#the white shirt is from around the time he reunites with ed in that shop

[sevenspoonfulsofsugar]

hm

[aspocko]

i feel like a big reason why stede was so interested in storytelling and fantasy is that it helped him escape from his life, which otherwise felt monotonous, stifling, torturous, etc. etc. he didn't fit in, so he kept his head down as best he could and escaped into his imagination... until one day it wasn't enough so he escaped for real. when stede ran away, he filled his life with fantastical things. with incredible outfits with a backup wardrove, walls of shelves filled with books he's already read that only one member of his crew can even enjoy, secret passages and chandeliers and fireplaces and trinkets and curio, and so on and so forth. he filled his life with beautiful things because he finally could.

and then he falls in love. i love that one of the happiest, most peaceful moments we see for stede on the show so far is with him and ed are completely stripped down and untethered from their STUFF. their ships, their crews, their clothes, eds beard. they are just two people wearing the same white shirt and the same pants, sitting by the ocean and sharing a kiss. and when stede sails off to find edward again, he sails off with nothing. a plain shirt, plain pants, and all the hope in the world of reuniting with his love.

for me, the possibility of season 2 means getting to see stede what will do for love now that he's finally freed himself from the guilt and insecurity that held him back before. at this point in the story, stede has no ship and no money. you think hes going to risk shaving his face with a rusty knife dagger? yes we know he loves dressing up, but we also know he could have gone shopping before he faked his death and left barbados. he could have packed outfits, he could have grabbed more books, could have taken more with him, but instead we see him pared down, confident in himself, taking only what he feels he really needs: a small pack, a dinghy, a simple sash around his waist bc he still has style, and a heart brimming over with love.

like??? this show is a romance! stede is so in love, and so ready to BE in love, what else would he need? obviously we all know the gift of the magi and how giving something up to show your love isn't an ideal way to do things, but i dont even see this as stede giving things up for ed. hes not making like, a great sacrifice. he's the anime girl who's late for school, running with a slice of toast in her mouth. she's got one shoe on, her hair's a mess, her shirt buttons are done up all wrong, totally oblivious as she just singlemindedly sprints to class before she's marked late. stede is IN LOVE, he doesn't want to waste any more time. obviously that's only one side of the coin, but it feels reductive to frame it as just, masculinity.

I feel that there are certain portions of the OFMD fandom that could definitely benefit from taking a step back and asking themselves why their depictions of a post-season 1 Stede glow up involve changing him to make him more stereotypically masculine. I just see so many descriptions of Stede, framed to make it clear this is showing us how much he’s grown and improved, that go like, “He has a beard now. And he’s gotten rid of all his fancy, frilly clothing and how wears a plain and simple outfit. He no longer has his yummy lavender soap or any other oils or creams so his face is tanned and weathered and his hair windswept and frizzled with sea salt. He does all sorts of hard manual labor involved with sailing now and his hands are rough and calloused. And of course he’s super skilled at fighting now and comfortable with casual violence.”

Of course, nobody’s out here explicitly saying they’re turning Stede into a generic romance novel pirate explicitly because they want to make him more masculine. They all have other reasons which sound good and I believe that they genuinely believe are true. It’s just when you start to interrogate those reasons, they don’t really hold up.

The one I see the most often with the clothing is throwing a casual mention in there that it’s practical; a pair of trousers and a simple linen shirt (it’s always a simple linen shirt) are more practical for sailing in. And you’re not wrong, but my babes. Ed is sailing around the Caribbean in full body black leather. Let’s not pretend practical is an actual point of consideration for the clothing on this show. Not to mention I don’t love the implication that Stede should give up his little joys in life (he loves his frilly clothing! He fancies a fine fabric) because it’s always more important to be practical.

The other thing I see with the clothing, and this applies to the fancy toiletries too, is that giving them up is saying something about wealth/class. And I’m fine with us passing through here as a waypoint in Stede’s journey to gain a deeper understanding of these things, but I very much object to having that as the end goal. Because the point is supposed to be that Ed’s mom is wrong; they don’t have fine things not because that’s what God decided but because they live in an oppressive society where those in charge maintain power by creating a hierarchical system of haves and have nots. Which is bullshit, and everyone should get to have some fine things. Now if you want to argue that two closets full of fancy clothing crosses from everyone should get luxuries into hoarding them, then that’s probably fair enough. But Stede shouldn’t need to be from generational wealth to have just a couple of nice outfits and a stock of yummy lavender soap.

The class aspect also plays a role in why people want to have him running around hauling on ropes or whatever it is you do on a ship. And I do kind of get the point, and think it’s probably important to have him willing to perform those kinds of tasks if needful to show he doesn’t consider them beneath him, but that does mean he needs to be doing physical labor on the regular. He should be working, yes, but there’s all kinds of options that appeal to his strengthens much more than manual labor. We already have seen him doing story time for the rest of the crew and saw him as captain making the executive decisions about where they should go and what they should do next. Beyond that, being one of the few members of the crew proficient in reading, writing, and (presumably) arithmetic, he could keep the accounts and stock of their loot and supplies, he could do navigational work, or if they got their hands on some medical texts he could study and start helping Roach as the doctor. He could be in charge of planning events & activities for the crew to keep everyone happy and entertained. Or he could be in charge of planning their fuckeries.

And that indirectly leads into the last bit, about Stede being skilled at fighting and violence now, the idea being we’re showing his growth from incompetent pirate to skilled and respected one. And look, I have my own thoughts that I am planning on writing a separate meta on hopefully about how piracy is actually meant to be understood in this show and whether or not it actually is the correct long term career choice for Stede, but let’s take it as a given for now that we’re sticking with piracy. In that case, yeah, I agree that we are going to want to see him become good at the job. But why on Earth would that involve him doing a lot of fighting? The show has been very clear that Stede’s strength is in his wits not in his fighting skills. His crew manages to get away from the English naval ship with the rowboat fuckery. He defeats Izzy and gets on of his hostages back with the haunted island fuckery. He and Ed team up and escape the Spanish with the lighthouse fuckery. He takes out the French ship by realizing he can use their darkest secrets to get them to tear each other apart. He beats Izzy in a duel by tricking him into rendering his sword inoperable. And finally he escapes his old life and unhappy marriage by faking his death with a fuckery. Stede’s brand of piracy is fuckery not violence, and I don’t know how that could have been made more apparent.

I just sometimes feel like I’ve watched this show about a guy who spent his whole life miserably trying to force himself into a stereotypically masculine box and failing only to finally find freedom and happiness by being allowed to be himself and not hold himself to societal standards of how to be a man. And then fandom came in and said, “Wow, yeah, this guy is pretty great. But you know how he could be even better? If he were more stereotypically masculine.”

[plant-flwrs]

heart of glass // fred weasley

masterlist!

request (from @bitchywhisperswizard <3): Hi! I absolutely LOVE your writing! Could I maybe request where Fred Weasley breaks up with reader before the war and thinks she died? Only to find her a year later in the muggle world like a celebrity performer? I understand if it doesn't make sense. Thank you!

a/n: thank u for the request!! i refuse to believe fred d*ed, but i am a sucker for fred lives au’s. also went a little grunge w this just because i love those pictures of metalhead james and oliver :) (i listened to miley cyrus’s new cover of heart of glass while i wrote this so i just called it that)

summary: Fred broke up with you just before the war, and when he couldn’t find you after the battle cleared he thought you died. You’re alive and well, living as a celebrity among the muggle world. One night reunites you two, and neither of you can deny the feelings that spark.

(2.5k)

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Clutching the white sink beneath your fingers, you barely recognized the person looking back at you in the mirror. Your eyes were sunken and swollen, your lips puffed and red. Your cheeks were hollowed, casting shadows into your face. You lifted a shaky hand, pushing your hair out of your face and revealing a scar on your temple. 

You had barely made it out of the war, and once you did, you had no intentions on going back.

You made a new life in the muggle world, and eventually you were able to do what you had always wanted to do: perform. 

It was about ten minutes before you were due in stage, and your nerves had stopped buzzing a long time ago. You dipped a finger into some black eyeshadow, spreading it haphazardly across your eyes. You looked dead, and it showed what you felt like on the inside.

Not a day passed in which Fred Weasley hadn’t thought of you. Not a day passed in which guilt hadn’t plagued his heart and mind. Every day, for just over a year, the image of tears streaming down your face as he broke up with you was glue to the inside of his eyelids.

George tried to understand but he could never understand the pain. He tried to help his brother when he could. 

“Freddie!” George called to him from across the store, heaving in a huge box.

“Yeah?” Fred replied from behind the counter, pushing heavy buttons on the loud till.

“Look at this,” George quickly removed a hand from under the box, shifting his weight. He handed Fred a flier he found posted in the side of the shop.

It was a black flier, advertising some muggle bar in London. It looked like the sort of crowd the brothers gravitated towards some odd five years ago. Skulls and grunge symbols littered the page, and Fred found himself smiling fondly at it.

“Want to go?’ George asked, setting down the box in its right place, starting to unload the new shipment of chocolate wands.

“Aren’t we a little too old for this, George?” Fred said with a sad smile.

In that moment, George had the feeling he didn’t recognize his brother. His own face, but tormented with worry, sadness, and the unfriendly effects of time. George furrowed his brow, and tried to continue.

“No! It’ll be fun,” George reassured, slapping a hand on his brother’s back.

This was how Fred found himself clung to the bar all night, nursing a beer in his hand. He didn’t like muggle alcohol as much, but he supposed it would do. 

The bar was in the back of the crowded club, but it barely had any people by it. Everyone had rushed to the front of a stage, the entire room filled with enthusiastic screams. George hovered near the back of the crowd, where Fred could still see him, swinging back and forth to the music they played over the speaker.

Fred and George had liked going to concerts after the war. The flashing lights and loud noises were difficult at first, very difficult, but it was one of the things that helped them recover.

Fred looked around over the top of his drink, surveying the crowd. It was mostly made up of people who looked like him five years ago, people who hadn’t been through a war, or lost their ex-girlfriend in that war. People who didn’t feel like crying every second of every day. The crowd didn’t look like you or Fred.

Someone knocked on your door, their words muffled by the ringing in your ears. You shook your head, letting your hair fall naturally in it’s place over your scar. You pulled up the high boots you wore, and fixed the sheer tights that dove into them. Pulling the top of your tank top to cover your chest some more, you felt the cold air hit your slightly exposed stomach. You stood off to the right, backstage, waiting as people poked and prodded at you, fixing wires and handing you things to hold that they would eventually take back from you.

The nerves still didn’t come, but you hadn’t expected them to. Nothing made you nervous anymore, nothing made you feel anything, really.

Someone held the curtain open for you, and at the slightest movement the crowd roared. Fred turned his gaze towards the stage, and George moved forward in the crowd.

You looked out into the sea of people, and you could make out a few faces in the front. You had requested dulled lights for all of your shows, unable to handle the bright lights that often came with performing. A purple light hovered above you, illuminating you with the cool hue.

You cast a smirk out into the audience, moving to your mark at the center of the stage. Your band filed in behind you, and you tugged at the cord for the microphone, giving yourself some slack. The crowd was still just as loud as when you came out, and you started your first song.

You couldn’t hear anything but your own voice ringing through your head, booming through the earpiece tucked behind your hair. 

From the bar, Fred found his glass shattered on the floor beneath him. It hadn’t even made a sound over your powerful voice coming from what felt like every angle. He couldn’t move, his eyes just locked on your almost unrecognizable face. Even though you looked like him, tired and full of regrets, eyes sunken and cheeks hollowed, he would recognize you and your voice from anywhere.

He had heard you sing almost everyday since he met you. You hummed next to him in class, you chorused obnoxiously in the common room, and you sang to him softly while the two of you laid in bed.

Looking at you now, bent at the knees and almost squatting as you nearly screamed the chorus for what he could assume was your own song, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Everything washed through him, the guilt, the sadness, the worry, the pain.

George was next to him in a second, shaking him by his shoulders. A gleeful smile spread across his face and he just chanted: “She’s alive, she’s actually alive, Freddie!” over and over.

Fred couldn’t believe it, he had always wanted something like this to happen, to replay it all and make sure you hadn’t died, and now that he saw you living and breathing he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Fred ducked into the bathroom, splashing water over his face until he felt like himself again. He fixed his hair, regretting not getting a haircut earlier in the week like he had wanted to. You did always like his hair long, though. He looked down at his buttoned down shirt, the flowy sleeves rolled up halfway up his arms. He tucked it into his jeans, trying to smooth it out some.

George was waiting from him outside the door, biting his nails.

“She’s amazing, mate,” George said. Your voice echoed around the room, and still floated to their ears from the corner they had hidden away in.

“She always was,” Fred mumbled.

“I can’t believe it,” George said, his mouth agape and shaking his head in a disbelieving way.

“Do I look okay?” Fred asked his brother, holding his arms out a little.

George tugged at the sleeves, evening them out and making the rolls more neat.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling Fred with him.

The two sat and listened to you sing until Fred couldn’t take it anymore. The brothers left the venue, moving out onto the chilly London street. They walked around the back, where your crew had parked. They waited.

You finished your show, leaving the stage with the usual rush of adrenaline. You could never sit still inside after a show, and you rushed past your crew and out the back door. The cold air hit your skin, nipping at your sweat covered face and torso. You reached back inside, your hand finding a stool with a pack of cigarettes on them. You came back outside, fiddling with the package. You pulled one out and brought it to your lips, and realized you didn’t have a lighter. These were the moments you wished you still had your wand. It was always easier to smoke when you were a witch.

“Need a light?” someone spoke, coming from out of a shadow.

You immediately felt tears brimming your eyes, looking into the familiar brown eyes and flaming red hair.

“George?” you croaked, voice weak from the singing and the tears threatening to spill over.

George and you took steps towards each other, and he wrapped you in his arms. You cried into his chest, not really knowing why. You supposed you missed him, or maybe it was the fact that he looked strikingly like the boy who had broken your heart.

“Y/n,” another voice, a voice you would know always, called from behind him.

You shrunk from George hesitantly, wiping your eyes. You looked down at your hands, seeing them covered in smeared black makeup. You looked back at George’s shirt and saw a similar mark. You looked up at him apologetically, but he just beamed back at you, waving it off. You watched him pull his wand from his side, and with a simple movement, the stain was gone. You felt yourself crying harder.

You turned back to Fred, who had also started crying. The two of you lunged at each other, a mess of forceful limbs trying to wrap around the other.

“I thought you died,” Fred called out, burying his head into the crook of your neck.

You sobbed in response, your body shaking against Fred’s. He pulled your tighter, like he had regretted ever letting go.

You felt like you could never compose yourself, but you eventually did. Fred’s eyes were red and swollen, and you had wiped the tears off his cheeks. He did the same charm George had done to get the makeup off his shirt.

You led them inside, back into the venue. All of you sniffled as you walked together. You waved to security, telling them they were with you, and ignored your manager as you slipped into your greenroom. 

“You were amazing up there,” George said, taking advantage of the full bar you had in the room.

You took the glass he had made for you, gulping down the harsh alcohol in one swig. George chuckled, ducking into the mini fridge and handing you a soda.

“So your a muggle now?” Fred croaked, his eyes locked on his glass.

“Turned in my wand after the war,” you answered, putting the soda on the table beside you because you couldn’t trust your shaking hands.

“We missed you,” George spoke, sitting next to you on the couch.

You forced a smile on your cracking lips, glancing at him.

“I thought you died,” Fred spoke, finally looking up at you.

Your eyes widened, mouth opening slightly.

“Couldn’t find you after,” George said, forcing himself to remember, “looked almost all night. Lifted every stone we could find.”

Your eyes drifted down, tears filling them again. You swallowed hard, hating yourself immediately for the pain you put them through. You couldn’t even compare it to the pain Fred put you through, because at least you knew he was alive.

“I left,” you mumbled, lip quivering a little, “Just after the dust settled. I flew home and packed everything I owned.”

Fred scoffed across form you, and both you and George’s head shot up to look at him.

“I thought you died,” he repeated, sounding harsh.

“ ‘M sorry,” you mumbled, tasting the warm and salty tears falling into your mouth.

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?” George whispered from beside you, swallowing hard.

“I dunno,” you admitted, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, “I just had to leave. I didn’t think you would have wanted to see me.”

You spoke to Fred, referencing the harsh breakup a month before the war. He looked at you, hurt in his eyes.

“Of course I wanted to see you,” he said, sounding hurt that you could even think that.

“You broke it off with me, Fred, what was I supposed to think?” 

“I only did that to keep you safe!” Fred yelled.

“Well it didn’t keep me safe! It just hurt more!” you shouted back, pulling your hair off your face and behind your ears in a stressful motion.

Fred looked at you, shocked. His eyes fell to your scar, and you covered it with your hair again.

“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke, sounding regretful.

You nodded your head, looking at the ground.

“I’ve missed you, Y/n,” George spoke, his voice soft, “here.”

He slipped a card into your hand, and you looked down at it. It was a business card. Your mouth widened into a smile, and before you could stop yourself, you were laughing.

“Did George Weasley just give me a business card?”

George smiled back at you, chuckling with you. 

You examined the card, reading the gold writing. ‘Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Fred and George Weasley’. The card had an address on it.

“Visit the shop some time,” George said, standing, “I’ll meet you at home, Fred?”

Fred looked at George, furrowing his brow. George made a motion for Fred to sit, and Fred sighed. George hugged you and left you with Fred.

You two sat in silence, he nursed his whiskey and you picked at you fingers.

“You really were amazing up there,” Fred finally said, putting his glass on the table.

“Thank you,” you said sheepishly.

“I still love you, you know,” Fred said confidently, looking straight into your eyes.

Your lips parted, hearing the words you had wanted to hear for about a year, and you didn’t know what to say.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Fred stood from his chair and moved over to you, sitting next to you. His hand found yours, and you sat together. Neither of you had felt anything like this in a long time. The numbness receded into you, allowing space for love and relief to fill you. Fred no longer felt the weight of guilt and worry, all that banished just by a glance at your face.

Your hand still shook in his, and he held it tightly until it stopped. He turned towards you, bringing a hand to your face. He pushed your hair off your face, looking at you scar.

“Is that from-” he trailed off, his thumb tracing the mark.

You nodded, flicking your eyes away from his. He snaked it hand behind your neck, and pulled your face close to his. His lips connected to your scar, and he held you there for a moment. You closed your eyes, melting into his touch.

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again,” he mumbled into your face.

“Me neither,” you whispered back.

[octoberobserver]

Prompt: reddie lost in a corn maze together :D

OMG thanks @tinyarmedtrex! What a brilliant prompt for Halloween (and my birthday lol) month :D It really kept my mind off awful wisdom-tooth pain! ♡ READ ON AO3 

‘You make me so corny’ - Reddie fic 

“Ruh roh.”

“‘Ruh roh?’ Don’t ‘ruh roh,’ Richie, you’re not fucking Scooby Doo.” 

“I hate to be a bad news bear—”

“It’s bearer of bad news.”

“We’re lost.” 

Eddie Kaspbrak blinked, head tilted up at his best friend, roommate and tentatively-as-of-yet-undefined third thing, Richie Tozier who continued to look around them as if he were a sea captain flirting with the horizon. 

“We are not lost, asshole,” Eddie rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air, “this thing is made for kids.”

Richie slowly turned, smirk crossing his face. 

“I swear to god, if you even think about making a Children of the Corn joke—”

“Would you say we’re in an ‘adult nightmare’ right about now, Eds, or…?” 

Eddie shoved him, “You've been an ‘adult nightmare’ since 1976.” 

Richie held up a hand to his chest as if wounded, “Excuse me, Spaghedward, that is just not accurate.”

He waited a beat, taking several steps in front of Eddie (who was determinedly charging ahead) and began to walk backwards, spreading his arms out, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“I’ve been your adult dream since 2016.” 

The innuendo was not lost on either of them, but Eddie refused to take the bait, instead rolling his eyes and deftly ignoring the heat pooling in his stomach because they were in the middle of a fucking kids’ corn maze and apparently lost. It was hardly the time to evaluate just how accurate Richie’s little rhyme was.

“You have actually,” he agreed airily, taking several steps forward and forcing Richie back in the direction Eddie chose, his legs stumbling a little, lanky and uncoordinated as usual, “you’ve been in every adult dream I’ve had since 2016, Rich.”

He watched smugly as Richie’s jaw slackened, eyes a little more wide behind his signature specs. 

“Yeah,” Eddie continued, enjoying the thrill of trashing the Trashmouth, “there’s the one where you forget to file your taxes and end up in jail like Wesley Snipes,” he began counting on his fingers, “there’s the one where you think it’s a good idea to try and renovate your own pool and end up stuck down in the empty one like Mac and Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…” 

Richie grinned good-naturedly at the reference, probably pleased with himself for enforcing their IASIP binge-watch, giving a ‘it could happen’ half-shrug. 

“And,” Eddie paused for dramatic effect because it was Halloween and he was stuck in a fucking corn maze with the world’s oldest child, “there’s the one where you forget that only you have a terrible sense of direction and I…”

He trailed off, reaching out and grabbing Richie’s wrist to steer him right instead of left. 

“...don’t.” 

Richie blinked as they found themselves near the entrance of the maze, seemingly the last out, the silhouettes of children and parents making their way to the parking lot as dusk fell overhead. 

“Impressive Eds,” Richie beamed, opening his hand and jiggling his wrist until Eddie's fingers bumped against his, pulling them gently to a stop. “We’ll be reunited with the creepy white-haired children any second now.”

Slowly, he closed his larger hand around Eddie’s and gave it a tight squeeze. 

Eddie watched their hands for a beat before glancing up and catching Richie’s eye. 

“That’s Village of the Damned, not Children of the Corn, idiot.” 

Richie chuckled.

“Since when did you become a horror-story expert?”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Since I lived in one. Twice.” 

Richie hummed in agreement, eyes catching on Eddie’s cheek that housed one of the two scars that served as reminders of such horrors, before stepping a little closer. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice lowering slightly as he leaned into him, winding his free arm around Eddie’s shoulders, “remember that time we got stuck in Mikey’s cornfield and had to wait for the Losers to find us with flashlights ‘cause it got so dark?”

Eddie did remember that. Vividly. Now that he was allowed to. He remembered how cold it had been, how he had violently shivered in only his T-shirt and shorts and how Richie had wound an arm around his shoulders much like he was right now and immediately stopped his shaking. 

He could never tell if it was Richie’s warmth or proximity to him that had managed to put a halt to his impending freak-out. Probably both. 

“Yeah,” he tilted his head up to meet his eye, squeezing his hand, “you kept quoting Children of the Corn back then too. It wasn’t funny that time either.” 

Richie’s laugh vibrated through his chest so that Eddie felt it in his shoulder.  

Now he was suppressing a shiver for a whole different reason. 

“Riiiight,” Richie smirked, leaning in even closer, his breath bouncing off Eddie’s cheek, “I kept saying—”

“Yelling—”

“Yelling—”

“Praise God, praise the Lord!” The two of them yelled in unison. 

Up ahead, several parents turned at the sound, causing them to break into laughter. 

“Shit, I can’t believe we’re gonna get banned from a Halloween pop-up shop,” Eddie groused as he gripped Richie’s hip with his free hand, squeezing in a way that was supposed to be admonishing but judging by Richie’s face, was anything but. 

“Well, if we’re getting kicked out anyway,” Richie wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “can I fulfil lil 14-year-old Richie’s dreams and do what I wanted to do in the field back then?” 

Eddie narrowed his eyes. 

“Is it rated PG?” 

Richie tilted his head in thought. 

“PG13 at most.” 

Eddie heaved a faux-sigh, “Then go ahead. Fulfil whatever little—”

Richie cut him off with a gentle kiss, his arm tightening ever-so-slightly around his shoulders as he pulled them closer together, tracing his tongue feather-light across Eddie’s lip.

Eddie opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, an electric thrill surging through his body, the feel of Richie’s mouth against his still exhilarating after over a month since their first one, shared on a quiet night in September, pressed against their fridge, the taste of ice cream still on their lips. 

Richie gave the tiniest of moans, more of a hum that he will one hundred percent deny later as Eddie reached up to grip the back of his neck, pulling him further down for one last nip of the lips before breaking the kiss. 

“God Eds,” Richie gasped, resting their foreheads together, “you make me so corny.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. 

Eddie shoved a cackling Richie away from him, charging towards the entrance without a backward glance, calling over his shoulder. 

“You’re un-fucking-real Tozier, you know that?” 

“Yeah,” Richie called back, scrambling to keep up, their car coming into view in the distance, “you made that point already, Eds. I’m your dream.” 

Eddie didn’t dignify that with a response. No matter how right it was. Instead, later that night, he took his revenge out on the pumpkin they had bought for carving. 

He always was good at capturing Trashmouth’s essence. And Richie’s glasses were almost too easy to carve into the fruit with the box cutter he got from Home Depot. 

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