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powderblueblood · 4 months

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

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

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summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet.

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself.

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette.

But she does have your book.

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls.

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–…

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you.

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath.

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything.

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips.

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth.

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table.

Up until the end.

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that.

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does.

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference.

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat.

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.”

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.”

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting.

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed.

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated.

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain.

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat.

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad.

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again.

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend.

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid.

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him.

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?”

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows!

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again.

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little…

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow.

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention.

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.”

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly.

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases.

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language.

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him.

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book.

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him.

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.”

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store.

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment.

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip.

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching.

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym.

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face.

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask.

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug.

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good.

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–”

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair.

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been!

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.”

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting.

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major.

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session.

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had.

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance.

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?”

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned.

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through.

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.”

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all.

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson.

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable.

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself.

You need me, kid, you come and find me.

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing.

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign.

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever.

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on.

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little.

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long.

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take!

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation.

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer.

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance.

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more.

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.”

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk.

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused.

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…”

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles.

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully.

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?”

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes.

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does.

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses.

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs.

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing.

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?”

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray.

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand.

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take.

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her.

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part.

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it.

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats.

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again.

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either.

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction.

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.)

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet.

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine.

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck.

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards.

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk.

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended.

“Not a word,” you press.

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you.

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.”

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything.

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it.

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever.

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.”

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up.

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person.

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang.

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time.

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you.

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal.

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now.

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.”

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind, you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers.

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.”

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes!

“I don’t even really–”

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.”

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles.

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb.

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so.

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement.

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another.

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes.

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be.

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom.

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything.

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time.

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker?

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness.

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?”

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip.

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior.

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions?

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker.

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall.

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!”

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face.

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…”

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.”

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me!

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you.

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision.

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan.

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck.

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand.

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him.

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!”

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword.

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him.

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp.

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that!

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter…

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys.

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely.

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing.

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse.

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you.

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced.

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe.

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again.

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers.

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side.

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another.

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat.

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under.

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go.

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst.

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?”

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk.

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!”

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith.

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise.

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down.

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down.

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself.

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away.

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind.

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.”

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything.

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why.

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.”

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post.

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present.

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.”

“It’s keeping me awake!”

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out.

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping.

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads.

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy.

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…”

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow.

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.”

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else.

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained.

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this.

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours.

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass.

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek.

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split.

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable.

He did this for you.

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap.

Downright idiotic.

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck.

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties.

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand.

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast.

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you.

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move.

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago.

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia.

She looks tan.

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space.

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand.

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office.

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on.

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does.

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily.

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves.

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out.

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked.

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

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sleepingdeath-light · 1 year

Text

home again ; yandere!wally darling

requested by ; anonymous (09/05/23)

word count ; 2031

content ; platonic yanderes, memory loss (the puppets all had their memories forcibly wiped), references to child/teen reader, obsessive protectiveness, author’s first time writing something platonic so… yeah

note ; i haven’t written anything like this before (sfw yandere stuff) so apologies if it seems a tad off. similarly i’m still adjusting to writing wally’s character in terms of dialogue and such, so that may also seem a smidge ooc.

fandom ; welcome home

pairing ; platonic wally darling x gender neutral!reader

read also on ; ao3

It was a beautifully melancholy evening: the stars and moon were obscured with thick, grey clouds that loomed overhead like ragged old curtains; the air was thick with dust and pollen that clung to your skin and clothes like a man hanging onto the edge of a steep cliff, digging their claws in and holding on with all the relentless might you’d come to hate; your room was only dimly illuminated by the pale blue light emanating from your monitor, the low hum of the vents the only sound to compliment the clicking of keys and the tapping of the mouse. Quiet, drab and dull; how very typical of spring.

But at the very least it gave you all the excuse you needed to sit behind a screen and doomscroll. Tired eyes skimming over articles and activists decrying the latest tragedy, thousands of crabs in the metaphorical bucket of social media all fighting for the attention of bystanders — only taking pause when you came across something all too familiar, yet at the same time entirely new.

‘Does anyone else remember Welcome Home? It was pretty popular when it aired back in the 70s and my friends and I are trying to create a complete archive for it’ — the caption read. Below it was a highlighted link and a picture that had been burned into your brain since childhood: bright swatches of paint adorning every surface, all seeing eyes as big as can be, and in front of it, that permanent smile carved into yellow felt. Wally Darling and Home, you remembered them both clearly enough — clearer than you’d have liked, even.

It had been decades since you’d actively thought back on Welcome Home, on your brief stint in stardom, and frankly you’d have rather it’d been kept that way. You still held a bit of a grudge over getting axed: ‘too mature’, yeah right! Every kid loves astrology and nobody is too old to talk about their feelings… you were only 14 for crying out loud! Too mature, your ass.

But perhaps, you reasoned, it wouldn’t be too bad to take a quick trip down memory lane. Sure you’d loved the show when it aired, but you stopped watching after your section was cut, so maybe it would be cool to see what changed in the interim — and, either way, your experiences would probably be helpful to the archivists. So no harm, no foul.

————

The site was easy enough to navigate but man you didn’t expect to get so emotional when you went looking through the recovered art. They looked exactly the same as you remembered, all of them — which is kind of silly to think about since puppets and tv show characters in general tend not to change since, well, they were meant to stay consistent. Frank was always going to look terribly stern, and Julie was always going to come onto scene with a new fabulous hairdo, and Eddie was always going to trip over his own feet on his rounds, and Wally was always going to open and close each episode with a nod to the audience. These things were staples of the characters and the show’s structure so of course they’d be the same.

But, still, you somehow felt like they should have changed in your absence. A small part of your mind, an irrational part surely, crying out that they were alive and that living things were made to change — which was silly. And, frankly, a little embarrassing that you’d even had that thought at all.

So you pushed that idea to the very back of your mind where it belonged and continued to scroll through the various pages of the website. Art from official books (you were sure you even owned the ‘ask Wally’ type book and that it was still at your parents’ place), merchandise like pop up figures (the sort that were found only in cereal boxes and magazines), promotional posters and even one piece from your short tenure on the show. You remembered posing for that photograph, being told to smile and to wrap your arms around Eddie and Wally — but for some reason you couldn’t quite recall what their puppeteers were called.

Or if they even had any puppeteers in the first place.

No. That can’t be right. They were puppets, characters, they had to have someone controlling and voicing them — but none of the promotional art nor your memories supported that basic truth. It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense. This was why you’d tried to forget that show so desperately after you left. It messed with your head far too much to be worth the effort so why bother burning out over questions that could be explained by a faulty memory.

A memory that could, in picture perfect detail, recall the route from Howdy’s store to Home as clear as crystal — as if it were your own route to-and-from primary school. A memory that could replay patchy conversations between Wally and Julie, bittersweet bickering over hairspray and hairpins that you could only recall in pieces, but that still rang clearly as if you were thinking of childhood friends. A memory that was imprinted with the feeling of warm felt embraces and puffs of warm air from stencil cut mouths that would have been impossible if they weren’t alive. Moving eyes, small bodies, freely walking, freely talking — alive and well and clear as day in your mind as normally as recalling your parents arguing over a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the mornings of each shoot.

The distinctly strong smell of the synthetic hairspray Wally used that would hang around him and mixed with the scent of oil paint like a cologne — that burned your nose if you hung around too close to him in the early morning. The sheer joy of Howdy picking you up and tossing you in the air as a congratulations for your first scene done well — caterpillar fuzz that stuck to your clothes for days, as strong as velcro. The way you and Julie squealed when Barnaby shook back and forth and sent droplets of muddy water raining down on you and on her freshly done up hair — and the joke that followed her exasperated tirade as you, through giggles, explained frustration to the audience through a camera they seemed to not be able to see.

Memories that kept unearthing themselves the deeper you went into the site, eventually culminating with you tearing up at the sight of old friends you’d been forced to leave behind. Silly, perhaps, but you recall telling the audience that it was healthy to cry and to let it all go — so at least your teenage self would be proud of your emotional vulnerability.

After a good hour of this, and more than in need of a break, you finally clicked on the attached message board and typed up a simple few sentences. A greeting and a farewell all in one before you closed down your computer and went to bed.

‘I used to have a segment on Welcome Home when I was a kid. I was meant to do astrology and emotions, before I got cut for being too old lol. This brought back so many memories. Thank you, all.’

————

Wally hadn’t meant to linger — really, he hadn’t — but there had been something oddly familiar about his latest visitor that he couldn’t quite place. Even from behind the screen he was trapped within, even as he watched their message load in, he could tell that they were different. It was their eyes, those tearful knowing eyes — he was sure he’d seen them before in that somewhere different, somewhere brighter, that came before the end he and his neighbours were trapped in.

When he saw their eyes he saw himself, a twisted altered reflection of himself that was filled to bursting with the warmth and awareness that he was created to hold within himself. A child’s eyes in the form of someone who he didn’t know yet he knew he must have once. A lingering, niggling feeling in the back of his skull, like fingertips brushing and scratching and digging into his fabric brain — rearranging and scouring and destroying and reaching for something that he couldn’t quite find.

He winced and squinted and stared through the screen to no avail, tilting his head and watching them as they flicked from screen to screen to screen desperate for a sign that he could use to place this familiar stranger. Unable to do so until finally — finally — their note came through and he was able to read the short greeting they’d left behind.

Then, and only then, did those forbidden memories come flooding back. A formidable tidal wave, a whirling rapid, of bright lights and experiences and conversations that had been torn from him and shredded in the writer’s room of their long gone creators.

He knew you, he’d always known you; the child too old for their youth that visited their neighbourhood in the beginning. Who always wore a beaming smile and treated them all with a grace beyond their years, spreading kindness and joy to his friends and to the audience only the two of you knew about. Who was far taller than his measly 12 apples of verticality but who never made him feel small. Who spoke eagerly of the constellations and painted the most wonderful pictures of stars and moons and planets far beyond their reach that he did his best to capture in his paintings. Who was only 14 but felt more like an adult than he did sometimes — he, who was crafted and sewn without a childhood — but who wasn’t above play and foley.

The child who was the absolute most; his favourite transient neighbour. All of their’s, actually.

How could he possibly have forgotten you?

You with your broad toothy grins, and your warm eyes that shone brighter than the stars you loved, and your arms that were big enough to carry even more apples than he could have ever dreamed of. You, who he promised to protect and keep away from the horrors of the world, theirs and your own. You, who never turned down a favour or plea from his neighbours.

You. Just you.

Wonderful, lovable, unforgettable you. His child of flesh, not felt, but he loved you all the same.

And he didn’t get to see you grow up, because his creators deemed you unbefitting of their world and cut you from their memories as ruthlessly as they’d cut your segments from their show. Welcome Home didn’t feel very much like a home after that — even if they didn’t quite recall what was missing.

Wally didn’t even want to think about all of the horrors and harms you’d faced throughout the years you’d been apart — he could see the wear hanging heavily in the downwards quirk of your lips and the dampened glint in your eye. He knew he’d sooner kill someone than let them hurt you, he’d threatened it plenty alongside Howdy and Eddie and Frank — they all loved you as dearly as him, once.

But in his current predicament he couldn’t do much to protect you. Couldn’t coddle you, couldn’t warm you, couldn’t sooth you with those sweets you used to love (if you even loved them anymore, it had clearly been quite some time), couldn’t do anything to help. He couldn’t even communicate with you, to apologise, to tell you he still loved you and that you were still welcome in their neighbourhood.

So he did the only thing he could; he drew you a picture. A silly little simplistic drawing, scratchy and crude, depicting a strong memory he had of you. The two of you, hand in hand, with your arms overflowing with apples you’d managed to steal from Howdy (oh how he missed such trivial things) — he hoped you remembered these moments as fondly as he did. Then, to the illustration, he attached a small message, a plea just for you, before settling back down behind the screen and hoping — praying — that you’d come back.

‘I’m sorry for forgetting you, friend, please come home’

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #platonic x reader #yandere x reader #platonic yandere x reader #welcome home fanfic #welcome home x reader #wally darling x reader #yandere wally darling x reader

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down-in-the-rainbow-square · 1 year

Note

Here's an idea, reader is able to go to and from the welcome home world at will. R (reader) does this daily around the same time each time or at least checks in if R is short on time, they are also sure to let the WH crew know if they'll be gone for a X amount of days.

Well a day goes by where R doesn't visit or check in, one day turns into a week before R returns with gifts for everyone. Turns out R got really sick and then bought/made apology gifts for everyone and even cleared their whole schedule so they could all hang out for a few days.

How would the crew react?

Welcome Home x Reader - Make-Up Presents

Hi! Thank you for the request. This is a really nice idea! I'd love to be able to travel freely between my favourite fictional worlds. That'd be so fun. I wonder how time differs between the world of Home and our world.

Words: 563

Type: Headcanons, platonic

Tw: None

Wally was more worried about you. He appreciates the gift, especially if it's something crafty or handmade, but in the end, he wants to make sure you're okay. He takes your hands in his (ignoring the possible germs) and looks into your eyes. Only this time it's not exuding a creepy aura - it's concern. You quell his worries, and he turns his attention back to thanking you for the gift.

Julie is also worried about you, though not as much as Wally. As in, she can still focus on the gift and thank you for it first. Once she gets reassurance that you're okay, she asks you lots of questions about the gift you brought her. If it's something unfamiliar, say an old smartphone, she asks you so, so many questions.

Sally assured herself that you're fine, so she doesn't really worry about that. She sort of just takes the gift, acknowledges it, and moves on. She appreciates it, of course! It's just that there's so much to do and so many rehearsals you've missed and you simply must catch up! It's crucial!

Frank needs to be sure you're not sick anymore. Not only is he concerned for you as a friend, but when it comes to situations like these he's pretty cautious about germs. Yes, he's not afraid to get a little dirt on him when looking for bugs, but sicknesses are not something he wants. Other than that, he's very thankful for the gift. He decides to study it, of course.

Eddie asks lots of 'are you okay?'s and 'are you sure?'s. He trusts your reassurance and gets over it quickly, though. Still follows you around to make sure you're okay, however. After that, he asks you to take him through a step-by-step process of how the gift was made (if it was hand-made). Otherwise, he's very thankful.

Howdy doesn't ask lots of questions about your health. Like Sally, he trusts you enough to know you wouldn't come in and get them sick. Still, he offers you a special recovery discount on things like hot water bottles and blankets. As for the gift, he's really taken aback. But he offers a charming smile and a promise to keep it in the front window. But it will never be for sale; it's too precious!

Barnaby asks if you're okay once, tells you that you are always welcome because "a dog can survive anything except chocolate", and then focuses on the gift. He knows once a gift is his he's free to do with it as he'd like, so the two of you decide to perhaps paint it or draw on it. Unless it's something really special like a card, then it stays as it is.

Note: cards count as something special that cannot be touched. The Mona Lisa does not.

Poppy instantly frets over your health. I mean, what did you expect, really? She takes your face between her soft feathers and looks you over for any signs of illness. One shade too off colour and she's getting the medicine! But once you present her with the gift, he worries are washed away. She takes it tenderly in her hands and looks it over, scared of breaking it (her wings are shaky, after all). Gives you a hug before worrying she's crushing you. Then hugs you again - softer, this time.

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ursa-tan · 9 months

Note

Hi! This might be a very niche but I was wondering if you could do a

Wally x reader, 🍑, consensual soul eating where he either fucks us during it, or it turns into a type of invisible/soul sex

(And if you didn't know: soul eating is where Wally eats with his eyes and feeds off of our emotions/energy, but it's like a kind of a weird sleep paralysis out of body experience for the person he's feeding off of, I've seen people also use the concept for kissing and more)

I'll show you

Wally Darling x Masc!Reader

Word count: 4,221 Reading time: ~16 mins

A/N: I hope this is what you wanted anon! I know it went a little off-request, but I hope you're still satisfied with it! Please let me know if you can!

Upon joining the neighbourhood, you were under the impression that you were the only one that would eat. Being the only human in a village of sentient puppets, the assumption made sense. In fact, the first time you say a puppet eat you were convinced it was some sort of joke set up by Barnaby to get you to embarrass yourself by asking questions. It wasn’t until said humorous puppet ask why you were staring at Sally so weirdly while she was eating that you realised that these puppets actually do eat.

You spent the next few weeks tallying up the number of times you saw each puppet eat. Well, you tried to at least, before you gave up. It became apparent pretty quickly that all of them ate on pretty much the same schedule as you, even if you didn’t see it happen. Sally would often tell you about how strict her diet is as a performer, Poppy offering you things she had baked, and Eddie talking about being a fool for skipping breakfast because he woke up late. Sufficient to say, the puppets ate, just like you did.

What struck you as strange though was that you had never seen Wally eat. Not once. He held food, stared at it, carried it around, yet he never seemed to eat it. Not even when Julie and Frank took the time to put a picnic together. He just held an apple in his hands the entire time, staring at it occasionally, but never eating it.

“It’s strange,” You mumble to yourself, breaking apart a chocolate bar and placing a square in your mouth. Your eyes are fixed on Wally, who’s currently engaged in conversation with Eddie and – once again – holding an apple that you know he isn’t going to eat.

“What’s strange, Kiddo?” Barnaby, one of your closest friends since joining the neighbourhood, asks. He’s standing next to you, doing nothing in particular.

“Hm? Oh, just the fact that I’ve never seen Wally eat. I mean, I’ve seen him holding food plenty of times, but I’ve never seen him eat it.” You don’t take your eyes off the smaller puppet – almost like you’re afraid that if you blink, the apple might disappear and you’ll seem crazy. You nearly spit out your chocolate when Barnaby next speaks.

“Yeah, that’s cuz he doesn’t eat,” he chuckles, placing a massive paw on your head and ruffling your hair, making a mess of it.

You push Barnaby’s hand off your head but don’t let go of it, knowing that he’ll put it straight back if you do. Staring at him in confusion, you wait for him to continue. When, after a few seconds, he stays silent, you know that you’re going to have to ask questions to get answers.

“He doesn’t eat? Like, at all?” You keep Barnaby’s arm in your grasp, looking up at him with a curiosity that needs to be satisfied.

“No, he eats,” Barnaby looks down at you, chuckling at the way you’re looking at him, “Just not like the rest of us, that’s all.”

“Not like the rest of us? What does that mean? How does he eat? Does he need to eat then? What would-“You don’t get to finish your barrage of questions as Barnaby uses his other hand to silence you, placing his massive paw right in your face. In much the same way that a cat would if you got too close.

“Slow down with the questions there, Kiddo!” Barnaby chuckles, holding his paw against your face for a second before removing it.

“I just-“ You’re once again interrupted by a paw to the face.

“Just tell me you’re done.” He slowly removes the paw from your face, as if expecting to have to silence you a third time.

“Ok, ok, I’m done. I’ll stop with the questions.” To say you’re disappointed is an understatement, you’re brimming with questions that you’re absolutely desperate to ask. It seems like Barnaby can tell.

“Why don’t you ask the man himself?” He gestures towards Wally, who’s still obliviously chattering away with Eddie, “You know he likes you, he wouldn’t say no if you asked politely.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s Wally, he’s my best friend, I know him like the back of my paw,” Barnaby holds up his free paw, looking at the back of it proudly for a moment. That moment doesn’t last long, however, as he takes any opportunity he can to crack a joke, “Huh, never noticed that spot before.”

You can’t help but giggle at his antics, finally freeing his other hand as you do. He takes the opportunity to ruffle your hair again, just making more of a mess as you hadn’t had a chance to fix it last time.

“Off you go then.” Barnaby makes a shooing motion, pushing you lightly towards Wally. No plan, no time to come up with one, no help from the comedian, it’s all up to you. You aren’t even entirely sure what you’re supposed to do.

You find yourself stressing slightly as you approach Wally and Eddie. You hope that you can just slip into the conversation, and ask Eddie how his day has been. But you don’t get that chance, because just before you get there, Eddie says goodbye and walks away. Now it’s just you and Wally.

“Oh, hello neighbour,” Wally smiles up at you, his eyes droopy and half-lidded as always. He’s still holding that goddamn apple.

“Oh, uh, hi Wally, you, uh.” You find yourself attempting feebly to stumble your way through a complete sentence. Wally’s eyes don’t leave you for a second. He’s staring straight into your eyes, almost like he’s trying to stare straight into your soul.

“Are you ok neighbour?” He’s looking at you with that cat smile. It’s so relaxed and yet you feel so tense.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” You mumble, reaching up to pick at your arms slightly, flaking off an old scab that you never gave time to heal, “Just wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight? Maybe I can come round yours and we can have dinner?” You can feel his eyes leave you as you ask this question, but the nerves keep a tight grip on your neck and you can’t find it in yourself to look at him to find out why.

“Sounds delightful, neighbour.” The apple is gone. You look down at him when he speaks and the apple is gone. He hasn’t dropped it or stuffed it in his pockets. It’s just gone.

“Right, right… I’ll come round at about… 7?”

“yes, 7,” Wally nods, smiling and waving at you, “I’ll see you later neighbour.”

You wave at him as he walks away, watching him walk over to Julie’s before knocking on the door and waiting for her to let him in. Once he disappears, you turn back to Barnaby, looking at him with a quizzical expression.

“What’s up, kid?” He chuckles, looking at you as you find your place back at his side.

“He… Did you see what he did what that apple?”

“No clue, I was more focused on how awkward you looked,” he chuckles, reaching out to ruffle your hair for a third time. You swat him away before you get a chance.

“Seriously, did you see anything? Anything at all? It can’t have just disappeared!” You sound exacerbated, desperate for answers.

“Maybe he ate it,” Barnaby chuckles, pulling his pipe out and placing it in his mouth.

“I thought you said-“

“You should ask him about it, you’ll have him all to yourself tonight.” He lets out a puff of swirling iridescent smoke. You know that you aren’t going to get any more answers out of him. He’s being belligerent on purpose, something you know that he’s grown to enjoy when talking to you. Said it’s something about how you look funny when you’re frustrated.

Instead of trying – and ultimately failing – to wrangle more information out of Barnaby, you decide to head home. It’s not a long walk, but it gives you time to think. The main question on your mind for the next few hours is how you’re going to bring up the topic of how he eats.

You’re so consumed by the question that you don’t even realise how quickly the time passes. Before you know it, it's 6:30 and getting kinda dark outside. You know if you don’t get ready now, you’ll be late and it’ll be dark by the time you get there.

You choose to put on a nice pair of black trousers and a colourful cardigan – something you think Wally might like. You also gather up some simple snacks, the kind of things you’d want someone to bring to yours if they were going to come over. Once you’re sure that you’ve gathered everything you think you’re going to need, you set out towards Home.

Wally is opening the door before you even knock on it, wearing something much more comfortable than his usual outfit. His hair is down and he’s wearing a light pink robe that he seems to have purposefully pulled off his shoulders.

“Neighbour, you’re early,” He smiles up at you, eyes half-lidded as he holds a hand out, “Come in, please.”

“O-Oh, ok!” You shift the bag you were holding so that you can take his hand, allowing him to pull you into the house. His hand is surprisingly warm in yours, soft against your palm and small enough that you could crush it with ease if you wanted to.

“What would you like to do, neighbour?” He stops and looks up at you once he’s brought you to his living room. The main light has been turned off and replaced by the presence of a lamp. There are already a few different snacks laid out on the coffee table – you notice that he’s got your favourite. You aren’t sure if he got it on purpose or if he just already had it, maybe you can be nosy and ask Howdy when he brought it later on.

“I don’t mind…” You mumble, realising you hadn’t prepared for anything other than asking Wally how he ate.

“Would you like to make something? Maybe we can paint together,” He’s still holding your hand while he speaks, “Or we could just talk?” He’s looking up at you with something in his eyes that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Talking sounds nice.” You smile, sitting uncomfortably on his sofa. The sofa itself is quite comfortable, but you perch yourself on the edge.

Wally doesn’t say anything, instead just coming to sit next to you. He presses himself against you, his head resting on your shoulder to the best of his ability.

“Wally, can I ask you a question?” It feels far too serious to say that, but you also feel like you might implode if you just outright ask the question that’s been on your mind for so long.

“Of course, neighbour.” He slimes up at you, moving to intertwine his hand with yours.

“I’ve noticed that you uh… I don’t… I haven’t…” You look down at his hand, and the way it holds yours, fits so perfectly has you struggling to speak, “ You… How do you eat?” Eventually, you manage to just spit it out and ask him. He doesn’t react like you would expect him to. You expected him to look up at you with that lazy, half-lidded gaze that he always had. Instead, he jumps in his seat slightly and continues to stare straight forwards.

“Well, neighbour, it’s hard to explain,” He chuckles lightly, finally moving to look up at you. His pupils are restricted, small and not looking into your own but rather focusing on your lips, “ It would be easier to show you.”

“Show me then.” You know you sound way too excited, it's probably a little off-putting.

“You have to promise not to… React badly, neighbour,” He mumbles, letting go of your hand and shuffling away from you.

“I promise.” You have to force your voice out, feeling the excitement bubble up inside you.

“Stay still.” Wally stands up, moving until he’s in front of you and can rest his hands on your thighs, just above your knees.

“O… Ok?” The excitement subsides, confusion taking its place. His hands move slightly, shifting up to rest about midway up your thighs.

Before you get a chance to ask a question, Wally is climbing into your lap and situating himself until he’s pressed as close to you as he can get. You try and ignore the way that he’s sitting directly over your crotch, or how his hands are now resting on your chest.

“Open your eyes for me,” His hands come up to cup your face, holding your head still with a surprising amount of strength, “Don’t move.”

“Wally I don’t understand why this is necessary-“

“I’m going to show you how I eat, stay still and open your eyes.” His fingers dig into your cheeks, almost painfully holding you in place. You just close your mouth and nod as best you can, deciding that you don’t want to face whatever emotion Wally was just feeling.

His pupils blow wide, almost completely consuming his eyes. You can barely see the whites of his eyes in just the corners. It’s almost scary as he stares into your own.

Suddenly, something starts to envelop your mind. A fogginess that you can’t seem to shake off no matter how much you try. Wally continues to stare into your eyes, his own almost completely black and entirely unmoving. The fog begins to numb your limps, starting in your lower legs and tingling as it leaks into your thighs. Pins and needles seep into your fingertips, crawling up your arms in a warm sensation that leaves you unable to feel anything. You try to speak, but you can’t even open your mouth. Your lips are sealed shut, leaving you unable to do anything but let out a soft whimper.

“Don’t worry,” Wally speaks, hands moving to rest on your shoulders. You don’t move your head – you can’t move your head. “This is supposed to happen.”

You try and open your mouth again, attempting to ask him what this is. Yet, no matter how hard you try, you can’t get your jaw to move. The only thing you can do is whimper pathetically, unsure of what he wants from you.

Soon enough, you realise that you can’t move your eyes either. Unlike when you experience sleep paralysis, you can’t move your eyes at all. The only thing you can focus on is Wally’s charcoal eyes, blown so wide that you feel like you’re going to fall in.

“Just relax, you wanted to see how I eat, didn’t you?” Wally shifts forwards slightly, pressing himself further against you, managing to lightly grind himself on you, “ If you want me to stop, all you have to do is close your eyes.”

With those words, you realise you can move your eyelids. While your vision is focused on those deep pools of black in front of you, your eyelids begin to twitch and flicker. You don’t feel the need to blink, your eyes aren’t dry or irritated. And, despite the fear of being unable to move… You can feel something in your mind telling you to let this continue.

“Good… Please relax neighbour, I promise this won’t hurt.” You can barely see that he’s smiling as he speaks. His hands move to run over your chest, splaying his hands out over the top of your shirt, wrinkling the material slightly and causing it to lift slightly and show your lower stomach.

A sense of pleasure starts to take over, the pins and needles like tingling becoming a warm, dripping sensation. It starts in your fingertips, slowly trickling upwards, moving like honey in thick, sticky rivulets. The feeling leaks into your chest, pooling warmth right above your heart that’s spread further and further with every beat, being spread through your veins. Soon enough, your entire body is enveloped with the tingling euphoria.

“I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, neighbour,” Wally mumbles, his usual, sleepy voice breaking you out of your focus, “You always were smart…”

You whimper in response to his statement. You hadn’t figured it out, you hadn’t figured anything out. All you know is that you feel amazing and that you can feel Wally’s ass pressing against your slowly hardening cock.

“You haven’t?” He seems surprised to ask this question, almost as if he really did think you understand what’s going on, “Should I explain then, neighbour?”

You let out another soft whimper, no longer caring about what’s happening. You’re losing yourself to the sensations, to the way his soft body feels pressed against yours.

“I eat with my eyes,” He starts, still staring deeply into your own, “But I can’t just eat food, it’s not enough… I need something more substantial, something bigger… Which is where you come in. I just need to take a little from you, some energy, I guess you could say.”

There’s nothing you can do as Wally continues to stare into your eyes, still smiling slightly, eyes still blown so incredibly wide. You wouldn’t stop him even if you could. You have plenty of energy to share if he was telling the truth about that. It doesn’t matter really, the feeling of warmth throughout your body and your slowly growing erection made you desperate for more.

“It seems you’re enjoying this neighbour… Maybe I should give you a little something in return.” Wally seems to be thinking out loud, wondering about what he should do for you.

It doesn’t take a second for him to begin slowly rocking his hips. His ass is pressed against your cock, slowly grinding into it, causing your erection to grow more and more with each passing second. The way he rocks his hips causes you to groan, eyelids flickering slightly but never once blocking Wally’s view of your eyes.

The puppet's hands trail downwards, eventually reaching your lower stomach. Slowly, he inches one hand under your shirt, touching your skin in soft, barely-there circles that cause your muscles to twitch involuntarily. He pauses his movements when he feels your muscles quiver under his fingers, seemingly cherishing the movements before continuing his ministrations. Wally manages to get your muscles to tremble again, many times.

The hand that isn’t under your shirt moves down to your belt buckle, undoing it with practised ease and quickly pulling it from your belt loops. Wally tosses it over his shoulder, letting it clatter to the floor somewhere behind him that you can’t see. His eyes never leave yours, not once.

Next thing you know, the puppet is popping your trouser button open with one hand, unzipping the zip as well. You groan again, only this time it’s out of disappointment, as Wally has shifted backwards and off you’re your painfully hard cock so he can shuffle your trousers down. The fabric bunches up around your mid-thighs, giving Wally space to sit on your crotch again, now only with your boxers in the way.

You want to buck your hips upwards, thrust yourself into his small body, and maybe even get the chance to hold him down and fuck him. But you still can’t move, so everything is left up to Wally. He knows this. You know he knows you know.

He removes his hand from underneath your shirt, shifting his small body backwards to leave your thinly veiled cock exposed to him again. He places one of his hands over you, palming you softly through your boxers, applying just enough pressure to make you feel something so delicious that you want more. It’s not long before he’s pulling your boxers down, freeing your cock and allowing it to spring up and hit the stomach of your shirt. It leaves a small, dark patch where you’re already leaking precum.

Wally begins to focus on undoing his trousers now, popping the button and somehow managing to pull them off within seconds – all without breaking eye contact. He gets his boxers off as well, throwing them somewhere behind him, probably letting them join your previously discarded belt.

Despite being unable to move your body yourself, your lips part seamlessly when two of Wally's fingers press against them. It allows him to slide the digits inside your mouth, pressing the pads of his fingers into your tongue. You can feel you're saliva coating his fingers, making them slick. You want to curl your tongue up and against him, wrap it around the fingers in your mouth, allowing you to suck on them lightly.

Slowly, Wally pulls his fingers from your mouth. Thin strands of your saliva connect your lips to his fingers, glistening in the light and drawing your attention for just a moment - even if you can only see them in your peripherals.

You aren't entirely sure what he's going to do with his now slick fingers until he reaches backwards. Wally's hands slip behind him, begging to slowly tease and dip into his tight hole. You can just about feel the way his hips shudder as he begins to finger himself, slipping both of his now-slicked fingers into his ass.

Your cock twitches as he lets out a soft moan, hips bucking backwards a little. He's fucking himself on his fingers, thighs starting to tremble slightly as he continues. The way he moves makes you want nothing more than to have him, the feeling is a burning lust in your chest that drives you mad.

Eventually, Wally stops pleasuring himself and pulls his fingers out, moving his previously busy hand round to his front. You think he's going to touch you, until he begins to stroke his cock in long, languid movements. The fact that he isn't touching you is driving you crazy, your cock is aching and you're desperate for his touch, but he won't give it to you.

Until, that is, Wally shifts slightly forwards. He uses the hand that isn't stroking his cock to lightly grip yours, lining it up with his tight hole. You can feel your leaking cock press against him, meeting a small amount of resistance as he begins to lower himself down onto you. You can feel yourself sliding in slowly, your saliva making it easy for him to push himself down.

Wally bounces gently as he pushes himself down further, pulling up slightly to be able to slip more of you inside of him. After a few soft, subtle bounces, he reaches your base, leaving you fully hilted inside him.

The combination of the thick, honey-like pleasure and the tightness of Wally's tight hole around your cock has your mind beginning to fog. You know you aren't going to last long, not like this. Especially as the head of your cock presses into his soft, gummy walls. Wally's surprisingly warm body squeezes around you, tightening more than you thought it could.

Slowly, he begins to rock his hips again. The soft rocking progresses into a bouncing motion, causing Wally's soft inner to glide along your cock, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

The pleasure starts to overwhelm you. Everything that's happening is getting too much, the thick, tingling pleasure, the rolling waves of euphoria, it's pushing you towards climax. You're desperate to orgasm, to finish and fill the small puppet sitting in front of you.

Soon, the growing, building pleasure becomes too much. Your orgasm comes crashing over you, muscles twitching, your mind flooding with pleasure. You can feel yourself cum, waves of complete euphoria rolling over you as you.

Wally doesn't stop bouncing as you reach your peak, seeking his finish. The sensation of his soft walls becomes too much, overstimulating your now sensitive cock. You can feel your eyes tearing up, although you don't dare to blink. He clamps around you, body stilling and thighs trembling as he orgasms. Hot, sticky ropes of cum shoot out and ruin not only your shirt but also his cardigan.

A few seconds pass, Wally practically panting, before he finally breaks eye contact. Immediately you feel as if there is nothing left of you. Your eyes are sore and your body is tired from what just occurred - but your mind is also foggy.

Wally doesn't bother speaking or even getting up, instead just leaning forwards and cuddling into you. His head nuzzles into your neck, cock still hilted inside of him. You don't want to move either, still enjoying the feeling of him. So instead, you opt to wrap your arms around the puppet and hold him close, almost immediately falling asleep.

#fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #nsft fanfic #playfellowxxx #male x male #no use of y/n #wally calls reader “neighbour”#human reader #mentioned sally starlet #mentioned eddie dear #mentioned poppy partridge #barnaby b beagle #soul eating

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nackrosor · 1 year

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~Slutty Feline Jester~

Eddie Munson x plus-size!reader

warnings: body dysmorphia, body image issues, slight panic attack, there's some fat-shaming talk but other than that this is pretty much fluff-hurt/comfort synopsys: your boyfriend had his hands on you, grabbing your tummy and playing with your jiggly forearms, like he's used to doing and you were used to it, too. You even liked it. A disgusted look from one stranger walking by your table is all it took that day to make your confident facade slip away and reveal how insecure about your body you actually are. word count: 4,5k.

[a/n: a HUGE thank you to @noodleboyluke for helping me proof-reading and editing this story. I really hope you guys like it!

ps: apparently there's a guy from the Hellfire Club who has no name so I just called him Frank lol enjoy!!!]

You know you're different from most of the girls at your school. Your difference lies in the way you look. You're not as slim as them; you're overweight. It's as clear as day! Each part of your body is covered with excessive fat. You see it, everyday, whenever you look at yourself in the mirror or inadvertently catch a glimpse of your reflection on some surface. And yet, you're not fazed by it; you're sure that's what the others think when they see you acting like you're not 80 pounds heavier than them, at least. But why would you act differently? Why should you? Your weight doesn't prevent you from living your life as you should, as everybody else does. You've been called brave for that, you don't remember by who, you're not even sure they meant it as a compliment but, if respecting your body means being brave then you're the bravest person on the whole fucking Earth. Hell, you're even sure that it was your so-called 'bravery' that attracted Eddie to you. You've been together for almost a year now and he's been worshiping every inch of you for the whole time. His love does help you, you recognise it but you haven't really changed from the brave fat girl that caught his eye in the first place.

So it's true, you're not fazed by your weight, your size doesn't negatively affect your life... most of the time. Yes, because even brave people like you have their cowardly moments, sometimes. They're not as frequent but when they hit you, they hit you hard.

You woke up like any other day. You bravely got up, prepared yourself for school, wore one of your usual outfits that highlighted your curves and that your boyfriend loved so much. You bravely walked to school and across the halls with your head held high as you reached your classes. At the sound of the bell signaling lunchtime, you bravely entered the cafeteria and jogged towards Eddie, who was waiting for you by the Hellfire Club's table, with open arms ready to engulf you in a crushing hug. You bravely ate your food, no better yet, you savored it and enjoyed it because why shouldn't you? You were as hungry as everybody else.

Everything was going fine, by routine, you would say. You were happily having your meal and chatting with your friends, as usual. Eddie even had his hands on you, grabbing your tummy or playing with your jiggly forearms, like he's used to doing and you were used to it, too. You even liked it.

You weren't at all prepared for the huge bucket of coward-ice hitting you fair and square in the face. All it took was a disgusted look from one stranger walking by your table. Only one. You would have normally brushed it off with a mocking scoff or by simply ignoring it any other day but something at that moment prevented you from doing either of it.

It only took that one single look to tear off the blinders that you auto-imposed on yourself for protection and all of a sudden you could see clearly. The hard truth of it was terrifying. The way everyone was looking at you, even your own friends or the kids, the way their gazes would drop on where Eddie's hands were placed on your body and laugh or frown as he unconsciously kept touching you. It was overwhelming. Suddenly, you could feel the clothes clinging on every roll of your stomach, arms bulging out the stiff sleeves of your tee, thighs over-stretching the constricting fabric of your jeans. The repulsion your body instilled in others, you could feel it too, ten thousands stronger.

All it took for Eddie to notice something was off, on the other hand, was the way you scooted away from him, his hands clasping air all of a sudden. When he tried to pull you closer you swatted his hands away without even glancing at him. You could feel his confused stare on you and it made the gnawing feeling in your stomach even worse.

"Baby?"

He called you softly, leaning toward you, worry and hurt clearly marking his tone.

You couldn't answer even if you wanted to; your breathing was ragged, you were gasping for air. All you wanted to do was run away as far as possible but by rushing out of the cafeteria you would definitely make a scene and just the thought of drawing everyone's attention on you caused your stomach to drop.

You tried to keep your panicky feelings under control as best as you could, not wanting to draw any suspicion from your friends. Well, from anyone else; Eddie was the only one who had noticed your discomfort, by that point. He was still looking at you, his face growing graver by the second.

You could see his hands twitch in his lap, his leg shaking nervously. You knew him too well; he was worried about you and the fact that he had no idea of what had made you react like that all of a sudden, was gnawing at him.

You kept your eyes lowered to avoid meeting anyone's gazes as you scooted back closer to Eddie.

If running away was not an option, then you would need to, at least, cover yourself up to ease your panic while you waited for lunchtime to be over.

Eddie immediately leaned forward, hands moving toward you, by instinct, but the way you flinched made them instantly retract.

You took a long shaky breath, eyes shyly raising to meet his. You could clearly see on his face the thousands of questions that bothered his mind but he dared not to ask. His doe-eyes roamed frantically over your face as he waited for you to speak first.

"Can you give me your jacket?"

He only stalled for a moment as he registered your request. A second later he was holding the denim vest in one hand and the leather jacket in the other. He held out the latter to you, a frown making its way upon his face.

"Are you cold?" he tentatively asked before he leaned further toward you, his voice turning into a whisper, "...or is it that time of the month already?"

Oh Eddie, bless you - you said to yourself as a soft sigh escaped you. You remembered when, a few months back, your period had completely caught you unprepared, blood staining the back of your pants and Eddie had offered you his jacket for cover without any hesitation and made you wait in the bathroom as he had rushed to your female friends to ask for spare pads. That memory temporarily overshadowed your discomfort and a small smile made its way upon your lips.

"No Eddie, I just feel a little bit cold…", you whispered, one arm protectively encircling your side as you raised the other to take the jacket from him. "...and your rings made me shiver all over'', you added, hoping to make your lie more believable.

He visibly relaxed at your words, smiling apologetically at you but he still hesitated to go back to his usual goofy self. He didn't hesitate, however, to anticipate you by settling his jacket on your shoulders himself. He even bent forward to place a soft kiss on your head, palms squeezing gently your forearms.

You tensed a little in response to his touch, your eyes fluttering close.

"Uhm… Are you OK?"

Your odd display must have interrupted their passionate discussion on board games because the whole table had their eyes on you at that point.

The question had come from Dustin and you mustered a smile as you nodded. "Yeah, feeling a bit chilly, that's all."

"Chilly? I'm boiling over here!" Mike stated, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt to blow himself some air as most of the table nodded in agreement.

"You must have caught a cold!" Lucas piped in, a frown spreading on his face as he warily glanced your way. "I can't catch it too, I have a game in a week!"

You heard Eddie sigh deeply behind you and you looked up to see him brush his hand over his face. Your gazes met and he wryly rolled his eyes as he slid back onto his seat at the head of the table.

You couldn't suppress the knowing smile that spread over your lips.

"You need a larger jacket than that if you want to get warmer, though…"

Mike's voice drew everyone's attention once again, especially yours. Your smile faltered and your stomach dropped.

"That's way too small for you!", he added earnestly, unaware of how his words stung, "Big Frank, you should give her yours!"

The startled look that popped up on Frank's face as his eyes darted from the kid's face to yours; and the way he silently started peeling off one of his jacket sleeves as he blinked at you, made you feel bad for him, too.

You mustered a smile and lightly shook your head at him. He nodded at your mouthed "don't worry" and adjusted his jacket back.

You could feel tears starting to well in your eyes but you fought them back as best as you could. There was no way you'd burst out crying in front of your friends, especially not at Mike's words. You knew he didn't mean to hurt you, he was a cool kid after all, just like Dustin and Lucas were and they had never, never made fun of you. He had only stated a fact; Eddie's jacket was small for you. You knew it already so why was it affecting you so much?

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you tugged at your boyfriend's jacket and adjusted it on you. You expected too much of it, being at least three sizes smaller than what you'd normally wear.

As much as you tried to disappear, you could feel the apprehensive looks your friends would give you and share between them. They were probably wondering why you weren't brushing off Mike's words with a joke or one of your sarcastic comebacks, as you would usually do. You were wondering about it yourself.

The atmosphere of the table had indeed drastically changed. Mike's serious expression had turned into a confused frown after one by one all the other boys had casted sideways glances his way.

"What is it? Why are y'all looking at me like that?"

Dustin hushed his friend with a not so subtle nudge of his elbow and forced a smile to his face as he addressed the whole table in an attempt to ease the tension.

"Sooo… movie night at my house tonight?" His eyes eagerly darted from one face to the other, lingering on yours for a longer moment before passing over to Eddie's.

Eddie had strangely kept silent the whole time, which was unusual for him, to say the least. When you tentatively looked his way, taking advantage of the late reaction Dustin's offer had stirred in the others, you instantly met his gaze.

Had he been staring at you the whole time? There was a deep frown on his face which immediately turned into a broken look as soon as he noticed your watery eyes.

His mouth opened to say something, what you don't know. The harsh sound of the bell brought a deafening chaos with it as all the students raised their voices to conclude their conversations or to express their reluctance to leave.

You did not stall. As soon as you heard the bell, you bolted out of your seat and sprinted toward the exit. In your rush, even over the loud chattering made by the other students, you carefully tried to avoid bumping into in your escape, you could clearly hear Eddie's booming voice as he hissed, "I'll murder you, Wheeler!" And the poor kid cried out, "What did I dooo???"

You didn't turn back. You made a beeline for the bathroom, planning to lock yourself in and wait until those stupid tears would leave you alone. You had made it to the end of the hall, hand reaching forward for the handle of the bathroom door when a strong arm enveloped your waist and pulled you back, spinning you around.

Your startled look met Eddie's serious face.

“You’re not going to shut me out”, he asserted in a stern but hushed tone, his hold tightening around your middle. His voice and demeanor, however, quickly turned softer as his hand raised to gently cup your cheek, a plea in his eyes, “please, don’t shut me out, baby.”

Despite your efforts, tears started rolling down your face way before you had reached the hall and you only then realized it as Eddie wiped both your cheeks with care.

The lump growing in your throat prevented you from uttering even a single word; you only nodded compliantly in response before you leaned forward and hid your face in his chest. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling your body flush against his.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. You’re gonna be ok.”

He whispered those words soothingly in your ear and then pressed a soft kiss on your temple.

“Do you want to leave?”

The way you sniffled and tugged harder at the fabric of his tee was enough for him to make up his mind. After securing a protective arm around your shoulders, he firmly led you toward the exit, passing by the last few students who were scrambling the opposite way headed toward their classes.

You let him guide you out of the school and to the parking lot where his van was. Tears were copiously lining your cheeks and you kept your head lowered as Eddie opened the door for you and helped you up. Only when you found yourself safely set on the familiar worn out seat, momentarily alone while Eddie made his way to the driver's side, did you let out a shuddering breath in an attempt to regain some control over yourself.

You hated crying in front of others, especially in front of your boyfriend; he had only seen you upset a couple of times before, however never to this magnitude and never when those rare “cowardly”moments came upon you. It was embarrassing for you, especially if you considered how you had overreacted. How could you have let something so stupid affect you so much?

The disgusted looks you had received instantly snaked their way back to your mind, soon followed by the strong feeling of repulsion your body had suddenly caused you. Your hands instinctively moved onto the jacket still wrapped around your shoulders and tugged it down to lie it over your tummy, the particular area of your body that in your seated position was bulging out the most and that day, out of all days, made you tremendously self-conscious.

The sound of the door clicking closed startled you and you turned around to see Eddie crash onto his seat and wrap his hands around the steering wheel, giving it a good squeeze out of habit before setting his gaze on you. He instantly noticed the way his jacket was now laid over your torso and thighs in a sloppy attempt to cover yourself and his brows furrowed out of hurt or confusion, you couldn't tell.

He averted his gaze and you did the same. You knew one hell of an uncomfortable conversation awaited you and you wished with all your might it would end up being short and easy. How? You didn't care. You only wanted it to be quick and as painless as possible.

"Listen Eddie, I'm-"

"I'm sorry, baby-"

You had spoken at the same time and immediately turned to look at each other.

Confusion made its way upon your features as you registered what he had said.

"You're sorry? What for?”, you blinked at him, shaking your head, “you don't have to apologize! You did nothing wrong!"

The very last thing you wanted was for him to feel guilty or responsible in some way for what had happened.

He sighed and lowered his head, gaze fixed on his lap where his hands fidgeted nervously.

"I should have said something."

He looked and sounded so disconsolate that you almost started crying again. You really wanted to reassure him but he started talking again before you could find the words.

“At first I wasn’t sure what had made you react like that all of a sudden and when you told me you were feeling cold I thought it was strange but I believed you. When I saw you flinch at that stupid kid’s words though I knew you had told me a lie… but I couldn't really understand what had happened! You never let that kind of comments reach you! So I was confused and I was afraid that by giving Mike's words more weight than they deserved I would only make things worse for you. I don't know…” Eddie shook his head with a sigh, eyes awkwardly darting around before settling on your face.

“When I saw you crying I knew I had fucked up, though."

“No…”, you lamented out of protest, reaching forward for his hands, taking them in yours, “no Eddie, don’t say that. I overreacted, that’s all. It was stupid of me to make such a scene… and make you worry for nothing! I’m sorry. Really. I also ruined the mood at the table! I’ll have to apologize to the others-”

He tugged at your hands, immediately drawing your attention and making you stop rambling. It was so evident that you were trying to belittle what had happened and what you had felt. You were trying so hard to convince him that it was nothing. In an attempt to reassure him but, what you were really doing, was trying to convince yourself first and foremost.

“It can’t be nothing if it makes you cry.”

You searched his eyes for a moment, gaze roaming over his earnest features. Tears started to well in your eyes once again and you instantly turned around and slammed your back to the seat with a groan.

"You must find it ridiculous, I’m sure!”, you blurted out in a mocking tone. You felt angry. You weren’t angry at him but at yourself. At the way you had handled the whole situation. Angry at the way you had allowed some stupid strangers to make you hate your body. “Where's the y/n you've learned to know and like? The brave girl that doesn't give a shit how fat she is? You’re wondering that, aren’t you?"

You pressed yourself further against the door as soon as you felt his hand tentatively grab your shoulder.

"I just-”, you groaned again, brushing the back of your hand against your damp eyelids, “-I just don't want you to think any less of me."

"Sweetheart… I don’t and I would never.”

Eddie reclaimed your attention by tugging at your arm and making you turn toward him, not without some resistance from your part though. He made sure you were looking at him before he started speaking again.

“Sure, I love that side of you… Your confidence is inspiring-"

You interrupted him with a scoff. "I'm inspiring because I'm fat and I don't act like it?"

"You're inspiring…", he stressed, a scolding nuance in both his tone and look, "...because you don't let those stupid people drag you down! You brush their comments and stares off like they're nothing, 'cause they are nothing! You never give those assholes the time of the day. You also don’t take yourself too seriously and make those self-deprecating jokes of yours…". He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I love that about you. But you can’t always be as tough as you want to be.”

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest.

He was making sense. You were so used to hiding yourself behind that confident facade you created that you allowed it to make you blind to the truth of things. Convincing yourself that you had no issues whatsoever with how you looked didn't make them disappear into nothing, as much as you wanted them to. Inevitably, from time to time, one of those stares, comments, or sneers would slip through your facade and hurt you real bad. You were insecure; no amount of jokes or eyerolls would make that part of you go away.

"Besides…", he muttered, drawing your attention back to the moment, "...those people are wrong in the head, if you ask me."

"And why is that?"

He looked pleased by your question, a cheeky smile spreading over his lips.

"’Cause you're the most perfect girl in Hawkins, baby! And I bet in the whole world, too."

You rolled your eyes at him but you couldn't suppress the smile that made its way upon your face.

"Oh, shut up Eddie! That's bullshit."

"The hell it is!" he protested, eyes opening wide, "baby, you're so smart. Annoyingly smart! So smart that I look like I have brain damage when I’m with you… but I don't care. I like it, honestly. As long as I'm with you, I'll eventually rub some of that smartness off of you, right?"

"So… you're with me because I can help you with your homework."

He grinned at you as he sneaked a finger under your still crossed arms to poke your side, making you flinch and break your defensive stance.

"That's only one of the billions of perks of being your boyfriend, you silly girl! Ask me what the others are!"

You let out a deep sigh but you secretly enjoyed the funny turn the conversation had taken. At least Eddie was his goofy self again and that had made you keep your guard down as well.

"And what would the others be?"

"I'm glad you asked!" he exclaimed with a wink and dramatically swirled his forefinger in your direction. "Your beautiful smile… the light of my days! Makes the sun shine even in the darkest times!"

"Oh, no…", you rub a hand over your face, "forget I asked, please."

He ignored your plea and charged ahead.

"Those sexy eyes of yours, baby… they pierce right through my poor weak heart each time you lay 'em on me!"

He was using his deep and dramatic dungeon master's voice therefore making his cheesy lines even more embarrassing for you to hear.

You kept your hand at the level of your eyes to hide from him but he grabbed your wrist and pulled on it to free the subject of his reveries.

As soon as your eyes met his, he let out a strangled moan and moved your palm on his chest.

"Feel what you do to me?"

The funny thing was that you actually couldn't feel anything and that made you bite your lip as you barely held back a chuckle.

"There's no heartbeat, Eddie…"

He silently stared at you for a moment, then lowered his eyes on his chest where your hand was placed before looking back at you.

"Oh! I knew you would kill me one day!"

At that point you couldn't hold back any longer and bursted out laughing.

"You're such a clown!"

Eddie was struggling to hold back his own laughter but managed somehow not to break his acting.

"Wait, I haven't finished!

"Please don't-"

"No no, I saved the best for last! I must mention that soft squishy body of yours!"

Before you could truly register what he had said, his hands were on you, grabbing, squeezing, poking, tickling every inch of flesh he could find. His jacket inevitably fell from your thighs as you flinched and jumped, half-laughing and half-protesting for him to stop.

When he decided you had enough, he retreated slightly, a grin plastered on his face and his hands firmly set on your sides as he waited for you to regain your breathing.

"You have no idea of the struggle I have to fight to not nut in my pants every time I'm allowed to get my hands on you."

You shook your head and struggled to hide a smirk.

"You're a clown and a pervert on top of it. What a catch, uh?"

"Excuse you! I prefer 'slutty jester'."

You snorted at the over the top insulted look he gave you.

"Your slutty jester, my queen." He whispered in his sultry voice, "mmm yes, your humble servant." He bit his lips, hands pressing harder on your soft sides as he moved closer.

"What are you-"

He leaned forward with his whole body, hands moving on the seat to help himself up as he snuck toward you, squirming past the center console until his upper body laid in your lap. He looked so uncomfortable in that position. You were about to protest and push him back up but he made a face and hushed you before you could open your mouth. “Nope! You won’t take my Nirvana away from me!” and taking advantage of your temporary stupor he pulled up the hem of your tee and sank his face in your tummy with a satisfied moan.

"Eddie!"

His hot breath warmed your skin and you thought you heard him say, "my favorite pillow" in between weird cooing sounds before he wrapped his arm around your hips and pulled you closer.

It wasn't unusual for Eddie to pull something like that from time to time and although at first it made your body tense, you soon felt your muscles relax, hands snaking in his hair to brush it gently.

"I didn't know you were a cat."

"Mmm", he moaned again as he pulled back a little to brush his forehead against your skin, "I wish I was so I could sit in your lap and never ever move again."

He looked up at you, a sincere love drunk look hovering on his face.

"I adore you baby."

Your heart skipped a beat. A smile instantly spread over your lips, you could even feel warmth rising in your cheeks. You moved your fingers onto his forehead to brush a strand of hair away from his eyes.

"So much." he added and you bit your lip. Your hand moved lower to caress his cheek and you bent forward to press your lips on his forehead. Eddie grabbed the back of your neck and pulled himself up enough to meet you in a tender but passionate kiss.

"I adore you too, my slutty feline jester." You whispered upon his lips before meeting him again in a searing kiss, letting his love wash over you.

You let the fondness and care of his touches temporarily numb those intrusive thoughts perennially present in the back of your mind, occasionally coming up front to put you down and make you think less of yourself. You let his words sink in and counter your insecurity. Knowing that he loves you no matter what, and that he's always ready to remind you of that, wraps your heart and provides you with a safe-haven you can retreat to whenever you feel the world or even your own mind turning a bit too cruel toward you.

Eddie's right; you're smart, beautiful, strong and your squishy body is just perfect the way it is, no matter what the others see, think or say. Why would you care about others when you have such a perfect loving boyfriend, anyway?

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frankenhookersmonster · 2 years

Text

fictober day twenty five - noises

warnings - 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, smut x afab!reader (p in v), crying kink

word count - 343

fictober masterlist - masterlist

twitter - ko-fi

got something to say? a request or concept? speak!!!

a/n - the eddie one... woah

Frank loves to hear you curse at him when you have sex. Your words are often out of breath, groggy, your voice scratchy. There’s a lot you can do with swearing, sometimes it’s a lot of “Fuck, Frank, you’re so fucking big” and “Your dick feels so fucking good”, other times it’s some nonsense like “shit shit shit shit” and “fuck, ah, fuck me”. You can tell what it does to him, too, because you can always feel the way his dick would twitch inside of you at your words.

Matt likes to hear you say ‘please’. He’s a tease, likes to be in charge. He likes when you beg for it, pleading with him to hit deeper. He’d have you pinned up on the bed, your hands above your head and your eyes closed, only unintelligible whines coming from your lips. “What do you say, love?” He taunted, slowly inching his way inside of you. “Please, Matt. Please please please.” He’d flash you a smile, finally indulging you with his full cock.

Eddie wants to hear you cry. He likes having you face down in his sheets, his hands making bruises on your hips. He does most of the work, when he’s not trusting himself he’s pulling you back onto him. Your sobs are muffled, hands squeezing the comforter and toes curling. Eddie’s hand has a good grip on the back of your neck, lifting it briefly and letting your cries fill the room. He looks down at the pillow to see it soaked with your tears, and cums on the spot.

Steve likes when you hum. Your mouth’s always on his skin, on his arm, on his cheek, on his neck. When you're in his lap, all lazy and tired from a long day, you latch on to his shoulder. “Hmmm, Stevie.” Your mumblings leave him vibrating, giddy like he’s never been before. You always follow it with a kiss, something soft and delicate that tickles him. It doesn’t fail to make him blush, no matter how much you do it.

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fortysevenswrites · 3 years

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📓📔📒📕📗📘📙📚📖!!!!!!!!!

Okay. 9 books, 9 fics. You're welcome.

1. Kastle/The West Wing Crossover Every time I watch TWW, I think about Karen and Donna Moss being friends, and once I thought of a fic where during the early seasons of TWW, the President and staff go to New York and Karen is moderating one of the series of town halls they're there for (specifically one where Josh Lyman is speaking). And of course that one, because reasons I had not yet come up with, gets attacked by The Hand, and Karen, Donna and Josh (who gets injured, because Josh ALWAYS gets injured) get rescued by Frank and it basically ends with the President demanding to meet Frank to thank him for saving Josh's life and everyone is like, "Mr. President do you not understand that Frank Castle is technically a MURDERER and the Secret Service will n e v e r let you in the same room with him and it's bad enough that you're currently on the same ISLAND?" So, yeah.

Here's something I wrote for it:

“Josh, did you hear?”

“I have impeccable hearing, Donna,” Josh says without looking up from the memo in his hand. “What is it that I am supposed to have heard?”

“Carol told me that she heard from Lindsay in credentialing that Karen Page has been assigned to cover the President’s town halls in New York for the New York Bulletin!”

He waits for her to keep going, but she doesn’t so, he looks up and sees her waiting expectantly, “And?”

“Karen Page? What It Means To Be A Hero Karen Page. She’s connected to half the vigilante-superheroes in Lower Manhattan. She was held hostage by ninjas. She interviewed Tony Stark about the Sokovia Accords. Last year, The Punisher himself may or may not have held her hostage after saving her from that terrorist Lewis Wilson.”

“And?”

“And, would it be inappropriate, as a member of the White House Staff, to ask her for her autograph?”

Kastle: The Big Indulgence

This is one of the first long fics I came up with for Kastle (and come hell or high water I WILL write it one day). Basically, it puts the NMCU actually IN the MCU. Post TPS1, Sarah tracks Karen down and they become friends, and at the same time, Frank becomes friends with Bucky Barnes (yes Emily, I know he's not your fav) by way of Curtis' group (Curt, of course, regrets ever letting them interact ever). Karen gets nominated for an award for her journalism work by the Maria Stark Foundation, where she meets Pepper, Natasha, and Darcy, and befriends them as well. Everything comes to a head and Karen and Frank reunite after the discovery that Sarah Lieberman is related to one of Bucky's surviving family members (the Liebermans are Jewish, Bucky's family is Jewish, it works!). Then, things related to Billy and Hydra happen, there's an incident where a few people disappear into an alternate universe for...an... amount of time, the Avengers meet the X-Men to help get them back, and Frank may or may not be a little psychic. Someone ends up coming from that alternate universe who doesn't belong here, but it's okay because she's [redacted] and also Leo's [redacted].

Leo-Centric, Kastle

Leo gets an internship as Darcy Lewis' assistant (well, technically she's working for Jane Foster, but it's basically working for Darcy), where she meets Karen, matchmakes her with Frank, and also gets a girlfriend. I think the summary says it best:

Summer 2021.

In which Leo Lieberman gets the internship of a lifetime—working for Jane!Freaking!Foster’s soon-to-be former personal assistant, Darcy Lewis—both comes out of the closet AND gets the girl, and helps her long-lost murder-uncle finally reconcile with the ace reporter of his dreams.

If Frank was actually bulletproof, it would totally be just like Superman and Lois Lane.

5 Times Seth Tells Kate He Loves Her

A five-times fic where Seth is just ass over tea kettle in love with Kate, and makes sure she knows it and doesn't care what other people (read: Richie and Scott) think about it. The first one takes place the night they get back from Matanzas, and I just love the little bit I've written so far. I know 2 that I'm going to write so far, so...3 to go.

Kate Meets Vanessa Post S3

So I started writing this around Valentine's Day this year, and I might keep it as a Valentine's Day fic no matter what, but basically, in a grand universal coincidence, Vanessa strolls into Jed's just because she's stopping for lunch on her way to...somewhere. She meets Kate, who is covering the bar for Kalinda and Greer (a culebra OC that I will one day actually formally introduce in my fics, I promise), who are downstairs "checking on inventory" read: screwing in a maintenance closet because it's Valentine's Day, and then Seth comes out and there's a little, very awkward reunion, and basically Vanessa is the MOST amused, Seth is the MOST uncomfortable and Kate's just like...okay? And? Also, Seth is still bitter about Vanessa taking the tire iron to his car back in early S1.

The SK/Detroit 187 Fusion

Seth is a detective in Houston PD, who comes into the office one day to discover they...hired an intern? Said intern is Kate Fuller, a grad student at the University of Houston, who is working on her master's thesis by studying something related to crime (duh). Seth thinks she's a Disney princess in human form and they're very antagonistic with one another, but also he likes her way more than he thinks he should (but feels a LOT better about it when he finds out she's 23, not like...barely legal to drink or anything. Angst happens when a gang (Malvado's, but Carlos' branch of it) attacks Kate's family and kills her parents, and Seth takes her to Eddie and Richie for protection while he and his partner, Ximena, and the rest of the department solve the case and put Carlos' crew away.

SK Post 2x02 AU

After Kate and Seth part ways in 2x02, Kate goes back to Bethel, but Scott isn't there (so Jessica lives). She ends up in Houston for two years, working at a gym and keeping her to the ground looking for word about her brother, until one night, she's attacked by a bunch of Culebras, and is saved by Seth, Richie, and Kisa. She finds out that Carlos and Malvado are after her because she's the key to the way to the Blood Well, and Carlos and Malvado's henchwoman, the one and only Sonja, draws them all back to Bethel by putting Jessica in danger, and...it's all going to come to a head in some way that involves them saving Jessica from Sonja and killing Malvado and stopping the events of S3 from ever having to happen.

SK Season 1 AU

I don't know if i'm ever going to go anywhere with this, but I had this thought of...what is Carlos as Kyle wasn't a dick to Kate, and he took her to Mexico instead of Kate going back with Jacob and Scott. She ends up at the Twister before Seth and Richie do, and spends time with Kisa before she goes out to perform, and somehow it ends up with Kate going through the labyrinth with the brothers? I don't know. Something like that.

The FDTD/The Punisher Crossover That Starts Off In New York

So this is one of 2 crossovers I have for SK-meets-Kastle, but I love it. This is post 2x02, and Kate ends up in New York after not being able to find Scott back in Bethel. She ends up going to work as NM&P's assistant, and befriends Karen. To get to know one another better, Karen takes Kate to Josie's, where Kate discovers that Josie is a culebra, and Josie promises to keep Kate's secret. One day, this...guy shows up at the office, asking to talk to Karen, and Karen kicks Kate out of the office while they talk, and when she comes back, the guy is gone and Karen doesn't want to talk about it. (It's Frank, of course it's Frank). Also featuring one day where Frank is on the roof, Matt gets wind of it and goes up there to confront him about seeing Karen again and comes back with a black eye, and Kate is V confused whereas Karen is 10000000% pissed off at them both. Not long after, Kate and Karen are out one night, and they're attacked by a bunch of culebras. Frank helps intervene while Kate really is the one to save the day...and then she has to explain culebras to them. Of course, Karen saw aliens fall out of a portal above Stark Tower, so...snake vampires? Whatever. Kate calls Freddie to figure out why she was attacked and it turns out Carlos and Malvado are after her (and, later found out Karen too). Kate, Karen and Frank end up in Texas and things all come to a head at the blood well, as it does, and while Carlos shoots Kate in front of Seth, Richie, and Scott (which, BAD IDEA), Kate falls into the blood well, and when she's pulled out, she's healed. But...she also has something inside her that wants to destroy the world, and everyone has to race against time to figure out how to get Amaru out of Kate before she takes over completely and destroys them all. They figure out a way, but it has an...interesting side effect for Kate and Seth. Also, this is the one where Maggie takes one look at Freddie and Ximena and shrugs and says, "You know what? Porque no los dos?"

So yeah, there you go!

(Also, I thought about also including the Amaru isn't evil, she's just cranky and wants to go home, S3 AU, but we just talked about it yesterday, so I figured it doesn't count hahaaha.)

send me a book emoji of any kind and i will tell you about a fic idea i have

#asked and answered #story ideas that i will write eventually i promise

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archived-brokentoys · 3 years

Text

romantic headcanons.

name: Edward Frank Nashton Nigma alias: (The) Riddler, The Prince of Puzzles, Eddie, Ed. gender: Cis-male. sexual orientation: Bisexual. romantic orientation: Biromantic. preferred pet names: 'Eddie’ is one. But he also likes ‘Eddie-bear,’ and uh... even generic ones like ‘baby,’ ‘darling,’ and ‘angel,’ always makes him melt. relationship status: Single, but depends on verse. opinion on true love: Ed wants to believe in it. But he’s not really sure if it exists or not. It’s one of the many things he questions in life. opinion on love at first sight: Ed believes in attraction at first sight, but he doesn’t really believe in LOVE at first sight. Because well... how can you know if you love someone at first sight? lol! You don’t even know them! how ‘romantic’ are they?: Ed can be VERY romantic if he’s in a relationship! He likes giving physical and verbal affection, he loves giving his partner LOTS of gifts... and basically wants to be around them as much as his busy life can allow him to be. ideal physical traits: tbh? Can’t even THINK of what ed’s ideal physical traits are. He may be a horn dog, but often times he’s more attracted to someone’s personality, especially their intelligence. Ed can find MANY physical traits to be attractive just depending on whatever. ideal personality traits: Intelligence, humorous, passionate, and honesty. After all, Eddie HATES liars, so yeah! But he loves a smart, fun person who is very passionate about what they believe in. he also enjoys people who, well... are just as affectionate as he can be! unattractive physical traits: Unhygienic is always the biggest turn off for Eddie. If you’re smelly, he’s definitely skipping out. unattractive personality traits: Liars, those without humor, STUPIDITY/IGNORANCE, and those who are pushovers. Eddie also cannot stand those who do not worship him. do they have a type?: *looks at my ships* I guess fucking not. opinion of public affection: As long as nobody’s getting TOO sexual, Eddie doesn’t mind. In fact, Eddie WANTS to hold his partner’s hand, and cuddle, and kiss them at all times. This includes in public. favourite canon ship: Does Eddie even HAVE a canon ship? Outside of Got Ham, at least. Uh... unless Harvey and Eddie counts. But even then... despite having a soft spot for them, not really sure if they’d actually work in actuality. They’re personalities don’t feel TOO compatible. favourite non-canon ship: As I’ve made it obvious; Quiddler/Riddler x Harley is my favorite one. Just because? The moments they spent together in canon pre-new52 was pretty sweet. And I also think their personalities are VERY compatible. I think they’d make a cute ship! But other than them, I apparently have quite a few Riddler ships I like now, haha!

TAGGED BY: Stole this! TAGGING: @qu-tipie @who-is-muses @the-arkham-librarian @hoopsheartthrob @dajokahhh @jcinthedance @lil-miss-romano @loverslanetm @laughter-in-white @dc-deathmetal @corvidamned @adrenalinesaint @nighttbound @maximummuses @liminalstctic @anemoiasity @squidmanalamort @sleightlyoffhand

#RIDDLED: ABOUT #GENERAL: TAGGED MEMES

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reddielibrary · 5 years

Text

Eddie, You Had One Job

Written by @greenornaments

Gift for @eduardoandale

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak

Word count: 4,937

Rating: Teen

AO3 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248489

Summary: Eddie can’t think of anything he’d rather do less than spend his Friday night at the drama department’s annual haunted attraction. Little does he know, he’s about to have a life changing encounter with one Richie Tozier....

Eddie trudged along, shivering in the chilly October air despite the warmth of his fleece hoodie. He couldn’t believe he had allowed Bill and Stan to talk him into spending his Friday night going to the haunted house put on by their university’s drama department. The three of them hardly ever got to hang out lately, what with midterms and part-time jobs demanding much of their free time, and Eddie’s suggestion for this rare night of togetherness had been to rent a stack of movies (or even better, videogames) and hole themselves up in his and Stan’s dorm room with a healthy supply of popcorn, chips, and soda.

However, Bill, the resident drama geek, who had worked the haunted house for the past two weekends, had suggested that they all check it out from an audience’s perspective. Stan had, of course, readily agreed, so unfortunately, Eddie had been outvoted. Which was a shame because he’d really been looking forward to a relaxing night with just them, not them plus a hundred other people in frosty temperatures while his fingers turned into mini popsicles.

“Step it up, Ed, or we’ll never get there,” Bill called out to him, turning his head back to look at Eddie, who was several strides behind his friends.

“I’m gonna say it again, this is dumb,” Eddie grumbled. “It’s fucking freezing out. We’re all going to catch hypothermia and die, if we don’t catch the flu first from being surrounded by so many people during peak season. Besides, it’s not like you don’t know what this thing is like, you’ve worked it.”

“Yeah, but you guys haven’t seen it yet,” Bill pointed out. “And we’ve all worked really hard on it, so I wanna see how you like it.”

“Come on, Eddie. It’ll be fun,” coaxed Stan. “Besides, do you really want to spend every weekend of your entire college experience in your room?” he added.

“Yes, because at least my room is clean. At least MY half of it is,” replied Eddie, which caused Stan to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Don’t worry, Eddie, we’ll be there to protect you if it gets too scary,” teased Bill.

“I am NOT scared,” Eddie declared firmly. He wasn’t, not really. Sure, sometimes horror movies and stuff frustrated him. He was usually the one to cover his eyes whenever they watched them together, after all. Granted, some (well, most) of the time it was because he literally could not watch someone make a stupid decision that led them right into the monster’s trap without getting irrationally angry and going off on a rapidfire tangent that quickly made the other boys regret watching with him. But still.

Mostly, he wasn’t all that enthused with going to the haunted house because he knew Stan and Bill were going to be all touchy and clingy the entire time and he was probably going to spend the entire evening as a glorified third wheel.

He saw Bill and Stan exchange a look. “Whatever you say, Ed,” said Stan. “Tell you what, next time we all have a free Friday night, you pick what we do. Deal?”

Eddie sighed. “Deal,” he agreed, resigning himself to an evening of freezing his ass off while being surrounded by a bunch of over-enthusiastic theatre kids who were determined to make him jump out of his skin.

The three of them made it at last to the edge of the vast field which, in warmer months, usually played host to traveling carnivals, but which was currently sporting a carefully crafted maze made of painted plywood, in addition to a series of temporary mobile buildings, all of which were decorated to look as spooky as possible. Which, if Eddie was being honest, wasn’t very. Crude wooden signs that said things like TURN BACK, BEWARE, and ABANDON HOPE were strategically placed along a pathway that led to a large, black tent adorned with orange and purple string lights. To be perfectly frank, it all looked a lot tamer than Eddie had been expecting, not that he would ever risk hurting Bill’s feelings by saying so.

A throng of people were already making their way inside the tent. Bill led the way in, Stan following closely behind him, and Eddie bringing up the rear. He looked around, unable to see too much since the inside of the tent was dark except for the spaced out battery-operated lanterns providing the only source of light. They served as illumination for a small, wooden platform that stood in the center of the tent like a stage. A guy, clearly one of the drama students, sat on a stool on top of the platform, holding a microphone in his lap and watching as the tent began to fill with people. He briefly caught Eddie’s eye as their group of three settled in a spot toward the front of the crowd, directly facing the makeshift stage.

“So, what are we waiting for, exactly?” Eddie murmured to Bill as the tent continued to fill up with excited patrons. He rubbed his hands together in an effort to warm them up now that they were semi-inside and out of the cold air.

“This is the holding area. They’re just gonna explain how the tour works and…” Bill began to explain, but Eddie was only half listening because, in spite of himself, he kept finding his eyes wandering back over to the guy on the platform. Even though he’d silently admitted to himself in high school that he might not be straight, he still had a great deal of difficulty allowing himself to check guys out for more than a few seconds at a time, as though he were always afraid that someone would notice and judge him for it if he let his gaze linger too long. He supposed that came from a lifetime of someone always telling him he was wrong in some way, whether that be kids at school or, usually, his own mother.

In the dark tent, though, he felt a bit safer letting himself take a good look. Not that there was anything particularly special about this guy. He was just a typical college student. He looked pretty nerdy, really, what with his tacky long-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, unkempt dark hair and huge glasses that took up a sizable portion of his face. It was a very cute face, though, which was probably why Eddie felt like he had to keep stealing glances at it while catching bits and pieces of whatever Bill was saying.

“.....and you definitely shouldn’t touch the actors,” Bill continued. Eddie blinked, momentarily taken out of his enrapturement with Mr. Hawaiian Shirt.

“What?”

“You can’t touch the actors, it’s a major rule,” said Bill. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve almost been beaten shitless by some weenie who got too scared.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Eddie with an eyeroll, even as he silently thought that, maybe, he wouldn’t mind touching at least ONE of the actors. He glanced back over to the guy on the podium, who, to Eddie’s absolute horror, was looking right back at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Motherfuckin shit fuck,” Eddie whispered in a panic as he averted his eyes, his face so burning hot he just knew he was probably as red as a tomato. He hoped it was dark enough that the other guy didn’t notice, but knowing his luck, he probably wasn’t that fortunate.

“You ok, Ed?” asked Stan, giving him a curious look.

“Fine,” Eddie mumbled. He only wanted a hole to open up beneath him so he could fall into it and disappear, but yeah, other than that, he was great. He saw Stan and Bill exchange another look out of the corner of his eye, but thankfully, they didn’t press the issue.

Just then, someone closed the open flap of the tent, plunging it into almost complete darkness. A spooky sound effects tape began to play on a low volume from somewhere across the tent. The lanterns shone onto the platform, where Mr. Hawaiian Shirt was standing up and getting ready to address the audience.

“Alright, how is everyone doing this fine evening, ladies and germs?” he said into the microphone, his voice reverberating throughout the tent. A mumbled scattering of voices responded, and the guy shook his head in disappointment.

“Oh, come on, you bitches can do better than that. I said, how is everyone doing?” He thrust the mic out into the audience, who responded with a loud chorus of “GOOOOOD.”

“Beautiful,” said the guy happily, catching Eddie’s eye again as he said the word. “Anyway, my name is Richie and welcome to our humble little haunted attraction!” Ah, so Mr. Hawaiian Shirt had a name. Richie. Eddie filed it away in the back of his mind as he tried to stop his face from flushing every time Richie looked in his direction.

“Let me be clear, our goal here is to make sure you all have a friggin great time, and we do that by trying to scare the absolute shit out of you,” said Richie into the mic, one hand casually resting into the pocket of his jeans as he leaned against the stool. “I mean, not literally. Please do not actually shit while inside the attraction. A lot of these props and costumes are rented.”

The audience laughed. Eddie bit his lip, pissed off at himself for finding such a gross and lame joke funny. He was determined not to laugh, since Mr. Hawaiian...sorry, RICHIE...seemed to be making a lot of eye contact with him specifically, and Eddie felt it was important that he know that his jokes were stupid.

“So, like I was saying, this ain’t your mama’s haunted house,” Richie continued, playfully tossing his mic from one hand to the other. “Or maybe it is, I wouldn’t know, cause your mama never called me the next day.” His eyes locked on Eddie’s again as amused giggles rang out from the audience, and if Eddie didn’t know better, he could have sworn that the guy actually winked at him. It was probably a trick of the light reflecting off of his glasses, but even so. He couldn’t believe he still thought this guy was cute now that he’d actually opened his mouth.

“So anyway, guys, I’m not gonna keep you here, I’m just here to debrief. We just have a few basic ground rules,” said Richie, getting down to business at last. “First, make sure to always follow the lighted paths from one show building to the next, cause nobody has time to go looking for your lost ass. Secondly, no flash photography. We’re all broke college students and we can’t afford a trip to the ER if you blind us and we trip and break a leg. And third, for the same reasons, PLEASE don’t touch us. I know you’ll be terrified ‘cause not every actor here is gonna be as handsome as I am.” He made eye contact with Eddie again as he spoke, and Eddie felt his stomach betray him with an excited flip. Why the fuck did he find this guy so damn intriguing?

“Some of them will be the scariest shit you’ve ever seen,” Richie continued. “But, keep your paws to yourself and we’ll all have a good time. Are we ready?”

“YEESSS,” the audience roared out, and the tent opened back up as everyone started to pour out. Eddie cast one last glance back at Richie, who was retreating out the other side. Specifically, he focused on what Richie’s ass looked like in his jeans. You know, just in case he needed to reference it for later.

“Come on, Ed!” he heard Bill shout. Eddie shook himself and hurried to stick close to Bill and Stan, who were leading the way, hand in hand, down the path toward the first attraction. They all piled into one of the temporary buildings, which was decorated on the inside to look like a dark bedroom, the only source of light coming from several blue-bulbed lamps. A girl in a nightgown lay on the bed with a grotesquely made up face, disregarding everyone in the room except for the guy in a priest costume standing beside her.

“What an excellent day for an exorcism,” the girl said in a creepy voice that set Eddie’s teeth on edge despite the fact that he was well aware it was just a student in a costume.

The next building they visited was similarly creepy. This one featured a sad looking ghost boy on a tire swing, slowly swinging back and forth with a forlorn “Won’t you play with me?” Eddie mentally gave it an A for effort.

The rest of the attractions played out in much the same manner, and it wasn’t until Eddie reached the fifth or sixth unvarying show building that he realized that he’d somehow managed to lose track of Stan and Bill in the crowd of people moving from one section to the next. “Great,” he muttered. “Stan! Bill?” Where the fuck were they? He sighed heavily and curiously peeked inside of the building he was currently in front of. It was full of clowns.

“Nope,” he murmured to himself, quickly backing out and heading back down the lighted pathway. Creepy clowns were where he drew the line. He looked around for his friends, but couldn’t see any sign of them. Unfortunately, he also couldn’t stand around in everybody’s way, so he had no choice but to keep moving.

He ran ahead a bit onto a quieter part of the path, toward the maze, where the crowd had yet to reach and started looking around dully, his eyes falling onto a building that was slightly bigger than the others. He walked up to it, trying to peek inside, but he couldn’t see much. He debated with himself briefly over whether to just go inside by himself, finally deciding that whatever was inside couldn’t possibly be that scary. Besides, it would serve his friends right if they couldn’t find him for a little bit.

He steeled himself and entered the building, which turned out to be empty of patrons and separated into several different rooms. The first room featured more clowns, which sent a shiver down Eddie’s spine even though they were clearly just mannequins in masks. He supposed that the drama department had run out of students willing to give up a third weekend standing around in gross makeup. A room off to the side was dark and empty except for a fog machine and a sound effects tape playing lowly over some hidden speakers.

“Wow, fake fog, how utterly terrifying,” he mumbled sarcastically. He veered off into the third room, the biggest in the building. This one featured what Eddie assumed to be more mannequins dressed to look, loosely, like classic horror movie monsters. He walked around slowly, taking in the details of Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, and the Wolf Man, all decorated as accurately as possible, but decidedly not even remotely scary.

“Lame,” he said to himself with a snort, turning around to check out the Mummy figure on the other side of the room. He was absentmindedly running a finger over the white crepe paper of the figure’s costume when he suddenly heard a loud roar behind him. His stomach dropped to his knees and his heart leaped into his throat as he turned around to see that the Wolf Man, most definitely NOT a mannequin, had moved from his spot and was charging toward him with outstretched arms.

“AAAAAH!” Eddie let out a blood curdling scream and tripped slightly over his own feet in sheer panic. He felt his hand ball into a fist without him even thinking about it, and before he could stop himself he had used it to deliver a swift punch directly to the Wolf Man’s face, hard enough to hurt his hand and knock the other person backwards onto the ground.

“Jesus fuck,” the Wolf Man whined as they brought one hand up to their face, the voice muffled by the mask. Eddie just stood there in shock, trying to get his breathing and his heartbeat to return to normal as he absorbed what he’d just done. He fumbled into the fanny pack around the waist of his jeans for his inhaler and took a puff, his eyes keenly focused on the poor, writhing werewolf he’d just sucker-punched into the floor.

“You got a license for that fuckin right hook?” asked the werewolf, the voice sounding slightly familiar to Eddie. It was hard to place it though, since it was so muted by the rubber of the mask.

“Oh my fuck...fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t….are you ok???” Eddie put his inhaler away and ran over to the person, who was desperately trying to remove the mask. He knelt down to their level and reached his hands out. “Here, let me help.”

“It’s fine, I got it,” they replied, their fingers finally managing to slip beneath the rim of the mask and pull it off. And if Eddie had been wound up and embarrassed before, that was absolutely fucking nothing compared to how he felt when he realized that it was Richie underneath it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his face burning hot and his stomach doing somersaults for an entirely new set of reasons. “Fuck fuck fuck, God, I am SO sorry, man, I...Jesus, I really fucked you up, I’m sorry!” He reached again for his inhaler and took another long puff as he looked over the sight of the rapidly spreading bruise on Richie’s right eye.

“It’s fine, I never really liked seeing out of both eyes anyway,” Richie quipped, wincing as his fingers brushed over his injury. “At least I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Besides,” he added, glancing at the inhaler still in Eddie’s hand, “You’re the one who looks like they’re about to die.”

“I thought you were a mannequin,” Eddie offered as a weak excuse, flinching as he watched the other boy reach into a nearby wooden box by Dracula’s feet and retrieve his glasses, which he delicately placed on his face. Even as careful as he was, his expression contorted in pain.

“Yeah, that would be the entire fuckin point,” Richie said. “What did we JUST say back there about touching the actors? I know you heard me.”

“It was a reflex, dude, I’m sorry,” Eddie apologized. “In my defense, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack. I didn’t know you were going to charge at me like that,” he added defensively as he tried to resist the urge to throw himself out a window at the thought that he had literally just punched the same guy he’d been eye-fucking half an hour ago.

“It’s not like I was gonna touch you,” said Richie. He looked Eddie over with his good eye and grinned cheekily. “Not that I wouldn’t want to, though.”

Eddie’s cheeks flushed again, his heart skipping several beats as his eyes locked with Richie’s dark ones. Had he really just heard… ok, no, quit being dumb, Eddie, he didn’t mean it THAT way.

“That looks really bad,” he said, casually ignoring the other boy’s words and changing the subject as he gingerly reached his hand up to examine the injury. “Fuck, there’s actual blood. Is there a first aid kit anywhere around here? I could help you fix that up.”

“Yeah, there’s one in the dressing room, I think,” replied Richie, getting up off the floor and unsteadily standing on his feet. “Well, the camper we’re using as a dressing room. It’s just...ow...it’s just out here a little ways. Follow me.”

Eddie complied, his mortifying embarrassment growing stronger with every step as he followed Richie out of the show building and across the grounds to a small RV parked on the edge of the property. Richie led him inside and plopped himself down on the ratty old sofa that stood against one wall, still holding his eye in pain. “The first aid kit is in the bathroom,” he said, pointing toward a small door across the camper. Eddie went in and took the opportunity to wash his hands in the sink before he quickly found the kit and brought it over, setting it down on the couch. He spotted a small refrigerator next to the sofa and opened it up, grabbing the first cold object he saw, a small can of Coke, which he handed to the other boy.

“Take off your glasses and put this on your eye,” he said as he took a seat beside him and placed the first aid kit in his own lap. “It will help the swelling go down.”

Richie did as instructed, removing his glasses and holding the can dramatically onto his swollen face as he gave Eddie a saucy smile. “Yes, Dr….uh...I don’t think I caught your name, cutie.”

Eddie blushed. “Eddie,” he said, hoping his voice sounded at least somewhat normal, which was more difficult than it should have been when Richie was staring right at him with those fuckin gorgeous chocolate eyes framed by dark lashes. “Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Ok, whatever you say, Dr. K,” said Richie.

“Have I mentioned that I’m sorry?” Eddie asked as he opened up the first aid kit and busied himself taking out an alcohol pad, a bandage, and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

“Once or twice.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I had no idea I could even do that,” Eddie continued, gesturing for Richie to remove the Coke can so he could gently dab at the small cut near the bridge of the other boy’s nose with the alcohol wipe.

“Do what, almost kill a man with your bare hand?” Richie quipped, wincing slightly when Eddie applied a small dot of ointment to the wound.

“I’d hardly say I almost killed you,” Eddie protested.

“Well, you definitely maimed me, anyway,” said Richie. “I’m gonna have to come up with a better story for when people ask how I almost lost an eye. I can’t tell them I got beaten up by a boy with an inhaler, they’ll think I’m fuckin lame.” He smiled and Eddie’s heartbeat increased, his fingertips lingering on the other boy’s skin for slightly longer than was really necessary.

“I think your dumb jokes would lead them to think that well before any story about your eye,” Eddie replied dryly as he unwrapped the bandage carefully.

Richie gave an exaggerated gasp. “Jesus fuck, was bodily injury not enough for you? Now you gotta start hurting my emotions and shit? That’s cold, Eds. Do you mind if I call you Eds?”

“Yes,” muttered Eddie, even though he kind of liked the idea of this boy giving him a nickname. “Don’t call me Eds. Now hold still,” he said as he applied the bandage to Richie’s face.

“Ok, Eds,” said Richie. Eddie rolled his eyes and finished putting the band-aid on him, sitting back to admire his handiwork.

“You’re all fixed,” he said, handing the soda can back to him. “Put this back on your face.”

“Yes, Dr. K, sir,” said Richie, teasingly saluting him as Eddie cleaned up the supplies and stood up to throw the bandage wrapper in a nearby garbage can. He sat back down, feeling Richie’s eyes on him and wondering what he should say next that wasn’t just another profuse apology.

“Eddie!!”

The sound of Stan’s voice outside in the distance snapped Eddie out of his thoughts, and he jerked his head in the direction of the RV’s small window. He’d almost completely forgotten about his friends in all the commotion. He got up from the couch and crossed over to the window, glancing outside to see Stan and Bill close by. The two boys were clearly looking around for him as they stood in the middle of a small crowd of people.

“EEEEEDDDD!” called Bill.

“It would appear that you’re being summoned, good doctor,” said Richie, suddenly appearing right behind him. Eddie flushed as the other boy’s arm brushed against his own. Richie grinned and reached one hand over Eddie’s shoulder to pry the window open. “We’re in here, Billy!” he called out to them with a wave. The boys looked at Eddie and Richie in the window and then looked at each other oddly before they ran across the field to the RV and burst through the door, their faces red from the cold.

“There you are,” said Stan, sounding relieved when he saw Eddie. “We didn’t know where you’d gone.”

“We thought you were pissed at us and took off,” added Bill.

Eddie opened his mouth to reply, but Richie had a faster mouth. “Nah, he took his aggression out on my face instead,” the other boy said jokingly. “Which wasn’t exactly how you promised I’d be introduced to him, Billy,” he added pointedly.

“Wait, what?” Eddie asked at the same time as Bill finally noticed Richie’s busted face and did a faceplant into his own palm.

“God, Rich, please tell me you didn’t,” he groaned.

“In my defense, I didn’t think he was going to go all Die Hard on me,” said Richie.

“Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Eddie demanded, looking from his friends to Richie and back again. Bill cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.

“Well, uh….see,” he stammered.

“Bill wanted you two to meet and hit it off and start dating so we could all hang out sometimes and you wouldn’t feel like such a third wheel,” said Stan calmly as he leaned against the wall of the RV with his arms crossed. “What?” he added when Bill gave him a death glare. “It’s the truth, why waste time beating around the bush?”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Bill, I swear to fucking god…”

“Ok, so maybe this isn’t exactly how I pictured it would go. I was going to introduce you normally after the whole tour was finished,” Bill protested.

“Guys, just….please leave.”

“Eddie..”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Oh my god just go outside, I’ll meet you in a minute, ok?” His friends sheepishly did as they were told, filing out of the camper and leaving Eddie alone with Richie once again.

“Great friends you got there, Eds,” teased Richie.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to murder them later,” grumbled Eddie.

“Aw, don’t kill Billy, he just thought we’d go good together,” said Richie seriously.

Eddie sighed. “Look, I… um...I’m really sorry. Again. About your face. Really.”

Richie shrugged. “It’s no big, really. I wasn’t that attractive to begin with anyway, so really, you probably just improved things.”

Eddie snorted. “I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t say you weren’t..uh...I mean…” He felt his face start to burn for the fortieth time that evening, and he wished for nothing more than to just disappear from the entire situation before he ended up dying of an embarrassment-induced heart arrhythmia.

Richie’s mouth curled into a cheeky smile. He dug around in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a small black marker, which he kept in one hand as he suddenly grabbed Eddie’s hand with the other.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie exclaimed as Richie turned his hand over and began writing something on the back of it.

“Writing my number on your hand,” replied Richie, as though he’d just been asked about the weather.

“Uh huh. And what the hell am I supposed to do with your number?” asked Eddie, swallowing as his hand tingled at the contact with Richie’s skin.

“Well, you could play the lottery with it, but mostly I was hoping you’d use it to call me and let me know when you’re free to grab a bite to eat sometime,” said Richie, finishing his work and capping the marker proudly. “You can pay to make up for karate chopping my face.”

Eddie suddenly felt like he was going to die for real, but in a good way, as he looked at the digits and the name ‘Richie Tozier’ emblazoned on his skin like a tattoo.

“I, uh...I’m...I’m just gonna..” he stammered as he backed away toward the door. Richie just smiled at him as he finally found the handle and let himself out, the other boy cheerfully calling out “Talk to you soon, Eds!” as Eddie scrambled down the stairs of the camper and almost ran right into Stan and Bill, who were trying to pretend they hadn’t been standing with their ears pressed up against the vehicle.

“Ok,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm as they turned to face him, both of them looking guilty but interested. “I’m not going to kill you….TONIGHT… but in the future I’d like a little advanced warning before you decide to set me up with someone. Got it, BILL?” he said pointedly, glaring daggers at his friend, who blushed remorsefully.

“Got it,” Bill squeaked.

“Ok,” said Eddie, holding his head up high. “Then let’s go the fuck home.” The three of them started back across the field and Eddie cast one last glance back, catching a glimpse of Richie watching them leave through the window. The other boy waved, and, in spite of himself, Eddie gave a small wave back before he kept walking.

He glanced down at his hand and felt himself start to smile, because yeah, he was definitely going to give Richie Tozier a call later.

#reddie #reddie library #halloween event 2019 #greenornaments

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