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formulaforza · 1 year ago

Text

—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table.

There’s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home.

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp��on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven.

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you.

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod. “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it.

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat.

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump.

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh.

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is.

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles.

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen.

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is.

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him.

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down.

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes.

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex?

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need.

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door.

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying.

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles.

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back.

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago.

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up.

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean.

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower.

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly.

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip.

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here.

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles.

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her.

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean.

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently. “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles.

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on.

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning.

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions.

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night.

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months.

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass.

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same.

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night.

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue.

“Fuck,” He laughs. “Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

“Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know.

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was.

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion.

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his.

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt.

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place.

And then, just like that, he kisses you.

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air.

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips.

“Peut être,” maybe… he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe…

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just.

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants.

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you.

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says.

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow.

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin.

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say.

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies.

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says.

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg.

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well.

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters.

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really.

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm.

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah.

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too.

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans.

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask.

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time.

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks.

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,” I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding. “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you.

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it.

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much.

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles.

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different.

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again.

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate.

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin.

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird.

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can.

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting.

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.” If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want.

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again.

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway.

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question.

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish.

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth. “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry.

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,” Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening.

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

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trashmouth-richie · 2 years ago

Text

eddie x fem!reader. [vol i] [vol ii]

summary: Eddie’s shenanigans continue, a heavy conversation leads to revealing factors of how Eddie and reader know eachother.

tw: no minors, mentions of drug use/ abuse, death etc. heavy heavy flirting (eddie) eventual smut

wc: 6.4k

a/n: we made it! Another week another volume to our disgusting eddie series. I’m still blown away by the likes, reblogs, and comments this series is receiving— thank you all so much I appreciate it.

s/o: @pinkrelish @sweetsweetjellybean @jo-harrington + @agentmarvel for helping me bring this fic to life! whether that’s beta reading, me bouncing ideas from to you or just talking me through the pacing- I love you all, this fic would be dog shit without you 🤍♥️💋

You wake to the buzzing of your alarm, your hand reaching through the dark across your night stand, slamming down hard on the smooth cold snooze button, but it doesn’t stop.

You hit it again.

Nothing.

The beeps get louder. Your eyelids open a sliver to reveal the numbers 3:42 in red on your alarm clock.

Your alarm usually doesn’t go off until 6, and it’s Sunday so it was never set.

Fuck.

You fly out of bed, disregarding the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra, and open the door. A light haze of smoke fills the hallway, white and dreamy, almost pretty like smoke on the water after it rains.

The smoke detector in the kitchen is alarming, letting you know that the potential of a fire is a great possibility with its ominous beeping. You spring into action, throwing open the kitchen window above the sink.

Where is it coming from?

At first you think it’s from the oven, maybe Eddie left a frozen pizza in too long. The older oven was fussy anyway, burning things one day and the next taking forever to heat up to 375° to make a batch of cookies. But the oven was cold, the smoke seemed to be coming from the living room, a quick glance shows you exactly what was going on.

The couch was on fire.

The hum of the vacuum and the clinking swirl of jagged edges of chips and popcorn kernels sucking up through the cylinders into the bag invade the small living room. It took Eddie almost an hour to find where you kept the cleaning supplies. Turns out the smaller door across from the basement was a closet, housed with everything you’d need to clean a home.

Each item was stacked neatly, brooms and a floppy white mop hung on hooks, the vacuum tucked into the corner. The top shelf had bleach, and a green can labeled ‘comet’ that looked like it could be mistaken for Parmesan cheese. Judging by the bottle with blue liquid and a window on it, called Windex, Eddie figured that probably wasn’t for spills on counters. He settled for a bottle of 409 and a roll of paper towels. Grabbing the vacuum with him.

After vacuuming the living room and wiping up the spills in the kitchen, he sits down. A lit joint between his lips, contemplating on what the actual fuck happened tonight. He couldn’t believe your bitchy attitude or the way your lip trembled after he called you out.

You weren’t the girl he used to know. You had changed, grown into a bitter woman, hating everyone and everything.

He falls into a dreamless sleep. Waking later to stumble into the bathroom to take a poorly aimed piss in the dark and falling face first into his mattress.

You grab the first thing you can think of to extinguish the flames ablaze on the couch. Where the hell is Eddie? What the fuck happened!? Filling a popcorn bowl with water that doubled as a puke bucket when you were sick with the flu back in March, you run back to the couch throwing the water on the flames. For good measure you refill the bucket and douse the couch again— putting the flames out, leaving a soaked charred couch that once was a staple in the Wheeler basement for the better half of a decade.

To say you are enraged would be the understatement of the year, possibly the century. You didn’t have much to your name— not anymore, he had made sure of that. But this!? You open all the windows, letting the dewy air of an early summer morning seep through the house, a slight breeze moving the thin curtains.

You weren’t a great physics student but you are almost certain that a couch wouldn’t suddenly combust into flames no matter how old it is. A red plastic lighter on the coffee table confirmed your suspicions.

You don’t waste time trying to wake him up by yelling, you fill the bowl of water immediately and charge into his room. It was as if you put the fire out but the flames were still burning inside of you, you were fucking irate with Eddie. Hate bubbling inside of you as you stomped into his room, water sloshing all over the carpet and onto your socked feet.

He’s laying on his stomach, a loud snore rippling through his body, the last bit of calm before the ice cold water hits his bare back. Soaking his bed in return.

A loud screeching gasp leaves his dry mouth, cottonmouth having his tongue feel like sandpaper on a sidewalk.

He turns over to face you, annoyed and confused at what the hell was going on.

“Y’know,” he says, standing abruptly from his mattress and shivering when the fan oscillates onto his freezing back, “there are more humane ways to wake someone,” he takes a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the smoke and the burnt fibers of the couch, “smells like you burnt breakfast so how may I help you at this ungodly hour?”

“You son of a bitch,” you seethe, “I swear to everything holy and your satan worshiping ass that I’m going to kill you!”

Eddie doesn’t bat an eye, “ooh baby, are we role playing right now? Shit I’m not prepared, gimme a minute.” He stuffs his hand into the front of his boxers making a jerking motion.

“Jesus Christ! I didn’t come in here to fuck you! Have you seen the living room?!”

“So hostile in the morning—“ he says rubbing his eyes, letting a yawn escape his slack mouth, “why what the fuck are you accusing me of now? I cleaned up my mess so if we’re not fuckin’ I’m going back to b— “ you drag him by the arm to the living room. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe properly through the lingering smoke.

His eyes land on the charred mass of the couch. Panic settled on his face for a brief moment before he discarded it for humor. “Damn Tooty, if you wanted a new couch you could have just asked,” he says, letting out a yawn, and stretching his arms out.

He cringes at the way his full name falls from your lips. The spinning rage of fury throwing yourself into a hissy fit.

“I can’t fucking believe you! How goddamn high were you to not realize the couch was on fire before you passed out?”

“Oh fucking relax, it was an accident!”

“Accident? Spilling milk on the counter is an accident. Knocking over the shampoo bottles in the shower is an accident. This.” You say seconds away from full on losing your mind, “is arson, destruction of personal property, a credible offen—“

“Credible offense? Didn’t know you joined the police force, officer Tooty..”

“Eddie!”

“… you probably have those swat grade handcuffs, the ones that won’t break when your wrists are bound to my bedpost, shit I’m hard just thinking about it.”

It takes everything in you not to look down, not to see the way he’s swelled up in his boxer briefs. Not to see the stretch of the fabric or the outline of his length.

You let out a frustrated groan, dragging your hands down your face. “God you are so fucking infuriating! You really moved in here and just thought you could do whatever the fuck you wanted because you’re Eddie the freak Munson huh? Twenty-six and still pretending that rules and doing shit in a normal way don’t apply to you.”

You think back to how he was in high school, ranting and raving on the cafeteria tables or giving a presentation about how Dungeons and Dragons was in fact not a cult when the assignment was supposed to be on the Holocaust.

He did whatever the fuck he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted to do it. He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. Never did, never would.

“I fucking hate you,” you spit, “you’re a filthy bastard and I hope you rot in hell.”

He’s heard it all before, so it’s not a surprise when your words turn sour, trying to break him down. But he won’t stand for it.

“Oh baby,” he tuts, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers, “you think you’re the only person to ever hate me?”

He crosses his arms and leans forward, inching towards your face, “if you wanna compete with the big dogs, you better get in line. Heard they sell tickets at the high school for the ‘we hate Eddie Munson fan club’.”

He chuckles at the idea of the whole town hating him, small minded inbred losers, clutching to their cross necklaces whenever he walked past them.

“Probably more fans there than Corroded Coffin has right?” You provoke, eyes raised and a smirk twisting your lips.

“That attitude of yours…” his words are lost when he looks at your lips, he shakes his head and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes scan over your body. Tiny little tank top with one of the straps hanging off your shoulder. Your baby blue pajama pants low on your hips, no panty line suggesting you’re commando under them, “Fuck.” He breathes mostly to himself.

“Listen, I’ll replace the couch, but you seriously need to get a fucking grip and relax, you’re gonna have a brain aneurism if you keep this shit up.”

Only Eddie could turn a disaster of almost starting your house on fire to a joke about you being crazy and him getting horny in return. It had to be a talent to be so aloof from reality. So unphased by shit happening around him. Just placing a bandaid on things hoping they would work out.

But for you, it never came that easy.

You decide the only reasonable thing to do was to move the couch to the garage and try to rid the house of the lingering smoke smell. Thankfully the carpet and the coffee table were fine, but the couch was obviously a total loss. Eddie was surprisingly strong, maneuvering the couch almost by himself all the way to the garage, with your help of opening the doors. The way his muscles worked in his back as he lifted the couch and pulled it through the threshold made your stomach flutter. And you were pissed at the thought of it.

“Get some sleep,” Eddie ordered, after you got back into the house, yawning loudly and rubbing your eyes, “we can figure this shit out later.”

Normally you would have argued with him about not telling you what to do but you were exhausted. You climb back into your bed, and fall asleep quick. Dreaming of your entire house on fire and Eddie standing outside, pissing on the flames.

“What about this one?” Eddie asks, laying on a large brown sofa, sinking into the cushions like he’s submerged into quicksand.

He woke up around 9 AM, barging into your room, blaring Judas Priest and singing Love Bites at the top of his lungs. Scaring the absolute shit out of you and having you reach for the nailed bat Steve had given you after Nancy had moved out.

“Let’s roll butthole,” Eddie laughed as he sat on your bed, munching on a piece of toast, “ooh, and maybe skip the bra like you did this morning, that was so fucking hot.”

Jesus Christ.

“Get out,” you hiss, covering your chest with your blanket.

Eddie stands up and jumps on your bed pouting, “seriously you’re so boring, let them titties out and come jump with me.”

“I swear you get more immature by the minute. Now get the fuck out before you break my bed.”

“You wish I’d break your bed, oh my god!” He stops jumping immediately, “Tooty! Am I the first guy to be in here?”

You get up immediately, wrapping your throw blanket around you and grabbing Eddie by his foot trying like hell to yank him off your bed.

“Ow, stop you’re hurting me,” he jokes in a mocking, deadpan voice.

You’re slapping him anywhere you can reach him, throwing your pillows at his head, anything to get the perv out from your sheets. He’s laughing rolling around on your bed, moaning your name loudly.

“Eddie Munson I swear, I’ll slash the tires on that shit box van of yours out there if you don’t get out of my room!”

“Oooh, felony charges? Goddamn you’re gonna make daddy cum.”

You grab your clothes from the closet and retreat to the bathroom. Huffing and stomping the whole way, slamming your door so hard the windows in your room rattle.

You’ve been looking around the Big Boy’s furniture mart for at least three hours. Eddie insisted on trying every single couch they had. And you weren’t talking about just laying on them or testing their firmness.

“Hey, can you lay down and I’ll get on top so I can see how it feels? I need to make sure I can reach the right angles if ya catch my drift,” he says with a shit eating grin and a wink. “Or better yet, I’ll sit and you get on top, gotta make sure the ladies knees are comfy too ya know?”

You swat at his arms, “you’re such a fucking pig, Munson.”

“With a fat—“ interrupted by the sales clerk asking if everything was okay, you smile awkwardly and sit down next to Eddie, testing the enormous brown couch, “wallet.” He finishes, a smile on his lips as you roll your eyes.

“This one is good, c’mon sit down and try it out.” He purrs, wiggling his eyebrows.

You’re standing beside him clutching your purse, his long legs are bent at the knee and spread out wide. Arms on the back of the couch, claiming his space, spread like a king.

“No,” you complain, “If you like it, get it, I’m tired and I just want to go home.”

“Why? The Virgin Mary got a big date or something?” he says, with a mean laugh.

He’s such an asshole. If you weren’t playing his little games he’d turn into such a fucker.

“Jealous?” you say, invading his space, voice dipped low, tracing circles on his denim knees.

His breath hitches in his chest at your light touch, but you don’t stop there. Sauntering up to the sales counter you work your magic.

With a little flirting and the perfect placement of your arm under your heaving chest while leaning over the counter, chewing on your pen and running it down your neck and into the slit of the one too many unbuttoned buttons on your blouse with the dorky sales manager sporting a receding comb over, you get free same day delivery, even on a Sunday.

Impressed, and shocked Eddie asks, “Now how did you manage that one Tooty?” he asks his head dipped by your ear as you walk towards the door, “thought you were the head nun at Saint No Fun.”

You lick your lips, laying the charm on thick, “Think you’re the only one who can flirt and make someone uncomfortable?” You ask, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

Wrong.

That was the wrong thing to say to him. And you walked right into it.

A smug smile spreads against his lips, accompanied with lowered eyebrows and a deep groan to his voice, intruding on your personal space, “so you admit that I make you uncomfortable?”

Your cheeks heat and you slither away from him, buttoning your shirt higher and mumbling about how disgusting he is while walking fast out of the store and making your way to Eddie’s van, your sandals clicking on the asphalt.

Walking through the door to outside feeling the sun beat down on his curly mess of hair, he can’t help but laugh at you storming away.

“Don’t run from your feelings, sweetheart,” Eddie calls from the parking lot, “I’m a give— oh relax bitch I’m not talking to you!” He yells to a woman ushering her two children inside the store as she glares back at him, frightened when he places the infamous devil horns on his head and flicks his sinful tongue out.

He climbs back into the van, laughing maniacally and blaring Metallica’s Wherever I May Roam. He looks over and sees you shrunken down in the seats, covering your head with your arms trying to make yourself as small as possible. Avoiding being seen with him with all your might.

“At some point in time princess, you’re gonna have to give up this facade that you’re some high and mighty broad.”

“I don’t think that—“ you say sitting up right and forcing the heat from your cheeks, “I just don’t want to be seen with you in public anymore than I have too, plus I really think seeing you humping the furniture burned a hole in my brain.”

“It was quite a sight wasn’t it, wait until you experience it first hand— you’ll have to go to church begging for forgiveness.” he finished with a whisper.

You roll your eyes, disgusted with his constant perverted mind spewing sexual comments.

“Do you ever, just— I don’t know, have a normal conversation that isn’t based around your penis and all the things you’d fuck if given the opportunity?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, turning down his music, “When did you get so boring? I swore you were never like this when I knew you. Eyeball’s little sister. Thee Tooty. Meanest girl in her grade. Stealing cigarettes from the gas station. Sneaking out at night to catch a ride with the freak to the nearest party, you were cool back then. Now you’ve joined the fucking convent in virgin town capital of Lame-ville, USA.”

You had forgotten about Kev’s nickname, Eyeball. Eddie had made it up after he had gotten a fishing hook through his eyelid back in their sophomore year. Eddie was at your house almost all the time, him and your brother were as thick as thieves, and sometimes they were just that. He always invited you along, telling Kev it was alright. After he had graduated in ‘85 and Eddie stayed behind, Eddie became your outlet, bringing you and his hellfire idiots, your own classmates, to parties because you didn’t have a car. Swearing to Reefer Rick, that you little goons were cool. ‘Specially Tooty’ he’d say, announcing that you were Eyeball’s sister with a toothy grin.

Seems like such a long time ago that you were all just stupid kids, living for the weekend and a shared bottle of strawberry hill Boones Farm on the way to a party, now half of you were in serious relationships, or college. But you were still here in Hawkins, cutting the hair of the rich while you could barely balance your mortgage and utilities.

People like you and Eddie never got out of small towns. Live, breathe, die.

The end.

No happy endings.

“I’m not a nun, you inconsiderate prick,” you yell at him, “I just don’t think fart jokes, or shitting with the door open and belching contests are funny.”

Eddie pulls his eyebrows together annoyance splattered on his face, “yeah, I’m pretty inconsiderate, just dropped hundreds of dollars to get princess Tooty a new couch, how fucking dare I?”

“You’re the one that burned the other one down!” You holler back at him, losing any shred of self-control you have left, “ I wouldn’t have asked you to do that and you’re the one who volunteered to buy it in the first place!”

“Well, you didn’t really give me a choice standing there with those sad fucking eyes acting like I just fucked your sister and shot your parents in the face.” He sneers back, nostrils flared, driving like a bat out of hell through Hawkins.

You’re pouting, crossing your arms and huffing loudly as he continues.

“I swear to God there’s not a single fucking thing that I can do right for you Tooty,” he snaps, knuckles tight against the steering wheel. “It doesn’t matter what it is what I will, or won’t do you just have it in your head that I’m the worst fucking person in the world.”

You sit there stunned, face crumbled into anger as you stew pissed off beyond belief at his bullshit remarks. He pulls into the driveway, stomping on the brakes and having you lurch forward as he throws the van in park.

He turns to face you. A ringed finger pointing in your face as he gets closer.

“Like I said earlier, sweetheart, you want to hate me? Get in fuckin’ line, this whole goddamn town hates me and I don’t give a fat rat’s ass what anybody thinks of me, especially a stuck up brat like you.”

You’re both breathing heavy, the tension between you both thicker than oatmeal. You can feel his breath on your face, your cheeks are heated and his are tinged pink. His eyes dip down to your lips for a split second before he shakes his head. He jumps out slamming the door hard with a loud thud, stomping his way through the garage.

You mull over your emotions, here you were again, but this time you got the best of him.

Eddie: 1

Tooty: 1

In all the years of knowing Eddie, you’ve never seen him that pissed off. Sure he got worked up about stupid society norms in school but this was different. He was pissed, yelling in your face in the van.

You were never afraid of him, the whole town might be but you had no reason to be. Not from a guy with split ends and in serious need of a deep conditioner. He was just as stubborn as you were. Refusing to bend.

The couch was delivered in record time, your tits really putting the delivery boys to the test when they said you were their only delivery for the day, marked mandatory.

When Eddie arrived from the doorway of his bedroom, arms above his head hanging onto the frame, a cigarette hung between his lips, he was still mad but truly astonished at their arrival only twenty minutes after you had gotten home.

He flops on the couch as soon as they leave, the delivery idiots still drooling over you working up the courage to ask for your number until Eddie made a sadistic comment about getting the cat out of the freezer for the ritual sacrifice had them running back out to the truck, whispering Hail Mary’s and making the sign of the cross as they ran.

“Fuck,” he exhales, kicking off his boots and putting his stinky socks on one arm, his head on the other unzipping his jeans, and slotting a ringed hand down the front of them, Al Bundy style, “can’t wait to break this thing in, need’ta christen the whole house yet too.”

Oh for fucks sake.

“Were you this nasty while you lived with your uncle?”

He closes his eyes as he answers you, snuggling his head and hips into the cushions, a leg thrown up on the back. “He works nights, but my neighbors knew that when the trailer was rockin’, don’t come knockin’.”

You scoff, “I just have a hard time believing that anyone would willingly want to fuck you.”

“Well believe it baby, they don’t just call me ‘the freak’ because I’m into metal and have long hair,” he says, opening his eyes for your reaction as he grabs his dick through his jeans at the base and wiggles the length around.

Your stomach burns as you walk away, half disgusted at him for being so crude, and more disgusted with yourself for looking.

The only way you can combat the lingering heat of turmoil in your stomach is by keeping your hands and your mind busy. You change your clothes into some cotton pajama shorts, the old ratty Garfield slippers you’ve had since the 8th grade, and a baggy shirt with the Marlboro logo on the breast pocket and printed fully on the back. You start with baking a loaf of banana bread, the same recipe Karen Wheeler passed down to Nancy, and Nancy passed down to you.

You begin to whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon. A sense of calm takes over your body as you remember the days of having Nancy as a roommate. A vast difference to the hellion who’s snoring on the couch right now. Your mind wanders, questioning why the tension between the two of you in the van could have been cut with a knife.

You despised him, the thought of him making your stomach churn like curdled milk. He was skating on thin ice and if you were stronger, you’d have kicked his ass out by now. But Eddie was right about a few things. After Kev left for college it was just you at home, but Eddie stayed around. Watching out for you at parties, threatening to kick anyone’s ass who got too close to you.

You mash the bananas and set them aside, using the handheld mixer you had been gifted to beat together the butter and brown sugar. The light pales of yellow swirling with the chestnut granules of the brown sugar.

You remembered how he was dating Chrissy during his senior year. How Chrissy, yourself, Eddie and Chad would go bowling on Sundays after brunch at the Cunningham’s or how sometimes Chrissy would drive the three of you to go to Eddie’s shows at the hideout, sweet talking her way to the owner so you could all support him. How messed up he had been after she broke up with him. To this day you don't know the reason. You wondered if he knew what happened between you and Chad.

You add the dry ingredients to the wet ones. Adding the eggs one at a time, the soft plump yolks slipping free from the shells and landing gently on the forming mixture.

So many things had gone unsaid. Different aspects of life taking you both in opposite directions but now suddenly back again, but under very diverse circumstances.

The banana bread mixture is scraped into a loaf pan, and tossed into the oven, the timer set to sixty minutes.

You had to admit that having Eddie around gave you a small inkling of comfort. Almost as if you weren’t alone. Something you hadn’t felt in years.

You really must be crazy. Eddie Munson giving you comfort? What kind of dream land were you living in. Clearly the banana bread hasn’t given you any sort of calm, better make muffins next.

Later that night you’re lining pasta noodles in a baking dish, layering them with ground beef sautéed with an onion and pasta sauce, and ricotta, mozzarella and Parmesan cheese. The small kitchen smelling delicious, and the counters full of chocolate chip muffins and the banana bread you had made.

Turns out there’s a lot you can get done in the 5 hours Eddie has been passed out on the couch. Turtle waxing the bathroom floors, scrubbing the baseboards in the living room, reorganizing the fridge and wiping everything down.

He’s still sprawled out on the new couch, his long hair wrapped around his face, soft snores whirling through his nose.

Another hour later and supper is done, you’re standing at the stove cutting short horizontal lines through the lasagna opposite of the way the noodles are laid, when Eddie comes up behind you, warm crumbles of muffin between his lips as he whispers, “shit Tooty, did’ya take home-ec? This is delicious.” You jump almost ten feet high, shrieking and cutting a horrible diagonal line through the lasagna.

“.. I failed ya know.”

“High school?” You answer after catching your breath, “Eddie, everyone in the Tri state area knows that.”

“Nah,” he mumbles through another bite, more crumbs falling from his mouth, “well I mean yeah, but home-ec. That’s why I didn’t graduate on time.”

You soon around with an incredulous look on your face, “how the fuck do you fail home-ec not once, but twice?”

He leans his long frame against the counter, hip jutting up against it as he crosses his legs at his ankles, you note that his pants are still undone.

“Well chef,” Eddie starts, licking his fingers clean from the ooey chocolate that melted onto them, “I kept burning everything. I couldn’t even get the eggs to boil right. I burnt the sleeve of Jason Carver’s letterman jacket while trying to make crème brûlée,” He says with a laugh. “That might have been on purpose, after he stiffed me for over 3 oz and two full bags of pre rolls.”

You chuckle, “not a loss there, that douche probably deserved it.”

Jason Carver would remain in Hawkins to run his dad’s business. Last time you had seen him he was at the salon, flirting with you while you trimmed his hair. Still a douche.

“Ah, he was just mad I stole his girlfriend,” he says with a little sigh, referring to Chrissy, “High school, what a blast!”

“All six years?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, your teeth biting down hard into your lower lip to hide your laugh.

Pushing himself off the counter and stealing another muffin he leaves the kitchen with a grin and yells over his shoulder, “piss off.”

Eddie’s on his third plate of “flat noodle pasta thing” or to anyone living on the planet for more than three years would call it, lasagna, and your homemade garlic bread chewed up between his teeth.

“Christ,” he exaggerates with a sigh, “I feel like this is my last meal on death row or some shit.” He smacks his lips and licks his fingers like a primate. Moaning with each swipe of his tongue like a porn star with a huge bush in the 70’s.

“Did you just compliment me on something other than my body or insinuating that you want to fuck me?” You say with a false shock, “I’m honored.”

“Yup, write it down in your little diary, ‘Eddie Munson said something genuine to me, made me feel pretty, maybe I will stop being mean and let him see my titties xoxo’.”

“…and we’re back to your regularly scheduled programming.” You announce in a monotone voice, pushing your lasagna around with your fork and taking a bite of the garlic bread.

Eddie turns his head and looks over at you confused on how this nice little night— not arguing, for once, eating the best thing he’s had in his mouth bedsides the pussy that was in it last weekend, could turn into you silently stewing, mulling something over that he had zero idea on how to understand.

“So— what ever happened to Eyeball anyway? Should I go ahead and assume he’s buried in a shallow grave somewhere?” Eddie asks, taking another mouthful of lasagna, “seriously, I haven’t seen or heard from him since he graduated and left this shithole town.”

You take a deep breath and let out a sigh, you couldn’t hide this from him, not when he’s here in your house, on the couch he just bought since he burned down the other one.

If you were going to tell him, there was no better time than right now. You take a sip from your Fresca and set your plate down on the coffee table.

“Kev went to the east coast. Full academic scholarship to John Hopkins.” You say curling your knees up to your chin, facing Eddie.

“Yeah, I think he mentioned that— I bet your parents were proud,” Eddie says, eyebrows raised, fingers hanging loosely over his knees, the last remnants of the garlic bread in one hand.

“Of course they were, he’s the golden boy, Mr. Perfect. He could do no wrong in their eyes.”

You weren’t just being a jaded little sister, it was the truth. Your parents favored him over you. Once it was let on that he was smarter than most kids his age, and a certain level of genius— that was it for you, you were casted aside like a wet paper towel, tossed to the heaping flow of garbage. Their whole life revolved around him.

“So what happened?” Eddie pressed, setting his plate down and twisting the rings around his fingers.

“Well, he went to college in August of ‘85 and at first was excelling in all of his classes, as if he were to ever do anything else. If you ask my parents, what happened next was out of character for him, and he was coerced into it, the wrong place at the wrong time kind of a deal, but you know how he was. He had a wild side to him.”

Kev was wild indeed. He was the one who convinced Eddie to borrow Wayne’s truck at thirteen and take it driving through Hawkins on a joyride to the gas station that led to all of the mailboxes in Forest Hills to be backed over and almost a gas pump. A smirk forms on Eddie’s face as you continue.

“I always thought it was his way of escaping— trying to be normal. Anyway— he made friends with some guys who were kinda like the Hellfire guys at home. Ya know nerds, who need haircuts.” A small laugh escapes from your lips.

“Easy, now.” Eddie jokes, shaking his mane, “This takes time and patience, ain’t built for the weak.”

You roll your eyes and keep going, “one of them was involved with dealing but it wasn’t just joints and half ounces like you did in high school. This was crack, and heroin.”

Rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palms, dreading this more than Eddie could ever know. “He started using—heavily. One thing led to another and he was eventually kicked out of school, turns out you actually have to show up to class and get good grades to keep an academic scholarship.”

“My parents tried to get him to move home, go to rehab, but he refused. He moved into a house with some other “friends” if you would even call them that.” You take another shaky breath, voice wobbly as you continue, “w-we aren’t exactly sure what happened— all we know is that he was driving down a one way, going double over the legal speed limit and he struck a woman— in broad daylight, killing her instantly.”

Pain is evident in your face as Eddie stares into your eyes, leaning forward on the couch, the venom of his words from last night and earlier this afternoon twisting like a knife in his chest. “Holy fuck.”

“He had been tripping out on whatever it was he was snorting, or smoking—I have no idea, for days, according to him, and he doesn’t remember anything. The woman was from a very well off family in Maryland— so they went for murder instead of vehicular manslaughter— and won. There were two other people in the car with him… they were both killed on impact. He’s currently known as inmate #90045, serving a life sentence and a sling of other charges in Roxbury Correctional in Hagerstown.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide at the thought of Kev in an orange jumpsuit, face behind bars. The fingers he was spinning his rings with stops, mouth agape.

You pinch your eyes shut and throw your head back, avoiding Eddie’s eyes. “My parents sold the house the following year and moved out there to be closer to the golden son, still to this day refusing he did anything wrong, blaming it all on anyone but him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes, shocked, “I can’t fuckin— wow.”

“Yeah,” you say, bringing your head forward, dipping into your chest. Sniffling quietly and rubbing your nose.

Eddie is dumbfounded by your admission. He thought for sure that maybe Kev was married and had kids so your parents went to help them out to be supportive grandparents. He would have never guessed that he was in prison doing hard time with a heroin addiction. And he certainly can’t believe that they left you here like discarded mail.

“But you stayed in Hawkins? By yourself, this whole time?” he says in disbelief. Outer corners of his eyes turning downward as his face frowns.

He feels like shit, he had been here the whole time in Hawkins and he didn’t have a clue that you were alone.

Shaking your head you answer slowly, shame on your lips. “The Wheeler’s ended up taking me in.”

“Tooty,” Eddie rubs his hand across his face, stubble catching on calluses as he thinks about the times he saw you at school. “Fuck man, why didn’t you say anything? Jesus, why didn’t any of them mention it?”

“I told them that if they told anyone I’d shave their heads,” you say proudly. A sense of pride present across your face, as you hold your head high.

This explains a lot, why you were bitter and downright miserable. He couldn’t believe this shit, how your family just left you, discarding you like you weren’t their only daughter. You were dealt a shitty hand, and all you had left to protect yourself was you. Eddie knew all too well how that felt.

His eyes are full of concern, wet with tears as he realizes how lonely you must have been.

“By the way,” you say, stretching your leg out and nudging him with the toe of your slipper, “that head shaving thing, goes for you too Munson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. ” Eddie said, throwing his hands up in innocence. “I wouldn’t risk losing these curls over that, the ladies love this.”

Later that night Eddie laid in bed. Still completely blown away by the fate of his old friend. Not only that but what happened to you as well. When his dad went to prison, he had Wayne but you? You didn’t have anyone. Moving in with the Wheeler’s like you were a charity case, an orphan, with Ted Wheeler being the not bald Daddy Warbucks. He didn’t sleep worth a shit that night. His mind constantly running over the millions of conversations you had up until his graduation— not once did you let on that you weren’t okay.

🤍

HOPE YOU ENJOYED 💋 SEE YOU IN VOL IV

vol iv

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #roommate!eddie munson #roommate!eddie

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askfriskandcompany · 7 months ago

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Do some skeletons seek out a range of Spicy and Minty foods so they can have some form of comparison for temperature? Also, if Skeletons can't feel temperature, are they immune to stuff like Heat Stroke and Frostbite, or do they still need to watch out for temperature related damage and illnesses?

Skeletons CAN taste spicy and minty, so yes, that's generally the closest they get to feeling temperature. Whether or not they seek it out is down to personal preference.

And no, Heatstroke and Frostbite aren't concerns for skeletons. However, they can still get burnt if you like... shoved them in an oven or set them on fire. That would hurt them. And if you dropped one in Antarctica though, they'd be totally fine as far as cold goes. Heck, you could throw them into the vacuum of space and the main concern they'd have is starving to death.

-TQ

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blindmagdalena · 11 months ago

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On the topic of Homelander using his powers for mundane tasks.

I can imagine his s/o asking him to take something out of the oven and he just reaches in, bare handed, no gloves, and takes it out. after all, he’s invulnerable, and a little heat isn’t going to hurt him.

ensue his s/o briefly forgetting about this and worrying about him being burned.

did y'all ever see My Stepmother Is An Alien?

there's a scene where she's making food and she's seen handling hot pans, sticking her hands into boiling water to pick up eggs, the whole shebang.

it's making me think of an AU where Homelander is under cover with his secret identity but, much like an alien, is having a very hard time assimilating and doing things the way a normal human would. 😂 like, no, lifting the couch like that to vacuum under it is not a normal display of strength!!

i love malewife Homelander fumbling his way through domesticity. i need a 500k fic of this.

#this gives me such a cute idea for a scene in part 2 of maidfic......#he just wants to help and he gives her the scare of her life!!#darling anon #ask and you shall receive #homelander x reader #homelander x you

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iamarealkat · 10 months ago

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SECOND COURSE - KITCHEN

(or at least the main parts i recognized)

mads mikkelsen and lydia hearst for "euroman", april 2010 by kenneth willardt.

1. GE Monogram 36" Rangetop

First up, the rangetop. Unlike a cooktop, which sets into a pre-cut space in a counter or island, a rangetop overflows the sides and extends beyond the boundaries of the counter with front-facing knobs. This unit in particular is the GE Monogram 36" Rangetop (ZGU366NPSS), with an MSRP of $3400, reversible grates, and six 18,000 BTU power boil burners.

2. 30" GE Monogram Tri-Zone Counter Depth Integrated Refrigerator

Next, a dual installation of 30" GE Monogram Tri-Zone Counter-Depth Integrated Refrigerators (ZIC30GNHIl, shown with optional custom panels for seamless appearance). With an MSRP of $6999 each, these units are made more shallow, known in the industry as counter-depth, to integrate properly with standard cabinetry. Featuring fridge, freezer, and convertible middle-drawer climate zones, this unit has a capacity of 14.09 cu. ft. overall, per unit. It has two separate sealed systems for constant temperature control, and uses the first HFC-Free refrigerant, which has a lower global-warming impact.

3. 30" GE Monogram European Convection Double Wall Oven

A 30" GE Monogram European Convection Double Wall Oven (ZET2SHSS). An MSRP of $5300, with two 5.0 cu. ft. capacity oven cavities. With easy-to-clean all-glass interior door panels, both self-clean and steam-clean options, ten-pass baking elements, and two True European Convection ovens, these units boast convection bake and roast features with closed-door broiling as to not overheat a kitchen, and a built-in temperature probe for perfectly cooked roasts. It also offers a proof mode to assist dough-rising for avid bakers, convection conversion as to not overcook standard recipes, can be monitored remotely with use of a smart phone and GE's WiFi Connect app, and is programmable in both Celsius and Fahrenheit.

4. GE Monogram 240v Built In Oven with Advantium Speedcook Technology

Behold, the GE Monogram 240v Built In Oven with Advantium Speedcook Technology (ZSC2201JSS).

This bad chicken has an MSRP of $3200 and has settings for Speedcook, microwave, convection, and warming. What the hell is Speedcook? It's a combination of microwaves and convection, delivering results up to eight times faster than conventional cooking, and without the need for pre-heating. This thing can reheat, microwave, toast, brown, bake, and gently warm to your heart's content, and has the ability to remember custom recipes.

5. 30" GE Monogram Warming Drawer

Next up, the 30" GE Monogram Warming Drawer (ZW9000SJSS). With an MSRP of $1600, this drawer has a 1.9 cu. ft. capacity, and has variable temperature settings of anything from 75*F to 230*F, and humidity controls from crisp to moist. Gross. It also has a half-rack so you can store more on the inside, and has ball-bearing glides so it pulls out and closes smoothly while making that soothing whoosh noise.

6. 24" GE Monogram Undercabinet Wine Reserve

We also have the 24" GE Monogram Undercabinet Wine Reserve (ZDWR240HBS). With a cool MSRP of $2000, undercabinet wine refrigerators are notoriously tricky because of their front-facing venting needs. If you suffocate refrigerators, even small ones, (like humans) they die.

This fridge features cooling settings suitable to red or white wines, full-extension sliding racks with both horizontal and vertical storage, and has a capacity of 5.5 cu. ft, or 57 bottles.

Hannibal also, apparently, does not believe in dishwashers-panel-ready, drawer-style or otherwise.

What he does believe in? Is coffee, apparently:

7. Royal Paris Vacuum Balancing Coffee Siphon by Royal Coffee Maker

This, dear Fannibals, is a Royal Paris Vacuum Balancing Coffee Siphon, specifically noted by Bryan Fuller to be crafted by Royal Coffee Maker.

Handmade by artisans with affordable materials such as genuine Baccarat Crystal, malachite, copper, obsidian, azurite, and plating of silver and 24k gold, these start at the low, low price of approximately $15,500.

Hannibal's model is the Royal Classic finished in silver, on a Piano Black base. It is, perhaps surprisingly or unsurprisingly, the most tasteful and least ostentatious of all available models.

This brings the approximate total of all Hannibal's kitchen appliances, plus or minus a few of the minor ones, to $45,000.

8. Additionally in his stolen borrowed home in Florence: La Cornue 43" CornuFé Range

In 1908, in the heart of Paris, Albert Dupuy ignited the flame of elite cuisine. It was there that Dupuy premiered the world's first convection oven. At the time, most ovens were mere flat-topped cavities that held racks suspended over a fire. The majority of people simply considered cooking to be heating food to eat. But Dupuy pondered: "What does it really mean to cook?" He developed his oven with a vaulted ceiling to usher heat around the food, rather than trapping it to burn beneath. To enable optimum precision, the oven drew upon the city gas lines that were winding their way to homes and street lamps throughout the City of Light. Dupuy christened the oven La Cornue after the French term cornue - the system for refining the gas that warmed the new creation.

Each range is made by hand and the labor is intensive. Each worker is a specialist, understanding the greater goal.

However they are not just craftsmen, but companions to each range along its journey from inception to crated final product. They are experts in steel, copper and brass, inspired by great design, working as a team to create an inspired tradition.

True excellence can only be achieved when every step in the process is in pursuit of perfection.

For over 100 years, La Cornue has continued to build upon Albert's initial convection innovation and they've expanded the designs and introduced new styles. As a result, the name La Cornue is supposed to represent a renowned spirit.

Hannibal's version runs about $10,000.

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sword-and-stars · 11 months ago

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Absolutely insane that companies are trying to charge me $20 for the equivalent of two MAYBE THREE sweet potatoes because they’ve been sliced and dehydrated and marketed for dogs

Like. I realize that you pay for convenience but this definitely feels like extortion.

Bestie I have an oven and a vacuum sealer and I am a strong independent woman who can dry out my own damn sweet potatoes. Literally just heat your oven to 200 and make sure you don’t need it for the day and flip your potato slices every couple of hours to make sure they’re being evenly dried and boom you’re good to go.

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sniffanimal · 6 months ago

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I think one thing to remember about (some presentations of) ADHD is that it isn't always a literal internal dialogue of "That task is overwhelming/too hard/too many steps/unrewarding so I won't do it". For me, it's more like the idea of doing that task slides off my brain like butter in a hot pan. I will look at an overwhelming task and before I even finish the thought of "I should do that" my brain shakes like an etch a sketch and I've already forgotten it.

This particularly pissed my mom off when I was a kid because it's hard for me to see a sink full of dishes and associate that with "I need to do dishes", or she'd tell me to vacuum but because I wasn't immediately looking at a vacuum, I'd forget to do it. ADHD was weirdly very quiet for me, because I just wouldn't see things that overwhelmed me!

I'm now an adult who has lived on my own (/with another ADHD roommate) for 8 years now, been through therapy, and am medicated, so under the readmore I'll put some ways I combat this clear-cache process my brain does.

(obligatory im not a therapist or a doctor or anything so make sure you're consulting with those folks before doing anything major with your life. I have ADHD and have been treated for it, as well as I teach kids how to manage their neurodiversity as a job)

"I just can't remember to do something that I need to do regularly." This sucks to hear, but the answer really is routines. Routines are essential for helping manage sanity and overwhelm and keeping your house in order. And I know, firsthand, that ADHDers struggle with forming routines, but here's my major tips: scaffold. Scaffolding, or chaining, or stacking or any other name refers to picking something you already do at a set time (it's easiest if it's something you HAVE to do, like go to work or wake up in the morning, etc), and pairing your new routine task with that. And also its important to only try adding one thing to a routine at a time. Don't try to start showering, brushing your teeth, packing tomorrow's lunch, setting out clothes for the morning, reading, journalling, and doing yoga before bed all at once. Start with just brushing your teeth before you go to bed every day for like 2 weeks. Once you're solid on doing that, start adding in something else! People kinda hate on the book bc it's full of platitudes but I really liked a lot of the stuff in Atomic Habits by James Clear for setting new habits.

"I can't remember to do something that I don't need to do regularly. It's hard because I can't work it into a routine." It is not a shameful thing to need to make different visual or physical reminder for when you need to do things. Two things I particularly struggle with is turning the A/C off when I leave a room, or turning the oven off when I'm done using it. For the former, I have a small card I laminated that says 'turn off heat' that I velcro to the thermostat. When I turn the A/C on, I take the card and put it in my pocket or on my shirt or hair or somewhere where I will have it with me so that I can see the card later and remember to turn it off. For the latter, I have a necklace that I put a little tag on it that says 'OVEN' on it. When I turn the oven on, I put the necklace on, and it stays on until I turn the oven off and can take the necklace off. Try creating environmental things that work for you! I've seen people put their meds next to the canned cat food because their cats would remind them to feed them, and they would see their meds then and remember to take them!

"My working memory is really poor, I forget what I was doing in the middle of doing it." This is a kind of hard one to work on without just actively doing things in your life, but something I find that kinda helps me is doing puzzles! I'm not a big jigsaw puzzle person, but I love sudoku, pictogram, and crosswords (and some of the other things like wordle etc.) Logic puzzles are another good way to work on needing to hold something in your working memory. Puzzle video games like Portal are also good for exercising your working memory. Working memory is a bit like a muscle, and needs to be stretched to hone as a skill. When you're in the middle of one task, and another one comes up, having a pen and paper ALWAYS handy makes it easy to jot down a reminder about something you need to do later. This is often called a 'parking lot', and works well for me!

Closing notes: 2 other books to check out are How to ADHD by jessica mccabe, and The Anti-planner by Dani Donovan. The former is extremely good for an overview of what living with ADHD and working with your brain is like, and the latter is actionable activities to help with breaking tasks into more manageable formats.

#badger rants #actuallyadhd #adhd

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soniabigcheese · 4 months ago

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It's been an overall good day today

I have managed to do the laundry and peg it outside on the line.

Vacuumed both upstairs and down

Cooked an easy light lunch - heated up a burrito and enchiladas in the mini oven. No need to keep an eye on those.

And now I'm planning a small meal for dinner tonight. Pork steaks in the mini oven, some ready to cook potatoes the same way and bags of prepared veggies in the electric steamer

I intend to make life as easy as possible for the two of us, and since I'm the one doin the most work around the house,I don't want to regard it as annoying etc. And give up halfway through

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justkidneying · 3 months ago

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Why a microwave doesn't give you cancer

This is a bit of an offshoot from my normal posts, as it is more physics-based, but I just really need to inform people about microwaves. I've heard so much false garbage about microwaves giving people cancer, and it would unburden my soul greatly to help dispel some of the rumors. I'm also going to explain why you can't put metal in a microwave.

What are microwaves? They are a type of electromagnetic radiation, with a wavelength longer than visible light, but shorter than radio waves. They are line-of-sight limited, meaning that they cannot travel farther than what visual light can (they can't go past the horizon or through hills). They are used for communications, radar, and most importantly...microwave ovens.

How does a microwave heat up your food? Microwave ovens use a vacuum tube to generate microwaves. Electromagnetic waves carry energy in a rapidly oscillating wave. This wave causes water molecules, which are polar (have a positive and negative end), to rapidly vibrate back and forth as it is subjected to the changing energy. This vibration causes molecular friction, which becomes heat. This is why putting empty dishes in the microwave usually doesn't cause them to heat up (unless it is made of a polar material).

Why can't you put metal in a microwave? The induced magnetic field that is created inside of the microwave box is dependent upon the size of the microwave (it has to be a certain fraction of the wavelength of the wave). When metal gets into this field, it causes disruptions in the field, and energy becomes concentrated over uneven shapes (like the tines of a fork). When there is enough potential difference between two points on this object, energy will arc between them to return to a lower potential (this is what creates lightning as well). Non-metal objects don't affect the field this way.

Are microwaves harmful? Not more than any other form of electromagnetic wave. Everything radiates electromagnetic waves. Humans particularly emit a lot of infrared waves, but we emit some microwaves as well. The microwaves we encounter in our daily lives (like those used for communication) do not have enough energy to affectively vibrate our water molecules. If you were to seal yourself inside of a giant microwave, you would die, but your microwave oven or cellphone is not going to kill you. It also doesn't destroy your DNA like other forms of radiation, so you're not going to get cancer. You should be more worried about the sun and wear some goddamn sunscreen (seriously, everyone).

#physics #science #microwaves

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mycolancer · 5 months ago

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From the archives

🍄 🫙 **STORE YOUR MUSHIES WELL** 🫙 🍄

Ever got mushrooms in a zip lock baggy and they were bendy and chewy when you got them?

*ew*, that's not right, but it's *not always bad, either*.

When the mushrooms are prepared to go out in the world, *responsible* people, or *people who have experience* (they didn't know before) will make sure they are properly **dehydrated** and stored before they get rid of them.

Most people are cheap, or don't have the funds, so they use a **box fan** to dry out the shrooms. This can be bad if the hygiene and care of this process isn't done well. It's the least preferred method, in my opinion.

If it weren't bad enough to have to always guess the *potency* of each individual fruit, you'll have to also consider that **how they were dehydrated** could make an impact on potency. For example, when dehydrated in the **oven**, they could lose potency in the span of just 2-4 hours!

The best way anyone can dehydrate a bunch of mushrooms is to use proper handling & equipment.

**So what do you do if you get some that are bendy or tear apart?**

We want mushrooms that are cracker dry. These are the absolute safest to consume, and the potency is locked in. When stored **correctly** at that point, they will remain potent for sometimes YEARS if continually stored well away from sunlight, moisture, and oxygen.

So you got some bendy shrooms?

🟢 **Check them** for Mold and Sliminess. Find either? Toss the whole batch, you might get food poisoning.

❣️ **If they don't smell sickly sweet, have no slime, no mold, and are just a little bendy, then you're likely ok to consume** - Try a tea for these..

*or*

**On very low temperature settings in the oven (140*), you can dehydrate them carefully** - Just put a box fan in front of the oven with the door open. Check them at the 60 and then at the 90 minute mark. They should snap when they're cracker dry.

🗒️ **How to Store yours properly**

After you've foraged and gotten your 🍄 you'll want to do a few things to properly store them:

1. **Check for Mold, Slime, Bendyness, and sickly sweet smell**

2. **When foraging in the wild, they will be fresh, so you need to prepare for dehydration** - Do this by rinsing off your mushrooms carefully of any manure/dirt etc. Follow your dehydrator's settings at or below 140* to dehydrate fully. This can take many hours. Be patient.

3. **If they came to you dried already, and they passed the check for grossness, ** then decide what you want to use them for. If they arrived Bendy, consider storing properly as is for tea, or consider dehydrating them further using your oven, or using your own dehydrator.

4. **When ready to store**: Once everything is all good and you're ready to store, make sure that:

- You've got Dessicit Packers (I like the Dry & Dry brands)

- You have an airtight jar, Tight Pac, Vacuum sealer & bags, or Mylar bags & heat sealer

- You have a place to put them away from heat, humidity, light, or fluctuating temperatures

Some people like to tape the dessicat packets to the underside of their mason jars. You need to store the 🍄 ASAP after making sure they're cracker dry. **DO not let them sit out in a baggy overnight, they will suck up Seattle air like the little happy sponges they are**

And that's it for this post on storing mushrooms you find in the wild, or receive elsewhere. Be safe! ❤️

#mycolancer #mushrooms #harm reduction #psilocybin #psychonauts #drug chemistry #pharmacology #wellness #storage #safe handling #foraging #mycology

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envisystechnologies · 9 months ago

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Industrial Walk-in Drying, Heating & Vacuum Oven | Envisys Technologies

Envisys Technologies is a leading manufacturer and supplier of custom industrial drying and heating ovens, catering to clients in India, the USA, the UK, and Russia. Our company offers a wide range of industrial oven solutions, including ovens for heating, drying, curing, aging, annealing, and heat processing tests at higher temperatures. Our ovens come in various temperature ranges, layouts, and sizes, catering to small or large volumes of goods, components, and finished products. Envisys also manufactures high-quality industrial dryers, designed to endure extreme temperatures and provide uniform air circulation. Our dryers are ideal for various industries, including food and beverage, chemical, automotive, aerospace, pharmaceuticals, and metal forming. Our Chambers are equipped with precise temperature controls, ensuring long-lasting durability and optimal performance. Envisys Technologies also offers a wide range of infrared oven products for various industrial purposes, including curing, drying, aging, and annealing. Our ovens utilize infrared technology to generate heat waves rapidly and efficiently, resulting in faster processing times and minimal energy consumption.

#Industrial ovens #Industrial oven manufacturers #industrial drying oven #industrial heating oven #industrial vacuum oven #industrial walk in oven #Envisys Technologies

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hometoursandotherstuff · 2 years ago

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I like the Triangle House of Buffalo, New York, but for a 1bd. 3ba. house, the $760K price tag seems too high.

So, here’s the entrance foyer. I hate glass doors- it’s like living in a fish bowl.

The living room is on the smallish side b/c it’s triangular.

The table must’ve been custom made and seats 9. I wonder if it’s included. I notice that there’s a portable heater and one of those after-market air conditioning units over the door. For $750K I’d want better heating and cooling- Buffalo gets mad snow and cold in the winter.

This is kind of weird. The oven is a vintage mid-century modern model clearly bought used, and the sink is an antique farmhouse style. The cabinets are either salvaged MCM or Ikea. Come on, now, make up your mind. Don’t like the tile counter tops.

Stairs going up to the single bedroom. I like that they have little kick shields so you don’t slip thru.

An elevator is not really necessary for a home w/nothing but a small bd. on the 2nd fl., but it’s a good one- vacuum elevators don’t get stuck. If it loses vacuum, it’ll just float gently back down. Plus, you can see thru it, so you’re not trapped in a box.

And, here’s the bd. It’s cute, but it’s for sale-by-owner and I think he’s asking too much.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/133-School-St-Buffalo-NY-14213/30181660_zpid/

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lumine-no-hikari · 11 months ago

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Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #46

I spent all day today making moussaka! And I told you that I'd take pictures and write to you about it, and so here it is! Today is the day!! So I'm gonna get right to it!!

I started off by rinsing the eggplants and peeling the onions. I always put the papery outer layer and the first fleshy layer into the broth bag, for later use! My husband sliced the eggplants and cut the onions into coarse chunks. I can technically do it myself, but since he's not dyspraxic, he's a lot better at it than I am:

If it looks like a lot of eggplant, that's because it is a lot of eggplant, hahaha! But don't worry; they get a lot smaller once they're baked because the water evaporates out of them.

You have to arrange them on a cookie sheet like this, and then put them in the oven at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for a total of 30 minutes; you flip the slices over halfway through.

This part takes a while because my oven can fit only two cookie sheets at once, and then after they've been baked, I like to use the griddle to make the eggplant slices golden brown and crispy on the outside, like this:

Then, you get a bowl full of eggplant slices that are crispy on the outside, and deliciously gooey on the inside:

In between roasting batches of eggplant, I did the other steps. One of those steps is to use my handy-dandy veggie chopper to turn the onions and a few cloves of garlic into puree for the meat sauce!

I also zested and juiced the lemon; that's for the meat sauce, too!

Once the eggplant is all done, the next step is to cook the onions a little bit - but just a little bit. Then you'll set them to the side in favor of cooking up the ground lamb. Cooking the ground lamb will leave a lot of delicious rendered fat. So you'll scoop out the cooked lamb, and then finish cooking the onions in the fat; as the water from the onions evaporates, the resulting vacuum will cause the onions to soak the lamb fat right up!

After that, you start putting the sauce together. We will use the cans of diced and crushed tomatoes and 2 tablespoons of the tomato paste, and 2 tablespoons of the tomato sauce. We'll stir that up with the onions and the lemon zest and juice. Then we'll add a cup of red wine:

I gotta tell ya, wine in general is GROSS!! But it's really nice when it's used in cooking. A little bit of heat makes the nasty, bitter alcohol flavor dissipate quite nicely, and you're left with a vague sweetness and a weird (but not bad!) grape-ish flavor.

After you let it simmer so it can thicken a bit as the water evaporates, you add the seasonings:

This is parsley, oregano, cinnamon, allspice, and ground cloves! I didn't have thyme yet when I took this picture, but I fetched some later to use.

Anyway, the next step is to add the ground lamb to the sauce! The result is a very thick meat sauce! In this picture, you'll see the sauce and all the seasonings I used in it:

Here, we have our very thick sauce, seasoned with oregano, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, salt, pepper, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves. Yum, yum, yum!!

With the sauce and the eggplant slices ready, we can clear up some space by beginning to assemble the moussaka. You line a baking dish with some parchment paper, and then you put down a layer of eggplant slices:

You follow it up with a layer of meat sauce:

...And then you just keep alternating layers until you run out of eggplant slices and meat sauce. Easy peasy. I stuck it in the fridge once the layers were assembled. Then I began to work on the bechamel.

For that, it's a basic thing. You start with a roux and then you add a kind of cheese to it. I don't have easy access to kefalotyri, and I didn't feel like using parmesan or romano as a substitute, so I used that feta and that halloumi I bought yesterday.

Most feta cheese in my country uses cow's milk or goat's milk. The brand I like to get uses sheep's milk. And the halloumi made by this same brand uses a combination of sheep, goat, and cow milk. Both of them are VERY GOOD!! And it took all my willpower not to just snack on the cheese as I was trying to grate it, but I managed:

Once that was all set, I set it aside and then separated a couple of egg yolks away from some egg whites. I'll use the egg whites to try to make French-style tiramisu in the near future; it'll be good!! We need the yolks for the bechamel:

To begin a bechamel, you gotta add 120 grams of sifted flour to one stick of melted butter, really really slowly. The "slow" part is important, otherwise it gets really weird:

When it looks like the above image, that's when we add 3 and 3/4ths of a cup of milk. But again, this has to be done VERY slowly, or else instead of a velvety-smooth awesome sauce, you end up something lumpy and terrible. I made a LOT of lumpy and terrible sauces before I got the hang of it, hahaha!

Here's how it looks after one cup of milk is incorporated. You gotta drizzle it in slowly, a little bit at a time:

Here it is with 2 cups of milk added:

And here's how it looks after all of the milk is added. This is the part where we add in the egg yolks. We have to make sure that it's not too hot so that the egg yolks don't cook into hardened yellow masses upon contact with the sauce.

Then you add in the cheese. And yes, ALL of that cheese is going into the pot!! Because I am a cheese goblin!! It has been written!! It is known!! Bahahaha! 🤣

From there, you add in nutmeg and white pepper, a little bit at a time, until you can notice their flavors when you taste it. Here is the finished sauce! Isn't it beautiful? It's very, very thick, velvety, and delicious!

From there, we just dump it on our partially-assembled moussaka, it's fine! And the result looks like this:

(yes, we do get to eat whatever sauce is leftover in the pot!! it's delicious!! and if you were here, I'd share it with you, too!! and I'd give you the whisk - everyone should get to lick delicious things off a whisk at least once in their life!)

Anyway! So we take this and stick it in the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit until the top is all brown and toasty-looking! Here's how it turned out:

I've been on my feet making this and trying to keep my workspace clean since I woke up this morning, and goodness me, I'm very tired, and this rib injury makes my body hurt a lot, haha! Oh well. I managed to snag this picture of the sunset out of my window while waiting for this to bake. Here, maybe you'll like it:

...And that's the end of today's letter! Because I am thoroughly exhausted, hahaha! I can't wait to share this with my friends tomorrow!

...I really wish you could be here to try it. I know all the very practical and realistic reasons you can't, of course. But maybe somehow my wishes and all these delicious flavors will reach you anyway. Or not. Probably not, haha. But I'll hope for it nonetheless. Maybe something good will happen - if not for you, then maybe for someone else.

Please stay safe out there, okay? Please remember that there is moussaka and people in this universe who would make it for you. Please remember that you are loved and cared for. Please don't do anything that would cause you to be erased from your world. Lots of people need the light of your existence to keep on shining in the way that it does.

I'll write again tomorrow, okay?

Your friend, Lumine

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