#indiana she's a runner

[fireflywitch]

stranger things season 3 + running (part 2)

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER ELEVEN — ALL TOMORROW'S KEGGERS

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summary: after you visit an old stomping ground to pad out your college resume and eddie agonizes about the what of what are you, you both return to the place where all this mess began--a classic harrington rager. content warnings: written in the immersive second person (you/yours), oc has a name, background and she/her pronouns but no physical descriptions. era typical misogyny, homophobia, general bad bitch scheming. mentions of drug dealing, sexual situations and strong language. minors fuck off. word count: 8.7k

Dear reader,

A while ago, I mentioned that thing that Joan Didion said about staying on nodding terms with the people we used to be. 

Lucky for me and my once-fervent need to be inviolable from all angles, I have a couple of versions of Lacy I can choose from. 

Depends on what I need from her.

The hot sprawl of the community hall drags your sense memory kicking and screaming back to age sixteen. 

Scarlet nails tugged a rough line through your scalp, elevating your hair so high it might as well apply for zoning permission. An acrid blast of Aquanet settled right in your bottom lashes. Your mother loomed over your shoulder in the mirror, her cigarette ashing into some poor bitch’s retainer case. 

“The way they run these things nowadays… it’s a disgrace,” she tutted, but not to you, “These girls are animals.”

That’s gotta be a fucking fire hazard, right? 

“Well, if Lacy’s an animal,” a flame haired Ann Perkins guffawed, yanking a backcombed rat of your hair upwards—ow, “she’s a goddamn gazelle, Glory.”

“First kill?” You didn’t miss the smugness curling around her Elizabeth Arden lips, hunching your body glittered arms inward. 

“No—god, no, I just mean with how graceful she is. My Carol, bless her heart, she’s got the coordination of her father after a slab of Old Milwaukee. You remember I told you about trying to teach her baton?”

“She sent it flying through the neighbour’s windshield,” you giggled fondly, recalling Carol telling you how much of a stupid cooze her mom was for trying to teach her in the first place. ‘Throwing some stick around—who does she think I am, Lassie?’

“Don’t smile,” your mom slapped your shoulder sharply, “It’ll smudge your gloss.”

You scrubbed it off in the bathroom moments later, reapplying a layer of scarlet lacquer you knew she’d call whorish. Too late.

Knocking back a swig of Diet Coke and two rainbow pills, you took the stage to claim runner up in the Hawkins division of the American Teen Princess pageant, meeting Gloriana’s seething scowl from the audience with your own Vaselined failure of a smile. 

The lipstick had lost you the crown, of course. That was the winning theory. ‘If you’d have just done what I told you…’

The chemical sting of Aquanet still hurts your eyes, but you’re not the target this time. 

See, a portfolio of writing is one thing, but the other thing that college applications generally look for is community participation. Volunteer work. Charity grubbing. And gracing Eddie Munson’s lunch table with your occasional presence apparently doesn’t count. 

Just kidding. Kind of. 

Point is, you needed something quick and dirty, yet passably prestigious, with people who would bend to your will. And there’s no one more malleable than insecure high school girls competing in a beauty pageant in small town Indiana. 

“Now, Lacy, we are delighted to have you here helping out,” says Claudia Henderson, a one time multi-title holder (just short of Miss America apparently—‘But then they stopped giving homely girls a pass; poor Claudia never stood a chance,’ your mom had told you) and the kind of kindly woman that loves to clutch your arm while you walk. 

Ordinarily, you’d be repulsed by such a gesture but you’re desperate. 

Before you get a chance to gush falsely, tell her how grateful you are for the opportunity, Claudia cuts you off. 

“But I do hope that this isn’t some covert effort by your mother to get back in our good books—because, golly, well, that bridge is burned!”

Of course. Your mom had attempted to sabotage Tammy Thompson’s performance portion by mixing a laxative into her milkshake, because a shit show like that would make your little poetry reading look positively Carnegie worthy. But she hadn’t covered her tracks well enough and got sniffed out by the pageant committee. So had Tammy, poor thing. Horrible day to wear white chiffon.

Incredible that it was that they were still hung up on, and not the… everything else you and your family had going on. You do a decent impression of cringing, looking at Claudia with mournful eyes. 

“Claudia, I swear, this is all me,” you assure her, “The time I spent doing pageant prep was just so formative—I think I would’ve been a lot worse off facing, well, certain challenges without it. I’d really like the chance to give that back to the girls.”

Admittedly, your hours spent in front of the mirror training your face to look earnest for the interview portion hadn’t gone to waste on the stand during your father’s trial. 

“That is just incredible to hear, sweetie. And between you and I, you’re really saving our keisters because the girl we had helping our hopefuls out with speech prep dropped out last minute!”

That’d be the current debate team captain, Kate something-or-other. She was easy enough to take out—posing as a concerned member of the local Christian youth group, you’d placed a call to her ultra-conservative parents about her hanging out with Billy Hargrove. Which was total bullshit, of course. Billy wouldn’t approach an ex-or-current band geek with a hazmat suit on. A shame, really. The band kids were the only niche that could rival Billy’s baseless horniness. His dream girl could be hanging out behind a trombone someplace, squeezing her knees together. 

Anyway, did you feel great about selling Kate out like that? Honestly, you didn’t care about it too much one way or another. The maneuvre felt very classic Lacy, which was in part a little shameful and in part incredibly satisfying to know that, when it comes to manipulation, you’re still batting at a professional level. 

Claudia wheels you and your elbow around the room, the oxygen thick with sweat and body spray and pageant application forms. A couple of the would-be queens catch your eye–homely girls, as your mother would call them, who were duped into their well-meaning parentals or sisters or guidance counselors into thinking that doing the pageant was a great way to make friends. A boost to their self esteem. A chance to really show the town what they’re made of!

Someone should tell them to run, but it’s not gonna be you. 

“Oh, Lacy!” Claudia suddenly half-shrieks, halting you with a sharp tug, “Meet my special little guy! This is Dustin, he goes to Hawkins Middle. I like to bring him around to meet the girls so he learns how to treat a lady. It’s so important for boys, don’t you think?”

Yeah, start the little lotharios young. You tilt your chin in acknowledgment of the kid, who squints at you from under the rim of a ball cap. Claudia’s attention is diverted by some other poor bastard helping to organize this dog and pony show, but she keeps her hand firmly on your elbow. It’s starting to feel a little like you’re being led around the prison yard. You attempt a tight smile at her son, who’s still looking you up and down. 

“Hey, I know you!” he barks– seems like lack of volume control runs in the family, “You’re Nancy’s friend. You slept over at the weekend. I’m Mike’s friend? I ate the green peppers off your pizza slice…? Not ringin’ any bells? Really?”

“Oh, right,” you lie, having no recollection of ever meeting this child, “Pleasure, sure.” 

The way he’s surveying you is a little much. “So, what was up with that guy?” he asks you, tone dropping conspiratorially. You don’t know why, but you feel like middle schoolers shouldn’t be able to do that. 

“Excuse me?”

“Me and the guys saw some scary dude climbing out of Nancy’s window. Is he–” 

What’s up with kids and just having to say any old thing? What happened to being seen and not heard? What happened to being intimidated by your high school elders? If his mother wasn’t standing right next to you, you’d flip that little propeller cap off his head and tell him to go fetch. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The kid cocks his head to the side. “Positive? Because it sure looked like–”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. –Justin, wow, you’re such a card, ha ha ha,” you slip your arm out of Claudia’s as subtly as a woman breaking into a cold sweat can, “Claudia, I’ve got to dash unfortunately, but you’ve got my number! Let me know when I can come and meet with the girls, won’t you? I’m so excited.”

You’re so absolutely fucking not. 

Footsteps burn a hot trail through that creaking hall, not quite avoiding a couple of stares as you flit past. Of course, since Ray’s great return brought a whole new batch of grist for the Hawkins’ rumor mill, you’d been subject to more whispers than usual. Any move you made was in some way looped back to either groveling for the town’s forgiveness, assuming your father’s criminal crown, or generally being a case for pity or ridicule. Sometimes both, if people were really creative. Stood to reason that the only person you want to see is someone who’s lived with notoriety like that for most of their life. 

Ivana has parked across two spots in front of the community hall, her green Buick gleaming under an unseasonable glare of sunlight. It’s still far too cold to have the top down like she does but she does and she sits bundled in the front seat. A leopard print fur coat, a cigarette, a pair of sunglasses perched in her platinum beehive.

“Christ, girlie, I thought they’d tied you to the stake in there.”

“My escape was narrow, as always,” you smirk, sliding into the passenger seat and tugging your own coat around you a little tighter. “What’s up with the exposure?”

“Feeling the wind whip your face is good for you, especially when you spend most of the day craned over books like you do.”

“This coming from the owner of the biggest bookstore in town.” 

“Only,” Ivana corrects you, as she so often does, “Only bookstore in town. You saw what happened when B. Dalton tried to muscle in on my territory.”

“You admitting to knowing something about that mall’s fiery end, Ivana?” Horseshit bombs and the Russian mafia come to mind, but Ivana just cackles loudly and tears out of the parking lot at breakneck speed. 

The frigid sting of wind on your face does feel fantastic, you have to hand it to her. Resetting your base temperature from boiling, where it’s rocketed between school and home and Eddie and everything. Much as it’s thrilling, exploring this new aspect of your… dynamic with him, on top of everything else, it’s a lot. 

You’re not quite ready to classify your feelings about Eddie without your chest feeling like it’s going to cave in. Every other conversation winds up with your hands all over each other, clumsy in the communication of your unrepressed passion. And it is great, don’t let yourself be misunderstood, you crave it when it’s not happening, and boy do you beat yourself up when you stop it from going all the way but… 

The tape keeps getting tangled. Like you’re playing the right song at the wrong part of the movie. It keeps coming out warped and rushed, and you keep feeling like somebody is watching you two.

You two don’t belong shoved into clandestine corners, making out on the sly. You’d been hiding the things that you care about in places like that your whole life. Your books and records under your bed, your clothes in the back of your walk-in wardrobe. Your thoughts in your journal. Your real face from your fake friends.

Eddie’s like a great, flowering plant that has spread his curling vines into every facet of your life, taking root right at the center. 

He may not know it, he may be playing the part of being very understanding but he demands light and care. And dirt.

It scares you.

But that tearing breeze settles your nerves, and those are rarely settled around Ivana herself. She has a preternatural way about her. She knows just when to step out of the shadows and twist fate so your path gets a refresh. First, your job at the Bookstore. Now, letting you into her inner sanctum. 

Brambles clatter against the green paintwork of the car as you careen down a backroad off of Holland. Gravel sprays as Ivana hauls you up her drive and you catch a fresh smell– to your immediate right, you’re looking out on the still, chilled expanse of Lover’s Lake. You breathe in that post-winter thaw, curling your wistful hands over the passenger side door and she seems to notice. 

“Hell of a view, right?”

The slam of Ivana hip-checking her car door closed is the loudest sound out here. 

“Peaceful,” you remark, following her up the sagging wooden porch. Another look over your shoulder. You were used to seeing Lover’s Lake from another part of the embankment, usually crowded with cars and beer coolers, bodies in bathing suits baying for attention. You’d been one once, trying desperately to look comfortable in your sweltering skin only to sneak off and take shelter in Main Street Vinyl.  

The frigid water seemed more inviting right now. 

Another house, this total slouch of a place, stares right at you from across the lake. 

“Nice neighbors?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” Ivana says, shoving the ancient front door open. 

Following her inside, you have to suppress a gasp. 

Ivana’s house is no mansion, but the way she’s filled it makes it feel like one. Under vaulted ceilings, everything seems to be cast in a rich, aquatic shadow. Tendrils of greenery embrace each corner and even hang from the ceilings. Threadbare rugs of once-moneyed origin muffle you underfoot. Chairs of velvet sag and every single goddamned surface is covered in tchotchkes, magazines, scarves, photographs. Even the Steiner piano. You catch a glimpse of the pictures in gilded frames as you slowly follow Ivana toward the back of the house–Ivana with equally glamorous looking friends, dancing at what you’re sure is Studio 54. Ivana standing next to Andy Warhol, a disgruntled looking Norman Mailer lingering in the background of the shot. Ivana on her wedding day. And second wedding day. And third wedding day. 

Your chest throbs furiously. 

You hear Ivana creek up the stairs and you’re not quite sure what the proper procedure is here– do you follow her? Would she push you back down the stairs if you tried such a thing? She’s always seemed like the type. Fiercely private. Only sharing the tiniest tidbits of this rich meal of a life she lived before she came back to Hawkins. 

“Come on, girlie. I ain’t got all day.”

You take your opportunity and scarper up the stairs behind her. Eyes flit over even more photographs as you ascend, a smile of disbelief crossing your lips at the sawn-off shotgun mounted on her wall. Like she’s Annie Oakley or somebody. She could be. It’s evident to you now that Ivana has been just about everyone there is to be. It ought to intimidate you, really, bearing witness to someone who’s so successfully lived life before you’ve even begun to, but it doesn’t. The closeness, clutteredness, coziness of this house lulls you into a funny kind of serenity. 

“I just don’t get you, Ivana,” you say, not entirely wanting to catch her in earshot as you float into her bedroom. Dark and plush, like everything else. A light comes on in her overstuffed closet. 

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Of course, she hears everything. 

You approach the heaving wardrobe, hands running along silk, chiffon, velvet. Broderie, brocade, lace. 

“How the hell do you go from having a full life like this,” you grip the sleeve of what could be one of Ivana’s three wedding dresses, “and end up back in East Jesus, Indiana? I mean you’ve–you’ve been everywhere. You’ve done everything. How can you stand it here?” 

Ivana tilts her head at you from where she sits on the ottoman at the end of her bed. Canopy, naturally. She looks at you as if really taking you in for the first time. You shift a little, from one foot to the other. It doesn’t feel probing and accusatory, not like how your mother looks at you. More like she’s reading your palm.

“I wanted to come home,” she says, simply. “Had my fill. Got tired. Wanted to remember what fresh air felt like, and realized I preferred it to car horns.” 

“But why not, like… upstate New York? Somewhere actually scenic and peaceful, why Hawkins, Indiana?”

“I wanted to come home, I said. Now,” she gestures to the masses of clothes, “You’ve got ten minutes. One outfit. Dig.” 

—

“This is, like, beat for beat my worst fucking nightmare, I want you to know that.” 

“You know what, shoot me down but I think you wanna go to this–I think you’re getting nervous because of how excited you are!”

Ronnie Ecker aims a finger gun right between Eddie’s eyes. “Name yourself, body snatcher. Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my best friend.”

She’s got him point blank on that one. He’s acting a little out of sorts–but, in his defense, he’s having, as Rick Lipton might call it, a total wig out. Eddie’s been invited to Steve Harrington’s kegger under absolutely no pretense (but he’s bringing a pocketful of drugs anyway, of course). Eddie’s going to see the (ex) most popular girl in school there, which’d be you. 

And Dio willing, you two are gonna disappear into some side room where he’s gonna trace his leaking cock against every inch of your silky, perfumed skin while you hiss his name into the air like it’s the only word you deem worthy enough to speak. 

It’s fine. It’s cool. It’s casual.

Eddie tries to shake that thought right out his head under the guise of turning to the mirror and fixing his hair. Fingertips raking into the waves, an attempt to make ‘em look less… or more… he’s got no idea. He’s got no earthly idea. So he huffs.

“What have I got to be excited about?!” Ronnie sighs dramatically, thunking herself into the nearby armchair in Eddie’s room that’s covered in clothes–outfits he’s tried on, like a different jeans-and-t-shirt combination will actually make a difference. “Don’t pretend like I’m not hauling ass to the first party of my high school career so I can be, like, a freak diversion while you two sneak off and–”

Amazing how Eddie’s managed to keep this secret from Ronnie for this long, but she’s got it pretty much sniffed out anyway.

“No clue what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You, Eddie Munson, you’re gonna stand there, preening yourself in the mirror like a fuckin’ peacock telling me the eye contact you two have been making with each other since you ‘made up’ has been completely Christian-minded? Smell test certified?” Ronnie spits. “I just got into New York University, you little bitch! I cannot be fooled! You boinked and it’s scrawled all over your face in her lipstick!”

“Dude, do not say boinked–”

“You’ve greeted her carnally!”

“--who are we, Sam and Diane?”

“If everybody knows your name, man!”

Look, here’s the thing. 

You and Eddie have been making out heavy, stolen moments in crooks like the newspaper room after hours, under the bleachers, the decommissioned bathroom, the driver’s seat of Eddie’s van, grinding it out harder than a couple of drumline dorkos from band which has led to Eddie wrecking a couple pairs of boxers a lot sooner than he’d like to. (Which you hadn’t laughed at him about–you’d liked it. It was so fucking hot that you liked it that just the thought of you liking it makes his breath snag if he thinks about it too hard.) 

But. Skin-to-skin contact has been… frustratingly minimal, since that night in your bedroom. 

See, it’s like, you get there. Eddie’s lips are edging south of your collarbone, his fingers digging into the flush of your tits through your bra and something snaps in you. You go from rolling those rapturous hips into him (god, fuck, don’t–) to tensing right up, looking over your shoulder, expecting to see a door creaking open. 

Fear freezing the edges of your features, even if your touch is still hot on him. 

“We should–” “... yeah. Yeah. Of course, Lace.” Eddie’s trying really hard not to be an asshole. But it’s hard when… you’re hard. And you, you get him fucking full mouth salivating, forged in the flames of Mount Doom hard. Those tight little skirts you wear are so much more enticing now that he knows what the heavenly enclave feels like underneath them.

Bu-ut.

Your paranoia is working overtime. 

Your paranoia is making his paranoia work overtime. 

Because, what if after all your dancing around each other, you don’t actually want him and you’ve got no idea how to let him down gently? 

Which, Eddie reassures himself, does not track for you. It’d be pretty damn easy to think that your edges have softened with the events of the past couple months, but he’s had a front row seat to how you’ve shed your old edges to reveal different, weirder, more jagged edges. Edges he’s had a pleasure acquainting himself with. You’d have no problem telling him to take a short walk off Sattler’s Quarry if you wanted to. 

Eddie adores that about you, the poor sucker. 

Anyway, Ronnie Ecker. Dead to rights. Like always. 

“If I tell you…” comes the measured grit through his teeth. “... you have to swear, Ronnie, I’m so goddamn serious–”

She hitches forward in her seat, eyes blazing. “Dude. Scouts. Whatever.”

Eddie’s shoulders drop and it all comes out in one big exhale as his rings drag down his cheeks, “GoodbecauseI’vebeenwantingtotellyousobadohmyGOD. Like, oh my god.”

“So full pen or–”

“Be a gentleman, Ecker, Jesus! But yeah, home fuckin’ run.”

“Good?”

His eyes careen back in his skull and he pitches his palms out like a Pentecostal preacher. “Words… evade. Infernal choirs sang. I left a part of my soul in her–”

“Nope, too much!” Ronnie blanches, waving her hands in the air. 

“Okay, okay, okay, but Ronnie– you can’t say shit to her. Promise me.” 

“Why? We’re friends too, unless you conveniently forgot again.”

“No, I know that, I just–” Eddie swallows, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His voice comes out small. “I don’t wanna scare her off. She’s fragile. 

“She’s fragile? We’re talking about the same Lacy Doevski here, right?”

“Right, the one whose dad just got out of lockup. Fra-gee-lay,” Eddie emphasizes, notes of Old Man Parker, “It’s just… easier like this, right now.”

“Well… is easy what you want?” Trust Ronnie to come through with a gut punch out of left field. 

Eddie’s mouth bobs open to fish out some bullshit answer, but not until his bedroom door flies open. 

“Goddamn, kid, you gotta get the maid in here.” 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Al Munson props his hip against the doorframe, sucking all the air from the room. He looks better than the last time Eddie saw him, at least, not like he’s three days cokebent and clammy. More like he went someplace and got a shave. 

“If you really didn’t want me comin’ round, you’d tell your uncle to start lockin’ the door. Now, you got something belonging to me– that Stooges shirt, where’s it at?”

A hot line of panic flares up the back of Eddie’s neck. Stooges shirt, darkened on the shoulders from droplets from your wet hair. Stretched over–

“I’unno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Yes, you do, Eddie,” his dad says, crossing the bedroom’s threshold. Al’s got springs under the balls of his feet, moving with that irritatingly happy-go-lucky effeteness. “It’s my lucky shirt! I need that thing–” 

“Hasn’t done you a whole lotta good so far, Allen,” Ronnie mumbles from where she’s bunched up on the armchair. 

“Ronnie,” Al’s eyes narrow; they’ve never liked each other because Ronnie’s too goddamn smart for her own good and therefore uncharmable, “How’zabout that for a breath of stale air. Get up a sec, would’ja?”

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go anyway.” Eddie jerks his head toward the door and Ronnie scuttles out ahead of him. He pauses for a breath, watching his dad rifle through the rejected shirts slung over the armchair. “There’s nothing in here worth stealing, by the way. Just in case things have gone so far south already that you’re diggin’ in people’s pockets for spare change.”

Those cut-and-paste Munson eyes survey Eddie and he feels his fist flex. Al’s been a loose cannon lately. 

“Big night?”

“Party.” He should know what that means. 

“Well, Ed,” Al closes a few steps between them, and Eddie resists the urge to back up. Or wind up. His voice drops so that Ronnie doesn’t catch it. “When you’re ready to graduate from sellin’ ten spots at parties, you let me know. We got something prestigious brewing. Could be the makin’ of you.” 

Eddie can’t help but laugh, mirthful from his back molars. “Graduation’s a little ways off for me, Dad.” 

He catches up with a tutting Ronnie, slamming the front door behind him and heading for the van. 

“Seriously, dude, you got a case for a restraining order the way that motherfucker’s conducting himself lately.”

“I got a crowbar and a map of the Indiana Dunes that’d do just about the same thing, I just need a free weekend.”

“Hey!” a voice calls from behind them, and Eddie and Ronnie swivel toward it. 

No stemming the smile that peels across his face, heart thud-thudding back into motion. A soothing cool comes over him at the sight of you, settling him right back into his body. You, dressed to the nines. You, coiffed up like you’re hellbent on making an impression. My little cold front.

“Shotgun!” you chirp, skipping toward the van in your spindly little shoes. Both Eddie and Ronnie are rendered speechless for a beat or two. 

Shit, you look good.

“There’s only one fucking passenger seat!” Ronnie protests. 

“Fine, Ronnie, I’ll sit in your lap– is that what you want?”

Eddie lets you two nonsensically bicker as he guns the van to life, sweeping out of the park in a thunderous roar. He’s trying to stay tuned into the conversation you’re having, he really is, but the way you’ve got your shoulders thrown back and cleavage thrust out, Ronnie squished beside you, is focus-stealing.

“Wait, you’re volunteering at the beauty pageant?” Eddie finally clues in, “Sorry, Lace, there’s no way that throwing glitter on bimbos in bathing suits counts as community service. Otherwise, I’d be ve-ry committed to my community.”

“Right?! Like, how did I get stuck with helping out Granny’s retirement home friends? I could be checking chicks for visible bra straps but I’m trapped with a bunch of senile losers that smell like clove suckers.”

“It’s not just an ogle-fest, you knuckle-draggers,” you roll your eyes, “There’s an entire interview portion, too. You know, where the judges have to pretend to care about what these girls have to say– and it’s my job to make sure they don’t sound entirely braindead.”

“You love an insurmountable challenge, huh, Lace?” 

“Never tell me what I can and can’t mount, Munson,” you purr–he’s almost sure he hears you purr. The way you look at him over the center console, eyes all a-felined, does the job for him. 

Ronnie keeps her mouth shut, and he silently thanks her for it. 

Festivities are fully in swing as you all pull onto Harrington’s street–plus the festivity-specific problem of there being almost no parking anywhere. Cars of your classmates clog the tree-lined streets, along with the vehicles of the wealthier Loch Nora contingent. 

Eddie slaps his hands against the wheel. “How the fuck does he get away with this shit?” 

“Senior year pass,” you remark, “Plus, Steve’s always-AWOL parentals. Somehow, his shitty home life gives way to an endless well of sympathy on Richie Rich Row here, so he kind of gets carte blanche.” 

“The world’s luckiest latchkey k–woah!”

Reeboked feet have to slam down hard on the brakes, as Eddie almost takes out Robin Buckley, hunching her shoulders and marching toward the Harrington’s porch. The screech of the tires almost sends her leaping out of her skin. 

“Watch it, asshole! Pedestrians still exist, you know!”

“Sorry, Buckley!” Eddie calls out down the window wound low, “For what it’s worth, you’re blending into the tarmac just great!”

Robin scoffs and continues stalking. Your head snaps to Ronnie. 

“Ron,” you simper, “Why don’t you go make sure Robin’s not suffering from post traumatic? I would be, if I almost got mowed down by this decommissioned tank.” 

Her brow screws up like she’s about to answer, but genius little you, this works on a couple of levels. For one, your insistence that something will happen between Buckley and Ronnie if you keep pressing their heads together like Barbies, and for two… Half a second alone. 

Half a second is all Eddie needs. 

“There’s no way I’m gonna remember where I parked if one of you isn’t here,” he tacks on, as if he needs the support, “And she–” by whom he means you, “--has priors in this house. Off ya go, Ecker.” 

Banished to the pavement, Ronnie snarls something about hurrying back, which you promise her that you will. Eddie doesn’t promise anything. If he had his way, he’d rare right out of Loch Nora and keep driving, you to his beautiful right and watch as moonlight started to pool in the window over your skin. Just keep turning the wheel, so he could keep looking at you. 

You point out a spot a street over and Eddie kills the engine. 

“Hi,” he rasps, angling his torso toward you. He doesn’t stem his smile.

“Hello,” you say in return. Your neck rolls against the headrest. You’re looking at him in a slow drip through your bottom lashes. 

Eddie has to remind himself to breathe, and his first intake is kinda ragged. It makes you laugh, this little gaspy sound that sounds like a prelude to something else. Your stare breaks, gliding to the dashboard. 

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

“Let’s shall.”

Eddie snaps back to life, dashing out of the driver’s side to help you down from the passenger’s. Your fingers give his hand a little extra squeeze and he takes this very, very liminal opportunity to hold you at arms length, pirouetting you under his hand.

“Sorry. I’m sorry! I had to!” he faux-apologizes. “Gotta test the durability of these shoes, in case you need to make a run for it later.” 

Your laugh comes out uncorked and full-bodied and it makes Eddie feel like his head is levitating two feet above his neck. 

“Relieving yourself of your hero duties already, huh?”

Silk spills over your curves, skirt billowing around your thighs as you move. That makes him feel very much in his body. You look ravishing, your hair crashing into a wave as you come to a smiling stop in front of him. 

Eddie presses his mouth to your fingers, clasped around his hand, and hears the bubble of your breath hiccup. 

“Not by a long shot.”

A warm berry encases your lips that he wants to see smudged. He wants to wear it on his collarbone like a second chain. 

He wonders if he knows you look like you’re trying to get ravished. 

Of course you do. There’s not a single thing you’ve ever put on your body that wasn’t on purpose. 

Which, if Eddie considers it, now includes him.

You both barely remember to unweave your fingers as you approach Harrington’s house.

—

A meticulously curated outfit makes all the difference, especially if you’re reentering society. And you are, in a manner of speaking.

Returning to the scene of the crime, the inciting incident that saw you in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van the better part of a bottle of vodka deep and a bruise blooming. Bridges actively aflame between you and those you once considered your closest friends. 

They’d given you the matches though. Flicked them at you, expected you to do nothing. 

It occurs to you now, as a lingering touch stays between your and Eddie’s pinkie fingers and you cross the porch, that you hadn’t so much as looked in the rearview mirror to assess the damage. You looked through his windscreen as he drove you home. 

“Divide and conquer?”

“I’ll find you.”

Eddie used to exist to you as an eyesore on the peripheries of parties like this. Here, where you always felt you were sitting alone on the observation deck, watching everyone else have fun and learning how to mimic it for your own gain. Patching yourself together. You felt him leering over your shoulder sometimes, separate from it too.

Now, he’s the boy spinning you around on the pavement, looking at you like you’re a whole person. 

So this should be interesting. 

The two of you shove past a couple of clumping bodies on the doorstep, eyes already starting to dagger in your direction. Into the foyer, towards the kitchen, those looks become more and more and more focused. Feels like you’re wearing piano wire for a choker. 

‘What the fuck…’ ‘Remember the last time she was here?’ ‘Woah, smackdown rematch. Somebody get Carol.’

Eddie gets a little closer than he needs to, feigning a stumble into you, just to brush against your hardened shoulders and whisper, ‘Head up, queenie. It’s not like they’ve got a guillotine,’ before he disappears to make rent.

The smile you’re about to sneak to him dies on your lips as your name rings out from somewhere in the milieu, someplace near the kitchen. 

“Lacy!” 

All that cruising for a parking space and you hadn’t locked eyes on a Ford Cortina, had you? 

The tardiest student enrolled at Amherst or wherever half-jogs toward you with a smile that makes your stomach lurch. Cold sweat starts to prick against your hairline. Excuse me?

“Oh! Hi!” you hit a higher octave than you were intending, for sure, you can tell by the look on his face. Eyebrows all shot up. “What the… fuck are you doing here?”

College guy shakes his head a little, confused. “You mentioned you were gonna be here.”

“...and you took that as an explicit invitation?” You’re still technically dating him, dumbass. Smile. “Just kidding! It is. Good. To see you.”

A cursory squeeze of his bicep. Christ, you’re bad at this when you’re not prepared. Extra bad at this when your first thought, when you’re doing bad, is where’s Eddie. When did that symbiosis develop exactly? 

“Listen, can we go somewhere?” Oh, Jesus. “Talk? I tried to call your place a little earlier and–” Oh, Jesus! This guy looks at you with earnest eyes that you couldn’t tell the color of if you had a gun to your head. Bodies jostling around you, you make the choice to drop in and act a little left of sober. 

“That sounds ah-mazing, but I do have to pee, so,” you shoot him a glimmering smile which ain’t takin’. “Grab me a drink and I’ll find you? Grab me a drink and I’ll find you.” 

Bolt! You’re stepping over knees as you weave your way up Harrington’s impossible staircase to the second floor bathroom, downing a shot from a tray on your way. Five minutes inside Mrs Harrington’s immaculately designed proto-modern lavatory should give you enough chutzpah to take on the rest of this night, right? Maybe a fully clothed lie down in the jacuzzi tub. 

The ten-girl deep line outside the locked door says different.

From the seventh spot, Carol Perkins cranes her perfectly coiffed strawberry head out and locks eyes with you. 

No guillotine, huh?

—

Eddie’s gotta wonder, what the hell the Harrington household looks like when it isn’t throbbing with mainstream radio rock and gyrating teenagers. The house is a showroom of suburban perfection, but whenever Steve throws a party, it goes full bacchanal. 

Tonight Eddie intends to take full and rapid advantage of the skewed consciousness of his classmates and copious amounts of jello shooters. 

Like, yeah, Harrington might have graciously invited him and not directly asked him to peddle his wares by the pool like a fucked up candy stand, but you gotta seize opportunity wherever you find it. People see him here, they know what to do. They know his purpose. 

It’s not as if Eddie’s here to mingle, okay?

Do what they expect of you until you don’t have to anymore.

The short term objective? Empty his stash, stuff his pockets and steal away with you into one of the billion bedrooms this mini-mansion holds. But, much to Eddie’s chagrin, that means fighting through the din of Cyndi Lauper and body odor first. 

Conjured by his very words, Andy Sweeney swings right into Eddie’s path and yoinks the beer that Eddie was reaching for. The kid doesn’t even look beyond the brim of his baseball cap to notice he’s standing there. He’s too busy jawing with some other basketball tool. 

“Lissen, man, say what you want,” Sweeney burbles, “but Princess Trailer Trash is still totally bangin’.”

Eddie’s ears immediately tune right into their garbled conversation. 

“Pssh, dude, I don’t care what anyone says, she was frigid then and she’s frigid now. No way some overgrown virgin like Munson is splittin’ those knees open.”

“Still… bet she misses the finer things in life, y’know?”

“Tchyuh, like you, y’mean?”

“Nah, rich bitches like that get a wettie over the dumbest shit. Hey, how many glasses of Cristal does it take for Lacy Doevski to spread her legs?”

“I’unno, man, how many?”

“Well, if the first one has her face down in the pillow, how’s she gonna be able to tell?”

Bile scorches the back of Eddie’s throat. He doesn’t even mean for it, he actually means for a lot worse, but his hand goes right out and grabs the scruff of Sweeney’s shirt. The despicable little dirtbag. He yelps, a sound pleasing to Eddie but not quite pained enough for what this motherfucker deserves. 

“What the fuck, freak?!” 

Breath forces itself hard through Eddie’s nostrils. That they think they even have the right to talk about you like that makes him want to leave an Andy Sweeney-shaped hole in the Harringtons’ marble countertop, with some blood and teeth and viscera to match. 

“Interesting observation, Andy. It’s incredible to witness how the minds of the shrivel-dicked work,” Eddie seethes, “I personally like to enact my violence face up. Seen Billy Hargrove lately?”

Sometimes, Eddie forgets that he’s actually scary looking. The hair shrouding his face, the big hulking rings, the unsuspecting strength he’s gained from hauling around kegs and amps and the weight of the world… Sometimes, it takes a stiffened flash and a sudden flash of fear in someone like Andy Sweeney’s irises for him to remember. 

Sweeney stammers something between a no, please! and get off me!, fighting his own piss-pantsery in order to keep up appearances for his bros. 

Eddie grabs the Miller High Life from his hand and shoves him back toward his friends. 

“Champagne of beers. You understand.”

Sweeney spits, like physically spits at him. “Fucking loser!”

“Says the guy threatening to roofie a chick!” Eddie barks. “God, I know that your line of work doesn’t exactly require neurons but I’m begging you to rub your remaining ones together and see if it sparks some self awareness, Sweeney– go on, try!” 

—

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here.”

“Praying I don’t get a UTI, like everybody else in line.”

“You know what I mean, bitch.”

A category five sigh rolls your shoulders forward, hunching them further down the wallpaper you lean against. Carol has stepped fully out of the line, looking viperous but keeping her distance. Like you might have the good sense to strike back this time. 

“Oh my god, Caroline, it’s a kegger. I don’t think you need to RSVP.”

“There’s a strict no freaks policy,” Carol The Bouncer says.

A one noted bark-laugh comes from the fifth position in the line. “Yeah, I think we’re getting a little lenient with that one these days.”

From the mouth of Robin Buckley, who stands there like she did at the last party, against her will but as living proof that even the worst people you knew might not be as bad as you thought. 

I know Steve. He’s not exactly made for this crowd either.

“Stay out of this, Lesbo Baggins!”

“Hey!” You force your stiletto off the wall and lose your place in line, since Carol’s begging for it. Fuck that. No more shrapnel. “Leave her alone. This is between us, isn’t it? You and me?”

“And the rest of this town,” Carol’s upper lip curls. 

“Refresh my memory,” you say, and the choking vice of Carol’s overly familiar body spray is threatening your jugular. You used to come home from her place reeking of the stuff; the kind of smell that transfers, and carried with it characteristics that you were once proud to have rub off on you. The misery, the misanthropy for everyone but your pocketful of someones. And you and Carol didn’t even like them, most of the time. United in smarting bitterness, the way that girls who want more but can’t seem to get it always are. “What’s the problem, Care?”

“The problem,” Carol snarls, “is you, Lacy. Think just because your daddy’s out of prison that everyone forgot what he did? What you did? I’m watching you, trailer trash.”

You’re close enough that you can see the clumps in her mascara. Why hadn’t she separated them with a needle like you taught her to? The Audrey Hepburn method. It had always freaked her out, you sitting there with a pin that close to her retina, but she’d never looked better. 

Doomed to fail, without you by her side.

Spine straightening, you draw yourself over her. In your heels, borrowed from Ivana and gilded with her hardiness, you make Carol look small. 

“Yeah?” your voice drops to gravel. “You like what you see?”

—

Brainless Hawkinsite pieces of shit can’t so much as muster a response before they lurch for Eddie. Who the fuck knows what cursed or blessed him with rhythm, but he dodges around the bustling kitchen island with relative ease, before he nearly knocks Steve Harrington himself straight through his own plate glass patio door.

“No runnin’ indoors!” Steve slurs in his face, so close that a fleck of saliva goes straight up Eddie’s nostril. Gross. He’s found a home in the welcome bosom of the jello shot, that’s for fucking sure. 

“They started it!” 

“I don’t give a fuck! Finish it!” 

Gruffly, he casts an eye around the kitchen for those rogue ballsacks– they’d scarpered, probably spooked by the bellow of King Steve. Whatever. 

“My attackers seem to have dematerialized, you’ll be delighted to know!” 

“Why do you do that? Why do you talk like such a fucking weirdo, man?” Steve asks exasperatedly, clutching onto Eddie’s shoulder a little too roughly for his liking. Not that he’s keen on Harrington pawing him at all. “Like what d–... ughh, forget it! List-en! Where’s your weirdo girlfriend?”

“Ronnie’s not–”

“Who the fuck is–” Steve’s whole pretty boy face screws up and he lets out a genuine groan of anguish. “No, asshole, where is Lacy at?” 

“How should I know?!”

“Because your nose is permanently wedged up her ass!” Steve yells, but something draws him back. “Or it should be!”

Incredibly puzzling wording. Eddie shakes his head, wide eyes bewildered at exactly what the fuck Steve wants from him. With a scoff, the man of the house walks into the body-to-body wedge of his hallway and runs, from what Eddie can see, right into…

Your little college boyfriend.

Now… what the sweet and levelling fuck…

Eddie Munson’s activating Shadow Arts, he guesses, because he dips as close to the two of them as he can get without being accused of tailing Harrington this time. 

“...hey man, what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“Haha. Good to see you too, Stevie. Quite the turnout–you the big man on campus now or what?”

“I don’t know, it’s a party. I’m personally having kind of an evolution moment of my own. So. Fuckin’. Whatever.”

“... right.”

“How’s… fuckin’... whatever needledick school it is you go to?”

“Tch, man. I made it about a heartbeat and a hangover through the first semester before I dropped out. Came home around Christmas, much to the disgrace of my parents… But I’m havin’ an alright time, if you catch my drift.”

“Huh?” 

“Y’know. High school girls. You can tell them anything, am I right?”

Shit.

Know what, though? Eddie, as he sees it, would be well within his rights to yuk it up at this pernicious turn of events. He’s had a bet running (with himself) that this eyesore in beige you call a college beau, with his ugly fuckin’ car and his stupid collared shirts and his Waiting for Godot or whoever, wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. And not just ‘cause of jealousy, no! Not entirely. Well, okay. But, riddle him this– instead of snorting it up good, thrilled to be able to rub your nose in it, that rotten coil of anger started shifting in his belly again. Why do you think that is?

It’s simple. Eddie knows it’s simple. Because Mister Faux Ivy League has wasted so much of your time. 

Time that should have been yours and Eddie’s.

He’s gotta tell y–

“Hey, man. How’s it going.” 

“Agh!” Eddie yelps, as running right the fuck into people is apparently the flavor de nuit. Ronnie stands, stockstill and deadpan, behind him. Flanked by Tommy Hagan and Billy Hargrove. 

Eddie makes an exasperated noise of confusion, not even dignifying this apparition with a question. 

“They wanna play beer pong,” Ronnie monotones. With a glance down, Eddie can see that her front overalls pocket is filled with empty beer bottles. Apprehension swipes at him. See, his good friend Ronnie? She’s a competitive drunk. She, drunk off Jeff’s dad’s scotch, once trash talked Keith from Palace Arcade to such an eviscerating degree that she got a lifetime ban and he left to work at Family Video. Over a game of fuckin’ Tron. 

“We wanna play beer pong,” Hagan echoes. 

Hargrove sucks on a cigarette, having finally regained the ability to open his eye. Tragic. “Pong.”

“Why?!” Eddie asks, but more like begs. 

“Because they insinuated that I would lose.” 

“And we’d like to give the future valedictorian a chance to prove us right,” Hargrove drawls, looking as if he’s trying not to admit to himself that he has to look up to address Ronnie. She’s got a head and a half on him, at least. So many complexes in such a roidy, mulleted package. 

Eddie sees that his cheque is signed.

“... Fine. Your funeral.”

—

“All I see is some ex-relevant ex-cheerleader in somebody else’s moth eaten clothes.”

“This is Italian silk, you JC Penney clone-ette.”

“Oh, Italian like a meatball sub or Italian like the mob your dad is part of?”

That sets your teeth on edge. God, Ray Doevski wishes– at least there’d be some valor to it then, capos and all. The reality feels far less shrouded in intrigue. Grimier, somehow.

“Carol, you had the jump on me last time,” you grit, “but I’m stone cold tonight. Either see yourself down the stairs or I will.”

“Are you threatening me, freak fucker?”

“You’d love that, bottom feeder.”

“Lacy! Stop right there, y–” 

Earrings clinking as you snap your head around, you watch as a thoroughly ossified Steve Harrington almost brains himself on the top step. Neither you nor Carol nor anyone else reach out to help him, caught red handed in the prelude to a catfight. 

“Finally, Jesus!” Carol whinges, “Steve, she’s totally trespassing!”

Panic spikes across your shoulders, quills on a porcupine–are you actually about to get escorted off the premises? That’d be embarrassing, being double-shunned at an open-door Harrington kegger. Eddie hadn’t even managed that dire of a social faux pas and here you are, about to do it for the second time. 

“Ow! Shut up, Carol!” Steve decides to steady himself by closing the span of his big hand around your elbow; you both stagger under his wheedling. He’s got a bottle of vodka, cracked, wedged in his other palm. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

And before you can make any attempt to yank yourself away, make a run for it in these stilettos you certainly cannot confidently lift knees it, Steve is pulling you in the direction of his bedroom. A choir of middle school-aged angels that all look like you are singing somewhere as Carol and every other girl in that bathroom line save for Robin enviously glare after you, but you can’t hear it due to being plunged into one of the deeper circles of hell. 

“Steven, listen–” You’re not even entirely sure where the full-Christian-name-address comes from, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind when you yank your arm free. “I wasn’t trying to start anything. Not really. I was just…”

Click. Steve locks his bedroom door and turns, staring you down. Well, the best that a drunk teenager with drifting irises could stare one down. You wonder how many Lacys he sees right now. You should ask him to count them, finger on his nose. 

“You and I need to have a little chat.”

“You said that already,” but you can’t tell drunk people nothin’.

A remorseful edge around his attempt at a come-hither stare is making you feel a little icky, dawdling on the burning balls of your feet. He looks really bad, actually. The picture of someone trying to sift horniness out of grief or whatever. Steve thrusts one hand through his already scuzzed-up hair, the other jerking the bottle of liquor towards you. 

“Have a drink, Lacy, Jesus. Relax, for once.” 

You accept the bottle from him. Mostly because it looks as if he’s going to crack you over the head with it if you don’t. The vodka sears going down, same as last time, but there’s not the same urgency to meet everyone else on a level of functioning normal, party girl cool. If anything, the urgency lies in taking the edge off being here. 

Particularly in Steve Harrington’s bedroom. 

Once upon a time, you’d have mown down half this town in your sporty little Porsche to be sitting right where you’re sitting. But now, under the weight of your own self and Steve’s breakup with Nancy, you’d rather be anywhere else. Anywhere. 

“Sit down,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows draw in on instinct, very who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? 

Steve scoffs, like he forgot to put on his concerned pantomime. He makes a pretty good go of it, slurring. “Please, Lacy.”

Your knees acquiesce, sinking yourself down onto his checkered bedsheets. The combination of that and the checkered wallpaper is creating an incredible cresting wave of claustrophobia. 

“Listen, if this is about Nancy, if this is some harebrained attempt to marionette me into getting her back, I–”

“This is about you ‘n’ me, actually.” 

Nope. Opposite day. Fucking Twilight Zone.

“No, it’s not,” you outright refuse. The mattress sags as Steve takes a seat beside you. 

“Well, why can’t it be?” Steve’s eyes trail a sticky line up your bare arm as he lies back and props himself up, low on his elbows. However, it’s not eliciting the same amount of alarm that it would if someone like, say, Billy Hargrove were doing it. He’s pathetic, and not in a way you find enticing. “You ‘n’ me, it makes sense. Doesn’t it? Don’t you want it to?”

“No!” You balk with a little more fervor than a then-wounded looking Steve deserves.

“Why not?!” No one says no to the king, of course, especially when he’s this soused.

“Because…” You shake your head, legs crossing on Steve’s bed. A different draft of you, the idea of a girl you had long since scrapped screams at you from somewhere in the very back of your head. You’re ruining it, Lacy–everything we’ve worked for! “You don’t want me. You just feel sorry for yourself. And I’m…”

But luckily, he doesn’t catch the trail-off.

“I’m about to make you feel sorry for yourself,” Steve railroads you.

“How’s that?” Another slug of vodka…

“Well,” he struggles to keep himself propped up, “my girlfriend Eddie and your boyfriend Nancy? Recreationally copulating. How d’ya like that.”

… comes right out your nose.

author's notes: so i once again scrapped the idea of a mega chapter because i wanted to give you guys something in case i have to disappear because i start my new job tomorrow! sweating and pissing and crying. but being able to afford to move out soon will be good. anyway, i love writing a good party scene so expect this to leak right into chapter 12 too. onto the fun stuff: - naming carol's mother ann perkins is a not-so-subtle nod to parks and recreation but the characterization couldn't be further off lol - attention all american teen princesses, i found drop dead gorgeous in full on youtube - the debate team captain in question, kate something-or-other, is in fact the very same kate that appears in rebel robin as robin's now-ex best friend - doctor, she's self-referencing again, this time about the time ivana threw an olive at norman mailer - i had to look up the origin of the term 'boinked', and it turns out it comes from cheers! congrats sam and diane - boners forged fire to table straight from mount doom - fra-gee-lay. it must be italian - that's two for one LOTR references if you count lesbo baggins - i am once again pretending to understand things about dnd - i can't mention *jeff bridges voice* TRON! without watching clips of jeff bridges doing things. it's so cliche to cast him as my reefer rick but bitch the heart wants that's all for now, folks! thanks again for reading and pls do reblog and comment and send me asks and things to keep the spirit of this silly little story alive. we're amping up. love u hellcats x

[normanbatesunderwear-kebabae]

(THIS WILL BE MY HORRIBLE 📌 POST)

About me:

she/her

Music lover

Social Media Fanatic

Anthony Perkins & James Stewart enthusiast !

Fandoms:

Psycho (1960-1990), Harry Potter(2001-2011), American Psycho (2000), Donnie Darko (2001) , Cry of fear (2012-2013), girl interrupted (1999), Marvel, DC, The Book of Life (2014), Rope (1948), Indiana Jones (1981-2023), The Virgin Suicides (1999), Night Before Christmas (1993), Corpse Bride (2005), Beetlejuice (1988), 2001: a Space Odyssey (1968), A Clockwork Orange (1971), Blade Runner (1982)

Multifandom

(mostly Psycho posts/reblogs & others)

Fanfic Recs:

I think that's all for today bc my phone cooked so hard n now looks kinda rlly tired😩

(Not) continuous updates in this post.

Asshhh I'm watching yall🤭 !

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Boys Prelims - Propaganda Division - Group 9

Propaganda:

Shinpei -

"Has a tendency to ignore his emotions in high stress situations in favor of looking at everything logically, even when it is detrimental for him to take that approach. Keeps meticulous track of everything that happens around him."

Sunny -

"Sunny has been told that his face is not expressive. He doesn't talk a lot and he often gets lost into his imagination. He is a great listener and recalls a lot of information being told he has a great memory (he is able to remember a whole speech about flower symbolism that his friend told him) He is compared to a cat."

Yuki -

"He has difficulty communicating with other people and suffers from extreme social anxiety, feeling like he's drowning when placed in uncomfortable social situations or scenarios where she doesn't know how to respond. This also causes him to go red in the face and clench his jaw, which other characters wrongfully interpret as him becoming angry. Through meeting Haru (and getting pulled into his plan to save the world), he becomes friends with him and Natsuki and develops his own strong interest in fishing."

Meursault -

"not only is he based on the character from camus' l'étranger who has actual scholarly debate on him being autistic, meursault is just… so autism. hes this stoic, terse guy with resting bitch face who doesnt really seem to fully process that he isnt showing any emotions and that that offputs people, and hes very blunt and literal with things. once another character asked if he had metal for brains as an insult and he responded by telling him the exact chemical composition of his brain to show that it is not metal. once the other characters made food so bad that when he tasted it he went on a minute straight long monologue about how much it sucked. he then proceeded to cook his own food which the giant evil chicken monster man that was judging the food tasted and said was so intensely done to the letter of the recipe that it was too boring. hes like if autism was a guy and that guy was french."

Zack -

"does things based almost solely on whether or not he wants to, at one point in the series, he doesn't tell the rest of the cast that he can fly a spaceship because he doesn't feel like it. he also take everything everyone else tells him seriously, such as when another character he knew as a kid said they were going to get married one day, he took it very seriously and was confused when said character tried to confess her feelings again and he said he thought their promise from when they were kids was still on."

Joujirou -

"This boy is autism incarnate. No social skills, no normal pain perception, complete weirdo. He even has a special interest which becomes a mild issue when he joins the main cast lol."

Alus the Star Runner -

"He’s a three-armed wyvern gunslinger with cool goggles and a lightsaber. Need I say more? …Okay then. Alus was born as a mutant cripple and rejected by his kind but managed to overcome this and rise up to become Flying Reptile Indiana Jones. He’s famed as the greatest adventurer in the land, but also struggles to keep up a conversation and prefers to remain on his own (which is especially unusual for wyverns, who usually gather in giant flocks). He has exactly one (1) friend, whom he completely fails to understand as a person but still values and respects immensely. Despite his difficulties with social interaction, he’s repeatedly shown to be incredibly resourceful and intelligent, with a single-minded drive and persistence unmatched by anyone else in the series. (Also canonically asexual, because who needs a family when you can fight dragons perfectly well on your own?)"

Mamoru -

"the ORIGINAL autistic magical boy."

Shizuka -

"he's the most emotionally intelligent & mentally stable member of the cast & he's in love with the least emotionally intelligent & most emotionally volatile character ever. he's constantly got the vibe of looking into the camera like he's in the office while he's dealing with everyone else's bullshit. he's so steadfast & loyal that it makes me want to cry. he's so bad at expressing himself in a way that other people understand that for the longest time the boy he's in love with thinks that Doumeki doesn't even like him."

Idia -

"He’s a shut-in weirdo with long messy hair, a sleep deprived look in his eyes, and one of the few students to have a hoodie as part of his school uniform. He’s a prodigal tech genius with the vibes of burn out and depression. He’s usually quite meek around people, but when he clicks with a conversation topic, he gets all energetic and fired up and sometimes a bit haughty too. To avoid going out of his room and interacting with people face to face, he invented a mobile tablet with text to speech. He stays up all night playing video games and while he has trouble with IRL relationships, he’s made a genuine friend out of one of his gaming buddies (who he doesn’t realize is actually one of his classmates). He stans an idol group and once got into a hacking war against some dorm mates over it. He rebuilt his dead brother as a robot who has become somewhat of a therapist to him. The only reason he went out on a holiday vacation with school acquaintances is due to the location being featured in an anime, then bonded with the one guy’s grandma when he realized his favorite girl was based on her. For the Halloween celebration, he convinced his dorm to theme themselves after his favorite B horror movie, constantly infodumping to people about it and going all out in recreating the special effects. In Book 5, he has a minor background arc of being forced to do public speaking. In another Halloween event, he was forced to be a back-up singer and managed to pull through despite the social anxiety. He’s the most autistic student in all of Night Raven College and possibly in all of Twisted Wonderland too."

[orchideous-nox]

what kind of books/movies do you see everyone reading/watching???

I love yapping about books and films, anon, how did you know?

Okay AHHHHHHH so many thoughts. I'm going to include modern films though

Remus - I think he loves Lord of the Rings (both the films and the books) and some Greek Mythology classics like The Odyssey and The Iliad

Sirius - Boy doesn't read. What's a book? Films though, I think he likes a good action film. Maybe something like Bullet Train with some comedy in there, or like John Wicke and he spends who whole time like "Keanu looks so good in a suit, don't you think?" and stares until you agree.

James - James says that he likes films like Blade Runner, but when he's home alone he's watching Krrish. I could see him being into Star War too. In terms of books, I think he prefers non-fiction or maybe like a sci-fi book, idk too much about those.

Peter - As a kid, he was reading Goosebumps like there was no tomorrow and loved the Swiss Family Robinson. I think he'd also like Star Wars with James and maybe Indiana Jones. I could see him enjoying Stand By Me and The Goonies as well, he's be really into classic 80s movies.

Lily - Anne of Green Gables all the way. I think she got called Pippi Longstocking when she was younger and has refused to have anything to do with it since. Lily would love the tv show Anne with an E. I think she likes watching the LotR films with Remus because she loves the women but would complain that they don't have enough to do. She's also a lover of Wuthering Heights, I feel. And The Princess Bride.

Mary - OUR ROMCOM QUEEEENNN!!! Her favourites are Clueless, The Notebook, The Proposal and whenever she watches Love Actually she gets irrationally angry at Harry before he's even done anything to hurt Karen, it's just a vibe. She reads those smutty romance books with the cartoon covers, but also loves Janes Austen like Emma and Pride and Prejudice. She's also into Eve Babitz and Joan Didion I feel.

Marlene - She reads a lot of biographies and autobiographies. One time someone caught them reading Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter and they hated all men for two weeks, even James who she was normally friends with. I think films...I want to say Bend it Like Beckham but that feels so obvious. She can also recite a lot of The Devil Wears Prada but that's their girlfriend's fault. Marlene could probably be a horror film buff? That seems kinda fun.

Dorcas - Like I just mentioned, The Devil Wears Prada. I think she also likes period romances like the 2005 Pride and Prejudice and Atonement. She'll also watched Bend it Like Beckham...and there is absolutely no link between those three films that would explain why she likes them. In terms of books, I think she would enjoy some Stephen King, her and Marlene have a joint love for The Shining and Carrie.

Pandora - I've been thinking about this and I think Pandora would be a big fan of Guillermo Del Toro's film Pan's Labyrinth. Maybe also The Dark Crystal? In terms of books, I think she let Marlene borrow her copy The Bloody Chamber but she also likes Maya Angelou.

Regulus - Motherfucker is so pretentious. He is reading Russian novels and glares at anyone who calls him out for it. I think if Regulus watching films, he's watching very deep and thoughtful films, ones that either aren't particularly popular but are good for discussion. I couldn't name one though so 🙃

Barty - No.

Evan - I think he could be into horror novels or like psychological thrillers. The first one that came to mind was I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid, but I think he could fuck with The Picture of Dorian Gray which doesn't fit the same vibe but it makes since to me I think. Also medical journals and books about the human body. I've said previously that I think Evan would really like films like Martyrs and The Idiots and I stand by that. Maybe also Un Chien Andalou.

Xenophilius - I mentioned earlier in this post that I think Xeno fucks with folk stories so that's what he'd be reading. Maybe like a classic dystopian such as 1984? I am struggling with films though, I genuinely have no idea.

[morpheus-somnium]

pieces of media i would make skyrim characters watch

i would totally make the characters watch these. no getting up from the couch. no getting up to get more popcorn.

i assign a few movies, series, or franchises to each character, because i spent most of my day on letterboxd

i haven't seen all of these media, but don't worry, i swear i can assign those to them based on the vibes

also i don't have caryalind, khash, remiel, nebarra and xelzaz downloaded (no storage on my pc:( ) so i went purely on the vibes and what i could find about them on nexus ToT but also, i am making them watch these, so ig it's kinda fine if they aren't that corresponding?

basic skyrim characters

babette: interview with the vampire, 1995 + eternals, 2021

brynjolf: the oceans's franchise + tangled, 2010

cicero: terrifier, 2016

delvin mallory: the pink panther franchise + the man from u.n.c.l.e, 2015 + breaking bad

enthir: the goldfinch, 2019

faralda: i'm giving her the winx franchise 🧚✨

farkas: the twilight franchise

j'zargo: whiplash, 2014

mercer frey: gladiator, 2000 + reservoir dogs, 1992

maven black-briar: the devils wears prada, 2006 + the godfather franchise

miraak: annihilation, 2018 + the call of cthulhu, 2005

nazir: the saw franchise 💕

neloth: house md

ondolemar: pride & prejudice, 2005 + anna karenina, 2012 + mean girls, 2004

runil: the conjuring franchise

serana: underworld, 2003 + the monster high franchise + the twilight franchise

teldryn sero: scream franchise + john wick, 2014

tolfdir: harry potter franchise + the lord of the rings franchise

tullius: gladiator, 2000 + the asterix & obelix franchise (especially the olympics one because i love that one)

ulfric stromcloak: the hobbit franchise

urag gro shub: the da vinci code, 2006

vex: the handmaiden, 2016 + gone girl, 2014

vilkas: fight club, 1999

modded followers

auri: the avatar franchise (she would enjoy those huge trees, omg)

caryalind: emma, 2020

gore: the scary movie franchise + the fight club, 1999 + the resident evil franchise

inigo, the brave + lucien flavius (these two come in a pair, i can't even separete them anymore): atlantis, 2001 + road to el dorado, 2000 + the indiana jones franchise

kaidan: kwaidan, 1964 LMAO

khash: the barbie franchise + hungarian folk tales + hello kitty stump village, 2004

nebarra: blade runner 2045, 2017

remiel: lara croft franchise + the martian, 2015

taliesin: the devil wears prada, 2006 + zoolander franchise (lmao)

xelzaz: ratatouille, 2007

[afewproblems]

For the prompts #39 things you forgot to say and number 23 things you were forced to say steddie hurt/ comfort

Thank you for this combo - I hope I’ve done it justice but my hand slipped and this got long and it got sad…so I apologize in advance!

“Shit!” Steve hisses, wrenching his face away from the open oven door as a cloud of hot moist air rushes out, he wipes his face with the free hand not holding the oven door handle. 

“You good man?” Robin laughs from where she’s perched on the counter, her dangling legs swing joyfully back and forth. 

“Peachy,” Steve mutters, grabbing a hot-cloth to pull out the baking tray, he shakes the mini pigs in a blanket around to dislodge them from the foil before putting the tray back onto the middle rack, “put on another fifteen would ya?” he says over his shoulder to Robin.

She snatches the little blue egg timer from beside her thigh and twists it to the appropriate time before placing it back onto the counter. 

It's not the only snack he's prepared, granted to call it preparation would be a bit of a stretch. He had grabbed chips and pop, beer, and juice -just in case, that afternoon. It wasn't as though he hadn't needed a grocery run, and the most intensive snack was now baking in the oven, it wasn't all out, not really…

“Going all out I see,” she hums with a quirked eyebrow and a growing smile.

Steve smirks, ignoring the heat that blooms across his cheeks and ears that has nothing to do with the open oven door. She knows exactly what he's trying to do and who it's for. 

Eddie had somehow, after everything, burrowed his way into their lives and never left. 

And it was nice, he had a wicked sense of humor and warm brown eyes that made Steve's heart quicken in a way he couldn't quite explain. 

He and Robin had talked it to death in fact, analyzing each small moment, each lingering glance or touch that had occurred between them over the last few months since Eddie had been discharged from the hospital.

Steve had even begun hanging out with Eddie alone, invited along for movie nights in the new Munson trailer. 

***

“Come on,” Steve scoffs as he throws a handful of popcorn into Eddie’s face from his side of the couch, he laughs as Eddie meets the projectiles with an open mouth, “Han Solo Harrison Ford could totally take out Indiana Jones Harrison Ford, no contest!” 

Eddie snorts and shakes his head sagely, “Oh Steven, sweet Steven,” he takes a long drag on the joint between his fingers and blows it out through his nose, “you forget about Rick Deckard! The trenchcoat alone man!”

“Who?” Steve says as his face scrunches into a slight frown, he gestures for Eddie to pass the joint and takes a long pull before coughing roughly as the smoke hits his lungs, it’s been awhile since he’s actually smoked but, ah well, when in Rome.

Eddie grins and launches into an explanation of something called Blade Runner and the pros and cons of the retelling of something about electric sheep? He vaguely remembers the title on the Hawk Theater marquee, but he was also pretty sure that was the year he and Patty Campbell made out while The Thing played in the background, so he must have missed it. Steve feels himself drift away, slightly lost as Eddie continues to speak, he watches the way the metal-head’s hands fly around - emphatically gesturing as he lists his points. He’s so pretty like this, his eyes bright and his dimples on full display--

Oh. Oh shit.

The familiar bubble of warmth blooms inside his chest and travels up, spreading into his hands and dusting his face with a light pink that he hopes is obscured by the dim light in the Munson living room. Shit.

“Family video should have it, we’ll pick it up for next time,” Eddie hums, he reaches for the joint, letting his fingers brush Steve’s own and it feels like sparks dance along his skin. 

Oh, double shit.

Eddie suddenly sits up straight, his legs slide off of the couch and onto the floor, nearly toppling the ashtray on the rug. 

“I mean, not sure when we’ll get around to uh, to doing that though you know?” Eddie says quickly, keeping his face trained on the ashtray below as he drops the roach into it. It bounces once and hits the carpet prompting a low groan as Eddie scoops it up before the ash can stain. 

“With Hellfire I mean, I don’t,” Eddie swallows, he looks at Steve once before dropping his gaze back to the floor, “you know how difficult it can be to schedule the kids and then with trying to find a place to host everyone--”

“I could have you,” Steve says, the words leap from his mouth loudly with little to no thought, “I mean, I could host,” he says quickly, his ears feel as though they’ve been engulfed in flames but he presses on, “Hellfire I mean, you know, if you want?”

Eddie’s head tilts slightly as he finally turns to look at Steve once more, his large brown eyes flick back and forth between Steve’s own before he grins and clears his throat, tucking a handful of curls behind his ear. 

“Alright Big Boy, I’m preparing to be wow’d,” Eddie says as he leans back against the arm of the couch once more and brings his feet back up, stretching towards Steve - just shy of his thigh. 

Steve can’t help but beam at Eddie, even as his heart hammers at a mile a minute, he  leans into the ratty couch cushions as casually as possible, “Nothing but the best for his highness,” Steve murmurs as he points his face back towards Harrison Ford on the television screen. 

He calls Robin as soon as he gets home that night, it’s late, nearly midnight, but she still takes his call - much to the disapproval of her parents. 

Thank God for Robin Buckley.

“When are you going to get your own line Robs,” Steve huffs once Mrs. Buckley finishes scolding him for the late hour, he’s lucky she bothered to even get Robin for him but Steve has managed to ever so slightly charm Mr. and Mrs. Buckley over the last year or two. He’s fairly certain they think he and Robin are dating, but if that’s the case they haven’t said as much.

“Not all of us are rich you dick,” she yawns into the receiver, “now spill it, what's so important that you’re calling this late?”

“I..I think,” he swallows, the silence on the other end of the line makes the words stick in his throat, “I like someone, uh I’m kind of freaked out about it Robin…”

"You like Eddie, you mean?" Robin says, so matter-of-factly that Steve almost drops the phone, he scrambles to keep ahold of it, “Steve?” Robin’s confused voice floats out of the receiver in soft tinney tones as he brings it back up to his ear.

"How did you--”

“You’re not exactly subtle dingus, plus you had a crush on me before so I’ve gotten pretty good at seeing when you’re mooning over someone,” she says with a laugh in her voice, it finally manages to pull a small grin out of him.

Steve groans, pressing the heel of his hand into his left eye until stars flash in his vision, “What the hell am I going to do Buckley? I’ve offered my place to host Hellfire”.

“Why on earth would you do that?” She hisses in exasperation. 

“It just came out!”

She sighs and it crinkles in his ear like static, “Well then,” she hums after a beat, “we’re going to need a game plan”.

***

Steve shakes his head slightly, and winks at her, "You know everything I do is to impress you Buckley," he snarks back, flipping the oven door closed with a snap. Steve grabs a discarded tea towel from the counter to wipe his hands before he stretches the fabric out into a lax bridge between his hands, he spins the towel suddenly and whips it out to catch at Robin's jean clad knees.

She squawks and leaps away from the counter with a wide grin, "asshole," Robin says affectionately, snatching the makeshift weapon away from him.

She wanders over to the fridge, popping open the door and leaning down to inspect the shelves. Robin huffs out a breath, "I don't think I've ever seen this many drink options outside of a literal vending machine," she turns slightly to look over her shoulder, "not impressing anyone my ass". 

Steve rolls his eyes, ignoring the flutter of nerves in his chest, it wasn’t the first time he had hosted the kids for a game night but this was the first time for the rest of the Hellfire group and the first time Steve would be meeting Eddie's friends and bandmates.

It shouldn't be as nerve wracking as it is. 

"Is it too much?" he asks lowly, crossing his arms over his chest, it had been Robin’s idea after all to cater to their stomachs, as the old saying went.

Robin stands up with a can of coke in hand, she cracks the tab and sips it, her eyes never leaving his face, she stares contemplative for what feels like an eternity before eventually rolling her eyes. 

"Nah, as much as it pains me to say, I think it’s pretty perfect,” she tips the can towards him as if in a toast, “plus, if he still hasn’t caught it yet I'm sure you'll have to really spell it out.” 

Robin gestures towards the fridge with a wry smile, "perhaps using the bountiful drink selection you have for us".

Steve snorts and feels his chest slowly begin to unclench, "don't tempt me Bobs" he mutters under his breath.

A shout and chorus of groans and, 'what the fuck man's’ ring out from the living room where the group have set up, Steve snorts at the mutinous tone in Mike's voice which carries farther than any of the others.

"Better get a move on with the snacks, the mob is getting restless," Robin says sagely before grabbing a handful of chips from a nearby bowl.

Steve swears if he rolls his eyes harder they'd fall out, but he grabs two bowls and makes his way over to the swinging door connecting the kitchen to the dining room.

The sounds of arguing increases, as Steve steps over the threshold, he smiles fondly at the sight of the kids. Will has his face in his hands, he's seated cross legged in one of the dining room chairs, Lucas is seated next to him with an arm on his shoulder, his eyes volley back and forth watching Dustin and Mike snarking at each other. 

Mike is standing, leaning over the table and gesturing emphatically at the plastic mat draped over the wood surface of the Harrington dining room table. 

It had belonged to his maternal grandmother and had been collecting dust since Steve had been old enough to reach the stove, old enough to be left on his own while his parents traveled for work.

At least now it was finally being put to good use, maybe not as Nana Marino intended, but Steve didn't think she would have minded. 

Dustin stands as well and picks up a small model, thrusting it into Mike's face, "look me in the eyes and tell me you think that's a good plan," he snarls as Mike swats at Dustin's hand, the plastic goes flying as Mike's hand connects. 

"Hey, hey," Steve shouts as Dustin pushes Mike away by the shoulders, "break it up, Jesus Christ you two". 

He sets the snack bowls on the table, ignoring the huff from Lucas who immediately moves them off the mat. 

Steve rolls his eyes as he bends down to grab the discarded figurine, it's a tiny…dwarf? At least that's what Steve thinks, he's sure that Dustin has told him his character's name and that the word dwarf has been used a few times that night, but he's unsure -and the spotty paint job does nothing to make it clearer as he holds up the model to his eye line. 

"Whatever Steve, you don't get it, Dustin is being an asshole-"

"Me?! You're the one-" 

Steve blows out a sharp whistle before bringing his hands up to form a T shape, "Time out, Jesus, where is your mediator, your Dungeon Man?"

"You know that's not what he's called," Mike grumbles under his breath while Dustin scowls and points to the sliding glass door to the backyard. 

Steve nods and pockets the figurine, ignoring the loud, 'Hey!' that Dustin bites out as he wanders towards the door.

"Relax, you'll get him back when you can guarantee no one's going to have him jammed down their throat," Steve calls over his shoulder with a smirk.

Steve slides open the glass door and steps out into the cool evening air. The sun has set but the last hints of pink and periwinkle paint the horizon, bathing the yard in blue twilight. Steve hears voices from around the corner of the house and the unmistakable smell of cigarettes floats his way as he steps closer. He's about to clear his throat, announce himself, when he hears his own name. 

"So what's up with Harrington?" The first voice says, Gareth, Steve thinks to himself, he blinks at the tone, it's curious if a little…teasing?

"What about him?" Eddie says, a lighter clicks in the background before a short pause. The smell of tobacco blooms once more, stronger now than before. Steve settles against the wall of the house, it's not right to eavesdrop -he knows that, but he can't help but wait, his feet rooted alongside his mothers rhododendrons.

"I mean come on, how is it that King Steve is hosting us in this fucking 'McMansion'," another voice says sharply, Jeff, Steve thinks, ignoring the small wave of hurt at the old title. 

"It's just…,” there’s a pause, “kinda weird man," Gareth says quietly. Gravel crunches and for a heart stopping moment Steve thinks he'll be caught, "I didn't think you were friends?" 

Steve presses himself into the wall, willing himself to move, to run back to the house as quickly and quietly as he can, but he can’t seem to move, he holds his breath as Eddie speaks.

Eddie snorts, "You think I'm friends with a guy like that?" 

The words hit Steve harder than he thought they would, cutting into his chest, settling in alongside, Bullshit, and, Asshole. They curl together and sink into his skin like a bruise.  

"It's okay if you are Eddie," Gareth tries again, a soft grunt joins the words, and Jeff mutters something in begrudging agreement.

Eddie laughs. 

He fucking laughs.

"You guys are hysterical, he's friends with the sheepies, and yeah he offered this house, why wouldn't we want to take advantage of it?"

Right.

Steve nods to himself, letting the last threads of hope tear apart, he slips away from the wall as quietly as possible and makes his way back to the sliding glass door, grateful he left it open, silently making his escape.

He closes it as quietly as possible and considers latching the door for a brief moment before scrubbing his hand roughly over his face. 

That was the old Steve talking, the one who would have locked the doors and kicked everyone out over something as trivial as someone not wanting to be his friend. The one who rejected others before they could reject him first, who wrapped himself in barbs and venom and sneered at people who were unapologetically different. Like Eddie.

But Eddie wasn't just someone, and Steve hadn’t been King of anything for a long time.

And, unless Eddie had forgotten, Steve was fairly certain they were friends, or at least it shouldn’t have been a completely unfounded thought that he and Eddie were at least on some kind of friendly terms.

Steve shakes his head and swallows the newly formed lump in his throat. 

He always did this, his heart ran ahead of his head and got itself hurt, again. At least this time he hadn’t made a complete fool of himself.

Steve sighs and tamps down the wave of hurt that sweeps through his chest, he shoves it into a corner, into a little box on its own, and shuts the lid. 

It was fine, he was fine. 

The kids have settled down at this point as Steve walks back towards the dining room table. Mike is laughing at something, Will's face has been removed from his hands and Dustin and Lucas are indulging in handfuls of chips from the bowls Steve had brought out earlier. One is nearly empty and at least Will has the good graces to look sheepish as he spots Steve walking in. 

"Sorry Steve," Will says with a soft smile, as he grabs the bowl to hand over, "We might have gotten a little carried away". 

Steve smiles but it's tight at the edges as he reaches out to take the bowl, he can feel Will's eyes on him as he moves to the other side of the table towards the kitchen door, "don't worry about it little Byers," Steve mumbles mostly to himself. He misses the worried glances that Will and Dustin exchange with one another as he walks back into the kitchen. 

Robin has left her perch on the counter to stand beside the oven, magazine in hand, she doesn't look up as he walks in and places the bowl on the counter. 

Robin looks over at the egg timer with narrowed eyes, "five more minutes, wanna have a look at em?" she hums as she puts the magazine on the counter, a picture of the Charlie's Angels graces the cover.

He shakes his head and grabs another bag of chips for the kids to put out, Steve resists the urge to pinch his nose --Robin knows him too well at this point to miss such a gesture. 

He clears his throat, "I'm sure they're good Robbie, let me just bring more fuel for the goblins out there". 

Steve meets her gaze for just a moment, her eyes narrow at him now and trace over his face. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off her stare and turns on his heel as Robin opens her mouth to say something, he beats her to the punch, "You stare any harder, you're going to turn into the Terminator scanning me like that Robbie”. 

It works for a moment, throwing her off kilter just enough for him to escape to the dining room as a laugh tumbles out of her open mouth.

The older boys have rejoined the group as Steve makes his way to the table with the refill, Dustin makes grabby-hands at the bowl which Steve hands over with a roll of his eyes. 

Jeff is seated next to Dustin, his eyes trail after Steve but his expression seems neutral enough for the moment. Gareth sits in between Will and Lucas, his gaze resting pensively on the figurine in his hands, he looks up when Steve enters and a small friendly smile slowly blooms, it settles Steve - just enough to allow a small smile back. 

Eddie stands on the far side of the table, where a binder has been propped up to block his notebooks and dice, his arms are crossed tightly across his chest and his shoulders form a stiff line. He’s frowning slightly at his books, if he sees Steve walk in he doesn’t acknowledge it.

 Steve's chest tightens at the sight, he gathers up the second wave of hurt and sweeps it away once again, latching the lid of the box this time.

How the hell did he read this so wrong? Where was the Eddie that shared in private jokes, leaning over to share an aside to Steve that was just for them, the one who called him Stevie and slung a warm arm around his shoulders as they watched bad movies late into the night.

Had he done something, Steve wonders? Something to piss Eddie off tonight? 

He wracks his brain, sifting through the events of the evening but nothing comes to mind. They had barely said two words to each other before Eddie had disappeared while Steve and Robin were cooking in the kitchen.

So where was this coming from?

Lucas leans over the mat on the table to snag another handful of chips,littering crumbs over the crudely drawn map and character models, Eddie tisks loudly and leans over to blow away the crumbs.

"You always get the best snacks man," Lucas says brightly through his mouthful to Steve, “and maybe even, make the best ones?” 

Dustin, Will, and Mike all turn expectantly to Steve, Dustin and Will with open hopeful expressions and even Mike has removed his perpetual scowl to look at Steve with something closer to begrudging anticipation.

“Yeah, it should be done right away here, gotta keep you assholes well fed before you go out and terrorize Waterdeep right?” Steve 

"Since when does King Steve know D&D?" Jeff asks with a laugh, his eyebrows crease together incredulously and he and Eddie share a look. 

“Jeff,” Gareth mutters at the same time that Dustin says, “I’ve been trying to convince Steve to play with us for ages but--”

“Pfft, Harrington? Play Dungeons and Dragons? I’d know if Hell had frozen over Dustin,” Eddie scoffs as he sits down roughly in his seat behind the binder, from where Steve is standing it obscures Eddie's face before he leans back in the dining chair. 

Right. 

Steve nods once and clears his throat before turning away from the kids, he avoids Dustin’s gaze which burns into the side of his face, “I think the timer is about to go, I’ll uh, be back in a sec”.

He walks swiftly in three strides towards the door, letting his foot catch it as it swings open with a thunk. 

“What the fuck Eddie,” Steve barely hear’s Mike’s muffled words through the closed door as he walks towards the counter and snatches the hot-cloth from where it lay next to the timer. They offer little comfort as he wrenches open the oven door.

“Steve?” Robin says softly, she’s using her wounded-bunny voice that he absolutely hates. He ignores it and the way it makes his chest clench again, the box is getting too full for this. 

“Steve,” Robin says again, she reaches out to touch his shoulder but he keeps moving and grabs the pan from the oven. A few of the pigs in a blanket are burnt, the dark brown, almost black, singing on the edges mars just of a few of them. 

It’s the last straw of the night. 

“Fuck,” he snarls, slamming the tray onto the stovetop with so much force that one of the pigs goes flying, he winces as it hits the floor. 

Steve bends in half to grab it, ignoring the sting as the hot pastry and meat connects with his fingers. He tosses it into the sink with a muffled metallic thud. 

“Jesus Steve,” Robin hisses at him, her eyes dart back and forth between his face and the closed kitchen door, “what the fuck happened in there?”

“Nothing Robin, just drop it,” Steve growls as he wrenches the cupboard open and takes out a large plate. He can’t do this now, not while everyone is still here.

“Steve?” a small voice says from the door, Dustin slowly walks into kitchen, approaching the pair of them like wild animals, “I wanted to--”

“Oh shit, right,” Steve says, deflating as he remembers. 

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose before pulling out the small dwarf model from his pocket, Steve tosses it over to Dustin who just manages to catch it. 

“Sorry man,” Steve mumbles with a shake of his head as he schools his expression into something flatter, more neutral, “completely forgot about him, if you want to wait a second I’ll get these on a plate you can bring them over to everyone--”

“No, Steve--”

“I think we have mustard in the fridge and maybe a little relish left, I’m not sure what all goes with these guys,” Steve mutters, crossing to the fridge, he opens the door and sticks his head in.

“Steve--”

“Or what everyone else likes, um, you know what, just take all of these,” he sighs, gathering up the bottles and jars in his arms, he brings them over to the counter beside the plate and brings his foot back to kick the fridge door closed once more. 

Steve turns off the oven and haphazardly tosses the remaining pigs onto the plate before turning around to Dustin and Robin. Dustin’s face is pinched and red, his mouth cast into a deep troubled frown, while Robin scowls with narrowed eyes but the smallest hint of worry seeps through. 

“Anyway,” Steve mumbles, avoiding their gaze, “don’t destroy the house, just let me know when you go, and I’ll lock up”.

Steve sighs again and sweeps his hair away from his face, “I think I’m just going to go lay down for a bit, migraine,” he says, lifting his hand to gesture towards his forehead. 

It’s not even a lie, a steady ache has been building behind his eyes since he overheard the elder Hellfire members talking in the yard. He tosses the cloth in his hands on the counter and turns to the main hallway to head upstairs. 

“Have fun,” Steve says softly before sweeping away down the hallway. 

Steve makes it about halfway up the stairs before he hears light foot-falls on the carpet behind him, he glances over his shoulder to see Robin following silently. 

She’s still looking at him with an irritated scowl but her worried blue eyes undercut the ferocity he’s sure she is going for, Steve sighs and continues climbing, knowing she wouldn’t listen to him even if he told her to go. 

Steve opens his bedroom door and flips on the light for them, wincing at the sudden brightness, he closes his eyes and walks until his knees hit the bed and lets himself fall gracelessly onto the mattress. He hears Robin wander over to the desk lamp, turning it on with a small snick, she crosses the room again and flicks off the ceiling light before closing the door and joining him on the bed. 

“So,” she hums, prodding him roughly between the ribs with a rigid pointer finger, Steve jolts and makes a muffled squawk into the covers, “are you going to actually tell me what’s wrong or are you going to take it out on more pork products?”

Steve rolls over slowly onto his back before bringing his lower lip up to chew on. Robin’s eyes grow softer the longer he takes to speak, he has to tell her. 

“I was wrong Robin, we were wrong, he practically hates me,” Steve whispers to the ceiling, he feels her shift on the bed beside him, inching even closer. 

“Eddie??” Robin whispers as she reaches out to place her hand firmly on Steve’s chest and rubs a soothing circle over his heart, “you-- no, that’s not true”.

“I overheard him,” Steve says eventually, he clears his throat and reaches up to wipe his eyes which have begun to sting, damn migraine, “outside when I went to grab them, they were talking about me”.

Her hand freezes and her fingers clench into his sweater, Steve reaches up to gently pry her hand away, he offers a firm squeeze of her smaller palm. 

“What did he say Steve,” she whispers, her eyes dart over his face, as though cataloging each small change in his expression. 

Steve chews his lip again, this time, keeping a careful lock on the words before they tumble out, “just leave it alone Robbie,” he says softly, “I just want to forget this ever happened”.

Steve turns over onto his side, pillowing his head under his arm. He scootches over to make more room for her.

Robin hesitates for just a moment, turning towards the door with fire in her eyes, before Steve tugs on her hand, stealing her closer, down beside him.  

Robin sighs as she curls up, she reaches over with her one free hand and pokes his chest again, hitting him square in the sternum, “he didn’t deserve you anyway, he’s your Tammy Thompson,” Robin says shrewdly, nodding once to herself, “and my villain origin story,” she mutters after a beat, under her breath. 

Steve closes his eyes and nods silently, the words are meant to be comforting, he knows, but what little balm they contain do not help with the ache deep in his chest.

Steve opens his eyes as Robin kicks at his foot, probably harder than she means to, she at least has the good graces to look sorry. 

“I mean it dingus,” she murmurs, “I wouldn’t lie to you, and us single losers have to stick together after all”.

Steve laughs brightly and pulls her closer, letting himself bask in her warmth.

She wasn’t wrong, at least they had each other, and maybe, for now, that was enough.

You can read Part Two Here

[i-who-has-never-had-a-name]

Films the Crows would like:

Kaz: Trainspotting, Kill Bill, The Killing of a Sacred Deer (even though I think it's bad), Gone Girl, Parasite, Snowpiercer, A clockwork orange, Citizen Kane, Sin City, The Dark Knight, Tarantino films, the Godfather, Come and See, V for Vendetta, Prisoners, Silence of tbe Lambs, No country for old men, City of God, Shawshank Redemption, Kubrick's and Hitchcock's work (except lolita bc that's gross), Hunger Games Trilogy, All of Aronofsky's work (Black Swan, Requiem for a dream etc.), Memories of Murder, Donnie Darko, Fight Club, Taxi Driver, Oldboy, Blade Runner 2049,

As for series he would like Breaking Bad, Death Note, Aot and Vinland Saga, Berserk maybe, Prison Break but like only the first two seasons and The Walking Dead.

Inej: Ladybird, Little Women, Anna Karenina, The Virgin Suicides, Marie Antoinette, Lost in Translation, Girl, Interrupted, Everything Everywhere all at once, Nomadland, The Florida Project, Alice in Wonderland (the Tim burton one), Hard Candy, In the Corner of this World, portrait of a lady on fire and Princess Mononoke. I can't really think of other ones to be honest.

I'm not really sure what series she would like. Maybe Ai Yazawa's animes? I'm not sure.

Jesper: Star Wars (the original trilogy and the prequels), Indiana Jones, Life of Brian, Ferris Bueller's Day off, American Pie, MIB, Terminator, Ghostbusters, Scream, Back to the future etc. He definitely likes fun adventure movies. Also a lot of animated movies like The Lego Movie and Lego Batman (masterpieces) and Pixar and Dreamwork's Movies (his favorites being Toy story and Shrek). Also Disney classics like treasure planet and Atlantis. Probably also western movies and he'd idolize Clint Eastwood.

Favorite Series are The Office, Cowboy Bebop, Samurai Champloo etc.

Wylan: Perks of being a wallflower, Ladybird, Howl's moving castle, Billy Elliot, Your Name, Dead Poet's society, Stardust, Narnia, La La Land, Lotr trilogy (his comfort movies), Call me by your name and all of Wes Anderson's movies. I think he'd be secretly a huge filmnerd who also loves A24 movies, David Fincher, arthouse movies etc. But I think he would be a bit embarrassed by it.

His favorite series are Doctor Who (David Tennant Version because that's the best one), Fargo and Good Omens.

Nina: A sucker for romance and chick flicks, especially romantic comedies. The Notebook, Mamma Mia!, When Harry met Sally, Mean Girls, She's the Man, badly written Netflix romantic comedies,

She likes reality TV and desperate housewives, sex and the city, friends and modern family.

Matthias: 1917, Saving Private Ryan, All quiet on the western front, Hacksaw Ridge, The Notebook, Dunkirk, John Wick movies and other action movies. My taste is completely different so it's very difficult for me to think of other movies he would like.

I don't think he would watch a lot of series because it takes up a lot of time. Not the guy to concern himself with entertainment and media really but does enjoy a good story.

Feel free to criticize me or suggest other media. Maybe I should also make a list about the music they'd like?

[skepticbeliever-bookclub]

Heyo shippers & readers!

Early March and 3 months into the year; we thought we'd solicit something special this round by asking our members to nominate a fic they know has been in our runners-up queue again and again and again. That fic we've all been hankering to read and for whatever reason, was always the bridesmaid of fics we chose to read and discuss together. With a tiebreaker and an emergency poll, we finally landed on Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered Am I by colazitron.

Something about the hype really made this read worth the wait. Many of our members agreed that the themes therein felt like the most classic of our favourite motifs. Moreover that it was clearly inspired by a deeply resonant moment in shyan history really had us yelling during the live-read.

Rating: E

Summary:

Look, just because Ryan looks good dressed as Indiana Jones, or dressed in various other things, and just because Shane maybe has a feeling or two about it, doesn't mean it's a thing, okay? Shane's got this.

Or: 5 times Shane had a feeling about Ryan's outfit, +1 time he did something about it

Book Club Thoughts

I'll read 50000 Shane spiraling about Indiana bergara and I'm so glad there was one out there I had never gotten to

I really also appreciate this fic for showing that level of how comfortable they are with each other, like that but also Shane saying "she thought I'm going to tap that" and Ryan laughing about it in the beginning of the fic

this is one of those fics I totally forgot about after reading in my early days of being a Watcher fan but it’s full of so many classic tropes, I’m very fond and it was fun to re-read

the humor in the writing is top notch. the tone is so consistent throughout, and nothing is ever fully serious

it was okay because shane wasnt turned on by it and he knew ryan wouldnt be either because no one is getting off but to then have this reverse dream where he’s trying so hard not to think about ryan, and he ends up conjuring a fantasy where he’s blowing ryan and getting off to it???? gorgeous beautiful amazing my kingdom to cola for this

Something about him being in the full outfit in first and last example where feelings begin vs are said aloud puts a nice bow on this story

I also love the way [the author] had Shane's worry and denial over his feelings for Ryan was the major conflict in getting together, but them actually getting together was so right and so easy for them and right there the whole time and ;aksdjf;lkdsj;fjkasl;d.

Shane’s progression from acknowledging Ryan being attractive, to admitting being attracted, and finally realizing it had become a feelings situation flows wonderfully. This is a delightful read.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US FOR OUR NEXT DISCUSSION? CHECK OUT THE FAQ, AND SEND US AN ASK! IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR FIC RECS, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR READS, NOMINEES AND BOOK CLUB REC LISTS!

[mxldito]

A "Six" Song Soundtrack - Coyote

RULES :: If you're tagged, make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following...

1. AN EVENT THAT DEFINES YOUR CHARACTER'S PAST

YOUTH: Dani California - Red Hot Chili Peppers

She never knew that there was anything more than poor What in the world does your company take me for? Black bandanna, sweet Louisiana Robbing on a bank in the state of Indiana She's a runner, rebel, and a stunner On her merry way saying baby, watcha gonna? Looking down the barrel of a hot metal forty-five Just another way to survive

POST EMBRACE: Jennifer's Body - Hole

You're hungry, but I'm starving He cuts you down from the tree He keeps you in a box by the bed Alive, but just barely He said, "I'm your lover, I'm your friend, I'm pure" And he hits me again

2. HOW YOUR CHARACTER SEES THEMSELVES

Anarchy - KMFDM

Trapped under ice Comfortably cold I've gone as low as you can go Feel no remorse No sense of shame Time's gonna wash away all pain I made a god Out of blood Not superiority I killed the king Of deceit Now I sleep in anarchy

Under The Spell - Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats

I feel our connection As I slither up inside I’m a snake in the tall grass Just trying to hide Your body fills with venom As I smile from afar When I’m finished with you girl You won’t know who you are

3. HOW OTHERS VIEW THEM

THEIR SIRE: Miss You - The Rolling Stones

I guess I'm lying to myself It's just you and no one else Lord, I won't miss you, child You've just been blottin' out my mind Foolin' on my time No, I won't miss you, baby, yeah Lord, I miss you child

THEIR ACOLYTES: The Ghost of Tom Joad - Rage Against the Machine

He pulls his prayer book out of a sleepin' bag The preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag He's waitin' for the time When the last shall be first and the first In a cardboard box 'neath the underpass With a one way ticket to the promise land With a hole in your belly and a gun in your hand

4. THEIR CLOSEST RELATIONSHIP

MORGAN O'BROIN: Into The Wild - Green Lung

Spent all winter waiting For the sun to arise Longing for isolation For the starlit skies Dreaming of the forest The whispering pines Soon as the summer comes I will step out of time

5. A MAJOR FIGHT SCENE

Electric Head Pt.2 (Sexational After Dark Mix) - White Zombie

Strip down core violate and paralyze Flood my soul a coffee dreg, super size Slung low like a whore, yeah Devil want some more, yeah Cupid bought a gun, he gonna blow the fucker

6. OPENING CREDITS / END CREDITS

OPENING: Perrito Malvado - Damas Gratis END: Fantasmagoría (Rebejada) - Sonido Gallo Negro

7. BONUS NON-NEEDLEDROPS FROM THE SOUNDTRACK

I Want To Be Your Lover - Pan Ron, La Bruja - Tlen Huicani, Down In Mexico - The Coasters, Sex and Violence - The Exploited, Feels Like Tijuana - Tropa Magica, I Wanna Be Your Dog - Mephisto Waltz, Big Dumb Sex - Soundgarden, Too Drunk To Fuck - Dead Kennedys

Tagged by: @silkenred (Thanks you :0) Tagging: @byanyan @violetgleams @smilingmxsk @jetblackknight AND YOU! 🫵

[fireflywitch]

indiana she's a runner - fireflywitch (me! hi hello)

T/128K - complete

Summer 1985: The gate is closed, the Demogorgon is dead, and the Byers-Hopper's, fresh from Lenora Hills, are ready to rest. But then there's a name in the newspaper that doesn't belong, a figure in the community pool shadows waiting to strike, a familiar cologne that smells like trouble, and that's only the beginning... or: a season 3 rewrite without the Russians, rats, and [redacted].

The Boys and Girls of Summer

Find the Phone Booth

It's Just I-65

Lamp Deeds

Starboard

I Need You to Fight It

Laying Low Makes You Crazy

Saturday is Long

Not Safe

We Don't Understand???

String Constant

Unhappy Screams

Code Double Red

On the Wrong Track

They're Here

Destroying the Lamps

Williams

Six Bodies

Epilogue: One for the Now and Eleven for the Later

sequel to: california show your teeth

[horseracingweekly]

“The beautiful Gun Runner filly CHATALAS will attempt to win her first Grade 1 this Saturday in the Alabama Stakes at Saratoga.

You may remember Chatalas from her win in the Chandelier Stakes (G2) at Santa Anita last year or from her participation in the Breeders' Cup Juvenile Fillies. She was victorious in the Indiana Oaks (G3) in her most recent outing.

Frankie Dettori will be in the irons for trainer Mark Glatt.”

[beardedmrbean]

In early May, Claudia Sheinbaum, the favorite to win Mexico's upcoming presidential election next month, suddenly pulled out of a planned visit to Apatzingan, a town in the violent state of Michoacan.

Three sources from her inner circle told Reuters the decision was taken because a drug cartel set fire to several vehicles shortly before the rally, forcing the federal government to call in the military to restore order.

Sheinbaum denied the cancelation was due to the violence, saying only that the Apatzingan event had never been fully confirmed.

INDIANA BEAUTY QUEEN ARRESTED IN MEXICAN CARTEL BUST THAT INCLUDED ONE OF FEDS' MOST WANTED FUGITIVES

Yet, the episode highlights how Sheinbaum - who has campaigned on the reduction of Mexico City's murder rate during her term as mayor - could face much tougher challenges in repeating this success in places like Michoacan, where criminal groups exert a level of control far beyond what Sheinbaum encountered in the capital.

Sheinbaum's advisors told Reuters that, if elected, she aims to reduce by 2027 Mexico's murder rate from 23.3 homicides for every 100,000 residents to around 19.4 per 100,000 - putting it on par with Brazil.

To achieve this, she will double the number of federal investigators to 8,000, increase the number of National Guard troops to 150,000 from around 120,000, decrease impunity through judicial reform, and create youth education and community programs, her advisors said.

Juan Pablo Morales, an academic who helped develop Sheinbaum's plan, said the team are aware of the differences between Mexico City and the country as a whole but that many lessons from the capital can be applied nationally.

"Claudia (Sheinbaum) helped drive a lot the professional development of the police in Mexico City, giving them new powers, responsibilities," Morales said.

CARTEL WAR

Mexico City's homicide rate fell 50% between December 2018, when Sheinbaum was inaugurated as mayor, and June 2023, when she stepped aside to begin her presidential campaign, a drop she attributes to effective security policies that improved police work and coordination with prosecutors.

She says this experience will allow her to further drive down the high national homicide rate, which has fallen around 20 percent under current President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, Sheinbaum's close political ally and mentor, according to preliminary data.

Yet, López Obrador's full six-year term is still the bloodiest on record, with over 185,000 murders through April.

Moreover, critics say that López Obrador's less confrontational security policy against organized crime groups would make his successor's job even harder.

"The country's security situation depends on the national war between the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco Cartel," said David Saucedo, a consultant who works with state governments and companies on national security issues, "the ball is not in her court."

Under López Obrador, this rivalry has expanded to ever more territory, while smaller crime groups have further entrenched their power - including in places like Michoacan, according to security experts.

Six out of 10 Mexicans consider insecurity to be the country's main problem, according to an annual public survey by the National Institute of Statistics and Geography (INEGI).

Crime experts say Sheinbaum's plan lacks details and sources from her close circle say that the 61-year-old scientist has avoided criticizing López Obrador's security failures because she owes her popularity to the president.

"So far Sheinbaum has released relatively little information in terms of concrete details about her security plans," said Nathaniel Parish, a political risk analyst for Latin America. "What we have are signals about what she would like to do but we don't have specific concrete dollar amounts of what she plans to devote to these initiatives."

NUMBER QUESTIONS

Some critics have also raised questions about whether the former Mexico City mayor was as successful as she claims in reducing crime.

They point to the large number of deaths in the capital that are categorized as "events of undetermined intent." These deaths, which include drownings, poisonings and sometimes suspected but unproven homicides, often equal or exceed the number of homicides. Miscategorization of these deaths could explain some of the decrease in the murder rate, critics say.

Another issue is disappearances, which went up in Mexico City under Sheinbaum and could also help explain the significant reduction in official homicide numbers.

"(The figures) confirm suspicions of cover-up of homicides and suicides in some entities, starting with Mexico City," said sociologist Jorge Ramirez. This issue has also been flagged at the federal level.

Sheinbaum's team reject the accusation that murder figures were artificially low.

Jose Merino, an advisor for Sheinbaum, told Reuters it's "absurd" to say homicides are being covered up.

Merino said the number of deaths filed as "events of undetermined intent" and later found to be homicides account for less than 10% of the total.

He also said the rise in disappearances was due to an increase in reporting of these incidents rather than an uptick in their occurrence.

[azzifudd]

Someone asked BK this but do you have a mid season ROTY pick? Love AR ❤️ that’s pookie bear, and I said this in her ask box but I 1) think that they had CCs name stamped on that award since she declared and 2) the conversations might look a little different if all rooks got similar minutes ykwim? I think CC would still be the front runner but Li might be up there with AR

I think they've both had incredible seasons & that Angel has been fighting an uphill battle to be taken seriously by most viewers & her double double streak was impressive and historic, but in my opinion, at this point, that award is Caitlin's. I can nitpick both of their games, and I'm sure y'all know I don't even really like Caitlin as a person, but she's putting up INSANE numbers and Indiana is beating some good teams.

I think it was a lot closer a few weeks ago, and Angel has rightfully been in the conversation even though there's clear bias against her, but right now I'd say Caitlin.

Aaliyah is playing great, but yeah not as many minutes and she comes off the bench for a team no one cares about unfortunately

[dailyunsolvedmysteries-movedd]

The Box Lady of Benton

It was October 8th, 1976 and Norman Skoog had spent the day harvesting his “back 40,” acres of corn along Benton County Road 200 South. Around 5pm, while harvesting in a remote spot about a mile-and-a-half from the Skoog home, he made a bizarre discovery. A white cardboard box wrapped in tape and rope sat on the ground roughly nine rows deep in the field, approximately 15 yards off of the gravel road. Norman had nearly ran over the box with his combine. When he got out to investigate the box, he realized it was far too heavy for him to lift alone. He left on his combine to get his father-in-law and his pickup. Together, they loaded the box into the bed of the truck and drove it to the Skoog home.

Curtis Skoog, 16, was first to notice the pungent odor of cheap perfume coming from within the box. Using a pocket knife, he sliced open a section of the box to find a broken vial of perfume lying atop something wrapped in layers of plastic. Concerned what may be inside, Norman phoned police. He told Curtis to return the vial to the box and wait for the Sheriff to arrive.

Sheriff Donal Steely arrived at the Skoog home a short time later to inspect the suspicious package. As he began to cut into the thick sheets of heavy plastic and rope, a new foul smell wafted out of the box. Steely decided he should contact the State Police before proceeding any further. Indiana State Police arrived and opened the box. Beneath the layers of plastic sheeting and rope, they discovered the body of a woman. The body was taken to the local coroners office, and later an autopsy was preformed in Lafayette, Indiana.

It was concluded that the woman’s cause of death was from a small calibre single gunshot wound at the base of her neck fired at close range. The bullet was never recovered. Her death was estimated to have occurred 7-10 days before being found, but it was noted that very little decomposition had occurred.

She was found in the fetal position with her knees pressed firmly against her chest. Her body was bound with rope and her hands were tied under her knees. Her head and face were wrapped in white paper towelling, and two small plastic bags had been tied over her head. Her body had been wrapped in several layers of thick plastic, similar to those used as runners to protect carpet. White clothesline style rope and heavy duty duct tape had been used to tie the plastic around the body and was so tightly bound, it had distorted and bruised the woman’s face.

The woman was white, approximately 5 feet 2 inches tall, weighed around 175 pounds, and was estimated to be around 60 years of age. The woman wore a green 2-piece pants suit that was covered in blood, but otherwise clean. She wore no makeup, shoes, pantyhose, or jewelry and had no identification. She had a few distinguishing facial features, including a large “bump” on the bridge of her nose and “abnormally large ears.”

It was evident the woman had undergone several surgeries. She had undergone a radical mastectomy, and bore a vertical surgical scar on her mid-section which extended from her sternum to her stomach. She had also undergone extensive dental work, though she was in need of more.

Her makeshift “coffin” was a white cardboard box measuring 3-by-2-by-1-foot. The box was a typical moving box, stamped with a factory label reading “wardrobe.” Another part of the box bore a handwritten notation reading “hall closet.” It was learned that the box had been manufactured in Illinois. Inside of the box, the small vial of perfume was found, however it had no label. The box itself had been sealed with tape and the same rope that was used to bind the woman. Investigators believe the box had been left at the location the same day it was found. Heavy rains had blanketed the area the previous day into the early morning hours and the box showed no signs of moisture damage.

Police attempted to use fingerprints to identify the unknown woman, however they never found a match. This led them to the conclusion she had never been arrested, or held a civil service job. A sketch of the woman was released to the public in the hopes of identifying her, however no one came forward to claim her body. Eventually, she was buried in an unmarked grave in Fowler Cemetery.

The investigation continued and several people came forward from states as far away as Alabama believing the unknown woman may be their missing loved one. Unfortunately she was not a match to any of them.

Multiple theories existed, from everything to a “mob-hit,” to a wrong place wrong time scenario. However the most bizarre, and seemingly most accepted theory, is that the box was dropped from a helicopter.

While the area the box was found is extremely rural, it is also a tight knit community of farmers who are outside from sun up to sun down. According to them, they would have noticed someone driving along the gravel road that morning, and while they didn’t spot any suspicious cars, they did see a helicopter fly over the field early that morning. According to three separate witness statements, the helicopter approached from the northeast, swung to the southwest, and hovered near the ground for a few seconds where the box was found.

A second piece of evidence supporting the helicopter theory is that when police searched the area where the box was found, they discovered an irregular circle of exposed black dirt around the dumping site. During harvest, corn stalks litter the ground covering the soil. The powerful updraft created by a helicopter could cause the stalks to scatter leaving the ground exposed and leaving a circular “imprint” like the one discovered at the scene.

[romainlettusdinnerparty]

you are SO insanely talented oh my god just!!! the shading!! their expressions!! so so so impressive wow

omg i completely forgot to answer this ahhh better late than never i suppose

anywho,, thank you soooo much bae!! you fr have no idea how much this means to me, literally i think this is my favorite thing ive ever drawn?? ive mentioned this before but (mostly) all my background for drawing is makeup technique; which doesn't tend to be something you use to actually create emotion/expressions cuz like it's already on a face that can convey emotion pretty well on its own yk (however you can actually use makeup as a tool to emphasize an emotion if that makes sense? like harsh shadows you create with like contour or eyeshadow or even the contrast between the lip color and the skin tone can make someone look more powerful or angry. there's also variations of clown makeup (and traditional theatre styles and opera too) that do actually almost paint on expressions/emotions but i am far less well versed in those makeup styles) so making mike and will look like like they're actually having feelings and communicating that was a huge challenge and i feel like i learned a ton about the actual art of drawing rather than just expanding my skills of shading and highlighting etc. and created something I'm kinda insanely proud of?

sorry for the ramble oops I'm just a little bit insane about this one 😗

(also currently eating up every update of indiana she's a runner,, also feeling insane about that btw!!!)