#no more wire hangers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghostbeam · 28 days

Text

Oblivi_n.exe | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

As Dabi’s new handler, you’re well aware of his history, how frequently he goes through handlers assigned to him. Not that he ever uses them—it’s more complete resistance. You’re not particularly good at your job. Transferred from the PLF for lack of success in handling any of their pilots, you’ve always been far too gentle. You lack authority. Your pilots never respected you. You don’t think Dabi will be any different. You give it a week.

Notes: okay wow hiiiii it’s been a long time since I’ve posted an actual fic (nearing almost a year now😬) this is something I’ve been working on for a bit. I have mech brain rot curtesy of @streimiv and @hawnks (both of whom this is dedicated to bc there’s no way I could have written this without yapping to them abt it and also mint helped me come up w the acronym for HERO’s) and we’ve all got our own mech fics in the works atm but anywayssssss this is kind of my baby atm but I hope it makes sense it’s very inspired first and foremost by pacific rim and then also NGE (mostly through consumption of YouTube vids bc I haven’t actually watched it pls don’t hate me) it’s a whole mess of things and Dabi is kind of a bitch and reader is slowly coming into herself and at the end of the day they both wanna be metal fused to one another forever (no matter how hard he denies it) also I’m not a huge computer person idk if this title makes sense so don’t make fun of me pls ok anyways I hope u like it!!!!

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, pilot!Dabi x handler!reader, there’s no explicit sexual content in this part, not even a kiss sorry guys, mentions of robot gore (exposed wires, insides described as guts), brief descriptions of being trapped inside a small space, descriptions of burning while inside said space, mention of surgery to fashion a metal jaw onto someone, mentions of child abuse (nothing graphic just allusions to the todoroki family and touya’s past), angst, many run on sentences, a small cliff hanger

Words: 7.9k

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 (coming soon)

You are nothing without your machine.

It’s the first rule, the first thing beaten into his brain by his father. You carry the burden of the mech alone, or you’re weak. You don’t exist.

U.A. raises the best and brightest pilots, navigators, mechanics, and handlers, each one carefully trained to ensure the most important outcome: winning. It should be protection. It should be defense. But if Touya has learned anything at all, it’s that winning means glory. It means worship. It means HERO’s (Human Engineered Robotic Objects) are saints, and pilots are gods.

Touya used to be one of those best and brightest before his accident.

First son to Enji Todoroki, Touya was supposed to be the golden child, the first Todoroki to pilot without a handler. He was supposed to carry the burden alone, something his father couldn’t do, something only one man has ever actually been capable of.

But Touya is born weak, bad bones, a brain unable to handle all that the mech needs to unload onto it. One too many accidents results in him being expelled from the pilot program, his HERO discarded and collecting dust in its pod, and Touya is promptly transferred to mechanics.

It should have been a smooth transition. If one kid can’t handle it, the next will. Because they have to.

He doesn’t take the news well. It’s a fit of tears, a persistent fight, unable to accept the loss of his machine—of his body. Because Touya loves it. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in pure passion, and despite being unable to handle the burden, there’s no denying that he’s good. He’s almost perfect.

But almost is not enough for Enji Todoroki, and no matter how hard Touya tries, he’s made up his mind.

After months of mechanics, Touya makes a decision. When the next fleet of HERO’s is deployed for the next kaiju battle, Touya sneaks in among the chaos, tucked neatly inside the chest of his machine where he belongs. It doesn’t take long for things to go south, for Touya to get caught in the crossfire, losing control of his mech and burning from the inside out.

It should be an excruciating death, stuck inside a machine made for war, fire raining from above as a battle continues on outside without him.

But he survives, because what he lacks in strength, he makes up for in resilience, and his mech is programed with solutions to every situation. He’s stuck inside for months before he’s found.

Tomura Shigaraki rescues him, pries open the chest of his mech and pulls him from inside. His group feeds him, takes him in, fashions a new jaw for him made from the metal of his mech, and allows him the decision to join their cause or go back home.

And since there’s no home to go back to, Touya finds his footing with the league and becomes one of their top pilots. One who vehemently resists any and all handlers.

…

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

Following closely behind Tenko, formerly Tomura, he quickly explains to you the in’s and out’s of the pilot/handler relationship, along with a warning about Dabi’s resentment toward the whole idea. You try to keep up, but he talks quickly and uses his hands a lot. Even so, you can tell he’s a natural leader, something he had to grow into after overthrowing the man who raised him. His story is a tragic one, and it resonates with you because Tenko came out the other side stronger. Now, the league is a community with a cause, one you really believe in. Even if you and Dabi aren’t the right fit, you still have a place here.

You follow Tenko into what he calls the garage, a large floor of the abandoned academy that serves as the league’s base, this part of it full of HERO’s and mechanics all focused on the machines in front of them. It’s completely different from how HERO’s were worked on at UA, where you grew up, and even the PLF didn’t have one dedicated floor to this sort of work. You can feel the energy of the room buzzing on your skin, music blasting from old radios and mechanics tossing tools towards one another in a familiar routine. Tomura leads you to Dabi and his HERO, Blue, though you’re instructed not to call it a HERO around him. With goggles over his eyes and gloved hands, he brings two wires from Blue’s ankle together, sighing at the way they spark each time they connect.

“Dabi.” Tomura calls over the music coming from the radio hanging off of Dabi’s waist. He drops the wires and his gaze flickers toward the two of you. Pushing his goggles up to his forehead, he gives you a once over. His eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen—kaiju blood blue—and burn scars litter his body. He’s striking in a way you’ve never seen, almost too beautiful to be human. Giving Dabi your name, Tomura explains that you’re taking over as his handler, seeing as he couldn’t keep the last one for more than a couple of days. “She’s your last handler. If you can’t keep this one, then go ahead and fry your brain. See if I care.”

“You say that every time.” Dabi calls from around sucker as Tomura walks away, leaving you alone with your new pilot.

You just your hand out in a greeting, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Eyeing your hand, Dabi shakes his head and turns his back to you, picking the two wires back up and connecting them again, despite the same spark from before igniting between the two. He looks back up at Blue, touching his fingers to the slim lines starting at the back of her ankle and running all the way up her leg. You peak over his shoulder at the wiring, noticing that he’s connecting two of the wrong ones.

“It’s the wrong wire.” You tell him, and he spins around to look at you, tearing his goggles from his face as he scoffs.

“Here we go.” He sighs with a roll of his eyes, pulling the candy from his lips and tossing it onto the tool cart without a care. “Handler know-it-all bullshit. This is my mech.”

You push passed him and grab the similarly colored wire from beside a red wire and connect it with the one in Dabi’s right hand. Blue lights up cyan through the thin lines that run along each of its limbs and torso, connecting with the two cameras within its head, which seem to blink before the light reaches them.

In an instant, you’re being pushed up against the hard metal, a strong arm over your chest—pinning you up against the HERO. Dabi, now having discarded his goggles, looks at you full of white, hot rage.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” He growls. You’re suddenly aware of the close proximity, eyes flickering between the snarl across his lips and his angry gaze. For a beat, you both freeze, the air suddenly charged like you’re waiting for one another to strike. Snapping yourself out of his hypnotic stare, you push against his chest, forcing him to let you go.

“If I’m going to be you’re handler, you’re going to have to trust me with her.” You remind him. He lets out a harsh laugh, like he can’t believe you would suggest such a ridiculous idea.

“I don’t trust anything but this machine.” He speaks, turning away from you to seal up the machine’s exposed wires. It’s a challenge you’re willing to accept.

“Well, I’m here to change that.” You tell him, before turning on your heel to leave him alone.

He thinks he’ll give you a week.

…

One of the worst parts of being assigned a handler, Touya thinks, is the way that pilot/handler living quarters are set up. He assumes the academy, before it was abandoned and turned into a base for the league, created this sort of set up so that handlers could keep a close eye on their pilots. The handlers Touya has burned through up until now also assumed the same.

The door that connects both the pilot’s and handler’s dorms doesn’t lock, and all of Touya’s past handlers have taken advantage of this fact. He’s been pulled out of bed far too early, pushed around and commanded and barked at. Most handlers behaved as if pilots belonged to them, which was the sentiment drilled into their brains from being thrown into such a fucked up system at a young age.—unless you were a pilot of status like a Todoroki. While he league dedicates a lot of its time to reversing these ideas, most handlers look at Touya like some kind of challenge, this arrogant pilot begging to be tamed. It never takes long for them to realize how easily he’s able to flip the switch on them. You’ll be no different.

But hours pass and you still haven’t entered. You don’t swing the door open and demand he apologize for his behavior earlier. You don’t try and punish him with training regimes, a command of a set of push ups, a schedule you expect him to follow, an extremely detailed meal plan. The entire evening comes and goes without so much as a sound on the other side of the door so he knows you’re even behind it.

He falls asleep unnerved by this, waking up late into the night in a cold sweat, expecting you to barge in, rip the covers from his body and demand to train together. When he wakes up (peacefully) the next morning, there’s no sign of you. He rises from his bed, drinks orange juice straight from the carton and eats a candy bar for breakfast. He fiddles with the navigation screen from his mech that stopped working a couple of days ago, tools spread out on the counter in front of him. Once he’s got the thing working again, your knock sounds from the unlocked door between the two of you. He thinks this might be it, the commands he expects to fall from your lips at the ready as he swings the door open, but you stand there, nervous, hands twitching as your eyes finally meet his.

Greeted by a shirtless Touya, hair mused from sleep, cargo pants hung low on his hips, dog tags swinging against his chest, his scars on display, unashamed and proud. The sight of him knocks the breath out of you, and you clear your throat in embarrassment, hoping your state of dreaming comes off as nerves rather than lust.

“Dabi. Or do you prefer Touya?” You smile. When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I wanted to see if you wanted to eat breakfast together in the caf. I think we should start over. Yesterday was—”

You’re promptly cut off, “I already ate breakfast.”

With a harsh slam of the door, he leaves you stunned in your room.

You eat alone.

When you started as a pilot, back when you’d entered UA (a few years about Touya’s accident), you went into it believing you could change the world. The exam had placed you into the position of handler, and you were assigned a pilot who had always seemed a little frightened of you despite your obvious lack of authority. Bringing the fact up to your instructors did nothing. They all assured you that this was the ideal dynamic, that the handler always had the upper hand, but you hated that feeling. You weren’t a team like you expected to be; you were urged to control your pilot. You were there to keep them in line, not to be a pillar of support. The bond was never built on trust, and the soul link was always a looming threat. No matter how many pilots you went through, the link was never held as a gift, but a prison, something you would both be stuck with for the betterment of society, a sacrifice to make.

You’d been expelled from the handler program after guiding your pilot to help save another in the wreckage of your first battle together, resulting in the damage of your pilot’s HERO. Your pilot was okay, but the other couldn’t be saved, and you were blamed for the damage of both mech’s.

When you found the league (or when the league found you), you were working with the PLF, but proved to be a weak handler. Every pilot you were assigned to took advantage of your optimistic outlook on the kind of relationship dynamic that pilots had with their handlers. Despite all that you had been through at UA, and with the rest of the pilots you’d been paired with after, you never gave up the hope that handlers and pilots could behave as a team, or, even better, one entity.

Tenko had taken one look at you and demanded you’d be transferred to the league. There hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter, not that you really cared. You were miserable everywhere else. But when you arrived at the abandoned academy and taken a peak behind the kudzu covered walls where each and every area of the building acted as multiple moving parts in collaboration with one another in order to create one massive system, you realized that this was the future you imagined for yourself—and for the world you lived in.

Tenko saw something in you that day, something you aren’t sure you even see in yourself. And so Dabi was your first task, one that’s proving to be very difficult. But he doesn’t treat you like all the other pilots before had. He doesn’t use you. In fact, it seems like he wants nothing to do with you. And while that’s a problem, it’s still one you can work with.

You’re broken from your thoughts by the sound of a voice through an overhead intercom asking for everyone to meet on the first floor of the academy at their earliest convenience. Judging by the quick movements of those around you, you figure you’d better head downstairs as soon as possible.

The meeting on the first floor makes you very aware of just how small the league really is. While it’s definitely not a tiny organization, it’s still much smaller than both UA and the PLF. With everyone piled up like this in one group, you realize it feels more like a community, and the hum of conversation that surrounds you comforts you in a way you’ve never felt within the walls of any other academy before.

There’s discussion about the upcoming mission, one which may be the league’s most ambitious yet; the plan to hijack a mech and kidnap a pilot may be a little unorthodox compared to the league’s past missions, but the jaded pilot they’re targeting has a high chance of joining the cause. Or that’s what they have assumed. As the bodies move and speak around you, it strikes you how different this meeting is from any other meeting you’ve ever been a part of. Tenko is less a dictator and more a wrangler for the disembodied voices of your peers.

You don’t know much about his story, save for the vague details you’ve heard, but Tenko’s status as a lone handler is something you find yourself curious about. If he’s able to work without a pilot, why can’t you? It’s an idea you keep in your back pocket, one you think you can fall back on if things with Touya don’t work out. But you want them to work out. So badly.

You aren’t sure what it is about him, but he’s reignited that spark inside of you. You know he’d rather you give up, and maybe the you from a couple of months ago would have, but something about him—and this place—won’t let you leave.

As you observe the meeting, you take the time to look around the room, taking in your peers and their attentive faces as they listen to Tenko intently. You turn to your right, your eyes meeting a pair of blue ones, impossible to miss. Dabi holds your stare for what feels like ages, and when your colleagues erupt in a fit of many simultaneous discussions, you tear your eyes from his to observe the commotion. When you glance back in his direction, he’s gone.

You don’t seem him again after that. You train with other handlers, get to know your peers a little better. Everyone else seems to be welcoming, and most offer you sympathy when they find out you’re Touya’s new handler. From what you can gather, he’s had his fair share of them, all of which have quit or left in hysterics due to his harsh nature. When you ask around about where he could be, you’re told that he’s most likely in the garage, a place you assume he’s in more often than not.

You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to the garage. A place so completely different, so against the ideas and beliefs of any other academy you’ve been a part of, the chaos and community within is so foreign to you. You find Touya with Blue, working inside of her chest, where the cockpit is.

“Touya!” You call up to him and watch as he peaks his head over the edge of her metal plating. Annoyance falling across his face, he jumps down from where he stands, landing hard on his feet in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” He questions, his figure so tall and imposing above you. He’s not particularly muscular, not even all that tall compared to Tenko, but he makes you feel small regardless, in more ways than one. Rolling your shoulders back, you stare straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down.

“I figured you wanted your space today.” You explain, as Touya moves around you to get to his rolling cart of tools, forcing you to turn toward him and follow him if you want him to hear you. “I know adjusting to a new handler is rough, and I never want to make you uncomfortable. But I was thinking we could try some of those pilot/handler bonding exercises. It might be good to start training like some of the others do.”

He drops the wrench in his hand onto his cart with a loud thud, turning around toward you with a look of disbelief on his face. “Pilot/handler bonding exercises? They really brainwashed the shit out of you at UA, huh?”

At the mention of your past academy, your eyes widen in surprise. You had no idea he knew about that. Clearing your throat in order to compose yourself, you speak again, “I left UA for a reason. I have no attachment to their methods, but you guys do the same stuff here, so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that I never asked for a fucking handler in the first place, especially not one as eager as you.” He spits, “Sure, you’re understanding now, all that bullshit about ‘giving me space,’ but the moment you get a lick of power over me, you’ll change. You’re not different.”

“I don’t want power over you. This is an equal exchange. Pilot’s and handlers are meant to be a team—” You try and argue, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“That’s what they told you, right? We’re a team, and as teammates, you make sacrifices. And it doesn’t matter if one of you turns into the other’s braindead dog because that’s your place.” His words hit you hard, the exact thought process you went through when leaving UA, completely disillusioned with their idea of “teamwork.” He’s right, and you know it, but since coming here, you thought that wasn’t how it had to be.

“Look, trust me, I get—” You’re cut off again.

“You went to UA! There’s no trusting you.” He scoffs, “It’s not like you’ll last here, anyway.”

“You are such a hypocrite! You’re from UA!” You retort, throwing your arms up in desperation. “You can hate me all you want. You can resist and resist and fry your brain ‘till there’s nothing left, but I believe in this shit. And you don’t get to tell me that I don’t, or tell me I’ll turn into something I worked so hard to get away from.”

Touya stands there, surprised by your outburst, completely unaware that you were capable of all of that. He doesn’t say anything back, and you roll your eyes. “So fuck you, and, by the way, her angel port is smoking.”

At your words, he turns in a rush, seeing the smoke billowing from Blue’s chest as he climbs his way up her form. Once inside his machine, he extinguishes the port and allows himself to relax. There are two things on his mind in this moment: how you could have possibly known it was the angel port without being inside of Blue’s chest and how, for the first time in a long time, he feels bad for his handler.

But for you, it’s the first time you’ve ever held your own against a pilot before, and that feels good.

…

Something feels weird.

Off, unsettling, strange.

He realizes, much to his dismay, that it’s your absence. Despite only having you around for such a short time, Touya has realized that your lack of presence now feels wrong. He hates it. He hates you.

He can’t find you. You haven’t knocked on his door. You’re not in the caf, not the garage, not the sparring floor, not in your room. And he did check—without knocking.

He’s not even sure how he can feel an absence. You aren’t a regular part of his life, and he never wanted you to be. But he feels all fucked up.

During training, Touya jams Blue’s halo core and she leaks vibrant neon from between her ribs. It takes him half an hour to get her reboot her system and rips one of the cables attached to the back of his suit in the process. He spends the afternoon cleaning HERO fluid off the sparring floor.

During repairs, he shocks himself over and over while trying to fix her core, fingers burning from the sparks each time he arranges the wires inside. The cameras in her eyes won’t work from the reboot, and Blue won’t let him unlock the lens panel to fix it. It’s almost like she’s mad at him too.

He’s a complete mess. It’s your fault. He has no choice but to go looking for you. Again.

He searches every wing of the academy before concluding that you’re in your room. He barges through the joint door, spotting you at the counter in your tiny kitchen. You’re surprised by the intrusion, a frightened gasp falling from your lips as you jump in your seat. You turn toward him, prepared with angry words on your tongue, but Touya speaks first.

“You’re not getting an apology out of me, so don’t expect it.” He begins, moving to stand in front of your swiveling kitchen stool as he looks down at you. “But I’m willing to be civil with you, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

You’re not exactly sure what “this shit” is, but Touya looks a little worse for wear at the moment, so you don’t question it. He places a tray from the caf down in front of you that you hadn’t noticed in his hands upon arrival, says nothing else, and turns to leave the room. After shutting your joint door, you look down at the tray of food, noticing one of his suckers placed onto a vacant compartment of the tray.

You’re greeted the next morning with a knock on your door, Touya dressed in his pilot’s suit on the other side as you swing the door open. “C’mon. You’re gonna watch me train today.”

You watch him turn around to leave, expecting you to follow. You rush to pull on your combat boots and grip your dog tags in your fist as you rush to catch up to him. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you fall into step beside him, taking a look around his dorm before he leads you through the exit door.

“You need to get a feel for my fighting style.” He explains as you walk down the corridor. “I’m not saying I’ll listen to you when it comes down to it, but it’s important for you to know.”

You nod, agreeing that you should definitely observe him inside of his HERO. By understanding his moves, you’ll be able to understand the way he thinks, and you’ll be able to help him in actual combat if needed. He’s already said he won’t listen to you, but it won’t stop you from trying. He stops abruptly, turning to look at you, and you stop with him.

“If we’re gonna do this, it’ll be on my terms. I’m not your dog.” He tells you, seriously. He eye’s you up and down, taking in your expression as you nod at his words. “If anything, you’re mine.”

He begins walking again, leaving you in your spot, irritation filling your chest as you watch him, smug. “Asshole.” You curse under your breath.

“What’d you say?” He barks, turning to look at you abruptly.

“You’re an asshole.” You speak louder. He walks back toward you, making sure to tower over you intimidatingly as he looks down at you in annoyance. His eyes flicker down to the tags around your neck before hooking a finger on the chain and pulling you closer.

“Watch it.” He drops the chain and walks away again.

You follow him to the sparring floor, and he shows you where to go to watch. Stood behind a large window that looks over the sparring area, other members of the base watch the HERO’s engage in combat below. You spot Tenko and he motions for you to stand beside him.

“I knew he’d warm up to you.” He comments. The last of the previous battle finishes and you watch the two enormous machines retreat to the sides of the area, their pilots emerging from their chests with their handlers rushing to the bottom of the mech’s in support.

“He hasn’t. He’s not.” You shake your head. You aren’t sure why you deny it, if it’s some way to keep your expectations low or if there’s some kind of embarrassment aspect to the whole thing. Whatever is happening between you and Touya feels intimate and private, something that the two of you need to figure out for yourselves, not something meant for the eyes of others.

“Hm. Okay.” Tenko shrugs. “Guess not.”

You hadn’t noticed Touya enter his mech at all. You see the swing of one giant mechanic arm, too close to the window you stand behind, and you’ve shifted your full attention to the scene at hand.

The enormity of the room surprises you, despite the fact that you had seen it just moments before. But when you’re truly looking at it, watching these huge machines go at each other, the way the ground shakes, the leaves outside shake, the deep forrest clear in view from the wall that opens out to the greenery (the lack of a wall is likely from the academy’s abandoned state, but it’s a good feature to have on the sparring floor when giant robots are toppled over onto various surfaces).

The way Blue moves is electric, mechanic movements almost feel fluid with the way that Touya pilots her, easily dodging attacks from their opponent and moving around them in the most graceful way a giant machine can. It’s beautiful, unlike any fighting style you’ve ever seen in a HERO before.

“He’s showing off for you.” Tenko observes from beside you. You don’t argue with him, only because you can’t dispute it. This is your first time seeing him in action. It makes your heart beat out of your chest. There’s this ache like you should be inside with him, cables connected to both of you, tucked neatly inside of Blue together.

It doesn’t take him long to get his opponent on their back, the heavy thump against the floor jostling the ant-like figures on the ground below, handlers waiting for their pilots to finish. It goes on like this for a while, his training, using different methods of combat and winning each time. He’s amazing, and you can tell why his reputation is the way it is, second only to Tenko, who you have yet to see in action.

When he finishes his last session, you watch Blue walk to the edge of the room, and Touya emerges from her chest, jumping the long way down her body without any issue. You watch as he looks toward the window you’re behind. He waves at you, an acknowledgment of your presence, and you wave back, though you aren’t sure he can actually see you.

It’s the beginning of everything for the two of you. You think Tenko was right.

He lets you stay with him afterwards while he does maintenance on Blue. He helps you climb up the path to her chest, hauling you over the edge to sit inside with him. He turns around abruptly, holding a hand up before allowing you to walk any further.

“Do not touch anything.” He warns, completely serious, before letting his hand fall and allowing you further into the cockpit. You take in your surroundings, the guts of his machine, analyzing the different control panels and screens that line the interior. You can tell he takes good care of her, and he spends a lot of time in here. It looks lived in, stickers stuck to metal plating and pieces of him all over. He’s made a second home in between the ribs of his mech. You feel a little jealous, though you aren’t sure of what.

The two of you sit against the left side of Blue’s interior, waiting for her updates to finish, the loading screen on each of her monitors display a fire graphic that grows with the increasing percentage on screen. Between you and Touya sits an opened bag of sour gummies, which Touya picks out the lemon flavor and drops the candy in your palm with each new handful he gathers.

“How do you know all this stuff?” He questions around a mouthful of sour cherry, “Like, the real names for things, where stuff goes, how to fix them. That day with the wires…”

“I spent a lot of time around mechanics at UA, and then also at the PLF.” You explain, picking the yellow colored candy from his open palm as you speak. “I couldn’t connect with other handlers. I didn’t like how they thought, or how they viewed the pilot/handler relationship. Mechanics were mostly neutral, and they loved these machines like nothing else. They reminded me of why I joined UA in the first place.”

“Hm.” He nods, thinking about your past. “Well, I guess if you spent so much time around actual professionals…I could maybe use your help sometimes in the garage.”

“Really?” You question excitedly, a spark lighting up your eyes as you swerve your head toward him. He feels something tight in his chest at the sight.

“Yes, but only on the outside. I don’t want you messing with her insides, yet.” He establishes. “And never alone. I have to be there at all times.”

“Of course, yes, oh my god. Touya!” You smile, gripping his shoulder firmly, a gesture of thanks, communication of how much his trust means to you. “I’ll be so careful with her, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, you have no other choice.” He shrugs, throwing another pile of candy in his mouth. “I’ll kill you if anything happens to her.”

You take the threat seriously, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s realized that you’ve wormed your way into his life and he hadn’t even noticed just how entangled you were now.

As the weeks go by, you spend a lot more time together. You work on blue together, and you rest inside of her chest, sometimes allowing yourself to drift off against his shoulder on especially tiring days. He sits beside you in the caf, and while he doesn’t always say much, the feeling of his arm against yours is comforting. You can tell people are starting to notice, and they’re starting to talk. You’re being dubbed someone who’s tamed him, but you know how far from the truth that is.

Despite your differences and the petty arguments that come up when Touya feels like you’re intruding on his independence, you’re growing attached. You wonder if he is, too.

…

Spending time together in the garage becomes the new normal for the two of you. Being in each other’s dorms feels far too intimate, so you always meet in the garage. This way, one of you is always busy doing something with your hands. There’s no room for any strange feelings in the pit of your stomach to seep in.

You sit in the crook of Blue’s neck, watching Touya as he repairs the lenses in her “eyes.” Blue has three pairs of eyes; in her head, her chest, and down near her hips, which all footage is projected onto monitors inside the cockpit so that Touya has a full view of what’s in front of him.

He’s so peaceful while he works, you’ve noticed, almost like he goes somewhere else completely. It’s a part of him you don’t think many people get to see, a piece of him just for you, and you want to be selfish with it.

“Can I ask you something?” You question, leaning your head back against the metal. “But you can’t get mad.”

He looks up at you, still fiddling with a lens, a mocking look on his face. “I’m not making any promises.”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the possible fallout of the question you’re about to ask, “What do you think about the soul link?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’d never do it.”

You nod your head in understanding, “yeah, I get it. It’s weird, right? The idea that someone else would be inside your brain.”

“It’s fucking invasive.” He says.

“You know, at UA it always felt like a threat, you know. Like, it was a way for a handler to control their pilot, not a tool or a bond like it should be.” You begin, thinking back to how you viewed the soul link back then. You didn’t like how the bond was presented as this power that a handler holds over their pilot, a threat to keep their pilot in line. But, you could understand how the link could be used for good. “But since coming here, I can tell it’s not all bad. People trust each other here. I mean, there’s obviously some people who abuse it, but, for the most part, everyone seems to understand what it really means to be a pilot and a handler.”

You’re mostly just thinking out loud, but Touya doesn’t say anything to your ramblings. He continues to work on the lenses, and you can gather that he doesn’t want to talk about the subject anymore. But you can’t let it go, yet. There’s something you’ve been worried about since you met him.

“And what about…your brain? They say when a handler and a pilot don’t complete the soul link, the pilot will eventually fry their brain.” You can’t help it. You think about it all the time, what will happen when he can’t take it anymore. The closer you get to him, the realer it feels. “Are you ever worried about that?”

He looks at you, an expression you can’t quite make out fall across his face as he stares. It’s almost soft, the way he looks at you in this moment. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The truth is, this is a reality Touya has accepted. He’s not afraid to die, and he never has been. He’ll probably die inside of Blue, and he has no problem with that fact. He doesn’t need to be around for long, just enough to show his dad what he’s capable of.

“C’mon.” You stare. “That’s not fair.”

“Shit. I left some of the screws for this in my dorm.” He curses. He looks where you lounge, tucked into Blue’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

You watch him jump down, much higher than his usual height at her chest, but he lands anyway. He doesn’t turn to look back at you as he jogs away. You climb up the side of Blue, and look at the lenses in her head. They’re already repaired, and you know Touya used the excuse of missing screw just so he wouldn’t have to talk about the soul link.

But it’s the first time he’s ever left you alone with Blue before.

…

As the mission draws closer, Touya throws himself into training. You’re on the training floor with him most days, standing behind that big glass panel as you watch him spar with his peers. He still doesn’t let you down on the floor with him until he’s full out of Blue and close enough to the edge of the sparring floor to get to you. You’re not allowed in the actual training area, and even though he says he doesn’t want you clinging to him, it’s really because he wants to keep you safe. Seeing your human body near the giant machines that are HERO’s makes him want to grab you and keep you inside of Blue’s chest forever.

You can tell all the training is taking a toll on him. With an excess of headaches and the occasional nosebleed, you continuously get into arguments about him cutting back on training inside of Blue. There are other ways for him to prepare that don’t involve his fragile brain being hooked up to an entity that takes so much. He doesn’t listen.

Later and later into the night, as your fellow pilots and handlers disperse and return to their rooms to sleep, Touya stays inside of Blue, testing her movements and sparring against test dummies and obstacles. Once you and Touya are the only two left on the sparring floor, you speak into the intercom attached to your head.

“Touya, I think you should take a break.” You tell him, “It’s late. Get some rest and then we can pick it back up in the morning.”

There’s a pause, then, “I’m gonna stay for another hour. Get some sleep. I’ll be done soon.”

“No, Touya. You’ve been at it for hours. You barely took a break for dinner. C’mon.”

“You know, you sound awfully like a handler trying to tell their pilot what to do.” He teases, but you can hear the irritation in his voice.

“You are insufferable. I’m worried about you.” You groan.

“I’m fine. Go sleep.” He insists.

“If I find out you aren’t out of here in an hour—” Your line is promptly cut off, leaving behind static in your ear. You sigh and throw your com to the side. You hope he’s telling the truth.

With one last look at Blue, you make your way out of the training floor and find your way back to your dorm.

Touya doesn’t answer the door when you knock the next morning. With a frustrated groan, you leave your dorm and head to the training floor, assuming he woke up early to get some extra hours in. The closer you get the the floor, you notice other members of the base rushing in front of you. Feeling panicked, you pick up the pace, jogging toward the training room to make sure something isn’t wrong. You collide with a body in front of you, nearly falling to the floor as you steady yourself. Toga stands in front of you, her cheeks red and eyes glossy as she explains something your mind can’t catch up to understand. The only thing you recognize is his name, and you’re running toward the training floor in an instant.

You watch as Blue stomps around the area, her arms swinging in all directions, losing her footing as she moves. Knowing you can’t do anything on the floor, you make your way up to the overlook, finding Tenko yelling into your intercom.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” You ask him, pulling the headset off of his head and placing it on yours instead.

“He’s out of fucking control. He won’t answer. I don’t even think he’s conscious in there.” He tells you, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in anxiety. “You’re not linked yet, are you?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes in frustration as you try to think. You know it’s the only way. You have to take some of the burden off of him, make him share it with you. It’s the only way he’ll survive right now. “Do you think you can get into Decay right now and knock him down somehow?”

He hesitates, “I can get inside. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to touch him at all.”

“You have to.” You plead, desperately. “I just need him down for ten seconds, tops. As long as I can get inside of her, I can save him.”

He looks at you like you’re insane, and maybe you are. But you know you can’t live with yourself if you don’t try something. Tenko nods.

“I can do it.” He tells you. You rush passed him, following the stairs down to the training area. You feel Tenk grab your wrist firmly. “You bring him back, okay?”

“I will.” You nod.

He dodges Blue’s movements, weaving between her legs as he finally makes it to Decay. It takes a few moments for him to connect, but he goes straight for Blue. You watch the giant machines fight one another, but it’s clear that Blue’s lack of control hinders much of her ability. She needs Touya just as much as he needs her. It’s tough for Decay to dodge her swinging arms, but Tenko manages to knock her down quickly.

The fall shakes the room, but you waste no time running for Blue. Climbing over the side of her, you manage to touch your thumb to the pad on the outside to open her chest up. She begins to stand up, and you slip down, grabbing onto a bar beneath her ribcage. You let out a frustrated groan as you try to pull yourself up over the edge of the cockpit. Finally making it over, you see Touya sitting there, still connected to his pilot’s chair, eyes glazed over and blood gushing from his nose. You push the button that closes the panel in Blue’s chest, and you’re suddenly alone with him.

Touya’s body is being jerked around by the movement of the mech, and you hang onto the walls of her chest in order to make your way to him. You situate yourself in his lap, taking his head in your hands as you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“You fucking asshole! I told you to take a break.” You sob, resting your head against his as you try and think of what to do next. “Touya, please. Please, baby, I need to you come back. Just fucking come back so I don’t have to do this without your permission, please.”

With no response from him, you wipe your tears, coming to terms with the fact that you have to complete the soul link now, or he’ll die. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Touya. Please forgive me.”

The soul link isn’t exactly an action so much as it is a feeling, an experience. There’s no trigger for it, no way to make it happen. It just begins.

It’s Touya, aged thirteen, wild, chubby-cheeked and happy, in the pilot’s seat of his father’s HERO. It’s his drive, his determination, his anger, his hurt. It’s the day he snuck into battle, the day he couldn’t get out, flesh burning and fusing to the metal walls of his mech, the feeling now deep in your skin. It’s you, aged fifteen, hopeful, alive, shaking hands with your first pilot. It’s your heart, much too big and much too open for your line of work, it’s your passion, your fire, every piece of you that was broken down again and again until there was nothing left. It’s Touya and it’s you, and every single bit of your souls now tied together in one big knot.

There’s nothing but darkness. And then there’s screaming. And then you can hear everything. Every thought running through Touya’s brain right now echoes in your head as you slowly come back to yourself. He can hear the same of yours.

It’s overwhelming at first, to have two sets of thoughts in your head at the same time, but you manage to focus. You can feel an anger inside of you like you’ve never felt. It’s almost like it’s your own. You need to come back. You’ve lost control of Blue.

In an instant, you feel yourself come back to your body, now straddling Touya like before, you feel his arms shoot around you and he tucks his chin over your shoulder to pilot Blue like he’s used to doing. He pays no mind as he presses up against you, but you feel your heart rate increase at the closeness.

He’s so close.

I have to be. You’re in my lap.

Shit. I didn’t think—

Clearly.

I can’t fucking believe you. I told you we weren’t going to do this.

You were dying!

Then you fucking let me!

You’re jostled around in his lap for a moment as he stops Blue from destroying any more of the training floor, and Touya wraps an arm around your waist, holding you steady.

He gains control of her quickly, moving her toward the edge of the room. You tuck your face into his neck, not wanting to distract him and keeping your thoughts at bay so you don’t overwhelm him. He powers Blue down, severing the neural connection between the two of you, and shoves you from his lap and into the pilot’s chair like you’ve burned him. He storms out of the cockpit, climbing out of his machine and leaving you inside. You think about the argument you had within each other’s head, how Touya would have rather died than be linked to you like he is now.

You slump against the seat, comforted by the metal cage you’ve been left inside of.

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #tw claustrophobia #just in case it’s like so brief and doesn’t describe much yet but I just wanna be safe #ghost.writes #ghost.fic

206 notes · View notes

vampirecorleone · 5 months

Text

No... wire... hangers. What's wire hangers doing in this closet when I told you: no wire hangers EVER? I work and work 'til I'm half dead, and I hear people saying, "She's getting old." And what do I get? A daughter... who cares as much about the beautiful dresses I give her... as she cares about me. What's wire hangers doing in this closet? Answer me. I buy you beautiful dresses, and you treat them like they were some dishrag. You do. Three-hundred-dollar dress on a wire hanger. We'll see how many you've got if they're hidden somewhere. We'll see... we'll see. Get out of that bed. All of this is coming out. Out. Out. Out. Out. You've got any more? We're gonna see how many wire hangers you've got in your closet. Wire hangers, why? Why? Christina, get out of that bed. Get out of that bed. You live in the most beautiful house in Brentwood, and you don't care if your clothes are stretched out from wire hangers. And your room looks like a two-dollar-a-week furnished room in some two-bit backstreet town in Oklahoma. Get up. Get up. Clean up this mess." Mommie Dearest (1981) dir. Frank Perry | Costume Design by Irene Sharaff

240 notes · View notes

munsonsmixtapes · 4 months

Text

Drive Me Crazy

mechanic!Eddie x fem!reader

summary: Eddie hot wires your car with the intention to take it for a joy ride but you catch him before he can

You never liked getting gas late at night. Between the creepy lighting and the weirdos who roamed around the area, you never felt safe. But your car was very low on gas and wasn’t going to make it home so you could get gas in the morning. So, you took a chance and pulled it after work. Once you got your gas, you took a chance and went inside to get a snack for your ride home.

Eddie wouldn’t have considered himself a criminal, he just liked to hot wire cars for the adrenaline. He never stole them, he would just take them for a ride and then return them like nothing happened. It was just for fun, the thrill.

He was at the gas station for some coffee to keep him awake and had no intention of taking a joy ride, but then he saw your pretty cherry red car pull into the parking lot and he knew he had to take it for a spin.

He leaned against his bike as he watched you exit the vehicle, he almost felt bad thinking about how he really did want to take your car. You were pretty even with the angry look on your face. He honestly thought it was hot, actually.

Once you were inside, Eddie snuck over to your car and was delighted to see that you had left your window down, but had locked it which seemed silly to him, but now he didn’t have to use the coat hanger he kept around. He unlocked the door and crouched down to begin his work while keeping an eye on the door for you.

He snipped two of the wires and was so focused on getting the car to start up that he hadn’t even see you come back to your car. You stood behind him, waiting for him to notice you, but he didn’t look back until you spoke up.

“Having fun there?” You asked, tilting your head to the side while taking a sip from your slurpee. Eddie whipped around and put on his best smile, hoping that he could charm his way out of the situation, but judging by the unimpressed look on your face, you weren’t buying it.

“Is this your car?” He tried his best to put on an innocent look, but you weren’t buying that either.

“Mhm,” you nodded.

“Sorry, I thought it was a buddy of mines. He has the exact same car.” Did he really think you were going to believe that? Maybe it worked on other people, but definitely not you.

“Oh, so you think I’m an idiot, right?” Eddie actually thought you were pretty smart even after knowing you for a few minutes.

“Not an idiot, no.” There were a lot of people who Eddie would categorize as an idiot, but you were definitely not one of them.

“Then what? Stupid?” He just chuckled at that.

“Those are synonyms.”

“Whatever. Do you mind moving away from my car? What were you going to do? Steal it?” You put your free hand on your hip and he didn’t like that he was finding your anger hot.

“No, I was just going to take it for a joyride.” A joyride? Why would he just steal a random car to do that? You had seen him on his bike and that seemed like the ultimate joyride vehicle.

“Look, I have pepper spray so if you don’t get the fuck out of here, I will use it.” You really didn’t, you were just hoping that would scare him off. And it did. He stood up and you reached for your purse as he backed away.

“Alright, alright. I’m going.” He put his hands up in defense as he continued to back up to his bike. “Just so you know, I work at the shop downtown, so if this ever breaks down or if you need me in anyway, feel free to come on down,” he said with a wink and you just scoffed.

“No thanks. I can fix it myself.” With that, you got into your car and he got onto his bike, making sure to give you a wink before he put on his helmet and drove off.

You got into your car and slammed the door before hitting your head against the steering wheel repeatedly. Why was he flirting with you after he tried to take your car and why did you like it? Why did you find him attractive? God, this was getting way more complicated for your liking and you were so close to driving your car over there just to see him. Maybe if you got the guts, you would.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #mechanic!eddie #mechanic!eddie x fem!reader #mechanic!eddie x reader

239 notes · View notes

t-tomuras · 8 months

Text

† ─── •𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬

Pairing: Alastor x F!reader

Warnings: Use of petnames ( dear, sweetheart, darling, dearheart ), reader has ears and a tail ( mhm ), religious themes / comparisons, mild biting, ( very slight ) injury, creampie, slight overstimulation

Wordcount: 5k

Notes: HA HA HA I've no excuse for this. canon is what I make of it.

“If you truly want a shot at redemption, my dear, you must actually make attempts at changing your behavior,” the muffled sound of Alastor’s voice seems far closer than the simple radio on your bedside table; the one that you continue to ignore with each morning’s wake up call. Reasoning that Sir Pentious must’ve turned the volume up on it when you caught him skulking around in your room or maybe it was one of his simpleminded minions mixing up the rooms they were allowed in.. again.

Regardless, you shift further into the plush comforter, whining louder at the sound of radio static but you don’t open your eyes. Reaching blindly about hoping to wrap your hand around the infernal contraption to continue blissful sleep but to no avail.

“Five more minutes,” barely audible through the fabric of your comfortable pillowcase. Whines muffled by the material that you keep your face buried in.

“You said that an hour ago, dearheart,” he speaks again, volume louder this time. It causes your ear to twitch wildly in an attempt to pinpoint where his noisy little box was without fully rousing from slumber. Groaning as you feel around blindly, m grasping at nothing but air for a spell until you think you’ve got it. A triumphant little smile spreading on your still hidden face when your clawed fingers brush over something cool. Closing your fist around it with a delighted hum before a proverbial bucket of cold water is dumped on you at the sound of Alastors voice once again. Closer this time, more clearly and obviously not emanating from anywhere but the source itself.

“I believe I’ve been lenient enough with you,” you gasp when cold fingers wrap around your wrist, lifting you up while you scramble to grip at your covers. Scrounging to maintain some decency and not reveal your bare chest to the hotelier himself.

“Alastor,” sighed breathlessly while vibrant crimson hues scrutinize you, cheshire grin unwavering in his judgmental gaze before you’re dropped all together, “what are you doing here? You never come personally for a wake up call.”

Usually it was one of the other staff members like Nifty, sweet Charlie or indifferent Husk; hell sometimes even Angeldust but it’s never once been the boss himself.

“It’s your first day on the job sweetheart, I don’t approve of tardiness either,” you clamber to sit up with your covers clutched closely to your chest. Swinging your legs over the side of the plush mattress top after Alastor gives you his back. Glancing to the side for whatever you’d taken hold of to see his staff set against your nightstand. Gaze flickering from it to him as he crosses the room in confident strides to your wardrobe. Taking a moment to rummage through the hanging clothes until he procures an empty hanger from the rack before returning to your bedside.

Extending his arm out with the metal wire hooked on thin digits as his other hand gestures towards it in show. His lids fall shut, bowing gentlemanly as he presents you with a white dress shirt and sleek black pencil skirt to compliment as well as a blazer you’ll forgo despite how it’s meant to complete the ensemble.

“I had it tailored specially for you,” Alastor bends at the waist, lifting his head for his gaze to rake over your form, enjoying the way you squirm under the scrutiny. “No more embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions over that tail of yours! This will be your uniform while you work as my assistant.”

“Assistant?” You blink owlishly, gingerly taking the outfit after Alastor holds it out to you.

“Yes! My assistant,” his voice warbles like an old radio that wavers in signal before it stabilizes once again, “you see, your gracious host believes the best suited action plan for your soul's salvation is to actually put forth some effort towards your community.”

You’re standing now, pout on your lips as you tilt your head. Fastening the buttons to the crisp dress shirt of your new uniform, “and my community would be?”

Though you regret the question the moment the words leave your lips, ears flattening against your skull they almost blend in with your hair at the sight of the telltale twitch to the Radio Demons eye. He doesn’t falter for long, taking hold of his staff and resting both of his hands over top one another against the spit guard of his mic. Taking your silence as understanding before he continues, busying himself by pacing about your room nonchalantly as you finish dressing.

“I agreed with her and as of late I have been in dire need,” his head makes a sickening snap as it spins fully around to face you before his body follows, “of an extra set of semi competent hands for my laundry list of duties to accomplish in a day!”

With an ostentatious gesture of the pommel of his staff, Alastor signals the end of his spiel, “that is where you come in, my dear. Two birds with one stone and all that jazz.”

You heave a bereft sigh as you pull on the tight pin skirt, shimmying it over wide hips but for once you don’t encounter a lack of space for your bushy tail. Spinning around to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a tentative smile finding your lips as you smooth the fabric down the curve of your ass before you’re reminded you aren’t alone in the sanctity of your own room.

“And don’t you look ready for the day?” Stifling your yelp when your new boss appears behind you, hands resting on your shoulders as he looks you in the eyes of your reflection. Nodding with a sheepish grin when he responds, “Marvelous.”

Hoping he didn’t take notice of the shiver that wracks down your spine before he turns on his heel. Spinning his staff around in his hand as Alastor takes his leave, projecting his voice as he makes no effort to wait for you, “come along now dear, we have much to do.”

Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t being hyperbolic either. Toting you all over town before shoving a list of remaining tasks to do while he attended another meeting with the overlords. Groaning over each item you move to after completing the previous one, snarling incredulously as you shift his dry cleaning from one hand to another.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to find venison at this hour?” Where were you meant to find it at all, rather. Perhaps you’ll call for Angel’s aid with the promise of your top shelf absinthe that Husk selfishly hoards for himself.

In moderation, of course! Lest Ms. Morningstar force you to write out the importance of considering others' journeys to recovery. Tossing the plastic bag protecting his tailored suit over your shoulder to rest against your back to reduce the chance of wrinkling.

“Kinda fucked up that he eats deer though,” commenting offhandedly to yourself as you send the proposition to Angel before, for the third time today, Alastor startles you.

“It’s an acquired taste sweetheart,” he coos as he materializes from the shadows, falling into step with you effortlessly, “however I have taken notice of your lingering gaze, perhaps you possess the peculiar taste yourself.”

Your ear flicks wildly in minute agitation, chest warming with embarrassment. More than accustomed to how aware Alastor was to most things deemed important but you didn’t think that included you by any scope of the word.

What purpose could he have for watching you? Alastor doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it nor explore the thought before he’s pinching the list he’d given you earlier to steal it from your grasp. Humming, what you think is, anyway, approvingly over all the marked off items.

“Your last errand for me today is to help me set up for my broadcast. I've been so occupied with our little passion project that I fear leaving it to those little egg creatures has left my booth in a state!”

Alastor glances back at you with his signature smug expression, your tired body slouching forward as you follow him down the street as sinners quickly dive out of his path. “Fine, fine, as long as I can catch a break after this.”

“Of course my dear, I’m no slave driver.”

But a state is an understatement for the utter disarray Alastor’s booth was in upon both of your arrivals. You almost think this is a form of torment on the Radio Demon’s part for dealing with your tardiness but that notion is quickly dismissed upon seeing his reaction.

A tight lipped grin (more akin to a grimace) on his features telling of his agitation even without the twitch to his lid or the vice grip Alastor has on his staff.

Trash strewn about, broken glass and spilled drinks over the soundboard and overturned furniture. You could only imagine what could have occurred with the moronic minions, but you’re certain this transgression against Alastor’s prized space will not go unpunished.

You see it as an opportunity for an owed favor, not that you couldn’t barter with Sir Pentious to do what you asked of him but this will leave you without haggle for certain. Thankful for his odd adoration of the incompetent creatures.

Allowing them to see another day as you chirp quickly, “I’ll clean the mess if you repair the broken things.”

Playful as if that’ll placate the man but he hums dryly, using his magic to mend the glass while you tidy up the old fashioned way. Sweeping up shards and crumpling up what you hope were unimportant scraps of paper the eggs used for ‘arts and crafts’.

Though you do keep one that involves a crudely drawn Alastor with one of the eggs holding his hand, signed by name: Frank.. with a backwards R.

Your sleeves are rolled up by the time you’re done, fanning yourself before finally taking down your hair to admire your work. The space near pristine save for the Radio Demons oh deer mug and a few scattered transcripts of requests that’ll never make it to the open air of his broadcasts.

“Well done my little languorous lady!” You’re not sure if he’s being genuinely sarcastic or not, his tone frequently facetious sounding in nature but you choose not to take offense. Swiping your forearm over your brow as Alastor taps the reupholstered cushioned seat next to him, “that’s all for today. You may rest now.”

“Gladly,” you all but groan as you flop into the seat next to him, slumping against its back as you glance over your shoulder through the window. Lidded gaze taking in the liveliness of the city below the hilltop of the hotel before you stretch out tired limbs. A yawn overtaking you as you allow yourself to relax. Uncaring that you’re still in the presence of a menacing overlord.

You nod off with an ease that’s almost impressive. Slowly leaning against his shoulder until your limp body slumps further into Alastor, causing a stiffness in him as he looks over you. Scrutinizing for a moment as he contemplates if you’re feigning sleep for a brazen attempt at contact with him but the thought is quickly dismissed.

You were a sleepy creature, after all.

And for a long moment, his arms hover away from you in his surprise. Poised with the option to either shove you from his lap or hold you closer and in the absence of questioning eyes (not that any wretched soul dares to do so), Alastor chooses the former.

His fingers come to pet along the curve of your skull. Combing through the bumps in your hair from the professional updo that you’d so proudly put effort into.

With an almost bereft sigh despite his unwavering cheshire grin, he adjusts you carefully so you’ll curl with more ease in his lap, your nose pressed to his throat after he’d thoughtfully angled your head to his shoulder. Finally situating you in a way he could still reach his coffee and begin his broadcast. Alastor supposes you’ve earned this uninterrupted rest in his presence.

Just this once.

He supposes he shouldn’t be at all surprised with how your slumber remains wholly uninterrupted even while he talks or sings into his mic. Unmitigated volume but at least you remain quiet, not a peep from you not even a whine.

He could almost praise you, but he’s already done so once today. And the notion is completely out the window whenever he shakes you in an attempt to rouse you at the end of his broadcast.

Enough that you whine and shift in his hold but only further wrapping yourself around him. Arms coming to loop around his throat and link your fingers on the shoulder opposite of the one you rest on, shocking even him when you nuzzle into the juncture of his jaw.

What a lucky thing you were, not to be punished for the over familiarity with him even while unconscious.

Alastor takes in a deep breath, chest expanding with the wide berth before he exhales long and slowly. Hooking his arms around your shoulders and the backs of your knees, for an ample amount of support of course, as he moves to stand. Sidestepping from his seat and descending the stairs that connect Alastor’s booth to the hotel.

Features an impassive, muted smile as he treks quietly through the halls until he reaches the floor you stay on. Snapping his fingers to open your door and close it behind him upon his entrance, closing the distance to your messy bed with little effort.

“Perhaps you’ll need to spend the day with Nifty soon,” said in jest when you seem to rouse ever so slightly.

“Mmm, no,” playfully petulant with a smile gracing plump lips as you use your cutest sounding sleepy voice, “trying to send me away? Didn't I do good for you today?”

“You did, let’s try and make it a habit,” a little snide but you understand, even in your half asleep haze, it isn’t inherently directed at you. It’s like second nature to him now, the sarcasm and glib attitude.

You giggle over it, humming in affirmation as you’re gently laid to rest but he's warm against your body. You cling to it, whine with furrowed brows as his fingers wrap around your biceps in a bid for you to loosen your hold.

You tighten instead, flex the muscles in them defiantly even as he pulls away, “five more minutes Alastor.”

“You always say that darling.”

“And it usually works,” a childish rebuttal but you can tell when to take an inch or a mile depending on Alastors mood. Despite his unamused expression, you figure it couldn’t hurt to attempt the mile, “five minutes. You’re warm, I’ll fall asleep quickly.”

To your surprise, but not without a defeated sigh more than telling of his annoyance, he agrees. Resting his knee on the edge of your mattress and you take it as your sign to let go of him so he can crawl in after you. Excitedly lifting the downy comforter in invitation before fluffing it over the both of you once he lies down.

Rigidly and awkwardly, taking one side of your bed as if there was a physical diving line while staring up at the ceiling, but in your bed nonetheless; that doesn’t mean you won’t pout about it however. You’ve already taken one mile, what’s another few feet?

“I took care of you aaallll day,” uttered as a sweet purr while you scoot closer, ignoring how pinstraight he lies beneath your covers. Alastor only hums sardonically, even in the dark you can see his smile. You prop up on your elbow, resting your cheek on the back of your hand as you petulantly furrow your brows over how he lies flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Only sparing you cursory glances before his lids fall shut under your unwavering gaze, “five minutes isn’t a very long time, you know.”

“Rude,” scoffing indignantly, flopping next to him, close enough Alastor can feel your breath fan against his cheek. It bothers you how it seems like he’s ready to leave, the nonchalant, indifferent air about him palpable at your side as a silence falls between you. Causing a ringing in your ears before you disturb the peace once more.

“I kinda liked it yknow,” you start slowly. Turning over until you’re half on your stomach, half on your side. Testing the waters by placing your palm on his chest, continuing when Alastor only gives you a sideways glance, “bein of some use to you.”

Drumming your fingers against the fabric of his blazer, fingering a button as you wait for any response, good or bad, from Alastor. Touching him brazenly, however slight and innocent it may be, but it’s encouraging how he doesn’t recoil from the contact. It emboldens you, even under the intense gaze of glowing crimson; it goads you into testing further. Hooking your leg over his hips, waiting with bated breath to see if you’re pushing your luck but your self preservation skills were always in a severe deficit.

“Two minutes left, sweetheart.”

You swallow thickly at his warning, sitting up as you pull yourself to straddle his hips, “maybe I could do a little more for you.”

He glances downward, brow quirked upwards as he watches you hover above his pelvis. Careful not to rest your weight against him, just in case.You’ve piqued his interest and curiosity in tandem.

“What more do I need of you, then, dearest?” Dare you think there’s a coyness to his tone?

Finally, you lower yourself against him, skirt hiking further up to the point it’s bunched at your hips. Leaning towards him until your chest is pressed to his and your elbows rest on either side of his face. Close, as if to share a secret as you whisper, “you need me sir.”

The moment breaks the second the statement leaves your lips, Alastors pupils now morphed into the radio dials as his sclera darken to deep voids and irises glow brilliantly.

You’re on your back in a flash, positions flipped with your boss for the day caging you in beneath him. Imposing his weight against you as he invades your personal space now, “and who are you to tell me what I need?”

Though you’re far from dissuaded with this reaction. If he wanted to kill you he would have, “can I call it a suggestion instead? Or is my desire merely projection?”

A beat of silence passes between you, then another. The blood coursing in your veins, roaring in your ears does little to drown out the sound of radio static emanating from Alastor. You worry your lip between your teeth, making the already plump flesh swell from the gentle abuse.

All the while under the microscope of Alastors piercing glare until all at once, he relaxes above you. Shoulders slacking and, with a blink, you’re met with the familiar dual tones of crimson and vermillion, “I enjoy your company, sweetheart, I won’t lie to you there.”

You relax in turn, tilting your head into your pillow as you bring your hands up to your chest. Testing over your sternum as if to manually slow your rapidly beating heart before steadily undoing the buttons of your blouse. Heat rising from your throat to your cheeks despite how he definitely saw your naked chest earlier in the day.

It’s different now though, having him watch you undress compared accidentally and innocently seeing you in the nude earlier. You exhale your trepidation though, tossing away your shirt and arching up without touching Alastor who makes no move to aid nor assist you to unclasp your bra to shed away as well. Settling back down the pillow top, resisting the urge to cover yourself despite the inadvertence to one sided vulnerability; you’ve come this far, you’ve no desire to turn back.

Meeting his unwavering eye contact with your own, stone faced while Alastor grins as you shimmy your skirt and panties down your hips until they slip down your calves to pool at your ankles. Lifting your legs ever so slightly to kick them away, spreading your thighs thoughtfully to frame his hips.

Now laid completely bare beneath a still clothed Alastor but you’ve steeled your resolve, tucking your chin down to achieve a sultry look. Bringing your fingers between your thighs to swipe slow circles against your clit. Dull throbs of pleasure gradually flooding your system the louder the slick clicks grow from your ministrations.

Lips parting around a breathy sigh as your hips twitch into your touch, all while the Radio Demon watches you with muted intrigue.

It excites you, warms your chest as your arch with a soft moan. Batting your lashes up at him, “your turn..”

Alastors grin grows impossibly wider, watchful eyes dragging down your naked body then back up again, “you’re still mine to command for the day.”

A whine leaves your lips next, knees falling inward and resting against either side of Alastors tapered waist. Shoulders creeping higher as he leans down to husk in your ear, the usually threatening electronic warble of his voice makes your puffy throb with need at commanding, “undress me yourself.”

A coy smile splits your features, pointed canines digging into your lips darkened by the rush of blood as you raise your arms. Resting your hands on Alastors chest before pushing into the sleeves of his blazer, away from his shoulders and he’s gracious enough to lean slightly on his haunches to shed it while you work at the buttons of his shirt. Unfastening each one with a fervor, eager to see and feel his skin against yours.

Growing more bold as you lean up with him, dragging your palms along Alastors triceps as his shirt follows his blazer. Stalling minutely when your nose brushes against his, focus darting between his eyes to his lips and back again before you close the gap. A tentative brush at first but your grow confident easily, one hand cupping the nape of his neck just below the curve of his skull while the other ventures between you.

Fingertips grazing his abdomen while you work at his trousers, laughing breathlessly into the kiss in a subtle bid for air when you feel a firmness at his crotch. Palming it testingly after you’ve undone his button and zipper, humming a pleased noise before you push at the pooling waist of the garment as you fall back against your pillows.

“That isn’t your staff this time, is it, Alastor?”

Alastor scoffs as he tosses away his bottoms, ridding himself of his final article in the meantime so you can appreciatively drink in the sight of him.

“Playing coy isn’t your strong suit dearest,” you shiver at the hint of agitation in his tone, but with delight this time.

But even still, as you lose yourself to the overwhelming desire for him, your confidence wavers with his lack of enthusiasm over physical engagement. Peering up at him with a pathetic look about you, knit brows and a slight pout to your lips.

“Whatever the matter, are you losing your nerve?” Alastor teases as he lowers himself to you, hard cock sliding against slick lips, a gasp ripping from your lungs at the contact as you shake your head emphatically. Looping your arm beneath his to drape along his shoulder blades, ever so slightly pressing him more firmly against you. His head dips lower, allowing you to tuck your head into his throat and with his lips by your ear he growls out a simple, “lovely.”

Your hips twitch reflexively into his at the sound, delighted thrill dancing down each vertebra of your spine only to race back up when his mushroomed tip nudges against your clit. Sighing a soft sound as you chase the feeling, feet flat on the mattress top as you grind up into Alastor who chuckles bemusedly at how so little elicits so much from you.

But he can admit to himself that you feel a kind of sinful he hasn’t partaken in for quite some time— if at all. He doesn’t remember, it’s never been a priority to him but it never hurts to indulge yourself every now and again.

His arm slips beneath you, fingertips pressing into your back to force you to arch further into him as he reaches to firmly grasp the back of your thigh. Pressing his thumb into the flesh while his hips roll into yours, coating himself in your wetness and filling the room with sticky clicks until his cockhead catches on your entrance. You inhale sharply at the initial stretch, eyes rolling back behind closed lids causing them to flutter and Alastor to chuckle until he’s fully sheathed in you.

“Sweetheart you are divine,” ironic, given where you’ve ended up for eternity but the praise adds to the pleasure Alastor causes. Falling into an easy rhythm with the pace that he’s set.

Even and calculated, satisfying with each rut of his hips into your warmth. Your legs raise until your ankles hook at the base of his spine, heels resting gently at the small of his back and the position cants your hips just so, allowing Alastor to drive into that patch within you that you swear has you seeing Heaven's light.

Singing his praises with saccharine sighs and pitched moans that break the syllables of his name that punctuate each thrust he delivers.

Like music to his ears, and Alastor grits it out in so many sounds rather than sentences, a first for the Radio Demon for certain; a loss for words. If not for the choked grunts when your tight walls pulse in time with your heavily beating heart, you’d think he was enjoying himself far less than you were as the telltale coil tightened in your lower belly. Assured of his pleasure as he hastens in pace ever so slightly, rut of his hips hurried almost imperceptibly— or perhaps you were just too lost in the throngs of pleasure on the precipice of euphoria to notice.

“Where would you like me dear,” the sound of his voice barely grounds you, blinking a few times before he repeats his question as your hands cup either side of his jaw.

“You’re pretty old fashioned, h-huh? How about th— ah, good ol pull n’pray?” You giggle over your own joke while your fingers thread into the crop of his bob. Tugging gently before pointed claws scrape softly, soothingly, at his scalp while Alastors grin grows tight quickly. Hips stuttering out of rhythm while you’re wholly unaware of how your laughter forced you to grip him tighter so deliciously that it was the final nail in his proverbial coffin. Velvet walls constricting around his sensitive cock so sinfully and it ultimately leads to his demise. The lights of your room flickering and his eyes glow brighter with the warble of his voice contorting his groan.

His nails dig into your skin as his body seizes while spilling into you, giving you surface level puncture wounds. The combination of pain and pleasure occurring simultaneously while Alastor fills you full has you following him into sweet rapture. Cells alright causing you to arch into him, emitting a throaty moan that drags out the final letter of his name.

All while Alastor continues to work you both through the experience. Each of his movements deliberate in order to prolong the feeling but it does well to overstimulate you in the best of ways. Body twitching as his hips drag backwards only to push in with a salaciously lewd squelch, his spend dribbling from you as he fills you full.

Too full, overwhelmed in the best way that you can’t stop yours from splaying your palms out over his back. Digging your heels with a little more pressure in incistance for closeness as your teeth sink into the soft tissues where his throat curves into his shoulder.

Drawing a surprised snarl from him and biting out “careful now darling. Don’t get too carried away.” Breathless post ecstasy as his hips slow and you utter muted apologies, dotting tentative kisses to the marks blossoming in your wake but you’re more than glad to have left some tangible evidence of your coupling.

Even if not a soul besides yourself will ever see them, it’s enough to know they’re there and this isn’t some very vivid perverse dream.

A calm falls over the room as Alastor detangles you both from one another, his lids fluttering shut when you stretch before settling down. Turning over on the stomach and he’s certain you’ll slip into unconsciousness within a few minutes— figuring then is the time to take his leave.

He recovered first, anyway, sitting up while his fingers smooth down any unruliness your activities might’ve caused before he shifts. The motion draws your attention and, despite how badly you want to remain on cloud nine now that you’ve achieved it with a blissful shortcut, you crash from the high. Alert now as a bit of worry spikes in your bloodstream.

You reach out, just like you have a multitude of times today alone but Charlie did say the road to your redemption was seizing opportunities whenever they present themselves. Fingers encircling his thin wrist, the touch earning a questioning sound from him.

Squirming under his gaze, suddenly the slightest bit self conscious as you ask the same thing that always tumbles from your lips with ease, “five more minutes?”

And for the second time today, Alastor complies. Turning on his side as you brighten and beam at him before closing the distance with a swiftness. Nose to his chest while your arms weave around his torso, humming contentedly when you both settle between the sheets.

“You always say that.”

#vixen writes

298 notes · View notes

steddiealltheway · 2 years

Text

Some kind of AU

Eddie tries not to slam his sweetheart into her case even though he’s pretty fucking pissed. He had just played a gig to what was supposed to be more than a couple of drunks because Brian had promised he was coming to his set tonight with a few friends. But his boyfriend had forgotten again.

The rest of the band gives Eddie his space, thank god, as he heaves an amp into Gareth’s truck and stalks off to his van - having done his part in packing up. He’ll make his round of apologizes later, but right now he wants to go to his apartment and sleep this night off.

Every traffic light in town seems to turn red as soon as he approaches it. He gets cut off by three people. And he swears the crack in his windshield is getting larger. And really this night can’t get worse.

He storms up the two flights of stairs to his apartment and sighs in relief when he gets outside of his door. He unlocks it quickly and goes inside, ready to get in bed as soon as possible.

Then, he hears it.

A moan.

Eddie rolls his eyes and huffs. Really not in the fucking mood to deal with Brian’s bullshit horny mood right now.

He stalks to the door and flings it open, ready to chew him out. But then he takes in what’s happening. Brian is on top of another man who is half naked in his own bed.

“So this is why you missed my set tonight, huh?” It’s the first thing that comes out of Eddie’s mouth.

Brian’s head snaps towards him, and he quickly climbs off the bed. “This isn’t what it seems, babe… and I thought you said your set would run late tonight.”

Eddie laughs humorlessly. He doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t process any of it. “And I thought you said you were coming tonight. Clearly, I mixed up your definition of the word.”

“Eddie…” Brian reaches out to grab his arm.

“Get out,” Eddie growls out.

Brian laughs. “You don’t mean that.”

Eddie has a good few inches over Brian that he uses to intimidate him, slowly whispering, “Get the fuck out.”

Brian stares at him for a moment in disbelief then quickly leaves the room, running towards the front door and slamming it shut.

Eddie sits on his chair and puts his head in his hands. It’s really been the worst night. There’s a huff of breath to his right.

Eddie head snaps up towards the stranger still in his bed. “What the fuck are you still doing here, man?”

The other man blushes and slowly lifts his left wrist which is handcuffed to the bed. The fucker used his handcuffs.

Eddie groans and opens his drawer to grab the key. He stares at the empty spot that the key usually occupies then he frantically digs around.

An unfamiliar voice says, “I don’t mean to make this worse for you, but I’m pretty sure he still has the key in his pocket.”

“Are you kidding me?” Eddie automatically replies.

“Man, I wish I was,” the stranger says, right hand rubbing sorely at his left wrist.

Eddie huffs, “They’re supposed to be for decoration only.” He stands up and makes his way to his tiny closet, digging out an extra wire hanger and beginning to bend it. He sits on his bed and goes through the tedious task of trying to pick the lock.

“You know how to pick a lock?” The man asks.

“No,” Eddie answers truthfully. “But I know how to hot wire a car.”

This gets the stranger to chuckle softly. Eddie looks up and really sees him for the first time. He has light brown eyes, long lashes, full lips, and really glorious hair. Eddie doesn’t know how Brian got him to go “home” with him.

“I’m Steve,” the stranger introduces himself, “Figured I should tell you my name if we’ll be here for a while.”

“I’m Eddie,” he replies. Although he’s sure Steve caught onto that before. He looks back at handcuffs, tongue resting on his top lip in concentration.

“I’m really sorry, man,” Steve rambles out. “I- I didn’t know that he was taken, you know. Especially with the way he approached me tonight all… Never mind. But really man. I had no idea. And I feel like absolute shit. I mean, the handcuffs weren’t even supposed to happen. He had gotten the key out and joked about it. But then they were suddenly on, and then you came in and… I’m so sorry.”

Eddie had stopped trying to pick the lock mid rant because Steve apparently has the habit of using his hands while he’s talking. Instead, he takes the time to look the guy in the eyes again, having the absurd thought that he wishes they had met in a different way.

Eddie shakes his head and continues picking the lock. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” Eddie says sincerely after a few moments.

The stranger runs his right hand through his hair and relaxes a bit more into Eddie’s bed. A minute goes by before Eddie notices that he’s shaking a bit. He sees the chills down his arms and quickly grabs at his blanket and pulls it around the man.

Steve takes it and whispers a quick thank you, pulling the blanket up his naked torso and around his neck. He stares off for a few moments and asks, “Is that a D&D dice set?”

Eddie’s head snaps up. He smiles widely. “You know what they are?”

“My friend, who’s kind of like a little, annoying brother, plays. I was actually thinking of buying him a new set for his birthday. Do you know where I could get them custom made? He’s been telling me about this new campaign…” Steve rambles on for a few minutes about all the things his friend - Dustin - has told him about. Steve seems terribly clueless about D&D, but it’s so obvious that he cares so much about this Dustin kid. And after a long night, this actually warms Eddie’s heart.

He continues listening to the campaign, impressed by whoever this Will kid is because he seems to have excellent dungeon master skills.

Eddie shares what type of design he thinks Dustin would like based on his character and offers to draw up a few concepts for Steve to use. Then, he rattles off a shop in town that he got his dice at which launches into Eddie explaining the reason for his set which was a gift from his uncle.

Eddie starts describing a few moments from his latest campaign and where he thinks it’s going, and he’s surprised when Steve gives him a few great ideas for the plot. As he’s going on about his most evil character created - Vecna - a clicking noise rings out.

Eddie stops mid rant, and both he and Steve look down at the cuffs. Steve slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls his wrist out and stares at the red ring around it.

Eddie grimaces and goes towards the kitchen, pulling an ice pack out of the freezer. When he comes back into the room, Steve is standing up, pulling a yellow sweater over his head.

It’s oddly endearing.

As Eddie gets closer he realizes they’re around the same height which is surprisingly comforting, being able to easily look him in the eyes.

Steve takes the ice pack and thanks Eddie again, pressing it into the slight bruise forming. He glances at the clock behind Eddie. “Shit, I have to get going or Robin’s going to kill me,” Steve says, stuffing his wallet that he left on the counter into his pocket.

Eddie’s heart drops at the mention of the name. He prays Steve isn’t like Brian, so Eddie can’t help but ask, “Robin?”

“My roommate,” Steve clarifies.

Eddie lightly sighs, oddly relieved that the stranger isn’t also cheating.

Steve stares at him for a few moments, eyes flickering between Eddie and the fridge strangely enough. He puts the ice pack on the counter and rushes behind Eddie, grabbing the dry erase marker and scribbling on the magnetic whiteboard.

Eddie stares in slight shock when Steve pulls away. “It’s my number,” Steve explains. “It’s just… I’ve also been cheated on, and it sucks. And if you needed to talk to someone about it… you can always talk to me.”

Eddie stares at Steve speechless.

“That’s weird, isn’t it?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowed. He continues, “Yeah, that’s weird.” He doesn’t erase his number though.

He makes his way awkwardly to Eddie front door.

“Wait!” Eddie calls out, grabbing the ice pack and rushing towards Steve. He shoves it into his hand. “Take that with you, and give it back to me later. I have to draw that design for you, after all.”

Steve stares at Eddie for a moment then softly smiles. “Yeah, that’s right. You do.”

The two hesitate at the door for a few seconds, staring at each other. Steve shakes his head and opens the front door. “It was good meeting you, Eddie. I wish it could’ve been under better circumstances,” he says with a grimace.

“Yeah,” Eddie says laughing awkwardly. “Thank you for everything. I’ll call you.”

Steve smiles brightly and gently closes the door behind him.

Eddie huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He glances at the fridge, takes in the number, and begins laughing again.

What a fucking night.

(Part Two)

#so like #should I turn this into a whole fic?#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet

4K notes · View notes

hotvintagepoll · 5 months

Text

Propaganda

Josephine Baker (The Siren of the Tropics, ZouZou)— Josephine Baker was an American born actress, singer, and utter icon of the period, creating the 1920s banana skirt look. She was the first black woman to star in a major motion film. She fought in the French resistance in WWII, given a Legion of Honour, as well as refusing to perform in segregated theatres in the US. She was bisexual, a fighter, and overall an absolutely incredible woman as well as being extremely attractive.

Joan Crawford (Dancing Lady, Mildred Pierce, The Women)— God, where do I start!!! Her face is so UNIQUE and compelling and stands out so much. I love her thick brows and high cheekbones. She has a school-marmy hardness too her that makes her a little scary and therefore sexy. Her low thick voice also does it for me. Despite being an unusual looking woman with an unusual face, she never loses her glamour. Just a gorgeous talented actress, AND she was some sort of gay!!!

This is round 5 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut. the famous banana skirt is mildly NSFW.]

Josephine Baker:

Black, American-born, French dancer and singer. Phenomenal sensation, took music-halls by storm. Famous in the silent film era.

Let's talk La Revue Negre, Shuffle Along. The iconique banana outfit? But also getting a Croix de Guerre and full military honors at burial in Paris due to working with the Resistance.

She exuded sex, was a beautiful dancer, vivacious, and her silliness and humor added to her attractiveness. She looked just as good in drag too.

So I know she was more famous for other stuff than movies and her movies weren’t Hollywood but my first exposure to her was in her films so I’ve always thought of her as a film actress first and foremost. Also she was the first black woman to star in a major motion picture so I think that warrants an entry

Iconic! Just look up anything about her life. She was a fascinating woman.

Joan Crawford:

I just love women that are very mean.

she was a smoke show in every decade, from the 20s to the 60s.

The classic matronly beauty with amazing eyebrows

of course there's a space for MILF joan but i want to just take a second and say she was so cute in her early movies (like grand hotel and the women)! those parts often get forgotten but her stardom shines in them just as much as in her older #queen #icon roles

Misremembered for wire hanger hatred, this original screen queen mastered the art of the comeback and refused to let Hollywood toss her aside as she aged. The term “auteur” is usually revered for directors or writer-directors, but most critics have one actor they’ll give that title to as well: Crawford—anyone who knows classic movies already has a “Crawford picture” in their head. She knew how to style herself and promote herself. She made herself a star and kept herself fixated in the Hollywood firmament. What’s hotter than knowing just how hot you are?

(don’t think about Mommie Dearest right now) Joan was known for being super nice to all the like crew of the movies she worked on and she’d get everyone gifts. Joan would hold movie nights at her house and knit at the back of her home theater. Joan was sooo obsessed with other women including Greta Garbo, whos dressing room she would obsessively and purposefully walk by. She said that while working on Grand Hotel, Garbo grabbed her face and “if there ever was a time in my life where I would’ve been a lesbian, that was it.” But like Joan also probably did sleep with women including Barbara Stanwyck. Joan was so obsessed with Bette Davis, screening multiple movies of hers in a day at her watch party, constantly trying to spend time with her or do a movie together, insisting on the dressing room next to hers at Warners and sending her daily gifts… etc. Once Bette said that sex was gods joke to humanity and Joan said “I think the joke is on her.” Joan fucked a lot. Joan got caught publicly fucking a man and sent a letter to the woman who saw them basically saying “I bet it excited you” and the woman was like you know what. It did. Joan was best friends with a gay man. Joan was an actually genuinely good actress even though people mocked her a lot for being like cheap and stupid (partially because she never finished school because her family was broke). Joan was so insane and so cool that’s all.

#joan crawford #josephine baker #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 5

215 notes · View notes

heya-dollface · 3 months

Text

What to look for when making Long Hair for Dolls - The Differences in 100% Acrylic Yarns

Hey lovely doll peeps, hope you're having a good day! So over in the Dollblr community here on Tumblr, some people had some questions regarding making doll hair out of acrylic yarn. So I took some time to grab some yarn from my stash and lay out what I know about working with it. It was helpful there, so now I'm copying the post over here so you all can enjoy it and use its knowledge for your own doll needs. That said, if you're interested in the Dollbllr community, go reach out to @plasma-packin-peep/@peepersponies to see about getting an invite. It's a really sweet group of people from what I've experienced so far. <3

Let me give you a quick summary of about five years worth of learning to work with this material.

Welcome to my desk! Before you are five different yarns from my stash. All of these are 100% acrylic. As you can see, acrylic yarn comes in a wide variety of sizes and softness, and while I can do the same things to all of them, they will behave slightly differently. My favorites of this bunch are the Yarn Bee True Colors and the Charisma. Yarn Bee is the native brand to Hobby Lobby, and Charisma I've found at Michaels. Loops & Threads and Hometown, which aren't pictured here, other brands I've enjoyed working with in their thicker fiber variants, also over at Michaels.

The common wisdom in the doll community is that you use 100% acrylic because it's a synthetic fiber that can handle heat. That means it can handle a flat iron or curling wand without melting, which is what makes it look similar to real human hair on this scale. I haven't tested a ton in the way of other fibers. But one of my dolls, Sass here, uses a combination of 100% acrylic yarn and a yarn that's part acrylic, part nylon, and I wanna say part spandex? It's been like 4 years since I made this guy, and that yarn's label is lost, but you can see that the nylon yarn sticks out a little. It doesn't flat iron nicely into a fluffy, realistic hair, it's more stringy. So useful to know if you want that look!

So here's what we're going to do. I've taken all of the yarns pictured and taken them apart to show you how much fiber I lose on an average yarn prep. I'm gonna show you what that looks like from left to right. My method is to cut my yarn, unravel each strand by hand, then take a wire pet brush to it to smooth it out. Instead of tying my yarn to a hanger or hoop, I hold it in my hand, brush through the yarn gently until I'm halfway through, then flip it and go after it from the other side. This is good for ensuring that my length is preserved. Whatever fiber gets stuck in the pet brush, I then take out, mush together, and brush through again so that I have more yarn hair to work with. After that, I will take a flat iron to it and then brush through one more time, but I'm not showing those last two steps here. That said, sometimes flat ironing does lead to losing more fiber, so that is something to consider.

Let's start with that big chonker. This is also a Yarn Bee yarn, and it's probably ideal for an easy time getting your hair unraveled. I have yet to use this one on a doll, truth be told I got it on clearance and haven't figured out who the color would suit. It's very easy to pull apart and work with, and as you can see, it retains a lot of its length.

Next is the True Colors. This stuff is so soft, which is why it's my preference, and while it can be easy to tear apart, you can still retain a lot of length if you're gentle. Like look at the far right, that's all the fiber I took out of the pet brush and mushed back together. It's still a pretty sizable amount of yarn fiber to work with!

The Charisma is a similar story. Something you've probably noticed is that not all yarns have the same amount of strands when pulled apart. I tend to see 2 to 4 on average when I'm prepping yarn. This is a two strander, and once again, it's soft and delightful. Highly recommend going to a physical store and touching your yarn before your buy it. The softer stuff is my preference given how much I'm holding and touching it.

This yarn from Mainstay I got on clearance at Walmart, and it's actually quite soft to the touch! As you can see, our strands are getting thinner here, which is harder to unravel with your fingers. I loose a lot of length when brushing through yarn like this, and it's hard to mush the fibers back together. Yarn like this is incredibly common, and I'll be honest, I don't love working with it. ^^''' But it may be perfect for your project needs! All depends on what you want in a yarn. If you're looking to give a doll a wavy/curled hair without having to curl it yourself, just unraveling and plugging a lot of these in might be for you!

I don't remember where this seafoam green yarn came from, but I think it might be yarn marketed for making baby clothes. It's very thin, and it knots a little at the ends when you unravel it, which is frustrating. I managed to preserve and reconstruct pretty well with this fiber, but the amount of hassle it takes to get through this for a full head of doll hair is very aaaahhh. Like I said, maybe this works for your project. I tend to save this kind of yarn for stuff like accents rather than the main hair color, just because it takes so long to work with.

And there you have it! Those are my notes about brushing out doll hair! As a quick aside, you don't have to brush out yarn in order for it to be beautiful. Sometimes I like to only unravel it and use it that way, like with my recent fairy doll here. She uses a blend of two True Colors yarns and I wanna say a Charisma for the white. There's even a pink and white yarn in here that I didn't brush out, I just boiled and then froze it around a foam curler and threw it in for more texture, though it's a bit tough to spot in this photo.

At the end of the day, you can use just about any acrylic yarn for your project, the question is really what are you willing to put up with. I know myself, I know that I can put on a movie or chat with friends as I'm unraveling a thicker fiber yarn and then brush it out another time and have it be tolerable. That works for me. As you can see, a staple of my dolls is having really long, soft yarn hair, so it makes sense that this is what I gravitate towards. XD

But maybe you want something different out of your yarn experience. That's fine too! The best thing you can do is experiment to see what you like. Do what makes you happy! There is no wrong way to customize your dolls (so long as you're not putting yourself or others in danger). Go have fun, be kind to yourself, and be safe in handling your materials. And of course, if you have any questions, feel free to ask! I've been customizing since November of 2018, and I love chatting about this art form. To my beginners especially, there is no such thing as a stupid question, don't be afraid to ask for help if you're unsure of where to go.

Here's wishing you all a wonderful day, and happy customizing! <3

#dollblr #doll customs #doll hair #yarn hair #100% acrylic yarn #doll customization #doll customizing #doll repaints #monster high custom #monster high repaints

146 notes · View notes

word-wytch · 1 year

Text

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 12

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 12/? 10.7k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Grades are high, but stakes are higher.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: flirting, play fighting, heavy angst, drinking, pregnancy mention, a heaping helping of family tension, mild fantasy blood/gore

Special thanks to @storiesbyrhi for the beta reading on this one.

Monday, November 18th 1985

Hawkins felt different this weekend.

Perhaps it was the ashen sky that hung over the scattered remains of a brilliant fall. The way it bathed the world in a pale, sullen wash. The way it made the rust on the signs outside the gas station seem more corrosive, the streets seem smaller, the storefronts seem older. Perhaps it was because everywhere you looked, you saw him.

You were used to hearing Eddie in the cars that billowed smoke and blasted music as you pumped your gas. You had grown accustomed to seeing him in the crushed beer cans and cigarette butts that littered the weeds along the sidewalk, in the remnants of a good time. Those things were not unusual. But this weekend you saw him under the harsh fluorescents of the grocery store. On the crinkled label of a 99 cent can of soup. In the faces of small children as you stood in line with a cart that you could never fill alone. You saw him in the windows of subsidized apartments. Heard him in the squeak of wire hangers against the pole at the secondhand store. Felt him as you drove past the huddled rows of trailers.

On Monday after school when you sensed a tall figure in the doorway of your classroom, you half expected to look up and feel those grey skies again. To see those weed littered sidewalks and pothole riddled roads that led nowhere. But instead you saw something much brighter.

Eddie was smirking, rapping his ringed knuckles against the doorframe as he leaned into it. A look in his eyes like he was keeping a secret.

His dirty white Reeboks squeaked against the tile as he padded over to his spot in the wooden chair beside you and dropped his backpack irreverently to the floor. The gust of air that followed was painted with base notes of skin and leather, top notes of cigarette smoke and a bright hint of shampoo. Not a trace of rain.

You gathered the papers in front of you, shuffling them into a pile in the corner as you glanced over at him, unable to suppress the smile breaking out on your face. “What?”

The smirk twisted deeper on his lips. “I read your story.”

It was like he said he’d seen you naked. Heat crept up your neck. “All of it?” you asked with a nervous chuckle.

“Not exactly.” Eddie grabbed the seat between his legs and walked it closer. “I’m at the part where they’re, uh, cooking over the fire outside of Grimhold and Cybelle takes her mask off for the first time. Well, in front of Lazarus anyway.” He shrugged his leather jacket off to drape over the back of the chair.

It was strange to hear him say those names. Names you hadn’t thought about in years, dusted off from where you shelved them in your mind. It was like he was speaking a dead language, breathing new life into it.

You swallowed. “Oh, that part. Yeah, that’s an important moment.”

“I had a hard time putting it down, if that tells you anything.”

“I take that means you like it then?”

“Like it?” he said in a breathy chuckle, leaning closer. “I’m blown away.”

Your stomach turned to mush, unable to tear your eyes away from the soft earnestness of his features. “Really?”

Eddie gave a deadpan look. “Look, I’m a huge fantasy geek, but this world you’ve created is…” he shook his head as a soft puff of air left his lips, “unlike anything I’ve ever read.”

There was a weight to his gaze, so heavy that you needed to break it. “Oh wow, um, thank you,” you said, glancing at the paperclips on your desk as heat made a home in your cheeks again. “It’s been ages since I’ve read it myself honestly.” In the same span of time you still never learned how to take a compliment.

“Yeah—no, I mean it. It’s really good.” He tipped his head towards you, searching for your eyes. “I like that it’s, uh, based in a sort of… reality, if that makes sense. Like the whole thing about illness being a problem and how the change in the atmosphere makes Cybelle dizzy. The gold and how it powers machines. Stuff like that. It’s clever.”

You found the courage to meet his gaze again. “Well, thank you. I mean I’m definitely no Tolkien, but…”

Eddie scoffed. “Honestly? Tolkien takes three pages to describe a door. You never need to and yet the world is crystal clear.”

The ease that washed over you escaped through a chuckle. “You know, I always thought that killed the pacing.”

“It does! God, I mean don’t get me wrong, he is the grandfather of fantasy but Jesus Christ.”

Your laughter mingled, soft and easy, coloring the air in the space between you. It echoed off the tile floor and concrete walls as beams of golden sunlight poured in through the row of windows to your right. The rays made a halo of his hair, catching the frizz that escaped the pattern of his curls.

Eddie’s eyes sparkled, and you would search for the hurt in them. You knew it was there, hiding somewhere deep in those pools of molten chocolate, but in this moment there was no trace to be found.

“Hell, maybe I should consult you for my campaigns,” he said scooting his chair impossibly closer. Close enough to feel his aura. To feel the hair on his arm tickle against yours.

“Jeez, don’t flatter me.” You were surprised at how steady your voice came out.

“No, I’m serious,” he said, his eyes drifting toward your lips. “Okay, don’t tell the boys but I’m actually kind of stuck on this one part coming up.”

You snorted. “Right, because I have such a good rapport with the boys.”

The smile lines deepened around his smirk. “Ok, so… the final boss is coming up and I kind of want there to be a plot twist but I’m not sure how to like, make that work.”

“Alright, well what’s happened in the story so far?”

There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes before his voice dropped to a theatric narration.

“There’s a dark, evil force in the village of Hammerfall,” he began with a wave of his hand. “Crops are withering, livestock perishing. The villagers say it’s a curse put on by a spurned old crone who vanished into the forest, never to be seen again.”

The gooey smile breaking out on your features could not be contained. A new color in the lexicon of hues you knew his voice to be. Rich with iridescent animation, reaching deep enough to turn your heart to putty.

“Six brave adventurers investigate the cause and venture deep into the nearby woods where they encounter harpies,” he emphasized, flourishing his fingers, “dryads, and a forest teeming with dark activity. There’s something deeper going on…” he paused for dramatic effect, “or at least I want there to be,” Eddie chuckled, breaking character as his voice snapped back into its normal cadence. “Originally I was just going to have it be that the old crone is a kind of sorcerer but we already sort of figured that, you know? I feel like that’s too predictable. I want it to be something, I dunno, more interesting?”

You blinked as you willed your dopey mouth to move. “So she’s, um, going to be the final boss I take it?”

“Yeah, but that’s like, totally predictable right?”

“Hmm.” Resting your elbow on the desk and your finger between your lips, you thought for a moment. “What if she’s like, I dunno, possessed by something else? Like maybe there’s an even darker force at work and it’s just using her as a puppet or something?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “I like the way you think.” His voice was tinged with a playful darkness.

You tucked your fingers behind your ear in reflex. “I mean I have no idea what it would be, but…”

“No—no that’s a good place to start. I think I actually have an idea of who could do that sort of thing, like in the monster manual. He’s a sort of… necromancer.”

You nodded. “Oh yeah, that sounds plausible enough. Maybe there’s some sort of clue that gets left behind when she dies or something. Maybe there are like, markings on her body or some sort of strange amulet or… something that would lead to clues about who might be behind this.”

Eddie nodded along, his eyes growing wilder with every word. “Hey uh,” he began, leaning in like he was about to share a secret. “I don’t… know if anybody’s told you lately but…” his soft breath feathered your cheek, “you’re pretty brilliant.”

It was the way he said it. Soft in tone, heavy with intention. Peering under his lashes like he wanted to kiss you. You swallowed, hard, as your heart pounded into your throat. “No uh,” you choked on your laugh, “not lately.” Breaking his gaze, you fiddled with your green grading pen and pressed your thumb nail into the gummy gripper.

With startling animation, Eddie grabbed a spare piece of paper from the pile on your desk and snatched the pen out of your hand.

“Hey!”

“Not like you were using it,” he teased, swiping your attendance clipboard to prop the sheet against.

Your mouth fell open. “Well… no… but—”

He turned the pen over in his hand and clicked it a few times. “So much power in this little tool.” Putting it to the paper, he etched a green mark that would form the first letter of your first name. “Hmm what grade am I going to give you?” he tapped the pen against his lips.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh you’re grading me now?”

“Well you definitely have attention to detail down, so A for that.” His hand hurried across the page, flourishing as he marked the A.

You sat back in your chair, thoroughly amused. “How generous of you.”

His eyes crinkled as he scribbled against the paper, clipboard cradled in his left arm to shield it from you. “Let’s see, what’s next… oh I know. Creativity. A plus for that one.”

You rolled your eyes, a weak diversion for how hot your face was getting. “How ‘bout I give you an A plus for being a total cheeseball?”

“Ohh wit — A for that one too.” His tongue darted out, nimble hand dragging your pen across the page.

It was almost uncomfortable, the grip he had on you. How he could make you feel with a gesture, a word. “Ok enough flattery, give it back,” you said, reaching for the clipboard.

Eddie jerked it away. “Sense of humor, hmm, might have to give you a B for that one.” He shot you a smirk.

You balked. “Oh come on!”

“…B minus.”

A laugh escaped you. “Eddie!”

His eyes were full of mischief as he scribbled frantically against the paper. “What, never got a B before? First time for everything, sweetheart,” he jested with a firm shake of his head.

It was hard to be offended when your brain was short circuiting.

“Maybe we can work on it together,” he offered, biting back a snicker.

Your brain clicked back on with the glare you shot him. “Okay, that’s it.” You lunged for the clipboard, but he was slow on the juke this time. Your fingers made purchase with the masonite slab.

Gripping it like a lifeline, he practically dragged you across his lap as he lurched away. It all happened so quickly. The swift tug he gave, your hand jutting out to brace the first thing in proximity — his denim clad thigh.

There was a pause in the movement. Heat lit up your whole body, radiating from the point of contact.

His leg was warm and solid under your palm. So too was his shoulder nestled into yours as you reached across his lap, deeper into the bubble of his scent. You didn’t dare look him in the eyes, but in your close peripheral you could see his mouth; gaping just as yours was.

Recovered from shock, the tension resumed in his tugging, and you responded with equal and opposite force. Your hand remained planted. For balance.

“So serious!” Eddie teased, wild hair bouncing as he jerked.

“I am serious, give it back.” Maybe it was your bright, airy giggles that gave you away, but he didn’t seem convinced.

God he was strong. You could feel the tremble of his arm emanating through the clipboard. Feel the flex of his bicep against yours as you fought his strength. You allowed yourself, for just a moment in the struggle, to glance at the one furthest to you. To follow his white, angular knuckles down to his wrist and see tendons flex against blue veins. To trace the curve of his inked forearm, to the bend of his elbow, to the bulge of his bicep. Your eyes lingered there. At the swell under his velvet skin. It surprised you, how large the muscle was, so much that it caused your grip to slip for just a second.

It only made him tug harder, but not too hard, you noticed. Gentleman he was, trying to play fair. It was, however, hard enough to draw you further across his lap, further into his scent, close enough to slot your chest into his outstretched bicep and feel it tremble. You fought to regain your hold, hooking your fingers over the top and yanking back with an invigorated fervor.

“Wai-wai-wait I’m not finished! I haven’t even gotten to ‘plays well with others’,” he wheezed, breaking into a warm, bubbly chuckle right against your ear.

You could barely eke out words. Sweat dampened your hand against the denim as his thigh flexed with every tug. A large, strong muscle that glided and stiffened under his heated skin. “Give it back,” you gritted weakly.

Soft curls tickled your cheek, feathered your lips and nose. You could smell it deeper than ever; that bright shampoo, that warm musk radiating from his neck.

“What, you gonna give me detention?” he quipped, turning his head to steal a glance from you.

Your mouth hung open. It was the way he said it, so defiant and cocksure. Daringly taunting for someone whose face was blotched pink. “Yeah, write you up for being a smartass,” you choked out with a pointed tug while your other hand burned a hole in his thigh.

He gasped dramatically, pausing in the struggle. “You think I’m smart?” His tone was comically serious. It was scary how easy he could feign it on a dime.

You deadpanned. “I’ve been telling you that this whole time. Maybe you should pay more attention.”

“Oh I’m paying attention.”

“Oh yeah, to what?”

It was all you could do not to stare at the ridges of his neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed, pink lips twitching, eyes darting between yours.

“That’s what I thought.” You seized the split second opening in his defense and snatched your dignity back.

His fingers clung desperately to the clipboard. “Ok—ok, I’ll give it back, I promise, just answer one question for me… about your book,” he panted, ghosting your lips with it.

It was those goddamn Bambi eyes that defeated you. Large, almond, pleading. His last, pathetic line of offense. “Fine,” you sighed.

“Is this a love story?” he murmured, close enough to taste his words.

They hung like a cloud. Heavy and potent. Threatening to burst. Hovering in the fractional distance between you.

“I—” you balked, voice trapped in your throat.

The tugging ceased. Arms went slack. Fingers dampened masonite and paper. Eyes flicked back and forth. Yours caught the dip in his lids as they lowered to your lips, the long, gentle curve of his lashes as he peered at you from under them.

You could not will your hand to move. It was glued there like his eyes were on you. Clammy fingers twitched against warm denim, itching to snake them further, to pull him closer, to commit each aching second to memory.

Your eyes dipped next, quick enough to see his nerves make subtle twitches in his smile lines. To catch the parting of his plush, pink mouth that drew you like a magnet. Your heartbeat drowned out any sounds of pinballs.

You could have done it. Moved your chin two inches. Snatched his pout.

Instead you swallowed and summoned a whisper. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

______

Your childhood home had gone rather unchanged since you had moved out of it. A little one-story ranch built in the 50s. Looking at it from the outside, it always amazed you that it could fit three bedrooms within its four walls. Plain and unassuming. White exterior, green shingled roof, a brick flower bed underneath the big bay window in front. Your mother had planted a tidy row of mums in it for fall. There was hardly a stray leaf to be found fluttering across the small, manicured lawn.

Inside you were greeted with the same paneled living room walls, painted powder blue now. The same family portraits from when you were seven, another from when you were ten, and then thirteen. Clean white carpet. Neat and orderly. Your old room had become a craft room soon after college. There was hardly a trace of you left. The Led Zeppelin and Beatles posters were the first to go, replaced with more tasteful decor like cross-stitched landscapes. A singer sewing machine was now perched on the desk you spent countless hours huddled over in study. Nick-knacks took up residence in your bookshelves. The purple walls were painted over with a powder yellow.

Mickey’s room remained largely unchanged. Bigger than yours, though you never had the heart to move over. It served as a guest room now, the full size bed still dressed in the quilt he used, the one your grandma made. Same cobalt blue walls. Your mother still dusted his trophies.

What was most different was the table that stretched from the small dining room part-way into the living room. It was decorated with candlestick holders that looked like turkeys wearing hokey pilgrim hats. Those were definitely new. You wondered where your mother picked them up.

Both you and your mom would assume your roles — hers as host, and yours as helpful. You would busy yourself with the little things first. Details like folding linen napkins just how she instructed; in cascading triangles. You would sit at the end of the table and press daydreams into them. Quiet fantasies of warm nights and summer winds. Folding in details like the scent of leather and smoke inside the van, the sweet country air gusting through the windows. Details like how you imagined freedom would taste — slick and hot, hungry and lazy with room for seconds.

Once finished, you placed your folded secrets where they belonged — under the dinner forks.

You were making yourself useful with a can of cranberry sauce when your relatives arrived. The kind with whole cranberries. Clamping the gummy handles of the can opener and twisting as the teeth bit into the metal lid. Last year you’d made your own. Simmered sugar and orange juice in a pot over a real flame in your own house, added plump red berries and heated them until they burst. Dan’s mom said it was her favorite thing on the table.

This year you scooped cold, jelly chunks into an plain glass bowl, running the spoon down the ridges like a washboard. You were tapping off the bitter excess when the front door cracked open, ushering the sound of familiar voices colored in casual pleasantries.

They would find you there eventually — in the kitchen putting rolls into a basket. It was effort, to smile and laugh and act like you were doing great. It was easier to act like you were busy.

You hadn’t seen them since Connie and Cameron’s wedding. A sweltering day in mid-July. The last place on Earth you wanted to be. You’d spent most of it swallowing your feelings. Washing down saccharine cake with acrid mimosas. Sitting at a vacant table littered with party favors and sweating, half-empty glasses while your relatives slow danced to I Want To Know What Love Is by Foreigner.

Your Aunt Helen and Uncle Larry spared no expense for their daughter and her new husband, from the country club venue to the live band. From the four course dinner to the three tiered tower of a cake.

Connie’s dress was beautiful. An ivory silk with princess puff sleeves and a train that stretched down the aisle. Like a limited edition Barbie still inside the box.

You hadn’t said much to her then — a tepid congratulations from behind a tired mask. It was all you could offer besides cash in a Hallmark greeting card. You doubted she noticed. She was busy anyway, as all brides were on their wedding day. It’s not like you were really that close to begin with. Not close in age with her being seven years your junior, not close in interests or hobbies. Not even close in proximity for most of her adult life, until recently.

What you remembered more than anything was the way your grandma looked at her that day — like she’d hung the moon. She’d looked at you like that before of course — adorned with sashes in the parking lot as you clutched your first diploma. In the shade outside the the stadium as you cradled your second. When you reached across the table to present your ring to her.

You were reaching across the table to place the steaming basket of rolls by the cranberry sauce when you caught that look again — at Connie, the Sears catalog between them blanking the napkins you’d placed so carefully.

“See, I was thinking about this matching set with the dresser and changing table. See how it’s sort of built in like that?” Connie explained, leaning in toward your grandmother at the head of the table.

Your stomach did a sinking somersault, eyes magnetized to her pastel pink fingernail tapping against the full spread of baby furniture.

“Oh my, well isn’t that convenient. Yes I do like the natural wood grain of this one, the lighter color,” your grandma added.

You tried to swallow it away. Pretend like you didn’t even notice. Like the cheering coming from the living room was summoning you. You could still hear them as your stocking feet crossed over the divide from the hard wood to the plush carpet.

“I was thinking the same thing. It’ll go nicely with the paper we’ve picked out for the walls. Oh shoot, I meant to bring the sample. Sorry, I’ve been so spacey lately.” Connie’s sticky sweet chuckle clung to your hammering ears.

Suddenly your mother’s Precious Moments collection had never been so fascinating. Looking past your anguished reflection in the glass cabinet, you drank in their big, dopey eyes. Vignettes of little cherub hands clutching flowers, posing as firefighters and dentists. Droopy eyed children sitting on see-saws and garden benches. Frozen in their perfect little worlds.

“Oh that’s quite alright dear,” your grandma’s gentle reassurance echoed from the dining room. “I can come over and see sometime after my knees are healed, plenty of time between now and April.”

You tried to blink away the image — your old craft room on Clementine painted pastel pink or blue, filled with furniture from the pages of Connie’s catalog. It probably was at this point. Your eyes burned a hole in a ceramic cherub head as heat rose in your veins.

The sound of a whistle drew your attention to your uncle and cousins crowded around your family’s meager television.

“Oh COME ON!” Larry bellowed as the plastic cushions squeaked under his shifting weight. “There’s no way that was a foul, you see that, Kevin?” he gestured to his son, slumped against the couch half asleep. “Total baloney.”

Cameron adjusted his glasses as he shifted forward. “Oh yeah his foot was totally on the line, I bet we can catch it on replay.”

“Where do they find these damn refs anyway? The academy for the blind? HA!” Larry sat back in his seat and cracked another beer, amused with himself.

You raked your eyes over the blurring sea of dolls again, drowning in your thoughts until one of them pulled you to the surface. On the middle shelf behind the one in the lab coat and stethoscope, this one stood in front of a big desk with a stack of books and an apple on it and held a large slab in front of her. You crouched down to read the fine print.

Report Card

Kindness…A

Mercy…A

Love…A

Faithfulness…A

Your stomach twisted into knots. Phantom touches ghosted over your hands and arms, wrapped themselves around your heart and squeezed. You caught your own eyes in the mirror behind the dolls — sad and droopy just like theirs, only painted with shame and longing instead.

Uncle Larry’s voice boomed through the room again. This time it was coming from the television while the Larry on the couch shushed your cousins like they were even making noise to begin with.

“At Bessler Ford we’ve always got the best deals, and this Thanksgiving we’re practically GIVING these cars away!”

“Hey you guys seen the new one?” Larry called out to the rest of the house.

The question was met with weak replies from Connie and Grandma looking up from the catalog in the dining room. You wondered if your parents even heard him from the kitchen. With lukewarm enthusiasm, you humored him with your attention, mind swimming with pinball thoughts, eyes glazing over as you stared at the screen. Then, like a sudden apparition, your mother emerged from the kitchen and snatched the remote from the end table.

“ZERO down, ZERO interest, we’re prating BEGGING you—”

Like a Wild West gunslinger quick on the draw, the TV blipped off with a fizzle.

“Aw come on!” Larry protested.

“Dinner’s ready, time to eat,” she stated firmly, her expression unamused.

As your family peeled themselves off the couch and shuffled over to the table, you found your seat on the carpet side of the divide.

Even with the extra leaf there was no fitting nine at a six person table, so there had been some improvising. The two tables were covered in linens you didn’t recognize. Starchy and stiff, a cream brocade with a fall leaf pattern that shimmered in the light. Your mom must have steamed them to get the creases out from the packaging. Though matching, they couldn’t hide the fact that they were different shapes.

Your side of the family took their places at the smaller square table, and your cousins found theirs at the rectangle.

Aunt Helen’s green halo of fruit jello jiggled as your dad triumphantly plunked the carved turkey in the center of everything.

It rested awkwardly on the seam between the two tables, a sloping butterball bridge.

You watched the juices gather at the lower end of it as everyone around you lowered their heads to utter the words of a half-hearted prayer, the meaning long forgotten with tired repetition.

Barely a second of silence passed before a manicured hand shot out from your left, reaching to steady the platter so it favored her side. “You know, it really was nice of you to offer to host,” Helen said to your mother across from you, “but perhaps next year we can have the honor. We have plenty of space for it.”

The suggestion was met with a tight lipped smile. “Next year we’ll be back at mom’s,” she quipped at her younger sister.

The tension was thick enough to slice. A heavy backdrop to the clinking of silverware against ceramic as servings were doled out. You busied your hands with the nearest thing to you — a warm bowl of mashed potatoes, dolloping a generous helping onto your plate and pressing a crater into the center with the back of the spoon. You passed the bowl toward your right to your dad at the head of the smaller square table.

It was your grandmother who broke the silence. “Helen you do have a lovely home, if you really wanted to host I wouldn’t be opposed,” she said, breaking the molded perfection of the green halo with her serving spoon. “Less work for me to do anyway.”

You caught it. The flicker of dejection in your mother’s eyes, cast down at the crisp table linens. Fleeting and momentary before her shoulders resumed their rigid posture, before she corrected her expression and reached across the table to usher a thick slice of turkey breast onto her plate.

Helen looked delighted as she plucked a roll from the basket. “Well thanks, mom. Besides, this time next year there will be ten of us.”

You stared down at your plate, shuffling your green beans with your fork.

The conversation would lighten up over steamy, buttered rolls and Betty Crocker stuffing. It would soften to a casual cadence about Cameron’s new accounting job at the dealership. How the pay raise from his previous job could afford he and Connie a house on Chestnut street. How the decorating had been going. How your dad was managing the hardware store this time of year.

You would sit there in silence and unfold your secrets; smooth the linen against your lap and feel your sweating hand on his rigid thigh; the ghost of his breath at your lips when he asked you if this was a love story. You would prod at your potatoes and indulge in the fantasy of closing the gap. Conjure the cradle of his plush cupid’s bow and taste his wicked grin. Swallow the sensation of how it might feel to have a belly full of him.

Your spoon broke the gravy dam, flooding your plate.

“Dear, aren’t you going to have any liver dressing? You’re the one who made it after all. It’s quite good, isn’t it?” Your mother asked you, glancing at your grandma.

You choked on your daydream. “I—um…”

“It’s kinda chunky,” Kevin commented through a mouthful. “I mean compared to how grandma makes it.”

Your grandma offered a sympathetic smile. “It’s a tricky recipe.”

She wasn’t wrong. It was tedious to put it mildly. It involved bread crumbs, cooked liver and ham, and a food processor. But it was a family recipe and she just had knee surgery so your thoughtful mother volunteered you to take up the reigns. How generous.

“It’s still quite good, isn’t it?” your mom asked her before turning back to you. “Why don’t you try some, you’ll see.”

You stared down at the square, pyrex dish. You never liked liver dressing. It looked like cat food cut up into little squares, the crispy edges making it only slightly more appealing. It was the texture that always got you. Mushy and homogenous. Admittedly you’d never actually tasted cat food but you wondered how it compared.

“No thanks, my plate’s already so full,” you said through feigned laughter.

There was that flicker in her eyes again, like the flames above the new ceramic turkeys.

“Mom, come on, I don’t…” you glanced around at your relatives, busying themselves with the contents of their own plates.

Your mother set her fork down. Her gaze flicked toward your grandma tucking her spoon happily into Helen’s jello. “Why don’t you try just one bite, sweetie.”

Huffing through your nose, you stared down at the dish, then back up at her. There was only one way this was going and you didn’t want to cause a scene. With a placid smile, you picked up the serving spoon and scooped a bite-size portion onto your plate, giving a single, solemn tap against the ceramic before setting it back in the tray.

You glanced around the still silent table, then back at your mother, still watching you intently from across the flickering candles. Defeated, you started down at the lump of mushy cat food on your plate. Scooping it up with your spoon, you brought it to your lips with a resigned sigh before opening your mouth.

It wasn’t terrible. The rich umami of the fat and the seasonings almost made up for the texture, and quite honestly, the chunks helped. You still didn’t like it. You would never like it. You’d been forced to eat it your whole life and your opinion still hadn’t changed. Whether your mother could accept that was another subject.

You swallowed, finally, to your relief and probably everyone else’s, if they were paying attention. “I’d give it a solid C,” you stated flatly. Your mother was not amused.

“C’s get degrees,” Larry added, laughing at his own joke.

Your dad tipped his head to you. “Well I’d definitely give it a higher grade than that, but I guess you are the expert when it comes to grades, huh?”

You humored him with a soft, pained smile, tucking into your stuffing again in hopes of replacing the taste in your mouth. You washed it down with a swig of champagne and the sweet tingle cleansed your palate.

They left you alone after that, with thoughts too loud for your beverage to drown out. Pinball thoughts and summer thoughts. Echos of bright laughter off tile flooring. A rich, warm hum at the shell of your ear. Words like timeless and sweetheart. Loud enough to drown out dull conversations for the duration of the meal.

“Mom can I go to Vinnie’s after this?” asked Kevin.

Helen shot him a stern look from across the table. “You may absolutely not go to Vinnie’s. I told you I don’t want you hanging out with that boy anymore.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s not a big a deal.”

“It absolutely is a big deal. I said no, and that’s final,” she said, punctuated by the stabbing of her fork into white meat.

Candles wavered in the tension as orange wax dripped down the sides. Not a sound aside from chewing and silverware against ceramic.

It was your dad who broke the silence. “Ok, I gotta know what Vinnie did.”

Connie bit back a smirk, eyes shifting around the table. “Vinnie got suspended for bringing,” she glanced at your grandma before mouthing, “pot to school.”

There was an audible stir from the table.

Your grandma clutched her chest. “At St. Michael’s?”

You bit your lip at her reaction, cheeks quivering as you struggled to keep a straight face.

“I know, mom. It’s appalling,” said Helen, “I really thought we could have avoided this sort of thing by choosing a private school.”

It was then that Larry turned to you. “Yeah, I bet you see this kinda stuff all the time at Hawkins, don’t you?”

It was a dig. You might have been polite but you certainly weren’t stupid. “Not as often as you think,” you said flatly, taking another bite of cranberry sauce to busy your mouth before something regrettable came out.

“You know, Kevin, I had a friend in high school who smoked pot, you know where that got him?”

Just what everyone needed, Uncle Larry’s wisdom. You sighed and stared blankly ahead. It was everything you could do to keep your eyes from rolling back into your head.

“Flippin’ burgers at Benny’s, that’s where,” he concluded before taking a swig of his beer. He set it down with solid thud, as if that made his point.

Kevin huffed and sat back in his chair looking more disappointed than convinced.

You thought about Eddie Munson again, perfumed with cigarettes and covered in tattoos. Thought about him at this table and wondered where he’d fit. Between you and your Aunt Helen? Across from your mother pretending to enjoy liver dressing? At the seam between the square and the rectangle?

There used to be ten at the table. Before that there were eleven.

Your most secret daydreams wafted in on summer winds. They hinged on the changing of seasons and circumstances. You thought about this table without your chair. Of the flickering candles in your mother’s eyes; the way they hinged on you.

Your hands toyed with the linen in your lap. As far fetched as a future was, you wondered, desperately, if both ends could ever meet.

If the two of you would ever have a place among the dolls.

______

Thanksgiving was Eddie’s second favorite holiday. After Halloween of course, for obvious aesthetic reasons. Having no extended family in Hawkins, his Thanksgivings had always been small. Some better than others. There was the one shortly after his dad went to jail for the first time. He was only six, but there were a few things he remembered — that there was no yelling at the table, that his mom seemed happy for once, and that it was his first Thanksgiving with Wayne.

Nowadays Eddie and Wayne were like passing ships. Wayne would come home from work after Eddie left for school and go to sleep shortly after he returned. The weekends were a little better, though Eddie had a tendency to sleep in late, so that left them a few hours for early dinners together when he wasn’t galavanting around or getting into trouble.

Over the past nine years, the two Munson men had developed their own Thanksgiving traditions.

Wayne wasn’t much of a cook, but each year he would go out and get the smallest turkey he could find and gather some essentials. The thing Eddie loved most was that Wayne always made it fun. He would always encourage Eddie to help in the kitchen, even when he was younger.

The first staple dish was a green bean casserole. It was easy enough even for an eleven year old to open a can of cream of mushroom soup, to scoop out its contents and mix it with shredded cheddar and green beans. Simple enough to sprinkle crispy onions on top and pop it in the oven. Eddie always felt like a chef putting it together.

The second staple dish was a baked mac and cheese. Wayne picked up the recipe from a coworker in West Virginia. It was pretty simple too. More hearty than your traditional stovetop Kraft. It involved heavy whipping cream, eggs, and three different kinds of cheese. Nothing compared to baked Thanksgiving mac fresh out of the oven. It was thick, and rich, and the cheese was browned to a crisp on top. The noodles had just the right amount of chew and the center was melted perfection.

As Eddie got older some new traditions developed. Wayne started letting him in on the beer when he turned 18. Something about “I know you’re doin’ it, might as well be doin’ it safe under my roof.” Wayne was pretty lenient about most things. More than anything, Eddie got the sense that Wayne just wanted him to feel like there a place he could call home.

There was one Thanksgiving tradition that stood above them all — the sacred text, the soundtrack to every Munson Thanksgiving — Alice’s Restaurant.

Every year like clockwork Wayne would dig the record out of his collection and Arlo Guthrie would accompany the two of them as they strained pasta, cracked eggs, and opened cans. He would spin his long-winded sermon, his odyssey, about one fated Thanksgiving and the trials and tribulations of dumping trash where it shouldn’t go and how it can spare you from getting drafted. The song was nearly twenty minutes long and took up one full side of the record. Wayne would play it over and over to the point where both of them had most of the damn thing memorized, which was difficult to do considering it was mostly just Arlo rambling a story over chords with the chorus thrown in here and there.

Tucking his legs underneath him, Eddie cradled his heaping plate, shifting his balance so that it didn’t end up in his lap when the couch cushion dipped as Wayne took his spot.

“Damn boy, I sure do hope your stomach’s as big as them eyes. Mine’s hurtin’ just lookin’ at all that.”

Eddie cracked a wicked smile and leaned in like he had some kind of secret. “You know, you can get anything…”

Wayne raised his eyebrows, playing along. “Anything?”

“Anything you want,” he quoted Arlo before shoveling a heap of stringy mac and cheese into his mouth.

Wayne brought his broad, calloused hand down on top of his head and gave his mop of curls a playful ruffle. Eddie chuckled through a mouthful, balancing the plate in his lap.

It was good like this. Sitting on the couch with a heaping pile of food. The B side of the record spinning with fuzzy familiarity as Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving played quietly on the small TV in front of them.

He didn’t need a table to enjoy it. Besides, the couch was way more comfortable than any stiff chair. The paper towel tucked underneath his plate did as good a job as any to wipe his mouth. Eddie was thankful for moments like these, and Wayne more than anything.

“You still doin’ game night tomorrow?” he asked.

“Nah, school’s closed so I guess they get a pass,” Eddie answered, “I mean I thought about making everyone get together anyway but I dunno where we’d meet. Still gonna do band practice on Saturday though.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha been practicing?”

“Uh, been kinda on a Sabbath kick lately. Hand of Doom, War Pigs, early stuff,” he said, barely denting his mashed potato mountain.

Wayne took a stab at his turkey. “Y’all sound pretty good. An’ I’m not just sayin’ that.”

“Well… thanks.” Eddie toyed with his food, running his fork along the solid, jelly ridges of the of cranberry sauce.

“You guys oughta play more places, maybe after you graduate.”

He raised his eyebrows as he chewed. “You sound awfully confident about that last part.”

“I am,” Wayne started, “after last Friday anyway. Got to meet that teacher of yours who’s been givin’ you all sortsa help.”

Eddie choked, shielding his mouth with his fist as he hacked mashed potatoes from his windpipe.

“Y’ ok Ed?”

“Yeah—yeah, just uh,” he wheezed. He met you? Jesus. He wasn’t sure if his head was spinning more over the lack of oxygen or the implications.

“Y’ know, she sure had an awful lotta good to say about you.”

“Did she?” Eddie asked between coughs. A deep embarrassment bubbled in his gut.

“Sure did. You really lucked out this year. She really seems to… I dunno. Get it. Get you. Real sweet young thing, I’ll tell you what.”

Eddie thought his mashed potatoes might end up on the carpet.

“Ain’t hard on the eyes either,” Wayne muttered before taking a sip of his beer.

“WAYNE.” Eddie wanted to crawl out of his skin. Dig a hole. Bury his own skeleton in the back yard between the laundry posts.

There was a glint in his eyes, like he was catching onto something. “What? A fact’s a fact.”

“Ok enough, please.” Eddie ran his hands down his heated face, certain he was absolutely crimson.

Wayne just chuckled harder, like the torture entertained him.

Suddenly he was eleven years old again. Standing outside the auditorium with his guitar slung over his shoulder as parents and classmates filtered out in droves.

“Come on boy, time to go.”

Eddie fussed with his stiff pleather jacket, looking left and right with a growing desperation. “Can we wait just like… five more minutes? I wanna tell Chrissy good job.”

Wayne’s eyes sparkled with a curious mischief, “Oh I see. Got a little crush huh?”

Eddie hardened his lips into a line and fumed. “I do not, I just wanna say good job. God.” He glanced around, growing claustrophobic, jacket suffocating him with heat. “You know what, let’s… let’s just go,” he huffed as he marched toward the glass exit.

What was he going to do? Storm off? Slam the door like a fucking child?

No. Instead, Eddie just sat there, staring a hole into his heap of Thanksgiving as the plate grew heavy in his sweating hands. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Oh come on, Ed. I’m just teasin’.”

There it was again. The heat that lit his skin like fluorescent lights as he stared down problems he was too stupid to solve.

“It’s fine,” Eddie muttered, vision blurring as Snoopy doled out helpings on the television. The record skipped with a steady rhythm in the silence of its end.

You had met Wayne. He knew now, who you were to him. There was no unknowing that. What did he think? That he was going to bring you by some day? Introduce you as his girlfriend? Would Wayne even believe it or would that be a joke to him too?

In the countless visions of you that played out like tapes in his mind, this part always came in fuzzy. Now it was prickling static.

He wanted to get up; to wrap his plate in tinfoil and throw it in the fridge; retreat to his bedroom like he always did. But he was already doing a piss poor job at playing it cool and he knew that would only make it worse.

So he sat there and ate it. Swallowed his shame and frustration, chased it with a solemn resignation.

Sometimes he could almost forget. When the books sprawled out on the big desk came from his home and not his locker. When the names on your tongues were from fiction and not history. When impulse took hold of his hands and they took hold of yours.

Sometimes his visions were more unbelievable than his wildest campaigns. You, hammering your next novel into a keyboard. Him, surprising you with kisses and a sandwich prepared in a kitchen you both shared. A home together in some far off place that neither of you knew the name of yet.

Sometimes, in the bubbling laughter that clouded the space between you, he could almost forget his place.

By the time the credits rolled on the TV, he couldn’t stomach another bite.

“I think, uh,” Eddie looked down at the half-eaten mess on his plate, “I think my eyes were too big for my stomach.”

He got up without another word, dumped the scraps into the garbage, and resigned to his room.

______

Eddie fluttered open his heavy lids, adjusting his eyes to the darkness that swallowed him. It had been light out when he’d closed them, though he barely remembered doing so.

He wiped the drool from his face and peeled the now silent headphones off his sore ears. The clock on the nightstand painted his vision with a red neon glow; a tether back to reality. 7:07 PM.

Reaching toward his right, he pawed the air for the cord to the hanging lamp beside his bed and flicked it on when he made purchase with the switch.

Before the turkey’s tryptophan took hold, he had been enjoying the cool breeze at his face as he drove his wagon leisurely along the trail through the Ashmar forest.

Eddie squinted against the light and rubbed his eyes as he glanced down at your world in his lap, still open right where he left off. The weight of it was like an extra blanket; heavy like a hug. It beckoned him to stay in the toasty cocoon of his bed. Though he had half a mind to get up and take a piss, the world outside was steeped in November’s chill, so instead he took the path of least resistance and dove right back in.

As much as Cybelle was concerned about illness, it was difficult for them to travel together and still keep their distance, but they seemed to have figured it out. They picked up a small tent and collapsable cot while in Torgaard which worked well enough for sleeping arrangements. While on the move, Lazarus had his place; in the driver’s seat, and Cybelle had hers; in the caravan. She would busy herself over the wood stove, crafting strange food and concoctions while Lazarus tried his best to stay alert and steer the horse.

Sometimes she would peek her head out the large window atop the singular door and talk to him. He enjoyed those moments most of all. Lazarus was learning all sorts of new things; what daily life was like in Myrne, what the city looked like and how agriculture worked for them. What Myrnish people thought of the world beneath and what had surprised her about it so far. Namely the flora and fauna. The weather. How diverse it all was. The people too. He would often catch her studying plants when they stopped to camp; taking samples and storing them in jars, pressing them to pages, sketching little drawings in her thick leather book.

“You know I would love to visit Myrne,” he turned his head and called to her, “once this is all over anyway.”

Small, russet fingers curled around bottom of the ornate caravan window frame, followed by a pensive, crescent moon face. “Many people want to visit Myrne.”

“Right, well, not many people actually know someone from Myrne,” he added, “and I just happen to be so lucky.”

Cybelle’s eyes crinkled in a soft, sad smile. “I would love to show you,” she began, “but I know they will forbid it.”

The wheels of the caravan creaked along the dirt path, shifting their weight with a soft thud as they drove over a rock. “Even just one person? What if I wore a mask, like yours?”

Cybelle shook her head, “The council is very strict. Even merchants are not allowed beyond the docks. There have still been plagues, even with these rules. One in my lifetime. I was quite young but I still remember… more than I would care to. We lost… so many people.”

He could hear the sorrow twinge her voice. Lazarus gave a solemn nod, staring down at the worn leather reigns as they plodded along. “I’m sorry,” he offered, “I’m sure you knew more than a few of them.”

Cybelle hummed softly, folding her arms across the bottom of the window to cradle her head. “I know just about every family in Myrne.”

Sunlight laced through the trees, dappling the road in patches of shade and light. They hadn’t seen another soul in miles. Perhaps he was becoming a bit stir crazy from all the driving but the further they plodded, the louder the questions that rolled around in his head became.

“Forgive me if this is, uh,” he searched for the word in the leaves, “inappropriate, but with such a small population, how do you prevent, um,” his fingers toyed at the nape of his neck, “like, accidentally marrying your second cousin?”

To his relief, it earned a big, bright laugh from Cybelle, “We are not that small, around three thousand. But yes, sometimes you must be careful,” she chuckled, propping her head against her arm. “We do keep records of such things.”

“Ah,” he confirmed with a single nod as his face bloomed with heat.

It encouraged a glimmer of mischief from Cybelle’s umber eyes. “There was a… how you say… practice, I suppose, long before the plagues when we were more open to outsiders where—”

The words were snatched out of her mouth by a sudden halt of the caravan, jerking both of them backward with startling force. The horse cried out, rearing to her hind legs in shocked protest.

“Woah—woah!” Lazarus braced himself against the wood panel in front of the driver’s seat and whipped his head around. Unable to see anything behind the mass of painted wood, he stumbled out onto the dirt to get a better look. “Just keep Turnip calm!” he called to Cybelle as she clambered off the floor.

He scanned the perimeter of the wagon. There was nothing he could see right away, that was until he looked down. Two thick vines, moving like snakes, were actively coiling themselves around the spokes of the wooden wheel. They were covered in tiny, glass-like thorns, and they seemed rather perturbed. He imagined it might have had something to do with running them over. Lazarus cursed. “We’re gonna need uh—a blade of some sort,” he shouted.

“There’s the knife I was using by the stove,” Cybelle called back, running her hand gently along Turnip’s dapple grey neck.

“Uhh, I think we need something bigger, come take a look at this.”

Cybelle gave Turnip a soft, final pat as she turned to follow Lazarus’ voice around to the back of the caravan. She gasped when she saw it.

“Ever seen one of these… monstrosities in your books?” he asked, gesturing to the vines.

Cybelle crouched down, looking more fascinated than horrified, marveling at the way they moved, like prowling serpents. “No,” she whispered. “They must be very strong though, to stop us like that.”

Watching them coil around the spokes filled Lazarus with an eerie dread. He shuddered to think what he would find if he followed their length into the forest. That was when he remembered the wood axe. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Please just… keep your distance.”

The axe was on the floor when he found it, as was the kettle, and the utensils, and dozens of other objects that had been launched from their careful placement. Lazarus left the caravan with a heavy sigh.

“Alright, step aside,” he said, tapping the handle of the axe against his open palm.

Cybelle scurried backward, clearing a safe distance.

Gripping the smooth wood, Lazarus approached the vines. He shuffled his boots into the dirt as he widened his stance, taking aim about a foot from the wheel as the menacing serpents continued their slow coil. He swung with his full force, and just like chopping wood, he let the weight of the axe do its job. It severed the vines with a clean chop. Like snakes without heads, they recoiled into the forest. He swore he heard them hiss.

Leaning against his long axe with a proud flourish, Lazarus glanced over at Cybelle. She seemed more captivated by the what remained of the plants than his demonstration, much to his quiet disappointment.

Cybelle shuffled over to the wheel, fascinated by the green, glassy specimens. They had fallen to the road in a heap upon severance.

“Maybe we ought to invest in a sword when we get to Fenwood,” Lazarus half-joked, “More dangerous out here than I—”

The vine that shot out from the forest snatched the words right out of his mouth, morphed them into a scream as it seized his forearm with a searing sting. In an instant he was on the ground, clawing at the dirt with his other hand as the vengeful, severed serpent lurched him from the road.

With startling quickness, Cybelle stumbled to her feet again. She snatched the axe from the ground and chased after him.

The pain was blinding as it dragged him. Small, glassy hooks like a fire in his forearm. It made the sticks that scraped his body feel like tickles. The rocks that raked under him like a dull massage. Though his other hand flailed desperately at ferns and the damp, dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t pull back. He couldn’t stop. All he could do was scream and panic. It was hard to tell how fast he was really going, how much time had actually elapsed. The seconds felt like agonizing hours. But when he heard the dull thud of footsteps by his head, there was a glimmer of hope for his misery to end.

A guttural scream proceeded a loud THWACK.

It would seem Cybelle had decent aim, because he wasn’t moving anymore. Clambering off the forest floor, he righted himself as quickly as he could in his spinning, pounding world. It was anyone’s guess how long they had before the next retaliating strike, and he wasn’t about to play the odds.

“RUN,” Lazarus shouted, bolting toward the caravan as Cybelle kept pace. The axe seemed even larger clutched in her small hands. Under any normal circumstance he would have been a gentleman and taken back the burden, but this was anything but normal.

He didn’t even look at his arm. He didn’t have time. He didn’t want to. He could feel it though — the blood as it trickled down his wrist, the sting of the thorns that were likely still lodged there.

Both he and Cybelle were barely on the driver’s platform before he was at the reigns, commanding Turnip to move with a quick snap of the leather. The dappled grey horse trotted forward with a rare sense of urgency.

Lazarus leaned back against the driver’s seat, chest heaving, more grateful than he’d ever been in his life to feel the cool wind at his face. They were a fair distance up the road before he even looked down. The sleeve of his white linen shirt was completely saturated in a wet crimson that clung to his skin.

Cybelle emerged from the caravan with an armful of bandages and jars and took the seat to the left of him on the other side of the door.

Lazarus stared blankly ahead, mind still numb from the ebbing panic.

“Let me see your arm,” Cybelle said gently.

He met her large eyes, now brimming with a soft concern. Slowly, he raised his trembling arm to hover in the space between them; the gap between the seats.

Cybelle’s fingers twitched above the soaked linen. Gingerly pinching the cuff of his sleeve, she peeled it back to reveal his angry wound.

Lazarus turned his head toward the forest, unable to look. “How bad is it?” he asked dejectedly.

Cybelle paused for a moment, assessing the damage. “There are still some thorns, I need to pull them out. They are not too deep though,” she reassured. “You will be alright.”

It was the warmth in her voice that made him turn his head to face her, to face his wound — the mangled trail of lacerations that encircled his arm. Some of them did look quite deep, to him anyway. The bleeding seemed to have stopped on its own for the most part, thanks to his shirt.

Shifting so that her feet now faced him, Cybelle scooted forward in her seat so that her lap was below him and grabbed a pair of tweezers. Her hands hovered above his arm, and for a moment Lazarus wasn’t sure if it was the rocking of the wagon or her proximity to him that caused her hands to tremble. There was a deep fear in her eyes, and not just from the wound.

His palm faced up at her, close enough to feel the heat of her body.

In their brief time together they had always kept their distance. Lazarus in the driver’s seat, Cybelle in the caravan. Separated by walls and windows, tents and masks. At night, she would indulge him with her naked smile from across the campfire. Blinding and brilliant, like the crescent moon above them.

Lazarus held her eyes from across his offering; a bloody bridge that hovered in the space between them.

With hesitant acceptance, she lowered her fingers slowly, then her eyes, guiding his arm to rest across the bandage in her lap.

The wink of her tweezers in the sunlight encouraged him to study the trees again. He gripped the leather reigns to brace himself.

Her touch was delicate and tentative as she steadied his arm, like his skin was a hot iron, and hers at risk to burn.

He flinched when she pulled the first thorn.

“Sorry,” Cybelle soothed.

He flinched again when she pulled the second. And the third, fingers writhing against the warm silk of her dress.

“I know it hurts, but you must stay still,” she quelled.

Lazarus allowed himself a glimpse back at her large, uneasy eyes that shone over the crescent moon. “H—how many more are there?” He didn’t dare lower his gaze to count.

With deeply furrowed brows, Cybelle scanned his arm, “Perhaps…fifteen?” she guessed. “They are small, it is difficult to say.”

Lazarus gave a heavy sigh and slumped into the seat, straining to find some comfort in the greenery that passed them. His head bumped dejectedly against the wagon as it swayed along the path. Fifteen. He tried not to think about it, but instead found himself wondering how badly it would scar. His fingers trembled as he braced himself for the next sting.

Instead he felt a hand.

Featherlight touches at the heart line of his palm.

Lazarus glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find fear in those deep, upturned ovals. Instead there was something much softer.

It was hiding just under the curve of her lashes, in the tender brush of her fingertips — a quiet fascination.

His chest rattled, with more than just adrenaline. Her eyes would surely raise at any moment and he braced himself to meet them, but instead she did something much bolder.

She lowered her palm.

It nestled into the groove and slope like it belonged there. Her skin like warm, russet earth against the vast, snowy landscape of his. When her fingers got brave enough to curl around the back, he allowed his pale digits to follow suit.

They sat like this a moment, staring at the knot of palms and fingers with a gentle awe. Her cheeks dimpled under the ivory crescent, and despite the radiant sting, Lazarus found himself smiling too.

Finally, Cybelle met his eyes and readied her tweezers again. “Are you ready?”

Lazarus tightened his grip. “I am now,” he said softly.

There were sixteen thorns. Lazarus counted. They fell one by one to the floor of the caravan. He didn’t flinch at all this time.

She was quick and methodical, and when her work was finished, she painted his wounds with a soothing balm that smelled of mint and fresh green herbs. The sting faded to a tingle.

What he noticed more than anything was how her fingers lingered as they left his hand to wrap the bandage.

“Thank you,” Lazarus uttered, running his hand along the neatly spiraled ridges of the dressing.

Cybelle gave a singular, dutiful nod and shyly gathered her supplies. She resumed her place, inside, and got to work reestablishing order in the mess of objects strewn about the floor. It was quiet the rest of the ride into Fenwood.

As they approached the city, the trees grew denser, the path grew darker. Moss hung like tapestries over lichenous limbs. Frogs croaked in chorus from every direction. A peaty moisture hung heavy in the air.

All signs pointed toward the same conclusion — they were entering the boglands.

Eddie sat back against the heap of pillows and rubbed his arm. The one with the puppet tattoo.

He would always wonder what you said about him, to Wayne. The words you used. Verbatim. You were always so good with them. He would watch you wield them every day, like a weapon or a spell. You could paint worlds for him as quickly as his eyes could gather them.

It was when he was next to you that you seemed at a loss, like the concrete walls were listening, like they would shatter the illusion the two of you had conjured. It was safer to speak with your eyes, your hands, your laughter.

Despite the volumes left unspoken, the questions left unasked and unanswered, the volume in his lap had answered one:

That it was, in fact, a love story.

______

A/N: I want to thank everyone for their patience and support while I wrote this chapter. I fought a lot of inner dragons to bring it to you, but I’m in a much better mental place now. I’m learning so much about myself in the process of writing this story, my first one of this length, and how best to keep my inner flame alive. It can be scary when it dims, but it's bright as ever now.

I was admittedly very nervous about including so much family backstory for Teach, but I felt it was important for the telling of the story. The Precious Moments teacher doll does actually exist. It’s called “Love Never Fails” and it came out in 1984. I couldn’t have conjured it better if I tried.

As always, nothing encourages me to continue writing this story more than hearing what you think about it in comments, reblogs, and asks. It's truly the most rewarding thing for me as a writer.

I’ll be serving up some piping hot drama in 13 so stay strapped, folks!

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieddiesgf @idkidknemore @alizztor @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @alienthings @eddiemunsonsbitcch @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me

770 notes · View notes