#you gotta make the reveal... not so obvious kid...

[pagesofkenna]

should i

write some little vignettes for my adventure fantasy OCs, from the book i literally already have drafted and just need to type up and run through several edits;

spend more time trying to figure out this secondary character's plot arc in the YA fantasy book i'm staunchly refusing to let myself work on because i need to finish the aforementioned project first; or

draft together a plot outline and start considering worldbuilding for a completely different fantasy project altogether (but in my defense its the fantasy project thats been in the back of my head since i was 12)?

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

i would never pretend to not know you, pt. 1

eddie shifts his van into park and approaches the big red double doors of the harrington house. before he can knock, the door on the right swings open, revealing a smiling steve harrington.

“heard you coming,” he says by way of explanation. “your uncle’s in the kitchen. come on.”

eddie follows steve down the hallway to the expansive white kitchen. the room could fit the entire munson trailer in it two times over. wayne turns from the sink when he hears them coming.

“hey, son,” wayne greets him, wiping his hands on a rag he has tucked into his work belt. “i’ll be done in a few minutes, just gotta get underneath here and sort some things out.”

eddie stands there awkwardly for a minute before steve waves his hand.

“c’mon, we can wait in the den. you want something to drink?”

eddie shakes his head and then follows steve into the next room, which is filled with a big, squishy looking couch. steve practically throws himself down onto the middle cushion. eddie sits as close to the arm of the couch as possible.

“how’d you do on o’donnell’s test today?” steve asks, a crooked grin on his face. “i feel like she might be writing them to torture me specifically.”

“eh, i don’t think it was too bad.” eddie tries to say it in a way that puts an end to the conversation, not really interested in making small talk.

“yeah, well. you’re, like, really good at english.”

“what?” eddie looks over, surprised.

“i mean, i can tell. when you talk in class?” steve looks a bit confused, like he doesn’t know why eddie’s so surprised. “you notice things i wouldn’t have ever even thought about.”

“oh. i don’t know about that. i just say stuff that seems obvious.”

steve snorts. “yeah, obvious to you. it’s cool, you know. how smart you are. i wish i could think like you.”

“you’re smart.”

steve just smiles then, shaking his head a little. just then, wayne comes into the doorway that leads from the kitchen into the den they’re sitting in.

“all right, fellas? i’m all done in here, steve.”

“okay, thanks, mr. munson.”

eddie stands, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans.

“well, see ya,” he says to steve, turning to follow wayne out toward the front door.

steve follows. “hey, maybe you could come a little earlier next week and we could talk about the next quiz?”

eddie looks back at steve. if eddie didn’t know any better, he’d say steve looked almost hopeful.

“uh, yeah, maybe.”

steve smiles. “okay, cool.”

~*~

“you know, steve’s a pretty good kid,” wayne says out of the blue halfway through their drive home.

eddie gives a vaguely positive-sounding grunt in return.

“he could use some friends, i think. he has a tough time.”

“steve?” eddie turns from where he’s focused on the road in front of him to look at wayne in surprise.

“his parents… well, it’s not my thing to tell, but. he’s alone a lot. lonely. you could be nice to him.”

“i’m always nice to him,” eddie grumbles.

“i know, son, but you know what i mean. you remember how you were when you first came to me. isolated. remember how good it felt when you met gareth and finally had a friend to talk to at school?”

“steve has friends,” eddie insists.

wayne sighs. “just think about it, okay?”

“sure.” eddie will do no such thing.

~*~

eddie’s right. steve does have friends. he has people he talks to at school, he has his basketball teammates and his lunchmates, he has the swim team.

but wayne’s also right, because if eddie looks a bit closer, he notices how steve walks home from school alone. how every week when eddie comes to pick wayne up from his maintenance work at the harrington house, steve always answers the door and he’s never seen a trace of his parents there. how steve sits at the diner alone on weekends, struggling through his homework.

~*~

the next week, eddie shows up an hour early to the harringtons’ to pick up wayne. when he rings the doorbell, it takes about two minutes for steve to let him in.

“oh,” steve says surprised. “hi? i think wayne’s still working out back.” he glances down at his watch.

“no, yeah.” eddie rubs at the back of his neck. “you mentioned talking about the next quiz last time?” he holds up the worn paperback he’s been holding at his side.

steve smiles, wide and bright. “cool.”

he leads eddie into the same room they’d sat in last time, flopping down on to the cushions again. eddie takes the same position up against the couch’s arm. he can see steve’s school things spread across the coffee table, papers covered in barely legible chicken scratch.

“you weren’t in lunch today,” steve says, matter-of-factly.

“uh, no. we do hellfire on wednesdays.”

“thats that game, right?” steve sounds genuinely curious.

“yeah, dnd.”

“what’s it about?”

“what do you mean?”

“how do you play?”

“steve harrington wants to know how to play dungeons and dragons?” eddie sounds a little incredulous, even to his own ears.

steve smiles, a bit smaller than he had at his front door. “yeah, man. you’re into it, right? that’s kind of cool.”

eddie snorts. “i don’t know that anyone has ever been called cool for playing dnd before.”

“you care about it. a lot. that’s cool.”

eddie clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. he shifts where he sits.

“or we could talk about the book,” steve says softly.

“yeah, let’s… do that.”

~*~

they’re finishing up work on steve’s review sheet when wayne comes in through the kitchen.

“it’s all cleared up out there, steve,” he calls as he moves to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.

“okay, thanks, mr. munson. i’ll let my parents know.” steve stands from where he’s been sitting and stretches before walking into the kitchen. eddie follows him.

wayne smiles when he sees them. “didn’t know you were here already.”

“yeah,” eddie replies. “just working on some homework.”

“he was helping me understand the book we’re reading in class,” steve adds. “i don’t get it at all, but eddie’s really good at it.”

“that so,” wayne says, drying his hands.

“yeah, you should hear him in class. it’s pretty impressive.”

eddie can feel himself blushing.

~*~

“that was a nice thing you did, kid,” wayne tells him once they’re in eddie’s van. “real nice.”

“just doing homework. easier to do it together than alone, i guess.” eddie shrugs.

“sure.”

~*~

it becomes a regular thing. eddie shows up about an hour early every wednesday and helps steve with his english homework.

“this is really cool of you, man,” steve says after a few weeks.

“everything’s so cool to you, harrington,” eddie smiles, laughing a little. steve pushes at his shoulder, laughing along.

“no, i mean,” steve runs his hand through his hair. “i know people at school think i’m annoying or whatever—”

“i don’t think anyone thinks that.”

steve gives him a look. “i’m not very smart and i ask dumb questions in class. i can hear people sighing when i raise my hand.”

he has a point about the questions. “it’s not a crime to ask a question, steve. how else would you learn,” eddie says anyway.

“well, whatever. i’ve had tutors before but they’ve all kind of—quit or whatever. i can be… frustrating.”

“you’re not frustrating. you just learn differently. that’s not a bad thing. you are smart.” eddie sees the skeptical look still on steve’s face. “and anyway, i’m not your tutor.”

“you’re not?”

“no. i like you, steve. we’re friends.”

steve smiles.

~*~

it’s not that steve harrington himself is a bully. he’s not. he’s nice, actually. eddie has never even seen him so much as surreptitiously trip some poor nerd in the hawkins high hallways.

but he holds a space in the collective hellfire imagination onto which they can project their own high school feelings of inferiority.

steve is good looking. he comes from a good family. he has a lot of money and his clothes are always clean and new. he’s well-fed and girls love him. he somehow skates through all his classes. he is everything that nerdy outcasts hate.

so eddie doesn’t tell his friends about the budding friendship between him and steve. he doesn’t tell them that every week when they ask him to go get milkshakes or to come play video games or to catch a movie that what he’s really doing when he lies to them and tells them he has plans with wayne is spending time with steve.

his friends can’t know. he’s gone on enough tirades against the capitalist jock class that he’d look like a total hypocrite to be hanging out with their de facto king. he’s not sure he’d survive them finding out.

~*~

“did you mean it?” steve asks the following week.

“hm?” eddie doesn’t look up from the page he’s reading.

“when you said you liked me. did you mean that?”

eddie looks up in surprise. “of course i did.”

steve smiles. “good. because i like you too.”

“yeah?” eddie returns his smile.

steve nods, moving a bit closer on the big squishy couch. “but, um. i’m not sure if we mean it the same way.”

eddie swallows. “what do you mean?”

“i mean, i might like you as more than a friend.”

eddie laughs. “why?” he doesn’t mean to say it. it just comes out.

steve doesn’t laugh though. “you’re smart. you think about things in ways that other people don’t. you care about the things that are important to you, even when other people might think they’re stupid. you’re nice to me when you don’t have to be.” steve’s closer now. “have you ever kissed anyone before?” eddie nods. “i haven’t. only in those stupid games. not for real.”

eddie looks into steve’s eyes. he looks hopeful. eddie swallows again.

“okay…” eddie’s still not sure where this is going. he could take a wild guess, but things don’t usually go the way he hopes.

“would you…” steve bites his bottom lip. “i know i’m—would you want to? kiss me, i mean.”

eddie takes a deep breath and then nods before closing the distance between them, so much smaller now than when they’d first sat down.

steve’s lips are warm against his. the kiss is more chaste than anything, short and sweet before they break apart.

“oh,” steve whispers with his eyes still closed. he licks his lips. “that was—” he opens his eyes, smiling at eddie. “that was really nice.”

“yeah.” eddie doesn’t take his eyes from steve’s lips.

“do you want to—”

eddie’s lips are back on steve’s before he can even finish his question.

~*~

they break apart when they hear wayne coming in through the back door of the kitchen.

steve’s breathing slightly heavier than usual, smiling up at eddie.

eddie tries to smile back, but the reminder of the world around them brought on by wayne’s presence in the house with them has his gut roiling. he’s not sure what shows on his face, but he can see the worry as it creeps onto steve’s face.

“is this—was this okay? are you okay?” steve asks.

“yeah,” eddie replies, trying again for a smile. he thinks he’s a bit more successful this time. “just, uh. this was really fun but. can we…”

“can we?” steve prompts when eddie trails off.

“let’s just keep it to ourselves, yeah? like, don’t tell anyone at school.”

eddie regrets it the minute he says it. steve’s eyes shutter as he watches.

“oh, right. obviously. like anyone would believe me anyway,” steve laughs, but it doesn’t sound quite right.

they’re sitting upright on the couch again when wayne comes into the doorway.

“all set, ed?”

eddie gathers his school bag.

“see you next week, steve,” he says, and follows wayne out of the house.

to be continued perhaps… (no taglists, sorry)

[letsgetrowdy43]

All you gotta do is ask—

Jack Hughes x reader

Request: Maybe something about jack’s best friend going to a game and is wearing someone else’s jersey and he gets jealous. Like he likes the reader but hasn’t said so. Reader likes him and doesn’t know he feels the same until they’re out after the game and he says something along the lines of “my girl shouldn’t have someone else’s name on her back. It’s wrong” and maybe cute fluffy ending because this girl is hormonal and needs the emotional rollercoaster

Jack's eyes caught hers from the bench, Ellen to her right chatting about Luke's rookie year, as she smiled fondly at him, giving him a little wave before his attention was pulled back towards the game.

"He adores you," Ellen smiled as the young girl turned to her with reddened cheeks. "What?" "Jack," she nodded towards her son on the ice, the two of them watching as he took a shot and the puck flew straight into the back of the net, both his mother and his best friend shot onto their feet, screaming with their hands in the air.

He faced the crowd with a grin, tongue stuck out of his mouth and he yelled out of excitement, sending a wink in the direction of his best friend as she blushed at the action, "he loves you," Ellen continued as the crowd calmed down, the devil's goal song still playing loudly as the girl swallowed thickly. "I love him too," she said with a soft smile, "he's my best friend," Ellen gave her a knowing look before they went back to watching the game.

The game ended with a Devils win, the first one in their string of home games before the All-Star break.

Ellen, Jim, and the young girl sat in the family room just outside of the locker room, a smile on her face as baby Haula ran over to her as she chatted with Kristen. She was pulled out of their conversation as the door opened to reveal Luke followed by a grinning Jack who maneuvered his way around the room to get to her while Luke went to their parents.

"You played so good," she grinned as he pulled her in for a hug, "my superstar," she whispered as he laughed at the nickname. "I scored for you," he mumbled into her shoulder, before looking down her back to see a larger 43 on her back, he pulled away tensely, a look of confusion on his face as her face filled with worry.

"You're wearing a Luke jersey?" he gasped. "Yeah, he gave it to me before the game, your jersey is in my car," she grinned, but his smile did not return. "I scored for you and this is how you repay me," he whispered, tone whiney as she rolled her eyes at his antics.

"I'm being serious, this feels so wrong, my girl should not be wearing my brother's jersey," her brows furrowed as her eyes caught his. "Your girl?" "Don't kid yourself, you've been mine since we were in middle school," he said smugly as her face grew a new shade of red. "You can't just deem me 'you girl' J," she said with a grin, her arms wrapping around his neck, "you gotta ask me first," her tone was taunting as he leaned in to kiss her but she dodged him and stared at him with raised brows

"You gotta ask," she fumbled, fingers playing with his damp curls. "You've always been mine Y/n/n," she shook her head, loving the mental hoops she was making him jump through as she smiled menacingly. "just ask J, it's all you gotta do, or you could beg, whatever floats your boat," her grin grew as he rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said batting his lashes as she giggled at the theatrics of it all, "Would you do me the honours of being my girlfriend?" he asked so kindly which rewarded him with a slow kiss to the lips instead of an answer, the action telling enough that it was an obvious yes.

a groan sounded from behind them as Luke, Dawson, and John grimaced at the sight in front of them. "Kissing my brother in my jersey, yucky," Luke said which gained a nice strong elbow to his ribs from his father who just smiled proudly at the couple.

"Trust me, she's taking it off," the entire family room groaned in disgust as she hid her face in his chest in embarrassment, "I didn't mean it that way guys, don't be gross!" which gained a laugh from the room as he stood them with wide eyes and rosy cheeks.

-

-

-

[powderblueblood]

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

CHAPTER NINE — EDDIE the OBVIOUS and the LADY SPHINX

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: a tense dinner at rick lipton's place reveals some part of al munson's reason for returning to hawkins. your saturday morning detention is tense, and you and eddie both get more than you bargained for when you crash hellfire club to profile them for the school newspaper. content warnings: MINORS DNI AS ALWAYS warnings for smut, cunnilingus, dick-fondling, p in v, reference to drug usage, slight perv!eddie, silly teenagers having silly teenage fights that actually aren't so silly (kinda antagonistic ronance version!), reference to childhood physical abuse, al munson jumpscare, lacy's dad jumpscare, both lacy's real first name and surname is used in this chapter. no description of body type. just descriptions of a good time eye emoji eye emoji word count: 16.4k

Dear Lord, 

Grant me the serenity to accept the shit I cannot change, the courage to change the shit I can, and the wisdom to seize a damn fine opportunity when I see one. 

Amen. 

When Al Munson cooks a spaghetti dinner, you know he means business. 

Once a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes, always a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes.

He learned to cook on the grill, but perfected it in the joint. During one of his stints, a homecoming tour of the state of Kentucky, he fell in with this web of wiseguys who made him stagiaire in their makeshift kitchen, slicing ghostly slivers of garlic with a razorblade. 

Al’s insisted on the method ever since. Even now, hunkered over in Rick Lipton’s kitchen, preparing a meal for which Eddie’s already lost his appetite. 

Eddie had already given up on the whole there are a bunch of knives right there suggestion, knowing his father loves few things like he loves performing his whole Kiss the Cook bit. He plays it to the hilt, an exercise in tart, rich, floral smarm that beats out the complex flavoring of his tomato gravy by a country fucking mile. Down to that bullshit Serenity Prayer. 

“Courage to change the shit you can? Man, you can barely change your underwear!” Rick heartily chuckles, heaping pasta onto his plate. The way the noodles slide against each other, thick and glistening like worms full of nefarious promise, makes Eddie want to ralph. 

He hadn’t had much of an appetite for anything since he’d visited the nurse’s office. 

He felt weird. Strung out. Guilty. And angry. Guilty like, what got into me, why’d I do that and angry like, why’d I leave you just standing there like that, and why’d you let me.

“C’mon, kid, you look famished,” Al pulls that anger-inducing Cheshire Cat face, placing a solely ornamental leaf of basil on top of the dish Rick passes. This fucking asshole. These fucking assholes. In cahoots together. “Wayne’s Hungry Man dinners ain’t hittin’ the way they used to, huh?”

Al’s smile doesn’t slice through the tension of the room nearly as clean as he wants it to. Eddie feels Wayne stiffen at his right elbow, sees Rick divert his eyes from across the table.

“Well, Dad,” Eddie says, forcibly stabbing and winding his fork through the spaghetti, “You know what coulda solved that?”

“What’s that, huh?”

“You staying out of lockup for longer than the duration of an MC5 song.”

Al doesn’t falter. Eddie bets he could open-palm slap him and that shiteater of a grin wouldn’t slide from his face. 

“I’m here now, ain’t I?” his father clicks his tongue, digging right into his own dish, “You really gotta learn to live in the moment, kid.” 

Eddie’s spaghetti-filled mouth starts to form around the indignant words, I’m not a kid! but Al beats him to the punch. Quite literally. 

“Though, judgin’ by those scuffs on your knuckles, looks like you did somethin’ without thinkin’ it the whole way through first. Huh?” Al slurps his pasta noisily, and Eddie feels Wayne tense even more, if that’s possible. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

The sense memory of silver flashes colliding with Billy Hargrove’s face in the parking lot, the sense memory of you and your vicelike grip trying to pull him off before he killed him. The sense memory of bile blowing through his veins, stumbling upon those lowlifes talk to you like that. Rage blackout. Yadda yadda.

According to rumor, Hargrove was lucky that Eddie didn’t cave his entire cheek in. He still couldn’t totally see out of his right eye, the swelling was that gathered and insistent. 

Eddie lets the question droop in the air, before eventually mumbling, “S’nothing. Just– shit at school.”

Wayne had been the first one to ask him, obviously, catching sight of his bandaged hand when he came upon Eddie staring a hole into–you guessed it–yet another Murder, She Wrote rerun, following your encounter on the examination table. 

Eddie had given it the brush off so Wayne had given it the brush off. He was no stranger to his nephew bearing busted knuckles, even if it did make the old man’s blood chill every time he saw it. Those interactions always reeked of you poor kid, like Eddie was the perpetual victim. Got under Eddie’s skin a little.

But Al asks him like he knows something. And Rick won’t look at Eddie. 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your lovely new neighbor, would it?” Other shoe, meet short, hard drop. 

Eddie’s grip tightens around his fork, and in the back of his mind, he summons the spirit of the sharpest tongue he knows.

“Who?” He’s this close to prank calling people using his Lacy impression, that’s how good it’s gotten. 

Al cradles his cheek against his palm. His eyes, the eyes that might as well have been scooped out and shoved into Eddie’s skull, they’re such iris perfect replicas, search his son for cracks in his composure. Al stabs, stabs, stabs aimlessly into his dinner. 

“You’re a lot of things, Eddie Munson,” he says, “but you ain’t dumb.”

“Truly do not know what you’re yakkin’ about. Can I eat?” 

“Come on, Eddie boy! You out there getting into scuffles over that little gold-plated piece’ah something?”

“Can I eat?”

“A little forbidden flame, maybe, two’ah you?”

“Can I eat?”

“Can’t say I blame ya. If I were… twenty years younger.... Or maybe she likes ‘em a little more mature. Think I got a shot?” Al’s teeth are starting to grit, spittle starting to fly. Frenzied in the way he’s trying to eek a reaction out of his kid. “Huh? Eddie?”

Al’s lecherous suggestion of you toed the line of too much for the Munson men, it seems. Eddie and Wayne’s voices overlap. 

“Maybe we leave that girl out of this, Al–” “–can I eat, or what?”

SLAM! Al’s fist comes into direct contact with the hardwood of Rick’s dining room table, plates and cutlery and glasses clattering nervously. Rick jumps a little, groaning under his breath. Wayne drags a hand over his eyes. 

“You can answer the goddamn question! Shit!” 

Eddie, for his part, should probably feel a little scared, his dad raring up on him like that. Instead, he just lets his wound-up fork sag in a pile of spaghetti and leans back in his seat. The thing with Al Munson is this– his bark has always been way bigger than his bite. Especially when he’s as coked up as he is right now. 

Ever since he’d roared into Rick’s driveway in that eyesore of a muscle car (alright, it was a little cool– but in, like, a lame Dukes of Hazzard kinda way), Al had been operating in sharp angles and backed-up nostrils. 

Shit, Eddie would be shocked if there wasn’t residue on that razor blade he used to slice the garlic. That stupid, reckless, peacocking-as-a-father motherfucker. 

He folds his arms, waiting for Al’s tone to pitch on down, for the tremor in his hand to act up, for him to say–

“Sorry. Sorry,” pressed through a line of grit teeth, “I just… Hmm.” It’s like Al is actively trying to plaster the mask of his charming grin back on his face but it keeps slipping out of his fingers. “She’s a real dime. Smart as hell too, huh? Shame about–”

“Al, what’re you gettin’ at with all this?” Wayne asks, and thank god he does. Eddie doesn’t know how much more dancing around the subject he can take, but he won’t be the one to bend first. “What did you bring us up here for? And don’t–” the eldest of all Munson holds a hand up, “--say you just wanted to get together. I don’t buy it. Eddie sure doesn’t buy it. And if Lipton here buys it, he’s a fool.”

Al shrinks, a snot-nosed kid under the magnifying glass his big brother holds to him. “Wayne–”

“You bring us up here to make us part of that goddamn stupid high school feud with that girl’s father? You really spin out that far?”

It’s not often that Wayne speaks up, but when he does, boy. Can that man dress a situation down. 

Al falters. Wayne has that ability to knock him out at the knees, and Eddie makes a mental note to ask him how he does that. 

“Listen. Alright. It’s not– alright,” Al clenches his hands in fists, a flex in and a flex out. A gesture Eddie notices, because he does it too. As if he’s trying to grasp the last threads of trust from them. “With that girl’s old man permanently benched so to speak, there’s an opportunity for another batter to step up. Okay? Jail sentences get doled out like Halloween candy–who knows that better than me, right?--but life goes on. There is… an opportunity here. Work still needs to get done. Work that I could’ve– that I can do.”

Eddie knows that his dad doesn’t realize he’s saying a lot of nothing, because Al’s always saying a lot of nothing. Vague promises with no real end to them. What catches him this time around is the glint in his eye, hidden behind the drug-induced one, and the glint of a gaudy ring on his finger. A green gem stamped in the middle, like a cat’s harvested eyeball. Huh. 

“... let me make good on this, boys. For once. Let me take care of y’all.” Al huffs a faux-humble breath, glancing toward Rick for some kind of illustrative reassurance. “Y’know, seeing how it screwed up that little girl, seeing her big, upstanding daddy go to jail and all, I really–,” a swallow, for dramatic measure. Gunning for Best Actor here. “--felt it. Made me think, Eddie, of all the times when you were just a squirt… Made me wanna do right by you, is all.” 

“How much of that doin’ right have you got up your nose, Dad?” Eddie sneers, putting two and two together. Of course this is what he’s back for; not to sell, couldn’t possibly be that simple in the convoluted world of Al Munson, but to supply. To get a suit fitted, pretend to be the big man. “Try before you buy isn’t exactly the most cost-effective policy.” 

“Jesus, why, why have you got to make this so hard on me, kid?” Al is just about wringing his hands right now, scaling the apex of his desperation. “You have an in! You have the in!” 

The in, of course, being Eddie’s connection to you, and by proxy, your dad. Al’s like a bloodhound that way, sniffing out the few good things that Eddie has going for him from miles off and tearing them right from his hands and acting like he’s doing Eddie a favor by making him his man on the inside.

“This whole town could be ours if you would just–”

That does it. Eddie leaps from the table, chair clattering to Rick’s warped wooden floor.

“I don’t want this whole town, are you fucking crazy?!” he yells, spittle flying, “And–and I certainly don’t want it if it’s anything to do with you!”

What the hell would make Al think that Eddie would hitch his wagon (which, granted, ain’t in too great a shape–he’s barely passing any classes, thanks to a pickup in business he guesses he can thank his dad for) to the living sunk cost fallacy that his father is? What the hell does Al Munson want with that kind of fantasy, one where he’s king bastard of the Hawkins cockwalk when he can’t even stick within county limits for more than a couple of weeks?

Well, Eddie actually has a pretty good idea, one that occurs to him like a lightning strike as Al struggles to keep his temper level. Let Eddie look like the tantrum-throwing brat.

Yeah. Exactly. 

He’d wind Eddie into whatever scheme he was cooking up and ditch it, half-baked, leaving Eddie in a kitchen with all the smoke alarms going off. Elbow deep in an unsalvageable mess, because Al could never follow through on anything. 

He’d have Eddie exploit your relationship for a couple of instances of, “That’s my boy.” Because Al still thought that trick worked; making him believe he’s loved, valuable, wringing every last drop of loyalty out of him because a boy needs his father… and a father needs his boy, y’know!

Fuck that. 

“We should split.” It’s Wayne who says it, batting away the apologetic glance both the Munson men get from Rick– like he’s Al’s keeper or something, managing his moods. Like he isn’t raking in a cash cow from Al’s great Ray Doevski replacement theory. 

“No, c’mon–” Al half-heartedly protests, like he could still save the evening but can’t really be bothered. 

Wayne follows Eddie’s furious stalk out the door, tearing a cigarette from a soft pack as he hauls into the passenger side of the van. 

Eddie, a tightening ball of rage, whacks the steering wheel with one good thump. He’d been stupid enough to entertain Al these past couple of days– out of confusion more than anything else. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were.

“The in,” Eddie mockingly mumbles as the van roars to life and he peels out against scattering gravel. 

Wayne has his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index and lets that settle for a beat or two. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

Fists flexing around the wheel, Eddie knows very well he’s been caught red-handed. There’s no way Wayne had gone this long without suspecting anything, even after he’d specifically warned him. More of a suggestion, actually; Wayne knows that Eddie will do whatever he wants, regardless. 

Unfortunately, he’s like his father that way. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Eddie says, a shoulder shrug, a mirthless lilt in his tone. “She…”

Again, Wayne stays silent. Waiting for Eddie to tell on himself, like he always does. 

“She doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this,” Eddie arrives at, voice a little choked. “Whatever Dad’s planning on doing–”

“Neither do you,” Wayne reminds him. This is where Wayne and his stoicism pulls Eddie up short. Neither do you, and the only way you avoid the blowback is if you two avoid each other. But at that same time, Wayne always knows where Eddie’s heart is at. Knows that his heart is too big not to follow. 

Even if Wayne hasn’t seen you two together, laughing ‘til you’re stupid like the kids that you are, can’t he see…

“Why can’t this be easy?” Eddie asks, his voice small. Echoes of a littler him, one that Wayne would pick up in the truck after school. Head hanging, backpack trailing, kicking pebbles and cursing the world. 

Instead, through a sage swirl of smoke, Wayne’s hard stare seems to peel back some. He’s always known where Eddie’s heart is at. Eddie’s starting to think he wishes he knew less. 

—

Jesus Christ, are you ever sick of learning your lesson. Of reflecting on what you’ve done. 

It’s exhausting, and more to the point, pointless, and even more than that, boring. 

Truth is, you’re beginning to second-guess your adoration of brilliant thinkers. Those motherfuckers knew too much, and in the past week, you’ve found yourself yearning for the days where you got by on knowing nothing but the good stuff! The juicy gossip, where the best parties were at, what lipstick could not stand up to what nail polish! When intellectualism was a bedtime story you’d read to yourself under the fucking covers and you didn’t have to decode the labyrinth of your own stupid feelings! 

Sure, you felt like a husk most of the time, but you’d take that over this graceless stumbling shit!

You should be allowed to smash the windows out of Billy Hargrove’s car and no one should be able to say boo about it! God!

Instead, however, you’ve been caught up in an as-yet-unprecedented display of seething and sulking. People are still whispering about you, natch, glancing at your belly like you would’ve if that heinous spawnous prank was played on anyone else. At the very least, they still have the good sense to flinch when you match their stare.

Billy Hargrove’s two week suspension means you don’t have to worry about seeing his ugly face, but it also comes with the two week guarantee of not seeing Eddie. 

And the probable delay of your Hellfire article. Which is paramount. Obviously.

Speaking of Eddie, there’s too much speaking of Eddie to do. 

You keep replaying the sneak attack from Al Munson in your head, him sliding his aviators down his nose to get a look at you. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Payin’ my respects. Your father, shit. Shame what happened to him. He was– well. I was gonna say he was a ‘good man’, but that sounds kinda funny, don’t it?”

It wasn’t about Eddie, except it was about Eddie, because every stupid thing is about Eddie.

Especially the fact that you’re sitting in your college-going beau’s chariot, about to slink into Saturday detention. If it weren’t for him…

“Lacy?” a voice calls from the driver’s seat. “You alright?”

You snap to, rearranging your face into something definitive and sharp and pleasing to the eye. Because you’re fine! You’d said as much when he snuck you into the basement of his parent’s house–why wasn’t he back in school yet–and said as much when he squirmed against you, asking you if you were okay in that weighted way that really meant can I put it in yet. 

You’d gotten on all fours because it allowed you to roll your eyes when he was all, oh, woah! sliding it in from the back. 

You’d reached around and teased your clit to attempt a climax. Trying to imitate that clumsy rhythm from the nurse’s office. It didn’t quite stick–paled in comparison, like a Simon and Garfunkel tribute act made up of people that didn’t secretly want to fuck each other. 

And then he gave you a ride this morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to bore yourself out of misbehavior– but you’d told him that you had newspaper business to attend to. 

“I’m fine,” you brightly declare for the fourth and final time, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. It was a weird gesture, but the shine had buffed off. He’s cute and all, but you two had gone to see Paris, Texas at the Hawk and he didn’t get it.

He didn’t get how much you clowned on him for not getting it afterwards either. You hadn’t been able to get it out of your head, the way he shrugged away from you at the diner as you ribbed him for his plodding misunderstanding of Harry Dean Stanton.

Coldly, you thought of the trade-off that you and Eddie had agreed on. Repo Man for Paris, Texas once it came out. You had to pretend you liked Repo Man a lot less than you actually did to swing that one, because Eddie wasn’t keen to lock in to some movie about a dude crying in the desert or whatever unless you angled in the fact that you owe me for making me sit through all that machismo. 

“You love machismo. You wanted to nail that sweaty little punker, I saw you squeezin’ your knees together.”

“For Emilio Estevez? Please. I had my eye on the old guy. ‘Ordinary fuckin’ people, I hate ‘em’--that kind of shit really does it for me, Munson, you know that.”

“That why you’ve been entertaining the pleasure of my company for so long?”

“Down, dog.”

Anyway. Fuck. 

“Listen, Lacy, I gotta tell you s–”

“Can’t right now! I’m already late and Fred is gonna have my head,” you chime, all saccharine, climbing out of the car. “Call me!” You pray that he doesn’t. 

Slam. What an extraordinary waste of time. 

As instructed, you make your way to the gym, which you think is a little weird. Detention usually denotes writing pointless, go-nowhere laments on how sorry you are for being such a bad kid, right? Think on your sins, yadda yadda yadda. 

Typically enough, no one’s here on time. Everyone’s late. You’re perched on the bleachers like an asshole, sitting alone like an asshole. That’s the goddamn ticket, isn’t it? You’re alone in all of this. You always have been. 

Like, for example. The Al Munson walk-on role into the surrealist tragi-comedy that is your fucking life. You can’t tell that to anybody. Not Eddie, naturally, not your mom, not Nancy because then you’d have to explain the continued and complicated Eddie of it all, not Ronnie because just because. And the ickiness of it hangs off your every move, and you can’t shake it, and no one can share it. 

You’re beginning to wonder if that’s true of all the parts of you. The ickiness. It’s all a little heavy, isn’t it? 

As if on cue, hearing ickiness called by name on the wind, Mr Kaminsky pushes open the gym’s double doors. 

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Had to see it for myself.” Your loathed History teacher says, full of glee.

“Sir, if this is some kind of elaborate courting ritual, I have to say, you’re not my type.”

“Careful up there, Doevski. There’s more detentions where this came from.”

“Freak accident. I can’t be caged.”

“Well, let me enjoy the exception to the rule!” Kaminsky claps, and you jerk at the echo. 

You sigh so hard you almost unlatch something. “What elaborate torture have you got planned for me today? Want me to run laps or something? Because these shoes aren’t built for that.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lacy,” the teacher digs, “We’re still waiting on your comrades.”

“I’m late, I’m late, I know I’m late!” a familiar voice comes skidding right up behind Kaminsky, baseball hat askew, mud stains on the knees of her overalls. “Some goddamn lunatic tried to run me and my bike off the road–”

“Ronnie?”

“Hey, Lacy!” she calls brightly and breathlessly, slamming herself down on the bleachers beside you.

“Ron, what’re you–”

An unmistakable heel-click rounds its way into the gym, and in walks Nancy Wheeler with her face all pinched like a porcelain doll. She receives your big ol’ center-piece-missing jigsaw puzzle of a look with a knowingly arched eyebrow.

“You’re late, Wheeler,” Kaminsky tries, but Nancy’s already consulting her wristwatch. 

“Detention starts at nine sharp, right?” she says, impenetrable as always. “It’s 8:58.”

“Then can I have my admission of lateness struck from the record, actually?” Ronnie asks and Kaminsky shoots her a withering one, consulting his clipboard. 

“Alright, we got one more. Give it the goddamn two minutes, but then I’m bumping her to suspension. You wanna count it, Wheeler?” he scoffs. Wow, so he’s like a round the clock douchebag. To everybody. 

At what you only can assume is 8:59, the mismatched gangle of Robin Buckley comes slinking over the waxed floor, looking half-awake and pissed off–more pissed off, you might argue, now that she registers her company. She perches on the furthest end of the bleachers, pointedly away from the loose gaggle of you, Ronnie and Nancy. 

You shoot Ronnie a look like, what’s the sitch there? Thought you two were getting all bosomy. 

Ronnie just shrugs. 

“Alright!” Kaminsky claps the clipboard again, “So, this is a fun group. Bunch of smart girls who got caught doing idiot stuff. We’re gonna make you pay for that today. Sound good?”

The whole bad bunch of you just stare at him, slit-eyed. 

Your collective punishment, as it turns out, comes in the form of scraping old, disgusting, errant gum and other mystery sticky bullshit from the bottom of the bleachers. 

“Stupid is as stupid does,” Kaminsky sagely says, handing you each a tiny chisel from the art room, “And I understand that some of you are violent offenders,” that’s a pointed look at you and Ronnie, by the way, “but please. Don’t use this opportunity to take another girl’s eye out. Your community college acceptance is riding on it.” 

Motherfucker. Everyone knows Ronnie Ecker is in the running for valedictorian.

He leaves the four of you to your own devices, promising to check up on you all in a solid forty-five. 

“How many times you think he can beat off in forty-five minutes?” Ronnie immediately asks as the teacher disappears through the door. 

“Depends. Is he doing it in the shameful privacy of his three-door rust bucket or the clandestine confines of the AV room?” you question. 

Nancy makes a gagging sound but adds, “And is he using his imagination or Ms Kelley’s yearbook picture?” 

Nasty Wheeler! That girl has truly endeared herself to you.

Robin, however, doesn’t weigh in at all. She just sort of glares and angles herself onto the nearest bleacher rung to start scraping the age-old mastication from the wood. Tension in the air.

“Buckley’s got the right idea,” you say, twirling the chisel in your fingers, “Sooner we get started, sooner we get the grossness over with…”

Ronnie sticks close by you, which is nice. You always like having her in proximity. Nancy, who’s nothing but work ethic in everything she does, starts furiously working on a corner a little ways away from you both– and Robin. 

It doesn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes of silent, resigned scraping, for you to get bored. And disgusted. 

“At what point do we get to do the whole prison thing of what are you in for?” you say, sitting up and letting the blood rush back to your head. 

“Well, yours goes without saying,” Ronnie chuckles, “going all batter on Hargrove’s car like that. Did you actually bust a window?”

“Just swung it around,” you say, driving your heel into the bench, “I may have inherited the felony misdemeanor gene, but I didn’t inherit getting caught. What about you?”

Ronnie flicks another gum wad off with her chisel, “Actually, you might wanna ask Wheeler about that.”

Your brow furrows. “Nance?” your voice rings down to the lower rungs, “Ronnie here says you were implicated in her detention-getting.”

“Yeah, um. Well, I heard about everything when you went–”

“--totally awesome psycho–”

“--in the parking lot and… I just. I wanted to clean up all that shit. From your locker. And then Nicole came by, smacking her stupid gum, and it kind of got ugly.”

Nicole. The irony of it, Nicole, gnashing out shittalk about you and Eddie in order to impress whatever unfortunate member of the wrestling squad she’d dug her press-ons into this week. Nicole, who’d already invaded Eddie’s territory, much to her apparent shame. 

What a majorette of a bitch.

You would’ve given anything to be ringside for this, her versus Nancy.

“You toed up to Nicole Summers?” a little pause, your voice goes smaller, “For me?”

Nancy sits up, her perm clouding around her. She points her chisel Ecker-ward.

“Ronnie was the one who smacked all her books out of her hand.”

Ronnie pffts. “Like she hasn’t done that to me a million times. Eye for an eye.” 

“Nicole wouldn’t even go near her on account of that one time she bit that one kid for catcalling her.”

“Oh, stop,” Ronnie’s gathering a blush, batting her hand all coquettish. 

“Wait, that was real?” you say, eyes darting between them, “I thought that was just some freak rumor we came up with.”

Rabid Ecker was one of the less clever nicknames your group of crown ghouls had come up with, so it obviously didn’t stick too long. 

“We?” Nancy scoffs, not mean.

“The royal ‘we’,” Robin Buckley drawls from her prostrate position on the bleachers. That sounds mean, the bite in her voice. 

Your hackles can’t help but rise at that cold snap in her tone. Does she have a fucking problem, or something? 

“And why are you here, Robin?” you call, hands knitting in your lap.

“I was with these bozos,” she says, a note-faithful mockery of your pointed voice, “For some godforsaken reason… and now I really wish I wasn’t.”

“Why’s that?” you press.

Nancy’s whole upper half tenses. “Robin–”

Robin’s chisel clatters on the bench, a toss made out of frustration. She looks to the three of you with pursed lips before letting loose. 

“Steve found out,” Robin says, “About the pregnancy test thing. In like, the worst way he could possibly find out, which is so goddamn unfair, unfair in the first place because of Nancy not telling him–like, I get it, your choice or whatever but you guys have been together for, like, a really significant period of time and you know how he feels about you–”

You and Ronnie can’t even get a breath in before Nancy rises from her seat, fingernails digging into tiny little fists at her side. She’s all spit and fury, she’s on Robin.

“Oh yeah, the worst way he could find out, Robin, the worst way which is that you blabbed to him!” Nancy yells, ricocheting around the gym, “‘Oh, I couldn’t help it, he asked me what was wrong and it all just came out–’ Give me a break! I mean, are you really that co-dependent that no one can tell you anything in confidence without you running to tell Steve?”

Robin’s face seizes in a snarl. “Are you really that stupid that you forgot to use protection with your long term boyfriend?”

“What is your problem?” Nancy’s voice whistles through her teeth, sheer exasperation, “How is this any of your business?”

“Should we stop this?” Ronnie whispers, with no intention of moving.

You shake your head in tiny, tiny increments, gossip monger past getting the best of you. “I kinda wanna see where this goes.”

“He is my friend, Nancy! And you broke his heart, dumping him right after– after–!”

Both your and Ronnie’s mouths drop into an ‘o’. You’re kind of disappointed–a big Wheeler-Harrington bust up and you weren’t first on the call list?! 

“Jesus, Robin!” Nancy spits, perm flying, stomping towards Robin, “Get a personality! Sublimating yourself onto Steve Harrington isn’t doing you any favors!”

“Why, Nancy? I thought you loved him.” What confusing wording.

“I–”

Okay, these two girls are walking right into shit you can’t take back territory. You and Ronnie rush the bleachers, breaking the negative space between them both. 

“Ladies! Break it up!” 

“You heard Kaminsky! We’re all holding chisels, this could get ugly fast!” 

You look to Nancy and her eyes are glistening. Reddening with the heat of anger and frustration. Robin’s jaw has hardened into a tough clinch, arms bound around her chest. Ronnie, she just lingers awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look. Your hand goes out to Nancy’s elbow, and she jerks away from you at first. 

“Let’s go. Come on.”

“We’re supposed to be chiseling,” Nancy seethes. Your eyes roll, no patience for this go-nowhere brat routine, and you lead her to the other end of the bleachers anyway. Saying something like, we’ll take one end, Ronnie and Robin take the other, we’ll get this shit cleared in no time.

Nancy starts working furiously, but that’s kind of not what you had in mind here.

“You broke up with Steve?” you ask, point blank. Like she’d ask you. 

She keeps chiseling for a few heavy, angry seconds. “I wasn’t gonna tell him, you know. I wasn’t gonna tell him, and we were gonna be fine. He could have lived without knowing. And then–fucking Buckley– and he had all these questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like why didn’t I tell him. And why was I so put out by the idea. Like, why didn’t I want to have his hypothetical baby at age seventeen… stupid shit like that.”

“He’s sensitive.”

“He’s a moron.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” as if you didn’t have irrefutable proof in her favor. But that was the old Steve Harrington, wasn’t it? He’s meant to be some soft-hearted do-gooder dream boy now, right? 

“No, Lacy, he’s a moron,” Nancy hisses, spit flying again; you’ve never seen her like this. Blue eyes bold and frightening with conviction. “Why should I have to tell Steve about something like that if it’s just a big nothing? If I was never even actually pregnant or whatever? Why can’t I just have that to forget about myself? Why do I owe him part of every single goddamn decision I make about my life?” 

This is a bigger conversation, isn’t it? What you’d once regarded as poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, boo-fucking-hoo is now poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, stifled by his redemption.

“At least if he was still an asshole, I wouldn’t feel bad about breaking up with him. After all this.”

“Now it’s just like you’ve kicked a puppy.”

“Exactly.”

“What total bullshit.”

Nancy shoots the tiniest smile up at you, a stiff little nod bobbing her neck forward.

There’s a long beat as your focus reframes around Nancy. All the two of you wanted were lives of your own. Existences not indebted to anybody, good or bad. Shit.

“I’m the sublimator, by the way. I know that,” Nancy whispers, great big eyeballs glittering at you, “It’s easy to… fold into someone like Steve when, y’know… you’re not exactly likeable on your own. I just. I wanted to hurt her. She doesn’t deserve it. But I wanted to.” 

Her chisel gestures towards Robin, working alongside Ronnie in relative silence that Ronnie awkwardly tries to puncture.

You understand that. Wanting to hurt people after you feel like they’ve breached your trust. Even accidentally. And doing it. And the ugliness of the shame after, you’re familiar with that too.

You reach forward and brush a little lint off her collar. “Thanks for getting in trouble for me, by the way. With that stupid prank and everything.”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffs softly, “You covered for me. And you didn’t have to.”

“Hey,” you hold out your pinkie finger. It’s the least you can do. “Promise is a promise, right?”

—

The members of Hellfire Club gather in an awkward row, standing under the odd, warm glow of the drama room lights like a police lineup of suspects least likely to score a date to homecoming. Sorry, Ronnie. 

“What do you think,” you say, swiveling your focus to Jonathan, who’s standing there twice as awkwardly with his camera slung around his neck, “Should we take ‘em outside, make ‘em do Abbey Road?”

In the middle of it all sits the man who can’t help but be of the hour, what with the throne and the glowering and the gravitational pull. Eddie, slumped into that wild set piece left over from god knows what drama club production of, like, Henry VI or Pirates of Penzance or whatever, is so beyond unhappy with what’s unfolding in front of him. 

Good. 

Ronnie clearly hadn’t even fluffed him into the idea. Which she offered to do, when you’d hitched a ride home on the back of her bike after the tension of Saturday detention dissipated. You’d firmly nixed the idea, the sneak attack being the whole point of this thing. 

You’d also learned that a two week suspension was no way no how going to keep Eddie from sneaking in and running this Hellfire session, which meant your article wouldn’t be delayed after all.

So, nah. Good ol’ Ronnie, she just let you stalk in there with your notebook and your pen and your glasses and your Pentax-wielding Jonathan Byers, ready to entirely fuck up Eddie’s day, which gave him no opportunity to protest or call for embargo. Because if he did, it’d raise eyebrows of suspicion and everyone would be like, I thought you two were weird trailer park friends? Is something going on? Something emotionally incoherent and ambiguously erotic? Should we tell everyone? Should we call the Mayor?

“Capital idea,” Eddie says, not exactly to you, but to those in general attendance like he’s playing to the cheap seats, “Maybe I can mow them down in my van and save them from this torture.”

Your smile tightens and Eddie matches your expression, both your mouths straining against your skulls. Wisecracks will not save him. He should know that by now. 

“Let’s get a couple of the maestro while I excavate the disciples’ brains,” come the instructions and a swift pat to Jonathan’s shoulder. He flashes you a bewildered kind of look.

“Wh– how do you… want him?” 

Incredible phrasing. You glance at Eddie, but not really at him–not enough that he can register and sucker your gaze in. Bathed under the dramatic glow like he was born to sprawl all cock-kneed on a throne like that.

“Exsanguinated and hung on a meat hook, preferably,” you say to Jonathan, “But, I trust you. Do whatever.”

As you gather the rest of the Hellfire denizens at the end of the table to interview them talking head style, Jonathan Byers slinks towards Eddie. 

Eddie shifts uncomfortably, less equipped to keep up that fuck you stormcloud persona when he’s at the other end of a focusing lens. Plus, Byers always kind of gave him the creeps. Not to be a dick, but. Here we are. 

Byers, to Eddie’s complete and utter horror, clears his throat and attempts to scrounge up some semblance of conversation. But, of course, it’s Jonathan Byers so it’s not fucking small talk. Any other day of the week, Eddie could get behind the notion of eschewing such how about this weather we’ve been having type social norms but Byers decides to jump in with–

“So you guys are…” he trails, leading the witness. Snap goes his little aperture. That’s unfair. Means he caught Eddie’s immediate facial reaction which, hands up, he has never been good at hiding. 

“Neighbors,” Eddie supplies in a rush, twisting on his throne again. “She can… hear me yelling about DnD from my trailer. S’why she’s here. To shut me up, I guess.”

Byers adjusts his stance, capturing Eddie from a lower angle– a little more badass looking, he hopes. Frame the fucking curls, for god’s sake.

“Gotcha journalism,” Byers quips. Byers quips. 

Eddie’s mouth relaxes and he huffs out a little, “Exactly.”

Byers shifts yet again, clearly covering all wondrous angles with his dinky little thirty-five millimetre whatever the fuck. 

It’s not that this whole sneak attack article for the Streak thing is getting under Eddie’s skin– Eddie didn’t even have a chance to acknowledge it getting under his skin. You just breezed in here and started sticking bamboo spikes under his fingernails, like the little warmongtrix you are. 

And now you’re sitting at the end of the game table, ruby red end of your fountain pen pointing at Gareth, noting down everything he says without even the slightest hint of condescension. These dorks are looking at you in awe and fear, save for Ronnie who just looks smug, and you’re listening to them. Really listening to them. Your face fixed with that hard little glare that tells him you’re recording the minutiae of their answers. 

Eddie digs the pad of his thumb into his lip. Why would you want to do this? Why aren’t you avoiding him at all human cost? What is your angle here?

“She’s cool, y’know.” Click, goes Byer’s camera again. “Lacy.”

Eddie’s voice comes out distant, his focus tugging away from you super, super slowly. 

“I heard you blew it with her.” 

Byers, caught off guard, lowers his lens. “She told you about that?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing. It’d be easier to pretend like the idea of you and Byers hanging out was nothing if Byers and Eddie weren’t both classified outsiders. 

“Well, uh,” Byers fiddles with something on his camera, shrugging in turn, “It was weird, talking to Lacy back then. You know. She was kind of–”

“She’s different now.” Eddie answers too fast, springing to a defense that didn’t call for him. He sits up a little bit straighter, spine iron-rodding, and tries to recover.  “I mean. She’s retired the whole icy Swatch rat bit. She’s not, like– pretending to be something.”

Jonathan gets this look on his face. One last click of the camera. 

“I wouldn’t know. I blew it, remember?” But you didn’t, man.

Little does he know. 

“Are we done?” Eddie says, launching himself from his chair and slapping palms on the table. His DM screen shakes. Byers steps back with a flared little danger zone! look tossed your way. “We’ve already lost–”

“--fifteen minutes of glorious game time?” you drawl, crossing a final ‘t’ in your notes. “Of course. My apologies. Tight schedule?” 

Your eyebrow arches as you flash your eyes up at him. His jaw flares. You– you’re good. You’re vicious and you’re good.

“Theee tightest,” Eddie grits through the falsest of grins and jerks his head, waves flying and the rest of his little Hellfire sheepies following in motion to take their seats. 

Ronnie takes her time, mumbling under her breath, “You sure this is a good idea?”

And she was right, with what she’d said before. You are using this as an excuse to get in his face–bolstered only by the fact that he had now gotten in your pants, and you weren’t letting him slink off that easy. Especially with the workplace cameo appearance from Al Munson that you had just been forced to live through. 

You’d been looking over your shoulder ever since, expecting to see him leering at you over those sickening aviator sunglasses. 

“Oh, I’m positive,” you assure her, turning to Jonathan. “I need, like, one or two shots of them playing then you can take off.” 

“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait,” Eddie interrupts, an arm raising over his head to signal halt, “Okay, so first, you storm the castle with your little camera boy without my approval, now you think you’re going to stay for the game?” His ire is genuine. “It’s Hellfire Club, Lacy. Members only. We don’t need bleacher bunnies.”

“Oh, come on, Munson!” you lilt, situating yourself on an abandoned desk, away from the game table. “The people want to know how the Satanic sausage is made.”

“The people being?” 

“Your critics and fans. What is this all for, if not to piss off Hawkins’ Presbyterian and garner a whole new legion of Hellfire acolytes, huh?”

“We don’t need any help from the press on that front.”

“Really?” You drag out your single-word answer, using the seconds to count the minimal amount of players in the room. Not even Ronnie could boast 100% attendance, with her marching band obligations clashing with Hellfire sessions. Eddie glares at you. Yeah, yeah. 

“A–actually, Eddie… I think it’d be… pretty cool,” Gareth says, waver slowly fading out of his voice. “I mean, if we’re in the school paper, my Mom’ll be less suspicious that we’re like–”

“--doing k-bombs in the drama room…” you mutter, loud enough that only Jonathan can hear. 

“--and stuff.”

Eddie exhales so hard his nostrils flare, his shoulders tense, he’s about to shit. 

“And who else would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Gareth the Treacherous here?” he snarls, looking pointedly around the table, “Jeff? Dougie? Cyrus? Ecker?”

The dorks erupt in yapping agreement, totally swinging for Gareth’s angle. 

“Shut up!” Eddie barks, throwing himself back onto his throne. Ringed fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But this, in the business, is what they call a mutiny. Don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re all gettin’ swirlies with half of the Weekly Streak stuffed in your goddamn mouths.”

That’s creative. He really could have had a fruitful career as a bully if he wasn’t so gooey in the middle. 

“Munson, I promise you can ride circles around me on a motorbike on live TV if this all goes to shit.” 

You make a fluttering hand motion that reads proceed, which he, naturally, hates. He stares at you, like white light white heat searing through stares at you. And then his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath.

What follows is… exactly what you should have expected, actually.

Eddie Munson transports the present-and-correct party of adventurers back into the eye of their campaign. Their mission? Infiltrate a cult of royal knights that have been bewitched by a high priest who is forcing them to sacrifice the kingdom’s innocents in order to fuel his dastardly arcane magic. The plot is… involved. You’d done a light touch of research on how exactly the dragons and the dungeons all worked, so to speak, but it didn’t really seep into the membrane. It’s something you could only really engage with if you saw it in action– you’d have to rely on Eddie and company to fill in the blanks that the extensive lore left. Like, how exactly did these mythical dice come into play? How does a character sheet set you up for success, or failure? What the fuck is a skill check and why does it read so complicated? 

And fill in they… kind of did. 

Aside from the technical aspects, you find yourself suckered into the story. Quite literally, gripping your seat as Ronnie’s character–a highly capable bard, from what you understand–attempts to escape the hateful royal sect and find her way back to her party. They’d taken her hostage, and she’s managed to escape her chains but they’re ruthless, on her like dogs. Eddie illustrates every sweaty, panicky movement as they close in on her, and your fine, painted fingernails are dug into every word.

Eddie weaves these stories like gossamer– both in the sense of delicate intricacy and destructive nature of that big red monster thing from Looney Tunes. Each plot twist is created to elicit a sense of true foreboding, embellishing how effective his storytelling is. It forces each and every person at the table to face fear head on, dig deep and use what they were given in order to prevail, even if they’re shaking in their boots while doing it– shit, this is good, you should be writing this down.

Blindly, you sketch the word gossamer into your journal, not tearing your eyes away from the table. You barely notice the flash going off to your immediate right– Jonathan Byers’ lens pointed right at you. 

“Uh–” you start, Jonathan reaching to grab his jacket from behind you as the game goes on. 

“I’m headin’ out– gotta pick Will up from…” he trails off, but you fill in the blank. Nancy had mentioned that Mike was hosting his friends for a DnD session tonight too, and the party naturally included the most junior Byers. You nod, checking the time– Jesus, where had the last three hours gone?

“Tell Nancy I said hey, if you see her,” you say, “and thank you.”

Jonathan shrinks into himself, bashful. “Don’t worry about it.” A beat. “I still want that Echo & the Bunnymen, though.”

Your face peels into a grin that says don’t worry, I”m good for it! and you wave him off. The Hellfire party don’t even notice his leaving, except for Eddie who, being judge, jury and executioner, notices everything. 

“...and on that sweltering note, germies and Eckermen, we must bid each other good eventide. Until next time.” 

An operatic groan of disapproval goes up from the players, and you realize this must be a regular thing. Eddie always leaving them wanting more. Tease. 

“I know, I know, if you had it your way, you’d be locked in here, pissing in buckets and the show would go on all night,” Eddie jeers, rising from his seat to start collecting his stuff, “but I wouldn’t inflict that on the janitorial staff. ‘kay? Scat. Outta my sight.”

With great indignation that swiftly turns into backslaps of appreciation, the Hellfire Club moves out of the drama room one by one. You stay put, and Eddie avoids your eyes completely.

Folding shit back into that madly overstuffed DM folder, he throws a strained-casual, “Need a ride?” to Ronnie, the last straggler. 

She shakes her head, smile barely contained. “Uh-uh! Two wheeled my way here and I’ll two wheel my way back– you, uh, have fun though.”

“Bye, Ronnie,” you call after her, voice properly piercing through the air for the first time in hours. Eddie reacts like he’d completely forgotten you were there. Which, impossible. It’s also impossible for him to keep up the whole punk-ass overlord act when it’s just the two of you. As it is now.

Alone, together. Again. 

There’s a charge between you, as if that even needs pointing out. Like the electric fences surrounding McCorkle’s farm. 

You and the wagonful of your one-time buddies, Carol and Tommy and Tina et al, used to drive out there more than a little under the influence. Your favorite trespassing activity was reaching out for the electric fence, hooking your fingers around it to feel the darting shock permeating your skin. 

“What the fuck are you doing? Can’t that, like, fry your brain?” Carol’d ask you, slugging back the last of her beer as Tommy and Steve Harrington attempted to tip a cow in the background somewhere. 

“Try it, Care,” you’d giggled, half drunk and half coursing with adrenaline, half alive and half dead, “It feels weird. It feels good!” 

You’d woken up the next morning in your plush bedroom in Loch Nora, two little blisters on your fingers, smarting from all that pleasure seeking. Did you regret it? Or did it just make you want to do it again?

Eddie still doesn’t look at you as he speaks from the opposite end of the table. 

“Get everything you need?”  

“No,” you answer, short. “Missing my key interview.”

Now he looks. Now he has the nerve to. And irises lock on irises, Eddie frozen in place. He knows he’s not getting out of this. 

What’s more, you don’t think he really wants to.

“Pretty controversial subject matter,” he says, tone a whole shade softer than the commanding voice of God he’d used through the duration of the session. A little higher. Nervous. “What with the panic, and all.”

“Me and controversy are bedfellows,” your shoulder darts up, “I’m the big spoon.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod; your tone is as marble-solid as ever, eyes trained and undarting, “Like when I implied the Tigers were straddling a generation-defining line of bold faced failure. I got in a lot of trouble for that.”

The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch a little. “Define ‘a lot of trouble’ by your standards.”

“They made me print a retraction!” You’re genuinely incensed by the memory, hitching forward in your seat, “I mean, how insane? ‘Bad for school spirit,’ they said. Like I’m some kind of pep exorcist.”

Eddie tongue folds in between his teeth and he turns his head a split second too late. You can see him biting back a snicker, or something, and point to Lacy and yadda yadda yadda—but you smile, and the tension feels like it’s waning. Thank god, because it is suffocating you. You take your in and up you get, moving to the seat closest to his right-hand side.

“Can we get started?” The fountain pen is uncapped, the notebook cracked, your legs crossing. Eddie sinks back into the throne, his face warming up under the yellow stage lights.

“Okay. Hit me with your best shot.” Fire away.

You’re quick with it. “Why this?”

“Really? That’s your first question?” Eddie looks bemused.

“It’s the least rudimentary of all the Ws,” you explain nice and plainly, plucking up fingers to illustrate your points, “People know who you are–against their will, mostly. People can glean what the game is–or will, once I put a fine point on the… everything that just happened there. What people don’t get is why. Why indulge yourself in this?”

His fingers knit together in his lap, nearly shy.

“Because it’s fun.”

“Nope, too vague.”

“Vague?”

You physically knock the notion with a waving hand, leaning closer over the table, errant miniatures and spare pencils still scattered there.

“Basketball is fun. Chess club is fun. Throwing rocks into a rusted can of SpaghettiOs is fun if you can make a case for it. Too vague. Didn’t come here for the everyman answer.”

“What did you come here for?” That’s loaded. The way he’s daring himself to look at you is loaded. How soft his voice turns is loaded.

“The Munson answer.” It hangs in the air like someone dropped off the gallows. “Dig for me.”

A long, metastasizing beat. Resistance is futile, as it is and ever will be with you. Eddie hitches his arms across his chest, hiding a smile in the heel of his palm. Flattery works with him. Even if you'd never call this flattery. 

“Escape,” he eventually tells you.

“Go on,” you press.

“There is this… insatiability when it comes to fantasy. To stories like this, the kind with big, thriving worldscapes. Reading ‘em, even writing ‘em– it’s good, but it isn’t enough sometimes. Sometimes you want to wrap yourself up in the reality of elsewhere. Travel to a world where things are different.”

“But not idyllic.”

Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. 

“No. If these campaigns were just… the bad guys are defeated by a mighty sword that you and you alone always happen to have on you, that’s not a campaign. That’s a circle jerk.”

“The idea is to be challenged. To fight for something.”

“Right. To adventure. Beat the odds.”

“And you can’t do that alone.”

“Well, you can. I think that’s called, like, writing a book.” 

“Ohh-kay, Eddie…”

“No, no, no, I mean,” Eddie shakes his head, planting his elbows on the table top, “Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill of the unknown? Of not knowing what the other characters are gonna do, or what sick twist the dastardly, brilliant DM is gonna pull out next?”

He’s on one now, so you don’t stop him. Eddie’s eye takes on that mercurial shine, the same one he had while he was cruise directing the campaign. You wonder when he got like this—got bit by the God complex bug. Here, he could dare people to defy him when he’d been the defiant one his whole life. 

You think about a littler him, yearning for escape. 

“It also doesn’t work if everyone wants to be a hero. Too many heroes spoil the stew, okay, so you need to find other, y’know, likeminded weirdos who fall into different alignments. Those alignments only work when they’re played off other characters. Your merry band of outlaws or pirates or underdogs or whoever. You work together, or you betray each other, or you come back together because of some mighty sworn oath and you see your mission through. It’s not about winning or losing, y’know? Whatever happens out there,” he gestures to beyond the barricade of the drama room doors, “doesn’t matter. Whether life’s beating the shit out of them or not, my little acolytes, as you call ‘em, sit at this table and they’re part of something bigger. Something thrilling. Magical. Alchemic. They’re part of–”

“--a team.” You think about a littler him, yearning for people to escape with.

Eddie flaps his ever-animated hands. “Not my phrasing. But.”

“That thread runs through it all,” you say, drawing a line down the center of your notes with the inactive end of your pen, “Teamwork. Belonging. Victory– an escape from the mundane to victory, especially when you can’t find it elsewhere.”

Eddie’s chin rests on the back of his hand as he squints at you. “Sounding a little sportsmanlike there, Lacy.”

“And?”

“Thought you weren’t pulling for the everyman answer.”

“A hook’s a hook’s a hook,” you quirk your eyebrows, “–and, when you put it that way—” 

“When you put it that way.”

“—what really makes you any different from, say, the Tigers?”

“Besides the cult of personality surrounding all jocks–”

“As if you don’t court your own little cult of personality—“

“—we actually win our campaigns.”

You start to retort, then stop. Letting that sink in.

“Oh. Oh, that’s good,” you say, sketching it down. 

“I foresee letters to the editor in your future,” Eddie says, and he’s smug about it. Anything to aggregate the status quo, no matter what the blowback might be. 

No one in their right mind here behaves like him. He just… does whatever he wants.

You find yourself wanting to touch the fence. 

And maybe it’s that you stare at him a beat or so too long, but Eddie shifts his gaze down to the wood grain, flexing his hand. Scabs still marring his knuckles and all. 

“It wasn’t broken or anything, then?” you ask, gesturing to his hand. 

Eddie looks back up with a drag. You can feel what’s coming.

“Oh no, it was shattered,” he tells you, eyes-wide earnest and lying through his teeth, “My bones just heal super fast. My mom, she ate a shit ton of canned spinach when I was in ute.”

“Right, the calcium—”

“Nah. Rare botulism side effect,” he shrugs like, whaddaya gonna do!

Dumbass. 

“Rare Botulism Side Effect is a good album title.”

“I’ll tell the guys.”

Silence falls again, and if you reach around, there’s something close to normalcy in there. Among the spikes and confusion. 

“Um,” Eddie’s face contorts into a tiny cringe, “I found out what the… what the prank was, by the way. I obviously wasn’t here to witness the whole masterpiece theater of it all but– but Ronnie told me.”

A tight and ugly feeling constricts your chest. You look away, nodding through a grimace. You’d opened your locker with the practiced caution of someone diffusing a bomb since that whole incident, which sucks as someone who derives real joy from slamming metal doors. 

“Pretty creative bit, huh?” is all you offer. 

“Almost too creative for Hargrove,” Eddie counters, uprighting a fallen miniature with one finger. 

“Are you trying to say I was being hysteric, jumping on his car?” It sounds like you’re offended, but. 

“No,” Eddie meets you right where you’re at with this sparkle framing his stare, “I’m saying it was probably a collaborative effort. You could go seek even more batshit revenge, if you wanted to.”

“And would you be there to stop me before I cut Carol Perkins’ breaks?” 

You can see Eddie biting his tongue between his teeth oh-so-lightly… Saliva catching in the low light. It’s warm in here. Stuffy. 

“Prob–” 

“I miss you.” 

You cut him off in such a harsh, unforgiving way that Eddie feels his words rammed back down his throat. He blinks a couple of times, tempted to shake his head to make sure he heard you right. But there you are, your sight line running clean through him. You couldn’t be talking to anybody else. 

“You do?” His voice is so small that his lips barely move. His lips, teased by his tongue, wetting them. 

“Don’t act brand new. Everything’s harder without you. You have to know that.” 

He gets snagged on the angles in your voice. By without you, he can only imagine you mean since he started giving you the cold shoulder and you started hitching rides in that college dork’s Ford Cortina. And by everything, he can only imagine…

“Lace…”

This is hard. This is horrible. This is uncomfortable and risky and as exposed as you have ever been, but it’s necessary.

“I can’t stand the tension of not being around you,” you say, breath feeling harsher as it speeds past your molars, “And I can’t stand the tension when I’m with you either, with you and wanting to–... so what do I do, Eddie?”

You focus on him, adjusting as if you were looking through the viewfinder of Jonathan’s Pentax. Eddie’s face, bewildered and angelic, with his parted mouth and his honorific glow of the stage lights haloing the frizz in his hair. He looks like something you want to commit to memory, as if to say see?! How could you deny this? 

You rise from your seat, ever the investigator, and bear over him with hands on the table. Cards on the table, too. A genuine question smarts in your mouth, too sour candy you have to spit out. 

“What do I do, Eddie?”

Eddie inhales with a sharp touch as you stand up, inspecting, demanding. He goes to tell you I don’t know… in the meekest of tones but the arch in your eyebrows says don’t you goddamn dare. You terrify him, and you make him dig. 

“Forget it. Forget about all of it,” he breathes, almost tasting your perfume, “We can reset. Blank slate. Pretend like we don’t know each other. Pretend like none of this ever happened. It’d be better. Safer. Easy. Right? We could totally do that. We’ve fooled everybody so far. Even ourselves, into thinking this was… we could...” 

“Fuck you,” you say in a soft rush. 

Eddie only realizes that you’re both smiling when you kiss him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking and everything, your hands winding around his collar and your frigid fingertips finding his neck. The shock of your skin on his, the matchstick crack of your mouth on his propels Eddie onto his motherfucking feet. He leans over you, knocking you into the table as your tongue works its way deep into his mouth. 

You give him an, “Mm,” and if feels like an ascent to heaven.

Sparkles in the static makes the stuffiness evaporate, makes the room come alive. Your legs part to invite him closer to you, your hands faster and more insistent than his are. You pull at the hem of his Hellfire shirt and yank your head back, a string of saliva married between your mouths. 

Fingers are more bold than they were in the nurse’s office, weaving the leather out of Eddie’s belt buckle. A deep ridge etches between Eddie’s eyebrows and his hands are propped in a mid-air surrender. Your eyes, your everything fucking eyes, are weighted with want. And challenge. Because you always do have to get one up on him. 

“Reset this.” You tug at his zipper. “Tell me to stop.” 

“Lacy…” Eddie whispers, watching you pull at the waistband of his boxers with his mouth agape. He’d dreamt about this. Thought about this. His cock about jumps into your hand like you’re Snow White and it’s a goddamned hummingbird. Pen marks on your fingers. “Jesus, y–...”

Eddie’s arms angle up behind his head, like a strung-up marionette, fabric of his shirt ghosting against his nipples in the stretch. This only makes him angle his hips further into you, eyelids flickering and his blood breaking the speed limit on its descent. Fuck, and then you fucking touch him– fingertips along the length of him, featherlight and goading. 

Eddie’s groan is broken, half-caught in his nose. You’re looking at him like he’s a bad puppy, like you’re teaching him a lesson in scolding masking adoration. You’re beautiful and he wants to tell you so, but it all comes out in a whimper. Your hand closes around his cock, thumb brushing rii-iii-iight along the ridge of his head.

“Tell me to stop,” you echo yourself, and you’re fascinated that it comes out sounding like you know what you’re doing. You don’t. You’ve never been thrust into a net of feeling like this, never had anyone look at you the way Eddie is now– like he’d throw himself on a bed of open flames for you, so long as you kept touching him. It’s drunkard-making. It’s a full headrush. The gradual glisten of his reddening head looks delicious to you. 

“Tell me to s–”

Grip tightens around him and Eddie moans from right in his sternum, his arms dropping to cradle around your head. He can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t believe he’s fucking doing this but–

“Stop,” he gasps, fingers winding in your hair. His entire spinal cord is begging him to buck into your hand, your mouth, your anything, but he steels himself. “Stopstopstop, Lacy. Fuck– fuck.” 

Your eyes widen, cheek in his palm. “Really?” Said in the most painful, the most misread did I do something? lilted tone. Your hand doesn’t exactly go slack right away. 

“Yeah. Yes,” Eddie murmurs, eyes screwing closed and opening again, the most manual effort ever put behind a blink. “I c–I didn’t do this right, the first time. This is stupid. This is so stupid.”

And so your hands go, and you feel the anchor of your heart slowly dropping… But Eddie drops his face right down to yours. 

“You deserve… so much more than giving me a handy on school property,” he tells you, and feels almost coherent about it. “Hot as it is. Right out of my… nastiest dreams as it is.” 

Oh. Oh. The corners of your mouth pick up as Eddie presses his forehead to yours, just about evening out his breathing. 

“Had a premonition about this, didja?” The pressure of his face on yours, his breath on yours, his skin on yours. It’s nice.

“Came to me in a vision,” he grins, crooked. Slides his thumbs along your cheeks and kisses you, slowly and noisily. “I’m a prognosticator.” Tongue half in, half out your mouth. Your heartbeat sinks between your legs. In a good way. “Been known to prognosticate.” 

“Five dollar vocab word,” you mumble into his mouth, can’t help but push your body against him like a cat begging for attention. Eddie’s lips latch to the space right below your ear, a place where his mouth makes you feel like cymbals are clashing in your stomach.

“Come home with me,” he says, the note of pleading in his voice making your legs go numb. His nose and his lips dragging against the side of your neck, begging you to focus on the details and not the bigger picture. “Please.” A swallow. A beat. A ragged whisper. “... I missed you. Too. Y’know?”

“I do…” you sigh into his curls, readjusting his boxers, “actually need a ride… so.”

—

The van ride back to Forest Hills is tight with a tension that makes you both laugh, your mouth still buzzing from the kiss Eddie’d laid on you right before he’d helped you into the passenger seat. Even after he’d insisted you not touch him from the drama room to the parking lot, insisted because, “This thing,” he’d gestured to his crotch, his hard-on painfully zipped into submission, “this thing is gonna get me hauled over by the cops!”

“Don’t laugh!” you scold, mouth straining around the gleaming smile you’re suppressing, body all giddy. Voice ringing clear and high even over the cranked radio. Sabbath, naturally, Vol. 4. Wheels of Confusion sounds like treacle to you, mixed in with his laugh.

“I’m no-oo-oht!” Eddie says, syllables punctuated with chuckles, “I just– I am expressly escorting you back to my place! To, like, have sex with me!” His hands beat against the wheel, teeth sunk into that pretty bottom lip, giddy-upping so hard he actually does swerve the van a little.

“Woah!” you yelp, “Eddie, the road! You should’ve let me drive, you’re feral!” 

Eddie moon eyes at you, reaching over to pinch your chin. “Lace, please don’t get all sore about this, but I will never trust you behind the wheel of this van. She’s a delicate piece of machinery and you would drive her like it’s the demolition derby.”

Narrowed eyes and all, you kind of have to concede. You’ve never been the best behind the wheel, a road rageaholic, and if you were to add feeling as frisky as you do now on top of that sundae… you press Eddie’s DM binder into your lap a little harder. Down, girl. He doesn’t help, thumb stroking your chin and everything. 

“This is suh-rreal.”

“Stop zooming out so hard or I’m not gonna have sex with you!” You’re kidding. You’re so completely kidding. If he doesn’t touch you someplace lower than your neck soon, you’re going to disintegrate. 

But Eddie pauses. “Like, you don’t. Have to.” Panicky, freezy. Hastily pulling on his good guy hat. “You don’t– by the way. It’s whatever you want. Call timeout at any time. I know I’ve been kinda–”

“Eddie.” 

“...you still want to though, right?”

The giggling dies down as you edge closer and closer to your respective trailers, darkness washed over them like a swathe of dark blue paint. The lights in both trailers are out. Nobody home. Wayne, something about the weekend, something about overtime. Your mom… who knew. She’d been moving around in shadows more so than usual lately.

Everything out there is dimmed, except you two. Eddie doesn’t waste a second once the motor shuts off and the radio is silenced; he slams the driver door shut but the teensiest knot of hesitation tightens in your stomach before he reaches the passenger door. 

And then he reaches the passenger door, gathering you out of it and pushing you up against the side of the van. Snapping you out of it instantaneously using the bare force of his mouth against yours. 

“Eddie…” mumbled, your lips barely unstuck.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry. I just really like kissing you.” 

Something pops in your chest; he’s… Jesus, he’s so sweet. Coal-eyed and excitable and lovely, kissing you with nothing left to spare.

“Hey. Redirect,” you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your waist. “Come to my place.”

Eddie casts a wide glance back toward your double-wide. The forbidden castle. “Your… y–are you sure?”

“Sure that my bedsheets are cleaner than yours, yes.”  

He murmurs, “Bedsheets,” with a darkened gaze and a grunt. Bedsheets. You wanted him in your bedsheets. “Get your key. Get your key. Get your key before me and my dick have a shared brain hemorrhage.” 

That new lock doesn’t stick at all, thank god. 

Eddie, ordinarily, would nosily register all of his surroundings– he had an extremely barebones idea of your place, cast mostly in darkness like this, from that first night he’d driven you back from the fallout at Harrington’s. But he’s too busy nosily exploring your throat with his tongue, recording and archiving every breathy sound you make as you tug him toward your bedroom. 

Cardboard boxes still trip you up a couple times. Did you ever unpack, or what?

You break from his heady kiss, vision doubling, taking in a lungful of air as you push Eddie through the door. Spine flattens against it as it shuts, the noise drawing a little bit of sobriety into the room. You reach to hit the floor lamp on and your bedroom is illuminated in a soft, orange glow, a scarf thrown over the bulb to diffuse light. A half-effort to make you forget where you were sometimes. It works; the edges of everything softens, which is such a contrast to the definitive presence that he is.

Eddie’s chest is heaving. He attempts to get his bearings but he can barely get his eyes off of you, squirming ever-so-slightly, ever-so-sexily against the door. Like you’d captured him.

Lips swollen, watching you watch him from the door, he turns a little shy and turns to look at the ephemera around him instead. 

He’s standing in your bedroom.

You’re far more cluttered than he expected you to be. 

He expected pressed sheets and a pristine dressing table, like a prison cell designed by a set dresser from Dynasty. 

Well, that’s wrong, actually. He expected that of the Lacy people thought you were.

On the walls are a couple of tear-outs from the Rolling Stones he’d helped you liberate from your porch in Loch Nora, a mission you’d bought him breakfast for but didn’t have to. But mostly, every surface in the room is covered in piles. Piles of books, records, tapes, pens, jewelry, nail polish. And the clothes. They hung from everywhere, bursting out of your tiny closet space like bodies trying to escape. 

It’s confused in here; feels like someone who has unearthed parts of herself that she hasn’t been able to organize yet. Eddie wants to comb through it like a collector at a rarities market, he thinks, running a finger along the spine of a porcelain cat that sits on your dresser. 

“Place is filthy, cheerleader.”

“You’d know about mess, freak.”

The only really neat, clear space is, fortunate for tonight’s entertainment purposes, the bed. 

As he’s sliding his jacket (jackets, plural) off, Eddie’s eye travels to the window. 

“Did you fix your blinds?” he asks, pivoting back and forth on his heel. 

“My blinds?” you parrot. The blinds that had been broken when you moved in. The ones that sure were shuttered now. You’d made a point to fix them with whatever was left out of your first paycheck from the Bookstore. “How’d you know about my blinds?”

He could’ve lied, if he caught himself quicker. If he didn’t straighten up his back like someone had snapped him to attention. “Uuh.” 

It dawns on you like a flashlight in the eyeballs. “Were you… watching me, Munson?”

Not spying, mind. Not peeping. Watching. Eddie sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, because whether or not he’s ever going to get to be here again kind of hangs in the balance right now. 

“That. Dep…ends. What do you,” Please don’t kick him out. Please don’t kick him out. Look at the line of your fucking body as you round on him, staring him down like you want him for dinner. Christ, he hopes you want him for dinner.

Eddie swallows roughly, tone bumpy, face a dime store Halloween mask of nonchalance. Paper thin. “What do you think about that?”

Fact is, he’d subsisted on a couple of very guilty glimpses of you. Catching sight of the lines of your bare back and taught shoulders would keep him in jerk-off material for a week, just thinking about kneading out your knots and undoing your bra clasp with his teeth. 

Eddie felt positively Victorian about it. Maybe you’d flash an ankle at him next and he’d be institutionalized for hysterics. 

You look at him with the same pinpoint as you did earlier. Like you’re studying him. And then you edge closer, closer, nudging his knees apart. Echoes of the nurse’s office. 

But this isn’t the goddamn nurse’s office. You’re not straining to adapt to the element of surprise. You know that the breath Eddie takes, shuddering and wondrous as you tilt his chin up to look at you, is a sound you want on repeat for as long as you can bear to hear sounds. 

“They’ve blinded men for that, y’know? Before.”

Eddie can’t answer. Just let out a huh! as your fingers trace his jaw, thumb brushes his lip. His hands squeeze the curve of your ass, fingers beg into your thighs as he watches you, dumbstruck. His tongue unconsciously presses to the tip of your thumb and he hears your breath hitch.

A sustained shock travels up your neck.

“I mean, was it worth it?”

“Was it w… Lacy.” Eddie’s hands have breached the hem of your skirt and with a groan, his face burrows into the silken fabric of your shirt, like he’s trying to nudge it off with his nose or his mouth. Fingers are working mindlessly to loosen some article of clothing from your body and it makes you feel buzzy and trancelike. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I might have fuckin’ carpal tunnel because of you.”

Jesus. He makes you feel so…

Desired. Needed. You’ve never felt that way before, and you don’t quite know how to navigate it. So your buttons start coming undone with the work of one hand, the other shoving Eddie by the shoulder to lean back on your bed. 

Eddie, here, among all your things. Disparate in your shabby little dollhouse, looking at you like you just swallowed the sun. 

Your shirt comes off, and Eddie, in a game of match point, tugs his off too. Pause comes over the both of you. You’d seen him shirtless before; shower-bare in his trailer when the first security breach happened, a crack in the containment whatever you were pretending your relationship to each other was–affable enemies, irritated acquaintances. He’d looked at you like an animal cornered, tendons tense under his tattooed skin and you’d wanted to drag a finger or two down the center of his chest. 

You didn’t, though. You’d sniped, asked where the cigarettes were. 

This is all one big case of making up for lost time.

You’ve been looking at him so long, bra strap slipping off your shoulder, that Eddie leans forward. As if to come get you. 

Remember me? I’m real. You can touch me. Touch me, please.

His warm arms pull you to him, pull you onto the bed, pull you against his lips. It’s gentler there; not as furtive. It says, hi, I’m here. Your arms, tugging him closer as he eases you beneath him say, good, I’ve been waiting. Eddie brushes his nose against yours, you laid down with your hair fanned out on the plush comforter. 

Both your pulses must have stuttered at the same time.

His smile is serene but you can feel his forearms trembling. “I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Don’t,” you tell him, very quietly while his hand nervously tries to find the zipper on your skirt, “I just got you back.”

Your hips lift to help him and you’re wiggling the thing off and you’re wiggling your tights off and he’s thrashing his jeans off only to land back between your parted legs with bouncing recoil from the mattress. Laughter biting in one another’s mouths. The nerves are teeming off him in waves and it makes you want to kiss him all over. 

The feeling housed in your body is different; not jittery, but struck somehow. This doesn’t feel like the way it usually feels, the way it does when you disappear into spare rooms at parties or the shadow of Skull Rock or hitch your leg up against the center console of someone’s shitty car. It doesn’t feel rote, like you’re doing it to stack up experience points– that is a Dungeons and Dragons term you found particularly interesting. How many bad tongue kisses had you accepted just to feel like you’re progressing, instead of waiting for someone who wants to taste you like Eddie does? 

Your bodies caged together, you feel the eager, hard, tragically clothed line of him rub against your center. Eddie manages to free your bra clasp on the first try, which you almost goadingly applaud him for–but he cuts you short with a bewitched stare, his lovely, hot mouth laving over your nipple as he slips the fabric away. It tears the first real moan from you, your back arching into his kneading fingers as his tongue curves over your tightening bud. 

Eddie can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can barely see straight, but he’s trying to commit every second of this to a glorious Technicolor memory, sound and image capturing working overtime. The sound that comes from your beautiful, balmy mouth sounds fresh out the packet–like you’d never made it for anyone before. The look of suppressed surprise on your face confirms as much and Eddie feels like he might explode. 

He, too, has no idea what he’s doing but he can’t help his hips from jerking into you as he plays on. Playing with your nipples, remembering that making them glisten with his spit will make you whimper, and so will kissing the center of your sternum. He’s watching wide-eyed and fascinated as your brow furrows and your legs tighten around him. He’s a wonderful student, when he wants to be.

Eddie is throbbing, and there’s too much cotton and lace between you. 

There’s also this other thing, and it comes out of him like word upchuck as you try to tease his boxers down around his hips using only your feet. 

“I oughta tell you,” Eddie whispers, voice all raspy, all boyish with his hair tickling your collarbone, “I’m, uh. I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” He’s got one hand roaming over your chest, the other making indents in the meat of your thigh. It feels like he’s holding your breath right in his hands.

A new shade of pink rises high in Eddie’s already straining cheeks. He really doesn’t want to have to use his words to spell it out. “Thiii-iiss.”

Oh. A rivulet of cold realization runs through you. Nicole. Cass. Girls daring themselves to get near to him. Experience points. The great freak experiment project. 

“This isn’t that.” Your hands hold his chin, perhaps a little roughly, to make sure he’s listening. And Eddie is, breath baited. You press your forehead to his like he pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s not.”

He’s really about to ask you, what is it, then? but that feels like something you can work out later. Eddie lets you tug at his lips and you let him tug at your panties, arching up so you can wiggle them down your legs. His eyes cast to the downy hair at your mound, and it’d usually occur to you to apologize for your unshaven legs, as if it mattered. 

But the way he regards you doesn’t call for that; it calls for you to open up for him. Spread.

A rough pad of a finger runs along your slit, feeling the generous drip that’s gathered, and Eddie moans as your breath hitches into an animalistic, “hahh!”-- he’s edging down your body to bury his face there. He wants to feel you, smell you, taste you. You tense at the sudden contact of his palms pressing your thighs open, his nose against your clit and he feels it. A jolt of worry passes through him. Did you not want that? “Sorry–”

“Don’t– no, Eddie, don’t stop,” you strain, laugh a little, “You just… surprised me. Keep– keep surprising me. Please.” 

Shockwaves break through you as he gingerly offers his tongue. And more, and more, until he’s lapping at you with a vigor and no real direction. You dig against him, made speechless by the building ache in your core.

In your fantasies, you hadn’t anticipated him being so giving–so eager to please and explore. Like all things, this moment projected itself in your head with the hard edges of some imagined cockiness, Eddie telling you to spread your legs and you, nymphlike and fluid and still somehow holding all the indiscriminate ‘power’, doing so. 

But this? This is soft and messy and spitty and real. Eddie is drooling and babbling into your pussy with the uncalculated effect of someone who has improvised his whole life and it’s tearing you at the seams. A satisfying little rip, every keen movement he makes.

You know when you’re close to climax, that familiar feeling of your cunt suckling at nothing, but it doesn’t feel as jagged as the first time he brought you there. Urgently, you tug at his hair, claw at his shoulders, begging for his attention. 

“Eddie,” you gasp and his hands flex around your thighs at the sound of his name in your mouth. It’s yours, he wants to tell you, rutting heedlessly into the mattress from his position between your legs, keep it! Please! “Eddie, Eddie– come here, come to me.” 

Your velveteen voice summons him, his face glistening from the exploration of you. Embarrassment threatens to ping at you, but it flames into want, seeing how wet and obscene he looks. That’s all from you? 

Eddie does as he’s told, heart pounding– and the sensation of fabric dragging against the raw tip of his cock nearly makes him pass out. 

“Fuck! Fuck, you–” he stammers as your hand pulls his heavy length free, balls tightening under your firm touch, “N-not fuck you, obvi-ously, but–hunh–okay, kinda fuck you…”

Eddie’s lips fold against yours as he attempts, with shuddering arms, to brace himself over you. He whines at your dexterity, swiping his head against your entrance. The wetness from him, the wetness from you– the sheer impact of sensation slices clean through him. It’s not a tactic, you’re not teasing; you’re angling to get him inside you. You need to get him inside you, your entire body is begging for it. 

“Baby, please, please, I’m not gonna last–”

“Who said you had to?” you ask, voice a drop of dark syrup. Just for him. “Who said you had to?”

The earnestness in your eyes gives Eddie pause– for all of a pulsating second. 

“I want you… inside. Don’t you want to feel me?” you ask with real conviction, thumb swiping over his moistened head in a way that makes his vision go galactic. 

Eddie yanks your hand away, kissing roughly it, nailing it beside your head as he tries to ease into you. 

“Want? It’s all I want–fuck, it’s all I fucking think about, Lacy–huhh–”

His first attempt results in a gasp of pain– the sting, the stretch, it’s a little much a little fast. The sharpness has you wincing and has Eddie searching your face with an arrested kind of guilt.

“Y–shit, baby, are you–”

“I’m okay,” you recover, hand steadying on his flushed cheek. “Just–slower. Ease it in. You’re– you’re pretty remarkable, Eddie.” 

“Remarkable?” he mumbles against your cheek, focused and slowly lining his head against your entrance. “Really?”

“Prodigiou—ss, uhh–fuck!” Whispered swears come streaming from you as he sinks right into the velvety constraints of your cunt. 

Your eyes roll right back, mouth tipping open and the grip of you arresting around him makes him cry out into your chest. 

Eddie’s cock is long and heavy and thick, constricted to the point where you can nearly feel every ridge of him. It hurts, the stretch of him aches, but it’s delicious–pinned and sweetly painful.

“Prodigious–is a five dollar–fuckin’--vocab word–” he strains, lifting his hips ever so slightly– you’re clutched onto him so tight that you move with him. Eddie open-mouth groans against your neck. “Lacy, Jesus, you’re so tight–you feel so good–how the fuck do you feel so good? Who invented you?!” 

There’s a tinge of a giggle in your moaning, which doesn’t let up. Eddie’s voice rings out like a church bell, making one slow stroke inside you, then another. Then another, then another, picking up speed, groans chorusing into the hollow of your neck around the lewd sound of his flesh slapping against yours. The sound alone brings you close to cumming. “Oh, pleasepleaseplease, fuck, Lace, I’m g– fuck, I’m–”

The way Eddie’s hands are carving permanent marks into your hips, the way his movements are halting, you get the idea that… “You holding out on me?” you ask him, short of breath around your panting but demanding still, “Don’t you dare–don’t you dare.” 

“Lacy, uhh– please, ’mgonnafucking–”

“Cum for me? Are you?”

Your fingers tug at his curls so you can look at him as his face tenses. Eddie’s hair is flattened across his head, face glimmering with exertion. You drag your lips against his forehead, the salty flavor of sweat breaking across your tastebuds.

“For you, for you, shit, only for you–only for you, only fucking ever–fuck–”

His dark eyes have been blown out since he pulled you to the mattress, eyelids flickering over his irises as he pistons into you with speed that hurts but you love it. 

You barely hear yourself beginning a prayer of dirty little succors, but there it is, easing him through his orgasm as he shudders a load between your legs. “You feel like nothing on this fucking earth, you know that, you’re so good for me...” The tension breaks with one final rasping cry, his expression dissolving into a softness as he exhales a lungful, neck stretching to lean into your touch. 

A couple of half-cracked dry sobs escape him. 

Looking up at you, cradled against your shoulder, Eddie’s cursing himself for every second he’s wasted not doing this with you. 

And you, looking down, are stroking his damp curls from his forehead and cursing yourself. You’re going to burn the world down for this boy.

“Lacy. You–”

And then, y’know, the fucking front door of the trailer clicks. 

Little too much deja vu for your liking these days! 

Immediately, you seize upwards, jolting a confused Eddie with you– which breaks your heart, in a way, seeing him darty-eyed and shocked out of his bliss so fast. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” These are not like your prior ‘fucks’, he can register through the haze of his post-nut state. These are bad fucks. So he responds in turn, “Fuck?”

“My mom!” You hiss, naked and scrambling. Panic crests on you like a wave, a wave that should have been an orgasm mind fucking you, and your fingernails tear at the comforter beneath you. 

“Under, under, gogogo!”

Because if there’s one thing your mother, in all her former-center-of-attention glory, loves to do? It’s enter a room uninvited. 

Case in fucking point–

“Lacy?” A perfunctory knuckle rap from the other side of the door, just as you manage to hide Eddie by shoving him behind you and tenting the comforter around you both. You’re praying to anything with a little more gusto than God that it works. And then, enter your mother and her cloud of Shalimar. 

Soon as she opens the door, you can tell something is terribly off. 

She’s smiling, face as serene as the Virgin Mary. Usually she’s got a sharpened dagger of a glare, just for you. Two of you haven’t been spending much quality time lately, see. 

“Lacy! What–” your mom’s brow knits, but it’s a look of amusement. Which freaks you out. She’s looking at your just-fucked-by-Eddie-Munson hair, isn’t she? The mascara that’s surely streaking down your face? Does she know? Can she sense he’s in this very room? “--what are you doing?”

“Napping. Crying. What does it look like?” you snap, hiking the comforter up a little further and begging that she doesn’t notice Eddie’s incriminating clothes strewn across the floor. 

Eddie, for his part, is not breathing. He’s crouched behind your bare ass, a position he’s in no rush to get out of, arms caged around your thighs like a petrified child. This is almost funny–or would be, if he wasn’t scared shitless of everything your mom would definitely do to him if she discovered him buck ass naked in your bed.

Dreamily, Eddie reminds himself that he’s buck ass naked, in your bed. He smiles into one of your cheeks and considers how biteable it is.  

“Well. Wrap it up,” your mom says, tone still light, and you twinge at the irony. At least you’re on the pill. “I have a surprise.”

Slam. Door shuts. Your lamp wobbles with the force of it and Eddie emerges from behind you, like a freshly-fucked groundhog. 

“She sounds happy,” he mumbles, arms sliding up around your waist. 

You want to kiss the mirth out his mouth but you have to shove him back behind you first– cue your mom, doubling back through the door. Jesus!

“What was that?”  

“Nothing!” you say, shortly and breathily because Eddie nips at your fucking ass cheek back there. “Just–you sound happy, mom!”

She shakes her head at you, a smile curving her tulip colored lips, like a mom from a detergent commercial. Y’know, were it not for the whole Italian widow getup she’s alway sporting. 

“Get on with it already.”

You count to a full five before you even let out a breath, snapping your attention back to reality and the fact that Eddie Munson is very naked in your very bed. 

“You gotta get out of here,” you tell him, and you want to kill yourself about it. 

The both of you balance on your knees. Eddie tugs you into him with shining, begging eyes. Standing almost at full attention again, already.

“Jesus, that thing’s impressive.”

Eddie’s fingers wind around the hair at the nape of your neck. Despite the brief jolt of fear from your little interruption just now, he’s all romance–totally suckered, rose-colored glasses, the whole bit. Thoughts not exactly creating a straight line just yet, but he doesn’t care. He’s had his hands all over you for the better part of an evening now, and he doesn’t want to let up just yet. It might kill him. It might kill him. 

There’s no unringing this bell between the two of you, and he knows that. 

And you knew it first, because you know everything first. 

“You sure?” he hums into your sweet lips, “You absolutely positive? Because I could be real, real quiet…”

Eddie’s also thrilled by the fact that he seems to know instinctively what to do to turn you on. 

“What if I don’t want you to be real, real quiet?”

You kiss him back, sighing and sliding a single finger down the length of his cock. 

“Lace…” he whimpers to you, his commandant fantasy of being dominant in the bedroom officially, officially escorted out back and shot. He wants to please you too badly. Be the jester in your court that makes you cackle and makes you cum.

“Lacy!” a shrill yell comes from the hall. Your eyes snap open, Eddie’s dancing with amusement and yours heaving with alarm. 

“Fuck, okay, go! Window!”

Another scramble, you tossing jeans and socks and the rest of Eddie’s uniform at him while you clean yourself off, try to pull a robe around yourself. A stray thought occurs to you as you watch him trip over himself, ripping the hole in his jeans a little further–you hate what he wears, but you love it on him. And off him. And…

You yank up those blinds and unlatch the window with a faint smile. Nothing about you two makes any conceivable sense–

Eddie starts out the window, shirt barely pulled down his torso and his shoes in his hands, then turns to hook you to him by the elbow. Smiling with the full blush of his mouth, he kisses you. Firm and knowing and whole. 

–except that. That makes sense.

The pad of his finger clears a lock of rumpled hair from your forehead. 

“To be continued?” Eddie searches your face, with those crazy dark brimming universes of eyes. 

Your heart is leaping in your ribcage. You nod sharply, gleaming back at him. 

“I’m comin’ back for you, Lacy Doevksi,” he tells you with all the brazen confidence he can muster. “And I am gonna go down on you until I drown. On pain of death, I swear it.”

“Go!” you command, and regret it as soon as he drops out of your bedroom window. Eddie starts a cant toward his trailer across the way. 

“Faster!” you hiss, just as an excuse to watch him. 

He pivots mid-jog, hair swinging wildly, his hand grabbing at his crotch. 

“You try runnin’ with a hard on! Witch!” 

It’s far, far, far too quiet once he’s escaped through the front door of his trailer.

It's not fair, you think. You should be basking in some kind of afterglow, sharing a stupid cliché cigarette, you feel like you should be... celebrating this.

You shouldn't have to keep running away from each other.

The warmth the two of you had created, through mere physical friction or just how much you… you like each other, rapidly dissipated into a chill as you advance through your bedroom door, to deal with the other thing.

Surprise, you thought, What kind of goddamn surprise could mother o'mine have for me? Did she boost a bank? Did she win the Indiana Sweepstakes? I don’t want to know about any g–

“Lorelei.”

The universe has a way of shoving you back in place when you get ahead of yourself.

You don’t just stop in your tracks, you’re repelled a half-step backwards. The centrifugal force urging you away, telling you there’s an immediate threat in the heart of your home. 

No one uses that name anymore. Not even him. Not since you were fourteen.

“Daddy.”

Your father sits at the shabby dinette that you and your mother don’t even share meals at, sits there in the suit he was sentenced in. A rich navy pinstripe, chosen because gray would have been too flashy and black would admit defeat. “Of course!” your mother had said, marveling at his ingenuity. But the pantomime of his defense was wearing real thin on you; whispering at school had started growing louder and louder and you were finding more and more chips in the porcelain of your father’s worldly facade. 

“Why not compromise. Wear charcoal,” you’d said, leaning against the kitchen counter in Loch Nora, drinking orange juice from your parents’ wedding crystal as the movers taped up your boxes, “You can plead guilty and still look smug about it.”

Your father had smacked the flute from your hand and it shattered in forty thousand pieces on the ground. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, because you knew if you did, you’d be next. 

Navy it was. And navy it is. He sits at that dinette like he’s expecting white jacket service. You swear even more gray has started glimmering through his hair. Flashy. 

“Should I ask how you’re here?” you say, stiff and scared. Your mother, standing at your father’s shoulder, tuts and sighs. Can’t you just enjoy this? she silently bemoans.

“Good behavior,” Ray smiles, “Can’t say the same for you. Can I, Lorelei?”

“Principal Higgins called,” your mom chimes in, “Or rather, that odious little secretary called. You think you could get a Saturday detention and they just wouldn’t tell us?”

“That’s why he’s here?” You laugh a little, inwardly. “With all due respect, Daddy, that’s a terrible reason to break out of prison.”

To your surprise, your father chuckles too. Makes your blood run cold, obviously. 

“Y’know, I really didn’t anticipate this for my homecoming, I gotta tell you,” he says, shifting in his seat and plucking a cigarillo from his jacket pocket. “I mean, honestly. I thought, a nice bottle of Beaujolais–”

“We’re fresh out,” you gesture to your cringing mother.

“--a dinner at, Christ, Enzo’s, since that’s where our budget is at now,” his lighter flicks and ignites the end, “But no. I have to sit here and cross-examine my daughter about… fraternizing with the lowest of criminal elements.”

The lack of self awareness here is off the fucking charts. It makes your blood pressure spike.

“Take a seat, Lacy,” your father so gallantly gestures to the vinyl backed kitchen chair in front of him, “and tell me all about Eddie Munson.”

Chair drags aggressively against the linoleum. You sit, and swear that the next time you’re caught off guard by anyone’s father, it’d better be God himself. 

This bit is getting old.

author's notes: so i'm not fucking around when i say i need to hear everyone's thoughts on what just happened immediately. i really do think that happenings-wise, this was my favourite chapter to write thus far. felt cathartic, from the al munson to the hellfire article of it all. anyway. onto the good stuff - like i feel like everyone who reads this series will have clocked this but of course i lifted the garlic slicing right out of goodfellas. i just think it's a perfect al munson attribute to have - al munson kicking out the jams instead of picking up his kid i know that's right - our dukes of hazzard ref is a tribute to my own personal al munson fancast - not that paris, texas but this paris, texas. (and you know when lacy eventually gets eddie to watch it he CRIES. they both cry) - i should probably put the repo man trailer in here as well - speaking of another fancast! the manager of forest hills trailer park is, of course, to me, in my heart, carl rodd. - the best song off of abbey road by the beatles, fight with the wall - SHOULD WE CALL THE MAYOR - lacy promising eddie that he can ride circles around her on a motor bike is a reference to hunter s thompson being ambushed on canadian television by one of the hells angels he wrote about in his book. dude rolls onto set on his hog. it's crazy. - eddie is kinda gossamer coded - cow tipping? at mccorkle's? anybody? our love is god - god wheels of confusion is kinda horny sounding huh i think that this might be the shortest references recap so far in the series?? one of them anyway. probably because i wrote 4k words of FILTH. anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read this fucking thing. we're almost at the end of this part of the story which is wild to me. now let me get on your ass and remind you that REBLOGGING FICS IS ESSENTIAL TO YOUR FIC WRITERS HEALTH. SO ARE COMMENTS AND SO ARE ASKS so send those pls :) love you hellcats. be well, cats

[cultofdixon]

A moment alone with you

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • A moment. Just a moment alone with his girl is all he wants. But everybody—-especially the kids, have much more pressing things in that moment of peace • SFW/NSFW - Nudity / Grinding / Fondling / Hickeys • TW: Scars • Bit of re-written canon

Requested by: Anon

“You excited for Y/N to come home?” Michonne smiles asking Daryl who hasn’t left his spot by the main gates to Alexandria for his other half to return from the medicine run with Siddiq.

“Is it obvious?” Daryl chuckles lightly leaning against the wall. “Yea need somethin’?”

“Actually, I do”

The hours passed as the two finally returned home and Siddiq brought the car right in front of the infirmary so it would be easy load off.

“I need a shower”

“Same, but I gotta do inventory on the new stuff before I can unwind”

“I can help yknow—-“

“Yeah yeah but we’ve been gone for a month. I think a certain archer would like to see his partner” Siddiq smiles noticing her bashful smile to his words. “You can help tomorrow with putting everything away, I can handle counting and putting the numbers down”

“Okay Siddiq, I’ll take that” Y/N smiles exiting the car and grabbing her bag from the trunk, waving him off on her way to her home.

As Y/N enters the home she was quiet and half excepted to be greeted by Daryl. But the next best thing, Dog came trotting over demanding pets that she happily provided soon noticing the sleeping archer on the couch with both Grimes kids laying and sleeping comfortably on his chest.

“Guess he was on uncle duty tonight” Y/N whispers to Dog as she kisses the top of his head.

Quietly, she took her shoes off leaving them by the door before tip toeing over to the three grabbing a blanket out of the basket on the way over. Y/N gently drapes the blanket over the three watching the kids stir slightly. She made sure they were still secure on Daryl and sound asleep. After admiring the sight a bit she leaned over to Daryl, kissing his cheek before leaving to go upstairs and take a much needed shower.

It felt like an hour has passed while showering because of how amazing it felt after being gone a while. But she was in there long enough to not notice when the door opened.

Y/N suddenly flinched when the curtain flung open revealing Daryl. “You’re subtle aren’t you?”

“Yea didn’t wake me”

“You had two sleeping angels on you. Of course I wasn’t gonna wake you…and speaking of angels. Where the fuck did you put them?”

“In the guest bedroom sleepin’.” Daryl’s eyes trailed her naked form taking note of the bruises and small cuts that happen out of random at this point of the apocalypse. “I missed yea”

“If you missed me so much…why don’t you join me instead of letting the water out” Y/N smiles watching the excitement in his eyes as he was about to undress when both heard sobbing.

“Uncle Daryl…”

“It’s Jude.” Y/N smacks his chest getting him a bit wet. “Go make sure she’s okay and stay with her”

“Mm…We ain’t done” Daryl states before going to check on the young Grimes as Y/N moved the curtain back to cover her.

Once she was finished, Y/N went to check on the kids noticing Daryl laying in the bed with them. He can never say no to either of them and she couldn’t help the smile on her face when she approaches them quietly. The archer turns his head toward his woman watching her smile even more to the display as she kisses him goodnight before fixing the blanket over them then going to bed herself.

A couple hours passed and Y/N felt a shift in the bed stirring her awake as she moved onto her back watching Daryl tower over her.

“How’d you manage to slip out?”

“Dog disturbed them both. Making them get off me”

“Hm. Man’s best friend really has your back” She laughs quietly as Daryl didn’t wait another moment to bring his lips firmly against hers.

His partner instantly wrapped her arms around his neck feeling him shift above her bringing his knee in between her legs. While his hand finds itself under her shirt not waiting another second to grope her breast enjoying the satisfied moan that he swallowed as he continued to make out with her. He pulls away from her lips about to ask if it was okay to go further but both’s thoughts were interrupted by knocking.

“Can’t get even a second…” Daryl sighs lifting himself off of Y/N as she reaches to turn the lamp on while he went to answer the door.

Both Judith and RJ, who was more sleepy than his sister, were at the door about to ask Daryl if they could sleep in the bed with him after having a hard time. The other times were nightmares. She then noticed Y/N sit up in the bed fixing her shirt as she was about to ask her when RJ yawns out.

“Can we sleep with Auntie Y/N?” He frowns up at Daryl as Y/N pats the bed when he asked watching both of them instantly run over getting help onto the bed.

“If they get cuddles from yea, so do I” Daryl scoffs playfully as he brings himself back to the bed turning the lamp off before climbing in once Y/N scooted more into the center of the bed letting the kids child all over her. While Daryl brought himself close enough for her to close the small space by moving into him.

“All my babies missed me” Y/N teases a little as she let the kids get comfortable before nudging Daryl to get the blanket over them.

“I’ve missed you more” Daryl whispers only to be smacked in the face by RJ indicating that he missed her more.

The next morning Daryl woke alone and when he got up to get dressed in his usual attire. He noticed his vest was missing but it didn’t take long to know who took them. He went downstairs to check if anyone was still home but was met with no one except Dog who accidentally got left inside. So he obviously wasn’t waiting for Daryl except to be let out.

Dog instantly ran toward the kids once Daryl let him out. He made his way toward the infirmary know he could find Y/N there and hopefully alone.

The archer always manages to sneak up on people and he entered the infirmary without being noticed. Her back was facing him and Daryl took notice of the familiar wings resting on her person.

“You left early” She couldn’t help the smile to emerge on her lips when she felt her other half bring himself directly behind her. He kept his voice low even if the way she pressed up against him confirmed it was only them.

“Had to get the kids back to Michonne.” Y/N smiles setting the last crate of medical supplies they found on the table, feeling his hands find purchase on her hips. “They won’t bother us tonight”

“I don’t think I can wait til tonight” Daryl sighs against her neck as his hot breath caused shivers to crawl down her spine. He slowly brushes her hair out of the way of her neck so that he could place a kiss there, moving from the back of her neck to her shoulder while his other hand moved to her front bringing her more firmly against his person.

She wasn’t objecting, she would argue that she wanted him more given the time apart from one another. Searching for Rick and doing infirmary runs tend to fall on opposite times from when either of them were back home. But recently Daryl has been coming home more often, not because he’s been hitting dead ends…but because a big part of him wanted to remind everyone…who his girl was and that she was only his.

While the archer started to get to work on leaving his mark on her exposed neck, he brought his hand that brought her closer into him…from her stomach to the waist band of her jeans slipping his calloused fingers into her pants and her panties.

But before he even got to her sweet center, Siddiq bursts through making Daryl quickly pull his hand out but still keep close to Y/N as her annoyance started to show.

“Y/N I—-“

“Siddiq. Unless someone is bleeding to death. I don’t want to hear it”

“Uh…Well can it be something around that level?” Siddiq questions as he was completely obvious and or ignoring what the two could be possibly doing for his own concerns.

With a bit of anger brewing in her over the zero time with her partner, Y/N pulled herself away from Daryl seeing the concern look on Siddiq’s face making her calm herself a bit. She pats Daryl’s on the chest giving him an apologetic look telling him he should go so that she could take care of this.

“I’ll be home, whenever you’re done here”

“Give me half an hour…” Y/N pouts to Daryl who couldn’t help himself by kissing the pout off her face before leaving her to attend to Siddiq.

Finally after taking care of a pregnancy scare for Siddiq and his secret lover who Y/N knew was Rosita. She quickly made her way home finding Dog whining at the door to be let in and only knew that Daryl locked him out in hopes he wouldn’t interrupt them in any way. The worse he’d do is bark if he thinks he’s alone for too long.

“You better not block me and my man, Dog. His attention is mine today” Y/N playfully threats as she lets him in watching him immediately go to the couch to lay down. Guess he didn’t want to be in the grass soaking up sun.

Y/N didn’t make it very far when heading upstairs as Daryl heard the front door open knowing it was her, or at least assumed. He met her at the top of the stairs quickly taking her into his arms and pressing his lips firmly against hers. The two ended up against one of the walls completely ignoring the possibility of going straight for the bedroom. They needed the other desperately.

“I—-Need to breathe” Y/N gasps pulling away as he planted his lips to her neck while working on the shirt she was wearing once he got his vest smoothly off her. “Fuck—-Dar, please” She begs, as Daryl knew she wanted more while he finally got the last button on her flannel undone to take it off. Groaning slightly to himself at the tank top that was next.

“Too many layers—“ Daryl groans against her neck pulling away enough to grip the neckline of her tank top.

“No Daryl. Don’t you—-“ then the sound of ripping was made clear as Y/N stopped every movement from her to take in the fact that Daryl was impatient to yknow…bring it over her head. “You owe me a new one”

“Mm. Or next time yea could wear nothin’” Daryl scoffs in a playful manner suddenly lifting her off the ground pinning her more against the wall. Her legs instinctively wrapping themselves around his torso as he held her hips in a bruising grip.

The archer mainly pushed her up so he would be eye level—-or more so mouth level with her breasts. Pressing kisses along her sternum and getting a bit into it with sucking hickeys along the strip making her face flush biting down on the inside of her cheek to contain the excited moans that’d escape her.

Oh but he was going to get those out of her, once he latched his mouth onto her left breast. He felt the strain in his pants when she didn’t hold back on her moans as he tugged gently on her sensitive bud in between his teeth.

“Fuck me. Fuck me, Dixon” Y/N hissed as Daryl pulled his mouth away from her breast setting her down about to work on getting her jeans and panties off next when both froze to a knock on the main door. “For fucks sake—-“

“Nah. I’m done with this bullshit” Daryl groans pulling away from Y/N as he stormed down the stairs quickly approaching the door.

Aaron flinched on the other end when the door swung up showing an angered annoyed Daryl.

“Hey I was—-“

“Is someone dying?”

“No?”

“Did walkers break in?”

“No…”

“Did RJ get his head stuck in the doggy door of Michonne’s place again?”

“Nope”

“Then what’s so fuckin’ important that I can’t have sex with my goddamn girl after not seeing her for a month?”

Wow he’s brutally honest Aaron couldn’t help the embarrassed blush to immediately reach his face when hearing such as he turned around and started to walk away. “I’ll come back…uh…in a few days”

“THANKS” Daryl yells before shutting the door and heading back upstairs not finding Y/N where he left her. But his vest was gone once again…

And her jeans and panties were in the pile of her clothes that he pulled/ripped off of her.

“Hey…”

Daryl quickly looks up from the pile straightening himself noticing his girl standing in the doorway in nothing but his vest.

“You joining me or not, D?” Y/N smirks taking a few steps back into the bedroom watching Daryl bringing himself closer.

“Oh I’m comin’, sunshine”

[bellewintersroe]

Daniel Ricciardo x HornerDaughter! Reader.

Part 6 omggg! Not really too much to warn about in this chapter, mentions of smut and appearance from Max Verstappen who’s innocent asf. Only a short chapter, I’m going to have to wait to upload the rest of the parts when the Hungarian GP is over and done with this weekend so apologies for the small break! I’ll throw in another smut chapter just whilst you all wait <3

@benbarneslut @dinodumbass @ricci-ardo @allabouthappiness After sharing a bed for the past 2 nights, Daniel and y/n fear they’ve been caught out by a fellow Red Bull driver. Daniel jets off to Italy to the AlphaTauri headquarters, leaving them both feeling oddly sad at the parting.

“But you’re excited to be going back?” She smiled, pulling her vest stop back on, “yeah, I can’t wait.” Daniel responded. The pair had been talking away, like always, about Daniels return to F1. “Excited to go to Italy too.” He added on.

“Looks pretty.” The HQ for AlphaTauri was there, so he’d be flying away until he got back to Hungary for the Grand Prix. She couldn’t like she was somewhat saddened that their two day romp had ended. They’d spent the past two nights together. “You ever been?”

“Hm?” She perked, stepping back into her jeans. “Have you ever been to Italy?”

“No, that’s the one place I’m literally desperate to go, every time there’s been a race I’ve some how missed it.” We’ll have to go, Daniel thought a little too quickly.

“Whattt, you’ve never been?!” She smiled at his dorky response. “Never.”

“You’re missing out.” He sat up from the messy bed where they had practically lived the past 48 hours. The bedsheets were dishevelled as he climbed out, grabbing a discarded shirt off the floor. It was 4pm and they’d been in bed, all day. “I know… I gotta go so bad.” She clipped her hair back, revealing the purple and red bruises Daniel had sucked into her neck.

“You’re gonna wanna hide those…” he sheepishly pointed out. As amusing as it was, he also was proud of his markings, very immature, he knew, but it reminded him of the endless pleasure the two brought one another.

“Oh, fuck you, Ricciardo…” ———————————————-

The group of them all sat around in the hotel lobby, relaxing as they waited on their transfer to the airport. It was all civilised conversations until Christian and Geri took the younger three kids to get food whilst y/n chilled with the rest of the people, stretched out on the plush couch. “So, you had a girl round last night?” Max questioned Daniel, nudging his side as both Daniel and y/n felt like they could choke on their own spit. “Huh?” Daniel coyly spoke, whilst she just remained eyeing them both up.

“I heard it all.” Max shrugged, holding up his hands. Daniels face flushed as he couldn’t hold back a laugh, rubbing over his forehead. “Not that was doing that on purpose.” Max grimaced as she pursed her lips, finding the situation all too amusing.

“I mean she seemed to be enjoying herself, so go you.” The Dutch man continued as she couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “Sorry, I just… I overheard that’s all.” Daniel shot her an amused smile whilst half his face was hid. The eyes she gave him back, mixed with that pretty little smirk was filthy. Daniel wondered if she was glad Max heard, he had no idea that it was her.

When the transfer came, she felt a little disappointed at the small hug she gave Daniel. She’d wished for a kiss or some kinda kind words, but that would’ve been way too obvious. “Have a safe trip.” He muttered to her, hand purposefully giving her back a squeeze, desperate to give her a proper goodbye. He knew he was in way too deep, the fact he felt down about parting from her for a mere week? Worst of all, he’d text her, saying he wished he could give her a real goodbye, something that made her smile to herself and her father to question who was making her giggle like that. “Nobody.” She’d replied, fingers pressing into her keys below. You gave me the best goodbye in the hotel room so idk what you’re talking about Daniel, too, found himself smiling to his phone like a teenager. When his eyes rested on her small picture set to her icon, he felt his heart soften, the smell of her perfume still clinging to his top she’d worn only hours prior. He wore it purposefully.

“Messaging ya girlfriend?” The chaperone cheeked as he glanced up to the Frenchman ahead of him.

“Ah, someone like that…”

[codenamesazanka]

What is up with this obsession over the "other half" of Decay. Less so now that Shigaraki is like dead-dead, so I guess it was copium, but still. So Decay was derived from the Overhaul quirk. Okay. It was stripped of the restorative half; then added with the five finger activation and lack of control. By this point, it is its own quirk.

(It's the same with Kurogiri/Shirakumo. Shirakumo's quirk was cloud generation and manipulation; then it got turned into the ability to bend the fabric of space. It's its own quirk at that point.)

I don't see the need for any more connection than that? Decay came from Overhaul - it's an artificial quirk AFO created to be a super dick. That's where Decay came from. It's somewhat fortunate(?) that it wasn't naturally occurring, which means there wasn't some other poor bastard out there who probably also had a tough time with it, but just the fact that it's 'half' the Overhaul quirk makes me wonder if Overhaul didn't at least 'half' a tough time with it as well.

Which btw - the reveal also confirms that AFO and the Doc were also responsible for Overhaul's own early childhood... which no one seems to care about.

Hello??? Shigaraki has to be referred to as groomed and abused and brainwashed every other sentence in order to induce the greatest level of sympathy for him (because apparently otherwise if he ever had any hint of agency or genuine malice at all, fuck him and he's not as much a victim, I guess???), and the orphanage Touya wakes up in has cult vibes where he can't even leave, but Overhaul growing up in such an orphanage is not worthy of attention. Like you gotta wonder how Doc got his hand on Overhaul's quirk - best case scenario it was from a simple blood draw at a routine doctor's check up; worse case scenario is that he was experimenting on these kids, even if subtly.

It's in this orphanage that Overhaul reads about quirks and gets the idea that it's a sickness. Was that somehow from the instruction of the orphanage staff that's under Ujiko's employment? Was it because something happened to Overhaul that caused him to end up in an orphanage? Kid didn't just sprout from the ground - he must have had parents, a family. But here he is, in an orphanage, gloomily reading about quirks while all the other kids are playing outside. Kouta resentfully says quirks are freaky and Deku and the story bends over backwards to prove to him that he's wrong, and violent quirks will save his life, so he should love Heroes; it's obvious that Overhaul hating quirks is a flaw.

Later, it looks like Overhaul would run away from this orphanage too, and then gets picked up by the Yakuza. Luckily it was a very honorable yakuza who treated him with kindness, but listen to that sentence - """"luckily"""" he gets picked up by a nice mobster who raised him. And Overhaul is so affected by this kindness it gives him a devotion that turns twisted. I mean, I think the guy definitely has his own selfish issues, but he really does care about Pops a lot and still thinks of what he's doing as being for Pop's and the Yakuza's sake.

I know no one cares about Overhaul and probably thinks it's even funny he loses his arms and goes half insane in Tartarus, that that's just karma for abusing and medically torturing a little girl, but it's very clear that he didn't start out that way, and if things had been different, he might not have grown up to become a Villain. That's true for nearly all the Villains we see on the story. And that's why there's such a big push to save the League, because of that "if only, if only". They're sympathetic and maybe redeemable.

But unsympathetic and irredeemable villains like Muscular and Overhaul were the best training wheels for Deku to work up to saving Shigaraki. If he can reach out a hand to those freaks, he can do it for not-as-much-a-freak Shigaraki. Even if Deku fails in trying to save Muscular and Overhaul, if he had tried, he could've learned something from those encounters that he could later apply to Shigaraki. But Deku said nope and then crashes when he has to save Shigaraki. Sorry—not even Shigaraki, but the ghost of a Crying Child.

Muscular insists that there's nothing but blood and violence inside of him, so Deku gives up on him because he can't psychically dive into Muscular's head to prove him wrong; later, Shigaraki insists that he overcame the Crying Child and he wants destruction, and fortunately Deku doesn't give up on him, but only because he can psychically dive into Shigaraki's head to prove him wrong - except it's this exact act that brings back AFO and drives the train wreck into the conclusion that is Shigaraki's body crumbling to nothing.

Overhaul begs to see Pops and wants to apologize, demonstrating some tiny broken strand of caring and goodness inside of him, but that's not someone Deku knows or cares about so it means nothing to him except that he can test whether Overhaul is worthy of any measure of forgiveness (and so rewarded by a Pops visit) by apologizing to Eri; later, Shigaraki gets his hatred smashed but stays the leader to the League, and Deku seems flummoxed by this, while using his last words to the guy he wanted to save to yammer on about not forgiving him and ending the cycle of sadness by stopping Shiagarki.

(Plus like. Overhaul has hurt sooooo many people other than Eri. He used and manipulated many of the Shie Hassaikai too. But once again, none of them are people Deku knows or cares about so they don't matter and they don't need an apology.)

This got really off topic because it started out about people focused on the Overhaul-Decay then turned into a Deku rant (only semi-sorry), but. Actually maybe not. People only care about the Overhaul-Decay thing because the Overhaul quirk might bring Shigaraki back, because Shigaraki deserves it; meanwhile the actual holder of the Overhaul quirk is ignored, because Overhaul doesn't deserve any comeback, or anything at all. It's really just people only caring about certain Villains because they personally like them and feel sorry for them. Which is fine! Go have your blorbo.

But like, ironically, caring only about your villain blorbo's situation in the context of the wider story, when discussing the story using the context of abuse and marginalization and who is deserving of saving, is the same as what Deku and Hawks did - singling out one victim out of many as worthy of being saved, and condemning every other Villain. And how did that turn out for Deku and Hawks?

[loving-family-poll]

Ultimate Incest Tournament - Round 2

Propaganda under the cut:

Hikaru/Kaoru:

notable for actually leaning into the incest thing because twincest was their entire schtick while working at the host club

the twincest ship that defined a generation. taking the bait seems obvious when their performance gimmick for club guests is to fawn over each other and play up the affection tenfold, but it just gets better when you learn that for most of their lives they didnt have other friends and really only had each other until joining becoming members of the host club. so on top of being willing to flirt in public for attention, they're also codependent as hell <333

They're twins. They sleep in the same bed. They pretend to be in forbidden love to bait fujoshis but are maybe also in forbidden love for real. They were in high school before they met a single person who could tell them apart. They were devastating to my middle school psyche

Rick/Morty:

INCEST ICONS!! They've somehow got a MAJORITY of their fans on one of the most popular shows on TV to root for a guy who is CLEARLY sexually abusing his grandson ~subtextually~, but also sometimes ON SCREEN, and it's hilarious and fucked up, and Morty would kill anyone who tried to take his grandpa away <3

they're codependent in so many universes, they've gotta be fucking in a few

They get married!!!!! It's right there!! I wish I had more coherent thoughts about them but just. They. It's awful. It's abusive. It's twisted and cruel. It's a comedy duo. It's the best thing either have going for them. Rick will never fully respect Morty. Morty will never fully respect Rick. I want them to run away together. They're Something

the power dynamic is crazy! Morty's deeply lonely at the start and his grandfather takes advantage of that, rick pulls the kid out of bed, out of school, whenever he wants and gets him to do whatever he wants, covers up their activities, threatens and endangers and inflicts pain upon morty with intent and cruelty. he shapes morty according to his needs, the entire show is about the space adventures of an old man and his 14 year old grandson and you just gotta wonder, isn't it fucked up that this guy's sidekick and best friend and life partner is a kid? and it is!

Since morty is traumatized on the daily rick sometimes takes his memories, he controls what morty can remember (and therefore who he gets to be), the memory gun is just sci-fi gaslighting i say. and there's transdimensional travel and at one point it's revealed that ricks from different dimensions work together to "breed" mortys, ensure they're born (clone a bunch of them too) because a morty by nature is loyal and forgiving and makes the perfect partner that's easy to manipulate, easy to use. i will forever think of the "bred for forgiveness" line as perverted horrifying incest bait<3

Also one time they were hosts for alien parasites and they fell in love and made out and in the Very First episode rick gets morty to stick giant seeds (that rick needs for an experiment or smth) up his ass to smuggle them through security. they had some kind of dragon soul bond orgasm together. my point is it's borderline incestuous abuse and it's crazy that they imply these characters are tied together cosmically.. if they are it's rick holding their red string of fate like a leash

they are together (sometimes romantically/sexually, sometimes not explicitly so) in EVERY universe there is canonically a club on the citadel called The Creepy Morty. Miami Morty has an R tattooed on his asscheek they love each other they hate each other they cant stand being together they cannot be separated Rick loves grooming Morty. like. he has literally pushed Morty into comitting genocides and conditioned him into becoming desensitized to all kinds of sexual and violent things. Rick keeps a memory vial of Morty's entitled "virginity" Rick C137 (the main one in the show) has sacrificed his life to save Morty

[themattress]

“Remember, kids, if you’ve got a racist grandparent who espouses negative views toward an entire group of people, then you’d better listen to them because they’re right! Some entire groups of people are just collectively evil and can never be trusted!” - Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken

If there’s no discourse about this now, then I suspect there will be soon once more people see or hear about this movie because good lord. For those who don’t get it, the context is that in the film the main character Ruby discovers that she’s actually kraken royalty and this of course creates generational angst between her and her mother and grandmother because everything’s gotta have generational angst in it these days. She is told by her grandmother that mermaids, the long-time enemies of the krakens, are all evil and untrustworthy sirens who manipulate people and seek domination over humans. Ruby also befriends a mermaid named Chelsea, who specifically calls attention to this feud between the two species and specifically says that she wants to put a stop to it with Ruby’s help. And so Ruby naturally says “screw your bigotry, Grandma; I’m standing by my friend even if she’s a mermaid”.

......Which leads to the inevitable third act “reveal” that Chelsea was actually manipulating Ruby the whole time in order to acquire a source of power, doesn’t actually desire peace between the species, and just wants to assert domination over humans as is her kind’s wont. 

Look, if the bullshit about krakens and mermaids was not present in the movie, then despite what a hackneyed obvious “twist villain” scenario this is I still would have accepted it because it would just be an isolated incident between two individuals. Without the species feud, you could just freely respect Ruby for having such an open heart and positive nature, and freely hate Chelsea for remorselessly taking advantage of that for her own self-serving agenda.

But because this occurs against this specific backdrop, the movie is flat-out saying that racism is justified and that the teen protagonist should’ve listened to her racist grandmother! All mermaids ARE evil, untrustworthy sirens who manipulate people and seek domination over humans, and Ruby was a total dumbass to dare to believe otherwise about Chelsea!

Imagine if in The Little Mermaid, Ariel is exposed as a mermaid, Prince Eric immediately reacts with disgust before he and his followers harpoon her to death before cooking and eating her bottom half. Guess King Triton was right, all humans are heartless barbarians!  

Or imagine if in Luca, the townspeople accept all of the sea monsters at the end, only for the sea monsters to murder them all in their sleep and lay waste to the town. Guess all those fearful superstitions about sea monsters were accurate and should have been listened to!

Or imagine if in Zootopia....oh heck, do I even need to give this example?

If you think I’m overreacting here, then just swap everything said about mermaids in the movie and replace “mermaid” with “Jew”. Chelsea’s Jewish now. Ruby has the audacity to believe that her Jewish friend isn’t some heinous caricature made of her people, only to learn that actually that caricature is spot-on, so from now on she will never trust a Jew again and will accept her position defending humanity against the evil Jews. Sounds fucking horrible when I put it that way, doesn’t it? I recently said that it’s a good thing that kids have recently been getting more stories calling out how wrong prejudice is, so to see a movie aimed at kids that is actively justifying and encouraging prejudice is mind-blowing in the worst way possible. Who the Hell signed off on this? Did nobody stop to consider the unfortunate implications? Did they think making Chelsea a caricature of a pretty, popular, two-faced Mean Girl justified applying that characterization to her entire species? Or was this Jeffrey Katzenburg being a petty bitch (again) over the fact that The Little Mermaid was being remade without him and he just wanted to stick it to Disney? Whatever the case, I’d recommend giving this movie a pass.

[famouscyclenerd]

🗣🔊🗣🔊Everybody gets a mate!!!!!!

But why though? Since mates are so rare?🤔

Well first of all Sarah really likes the soulmates trope... if you couldn't tell.. all her main pairings are mated. And that's pretty much why.

You also gotta remember that fae are more or less immortal. If you live longer - the chances of finding your mate grows, right? Especially if your mate is also fae and therefore immortal as well. Rhysand, Cassian, Eris, Mor, Azriel, Tamlin are all over 500 years old. That's half a millennium without a mate. Which is a really long time even for fae.

"Shit, Feyre - I'm not that old." - Lucien Vanserra (a 300+ year old sexy fae male, mind you) Even he thinks 500 is old af.

So what are the patterns for mated pairs? How, and why, and when a bond snaps for each individual differs.

We have Rhys who bascially knew it the first time he met Feyre, but it snapped for him the first time he saw her again after she was turned fae. While Feyre had an inkling, I guess, but she literally had to be told that Rhys was her mate to be able to comprehend it, though she was well aware of the concept of mates long before that. And therefore so were we.

Cassian had suspected it the first time he met Nesta, while she knew it for a while as well but refused to acknowledge it. The bond didn't form between them until winter solstice in SF however.

Kallias and Viviane knew each other since they were kids, but the bond didn't snap between them before they were well into adulthood.

Rhys' parents bond snapped instantly. There is little to know about them however, given that they're both dead. But if it didn't snap instantly, his mother's wings would have been clipped.

Lucien only reacted to Elain as she was pulled towards the cauldron (which to me hinted at a possible mating bond as it was remarked by Feyre several times before it was revealed) and the bond snapped instantly for both of them after she was turned fae.

Sarah is a storyteller. There is no clear pattern for mating bonds because Sarah decides how it develops. What works best for the greatest love story? She alone decides who will be mates based on personality and compatibility between the characters. She is no stranger to retconning stuff to make different romantic pairings work e.g changing Lucien's mate from Nesta to Elain (also changing his heritage because that would go well with Elain) and figuring out that Mor and Azriel wouldn't work as well as she initially thought.

A common denominator however (besides them being mates) is that none of the parings stories starts off with them already being in love. SJM always writes about the process of the pairs falling in love with each other. It's what I personally prefer as well. If they are already in love, then the love story is kinda over as well tbh.

Anyways...

If the patterns were the same, it would be boring and even more predictable. Had Feyre found out at the end of ACOTAR and at the same time as Rhysand, then there would have been no more speculation in anticipation for the second installment. Tamlin was still Feyre's main love interest at the end of book 1. It was probably obvious to many, but Sarah was leaving hints at them being mates all throughout ACOTAR and ACOMAF.

The bond snapped for elucien during the cauldron scene where Lucien whispered it out of shock because it makes the scene even more intense. *GASP* OMG THEY'RE MATES!!! BUT LUCIEN ALWAYS THOUGHT JESMINDA WAS HIS MATE AND ELAIN IS ENGAGED!!! THE DRAMA!!!! It also sets up a different kind of love story where both parts from the beginning are aware of their mating bond. Lucien longing after Elain while she avoids him is Sarah stirring up the most angsty love story full of pining.

If they would serve rejected mates, then Sarah wouldn't bother making Helion Lucien's biological father. It would have been set up a lot better, where we see them talking to each other, but it's telling that they don't work well together as they have gotten to know each other and there is no chemistry between them. Where they are actually indifferent towards each other, but you can cleary tell that they are intensely aware of each others presence. Lucien longs for Elain, whilst she feel some type of way about him and trust me, it's not indifference. Sarah deliberately decides to not have them talk nor confront each other about the bond because she is saving that for their book. You gotta properly know your mate before deciding to reject them. The what if's would haunt them otherwise.

WHICH TO ME SOUNDS FUN AS HELL BTW. I'LL EAT THAT SHIT UP!!!!!! I'M SO EXCITED FOR THEIR STORY, IT'S DIFFICULT TO EVEN COMPREHEND THAT THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE WHO AREN'T.🥺

So will Azriel get a mate? Knowing Sarah's preferences when it comes to romance, yes. Absolutely!

And I see no other romantic interest for him than miss Gwyneth Berdara herself. Az is a lucky guy!! :D

This is not confirmed, but in my (and many others) opinion, it was heavily hinted at in Az infamous bonus chapter that they are mates.

A headcanon that I've seen hopping around is that Gwyn is more aware of their bond than Az, which I like a lot. At least that she'll realize it before he does as he doesn't see himself worthy of a mate nor love in general, though he craves it more than anything. We haven't seen that before. FUN!!

He will walk around, unaware that what he desires the most is right in front of him. While simantaniously developing feelings for Gwyn as they spend more and more time together.

I'LL GOBBLE THAT SHIT UP, YE HEAR ME!!!

GODDAMMIT SARAH JANET GIVE US SOME NEWS😤!!! April is THE month guys, I can feel it🧘‍♀️

[tododeku-or-bust]

Gonna start out with im white but tbh thats probably obvious so like. You rbed an interview about Miles G's hair and ive been wondering

Are there specific stereotypes to certain black hairstyles? Im curious bc i do character design a lot, and tbh ive always thought the double braids was a really cool look, are there implications to it? Or is it just regular racism from nonblack people that make some view it as "thug" as opposed to just a normal hairstyle.

Like when i was little i used to have my hair like that all the time, and i still do it sometimes bc its really good for hot weather, so i kinda associate it more with beating the heat/good hairstyle for when you're gonna get sweaty than anything else lol

🤣 it tis obvious, but I'm gonna answer this for you and anyone else who wants to start looking into it bc yes this is very important. So let's talk about it!

(this became a history lesson I did not mean to give lmaoooo)

The CROWN Act

PBS Transcript- How Hair Discrimination impacts Black Americans...

So first, to be frank: it's Racism. Understand that this shit is rooted in White Supremacy towards any nonwhite hair. I'm also approaching this from a Black American standpoint. While I won't be discussing their perspective bc it's better for one of them to do it, Native Americans also have a long history of White society forcing them to cut their hair, regardless of the religious/spiritual/symbolic importance. It, and its damage, lasts til today. And head wraps? Psht almost all of Brown America has a story.

In the beginning, they had enslaved Black women (and then through Jim Crow) cover their hair altogether. It was somehow seen as a way to protect property, then to call our hair ugly and an affront to whiteness, and yet a Jezebel lure for White men to sin (i.e. rape Black women, but White women didn't think that was possible so it HAD to be that concubine!!) This perception lasts to this day. Later, it turned into Assimilation or die- hair presses and conks to better meet white beauty standards. Being proud of our afros and natural hair had a revival in the 60s and 70s, and (this is subjective) i noticed it again in the 2010s with women and natural hair.

To present: You gotta realize that having afros, cornrows, braids, and locs is enough to get Black kids kicked out of some schools and extracurriculars. An entire education or valuable experience, and you cant have it bc of the hair that grows out your head. One of the saddest videos I've ever seen was when they forced a Black teen to cut off his locs (i.e. they held him there, looking miserable, as they sheared off his hair) in order to compete in a wrestling tournament, and all the white people in that place did was watch. No one stood up for him, as he sat there getting handled like property (bc his Black body was bringing them wins but his hair was just TOO MUCH 🙄 but that's a whole Convo about Blackness, Whiteness, and Sports).

My brother went to Catholic school and they basically said he couldn't grow his hair out. None of the looks we ascribe to our culture were allowed. The girls, unless it was flat ironed (to replicate whiteness), couldn't have long braids. Certainly no locs. Meanwhile, white girls can grow their hair out as long as the sun is old, and it's treated like innocent, beautiful youth.

And this lasts into adulthood with jobs! Bc that socialization, the idea that some hair is better than others, LASTS. A newslady just took her wig off to reveal her locs on camera, after hiding it for a decade because of public perceptions. The idea that if I have locs, oh they must be dirty (they're not), so they don't care about their physical appearance and we can't hire them. Like when that old white woman said that Zendaya's faux locs probably smelled like patchouli- that was an assessment purely made on stereotype.

This is also why we get so annoyed when white people- white women in particular- wear their hair in these styles. It's usually associated with "being edgy, being rebellious and older" (i.e., bc being a Black girl is so far from what you're supposed to be as a White girl, it's not innocent or valuable, it's dangerous and it makes everyone notice you) and as soon as they're done, it's back to Mother Mary of Whiteness. It's how cornrows and braids on Black and Latino men (or both, like Miles and Miles G!) are misperceived as gang or hood shit, but a kpop rapper will get them poorly done and it's 'cool' 🙄 it's White men with dreads (I refuse to ever call them locs bc they are NOT) who think they're in their "hippie/fight the power phase" cut them when it's "time to be respectable", but when a Black man with nice locs has them already he's suspicious.

You're basically saying that being Me/Black is a trashy, edgy phase that will never succeed, but it's cool for when you wanna feel Different!

*it's also why it pisses me off in fandom spaces when people refuse to give brown characters their hair texture (or whitewash at all!). It's a statement, that "good hair" is White, and "not good/aesthetic hair" is Black. You might not think that's what you're saying, but it's what you're saying, and every Black viewer of your art can hear it loud and clear. So if you're a character designer, put some thought behind and give your Black characters their features. It'll make you a better artist and a better person.

Anyway, to come back full circle to your question: as far as I'm aware, no, there's no "bad implications" of Miles G or his braids. Nothing we wear on our head is inherently bad, just like him. But bc we've all been raised in White society to unconsciously and consciously associate certain stereotypes with these looks, Black and Brown viewers of ATSV were quite worried that that statement was being made. It was nice to hear that it wasn't.

[a-decent-human-being5]

My Thoughts and Opinions on all the Season One Drawtectives Witnesses Because I Just Finished Rewatching it

(Spoilers under the cut btw)

Buzz: Yeah his design is adorable the drawtectives are completely valid to just melt the second he comes on screen. I adore his voice and the fact that he doesn’t really talk that much, very fun contrast with the cute design. His crush on Dr. Fontaine is also incredibly cute glad they got to sit next to each other at Huck E. Heese. Wish I could eat some of his food but that’s kinda how I feel about all fictional chefs cause I like good food.

Don Jovi: What a name. I remember when I first watched the show I didn’t like him very much because he was the first witness to say “well you gotta earn the clue about the murder” but all things considered they’re chill. I don’t have many thoughts on them though other than the fact that it’s funny how even he finds the crew’s love for Buzz to be a bit much.

Avis Smythe: He obviously didn’t do it but I absolutely feel like he would kill for his son, even though he doesn’t actually know his age lol. Idk he just defends Ogalvy as a good kid so much, despite how blatantly obvious of a troublemaker he is, that I absolutely could see him killing for him if it came to that. Which brings me to yeah in terms of being a good dad he probably should set more boundaries but I love that he just lets Ogalvy do basically whatever weIl also swearing up and down that he’s such a good boy. I get why he was chosen as the fall guy but I also love that the crew went the complete opposite direction with it of “well it couldn’t be Avis cause he’s so nervous he’d probably just tell us if he did it”. However that does always make me wonder how he was able to be a good mole in his job. Also I didn’t say it yet but for him and Ogalvy both the designs are amazing. The reveal that they aren’t actual bird people is iconic. I love how their designs still perfectly match the masks like I would expect no one else under those masks you know.

Ogalvy Smythe: He’s such a little chaotic troublemaker of a kid I absolutely adore it. The fact that this child is not just a thief but a dedicated thief is amazing. Like he’s actively getting so upset when he realizes that there were expensive jewels in this house that someone who’s not him already stole. It’s perfect. He’s also Such a funny character like his lines are iconic and consistently had me laughing. It’s just that complete accurate bluntness that a 5 or something year old has. I don’t want to repeat myself too much but it should be said just how good his design is. Like he is just an egg and I love that for him. It’s not that important and makes sense but I do appreciate just how fitting the cartoon characters he assigned to each of the drawtectives are. Like yes Rosé gets hot lady, York gets hot guy, and Grendan gets dog, perfect. Also speaking of the drawtectives I love how they all eventually came around on him. And of course you can’t talk about Ogalvy without talking about his bond with Rosé. It’s adorable love these thief buddies love that Rosé takes him under her wing despite the fact that she’s trying to get out of that lifestyle. I love it all. Rosé asking what all he stole to try and see if he has the jewels is both a very smart move on her end and such a cute little bonding moment. Plus that gave us all the iconic line of “the hearts and minds of the people”. Overall I just absolutely love Ogalvy he’s probably my second favorite witness and despite his criminal tendencies, or let’s be honest here do in large part to them, he’s such a fun and charming character.

Faucon: Coolest person ever. I love how laid back she is it can sometimes be very funny just how chill she is about absolutely everything. Like just how cool she is was something so refreshing that it was almost comical. Love how she inspired Grendan to change up his name for the first time that’s pretty cool. Even though the name change is just a joke at that point Faucon is still just so supportive of it like it’s real sweet to see. Objectively she’s just the down to earth celebrity but she’s so good at being it you know. She’s cool and understanding while also not down playing her fame. I feel like most down to earth celebrities in fiction fall into a trap of just disregarding or not really liking their fame but that’s not really Faucon. She might be chill and not actively bringing up her status as a celebrity but she still loves her music and her band and if her interactions with the drawtectives is anything to go off of her fans too. She is truly just so nice and supportive about like absolutely everything. Even for something simple like Grendan not knowing many songs her immediate response is, that’s fine and you shouldn’t feel like you have to lie about it. Ended up loving her a lot more than I previously did upon rewatch.

Harper Justice: A lot of people love Harper but I’m not one of those people. I get why other’s like her so much but I am York in this situation. Her spoiled contradictions in her morals upset me. I also can’t stand how she didn’t give them any clues at the end of it. I do like her a lot more in the one shot stream where she’s less drunk and angry, plus giving her a pet that she loves immediately makes her more endearing. This post is only really about season one though so as it stands I still don’t really like her. I hope that her and her mom get closer after she tells her the truth about her past though. I just think it would be nice especially since they’re the only members of the justice family that are left.

Sam Ug: Sam gives us a lot of interesting information after Grendan uses their power on her. I really think her past as a criminal is intriguing especially in relation to Sorin giving her a second chance and her not really trusting people because of her past. Love that she’s based on a dragon and the cigarette representing the smoke is a cool choice. Kinda unrelated to her as a character but her drawing prompt is one of my absolute favorites in season one. It’s just so funny to watch the crew explain photoshop actions in traditional art wording as everyone is just sitting there like damn you really brought your whole ass art kit here tonight huh Grandma. Overall though I think she’s interesting and her past has some cool implications about how she is currently.

Emery Justice: Emery is a horrible evil dad killer we know this, however sense we do know this it can be a little fun to watch him upon rewatch. Like seeing him so quickly agree with any witness the drawtectives propose. Watching him talk up how strong the person must of had to be to overpower his dad. How he out the gate says he wants to help catch whoever is responsible for his father’s death. Like I don’t really like Emery and he’s probably my least favorite witnesses of this season, but sense he is the murder he can also be kinda interesting for that reason.

Susan Fontaine: She’s very sweet and very proficient in her field of work which I respect. She’s actually so sweet that it catches the crew completely off guard, which is pretty funny to watch considering they’re so not used to someone being so agreeable and easy to work with. I think it’s cute how she knows most celebrities because of the interns at her job like it’s just kinda sweet. To me her listening to her interns about casual stuff kinda just shows her caring nature even outside of this case. Also I already said it when talking about Buzz but they’re pretty cute together. Them sitting at Huck E. Heese is adorable. Yeah she’s nice and sweet but I honestly don’t have many thoughts about her outside of that.

Llarm Alasa: My favorite witnesses. He is fashionable for one like the outfit is just great. I completely forgot that he opened it up with the drawing prompt immediately but I kinda love it. It kinda feels like a fun contrast to Dr. Fontaine who gave them all the information up front and then asked for a drawing after just for fun. I don’t know if this was at all intentional but it sure works out nicely with their episodes being back to back. Him just wanting to do something by getting into the drawing challenge dose makes sense though cause as he says he’s been in this room for ever. Also he’s so incredibly tired which again is completely fair considering he’s the last witness and had to just sit in this room for 10 hours. And all this on the same night that one of his best friend died like that sucks so much. He’s so clearly not doing well right now given the whole situation so he tries to distract himself with invention ideas so he doesn’t have to think about it. He basically says this himself. He also brings up how he tends to bury himself in his work to distract from his personal problems which just has me sitting there like bud that’s an awful coping strategy. I’m just glad that at the end of it though the drawtectives give him a new thing for him to think about with whether or not anyone there has been an animatronic the whole time. Also can I just say that his response of “that would be amazing” to that thought is so funny. Like given the witnesses track record you think he would just say it sounds stupid or something but no, to him that idea is cool as hell. It’s just so endearing and speaking of things that make him endearing, I’m great at segways I know, I love him for being a cat owner. Plus it’s a black cat that’s named after something he really enjoys which appeals to me specifically as someone who also has a black cat that was named after something I enjoyed. It is a slight upset that he doesn’t show the crew any cat photos but like he comes around in the end by telling them to follow his Binstagram so I won’t hold it against him. Honestly the only real slight I have against him is that you can not go around picking up obvious murder weapons off the floor my guy. Like do I kinda respect him for not really trusting the bumbling idiots that are the B team cops? Yes. Do I think that could be an interesting thing to think about considering he was Sorin’s close friend and wanting an important piece of evidence to be taken care of properly kinda shows a weird sense of care for him? Also yes. But do I think it was a good move? Absolutely not. At least he eventually trusts to give it to Jancy and the other three. Also I do think he’s mainly trusting Jancy over the drawtectives considering he actively lets out a sigh of relief when she comes in the room. Anyways I’m sorry that I rambled so much about my favorite but I just love him so much he’s literally my favorite witnesses/npc of the entire series.

[pastanest]

if you’re wondering why I’m having to repost this, or why you were perhaps previously following me but no longer are, please refer to this post. I was able to retrieve this thanks to @iamburdened - thanks so much for finding this fic especially, one of my all time favourites to have written!! ♡

Daryl Dixon x she/her!reader

spoilers: set in seasons 2 & 3

Trying

That night could have so easily never happened. If just one thing had been different, if you hadnt chosen to run after Daryl when he stormed off after the group finally found Sophia, if the two of you had walked in a different direction and hadnt found that bar, if either of you had decided to stay sober. But that night, the stars truly did align. When you awoke in the arms of the naked Daryl Dixon, you thought that the stars had been doing you a favour. But within a few weeks, you realised that maybe the stars had actually been playing a cruel trick on you.

The group’s place on the farm was hardly permanent, that was obvious from the get go; you didnt know how much longer you would have a safe environment, you didnt know what to do. You had to tell Daryl, of course you did. The two of you hadnt really spoken since that night, the air was different between you two, the butterflies had escaped your stomachs and fluttered around you, bringing small smiles and rosy cheeks and flirtatious glances, but no conversation. Until you speed walked over to Daryl’s tent, your fists clenched so hard your knuckles hurt, your head spinning and your heart pounding.

“Daryl-“

He turned around as soon as he heard your voice, and he barely had to look at you before he was holding your shoulders and searching your eyes. “Hey, ya alright? Ya look like ya’ve seen a damn ghost!”

You chuckled airily, feeling the weight of your words without you even having to say them, and knowing that once you did, they’d only feel heavier. “We need to talk.”

Daryl frowned at you, concerned and obviously a little awkward, not knowing where this ‘talk’ was headed. You could tell that whatever he thought you might say, it was definitely not what left your lips.

“Daryl...Im pregnant.”

His face was unreadable, but unlike every other occasion when it had been difficult to decipher, his usual storminess wasnt present. Daryl stared at you wordlessly, and you felt the weight of your words crushing you until you burst into over-explaining yourself.

“I-I know the baby’s yours, I havent slept with anyone else, b-but I dont expect you to- we dont even know how much longer we’ll be on the farm, it’s stupid to keep it, sorry, forget I even-“ You were rambling, shaking your head and running your hands through your hair, until Daryl grabbed your hands to stop you.

“If ya don’ wan’ it, tha’s up to you, it’s yer body. But, ya don’ gotta give it up, if ya don’ want to.” His words were hoarse, and you could finally read what his eyes were telling you; there were too many emotions, too much shock, he couldnt put those things into words, but he didnt need to.

“Y-You...You want to do this? Daryl, we arent even together, we had sex once and now there’s a baby in the middle of all this and I just...are you sure?” You stared up at him, searching through the waves of emotion in his eyes to try and find an answer.

“Aint nobody else I’d wanna try this with, but if ya dont want a kid now, we can jus’ wait to have one when yer ready.” Daryl was shy, his cheeks blushing beneath his stubble as he avoided your eyes, but his hands still held yours.

You smiled up at him then, the fog in your mind clearing to reveal the answer you needed. “We can try.”

Daryl’s gaze snapped up from the ground to meet your eyes, studying your face for any sign of uncertainty, and in the span of two seconds he found none. He broke out into a smile, which widened into a grin, then into a laugh as he lifted you up in his arms and spun you around, making you laugh too. When Daryl placed you back down on the ground, he held you close to his chest.

“Anythin’ ya need, anythin’ at all, jus’ tell me. Any prob’ems, anyone gives ya a hard time about anythin’, I’ll deal with ‘em.” He promised you, sniffling into your hair, his tears of bliss dampening your ponytail.

You nodded into his chest. “I know, you’ve always kept me safe.”

That statement was true from the very first moment you’d met Daryl. He’d always felt a protectiveness over you, and he couldnt hold back from acting on it. Anytime you’d encountered a walker, he’d all but sprint in front of you to act as a human shield, or he’d fire his crossbow before you’d had the chance to even lift your knife. At first, it annoyed you a little; you felt that Daryl thought you couldnt handle yourself. You confronted him about it angrily, and you’d expected him to get angry at you right back, to tell you that if you didnt get yourself in danger all the damn time - which you had to admit, you did have a bad habit of doing - he wouldnt have to save you. Instead, Daryl just sat at his tent silently, head hanging, and guilt consumed you. Immediately, you apologised for biting his head off and sat down next fo him, and you told him that he made you feel safer than anyone, you just didnt want him to risk himself for you like he always did.

“Rather go out protectin’ you than jus’ gettin’ eaten fer nothin’.” Daryl had mumbled, and although he’d tried to play off how much he cared about you, his message was crystal clear to you.

If you thought he was protective of you then, you had no idea what was awaiting you when you were pregnant with Daryl’s baby. He was at your side 24/7. You were more than happy to move in his tent on the farm, but Daryl moved it closer to the rest of the group so that there were more people to protect you if shit hit the fan. Naturally, Daryl’s sudden clinginess to you, and his ferocity towards anyone who asked him about it, got everyone in the group clued in that something was going on. It was actually Dale that figured it out first. You were hanging some washing out to dry, and he casually approached you in the way Dale did when he had something to say.

“Daryl’s a good guy.” He mused, and you nodded, beaming at him.

“Yeah, he is.” You glanced over at Daryl, who Dale had made sure was in a conversation with Rick a safe distance away from you, so that he could talk to you without your bodyguard tearing him a new one.

“I’ve never seen him so...territorial, over anyone. Closest thing was Merle, and that made sense, that was the only family he had. But you, you arent family to him. That is, unless you and him now have a new...family connection.” Dale guessed, your head whipping back around to stare at him with wide eyes. Seeing your expression, Dale laughed. “Dont worry, your secret’s safe with me. Just let me know if you need anything! Not that I suppose I’ll get the chance to help before-“

And as if by magic, Daryl appeared at your side, taking the basket of washing from your arms and giving you a nod, a silent question of if everything was alright, and you returned the nod to answer.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Daryl verbalised his next question, directed to Dale, accompanied by a scowl, which you playfully poked Daryl’s chest for.

Dale smiled. “Oh, nothing! Just everyday conversation. (Y/N), I have to say, you are positively glowing today!” He teased, and you laughed, smiling at the old man kindly as he walked away.

“Thank you Dale!” You called after him, and when you looked to Daryl, he was frowning.

“The hell was ‘at?” He asked, his question harsh but his voice always soft when he talked to you.

“Dale guessed. He was smart about it, got my guard down by mentioning what a good guy you are.” You chuckled and shook your head, grabbing more clothes from the basket in Daryl’s arms to hang on the line.

Though Daryl was still on full alert, a small smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “Good guy, huh?”

You grinned at him. “Yup! And Im sure you’ll be more than a good dad.” You stood on your tiptoes to kiss Daryl’s cheek, making him blush furiously as he scoffed.

As a result of the mental and physical wounds that his father left, Daryl understandably had his own anxieties about the kind of father he would be. Up until you’d told him you were pregnant, Daryl honestly hadnt even thought about having kids of his own, he thought he was too broken, a lost cause. Somehow, having you at his side made him feel like he could actually do this.

When the camp found out about Lori’s pregnancy, which came as a total shock to you since you’d been so focussed on your own, you and Daryl decided to tell them about your baby, too. It seemed only fair, and it shared the weight of the burden that you knew Lori was feeling at the same time as you.

“Wait, you too?” T-Dog had asked, with eyes so wide you couldnt help laughing.

“Yeah!”

And then his eyes got wider. “Who’s the daddy?!”

All you had to do was glance at Daryl, and T-Dog’s jaw hit the floor, until he composed himself back into a smirk and a calm nod of approval to Daryl. “Ma man.”

This eased the tension substantially, everyone laughing as Rick approached Daryl to congratulate him. The group had never seen Daryl smile with such pride before.

The farm falling was up there with the worst possible things that could have happened. Daryl stuck to you like glue when the group was on the road, sleeping outside unprotected for the first time in what felt like an eternity. You were exhausted from the stress of it all that first day, and you ending up passing out with your head on Daryl’s lap. That night, he didnt sleep a single second. He stayed on full alert, his eyes and ears hyper focussed on anything that could be a danger to you, while his fingertips absentmindedly combed through your hair as you slept. Despite being on full alert, Daryl couldnt help glancing down at you periodically, and even if those glances only lasted half a second before he returned back to his protective duties, every single time he looked at you he was reminded that he could never love anything more.

Finding the prison felt like a god send, and your hope was restored in the fact your baby’s fate was safe. Sitting in front of that campfire, your head rested on Daryl’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around you, you smiled into the flames, a few tears slipping down your cheeks. Daryl nudged you gently, his other hand quick to brush your tears away.

“Hey, wha’s wrong? Ya in pain?” He panicked, and you shook your head, beaming up at him.

“Things are turning around.” You told him, your voice so quiet, almost afraid to vocalise such a thought in case it ruined everything.

The smile Daryl gave you put all your worries to rest, and he pulled you closer to place a kiss on your forehead.

No official relationship had been established between you and Daryl, but ever since you discovered that you were having his baby, things had obviously developed. The two of you were more affectionate with each other, a natural progression considering how often you’d be by each other’s sides. But Daryl had never asked you out, you’d never asked him out, there was just a love that was acknowledged and accepted, that was being allowed to finally flourish into something beautiful. The two of you were focussed on the baby, and that was a very welcome distraction, it meant that you didnt spend time worrying about your relationship with each other, you didnt have the space in your minds to overthink about that, so it just existed, and it existed wonderfully.

Settling into the prison was utter bliss, finally having an actual room, a real bed to call your own, it was absolutely needed in your case. Since you were getting so big, it was getting very difficult for you to help out with any laborious tasks, to the extent where you couldnt even lift a mattress onto your own bed. Daryl was more than happy to do that for you, of course, and before you could protest or thank him, he kissed you and sped off, leaving you giggling, bewildered and blushing as you fell back onto the mattress. You hadnt intended to fall asleep, but when Daryl gently shook you awake to eat some dinner, you couldnt have woken up faster. He watched in amusement as you all but swallowed your meal whole, your swollen stomach and glowing smile making his heart pound in his chest. In that moment, he knew that without a doubt, he would keep that prison standing if he had to hold the ceiling up himself, just to give you a safe place to stay.

Lori’s death turned your world upside down. The two of you werent particularly close, but you had grown so much closed given your shared state. Seeing Maggie walk out clutching a bloody baby, and Carl at her side in stone cold shock, it shook your hopeful illusion of your labour going without a hitch. You dont know how you’d convinced yourself of that, or whether you just hadnt let yourself think about giving birth, but every single day after that you grieved the loss of your friend, while your anxiety grew exponentially. Daryl could see it, the closer you got to your due date (which you were glad Hershel had calculated for you, but you partly wished you’d never found out) the more frantic you got. Daryl did his best to calm you down, to reassure you, and what happened to Lori combined with your own fears made him even more determined to stick by your side, so that you definitely werent without him when the time came.

You were sitting in the prison field with Carol picking flowers to lay on Lori’s grave, when you felt a gush between your legs. It was so intense that the fluid reached Carol’s shoe, and she gasped, her head slowly lifting from the flowers in her hands to look at you as all colour drained from your face.

“DARYL!” She yelled, and he was there in an instant, he’d only been a few feet away, but Carol couldnt believe how fast he’d run.

You, on the other hand, didnt see Daryl run. You couldnt move your eyes when his hands held your face, you couldnt speak, you couldnt breathe, you were frozen. And then everything was blurry, and it took you several seconds to register that you were crying. By the time you did realise, Daryl had already swung you up in his arms and was carrying you bridal style as he sprinted for the prison, everyone in the group running behind him.

Daryl laid you on your bed, the blurry silhouette of him disappearing briefly to be replaced by what you deciphered to be Hershel. He pinched your ear, hard, and you slapped his hand away.

“OW!” You cried, and Daryl growled, close to beating the old man if Rick hadnt held him back.

Hershel chuckled. “You werent showing symptoms of actual shock, you were just, well, shocked, and I needed to get you out of it. We need you responsive for this!”

You sighed and let your head fall back against the pillow, rubbing your earlobe. “Fuck.”

Hershel pointed a gloved finger at you. “Careful of that language now, there’s gonna be a little one here soon!”

With that, Hershel began examining you. Daryl was allowed back at your side, and when he reached for your hand, you gripped his. He kept his eyes fixed on your face, not paying attention to what Hershel was doing, only to the reactions of discomfort on your face.

“‘s alright, we gonna get you through this, promise.” Daryl whispered, voice already hoarse with emotion.

“Any guesses on what you might be having, (Y/N)?” Hershel asked you curiously as he examined you, somewhat easing your nerves with a distracting topic.

You smiled at Hershel before your eyes gravitated back to Daryl’s. “Well, we dont know, but since the start I’ve had a feeling that it’s a girl. I dont know, though.”

Hershel smiled at you. “A mother’s instinct is rarely wrong.”

He continued the examination before determining that you had only just started dilating, so it was not yet time to start pushing, despite your contractions having already begun. Since there was no telling how long the labour would take, Hershel told everyone to go back to work for the time being, but of course, Daryl was never going to leave you. For most of your dilation period, it was just you and Daryl in the cell you shared, him thinking up any random crap of a memory he could in order to distract you every time a contraction came, his hand never letting go of yours. Hershel came in to re-examine you and check on how you were doing in general every half an hour or so, and within around four hours, it was time to start pushing. Maggie and Beth were summoned back to the room then for medical assistance, and Daryl stayed at your side as the rest of the company stood essentially staring between your legs, but that was the least daunting aspect of what was going on. Tears filled your eyes as the next contraction rolled ploughed through you.

“PUSH (Y/N), PUSH!” Hershel called out, while Daryl leaned close to your ear.

“C’mon sweet girl, ya got this, yer gonna be jus’ fine. Push for me, push for her, go on, you can do it.” He whispered, but even his whisper was raw with emotion.

You nodded and squeezed your eyes shut, pressure and immense pain building at your hips as you pushed with all your might, your tears escaping and rolling down your face, into your hair that splayed across the pillow beneath your head. You cried out, clutching Daryl’s hand so hard you were worried you were going to break it, but he thought it was the least amount of pain he could deal with considering what you were going through.

And then, there was a cry. The cell plummeted into eerie silence, a ringing in your ears like a bullet had been fired right beside your head, as Hershel lifted a bloody bundle of limbs from between your legs. You felt winded, lost for words, lost for...everything. Maggie and Beth both wiped happy tears from their cheeks as Hershel passed the tiny human over to them, so they could quickly wash the blood away. Sound returned like a crashing wave, the ringing and the deafening silence replaced by heavy breathing and the cries of your baby. When you realised you were still clutching Daryl’s hand in a death grip, you slowly released it and turned to look at him, to see his tear stained face staring at the baby just as you had been.

“Your hunch was right, (Y/N), say hello to your baby girl.” Hershel spoke softly as he held the now bundled up baby out to you, and with shaking arms you reached for her.

She fell into them as though slotting into place, her face chubby and glowing in a way that was utterly ethereal. You shuffled over in bed to make room for Daryl, and he didnt need an invitation to move and sit properly beside you, to wrap an arm around you and the little baby nestled safely in a yellow blanket Daryl had found on his last run.

It wasnt until Maggie and Beth returned with a crowd that you even realised they’d left your cell. Your friends provided you and Daryl with plenty of space, only a few of them filing in at a time before letting others take a peak at the newborn angel. You looked up at Daryl, tearful, sweaty and feeling beyond exhausted, but Daryl had never seen anything so beautiful. You grinned up at him and nodded down at the baby, asking him a silent question, and he could only nod frantically in reply. He held his arms out and you carefully placed his little girl there, cuddled up against her father’s chest. Her face scrunched up briefly as she wriggled to get comfortable, making you and Daryl chuckle as more tears rolled down both of your faces.

“Have you thought of a name for her?” Carol asked, staring at the three of you with so much adoration, beyond overjoyed for her best friend having found the love and the family he deserved.

You smiled at her. “Well, ever since we first talked about her, she gave us something, so we figured...why not name her after what she gave us?” You looked between the people gathered in your cell, and the love of your life beside you.

Daryl sniffled, but nodded along with you and managed a wobbly smile to the audience.

“Her name is Hope, Hope Dixon.” You announced, and the room erupted in quiet and considerate ‘awwh’s as you rested your head on Daryl’s shoulder, eyelids feeling suddenly heavy.

“Alright, I think it’s time we give these three some privacy.” Hershel said, kindly ushering everyone out of the room as they all sent their best wishes and smiles your way.

Daryl sniffled. “Thank you.”

You frowned up at him, too tired to even lift your head from his shoulder. “For what?”

Daryl tore his gaze from the sleeping bundle of joy in his arms, to smile down at you with more confidence and love than you had ever seen on his face.

“Fer tryin’.”

[she-karev]

A Day in Hell (Amber Karev Angst)

Age Rating: 12+

Chapters: One of Six

Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy

Canon Episode: Season 17 Episode 1

AN: I wanted to do a story to showcase the hardships health care workers faced when covid hit. The doctors and nurses put our health first during a worldwide crisis and we should be forever grateful for that even without a pandemic to prove what should always be known.

Summary: Amber works in the covid unit where she bonds with an actuary patient of hers.

Words: 1087

Chapter Links Here: 1,2,3,4,5,6

April 1st, 2020

Amber stands outside the elevator doors waiting for them to open so she can get to work. She normally goes to work in her casual clothes, but she found coming in already in baby blue scrubs proves to be less time consuming.

Her red plaid fabric mask feels hot against her mouth and nose, but she bears with it since the alternative will get her exposed. Also, her PAPR helmets at work are a welcome relief to her claustrophobia.

It doesn’t make up for the soul crushing despair that comes with working at a hospital during a pandemic, but it makes her breathing easier which is something. The elevator opens to reveal one white woman in a tracksuit wearing her mask below her chin to Amber’s annoyance who ignores it and tries to step in when the woman gasps and holds up her hand signaling her to stop before entering.

“Do you work at a hospital?” The woman asks in fright.

Amber raises an eyebrow at the blonde woman she designates as Karen for obvious reasons with her mom tracksuit and disregard for covid protocols, “Yeah I’m a doctor.”

The Karen gives a grin, “Could you wait for the next elevator?”

Amber looks at the vile woman blankly. Normally she would tear the woman down with her words and maybe a punch if she provokes her. But with covid and her feelings drained before she even gets to work, Amber doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight. So, she steps out of the elevator and back into the hallway making the lady smile.

“I appreciate you!” Amber gives the condescending woman a fake grin behind her mask as the elevator doors close.

Later

Jackson sanitizes his double gloved hands next to Amber in the covid ward where she tells him how her morning went.

“I appreciate you?” Jackson’s asks both disgusted and amused.

Amber bitterly nods inside her helmet, “Yep she said that after she kicked me out when she saw me in my scrubs.”

Jackson scoffs, “Wow I guess a crisis really brings out the worst in people.”

“That lady was probably already the worst before covid. I bet she has a gun in her apartment in case there are kids playing outside her gold coated hallway outside her diamond encrusted apartment where she has a boy toy who’s 20 years younger than her.”

Jackson chuckles, “Maybe she collects nazi art in her free time or scares little black boys on the street with how white and oppressive she is.”

“You know I’ve never been discriminated against for being a doctor before. I gotta say it’s not as fun as I thought it would be.”

“You thought it would be fun?” Jackson grabs a tablet and goes over it, “All right Grey has a lot on her plate working this floor, so I offered to take half her patients, so they don’t get rushed through. First one is Ian Talbert, 64, came in positive with covid three days ago and running on 90 percent on O2. The prednisone and magnesium seem to be working, if his scans are clear we can discharge him to quarantine for two weeks at home.”

Amber sighs, “Finally some good news for once, I’ve been treating him these past two days he’s a good guy. Let’s get him into CT and get him home.”

The duo walk inside Ian’s room where they find him standing in front of a white board writing down equations to Jackson’s surprise.

“Um Mr. Talbert?” Ian coughs before turning to them, “I’m Dr. Avery I’ll be treating you today, you already know Dr. Karev.”

“Hey Ian, another breakthrough?”

Ian caps the black marker, “There’s no time like the present to get lost in numbers Amber.”

“No but maybe you can do it sitting down and conserving your energy so you can lower your risk of having a stroke.”

Ian groans but walks to the bed with Jackson helping him and Amber checking his vitals, “Don’t worry I did the math, the chances of me having a stroke while recovering from a virus is at 12.78 percent.”

Jacksons raises an eyebrow at the precise calculation causing Amber to explain, “Ian’s an actuary.”

“Oh like an insurance guy?”

Ian coughs, “I calculate odds for a living, mostly for insurance companies. It’s basically like being a cross between an undertaker and a bookie.”

“Ask him anything and he’ll tell you the odds of it happening in real life.”

Jackson chuckles and takes a chance, “Okay um odds of my kids contracting a deadly virus.”

Ian thinks, “As long as you quarantine and keep her way from strangers, I’d say more people are killed by lightning I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Jackson is relieved and turns to Amber, “I like this guy.”

“Oh yeah, he’s good. My turn, what are the chances of my friend here getting back together with his ex-wife?”

Jackson looks at her annoyed, “Why would you even ask that?”

Ian faces Jackson, “How would you describe your sexual chemistry?”

“Oh, it’s hot.” Amber answers, “I live with them and it’s like living with two rabid bunnies who took vows of celibacy.”

“Amber!” Jackson admonishes her but goes back to the task at hand, “Okay Ian we gotta check your lungs in CT and if their clear you can go home, and I won’t have my personal life calculated.”

Ian grins, “Let’s get right to it.” Amber nods and latches down the gurney rail, “But if you ever want your stock portfolio analyzed and given the best options to increase revenue my zoom door is always open. I don’t work for cheap though.”

Jackson chuckles, “Thanks but I already got a guy, and he helped me when my family’s foundation was in the shambles after my grandfather’s sex scandal.”

They then move Ian’s bed outside the door and head to radiology, “Hey Ian maybe you can tell me the chances of my resident roommate moving out of my apartment and into her own.”

Amber grins sarcastically, “Funny.”

Ian coughs, “With her salary combined with the predicament were in I’d suggest looking into a hotel for some alone time with the lady you got sexual chemistry with.”

Amber laughs, “See even the actuary you met five minutes ago knows what’s right in front of you. If only you could too.”

Jackson sighs, “This is gonna be a fun day.” They head inside the elevator and press the button for radiology and watch the doors close.

Next Part Here

[battleonthebigbridge]

Wriothesley's story quest

It's been about a day or so since I did the quest but GOD am I rotating Wriothesley around my brain at lightning speeds.

Gonna put some general thoughts under the cut but wow I didn't expect this quest to be so fucked up and dark, like I really got squeamish during some of the parts. But I mainly want to talk abt Wriothesley himself as a character.

FIRST OF ALL THIS NEW DESK SITTING ANIMATION????????????????? Hi Wriothesley :)

He's just so funny like I love his voice acting as well. He just sounds super casual and like a bro y'know? I feel like it would be really natural to have a conversation with him and his constant little one liners definitely helped to brighten up the quest a bit.

I was questioning my sexuality I don't care I'll admit it I'm NOT BACKING DOWN.

(leans into mic) Would.

THE WAY HE DELIVERED THIS LINE WAS INSANE AND THE ZOOM IN ON HIS FACE I WAS BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS LIKE GO ON WRIOTHESLEY YOU GO!!!

I was genuinely surprised they brought up that part of his story in the quest cos like I knew about it from his profile stories but I didn't actually expect them to reveal it like that in the quest. His whole speech about it was just so good and I'm glad it makes that part of his lore more accessible and obvious cos man it's just really dark, but also a cool direction that they're taking with tackling a lot of more difficult themes. AGAIN not for everyone and I honestly think these quests should start coming with some mild content warnings AT LEAST but it was good, i enjoyed it a lot.

LIKE MAN HE WAS JUST A KID AND HE'D ALREADY COMMITTED MURDER AND WAS SENT TO THE TOP SECURITY UNDERWATER FORTRESS ALL ON HIS OWN LIKE. No matter how you look at it I feel so bad for him like idk it's hard to explain. He just deserved better, he deserved a happy childhood. And also damn with his backstory and the Lyney and Lynette backstory we really gotta look into all these noble people cos there is a pretty worrying pattern here.

It was a good quest, probably one of my fave story quests cos not only did it have a really compelling plotline but like we actually found out a lot more about Wriothesley as a character, both personality and backstory wise which is something i often find lacking in these story quests. The Fontaine story quests have been REALLY good so far like Lyney's and Neuvillette's were really good too and had the perfect balance of character exposition and also still having a focus on the NPCs that help to makeup the worldbuilding.

Also I'm just really normal about that rendered cutscene.

Shoutout to Wriothesley.

Honestly I haven't typed much because there's not too much I wanted to say outside of me just commentating about me going EWWWWW and AH FUCK every 5 minutes during this quest LMAO. I just like Wriothesley I think he's neat.

[azukanacrown]

Okay I know I’m late to the party, but I’ve just gotta get this outta my system. I’ve been watching Miraculous Ladybug Season 5 and I just finished the episode where Lila tries to frame Marionette for foraging all the class’ portfolios (or whatever they’re called) and it’s just a reminder of how shit of character Lila is. Not necessarily because she’s an awful person, but because she’s horribly written.

I understand that Miraculous is a kid’s show but that doesn’t mean everyone constantly has to be a moron. Like, every time Lila spins a lie the writing surrounding her just completely dumbs down. She isn’t even that necessary as a character. I think the only reason she’s kept around is so she can become the next Hawkmoth (if this is revealed in the last few episodes, don’t tell me), given Bunnix & that one-time traveling villain talking about the Hawkmoth of the future.

Anyways, it’s just annoying how everyone believes her for no good reason. Like, for example, that episode where she’s calling from the Middle East because she’s visiting Prince Ali. Nobody questions the fact that nothing is moving in the background, like no birds no clouds, lighting, people, nothing, nor the lack of visual depth. Because human eyes can tell when something is flat or not (usually). Also, an orange lamp? Really? What is this, a Hollywood movie of the Middle East or any “desert” place?

Then you have Alya refusing to believe Marionette about Lila. Like yes, you shouldn’t just take people’s word for things but once it gets to the point where someone else is also agreeing, aka Adrien and you still refuse to believe them that’s on you. Not to mention, conveniently, Adrien just doesn’t talk about the time when he talked to Lila to ensure she unspins her lies about Marionette pushing her down the stairs. On top of that, she literally said she has a disorder that makes her lie. SHE LITERALLY ADMITTED TO RANDOMLY LYING (even if though that was a lie too other people don’t know that). So even if she “doesn’t mean to” that at least means she compulsively lies and can’t control it.

I also just hate how Alya says it’s cute that Adrien is standing up for his girl instead of considering the fact that he’s just telling the truth. Adrien is someone who tried to see good in even Chloe and now he’s speaking ill of another person, for love or not, that is not in his nature to do and yet they still don’t take either of them seriously (he was in love with Ladybug and she made it pretty clear she didn’t like Chloe and yet he still defended her). It was also very infantilizing towards Marionette. (Also the fact that she just conveniently forgot about the fact that Lila lied about being friends with Ladybug even though she knows Marionette hates her is just pathetic)

Then there’s the fact that, even though Marionette is apparently so busy with her love life and other things, she has the time to not only rewrite but take the time to learn the handwriting of about 16 students. And do it in like a day or two, given she was doing it out of spite for not being picked to be the class rep. Unlike Lila, Marionette has plenty of history to prove her good nature. None of them actually know Lila other than for the things she tells them she does. Like sure, maybe she convinces some of the class but the ENTIRE class. Many of which have always believed in Marionette’s good nature (namely Rose & Mylene).

It pisses me off how Ms. Bustier also tried to send Chloe & Lila to go comfort Sabrina after all of them watched her have a literal breakdown saying it was those exact two that made her do it. And it’s obvious it was just so they could catch their conversation in the bathroom (which, not to mention, is strange it has a two sided mirror into the girls bathroom. I get it was to get proof, but that’s still weird). But then there’s the fact no one turned on those two when they not only watched Sabrina breakdown and turn against Chloe, her literal best-friend and master, but also watch Lila not try to comfort her at ALL, only continuing to try and turn it against Marionette in this honeyed tone. Like it’s just ridiculous (utterly) how much they twist the writing to make sure Lila gets away with her lying even though if they took like two seconds to add Adrien telling his story or someone else having common sense they never would’ve believed her.

I know I am overthinking a kid’s show, you do not have to tell me 💀 trust me I am fully aware.