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jrueships · 4 months

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Okay i caved to the questions. welcome to ted's omegaverse except there's like no omegas in the verse. Pls don't kill me

Omegas Exist, but... the sportsworld is far too toxic for most to exist Normally, i mean. Male sports especially, but even the wnba had a streak at the start of their development where it was originally believed that only female alphas would just Barely be strong enough to commit to a sport ( a bad mix of misogyny and secondary hierarchy ) . Male-dominated sports have the similar feel in terms of outdated stances plaguing public opinion, but keep it simpler with ' only Alphas are strong enough for Sport.'

However, this has started to change.

Not in favor of the omega, no, don't be silly! Nothings ever in favor of Them.

It's not Exactly favor of The Beta either, but the betas do at least get to keep their name. You see, betas play fundamental roles in team sports especially. They may not be as valued (not in a star sense, but a 'i need a wheel that'll make this car move (team gain traction/fans) and a beta would be perfect' valuing kind of sense. You're just a worker, but hey! At least you CAN work, right? Unlike The Invaluables.) in independent sports like boxing, but good betas are Critical to a TEAM that needs a Championship -- that needs Roleplayers .

Team rulebook 5. Betas are the Best roleplayers. That's the best fame they'll ever seem to get, it seems.

Although some delusional fans and sometimes gms may try to construct a team of mainly alphas (either a lot of young alpha top picks or veteran alpha players hungry for a win ) for the raw power, intensity, and.. cool factor.. it usually falls apart pretty sadly. They need a mediator, someone who won't get greedy or frustrated with the fame or lack of it. Someone who's willing to pass, willing to come in and be the clog rather than the mechanic, someone who's a Beta whose only sense of belonging Is belonging.

Sports rulebook 6. Betas Stand Second.

Most betas have accepted this before entering a sport, ever since Scottie Pippen embarrassed himself for trying to flip the Beta narrative and failing laughably .

Betas can be bad. Bill Laimbeer will beat the breaks off anyone. They can also be good. Pippen would try to middleman Jordan's frustrations with his team, especially the rups (rookie 'pups', men playfully called pups because they're new to the sport). Shaq and Magic both have humorous charms that make them Feel like alphas.. but they needed more to get a ring. They needed alpha teammates, ultimately. no matter how big or bad or good a Beta may be, they are always Second. But they should never, never be considered first. That's an alpha's job. Orlando made that mistake drafting a beta to win them a ring, a beta that would eventually leave to ringchase with any alpha he could. Shaq's a bit shameless for a beta, but being shameless is maybe the only path to 'fame' (becoming a simple shtick to an easy-to-remember title, either being Sidekick, Dumb, Helpful, Funny, Enforcer, etc) for the life of a beta. Why? Because

Sports rulebook 1. Your Alpha Must Take Over.

Alphas can come in different shapes and sizes. Not all alphas are big and burly. They're not all hyper-confident or aggressive for no reason. But they Do have to come and take over a team. They DO HAVE TO feel possessive over their players, obsessive over their plays. Betas are there just to work, PICKED just to WORK, but alphas? Alphas are different. They Have to be the spark.

Michael Jordan was an alpha who presented very, very late. No one is exactly sure when he presented. Even Michael's story changes from before getting cut in highschool to after to college to the 'flu' game. But Everyone, at one point, thought he was a beta. ( His siblings laugh at this. )And then he wasn't. And then he won. And then he became a dictator .

But, again, there's a lot of alphas that haven't won. Charles Barkley, hilarious and prickly, perhaps too prickly at times, can be his own downfall from either sheer laziness or stubbornness. Some didnt always 'Win' in life like alpha fanboys or alpha egoists might try to persuade. Wilt was great, but personality-wise? .... other alphas like Kareem butted heads with him.. and even betas like Magic would then butt heads with Kareem! Allen Iverson played by his own self-indulgent rules and won through his fashionable impact, self-oriented liberation, and also lost by playing his own self-indulgent rules through trouble with money. Isiah Thomas defends his team and their troubles like a bull, oftentimes a hypocritical.. near-sighted bull. Larry Bird? Competitive. And fucking Rude.

Sports rulebook .....: Alphas Can Be Double-Edged To Either The Team, or Themselves

Alphas whose talent alone failed them by being either not enough, not determined, or entirely different to the subject become disgruntled sports 'analysts' who criticize betas or 'wannabe alphas' aka alphas whose behaviors don't seem 'alpha' enough (too docile). Others become known as busts. Others disappear. Others refuse to give up on their alpha birthright, scratching tooth and nail in the gleague, a disaster league of rups, failed alphas, struggling betas still trying to learn their place, and a few undercover omegas on suppressants. They can bounce around trying to take over team from team, or try to act more like a beta just to gain a secure job, only for their old trained instincts of Stardom to swoop in and make them seem stubborn and selfish (hog the ball during crucial moments). Many become coaches whose attachment to the game is almost parasitic as a purpose. Commentating is another option to fuel that parasocial fire.

You live as an alpha, you die as an alpha. It's a Sport.

That is, until Rodman happened.

Hes not an alpha, some thought he was, during his bulls era. But at the beginning, he was a beta. A gangly pistons player during the dirty work of defense. A beta who blended into whatever his team was, a bad boy, a nitty gritty, a winner, a loser -- whatever his team needed, he became. And then, his team needed him traded.

He started taking more, at first. Started becoming defiant, becoming aggravated. Paranoid at Popovich's overwhelmingly alpha abuse of power, of persistence, of Perception.

Isiah begged him to keep it easy, it's not safe to take so much, it's Untested. It's got side effects, he's seen them from players who wanted to get as far as rodman could but couldn't. They weren't strong like rodman. Another alpha giving him his unsolicited opinion. Bill told him to suck it up. Betas can be so bitter. Pop's yelling. Such a dusty smell, red sand that made your nose itch and not in the fun, just snorted ski slopes way. And now he's gotta deal with Pippen's wary, flipflop scent of calming then chilling hormones soothing then spiking the air as most betas do. And now, he's got Michael telling him to--

... Michael's pouring his pills down the toliet, both his heat suppressants .. and his Rut Inducers. He's skipped from telling and has gone straight to Doing .

One look from the ??? and Rodman realized.

Rodman realized he was tired of wanting to be wanted like a starting alpha but personal enough to be privately pressed like a working beta. Rodman realized a lot of things about himself and others that day. 1. He was tired of always crumbling to others' norms. 2. 'ROIDing' is an action that can be used primarily by athletes because they can afford it. 3. Other athletes besides himself have/can do it. 4. He's just the only one that's made it now known to the world that He is Dennis Rodman, He is an Omega, and He's used ROIDing to void his omega symptoms with suped up suppressants then Replicated Rut with raging inducers & created a Beautifully sensitive Beta, then, increasing both doses heavily, an abstract Alpha.

In short, yeah, he's used ROIDs. But he's stopping now. He's playing completely without the doses. Not too little, not too much, it's done. Zero. Isn't that great? Isn't that what sports always preach in the end? That it's You who wins or loses in the end. Not just your Talent, or your Drive, your Reach, it's You. You, crazy culmination You, who matters ultimately in Your world.

So why is everyone so horrified.

The sport changes after this. A few, just a few, omegas can show now, like, actually Show and not curtain themselves behind overloaded prescriptions. Apparently, even betas could ROID back then with just rut inducers to enhance alpha behavior and appear or Become alphas as long as they continue to doses. But most scrutiny lies in omegas ROIDing into betas, since it's a much easier dose to take in comparison to an omega -> alpha jump, which can have devastating side effects -- the most harmful being mental. Only those determined enough, Insane enough can commit themselves fully without cutting too abruptly and creating even more damage through their hesitancy. And even if the process is completed, the effects may be harsher than expected.

Betas start to become the new scrutinized spotlight, either torn by criticism of doing too much or too little, or skepticism on whether or not they're 'Real'. Alphas, in turn, get desperate to outshine the shiners, whether accomplishing that feat via negative or positive means. It's rumored some have even started turning themselves into Betas now, hard dosing rut suppressants when they're that desperate to try and tame the ego that torments them. Some say it's for the better, some respond brilliantly to the dose, it was made for them, it was Them. Old packs often rip these kind of thoughts to shreds, not caring for empathetic stances, just their black & white view of what was once written. New packs accept the dosing, but the worst of the new packs pick and choose which to, either Everyone Has To or only The Good Ones can. Old players get their legacies questioned because their secondary hierarchy is questioned. Was Magic Really a beta? Or was he a self-conscious, self-compensating omega who craved the lure of feeling needed? And then even went an extra step with the rut inducers to make him a Shiny beta, charismatic enough to peacock? Or was he just that Magic to be a really flashy beta? OR OR.. is magic all of that at once? Maybe, if he did do it, he needed to?

ROIDing is a necessary medicine in sport now, newly designated as necessary using overstimulation risk as a reason to protect too many players from imprisonment & eventual shut down of the sport since suppressants were part of every player ( keeps betas clear-headed and alphas consolable ). But it's still debated by any side a group may conjoin as. The threat of its illegalization is looming. Violence, fear, envy, hatred. Trust no one.

Fuck Everyone ?

oh, yeah, anyone can top or bottom here. That at least remains the same. Positions can just go against the grain in less secret now.. however, that doesn't mean they're all exactly Comfortable to, though .

But you know who's mighty comfy?

Dennis is doing just fine. Eccentric, quiet, grounded, true, omega, stubborn, beta, alpha, callous: Dennis.

#in SUMMARY #dennis started the fire #and no one knows whos who really #in my world i wanna leave a little room for outside interpretation #was mj a beta who roided into an alpha?#or was he an omega who was just crazy enough to make the leap #or was he really merely an alpha who presented late?#im neither confirming nor denying anything ! it's open for everyone to speculate !!#im gonna make another post expanding on the different ppl in this verse and their assignments later #i just needed to set the scene yanno #if u read all this ure insane and i love u but ure insane #ted longer #ted drabbles

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uncleghostt · 1 year

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Local boy gets his nose pierced (feat. "yes, he does wear other outfits") im just a big fan of myself ok

#I love roids I love them give me the juice glug glug #Like a year and 4 months on T now? Still falling more in love with my transness everyday !!#danny speaks #ftm #trans #dan's log

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nakmor-leigh · 17 days

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You know i don't think I'll ever get over the fact that, while you're out hunting down the Netherbrain for the finally confrontation, someone looked at your owlbear CUB and thought

"Hey why don't we give this baby a fuck ton of steroids, then give it some armor so it can fight with us!"

And NO ONE questioned it???

#i love that the cub's response is just #'oh cool I'm BIG now!'#BUT WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY BABY?????#are there any lasting consequences to roiding out an OWLBEAR BABY?????#i was gone for an hour guys what the fuck!!#owlbear #owlbear cub #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 owlbear

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foldingfittedsheets · 4 days

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I’ve been fired exactly once in my life. In my early twenties I was working at a pizza place. The pizzas were artisanal, thin crust and personal. They’re a huge chain now but when I first started the company was in its infancy. It was the wild west of management, and the core investors would frequently stop by to check on things. One of these people was this round little man with rage issues. A knock off Danny Devito with no charisma at all.

His favorite thing to do was to come in on a Friday or Saturday night. We'd be at our stations: taking orders, making pizza, manning the oven, finishing orders off, running the cash register. He'd shove his way onto the line and start rearranging people. "You, get off orders and work the cash register, you come over and make the pizzas!" With a line of customers snaking out the door he'd throw off all our grooves and rattle us.

Then, inevitably, a mistake would happen.

When it did he'd call the person over and say, "Hey c'mere. You're fired." Just like that. No inflection, just a flat "You're fired." It was absolutely a power kink, and because of his involvement the average turn over was three months. You were a veteran at five months.

One night there was only three of us manning the front. I took an order than went to the cash register to ring them out before I made the pizza. This horrible man watched that then called me into the back. I didn't know if I was about to be fired. But I wasn't. In fact, he had one other move besides firing people. He yelled.

In the back he absolutely lost his mind screaming at me for being on the cash register. I'm talking veins popping, spit flying, red with rage, this man just started bellowing nonsensically about where I should be and how I was just such a failure. It was truly like his brain had shut off, nothing he was saying even made sense. I stood there in the face of this tirade for a minute and then set a record for being the first person to ever cut him short by bursting into tears.

He instantly stopped yelling and it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He was remorseful and consoling, deeply embarrassed by my display of emotion. All my male coworkers just took the abuse but faced with my weeping he about faced and instantly backed off. I went outside to cry and when I came back in he pretended it had never happened.

That was the state of things. The investors knew they desperately needed to keep this man out of the stores, but they couldn't just give him the boot. They needed to move him aside and fill his position with someone. The store manager was this lovely woman who had hired me on the spot at my interview. The entire staff adored her. She was the best fit to get this roided out investor out of the stores for good.

Her replacement was this man called Anthony. He was instantly loathed by the entire staff. Condescending, critical, and lazy he started off his reign by letting go a core lead who "back talked." He spent a whole morning berating the opening crew because the closing crew (who had sold 100 more pizzas than we were even supposed to have on hand) had forgotten to windex the doors. He left the entire crew to close without him while he flirted with a girl who wasn't his pregnant girlfriend. He hired his roommate to replace the lead he fired and even that guy hated his guts.

Our antipathy toward him made him paranoid and resentful and one by one he started finding excuses to fire the whole staff, certain that if he could clean house he'd be able to do the job. My time came, and he sat me down with his boss, my former manager. She cried as he announced I wasn't personable enough and used too many pepperonis.

I looked at her, the woman who had trained me on how many pepperoni to use, but she said nothing. What could she say? He was the boss now and had determined I was going to be let go regardless. Too many in this case was seven. Seven pepperonis on a personal pizza. The correct number was five according to him, which is one pepperoni per slice, and one in the middle.

I sat there for a moment, taking it in. I smiled at my old manager, obviously miserable. I looked back at him and said, "You're a terrible manager, you're doing the worst imaginable job." I outlined some of the things he'd done so she could hear them, then I stood up and left. I made it to the back room before I started crying.

I found out later through a bus boy that he replaced the whole staff with college kids who had such limited availability that the store couldn't run, then quit three months later leaving the whole place in shambles. Most of the old staff returned, but I'd moved onto the sex shop already and was enjoying a job with significantly less risk of being fired on a whim.

However I do have to disclose on job applications if I've ever been fired. I always says yes and list the reason as, "Excessive use of pepperoni." It has never failed to get a laugh from my interviewer.

#ramblies #ffs foibles #funny #story #writing #pizza #fired

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transzilla · 2 months

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How To Suck Roid Clit and Tdick Like A 6Gal Bauer ShopVac

So I'm a trans man and I fucking love trans men and they love fucking me. I minored in t4t gay sex in college and giving head has always came very naturally to me as a specialty, administering orgasms has never been an issue but a lot of people have difficulty figuring tdick out after going on testosterone or figuring themselves out and don't know how to get dudes to pop off which is tragic to me. Plus we don't really have like... sex ed about how to do that so it's not like you can pick up a book. But that's what you have me for. If you suck at giving head I'm gonna teach you how to suck the rest of someone's life away.

So everyone is different, growth might look different on different people and sometimes you'll have somebody who has difficulty popping off just cause of weird nerve endings, obviously listen to what your partner tells you and what works for them because they're going to know better. I've been around with a lot of different men and this is just what's worked for me, if you try it and its TERRIBLE then don't think you're broken or whatever, our willies are just as diverse as we are :)

Generally though tdick kind of resembles a tiny penis especially when you've been on T for a long time. Personally I've been on T for five years and have a 2 inch monster and you can kind of see where the head would be vs the foreskin or whatever. Like my favorite analogy is that it looks like a .45 caliber bullet because that's what my dick looks like when I'm looking down, lol.

Like the cap on the bullet would be the "head" and the cartridge casing is the length of the thing. Like on a guy's dick idk if anybody is getting tdick circumcized so when he's soft the skin will come up and guard the head/clit part because it's sensitive, you're going to want to find the head and kind of gently push past the skin with your tongue or your finger. Like get it on the head because largely that's the most sensitive part of his dick. when it gets bigger it kind of gets less sensitive, and you can't just rub the whole thing like on a clit off testosterone, uniform pressure might not always work. So keep your finger on the pulse, lol.

The simplest motion tht you can do, like a good part to lick on is right where the head meets the rest of his dick. There's almost a seam, kind of like on that bullet. Just rub in little circles with your tongue. Start gentle, gauge his reaction, and then go a little harder or a little faster. Also stay in one place once you get into a groove, the more you rub on one spot the more sensitive and the better it will feel.

On the very APEX tip of his dick is where most of the nerves are bundled it's going to be the most sensitive, so if you want to make him jump or if he's not very sensitive rub there, lol.

Also, once you get that down, you can suck too! You want to make a seal with your lips around his dick, almost like you're pulling on a cigarette, or like you're sucking your lips on a peach to keep the juices from falling out. This intensifies it if his dick is not sensitive and keeps it in one place if he has a big dick.

If he likes penetration fingering him at the same time is not a bad idea either.

Also, mind the teeth, lol.

#ftm t4t #ftm nsft #forced masculinization #forcemasc

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righteousruin · 1 year

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Bane Appearances: A Summary

Knightfall: The New Kid Got Hands!

Vengeance of Bane: Surprise! Bane is a sympathetic villain.

Bane of the Demon: Listen Bane was sympathetic but he still has to fight batman so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Gotham Knights: Bane is back! He’s doing his best leave him alone.

Secret Six: Bane is back again but now he’s parenting five adult children

Reboot: Bane relapsed so hard it broke his backstory and now he talks weird

Bane Conquest: Every letter in LGBT plays hot potato with one braincell

#conquest is so valid #the one good thing to come of roid rhino bane is dixon make him the biggest dumbest most chaotic boy #but in the funniest way #conquest bane is not my bane but I LOVE him your honor he's so STUPID #He's SO SMART but he's SO DUMB

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riris-dock · 1 year

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Obligatory scary pokemon aka dealing with unwanted interviews

#liliths art tag #riris self inserts #thinking abt piers 🎸#champion riri #riri selfships #another member of champs team!!!#im slowly figuring out her team w my UM replaythrough and danger bear is mandatory. dw she’s spoiled as hell by Champ #on another note. two pokemon on her team are named after drugs? Bing Water(Decidueye) and Roid(Bewear) short for steroids :)#why? funny.#like how people name their cats nick(short for nuclear bomb)#anyways I love how I drew Piers here smmm

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sweeneydino · 7 months

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I love drawing Krang Leader and I have no idea why.

The Rottmnt boys are powerful weapons of war, so their enemies are roided af behemoths that tower over people like bugs (seriously, look how tall krang leader is compared to rottmnt raph, jesus) and squash them just as easily. And I find that funny.

And terrifying.

Which is why Rottmnt is my favorite.

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xzaddyzanakinx · 2 months

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Not That Kind of Guy

Part One: Stalker!Anakin Skywalker x femme reader series

Warnings: stalking, weirdo behavior, psychotic/delusional behavior, possessive/protective, sexism/misogyny, one-sided relationship [eventual warning for smut; be sure to pay attention to future warnings in the series]

Info: Anakin loves you so much it hurts, he just really wants to make sure your silly little girl brain doesn’t get in the way of your safety, you have a cat, Anakin is a bartender [diary entries from Ani’s perspective] MDNI 18+

Diary Entry: May 2nd

The Cerulean was filled with loud music, flashing lights, and the stench of sweaty guys and spilt beer. Over-kill perfume on the girls who so desperately wanted my attention, writing their numbers on their drink coasters after finishing their stupid little cocktail. The occasional ‘break it up guys, c’mon’ yelled out at a pair of ‘roided up college boys. Peanut shells stuck to my sneakers at the end of the night, going home and washing off the stickiness from working behind the bar.

All things I was used to.

But you… not you. Every time I caught a glimpse of you tonight it was like the first time all over again.

Pink, skirt, sneakers, crop top. Such a cute little outfit; it made you easy to spot, easy to track, easy to watch over.

I have your drink order memorized. I so hoped you’d come back for another so I could hear your voice, to see your pretty little lips move just for me again. But you didn’t. Because you’re a smart girl. You knew that without a man around to look out for you, you’d be pretty hopeless if you got too tipsy. It only made me want to protect you more. You’re too soft, too sweet, too innocent to worry about the big nasty world around you.

That’s my job now.

I’ll always keep you safe, but I also want to keep you happy. You deserve the world and more, and I’ll give it to you.

I’d destroy the earth to build it up again in your design. I’d live for you, serve you, die for you, at any moment you might ask. Just say the word and I will. I promise I will.

Note: Motion sensors

Date:

May 23rd

Anakin walked a safe distance behind you, his hands in his hoodie pocket, his hood up and head down. It was dark out, the only light was from the street lamps.

Sometimes when he walked you home he just wanted to run up and grab you by the shoulders and shake you; ask you to please for once just pay attention to your surroundings.

You walked around with your headphones in, ignoring everything and everyone. Yeah it was a straight shot to your apartment from the bar. Only having to cross the road once during the mile long journey down the sidewalk. But a mile was a good stretch of space and there were plenty of people who passed you. A handful of creepy, unlit alleyways you could be dragged into.

You were practically asking for it.

He just had to remind himself that this was just another reason you were so lucky to have him. He’d watch over you, so you didn’t have to worry your pretty little head about nothin’.

Anakin stood by the corner store dumpster and watched as you trotted up the steps and tapped the door code into the keypad of your apartment building. After the door shut behind you and he saw the keypad flash red, he knew you were safely locked inside.

It took approximately one minute and 14 seconds for you to jog up the steps to your door, depending on how tired you were he could add a few seconds and not worry. But anything over 20 seconds had him sweating in a panic.

Tonight though you were right on time, his phone pinged with an alert that your door had been opened, and successfully shut behind you. Now he could breathe a sigh of relief and make his way back to work.

His boss was kind enough to never question why he skipped out for about 20 minutes a night or two a week. Anakin smoked, it wasn’t unlikely to assume he just got a little distracted scrolling on his phone during his smoke break or maybe just needed a few minutes of peace.

Now all he had to do was suffer through three more hours of monotonous work and try not get a head start on his hearing loss from the shitty music.

Then he could go home to you.

The cloak of stress he wore when you were out of sight vanished quickly when he perched on the fire escape and peered into your living room. Poor thing. You’d fallen asleep on the couch again.

Not that he minded. It made his night that much better when he could sit closer to you. It was a pain to climb the ladder of the building next door and sit on the rooftop so he could see into your bedroom window. Very inconvenient, but worth it everytime.

He sat quietly, observing you and the way your lips twitched while you slept, as though you were having a conversation with someone in your dreams. Probably him, he thought.

“Oh, your blanket… you’re gonna be cold if you keep squirming around like that, your blanket is gonna end up in the floor.”

His fingers itched to pry open the window and tuck you back in, but he didn’t. He promised himself he wouldn’t do that. No breaking and entering.

He decided it was time to head back to his own home after that, he couldn’t stay much longer without: a) falling asleep b) forcing his way into your apartment for the sake of keeping you warm.

So he trekked to the sidewalk, wiping off the rust stains on his palms from the old metal fire escape. Shoving his hands back into his hoodie pocket after blowing you a goodnight kiss.

Diary Entry: June 6th

You owe me big time young lady.

You left your door unlocked and your window cracked open. It is 3:00am, what if someone snuck in? Then what would I do?

Die probably. I’d probably die if something happened to you.

Therefore, I bit the bullet and helped you out. I’m lucky you’re a heavy sleeper and I’m not easy to startle or else we both would’ve had a big scare tonight.

I cracked open your window, slipped in quietly, lowered it behind me, locked it. Double checked it and then triple checked it just in case.

When I turned around- christ that fucking cat. I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. Guard dog? Who needs a guard dog when you’ve got that monster running around?

A quick blur of orange and a loud *reeeareow* was the only warning before it- sorry, Boogie, climbed up my leg with her little pitchfork claws. I handled it well, you’d be proud. I picked her up by the scruff and gave her a light bop on the noggin’ just like you do when she’s in trouble; except I didn’t kiss it better afterwards, I think she would’ve eaten me if I tried that.

Any-who, I carried her with me to the kitchen and got her a little treat from the cutesy kitten jar on the countertop. Then she decided we could be friends or well… maybe or maybe not I don’t really know, I guess we’ll see.

I plucked your spare key from the top of the fridge and quietly left your apartment. I locked the door and checked it several times, just in case.

As I walked down the steps I saw that the super was kind enough to leave a reminder that the keypad code had been changed, how nice of him! You are awfully forgetful sometimes. No worries princess I took a picture for safe keeping.

I need to change the batteries on or door sensors soon anyway, those little button batteries don’t last very long you know.

It was only when I got home that I realized I still had your spare key… tsk tsk Anakin. Ah well, that just means it won’t fall into the hands of someone it shouldn’t. I’ll keep it safe.

I love you 🖤

Diary Entry: June 7th

You know, come to think of it. Now that I have a key I should get a few new items for your apartment, that way I can keep an eye on things for you while you’re away.

Note: Hd1080p microcam x4

There will be a bot to go along with this series! This is really short compared to my usual posts: I just wanted to give all my little lovelies a snippet of what’s to come.

Part Two

Tag-List:

@wickedtactics @tsugumiholic @kingdomhate @burnthecheshirewitch @exquisitcorpse @arzua10 @bby-imasociopath @depressed-kay @aliciaasky @naty-1001 @mrsmikaelsxn @bunnylovesani @ausskywalker @angelsadmired @slut4starwarssmut @chocolatepalacecloudhoagie @starkiller419 @hearts4mitski4 @lethargic @allhailbuckybarnes @shadowhuntyi @mortalheartache @fallinlovewithevil @sythethecarrot @chaoticantihero @vadersslut @luvvfromme @anakinsbaee @sweetcheesecakesblog @luvskywxlker @angelsadmired @kaminokatie @anakin-pilled @graveyard-stray @styleslytherin @chiaraanatra @jediavengers @zapernz @lunalitva @salted-snailz @queenofchaos99 @ellie-luvsfics @dazednstars141

Let me know if you wanna be added/removed

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juicedcatboy · 1 month

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Love that you are proud of the side effects from juicing! How about the others, like developing a roid gut, shrinking testicles, constant sweating and shortbreathness as you grow bigger and bigger?

The sweating is mostly just really annoying, but apart from that I like most of the side effects and they turn me on to varying degrees. Getting a real roid gut would require some decent HGH use though and I can't afford that on my own. But I try to lean into the bloatedness that comes from just eating big all the time and embrace it rather than chasing a slim waist. I'm striving for freaky, not "aesthetic".

As for the testicle shrinkage... my favourite metabods story is "Juiced". ;)

#ask #me #muscle #roids #side effects #muscle gut

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octuscle · 1 month

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Howdy, Support! I'm a 22yo twink working at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. Only good part about my job is uh..."servicing" the passing truckers. One of 'em is a real beast of a man; late thirties, tall, burly and hairy, with a big, solid beer/roid gut that's always straining against his filthy tanktop. Everytime he stops by, we have a beer shotgun contest right in front of everyone. Loser blows the winner in the stalls. I normally enjoy losing (not that I have a choice), but this time, I want him to meet his match...literally! I want to drink him under the table, and with each beer I down, I want to feel my gut grow heavier and larger as my work clothes turn into a stained tanktop and I gradually transform into a hulking, hairy trucker that stinks of sweat, just like him. I've programmed all the relevant settings for height, muscle, hair, BO, attitude and clothing, but I just realized I don't know how to sync the transformation to an event trigger like shotgunning the beers, much less on how to make it gradual! Please help me, he's due today!

I love challenges… First of all, I'll add one more skill to your traits. "Stable up to 3.5 per mille". I don't know how much your crush can take. But now you've got a damn good chance of drinking the guy under the table. However, you should manage at least 2.0 per mille. Because your transformation will take place in parallel with your blood alcohol level. Linear, until you have reached 2.0 per mille. At 2.0 per mille, the transformation is complete.

It's around 8 p.m. when your buddy finally comes in the door. Like you said: a beast of a man. The fist bump he gives you almost breaks your forearm bones. Beast of a man? You're miles or 2.0 per mille away from that. You are cute. But a twink. Not a man.

The regulars know what to expect. They chant "Booze! Booze! Booze!" One of them shouts that you're in desperate need of a protein shot. The others roar. Your buddy orders 20 cans of beer. He shouts to his colleagues that there will definitely be some left for them. He looks at you, winks and licks his lips. He has no idea.

The first can of beer. It really hits you. 0.3 per mille. One seventh of your way gone in one go. You feel a bit dizzy. You've been king of the highway for two years now. Well, maybe prince of the highway. You haven't put much weight on your ribs yet. But the good food at the truck stops and the hard work loading your truck are already having a bit of an effect. Your arms are no longer as thin as twigs.

The second beer. It didn't go quite so quickly. You have to burp loudly. Your buddy follows your example. 0.56 per mille. You've been driving your 7.5-ton baby through the countryside for over three and a half years. Does you good. Not as skinny as you used to be. You look healthy. Maybe a little red in the face. Drunk.

After the third beer you have over 0.8 per mille. Another burp. You need a piss. You stand with your legs apart in front of the urinal to avoid peeing on your boots. You take out your cheesy beauty from your dirty jockstraps. And empty your bulging bladder. Wash your hands? That's for twinks. You simply wipe your hands on your dirty Wranglers.

Janet brings you some onion rings with your beer. Good idea. After the toilet break, you finish your fourth beer almost in one go. Your buddy has noticeable problems. Your blood alcohol level is over 1.0 per mille. This competition between you and your colleague has been going on for about seven years. In the trucker scene, your competitions are small highlights. As soon as it is clear when and where you will next get drunk under the table and then disappear to the stalls, new routes are planned. Service stations know that you'll bring in good sales and are keen to host the competition. There used to be a lot of betting on winning and losing. Your buddy has been unbeaten for seven years. There's not much betting anymore. The odds on you winning are huge. But nobody expects that anyway.

The next beer. At 1.26 per mille, you start to falter. Your buddy weighs a few more kilograms than your 100. Maybe you're already a little over 100 - you broke that magic barrier a few weeks ago on your 30th birthday. Eat, work hard and lift iron in the evening. That shapes your body. And beer. Lots of beer. To the delight of the audience, you interrupt your drinking contest for a short burping contest. The landlord actually has a device to measure the volume. You lose. That's clear. You lack the resonance body…

The next beer is a big miss for both you and your buddy. Your dirty tank tops are now wet from the beer. But that was a quick round of drinking, so it happens. You feel a bit dizzy. Your buddy is already looking extremely glassy-eyed. A murmur goes round the room. Should you really stand a chance?

After the seventh beer, you both have to go for a piss. Shit, why are you doing this to yourselves? So that one of you can blow the other? You do that as often as you can see each other anyway. And luckily your paths cross from time to time. "Dude, has your beast grown?" slurs your buddy as you stand swaying in front of the urinals and can no longer aim and hit the target very well. "You bet your life, get ready for a lot, bro," you slur back. "And now give me a kiss, I can't wait any longer."

You're too drunk to remember to turn your caps backwards. You push his cap off his head and it falls into a puddle of urine. Damn, it's seen worse. You stagger back to your beer cans. After the eighth beer, your first goal is achieved. 2.0 per mille blood alcohol. Spread over a proud 120 kilograms of your 35-year-old body. A passionate trucker for 13 years. Your 36-ton beast is basically your home and your family. Hehehe, there are a few other people in the family too. Mike here next to you, for example. You rip open the ninth can and empty it almost at record speed. Shit, you're going to be sick. Mike opens the can, takes a sip. And stumbles towards the toilet. He can't reach the toilet bowl. But at least he throws up in the sink.

When he comes back, he looks at you with glazed eyes. He falls to his knees in front of you to the loud roar of the audience and tries to open your trousers with his drunken head. You have to laugh. "Not here, not now, Buddie" You pull him up. Let him sober up a bit first. You should both enjoy the moment when he sucks you off for the first time!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #tank top #age progression #redneck tf #twink to jock #ai image

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powderblueblood · 5 months

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

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do.

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one.

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me.

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi.

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her.

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become.

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this.

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time.

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto.

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out.

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him.

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated.

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action.

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!”

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway.

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that.

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him.

So you do it again.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him.

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!”

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.”

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance.

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest.

“Stay out of my way, then.”

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.”

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had.

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft.

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound.

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask–

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first.

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.”

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs.

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something.

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips.

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.”

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day.

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win.

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this.

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking.

But he’s done it.

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second.

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell.

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.”

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick.

“How was it?” you press.

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass.

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to.

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping.

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again.

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face.

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights.

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?”

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you.

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh.

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.”

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t.

You’re drunk.

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off.

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk.

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan.

And it would mean nothing.

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat.

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home.

“Oh, shit!”

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus.

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–”

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other.

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this.

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there.

“Uh– Lacy?”

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door.

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you?

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful.

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–?

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.”

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon.

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position.

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands.

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed.

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.”

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face.

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed.

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.”

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive.

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver.

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness.

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it.

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy.

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that.

So somebody must have.

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile.

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet.

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada.

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax.

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.”

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts.

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.”

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare.

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing.

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.”

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night.

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover.

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s.

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life.

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess.

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day.

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that.

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi.

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?”

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.”

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van.

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you.

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High.

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.”

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.”

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.”

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?”

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.”

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would.

Until now.

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him.

Until now.

“So?” he says, all expectant.

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure.

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded.

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson?

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust.

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot.

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk.

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum.

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand.

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body.

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park.

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.”

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now.

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight.

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little.

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be.

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine.

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap.

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die.

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor.

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night.

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker.

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her.

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape.

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says.

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at.

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table.

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart.

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you.

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder

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