#and yeah the cramps are kickin in hard

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Hnnngngnngg period started were outta toilet roll I ate a pasty a d a bag of chips yesterday and I'm Hungry but feel too naseus to eat. Great start

[charlxttes]

hello friends!!  dede here, nineteen years old, she/her pronouns, kickin’ it in gmt + 2, and i’m proud to introduce my bitch of a daughter, charlotte irving aka the emperor!  so, without further ado, let’s get right into it, shall we?

THE EMPEROR.

upright —  authority, establishment, structure, logic over emotion, concentration. reversed —  domination, excessive control, inflexibility, rigidity, stubbornness.

FAST FACTS.

name — charlotte adela irving. pronouns — she/her/hers. age — 20. year — sophomore. major — law. zodiac sign  — virgo sun, scorpio moon, aquarius rising. dorm arrangements — carstone house.

BIOGRAPHY.

a cracked magnifying glass. the shoe box decorated with paper roses clearly cut out from some magazine is covered in even more dust than she remembered. wrinkling her nose ever-so-slightly, charlotte closes her eyes before blowing off most of the dust and dirt amassed on the box after years of it being kept under the bed she used to sleep in while living in her parents’ house. overcoming her subtle feelings of disgust, she lifts the lid to look at the contents once stored there, contents she didn’t think she’d ever be coming back to. they bring back so many memories, some fond, some less so. like the small magnifying glass, now functionless and cracked, that she used to ‘solve the case’ of the ‘stolen’ cookies (which, in reality, were eaten by her friend’s father). or the stack of children’s mystery stories. she smiles, remembering how she used to devour them under the covers late at night with a flashlight, hoping her parents wouldn’t come into the room. while she still occasionally enjoys an agatha christie story, she’s moved past that. or at least so she thought. looks like she might need to get back in miss marple mode, because, if we’re being honest, if she can’t find that poor kidnapped neighbor… who can? loose leaf paper scattered to the wind. charlotte lets out a groan, leaning back in her chair. it’s been a long night of studying, the various used coffee mugs on her desk can attest to that, and yet somehow her head appears to be empty every time she tries to search for any trace of what she’s just finished revising. in high school, every subject came to her so easily. she worked moderately hard to produce excellent results. people always said it’s going to be different when she goes to university, but she never believed them, not deep down. and it’s not, she corrects herself mentally. she just needs to study harder. but you have, a voice argues somewhere in her head. and it didn’t help. distraught and confused, she doesn’t even notice when the first tears roll down her cheeks, but soon she’s shaking in her chair, quietly sobbing, her face hidden in her hands. suddenly, as if ordered to by some military commander, she gets up and grabs her notes. the tears streaming down her cheeks fall on the paper, making it wet. but it’s not a concern for her now, albeit it would be normally. she opens the window and throws everything she’s holding out. watching the notes fly away, god knows where, she stops crying and covers her mouth, as if only realizing what she’s done now. a rowboat missing an oar. her jaw is beginning to hurt from how hard she’s been clenching it for the past fifteen minutes or so. her arm muscles are burning, but she doesn’t let it stop her. it can’t. along with her two teammates, she keeps moving the oars she’s holding as tightly as if her life itself depended on it. if they lose this race, her parents back home will… she doesn’t even want to think what they will or won’t do. the finish line is now within sight, and while twelve-year-old charlotte was beginning to tire before this moment, the surge of adrenaline this view gives her revives her completely. like a freshly charged battery, her arms work in perfect sync with her teammates’, and a smirk appears on her face. their opponents are slightly behind them, and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for them to not keep up the pace they’re going at currently; looks like victory will be theirs. just as they approach the glory and success they came here to reach, she hears her teammate, maria, scream, apparently in pain. she looks at the other girl only to see her drop one of the oars into the water and proceed to hold her apparently badly cramped hand. charlotte shoots her a gaze that, if, as the saying goes, looks could kill, would murder not only maria, but all the teams on the lake on the spot. “well, what are you waiting for?!”, she screams. “go get it!” maria does, and does so fast, but not fast enough for them to be able to beat the other teams. they one of the opposing boats cross the finish line. charlotte’s lips turn into an extremely thin line. she doesn’t speak, but there’s a lot she’d like to say. and her team is well aware of it. the last one picked on a sports team. charlotte is standing in the middle of the gym, the pride and joy of sommerville high school, which while not new - as if anything in sommerville could be new - still managed to hold up decently over the years. tapping her foot on the wooden floor impatiently, she raises her eyes to the sky. why can’t she just be in the history classroom already? does she have to waste this hour she could be spending in a productive way on throwing a ball into a hoop? with a sigh, she looks at the other girls in her class. most are already gathered in front of her, split into two groups. those by her side keep joining either team, one by one. ah yes, the endless popularity contest. or just a sports contest before the actual sports have even begun. as if the world couldn’t go a few hours without challenging her yet again, truly. finally, after a few minutes have passed, charlotte is alone. the captain of the team on the left tries to hide her disappointment and fails miserably while gesturing for her to join them. charlotte walks over to her newfound basketball team, head high, expression icy. she has other strengths, she tells herself. she doesn’t need to be good at basketball, too.  flickering candlelight.  the roses building, the windows covered and the candles lit, presumably for dramatic value, is full, as it has been, is and will be every holy saturday. from her family’s bench, about in the middle of the church’s length, charlotte can barely see the ‘grave’ they came here to visit. she never quite understood this particular tradition; how could any rational person believe their lives would be bettered by coming to stare at the make-believe grave of jesus christ, who in actuality died thousands of years ago - whether permanently is a debatable subject, but this isn’t the point - and wasn’t even buried in this manner? still, her mother is sitting on her left, and charlotte knows she can’t allow herself to display any signs of disinterest. both because her mother would certainly have some strong words for her when they returned home about how important being focused and prayer is, and because she’s now a student at st. cade’s - that means she can’t show any kind of weakness or besmirch her reputation in any way, or the consequences could be extremely unpleasant. lowering her head and closing her eyes, she starts counting down seconds.

WANTED.

i’m pretty much down for any kind of plot!  but just to name a few that would be cool:

study buddies — charlotte actually takes the whole school thing extremely seriously, so it’s be nice if she had someone to actually do all that cramming with. roommates — this is actually for when we get another person in carstone house or i crack and message the admins about a change being possible (rip). but yeah i’m trash for roommates. just. i’m trash for them. bad influences — you know the ‘i’m gonna lead you down the path that rocks’ meme? basically this. charlotte here is kind of a wet blanket, and she could use someone more fun and sociable to ~teach her their ways~. rivals — especially academics-wise. homegirl can get super competitive, and i’d love to see someone being as competitive as her in this regard. some romantic stuff? — to be honest, i’ve just written a lot of angst recently, so like, a pure, adorable crush or something like that (though i’m down for some small bits of sadness thrown in there) would be wonderful.

EXTRAS.

wow, congrats, you’ve reached the end of this thing!  here, have her playlist as your reward.

[argueably-pretty-rad]

can't answer em all, but here's a few :)

1. Every time I open up a new Google Doc, I change the font to Georgia (still size 11), justify the lines, add a space after paragraphs, and pull the margins outward by 1/2" each to fit more words on the page, then update the Normal Text to match this set up. One of my biggest pet peeves is the fact that updating the Normal Text doesn't travel across every document; it'd make my life a lot easier if it did. If you know a way to change this, please tell me.

2. Absolutely not. I've tried to write by hand several times; my record is ten pages before my hand cramps up, but usually I don't get past four or five. Access to typing has ruined me.

13. Action scenes are hard for me; I always feel like there's not enough adjectives to describe what the characters are doing, but then I show the scenes to my sister for feedback and she gently says that there is such a thing as being too descriptive.

(Seriously, I've made progress but one of my works from when I was younger, maybe fifteen? Includes stuff like: "She set her half-melted mint chocolate chip Blizzard onto the rusty hood of the truck, kicking her feet back and forth in the gravel and swatting gnats away from her face as she watched Ricky skipping stone across the lake, whooping when he made a particularly long shot." Yeah, you can picture it perfectly, but there's just so much going on in one sentence - and there are five more sentences in the paragraph, y'know?)

Oh, and it's really easy for me to write smut. Honestly it's something I'm proud of; no offense to any growing writers out there, because I wasn't so great at smut either once upon a time, but I feel like at least 80% of the smut I read these days was written by 13-year-olds who had/have no clue what sex is like + a small vocabulary. Anyone can get better with practice, just like I have, and for me, writing smut and coming up with plausible plots for inserting it into my stories naturally comes easier than most things.

16. Starburst/chocolate wrappers, I guess that's kinda weird haha.

20. All of my loves come from writing (be it from video games, TV, movies, etc.), so the choice is easy for me: I'd want to be able to finally complete my works and publish them.

30. One of my favourite, most detailed worlds stems directly from a dream. I was in the middle of nowhere studying wildlife, and a spaceship crashed outside my house. I went to the wreckage and found an injured alien, one that was completely unique that I'd never seen in the real world before. There's more to the dream, but long story short, as soon as I woke up I drew the alien and started making a world around him, and his people and planets and all the other species and cultures and technology that came after that was completely spurred on by that one dream.

36. Trauma, bad relationships, recovery, finding yourself, losing yourself, falling out with loved ones, finding new people to fill that void; most of what I know is how to make a realistic character that goes through a lot and comes out the other end looking like shit but feeling free. Pretty much all of my protags have some sort of phoenix arc like this, because it makes me feel good to see other people rising from the ashes like I had to.

37. Probably that I was a nymphomaniac.

38. Cats definitely think they're better than us. I have two, one of whom will only interact when she wants to be pet unless I go physically grab her to cuddle; she's relatively chill though. The other is my bastard babyman, Yuki; we got him in Japan when I was 4, and he's still kickin'. Still screaming at the top of his lungs when he has to take a bath, wants to go outside, or when he can see the bottom of the food bowl, too. He definitely thinks he owns the house, and he's very vindictive; my sister and I have both had experiences where - after we've done something he didn't particularly like, such as going on a trip or changing something up in the house - he'll look us in the eye as he pisses of our stuff. I love him though, and I'm definitely going to kidnap a scientist to make them turn him immortal.

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[thralls-for-alls]

Picking Day

Picking day.   Griven had not visited his cot since he was a wee pup in the rearing chambers. And he most definitely had a bed in the cramped, flower-filled corner of his room. Still a dizzying trill of joy lit both of Ex’s hearts as the end of the year drew closer and closer.  Before the tours where he fought alongside the star-eating nightmares from the depths of the void, before he spent hours bent over a bench assembling weapons in the workshop, Ex was side-by-side with Drex making mischief for their caretakers, but only enough to earn the extra rations from the sneakiest thrall, Griven, on Picking Day.

Until the year that they were finally separated, both Ex and Drex selected to serve under different colours and perform different duties.  Griven had stopped coming after that year.  Instead, Ex would engage in Fight Night with his new squad; the evening before Picking Day where all grievances would settled by fists and by locking horns and hatchets would be buried under questionable grog made from ingredients best left to mystery.  The memory pulled a bright grin across Ex’s fangs and made his mouth water from the constant purr deep in his chest.

This year, he got to spend it with Drex and Hex for the first time.  All he wanted was to do it right.  What better way than to ensure that all important and questionably breakable furniture and knick-knacks in their common room were pulled aside to make space and a pot of traditional fermented something dripping through the strainer?  The whole house stank of spice, gasoline, and flowers.  As the Evolved thrall stood in the center of his makeshift fighting ring with his hands at his hips, he could not help but hold his head high.   Ex did good and managed to finish his masterpiece before either sibling came home.

-

Hex’s eyes narrowed as she caught her first whiff before opening their front door.  She could not help the grimace that pulled across her face as the stench burned her nostrils; but she turned the knob and entered anyways.  

Of course it was Ex.

“… What’s all this for?” she asked, her head held low as she scanned the empty room where Drex’s couch should have been and her comfortable chair.  After a hard day of slaying varelsi, all she wanted to do was curl up with her book, a soft blanket and drink that tea that was supposed to mitigate the lingering soreness of her missing kidney.  But, that seemed like a wash.

Taking her by both hands, Ex ushered his sister inside.  "Don’t you remember?  ’T’s Pickin’ Day!  Aren’t ya excited for it?“

Picking day?  Oh, Scattering day.  That must be what the boys under Warlord Nix’s army called it.  But when the realization hit Hex, she averted her gaze.  With how busy she kept herself, she had lost track of the calendar.  She hesitated before answering, ”… but ain’t that for brother thrall, me dear brother?“

Ex blinked, his fingers idly massaging her hands.  The last thing he wanted was to disrespect her wishes of living her life as she liked… but he also wanted to share the celebration of Picking Day with her, like he knew she did back in the service.  

"Uh…” His mind raced to find a serviceable solution to meet in the middle.  When the idea struck, he clapped her hands together between his.  "How ‘bout this: since we’re still a squad and free to do what we like, you, me and Drexie-boy, we can do Pickin’ day without any manly stuff.  In return, we’ll celebrate Studkickin’ day in the spring together.“  Tilting his head with the most charming smile he could muster, he gave her a wink as he finished his bargain.  "I’ll even handle all the pamperin’ sides of thin’s and we’ll figure out how to handle the whole stud kickin’ sides of thin’s if you want.”

Hex hummed as she thought, the cloves of one hoof tapping as she stood in place.  A smirk growing across her face, she rolled her eyes.  "Oh all right.“  Slipping her hand out from his, she pushed Ex away by his face.  The cracks along her horn shimmered as she chortled.  "But only 'cause I get to kick your arse into the new year then drink you right under the table.”

“Aw, you wish, love!  I’m still the reignin’ champion of me squad!” he barked, the plates down his neck shivvering.  "I’ll have ya pinned with time to spare for wipin’ the floor with Drex too.“

-

A couple of bags of groceries threatened to slip out of his hand and his gaudy Newshine’s sweater cooked the barrel of his chest. Drex fiddled with the tiny keycard ring pinched between hi thick fingers.  The Evolveds’ voices filtered through the metal door.  Pushing the correct card against the screen, ducked his head into the doorway.  He half-expected to tear the two siblings apart to figure out what the problem was, but the lack of furniture caught his attention first. 

"What’s…”  His nostrils flared, what he suspected to be spiced drain cleaner tickled at his sinuses and made his eye twitch.  "… ’T’s Pickin’ Day already?“ A grin crept along his face as he squeezed inside.  "Oh!  Newshine’s is on Pickin’ Day, ain’t it?  Lovely!”

“That it is, mate.”  Ex nodded, stepping aside to let Drex set the groceries on the kitchen counter near the straining grog.  He tapped Hex’s hand, giving her a knowing look.  "And us two’ve got quite the bone ta pick wit’ ya, officer.“ Hex winked, cracking each of her knuckles by pushing the finger down with her thumbs.  "Yeah.  You’ve gotta make up for that glue you call rice and sittin’ on Ex all those times.”  A soft laugh laced her voice from the natural over-exaggeration of their list of grievances.  "Quite a hatchet to bury.“

Swinging his head, Drex moaned as his neck popped audibly.  With the two teaming up, this would be a challenge for the Brute: it was best to be prepared, even if this was just a friendly fight.  "Oh, right, right.  And you two are right angels, yeah?  What about wreckin’ the place wit’ all your squabbles or stinkin’ up the couch wit’ those cigarettes of yours?”

Ex turned his head to knock the side of his horn against Hex’s.  She knelt, cupping her hands together just as Ex used them to launch himself, and his fist, directly into Drex’s face.  Drex barked, his head spinning from the cheap shot just as Hex tackled his stomach to send all three sprawling across the ground.

-

With a sizable bag of frozen chicken pressed against the deep plum of a shiner thanks to Ex, Drex could not stop laughing as the other two took turns grimacing and wincing as they downed glass after glass of grog.  All three had lost count of cups as the grog pot’s level dipped, their conversation devolved into an unintelligible mix of slurred common and thrallish growls and trills interspersed with wild giggling.  Maybe Griven would never come with extra rations again, but Picking Day, or Scattering Day as Hex would call it, had worked its magic anyways.  The three would wake up with headaches as painful as Drex’s eye looked, but still with grins across their faces as they started their new year.

[headoverhiddles]

Shot Of Glory [Richie x Eddie]

The Losers head out to Wyoming in Bill's dad's station wagon for a country festival graduation trip from high school. The crush that Richie's had on Eddie since they were kids is virtually impossible to keep inside anymore, but telling him terrifies Richie to no end- another shot of whiskey might help his courage.

Warnings: Underage drinking. Fluff! Based on the song Shot of Glory by The Washboard Union. Available on ao3 here. 

None of the Losers expected they would be spending their meticulously planned summer grad trip on the road to a country music festival. Except for Ben and Bev and Mike, who all kind of enjoyed the genre. Eddie had been the tipping vote as to whether or not they'd be spending their grad trip in Wyoming or Universal Studios (or Vegas as Richie had pitched, except what the fuck were a bunch of 17 year olds going to do in Las Vegas?). The only reason Eddie voted for the country festival was that he remembered how many germs were on everything in a park like Universal Studios, and completely squicked out at the idea of touching all those safety bars, which he would inevitably be clinging onto for dear life. They only really had enough money put together for the hotel only in Orlando anyway.

 Yeah the boys round here,

Drinkin' that ice cold beer, talkin' bout girls, talkin' bout trucks, running them red dirt roads out kickin' up dust-

"Will someone put some other shit on?" Richie called from the backseat of Bill's dad's old station wagon, "We'll have to suffer through this at the festival, no point in torturing our ears with it now!"

"Some people like this music," Mike said from the shotgun seat, turning it up, and Richie rolled his eyes, bending his knees and putting his feet up on the back of the driver's side seat.

"Where are we now Ben, Buttfuck Nowhere? You're the geography expert, aren't you?"

"History," Ben reminded for the millionth time over the past five years he had known Richie.

"Same shit, yada yada. Just tell me where you can get some decent cigarettes and a pie I can throw in Eddie's face for voting us out here instead of checking out the new Incredible Hulk ride at-"

"Beep beep Richie," Bill said, gripping the steering wheel, "And get your f-f-feet off the seat, my dad's gonna k-kill me."

"Yeah, that's so gross, so fucking unsanitary," Eddie muttered from beside him, and Richie made a face at him.

"I'm actually with Richie," Bev said slowly, "It would be nice to stop for a while, and I could use a cigarette myself."

"We'll f-find a place to pull off," Bill said, "Anyone got a m-map?"

"Yeah, it's up Eddie's mom's ass," Richie joked, and Eddie hit him, prompting Bev to sigh beside them.

"I'm hungry," Stan commented.

"Don't you have, like, a bajillion granola bars packed away in there?" Eddie asked.

"No, it was either those or the birdfeed, and how am I supposed to birdwatch without anything to attract birdfeed?"

"Well, you could just... not bird watch like a nerd?" Richie shrugged.

"Oh, well you could always take your suggestions, Richie, and jam them up your-"

"Would you l-l-losers shut up?!" Bill blurted, "Jesus Christ, we've b-been out on the road for not even a day and you two are about to k-kill each other!"

"I think we all need some air," Ben commented.

They pulled over at the next gas station they saw, and everyone pretty much ran to the bathroom.

"Hey Bev," Richie murmured as they headed into the station, "Wanna hijack the car and run off to Maui?"

"Maui?" she smirked, "I thought you wanted to go to Vegas."

"Anything's better than this flat, barren desert of nothing."

"We'll be at the festival soon." She nudged him. "Come on Tozier- do it for Eddie." She smiled at him, and Richie sucked in a breath. Do it for Eddie.

Bev, Bill and Mike were the only ones who knew about his crush on Eddie. Beverly totally had his back without being pushy about it- the other Losers were stupidly oblivious, but it was okay with Richie if his secret was kept under wraps for as long as possible.

But yeah. He could do it for Eds.

"Hi," Beverly smiled at the gas station attendant. The guy stopped chewing on his gum and looked her up and down.

"Well hey there, pretty little lady. What can I get ya?"

"Pack of Marlboro Reds and a pack of menthols."

"Hoooee!" the guy chuckled, "You're a chimney, through and through, eh?!"

"They're for her mother," Richie supplied helpfully, and Beverly blinked innocently, "She's too sick to get out of bed."

"Heaven knows why," the guy snorted, and rang them through. "Sorry for the formality, but I'm gonna need to get your ID."

"Oh, sure..." She reached for her back pocket, and threw her hands up. "Shoot, must've left it in the car. Gimme a second?"

"Alrighty."

Richie shook his head as Bev jogged out. "She's so forgetful. She's forget her head if it wasn't attached to her shoulders! Hey, while you're waiting, can you grab me another one of those I Heart Wyoming hats from the back? I'm just in love with them."

The guy shrugged, and went off to the back. As Beverly had taught him, Richie quickly stuffed the two packs in his pockets and took off... not before nabbing the display hat off the shelf. He made it to the car, tossed the Marlboros to Beverly and kept the menthols for himself.

"Go," Bev said, kissing Ben on the cheek, and Bill started the car as the guy came back.

"Hey! Hey, y'all wait!"

"You're so stupid, Richie," Stan muttered as they sped off, crossing his arms.

"I think I'm a master thief," Richie said in his British accent, and Eddie smiled a little to himself as Richie plopped the I Heart Wyoming hat on his head backward.

"For you, Spaghetti Man. Red just isn't my colour."

Eddie looked away, and when no one was looking, switched the hat around so that it was facing forward.

"Okay okay, uh... would you rather turn into Shrek every time someone said your name, or have Pee Wee Herman narrate your life?" Richie asked, and Ben burst out laughing.

"They're both so bad."

"Yeah, honestly who would pick either?" Stan asked, and Richie shrugged.

"You've gotta pick one."

"Shrek," Mike weighed in, "Definitely Shrek."

"Not P-pee Wee?" Bill smirked.

"I'd straight up murder that guy."

"If you turned into Shrek all the time, I'd break up with you," Stan pursed his lips.

"Stan, I didn't know you were so materially inclined," Bev acted shocked.

"Yeah, I'm hurt babe," Mike put a hand over his heart, and Stan shook his head.

"I am not dating an ogre."

"Wouldn't be so bad," Richie said, "You could scare people away... Eds, what would you do?"

"I'd like to have you narrating my life," Eddie huffed, "Your mouth already runs a mile a minute, might as well use it to document something useful."

"I would be honored, sir," Richie grinned, and Eddie blushed, looking away. Richie swallowed. Was he trying too hard? Fuck, he was probably giving himself away... He ran a hand through his hair, hoping his anxiety wouldn't get the better of him. Ben looked at him inquisitively, but Richie didn't quite feel like talking anymore.

The next day, after shelling out half of their crumpled up bills they had all saved for the past two years and dumping their stuff at a creepy motel that smelled like bad yogurt and moth balls, they were almost at the festival grounds. Country music was blaring through their speakers, and Bev sang along with Mike, Ben, and a shy Eddie. Even Bill found himself humming along to the tunes, and Richie and Stan discovered they were joined by their mutual hatred of this genre of music.

Soon, the first night of the festival arrived. Favourites of the group like Dierks Bentley, Luke Bryan, Chris Young, and the Zac Brown Band graced the stage, and Richie found that he was enjoying himself a little more now that he wasn't cramped up in the car and could channel his energy into something else.

Currently, the Zac Brown Band was performing a popular song of theirs, "Sweet Annie." Mike and Stan were sitting with each other on a couple of chairs to the side of the bar, giggling about something, and Ben and Beverly were out on the floor, slow dancing. Ben was singing to Bev softly, and though he didn't have the best voice ever, Beverly found everything her boyfriend did to be incredibly sweet and romantic. Her head rested on Ben's shoulder as they rocked together to the music, and she looked over to see Bill dancing with some girl he had found with blonde hair and cowboy boots. Her gaze shifted, and she saw Eddie drinking from a bottle of water, with Richie staring at him, enthralled Nd tapping his knee, a few paces away. Every time one would look at the other, the other would look away.

Beverly sighed.

That night at the motel, everyone paired up for beds. Mike and Stan, Ben and Bev, and that left... Bill, Eddie, and Richie.

"I can take the couch..." Richie said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No no," Bill smirked, the tall brunette teen giving Richie a meaningful look, "Y-you two go ahead."

"You won't even be able to fit on the couch Bill, your legs are like mile-long stringbeans!" Richie protested, feeling his face heat up.

"N-no, it's fine. The couch is closer to the w-w-window. I like to, uh... see the stars." Bill kept on smirking. 

"You sappy weirdo," Richie muttered, and Eddie headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed. In the meantime, Richie settled under the covers, taking deep breaths in and out.

He could do this. Of course he could do this! He had grown up with Eddie, ever since they had met in friggin' kindergarten! A billion sleepovers had been spent sharing a sleeping bag with Eddie, Eddie sleeping on his lap, Eddie falling asleep on his shoulder during long car rides to baseball practice, anything and everything for years... so why was it so awkward now? He took off his glasses, placing them on the night table, and rubbed his eyes.

Richie felt his heart skip a beat as the door to the bathroom opened, the crack of light illuminating the dark motel room temporarily before the light was flicked off. Eddie felt his way to the bed-- it wasn't even that small a bed, they both had plenty of space-- and got in.

"Hey Eds," Richie whispered.

"Hey Rich," Eddie whispered back, then paused. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry, spaghetti man. You enjoying the festival?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's pretty fun."

"Yeah..." Richie murmured. He didn't want to stop talking, because that would mean laying there beside each other in silence, wondering what the other person was thinking.

"Watchya thinkin' about, Eds?" Richie whispered. Eddie spent a long time thinking, so long that Richie thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he spoke up.

"How happy I am to be on this trip, Rich."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. It's nice to be away from home for a while... it's refreshing not to have someone watching me all day every day, seeing if I'm just gonna fall apart in front of their eyes." Another pause. "I'm not that fragile, you know?"

"Yeah," Richie offered, not able to think of anything else to say. His home life was the opposite of Eddie's and both boys knew it. Richie's parents didn't care about anything he did, sort of like Bill's, Ben's, and... well, pretty much any of them except for Eddie. But Richie's parents not only didn't care, but frequently made it clear how happy they'd be once he got his "freak little ass out of their house where he can go bother someone else." That's one thing Richie didn't keep from his friends... he didn't know where he'd be if he couldn't share that.

"Rich? You awake?"

"Yeah, Eds."

"S-s-shut up!" Bill called, "If you two don't m-mind, some of us want some sleep!"

"Yeah, keep it down Felix and Oscar," Mike joked. A few more seconds ticked by.

"I sure hope these sheets are cleaned really fucking well daily," Eddie whispered as quietly as he could to Richie, "I'm wearing my favourite red shorties."

Richie squeezed his eyes shut.

Fuck.

The next night of the festival was the perfect night. Starry sky, stage lit up by the moon, it was gorgeous. A couple of songs in, and Richie was getting the jitters all over again. Being this close to Eddie for such a long time was exhilarating, but for some reason, nerve wracking. He had known his friend their entire lives... what was his deal? 

He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up.

The Washboard Union took the stage, and began to play a few of their songs, before they started up a song called "Shot

Of Glory." Beverly's eyes lit up, and she dragged everyone to the floor except for Richie, who headed over to the bar. Shots? Good plan.

Praise be, Richie wasn't carded, as his hair fell into his eyes and he had aged fast with his high cheekbones and growth spurt after hitting 15, so he ordered a "beer" at first.

"What kind of beer?"

"A boilermaker."

"That's... not a beer."

"It's a drink, though. Pip pip, and tally ho good fellow!" he clapped. The guy just gave him the evil eye, but went to get the drink ready.

Boy shit, a boilermaker was not what Richie was expecting, and halfway through the song, he was well on his way to getting tanked. Looking over at his small little Eddie attempting to dance as gracefully as Beverly, Richie's heart ached, and he admired his best friend. He looked so good tonight, in those high socks, shorts, and pink shirt riding up the barely noticeable V of his hips and light snail trail... Eddie looked up, going red at the fact that Richie was watching him fail at dancing, and Richie's heart stopped as Eddie's brown eyes met his. The alcohol wasn't the only thing making him weak.

It's a Friday night, like any other, you walk in I stare and I stutter, every single time you look at me.

Richie wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and finished off the last of the boilermaker. Eddie looked so good... he needed to lie down... but also, he needed to dance. What was that word, dance? Hmm... thinking is a strange thing. Fuzzy, fuzzy, music sounds good, huh... why hadn't Eddie or any of those other losers introduced him to country music sooner? Eddie, Eddie, Eddie Spaghetti. He was beautiful, and silence was not something Richie was good at.

"Good sir! Beer me a whiskey," Richie slurred, trying not to sound like the inexperienced, lightweight of a 17 year old that he was. The bartender eyed him warily, but grabbed a bottle as Richie's fingers drummed nervously on the bar, leg jostling restlessly.

I need a fix of True Companion, Jimmy Beam, or Old Jack Daniels, something strong to stop these shaking knees.

"Eddie!" Richie called, walking out onto the dance floor.

Drinking up my courage, whiskey for my nerves

Eddie lifted his chin, and Richie's head spun.

Got me drunk on your short summer dress, powder room ballerina, I'm gonna need another shot of glory, ain't no turning back...

"Hi Richie. Enjoying your, um... whiskey, I think?"

"No," Richie made a face, spitting it out, and Eddie stifled a giggle, trying to hold him up.

"You're an idiot when you're drunk, you know that?"

"I think Stan would agree with you," Richie replied.

"I think everyone would agree with me," Eddie retorted, smiling, and Richie physically gasped.

You got me high on your tipsy smile and your hips all swingin'

"Dance with me, Eds," Richie blurted, and Eddie's eyes widened as Richie began to dip him. He soon fell into the groove of the song, and the world spun around them. 

We start spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'

Stumbling away in a moment of sobriety, the taller teenager blushed hard and pushed up his glasses, looking around.

"Where's... uh, Bill?"

"I think he's still with that blonde cowgirl chick he was with earlier," Eddie mused, and turned to peer behind him. He noticed a blue pickup truck, and Bill and the girl making out inside of it. "Oh yup. Definitely is."

They stood there for a second, looking slightly out of place on the dance floor.

"How many of these "whiskeys" did you have?" Eddie asked.

"Oh... enough."

"Maybe you should get to bed-"

"Eddie Kaspbrack?" Richie stood up straight as best he could, and felt everything good swirl around him- the laughter, the lively music, the dancing, the smiles of his closest friends as they had the time of their lives. He felt the confidence surge through him. "You... y'know something?"

"What?"

"Eddie Kaspbrack, I've loved you since the day we met."

Eddie stopped, lips parting. Richie felt some part of his brain flashing off, telling him to retreat, back to the motel maybe, the grand canyon possibly on the other side of America to fling himself into, anywhere, just to run, but the other part kept him rooted there.

"Richie..." Eddie said softly, looking down. Richie braced himself for the rejection by closing his eyes, but he almost flipped his shit when he felt two smaller hands on the sides of his face, cupping it as soft lips met his. Sudden gasps resounded from their friends, and Richie opened his eyes to see a (blurry) Eddie grinning up at him.

"You're a dumbass and I love you too," he said, and Richie let out a cry of victory, pumping his fist up. This resulted in a huge group hug, with Richie probably kissing Eddie in the middle of it again, and the band played the last note of the song. Richie broke free, grabbed his glass of whiskey again and took a sip, then got on stage, taking the mic from them.

"I'd like to thank the Washboard Union and the State of Wyoming!" Richie called, raising his glass, and toppled off the stage with a crash.

"Fucking hell," Eddie muttered.

"Hey... is anyone gonna pay this kid's tab?" the bartender called out in irritation. Beverly looked over, and bit her lip, kissing Ben and whispering something to him. Then she approached the bar with a charming smile, and leaned against it.

"Hey there. Has anyone ever told you you look just like Clark Kent?"

[imadeangirl-butimsamcurious]

Two Rooms

Title: Two Rooms – Warmth Series Part Four

Characters/Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader, Sam (mentioned)

Word Count: 2030

Warnings: Some kissing, implied future smut.

Summary: It’s the final part in the series, I don’t want to spoil anything!

Author’s Note: Wow, the final part! I can’t thank you guys enough for all the sweet things you’ve said about this series, I had a great time writing it, and I hope the final part is everything you were hoping it would be! And I’m sorry if the ending feels a little rushed, I was pressed for time this weekend. Enjoy, guys :)

Read the Previous Parts: Two Beds | Two Shirts | Two Keys

If you would like to read any of my other fics please check out my Masterlist!

*Gif is not mine, all gifs used on my blog are from Google Images.*

     After eating another pathetic excuse for dinner with the boys and deciding where you were headed next - deeming it a pointless trip to have come so far and only do one hunt in the area - you gathered your things, the second motel key off the table, and limped out of the room to go find your own. Which was, as it turns out, even smaller and more frigid than the last one.

     The cold air hit you like a brick as you stumbled out of the motel room, using the wall for support and dragging your duffle bag behind you through the freshly fallen snow. Dean had, of course, tried to help you with your bag and get you safely to your new room, but you’d turned down his offer and opted to do it yourself, your newly stitched leg screaming in protest with every clumsy step. When you got to your lonely little room you collapsed on the bed with a groan.

     Ever since you had started hunting with the boys you’d always gotten your own room, every time without fail, and it never fazed you in the least. You enjoyed the quiet, gratefully took the seldom found privacy, and couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to share an already cramped and more often than not dirty motel bathroom with two men. You were happy with the arrangement – or, as happy as a hunter could be when bouncing around from one dive to the next. But now? You just felt lonely.

     The room was too quiet. You found, to your surprise, that you didn’t mind giving up some of that privacy if you were giving it in favor of being near Dean. Even sharing the amenities was something easily avoidable if you managed to wake up before the Winchesters. You liked sharing a room with them – you liked sharing a room with Dean.

     And you missed him.

     After brushing your teeth, mashing the buttons to no avail on the surprisingly new-looking heater that blew out nothing but cold air, and kicking it for good measure – an action you immediately regretted as you clasped your hand around the wound on your leg and bit back your cry of pain – you stumbled towards the bed and sat down on the itchy comforter. Your eyes flicked over to Dean’s shirt on the other side of the mattress.

     You’d brought it with you, stuffing it in your bag with the rational that it was warmer than anything else you had to sleep in, and now it just seemed to taunt you. You didn’t want Dean’s shirt to keep you warm. You wanted Dean to keep you warm.

     It was stupid, and unreasonable – you knew the risks of starting a relationship with a hunter. But now, sitting alone in your room, the cold he’d protected you from pushing in on all sides, you didn’t care anymore.

     You just wanted Dean.

     So after trying to get comfortable despite your flat pillow, lumpy mattress, and an icy cold that seemed to creep out of the blankets themselves and into your bones, you glanced over to Dean’s wholly empty side of the bed and did something even you weren’t expecting. You grabbed you phone off the nightstand.

     Before you had a chance to think it through - or to talk yourself out of it - you opened Dean’s text thread, pulled up your keyboard, and typed two words. Two words that would change your life forever, two words that could quite possibly be the most important thing you’d ever written.

     I’m Cold.

     Then nothing.

     You waited for two minutes, then three and four, and felt your regret closing in on you like a suffocating fog.

     Why did I do that?! You thought, heart rate speeding up with each second your text went unanswered. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want you, and you were just making a fool out of yourself! What would you say to him in the morning? How would you explain the message? Your friendship was ruined, you may even have to start hunting alone again -

     You were pulled from your frenzied thoughts by a knock at the door.

     You were on your feet faster than should have been possible with your injured leg and across the room in a few lopsided strides. You pulled down the edge of Dean’s plaid – a layer you’d decided to add when you started shivering so much you thought your teeth would chatter right out of your head – wrapped your fingers around the doorknob, and pulled with a forced calm that softened every excitedly nervous line of your body.

     And there he was, white flakes of snow scattered in his hair and illuminated under the moon’s soft glow, arms crossed to save his digits from the cold, and a shy smile on his face.

     “Hi.”

     Every rational thought flew out of your head.

     “Hi.”

     You stepped aside and let Dean into the room, holding onto the doorknob for support as he dropped his jacket on the room’s lone chair, exposing his tight gray sleeping shirt that perfectly hugged every muscle on his chest. It was a conscious effort to keep your jaw from falling open.

     Silently you and Dean made your way over to the bed, crawling under the covers with a wordless understanding. Your heart was racing a mile a minute as you inched towards him, as you watched his hand reach out and pull you close.

     Every reasonable part of you was screaming to get away from him, to send him back to his room and put the events of the last few days behind you. But somehow, someway, you managed to crowd out those thoughts and replace them with new ones - with dangerous ones.

     You wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him.

     What would have happened if Sam hadn’t walked in yesterday? What would have happened if you hadn’t let fear get the better of you and pry you away from the man you loved? What would happen now if you gave into the temptation…

     Memories of that first night came flooding back to you - the desperate attempt to keep yourself from Dean, but the complete unwillingness to leave his arms once they were wrapped around you. And now, with Dean holding you against his body, your cheek laying on his chest and the leg he stitched resting on his, you couldn’t resist the pull of possibility. Of love.

     You inched up, eyes fluttering shut as you reached his lips, and then you did what you’d been avoiding since the day you met Dean Winchester.

     You kissed him.

     It was a fleeting moment, barely a brush of your lips, but it was enough. It took mere seconds for the fear to come crashing down on you, pulling you under like a brutal wave. This was it - this was truly it. Sharing a bed you could deal with, a stray text you could explain away, but a kiss? You had no excuse for that. What would Dean say? What would Dean do?

     Your eyes went wide and you tried to pull away from the man beside you, frantic apologies falling from your lips faster than you could think them up. Your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest - if it wasn’t for your leg you’d be half way across the room by now. But before you had a chance to even fully sit up, you felt a large hand close around your wrist.

     You whipped your head around to find Dean wearing a similar look of shock to your own, mouth hanging open and those piercing green eyes watching you in confusion. Then before you could even register what he was doing, before you had a chance to speak a single coherent word, Dean kissed you.

     And your whole world exploded.

     Everything around you fell away until Dean was the only thing left. His hand sliding up your arm and curling around the back of your neck, the feeling of his lips against your own, the way you seemed to melt together like you were always meant to be here.

     You inched forward and pushed your fingers into Dean’s short hair, chest pressing against his as he pulled you impossibly closer. It was like your hearts beat as one, like you didn’t know where he started and you stopped, and when you finally managed to pry yourself away you didn’t stray far, only separated for a few unimaginably long moments to speak.

     “I’ve been wanting to do that,” Dean whispered breathlessly, “since the first day I met you.”

     This felt like a dream - like a wonderful, wonderful dream.

     “You have?” you stuttered.

     “Of course I have, after yesterday I didn’t think I could have made it more obvious.” You blushed at the memory. “But you took the second key, and you wouldn’t let me anywhere close to you after Sam walked in, so … I figured you weren’t interested.”

     Panic gripped you, fast and hard, and you couldn’t believe you’d been so blind. “No, that’s not it at all! I just …”

     Dean raised his eyebrows. “What is it?” he asked softly.

      “We’re hunters, Dean. Relationships never work out for us – nothing works out for us! I guess I was just … I was afraid of getting hurt.” You looked up and locked eyes with Dean, fingers intertwining with his. “I was afraid of you getting hurt … and leaving me.”

     Dean’s eyes soften and he cupped your cheek in his hand. You gratefully leaned into his touch. “Hey, listen to me. I will never leave you. I promise.”

     You shook your head in protest, no matter how much you wished that were true. “Dean, don’t make promises you can’t kee -”

     “I’m not!” Dean cut you off. “Look at me,” he gestured to himself, throwing his arms out beside him, “I’ve survived this long.”

     “You’ve died, literally hundreds of times!”

     “Yeah, and I’m still kickin’, aren’t I?” Dean rubbed his calloused thumb over your cheek, pushing his fingers further into your hair. “I promise, Y/N, I will always find my way back to you.”

     You knew this wasn’t a guarantee he could make, knew that nobody could know the future – not even Dean – but to your joy and surprise, you couldn’t care less. You were done being scared, done living your life by a set of unreasonable rules that only served to make you miserable. You were going to spend the rest of your life sleeping beside Dean Winchester - no matter how long that life may be - and you were going to enjoy every damn second of it.

     So with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and gave in to your new, brighter future, whispering, “Okay,” like the word was your last chance at salvation.

     Dean’s face lit up as he pulled you closer, lips a hair’s breadth away from yours. “Okay?”

     You nodded and smiled, squeezing Dean’s hand and sliding your fingers up his arm. And then you pounced.

     You pushed Dean down to the bed, crashing your lips into his and releasing years of pent up desire in a few breathless moments. His hands traveled up your sides, carefully pulling you to straddle his waist. Your leg throbbed with a dull pain but you ignored it, tuning out every touch, every feeling, that wasn’t Dean’s work-hardened hands sliding along your body.

     “From now on,” Dean rasped through a heavy breath, “we’re always getting two rooms.” You raised your eyebrows in silent question. Dean grinned broadly in response. “And I’m staying with you.”

    It felt like hours before you finally pulled apart, lips swollen and pink, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide with lust. You never got further than a few desperate kisses, the white gauze around you leg a constant reminder of exactly what you couldn’t do until you were healed, but it didn’t matter anymore.

     You had the man you loved, you were never going to let fear stop you from living your life again.

     And Dean always wanted to get two rooms.

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