#the class stack-up was my idea

[msboutofcontext]

[broke-on-books]

😍😍😍

[spokelseskladden]

The thing that trips me up with English the most is like. Hyphenation? Cause in norwegian we can just stack words to our hearts content until we get monstousities like referanseinstallasjonsmetode or minoritetsladningsbærerdiffusjonskoeffsientmålingsapparatur, and in english y'all just don't do that :/

[mayonakano-archive]

i'm going to delete this later but i need to just. yell.

[pallases]

well that was positively disastrous

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[neil-gaiman]

I'm sorry Neil, although I love your writing and agree with your opinions on most subjects I have to disagree with you on the writers' strike. No-one should have a more privileged life as a result of being clever and creative. I worked from the age of 15 to the age of 65 in low-paid jobs, taking 1 year off to go to drama school and 3 years off to get a fine art degree. I worked in terrible but necessary jobs, labouring, stacking boxes, unloading trucks, running errands, filing, going to work on a bicycle at all hours of the day and night on shift work in all kinds of weather. Even when I was a student I was still working in part-time cleani8ng jobs and even during periods of unemployment I worked in volunteer jobs for charities and social services.

According to Mensa I have an IQ of 160 and according to Plymouth University I have a BA hons in Fine Art but I cannot accept the idea that writers and other creative people should avoid normal jobs like driving an "Uber" or working in an office/shop/factory/construction site. To accept that idea would be to create a new aristocratic class when we should abolishing the old princes and aristocrats.

What we need, I feel sure, is a redistribution of labour so that everybody who can do so would spend some time each year in blue collar work and everybody who can would get higher education and a chance to make art of one sort or another.

The idea of doing other jobs to supplement writing or drawing shouldn't be seen as a terrible thing, a punishment or a suffering. Sharing the jobs around should be seen as normal.

I mean, I've done my half century of sweat labour and it didn't hurt me too much. I'm retired now and still making art of various kinds and I've never asked anyone to pay me for any art piece I've made. making art, writing, drawing etc. is the fun stuff which we get to do in exchange for the blue collar stuff which puts food on the table.

The worst pop song ever written was Sting/Dire Straits song "Money for Nothing" which ridicules the working class from a position of educational privilege.

So what's my question? My question is: What's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet? Sounds perfectly fine to me.

Nothing's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet. Writers and artists have been doing that since the dawn of time. Actors too.

But by the same token, there's nothing right about assuming that writing isn't a blue-collar job, or that writers and other people who make art can only make it for love and that thus they need other jobs to subsidise their craft.

I like living in a world in which the people who make the things that make the world worth living in get paid for their work. For me, that includes the people who make films and TV, books, art and music and comics.

Having spent a lot of time on film and TV sets, it's a blue-collar world on set, and everyone is working long and hard to make the shows you love. I'm never going to suggest that the riggers or the gaffers or the make-up team or the focus-pullers should drive ubers in order to have the privilege of being on the set and working there.

Or to put it another way, from the most blue-collar writer I ever knew...

[munson-blurbs]

Summary: Your lab partner, Eddie Munson, might be the most irritating person in your life. But when he unexpectedly comes to your rescue at a party, his chivalry is too hard to resist.

A collaboration with the absurdly talented @corroded-hellfire 🥰

WC: 3.8k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fem!Reader, enemies-to-lovers, drinking, Billy Hargrove being a douche, fighting, blood, praise, fingering, accidental voyeurism if you squint, unprotected p in v, fluff because Red & I are some corny motherfuckers

Thank you @blueywrites for your idea that upped the spice 🌶️🌶️ Divider credit to @saradika

“Okay, so we need to mix the magnesium with hydrochloric acid,” you start, carefully measuring each substance and pouring them into a test tube, “and then we light the splint and see if it creates a squeaking noise.”

“Right,” Eddie says, not bothering to hide his disinterest. “And, uh, why are we doing this, exactly?”

You clench your jaw and exhale through your nose. Eddie getting under your skin is bad enough, but if he knew how much he annoyed you, he’d likely double down. 

“We’re testing for the presence of oxygen,” you say with as much patience as you can muster. “And you need to wear safety goggles.”

He rolls his eyes and mimics you in a high-pitched and highly unflattering tone. “You need to wear safety goggles.” 

He reaches for the matches, but you pull them away before he can grab them. 

“I’m serious.”

Eddie scoffs. “Please. We’re not even blowing shit up. Besides, I have a gig tonight, and I’m not getting on stage with goggle marks on my face.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be the difference between your shitty band getting a record deal or not.”

“Whatever.” But he begrudgingly snaps on the protective gear, and you hand over the matchbox and the splint. 

“So just li—seriously?” You watch, dumbfounded, as Eddie strikes a match and uses it to light the cigarette perched between his lips. Where had he kept it this whole time?

“What?” He asks with a smirk. “There’s, like, a million of these left. I’ll use the next one for the experiment thingy.”

He doesn’t get that far; Ms. O’Donnell marches over and yanks out the cigarette, snuffs it in the tray, and orders him to the principal’s office. 

Leaving you to complete your work alone. Again. 

Last week, it was because he’d kicked his feet up on the table and took a swig of Mountain Dew from a beaker. The week before, he’d blown up a rubber glove like a balloon and popped it right in Jason Carver’s ear, causing him to shatter a test tube on the ground. 

You often felt more like a babysitter than a lab partner. 

What you needed was a night out, so the party Steve Harrington was throwing tonight could not come any sooner. It wasn’t your usual scene, but all of your friends were going, and it certainly beat raiding your parents’ liquor cabinet alone. 

Music blasts from an overpriced stereo system as you pull up to Steve’s house. Barely audible over the reverberating bass is the sound of drunken cheering as someone does a kegstand. You sigh, plaster a smile on your face, and make a beeline for the punch bowl. 

Heather Holloway ladles jungle juice into an already pink-stained cup; you’re grateful for at least one kind face in a sea of Hawkins High students and recent graduates. 

“Heather, hi!” You smile at her, plucking a new cup from the stack and filling it nearly to the brim. “How’s college?”

Heather takes a sip, wrinkling her nose at the vodka’s pungency. “Way better than high school,” she says with a laugh. “I’m taking an intro to biochem, and my lab partner actually shows up.”

You raise your glass in a mock toast. “Maybe you could take mine. He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

She laughs. “Can’t be worse than when I was stuck with The Freak last year. He never showed up to class.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm. And Ginny Anderson was his lab partner during his first senior year, and he pulled the same shit.”

Lucky them, you think wryly. Guess he decided to be a star student for his third go-around. 

Frat boy-style cheering echoes from behind you and when you spin around you see Billy Hargrove strutting through the crowd, towards the kitchen. He throws a wink to a few girls and slaps five to one of the guys on the basketball team. If he’s coming into the kitchen, it’s the last place you want to be.

The living room is smoky and loud, but it beats getting stuck next to the booze with a jackass like Hargrove. Every thump of the bass has the little sips of alcohol you’ve taken sloshing around in your stomach. It’s hard to tell where you’re going or even what direction you’re going with so many people, so you just keep wading through groups until finally you come upon some space to breathe. 

Unfortunately, this space brings you right back to where you began: in front of the kitchen. Just in time for Billy to sidle up next to you, the scent of whiskey and tangy cologne wafting off of him in waves. 

“Where have you been all my life?” he asks, as if it’s supposed to be charming instead of nausea-inducing. 

“Was better a second ago,” you mumble, not caring if he hears you or not. But when you move to step away from the blonde, the smarmy look slips from his too-pretty face and is replaced with a mask of set determination. 

Strong fingers curl around your wrist, just tight enough to cause the barest amount of pain. The audacity and possessiveness are what piss you off the most, though. 

A gentle tug of your arm does nothing to free it from his grip, so you try a little harder. Still nothing.

“Let go,” you seethe. The words are biting, but you’re a chihuahua up against a doberman. 

Somehow, above your pulse pounding in your ears and the music thumping throughout the large house, you hear the distinct clang of a metal lunchbox snap shut and heavy boots on polished wood floors headed in your direction. 

You sense Eddie over your shoulder before he appears in your peripheral vision. A moment hangs in the air where he and Billy stare at one another, and you watch them both, unsure of what is about to happen. 

Eddie steels his jaw, unmoving. “Let her go,” he says, a slight rasp in his tone. 

The jock remains unfazed, unthreatened. “Shouldn’t you be worshiping Satan’s asshole, Freak?”

“Shouldn’t you be worshiping Tommy’s? Or does he only worship yours?”

A cacophony of laughter stirs up an anger inside of Billy. He grabs Eddie by the jacket collar and slams him against the counter. “If you don’t fuck off in the next three seconds, I’ll kick you ass so hard that your uncle won’t even be able to identify your body.”

Eddie smirks. “One…two—”

Billy’s fist crashes into Eddie’s cheek with a sickening crack. Eddie returns with a punch to Billy’s abdomen, but not before his face sustains a few more hits. 

Shock loosens its grasp on you and you call out for help, knowing it’s no use getting in the middle of their brawl. Someone—Tommy H, maybe—is chanting “fight!” and it takes all of your willpower not to clock him yourself. 

Billy finally lets up when Eddie falls to the floor, clutching his stomach in agony. “Maybe next time, you’ll mind your fucking business,” he spits through his split lip—one of the few punches Eddie managed to land. 

His smarminess is enough to provoke a reflexive response in you. As he gloats, you deliver a swift kick square to his crotch. A choked whine slips from Billy’s parted lips as he doubles over. You snort a laugh to yourself thinking about how the dumbbell is probably going to spin this story so he doesn’t seem like any less than the King of Hawkins High in front of his fellow party-goers. He’ll never be able to take away your satisfaction at using a pair of your nicest shoes to crush Billy’s balls though. 

Eddie is still on the ground, wiping blood that’s trickled out of his right nostril onto the back of his sleeve. Turning your back to Billy, you bend down and offer your hand to Eddie. He accepts it with a weak smile and you help him to his feet. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Eddie says with a shrug and a sad smile that knots your stomach. He’s been hurt worse than this?

Unable to follow that train of thought, you reach out and slip your hand into Eddie’s. You give a small tug and he readily follows you down the hall of the Harrington home, the thumping beat of the bass becoming softer the further you walk. 

In the back corner of the house you manage to find a bathroom that’s not occupied by someone puking the mixture of alcohol they’ve consumed or a couple hooking up, going at it like wild animals. This one looks like it’s been hardly touched all night and you click the lock into place once you and Eddie are inside. 

Eddie takes a seat on the closed toilet lid, his calloused fingers coming up to gently touch the gash right across his chin. He winces at the tenderness of the wound while you crouch down and look in the cabinets underneath the sink for a first aid kit. 

“Ah, here we are,” you announce as you pull out the small white box with the red cross on it. On your knees, you shuffle over towards Eddie and slide the kit along with you. “It’s not so bad,” you tell Eddie as you dab some rubbing alcohol on a small swath of gauze. “The face just bleeds more because—”

“Because the blood vessels in the face are so close to the skin,” Eddie finishes for you. 

“Wow,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. “I’m impressed.”

“We are in the same science class, you know,” Eddie teases with a playful smirk. It quickly turns to a grimace though as you begin to dab at his wounds. 

“I thought I recognized you from the seat next to mine,” you joke back. There’s silence for a few moments while you clean off all the excess blood and bandage up the open cuts. “Why are you suddenly interested in science this year? I mean, I was talking to Heather before and she said you never showed up when you were her lab partner. So, what? Renewed attempt to graduate?”

“Uh,” Eddie says with an awkward chuckle. He avoids your eyes and rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

“Got the hots for O’Donnell?”

He belly laughs at that thought, grimacing at the pain it causes. “Fuck, no!” He shakes his head. “She looks like a walrus and a naked mole rat had some sort of freaky baby.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew.”

“You were the one who suggested I’m into her,” Eddie rebutted, and fairly so. 

“I didn’t make you compare her to a—”

A loud crash stops you mid-sentence, followed by someone drunkenly lamenting, “not the punch!”

“We’re probably safer hiding out in here for a bit,” Eddie says softly, “unless you want to volunteer to clean up whatever mess they made.”

“I think cleaning up your mess is more than enough for tonight.” To punctuate your point, you swipe a clean piece of gauze over a small cut you’d previously missed. “Besides, I wanna know what’s suddenly got you showing up to class.”

Eddie’s eyes roam your body far more conspicuously than he’d like, but the attention fills you with a newfound warmth. “You.” He snorts out a little laugh, startling you slightly. “Fuck, I’m drunker than I thought.”

“W-Wait.” You fight off the embarrassment that accompanies your stuttered words. “I’m the reason …?”

He noticed your reaction, mistaking disbelief for discomfort. “Does that make things…does that make you feel weird?” Nerves marr whatever joking tone he was trying to convey. 

All you can do is shake your head. “No. It makes things…good.” Good insufficiently describes your reaction, though part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. It’s a prank, his way of getting back at you for—

A hooked finger in the belt loop of your jeans snags your attention, Eddie gently tugging you closer to him. “And now?”

“Still good. Better, actually.” Resting one hand on his sore chest, you lean in and add, “will it hurt if I kiss you?”

“Don’t care.”

Despite him not caring, you certainly care if you’re going to hurt him or not. Your mouth moves slowly towards his, lips just barely brushing against each other as your breaths co-mingle. It’s not enough for Eddie though, and he presses his lips against yours with more force, stealing the air from your lungs as your body melts against his. The back bathroom at the Harrington household is not something you would’ve considered romantic before, but right now it’s the only place you want to be. Tucked away in the corner with Eddie, trading explorative kisses as your hands roam each other's bodies. 

Your body buzzes when Eddie’s tongue sweeps against yours, heat immediately pooling between your legs. 

Instinctively, gingerly, you press your torso to his, one trembling finger hooking into his belt loop. A moan escapes you, soft but saturated with need. Eddie clocks it immediately. 

“Mhm.” His smile threatens to break the kiss. “That’s it.” 

You feel the button of your jeans unfasten, the sound of unzipping music to your ears. His hand slips between the denim and the newly exposed lace of your panties, grin widening when it reaches the damp patch. 

Eddie’s hardness strains against the confines of his own pants, and you rush to relieve that ache. His exhale when you touch him—over his boxers, but not as gently as he touches you—makes you even wetter. 

“Gotta have you.” He toys with your waistband but doesn’t explore further until he hears your ‘yes,’ pathetic and whimpering but consent nonetheless. “Good girl,” he growls, sending a shiver coursing through you. 

The pads of his fingertips find your clit without struggle, rubbing precise circles over it that have you groaning his name. “Every time you say my name from now on,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna think about this.”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” It’s part taunt and part truth; only his name is on your mind. Your back arches against the sink, porcelain digging into your skin, but you barely notice. 

One strong hand reaches for the strap of your tank top, pulling it down so harshly that the fabric tears. He mutters a soft swear, tugs the rest of the shirt down until your bra is completely visible. 

“Fuckin’ perfect.” Eddie kisses your chest, groaning when the sensation of his lips causes you to squeeze his throbbing cock. “Careful, or I’ll—”

He’s interrupted by the door swinging wide open, Billy and Heather wrapped around each other in drunken lust. Billy’s eyes widen, their blueness dulled from the liquor, when he sees that the bathroom is currently occupied—and by whom. 

The intrusion startles you as well, but you’re much quicker at recovering than the inebriated asshole gaping at you from the doorway.

“Get the fuck out!” you hiss. 

Heather turns her head to look in your direction, as if she hadn't been aware there was anyone else in the bathroom until you’d spoken up. It’s clear she’s had quite a few more drinks since you’d seen her in the kitchen.

Whether it’s the alcohol, the shock, or his own stupidity, Billy doesn’t make a move towards leaving, let alone tug Heather along with him. The blonde shakes a few curls out of his eyes, causing Heather to reach up and twirl one around her finger.

“Jesus Christ, is this douche even capable of hearing a woman if she isn’t moaning his name?” Eddie mutters to you before rounding on the drunken pair and raising his voice. “The lady said out. Now.” 

Something finally snaps Billy out of his dazed state and he curls his lip, giving the two of you a half-hearted sneer. He pulls Heather out of the doorway so quickly that it looks like she gets whiplash as he slams the door closed behind them. 

Eddie leans over and locks the door, giving the knob a twist for good measure. “Do me a favor, honey?” His voice is a ribbon of silk down your spine. “Turn around so you’re facing the mirror.”

You do as he says, hands planted on the sink ledge. Your shirt is torn, make-up smudged, and you’re out of breath from the impromptu make out session. Ducking your head, you’re determined to avoid your reflection until tobacco-scented words tickle your ear from behind. 

“Be a good girl and look at yourself while I fuck you.” Eddie moves your thong over, exposing your pussy, and exhales with a tremble. His middle finger glides over your folds before pushing into you slowly. “You got wetter when I called you a good girl, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” you manage, stifling a moan as his ring finger joins his middle. 

A teasing pout graces Eddie’s lips. “Such a good girl. And only for me.”

“Only for you,” you echo. 

He taps the head of his cock on your bare ass, leaving drops of pre-cum in his wake. “Gotta be inside you,” he growls. “Gotta fuckin’ feel what a good girl you are.”

The sensation of his cock dragging down along your folds mixed with him knowing just what to say to get you squirming has you dropping your head forward with a soft whimper. A strong, calloused hand quickly finds its way up to your throat though, and presses with just enough pressure to remind you that you’re supposed to be looking at yourself in the mirror. 

When you lift your head, you’re greeted by the sight of a smirking Eddie behind you in the mirror.

“Atta girl,” he praises. 

At a torturously slow pace, Eddie begins to push inside of you. A guttural groan slips past your gritted teeth as he stretches your walls, the pleasure causing you to curl your toes inside your shoes.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes out before pulling his hips back. “Pussy’s even tighter than I imagined.”

The mental image of Eddie laying in bed with his hand wrapped around his cock, thinking of you is enough to make your knees weak. They can’t buckle too much; Eddie has one hand gripping you tight and the other trailing down to your clit. Each deliberate circle is punctuated by a thrust, pleasure from every angle. 

He kisses your shoulder blade, groaning when you tighten around him. “Look at yourself,” he growls his reminder. “Look how beautiful you are, all fucked out like this.”

You catch another glimpse; this time, you see Eddie’s lust-filled expression along with your own. He’s even further gone than you are, so focused on burying himself within you to care about the sweat matting his bangs to his forehead or the way his teeth dig into his lower lip. 

“Say it.” His voice is half-commanding, half-pleading. 

“S-Say what?” Each word is a struggle, your orgasm building to a peak you’d never before reached. 

“That you’re beautiful.” He tugs you even closer to him, and there’s no mistaking his dominance for anything else. “So—goddamn—beautiful.”

You follow his order without a second thought. “I’m b-beautiful, all fucked out like th-this.” 

Eddie’s hips snap against the plush of your ass at a frenetic pace. “That’s it; that’s my good girl.” Not a good girl, you note. His good girl. 

One hand atop his, desperate for as much contact as possible, you moan: “your good girl.”

“Oh, fuck.” Everything is you—you and him together, and it drives him to the edge. “You…you gotta…’m so close,” he rambles. 

“Me, too.” Panting breaths mingle with his groans, your walls tightening around him as you come. It’s so much, so intense, and tears cloud your vision resulting from the overwhelming bliss. “Eddie, oh, Eddie.”

He spills into you with a cry of your name. “H-ohmygod, holy fuckin’ shit.” His thrusts don’t stop until every last drop of his cum is inside you. 

Eddie’s chest presses against your back, but he’s careful not to put all his weight on you. The feeling of him so solid and warm behind lulls you from pure ecstasy to warm contentment, not wanting to move out from beneath him. 

A few silent moments pass before Eddie pulls out of you, both of you disappointed by the loss of contact. But Eddie’s hands refuse to let you go entirely, gently running over your hips and up your sides. The touch is featherlight and sends a comforting tingle throughout your limbs.

“You with me?” Eddie’s worn-out voice asks you.

“Mhmm,” you hum in acknowledgment. “Don’t wanna move.”

Eddie gives a husky chuckle in reply before he stands up, reluctantly taking a step away from you. Your own muscles whine in protest as you stand straight, the tell-tale signs of a good fucking already settling in. 

The two of you begin to clean up, each slipping back into articles of clothing along the way. One question prickles the back of your mind in the quiet room and you know your brain won’t be able to rest until it has an answer.

“Uh, Eddie?” you ask once you’ve cleaned up your smeared lipstick.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still going to come to class? Or, you know, now that you’ve had me you won’t have a reason to anymore?” You try to hide the insecurity in your tone but there was no mistaking the slight edge your words had. 

Eddie pauses mid-buckling his belt and gives you a frown. 

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says and the nickname alone already has your engine revving for a round two. “I wouldn’t sit through O’Donnell’s class for someone I only wanted to fuck. If I’m gonna listen to that hag drone on and on then there’s a damn good reason I’m sitting my ass in that classroom.” With a sigh, Eddie steps closer to you and after a moment’s hesitation, cups your face in his hands. “Can I take you out? Do things, ya know, the right way?”

A little trill of a giggle bursts out of you, which makes Eddie frown. But you’re quick to let him in on what you found amusing.

“You mean having sex in a bathroom at Steve Harrington’s house isn’t the typical way romances start?”

A grin slowly slides across Eddie’s mouth and you swear it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. All you want to do is keep that smile on his handsome face as much as you possibly can. 

“A romance, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “If I’d known that’s what this was, I would’ve at least fucked you in a guest room.”

You let your fingers brush over the fly of his jeans, feeling a gentle twitch from behind the zipper. “How about for round two?”

Eddie holds your face in his hands as he kisses you deeply, only breaking it to smile and murmur: 

“You read my mind, Beautiful.”

--

[strawbeerossi]

Grading Papers

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: You are Dr. Reid’s TA. One night, he asks you to stay late and help grade papers, only to see you worked up. It’s a good thing he has the perfect solution for that.

Content/Warnings: Power imbalance, age gap (20s/40s), sexual tension, thigh riding, praise.

Word Count: 1.2K

Kinktober Day Twelve: Thigh Riding

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Whenever Dr. Reid had approached you about staying a little later after your class to assist him in grading papers, you reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t like you were uncomfortable with him, in fact it was the complete opposite. Ever since you’d been placed as a TA for his class, you had a massive crush on the older man. Every person in your class did, honestly. There was a reason he had the most students auditing his classes, he was very attractive and his dumbfounded reaction to learning so many students used the class just to look at him just added to his charming demeanor.

He was an understanding man, always willing to listen and work with any student who needed his assistance. It didn’t help that he had a million dollar smile, one that made your heart flutter when it was flashed in your direction. You were in love with a man who was surely old enough to be your father.. Yet you felt no shame.

You’d had vivid fantasies, ones where Spencer would call you in his office and push you against the wall, taking you right there while proclaiming how he’d had his eye on you since he met you. 

You could admit you were a little delusional but nobody could blame you. Who doesn’t want professor Reid to bend them over his desk and-

You were cut off by a throat clear, making you snap out of your thoughts. “It’s good to see you, thank you for coming by. I appreciate you coming to assist me tonight.” He could’ve done it by himself, in all honesty. The papers were quick and easy to blow through, especially with the ability that Spencer had when it came to reading. Instead, he’d invited you here for something else..

“Oh, it was no problem. I didn’t have much else that needed to get done and it is my job to help you when you need it.” You spoke while offering a smile, discarding your backpack before putting it on the floor by his desk. “I’m so glad to hear that. I went ahead and split up the assignments equally.” He assured while passing over a stack of typed up research papers. “I have a chair over here that you can take. My desk is big enough to fit both of us.” He chuckled and gestured to the chair pulled up beside him.

The idea of being so close to Spencer had your cheeks heating up, head nodding as you approached his side and pulled out the chair to seat yourself. It was like you were a horny teenager who was getting worked up just by having your knee touch his, the warmth of your body and the tension bubbling over. “You alright?” Spencer soon asked, an eyebrow raising at how fidgety you were. He was a profiler and you knew that, you’d learned he could see all the tells and read you like a book if he really wanted to. Still, you lied. “Oh! I think I’m just a little scatterbrained tonight.” You tried to save yourself the embarrassment of telling the older man your perverted and sinful thoughts. 

There was a huff that fell from Spencer’s lips, his hands coming out to gently grab your hips before tugging you into his lap. The sudden action had your eyes widening, propped up in the male’s lap as you quickly turned your head to look at him. “Dr. Reid!” Your voice came out in a squeak, making the man shrug his shoulders nonchalantly. “You’re free to get up but given your body language, I can tell this is much more than being scatterbrained. Believe me, I know the signs of someone being turned on. As much as most won’t believe it, I’ve been around enough women to know the signs.”

He was chuckling as he brushed your hair off of your shoulder when you made no effort to move. “I have an offer to make. Don’t worry, you won’t be penalized for saying no, I’ll just back off.” He had to preface his point of not wanting to push things too far beyond your comfort zone. The idea was crazy, the man could lose his license to teach and be blacklisted from teaching. However, you felt just a little desperate. That was what made you nod your head slowly. “Y-yeah, okay.”

His large hands were resting against your hips while helping you stand, his hands moving to your pants to get them unbuttoned and tugged down your legs. “You seem so desperate. I bet you think about this a lot more than you’re letting on.” His tone was like velvet, his gaze on the panties that hugged your waist. 

“How desperate are you though?” The question made you shiver as his hands were ever so gently lifting you up before perching you on his thigh with a soft smirk. This was him expecting you to crumble, to melt while rubbing yourself on his thigh..

You fed right into it, hips rocking steadily against the clothed thigh. The friction of the creases in his slacks against your clothed clit had electricity shooting through your body, mouth agape. “There we go. Does that feel good? Desperate little bunny.” He cooed, his hands guiding your hips as he was fixing the position of his thigh and pushing it up to apply pressure to your needy pussy. “Surprised you’ve lasted this long. You know, you aren’t exactly subtle with the way you look at me.” 

Your face was heating up as he’d caught you, calling you out on your shameless fantasizing whenever you thought he wasn’t paying attention. “You’re so precious.” He began while chuckling softly, his words making your hips speed up on his thigh as you were rubbing your cunt along the creases of his pants, the delicious friction making you roughly grip his thigh.

“Gonna cum on my thigh and soak your panties with your cum?” He questioned, lips now pressing kisses along your shoulder. “Fuck, yes.” You whined, the slick arousal from your panties already seeping through and causing a small wet patch on his right thigh. “Well, what are you waiting for? These papers aren’t gonna grade themselves.” He mused, words dripping with amusement at you, one of his best TAs, left to a whining and whimpering mess while your desperation had you humping his thigh for relief.

The warmth spread over your body, a thin veil of sweat decorating your forehead as you let your head tilt forward, mouth agape while ragged breaths escaped your lips. The rush of arousal shot through your body, nails digging into the part of his thigh that you held as you were hitting your peak, a whine leaving your lips as you could feel the slick seep through your panties, leaving you with uncomfortably wet panties. 

“There we go!” He cooed, gently rubbing your lower back as he was letting your shaking body lean back against his broad chest. “You can sit there as long as you want,” He commented with a chuckle as he was scooting his chair up to the desk while he was getting a few papers from his desk to read them.

[mrrharper]

Waiting For The Roommate

Max sat in the passenger seat of his roommate's truck, waiting for Buck, who needed to quickly come back to their dorm room. As he waited he took off his tank top, it was fuckin' hot inside. He rolled down the window to get some fresh inside the car.

As he stuck his head out the window to breathe in some fresh air he saw some nerd approach him. He was wearing a dark brown button-down shirt and had a stack of papers in his hand.

"Max, is that you?" The nerd asked, looking at him. A smile appeared on his face.

"uhhhhhhhh... dude, do i know ya?" He asked, convincing himself not to call the guy a loser or a nerd. Coach said he had to get better at dealing with strangers.

"Max, it's me - Michael. We went to high school together!" The other guy replied, clearly convinced that they knew each other. High school? Max's head was covered with a fog, he couldn't conjure up any specific memories from high school.

"you sure bro?"

"Damn, Max, we had like half our classes together!" The nerd was getting a bit frustrated for some reason. "We talked about going to the same uni, and so much more! And now you say you don't know me?"

Max tried to focus. High school, friends, classes, college. It felt like his brain was fighting against him, a thick fog covering everything. His thoughts began turning towards his next workout. Damn, he'll be doing arms and chest. Yea-- Holy shit, he knew that guy!

"oh fuck, mike, yeah, of course, how are you brah?" Max extended his hand for Mike to bump, but he just awkwardly looked at it. Max ignored it.

"Oh my god, for a moment I thought you weren't joking" A half-hearted laugh escaped Mike's mouth. Max just grinned. "I'm fine, settled into college life. Found a study group--" Mike continued talking but Max didn't register another word. He was this guy's good bro - apparently - but that didn't mean he would be able to tolerate that nerd bullshit. He was made for different things than studying - like workin' out with his best bro Buck.

"Anyway" Mike looked straight at Max, whose attention came back. "How was your first year. You look... like a different person!"

"what you mean bruh?" Max asked. What did that ner-- what did Mike mean? Different? He was always a badass jock.

"I mean, you're jacked! In high school you hated gym class, and here you are, buff and all."

"dude, am like, ya know, a real bro, dude. gotta be jacked as hell" He responded and flexed his right arm, his biceps moving and bulging under his skin.

"I mean, that's quite the change. Like, we kinda lost contact after the summer, and you didn't give any sign of life, and I thought... but you're here!" Mike was clearly excited and Max smiled. Wait, what was this dude's deal? He was textin' and talkin' with a nerd like that? Nah, this didn't make sense... where the fuck was Buck where he needed him!

"huhuhuhuhuhuh, yeah bruh" Max just chuckled like the dumb jock he was, he didn't know what to say. He shifted in his seat and scratched his armpit.

"Anyway" Mike went on "how was your first year in college? Were you able to get into that engineering program you've talked about?"

Engineeri-- what? "huhuhuh bro, are you high dude, i ain't here for some weird soundin' shit like that bro. am here to get drunk, work out and crush State, fuck yeah duhuhuhuh." Oh yeah, Max remembered the last game they played, State's lame ass defence couldn't stop the brute force of their offensive line. And the look on their faces when their WR1 tore a muscle in his leg... fuckin' priceless dude!

Mike was clearly not prepared for that answer, which Max found weird, cause he thought his jacked bod was proof enough that he wasn't a stupid nerd.

"Wait, so..." He was clearly confused "if you're not doing engineering then what is your major?"

"major?" Max had no idea what that guy meant... Major... what was a major... Coach talked to him about something like that... It was something along the lines of... "uhhhhh, general ed? dunno bro, never really been a guy to focus on shit."

"What, general education?" Mike seemed shocked. "But, like... I don't understand, Max, you... You said you wanted that, so that you could do a PhD... Why did you change your mind... Like, really, why did you change so much?!"

All that talk 'bout changes made Max's head spin a little bit. Like, what changes? He's been a fuckin' bro since he came here, got a room with Buck, cause before that-- his brain again began filling with fog, his thoughts slowing down to a halt, but not before he blurted out a response.

"duuuuude, like, bro, ive been a real bruh, like, forever dude, duuuuuuuh, like i got my bro Buck, and he got me to Coach, and uhhhhhhhhh, ya know, he worked on me and huhuhuh--" and his mind went blank, a dumb grin stuck on his face.

"What do you mean? A coach 'worked on' you? That sounds... concerning, you know that, right?" Mike adjusted his glasses and looked at Max, clearly concerned.

But Max... Max's brain had shut off. He was sitting in the passenger seat of his best bro Buck's truck, chuckling like a dumb idiot and drooling slightly.

"duhuhuhuhuhuh, duuuude... fuckin' hot today brah, gotta get that pump huhuhuhuh" He flexed his arm and touched his bulging biceps.

"Jesus, did they do something to you? Did you have some traumatic head injury?" Mike leaned on the car, looking inside the vehicle to see what was happening with Max. "God, did they brainwash you? You're a completely different person... and a dumb jock!"

It took a while for Max's fog-covered brain to register what the nerd said. And before he even began formulating a response Buck approached the car.

Buck was wearing a loose tank top that revealed his broad shoulders and giant guns, while also showing off his chest. His shorts, like second skin on his thick thighs, left nothing to imagination with his bulge clearly visible. He was a jock. An alpha. Max's best bro.

"duuude, ya won't believe the chick i saw while gettin' out of the dorm--" He started speaking as he opened the door on the driver's side, but then he noticed Mike standing by Max's window. "ey bruh, who's that loser?"

"huh?" Max turned to Buck, his grin disappearing and his his brow now furrowed. "i... dunno, bro..."

Buck and Mike looked at each other for a moment, the first one annoyed, the second slightly terrified.

"get away from the car" Buck barked as he sad down in front of the steering wheel.

"Wait, please, just a moment, you know what happened to Max? Pleas i just want to--"

"Go away, you fuckin' nerd" was the response Mike got. He took a step away from the car but didn't go away. Meanwhile Max realized what was happening. Some nerd was disturbing them and not listening to Buck's commands. And that wasn't the right thing to do. He turned his head to face the nerd.

"why you starin' at me, nerd" Max growled. His mind, completely covered by the fog, was now following Buck's lead. And Buck didn't like the nerd. So Max didn't like the nerd.

"Max, what... what happened?" Terror shifted into confusion as Mike tried to comprehend Max's sudden change in mood.

"oh, just fuck off, loser" Max responded and Buck took that as a sign. He turned the engine on and drove away, leaving Michael alone in the parking lot.

"uhhhhhh, do we know this guy?" Max asked a few minutes later. "that nerd form before?"

"nah, bro, of course not. we're real jocks, we're not gonna fraternize with fuckin' losers." Buck let our a low and dumb laugh. "by the way, tomorrow we're gonna get ya to Coach for a check up, just in case"

[acowardinmordor]

You Left Me - You Miss Me - Six

Sup, I finally wrote the next part. Mostly because of someone trying to find it via the fic finder blog, which gave me a big ol spike in anxiety about the lack of update.

Part One .... Part Four - Part Five

---

“Rob, no.”

“Don’t you tell me ‘no,’ Steven Dingus Harrington!”

“You can’t drive to Hawkins and kill the guy.”

“Oh yes I can! I'll take your bat with me!”

“Babe, you still don’t know how to drive, and I have work in the morning so I can’t take you.” 

“I’ll figure it out on the way!”

She wouldn’t. She wasn't going to drive to Hawkins. She would definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent kill Munson if she had the chance and Steve didn’t talk her out of it, but Robin wasn’t going to leave him alone when he’d had a breakdown an hour earlier. She wouldn’t let him sleep alone for the next few days, and she would go to work with him in the morning, and she’d probably skip her Stats class so she could stick by him after work too. 

It took Robin about thirty seconds to realize something had happened. 

That was the gap between her opening the car door, and Steve speaking. All he said was “hey, Robs” and she cut off her ramble about chlorofluorocarbons. The same way he could tell by the sound of her stirring soup, or which color eye shadow she wore, she knew immediately something had happened. 

She touched his arm.

And he had a breakdown in the college parking lot. 

Steve updated the tag on the side of the box and put it back on the shelf. He was,technically, working. Robin was ranting and using a tie-dye shirt as a prop. 

“You don’t need to crash our car trying to go kill a guy I’m not even mad at.”

“Ugh,” she flapped the shirt at him and slouched against the edge of the shelving unit. “Why not? Why are you not mad at him? How? I’m mad at him! He took the kids away from you! They’re annoying little shitheads but you loved them and he jus---”

“Rob,” he interrupted softly. He couldn’t get into that side of it right now. 

“Sorry. Sorry. But you’re not this nice, Stevie. You’re wonderfully bitchy and petty and it’s one of my favorite things about you, and I don’t get this. He sucks! This was super shitty! Why aren’t you mad at him for being an asshole?”

“It’s not his fault.”

“He said it was his fault!”

Eddie blamed himself, and maybe it was his fault, but it didn’t matter. Not in comparison.

“Are you going to inventory anything tonight, or is this just going to be me?”

“No! And why are you working?”

Because if he stopped, if he let himself turn his full attention towards it, he was going to fall apart again, and stupid as it was, checking inventory used up just enough of his focus that he couldn’t drown. Steve flicked through the stack of size smalls, and wrote it down on the list. “Uh, because we’re at work?”

“We both work tomorrow tonight and there is no way that Mary or Nick have ever looked at the stock sheets in their life, they aren’t going to look tomorrow either. No one will know.”

“I’ll know.” He glanced up to make eye contact for a second, and she caved with a groan. 

“If you were anyone but my soulmate, buddy…” She folded the shirt terribly, shoved it into the gap between the cardboard and the other shirts, and finally closed the box. 

Letting the silence settle gave Steve a minute to breathe, and reset himself without the rising tension. She knew that, and waited until, unspoken, she knew he was ready to keep going. 

“Steve.”

“I am mad, Robs. I am. You know that it’s.. At the kids, and at Hopper, and at myself for agreeing to this stupid idea, but I’m not mad at him.” 

“Why does he get special treatment?”

Hearing how that sounded, he tried again, “No, uh. I’m mad at him, but, like, the same way you get mad when the grandma in the crosswalk is going really slow and then drops something and goes back, and you end up stuck waiting again even though you should have made it through the light before. Yeah, it sucks, but it’s not like grandma was doing it specifically to fuck with you. She’s just, you know, shopping or whatever. 

“It wasn’t like there was a friendship there that he betrayed. He did something for his own life and it was sorta sucky, and it sucks for me, but he feels really shitty about it, so I don’t think he meant for them to, you know, vanish.”

Robin thumbed down the stack of Levis, whispering the count as she went. Three more sizes got counted before she responded. 

“You carried him out of there. You saved his life.”

Steve hummed absently. “He wasn’t bleeding that bad. His trash lid kept most of them off. I panicked when I saw blood and picked him up.”

“And that doesn’t make you friends?”

“It’s not like I only saved him because it was him. Not like I stopped and thought about whether I should get the bleeding guy to the hospital. Lifeguard, remember?” 

The other half of the thought, he bit back. He’d had nightmares about Billy after Starcourt. Dreams where he could have saved him, and didn’t. Where he could have saved Max from having to see that, having to recover from that. He saw Eddie bleeding, he saw one of his kids screaming, and there wasn’t a thought in his head. Just the need not to let it happen again. Not again. Not Dustin too. 

He kept his eyes on the inventory form so she didn’t see that part. 

“Still think it should have mattered more. Life saving creates friendships.”

“He was unconscious. I know you don’t know much about how guys act with each other, but generally both dudes are awake when they become friends.”

She snorted at his weak joke, throwing her pencil at him. It wasn’t anywhere near her. 

“New record, champ,  that one wasn’t even close enough for me to pretend to dodge it.”

“Ugh, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Robs.”

He got through a full set of kids dress shirts in peace, counted and listed. Then he pulled down the crate of kid’s dresses, next on the list to check. 

The whole can of worms would tear open when, if, when Eddie showed up with something from the kids. There was no version of that day that wouldn’t end with him falling apart. If he skimmed them, if he burned them, if he read them, if he wrote back, if he refused to take them at all, it didn’t matter. He was going to fall to pieces. 

If they wrote and it was real, if it was petty, if it was anger, if it was grief, if it was gloating he was gone, if it was begging him to come back, if it was proof that it was always fake, always a temporary placeholder until they found someone they actually like. The imminent breakdown was going to be bad no matter what. 

Like those safety videos in school about seat belts. 

Like knowing the car crash was coming, knowing it couldn’t be stopped, and knowing that nothing he did was going to make it any easier to bear. Slow motion, watching a car come -- a beat up old van come towards him. No time to put on a seat belt, no way to brace for it, just accept that it was going to happen and hope you survived.  

Robin cleared her throat to get his attention, and Steve blinked back to himself. 

“Did, uh, did you say something?”

Robin watched him for a minute. He let her this time. It was easier to let her see what he was feeling than try to turn it into words, and he needed her to let it go for now.. 

“I’m going to skip my bio lecture on Friday afternoon.”

“Birdie, you don’t--” 

“You are going to call in sick at the skate rink. We are going to make snickerdoodles and brownies and the cracker bark thing, and order pizza, and we’re going to make ourselves sick eating too much, and we’re going to watch some random movie on mute and make up our own story and dialogue. Got it?”

“Got it,” he smiled.

And it wasn’t going to make it all better. Eating two pounds of butter in a day wasn’t going to make it easier when Eddie showed up, but it was like hitting pause on that video. Car crash was still coming, but he could look away for a while. 

***

Steve clung to the pass shelf from the kitchen as the expected car crash hit him on Monday. John, always eager for the chance to throw someone out of the diner, looked over Steve’s shoulder. It was a nice moment. A nice little thought before he had to face what he’d agreed to. If he asked, John would throw Eddie out. Literally. Nice image, but not the one he got to see.

Instead, he declined the offer, and grabbed the plates. 

“Gimme a minute,” he mumbled to Eddie, heading to the sweet elderly couple celebrating the birth of their second granddaughter with a leisurely breakfast. If he spent an extra minute talking to them, complimenting the polaroid of what seemed to be some kind of mashed potato swaddled in white and pink, it was to get a good tip, not because he was stalling. 

Eddie hadn’t moved when he got back. He was a step back from the counter, stiff, holding a paper grocery bag under one arm, eyes trained on the ugly teal of the stool’s seat.

“Well?” Steve asked bitchily, “Did you bring milk and eggs and bread, honey?”

He put it on the counter, clutching the folded top hard, like he was making sure it stayed shut. 

Like it was full of spiders or something. Mutual sentiment.

Steve grabbed it, tossing it onto the shelf where they kept personal belongings and the leftovers they’d called dibs on. He hadn’t expected Eddie Munson to be up to Franklin at eight am on a Monday. Eddie wasn’t a morning person. Steve thought he’d have a few more hours to brace. Now he had to deal with customers while that bag burned a hole in the back of his head. 

Luckily, Rebecca was serious when she said he could get mean with guests if he wanted to. Today wasn’t a want. It was going to be a necessity. 

Eddie was still standing there. 

“You can tell them I got it, or whatever,” he tried to dismiss him.

Something that looked like the tortured remains of a smile flickered on Eddie’s face. He gave up after a second and nodded too many times. “Thanks. Thank you. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, right?”

It took a minute for Steve to catch up to the question. 

“I haven’t said I’m going to answer them. Or open them. Or keep them.”

Eddie was quiet for a minute, still not looking up, and Steve’s Travel-Size-Robin was vibrating with the need to make him so they could guess what the hell he was thinking. 

“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday mornings?” he repeated. 

“Yeah. Sure, yeah,” Steve gave up. 

Eddie left, and Steve did the entire day’s front of house prep before Susan got in, trying to keep his head away from that damn bag. 

***

Steve didn’t open it. 

He fell asleep in Robin’s bed, grateful he didn’t have other work that evening, and doubly grateful when she made him eat some crackers and drink some water before they passed out for the night. 

If he was waiting for the impact the day before, seeing Eddie again the next day was so unexpected that the crash whooshed past him without an impact. He didn’t sit down, and he looked a little rough, probably from driving to Franklin in the early morning twice in two days. 

“Do you have…?”

“No? No,” Steve boggled at him, “How could I have anything for you to even -- No. Man, no.” 

Eddie nodded. 

Eddie left. 

***

Steve stared at the bag instead of taking a nap before their shift in the stockroom. Didn’t open it, that was way, way beyond him, but he did manage to look directly at it, and it was only a few saltines, but he did successfully eat. 

Robin, angel, light of his life, soulmate and perfect person got in the car after class, handed him a kinda gross protein bar that she stole from an athlete in her class who she didn’t like, and made him eat it. 

She didn’t make him talk about the bag shaped elephant in their apartment, and she spent the entire shift explaining the way Ann Carson’s translations of Greek plays had totally shifted how people read them, making them more accessible, and how the push to do the same with Shakespeare was incredible. 

When he went to crawl into his own bed that night, she grumbled, brought her favorite pillow, and climbed in after him. 

***

Eddie walked in at quarter to seven, right after three four tops seated.

“No.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Eddie looked small, probably because he was speaking at a normal volume, sounding like a normal human, which ran opposite to how Eddie was in Hawkins. He also looked like crap. 

“Why are you here, dude? You hate mornings. You don’t have to leave that early, I work until one.”

Eddie scrunched his face, but didn’t answer that. 

“No?” he asked instead.

Someone at table six shouted ‘waiter!’ 

“I’ll bring your coffee in a damn minute!” Steve yelled back, half turning with the carafe in his hand.

“Steve?”

“Look, I don’t have anything for you. Nothing. You don’t need to waste your time. I haven’t opened it.”

“There’s more than one -- oh,” Eddie scrubbed over his face. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. Do-- Are you going to? Open it.”

Thinking about opening it made him want to run away to Canada. 

Thinking about never knowing made him want to puke. 

Whatever weird face Steve made was something Eddie could translate. He only raised his head for a moment, just long enough to look. But then he covered his face with both hands, taking a deep breath that shuddered on the exhale. 

“See you Monday,” he said as a goodbye.

“Where’s my coffee?” the same guy yelled. Steve didn’t have the energy to deal with customers and whatever the fuck was going on with Eddie’s early morning emotional mess. 

“Wait a second,” he complained to both of them at once. Steve grabbed one of the big mugs, the ones they used for the expensive hot chocolate, filled it with coffee, and set the pour jar of sugar next to it. He looked from Eddie to the cup, pointedly. “Don’t crash. Bring the cup back with you.”

The asshole yelled for him again, and Steve turned on the terrifyingly polite smile that Robin had helped him hone. Then he deployed it on the asshole at table six. 

---------------

We are headed towards Steddie, on a path that will, hopefully, not feel like I brushed off all this to get there. However. Wow, they're hurting right now. You can't have Eddie's pov yet, it would spoil things, but. just. trust me. ow.

Still don't do tag lists. Once I know how many parts it'll be, this will go to Ao3, promise.

[maapllee]

All The Stars~

BAKUGOU X SECRET ADMIRER PT.1

A/N: This idea has marinated in my head for wayyyy too many weeks, so here you go. There will be a part 2 to this.

P.S: Not proofread. Sorry for any mistakes.

ALL THE STARS~ PT.2 | ALL THE STARS~PT.3

It was the second day of school after the summer break. You peeked out from behind the wall at the lockers- your crush's locker. Your stomach grumbled in pain- ah, the sacrifices you make for love. Maybe this was a stupid idea, why would Katsuki fucking Bakugou reciprocate the sickening feelings you harboured towards him? You were better off staying his secret admirer.

Bakugou was the last person you'd imagine a puppy dog romance with. He surely wasn't worth skipping lunch for. What were you thinking anyway, hoping his love for you would blossom? Well, that's all it would be. Hope. You told yourself. Not that it would matter, the gifts inside were unsigned anyway.

Sighing, you turned to walk away- maybe you could convince Lunch Rush to let you have a peck or two before class started. Walking into the hallway, you scratched the back of your head as you felt a headache come on. Looking up, you saw Bakugou, Kirishima and the others walking towards the lockers. Scrambling, you ducked behind the staircase- Holy fucking shit. This was it. They hadn't noticed you, luckily. Not yet, at least. Your knuckles were white from grabbing the wall as you stood on your tippy toes, trying to get a closer look at his expression.

That idiotic blonde was screaming at Denki for electrocuting his lemonade or whatever- at least he saw that coming; what he didn't see was the hellish amount of confetti falling onto him as he opened his locker. The rest of the Bakusquad looked with their mouth open as you cowered behind the wall, blushing. You were grateful no one had noticed you yet. "Ooh, looks like someone's got the fancies for Bakubro ;)" Kaminari said, almost emoting in surprise, along with Kiri.

"What the actual fuck is this?" Bakugou grimaced, stepping on the now confetti-covered floor. He rummaged around his locker, pushing the confetti around to uncover boxes stacked on top of each other next to his textbooks. Pretty pink boxes adorned with ribbons, must I add. A neon orange sticky note taped to the topmost box stood out in contrast with the monochrome textbooks and grey metal of the locker. Bakugou had half a mind to throw it all away or blow up the entire locker. It wasn't worth the hassle anyway.

Denki snickered, peeling off the note that read 'High protein chocolate~' "Woaahh, real thoughtful, ain't it?" Kirishima said, elbowing Bakugou in the stomach. "I wonder who it isss~~" Mina piped up, opening one of the heart-shaped boxes to reveal chocolate-covered strawberries. Popping one in her mouth, she sighed, placing a hand on her cheek while relishing the flavour. "I wonder how they got all that confetti into your locker."

You took a deep breath in, relaxing your shoulders. One step at a time- You walked towards Bakugou. "I wonder who's masochistic enough to have a crush on Bakugou, let alone express themselves, hahaa-" you laughed, interrupted by a sharp jab on your ribs. "Aahh that hurt, y'know?" You sulked, rubbing the sore spot. "What kinda coward leaves this unsigned?" Bakugou grumbled, tearing up the note and resuming rummaging through his locker for his textbooks for Present Mic's class.

Katsuki Bakugou was not a kind man. You more than most people, knew that well. But Bakugou didn't mean to push you out of the way as he made his way out the hall. He didn't mean to bruise your chest. He didn't mean to hurt you.

[lesservillain]

inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994 

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but,  despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed. 

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship. 

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up. 

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.” 

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you. 

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.” 

 Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.  

October 7th, 1994 

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work. 

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter. 

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”  

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.  

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper. 

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously. 

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it. 

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

 “I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.” 

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at. 

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.  

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as  “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

 As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.  

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.  

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.” 

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

 It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994 

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you. 

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters. 

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher. 

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again. 

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!” 

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills. 

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students. 

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time. 

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid? 

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.  

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind. 

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.” 

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle. 

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…” 

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it.  Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.  

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued. 

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.” 

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right? 

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic. 

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.” 

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath. 

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.  

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

  “Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.” 

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front. 

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!” 

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared. 

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards. 

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body. 

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later. 

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?  

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading. 

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

  Eddie. 

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle. 

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.” 

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period. 

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed. 

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted. 

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune. 

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door. 

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you. 

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face. 

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye. 

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!” 

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else. 

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin. 

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?” 

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too. 

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.” 

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?” 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.” 

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles. 

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school. 

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face. 

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.” 

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts. 

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin. 

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?” 

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you. 

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?” 

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.” 

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest. 

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins. 

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon. 

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end. 

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise. 

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar. 

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you. 

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing. 

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you. 

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it. 

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself. 

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it. 

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain. 

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get. 

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely. 

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in. 

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground. 

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped. 

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what. 

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother. 

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash. 

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab. 

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face. 

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips. 

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

[satoruin]

➣ matchmaking or meddling?

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: you find out just how much your students have been meddling in your love life, though you can’t really be mad.

notes from lee: i’m afraid to make this look like an award acceptance speech so ill be brief. had to make a fic for the namesake of the blog and a very late hbd to boo (@2018-01-20). kinda wish i had more interactions with the kids, but i ended up w/ a lot of gojo pov also unedited

Looking back it should have been obvious what these kids of yours were up to. Yes, they were the reason you were in this god-forsaken closet with a blindfolded fool.

You’re only really aware of their meddling now as you hear their snickers from the hallway, so you can’t quite tell when their meddling started. But it makes sense that they were plotting something, but was it in collaboration with Satoru? Because it seemed like every mishap or coincidence between your two classes, Satoru took it in stride and turned it into his advantage. Just like he was taking advantage of the situation now…

Thinking back, your first clue should have been with the sticky notes. A note scrawled on a pink sticky note, in actually legible handwriting, addressed to you like a valentine. Reading, “from: Satoru ;D to: (y/n) <3; do you look this good every day or do i just not remove my blindfold enough????” It’s on top of a stack of papers handed over by the ever-stoic Fushiguro. Surely to get your guard down, and it did.

When you interrogate your fellow teacher about it later, he keeps his normal all-knowing grin plastered on his face. Now they, being the kids who orchestrated it, don’t need to do any work as every day after that there’s a new sticky note somewhere for you to see. They vary in color, most in some shade of pink, some with bad pick-up lines, others with a stick figure drawing, or the very rare ones hidden away with words that make you spit out your drink.

Or maybe another tip off should have been the ‘coincidental’ times you’d have the second years out on the training field and he just so happened to also plan a demonstration for the first years at the same time. But then again you don’t hear their snickering above your irritation at the white-haired man as he lets you jab a finger into his chest, with his annoying smirk.

But they notice you don’t care anymore that he peeks his head over your shoulder to look at your teaching outline just so he can do the ‘coincidental’ planning now.

And still the biggest hint that you fall for every time, is when they leave you at the cafe with just Satoru after begging for a weekend meetup. And again, when they ask to have team dinners, study sessions, or extra training, it's ridiculous. Your gullibility and trust in them is commendable, but it’s become laughable as you still trust in the kids to show up. And they do, just in disguise from across wherever you are as they watch Satoru come to your rescue every time.

Maybe the more ridiculous part is when the rare glimpse of their teacher’s eyes is pointed, peeking through their poorly crafted disguises, at them from across the room with a smirk.

He’s noticed for a while now that the kids are playing matchmaker, and their skills are much better than those his clan hires. And to be honest, he doesn’t mind, if anything he finds it cute that they think he needs the help. Though admittedly they do have some good ideas. Each one never fails to fluster you, in your own cute and angry way, as he takes over their schemes. His six-eyes catch the flurry of texts sent every time he does so, which he’s sure just encourages them further.

Satoru’s not quite sure when his feelings for you developed. He’s always found you attractive, especially when you were his cute kouhai (he still likes to call you that in order to annoy you until you begrudgingly call him senpai once again.). Everything he learns about you only adds to his initial interest. He’s a sucker for getting to know the little things, like your favorite dinner spot after a tough mission or what your ideal day off is. Once you accept his feelings he’ll put the knowledge you deem useless to good work.

But there’s a moment that sits so starkly in his memory as the first time he realized he was in love with you and not just intrigued or infatuated.

It was maybe around the time Tsumiki had gotten sick and though Megumi was self sufficient, Satoru didn’t feel that he should be alone. He knows he’s not the best at comfort, hell he could barely comfort himself, so he sends you.

And he’s not overly worried about you, you’re a teacher so he’s sure you’ll get through to the ever prickly Megumi just fine. Plus you’ve always been significantly better at handling emotional situations, he knows first hand. So when he comes to check on you after finishing his mission, he smiles at your success.

Megumi’s head rests on your lap, asleep, and you’re slumped over the armrest. There’s a twang of jealousy that pricks at his mind, wishing it was him in your lap instead, but all he can think about is having you greet him as he comes home and Megumi and Tsumiki sitting for dinner and that would be yours and his alone.

He’s never felt like someone that would settle down or want a family, especially given the circumstances of his status. But you, in this moment, make him want to move past the shrewdness of the higher ups and his clan, and just have you. He longs for something that is just his, not part of Jujutsu Society, the higher ups, or his clan, or even Satoru Gojo, he wants things just for Satoru, just for him.

You are that something, that someone, he wants, he’s convinced that he needs you like the air he breathes. The weird surge of emotions that have been kept bottled up since a dark day suddenly seems to make sense and it has a name, it’s love.

So when he’s reminiscing on his feelings, it really has been there all along, but it’s that very specific moment in which his love for you was defined.

And the apex of all his work in gently guiding you to realize your feelings, that he’s very sure are there, is in a closet of all places. His blue eyes glow dimly in the dark of the closet with the snickers of his students on the other side.

“Hey,” he breathes out, much less confident than he intended, but you make him nervous.

You meet his bright eyes briefly before looking away and returning the greeting, “Um, hi.”

His breath hitches and his mind blanks, every funny line or flirty remark he could make right now is gone. He can’t think about anything other than you, how cute your expression is, how good your hair looks even slightly messed up, but mainly your lips and how much he needs to kiss you before he leaves this cramped closet. “How are you?”

You blink at him incredulously, “We’re in a closet, Gojo. How do you think I am?”

He tosses his head back and groans as you use his last name, he thought he’d gotten you to call him Satoru like pretty much everyone did. “C’mon (Y/n), you know I hate when you call me that.” He whines and pouts, jutting his bottom lip out like a toddler.

He watches the guilt flash across your face briefly, surely it’s you remembering how he confided in you about hating the weight that came with his last name. “Sorry, I know. I know,” you pause and he senses your hesitancy and waits, “Satoru.”

He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face that differs from his usual smirk as he rocks on his feet with his heart fluttering.

“You really like it that much when I call you ‘Satoru’?” You ask, eyeing up his body language with a skeptical look.

“Maybe.” He answers in a sing-song tone, he’s back to his usual self, “But you know what I’d like more?”

He leans in close and glances down at your lips. No matter how many times he does this, it always results in him pulling away with a teasing smile. So when he feels your hands wrap around the neck of his uniform and pull him closer, it’s certainly a surprise.

“You want a kiss?” You ask and he nods meekly, if possible, and you do, you kiss him. Satoru’s eyes flutter shut as his heart flutters in his stomach. His big hands reach up to cup your face and keep you glued to his lips. Gods, it’s everything he’s dreamed about and more.

When you part from him to catch your breath, he’s smiling. “I hope you know I want much more than a kiss.” He waits for you to breathe and to watch your reaction before smashing his lips onto yours again.

Satoru feels your arms wrapped around his neck and how your hands crawl through his undercut to tug at his hair. And he’s similar, the hands once holding your face have traced down your body to your hips so he can hold you close.

The knock on the door cuts your time short, your tongues and bodies having to part. Satoru watches as you smooth over your clothes and hair before he pulls up his blindfold. The door opens not a moment later to reveal the two classes waiting with bated breath to see something scandalous.

They are disappointed, fortunately for you and your image as a teacher. None of the students have the time to catch the heavy blush on his face as he slips away while you lecture them. But they do notice how flustered you are when you get a text from Satoru, “dinner 2nite?”

[loaksky]

no thoughts other than professor!abby / coworker!abby and the holiday stocking ! this is like 80 percent backstory bc who am i to not blabber about my new favorite trope...full length fic abt them in the works oops! not proofread + no warnings other than language!

tlou masterlist | main masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔ first let’s set the scene by establishing that abby’s probably a tenure-track professor in a hyper specific literature study or maybe cross-teaches a course or two in the women and gender studies department. you’re a new educator probably teaching english 101?

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby first sees you at the faculty meeting for her department during the late summer and is immediately enamored.

⋆.ೃ࿔ by some stroke of luck, she finds that she’s been assigned to your neighboring office and her final lecture is held in the hall across from yours.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby’s usually pretty good about the timing of her lectures and she ends up finishing 10-15 minutes early every session. so sometimes she hears the tail end of your lessons and can’t help but think you’re so fucking brilliant.

⋆.ೃ࿔ the students are taken by you too, usually not paying any mind to professors that teach lower level classes, but you’re animated and hands-on, and abby realizes that maybe she should take a page from your book.

⋆.ೃ࿔ literally can’t work up the courage to say anything to you first and is so surprised when she’s having an internal warfare one day while she’s locking up the lecture hall and you slink past her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!”

⋆.ೃ࿔ nearly short circuits because how in the fuck do you know her name? (hint hint: you haven’t been able to get a grip after seeing her in the same faculty meeting she’d basically fallen head over heels for you at).

⋆.ೃ࿔ for the life of her, can’t get her shit together over the weekend. is so scatterbrained because the hot new professor knows her name?? practically spirals because that means that she’s been perceived and she has no idea if it’s a good or bad thing because what do you think of her ???

⋆.ೃ࿔ runs into you bright and early monday morning as she’s about to duck into her office and she wants to make a beeline for the safety of her ergonomic chair, but you look a little frazzled and she’s speaking before she can stop herself.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “everything alright?” she asks as you miss the slot for the keyhole a few times and blow out a shaky sigh.

⋆.ೃ࿔ notices you’re carrying a fuckton of things and is wordlessly grabbing your stack of folders and taking your heavy knapsack from you as you finally get the key in the keyhole.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “thank you so much,” you say, voice thick with unshed tears. “i just, fuck, shit, sorry, that wasn’t professional—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she could melt because you’re so cute.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “i don’t think i saved the form for midterm grades on my laptop and the battery just crapped out on me, and i’m pretty sure i just missed the deadline and—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “hey, breathe, breathe,” abby says gently, hands involuntarily smoothing over your shoulders. “you’re okay, it’s okay. shit happens.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “god, i’m such a idiot.” you scrub your hands down your face. “the upper level professors were right, i do suck—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “whoa, whoa,” abby calls out sternly, expression horrified. “who said that?”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s not important,” you whisper, blowing out another breath and squeezing your eyes shut as you shake your hands to try to calm yourself. “they’re not wrong.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “who.” and abby is no longer asking, arms bulging in her oxford shirt as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares down at you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and mr. ruiz,” you say quietly, fidgeting under such a steely gaze.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby just makes a noise in her throat, uncrosses her arms and tilts her head towards your desktop computer.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “if you were working on the submission form on your faculty account, it automatically syncs to the cloud both on and offline,” she says. “there’s usually a grace period until the final scheduled lecture for the day which is in...” she glances at her wrist watch, “in about an hour.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re rounding your desk, practically throwing yourself in your chair as you boot up the computer and log into your faculty portal. your cheeks are flushed warm and eyes wide as your gaze flits across the screen.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you deflate in relief after a few clicks to find that professor anderson’s absolutely correct, and there’s the form in all it’s glory, cursor blinking and ready to be completed and submitted.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “holy shit, thank you so much,” you whisper.

⋆.ೃ࿔ when you look up, she’s already stormed halfway out of your office.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and i would just like to extend a sincere apology for our words regarding your tenure here,” mr. ruiz says after they corner you in the staffroom a few mornings later.

⋆.ೃ࿔ your eyebrows are knitting together momentarily before it dawns on you like a splash of cold water.

⋆.ೃ࿔ it explains why professor anderson had been in such a hurry to leave your office after assisting you a few mornings ago.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “s’okay,” you shrug.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s really not,” dr. paige says. “it was immature and uncalled for to make such comments, and such shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ a sudden movement outside of the window catches your eye, and you’re grinning when you see the familiar flash of dirty blonde.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “really, it’s no hard feelings,” you assure them. “now if you’ll excuse me.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re breaking away from them to duck out of the staffroom and surprise surprise, abigail anderson is standing a few metres from the door, arms crossed over her chest.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “are you eavesdropping dr. anderson?” you tease.

⋆.ೃ࿔ she doesn’t even bother to hide it, answering with a firm and resounding, “yes.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ that earns a full-bellied laugh out of you and she realizes that she’s so fucking whipped.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you’re a wonderful professor,” abby assures you. “your students love you and you’ve already accomplished such great things in the department.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you can’t help but flush and an awkward but cute silence dawns the two of you after you murmur a quiet “thank you”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “where’s your next session?” dr. anderson breaks the ice. “i’ll walk you.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ the two of you end up getting a lot closer over the rest of the semester and abby starts to get a little frustrated with herself for waiting for so long to actually talk to you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ because you’re practically perfect; so sweet, insanely intelligent, and it’s just the icing on top that you’re probably one of the prettiest girls she’s ever seen and you’ve got an equally pretty ass to match (abby is an ass girl IDC !)

⋆.ೃ࿔ heart is in shambles because you’ve learned how she likes her coffee and frequently bring her one first thing before your string of lectures start.

⋆.ೃ࿔ also, more often than not, the two of you are spending lunch hours together whether you’re grabbing a quick bite from one of the dining halls, splurging a little to eat lunch at an actual establishment, or killing time at the nearby bookstore a few blocks from the campus center.

⋆.ೃ࿔ long story short, you and abby have been spending so much time together and she knows she really likes you, but she can’t find it in herself to say anything because she doesn’t wanna scare you off with such a strong bout of emotions.

⋆.ೃ࿔ but literally everyone sees it! and it’s not necessarily that you’re oblivious, but abby’s accomplished, a really well-loved professor by both the department and her students, and even if there isn’t a ring on her finger, you’re convinced that abby’s got to have someone special in her life...it’s literally you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even the students see it! dr. anderson’s been lagging recently during her last time slot and it doesn’t take long for a few students who love her especially so to see the way it takes her a little while longer to pack up and how she lingers out in the hall as your class ends!

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!” her last two students chime as they part ways with her. one of them glances over his shoulder and sees you filing out with a group of students from the adjacent classroom. “good luck.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and abby’s beet fucking red when you finally lock up and ask her what that was about.

⋆.ೃ࿔ fast forward to now, it’s the final week before students are set to go home for the holidays and she’s a little down in the dumps because not only will she not get to see you for almost a month, but she’s usually alone this time of year and it’s agonizing to think that maybe you’ll be going home to someone else.

⋆.ೃ࿔ unbeknownst to her, you’ve been really nervous because maybe you’d overheard her talking to an adjunct professor, owen, about how she’d never gotten a personalized stocking made for her in response to seeing the one hanging on his shelf that his wife and kid had made for him this year, and perhaps you’d watched a couple youtube videos on stocking decorating and went out to buy the supplies right after.

⋆.ೃ࿔ admittedly, the last few days, the two of you are distant, her because she’s sad, and you because you’re probably spending every waking moment trying to think of ways to make the stocking perfect and you’re so in your head that you don’t even notice her change in demeanor.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and you try to make it perfect, really want abby to love her gift, so you fiddle around with it until the last possible moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re also nervous as fuck as you peer over your shoulder thursday afternoon, hoping dr. anderson doesn’t catch you in the act of staging her gift because frankly you’re too shy to give it to her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even though you and dr. anderson are on great terms, she’s still so intimidating and you don’t trust yourself to make an ass of yourself, so you relay your message through a pretty piece of cardstock and tuck it into the bag before you’re scurrying off for the end of the semester.

⋆.ೃ࿔ finally, it’s the final day that campus will be open and abby’s trudging up to her office, only really intending to gather the last of what she’ll need since the buildings will be locked throughout the duration of holiday break, but she’s stopped dead in her tracks when she sees the sizable gift bag hanging on her doorknob.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “what that—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ she’s carefully moving around the tissue paper and her heart catches in her throat when she sees a blue stocking bulging with different treats and even a book! with her name carefully stitched on the band.

⋆.ೃ࿔ her first knee jerk reaction is that maybe owen pitied her and made her one, but a matching blue envelope catches her eye and she’s fishing it out of the bag.

⋆.ೃ࿔ recognizes your handwriting from the whiteboards when she’s stealing peeks into your classroom.

⋆.ೃ࿔ cheeks are flaming and stomach is tying in knots as she reads your note.

⋆.ೃ࿔ Firstly, I’m really disappointed I couldn’t deliver this to you in person, but my flight leaves for home on Friday... :( Nonetheless, you’ve been such a wonderful office neighbor and even more wonderful colleague. I truly can’t string together an adequate way to express how grateful I am to work alongside someone as kind and thoughtful as you, Dr. Anderson. You’ve quickly become such a dear friend and I hope you have a wonderful holiday! See you next year! ˆ<3

⋆.ೃ࿔ the fucking heart...the fucking heart!!! literally it’s all abby can fixate on before she realizes that there’s an ass of things tucked in the stocking and not only did you take the time to handstitch onto the fabric, but you took the time to gather things she didn’t even realize you knew she liked.

⋆.ೃ࿔ is unlocking her office so that she can pour the contents of the stocking onto her desk and she nearly dissipates into a pile of goo right then and there because there’s a few packs of her favorite gum (wintergreen), a set of her absolute favorite ballpoint pens (because gel pens are too runny for her liking), a giftcard to her usual coffee shop (“since I won’t be there to bring you your order” according to the note scrawled on the holder), a thick pair of argyle socks in her favorite colorway, and finally, there’s an annotated version of this is how you lose the time war.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and it has to mean something; your book choice and how you raved about it weeks prior during an excursion with abby to the public library, and you’d pulled the copy off the shelf and asked her if she’d read it.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “no,” she answered simply. “never caught my eye.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you should read it,” you’d said quietly. “their love was beautiful.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she’d never admit it, but she’d checked it out the following morning and blew through the book so fast, heart pounding in her chest as she realized that it was about two women in love. and, god, this has to mean something, she’d continue to agonize, even until this current moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and here an annotated version sits, your thoughts and inner feelings inking the pages. it makrs abby bubble with equal parts hope and sadness. sadness because it seems like way too long until she’ll see you again, and hope because maybe this means something more for the two of you in the future.

⋆.ೃ࿔ who knows, really. but abby’s certain that this holiday will feel a little less lonelier with her heart a lot more fuller.

neng © 2023

[jinnie-ret]

THE TUTOR

poly!stray kids x reader

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: toxic relationship (not with SKZ)

word count: 5.4k

summary: becoming lee felix's tutor was quite possibly the best decision she could have made. toxic exes, university assignments and a whole lot of confusing feelings, how does skz fit into this equation?

collab w/ @astraykidforsure

I've absolutely loved working on this with my gorgeous talented pookie! I think it's my fav fic written ever so to have collabed on this was so fun to share our ideas together and give you this!!!

Here is our other fic here which you can find on her page! It's the cutest fluffiest Christmas fic ever so I hope you enjoy :)))

MAIN MASTERLIST

Handing in the penultimate assignment of the year, Y/N couldn't hide her sigh of relief when she gave her paper to her professor. She had given everything to this piece of work, sleepless nights, even forgetting to eat sometimes too, as she was so caught up in her studies. It happened that just as she was handing in this assignment, she was given her results of the previous one she had done. Feeling as if it had been ages ago since she had completed it, Y/N was pleasantly surprised to see the number on the document her professor handed to her.

"85, that's another 'first', top grades as always, Miss Park," Mr Jung, Y/N's English Literature professor grinned at her proudly as he handed her paper back to her.

"Thanks Mr Jung!" Y/N grinned happily, always one to be energetic and bubbly no matter what kind of hurdle was in her way.

"Now, I look forward to reading this one here... but I have one request," Mr Jung pushed up his glasses as he gently placed down her recently finished assignment onto his stack of others he would be due to read.

"Oh, what is it?" Y/N pursed her lips curiously, hands behind her back as she wondered what Mr Jung was about to tell her. She was very much so looking forwards to a small break so hopefully whatever he said next wouldn't be something that would consume a lot of her time.

"One of the students in our class, Lee Felix, I assume you know him? He's falling behind, and I thought you'd be the perfect student to help him. So what do you say?" Mr Jung proposed the idea to Y/N of becoming Felix's tutor.

This wasn't exactly what she expected. Lee Felix? Everyone on campus knew him and the friend group he was a part of. You couldn't not know him. He stuck out especially to Y/N, not just because of the fact he was on the same course as her, but because of his sweet personality and how nicely he treated everyone around him. She aimed to be like him.

What Y/N didn't already realise, was that she was a similar kind of person, and people recognised her kindness. Although she mainly kept to herself, always had her nose in a book or her head in the clouds, she greeted everyone kindly. And for that, she was already loved so much.

It couldn't hurt to help out, could it? Sure, she wanted a break, but this should be things she already knew. And it wasn't like she would be forced to spend her time with anyone horrible. The only thing remotely intimidating was the fact that she'd be presumably meeting one of the most popular friend groups on campus.

But, perhaps it would be nice to properly talk to them, instead of just greeting them like her friendly self normally did.

"- Miss Park?" Mr Jung was still staring at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Sure, I'll do it," Y/N grinned, adjusting her bag on her shoulders before waving her professor goodbye.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was 4:30pm. Right on the dot.

Y/N had arrived perfectly on time, oddly nervous for her first tutor session with Felix. Maybe it was because she hadn't spoken to him properly, apart from the emails back and forth on when to arrange a mutually good time to meet. And that took a while in itself, because Felix didn't seem to check his emails a lot. It would be much easier once she had his phone number to text, and it seemed much less formal too.

Not only that, but it would be nice to see a different name pop up on her screen other than her persistent ex, Johnny, who couldn't seem to forget about her.

Knock, knock, knock.

Y/N stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other before the door opened.

"Y/N right? Come in, come in, sorry about the mess!" Felix cheerfully greeted her with a pre warning of the state of his dorm, which she quickly realised he shared with all of the other guys.

Was it messy? Yes, but the typical mess you'd expect for a boys' dorm. It was homely though. Domestic.

On a coffee table, there was a computer science textbook lying open beside a laptop covered in cat stickers, neatly kept to one side, almost to avoid the art materials spread precariously across the furniture. There was barely any room for the puppy patterned mug of coffee to sit, most likely brewed from the expensive coffee machine in the kitchen, Y/N had noticed. The TV screen was on, showing the title screen of a game she didn't quite recognise, she wasn't much of a gamer herself. As she glanced to where she could take off her coat in the lobby area, there was a gym bag, a backpack with headphones peeking out of the top, and some keys scattered to the side, charmingly accompanied by a koala keyring and a kangaroo one too.

"Don't worry about the mess, it's homely," Y/N shrugged, taking her coat off and feeling a bit surprised when Felix wordlessly took it out of her hands and hung it up for her.

"That's the excuse Hannie always uses..." Felix chuckles, before his eyes widen, "oh yeah! My boyf- roommates are all home right now around here somewhere, so don't be shocked if you see one of them walking about. We can study in my room if you want? It'll be much quieter," he stumbled on his words.

"Sure, whatever is more comfier for you, Felix," Y/N grinned as he nodded once more and they set up things in his room at his desk. Felix brought out his laptop to takes notes as Y/N brought out her notebook. Clearly they had different ways of studying, but that didn't seem to deter her, things like that didn't mean much when she was here to help.

"So, how much have you gotten done so far?" Y/N popped the lid off of her pen, both of them giggling as it flew onto the floor somewhere.

"Don't hate me if I say none of it?" Felix replied sheepishly as he crouched down to retrieve the piece of stationary and sat back down in his seat.

"I can't hate you, silly! I've only just met you!" Y/N shook her head with a gummy smile, not knowing she was melting Felix's heart as she did so.

And so, they began, Y/N guiding Felix to the best references and praising him for his ideas that he thought of for the assignment. She made sure she steered him in the right direction and he seemed to be on the right path already.

Knock, knock.

The door opened to reveal two handsome men, both with sharp features, one with longer black hair and the other with a bold purple style.

"Here, have some brain power," the guy with purple hair put the plate down in front of the two, Y/N already smiling at the colourful fruit presented in front of them.

"That's Minho by the way, and that's Hyunjin," Felix pointed out to Y/N, before munching on a piece of honeydew melon. She waved at them with an enthusiastic 'hi' as they made themselves at home in Felix's room.

Hyunjin stretched across the bed as Minho perched against the desk on Felix's side.

"I think I'll be eating most of this then if it's for brain power," Felix grabbed a few more pieces of fruit, shoving it into his mouth contentedly at the sweet taste.

"You better save some of it for Y/N! She's the guest! Plus, I had to spend time with Minho in the kitchen, with a knife... My life was on the line for these snacks!" Hyunjin professed dramatically, sat up on the bed now as he moved his hands around whilst explaining.

Y/N couldn't help but giggle along with Felix, Hyunjin noticing this as he smiled at how comfortable she was around them already.

"Just wait, you'll have to stay for dinner one time, and then you'll see!" Hyunjin widened his eyes comically, as Y/N nodded along in agreement.

"You like to cook, Y/N?" Minho asked curiously, showing interest in the girl who came round to tutor his boyfriend.

"I'm not the best at cooking actually... Most times I just eat ramen for dinner or order fried chicken," she pinched her lip habitually and covered her awkward grin, yet everyone else could still see it from the way her eyes crinkled.

"Ah! That's not good, I'll have to feed you, make sure you get something nutritional in that belly," Minho patted her head as he tutted.

"That's our Minho, he always cooks for us, he's such a doting boyfriend-" Felix nuzzled his head against Minho's stomach before freezing in place. He may have hidden their secret before but this time he couldn't help himself.

"Y/N, look, we-" Hyunjin stumbled over his words as he stood up now, next to Felix and Minho as he took in the girl's shocked expression.

"It's ok, it's ok, I won't judge," she quickly held her hands up to try and calm them.

"It's easier said then done, not exactly conventional having 8 guys date each other," Minho sighed, stroking Felix's hair soothingly to show he didn't blame the younger.

"Please don't tell anyone," Felix couldn't even look her in the eyes. He felt like he had already blown his chances of getting good grades. Like, what a bombshell to drop on your tutor. Oh yeah, by the way, I have 8, boyfriends but keep it a secret, please.

"Guys, please, it's ok, really. I wouldn't dare tell anyone. That's not my information to share, I'd rather you act natural around me then hide that side to yourselves, ok?" Y/N spoke carefully, taking in all of their expressions to make sure her message was heard.

"You've got a good tutor here, Lixie," Hyunjin sighs in relief, a small smile painting his face.

"I do," he nodded in agreement, relieved that she was someone he could not only learn from, but trust too.

Y/N would come to see a lot of sweet interactions between the boys, and also get to know them a lot more too. This was only the start.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Over the next few weeks, Y/N had really gotten to know the other guys quite well, and when she had reassured the rest of them in person that their secret was safe with her, the arms she was welcomed with were open even more.

"Hi love, come in!" Chan softly smiled at her as she entered the dorms, her books already clutched in her arms.

"You're in a cheery mood today, Channie, get some sleep for once?" Y/N laughed and teased the older boy, looking away mischievously when he pulled a face that said 'why did I let her and Seungmin interact?'.

"Go on go, go find Felix and help him study," he fake sighed and shooed her away, pushing her in the direction of Felix's room with a laugh, but wincing when her phone hit the floor. "Oh sorry!" he was quick to pick it up, the phone lighting up with yet another text message, making him frown.

"Oh it's fine, don't worry," Y/N went to grab it back quickly and hesitantly, Chan let her.

"Who's Johnny?" he chewed his lip as he asked the question.

"He's no one," Y/N shrugged him off, making sure she had all her books ready and was about to enter Felix's room, hand reaching for the handle when Chan realised he couldn't let this go so soon.

The rest of the boys and himself had grown to like Y/N a lot in such a short space of time. Her caring nature had stolen a piece of each of their hearts and they found themselves exuding that same care towards her.

"Love, it doesn't look like nothing, that was a whole lot of texts," Chan warily rested a hand on her shoulder.

Y/N sighed before moving over to their sofa, Chan following right behind her.

"It's really nothing... I'm used to it," she shrugged, biting on the inside of her cheek.

"So if it's nothing why are we taking a seat to talk about this, hmm?" Chan calmly spoke to her, lightly pinching her cheek to get her to stop.

"I don't know if I'm overreacting or not... sometimes I think I am but other times, here just look," Y/N shakily hands over her phone to Chan, and he grasped her hand in his as he read the more recent ones that appeared in her notifications.

"These messages are horrible, Y/N, why don't you just block him?" Chan was horrified at the threatening messages he read, nostrils flaring more and more at each word that his eyes scanned.

"He always finds a way to message me from a new number... See?" Y/N reluctantly released her hand from Chan's as she unlocked her phone and showed her messages, previous conversations all with the same tone to them, but from different numbers. "You can always tell it's him messaging because he always leaves a space between the full stop and the word. And then he doesn't use slang in his texts apart from 'ur'," she further explains to Chan, who was in disbelief at how she spoke so causally of what was happening to her. Yet, he could tell there were some feelings she was internalising too.

"You're too smart for your own good, love," Chan rubbed her shoulder, proud of her analysing skills that she recognised it was her ex. "You really don't deserve this," he murmured, leaning his head on top of hers.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was nice, to feel that love and appreciation again, without having any labels attached. But then it had Y/N thinking, what really was this thing between her and the boys?

"Aren't you going to take a break too, Y/Nnie? Felix has been playing this game for at least twenty minutes now!" Changbin leant his head back on the sofa arm as he watched the girl diligently flicking through her notes whilst Felix went to take a 'short' break and play on his PC.

"Ah, it's fine haha, I want to make sure I've got some stuff ready for when Felix is done," Y/N brushed off Changbin's concerns and pushed back a stray piece of hair as she read through the notes she had made during the afternoon.

"Nope, no, not having it, I'll get Seungmin to make you some of his fresh coffee and then you will sit here, right next to me," Changbin sat up, patting a space on the sofa next to him, "and drink it."

"But Changbin-" Y/N sighed, covering her face and leaning back into the chair at the table, already hearing the whirring of the coffee machine in the kitchen, meaning Seungmin was around and overheard the small harmless bickering.

"Nope, now come, sit here," Changbin didn't budge, from not just his seat but his efforts to getting Y/N to take a break too.

She groaned as she complied and sat next to the muscly guy, who hummed in content when he felt the dip of the sofa next to him.

Seungmin entered the lounge, bringing over a mug of coffee for Y/N, dainty sunflowers painted all over it.

"Wow this mug is so cute!" Y/N grinned as she held it up slightly to admire it.

"Good. It's your mug," Seungmin nodded as he sat at the end of the sofa, a mug of coffee made for himself as he placed it done on the table.

"My mug? I don't even live here, Seungmin," Y/N tried to laugh it off, but she couldn't help but feel butterflies at the warmth she received from these guys. The way that they always made sure she felt at home in their home.

"You might as well, haha, with the amount of times Felix invites you over to study when half the time he's all distracted," Seungmin pushed up his glasses, turning to look at Y/N.

"Well I thought that's why he wanted me over more... Because we didn't get enough done in the first place?" Y/N pursed her lips in thought, before blowing on the coffee to try and cool it down even though it had been freshly brewed and was still very hot.

"Interesting take... I'm with Seungmin on this one though," Changbin raised an eyebrow at Y/N's reasoning before cooing at Seungmin, reaching over to pat him on the knee.

"Ew, hyung," Seungmin wrinkled his nose, bringing his legs further up on the sofa and curling up.

"Hey! Don't reject me in front of Y/N... i-it's embarrassing! I'm a desirable man!" Changbin complained loudly, throwing his arms up in the air before folding them and sinking into the sofa.

Y/N couldn't help but agree, nodding to herself as she bit her lip. Changbin was a handsome man. All of them were. They were all lucky to have each other, not only for their looks but their personalities too.

"I saw that look, you're not so sly, sunflower," Seungmin whispered in Y/N's ear as he patted her head before wrapping his arms around Changbin to quieten the pouting man, cheekily biting his neck in the process.

"Yah! Kim Seungmin!"

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A rough day was rare for Y/N, for she always strived to push any stress away and focus on what she was meant to be doing. But with another influx of texts from Johnny, he wasn't making her day so easy. Even more so because he was waiting outside of her class.

"Never answer my texts huh? I just want you to talk to me, that's all I want!" Johnny grabbed Y/N's wrist and took her to the side of the empty hallway.

Not only was the poor girl shocked at him grabbing her harshly, she also wondered how he knew where her class was, they didn't even take the same course, let alone similar ones for him to be in the same building as her.

"You don't deserve that, Johnny, not after what you put me through," Y/N pulled her arm away from him and redirected herself outside, hoping that was all this confrontation would be.

Oh how wrong she was. Walking outside where there was more students around should have made Y/N feel safer, even with Johnny on her tail, but with the gossipy nature of the university, it made things worse.

"Don't you want me?" Johnny growled, his voice too loud for her liking as people around her pulled out their phones and started filming as he grabbed her wrist tightly once again.

"No! I don't! I hate you!" Y/N said through gritted teeth, trying to regain ownership of her own limb.

This seemed to frustrate Johnny even further, his intentions becoming more and more clear.

He spat at her, right in her face.

"People like you don't deserve to even be with me, I'm doing you a favour!" he tried to pull her along with him.

Y/N felt helpless. Why wasn't anyone helping her? They were too busy hiding behind their phone screens.

"No, I'm doing myself a favour and getting away from you!" Y/N took matters into her own hands and despite the fast beat of her heart she stomped on his foot and stormed away quickly, wiping her tears as she did so.

It wasn't long until the video started floating around other students. Chan and Changbin, who were in one of the studios courtesy of the uni's musical facilities, received a text from Minho.

Minho: pls tell me this isn't y/n...

[vid.attchmnt]

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Is that my favourite person in the world?!" Han hugged Y/N as soon as she walked through the door.

Han had admired Y/N as soon as he met her, always wanting to cuddle her because he thought she was so sweet and 'too pure for this world'.

And oh, did Y/N need that hug, especially after the day she had.

"Hey, she was mine first!" Felix wrapped her up into a big hug of his own as he pushed Han away, not too hard though.

Mine?

That would be a thought for another time...

Pushing the boys away and letting them bicker playfully between themselves, she sat down next to Jeongin on the sofa, who was absorbed in whatever video game it was that he was playing. She often had comfortable silences when she was in the space of the younger. But she likes that. They could appreciate each other's presences without needing to say much. Without needing to say anything.

Y/N sighed and rubbed her head as she read through her notes once more, wondering what part of the words that were jumbling right in front of her very eyes, would be more useful to Felix today.

"You should play one day," Jeongin spoke up quietly, as to not disturb her focus and for him to maintain his own as he fiddled with the joysticks.

"Ah I don't know a lot about gaming, plus staring at the screen would give me an even worse headache right now I think," Y/N sank deeper into the sofa in defeat, rubbing her eyes as she tossed her notes aside.

"Let me get you some painkillers," Jeongin immediately paused his game, standing up and walking into the kitchen.

"No it's fine-" Y/N tried to stop him.

"You take them with water?" Jeongin ignored her attempts as he called out from the other room.

"Yes," Y/N replied quietly but he still seemed to have heard her.

Jeongin returned into the lounge with two painkillers and a some water in a glass prettily painted with sunflowers on it. It wouldn't be hard to guess who bought her that.

"Cute glass," Y/N fondly smiled, as she sipped the water slowly and swallowed the painkillers.

Jeongin loved how she was still able to smile despite the pain she was in. He admired her for that.

"A certain puppy picked that one out, convinced Minho and Jinnie that it was necessary," Jeongin nodded at her, taking his seat but not returning to his game straight away.

"Well I love it, I'll tell him thank you later if I see him," Y/N placed down the glass and instead of relaxing into the sofa once more, she found herself in a pair of arms instead.

"I'm sure you will," Han gently hugged her gently this time, noticing her demeanour was quieter than usual and that she had taken some tablets.

"You sure you want to study today, Y/N?" Felix rubbed her knee soothingly, not wanting to pressure her.

"Yeah, I'm sure, maybe we can take it slow today?" Y/N makes a compromise, not wanting to let down the sunshine on front of her.

"Of course, of course, love, that sounds like a better idea, just tell me if you want to take a break, yeah? Don't want you to be feeling in pain just because you're trying to help me," Felix kisses the top of her head, making her blush.

What was going on with her heart? Maybe she was just still feeling shaken up from earlier on.

"Y/N, why didn't you tell us something happened between you and Johnny?" Han suddenly tensed up, and Y/N could feel it. She didn't dare look at the video Han was playing on his phone.

In that moment, Seungmin and Hyunjin entered the dorm, frowns on their faces.

"Ah Seungmin! There you are, thanks for getting me this glass, you really didn't have to," Y/N tried to change the subject, hoping their frowns would disappear but it didn't work.

"Nope, don't do that sunflower," Seungmin shook his head, taking off his shoes and putting his slippers on.

"Angel, why didn't you say anything, hmm?" Hyunjin walked over in front of the sofa, hands on his hips.

"No wonder you weren't feeling great," Jeongin's eyes widened in realisation after watching the video over Han's shoulder, handing Y/N the glass of water once more to encourage her to take some sips.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." Y/N didn't even believe herself as she spoke.

"Y/Nnie, there's a video going around of you and Johnny in the square at uni," Hyunjin crouched down in front of her.

"Wait? I haven't seen that video, I've only seen the one of hyungs cornering him," Seungmin spoke up, sharing a confused look at Hyunjin. He was sure they had been speaking about the same thing earlier, yet with both of the information they had seen from different videos, they must have been able to fill in the gaps.

"W-wait they what?" Y/N stuttered as she looked back and forth between the boys.

In that moment, Seungmin held up a video playing on his phone, showing the three eldest of the group cornering Johnny against a wall, holding him by the collar of his shirt as they shouted at him.

Y/N couldn't believe her eyes.

"It's ok," Felix's deep voice soothed her as he wrapped an arm around her and hugged her closer to his chest.

"Let's just have a relaxing evening yeah? Take your mind off of it," Seungmin instructed, tucking Y/N's notes away into her bag.

"Felix is that ok with-"

"Don't even worry love, it's fine," Felix rubbed her shoulder once more, Han holding her hand as he leant his head on her shoulder.

They all began to relax, watching a Disney film. Y/N cuddled up between the September twins, and Jeongin reluctantly allowing his overly affectionate hyungs, Seungmin and Hyunjin, to coddle and cuddle him.

Around halfway through the film, the front door unlocked and 3 sets of footsteps marched inside.

"Is she here? Is she ok?!"

"I swear she was meant to have a tutor session with Lixie today but they're not in his room..."

"Wait, her shoes are here."

Chan, Minho and Changbin all sighed in relief, almost synchronised, as they saw the object of their concern cuddled up to their other boyfriends.

"Y/Nnie, love, come here a sec," Chan whispered into her ear, gesturing her to come to the side to talk to all 3 of them.

She felt nervous just standing there as their eyes scanned her to make sure she was physically ok.

"Guys, you didn't have to do that..." Y/N shook her head, hands retreating into the sleeves of a jumper Han let her borrow because he insisted a cosy jumper is a cosy heart and it would make her feel better.

He wasn't wrong.

"Oh but we did, it wasn't right what he did to you Y/N, and I don't know what he's done to you in the past but..." Changbin trailed off, fists clenched at the thought of Johnny.

"He'll never hurt you again, ok?" Minho promised, hand caressing her cheek gently.

"And if he does anything again tell one of us right away, we got you," Chan rubbed her shoulder, a pout on his face reflecting Y/N's as her eyes welled up with tears.

"Thanks guys," Y/N sniffled, hugging each of them.

Hyunjin, who was snooping on the conversation with eager ears, called out across to them, "yah! Don't make Angel cry, we just calmed her down!"

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Y/N was confused. She wasn't as sure anymore, or, at least not as much as before, that is. Sure, she knew about their relationship, of course. Though she wasn't apart of it. They seemed to act so nice and loving towards her. Always helping her out, Felix giving her extra attention and affection when he thought she needed it. The boys always bring her food whenever they got food themselves. They'd ruffle her hair and give her soft smiles. Back hugs and forehead kisses. It's so much more than that. They just treat her so well. She's supposed to keep their secret, but, then again, she's not dating any of them.

Despite everything, does that mean they're messing with her? Are they doing this to mess with her feelings? She sure hoped that wasn't the case. She's been having so much doubt lately with this situation she seemed to have gotten herself stuck in. But, she didn't want to be seen as if she was trying to interrupt or ruin their relationship by confessing. Seriously, one girl and eight guys? She wasn't so sure that it was realistic, whether she wanted it to be or not.

She just wanted this guilt that she constantly felt to go away. She didn't want to stress over this anymore or worry. She hated these nerves that she constantly felt, continuously. She wanted this to be over, even if she never ended up dating them.

Knock, knock, knock.

"We've missed you," Jeongin was shocked to see her as he opened the front door, blurting out the first words that came to mind as he welcomed her inside.

It had been 5 days since they saw her. But it was 5 days too long.

Y/N stood at the edge of the lounge not knowing what to say as the boys all turned and gasped as they saw her.

"What's been going on, Y/Nnie?" Han slowly asked.

"Talk to us love..." Felix begged, he just wanted to know why she created some distance between them all.

"Don't call me that when you don't mean... When you don't want..." Y/N ran a stressed hand through her hair, not knowing how to articulate herself because her emotions were all over the place.

"Come sit down ang-, Y/N, it's ok, talk to us," Hyunjin went to call jer ny his usual nickname, but sensing her discomfort, he chose not to this time. And it felt weird.

"I'm so confused right now..." Y/N began, perching on the edge of the armchair where Changbin was sat.

"You asked me to keep your relationship secret and of course I'd never tell anyone but, I feel like, gosh no I can't say it it'll sound so stupid," Y/N scolded herself, Chan patting her back lightly as he stood next to her.

"Nothing you say is stupid, you're very clever, sunflower," Seungmin shook his head, not liking the sight of the girl he was so fond of, looking so distressed.

"What am I to you guys? L-like am I just Felix's tutor to you, or just even a friend or-"

"You're much more to us then those things, and I know you know that by now," Minho leant forward in his seat on the sofa.

"We like you, a lot, Y/N," Felix said with his hand on his chest.

"W-why couldn't you just tell me that? I-i've been going out of my mind," Y/N ducked her head down, covering her face with her hands.

"We didn't want to pressure you after that situation with your ex..." Changbin grasped her hand from next to her.

"Oh, sorry, yeah I get that..." Y/N sighed.

"Come on, where's that smile gone?" Hyunjin cooed, tickling her sides and successfully making her laugh.

"We really like you Y/N, and we were hoping you'd want to be a part of our relationship too," Chan crouched down in front of her.

"You sure?" Y/N was wary. This wasn't a trick right?

"Never been more sure of anything in our lives," he was quick to squash her worries, kissing her on the cheek.

"Then, yes, I'd love to be with you all," Y/N grinned that gorgeous smile that they loved so much.

It was the best decision she could have made agreeing to be Felix's tutor. It brought so many people into her life that she already held dearly to her heart, people she knew she'd come to love even more in her life. The little things they did for her with more care than anyone else had ever paid her attention to. They gave her the love she deserved, the love that she'd never lose.

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