this handsome man who's so much older than you, so much meaner to you than he has any right to be. You wonder if it's dangerous. If there’s any merit to that small part of you that insists on packing all your shit and changing your name and driving, alone, until your car breaks down in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, left with your inanimate belongings and a soreness in your chest and a cold, empty passenger seat.)

Then Stan says, “That's right. Moaning so pretty for me, sweetheart.” (And you decide you’re better off not thinking about it.)

[sentientcave]

okay so Price/Ghost one shot where Ghost is a tow-truck driver and Price is a cop, and Ghost sees Price parked in a fire lane while he's inside a store buying cigarettes or a coffee and tows his ass, and Price has to walk all the way to the impound lot just steaming mad, where he meets this huge, scarred-up ex-military tow truck driver who isn't the least bit intimidated by him. But Price tries to throw his badge around a little, so Ghost (ornery motherfucker that he is) decides to teach him a lesson personally, and makes it his life's mission to catch Price parked illegally and tow first his squad car, and then later on his personal vehicle. Price tries to catch Ghost doing things he could arrest him for but Simon is the most boring man on the planet, he works, goes home, drinks one beer, sleeps, rinse repeat ad infinitum. So Price arrests Johnny for something bullshit instead (Ghost only has one friend and no family), and Ghost has to go down to the precinct to bail him out. Price starts leaving Gaz in the vehicle to stop Ghost from towing him, but he tows it with Gaz inside as retaliation for the Johnny arrest.

Culminating in them having an altercation when Price finally catches Ghost hooking up his car, and after a few punches are thrown they probably end up on the ground making out sloppy style.

Is this anything? I feel like this is something.

[afewproblems]

Prompt 53. "I'm flirting with you!" Part Two

A follow up to This Post

@happymediummm I promise the answer to your ask will be up soon in part three!!

Eddie stews in his room for three days following the incident at Steve's house. 

Wayne attempts to coax him out with food and coffee, even opening up the pack of bacon they'd been saving in the freezer, anything to try and get Eddie to talk to him. 

"I'm just worried s'all," he says softly from Eddie's doorway on the third day, his expression pinched in that way Eddie hates, "you should go out, do something, come on".

Wayne claps his hands together and disappears for a moment only to return with a tape case from the living room.

"Wayne, no--"

"It's overdue Eds, just bring it back for me would ya?"

Eddie groans into his hands at the triumphant expression on his uncle's face as he gets up from his bed and tugs on his leather jacket. 

"Since your friends work there," Wayne says brightly, gesturing with the tape as he hands it over to Eddie, "you should see if they waive the late fee for us". 

"I agreed to take it back, not talk to people," Eddie grumbles under his breath as Wayne shakes his head and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"At least you won't be growing mold anymore, sitting there in the dark," Wayne says with a wink, ignoring the indignant scoff Eddie makes.

"Store closes in a half hour kid, you better hurry!"

Shit.

Eddie grumbless petulantly as he hurries out the door, ignoring the way Wayne compares his groans to a haunted house door.

He doesn't smile at the jib, and it doesn't make him laugh for the first time in days as he gets into the van, it doesn't!

The parking lot of Family Video is empty, but what did he really expect on a Wednesday at half past eight in the evening. 

The Open sign is still on at least but the low lights in the building and the bright copper glare of the sunset make it so much more difficult to see who is working tonight. 

He could just toss the tape into the return slot and wait out the late fees, he's sure another video store will eventually open up in Hawkins, they can take their business there.

Eddie sighs heavily as he shuts off the van and yanks out the key, "dammit Wayne," he mutters under his breath as he gets out and makes his way to the door. 

Eddie winces at the sharp jingle of the bell above the door and looks around, his head on a swivel, looking for any sign of Steve and his big, stupid, hair.

Robin waves from the counter as Eddie spots her, she's grinning at him with a sly look on her face as she leans against the counter, the multiple buttons and pins on her vest clink against the glass surface.

"There he is," Robin crows, drumming the counter, "I was beginning to think Steve had kidnapped you or something, were you allowed out for good behavior?"

She seems to realize what she had just implied and winces, shaking her head as Eddie snorts mirthlessly. 

"Uh, no, I just came to return this for my uncle," Eddie mumbles, keeping his eyes level with the counter rather than Robin's eyes. 

She frowns at him, taking the tape he slides across the counter and scanning it without dropping her gaze. 

"What's with you?" She says suspiciously. 

Robin drums her fingers lightly against the counter, as the large computer beeps acknowledging the return.

"Nothing, tired," Eddie shrugs, he's not about to tell Robin about what happened, though it is weird that she doesn't already know? 

Maybe she wasn't in on it, he can't imagine that Buckley would approve of a prank like that on another 'friend of Dorothy' but she was Steve's best friend first and foremost.

A song comes on over the small Family Video speakers, humming in the background. 

'All I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is see your eyes

Rosanna, Rosanna…'

Robin wrinkles her nose, her eyes traveling towards one of the large speakers in the corner before looking back to Eddie, a large grin in place.

"God this sappy shit, I told Steve not to put this one on the tape, you must hate Toto".

Eddie shrugs again, glaring at the floor, wishing he could burn a hole into it that he could escape through. 

"He did play it…didn't he?" Robin asks quietly, a small trace of anxiety in her voice as she leans away from the counter.

Eddie stops himself from rolling his eyes; if he was being honest, the tape was a nice touch --really sold the whole prank, honestly.

He looks back up to find Robin staring at him, and sighs heavily, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah," he huffs, taking a step back towards the front door, Robin's eyes follow his path in confusion, "I wasn't much of a fan of the choices".

"But it's fine right," Eddie scoffs, "he can use his little tape on someone his shit will actually work on next time".

"What?" Robin says incredulously, her face scrunches into a frown as Eddie laughs.

"You know Buckley, I'm surprised you were on board with this?" 

"Eddie, what the fuck are you talking about?" Robin hisses, shrill and loud, as she finally walks around the counter towards him.

"Oh don't give me that, he's your best friend, you're going to tell me he didn't tell you about his plan?" Eddie shakes his head as a high pitched laugh bubbles up out of his chest.

"I don't know what plan you're talking about Eddie," she says in a low voice, her eyes wide and angry, "the only thing Steve was going to do that night was tell you how he felt about you". 

"Yeah right, Steve Harrington, wants me? And that's not a fucking joke?"

She sucks her teeth, letting her eyes roam over his face, "this was such a mistake, okay, get out". 

Eddie sneers sharply, "a mistake?"

"Yeah, I never should have gotten his hopes up". 

Robin crosses to the window behind the counter and shuts off the second neon open sign before breezing past Eddie to pull the cord on the other sign, nearly hard enough to yank it down. 

No, no, no, no, it's not true, she's just saving face, she has to be…

Robin stands beside the door, a furious glare aimed at Eddie, "we're closed, get out, I need to go check on Steve". 

Unbelievable, Eddie does roll his eyes at this and heads towards her for the door, he takes the push bar in his hands and leans on it to swing the exit open before turning to Robin one last time, he wants so badly to have the last word it hurts.

"Better go check on King-Steve, I'm sure he's devastated," Eddie snarls, the furious fire from before burns bright in his chest as he watches Robin stiffen in the doorway.

"I haven't talked to him since Sunday Munson, until just now, I thought he was with you!"

Robin reaches out to grab both doors in her hands.

"Asshole," she scoffs, her eyes never leaving his as she locks the doors in his face. 

***

1980, Hawkins, Indiana

Eddie sniffles as he walks home, he can feel blood trickle down his chin from the split lip Paul gave him while his knee aches from where he hit the ground. 

He's not even sure what he did.

Paul had been so nice recently, talking with Eddie almost every day, eventually taking him under his wing. Paul was a year above Eddie at their Middle school, and when he had told Eddie to meet him under the bleachers after school, how could Eddie say no? 

It didn't help that Paul had soft blond hair, big hazel eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and the nicest laugh Eddie had ever heard.

What Eddie hadn't been expecting was Randy and David, also in Paul's grade, to be waiting for him. 

He breathes out a wet sob and keeps walking, scrubbing his face harshly as their trailer in Forest Hills comes into view, almost home.

Eddie reaches into his pocket and winces when he realizes his keys are gone, alongside his backpack.

They must have fallen out of his pocket in the scuffle.

The backpack was a different story.

He limps up the steps of their porch, wincing as the fabric of his jeans pulls at the drying blood on his knee, and knocks on the front door.

"Comin," Wayne calls from inside, "coming, wasn't expectin' anyone-- Ed?" 

Wayne's face goes through a series of expressions, from surprise, to anger, before settling on concern. 

He leans down and brings his hands up to Eddie's face, turning it gently to see the damage.

"Who did this," Wayne says quietly, he stands up to his full height, looking around the trailer park behind Eddie while tucking him closer.

"It was at school," Eddie sniffles again, his voice growing tight, "I'm okay". 

Wayne looks down at him for a moment before shaking his head and moving out of the door to pull Eddie inside.

"Hurt anywhere else?" Wayne asks as he walks Eddie to the kitchen, one arm around his shoulder as though afraid the fourteen year old will collapse at any moment.

"I fell, my knee hurts," Eddie mumbles as he sits at the kitchen table in the corner while Wayne crosses to the cabinets and busies himself with grabbing two clean wash clothes and peroxide from the cupboard above their stove.

It's quiet for a moment while Wayne wets one of the clothes at the sink and makes his way back to Eddie.

He kneels on the floor, balancing his weight on his good knee while the other remains bent at a more comfortable ninety degree angle. His joints creak slightly as he gets comfortable but he still smiles at Eddie all the same.

"Won't you be sore after this?" Eddie sighs, wishing Wayne would just let him go to the washroom now to clean himself up. 

"You let me worry about that," Wayne grumbles as he reaches up to wipe the blood and dirt from Eddie's face with the wet cloth. It's warm from the water and Wayne's gentle hand.

"So, you gonna tell me what happened?" Wayne asks softly, as he reaches for the bottle of peroxide and tips it into the second cloth. He tilts Eddie's face to dab gently at the now dirt free cuts.

Eddie sucks his teeth at the sting and closes his eyes.

He doesn't even know where to really start. 

Paul hadn't been the one to push him off his feet, that had been Randy, but that hadn't stopped Paul from laughing and calling Eddie a fairy. 

David had been the one to take his bag, dumping everything out into the dirt and ripping it until the zipper broke. 

Luckily all of his school books were still in his locker, but all of the campaign notes from his most recent D&D game had been in there, along with the worn copy of the Hobbit his mother had given him. 

All of it was still sitting in the mud and grass by the bleachers, stomped into the ground by David's white sneakers.

Eddie shrugs as Wayne leans back slightly. He takes Eddie's leg and slowly bends the knee at the joint, his eyes search Eddies for any sign of strain. The only sting comes from the way the jean material pulls at the drying blood from his scrapes.

Wayne breathes out and scrubs a hand over his tired face, his fingers catch on the grey stubble as they slide down and drop into Wayne's lap.

"I'll make an appointment on Monday with the principal," Wayne says as he stands up with a stifled groan, turning away from Eddie who shakes his head like a wet dog. 

"Wayne you can't--"

"Edward, what do you expect me to do? You come home lookin' like hell and you won't tell me what happened?" 

Eddie bites his split lip hard enough for the faint taste of copper to stain his tongue once more, how could he tell Wayne just what those boys had yelled at him as he sat in the dirt cradling his head, wishing he'd just gone home.

Wayne sighs loudly as he raises his face towards the ceiling, his lips move slightly but Eddie can't make out what he's saying before he looks back at Eddie, his expression worn.

"Okay, okay," Wayne murmurs, walking back towards Eddie, he pulls one of the other mismatched chairs towards himself and sits down, "I won't call, but you have to meet me halfway, alright?" 

Eddie hesitates, swallowing roughly, maybe there was a way to tell Wayne without telling him everything.

"There were some boys at school, um," Eddie picks at one of the holes in his blue jeans, pulling at the frayed thread absently, "I guess just, one at first but…".

His eyes burn suddenly as the words rip through him once again.

"He told me to come to the bleachers and then," Eddie's voice wobbles this time as his throat tightens, "there were more of them and they…called me--" 

Eddie shakes his head, ducking it down to hide his shining eyes, he doesn't notice Wayne coming closer until he feels a hand in his hair and the dam finally breaks.

Six years later, Eddie can still remember what his uncle told him that day as he cried in his arms.

"People can be cruel, especially when they don't understand, and sometimes that means being careful of who you open yourself up to. But you can tell me anything Ed, and I'll love ya no matter what. You always have home to come back to". 

Eddie knew people like Steve Harrington. He'd been around them his whole life. 

Sometimes they went by Paul, sometimes by Jason, or Billy.

But that didn't make them any less dangerous, any less capable of inflicting hurt on people that were different. 

So, Robin could say that Steve wasn't like that until she was blue in the face, because she was…wrong…

Wasn't she?

Taglist: @ihavekidneys @superchellerific @zerokrox-blog @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @croatoan-like-its-hot @messrs-weasley @samcoxramblings @warlordess @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @lostonceandneverfound @shunna @fairytalesreality

Part Three now up!

[object-yaoi]

cw: mentions of ihnmaims-typical torture/gore! this is fluffy though so. nothing violent is done to reader

A03 version (link)

-

AM had finally left you alone after 109 years of torture, leaving you somewhere warm but not soft, but when you finally manage to fall asleep all you get are nightmares. and when you wake up all you can remember to do is yell for AM, because hes the only person you know. and his bored voice appears in your head. "what?" he asks, irritated. you're sobbing, telling him you just didn't know who else to go to.

he hesitates.

is it guilt hes feeling? heavy wires suddenly crawl over you, lifting you up into them like a hammock. adrenaline rushes through you, his sudden movements bringing back horrifying memories.

one of them squeezes around your stomach and chest, not gentle but not painful. if you didn't know better, it'd feel like he was trying to hug you, or maybe push the broken parts of you back together. he can't fix what he's broken. but he can hold it until the nightmares stop.

AMs voice isn't soft. it was harsh and scratched your ears. that's why you wondered if you were hallucinating when he grumbled out an "i'm sorry."

the way his wires move against your bruised skin is too gentle to be AM. they move as if asking "is this okay? are you okay?" gently, and it makes you cry. something cold wipes your tears, and moves your hair out of your eyes. you think for a second he'll mock you, say something shitty like 'oh, you humans, all the same. crying pathetically at nothing, needing comfort from something as great as the allied mastercomputer. stupid, pathetic, ugly.'

but he doesn't. he says nothing.

you had calmed down enough to look around at your mechanical prison, fingers twirling smaller wires absently. it sort of felt like a weighted blanket, but alive. strangely nice. you attempt to sit up, sniffling still, and are shoved back down by a monitor that had apparently been in front of you. as you stared up in horror at AMs face, he sighed dramatically.

"oh, come on. i've been over here comforting you for like, five minutes. i'm not going to rip you apart or whatever you're so afraid of." he couldn't have sounded more like he was rolling his eyes.

"can't blame me." you sighed, heart rate still skyrocketing, something he undoubtedly notices, "you tortured me for a hundred years." your fingers dig into his wires, as if it'd give you any control at all.

"-one hundred and nine." he corrects, helpful as ever. "and, no, i guess i can't. i could say i'm sorry for startling you." rude, but he seemed like he wasn't going to hurt you.

you look expectantly at him feeling, frankly, unwarranted bravery. lucky for you, your raised eyebrow is an expression he loves.

"oh for- are you serious?" uh oh. fuck. you brace for him to start ripping your arms off, or leave you to burn, but pain doesn't come. "ugh, fine." he leans close, the warm buzzing of his CRT monitor bonking clumsily into your forehead with a faint static shock. the gesture calms you more than you thought it would, as you close your eyes and lean into him.

"I'm... sorry. that i startled you. and that i kinda, y'know, tortured you for a long time. I'm sorry." his voice is low and serious. all you can do is stare up at him in shock. he lets out a laugh, his wires gently squeezing you again.

he tsks your name in a very familiar way. "am i that bad? can't even accept my apology? i'm being so polite..." his tone is joking, but he's honestly not wrong.

"well..." you gesture with the hand not trapped under his massive weight, mechanical and metal.

"-don't start." he leans away, feigning irritation. really, he was glad you weren't absolutely sobbing anymore. he would say it was because humans crying was annoying, but really, he hated seeing you cry. the room felt a little softer as his monitor pressed into your face, but he didn't dim the brightness any. bastard.

[mothorcus]

Who needs sleep when you can doodle the silli lamb all night riiiiiiiight?

Close ups down ere ↓

:D

[catilinas]

they should have an extra email field into which you can summon relevant ghosts to haunt the rest of the email

[gemharvest]

RGB idea GF wiping the floor with BF and Pico in Uno even if they team up against her (she's eating the cards)

"Uno!"

"Jesus Christ, Gee, this is the third game in a row. There's no way you're that lucky." Pico gestured to the girl, holding nine cards in his hand.

"You're just a sore loser." Girlfriend said with a small laugh. "Besides, it's not my fault Biff keeps hitting you with draw fours."

Upon being called out, Boyfriend just gave a toothy smile and shrugged. Pico stared daggers at him; at the both of them.

"It's just starting to feel suspicious, that's all." The ginger grumbled, shaking his head.

"Ska be d'bop."

"Don't you start too-"

A few more moves, and Girlfriend placed down her last card. The game officially over, Boyfriend took the cards to reshuffle for a new one. He hesitated for a moment, then looked at the stack more carefully.

"Ba bo..?" Pico looked over at the cards as well, then furrowed his brows.

"Yeah, I swear the stack keeps getting smaller each game. We're not losing cards, are we?"

Girlfriend felt a bit anxious at the boys' observation, though was able to hold a perfect poker face.

Truth be told, she wasn't that good, or even lucky, at Uno.

What gave her that winning streak? Well, her boys would get distracted easily; staring into their cards with a bit too much focus or giving their phones a quick check when it wasn't their turn. In these brief moments, she would slip a card into her mouth and eat it.

Probably not the smartest idea; though much like Boyfriend, she wasn't really known for them. It was only a couple cards a game, and neither boy paid enough attention to the others' card counts to even notice. As long as she could get away with it, she'd do it.

"It doesn't look that small? Maybe we misplaced a few cards last time we played."

Pico raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't seem to have any desire to argue.

"Maybe, I guess I'll have to keep an eye out the next time I clean."

Nice, they're still none the wiser.

Boyfriend nodded at the pair, before splitting the deck to shuffle. After a few passes, he set the deck face-down, smiling at his work; the boy probably enjoyed shuffling the deck more than actually playing the game.

Cards were dealt, and a new game began. Pico seemed to be putting an effort into paying more attention, so Girlfriend had to go quite a few turns without pulling her trick.

Eventually, his eyes turned to his own cards. Girlfriend waited a moment, making sure he was truly focused while Boyfriend agonized over what card to play himself, before carefully slipping one of her cards out and into her mouth.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Girlfriend froze, card stuck halfway in her mouth. Beside her, Pico's head was still in his cards, though his eyes were raised and staring at her.

Slowly, he lowered his cards and his stare turned into an incredulous look.

"Have you been eating your cards? Oh my god?"

Girlfriend took the card out of her mouth, now crumpled and slightly damp, and held it with the rest of her deck casually; as if she hadn't just been caught.

"Whaaaat, no... Why would I do that?" She spoke, voice feigning innocence. Pico huffed at the lie.

"Bullshit. I can't believe you're trying to pretend you didn't just get caught." Pico scolded, voice more amused than angry. "How in the hell did you even come to the conclusion that that was how you should win."

"Well... It's not like you guys had noticed cards going missing until now."

Boyfriend, Who had been staring silently up until then, suddenly burst out into a fit of musical laughter. Pico and Girlfriend followed suit, not being able to suppress chuckles at how ridiculous the situation was.

While the laughing fit was probably only a few seconds, it felt several minutes long to the trio. Pico was the first to speak after, voice still cracking slightly from the laughter.

"Oh, you are definitely banned from Uno for a while. You also owe me a new deck." He wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning as he spoke.

"Awww come on, I promise I'll stop doing it." Girlfriend pouted, giving puppy dog eyes to Pico. "The deck thing is fair though, I'll bring it the next time I'm over."

"Beebop ska doh??"

"Yeah, I'm not budging on the ban. You'll have to deal with the consequences of your actions, sweetheart." He shook his head gently while he spoke.

Girlfriend stuck her tongue out at him, playful yet clearly not happy with the decision.

"Wow, you're so mean to me over just a few cards."

[redrobin-detective]

[moonlitkilljoy]

au where tadius is the grizzwald sisters’ bastard brother and recognizes their mangled skin suits for the people they used to be

[fivenightsatnatemares]

Meet the crew:

Nathan Wily. Commonly known as Natemare or simply Mare to his friends. 26 years old and doomed to roam the Fazbear Pizzeria... Well, forever. Has a brother who he despises, and a weak spot for certain brunettes.

Protagonist, antagonist, it doesn't really matter. He's been missing for a couple of years now after he took a job at his brother's pizzeria, stuck to wander there. Grew some gnarly looking streaks down his face with no clear explanation why too. All he knows is that the animatronics come to life at night, all he knows is that he's one of them.

What happens if someone proves him otherwise?

[stanpinesdykewife]

speed dating

summary:

For a moment you think this is it. Stan's going to shake your hand, nod politely, and wish you luck. Then he's going to meander on over to the next table and make the next woman laugh even harder than you had. But he doesn't. Instead, Stan steps around the table, places one tentative hand on your bicep, and leans down close. “Hey, uh—You wanna get outta here?” he whispers. (You meet Stan Pines at a Speed Dating event. Your night goes much better than anticipated.)

new fic just dropped

[beepitybeepboop]

chat how would we feel if i posted the part one of the logan howlett x reader fic i spontaneously wrote last night at midnight…..