#so much swearing

[qtubbo]

Playing the foolish rage comp for badboyhalo is something so beautiful

[cambria-writes]

hello!

totally forgot to update here last week. woops!

word count: 2,607 rating: T, each chapter rated individually warnings: swearing, afab original character, second person pov, i don’t think there’s anything but please lmk! previousnext

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓: 𝔖𝔲𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔲𝔯

You wake up too early. Grab your phone, heart jumps in your throat. There's a message from Patrick Jane. Almost forget to check the time. No one who got shot should be up at seven in the morning. Resign yourself to your fate; probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep if you wanted to.

Getting up and opening the curtains is a harder task than it has any right to be. Your left thigh smarts something awful. Your arms are still covered in red and purpling marks. Peekaboo's claws, though pretty blunt, still packed a small punch.

Showering this morning means wiping yourself down with a soapy rag and washing your hair in the sink. Despite everything, you don't actually look like too much shit. Wash your face. Pick some baggy sweatpants and an old band shirt.

Look at the time on the microwave. Almost eight. Time for coffee, then.

You make a point to avoid your phone.

You sink into your couch with a mug of coffee. (Black, two spoonfuls of sugar.) Pull your laptop back into your lap, turn the TV on for background noise. Some morning show or whatever.

You spend the better part of your morning googling the CBI agents you saw yesterday for lack of anything better to do.

Jane's enjoying a cup of tea on his Couch when his phone rings in his pocket. Bemused, he answers without looking at the caller ID.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Benraft?"

Lisbon looks at him like he's grown a second head. 'Skye?', she mouths. He nods patiently.

"Really? ...I see. No, nothing to worry about. I was just curious, you know how that goes." Weaves a coin through his fingers. "Well, I'm not at liberty to say right now. Have you tried reading your cards for it yet?"

Lisbon's expression is that of defeat. Throws her arms up and declares that she has better things to do than wait around for him to schedule a date. Or whatever the hell it is he's actually doing. She walks out with a huff.

Jane places his teacup and saucer on his desk and slowly gets up.

"Listen, I need you to do something for me. Can you go check your mail?"

You count your blessings when the elevator actually works. You would probably have cried if you had to walk down the stairs to the apartment lobby. Collect your mail when you get there, but don't look at it right there. As instructed. Limp back to the elevator, back to your apartment. Lock, chain and bolt it shut.

Your hands shake. This is ridiculous. You were asked to go get and check your mail for anything odd or out of place. Commonplace shit. No reason to get all up in arms about it. No reason for your pulse to be as fluttery as it is.

Jesus, you might be becoming an adrenaline junkie. Bad news.

Shake your head, go back to the couch. Most of the mail is spam. Adverts for local eateries, something about a chimney sweep. (Whose bright idea was it to leave a pamphlet for a chimney sweeper in an apartment complex?) A phone bill, a letter without a return address, a delivery slip from the nearest post office, and a letter from a friend in North Carolina.

Honestly, nothing much out of the ordinary there. More paper than you usually get on a Saturday (or is it Sunday? Does it matter?) but otherwise perfectly normal. Until you get to the letter with no return address. You discover it's sealed with yellow washi tape at the back. For some reason, it puts ice in your veins.

Your Millennial Instincts dictate that you should take pictures of the front and back and send them to Mr Jane. The message takes a while to send, but when it does you toss your phone on the couch to your right. What the hell. You throw the letter on the coffee table in front of you. Burry it under newspapers, flyers, opened and unopened mail. Do your best to forget about the nasty feeling it leaves you with.

Doesn't take five minute for your phone to vibrate with a message. Another five and you're dressed and clambering into a dusty blue Citroen.

You can't catch a break. Little less than two hours later and you're back at the CBI. Brought the strange letter with you, handed it off to Agent Lisbon. Hands it off to a lab tech to see if they can get prints off it.

You are very acutely aware that literally everyone is playing this down. Keep hearing that It's No Big Deal and It's Probably Nothing and Just A Prank. You believe exactly none of it. Mr Jane's countenance is enough to set you off. Everyone else's expressions are just confirmation.

Wow, they're all really shitty liars. Makes you feel a little better, maybe.

Agent Van Pelt takes you to one of the interrogation rooms. Reassures you, says it's just for some privacy. Not that you care, really. It's all whatever at this point.

"Jane mentioned he found yellow tape on the back of your shoulder yesterday. Do you remember anything about that?" Silently thank whatever deity for Van Pelt's soft spoken voice. Doesn't do much, but calms your nerves a little bit. Takes the edge off.

Play with your fingernails on the table. You frown at your hands. Try to remember. "I mean, not really? It might have been one of the EMTs, or maybe the nurse at the hospital. Those are the only people I can remember touching me at all. But that's..."

You trail off. Don't need to say it; Grace's expression tells you what you need to know. You clear your throat, scoot closer to the table to lean on it.

"Look, I know this isn't a super good situation I'm in, but no one's telling me shit about it. I'm assuming I'm like, a target or something? Right?"

Van Pelt frowns. Hit the nail on the head, then. You sigh. Your breathing is shakier than you'd like it to be.

"Why though? I mean, this is just. This is unreal!" You toss your hands out, leans back into the chair. "Just yesterday I was /shot at/ because I happened to recognize a kidnapped dog, and now I'm being target by, like. By what? Another serial killer?"

"We don't have any confirmed murders yet," Grace offers quietly. But that just seals it; you are effectively being targeted by another crazy person.

Cross your arms and run your hand through your hair. Not sure if you feel like screaming or just not breathing. You heart feels like it's thumping away in your throat. Wait, no, you definitely feel like crying.

"You're going to be fine, Skye," agent Van Pelt offers, extending her hand to you, palm on the table. "We'll find who's doing this and we'll keep you safe."

Scoff. "Yeah? What about the other people this creep's been after? What are they even doing?"

Silence. Great. Perfect. It's not murder, but it's something that no one seems to be comfortable saying out loud. Just great. Lean forward, elbows on the table and face in your hands.

You hear the door open, blinds rattling. Agent Van Pelt puts a warm hand on your shoulder before getting up and leaving. Someone else takes her place. Take a deep breath and look up. A mug of steaming tea in placed in front of you.

You don't stop yourself from crying.

"You're wondering why you." It's not a question, but Jane lets you nod before continuing. Gallant. He takes a moment before answering. You stared through the mug. "Most likely to taunt the CBI," he shrugs a shoulder.

You want so badly to be angry at his nonchalance. Just don't have it in you. Take a sip of the tea. It's nearly scalding, but drinkable. Chamomile; figures. What a jerk.

"What..." Deep breath. Compose yourself to try and avoid sobbing. "What exactly has this person been doing?"

Again, thick discomfort. Not so much in Mr Jane's expression as it just hangs in how tense you both are. You expect the answer when he says it.

"Kidnapper and rapist." Choke on a... something. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. His voice is quiet when he continues. "She keeps them in a remote location. We found one of her escaped victims a few weeks ago. By the time we went to investigate she'd already emptied the place and moved on. The victim had signs of being tortured."

"Oh my god." You repeat yourself. Again. And again. Your hands shake horribly. Tea spills onto your fingers. Breath quickens. You know this is a panic attack; you know your thoughts are spiralling and repeating themselves but.

But the release of it feels like something you need.

You promptly lose consciousness to Jane trying to calm you down.

You're on a beach.

You have no memory of getting there. And you honestly have no idea which beach it is. You don't remember ever seeing something like it. The shore runs for miles on either side of you. Cliffs behind you. A small cabin on the edge, just behind you. Steps carved into the stone of the cliffside.

Your feet dig into the sand as you make your way to the first stone step. The ascension is steep and tedious. You're winded by the time you make it to the top. The view is... Strange. You can see the curvature of the earth, but it's too pronounced.

Take out the phone in your back pocket. Check the time. 11:28AM. Look at the horizon. Back at the time. It's completely illegible.

Alright. You're dreaming. Good to know.

The cabin is entirely made of logs and looks nearly perfectly square. The front door has a small circular window in it. A small lantern with a lit flame hangs up to the right. It casts a strange gleam on the brass doorknob.

Take a deep breath. This is just a dream.

Probably.

Knock three times. No answer. Knock again and call out. No answer. Find the door unlock when you turn the knob. Open the door as you normally would.

Thirteen women stare at you, eyes white and mouths agape. Let go of the doorknob, spin on your heels to run.

A woman stands directly in front of you. A yellow bandana covers most of her face. All you can see are her near-black eyes. She grabs you by the shoulders. Fingers dig into the flesh of your biceps.

You can't scream.

You wake up digging your heels into a mattress and shoving yourself backwards. Straight off a table and into someone's chest. Scream and try to fight arms away, end up landing (painfully) on the floor.

The arms won't leave. Feels like there are too many hands grabbing at your. Too many to fight off and there's just—

Ice cold water in your face. Down your neck, your back, covering your scalp. Gasp for air, sit up, try and wipe the water off your face. Comb through your hair to get it out of your face. Finally take in your surroundings.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't know what else to do." Mr Jane take a knee next to you. Hovers uncertainly, arms out to help without knowing how.

"It's fine, Jesus, I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Oh. Fuck, shit." Reach a hand to his left cheek. Red, already swelling a little. "Oh god I'm so sorry, you need ice on that--"

Motion to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you sitting on the wooden floor. Jane stares at you intently. Alright, then; uncertainty out the window, it seems.

"I'm fine, Skye. Are you okay?" The genuine concern confuses you. Frown, but nod.

"I mean my lungs feel like they're about to fuckin'. Combust. But wait nevermind I dreamt about something doyouhavepaperandapencil?"

The words spill out of your mouth all at once and you trip over yourself at least twice. A paper and pen are provided to you.

Unfocus your eyes, hunch over the paper and start sketching. The cabin, the cliffside, the steps. The sandy shore. And, as best you can, try to draw the woman's eyes. The small knick in her left brow. The crows' feet. The bandana. Scrawl the numbers 1128 somewhere in a corner.

Mr Jane stays quiet the entire time. You can almost feel him frowning at you. Straighten your back when you're done. After a second, add an arrow pointing to the bandana and quickly write 'yellow'.

Mr Jane stands so quickly it nearly makes you jump out of your skin.

"That's what you dreamt of?" Points at the face; what little you could draw of it.

"Yeah, it was. There was a cabin and I walked in and there were so many women? There weren't dead but they kind of. They felt dead? And when I turned around and this is who was there are she grabbed my upper arms—"

You grab a spot high on your bicep and wince. Freeze for a moment, pull your collar down to see. You don't need to see the four other bruises to know they're also there.

There's a neat, thumb-sized bruise just near the inside of your arm.

You stay upstairs with Jane for a while. Gets you a bottle of water rather than tea. You appreciate it; the cold water is much more satisfying. Lets you calm your nerves before going down to see Lisbon with your rough sketch.

It's not spoken but it's understood between the lot of you. On the spot, dreaming of a wanted criminal is strange. Extremely out of the ordinary. But once you start thinking about it as you slowly walk down the stairs to the main office space for the CBI, you can see the logic and reason behind it.

You met the woman yesterday. That much is certain. And she most likely directly mailed the letter to you as well. (Which, unfortunately, didn't seem to have any trace of a print or DNA whatsoever.) Maybe your subconscious mind figured out which EMT or nurse it was. If they had a face mask on you /would/ only remember the eyes. Might have even recognized her as a threat without consciously registering it.

Which would then explain why you dreamt of her.

Still, it's uncanny how you dreamt of the exact amount of women who were taken. Try not to think too hard about that.

Sit down at the far left end of the old leather couch. Nurse your water bottle slowly. Try not to pay too much attention to what agent Lisbon is talking about, or the odd glances you get from agents Rigsby and Cho.

Toe off your shoes and pull your feet up on the couch. Hug your knees. When you moved out to Cali this is not the life you thought you'd signed up for. Sigh and play with the bottle cap.

Mr Jane sits net to you, blue teacup and saucer in hand.

"Did you ever visit that log cabin?" Doesn't look at you when he asks.

Shake your head. "I've only ever been to public beaches." You look at Jane's wrist for the time. Nearly 4PM. How long were you out?

Jane hums. You can almost see where this is going.

"Lisbon!" Puts his cup on his desk. "Call me if you need us." Extends his hand to you.

You pray you won't spend hours on the road again, but take it regardless.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@fucklife-or-me​ @yearningforsappho

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged next time!

[smuggsy]

how scandalized would anton be if he met the tv series local werewolf pack

i can imagine the te aro boys going "hey! werewolves not swearwolves!" and the staten island pack just collectively blurting out all sorts of profanities only to piss them off

[clusterbungle]

I don't watch or particularly care about snooker but the radio is on and they're reporting that Mark Williams "shook off a migraine" to play and beat Ronnie O'Sullivan.

No. NO. *smacks radio presenter*

You do not shake off a fucking migraine. A migraine does not acknowledge the existence of paracetamol or ibuprofen. You lie the fuck down in a dark room and pray for unconsciousness in whatever form that might be.

You do not fucking shake it off and play snooker!

In this case it sounds like he did have a very bad headache (NOT the same as a migraine) because there is no fucking way he'd have dealt with standing and constantly leaning down playing snooker, listening to the balls clack together and the audience clapping if IT WAS AN ACTUAL GODDAMN MIGRAINE-

[scoobydoomidnightblue]

Unless I actually get around to finishing the Steddie art I’m working on, this’ll be my last big post for today. But I promise, this is very important.

I found a beat up copy of Dreamcatcher by Stephen King in my old used bookstore (it has a very nice cat named Callie and is very surely haunted.) This book lured me in, pretending it was a nice little coming of age/friendship story like IT by setting itself in Derry. It then proceeded to eternally fuck me up with the ass-weasel aliens. Two seconds later it literally decides to KILL OFF Beaver, my favorite character in the entire fucking book who is a Richie Tozier and Teddy Duchamp clone. (Funny; dark hair; glasses; shoot me if I don’t automatically love them)

Anyway, this book is fucking weird but really good for some reason. Jonesy, who is not as good a Stephen King self-insert as Gordie Lachance but is better than Bill Denbrough, is currently watching a movie about himself with an alien (who is kind of Pennywise) in his mind while bleeding out. DO NOT read this book in under a week. I had to put it down because I was throughly fucked up. It’s been six days and now even more craziness is happening. I have never been this messed up by a novel, why. Sorry to Mr. King himself who was post-car accident while writing it.

ANYWAY, to prove why this novel is actually amazing, here’s the post-Mortem description of Beaver’s “lesbian solidarity” boots. A man after my own heart since I used to call my docs “stompy lesbian boots”. I guess he’s 5’6” too, and so am I, short king.

Here it is:

[melonsap]

Important rules/tips I've learned as an adult that helped with anxiety

If people are mad at you, it's their responsibility to tell you, not your responsibility to guess

If they're mad at you in secret anyways, they're the ones in the wrong, not you

If people don't like what you're doing, it's their responsibility to tell you

If they say it's fine when it's really not, they're the ones in the wrong, not you

People are allowed to be wrong about you

If they are wrong about you, wait for them to bring it up, because if you try to, you will inevitably overcorrect

Some people are committed to misunderstanding you. You will not win arguments against them. Yes, even if you explain your point of view. They do not care. Drop it

The worst thing that will happen from a first-time offense is being told not to do it again. Maybe with a replacement if you broke something

You can improve relationships and gauge willingness to talk to you by giving compliments. It's like a daily log-in bonus and nobody thinks twice about it

Most things are better after you sleep on them

Most things are better after you have a meal

Most things are better after you shower

Your brain makes up consequences that are irrational. If the worst DOES come to pass and someone acts like they do in your head, they are overreacting, and you are entitled to say "what the fuck"

If your chest hurts after you feel like you've made a social error, that's called rejection-sensitive dysphoria. It means your anxiety is so bad that it's causing you physical pain, which is a good indicator that you're overreacting. Tense yourself, hold it for 20 seconds, let it go, then find a distraction

If you're suddenly angry at someone after you feel like you made a social error, that's also rejection-sensitive dysphoria. You are going to feel annoyed about it for awhile, but being genuinely pissed off is your anxiety trying to find something to blame to take the responsibility off your shoulders, and getting scared because it can't justify itself. Deep breaths, ask yourself how much you ACTUALLY want to be angry at that person, then find a distraction

"Sour grapes" is more healthy for you than stewing. Deciding you don't like someone who's perpetually annoyed with you, won't talk to you, etc. makes letting go of anxiety over them easier

If people don't like you, they will find reasons to be annoyed with you when they otherwise wouldn't. If people do like you, they will find reasons NOT to be annoyed with you when they otherwise would. People do not ping-pong between the two

You DO have to make a conscious choice not to think about something. If you're having trouble circling back to it, say out loud that you're done thinking about it and why. Then find a distraction

When you're upset, part of you is going to want to make false bids for attention (suddenly texting differently, heavy sighs, etc. but when someone asks you about it, you tell them it's nothing). Do not listen to it. You gain nothing from it except more misery

People like to help people they care about. It makes them feel good about themselves

If you think you're insufferable for needing help, see above. Yes, really. They get a serotonin kick from it

If you think you're insufferable for mannerisms you have, you either have to consciously choose not to do them, or accept that they're part of the package that comes with you. Being apologetic about existing does nothing except make you more miserable

If you do things you don't like when you feel meh about it, it makes it easier to do them when you hate it

If you avoid things you don't like when you feel meh about it, it reinforces and magnifies how bad it feels when you hate it

Seriously. Read those last two points again. If you can make yourself make a phone call when you've got nothing to lose, you will slowly lose that panic you get when you have to make a phone call you haven't prepared for. You do have to CONSCIOUSLY take that step

Hobbies that make you care for something get rid of that nagging feeling that you're not doing enough. Go grow some rosemary

If you don't engage with your hobbies regularly, you will feel miserable, and anxiety will spike

Hobbies are things that give you a bit of happiness. They do not have to be organized or named to do that. Go be creative in something. Play with coins. Make up lists. Start a new WIP

No one cares what you look like

If people point out things they don't like about how you look unprompted, they are being rude. You are entitled to say "what the fuck"

People who like you will find you pretty to some degree. Minor things about your appearance go completely unnoticed. Literally, scars and dots and blemishes do not register to someone who likes your company

You looking at yourself in the mirror is 10x more closely than anyone is going to look at you

If you're anxious about your body type, and you're creatively inclined, make/write an oc with that same shape. Give them nice things and make other characters love them. Put them on adventures. You'll start to see yourself in the mirror more kindly

You care about wording and perfect lines/colors way more than anyone who views your work ever will

Sometimes when you're upset, you're going to feel like not eating. Do not do that. Not eating makes you more miserable

Same with things you normally enjoy. Denying yourself helps no one. You are punishing yourself for being sad. Stop it

Both of these will take conscious decision to break the habit of. Make yourself do it anyways, and it will slowly get easier

And again, to reiterate: If someone is mad at you, it is THEIR responsibility to tell you, not your responsibility to guess

[sergle]

the threshold has been crossed, it is now springtime!!

[maxgicalgirl]

Being a “Fun Fact !” kind of autistic is all fun and games until you get halfway through sharing an interesting tidbit and realize that it probably wasn’t appropriate to share in polite company and now you have to deal with the consequences :(

[songthursh]

Alright, I will start with this one then - everything starts with the glorious revolution and everything starts with the night watch 🌸

[whyisthisfrenchguymasturbating]

@staff put the pictures back to the way they were this sucks. the blurry version of an image in the background is bad and distracting. not being able to double tap to zoom sucks. scrolling down to an unrelated video or image? genuinely go fuck urselves. this app keeps getting worse and fucking worse stop changing shit that doesn't need to be changed

[raitnrong]

absolutely normal about her 🫠🫠

[time-woods]

redraw of that one panel but in my more realistic style- theyr being gay again

[cambria-writes]

welcome back to your regularly scheduled programming!

this is here i started having a hard time keeping the days accurate lol. i’m pretty sure i fixed it all last week, but i’m probably gonna have to do a third pass to make sure things are at least consistent.

if you’re not comfortable reblogging my fic here, please consider leaving a comment on AO3!

rating: rated T, each chapter rated individually warnings: a lot of swearing, mention of death, pop culture references to things i don’t know about, mention of alcohol but no drinking (yet), let me know if i need to tag anything else! word count: 3,655

Masterlist

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖎𝖝: 𝔇𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠

“You got that all down?”

“Eddie’d dungeon master guide, milk, a six pack,” Henderson sighs and you can feel the disappointment in it. “Clothes that fit, quote, ‘Munson’s Enormous Self-Righteous Ego’, anything else?”

“Priority on the books,” you specify, and Eddie wrestles the walkie out of your hands.

“And the beer, Henderson. Do not forget the beer.”

“Sure. We’ll send Nance when she gets back.”

“No news from her yet?” you ask, holding onto Eddie’s hand to make him press the button on the side.

“Not since she, uh...” Dustin trails off, and it’s clear to the both of you that he’s hesitating.

“Spit it out, kid,” Eddie says, bowing his head and tapping his foot.

“Not since she spoke with your uncle,” Dustin says quietly. “He’s on your side by the way, doesn’t believe the bullshit everyone else is saying about you being a murder cult leader—”

“They’re saying what now,” you deadpan, looking up at Eddie. He just barely shrugs it off.

“Thanks, Henderson. Let us know if anything else happens.”

You frown at Eddie’s sudden shift in behaviour. He walks to the table, to your abandoned late breakfast, and leans into it after putting the walkie down. You take a few steps towards him and lift your hands, though you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

“Hey, are... are you alright?”

Eddie scoffs and shakes his head. You can’t see his face behind his hair.

“My uncle doesn’t fucking deserve this, man,” he says quietly. When he stands straight again, runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath before an equally deep sigh.

“Uh, hate to tell you dude, but neither do we.” You cross your arms and bite the inside of your cheek before speaking again. “I’m worried about my folks too. But there’s nothing we can do about it while the entire town is crawling with pitchfork-wielding maniacs foaming at the mouth ready to crucify the first palatable scapegoat.”

Eddie stays quiet, but when he turns around he does offer you a small nod, and what you think might’ve been a ‘you’re right’ under his breath.

“What do you even want with my books anyways?” He eventually asks, rounding the table and taking a seat back on his chair. You follow suit, and gently slide your mostly empty plate out of the way.

“When you called me a cleric, I kind of had a thought.”

“Truly a rarity.”

You pick up the last piece of pancake on your plate and chuck it at his face.

“Shut up, asshole, I’m being serious.” You take a breath to compose yourself and lean forward on your elbows. “So everyone’s been using D&D terminology for all of this shit so far, right? You even compared what’s happened to me to the cleric spell list. So I figured...”

You see the lightbulb go off above Eddie’s head. He snaps his fingers and points at you.

“So maybe we can find out what the fuck Vecna’s doing!”

“Wow, and somehow you’re a super senior.”

Eddie pulls a face and immediately leans back in his chair to cross his arms. “Low blow, man.”

When Nancy isn’t the one that shows up with a box of stuff, but Steve, you and Eddie drag him in the house by his collar and sit him down.

“You have some explaining to do,” you say, putting your hands on your hips, clearly fuming.

“We’ve been on the hook for hours, and now suddenly your dumb face shows up instead of Wheeler?” You make a confused—and perhaps slightly disgusted face—at Eddie. “What? She’s hotter and better company than he is.”

“I’m right here?” Steve stays, sliding the box to the center of the table.

“Uh huh, yeah. Why?”

Steve sighs and leans his head back. “Alright look, Nance hasn’t spoken to us in hours either. I’m off to see if I can get a hold of her after I leave you guys.”

“What the hell do you mean—” Eddie starts, but the walkie chooses that moment to crackle to life again.

“Guys we’ve got more less than stellar news,” Dustin says, and you’re the one who carefully walks to the kitchen counter to grab it.

“Steve just got here,” you reply slowly, turning along to look at the other two. “What’s the less than stellar news?”

“Nancy just came back. She went to Forest Hills with some guy she knows,” You wave at Harrington to shut up and stay in his chair. “And the guy just up and vanished. No one’s seen him around.”

You close your eyes and nod. “So you think he’s the next one.”

“There’s a search party out for him, but...”

“Fuck,” Eddie whispers under his breath, crossing his arms and turning away.

“Nancy and Robin are gonna head up to the Pennhurst asylum tomorrow to try and see if they can talk to Victor Creel. We’re gonna see if there’s any connection between Missing Dude and Chrissy. That’s all we got.”

“Appreciate it, Henderson,” you say quietly. “We’ll send Steve back your way. Keep us in the loop.”

You put the walkie back down on the counter and flex your hands. Dustin was right, that really is less than stellar news.

“Why Victor Creel?” Eddie asks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Who the hell is that even?”

“Some weird murderer dude who killed his whole family back in ‘59,” Steve explains, looking and sounding just about as confused as you and Eddie. “I dunno, apparently your uncle said what happened to Chrissy looked exactly the same. Something about the eyes,” Steve motions his thumbs pressing into his orbits. “Looking like they were sucked into the skull from the inside.”

Both you and Eddie wince and turn away. Steve looks from one to the other for a second, before his face lights up.

“Oh, you—shit, you didn’t know,” Steve says, sighing and looking all the world like he just shoved about five different feet in his mouth. “Yeah it wasn’t...”

“Just don’t,” Eddie mutters, heading down the hallway and into the bedroom. You hear the door close a bit more loudly than you think is probably warranted.

“Did he... know Chrissy, or something?” Steve asks, taking the chance of slowly standing up from his chair. When you don’t move to stop him, he takes a few steps toward you and keeps his voice low. “I didn’t think they ran in the same circles.”

“They didn’t,” you confirm, keeping your voice hushed as well. “But we saw what happened to her, man. I just,” You take a second to clear your throat and try not to vividly imagine the sound of snapping bone. “I just hope she wasn’t conscious for that. I can’t imagine the pain.”

Steve looks down and nods, frowning. You sigh and head for the front door.

“Come on Harrington, if you’re gone too long the kids are gonna flip,” you say, waving him over.

He takes a second to lean over and look down the hallways, and looks for a second like he wants to say something, but decides against it and joins you at the door.

“You’ve got uh,” Steve starts, motioning to the box on the table. “The beer’s at the bottom. Just, maybe take it easy?”

“Really don’t know how to feel about the fact that Steve Harrington is concerned about me,” you chuckle, but it doesn’t really have any mirth behind it. “But I appreciate it. It’s Eddie you should be worried about, though.”

Steve hums. “Yeah, well. He’s got you.”

You open your mouth to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but he’s halfway through the door already.

“Don’t forget to let us know—”

Your eyes lose focus for a second when you hear it again. Something must show on your face because Steve immediately runs back up to the door.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He asks, both hands up like he’s ready to catch you if you faint.

“The clock,” you say quietly. You exhale shakily while you wait for the last chime. When you look up at Harrington, you can’t quite figure out what to say.

“Shit,” he says, turns around to start bolting for his car before coming back for you one last time, “Let Henderson know next time it happens!”

He’s off before you can voice your agreement. You slowly and quietly shut the door against the sound of his car speeding away, turn around and lean against it. When you slide to the floor and pull your knees to your chest, you can’t help the sob that bubbles out of your throat.

Vecna’s Curse, huh? Starting to feel like you’re the one cursed right now, actually.

You hear the bedroom door open not too long after that; Eddie probably decided to wander out when he heard the sound of Steve’s car pulling away. You pull your legs as close to you as you can and let your head rest on your knees. This isn’t exactly the kind of position you want to be found in—ugly crying and curled up in front of a door—and you feel just a little bit more cursed because of it, too.

Eddie calls out your name when he gets to the kitchen, but once you sniffle he rushes over, practically sliding on his knees to get to you.

“Hey hey hey, what’s up? What happened?” he asks, putting his hands on your legs. You shake your head and hiccup, squeezing your legs tighter. “Alright, okay,” he breathes, moving to sit next to you against the door, his entire left side plastered to your right. Puts an arm around your shoulders and you can’t help but lean into him.

“I fucking heard it again,” you manage to croak out eventually, after several too-long minutes of trying to control your breathing. Wipe your face on your sleeves. “Now that I know what it—fuck, man, I’m so sick and tired of this shit.”

Your wrists hurt. Your shoulders hurt. Your nose still hurts. You haven’t looked in a mirror in a bit—even in the bathroom here, you refuse to look up at yourself—but you’re sure there’s a purpling bruise along the bridge of your nose. You can just barely see it along your cheekbones when you look down. Your head is throbbing and when you finally lift your head for a proper deep breath, Eddie sucks in a breath next to you.

“Hey, your nose,” he says quietly, points at his own nose.

You feel something warm dripping down, and when you muster the energy to pull an arm out and run a finger under your nose, it comes away bloody. You whine a quiet ‘god dammit’ and hide your face behind both hands.

For a few minutes you both stay like that. You can feel Eddie’s thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder, and when you’re not trying to get rid of the tears on your face, you’re wiping viciously at the blood that slowly seeps from your nose. You feel miserable. Small, inconsequential, sore, scared and miserable.

“You, uh,” Eddie clears his throat. When you look sideways at him, he’s staring straight ahead. “You remember in third grade when I punched that kid cause he was making fun of your hair?”

You snort through the sniffling and nod. “Yeah,” you squeak, making one last pass at your eyes. “That was Tommy. And then I punched his friend for shoving you.”

“You were the coolest person I knew.” When you scoff, Eddie grabs your shoulder a bit tighter and shakes you a bit. “You think I’m kidding?”

“Perish the thought,” you reply, slowly letting your legs fall straight in front of you. “I think that’s the first time anyone’s ever called me cool.”

“And that should be a federal crime,” he states back, entirely serious. “And that time in sixth grade when we tried to make a treehouse in the woods?”

You wince and groan. “God, isn’t that the time I stepped on a nail? That was awful. We didn’t even get anything done.”

Eddie laughs. The rumble of it through his chest somehow helps you breathe a bit easier. “Damn right. I had to carry you on my back all the way to the trailer. Wayne was freaking out.”

“I hated the tetanus shot,” you complain quietly, but there’s a smile on your face now. You chuckle quietly before speaking up again. “That one time you roped me into making a character for your first campaign.”

“The time you crit failed your attack roll on your party member? The time you stabbed yourself and were out for three rounds?”

“It was four,” you correct, slap him in the chest with the back of your hand. “And Gareth was being an ass. I had to do it.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” Eddie says, and stays quiet as he rests the side of his head on top of yours.

“Hey, I’m...” you trail on, picking at the skin around your nails, hands in your lap. “I’m sorry that I—”

“Don’t,” Eddie cuts you off, and you can’t help but stiffen up at his down. Pulls his head back up and, with the arm that isn’t around your shoulders, turns you so he can get a better look at you. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t exactly come knocking on your door either.”

You frown, twist your tongue in your mouth before trying to speak again. There’s about a thousand different things you want to say, apologize for—sorry for ditching you without a word, sorry for not coming to see you when I was feeling better, sorry for letting shit fall apart—but you figure he wouldn’t hear any of it. You wouldn’t either. So instead you just sigh and nod.

“Right,” Eddie says, though it doesn’t seem to be aimed at you or anything in particular. He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before getting up. “What say you to making an ungodly amount of mac and cheese while it’s still,” he turns to look out the window in the door. “relatively daylight out?”

You keep your eyes on your hands when you nod, but smile anyways. “Sounds like a disgustingly good plan.” When you stand up and pull nervously at the sleeves of the sweater you threw on, Eddie lightly grabs your wrist.

“We’re good,” he says, letting go of you when you turn to look at him. “Seriously, we’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

You sniffle one more time and nod. “Yeah. We’re good. thanks, Ed.” You roll your shoulders and neck and try to shake the stiffness out. “I’m just gonna,” you start, motioning at your face.

“Oh, shit, yeah, go ahead,” Eddie rushes to say, moving out of the way and bowing theatrically, an arm extended.

You scoff at his antics, but head for the bathroom to at least attempt to wash the leftover dried blood from your face.

Dusk finds the two of you camping out in a hastily thrown-together blanket fort in the living room with two literally enormous bowls of Kraft dinner and the most palatable movie Reefer Rick had on hand. You’re not entirely sure that watching Dawn of the Dead, considering everything that’s been happening, is the best choice, but at least it’s entertainment.

“The mall was the worst choice,” you point out, around a mouth full, while the credits roll. “Sure they have access to food and shit, but it’s way too easy access.”

“Are we not gonna talk about the really awkward blue face paint?”

“I’d love to see you do a better job of making a living human being look dead.” You put your near-empty bowl on the floor between your crossed legs and lean back on your hands. “Wasn’t a bad movie though.”

Eddie laughs and nudges your shoulder with his. “You’re telling me you never watched Dawn of the Dead until right now?”

“Yeah, well,” you toss your head back, swatting at the blanket ceiling above you. “Wasn’t super fond of horror movies when I was younger, and I don’t think I could’ve stomached watching it alone the past few years.”

“Alone?” Eddie asks, putting his bowl aside on the floor and leaning forward to look at you.

“I didn’t really have too many friends outside of you dude,” you admit, turning your head to look at him. “Might not have been part of the rising Satanic Panic,” you start, making sure to make air quotes and roll your eyes. “But people thought it was weird that I was watching shit from Japan and reading three novels a week. Not my fault fiction was more entertaining than them.”

There’s a look that passes over Eddie’s face when you say that, but he turns away before you can place what it is. He leans forward to turn the TV off and quickly pulls the sheets down from above you.

“Alright, I think that’s enough for now,” he announces, balling up the one sheet in his arms while he stands. “We’ve got another pack of beer and books to go over.”

“You and what light source?” you ask, leaning over to grab his empty bowl off the floor, picking yours up, and moving over to the kitchen to carefully place them in the sink. Nevermind that you almost tripped a handful of times on the way.

“Actually,” Eddie starts, and you can already tell from his dramatic tone that he’s found something. “While you were still asleep, I did some digging around.”

You can still more or less see him leaping over blankets and cushions on the floor to make his way back down the hallway. When he comes back, you can’t really tell what’s in his hand, but the metallic clanging gives it away.

“What the hell is your dealer doing with an oil lantern?”

“Who cares,” Eddie shrugs, and puts the lantern down on the dining table. “At least we can actually see what we’re reading.”

You laugh lightly and agree. “Hold up before you light that, we need to cover the windows first,” you say over your shoulder, gingerly making your way to the living room to grab one of the couch cushions you’d pulled off the couch.

Eddie hops over to come help you, but when he’s about to lean down to grab the other cushion, you grab his arm.

The chiming is eerily close, this time, and the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. You don’t hear if Eddie says anything before you’re bolting through the house, to the bedroom and the desk you left the pistol on. Double check that the magazine is still full, snap it back in, shove it in the back of your pants and make it back to the front door.

“Hey, no, you’re not going anywhere,” Eddie calls, but you ignore him in favour of stuffing your feet into what you really hope are your own shoes. “Hey, listen—”

“No, you listen,” you round on him, hand on the doorknob. “I’ve heard this fucking thing too many times to just stay here and do nothing,” you spit, throwing the door open and breaking out into a run.

The sound of Eddie’s swearing gets further away. You can tell the chiming had come from the main road you’d come down when Steve had driven you here. It was dark, the few houses around the lake had their lights off for the night. It wasn’t like anyone would see you, right? And so what if they did! It was dark enough that no one could possibly make out your face, and that was assuming that there was anyone around to pay attention.

You’re almost at the split in the end of the road, past the lake, when you get slammed into the ground. You can hear the gun slide somewhere to your left over the sound of the air rushing out of you.

“Let go of me!” you shout, trying to shove Eddie off of you.

“Would you stop screaming?” he whispers harshly, rolling you over so he can pin your arms to your side. “Or did you forget that we’re wanted suspects in a fucking murder?”

“I literally could not care less right now!” you throw back at him, wrestling an arm free arm trying to reach for your gun. “If someone’s going to die I don’t want to just sit around and wait for shit to happen!”

“And what exactly is your plan, huh?” He asks, pulling your stray hand back to your side. “What the fuck good do you think a gun is gonna do you against something you can’t see?”

You growl through your panting and try, unsuccessfully, to get your arms free again. “I was gonna plane shift you absolute fucking brute, now get off of me!”

“The hell I am!” Eddie moves his hands from his arms to your shoulders. “We have no idea what the fuck we’re dealing with, and you don’t even know if you can get back in one piece!”

Incensed, you grab Eddie by the shoulders and thrust your hips up as far as you can go, giving yourself just enough momentum to shove him off of you and scramble for your gun. You have a death grip on it with both hands when Eddie manages to get up on one knee.

“Listen,” you say, shaking and out of breath. “You can come with me or you can run back to the house. I’m gonna try it regardless of whether or not you’re there.”

Eddie stands up and turns around, running both hands down his face. “This is stupid, this is so stupid,” he complains, but eventually turns back around to walk over to you with a hand out.

You bite your lip and stare at him for a second. You leave the gun in your right hand and firmly grip his wrist with your left.

“Hold tight.”

@anothermunsonsimp​ @doratheignora​

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[mavioo30]

Time traveler: *moves a chair*

The timeline:

Textless version:

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i had to

[lotus-pear]

god i love skk sm i wish gay ppl were real :(