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caxde · 1 year

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roses and dandelions | steve harrington x reader

summary you're Hopper's daughter as soon as you could you moved fram from Hawkins, some years later you come back to teach at the High School, and you find Steve Harrington has become the new History teacher.

word count: 5.4k

warnings fem!reader, fluff (like a lot of it), comfort, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn bestfriends to lovers, idiots in love!!!. teacher!steve AU!!!!, english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read!!

Steve loved his job.

And for once he was actually proud of what he was doing, and what he had become. He had managed to get into collage, and worked his way through it, managing to get the top marks in his degree, turns out that if he was actually passionate in what was thought, he had no problem in keeping attention. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that his end goal was not where he was, but it turns out he was content with it. A quiet life, back in Hawkins, in a house of his own, teaching History to high schoolers. They weren’t the little nuggets that he had aimed for, but regardless, he enjoyed the occasional connection with an abnormally curious mind.

He liked it. The quiet, the normalness, the stillness almost.

It also made him giggle, being called Mr.Harrington. It seems like the walls of the Hawkins’ High School had seen the evolution, from posh-boy Stevie, King-Steve, loverboy-Steve, nice-Steve to finally years later, Mr.Harrington. He remembers writing it on his first day on the chalkboard and not being able to stop smiling to himself. He had made it, it wasn’t inherited, it wasn’t gifted, he had accomplished it himself.

So on days like this, early January, where the coldness seemed to drain the morale, he stuck into that thought.

He taught his classes for today, and was hanging back in his classroom for a bit, grading some work from his senior class. His radio hummed soft music as he concentrated, hand on his chin that played absentmindedly with his short 3 day beard. He was interrupted as he heard a loud thump on the other side of the wall.

Funny enough, you were there.

Surrounded by empty canvases, you were struggling to make the room feel better. You had worked in so many artists' workshops that you had certain habits that were hard to break. You needed a space dedicated in its entirety to paint, and you had spent the last hour organizing it. Half empty bottles were up to the front, the first three always had to be the three primary colours, yellow, blue and red. Followed by white and black. Then came the secondary ones, and the tertiary colours. The paintbrushes that could be saved and weren’t to badly beat layed bristles up in a jar. You only had acrylics and you had made a mental note to ask permission to get some oils next. However, the canvases couldn’t stop hitting the floor every time you tried to reorganize them. So you were exhausted and piled them on the ground by shape. Deciding to reorganize the high tables. You knocked one of the stools into the ground.

A loud thump.

“You okay?” Even if his tone of voice didn’t make it obvious the fact that he had rushed over, seeing his glasses sliding down his nose did. Once you turned around and actually connected the voice to his face a little upside down smile appeared in his lips, while you nodded and looked at the ground. A faint blush appears on your cheeks.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it Harrington.” You scoffed as you bent down again to pick the fallen piece of furniture.

“I didn’t know you were back in town…” He whispered as he came closer to you, standing in front of you, watching you closely as you relocated the stool.

“Well, I got maybe a little too many calls from Principal Higgins, about how they had nobody to come and ‘save the arts’ and bla bla bla… So… yeah.” You tried to explain without getting into too much detail, eyeing the classroom that was in truely a deprovable state. “And I don’t know where to actually put the tables so it makes sense.” He hides a smile as he scratches the back of his neck, looking around.

“I’ll help.” He says as he starts heading into one of the high tables.

“You don’t have to.” You tell him as you grab a sheet of paper and start sketching a quick idea of the distribution, the pencil always rests on your right ear.

“I know. But if you actually give me an excuse to stop grading papers, you would actually be doing me a favour.” He says in a happy tone, as he rests his forearms on top of the table where your paper rested, his eyes looking deep into yours as you concentrated. His face relaxed as he watched you, and if he was being sincere, it didn’t surprise him.

“Okay, if I’m your excuse… Guess you can.” You answered absentmindedly, as your whole focus was on making sure that the little game of tetris made sense on the paper.

As you started moving boxes around, Steve’s head had a million questions that he couldn’t help but ask. He was shocked to see you again, and if you’re honest, you were quite embarrassed to be back here again.

“So what about New York?” He asked cheerfully, and regretted it when he saw how your mouth slightly opened and your eyes flinched at that.

“Well, New York will wait… I hope.” You whisper the final part, but he hears it nonetheless.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-” You had to interrupt him. You could tell he was about to rumble away as he always did when he tried to fix things that remained unfixable.

“It’s alright Harrington. It’s just, that way” You point before getting more in depth, your voice rising above the squeals the tables make. “I’ve worked so hard, y’know? And I finally had, like my own space at a gallery and even if my work wasn't gonna be there, MoMa called back about the job interview and… I don’t know. I’ve still got the place in the gallery but now they won’t actually give me a space until late May…” You rumble away as the table is finally in its right place. “I just thought I had finally made it, I think…”

“You have. You’ve just got to wait now.” He reassures as he starts pushing the next table, his eyes had not left your face while you rumbled away, his full attention laid on you.

“I hate waiting.” You replay as the room finally is in shape. He pulls up the canvases and gives you a questioning look. “Between the cabinet and the wall there.” You point out, eyeing the whole room.

“I remember. You were always so…”

“Careful now.” You tease him as he tries to find a word to end his sentence.

“Impulsive?” You laughed as you crossed your arms, and he gave you a soft smile. You looked at him for once. It had been about five years since you left for New York, and yet he still looked the same. His hair had grown a bit, but it remained as messy as it always did. The glasses and bear were a new addition, one that made you get lost in him for a bit longer than you did before. You smile softly as you remember how many times you told him how good he’d look with a beard and he proves you right.

“Hey!” You scream back at him, as you both giggle and laugh. “You did overthink a lot.” That makes him chuckle as his arms crossed in front of his chest, and your eyes inevitably focus on his upper arms a bit.

“Still do, H '' He says, using the old nickname he once gave you. “You still make people call you that?”

“Miss.H?” You ask him, as you clean your things up, putting them neatly into your backpack so you can head back home. “Yeah, Hopper is way too close to dad.”

“Figured.” He smiles, an upside down smile that makes something deep inside you flutter ever so slightly. “You still in the cabin?”

“Yeah, he left for Cali with Joyce, and I just sorta bought it from him, you know… A big atelier…” He laughed softly with you, his face softening as he fixated on your movements.

“See, you might like being back.” He teases as he fixes his eyeglasses.

“Don’t push it Harrington.”

“Mr.Harrington now.” He finishes, making you both laugh.

January flew by.

And with it, your new routine settled quickly. You woke up with not that much time to spare before having to get the car to get in actual time to your first class. Funny enough, teaching wasn’t as bad as you remembered. Granted, the last time you taught you had spoiled upper-east side kids that thought that making an abstract painting was simply spilling paint into a big canvas, devoid of meaning. It deeply infuriated you.

Thankfully, this time around the kids seemed to actually be interested, and to actually want to learn what you tried to convey.

However, on this February morning, everything was going exactly as it wasn’t supposed to. To make matters worse, your car had given up and was now refusing to turn on. Frustrated and about to give up, you decide to call for help.

You were whispering to yourself, pickuppickuppickup, as the tones of the phone answered you.

“Good morning.” You struggled to hide a groan at his happy tone.

“Help?” You asked as your voice croaked, it being your first word of the day, besides a series of curses dedicated to your car.

“What do you need, H?” Steve's voice sounded worried now, and you scoffed in an attempt to make him relax.

“My stupid car has died. Can you come pick me up? Please? I’ll buy you dinner if you wanna, as a thank you.” You explain yourself as you hit the floor with your heavy boots. He could hear you doing so, just as you could hear him smile.

“Are you bribing me, bub?” He asks. You can feel your face warming up as you register the stupid pet name.

“Only if it is working.” You declare, receiving nothing but silence. “Is it working?”

“On my way.” He says before he hangs up.

Truth be told, you didn’t have to wait that long, but still, you managed to get lost in some sketches as you waited. So, when Steve found you, curled up on your house steps, head focused on whatever you were doodling, he could help but smile at you. Soft, kind and adoring smile. He stopped the car, and opened the door for you, a smirk on his face as you told him good morning stevie.

“You know, you’re the only one allowed to call me that.” He teases as he starts the car back up.

“Course I am.” You tease him back, slapping your thigh as a distraction from your yawning.

“Did you eat?” He asks, his eyes didn’t leave the road often, but he couldn’t help himself. You were on the passenger seat, hair falling in a calculated mess, and you scratching your eye made him melt a bit on the inside. So as soon as you shake your head no, he reaches on the center console, and gives you a little mug. You chuckle at that. “It’s coffee.” He explains. “I’ve got a croissant in my bag, you can have it.” He tells you, as your cheeks warm up, a pinkish tone invading them.

“You take your mugs into school?” You tease him as a way to say thank you. Taking it to your lips, leaning your head back as soon as you drink it.

“Yeah, you know… trying to take the plastic use down.” He explains, as he reaches for the same mug, your hands touching for a second. An electric feeling invading your skin for a moment. You watch him closely as his lips hit the white porcelain, you feel your lips tingle a bit. He looks closely at you as he hits a red light, handing the mug back at you. “Seriously, eat the croissant.” He insists, as you can’t hide your blushing skin anymore, and this time he does notice it, a smile appearing on his face.

“O-kay, but you’ll eat half of it, ‘kay?” You try to reason with him, as he tilts your head at you, a mocking stare. “C’mon, you know I don’t eat that much.” He nodded as his left hand changed the car gear.

“You’ll have to feed me though” He teased as his hands were now occupied, his face concentrated once again, as he closed distance with the school. He thinks you won’t, because if he’s honest, it will make him just as nervous as it will make you, having your hand that close to his lips. Not really sure what was going on, but you were in no rush to find out, you just enjoyed it. So his eyes opened a bit as he heard the cracking of the baked pastry on your hand. His head slightly turned to you as his eyes don’t leave the road. Your heart beating a bit harder as you closed distance, his lips kissing your fingers as he bites down.

When the car stops you share a look. An intimate moment while you too share the improvised breakfast, enjoying the stillness of this moment, the quiet and the sense of familiarity it itself held. You knew as much as he did, that you wished you could just stay there.

Two weeks had passed, and it became a routine.

He’d come and pick you up, he’ll bring two mugs of coffee, and you’d have some sort of quick breakfast for you both to eat on your way. You’d do your classes, he’d do his, and at the end of the day, he’d let you home and wish you a good night with a soft blink.

And with it, came two things.

Feelings that were left in the unknown, and a swarm of students that had seen you come together and started speculating about your relationship. That last part made you smile to yourself every time you overheard them speculate.

“Bethany saw them arriving together” “Trevor said he saw miss.H give mr.Harrington a kiss on the cheek.” “They left together yesterday”.

You told Steve about it as soon as you heard, and he laughed as hard as you did. So you did some pantomimes in front of some students, like a little inside joke. But if he was to be honest with himself, he liked messing with you. He likes spending time with you, and if it served him as an excuse to touch your hand, or let his hand rest on the small of your back more often, he was more than happy to do so. And then again, the same could be said by you. You probably didn’t need to touch his upper arm as often as you did, or tease him as much as you did, but still, you did because you liked his presence.

The last Period of the week came around, senior class. You knew you weren’t supposed to have favourites, but then again, you liked that they actually were curious about the world and asked all the right things.

You had some objects in each table and a simple phrase written on the blackboard. choose one.

They slowly did, as they came in, the usual hello miss.h! was followed by a chorus of what is this? that made you giggle inside. In one of the tables were some postcards, the following one had a collection of letters (with the signature hidden), the other one had some pictures of landscapes, and the final one had a lot of pictures that you had taken.

As all of your students had one in each hand, you placed yourself in the middle, all eyes on you, and a murmuring silence with unparalleled attention.

“Hello” You chirped happily, this might be your favourite assignment to date. “So, I’ll go straight to it, that okay?” You asked as you watched for your students to nod or say something, which they did. “Alright, so. You have different objects in your hands, and I’ll give you a month where you can work in this classroom and at your houses, okay? You’ll need to come up with a painting, sculpture, drawing… I don't care as long as it is original, inspired by what you are holding. I don’t care if the only thing that you produce is as big as a pencil sharpener, or as big as you are. I want you to actually be moved by what you produced, and to register the process. In other words, don’t get too stressed by the ending product, and just enjoy the process. Okay? We’ll work here and I’ll be here for any questions or anything you need, but, if you could actually you know, work? That would be lovely.” You heard your students giggle at that, and you smiled proudly at them, clapping your hands as you finished explaining the assignment. “Okay, let’s put on some music, yeah?” They all cheered happily as they headed for the stereo.

You truly didn’t need to stress with them. You knew what they were about to do, so you went back to the tables and gathered what they hadn’t selected, handling it all with care. And your heart stopped when you reached the letters and found the old post.it that Steve had once wrote. “I know I won’t remember in the morning, but I also know I won’t even shut up about that kiss” Embarrassed with that memory you held it in your hand as some of your students huddled to you.

“Miss.H?” The shortest of the three asked for your attention, and your slightly blushed cheeks looked up rapidly at them.

“Ye- Yes?” You muttered as you composed yourself.

“Will you do the assignment with us, like last time?” She asked again, and you smiled at them, a soft chuckle escaping your lips.

“Do you guys want me to?” You asked, honesty evident in your voice.

“We love seeing your art, Miss.H.” The taller one now spoke.

“Ah, flattery.” You teased, as they giggled at your answer. “That will take you anywhere with me. Sure.”

“Great!” They cheered as they went back to their table, stopping suddenly when the door opened and Steve stood there.

You looked at him, forgetting for a second how good he looked today. That stupid blue shirt hugged his arms a bit too well, and the maroon pants complimented his thighs in a way that made your blood rush a bit too much. He had his 3 day beard again, and he just stood there, reclining his body onto your classroom threshold, asking with his look for a quick conversation. You walked over as you heard the girls chattering amongst themselves.

“What do you need?” You asked, a bit too casually, forgetting that you were actually the teachers and not just some friends in a bar.

“I told you this morning that my class had a test last period.” He sounded a little pissed off. And his eyebrow furrowed, as your hand reached your forehead, an apologetic look on your eyes.

“Shit, I forgot.” You whispered. Steve seemed to forget about it for a second, as he saw the little post-it in your hand. Grabbing your hand in a swift motion and opening it up. Your face was now as red as the new paint you bought.

You could see him reading the note and a smile appeared as he looked you up and down. He did remember writing it, years ago, on the night you left to New York. On the night he had been brave and told you everything he meant to tell you before. He had forgotten all about the test for a second.

“You still have this?” He asks, not really believing that you would still save such a silly bit of paper. Waving it in front of your face, his eyes seemed brighter all of a sudden

“Yeah…” You were in a loss for words, too embarrassed to actually say anything. He forgot for a moment that you were not alone, as he placed it back on the palm of your hand, and tucked a flock of hair behind your ear, his thumb slightly caressing your cheek, carefully, leaving a tray of warmth and goosebumps, in both your face and his fingers. “I’ll turn the music off.” You whisper, as your eyes get lost in his, momentarily getting lost on his pinkish lips.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah…” He whispered, lost on you. “Do you have plans tomorrow?” He had decided to be brave again.

“No.”

“Wanna get dinner tomorrow night?” He asks, his eyes shine at you, as you smile brighter.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Great, then it's a date…” He said as he left, his eyes had shined as he looked back at your lips, and you didn’t quite believe it. A stupid daze evident on your face.

Robin had just got off the phone with Steve when you called, so her immediate reaction was to laugh when she saw your number, and you were left shocked about her laughing.

“What are you laughing for?” You demanded, a hint of anxiety evident in your voice.

“Loverboy just called me.” She laughed as she spoke.

“Steve?”

“Mmh.” She affirmed.

“Shit.” You both laughed at that, your hand reaching your forehead. “He told you already?” She made the same sound again, and you sighed as a response. “What did he say?”

“Oh, you know, that he had finally asked you out. And I just scolded him for not doing it sooner… I mean, I love you, but hearing you wailing about him for the last five years…”

“I didn’t wail…” You try to no avail to convince her, but she just scoffs at you. “Maybe a little.”

“Come on, you both have been in love with each other for so long… Just get on your nice dress, the black one, get a good coat and be ready, it’ll go fine.” She calmed you down, knowing exactly that that’s why you called, she wasted no time.

“I love you Robs.” You told her, with a wide smile on your face.

“I know, now, go. Don’t use me as an excuse.”

“Kay, bye.”

“Bye, lovergirl.” She giggles as she hangs up. Leaving you in the quiet of the cabin.

You did enjoy the silence, the quiet of the woods that surrendered you, but still, you opted to put on some music, just something to ease your brain from overrunning. Once again, Bowie’s voice filled the space, making it all easier, from dressing yourself up, to doing your hair, applying some makeup, and yes, taking a shot of your fathers hidden whiskey to ease the nerves.

He told you he’d pick you up, so the only thing left to do was wait.

You didn’t have to wait long anyway.

Though he wasn’t used to the feeling, he could recognise the nervousness energy that his body emanated.

Which is why he had called Robin in the first place, he wasn’t sure if he should wear the button down, the sweater… He was in a crisis, and obviously Robin had laughed her ass off. The only thing she had told him was to not shave, and he didn’t quite believe her when she told him that you had always liked how he looked with one.

So with five minutes to spare, he was in his backyard, well, not technically, he was invading Mss.Jackson’s so he could steal your favourite flower. Stupid as it may be, he’d known that it would make you smile, and Steve would make anything to see you smile again.

And he knew it was cheesy and a cliché, but as soon as he laid eyes on you, his heart seemed to skip a beat. Your body looked splendid with that little black dress, your legs covered with warm tights, and a coat that kept you warm. The thing that drove him crazier, was how your lips were now blood red, curling upwards as you locked eyes with him.

Then again, yours did the same.

You couldn’t help but take a second, just a moment to memorize him. Standing against his car, face slightly buried inside a small bouquet of wild flowers. Roses and dandelions. As stupid as it was, it made you feel heard and seen, him remembering that this combination was your favourite, not only that but, his white knit jumper made him look softer, it seemed to be a gateway to the old Steve. The one that had been in love with you and told you so before you left, the one you kissed as a final goodbye, the same one that left the note that you still carried on your wallet.

The date had passed by too fast. A conversation that didn’t ever end, not really, not even now, when the slight buzz of the wine was beginning to wear off, and you were standing up, outside your little house, smoking as you avoided saying goodbye.

“I truely can’t believe you smoke that crap.” He teases again, smiling down at you.

“Hey, sue me, I like them better than Newport’s.” You tease back, your eyes looking at the flowers that were still on his hand. He laughs at that, and a wisp of courage invades you for a second. “Do you want to come in? Put the flowers away?” You ask, softly, embarrassed about the fact that your skin is bright pink as you ask that, your hand scratching your upper arm. But the smile on his face relaxes you.

“I’d love to.” He admits, as he follows you inside. He watches you closely as the familiarity invades you. As soon as you open the door, you hang your coat on the hanger on the wall. Letting your cigarette rest softly in between your darken lips, he is mesmerized by you, and the easiness that you seem to radiate as you put your hair up. He chuckles as he sees you move so gracefully.

“What?” You ask, a soft tone accompanied by a shy smile comes out, looking up to his eyes, he seems to melt away once again.

“Nothing.” He laughs at your raised eyebrows. “You smoke inside now?” He teases, as he finally takes a look around.

“Steve, honey… I’m an artist and now a teacher… Yeah, I smoke inside.” You mock him a bit, and it makes the both of you try to stifle a chuckle to no success. The way your voice had said honey rings in his ears for a while.

He looks lost at the little cabin, afraid to even ask, he decides to just follow you around. You head into the little kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out a half empty bottle of white wine, a soft questioning look that is answered by a nod from him, you reach for two glasses, and you can’t help your lips from curling upwards as you see him getting a little empty glass jar and fills it up with water, letting the roses and dandelions rest there. You clink your glasses together before taking a sip, a stupid grin in both your faces. He looks around, the question evident in his expression.

“You wanna see the um… atelier?” You asks as you take another sip. He has become lost in you, and just nods as he follows you.

He’s mesmerized as soon as the light comes on. A neat mess in front of him, and your moving in the space with such grace he can’t tell what he likes better. You spinning around in your short dress or the colorfull paintings behind you.

He steps closer to you, your head slightly rested against your glass as you eye a canvas that hasn’t been finished yet, the one he presume you’ve been woring on before he came. He wasn’t wrong in that, just as he isn’t wrong in assuming that you’ve just had a revelation about it.

“Wanna tell me about it?” He asks, a whisper of a voice escaping his lips as he reclains against a wooden panel that was set up by two very unstable stools.

“S’nothing.” You mumbels as your eyebrows furrows a bit more, his silence lets you know he doesn’t believe you, though his titled head would have told you the same if you had looked at him. “Just, I thought that I was painting something else, now I see I wasn’t” You mutter, aware that it doesn’t make that much sense.

“I’m not sure I follow you, H” He says in return, wine going down his throat.

“Hold on.” You say, as you move closer to him.

His hearts beats faster for a second as he sees your decision in his eyes, confusing him in thinking that you were going to make a move, surprised when he sees you catch a small brush and the straight bottle of red paint. He watches you closely, and he can’t help himself but mutter “You’ll get your dress stained.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You smile, dropping the painton the floor, he watches closely as your hands reach over for an old overshired button up, you putt it on quickly, his mouth opens a little too much when he sees you taking the dress off, kicking it of the ground to him. “Good reflexes” You tease as he catches it on his free hand.

He’s brain can’t quiet compute the information. You look way too good right now. The look of determination on your eyes as you stare at the canvas, your tangled or maybe intricate would be a better word for the state of your bun, with flyaways framing your hair. Your legs still in the black tights, but thanks to that little wardrove change, he can now see the very beginning of your legs, and he is mesmerized for a little too long, not being able to focus on what you were actually doing, since his whole attention is set on the way you move, your presence, you.

Once you turn back to him, the roles diverse for a second. Maybe a bit more. He crouches forward, and you’re the one left starring. He had taken his jumper at some point, and he was now left with a tight grey shirt, his arms in full display, and with them so were his veins, that now appeared as he was holding the wine in one hand, and your dress in the other. Maybe what you liked best was the look of recognition on his eyes as he started at the canvas.

“Is that?”

“Yeah, you.” You finish, as he finally turns around. Even with your arms crossed against your chest, the distance between the both of you was small. If you or him made one step, not only your feet would be touching, but so will be your chest, you’d share the same air. And the electricity of the whole night seemed to be building up, your chest raising faster and faster as you looked up at him. Aware of him, close enough to see his freckles, to count them even if you fancied.

And just like if lighting had struck, he took a step forward, as soon as his glass reached the impromptu table and his body collapsed into yours, his eyes closed, waiting for your lips to touch, wich they did. Immediately, with a necessity that seemed to come from far before. His hands dropping your dress on the floor fastly as they traveled to your cheeks, pushing in closer to you, as your fingers found the back of his neck, grabbing his hair instictibly, needing him like air, or like water. A soft moan escaping your lips as he pressed harder into you, his hands travelling to your back, he needed you just as much as you needed him.

His belt was starting to bother him, and you were starting to feel the tingle between your legs, and you knew you had to stop, because if you didn’t, you would never want him to leave again.

As he pulled away you knew he had thought the same. Touching his forehead with yours as your fingers found its way to one another, intertwined.

“That was…”

“Yeah.” You agreed with him. “Stay?”

As his lips kissed the tip of your nose, you felt safe in his arms.

“I’m never leaving.” He reassured you.

if you enjoyed (i I really hope you did), please reblog! i promise it makes a difference

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starryregard · 5 months

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the Flight Rising NPCs, fursonified

Tomo: Has several different fursonas because she keeps forgetting that she made them.

Scribbles: Gets commissioned to draw other people's fursonas. Rolling in gems, though no one is sure how they're spending that money (if at all). No one except Tomo knows what their own sona is (it's a pigeon).

Crim: Big fluffy cat sona. Commissions lots of art of it from Scribbles.

Pinkerton: Not a furry, full stop. Despite this, most of his friends are furries.

Swipp: Supportive dad. Brings Tripp to conventions all across Sornieth.

Tripp: Will swear up and down that she's NOT a furry, she DOESN'T have a sona, and it's DEFINITELY NOT a crow.

Pipp: A little confused by the concept, but not unsupportive.

Roundsey: Ferret sona. Hosts many local furmeets. Has helped organize at least one major convention.

Baldwin: Has had to explain to many dragons that no, he cannot turn them into their sona and back, the science just isn't that advanced yet.

Galore: No fursona, but doesn't mind hearing about yours.

Fiona: I mean, just look at her.

Arlo: Not a furry, but Tripp drew him as a mole once and he appreciates the thought behind it.

Avery: Chicken sona! But still deciding on which breed of chicken it'd be.

Glass & Gloss: Learned about fursonas recently; will happily show off their bearded vulture sona to anyone who's interested.

Sage: No fursona, but if she had to choose one it'd be a lynx or similar.

Arvelle: Her family crest includes a Warcat Protector so it's a personal symbol to her, but she's not sure whether that makes her a furry.

Higgins: No fursona, but he does have a clownsona.

Marva: Would be a sparkle dog. Or maybe a sparkle rat?

Susie: Has no fursona, but will help you brainstorm one for yourself over a cup of tea and some ginger snaps.

Patches: Has an albatross sona thanks to Susie.

Joxar: Will hook you up with fursuit supplies at wholesale prices.

#shoutout to everyone in arccord who helped me make this lol #flight rising #flight rising shitpost #flight rising meme #mine

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waywardrose · 9 months

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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 18

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

4.7k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, angst with a happy ending, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Trigger warning for Jason Carver.

“Do you know a Chrissy Cunningham?” your father asked, filling his mug at the kitchen counter.

You paused in the doorway with a frown. The kitchen TV was off. Mom buttered toast instead of making pancakes or waffles for breakfast.

“Yeah…?” You glanced at the calendar to confirm it was Sunday. “We have Western Lit together.”

Mom set a plate of crispy bacon at the center of the table before fetching a section of the newspaper. She brought it to you, a furrow of worry between her brows. You took the section to read:

CHEERLEADER MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD A Hawkins High cheerleader was heinously murdered on Friday night by parties unknown. Christina “Chrissy” Elizabeth Cunningham, 17, class of 1986, suffered from fatal internal bleeding and multiple bone fractures in a trailer in the Forest Hills neighborhood of Hawkins, according to reports. There were no witnesses to the crime. However, the trailer owner has been cleared of any wrongdoing. “There is an evil here,” said Laura Cunningham, the victim’s mother. “It’s been growing and infiltrating this good Christian town.” The cheerleader had been beloved by teacher and student alike. Her father, Phillip Cunningham, said, “There was no reason for anyone to hurt our little girl. Chrissy was a sweet girl with a bright future.” Neighbors in Forest Hills are horrified. A resident who wished to remain anonymous said, “It’s that heavy metal garbage. It opens the gates for Satan. [It’s] real scary [stuff]. Kids these days blast it all hours of the day and night. That’s got to have consequences.” Responding officers have yet to locate the perpetrators. “Deputies are working with state law enforcement to collect evidence and statements concerning this case,” the Roane County Sheriff’s Department said. Cunningham was well known in her community and had a kind word for everyone. She volunteered at First Church of Hawkins and the Roane County Animal CARE Humane Society. As head of the Hawkins High Cheer Squad, she always participated in school fundraisers. Hawkins High principal, Paul Higgins, called Cunningham an “exemplary student and person,” and said her murder was a tragedy. “I think I speak for my staff and our pupils when I say Chrissy will be deeply mourned. Our hearts are with her family.” Hawkins High will hold a memorial assembly when classes resume March 31st. Forest Hills’ sign has been piled with flowers and other mementos since the murder. A Hawkins High student said Cunningham was “a tender-hearted girl and the most supportive friend anyone could ask for.” If you have any information which can help the case, please contact the Roane County Sheriff’s Department.

Your mouth went gummy as you finished reading. Now that Chrissy’s murder was in the paper and on the news, everyone would be scrutinizing the residents of the trailer park. The mention of heavy metal wouldn’t work in Eddie’s favor, either.

You’d called the Munson’s trailer earlier, but the call wouldn’t go through.

Mom stepped aside as you shuffled to the kitchen table. You flopped into the first chair you came to and skimmed the article. Chrissy Cunningham, a shoo-in for prom queen, died at Eddie’s place while Wayne was at work. It had been just the two of them.

What had she been doing there? Buying drugs? The cheerleader who volunteered at church buying drugs?

You looked at the grainy version of Chrissy’s senior-year portrait and questioned if anyone had known her at all.

Still, her buying drugs sounded wrong in your head.

Had Jason put her up to that? Was she the go-between? Jason barely tolerated Eddie, but the basketball team was sure to have partied hard after the game. Maybe he’d sent her to buy some pot or whatever.

That made no sense, though. You saw the same footage again on the news before Saturday Night Live. There’d only been Wayne’s truck in front of the Munson’s. Also, Chrissy didn’t have a car. She might have a license, though. If she’d borrowed a car, it would’ve still been there. Unless there had been a third party…

Then Eddie could’ve come home from Hellfire, found Chrissy’s body, and ran.

But why would someone want to kill Chrissy? And frame Eddie for it?

“—okay?”

“What?” you asked, shaking your head and looking from the newspaper. “Sorry.”

“You okay, sweetie?” asked Mom.

“Um… Yeah, just…”

You didn’t know how to end that sentence.

“We don’t have to do anything today.” She sat next to you and placed a gentle hand on your forearm. “Take the day, if you want.”

“No, it’s… I’m okay. It’s a shock, is all.”

Your father sat, mug in hand, and remained quiet. For once, he looked sympathetic.

Mom studied your face for a second before nodding.

“Okay, but there’s no pressure.”

You attempted a grin, but failed.

“Thanks.”

She gave your arm an affectionate squeeze before returning to the toaster. Your father remained quiet and snuck a piece of bacon. You stared at the article, still wondering why Chrissy had been at Eddie’s.

A terrible thought arose that had you heading for the powder room.

What if she’d been there because she and Eddie were involved? What if you were the side piece?

You shut the door, flipped the light-switch, and sat on the closed toilet lid. Your breath wouldn’t deepen. It stayed right under your throat. You stared at the blurring ceiling and willed your chest to loosen.

They could make sense as a couple in The Breakfast Club kind of way. Maybe that was why Eddie antagonized the jocks: because one of them had claimed his girl. Maybe during his drug runs he stopped by Chrissy’s…

Then you remembered New Year’s when he said he’d give you everything, that he was trying to give you everything. He’d said he wanted to be good enough for you. His expression had been sincere — too sincere for a lie. He might be a good DM and storyteller, but he wasn’t a liar. Not like that.

You breathed deep and exhaled. There was no place for doubt at a time like this. Eddie was innocent — and he’d never given you a reason to distrust him.

A soft knock at the door interrupted your meltdown.

“Breakfast is ready,” said Mom through the door.

After breakfast, you changed clothes and hauled the galvanized planters Mom had purchased yesterday to flank the front door. You felt a little smug about how good they looked despite the overcast sky. Once you filled the planter with gravel and soil and the bushy lavender, they would look even better.

As you carted the supplies you needed, you thought of The Veil of Undeath spell from last night. It called for dead pieces of a living thing. You couldn’t make sense of what had dead pieces yet remained alive. Not even the incantation clarified.

Dead from the living Dust from the dead I consume like the worm I keep the grave by my heart As I exhale this last breath, I accept the embrace from Death

Naturally, the instructions weren’t much help, either.

The practitioner is to gather graveyard dirt and two dead portions of a living thing. One part to accompany graveyard dirt, the other to ingest. Place graveyard dirt and one dead portion in receptacle to keep on person. Keep living thing alive to maintain charm. Daily consumption is unnecessary.

You understood the spell was centuries old. Also, the book had been written almost a hundred years ago. Some spells you’d read were so heavily coded, you needed a reference book to understand them.

It was times like these you wanted to translate everything in modern language. That was what your personal journal was for. Of course, the danger of translating and making it public was: 1. getting it wrong, 2. harm coming to those who used your spells, and 3. exposing yourself as a witch.

None of that solved your current predicament. You needed to figure out the spell before tonight.

Just then, a shiny black Jeep pulled onto the driveway. You straightened and dusted your work gloves on your legs. The Jeep looked familiar. Your suspicions were confirmed when none other than Jason Carver climbed out of the vehicle.

You stepped onto the front path as he crossed the grass. He was picture perfect in crisp khakis, a spotless polo shirt, and a letterman jacket.

“Good morning,” he said, amicable yet serious.

“Morning.”

You glanced at the Jeep to see multiple silhouettes. Something about him and his buddies waiting in the car had you on high-alert.

Trying kindness first, you said, “I’m sorry about Chrissy. I just read about it in the paper.”

He nodded with a reserved ‘thank you.’

“Is there—”

“You’re Eddie’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I occasionally talk to him in class.”

His eyes narrowed as his head tilted. Condescension suffused his appearance, raising your hackles.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard it’s more than that.”

You snorted. “Or you’ve imagined it is?”

He moved closer as if to intimidate the answer he wanted from you.

“Like I fantasize about that freak and you.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped to the side, wanting to head for the back of the house where Mom worked. He caught your arm whip-fast, grip bruising, and yanked you near. A sneer marred his all-American face.

“I bet you two have done some nasty shit.” He gave you an oily look. “Yeah, you’re a little freak too, aren’t you?”

You closed the distance, because you weren’t terrified prey. Especially not for Jason Carver. Maybe he had intimidated Chrissy like this, but you weren’t Chrissy.

You glared into his eyes, finding his pupils wide.

“Tell me all about this nasty shit you’ve imagined, Captain of the Tigers. I’d like to hear you say it.”

“I’m not here to play into your crazy bullshit.”

“Then why are you here?”

His face darkened.

“Where’s Eddie?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you said.

He shook your arm to jostle and throw you off balance.

“I mean it, where’s Eddie?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“Is he in there? Huh!?” Jason nodded at the house. “Did you kill her with him?!”

“No, and he didn’t kill Chrissy!” You twisted your arm in his hold. “He was at school playing D&D!”

He shoved you away. Your heel knocked into the lowest porch step, and you almost fell. You steadied yourself with a hand on the railing.

He leaned in to hiss, “Not all night, you goddamn freak.”

He marched away, hands balled into fists and shoulders hunched.

“Better a freak than an asshole!”

When he reached the Jeep, he yanked open the driver’s side door. He scowled at you, which you returned. You kept scowling until he reversed onto the road and drove away.

Once his vehicle was out of sight, you sagged onto the porch and threw your gloves to the stairs. Your neck and shoulders were stiff from how tense you’d been. You stretched out the tightness and massaged with shaking hands. You could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins. It rushed from deep in your gut and spread to your fingertips. Your heart was the hammer and the anvil, an engine in overdrive.

With a curse, you tried to think of where Eddie would hide. You had to warn him Jason and his cronies were after him. However, you didn’t know this town well enough. There were people and areas you’d never heard of. He might not even be in town anymore, which gave you a speck of hope.

Mom called your name from the open garage. You perked and replied. She came around the side of the house, then paused.

“You okay?” she asked. “I thought I heard a car pull up.”

“Oh, uh…” You thought quick. “Someone used the driveway to turn around.”

She hummed. “Perks of suburbia, I suppose.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, anyway, do you know where the garden shears are? I need to trim a few dead branches from the rosemaries.”

You frowned at her wording.

“What was that?”

“Garden shears?”

More to yourself than her, you said, “To trim the dead branches from the rosemaries.”

“Yes…?”

That was what the spell meant. You wanted to bonk yourself on the head. Plants can have dead pieces and still live. You could also consume those dead pieces without making yourself sick — as long as the plant was edible, of course.

You smiled at her, and said, “No, I haven’t seen them.”

She gave you a funny look, but accepted your response. As she disappeared into the garage, you wrangled your gloves on, stood, and returned to planting the lavender. You could eat lavender and roses and rosemary. It felt like fate to have bought them.

Before you planted both lavenders, you inspected them to find nothing wilted nor branches broken. Taking a cutting didn’t fulfill the spell’s requirement of ‘dead portion.’ Yes, it would die after you cut it, but it would be alive when you took it. That was very Grim Reaper, yet it wasn’t what the spell was about.

You neatened the porch, gathered your remaining supplies, and went to the pots of roses. There you found multiple dead leaves. You plucked a few and pocketed them before planting the roses in the ground.

Now all you needed was graveyard dirt. Unless there was a convenient cemetery down the block — which there wasn’t — you’d have to drive all the way to Roane Hill Cemetery. However, you had no excuse to be out. If you said your car needed gas, that would mean actually stopping for gas, which never took long. You could say you wanted to buy snacks at the grocery store, but again, that would mean actually shopping.

On top of that, it was Sunday. Everything closed early on Sundays around here.

You had to think of some excuse to leave the house that wouldn’t interest your parents nor rouse suspicions. And you had only a few hours to do it.

With hose in hand, Mom offered to water the new plants if you’d finish the last of the clean-up. You agreed, throwing out the empty nursery pots and washing the gardening tools. The clouds broke as you loaded the cleaned tools in the caddy.

You stood at the top of the driveway and breathed deep the scent of wet earth. Water droplets glinted like prisms on leaves and hung like crystal baubles. Sunlight danced between leaves. At one time, you would’ve sensed the flourishing life of each thing around you. Now all you had were ordinary perceptions—

“Strange day, huh?” Mom said, dragging the hose into the garage.

“Yeah.”

You trotted over to help her coil the hose and stow it with the other gardening supplies.

She said, “Doesn’t feel like a Sunday.”

“More like a Saturday.”

She hummed in agreement before perking.

“How about I make a cozy soup for dinner? That’s a good Sunday meal. There’s still some cheese bread from the bakery we could have with it…”

“Sounds good,” you said as you hit the garage-door control by the stairs.

You turned to go inside, but Mom stopped you with a hand on your upper arm.

“Sweetie, you know if anything’s bothering you, you can talk to me.”

You nodded.

“I know, but I’m okay.”

“Alright.” She patted your arm. “Good work today.”

“You too.”

She gave you a genuine and kind smile. You had the sudden urge to explain everything from the beginning, but she wouldn’t understand. You also had a deep dread she would see you differently if she knew it all. It was better for her not to know, maybe safer. In many ways, your perceived mundanity protected you both.

Up in your room, you pulled the dead rose leaves from your pocket and placed them on your desk. By a school library book. You barked a laugh. The public library was a perfect excuse to leave. You didn’t know if they were open, but there was a book return slot in the vestibule. It wasn’t as though your parents would recall if you had a library book due. There’d be no evidence, either, and the drive to the library was equidistant to the cemetery.

You went to the closet to search the storage box that held your spell supplies. There you found an unused sandwich bag that would work for the small amount of dirt you’d need. You folded that into your purse, grabbed the library book, and headed downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen, browning chicken thighs in a dutch oven. You popped your head in the doorway to tell her you’d forgotten to return a library book. She glanced at you before asking if you needed money for the fee.

Of course, you didn’t. You told her it was due tomorrow, so it was no big deal.

She waved you off with a mellow grin and said dinner was chicken and wild rice soup.

You paused in the garage to consider taking a garden trowel. It would help if the ground was hard packed. With a shrug, you grabbed one you’d cleaned earlier and tossed everything on the passenger seat.

The drive to the cemetery was quicker than you expected, with hardly anyone on the road. You couldn’t tell if it was because it was a Sunday or because everyone was freaked out over Chrissy’s death. Or possibly both.

It turned out to be a backhanded blessing when you pulled into the deserted cemetery. You cruised to the back, seeing no one and passing no cars. In this section, the graves were abandoned, yet the grass remained tidy. Something told you the dead wouldn’t mind you removing a tablespoon or two of dirt.

Trowel and sandwich bag in hand, you headed for an old oak that shaded a few rows of headstones. Roots undulated through the earth like waves; the headstones were ships riding the swells. You knelt in front of a headstone and placed a hand on the ground. In hushed tones, you introduced yourself and explained your situation. You told them what you needed. Finally, you asked for their permission.

Then you waited.

A soft breeze rustled the oak’s leaves. Goosebumps trailed along your arms until they met at your nape, making you shiver. That was as good a sign as any, you supposed.

You thanked the dead and scooped dirt into the bag. After sealing the bag and smoothing the earth, you returned to your car.

Back home, you stowed the trowel, greeted Mom from the hallway, and hurried to your room. At your desk, you read The Veil of Undeath spell again. The spell’s annotation said it was for concealing oneself from an enemy. You assumed it hid you from curses — or what some referred to as the evil eye. While you didn’t know if you were being cursed on a nightly basis, you didn’t want to experience that level of pain until it killed you.

You laid out the dead rose leaves and the sandwich bag of graveyard dirt in front of the book. The only thing missing was a receptacle to keep on your body. You hummed in thought. A locket could work if you had one big enough, or a vial if you had one small enough.

You brought out the jewelry box you’d stowed next to your underwear. It held small trinkets along with old jewelry. Inside you found a silver locket from your late grandmother, but its openwork front wouldn’t secure the dirt. Beside it lay a plastic baby-bottle charm from a necklace you’d worn in middle school. It had a tarnished bell that now clacked instead of tinkled.

Placing the charm to the side, since it was useable, you continued searching. At the bottom of the jewelry box lay a small medicine bag an old friend had given you after a trip to North Carolina. She swore it was native made. The necklace part was long enough to hide under a shirt. Its leather was soft enough to tuck inside a bra cup, too.

Even though the medicine bag’s stitching was tight, you didn’t want dirt leaking out. You decided to cut a corner off the sandwich bag, putting the dirt and rose leaf inside, and burning the plastic closed. You could use a smaller portion and use the silver locket, but you would have to fold or tear the leaf.

No, you decided, better to use the medicine bag.

You fetched a candle and incense stick of frankincense. Once you set your desk as an altar, you inhaled the incense smoke and exhaled your fears in the candle flame’s heat. Your inherent magic might’ve been drained, but the energy remained in the tools of ritual. You had to trust them.

You held the medicine bag open over the incense smoke to cleanse it. Then the leaves. To finish, you swept smoke into the sandwich bag.

“Dead from the living,” you murmured, touching the leaves. “Dust from the dead.” You placed your hand on the mound of dirt in the sandwich bag.

“I consume like the worm.”

You brought a leaf to your mouth and put the brittle thing on your tongue. It tasted old and brown and dry. It fragmented against the roof of your mouth. The midrib crackled between your teeth. You gathered saliva and forced it down, swallowing with a shake of your head.

You said, “I keep the grave by my heart,” and held the medicine bag to your chest.

With a deep breath, you shook the dirt into one corner of the sandwich bag and snipped the corner off. You slipped the second leaf into the dirt before pleating the plastic closed. You kissed the pleat to candle flame and pinched it secure. The plastic cooled within seconds.

You then eased the packet into the medicine bag and looped the bag around your neck.

“As I exhale this last breath, I accept the embrace from death.”

You inhaled a stuttering breath, then blew out the candle.

The taste of the dry leaf vanished — as did the temperature of the room. Not that it went cold, but the temperature no longer affected you. When you went downstairs for dinner, the scent of the food didn’t induce hunger. And while the soup had a pleasing texture, it tasted lifeless on your tongue.

You’d forced yourself into bed during the small hours of the night and closed your eyes. When you opened them, it was morning. You weren’t rested, yet you weren’t groggy. Regardless, you lazed in bed to stare at the dim ceiling.

It had been a peaceful night with no pain. That didn’t mean you were safe without the spell. As they said, the absence of evidence wasn’t the evidence of absence. Something could still be coming after you.

As you sat up, you wondered if Eddie was safe and if he’d gotten any sleep. Perhaps you should try Wayne again. Eddie could be home. Or maybe Wayne knew where he was.

You went to the phone and dialed the Munson’s number. The line clicked a few times instead of ringing, which sounded as though it was being monitored. You hung up, letting your hand linger on the phone. If the Munson trailer was being monitored, the people doing it didn’t mean you or Eddie any good.

Pressing your other hand over the medicine bag, you prayed for the spell to keep them — whoever they were — from tracking you. Because it was obvious now Eddie was the prime suspect, and if you were going to find him, you needed anonymity. You didn’t want a visit from the police or the FBI or some shady government organization.

After going through your morning routine, you went downstairs. It was quiet with your parents at work. They’d left the morning newspaper folded on the kitchen island. On any other day, you’d throw it out, but the yellow sticky note attached to the front page caught your attention.

The newspaper headline read, ANOTHER FOREST HILLS MURDER. Mom wrote on the sticky note, Don’t leave the house.

You peeled the note from the newspaper to scan the article. It wasn’t just the location of this murder that copied Chrissy’s. This victim was a Hawkins High student who died from fatal internal bleeding and multiple bone fractures. You hoped it wasn’t Eddie. With the numbing effect of The Veil of Undeath, you weren’t sure you’d be able to feel if he died.

The article only identified the victim as an eighteen-year-old male. That detail had you relaxing, because Eddie wasn’t eighteen. That also meant the victim was in your class.

You frowned as you thought someone was targeting high-school seniors. That connection made no sense, though, unless Chrissy and this victim knew their murderer. Which didn’t narrow the pool of suspects, honestly. Everyone knew everyone else.

The article didn’t mention if the victim was a resident of Forest Hills, either. You had to assume he’d snuck into the neighborhood. To do what, though? Was he some dipshit looking to catch Chrissy’s killer? Did he want a souvenir?

With midday television news hours away, you returned to your room. Before leaving the kitchen, you threw away the newspaper, poured yourself a glass of juice, and grabbed a granola bar from the pantry. You weren’t hungry or thirsty, but you needed fuel.

In your room, you turned on lights and brought out all your spell books. There had to be at least one tracking spell. You spread the books across your bed, then drew one onto your lap. It didn’t have an index, and its chapter titles weren’t overly descriptive, but that was typical.

You tore open the granola bar’s wrapper, took a flavorless bite, and began skimming the book.

An hour later, your phone rang. You dropped the book you’d been reading as the phone rang again. Maybe it was Eddie. You scrambled off the bed, heart in your throat. Paper and pens and books clattered to the floor in your wake.

You picked up the phone in the middle of the third ring.

“Hello?”

“He didn’t do it,” said a young male in lieu of a greeting.

It only took a second to understand he referred to Eddie.

“I know he didn’t,” you said. Eddie was alive. “He’s not like that.”

“He told me to tell you she was a customer — and she was attacked.”

You nodded and steadied yourself with a hand on the desk. You’d known deep down he wouldn’t have hurt Chrissy, but it was nice to have the confirmation.

“I believe you.” The tight coil in your chest loosened. “Is he okay?”

“As okay as you can get while being on the lam.”

A small laugh bubbled out unbidden, and you closed your eyes.

“Where is he?”

“He swore me to secrecy.”

You snorted, because, yeah, that sounded like Eddie. “Oh, like he’s the brains of the operation over there.” Eddie was smart, but he wasn’t using every resource at his disposal, i.e. you. Instead, he relied on his little sheepies. “You’re one of the freshmen, right?”

The other end of the line went silent, which was answer enough. Your gut said this particular sheepy was Dustin Henderson, the clever smart-ass.

“Is he the leader there, Freshman?”

“No, but—”

“Look, I have access to things! Resources. I can protect him.” You waved a hand in the air. “I have a car! I can get him out of town!”

“Do you happen to have a gun?”

In the background, multiple voices shouted, “No!”

Dustin cleared his throat. “Never mind. You can’t get involved. He’d kill me.”

You didn’t want to threaten a freshman with a horrible, slow death if he didn’t tell you where Eddie was hiding. That would be wrong on so many levels. Dustin might be a pain in the ass, according to Eddie, but he was a good kid.

You took a deep breath you knew Dustin heard.

“Tell me, or I’ll track him down myself.”

“He’s on the move.”

Whether that was true or not remained to be seen.

“Makes no difference to me,” you said, hiding your uncertainty about your abilities. “I’ll find him.”

“Please, don’t. He doesn’t want you hurt or in trouble.”

Your eyes flooded as you shook your head. If Eddie thought you’d sacrifice him for your own comfort, he had another thing coming.

“I’ll see you around, Freshman. Be careful, okay?”

You hung up before Dustin could say more.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things #waywardrose writes #em tagd

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saltminerising · 1 year

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/717336405170421760 I'm disabled and have to use a wheelchair sometimes and I call Susie grandma... It's her outfit and her big grandma glasses! I'd probably call her grandma even if she wasn't in a wheelchair! In fact with her old art it took me a while to realize it was supposed to be a wheelchair and I saw her and immediately thought "omg grandma sitting in the garden :)" also her face to me just feels more like a grandma, I can't explain it, just like zoomed into her face she seems like a grandma to me! Like Higgins is also grandpa to me but that might be because he dresses exactly like my grandpa did

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augment-techs · 2 years

Photo

Just little pieces of PR art that I adore looking at over and over again. We’re starting off strong here with Dan Mora’s early version of Billy. Soft, vulnerable, squishy, fluffy Billy. With his adorable glasses, and too big shirt and eyes that were always beautifully done, but especially here in this one panel.

From Power Rangers: Pink, here we have a shot of Kimberly going rogue lone wolf, much like her boyfriend, with her hair down and unmade. I am still unsure whether or not this jacket is entirely her own doing or she stole it off of Tommy, but I always appreciate how well it fits in this setting, as opposed to her usual wardrobe.

Early days Tommy by Kyle Higgins, when he was still undoubtedly native in appearance and not terribly white washed in any glaringly obvious way. His clothes were always nice in this version, but his eyes and hair and skin tone were *chef’s kiss* ALWAYS.

This bit from our early introductions to the Coinless Universe. Now, while it’s a bit more grunge and dark than I would appreciate at any other time, this panel managed to give me two hits of the warm fuzzies in one go: Zack encouraging Billy and Bulk calling Zack ‘SIR’. It’s a little thing, but oh how sweet it is~

Not entirely one of my favorite alternative covers for GGPR, but I always like the more...meta...pieces. Plus LOOK AT TRINI’S GLASSES.

When you simultaneously feel so great for Billy sticking up for himself to teach Bulk a lesson he needs to learn, and yet, also feel a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle bad for the punk(s) in question. Just a smidge, but *pokes Bulk* honey no.

For now, for now, for now, my favorite picture of Skull in the GGPR series and, possibly, MM and PR, as a whole. The moment you realize HE FUCKING KNOWS he’s being used, but he’s a good guy who knows Kim needs this. He’ll let it play out, even though he doesn’t like it. Squeeze that unicorn Skull, you’ve earned it baby boy.

Mother Hen Bulk is best Bulk. This is his first appearance, and I will love forever ALL of this panel.

Honestly? I hate this art style, it is WAY too shiny for me. BUT--Drakkon looks both awesome and stupid at the same time. What is there not to love?

As far as I can tell, this unnamed Mastodon Sentry in Ranger Slayer was a one-off little guy; certainly he was not Adam. However, my eye always get drawn to that cute little circle on the white of his chest, with the little house and little heart and I WANT this to be someone we know. Like, a character that was supposed to be a Ranger before Drakkon fucked everything up, a background character that was never a Ranger and got roped into this; something. (So until they say otherwise, little Mastodon, I dub you World of the Coinless Devin de Valle.)

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wildbeautifuldamned · 7 months

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MCM Fused Art Glass Ashtray Trinket Soap Dish Higgins Style Mid Century Modern ebay eclectic_vintage

MCM Vintage Higgins Glass Pocket Watch Ashtray Studio Glass Fornasetti Style AAA Assets Appraisal Assistance

Vintage MCM Higgins Art Glass Barbaric Jewel Jeweled Ashtray Dish Circa 1960's ebay treasurehunt152015

#tray #glass #clock #ashtray #plate

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maudeboggins · 2 years

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Home decor inspiration: Henry Higgins’ house in My Fair Lady

The whole house is in warm, autumnal tones with heavy, densely patterned wallpaper, a number of which (maybe all?) are William Morris designs, or close to them at least. The wallpaper in the study is Acanthus by William Morris :

I love the white arches and the bedframe here. As well as the little vanity. Eliza’s bedroom is, I think, Golden Lily (also Morris):

The stairway could be either Willow(pictured), Willow Boughs, or Standen (pictured) by Morris:

The foyer I couldn’t find what wallpaper it is but it is similar to Morris’ Owen Jones:

Also of note is the glass art. Here are the windows in the main stairwell, front door, study, and sky light:

I really like the heavy prints and it’s nice to see how an all-over William Morris room would look. Although the colour family is a bit mulchy it’s very cozy. By contrast, Henry Higgins’ mother’s house feels very bright, open, and less musty:

The white with blue accents with all the green ferns and flowers is so nice and refreshing, but I do prefer the botanical themes of Henry Higgins’ house to the abstract designs of the wallpaper in his mother’s house.

#long post #my fair lady #interiors #home decor

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historyhermann · 1 year

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Beauty, dress codes, and fashion: Examining twenty fictional White female librarians [Part 4]

Continued from part 3

Three screenshots of the unnamed librarian in the Totally Spies! episode. The last one is after she starts to become buff.

There are some exceptions, however. For instance, the librarian in Totally Spies episode ("Totally Switched"), who becomes "way buff," as I wrote about back in March when I rewatched the episode. She wears a blazer, a collared shirt, has on glasses, and has her hair in a bun. This similar to how The images of librarians in cinema 1917-1999 displays librarians, or smocks worn by New Zealand librarians into the 1980s, while some librarians adopted corporate uniforms or t-shirts. [20] This unnamed librarian, likely voiced by Janice Kawaye, has an even more professional outfit. She doesn't wear anything that invokes the problematic and is not a degrading sexy librarian stereotype. In her own way, she is classy and chic, or even cool. If she was an actual librarian, she would be among those which author and photographer Kyle Cassidy profiled in his 2014 photo-essay "This is What A Librarian Looks Like" for Slate magazine. [21]

Reprinted from my Pop Culture Library Review WordPress, where this post was published on Nov. 29, 2022.

Of the librarians I've named in this article, arguably the unnamed librarians in Rugrats, Uncle Grandpa, DC Super Hero Girls, and Kick Buttoswki all could be considered spinster librarians of some type, using the definition Snoek-Brown outlines. The same could be said for Violet Stanhhope, Mrs. Higgins, Rita Book, Miss Dickens, Ms. Hatchet, Mrs. Shusher, and Ms. L. Contrasting this would be Kaisa, Gabrielle, Marion the Librarian, Amity, Mo, Myra, Sabine, Desiree, Sara, Sarah, and even the unnamed librarians in Martin Mystery, Steven Universe, and Totally Spies!, who are all information providers. Most extreme is Francis Clara Censordoll, who is not anti-social, a failure, naughty, comic relief, or liberated. She is the librarian-censor. Some might say she is the anti-librarian since she stands against everything that librarians seem to stand for. However, as Matthew Noe, the ALA GNCRT President, pointed out in March, it is going to be hard "to put a stop to this massive censorship lobby harassing libraries and schools when we can't even convince all library workers to stop doing censorship."

On a stylistic note, some of these librarians have an aristocratic style, along with avant-garde and celtic styles. I haven't seen any librarians with art deco, art nouveau, beach bum, beatnik, biker, black loli, babushka bois, bohemian, equestrian, flapper, heavy metal, hippie, hipster, punk, retro / vintage, surf, to name a few styles. Characters like Malkuth in the Library Of Ruina, a simulation game that followed the 2008 game Lobotomy Corporation would fall into the aristocratic and possibly avant-garde styles. I also haven't seen any military librarians. The closest I've come to that are the characters in Library War. Such librarians would likely be bound, if they were in the U.S., by very specific grooming and personal appearance standards. [22]

Those librarians who work in public spaces, especially, would likely be pushed to accept the idea that you need to "dress for success" either with business casual or casual attire which is "smart." This would be reinforced by the common perception in Western society that conflates appearance and health, affecting women, and leading to potential harm. This is made worse by the fact that unattractiveness leads to negative judgment from people. Such negativity can cause isolation, dieting, and emotional distress. Appearance, for humans, is "one of the most direct sources of information about other people." In workplaces, there are additional stresses, like so-called "common standards of professional appearance," which look down upon those with visible piercing and tattoos. This is obviously interlinked with the "societally sanctioned standards of appearance." [23]

There are many librarian styles. Whether they are depicted in pop culture matters since real-life librarians exist and embody those styles. Furthermore, whether librarian styles in real-life translate over to pop culture, in animation, anime, comics, or elsewhere, is anyone's guess.

Notes

[20] "Library fashion slideshow," New Zealand History, Ministry for Culture and Heritage, accessed Mar. 22, 2022; The Sassy Librarian has a tag on their website with stylish librarian outfits; Roberta, "Rounding Up," The Chic Librarian, Oct. 18, 2013. Wikihow has a whole article entitled "How to Wear the Sexy Librarian Look" in which they describe it as "playing on the idea of a quiet library with a quiet librarian" with clothes like: "partially unbuttoned shirts, dark stockings, sexy heels, and red lipstick." A perfect example of this is a cutaway gag of a librarian in a Family Guy episode where the librarian tries to act sexy but the man looks away.

[21] Kyle Cassidy, "About," This is What a Librarian Looks Like, accessed Mar. 22, 2022; Jordan G. Teicher, "This Is What a Librarian Looks Like," Slate, Feb. 11, 2014. There is also a Tumblr which ran from 2010 to 2020 which smashed stereotypes about what librarians wear, called "Librarian Wardrobe."

[22] "Personal Appearance: Beards and mustaches in the US Navy," Naval History and Heritage Command, May 7, 1963; Devon Suits, "Army announces new grooming, appearance standards," Army News Service, Jan. 28, 2021.

[23] "Dress for Success," Harvard University Facility of Arts and Sciences, Office of Career Services, accessed Mar. 22, 2022; Helen Monks, Leesa Costello, Julie Dare, and Elizabeth Reid Boyd (2021), "'We’re Continually Comparing Ourselves to Something': Navigating Body Image, Media, and Social Media Ideals at the Nexus of Appearance, Health, and Wellness" [Abstract], Sex Roles, 84, 221-237; Atefeh Yazdanparast Ardestani, "The Quest for Perfect Appearance: an Examination of the Role of Objective Self-awareness Theory and Emotions" [Summary], Aug. 2012, UNT Digital Library; D.J. Williams., Jeremy Thomas, and Candace Christensen, "'You Need to Cover Your Tattoos!': Reconsidering Standards of Professional Appearance in Social Work" [Abstract], Social Work, Volume 59, Issue 4, October 2014, Pages 373–375; Leslie J. Heinberg, J. Kevin Thompson, and Susan Stormer, "Development and validation of the sociocultural attitudes towards appearance questionnaire" [Abstract], International Journal of Eating Disorders, Jan. 1995; Oleg O. Bilukha and Virginia Utermohlen, "Internalization of Western standards of appearance, body dissatisfaction and dieting in urban educated Ukrainian females" [Abstract], European Eating Disorders Review, Dec. 21, 2001.