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gguk-n · 3 months ago

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Fernando's Protege (Fernando Alonso x Single mom!Reader)

Summary- Alejandro was the next big thing in Karting and he was only 8 years old. He also looked up to Fernando Alonso. Getting to meet Alonso changed not just his life but also his mom's.

Watching Alejandro zip past the strait on the track, Y/N felt a sense of pride. He was only 8 and was a force to be reckoned with. He was fast, agile and most of all humble; which was the reason why he was doing so well. Y/N always taught her son to be thankful and grateful for the opportunities and the success.

Alejandro was a tiny version of her, the biggest similarity being their love for cars. She had passed down her love for racing to her son. When he was born 8 years ago, she did not imagine she would be standing at the track in Madrid watching her son winning his first karting championship. There was a buzz as Alito crossed the finish line. His mom already by his side as he took his helmet off, a big toothy grin plastered on his face. "Momma, did you see? I was so fast" he spoke animatedly while trying to catch his breath. She smiled at him, "Yes, you were carino." while hugging him. "Let's go, you need to rehydrate and then we'll check the kart before we have to go for the debrief." she continued. Her son smiled at her, now sipping from his 'Cars' bottle.

This shared interest of theirs had Y/N working 2 jobs and a freelance gig so that she could make it to his races. But watching Alito smile was more than all she could ask for. As the debrief started, she heard a lot of whispers and murmurs until one of the interviewers compared her son to Fernando Alonso, his idol. That boy really looked up to Alonso; even though he was just a kid he knew how hard his mom worked to make his dreams a reality. He knew Alonso had to work really hard to get where he is, and Alito knew he wanted to be just like Alonso and race on the same track with him. "So, Alejandro, how does it feel to win your first Spanish karting championship?" the interviewers asked. "It's the best. I'm gonna have pizza after this." he cheered. A small smile evident on his mother's lips as she watched him interact. "You've been a force to be reckoned with. People say you remind them of Fernando Alonso." the interviewer spoke. "What does that word mean?" Alejandro asked. "Reckoned means people think you are or might be as good as Alonso in his karting days" the interviewer elaborated. The little boy jumped up and down bouncing on his feet as he answered the question, "He is my idol after my momma obviously" he said while looking at his mom, "I love him and I wanna be like him and race with him one day" he spoke with his voice slightly higher. "I hope you get to do that some day, I think it might happen soon" the interviewer said. They continued with question on race strategies and then Alejandro walked away to receive his trophy.

The interview of Alejandro after the race had started making it's rounds on the internet when people found out how much he loved Alonso and how both of them came from humble backgrounds. It had reached Fernando's PR team who showed it to him. Fernando ended up watching his races and he was happy to have such a talented boy look up to him. As he dug deeper into his story, he found out Alejandro's mom was his team, she was doing all of this alone. He knew how difficult it was; Alonso saw the potential and he wanted to help the family. His PR team ended up contacting Alejandro and his mom through social media and got them tickets to his race in Spain. When Y/N got the dm and the invite, she was over the moon. Both of them were huge fans and this was a once in a life time thing.

On the day of the race, Alejandro was decked out in green repping Fernando and Aston Martin. He was literally bouncing off the walls with the excitement. Y/N packed a small bag with some food and an extra change of clothes for Alito. There was a buzz in the air as she drove them to the venue. Alito couldn't stop talking about everything he would tell Alonso and all the pictures he would take. She parked the car and got Alejandro and some of their essentials out and was greeted by the Aston Martin team at the entrance. They handed them their paddock passes which Alejandro insisted on wearing on his own and asked to take pictures with. They walked towards the Aston Martin hospitality while Y/N tried to keep a tight grasp on the little boy's hand. He waved at anyone and everyone he made eye contact with. She almost lost him when he saw Carlos and sprinted towards him, with Y/N just behind.

"Hola Carlos, I'm a big fan" he chirped. Carlos smiled and replied, "But it looks like you love Alonso more" The little boy looked down before saying, "He's my idol, I wanna race with him one day" Carlos ruffled his head, "Sure you will" he said. I greeted Carlos, apologised for the inconvenience. He brushed it off and even took a picture with Alejandro on his request. She scolded him on the way back about running away from her. Alito apologised and even kissed his mom's hand. They reached Aston Martin without anymore hiccups.

Fernando was waiting to greet them, "Hola, Alejandro" with his hand out for him. "Hola Fernando" he said while shaking his hand. "Congratulations on your win" Fernando said. "Muchas gracias, I wanna be like you when I grow up" Alejandro blurted while hugging Fernando's legs. "I think you'll be better than me with how you're doing" Fernando replied while patting the boy's back. "You must be the mother of this lovely boy, Hi, I'm Fernando" he said directing his attention to Y/N. She couldn't help but giggle, "Hi, I'm Y/N. I know who you, he inherited my love for racing and you" she replied a blush forming at the words she just uttered; hitting herself mentally. Fernando smiled, his eyes glimmering with a playfulness she didn't notice when he spoke to her son. "Well, his mom does have good taste" he said with a smirk. Lance greeted us too, calling Alejandro a protege. Fernando was summoned by the team, "I have to go Alejandro, have fun. I'll see you soon" he smiled at Alejandro; "See you soon, hermosa" he directed these words towards Y/N, shooting a quick wink before he turned around to leave, a flush of crimson kissed her cheeks.

Fernando started 8th and finished 7th. Alejandro really hoped that his idol would finish on the podium but he was happy nonetheless. The day ended with Fernando back at the hospitality after all the post race interviews and podium while the mother and son duo were getting ready to leave. Alejandro handed Fernando a piece of paper, he had drawn him and Fernando on a podium after a formula one race in Spain with the Spanish flag on the top, "You aren't just good at karting, but you are a good artist" Fernando said admiring the art. "Gracias" Alejandro replied. "You should come to see me race, I'm pretty good" he said. "I would love to watch you race" Fernando professed. Now, Fernando turned his attention to the boy's mother, "I don't know if my team said anything, but I would like to help Alejandro reach his dream and exceed his potential." "Your team did say something, but I wasn't sure." Y/N replied while rubbing her hands. "I would like to personally sponsor him but I'll also try to get him sponsors. I know how hard it can be and I would love to watch him reach formula one, if that is his dream." he declared. Y/N smiled, "Muchas gracias, how do I ever repay you for your kindness?" she muttered. "No need to, I'm just happy I can be of help to him." he said while looking at Alejandro who was now busy playing with Lance. Her eyes darted between her son and Alonso. "We should exchange number" he said. Y/N looked shocked, her mouth agape. "So, that I can come to one of his races" he continued. "Oh, yes, yes, one second" she said while pulling her phone out. They exchanged numbers and then said their good bye.

Alejandro had gotten quite after they sat in the car, "What's up, bebe?" Y/N asked her son. "I miss Alonso" he mumbled while wiping away his tears. "Oh no, carino" she said while turning back to hand him a tissue. The little boy's voice came out in quite sobs which racked his body. She pulled the car to the side and climbed back to comfort her son. "It's ok, Alito. You'll see him soon." she comforted the crying boy. "He even gave me his number, we can call him some time later." she suggested which seemed to cheer the boy up.

A while later, Alejandro was competing in the Rotax Max championship in the Mini Max category with help from Alonso who did come to a race. Alejandro was over the moon excited. The two of them had kept in touch after the grand prix. They would call Alonso up every once in a while which lead to Y/N and Fernando also growing closer to each other. With their growing closeness, there were new feelings that had started to take place in both their hearts that neither were aware of. Y/N found herself putting more effort while getting ready before video calls or the race he was supposed to come to. Alito enjoyed his company and Fernando liked having a tiny karting genius. The race which Fernando come, Alito didn't finish podium and was bummed. Fernando cheered him up saying that he didn't finish podium when he came to see him either, so they were even.

After the race, they headed out for dinner. Fernando didn't want the day to end and who was Y/N to say no to him. At the restaurant, the waiter complimented them saying that they were a cute couple, Y/N was ready to correct him but Fernando thanked him. The waiter may have gotten tipped handsomely that night. Alejandro had fallen asleep in the back of the car on the way back to the hotel. Fernando carried him their room. After laying him down on the bed, "I had fun today" he commented. "Me too" Y/N agreed. Fernando hugged her good bye, the hugged lasted longer than between 2 friends, it was like neither wanted to pull away.

The pair got closer to Fernando as time passed. Initially, Y/N used to monitor Fernando and Alejandro's calls, now she would let them talk unsupervised which led to Y/N receiving tickets to the next grand prix and flight. Y/N immediately rang Fernando up, "hey, Fernando." she greeted. "Hi, Y/N" came a groggy voice. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?" she apologised. "No, no. What's up?" he cleared his voice. "Did you send me ticket's to the next GP?" she asked. "Yes, we're back in Europe and Alito told me he is on summer holiday." he replied. "Nando, it's too much. I can't" she protested. "It's ok, hermosa. I wanted to see Alito too. I won't get a refund either. See you there" he insisted. "Ok, see you there." she lamented.

They were at the Spanish grand prix for the second time this time. Every thing felt so familiar yet foreign. Fernando had received them at the airport on Saturday and took them to the hotel. At the paddock, Fernando took the two of them along with him, even introducing Alejandro as junior Fernando. The paddock seemed to love him. All the drivers welcomed him with open arms and the boy was more than excited since he had more than 2 people to talk about his love for racing. Alejandro was a little star at the paddock. Once they found out about his karting history, they gave him more tips and tricks on how to do better. He soaked it all up.

Y/N was stood at the side watching them interact. "He's a natural." Fernando commented. She smiled at him, "yes, he is. I'm happy he has good role models" she said. Fernando found his cheeks heating up. Alejandro walked back to his mom with Penelope, "momma, meet my new friend, Penelope." Y/N shook her hand. "Can we get ice cream?" he asked. Y/N smiled and took them to get ice cream after getting Kelly's permission. The two kids ended up talking all the way to the stand and enjoyed their ice cream back.

While they were gone, "You like her" Lewis commented. Fernando looked at him shocked, "What? Is it that obvious?" Fernando asked. "You haven't spent this much time with some one since your divorce and you're literally going to karting races to help the kid. I mean anyone and everyone knows you are interested." Lewis stated. "Maybe, I'm just being nice." Fernando interjected. "Maybe" Lewis hummed; "But I don't think anyone would mind if you had other intentions. Everyone deserves love, especially the both of you, after all the personal stuff that has led you two to each other." Lewis said. Fernando mulled over his thoughts and Lewis's words.

Race day was hectic. Fernando finished out of points but was still happy to spend time with Y/N and Alejandro. They ended up going out for dinner after and spent a lot of time sat in the restaurant. When Y/N had gone to the washroom, Alejandro and Fernando had a conversation. "Alito, can I ask you something?" he asked. "yes" Alejandro replied. "I like your momma. Do you think I should ask her out on a date?" Fernando asked. Alejandro seemed to think about it for a moment. "Does that mean you would become my papa?" he asked innocently. Fernando's heart swelled up with pride and happiness, he didn't want to pressurise the kid but he couldn't help but feel so important and a part of his life. "If you want me to be." Fernando choked out. "I think momma likes you." he stated.

After dropping the mother and son at their hotel, Fernando plucked up the courage and asked Y/N, "Hermosa" he mumbled, his palms sweaty, lips dry; he drove formula one cars for a living for crying out loud, what was happening to him he thought. Alejandro gave him a thumbs up before excusing himself to the toilet. "Would you like to go out with me, sometime, if you're free?" he asked. She looked at him bewildered. "You know I have a son who I'm raising on my own" she questioned. "yes, I've had the pleasure of knowing the bright young racer." he replied. "We're a package deal. I just" she spoke but was quickly cut off by Fernando, "I asked Alito for his blessing before asking you. If this bumps up my chances, he wanted me to be his dad" Y/N eyes were as big as saucers, "He did not say that" she said shocked. "He did. I really like you, I don't know when and how this happened but I genuinely enjoy your company and I would love to spend more time with you as a man and with Alito as a father figure. I don't wanna take anyone's place but carve out a niche for myself." Fernando clarified. She smiled at him. "I think I would like that. I've been hard on myself especially after everything with his dad, maybe I would like to spend time with you as a woman." she said. "I would love to treat you right and show you off" Fernando said. "I'll keep you on that. I'll see you for dinner when you come visit. I don't really have a sitter here" she said. "I know a great sitter, let's go out tomorrow" he suggested. "who's this great sitter?" she chided. "Carlos, I'm sure he wouldn't mind helping out" Fernando said. She nodded her head in agreement. "I'll see you tomorrow then" she said, while placing a kiss on his cheek. Fernando hugged her and kissed her forehead. "see you tomorrow. Good night, mi reina" Y/N blushed while she waved him good bye. Alejandro was listening in on the conversation, ecstatic about his mom and his idol.

Hope you like it.

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maclanahan--mermaid-comics · 4 months ago

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Hey Americans, I know there is a LOT happening, but please contact your house rep on KOSA. This will make it illegal for me to post my art online in order to "protect kids" cause those who sponsor it want to use it try to suppress LGBT content.

On a more cyber security side, I also don't trust website's having to use government issued IDs for age verification cause the chance for Identity theft will skyrocket through the roof. Since I keep my online stuff VERY separated, I will not use any website that requires ID.

#kosa #usa #cyber security #politics

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chaithetics · 6 months ago

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Where to Put My Hands

Pairing: Kid (Monkey Man) x plus size f (afab) reader Prompt: Reader having a fixation on him and his hands and him doing something about it. Word count: 1.4K (I tried to keep it concise lol) Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff/comfort, smut. Reader doesn't have any other physical descriptions other than being plus size. Not proof/ beta read. A/N: I'm so excited to share our first Fics for Palestine! (Learn more at that post) Our kind donator has wished to remain anon but a massive thanks to them! I hope you all enjoy this Monkey Man fic!!! Let's keep rising Dev hive! Comments and reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated! 🫶 P.S. Keep doing what you can to support Palestine! It's all important, whether it's donating, contacting your local and relevant political reps, sharing and engaging with resources and posts, showing up to local events etc. Here is a post I made with free things to do from home to help Palestine. Much love 🖤❤️🤍💚

Kid and you were lying down, he was a man of few words, even in tender moments. But you weren’t bothered, you’re holding one of his hands with both of yours, running your fingers over him. Every side of his hands and then up his forearm, exploring every inch of skin. With each day of your relationship, you’d been able to warm up a part of him that had been shut off for so long.

He looked at you as you focused on his hands, your favourite body part of his. While you’d melted him, his hands and everything they could do had continued to melt you (in their special way) more and more each day as well. His brown eyes were warm as he took in all of you, how your eyes were fixed on his hands, the gentle touch of your hands, how the sweet smile you wear makes your full cheeks look, how your soft arms looked in the evening light. His beautiful personification of peace.

“Is it weird that I just want to be seen by you?” His voice is quiet, it often is, and there’s a vulnerable look on his face, his eyes searching for reassurance. There’s something so warm and comforting about being in this relationship but it’s an extremely new and vulnerable feeling for him.

“Not at all.” You whisper as you rub his wrist gently with your forefinger and thumb. “I see you.” you respond as your gaze turns to him and you smile.

He smiles at that, clearly feeling comforted in the unexplored waters he’s swimming deeper and deeper into each day. Kid moves and presses a soft kiss to your lips, slowly deepening it as he moves his hand out of yours so he can cup your full cheeks.

You’d initially relaxed easily into the kiss and were content with it, that was until he’d moved his hand. It was pretty rude considering it had been a strong fixation of yours lately, something he knew. “Hey,” you whispered, “I wasn’t done playing with your hands.” You whisper in a voice that sounds almost annoyed, he tries to distract you with another deeper kiss.

“Really?” His voice has a slightly playful tinge. “Do my hands belong to you now, jaan?”

“Yes. It’s in the relationship rules.”

“Well I better put them to good use, I suppose…” He leaned back and then sat on his ankles as he looked at you. “Because I don’t know where to put my hands...” He teases you but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. Oh, how those big brown orbs mesmerise and melt you.

Kid uses his knee to spread your legs out and then moves so he’s kneeling between them. He caresses your soft jawline for a moment, his fingers gently holding your chin for a moment as his free hand starts to run along your thick thighs. You breathe in a sharp inhale as you look at him, you know what’s going to happen but each cell in your body is buzzing with anticipation still.

You watch him with bated breath as he runs his fingers along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his eyes are looking at his hands as he explores this intimate area of you. His hand that had gently been holding your chin let go, letting his fingers fall, travelling over your chest, where he gave your left breast a squeeze that made you gasp and bite your lip.

His hands then glide along the smooth, softness of your round stomach he runs his fingers along where stretch marks and moles are and he takes a soft breath in as he looks up at you. He moves his hand over to palm you above your underwear, you let out a small whine and your head falls back. His left hand massages the plump flesh of your thigh as he continues to palm and move his hand along above your underwear, teasingly.

“Please…. Please…” You beg in desperation as your hips thrust up to try and meet his hand. To be buried against it, in desperate need of more friction and pressure. A need only he can satisfy.

He can hear the neediness in your voice, he can feel it radiating off of you, and he can feel it against his hand. He quickly pulls your underwear down, lifting one of your legs slightly so it’s off and just hanging around the other one. He moves his hands closer to your needy hole, dancing around your inner thighs for a moment. You breathe in shakily as the feeling almost tickles.

You watch him as he palms you once again, his other hand is now gripping your round hips, starting to run his fingers around your vulva, slowly along your folds to tease you, watching your reaction. Amazed at the power he has over your body, his ability to please you with just his hands. His fingers were touching every part of you but your hole that wanted to swallow him, or your clitoris.

Kid can see the need in your eyes, how you're looking at him letting out soft moans and gasps as he teases you.

“Look at you, good girl… such a good girl…” He whispers in that voice that makes you let out a small whine as he rubs your bundle of nerves in a circular motion with his thumb.

He continues and then slips a finger into your hole, it’s barely in, just a teasing taste as he watches you. Drinking in your reaction, the way your back arches and then comes back down as your hips thrust up to try and swallow more of him, to feel him deeper inside of you. Kid obliges and quickly moves his finger in deeper which pulls the sweetest moan out of you that makes him smile.

You let out a chorus of moans growing louder as you feel him move his finger deeper and deeper as he moves it back and forth, it’s at this point that he inserts another finger which makes you whine and close your eyes. It’s an incredible sight to him as he watches this. He moves his fingers at the most perfect rhythm that he knows will bring you closer.

He moves a hand to squeeze your breast again, to run it along your nipple as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you. You’re whining as it’s building up deliciously, in an overwhelming way. He brings his hand back down and he starts to give your clitoris more attention again, just as it deserves. He rubs your clitoris faster, applying a little more pressure which makes you cry out. “Does that feel good? Do my hands feel good? Is this what you wanted, what you were thinking about before?” He asks as he keeps going faster and building to that rhythm that he knows is going to make you release.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” You whine out as you nod frantically, you have one hand gripping his shoulder as he keeps moving. All you can think of is his touch and you know you’re on the edge, he’s bringing you there and you’re whining louder. “Go on, be a good girl…” He says as he keeps this current pace of pumping, he’d slipped a third finger in and he’s now giving equal attention to both your sweet spot of nerves and your vagina equal attention. He’s urging you to release, he knows your close. You nod and whine out as you know you’re almost there. He continues and it feels perfect, your back starts to arch as you feel your eyes roll back as you claw his shoulder and come. You come hard and it’s perfect, equally what you knew his hands would give you. Exactly what you’d been fantasising about as you’d held his hands earlier.

You let out a deep breath, Kid gives you some time to recover from that release but he spends the rest of the night praising you as he gives you exactly what you wanted. Showing you just how he can use his hands and how good they feel.

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lesservillain · 9 months ago

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inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but, despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed.

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up.

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.”

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you.

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.”

Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

October 7th, 1994

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work.

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter.

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper.

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously.

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it.

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

“I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.”

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at.

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.”

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you.

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters.

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher.

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again.

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!”

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills.

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students.

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid?

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind.

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.”

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle.

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…”

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued.

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.”

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right?

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic.

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.”

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.”

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front.

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!”

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared.

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards.

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body.

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later.

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading.

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

Eddie.

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle.

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.”

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period.

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed.

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted.

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune.

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door.

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you.

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face.

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!”

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else.

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin.

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?”

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too.

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.”

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.”

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles.

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school.

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face.

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts.

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin.

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?”

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you.

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?”

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.”

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest.

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon.

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end.

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise.

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar.

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing.

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you.

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it.

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself.

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it.

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get.

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely.

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in.

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground.

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped.

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what.

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother.

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash.

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab.

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face.

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips.

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x teacher!reader #eddie munson x yn #inmate!eddie munson #inmate!eddie munson x reader #inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader #oto!eddie #eddie munson series #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson st

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hamadisthings · 4 months ago

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BAD CALIFORNIAN INTERNET BILLS

While it is good that KOSA is now dead in the House (for now) I would like to ask for people's attention on AB1949 and SB976, which could push for Age verification by showing your ID.

There was a third bill named AB3080 that had similar goals, but luckily it received revisions so it is no longer a threat or require ID verification to access websites. So it would be possible to get AB1949 and SB976 to be revised so they aren't dangerous anymore.

You can read the text for AB1949 right here

AB1949 doesn't explicitly ask for ID verification anymore, as it used to, due to a revision, but there is a provision stating if they deem a website "willfully disregards" the age of the user they will be deemed to have actual knowledge of the user's age.

This broad part could be left to abuse, which is why it needs to be revised before passing, in order to confirm ID verification is not required. FIND YOUR REPS HERE!

For AB1949, you can find your Senate representative with the link above as I said, and check to see if they're a member of the CA Senate Appropriations Committee. Then call them to tell them you oppose this bill. Try to add reasons you think this bill would negatively affect California financially because that's what this committee focuses on.

As for SB976, which you can read here

Its goal is to "keep kids off social medias and addictive feeds" But the concerning part is that "it would make it unlawful for the operator of an addictive internet-based service or application, as defined, to provide an addictive feed to a user, unless the operator does not have actual knowledge that the user is a minor; commencing January 1, 2027, has reasonably determined that the user is not a minor; or has obtained verifiable parental consent to provide an addictive feed to the user who is a minor."

How are you supposed to know that you have "verifiable parental consent" without ID and age verification of both parents and child?Even then, holding the ID of a minor feels pretty illegal given how sensitive how an info this is, in case of a data breach (which will happen) this would endanger kids even more, and no one in general want to give their ID to access a website or an app.

The bill would also make it unlawful for a website or app to send notifications to a minor according to a certain timeframe.

For SB976, find your Assembly representative using the link below and check to see if they're a member of the CA Assembly Appropriations Committee. Then call them to tell them you oppose this bill. https://apro.assembly.ca.gov/members

You can tell them how this is terrible for privacy, and the safety of children, and that it would be terrible for the economy of California, as they seem to focus on it. You can try sending faxes for either bills, but calling IS MUCH MORE efficient. https://faxzero.com/

Here is the time schedule, bills must be taken care before the end of August so it is a matter of time crunch:

You may use the following scripts for the respective bills, you can try to trim it if you deem it too long!

Might be worth a shot to contact Gavin Newsom (Californian governor) here to voice your concerns for these bills

#kosa #ab1949 #ab976 #internet censorship #bad internet bills #signal boost

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girlgenius1111 · 10 months ago

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i don't know why i am the way i am

barça femeni x reader

when r scores an own goal, leading to the first not-win of the season, she is wracked with guilt. it suffocates her, until her teammates step in. angst, fluff.

warnings: pretty angst. unintentional self harm but... not really? lots of self resentment. r is sad :(

-----

As soon as the ball bounced off your head, you knew it was going the wrong way. You couldn't explain it, you just knew. Your senses were heightened as you landed back on the ground, whipping your head behind you. The ball was already in the back of the net, the opposing team already celebrating around you. You felt frozen, watching Cata pick up the ball, not looking at you. She looked frustrated. You assumed that was directed at you.

There wasn't much you could have done; the ball was already bouncing off an opponents head towards you. It would have gone in even if you hadn't touched it. Yet still, guilt chewed at you from the inside. It was an own goal. In a tough match for the team, where everyone left everything out on the pitch. There were only a few minutes left, and you'd let the opposing team tie the score.

"Olvídalo," Irene said, placing a hand on your shoulder. Forget it. How could you?

You knew you wouldn't be forgetting it anytime soon. Not when Barça failed to score before the clock ran out. Not when the other team celebrated as the final whistle blew; even a draw with Barça was an achievement. Not when your teammates tried to tell you it was alright, that it didn't matter. Not even when Cata pulled you into a hug, promising that she didn't blame you.

It felt like everyone was watching you, teammates, opponents, coaches, everyone. You stuck around on the pitch only as long as you had too, shaking hands and numbly extending congratulations. Then, you were practically speed walking inside, towards the locker room. A hand caught your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

"Hey, don't beat yourself up, kid. It happens to everyone. That was going in either way." Lucy said softly. You searched her face for any sign of annoyance, of anger, and found none; the only recognizable emotion was concern. She was sporting her usual post-game ice pack around the knee, but it was clear that she'd ran over to catch you before you could disappear. You didn't deserve her kindness, not when you'd just singlehandedly ended the team's impressive winning streak.

You didn't really have anything to respond to that; a disagreement from you would only prompt her to try to convince you. And you couldn't agree, not when she was so very wrong. So, you shrugged, pulling away from her, and continuing on into the building. You felt her watching you as you walked away. You didn't deserve her kindess.

You were first to the showers, allowing a few tears to slide down your face now that you'd finally found solitude. The team was quiet as they filed into the locker room and eventually, the showers. A draw was not a result anyone was happy with. Not when they'd basically had the game won.

Finishing up your shower and heading back into the locker room, you tried to avoid eye contact with everyone. Unfortunately for you, the injured players had made their way down and it seemed like Alexia was waiting for you. The minute you'd gotten to your locker, she was hovering next to you.

"Talk with me outside for a minute?" She asked quietly, although you knew it wasn't a request. Sighing, you nodded, following her out of the room. Your captain led you down the hall and around the corner, to a vacant hallway, before turning around and looking at you with an unreadable expression on her face.

You couldn't decide if you should apologize or not; mistakes were something you should apologize for, and this was a mistake. At the same time, you got the feeling Alexia hadn't pulled you aside to lecture you.

"Are you upset?" Alexia asked you after a minute. You looked at her in disbelief.

"Of course I'm upset."

"You should not be." She replied.

"I lost us the match," you scoffed.

The blonde shook her head. "We did not lose, we drew. And no one loses the match singlehandedly. Losing is a team effort, just like winning is."

"I think an own goal is pretty much losing the match for us, Capi."

Still, Alexia persisted. "No, pequeña. This is not your fault." She could tell you didn't believe her.

"Y/n, Alexia, vamos." Jona called, evidently instructing you both to reenter the locker room for the post match talk. You walked off without another word, and Alexia followed, concern tugging at her as she watched the defeated way you carried yourself.

-----

If your teammates thought that you'd get over this one fast, they would be proven wrong. Three days later, and your behavior was only increasingly concerning. You'd been training like a crazy person. Extra reps of everything, staying after training to work on penalties.

Everyone had tried speaking to you about it, especially because it was clear you were working yourself into the ground. You wouldn't hear a word, though, even going so far as to shove Irene's hand off your shoulder and tell her to leave you alone. Your behavior wasn't normal for you. You didn't joke around with Pina and Patri, you didn't try to kick balls at Mapi's back when she wasn't looking. You didn't ask Ingrid or Frido to fix your hair, and you hadn't pestered Lucy about getting coffee with you before training.

No one was quite sure why you were taking this so hard; everyone had own goals, everyone dealt with them. You were acting like your career was on the line, though, and it very much wasn't.

On the fourth day, you were acting the same. You were exhausted, clearly, both mind and body. Alexia finally decided to put her foot down after you almost collapsed into her during sprints. It was halfway through training, and it was an endurance day. The team was only halfway through the assigned sprints when you stumbled, pitching forward.

"Kid?" Lucy questioned, lunging forward to catch you before you hit the ground.

"Fine. I'm fine." You mumbled, shutting your eyes and waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Lucy held you up, looking over your shoulder to make eye contact with Alexia.

"Keep going." Your captain directed to the rest of the team, who had slowed down, looking over at you. The blonde made her way over to you, pulling you away from Lucy and into her, directing you over to a bench on the side of the pitch. She waved away Jona and the physios, crouching down in front of you.

"I'm okay, I just tripped." You said halfheartedly, even as you swayed slightly where you sat.

"Do not try, pequeña. Drink." Alexia ordered, handing you a water bottle. She stayed right in front of you, as if making sure you were actually going to drink the whole thing. You chugged it, before trying to stand. Alexia rose with you, giving you a look as she placed her hands on your trembling shoulders.

"No, pequeña. You need to rest. You are overworking yourself." Your captain's voice was stern, but it only made you angry.

"Alexia, I am fine. How many times do I have to tell you that? Let me go back to training."

"No. You go back to training, and you are benched this weekend."

Your jaw dropped, as a look of pure apprehension passed over your face, before it was quickly replaced by one of fury.

"Fine." You seethed, shrugging out from under Alexia's hands, and stomping towards the locker room. It was the second time in a week you'd walked away from her when she'd been trying to help you, and she was beginning to worry that if she didn't get through to you soon, the consequences would be bad.

-----

Your fists pounded, again and again, into the punching bag. Your knuckles on both your hands were split open, blood oozing from the cuts. Bruises were forming on your hands; you hadn't wrapped them like you were supposed to, and you'd been at this for close to a half hour. You had no plans to stop anytime soon. There was so much frustration, disappointment, and anger inside of you, and it had to go somewhere.

You'd gone home, briefly, after Alexia had forced you out of training, and tried to rest, despite your arguments. The minute you sat down on the couch, though, the feelings of guilt once again became overwhelming. The only time you didn't feel inadequate, guilty, filled with resentment towards yourself was when you were doing something. So, once you were sure everyone else would be gone from the Barça training grounds, you threw on training gear and headed back over.

You'd been in the gym since, working away at the punching bag. It was starting to stain with your blood, but you didn't notice. You didn't notice any of it, the pain in your hands least of all.

Your own goal kept replaying, over and over, inside your head. The gasp from the crowd, the cheer of the opposing team. It echoed around inside your head, haunting you.

You didn't hear the door to the gym open, didn't hear the soft calls of your name. You jumped when an arm wrapped around your midsection tugging you back from the punching bag, fighting the embrace. You looked up into the mirror, seeing Ingrid tightly holding you to her body, and calmed somewhat.

"It's okay, it's okay," her words broke through the fog. As she spoke, you realized there were tears falling rapidly down your face. Mapi stepped in front of you, grabbing your hands in hers.

"Dios mio cariño," she murmured, taking in the damage you'd done. You were dizzy, suddenly, and you collapsed back into Ingrid, knees buckling.

"Easy, elskling," she said, catching your weight easily. Her and Mapi got you over to one of the massage tables in the room, sitting you down as you leaned heavily into Ingrid. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, and you weren't quite sure what was going on. Other than the feeling of Ingrid's hand rubbing up and down your arm, no other sensations registered.

It felt like only seconds had passed when someone pressed an ice cube into your hand, wrapping your swelling fingers around it. You jolted up and away from Ingrid, somewhat coming back into yourself.

"Hey, pequeña, you with me?" Alexia asked, standing in front of you and peering at you worriedly.

When had Alexia gotten here? And when had Mapi finished cleaning your hands off? All the lights were on in the room, now, and you were suddenly aware that a unknown period of time had passed.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm with you," you murmured, mouth feeling dry, teeth chattering.

The girls exchanged looks. "What were you doing here?" Ingrid wondered.

"I had some energy I needed to burn off." You said, looking down at your bandaged hands.

"I told you no more training today, pequeña. Why did you not wrap your hands?" Alexia questioned, eyes narrowing slightly with worry.

"I forgot to."

"Forgot? You did not notice that it hurt?" Mapi said.

"No. I didn't feel it." You explained. Your friends didn't like the way your voice sounded, not at all. It was completely monotone, no emotion or inflection to it; like you were numb. You did feel numb, honestly. Now that the feelings had faded, you were left empty. All that registered with you was the throbbing in both your hands, and the fact that you were suddenly, incredibly exhausted. "What were you guys doing here?"

"I went to check on you, and your car was not home. I had Mapi and Ingrid meet me here."

"Oh."

You slid of the table, standing on slightly wobbly legs. Your teammates all moved closer, as if expecting you to collapse again.

You looked at them, raising an eyebrow. "I'm good, guys. Really."

"Stop telling us that when it is absolutely clear that you are not okay." Mapi pleaded.

You shook your head instinctually, crossing your arms over your chest, but wincing as you did so, the movement causing pain to shoot across your swollen knuckles.

When Ingrid spoke, her tone was painfully gentle, like you were fragile. "Elskling, you are not okay. We care about you and we want-"

"-Well stop caring. I don't want you to." You cried, frustrated with them, with everything. With yourself most of all.

"Amiga, we are not going to stop caring about you," Mapi began, eyebrows furrowing as you interrupted her, tears beginning to flow down your face once again.

"I don't understand why you aren't all mad at me. Yell at me, tell me you're disappointed, do something. I can't take this anymore, please." You sobbed, bringing a wounded hand up to cover your eyes. You'd hit your breaking point, clearly. For better or for worse.

"Cariño," Alexia whispered, moving closer to pull you into a hug. You pushed away from her, trying to head for the door. Your teammates couldn't let you leave, though, not in this state. Ingrid grabbed you around the waist once again, pulling you into her even as you fought her hold.

"Stop, stop, stop," you repeated, words barely understandable through your tears.

"I can't let you go right now, y/n, I'm sorry," Ingrid murmured. Weakly, you continued to struggle against the Norwegian, trying to squirm your way out of her arms.

"Stop try-trying to comfort me. 'Don't deserve it," you choked out. In front of you, Mapi and Alexia stood, heartbroken, unsure of what to do, though they were desperate to do something.

It was all too much for you, understandably so, and you gave up your struggle, allowing Ingrid to ease you to the ground, her grip on you never faltering. You cried into her shirt, soaking it with your tears, leaning into the comfort she brought even as you were so convinced you didn't deserve it.

You were slumped against Ingrid, body trembling as the Norwegian tried to hold you steady, when Mapi approached with the first aid kit. She began to carefully wrap your knuckles up. Her touch was kind and gentle, where the wounds you had inflicted were left in a harsh and cruel fashion. It was the rhythmic movements of the bandages being wrapped around your hands that got you to stop crying. Something about it was strangely comforting; maybe, it was just the care that you were being shown, even as you'd fought so hard to reject it.

Your gaze was torn away from Mapi's hands holding your own when Alexia approached with a damp towel in hand. Your captain wiped carefully at the tear tracks staining your cheeks, face pinched with worry. The room was completely quiet, and you flinched when that quiet was broken.

"Let's get you home, okay?" Alexia suggested, leaving it up to you. You nodded minutely, allowing Mapi to pull you to your feet, and lead you out the gym door. You went willingly, all the way to Alexia's car, compliant as Mapi helped you into the front seat and buckled you in.

"We love you. You know that, right?" She asked quietly, leaning against the door as Alexia slid into the drivers seat.

"I know." You admitted, voice raspy from the stress it had been through. Looking up at Mapi, she could tell that you did know it, even if you didn't quite understand why. Exchanging a look with Alexia, she pressed a soft kiss onto your forehead, before shutting the door and heading to her own car, where Ingrid was awaiting her.

Alexia drove you towards her house, and once again, you didn't object. Before, you'd been completely tense, wound so tight she was worried you would snap. It seemed like you finally had; she glanced over at you while stopped at a red light. You were curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your body as if you needed to physically hold yourself together. The fight had gone out of you, and Alexia felt that she should be glad, that you weren't fighting her anymore. Instead, she only felt dread at the aura of defeat that seeped off of you, filling the car.

This guilt, this desperate desire to make your percieved transgression right, it had to come from somewhere. Alexia was absolutely dead set on finding out where. You were just a kid, and you were much too good, completely and purely good, to despise yourself to such a massive extent, over something that wasn't even really your fault. She was determined, also, to dismantle this guilt. Whatever it took.

-----

i don't think im capable of... not writing part twos.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #barcelona femeni x reader #woso one shot #woso fanfics #barça femeni x reader

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