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ckret2 · 3 months

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On chapter 38 of human Bill Cipher is still the Mystery Shack's prisoner, the most exciting, gripping, action-packed, page-turning chapter so far:

Bill gets locked in the bathroom.

He handles it super well.

####

Bill thought he heard a door slam somewhere far off in the shack—but every time he peeked around the shower curtain, there was no sign of anyone else would come into the bathroom any time soon. Good. Last thing he needed was a human coming upstairs to give him trouble for the crime of daring to be naked with a door open. (Of all the stupid things. He wasn't embarrassed, he was used to floating around in nothing but a top hat and bow tie, if he wasn't bothered why should they be bothered, was what he wanted to know...)

As Bill dried off and dressed, he considered what he'd do next. If someone else was back in the house—Dipper, probably—then Bill wouldn't be able to continue his planned mischief. Pity. He'd hardly had a chance to abuse his freedom. But then, Dipper loved to avoid Bill. Maybe Bill could chase him upstairs and have the living room to himself until Mabel got back.

He dressed, pulled the towels off the mirrors, quickly poked his wet hair into something approximating a triangular cloud, and turned toward the door.

Somewhere during the process of getting dressed, he must have bumped into the door, because it had swung halfway shut. Not a problem. He'd found that as long as a door was open at all, it was possible to get through the gap. Even if it was a narrow gap. If you tried to squeeze through it, it somehow widened for you. Such was the illusive trickery of doors.

But. But. Why should he try to squeeze through? His current 3D flesh body was not made for gliding through infinitesimally small gaps. And he wasn't about to let a door be the master of him. He knew how to handle them now. He'd done this in the living room. Time to show off a little.

Bill turned his back on the door, shut his eyes, simply visualized walking straight through an open doorway and out into the hallway, and confidently walked backwards.

The door made a click sound. It stopped moving. Bill froze, back pressed against the wood.

Something went wrong here.

Bill turned around. The door was very firmly closed. He leaned against it experimentally. It remained closed. It sure didn't seem like an illusion he could walk straight through. Had he done it wrong?

After several more failed attempts to walk through the doorway, Bill reluctantly conceded that for some reason this door wasn't about to yield to his mind tricks. He was quite firmly trapped in the bathroom.

Oh, how embarrassing.

No, no—no, it didn't have to be embarrassing. This would be funny. Somebody else would need the bathroom eventually, right? He could just wait here until the humans returned—maybe sit on the toilet, meditate a while—and when someone opened the door, he'd calmly say, "Hey." And after they jumped out of their skin, he'd stroll out the door. They'd never know how he got in there. It would haunt them.

He shut the toilet lid, sat, crossed his legs, shut his eyes, and settled in to wait.

####

He lasted three minutes.

Bill groaned and dragged his hands down his face. "Ugh, it's been hours. Where the heck is everyone!" He stood and angrily pounded on the door. "Okay, I'm sick of this! My lifespan's too finite to waste it in here!"

Who was here? Probably just Dipper, right? Somewhere downstairs? "HEY!" He stomped on the floorboards. "I'M TALKING TO YOU, UH—uhh, uhhhh—MABEL'S BROTHER?! Name?!" What was his name. He and Mabel had those cute matchy twin names—same length and same first two letters— "MARIO? MATTY? MAGNI? MABON? Isn't it Mabon? That sounds right, I'm sure it's Mabon." He stomped on the floor again. "It's really petty of you to ignore me until I get your name right, Mabon! No, wait, he went by a nickname, what was his nickname." Bill paced back and forth across the bathroom floor. "It was a constellation, right? ORION? No. TRIANGULUM? No, I'd remember if it was Triangulum. What's his sign—VIRGO? C'mon, kid!"

Bill glowered at the door. It showed no signs of opening any time in the near future. Where was that brat?

####

Dipper's lungs were heaving and his heart pounding as he pedaled toward the spot where Bill had cracked open the dimensional rift and started Weirdmageddon.

It was easy to find. He just had to locate the fault line that had opened in the ground and follow it until the view of the trees around him began bending oddly in the air, as though being refracted in water—the air was so thick with invisibly-sealed miniature dimensional rifts. He kept going until he found the sign they'd planted last summer:

Mabel's Fault

He still cringed every time he thought of the name they'd given the scar in the earth. He'd proposed it before realizing how it sounded; but Mabel had laughed hysterically and the name stuck.

He didn't see any sign of them around the fault. "MABEL! Can you hear me?! Bill, where are you!" There was no reply. Dipper screamed his frustration at the top of his lungs.

He was a terrible brother. He'd been one then and he was one today. He never should have left Mabel alone with Bill.

Where else could they have gone? Maybe Bill's corpse? Dipper abandoned his bike and ran off the trail, deeper into the woods. "I'm coming, Mabel!"

####

Bill frowned contemplatively at the mirror, finger tapping his chin.

He had painted his zodiac on the glass with tooth paste.

He pointed around the mirror one symbol at a time. "Okay, that one's Jesús," he said, "that's Wendy, that's Stanley—Pine Tree!" Bill smacked the sink triumphantly. "YOUR NAME'S PINE TREE! Stop ignoring me, where are you!"

There was no answer.

"Maybe he went out again," Bill muttered.

Mabel had to be back soon, right? Bill pressed his face to the bathroom window. He could see Stan's car and Waddles below; no Mabel.

"HEY SHOOTING STAR! Are you back yet?!" Bill listened for a reply. "Star girl? Mabel? Buddy? Pal? My hero? My only friend? Please?"

####

Mabel was biking back from the hardware store, her bike's basket stuffed full of spray paint cans. She'd brought along the flashlight with the height-altering crystal so she could shrink down the bags of spray paint cans to fit in the basket. It was a good choice. There had been a sale. She had sooo many colors now.

She passed the grocery store; weird, the parking lot had filled up with a crowd since the last time she passed by. Did she hear music?

She slowed to stare at the crowd—then hit the breaks. "Candy?! Grenda?!"

Across the parking lot, they turned and waved. "Mabel!"

Mabel pedaled up to them. "Hey guys! What are you doing hanging out in a parking lot!"

"Radio station live appearance," Candy said, pointing toward a red van parked next to the grocery store. A vinyl wrap around the van identified it as affiliated with Falls Radio. In front of it, Bodacious T was struggling to set up a tent over a white folding table. Candy went on, "We are here to win cheap prizes at the games. They have trivia, 'name that tune,' a prize wheel..."

Grenda pumped a fist in the air. "I'm gonna win a water bottle and a tiny backpack!"

"Oooh." Mabel craned her neck, trying to peek between the crowd to the front table. "What are the prizes?"

Candy said, "Radio station t-shirts, CDs, gift cards..."

"The grand prize is concert tickets for some old guy," Grenda said dismissively.

"The gift cards are a better value," Candy said.

"What old guy?" Mabel caught sight of a poster taped up to the side of the van. She gasped. "Phrancisco?! From Invisible Yellow Plastic?!"

"You know him?" Candy asked, surprised.

"Yes?! Invisible Yellow Plastic was this amazing 80's band! They were pioneers in the local new wave scene! I've got some of their albums!" Courtesy of Grunkle Ford, who had hyped them up to her in the first place and also told her everything she knew about them. "And based on the album covers, Phrancisco was so hot thirty years ago?"

Candy and Grenda absorbed this new information with thoughtful looks.

Mabel climbed off her bike, stuck the tiny bags of spray paint in one pocket, and used the height-altering flashlight to shrink her bike and stick it in the other pocket. "Ladies. We have got to get these tickets. I'm dropping everything for this quest." She put her hands on Candy and Grenda's shoulders. "With our powers put together, we can win all the gift cards, tiny backpacks, water bottles, and concert tickets we could ever want. Are you with me?!"

Candy and Grenda raised their fists. "Yeah!"

"It's time for radio station live appearance mini games."

####

Bill sat leaning against the bathroom cabinet, idly flipping the toilet lid up and down to entertain himself, staring at the door.

"I'm sure Mabel will be back any minute," he told himself.

####

Bill had constructed a sensory deprivation tank in the bathtub.

He'd filled the tub with about a foot of hot water, dumped in an entire bag of bath salts he'd found by prying a wooden board out of the side of the cabinet, plugged his ears with cotton balls held in place with bandaids, turned out the lights, and draped a towel over the tub.

He was going to meditate in that, and use the boost to his psychic capabilities to send a telepathic SOS to Mabel. Mabel or whoever was sensitive enough to receive it. He wasn't picky.

His nerves were too frazzled for him to drop straight into a trance. He tried to calm himself. Deep breath—wow, the bath salts reeked of lavender—deep breath through the mouth then. Calm down. Be still. Empty mind. Everything would be fine—everything would always be fine for him—there was no need to stress.

Slowly, he relaxed.

Bill's sleep schedule had been in a state of utter disarray since the moment he'd been dumped in a body that needed sleep. Over the past day, the sum total of sleep he'd gotten had been an unplanned nap last night before dinner, and a fretful nightmare-laden spell from 3 a.m. to dawn.

Bill fell asleep in the tub.

His head sank below the water. He spluttered and flailed his way back to sitting upright.

He took the towel off his head and threw it to the ground. "That didn't work." Kinda comfortable though. He lay back in the tub. What else could he try?

Maybe Wendy would come back. She said she liked hanging out here when she was avoiding people, and it sounded like she wasn't too keen on her friends—maybe she'd get sick of them and return? Yeah. Yeah! Sure, Bill was sure she'd do that. "Wendyyy! Hey! You didn't happen to come back, did you?!" He waited. "Come on! I know you're here!"

####

"No wait, this'll be sick," Nate said. He was laying down on the walkway around the top of the water tower, wriggling out under the safety railing so his face and shoulders hung out in open air.

Wendy laughed. "Dude. What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna spray paint something on the bottom of the floor. Everyone'll go, 'How did that get there?'" He waved a hand at Lee. "Gimme a spray can."

Lee handed Nate a can of purple paint, and he slid out a little bit farther. His belly button was level with the edge of the walkway.

Wendy stopped laughing. "Whoa," she said. "Careful. What are you, crazy?" She put one hand on the railing.

"Yeah. Crazy genius. It's cool, look." Nate slid out another couple of inches. "I can just—lift my legs and hang from the railing by my knees, like a monkey—" He lifted his feet off the walkway, and immediately lost balance and slid forward. "Hey—"

Time seemed to slow down. Wendy had trained for this, the water tower's wooden legs were basically thin tree trunks, if she slid under the railing she could grab Nate and swing into one of the tower legs, they could slide down that to the bottom—

Lee dropped flat on Nate's legs, using his weight to pin him in place. "HEY!"

Wendy grabbed Nate's shirt. Together, she and Lee dragged him back onto the walkway. Nate rolled onto his back and stared at the sky, eyes wide.

Lee sat beside him and laughed nervously. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Whoo. Gimme a sec."

"What the heck, Nate!" Wendy was gripping the railing hard enough her arms shook. She tried to sound calm. "You almost got yourself killed, you dummy!" Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

"I'm fine," Nate said shakily. "I'm fine, just... lay off."

"Fine. Sor-ry. I'm just trying to make sure you don't literally die."

Lee gave Wendy an exasperated look. Nate closed his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, okay, mom."

The back of her neck went hot. Oh no, absolutely not. The mom friend was the opposite of the cool girl. That was the boring friend who drove everyone around and was too busy worrying to have fun. She'd never been mom-friended in her life.

"Hey, are you okay?" Lee asked Wendy. "I mean—this idiot's near death experience aside—" (Nate punched Lee's knee.) "—you've been kinda high-strung lately. Is everything cool?"

"Of course I'm cool," Wendy said automatically. Be cool, girl. "Sorry. Work junk's got me stressed. Soos keeps randomly closing at the last minute, and I'm losing hours, and... it's been getting to me, I guess. I just need to chill." She took in a deep breath. "Nate," she put a hand on his shoulder and said solemnly, "if you want to fall on your head and lose your last eight brain cells, I won't get in your way. I support your dreams, man."

"Pssh, shut up!" Nate shoved Wendy off and sat up, laughing. "Okay, new plan. What if I just—stay on the floor, but reach my arm under the side to paint it."

Lee asked, "How are you gonna see what you're drawing?"

Nate considered that. "You can reach under and use your phone like a mirror."

Wendy bit back the urge to tell them they were idiots. Were her friends not maturing fast enough, or was she just getting boring?

She leaned against the water tower and shut her eyes.

####

Laying on the bathroom floor, Bill said, "You know what, Cool Girl? I'm beginning to think you're ignoring me too." Everyone was here and everyone was ignoring him.

He heaved himself to his feet. How long had he been in here. Time lost all meaning in a sensory deprivation tank. It could have been days. He was beginning to get hungry. What would he do when his body needed food? Not to mention dehydration! Where was he going to get water in a bathroom?!

Bill did not, at that moment, possess the greatest clarity of mind.

He flinched in surprise at the sight of another human in the bathroom, and then his hopes went up—and then they went back down. Oh. Right. He'd taken the towels off the mirrors. Just him.

"Thanks for disappointing me," he snapped sarcastically at the human body in the reflection. "Again. As usual." He pointed at the reflection. "Hey—hey! What's that look on your face for? Don't you take that attitude with me, buster! It's your fault I'm in this mess!"

His reflection continued to glare wrathfully at him. It made him madder. The reflection's wrath deepened.

"WHAT?!" Bill demanded. "You keep your mouth shut, I'm the one shouting here! What do you have to be angry about?! I've never done anything to you! You owe me everything! I feed you, I clothe you, I wash you, and what do you give me in return?! Backaches and headaches! I could have been home partying with my friends by now, but do you know who's holding me back?! YOU!" He jabbed his finger against the mirror. The reflection jabbed a finger back. Voice cracking with rage, Bill squawked, "Don't you raise your hand at me, you little—!" He curled his hand in a fist, intending only to threaten the reflection; but when it shook a fist back at him, he reared back with a roar and punched the mirror. The glass crunched beneath his knuckles. His knuckles also crunched.

Bill stared at the broken glass, snapped out of his rage by the pain. Dozens of fragmented reflections stared back at him. He rubbed the stinging cuts on his knuckles.

"Of course," he said. "The solution's so obvious! Blood sacrifice!"

####

As Dipper passed the water tower, he spied an incomprehensible purple squiggle spray painted to the bottom of the walkway. How did that get there? Had Bill and Mabel been here? Maybe Mabel had done it with one of her spray cans to send a signal? Or maybe Bill had used his magic to float up and spray some magical alien rune from below.

He climbed up to look.

Nothing. No signs they'd been here, either. Dipper pulled out a town map he'd marked up with the locations Bill was most likely to hit, and peered toward them one by one from his vantage point; but he didn't see Bill or Mabel, nor any evidence of Bill's influence terrorizing the town. He was out of leads.

He climbed back down. He'd bike back to the shack, call Soos, maybe call the police, look for clues around the shack, chug some Mabel Juice for energy—desperate times—and join the hunt again...

As the Mystery Shack emerged from behind the trees, he saw, from another direction, Mabel biking up. His heart leaped into his throat.

Mabel waved. "Hey, Dipper!" She kicked down her kickstand and dismounted. "Did you find the wigglers?"

"Mabel!" Dipper almost tripped in his haste to get off his bike and pull her into a tight hug.

"Dipper? What is it?" Mabel awkwardly hugged him back. She whispered, "Why do you smell so bad."

"Are you okay?!" He held her out at arm's length, looking her up and down. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Wh—? No, I'm great! I might've kinda exploded a couple of tiny spray paint cans in my pocket, though." She pulled up her sweater, showing the purple and orange stains on one side of her skirt. "Buuut—" She held out four slips of colorful card stock. "Guess who won awesome concert tickets!"

"What about Bill," Dipper demanded, "did Bill kidnap you?"

"What? No." Mabel shook her head, bewildered. "I locked him in the shack while I went out for more spray paint."

"Well, he's not there now! I searched everywhere!" Dipper gasped, "Then—he must have escaped while you were out."

"What?! But—how—"

"I don't know, but I searched the whole shack a couple of hours ago—"

"A couple of hours?!"

"—and there's no sign of him—"

"Then he could be anywhere by now!" Mabel squeezed her hands together, crushing her tickets. "Oh, this is bad. It's all my fault if he causes trouble! We've gotta find him before Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford get home!"

"But where?" Dipper asked. "I've already looked everywhere he might go! The basement, the fault, his corpse, town hall, that street with all the katanas in the gutter for some reason..."

"You're thinking like Bill the evil overlord, I can think like Bill the party animal! We've talked about all kinds of fun places he'd go if he was free!" She got back on her bike. "Come on, I'll tell you on the way to town, we can split up to search!"

Dipper got on his bike to follow, but said, "Come on, do you really think he'd waste time doing something fun now that he's free to be evil again?"

"Fun and evil are the same thing to him! Dipper, I can guarantee you, if Bill summons his terrible friends back to town, the first place he's taking them is the Putt Hutt," she said. "Because he wants to force the townspeople to run through giant minigolf obstacles, and also teach the Lilliputtians to do war crimes."

"Okay, I believe you," Dipper said. "Lead the way."

####

As Mabel and Dipper biked away from the shack, Bill cried, "Wait wait, no! Come back!" He pounded both fists on the bathroom window and let out a prolonged, anguished, "NOOO!"

They didn't hear him.

Waddles did, though. He pulled his face out of the dirt and looked up at Bill, muddy snout twitching.

"Waddles," Bill gasped, relieved. "Good pig. Smart pig. You know, I'm—I'm really very impressed by your scientific work. Especially that jet pack, wow. Seriously. Just between you and me, I don't think Fordsy's quite the biggest genius in the house, you know what I mean?"

Waddles blinked.

"Listen. I need a little favor. Go get help." He pointed toward town. "Go get Mabel and tell her I'm— Or, or just free me yourself! Can you do that? Come on up here?" Could pigs open doors? Bill couldn't think of any reason why not. It wasn't like Waddles was cursed.

Waddles tilted his head slightly, contemplatively. He didn't look persuaded.

"It'll just take you a second," Bill pled. "And then I'll owe you one! Big time! Listen, if you help me, you'll go down in history! You think that stupid hog with the fancy spiderwebs was special? He's nothing! I'll rearrange the constellations to form your face! It'll say 'Greatest Pig In The Universe!' How's that?!"

Waddles stared at Bill.

"Have we got a deal?"

Waddles snorted, his nose twitching upward.

"More?! What more could you want! An infinite feeding trough! A hundred sows! A Nobel prize! The most luxurious mud puddle in the world, what?! Just—tell me what you want!"

Waddles lay down and shut his eyes.

"You're a lazy bum, Waddles!" Bill smacked his hand on the window. "You hear me?! You could've had a brilliant academic future in any field from bioengineering to quantum technology, and you squandered it all to mooch off a twelve-year-old! All potential but no work ethic! You're pathetic! You're nothing!"

Completely unashamed and satisfied with his life choices, Waddles fell asleep.

Bill groaned in frustration. "I'll never get out of here!" He kicked over a box, kicked a shampoo bottle, kicked one of the many ancient cursed sigils he'd inscribed on the walls in his own blood, and kicked a towel. "They've abandoned me in this shack. They're never coming back. They're gonna burn it down with me inside. Those brats just came by to taunt me! Mabel's probably been in on it all along! They all have. After all I've done for them! Those ungrateful—"

Bill stomped across the bathroom and hammered on the door. "Was this your idea, Stanford Pines?! I know it was you! You've had it out for me ever since we finished the portal and you decided you didn't need me anymore! It was your big plan to trap me in here! You're just waiting to see if the hunger or the boredom gets to me faster, aren't you?! Gonna record that in your journal, huh? A cute little experiment to see whether my body or my mind gives out first?" He gave the door another violent pound. "You're an evil, sadistic freak, Stanford! And not even the fun kind! I know you're laughing at me right now! I know that's what you're doing!"

####

Ford kept his gaze fixed firmly on the Dontium generator as he blindly groped across the card table for the deck. "Where's—?"

"Here, I've gotcha." Fiddleford pushed a playing card into his hand.

"Thanks." Ford groped around the table until he found the three cards that had already been placed down, flipped the new one over, and carefully set it next to the others. "What's this one?"

"Four of clubs."

"Remind me why I'm responsible for dealing the community cards when I can't look at them and you can?"

"Because it's real distractin'," Fiddleford said, "Which is just what you need to keep you from thinkin' about the... oh."

Oh. The Dontium.

Sitting at the generator's controls, Soos said, "Aw, dudes. Needle's back down at zero."

Ford shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

Sitting on a folding chair faced away from the Dontium generator, Stan groaned. "Seriously?! Again?"

Fiddleford said, "Sorry, sorry."

"Start from the top," Ford said tiredly. "Stan, you just focus on your part and I'll focus on mine. Or... not focus on mine, as the case may be."

Stan groaned again, but said, "Fine!" and crossed his arms irritably.

"Right," Ford said. "Where were we? Remind me what the current community cards are?"

"King of hearts, seven of hearts, two of diamonds, and four of clubs."

"Hmm." It wasn't an inspiring bunch of community cards. No chance for a straight, no chance for a flush, slim odds for four of a kind. He tried to mentally calculate the probability of a win. "And..." Ford waved the two cards he was holding. "What's my hand?"

"I'd tell ya, but last I checked, peekin' at yer opponent's poker cards is still considered cheating."

"Right," Ford sighed. That was going to make calculations harder.

"I could look," Stan said. "I'm allowed to look anywhere except the one place I'm not, right? If I tell you your cards—"

"You can't," Fiddleford said irritably, "because then you'll think about poker when you're s'posed to be thinkin' about—er..."

Soos laughed awkwardly. "Aw, dudes. You'll never guess what."

"Darn it!" Stan got to his feet and pointed at Ford. "You started thinking about the thing again!"

"You stopped thinking about the thing again!"

"How am I supposed to think about the thing when there's a game of Texas hold 'em five feet away?!"

"I knew we should have switched to a game Stan doesn't like." Ford looked at Fiddleford—it didn't matter, they weren't making any progress. "What if we try...?"

Firmly, Fiddleford said, "Stanford, I'll do many things for science. But you ain't getting me to play that diabolical hocus-pocusy wizard game."

Ford groaned. "We're going to be here all night."

Soos slowly raised a hand. "I have an idea," he said. "What if you both put on headphones. And Stan's plays a recording that just says 'think about the NowUSeeItNowUDontium generator' over and over. And Ford's plays—uh—I don't know, an audiobook with cool science facts or something?"

They considered that. Ford slowly nodded. Stan shrugged. "Eh, can't hurt."

####

Were shirts edible?

Nothing in this accursed bathroom qualified as human food. But if Bill could eke out just a few calories, maybe he could survive until the humans came by to pry the gold fillings from his starved corpse and turn the tables on them. Shirts were plants. They might accidentally contain a mineral or two. Right? Maybe? Bill knew a great many things about Earth, but he had never once needed to learn whether cotton yielded any nutritional benefit to human beings.

It was probably better for him than trying to chew up the wooden counter. He peeled off his shirt, steeled himself for the least appetizing meal of his life, and began distastefully chewing on the hem.

Several minutes in, it suddenly occurred to him to check the shirt's tag for nutrition info. He peered in the collar.

65% polyester, 35% cotton.

Well. He wasn't wasting his time on a shirt that was two-thirds plastic. He'd burn more energy chewing than he'd gain.

He pulled his shirt back on and lay on the bathroom floor. He could already feel his famished body metabolizing his own muscles for fuel.

If he returned to his true form when he died, the first thing he was doing was heating every ounce of polyester on the planet to five hundred degrees and melting it onto the skin of the humans stupid enough to wear it.

####

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid..." Mabel was muttering to herself in sync with pedaling the bike. She'd spent most of the ride along the road back to the shack alternating between this chant and berating herself in more detail: "I'm so stupid, augh! Why is it always me? Why am I always the one who lets Bill get out? Because I'm an idiot!"

"Whoa, hey. Don't say that," Dipper said. Granted, he did think leaving Bill home with no guards was kinda stupid, but Mabel was already punishing herself far in excess of what Dipper thought she deserved. And he'd left Bill home with one guard, so was he much better? "It's not all your fault—"

"Yes it is! I'm the one who decided to trust him at home alone! I'm the only one who's been trusting him at all! I knew he'd try something like this eventually!" Mabel tilted her head back and let out a long noise of frustration at the sky.

Dipper opened his mouth to try to offer more reassurance; but then he paused. "Wait. If you knew he'd do this, then why did you trust him?"

"Because...!" Mabel fell silent for a moment. "Because, I know he's a bad person... but I really, really do think he can get better." She had that little waver in her voice that she got whenever she was trying not to cry. "I'm figuring out how he thinks, I'm teaching him manners, I'm getting him to lie less... But, he can't prove he's getting better if he isn't given room to do the wrong thing, so he can choose the right thing instead. If he can't choose, then he's not good, he's just controlled. So I've... gotta give him chances."

Dipper stared at her, momentarily lost for words. "And—you're willing to risk the safety of the whole town—?"

"I mean I didn't think he'd escape entirely!" Her front tire wobbled; she slammed on the breaks. Dipper skidded to a stop just a few feet ahead.

Voice thicker, Mabel said, "I just—with Grunkle Ford so close to figuring out how to kill him, I really... really wanted him to prove he can be better."

All this time, watching her playing and goofing around with Bill, Dipper had assumed she was just ignoring how dangerous he was. But if anything, she was thinking about it more than anybody else. All the rest of the family had to worry about was Bill finding some way to destroy the world; while Mabel was worrying about Bill destroying the world, and Bill not making enough progress on some nebulous road to being "better," and whether he could prove himself to everyone else before it was too late.

Dipper didn't think Bill could do anything to prove himself. He thought Bill deserved to die. But that just made Mabel's position even worse.

"Oh, Mabel," Dipper murmured. "I'm sorry. I... didn't realize how much pressure you're under." All this time, Dipper had been seeing this as a battle where Bill won if he escaped to restart Weirdmageddon and the Pines won if they killed Bill. But for Mabel, she'd lose either way.

No wonder she'd learned so much about him, so fast. No wonder she was spending so much time around him. She didn't have any time to waste. And to think Dipper had been jealous of her bizarre new expertise. He didn't want to be doing what she was doing.

"S'fine. It's stupid." Mabel rubbed her nose on her arm, eyes downcast. "I'm the dumb-dumb who tried to be friends with an evil space criminal."

"You're not a dumb-dumb," Dipper said. "You're like, one dumb maximum."

Mabel snorted and laughed weakly. "Seriously, Dipper."

"You just want to help. Maybe too much."

She shrugged. "I guess." She rubbed her face again, then got back on her bike. "C'mon, it's almost dark. We should go."

"Yeah." Every second they wasted was one more second Bill could spend putting some devastating plot together.

They were headed back to the shack, but only long enough to regroup. They had already split the cereal bars and jerky that Dipper kept in his backpack for excursions, but they needed to get some proper food before they continued the hunt. And—as much as they dreaded it—they'd conceded they couldn't fix this themselves, and they had to call the adults to tell them they'd let Bill escape.

As they biked, Dipper said, "Hey. What did you mean, you're 'getting him to lie less'? Bill tells like four lies a minute."

"Oh. Right," Mabel said. "I guess I don't exactly see it as lying anymore because I understand what he really means."

"What, is he talking in some kind of code?"

"Sorta? I'm not sure if this is only a Bill thing, or if it's how people talked back on his planet? But he just doesn't have conversations like a human. When he says something, he doesn't really care about if it's true. He's telling you what he thinks should be true. So it's not like he's actually trying to lie, he's just... trying to use words to make a better reality." Mabel shrugged. "You've just gotta negotiate with him on the details of the new reality so you both like it."

Dipper blinked in bewilderment. "Mabel, that's objectively insane."

"It works, though!" Her proud smile wilted. "I thought it did, anyway."

Once they found Bill and had finally figured out how to kill him, Dipper would kill him twice for breaking Mabel's heart.

####

"Where haven't we looked for him yet?" Mabel asked, packing fresh provisions in Dipper's backpack. Waddles, who had come in with them and could tell something was wrong, had sat down reassuringly in the exact center of the kitchen.

"I didn't explore much of the forest." There was a lot of forest. "He's probably out there with a pair of scissors cutting open the dimensional rifts we glued shut last summer."

"Or taking over the radio station to broadcast a mind-control signal."

"Or breaking into the buried UFO to summon an alien invasion."

"Do you think we need to check the UFO?" Mabel asked. "I've never gotten to see it."

"Probably. If I was an evil triangle trying to restart an apocalypse, that's where I'd go." Either that, or hitch the first ride out of town—but that wasn't an option for Bill. Their one blessing was that they knew Bill still had to be nearby. He couldn't be farther than the weirdness barrier. "We'll need the magnet gun." Dipper headed for the stairs.

"And my grappling hook!" Mabel called. "Can you grab it for me?"

"You got it!"

As Dipper jogged past the bathroom, something rattled the door so thunderously that Dipper jumped sideways like a startled deer. The door howled, "Let me out, you monster! I'll kill you! I'll atomize you! I'll turn your intestines into a Klein bottle! I'll anti your matter—!"

Dipper stared. He opened the door. The bathroom belched forth a cloud of artificial lavender fragrance.

Behind it stood Bill Cipher, both hands on the doorframe, arms shaking, chest heaving, face contorted in rage. The moment the door was open, the rage melted away into a look of profound relief and his knees buckled under him.

Dipper said, "What."

"You saved me!" He placed one hand reverently on the floor boards outside the bathroom. "You're my hero. I knew you wouldn't abandon—" He blinked, squinting up at Dipper's face. "Oh. It's just you. Eh."

Dipper said, "What."

"I was trapped!" His hair was disheveled; his hands were covered in scrapes and cuts; and his shirt's hem was shredded and tattered. There was a wild look in his dark-ringed eyes. He looked like a man who'd been crawling through the desert for a week, who'd then crawled into an active minefield. "I couldn't get out! I tried everything!"

Dipper gazed past Bill. The bathroom walls were coated in mysterious sigils drawn in toothpaste, makeup, and blood. One mirror was shattered, and the other had a smeared drawing of Bill's zodiac. There was a pile of wet cotton balls and used bandaids on the floor.He'd started writing his will on the shower curtain. He'd written an invocation to something called ⅃TO⅃OXA on the ceiling.

"I thought I was gonna die in here." Bill crawled across the hall, leaned back against the opposite wall, and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. "I had to eat shampoo to survive." He hiccuped up several soap bubbles.

Dipper stared at Bill, stared into the bathroom again, and stared at Bill. "How long have you been in here?"

Dragging his hands down his face, Bill declared, "All afternoon! And evening!"

"You resorted to drinking shampoo in one afternoon?"

"I was hungry! Do you know how much fuel human bodies need?! It's insane!"

And that was the moment Dipper realized that all along, Mabel had been half right: Bill probably wasn't becoming "better"; but even so, they no longer had anything to fear from Bill Cipher. He wasn't haunting their dreams, he wasn't opening rifts. This, this was all he could bring to the table. He was so harmless it was pathetic.

Dipper would never be afraid of him again.

"Welp," Dipper said. "Enjoy your freedom, man. Bye." He turned to leave.

A hand closed on the back of his neck. Bill snarled in his ear, "Ohhh, no. You're not going anywhere. We're going down to the kitchen, and you're opening the fridge for me."

Wow, right, Bill couldn't even open the fridge by himself. Wow. Wow. That was so sad.

They had to slow down at the stairs; Bill was stumbling down them with the weariness of a soldier who'd survived a week in the trenches. As they went, Bill said, "Hey. What's your first name?"

"Wha—?" Somewhat offended, he said, "It's Dipper."

"No. I know that, obviously. Why wouldn't I know that?" (He sounded defensive.) "I meant your—your baby name. Birth certificate."

"Why do you need to know?" Was this like a fae thing? Was telling Bill his real name dangerous?

"It's been driving me insane all day." With the eyes of a desperate man grasping at the last fraying threads of his sanity, Bill said, "Is it Mabon? I could swear it's Mabon. Tell me it's Mabon."

"What? No, that's stupid. Mabon isn't even a real name."

"Yes it is, it's Welsh."

"It's Mason."

"HA!" Bill screamed triumphantly in Dipper's face, "MASON!" He was way too loud and looked way too ecstatic.

Dipper opened his mouth, then decided he didn't want to know and shut it.

Mabel was in the living room on her phone. "Hey, Soos? Could you put Grunkle Ford on a second?" She paused, then took a shaky breath and said, "Grunkle Ford? Hey. I've... got some bad news... We, uh..."

"Psst," Dipper hissed from the doorway, "Mabel!" He pointed at Bill. Bill pointed at himself.

Mabel's eyes widened. "We... ate all the leftovers! Haha, yeah, sorry, thought you should know! Anyway, love you, bye!" She lowered the phone. Dipper faintly heard Ford say, "What leftovers?" before Mabel ended the call. "Bill! You came back!"

"He never left the shack," Dipper said.

"You didn't?!" Mabel bounded across the room and flung her arms around him. It nearly knocked him over. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Yeah, of course not. You can count on me, kid." Bill glanced sideways at Dipper, brows raised questioningly. What?

Flatly, Dipper said, "He got locked in the bathroom."

"What?!" Mabel stepped back, looked Bill up and down, and said, "You look awful! What happened?"

"I was trapped," Bill said wretchedly. "I thought I was a goner." Dipper rolled his eyes.

"Oh my gosh, you poor thing!" Mabel hugged him again. "Tell me all about it."

"In the kitchen."

"Of course! You must be starving."

"I am," Bill said, hand on his heart, the most pitiful thing you ever did see. "That was the worst afternoon of my existence. You know—being stuck in a human body makes waiting for anything absolute torture. An energy being can wait indefinitely, but a flesh being can feel the passage of time via its own cycle of slowly decaying flesh. The flesh knows it's got less than a century til its expiration date. Compared to the length of my entire life, one afternoon to a human is proportionate to, like..." There was a pause as Bill did some mental math, "over nine million years of my life? So I was basically in there for nine million years!"

"That's awful! I'm so sorry, if I'd had any idea..."

Bill was enjoying this performance, Dipper was sure of it. If he were any hammier he'd be a pork chop.

Still—and Dipper never thought he'd be grateful for this—at least Bill was here.

He followed Mabel and Bill into the kitchen to get some proper dinner.

####

Dipper pulled a tray of dinosaur chicken nuggets out of the oven. "Okay, dinner's ready. You guys want any condiments? Ketchup? Barbecue sauce?" He looked at Bill. "Shampoo?" Mabel snorted.

The absolute picture of dignity, Bill said, "Shampoo's really more of a dressing than a condiment." Once he'd raided the cabinet for snacks, Bill had gotten bored with the woe-is-me act and was now acting like he was above any petty jabs about his bathroom adventure. "I'll take maple syrup."

Mabel looked at Bill like he'd just invented a brand new number. "I'll take maple syrup, too."

Dipper split the nuggets on three plates—they weren't quite divisible by three, so he gave Bill the plate with one fewer.

"By the way," Bill said conversationally. "How was dumpster diving?"

"Shut up." Dipper took one more nugget from Bill's plate.

Once they were all seated around the table, Bill said, "So! Let's talk alibis."

Dipper frowned. Mabel said, "Alibis for what?"

"I might have been safe at home all day, but you two didn't know that, because you both decided to leave the big scary triangle here alone. I mean, anything could have happened. What if I'd burned the house down?" Bill feigned a grimace. "I don't think you want the grunkles to know you left, do you?"

Mabel winced. Dipper said, "So, what—are you blackmailing us?"

"Nooo. I'm saying we need to get our stories straight in case they ask. After all, I'd hate for you kids to get in trouble."

"I think you're just embarrassed they might find out what you were doing all day."

Loftily, Bill said, "I don't see why I should be embarrassed by your negligence."

After half an hour of rigorous debate, they agreed that, if anybody asked, they'd never left the house and had spent all afternoon battling a ghost werewolf. It was the one thing they could think of that made them all feel sufficiently cool, but was mundane enough it wouldn't call for any follow-up questions.

They collectively decided they didn't know anything about the state of the bathroom.

####

(I hope y'all found that half as hilarious to read as I found it to write. If you enjoyed I'd love to hear y'all's thoughts! Next week: the complete emotional opposite of this week.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(realize belatedly that coloring The Slime green in the second picture kinda made it look like puke)#(that wasn't what I was going for. i was going for Unnatural Colored Substance Of Indeterminate Origin.)#(so I've edited it to be teal now.)

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uremetomommy · 1 month

Text

Fic I never posted

Felicity spent the entire morning that day anxious for her science final. Her entire future rode on whether or not she would get an A on that final. Being that she had anxiety, it had left her with a few butterflies and tummy flutters, but she’d made her way through the final with some ease and completely forgot about the anxious tummy ache she woke up with.

Felicity walked out of the exam room feeling confident, and since she wanted to reward herself for months of studying, she decided to make a trip to her local burger joint. The grumbling hunger in her belly made her eyes bigger than her stomach, however, and she almost bought home the entire restaurant.

A large 10 piece chicken nugget meal with a diet coke, an extra large fries, 2 cheeseburgers, a triple burger with bacon, and 2 ice creams.

Time got fuzzy as she made her way home, mindlessly chomping on the fries on the drive home, sipping the coke, and by the time she was sat on the couch watching a movie she had no time to waste getting started on the entrées she had ordered.

Then suddenly, her belly felt painfully full of gas and stodgy food. This restaurant often makes her feel gross afterwards, but the sheer volume of the food she had consumed without even thinking created a gross, queasy feeling she hadn’t expected. The bubbling and gurgling of her belly sent wet burps up her throat and acid stung the back of her tongue. Carefully, Felicity rubbed her upper stomach to try and prod out the pain that she was experiencing but all she was given in return was a sickly slosh that made her huff out a nauseated breath. She had to accept that she was definitely ending that night being violently sick.

Each movement she made resulted in a gross slosh and a meaty burp that felt like food could project upwards at any moment.

Deciding it would be safer to make her way to the bathroom instead of sitting on the couch, Lic decided that the waddle to the bathroom that made her gurgly belly even more angry was far more worth it than scrubbing out her carpet and risking her security deposit.

Sitting against the cool porcelain of the bath and toilet, Felicity burped into the water and made it ripple ever so slightly. The feeling of staring into the bowl where her dinner would eventually end up made her insides twist and turn grossly. Even just thinking about food made her gag as she pressed a manicured hand against her lips, mouth cheeks inflating with air she didn’t dare let out incase her food came up with it.

Suddenly, her belly lurched with a wet, bubbly retch that sent a trickle of vomit into the bowl. She rubbed her stomach desperately, hoping to coax the process to hurry up as the nausea was increasing to uncomfortable levels.

With another wet burp, her dinner rushed up her throat in thick waves, hardly leaving time for breathing. She choked down some air, the nauseous tingle of the remaining stomach contents swirling around as she flushed away the mess and was left to nurse a queasy belly all night long.

————

No idea if you guys even want to see fics from me, but this was in my notes app for TOO long so. Enjoy?:)

#emeto #emeto fic #emeto writer #burping #emetophilia #irl emeto #vomiting #puke #overeating #stuffing #stuffing fic #oc #irl vomit #drabble #irl #food poisoning

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creative-caramel-coffee · 9 months

Text

Stomach Struggles

Pairings: Wandanat x R

Word count: 1.7K

Summary: R struggles while her girls are away, chronic stomach aches are no fun and r just wants her girls

TW: anxiety, stomach ache, slight angst, crying, vulnerability, vomiting

|| PART 2 ||

Stomach aches were the bane of your existence. They hurt and they made you sick almost every single time without fail.

So when you woke up on the day you and Wanda had finally scheduled a date for the first time in months and felt like you were going to spending the day with your head in the toilet you couldn’t help the tears that fell. Wanda and Nat were still on their mission and should be getting back at around four this afternoon.

You put all of your energy into rolling over, gazing at your phone screen and unplugging it you blearily looked at the time. You couldn’t help the few extra tears that fell, 4:30am. No wonder it was still dark and you hadn’t heard your alarm. It wasn’t going to go off for another two hours. You knew there was no going back to sleep now. The pain was too much but you couldn’t find it in you to find some pain medicine that your girls had stashed somewhere in the bathroom.

Deciding there was no point being sad about something you couldn’t change you began to sift through the bedside table’s draw. You were sure you had hidden som stuff in there incase you got sick in the night.

The chronic stomach aches hit whenever so it was good to be prepared. And you knew Wanda had restocked the stash before she left. Nat had made a big fuss with fury about leaving you all alone for a few days. Worried they wouldn’t be there if you needed them.

You were sad when they left but it was nothing on how much you missed them now. Now when you needed them most.

Your finger wrapped around what you were looking for. Pulling out the small container of your emergency supplies your sleepy fingers fumbled with the small lid before it finally came off with a small pop. You checked what was there. Gratefully and teary eyed as you knew Wanda had taken extra care this time, you pulled out the small note. Written in her loopy script it said how much they loved you and how if you needed anything from the box at all you were to call them and tell them. Wanda signed it with a kiss of her red lipstick on the note. Your fingers brushed over the print and another few tears fell. Carefully you folded the note and placed it on the bedside.

Reaching into the box you found a small packet of pain meds and sobbed in relief. Carefully you took the right dose and put them on the bedside beside the note. With shaking hands you pulled out on the sickbags from the small pile of them in the bottom of the box. You knew it was better to have it ready if you need it than not.

Looking in the rest of the box there were three more things. A bottle of pepto bismol which you turned your nose up at. Another bottle of water and a small pack of crackers. And lastly a small stuffed plushie of a frog. You rolled your eyes but pulled it out and hugged it to your chest. Burying your face in the soft fuzzy fur, it smelt like Wanda and you let another few tears fall.

Turning to the bedside and placing the box on the ground you picked up your phone. Wanda had said to call them if you needed them. But would they get in trouble? With the plushie still under one arm you hesitated before tapping her contact. Was it too early to call them?

The line trilled once, twice, three times and then Wanda picked up

“Y/n?” Her sleepy voice came through the line and you choked back another sob but it didn’t work as a small noise came out. That seemed to wake Wanda up.

“Baby?” She asked sounding more alert. “Are you ok my sweet?”

“Where’s natty?” You asked sounding small and vulnerable you dodged the question.

“Shes here sleeping beside me. Baby are you ok?” She repeated, “did you have a nightmare my love?” She asked with a soft voice.

“N-no.” You hated that your voice shook and let out another small sob.

“Is it your tummy baby girl?” Wanda asked now waking up nat who would be mad if she missed a chance to talk to you. Nat grumbled and threw a hand over her eyes. Wanda nudged her side and covered the phone receiver.

“Its Y/n/n she doesn’t feel good.” Wanda said and nat sat bolt upright. Taking the phone from Wanda.

“Y/n? Are you ok my love?” She said her voice slightly sleepy but still alert.

“N-natty?” You asked.

“Yes baby I’m here.” She cooed.

“H-hurts.” You said.

“Oh baby where does it hurt my love?” Wanda asked and you realised you were on speaker.

“S-stomach a-and head.” You muttered brokenly. You heard shuffling on the other side.

“W-wands whats g-going on a-are you guys o-ok?” You asked.

“We’re fine baby natty’s packing the bags, the missions basically over they can send a relief team, our girl needs us fury can shove it u-“

“Baby lets go. Ill call fury on the way.” nat cut her off making you giggle.

“N-no i-i-ill be ok. Y-you don’t need to come b-back.” Wanda frowned.

“Baby we want to make sure your ok. You don’t have to do it all by yourself anymore sweets natty and i are here now.” She said frowning deeper as your didn’t respond.

You wanted to, you really did. You wanted to tell her how much you owed her and nat but the nausea peaked, and you found yourself leaning forward and dropping the phone as you clumsily pulled the sickbag under you chin and gaged.

“Baby?” Wanda’s voice came through the phone that was where in the sheets.

Nat was by her side and mimicked the sentiment.

“Y/n? Are you alright?” She said sounding urgent. All they were met with were the sounds of you being sick as you threw up into the sick bag.

If they weren’t worried before they were now.

“Oh sweetheart.” Wands cooed. “Its ok. Your ok” she hushed knowing how much you hated being sick.

“Baby we’ll be there soon ok? Stay on the phone with us.” You merely sobbed in response as you gagged again into the bag. Your tiny whimpers broke Nat’s heart.

“Screw this.” Nat said and Wanda raised an eyebrow “I’m calling tony to send us a jet it’ll be way faster.” Wanda nodded and return her attention to you.

“Crap baby my phones gonna die. We haven’t been able to charge them. I want you to keep track of how often your sick and natty and i will be home soon. I lov-“ the phone cut out and the beep told you the line was dead.

You sobbed and stood on shaky legs to dispose of the sickbag. Your head swam and you sat back down.

“Bad idea” you muttered and put the gross bag into the small bin by the bed, unable to full get rid of it.

Pulling the sheets up exhaustion hit and you tried to go back to sleep. After tossing and turning for about a half hour the nausea was back again. You quickly pulled out another bag and threw up again. After another few bouts of dry heaving you were throwing up again. With you head in the bag you didn’t see the door open. Unaware of another presence in the room until a warm hand was rubbing circles on your back. You flinched away and dry heaved again through the sobs.

“Oh baby its ok we’re here now.” You felt the bed dip on either-side and almost cried as you realised they were here. They were back.

When you were done you carefully set the bag in the bin and nat raised an eyebrow at the sickbags in the bin, as you threw yourself into their arms.

“Oof” nat said and wrapped her arms around you anyway.

“Oh baby it’s ok” Wanda said taking you from nat and rocking you back and forth in her arms. “How many times my sweet.”

With a small voice you replied “two.” Wanda sucked a breath in.

“And why are they still here?” Nat said looking at the sickbags and earning a glare from Wanda who was also curious.

“Couldn’t get up. Lightheaded. Thought was gonna pass out” you said snuggling into Wanda’s chest and missing the two girls exchanged worried looks.

“Baby are you feeling anything else? Do you feel warm at all?” She said pulling you back slightly and laying a hand on your forehead. You had your eyes closed but hummed at the skin to skin contact.

“Does she?” Nat asked

“No. She feels fine.” Wanda said and you snuggled back into her.

“Let’s just hope it what it normally is and nothing more or we’ll have to see Bruce.” Nat said standing up and taking the bin away to dispose of them properly.

“Baby have you had anything since you were sick?” You shook your head against Wanda’s neck and she sighed. Pulling you close she swung her legs onto the bed and positioned herself against the headboard with you still in her lap. She picked up the pepto ignoring your whines she made you take it followed by pain meds.

“You did so well my sweet.” She said as you gaged at the taste. “Shh shh shh.” She said ready with the sick bag. Luckily you weren’t sick this time and so she pulled you close again and hummed a soft tune.

“Go to sleep baby I’ll be here when you wake up. Natty and i will take care of you now sleep bubs.”

And you did.

A/N Anyone want a part 2? Imma write a part 2 anyways…

MASTERLIST

#marvel #the avengers #wanda maximoff #wandanat #natasha romanov #sicfic #wanda marvel #natasha romaoff #wandanat comfort #wandanat x reader #sick reader #marvel comfort #hurt/comfort #comfort fic #reader is sick #vomiting #throw up #sickness #puke

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eddiebabygirldiaz · 6 months

Text

several sentences sunday

tagged by @heartshapedvows @bigfootsmom @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @wikiangela @messyhairdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @disasterbuckdiaz @king-buckley @colonoscopys @try-set-me-on-fire

thank you beloveds! <3

here's some of drunk confession fic which yes has gotten completely out of hand but i am so close! just gotta get through the mess of buck's spiraling

He follows the sound of Eddie's happy humming, tugged along by an invisible string wrapped around his sternum, all thoughts of fleeing completely gone, vanished like dust on the wind, because never has he actually wanted to leave Eddie.

And even now, twisted up and wrecked by what he has done, soaked in fear and anxiety and stupid hope, Buck can’t bring himself to walk away, not from Eddie. It’s impossible really, something he could never be forced to do. Buck has firmly planted himself wherever Eddie is and he’ll be damned if anything uproots him.

So Buck takes a deep, steadying breath before walking into the kitchen, timidness winding through the muscles in his shoulders and making them hunch around his ears, an unconscious attempt to make himself a smaller target.

Eddie’s back is to him, his muscles visibly bunching beneath his threadbare t-shirt as he divvies up some scrambled eggs and bacon and jam covered toast onto two plates. His hair sticks up in wild tufts at the back, a few strands curling cutely behind his ears.

The back of his neck is exposed, looking so long and lean and like it’s welcoming Buck in with a plea, so tempting it makes his mouth water. Buck quickly tears his eyes away from Eddie’s neck, his gaze catching on the wrinkles in Eddie’s shirt.

It has the rumpled air that means it's the shirt Eddie slept in, and Buck wonders how his fingers would fit into the wrinkled fabric, if he could tuck a piece of himself into the soft cotton so Eddie could carry him around and be touched by him all day long.

tagging @elvensorceress @spaceprincessem @diazass @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @captain-hen @athenagranted @chronicowboy @shitouttabuck @arthursdent @hippolotamus @shortsighted-owl @gayedmundodiaz @watchyourbuck @loserdiaz @folk-fae @bucks118 @butchdiaz @devirnis @rewritetheending @honestlydarkprincess @thewolvesof1998 @housewifebuck @lover-of-mine @hoodie-buck @lemonzestywrites @jeeyuns @eowon @paranoidbean and anyone else who wants to share!

#buck has been puking out his feelings for most of this and now im finally at the point where eddie can reciprocate yayyyyy #buddie #buddie wip #drunk confession fic #911 #eddie diaz #evan buck buckley #911 abc #buck x eddie #ryan writes #seven sentence sunday

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nethhiri · 2 days

Text

Marooned: Chapter 31

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy/infertility

(I meant for this to be funny/lighthearted but it turned slightly angsty? Don't worry though. It's sandwiched between fluff.)

Consequences

Killer woke up before you did. At some point in the night, the positions changed until you were now the little spoon and he was curled around your back, face pressed into your hair, inhaling the way you smelled. His hand rested on your stomach, having very innocently moved your shirt out of the way so he could feel the soft skin underneath. It slid down to gently knead at your love handle. He wanted to stay like that for longer; unfortunately a ship of hungry pirates was not pleasant to be aboard. "Y/N," he whispered. "You're gonna help with breakfast, aren't you?"

You groaned, pulling the sheets over your head. "Not now, boss. M'sleepy." Clearly, you were somewhere else in your head.

His fingers prodded your ribs until a soft giggle came from under the sheets. "Wake up, breadcrumb."

"Killerrrrrrrrrr." You turned to face him with half-lidded eyes, barely peeking out from the sheets. You were about to plant a kiss on him, but shrunk closer to him when you heard boots approaching the door to the bathroom. He was also turned on his side, facing you, so you were hidden behind him, still under the sheets.

The door opened and Killer half-turned to see Kid standing in the doorway. "Killer, why are there three toothbrushes?" Kid's eyes were narrowed.

"You must have taken out another one when you were drunk." Killer didn't feel like dealing with Kid this early in the morning.

"No. Mine is blue, yers is red, and now there's a purple."

Killer straightened slightly. "Mine is blue."

"Pretty sure mine is the blue one."

"Kid!" Killer knew all too well what Kid did with his mouth and frowned at the implication they had inadvertently been sharing. "Why the fuck would I use red when that's your color? I'm blue. You're red."

Kid shrugged. "I like blue." He shook his head. "Wait that's not what I'm here to argue about. Why is there a purple!?" Kid walked around Killer's bed to see who was in it. He had a suspicion that Killer hadn't invited him to your nighttime activities like he promised. Kid grabbed the covers and yanked at them, but they didn't budge, firmly in your grip. So he did the next best thing and snaked his hand underneath, finding a small foot. "Aha!" He dragged you out from the end of the bed.

You tried to grab something to hold onto to no avail. "Killer, help!" You reached for him and giggled. "Noooooo!" You yelled as you were rudely pulled out and left to plop onto the floor. "Ow, Kid." You sat at the foot of the bed on the floor, letting your head fall back against the mattress behind you.

"I knew it! Ya fucked without me!"

"No, we didn't, Kid." Killer rolled his eyes and reached for his helmet on the side table. "Swear on your life."

Kid looked confused. "Why not? On yer period or somethin?" Why else would you be in the same bed as Killer and not fuck?

Killer scoffed. "What does that matter?" He got out of bed and started to get ready for the day.

It was your turn to roll your eyes. "I don't even remember when the last time I had one was." You didn't think anything of it. Kid was, again, ruining your nice moments with Killer and it was annoying you. "Believe me. I tried." You added, "We just... cuddled. It was... nice." You felt yourself starting to flush and took that as your cue to leave before Kid could make fun of you. You moved in the shadows, trying to avoid being seen leaving Killer's room in pjs and simultaneously praying you didn't get a splinter in your bare feet. Somehow, you were successful on both fronts. Emma and Quincy noticed your absence all last evening, but they assumed you had been helping Killer in the galley and then stayed with Kid. You didn't correct them. It was weird. You could care less if people talked about you and Kid. Killer, though, you wanted to keep that to yourself. It felt wrong to talk about it, especially since it respected his privacy, too.

You met Killer in the galley to help with breakfast. Every time he put his hand against your back to push past you or grabbed something from you, brushing your hand, you felt hot. You kept feeling hot. Really hot. The feeling didn't go away and you were sweating. You leaned against the counter, feeling lightheaded.

Killer stopped his buzzing around the kitchen to put his hand on your forehead. "Are you ok?"

You shook your head. "I think I need to lay down." You felt fine when you woke up so why did you suddenly start feeling cruddy?

"Do you want me to come check on you later?" Killer probably would have just done it, however he didn't want to overstep, afraid that you would feel suffocated if he gave you too much attention too soon.

"I'm okay." You didn't want Killer wasting his time looking after you. After all, you were the doctor.

You headed directly to the infirmary, rifling through the cabinets for a few things. Before you had the chance to take the rainbow of pills sitting on the counter, a wave of nausea overcame you. Sprinting into the bathroom without a second to spare, you were hung over the toilet, heaving your guts out. Mostly bile came up since you had digested the previous night's food already. When your stomach decided to calm down, you dragged yourself to lay on one of the gurneys, promptly passing out.

The captain was in his workshop, still miffed about being left out. So what if there was no fucking? Maybe he wanted to snuggle, too. So what if he was a brute? He liked soft things, too. The sound of you entering your side of the involuntarily shared space directed his thoughts elsewhere. Kid heard all the commotion through the massively huge hole in the wall, still not fixed. "If yer gonna puke, at least shut the door. Damn," Kid mumbled. He wondered what had you feeling like shit. Surely, it wasn't Killer's cooking. He couldn't think of a time when he had ever gotten sick from his first mate's food. But there was an itch in his brain. Something you said earlier. It sent him into a cold sweat. "I don't even remember when the last time I had one was." One by one, every time he fucked you played in his head, and by default, every time he came, some times on you, but mostly in you. "Shit." Kid, paler than ever, went to find Killer.

Kid burst through the galley doors, trying to be cool, but the shifting of his eyes gave away that he was in his head. "Hey, Kil." He pretended to be interested in the food, which was hardly pretending except for the fact his stomach was doing flips. "Did ya, uh, notice anything about Y/N this morning?"

That got Killer's attention. Kid had never referred to you by name before, always using 'Rotten' or his other nicknames. Killer continued to cook, "Yeah. She didn't feel good." Where is he going with this?

"I heard her puking in the infirmary bathroom." Kid seemed anxious.

Killer was immediately concerned. "You think it was my spaghetti?" He sounded dejected. The pride he had in his food would be severely wounded if he had accidentally gave you food poisoning. He felt fine, though, and you had eaten the same thing.

Kid rubbed his arm. "No. I think it possibly, may be, slightly my fault." He was sweating.

The first mate knew his captain well, and knew that he was struggling to say something. "Kid," he said lowly. "What did you do?" Killer didn't know what to think. Did Kid pull a prank that went wrong? Maybe he accidentally poisoned you. Killer knew Kid had been annoying you by moving stuff around in the infirmary. What if he switched the bottles of something and you took too much of the wrong thing? "You better go apologize for whatever it is if you're sweating this badly over it."

"I don't think an apology will do much." Kid took a deep breath. "Remember earlier this morning? When I said the thing about the period and then she said she couldn't remember the last one."

Killer put 2 and 2 together. "Kid... We've talked about this." The world didn't need any more red-headed pirates in it.

"I know. I know! But in the moment... And she didn't stop me! So it's not all my fault!"

Killer wasn't all that worried. Sure. It was a very real possibility, but he doubted a woman so hellbent on revenge and being reckless would even allow it to be a remote one. "She's not stupid, Kid. If she wasn't worried, then either there's not a reason to be, OR she wanted to have your kid. And I HIGHLY doubt the second possibility. She can't stand even the one of you."

Kid looked a touch offended. "Killer, you aren't taking this seriously." Kid ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't put that much thought into thatpart of his future.

Killer shrugged. "It's not my kid." He knew that would rile Kid up, but couldn't resist poking at him. If he was actually concerned, he would be more empathetic.

Kid huffed. "Well the way the two of ya are getting on, yer gonna be the step-dad." He folded his arms, reminded of being left out.

"Oh my god, you're jealous." Killer chuckled. Kid was so cute when he was jealous. His pouty face and grumbling voice made Killer grin under his mask. Killer shook his head and sighed. "Why don't you leave her alone for now, and later I'll go with you to check up on her, unless you want to go by yours-"

"No. I need ya to come with me." Kid quickly interjected. It's not like he was scared or anything. It was for you, in case you needed Killer's support.

After an entire day of Kid pacing the ship, freaking out in his head, Killer had found him and the two went to check on you. At first Kid was freaking out about the presence of a child on a pirate ship, though none of them were raised in savory conditions in the first place, so maybe it would be fine. Then he was freaking out because the combined personalities of you and he would be an absolute demon of a child, and how would he make it listen. Kid didn't really love the idea of a kid, but he would be damned if he let it grow up like he, Killer, Wire, and Heat did. If you even stayed, or wanted it, or wanted to participate in raising it. There were a lot of uncertainties. Unwarranted, as he would soon find out.

Killer knocked and entered.

"I told you not to check on me," your voice was strained. They didn't see you initially. You had opted to lay with Mini on the floor, instead of the gurney. Lay was a strong term, you were curled into a ball, shivering. "Don't come closer!" You held your hand out in a gesture to stop.

"You look like shit." Killer saw how green and clammy you were. Sweating, yet shaking like you were freezing. He could plainly see that you were sick.

Lifting your head to look at him, you didn't think Kid would be there as well. You assumed Killer would probably come check on you or send Heat even though you said not to. Kid, though, he wasn't the type to show concern for another person. You pulled yourself up to be sitting. He had a weird energy about him. "What's your problem?" You directed it at Kid.

"YER PREGNANT!" He blurted it right out.

You stared at him blankly. How the fuck did he reach that conclusion? A bunch of things went through your head at once. It was something you didn't go telling everyone. But you realized you probably should have mentioned it to the guy who was shooting loads in you basically every day for weeks off and on. You didn't feel bad, however, because you were still mad at him for a variety of reasons and he deserved to sweat a little. "Well, fuck I would have stopped drinking if I knew that." You got serious and frowned at him. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

Kid stammered. "I-I- uh." He didn't have to struggle for long. He thought you were crying before realizing you were laughing at him.

"Kid, relax. I'm not." You smirked. "Is that why you ran out of here like a scared animal this morning?" You shouldn't be laughing at his mental torment, but seeing Kid a little scared was interesting and you were a little delirious from whatever concoction you whipped up for yourself.

"Told you." Killer stated, matter-of-factly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Shut up. I wasn't worried." Kid grumbled, though visibly relieved. "But explain anyways," Kid demanded. "You were puking and... you know all the times-"

"All the times you couldn't pull out because this pussy is too good? Yeah I recall." Mainly, you didn't want to go about your day dripping cum into your panties. You gave up on asking him to pull out however, because he simply couldn't. "I would have been a lot angrier with you if there was a risk of getting pregnant, dumbass. But now I can't help but wonder how many brats you have out there in the world with that shitty ass pull-out game." You were giggling.

"I'm more careful with whores! Shut up!" Kid was fully red.

Killer shot you a dubious look.

"Aw, does that mean I'm not a whore to you?" You decided to grace him with an answer. "It's physically impossible for me to have a kid. So you can continue to nut as you please, when I decide to fuck you again." '

"When?" Killer questioned, a cheeky look on his face.

You corrected yourself. "If. If I decide."

Normally Kid would have been focusing on the part about the nutting. However, he was stuck on the first thing you said. You weren't a whore to him, but what were you to him? Both you and Killer had assumed he was jealous of the time Killer spent with you instead of with him. Kid found himself strangely jealous of your attention. He wanted more of it. "Why can't ya?" Kid didn't mean to be rude, for once. He just wanted to know, to be sound of mind.

Killer hit the back of his head. "You can't ask that!"

"It's fine." It didn't really bother you. You never wanted kids in the first place and in this life, it was a blessing in disguise. A really painful, terrible disguise. You pulled up your shirt, holding the hem in your teeth, and unbuttoned your pants, pulling the waistband down until it was at the edge of your pubes. "You probably never noticed it since you were preoccupied with... other things." There was a pale, silvery, jagged scar about 2/3 of the way from your belly button to your mons, just above your pubic ramus. "Katana got me." You shivered and put your pants back on.

"Oh," was all Kid said.

"You really don't look good. Do you need some soup? Water?" Killer saw how uncomfortable you were and also wanted to change the subject since he wasn't sure how much it bothered you.

"M'fine." You let yourself slide back down on your side. Mini picked up her head and licked you.

Stubborn. "Ok. Will you have someone get me if it gets worse?"

"Probably not."

"It wasn't a question," Killer put on his first-mate voice. He continued, "Kid, why don't you keep an eye on her?"

"I'm not fuckin staying here ta get sick."

"Lucky for you, someone installed an observation window," Killer motioned to the big fucking hole in the wall, "so you can sit alllll the way at your workbench and still see."

Kid grumbled, walking over to his side of the space and Killer left.

You barely moved over the next day and Kid couldn't stand the sight of you shivering. So damn annoying. He tried to ignore it, ignore you. Every noise or sudden movement you made had his head snapping up to see what was wrong. He couldn't focus on anything he did. With a frustrated growl, he stomped over to look down on you. "Yer so damn irritating." Shrugging his coat off, he laid it over you. "If ya barf on this, I'm throwing ya into the sea, got it?" You didn't give any response, deep in sleep. His eyes flicked to your right ear. The top part of the helix was missing, damaged from the attack you had endured. He didn't know what came over him the other day, but as he fiddled with scraps, he had an idea. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small, crescent shaped piece of metal that he hid from Killer earlier in the week. It was cuffed and made from a nice silvery-colored metal. With a gentleness unbecoming of hands so rough and calloused, he moved your hair out of the way and slid the metal prosthetic, though it was more like jewelry, over your ear. It attached to the helix that was left to resemble the part that was missing, like the tip of your ear was dipped in silver. "Hmph." A small flicker of pride lit inside him. It looked good. Of course it does. I made it. He didn't know why, but he did.

#bro if someone was using my toothbrush I would puke on the spot #idk why that's so nasty to me #It's Kid's turn to be a sweetie but he's still a meanie about it #idk about y'all but when I read the fics with blatant unprotected sex I get anxious about the reader and pregnancy #be safe y'all fr #eustass kid #massacre soldier killer #marooned #kid x reader x killer #killer x reader #eustass kid x reader #x reader #one piece #anyways it was supposed to be lighthearted but I didn't want to make light of infertility bc it's extremely serious for some people #I hope I respected that

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frownyalfred · 1 month

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god damn it these a/b/o bunnies will not leave me alone this morning

#am I dating myself by saying that? oh well #just thinking about alfred #having to pull over on the way to get Bruce That Night #and puking in the gutter because of his two broken pack bonds #and trying to pretend he isn’t bond sick #so he can get custody of Bruce #AGHHHHHH #myfic #theresurrectionist #fic ideas #a room full of coral #a/b/o mention #a/b/o tw

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hippolotamus · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday (+ bonus poll)

thanks for the tags @jamespearce9-1-1 @thewolvesof1998 @daffi-990 @spotsandsocks (please go check their works if you haven't... sooooo good!)

alright folks, the Lutalia smut fic is done! It just needs to finish up with my beta and it'll be ready. So, one last very nsfw snippet (and a please help me name this thing poll!) under the cut before it posts. Prev snippets here and here

Lucy stops what she’s doing altogether to tsk loudly in admonishment, though there’s no heat behind it. “So impatient.” “Mmph. Yeah. Yes. Want you.” “You already have me, darlin’,” Lucy teases. Her hands curl around the backs of Natalia’s thighs as a reminder of who’s in charge. She uses the leverage to shift the angle, delving her tongue between Nat’s inner lips, fucking into her. It does nothing to ease the pleasant ache in her jaw and adds to the sloppy mess of spit and wetness on her chin. The feeling is simultaneously divine and unholy, but ultimately temporary. The mild possessiveness flares back to life, suddenly making Lucy wish there was a way to permanently mark Natalia. Something that would warn others not to dare approach what’s hers. Not that Lucy is interested in having Natalia as hers, per se. She just doesn’t enjoy the thought of anyone else ever having her.

no pressure tagging @disasterbuckdiaz @heartshapedvows @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @monsterrae1 @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @stereopticons @elvensorceress @giddyupbuck @spagheddiediaz @chaosandwolves @wildlife4life @loserdiaz @your-catfish-friend @statueinthestone @buddierights @911onabc @hoodie-buck @the-likesofus @fionaswhvre @barbiediaz @eowon @honestlydarkprincess @spaceprincessem @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @rmd-writes @apothecarose @welcometololaland loml @lizzie-bennetdarcy @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @exhuastedpigeon @underwater-ninja-13 @messyhairdiaz @gayedmundodiaz @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @callmenewbie and anyone else who wants to share (also i redid the tags because they were wonky so if you got tagged twice i’m sorry!)

fic taglist @lemonzestywrites @maygrantgf @buckbuckgoose

#hippo writes #lutalia fic #baby needs a name #hippo polls #lutalia #lucy x natalia #wip wednesday #furthering the lutalia agenda #BUT #every snippet makes me wanna puke from anxiety and nerves

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gusherguy · 1 year

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Simi Saga - Prank Call

A prank caller plays simi feeding trigger sounds and causes a simi to empty right there at work. Thank goodness his boss is understanding!

It was a quiet tuesday at the restaurant, and Jax was in the back folding napkins for tables. There wasn't much else to do, what with the single elderly patron in the front enjoying their daily coffee and pastries. Considering how busy the place was going to get come evening, he was glad for the lull.

The front phone rang after a while. Jax got up and headed over, picking up the phone just as his boss emerged from her closet-sized office. "Fig Garden italian restaurant, how can I help you?"

There was a long pause. "Yes, hi. I'd like to make a reservation."

"Wonderful sir, and how many people will be in your party?" he listened and jotted down the information as he held the phone with his shoulder. "Four people, got it. And what time would you like to make a reservation for?"

This time the pause was longer and Jax thought he heard giggling somewhere on the call. "Pardon, I couldn't make that out?" he asked, staying polite. His boss, a simi just a hair taller than him, looked over.

"Umm. Make it a seven o clock reservation. I'm just so hungry." The caller's voice pulled into a long whine that made heat bloom in Jax's abdomen. His secondary stomach suddenly felt heavy. But, maintaining his politeness, he gave them the benefit of the doubt and pressed on, swallowing hard. "Ah, s-seven? Alright-" he was interrupted by more noises, and realized with a churn in his gut that this was a prank call.

Some simi are easily triggered by high pitched sounds. More whining that sounded just like someone needing to be fed emanated from the phone, followed by loud, gassy gurgling. Jax felt his secondary stomach instantly react, clenching and preparing to empty. Oh, no. "Sir, if you -- urp! If you're not going to make a g-genuine reservation...." he hiccuped again and swallowed hard. The warm weight in his belly wanted out, making his mouth water. "Th-then I'm going to have to hang up."

"Oh, I'm sorry, please don't hang up." the caller kept giggling and making those sounds. Jax groaned and put the phone down, pressing both hands to his mouth.

"You okay, Jax?" his boss asked, confused. Jax had never had a problem keeping his secondary stomach under control before, but now....he was leaned against the counter, body jerking in suppressed heaves, as his overactive tummy tried to puke everything up.

"I --ghlll!" he almost choked on the slurry as it suddenly filled his cheeks to bulging. The sounds kept echoing in his head, driving the urge to empty to seething heights. His stomach pulsed with nauseous heat. It was all too much. Jax doubled over with a guttural belch and spewed off-white slurry all over the floor. It dripped from his lips and soaked into his apron. Jax's head spun with the fuzzy pleasure every simi felt from vomiting. It urged him to keep getting sick, more and more, until he was empty.

His boss sighed, realizing he really couldn't help it. She pulled the trashcan closer and helped Jax over it. "There you go, just get it up." she told him. Jax yawned, sticking his tongue out, before making a little sound in the back of his throat and letting go another gush of milky puke. "I - I'm so sorry -- urrrp! It was....it was some caller, th-they-" his legs shook, heat sparking through him, and was interrupted by more vomit. "They made these sounds, and I-"

"Oh. A prank caller?" his boss shook her head sympathetically. "I've had to deal with a few of those. One caught me off guard at home." she patted his back hard to help him get up the last few gushes. "I heard that gurgling and the next thing I knew, puking everything onto myself. God damn instincts."

"Haha....yeah." Jax chuckled nervously. He spat the last residue from his mouth and wiped his lips. Well, now that his secondary stomach was empty, at least he was safe from such pranks for the rest of the night.

#original species #emetophilia #emeto #puke fic

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secretobsessionstuff · 6 months

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i have a little set of blair/dakota scenes in my head i wanted to put in a request for please!! one night, they come home after a big dinner, overstuffed and cuddly. blair has indigestion but kota helps get the burps out and they go to sleep. but the next morning, blair is still bloated... and she realizes all that old food is about to be burped right back up. (maybe onto the blanket? toilet? cup by the bedside table?) ty ty!!

Hi anon! Thanks for the beautiful request and your infinite patience. 💙

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

The only reservation they could make was at 9pm. It was a little late for Blair and Dakota’s liking since they both had work early the next morning, but they booked it anyway because they were craving sushi and conversation with each other after a long day at the office.

The sushi was cold and refreshing, while their conversation was warm and relaxing. Dakota and Blair reminisced over their first few dates while eating sashimi, spicy salmon salad, and sushi pizza. Blair laughed but enjoyed the Canadian invention of making sushi mimic pizza. A fried rice patty acted as the bread, with avocado, crab meat, mayonnaise and wasabi acting as the toppings.

They didn’t linger in the city for long after dinner. Their bed was calling to both of them by the time they cleaned their plates. Blair could have fallen asleep at the table, with the big meal rumbling in her belly. She got that sluggish over-stuffed feeling from all the food. After taking a swig of water to help her stomach digest, she burped deeply into the empty glass. She excused herself with an embarrassed laugh.

Together they stumbled up to the front door of their home, drunk on the lethargic feeling of eating too much. The growing nausea also reminded Blair of late-night drinking. Her cheeks felt hot and the fatigue in her bones made her wobble like an alcoholic.

Blair let out a heavy sigh as she fell onto the bed next to Dakota. Rubbing her full belly she said, “This is why I don’t like eating too close to bedtime. There’s no way I’ll be able to fall asleep like this.” She was all bloated and squirmy, wiggling on the bed to find a comfortable position.

Dakota pulled her in close, seemingly determined to make her comfy. “I can rub your belly until you fall asleep.” He supressed the urge to say that he would rub something else and glide his hand passed her belly button, because he sensed that she was feeling more than a little full. Her tummy grumbled loudly, and she curled in on herself. He could feel the organ moving beneath his hand. Gurgles and light vibrations tickled his palm.

Blair pushed her back up against Dakota’s chest so that he spooned her. “Will you rub in big circles like you did the last time? Felt good.”

“Sure.” Dakota chuckled softly into her hair, then shooed the strands away that tickled his nose. “You fell asleep fast when I did that.”

“Let’s hope I do this time.” She burped into the pillow. “Mm, it’s late. I don’t like feeling so full.”

“Shh, just focus on the feeling of my hand on your tummy. Nothing else.” Dakota flattened his palm against her midriff. He circled all the way up to ger ribs and down to the waistline of her pajama pants, occasionally using his fingertips to add a light touch.

Blair must not have found his touch so light because she started to burp as soon as he made one circle around her middle. Her stomach tensed with each build up and release of gas. She shivered, tasting the memory of spicy sushi in the back of her throat. She was glad to be facing away from her boyfriend.

The belches just kept coming. Some were long and deep; others were quick but painful. It didn’t matter the size or intensity in the burps—nothing was making the indigestion go away. Dakota must have sensed her frustration because he gave her tummy a good push. The burp rumbled up from the pit of her stomach and splashed the back of her throat with a something spicy and unpleasant. She immediately shot up into a sitting position, slapping a hand over mouth. Acid reflux and nausea crawled up her throat.

“Sorry, honey.” Dakota pulled his hand back fast. The sound that gurgled in her throat made him worry that he nearly just made her puke. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Blair waited a beat before answering. Her throat moved as she swallowed down the close call. “I’m okay. It kinda helped.”

Blair’s pale face and wide eyes gave Dakota a moment’s hesitation. “You sure? It looked like you were about to be sick.”

“For a second I thought—but no I’m fine.” She shook her head to shake off the lingering nausea. It was true, she did almost lose her dinner all over the bed, but then everything settled down just as fast. The massive belch at least helped to bring up the trapped air. She could feel the indigestion losing its grip.

“Really?” he asked, still on high-alert and propped up on his elbows. He abandoned his comfy spot when Blair jumped up.

“Yes, really.” She placed her hand on his chest, easing him onto his back again. “I might be able to sleep now. But to make up for scaring me, I get to lie on your chest.” She was already beginning to find a soft spot between his shoulder and pec, and avoiding his collar bone that sometimes dug into her cheek. After many many nights of sleeping this same way, she knew what would feel best.

“Come here.” Dakota nuzzled his face into her neck and pulled her as close as he possibly could, just short of letting her sleep inside his skin.

• • •

Blair awoke the next morning to the absolute worst taste in her mouth and dried drool on her pillow. She peeled her face off the pillow with squinting eyes that were still adjusting to the sunlight coming in from the window. She felt like she had the flu or something. Her stomach ached as if it were pumped full of rotting food—in a way, it kind of was. It seemed her stomach hadn’t done any digesting while she slept. It simply let last night’s dinner soak and marinate in stomach acid. On top of it all, her belly was still bloated and gurgling painfully.

Dakota must have gotten up earlier because his side of the bed was empty. Blair hoped she could shake him awake, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. She could hear him moving around in the kitchen.

Shouting for him was not an option when her mouth began to fill with saliva. All that food from last night was coming up now. She didn’t have to time to throw off the blankets before a deep belch burst from her mouth. Blair gagged from the taste that coated her tongue—fishy and spicy, and not something she ever wanted to experience again.

Thick strings of saliva dripped off her lips as she continued to burp and gag.

Dakota’s whistling came clearly from down the hall. Blair was happy to have him near when she inevitably puked everywhere, but she was sorry that his first look at her that morning would be of her hunched over, hugging her belly, and gagging on the bed.

“Baby?” Dakota knocked on the ajar door. “What’s that sound? Are you—Oh shit.” Dakota scrambled for something to do as he watched Blair burp up a wave of old, clumpy sushi onto the blankets.

The sick fell like mush past Blair’s lips. The texture alone was enough to make her heave again. She choked up another mouthful of vomit onto the bed. She held onto the duvet so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Fuck honey,” Dakota said gently as he came to sit on the edge of the bed. He helped her sit up straighter and rubbed her back. Big circles. Big circles between her shoulder blades and on her lower back until she was able to catch her breath.

“Ugh, I’m not done.” she sniffled and wiped the bile that dripped from her lips. “My belly’s so full still.”

“Do you want a bucket or—” Dakota began but was cut off by Blair belching up another stream of puke. “Oh…nevermind.” He sighed and continued to rub her back. “That’s alright. Get it all up.”

Blair burped up all of last night’s meal until she felt like there was nothing left in her tummy. The organ still ached and groaned even when she brought up the last small wave of partially digested rice and yellow bile. She coughed and sniffled like a mad woman until falling forward and letting her head hit Dakota’s chest.

He quickly enveloped her in a hug. “Oh Bee, that’s not a good way to start the day. Your poor tummy,” Dakota cooed as he slipped his hand under her shirt. With the softest touch, he let his hand fall back into the rhythm of big circles.

Blair allowed herself a few moments to contemplate death inside the hug, until she scrunched up her nose and pulled away from her boyfriend. “Ugh Kota, I have to get up before the smell makes me puke again.”

“What smell?”

“Shut up, this is fucking disgusting.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

Blair shoved him off the side of the bed. It was nice of him to pretend like nothing was wrong, but she really would spend the entire morning dry heaving if she didn’t start cleaning. The one good thing about this whole mess was that her stomach would start feeling better now that it was empty; she just had to get away from the puke that was soaking into the blankets.

Dakota helped her wrap up the blanket, ensuring that nothing spilled. Afterword they had the unavoidable debate over whether Blair should attempt to go into the office. It was no surprise that Dakota argued strongly for her to stay home.

“Baby, you’re going to be shaking and nauseous all day. I know you.” He said adamantly. “I promise you’ll be refreshed and ready to girlboss tomorrow if you take the day to feel better.”

“But I’m not even sick sick.”

“You threw up at least three times. By my count that sick sick sick.”

Blair sighed at his ridiculousness. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s a long story.” He took her hands and dragged her back to the bedroom. “It’s going to take all day to explain so get comfy.”

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lesbiankordian · 5 months

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aromantic thoughts

in one book about transness i read, the author said that even if you go through transition, even if you accomplish everything trans related you wanted, the feeling, the years, of sadness and alienation just don't go away and are always somewhere deep inside you. you may still compare yourself to cis people and still not feel enough. even if transphobia magically evaporated, your transness wouldn't - even if you had a perfect life with no transphobic incidents.

and it's exactly the same with aromanticism. i generally feel good. but there are days where i just can't understand why i can't feel the same way as other people do. why i can't understand that one (supposed to be universal) beautiful poem about love. why most people's values are a bit different than mine. why i can't be truly happy in a queer club, because there are people in love everywhere and my friend's talking to me about her love problem with a guy and the people next to me are all flirting with each other and a girl's hitting on me but i'm afraid bc she'll probably stop when i say "hey, i don't wanna go on a date. ever. but we can kiss if you want". (don't even know if i actually like doing that).

many times i feel like that while talking about friends. life. attitude, not necessarily towards relationship things. it doesn't have to be anything romantic. bc romance as a norm goes so deep you're reminded everyday you're different, and that your difference - if you show it to others - is a rather bad thing in their morality spectrum. everytime i think about that i wonder if i'm not confusing aromanticism with sth different, but i do think aromanticism falls under that category too.

the author of the book i mentioned said that when she first realized she was trans, she was terrified of the thought that was how her life was gonna look like - after all those awful years, it'd only go downhill (realization, transition process etc), this time bc of her own actions. similarly, i know the way i live now is the best for me (probably). but i do that deliberately. i could stop anytime and try to go against myself, caring for someone the way my friends seem to be able to. i long for that, simultaneously knowing i wouldn't last a minute.

#aromantic #wanna puke i dont like this #the author is maja heban if u want. she's not translated into other languages i think (yet?)#but yeah have this rant brought to you by fanfiction lmao. and other things too #if this keeps on going i think ill have to cross fluff out entirely from my fics lol #aromanticism #okie byeeeeeee gonna eat sth #i dont like ranting eh but had to get it out. and maybe sb feels a similar way #hate talking abt emotions god #rant #(<< if u feel similarly don't be afraid to text me or send me an ask...)

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shoezuki · 2 months

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Doctor, the problem's in my chest

Chapter 7

But he doesn't fixate on his own suffering for long, cataloging his pain and shoving it into the back of his mind. The full reality of yesterday catches up to him. Sampo realizes he's in Gepard's room, was sleeping in Gepard's bed, with Gepard . The existence of the other man instantly pulls him back together, becoming Sampo's full focus.

“G-Gepard?” His voice is rough, throat dry and scratchy. Gepard's name feels heavy in the air. Gepard hadn’t moved in his sleep, laying flat on his back just as he had when Gepard pulled Sampo into bed.

He looks horrible, worse than Sampo has seen before. His skin is red and blotchy, a raw heat Sampo can feel radiating from him. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face, his neck, his collar, hair matted to his forehead. His eyebrows are pinched together and his eyes squeezed shut in his sleep, his mouth barely open as he puffs out warm, strangled breaths. Sampo’s chest constricts, a pit of worry burrowing into the fabric of his heart.

“Gepard? Hey, hey, Geppie?” Sampo shakes Gepard’s shoulder lightly, than more insistently. Gepard makes a low, groaning noise in the back of his throat but is completely dead to the world. Sampo feels nauseous again. “Shit.”

Read the full thing on Ao3!!!!

#sampard #honkai star rail #sampo koski #gepard landau #tried to cut a bit of the fic to post w that wasnt like. sampo upchucking his lungs out or gepard being nearly dead lskhglshg #o ya warning sampo pukes in this its like the first line lshglh #should i tag that? maybe??? idk #in the bones

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urproblematicfav-arsonk · 27 days

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Success!!! ur crush of 30 years finally agreed to join ur polycule and business

however he has decided to start a gratuitously violent, extremely public, sexual qpr with ur husband that u somehow didn't notice was happening for 7 months and now he's breaking up with u cuz ur "boring" and is trying to take ur husband and girlfriend in the de-merger of ur companies

#another fic idea i have #all i want his for val to fold alastor in half and wreck his whole shop till he's bleating #is that too much to ask for in these trying times #al: *fully doing a walk of shame out of val's room*#vox: and then my stupid assistant claimed i hit him and i did not-oh hi al-i did not hit him #al: *about to puke and collapse from his guts being rearranged for 12 hours straight* hi vox #velvette forces alastor to stop straightening his hair #and al is so comphet that ge decides this must mean that she's also his girlfriend now #alastor joining vox's polycule just to usurp him and become new hinge of the relationship #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel vox #alastor joins the vees #hazbin au #polyvees #radiostatic #valastor #voxval #staticmoth

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gatzbright · 2 months

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sweater weather

dnf fic, 1.6k, one shot, general, ao3 link [Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Fluff]

A cry escapes George’s lips. “Dream—” Dream brings George closer, holds his face in two large palms. “Tell me when you’re hurting, sweetheart,” he whispers thickly, “and I can try help.” George shakes his head. “No,” he says, weepy, “‘s’too much—” “Never,” Dream says. He holds George’s gaze. “You’re never too much—nothing you ever feel is ever too much.”

[Or, The tide brings in old feelings, and George feels the ache.]

#HI HI NEWFIC IMBACK I LIVEEEE LIKE MUSHU ITSBRUTNEY BITCH #words cannot explain hwo relieved i am to have finally written somthing cohesive after MONTHS of fucking writers blocklike oh man. itwas Ba #idk where this came frombut i puked it up into my doc this morning !!! posted a couple hours ago n finally doinb tumblr post after being #late to my destination n getting maccas n the road works fuckning me around for 15 mins !! WE WIN NETHERTHELESS !!!!!!#itsmmaking me cry everytime i say i puked up this fic imcsorry its funny ok #anyways HOPE WHOEVER READS ENJOYS N I HUG YOU<3333 i had a lot of fun writing this :) it was one of those times where the words just Flow #i can breathe easy now iam floating on Clouds i am CLOUDBUSTING !!!!!#ok bye mwah ik it is 3am est hashtag yolo #dnf #dreamnotfound #dnf fic #my writing

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emetoandotherthings · 9 months

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The Teachers' Curse

A/N: Honestly this is the first thing I've written in so so so long.. I don't really even know where it came from but 🤷‍♀️ Also apologies cause there's a lot of build up, but suck it if you don't like it. Just cause they're so wonderful I'm dedicating this to @lickstynine and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

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The teachers’ curse. That’s what they’d all joked about in uni. The last week of term and the first week of the holidays – rule them out because with everything that needed done, you’d be exhausted and every bug, virus and eager bacteria comes after you. Jude had laughed about it with all the rest, until his probationary year began.

After 8 weeks, October had brought a tired, run down feeling; December heralded a cold – but then, who didn’t get a cold in December? Jude was beginning to think that it was a whole load of rubbish, until he had to content with a 13 week term, coinciding with a pedagogical enquiry and a final profile to prove that he was actually good enough to be a teacher.

With only 7 school days to go until the Easter holidays, Jude woke up with conjunctivitis – all scratchy and inflamed. He’d ended up with drops that Eden almost had to pin him down to put in, and forced to wear his glasses for the entire week.

With 5 days left, a throbbing incessant pain in his ear had made itself known as his class worked with the percussion music specialist. The rest of the day, he’d felt like someone was trying to sharpen a pencil inside his ear canal. By 3pm, the glands in his neck had blown up and swallowing was a challenge. Eden had dragged him to the emergency out of hours doctor and the result was a 3 day course of antibiotics. Jude tried to laugh it off as just one of those things, but secretly he wondered whether it was the teacher’s curse creeping up on him. At least he’d be finished the antibiotics by Friday and would be able to have a drink in the evening when the holidays arrived.

The thrumming had faded to a stop over the next few days, along with the sandpaper scratch in his throat and the only thing that lingered was a tiredness that made it almost impossible to drag himself out of bed on Friday morning.

“Last day!” Eden’s voice was far too cheery for so early in the morning.

“Thank the Lord…” Jude sighed, rubbing both hands over his face as he placed both feet firmly on the carpet. Eden was packing books the size of paving slabs into his backpack.

“I’m in lab today,” he explained, as Jude dragged a shirt over his shoulders. “I’ll try to be back for you getting home – first evening of the holidays!”

“I am very much looking forward to being back in bed…” It was just 6 hours – then he’d be done, he’d have some downtime. It’s not that he didn’t love teaching – he did! He loved the kids, hearing their stories, seeing their learning click into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle… but anyone who claimed working with children was easy definitely hadn’t spent time with 30 at once.

Last days were a grand waste of time. For start, nearly one quarter of his class were absent; the rest were as mad as a box of frogs – unable to settle to anything for longer than five minutes. Jude was only glad that it stayed dry so the afternoon was filled with spare part outdoor learning; an activity which required supervision, but not a great deal of teaching or attention. He was only too pleased when the bell to end the day rang, and he could wave goodbye to his learned for the next two weeks. Jude had sat at his desk for nearly 10 whole minutes just willing himself to move before he geared himself up to go home.

He was determined to only make one trip from his car to the flat, so he clambered up the stairs with three bags trying to pull his arms from his sockets. He was struggling to get the keys from his pocket when the front door swung open from the inside.

“Jude!” Eden looked scandalised at the number of bags his boyfriend was carrying; he swooped forwards and grabbed some of them.

“Eden…” He hadn’t expected him to be home. “I thought you’d still be in labs.”

“It’s your first evening of the holidays!” Eden strained under the weight of the tote bags. “I wanted to spend some time with you.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be that great company,” Jude answered, dumping the last of his bags into their hallway.

“Oh shush,” Eden said, disappearing into their kitchen. “I was more thinking…” His voice continued from the kitchen and he re-appeared at the doorframe, two beers clutched in his hand. “A drink, a takeaway and some Netflix… No lesson plans, no profile – just relaxing.” Eden was holding out the bottle of beer, a quarter of lime squeezed into its neck.

“Sometimes you’re the most beautiful thing on the planet,” Jude couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face, accepting the beer bottle.

“Only sometimes?” Eden’s eyebrows disappeared up under his fringe.

“Always,” Jude sighed. “Sorry…” Eden grabbed Jude’s free hand and dragged him into the living room; he’d brought several blankets and pillows into the room. “Oh, Eden…”

“I thought we could make a bit of a nest,” Eden suggested, “food, drinks, not having to move…”

“What did I do to deserve you?” Jude mused as Eden pulled him to the sofa, noticing that Eden’s cheeks had flushed pink. “Thank you.”

Jude had barely drunk half of his beer before he dozed off, his head lolling backwards against the sofa and the beer bottle tipping forward precariously. Eden gently extricated it from Jude’s hands and let him sleep – he needed it.

Jude’s head was heavy as he woke up, he felt sluggish and groggy; he opened his eyes and stretched. Eden was curled next to him, a book in his lap.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his hands across his face. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About an hour and a half,” he put his book on the arm of the sofa and stretched his arm around Jude’s shoulder. Jude loved how well he fit into the crook of Eden’s shoulder. “I ordered food, it’ll be here soon.”

“You’re an angel,” Jude said; he was so tired he didn’t feel like eating, but he would – if only to make Eden happy. He grabbed his beer from the table and took a swig, it didn’t taste as good lukewarm, but that was his fault for falling asleep.

“Food’s here,” Eden announced, his phone buzzing to let him know the delivery driver was at the door. “Do you want another beer?”

“Why not?” Jude shrugged, he felt bad – Eden was doing so much for him, yet he couldn’t help but feel the only thing he wanted to do was crawl into bed. He tried to waken himself up a bit, sitting up straighter and stretching his arms above his head.

“Here you go,” Eden reappeared, carrying some pizza boxes and more beers. He set down one of the boxes in Jude’s lap before settling beside him.

“Aaw, you even got pineapple on mine!” Jude smiled as he opened the lid of his box.

“I thought I could allow for your transgression just this once,” Eden opened his own pizza. “I’m starving, I don’t know what it is about labs that always makes me so hungry.” He pulled a slice of his pizza up and devoured it hungrily. “Oh, and I’ve got cookie dough for afters.”

“You’re amazing,” Jude grinned, though even the muscles of his cheeks felt tired.

“Come on,” Eden nodded towards Jude’s pizza. “Tuck in.”

Jude managed three quarters of his pizza before he felt the strain of his waistband against his stomach. He wanted more, it tasted so good and he felt more awake than he had since he got home. He swigged more of his beer as he rested the pizza box on the table and leaned back into the pillows and blankets surrounding it.

“Man, I’ve got a food baby,” he rubbed his hand over his stomach.

“Me too,” Eden replied. He’d finished all of his own pizza and had curled his arm around Jude’s shoulder again.

“Shut up!” Jude joked, scanning up and down Eden’s slim frame. “I don’t know where you put it!”

“I dunno,” Eden shrugged, “perks of having a fast metabolism.”

“If only!”

“You’re perfect just as you are,” Eden said; and then they were kissing. It was warm and soft, and Jude loved the way they fit together, as though they’d been made that way. When they split, Jude stayed closed to Eden, he felt like home. “Right,” Eden spoke after a while, “let’s put something on to watch, you choose.” He handed across the remote.

“Anything?” Jude asked.

“Anything you want,” Eden smiled.

Jude’s eyes were drooping, even though he was the one who’d chosen the drama they were both watching. He’d finished off his beer but now his mouth was feeling oddly dry; his waistband was still digging into his stomach and that discomfort was beginning to radiate deeper than his skin. He could get up and change, but that felt like too much of an effort.

Yet as the time ticked by, and the first episode turned into the second, Jude’s attention was even less on the tv and much more on how the discomfort from his waistband had turned into a weird bubbly ache in the pit of his belly. It felt rather like the time he’d gone sailing and despite the calm water his insides had been sloshing around with every moment. A cold, goosebump sensation kept cropping up on his exposed arms. He tried to shuffle himself on the sofa, wanting to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling, but the movement only served to make him feel worse. He slid the empty beer bottle in between the arm of the sofa and cushion and rested his now free hand onto his belly. It felt soft underneath his hand, but he could still feel the bugle of his full stomach. He took a few deep breaths and tried to surreptitiously move the waistband of his trousers, hoping that would give him some relief.

It didn’t. In fact, it got worse. From the slightly sloshy, swishy feeling, it progressed into a more churning sensation – like his stomach had been set to spin cycle. He slowly tried to massage his fingers into his flesh, but the ache gurgled and deepened. Jude thought he’d done a good job of hiding it, until Eden raised his eyebrows and fixed him with a strange look.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his hand straying towards the remote.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jude lied, but with one look he could tell Eden knew he was lying. “I dunno, I guess, I feel a bit… queasy.” Almost as soon as he said it, his stomach burbled under his hand. “I’m probably just tired.” He wanted to pass it off as nothing, but the discomfort was growing with every passing second. Eden grabbed the remote and paused the tv, he sat up straighter and seemed to survey Jude. Then he stretched out his hand and pressed it against Jude’s forehead.

“You don’t feel warm,” he said quietly, frowning slightly. “Hang on…” Eden hoisted himself from the sofa and padded across to the main light; Jude blinked as the light turned on. “You’re a bit pale,” he commented, “maybe we should have an early night?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Jude asked quickly. “It’s just, you’ve gone to such an effort…”

“Jude, if bed is where you need to be, then I’m happy to be there with you,” Eden answered, sounding so genuine that Jude could have cried. “And we can have cookie dough for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said, sighing.

“Come on then,” Eden crossed to the tv and switched it off, before turning off the lamps one by one. Jude shuffled forwards to the edge of the sofa, but as he moved a rush of heat swept across his body and his stomach twisted in such an uncomfortable manner that he froze where he was perched. He took deep steadying breaths, not liking the sudden shift. “Jude?”

“H-ulp!” The hiccup burst from his lips before he could stop it, and he couldn’t stop the groan that followed or the way his hand had gone to his stomach.

“Jude?” There was a sense of urgency in Eden’s voice now; he’d crossed the room in a few strides and was kneeling to the side of him, his hand resting on Jude’s knee. “Jude?”

“Oh god…” Jude groaned. “I don’t feel well Ede…”

“What’s wrong? Tell me,” Eden’s voice was a comfort, but the spin cycle in his belly seemed to have reached terminal velocity.

“My – my stomach,” Jude muttered, trying hard not to open his mouth too wide.

“D’you feel sick?” Eden asked. “Shall I get a bucket?” Jude squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

“Mmmn, no,” Jude shook his head slightly. “Jus’ give me a minute, I’ll be fine.” But nothing felt further from the truth, the sweeps of cold and hot alternating with rapidity.

“Are you sure?” Eden didn’t sound sure at all, but he squeezed Jude’s knee gently. Jude didn’t reply, he was far too busy willing his stomach to stop clenching in such a disconcerting way. He didn’t know how long he’d spent just trying to breathe, until he felt hot liquid creeping up the back of his throat – and at that point, he felt the inevitability of it.

“’m gonna throw up,” he managed to force the words out.

“Right, I’m getting a bucket,” Eden said firmly.

“No – no,” Jude reached his hand and grabbed Eden’s to stop him moving. “Help me – to the toilet…”

“Jude, it’d be easier…” Eden refuted, but Jude was already pushing himself up, his free hand cradling his belly. “Okay,” Eden grabbed Jude’s arm to support him, as his legs had the same quality as a newly born foal.

“Oh god,” Jude slurred, the movement had made everything ten times worse. His stomach contracted and he felt the rush of liquid barrelling up his throat. He slapped his hand to his mouth, hoping to prevent what he knew was coming. “Hmmmllk!” The heave was so strong that Jude lurched forwards.

“Jude!” Eden’s tone was anxious as he began to pull Jude more forcefully. Jude’s head was swimming, all he could focus on was keeping the contents of his stomach down.

“Hmmrrk!” The next heave was stronger, and Jude felt liquid hit the back of his teeth, his cheeks puffing out dramatically. He fought to swallow, they were nearly at the bathroom – he had to make it. Jude felt his chest tighten and his stomach squeezing more powerfully, he tried to force his feet to move faster but his legs had lost the ability to be useful in movement.

“H’kkrrrk!” Jude had no power over his own body anymore, it was doing what it needed to do. His legs had crumbled under the weight, Eden’s hand had released as he fell and he scrambled forwards, but not quickly enough.

“H’kkkkrrrgggllll’uuuuurrrrggglll!” A spray of warm, bitter liquid burst from Jude’s lips, coating the toilet seat and splashing onto the floor. He had to ignore it, pulling himself closer to the toilet bowl, disregarding that he was kneeling in his own vomit. He’d barely had a second, hardly enough time to draw breath, before his stomach contracted again. “B’hhhrrkk-luuurrrk!” It came with such force that the puke hit the back of the toilet seat and sent splashes back into Jude’s face.

“Oh Jude,” Eden’s voice came back into focus, Jude hadn’t realised that all he had heard previous was the rebellion of his own body.

“Urgh,” Jude groaned, learning forwards to his hands pressed on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. He could still feel his stomach contracting, gearing up for the next assault. “S-sorry…” He choked, his voice thin.

“Jude, don’t be silly,” Eden brushed Jude’s hair away from his eyes, then placed his hand in between Jude’s shoulder blades. This simple action seemed to signal the start of the next round.

“Hrrrr’uuuullllkrrrrggggll!” A wave of thick, bitter liquid forced up his throat and flowed forcefully into the toilet bowl. He could taste the hops of the beer and the tang of the pineapple, and this made him retch harder.

“Oh Jude,” Eden rubbed Jude’s back firmly, feeling the muscles tense under his touch. “You should have said you were feeling this bad.”

“Wasn’t-“ Jude choked, spitting in order to try and rid his mouth of the taste. “Hit me all at – hrrk – once!”

“Here,” Eden retrieved a cloth and ran it under the tap, before kneeling down next to Jude and wiping gently at his face. It was something so simple, but it nearly brought tears to Jude’s eyes. “It’s okay,” Eden’s words were soothing, “it’ll be alright…”

“Feel – hrrk – awful…” Jude spit the saliva pooling in his mouth out, but that gave way to another heave that brought up a further wave of sick.

“You’ll feel better when it’s out,” Eden reassured him, rubbing his back again.

“Urrghh…” Jude groaned, his knees were beginning to protest being pressed against the cold tile floor; he tried to re-adjust himself, kneeling back and straightening up. His body didn’t like this, sending more sick charging up his throat and splashing into the water of the toilet bowl. “Pineapple doesn’t – hllk – taste as good on its way up…”

“Glad to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour,” Eden quipped dryly.

“Not the only thing I’ve lost,” he muttered. He was hoping this was a lull; his stomach wasn’t straining and contracting now, all he could feel was a slow churn in his gut.

“You feeling better?” Eden knelt down beside him, brushing a hair away from his face. “You’re not as ghostly pale anymore.”

“Think – for a bit…” Jude answered, he put his hand gently to his stomach – it didn’t feel quite as tender as before. “Not sure I’m completely – finished…” The last word hung slowly in the air.

“But just now?” Eden asked and Jude gave a tiny nod. “Right, for now, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”

“But –“ Jude started, but Eden cut him off.

“I’ll get a bucket, put it next to the bed,” Eden’s words were so self-assured that Jude had to listen to him. “We’ll get you in something comfy and tucked up so you can rest.”

“Okay,” Jude agreed, there was no point in arguing with a determined Eden.

“For some reason, I don’t think we’ll be having cookie dough for breakfast,” Eden chuckled.

The mention of food made Jude heave dryly again; he gulped down some air and shook his head: “No, I think not…”

#my writing #emeto tw #emeto #fics #ocs #Eden #Jude #puking #illness #sickfic #sickness #vomiting #puke #fiction #cw puke #queasy #emeto fiction #emetophilia #original character fiction

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dadsbongos · 2 years

Text

he's in a band

12.8 K words

warnings - female reader, you are specified to have a step-father and step-brother, the dark crystal is referenced especially towards the end, sorry if i tagged you and you didn't like it i'm just that kid that asks their mom for attention just to fail a back flip

summary - You and Eddie are forced to team up and make him into Snowflake King material so that you can beat Jason Carver in a bet (for fifty bucks and the success of Lucas Sinclair’s high school basketball career).

You’re certain that if Eddie were just a little less forward about his interests, he’d be popular. It’s fucked up, certainly, but it’s also nothing new. Stacey Bennett pretends she doesn’t like science fiction or comics, Chrissy Cunningham acts like she doesn’t go bird-watching every weekend, and Trin Saelim purposefully misidentifies every actor in the Star Wars trilogy.

Eddie has the charisma and the looks and the hair for 1,000 jocks and you just know that with the right nudging, he’d have this school eating out of the palm of his hand. And that’s what you think of as you watch him speak with his freshmen worshippers at a level of respect and kindness you don’t often see between peers of the same age.

“Hey, creeper,” Chrissy bumps her shoulder into yours, “What’re you doing starin’ at him, huh?”

Stacey and Trin snap around to where you stare and you so despise their eagerness.

“Nothing,” you lie, then decide against it, “Munson- Eddie Munson, he could be popular. I think.”

Immediately, there’s the overtly mocking, painfully cynical laughter that peels from Jason. None of you can quite shake him despite the fact Chrissy dumped him eons (months) ago, but also - none of you can quite gather the courage to speak up against him or his friends.

“Right, the freak could be popular,” Jason turns to Patrick McKinney in a histrionic ‘look at this guy’ way, “That fucker couldn’t win Snowflake King, and Fred Benson won Baron sophomore year.”

“Eddie Munson could win Snowflake King and be more popular than you if given the proper push,” you narrow your gaze at him, “And I’ll put money on that,” when Jason doesn’t take the bait, you continue, “He’s in a band, he’s got charisma!”

“You know what?” Jason extends an arm across the table, a hand straight out and brows raised - challenging you, “I’ll take that.”

“Alright,” you catch his hand with yours, squeezing, “but, you, Patrick, and Andy can’t run against him, and if he wins then I get fifty bucks and Lucas Sinclair has to be promoted to actually playing on the court next season.”

Jason takes in the conditions, nodding, “He loses, I get fifty bucks and Lily Pham has to go on a date with me.”

Times really have been rough since Chrissy left if he’s this desperate, you suppose.

Jason squeezes your hand tighter, the sides begin to ache and your fingertips go numb from his force, but you clench his hand right back before storming off to the most avoided lunch table since Billy McFeely puked on the right column’s middle bench.

As you approach the Hellfire table, the freshmen stare and you feel their judgments linger. With scorching gazes and iced tongues, they observe as though you’re a small speck under their microscope. Eddie’s gaze is the hottest of them all, has been since you first met the so-called Satanist from Forest Hills.

“Munson,” you smile saccharine sweet though, leaning onto the sticky, off-white table by your elbows, “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

“Ah, sweet princess,” Eddie tilts back, hooking his hands behind his head, “how I love our talks.”

You two have spoken a mere handful of times, at best. You’re pretty sure that if you weren’t best friends with the cheerleader trifecta then he wouldn’t even know your name. Though, to be fair, if he wasn’t the renowned freak then there was zero shot you would know his. It’s like how two celebrities could speak about one another in an interview without ever having actually met the other.

Eddie would be Vincent Prince only in The Fly and only post-transformation.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you smack his arm, “Listen. You need to win Snowflake King lest we both be subjected to the humiliation of Jason ‘pigskin hero’ Carver proving us wrong.”

That makes the other boys actually look at you, rather than the ill-wrought attempts to pretend they didn’t care.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Dude,” Dustin pipes up from beside you, leaning over and brushing against your arm in a move that you’re certain he’d never pull under normal circumstances. His eyes are wide and brows high, “take the deal!”

Mike nods eagerly, “If you win, maybe people will stop shoving us into lockers.”

“People actually do that?” you grimace.

Will Byers nods, looking a little more kicked-puppy than human-boy, “Swirlies are real, too.”

“Alright, then,” you click your tongue and look back to Eddie, visibly already working the idea in his head, “You win Snowflake King and nobody will touch your kitten litter,” you point across the table to where a collection of upperclassmen in Hellfire shirts sit, “or your older cats. And I’ll split the fifty Jason’s forking up.”

“Twenty-five, twenty-five?” Eddie tilts his head, tone lilting.

“No shot. Forty, ten.”

“For all the work I’d be putting in to win?” he mocks hurt and leans forward, copying you and settling on his elbows. Your noses are mere inches apart and it feels like the least deadly stand-off is about to commence, “How about thirty, twenty?”

You ‘hmph’. Earnestly about to call the whole thing off if this is how he’s going to be to work with, when you hear sick witch cackles from Jason Carver and his jesters. You don’t have to turn to know that they’re pointing as they laugh, their delight thickens as your patience thins.

“Fine,” you hold out the hand Jason didn’t maim, “but you get the twenty.”

Eddie doesn’t look at you. His gaze flickers straight over the doughy pulls of his dearest sidekicks. Companions more like, he’d say. You don’t know the guy extremely well, but you’ve seen the way he intimidates and shoves people away when it comes to his friends. It’d be sweet if it weren’t, you know, Eddie Munson.

“I’ll take the twenty,” he takes your hand and shakes, firm but not so evil as Jason’s, “And you edit my papers for the rest of the semester.”

“Unfair to add that while we’re already shaking,” he still hasn’t let go of your hand, but you haven’t dropped his either.

“I know, right?” he smiles right at you this time, not entirely genuine but not so twisted into cynicism to be lost, “Come by the theater room at four, my little Satan club should be done by then, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” you rip your hand from his now, swiftly carding between the packed tables and back to yours.

Dustin, Mike, and Will watch you as you go - Will is the first to return, brows furrowed at Eddie, “Hey, doesn’t Hellfire start at four?”

Eddie hums, nods, and tosses up his hands as though he’d forgotten, “I guess it does!”

...

When you walk in, it's as though you’ve entered a meeting in the damn White House.

Eight heads swivel directly toward the heavy door you creak open as soon as you enter - seven pairs of lit, wide eyes aim at you like war machines. Lucas waves shyly and you return it.

“Hi?” you step into the cold, stiff room and jump when the door slams on its stopper behind you.

Eddie, from the head of the table, puts a finger up to his lips - lips that stretch wide with glee as he loudly “shhh!”s you.

The heads turn back to their dreaded Dungeon Master, and you’re suddenly left in the dust of forgotten chip crumbs that crack when you step forward. A boy in red flannel and rosy cheeks glares like you’ve killed his mother and it stops you with the full force Medusa was rumored to have. You haven’t felt so unwelcomed since accidentally walking into the teachers’ lounge.

“And out from that rusty, chipped, half-hung gate crawls a hideous, toothy, bloody-nailed beast,” you would’ve assumed it was typical Dweebs & Dorks talk for a campaign if Eddie hadn’t been staring at you the entire time he said it.

But he’s the literal crux of your plan, so what is there to do except bite the bullet and huff your way to an abandoned table pushed straight into the wall? You plop yourself onto the floral-engraved wood and pull out the statistics homework due tomorrow. Typically, you wait until you’re actually home, but with however many hours to kill left you’ll make an exception.

Eddie, on the other hand, is having the time of his life forcing you to wait on his little “nerd games”.

Eddie hates you. He hates your manicured nails. He hates your 1970s dresses. He hates the rusted silver ring from middle school on your finger. He hates you.

He hates you because you’re popular and rich and don’t have to work the way that he does, and as much as he wants to go against the grain and never judge a person before he meets them - he isn’t that mature. He’s angry that you don’t have to worry about your water going out in the height of July heat. He’s bitter about the fact he had to work three jobs over his freshman year and you haven’t so much as clocked in for a part-time gig.

So, really, irritating you like this is the least he can do.

And besides, it isn’t like you particularly care for Eddie “the freak” Munson. Not his reputation, not his music, not his tattoos, not his obnoxious hair or laugh or way he speaks. None of it.

...

“It’s way too late to stay here, you have to come over so we can discuss the plans.”

Eddie rolls his eyes as you walk in front of him, out the double doors, and into the (mostly) barren student parking lot.

“Alright,” he calls after you, wrangling his keys from the belt loop they hang off, “but I want a meal and to meet your parents.”

“Why in God’s name would you ever wanna meet my parents?” you snicker when he doesn’t use his infamous gunfire wit to respond immediately, “Well, I guess that’s not fair - I know you haven’t heard of the big guy upstairs.”

“The big guy upstairs hates masturbation and people of the same sex fucking, I don’t think he’s quite the role model you want, dolly.”

You swat his arm, “I never said he was my role model, and don’t call me ‘dolly’.”

“But you’re so pretty and sweet,” he pouts, turning to walk back towards his van, “like a little doll.”

You groan and sigh your way into the shredded, puffing leather of Eddie’s passenger seat. You usually save judgments of people’s cars to the jocks that mouth-breathe around you and your friends, but the sheer amount of fast food wrappers and soda cans that orchestra with every shift of your foot seem to justify it.

Eddie picks out the morph of disgust on your face as soon as it appears, “What?” he grins like he’s having fun, “Never been in a guy’s front seat?”

You glare through your peripherals, crossing your arms tightly, “I’ll kill you for that.”

You’d figuratively kill him for less.

“I just don’t like the sound of wrappers- “ you squeeze your hands mid-air as if that portrays anything, “crinkling and making noise.”

“Well, do you happen to like the sound of fucking awesome guitar solos and screaming?”

Your eyes stick to his hand on the stereo's volume dial, “Not particularly.”

“Great,” he turns the dial almost entirely to the right.

You cover your ears, just to really rub it in how you detest his music, “You, Munson, are absolutely insufferable!”

He can barely hear you over the music, but he nods excitedly - curls bouncing, “Yeah! Totally!”

The van bounces and rattles and you think you hear a tire pop every few minutes as Eddie speeds through the streets of Hawkins to your house.

When Eddie steps into the plush beige carpet and yellow floral wallpaper of your cutesy 1970s home, he thinks that bubbling hatred solidifies. At least a little bit. A nicer TV than any that he’s ever seen is settled on a polished, mahogany stand in front of your family’s white couch.

Susan Harris’ Golden Girls is playing and three smiley, sweatered figures lounge about the cushions.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” you very specifically point to a small shelf of sneakers and boots and flats and heels, but Eddie just works off his mud-caked kicks on the carpet and leaves them there. Slightly to the side, so that if somebody tripped over them he could claim he tried to move them.

Your step-brother, a shitheaded eight-year-old you’d live and die for, doesn’t bother hiding the way he sneers while looking Eddie head to toe, “Did you bring home a criminal?”

Your mother swats his shoulder and Eddie can see the resemblance between you two.

If it were any high schooler, then Eddie would be a little more reactive, but this is an actual kid. He can’t bring himself to be mean to a child, so he just laughs and waves off your mother’s concern, “It’s fine, I get that a lot.”

“Well now, that’s a shame,” your stepdad shakes his head in a way you usually see from dads in movies. He sips the beer your biological dad always said he hated and points at the jean jacket adorning Eddie’s torso, “Nice patch, kid.”

Eddie follows the gesture, finding the DIO patch Wayne taught him to embroider for his seventeenth birthday. He’s surprised that your suburban step-dad with the pretty wife and popular step-daughter and snarky son knows what DIO is.

“Didn’t know you knew what DIO is,” Eddie moves into the living room, like a predator encroaching your territory.

You take the time to settle your shoes in their proper slots, and you even move Eddie’s sneakers to an empty spot (one at the very bottom).

“Just ‘cuz I got one foot in the grave doesn’t mean I’m clueless.”

You can hardly stop yourself before you’re snapping, “Stop saying you have a foot in the grave!”

He just chuckles and your mom rolls her eyes. You stroll straight past them and into the ugly mint kitchen your mom insisted on, where a large, water-speckled and soup-drool-stained pot lays on a cooled burner. Like a stray puppy, Eddie follows.

“You know what?” Eddie leans into the counter, head tilting into the white dips and lines of your fridge.

When he fails to continue on his own, you quirk a brow and turn the burner on, “What?”

“I was not expecting your family to be actually decent,” he murmurs, staring into the distance as if revealing a great truth.

“Even my step-brother?”

“Even.”

You shrug off the way his tattoos and veins reflect into your chest - past your ribs and breastplate and through the heart. It’s embarrassing. So you move on.

“My mom was a flower child in the 60s and 70s, so she gets counterculture.”

“And the old man?”

“Been taking care of other people since before he even got a driver’s license, so he’s seen worse shit than a dork that pretends to be intimidating.”

“Oh, am I- “ he points at himself, “am I the dork?”

Before you get the chance to reply, your very dear and precious shithead step-brother runs in. Wondering eyes stare up at you and Eddie, flipping back and forth until they settle on your metalhead guest, “Do you wanna see my room?”

Eddie presses his lips, then grins and nods curtly before pushing himself off the fridge, “Of course, little man.”

Your brother runs faster than Eddie does, but Eddie’s footfalls are nearly millions of times louder when he goes up those rickety stairs yet to be replaced.

You lean out of the coffee bean tinted doorway and shout after Eddie, “Don’t try and convert him to that Satanism shit!”

A quick, simple, “hey!” from your mother follows your outburst and Eddie pops into view long enough to stick his tongue out at you.

Eddie Munson is criminally overconfident and part of you detests that. Another part of you, a growing part perhaps, admires that in him - the ability to be himself even though everyone hates him. He’s a symbol to the geeks and a terror to the general public.

To you, he’s the monster about to gorge himself on homemade soup for the sake of fifty bucks, freshmen safety, and edited English papers.

How stupid.

...

When you go up the stairs and down that creaky floorboard hallway, Eddie is already in the final stretch of a tic-tac-toe game - you hear his win at the doorway when he cackles as your brother whines.

“Wisdom comes with age, big guy.”

Funny way of saying he’s dumb.

But your brother accepts it, weirdly enough - the only reason he got genuinely upset was because you had to drag Eddie away. Funny ways for a funny kid, you suppose.

“Why do you think I have all this untapped potential?”

You don’t hear Eddie’s question, too focused on the sloppy way that he lets soup dribble on his lips. It isn’t until he repeats himself that you take notice, “Hm?”

Eddie tilts his head and winks, “I know I’m hot, baby, but try listening when I talk, yeah?”

“Shut up, you’re a mess,” you snap a napkin from your mom’s pink-stained wooden holder and wave it in front of his face, “Ever used a spoon before, or am I popping your utensil cherry?”

“You think you’re hilarious,” Eddie steals the napkin, wiping down his lips and chin, “I said, ‘why do you think I have potential?’”

Your parents have gone up to bed, the living room lights turned out and long shadows cast along the checkerboard tile by lemon fluorescents. The looping shadows of Eddie’s hair against his rosy face are even worse.

The best course of action is to pretend you haven’t been pondering that exact question just to justify why he’s in your head so often.

“You have this, like, draw. I dunno. You smile like you have something important to say, even if nobody is listening. I think that’s really important. And you’re kinda pretty, but that’s the only time I’ll say it so don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late, that’s all I’m gonna be thinking about now. You think I’m the hottest guy in Hawkins.”

“I never said that.”

“Well, if I said you’re the hottest girl in Hawkins, would you admit that’s what you meant?”

You freeze. It feels childish to be so caught off guard by someone like Eddie Munson. No, even worse because it was Eddie Munson. Once the shock washes away, though, you abandon your dumbfounded gape and twist up your lips like the cat that ate the canary. You gobble up all tells of naivety and swallow them, talons and teeth that would’ve frightened anybody but Eddie. He was borne of talons and teeth.

You don’t blow the steaming spoonful of your soup before you eat it, though, and that does frighten him.

What else frightens him, is the rolling chalkboard you sit him in front of while he desperately tries not to fall back into your marshmallow bedspread.

“The tenets,” you slap the powdered chalkboard and kick at Eddie’s shoe to make sure he’s paying attention, “of popularity. Also known as - the four-step plan to make you Snowflake King material.”

Eddie follows your manicured finger to a big, circled ‘1’.

“Don’t stand out - this includes your insane personality, your nutty clothes, and your dingbat rings,” your finger drops to a similarly styled ‘2’, “Get good grades. Jason should be enough to say you don’t have to be perfect, but if Coach G would bench you, then you’re out,” Eddie goes to gag, but you silence him with a glare before he gets the chance, “Three: get a hot date.”

Eddie drops his head to one shoulder, squishing his lips to show you an upcoming protest, so you simply cross your arms and wait, “Why don’t you just be my ‘hot date’? Gross phrasing, by the way,” he points right at your eggshell white bookcase, “Maybe open those feminist theory books I see on your shelf.”

“Shut up,” you take a fire engine red copy of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique and chuck it at his head, easily caught in one of his hands, “It’s too obvious if I do it. We have to find somebody else willing to go out with you. That one’s gonna take work,” you draw an imaginary line beneath point four, “Mystery.”

“Hell does that mean?” he cracks open The Feminine Mystique, seemingly reading from it until you snag the copy from his hands.

“Pay attention. And you’ll see, just listen.”

“Alright,” he throws his arms wide, smiling thin, “so explain. What’s the point of these?”

“To make you popular, like I said, dipshit,” you return the book to its shelf, matching Eddie’s poorly veiled vexation, “If you keep going at the rate you are now with a terminal case of oneirataxia, we won’t get anywhere. So, we’re gonna start employing these.”

“Alright, we’re basically just changing everything about me and hoping it works out?”

“Mhm. Yeah. Just for now,” you step around your wheeled chalkboard to stand directly in front of Eddie, “And the first thing we’re gonna start with is,” you clap your hands and grin-

Don’t Stand Out.

Your mother raised both brows when you told her that Eddie was picking you up for school in the morning, but it was absolutely vital that you ensure he actually put on the clothes you made him take home. Your ex left a plain white T-shirt, burgundy letterman jacket, and simple jeans during an open-door-policy’d sleepover and Eddie dry-heaved at the very sight of such a pile.

You dry-heaved when he was sat beside you in his rustbox on wheels in the letterman jacket, shirt, and black jeans.

“I thought I gave you blue.”

“You did, and I decided it looked weird.”

Your eyes scale him from head to seat, “You look weird anyway.”

“Thank you, delicate princess.”

By the time you and Eddie have parking in the student lot, you’ve pinpointed what it was that made Eddie more unsettling than usual.

“Take off the jacket.”

He nearly chokes on the air between his ribs, “What?”

“The jacket, hair-for-brains,” you pluck at the fitting material, “it makes you look weird.”

“You know,” he unbuckles and shucks forward in his seat to tug off the offending thing, “I was thinking that exact thing.”

Eddie’s tattoos come to life in the sun slivers that beam through his cracked windows. A demon puppeteered by the undead, two dice rolling on the inside of his wrist, and an old faded stick-and-poke heart on the side of his middle finger - to name a few. It’s weird.

Is it weird?

It is, right?

How speechless and dim it seems to render you when his red-sprung, vein-flicked, tender hands bunch up the letterman and throw it into his backseat. It’s all so weird.

You rush out, slamming his scratched door and rushing to the side doors of Hawkins High only to realize when going to tighten the straps, that you’ve forgotten your bag in that scratched van.

Turning, you huff, “Shit!”

“Aw, poor thing,” Eddie, ever the sweet savior, dangles your backpack from two fingers as he waltzes your way, “What would you do without me?”

“Be studying for my bio final,” you take the bag and swat Eddie off when he tries helping your arm through one of the loops, “Okay, remember- don’t bring up your freak stuff so much today. We’re starting off on a new foot, Munson!”

“I know, baby, I know,” he pats your shoulder just a tad too hard, then, suddenly, his lips fly to your cheek, and cherry ripe softness presses a kiss to the skin there, “Thanks for the threads!”

A wolf whistles from behind you as Eddie prances into the building, waggling his fingers at a few staring jocks.

A lithe arm slithers over your shoulders and silky black hair flutters into view, Trin raises a brow at you, “What was that?”

Chrissy and Stacey bounce onto the scene in tandem, the prior speaking first, “Yeah, getting all buddy-buddy with Eddie, huh?”

Stacey leans forward, beaming with perfect pearly teeth, “You two make an adorable pair, ya know?”

“Shush,” you can’t block out their teasings, especially as Trin insists on hanging off your side and smushing lipstick-stained whispers into your ears about how exposed and eye-catching Eddie’s tattoos are. As if you don’t know.

Chrissy and Stacey giggle at your apparent agony as you pass Eddie and his gaggle of goons. All of whom are similarly teasing him for the aesthetic shift.

“Watch your mouths, I’m still in charge of the campaigns,” Eddie snaps, glaring rather lightheartedly at Dustin, Mike, and Will.

Dustin squints, disbelieving, at the outfit his friend had squeezed into, “This isn’t you, Eddie. I’m worried.”

“If this is for the bet, I’m not sure it’ll work,” Mike agrees, leaning slightly into Will’s side, “You still look like you.”

“Just a teeny bit off,” Will smiles slightly, nothing but assiduous.

A girl of yellow cardigan and brown plaid skirt pauses before the group, eyes shameless as they crawl Eddie’s tattooed frame free of its usual baggy attire. She smiles and bunches her shoulders, “Lookin’ good, Munson.”

“You too, sweetness,” Eddie winks.

Mike’s jaw drops flat as the girl scutters off, “Who was that?”

“No clue,” Eddie follows her with his gaze, “I think we have econ together. Maybe.”

“Well, I guess this bet will work perfectly fine, then,” Will muses.

You watch from Chrissy’s locker. A technical success that still burns like the vilest of cough syrup as it goes down.

Eddie, despite the compliment, searches for you as soon as the girl is officially gone. His face sings the sonnet of a boy waiting impatiently for approval, so you eagerly hand it over with a nod and grin.

Good job, you mouth and Trin giggles at your expense.

“And when I finally blend in with the rest of you?”

He folds his arms and twirls a lock of hair around his fingers, sheepish is a new look on him. He’s jabbed in the ribs by Dustin and you’re grabbed away for AP biology by Trin and Stacey.

“Then, we get to something that actually might benefit you. We have to get you some- “

Good Grades.

Ms. O’Donnell is certified in creating pain-in-the-ass tests. Forty-five multiple choice and two free response questions in fifty-five minutes happen to be one of those pains in said ass. As far as you’re concerned, the only bright side to semester exams like this is the seat changes beforehand - and the only bright side to this seat change is that you now sit next to Eddie Munson.

You finish with ten minutes left of class and find yourself entirely unable to resist how you immediately look over to Eddie. You two have studied for weeks in preparation for this, most of which was you just grilling him over raw flames about both minute and exaggerated details in Hamlet.

Not that William Shakespeare was usually anything other than ham-fisted in his works.

Eddie continues to struggle.

You can’t say you’re extraordinarily surprised, Eddie was a serial fidgeter and - no matter how much effort you both put in - was usually useless in recalling information. Not that he didn’t try, typically it was as simple as forgetting. Any which way you put it, Eddie wasn’t failing his classes on purpose. Not at all.

So to watch him violently scratch at the side of his head with the eraser tip of a pencil is painful. Both from phantom sensation and knowing how much he genuinely struggles with classes.

So you reach into your English folder for a stray piece of loose leaf, tearing off a quarter and numbering to forty-seven.

Eddie feels helpless. He’s reread the same question, number fifteen, for what seems like centuries, and yet he’s nowhere closer to actually getting that higher grade you were pushing him for. With someone else depending on him, there’s a new pressure.

Usually, when he’s only disappointing Wayne, it’s a regular soul-crushing experience that’s smoothed over by the fact that Wayne doesn’t prize academics the way he does a “good man”. Now, though, with you - there’s a lack of familiarity that leaves room for the overwhelming sensation he’ll be stabbing someone in the back.

Or through the heart?

Sharp lead jabs the exposed flesh of his arm. Right under the navy blue polo you’d literally strong-armed him to put on this morning. Eddie flinches back, retching his arm from the faint sting. You hold out the pencil, folding your hand in a way that has to be uncomfortable.

He pulls up his own pencil, glaring like you’re a moron.

When you harshly stick him with the lead again, he rips the wood from your hand and a folded piece of paper flutters to his dick-graffiti’d desk.

This time, as his eyes meet yours, you glare at him like he’s a moron. Good God, does he feel like it now, too.

Unscrambling the tightly wound pot of gold, Eddie checks his first fifteen answers and is - though he’d never admit it - overjoyed at the fact that they all match with the ones you have written down. The detail seems small to most, but progress is progress and Eddie can barely believe he’s actually able to understand the connection between question and answer for the remaining test questions.

After class, you wait on linoleum that shines under sickly tube lights for Eddie to walk out with his jingling keys and skunky black lunchbox and torn, weathered, black backpack.

“I should say, I intentionally put a couple wrong answers on there. So she doesn’t assume you cheated,” you pat his shoulder, preparing to walk away when Eddie takes your hand.

It’s warm.

You don’t know why it matters.

“Any of the first fifteen?”

Your brows knit, palpable confusion, “No.”

“Dope,” Eddie takes your bag and throws it over one of his shoulders despite your huffs, “Where to, sweetness?”

Fighting Eddie is pointless, especially on menial tasks such as carrying your backpack to a class. A class on the opposite side of campus from his, might you add.

“AP stats,” you point loosely, as if the class is actually anywhere within this hall, “You know, for extra credit, Mr. Abrahms - the stats teacher - has a band and if you go to a show, Ms. O’Donnell slaps on some bonus points to quizzes and tests, but not book reports.”

“Right, and why does she do that?”

He holds the door to the math sector of Hawkins High, filled with posters advertising the wonders of division and variables and dividing to find variables. For a laugh, he pretends to drop it when you walk through, only giggling as you lour.

“They’re married.”

“No fucking way.”

“Way.”

“Well,” he follows you down the hall, past lightbulbs that short and flicker and mud-stained tile, “I’ll only go if you come with, princess.”

“I’d love to, as long as you don’t talk shit about how it isn’t metal,” you give a pointed stare when he guffaws, slinging over your bag all while playing innocent.

“No promises,” he sings, slamming the door to AP stats behind you.

“And after we get your grades up, we- “

“Well, hold on. We should probably do something that’s actually for me, right?” he removes the leather jacket hung over his shoulders, slowly as though this is some twisted rom-com produced by John Hughes, “I think I need a little thanks for going along with this.”

Your eyes roll almost on their own, “We already discussed payments, Munson.”

“Yeah, but how about something on top of that? Something a little more fun.”

“Ew.”

Get a Date Corroded Coffin Concert.

“I’m serious, honey, I see all about these things on the news - local and national, and you need to stay safe. And if I so much as smell a little alcohol on your breath, you’re grounded until,” your mother pauses, mouth opening and closing as she flounders, “Until I’m dead. So. Be safe and smart.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” you climb out of her car and shut the door, but before you’re released, the window slides down.

“Keep a good head on your shoulders,” she smiles, eyes moving past you and towards The Hideout. She gasps and pouts, tone immediately drawling up from the scolding it had been the entire drive here, “Is that your Eddie? Oh, he’s waiting,” she waves you aside and calls, “Hi, Eddie!”

“Mom- !” heat rushes your cheeks and you flip Eddie off from the hip, just out of view from your mother when he hyena giggles, “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, honey,” she waves out the window, “Bye, Eddie!”

“Bye,” he practically sings as you stomp up to the stained metal door, “I didn’t think Mommy would be dropping you off; where’s your sack lunch, Mary-Sue?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be waiting so patiently for me,” you stretch to hold a hand up, pinched as though holding a treat, “Good boy!”

Eddie knocks his hip with yours so hard that you almost fold over sideways, “You wouldn’t have been let in without a fake ID otherwise, sweetpea. Sadly your reign on the population’s feeble minds stops here.”

He holds the door for you and you terribly despise the way it makes your chest thump, so you poke with a forked tongue instead, “Must’ve been mega important for you that I’m here, then.”

But Eddie is typical in that he doesn’t bite. Not in the way you want him to anyway, “Well, duh. How could I not foam at the mouth having you, princess of Hawkins High, at my little show?”

And despite your lack of involvement in the metal scene, and despite how much you wanted it to suck more than your neighbor’s hyper-speed and hyper-light vacuum, the show is good. You swear to God he even winks at you during the third song.

Following a call to your mom on the bright red bar phone, you wait outside with Eddie while his friends pack up.

The moon night is in full swing, a pale face among the stars. Thin purple and black clouds ribbon over the spectacle of craters.

“I really like the moon,” Eddie is a loudmouth at best and sporadic at worst, but something about his timber entrances you, “it reminds me of my mom.”

You hate when he tries to be mystic and poetic.

“Is she nice?”

“She’s dead,” Eddie laughs, but it feels like he’s at gunpoint, “She was nice. She told me once that whenever I feel alone, she’s just one look up away,” he sniffles and that’s when you see a spring of fresh tears, desperate to cling at his waterline, “This is nice. I don’t usually get to talk about stuff like that.”

“It’s nothing, Munson,” you huddle just a little closer, and if he asks you’ll say it was the cold Hawkins’ night. Winter is rough these days, you know, “I’m glad you can get it out.”

He digs deep into the pocket of his jeans and plucks free a pack of cigarettes, “Well, I’m sure it’s a downer on your rainbows and sunshine.”

Perhaps it’s just in your ears, or perhaps the world realizes what a terrible thing to say that was, but you swear that there’s a stock sound record scratch directly overhead, “What?”

“Oh, come on, I don’t call you princess for nothing. You’ve got it all,” he places a cigarette between his lips and your budding resentment blinds you to how they plush around the cylinder, “You’re popular. You’re pretty. You’re loved.”

“Are you kidding me, Eddie?” for some peculiar reason, his first name scalds worse than his last name would have, “Did you miss the part where we’re wiping away who you are to make you popular?” you shove him by the shoulder and he stumbles enough to know you’re far past joking, “So what the fuck do you think I��ve been doing for the past four years?!”

“I think you’ve been having the time of your life getting your ass kissed by a loving, comfortable family and everyone at that stupid fucking high school that I’ve been cursed to repeat!”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you laugh, no humor, and grin, no joy, “My dad was an awful drunk that stopped calling because I tried holding him accountable while he wanted to be the big victim!”

“Yeah, and my dear ol’ dad was a criminal that hated me until he needed somebody small and nimble to hotwire or sneak into a place.”

You’re nearly speechless.

“So you should understand!”

He should understand, and on some level he does. On another level, he’s intimidated by what you represent, and that’s why he fights you.

Your world and his might as well be Mercury and Pluto. You have a two-story house with a loving family and he’s got a trailer with his uncle - God bless Wayne’s heart. You can walk by old ladies and children and housewives and businessmen and CEOs and jocks and be adored. He can’t go to Melvald’s General without being scorned and pointed at and avoided. He hates to say it but it burns, like a live fucking roast.

And it burns even more because he’s obsessed with you. Your manicured, polished nails. Your 1970s dresses and ribbons. Your rusted silver ring with the braid pattern you’ve had since middle school.

Worse than John Bender, he fell for the school princess, but at least Eddie managed to have been around you for more than a day.

Two months, in fact, you two have been working together to make him more popular and even if it’s steadily working, your circles are still entirely different.

Not unlike a wild animal, Eddie bites back when he’s scared, and when he saw you on the empty, beer-mudded floorboards of The Hideout just for him - he realized he was downright terrified.

“Like,” you hiccup, no tears have caked your face quite yet but the way your breathing is so choked, he can sense you’re close, “I really just feel like I ruin people’s lives sometimes and you don’t even know me like that- “ you look away and he sees how bloodshot your eyes are, “It’s so unfair of you to judge me like that. My life isn’t perfect just because Jason Carver thinks I’m cool.”

“And what about you and your friends?” he’s quieter than before, “Judging me and mine over what? A dice game and some loud music?” the quiet splits as he remembers why was ever put into this position in the first place, “Fuck you.”

Your head bubbles. Air clicking between where the gears of your brain should be. He doesn’t know anything deep about you, sure, but you know much less about him. That didn’t stop you from listening to your friends bitch about him.

With no defense to that point, you turn away from Eddie and stare forward. Blank and gagged. Eddie copies.

You want to say something. An apology. A comeback. An expletive. Something.

Eddie wants to say something, too. Similar sentiments and entirely new ones. He’d even promise to do everything you say - head in the sand, hands on his ass levels of ignorance if it meant you’d forgive him. Or just look at him again. Let him delight in the sugar of your perfume once more.

Neither of you knows how, though.

Both of you do know, however, that despite different paths of life being paved, this time together is nice. So maybe it’s best to swallow pride and get over yourselves - for the sake of each other and a tasty, crisp fifty bucks (to split).

But Eddie is better at filling silences than you. So he does what he’s best at.

Almost.

Eddie whispers, so low it rattles between his teeth, “I didn’t say anything.”

It takes you a moment to register that the shithead spoke, “Huh?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he looks at you now, smiling big and wide as if he didn’t just almost make you cry.

You glare and he sees the sprinkles of crystalline in your eyes. Maybe the ‘almost’ isn’t so far back that he can actually begin joking again.

“Okay,” you huff and cross your arms, stiff.

“I shouldn’t have judged you,” he admits, “I’m sorry. It was wrong and unfair and I’ll be better to you. Promise.”

That makes your guarded stance drop, melts like dropped blueberry slush under Arizona sun before rolling into leaf-stuffed grouts.

“I shouldn’t have judged you either,” you drop your arms wholly, and Eddie despises the way he finds you so adorable. Your arms come out to your sides, wide and awaiting. When he refuses to immediately get the sign, you jerk your arms in emphasis - eyes shooting impossibly wide, “Stop embarrassing me and get over here.”

Eddie tosses his head back as he laughs, nose scrunching, and you know that if people put their egos and prejudices aside then they’d be in love with him. Not like you.

Sure, you’ve put those aside, but you’re not in love with Eddie Munson or anything. He’s just helping you prove to Jason what an idiotic, pea-brain he truly is.

Eddie gives nice hugs though. The kinds that squeeze and lock you into the comfort. You can feel his arms around you, leather squawking with your movements. His hands are warm and comforting, pressing you as close to him as you can get. He’s back in his ripped jeans and leather and T-shirt logo'd with a band you don’t recognize, it’s like returning to an old dream from childhood. Kindly and tangerine sugar in your head.

Your cheek smushes against Eddie and you can’t help the way your eyes butterfly shut from the fire that sweeps off his body and homes you.

“Sorry for flipping out.”

“It was justified, I’d say.”

“Still. I feel like I can’t complain to people because I know, realistically, I don’t really have a reason to complain unless they see what I do in my life. So I just say everything is great. So I can see why you’d think everything is great.”

“Still,” he copies your tone on that word, even dragging his pitch up to plop a cherry on the sundae, “as someone who says the same shit to my group, I should have known better.”

Maybe the hug is too long at this point, but something about Eddie catering to you like this feels like when your bedsheets are tucked tight for slumber.

“You wanna go out and look at suits tomorrow?”

“I’d rather die, but please, yes.”

There’s a blotch of inky thick silence. Tar and mud, until Eddie does as Eddie does best and wades through it for a question.

“Do you wanna talk about your dad?”

Nobody has asked you that before, and you agree in full.

“He was just. Nutso. Picking fights ‘cuz he could and nobody would fight back. Stupid power moves just to prove himself as man of the house. It was always about him and when it wasn’t, he lost his shit.”

“I’m sorry,” he squeezes you again, kissing the crown of your head, “I’m really glad he’s gone.”

“Me too,” your arms begin to let and Eddie copies, the two of you splitting apart like sweating popsicles on Summer hazy noons, “My stepdad’s sick to death, though. If I get married, he’s walking me down the aisle. I’m not even calling that asshole.”

“Yeah, well, be careful or else your beloved is just gonna hang out with him instead.”

“You saying he’s cooler than me?”

“Way.”

“He’s cooler than you, too.”

“As if I was gonna say otherwise.”

“Speaking of…” you face forward again, but this time your shoe kicks into the dirt, toeing up daisy roots and grass blades, “my brother wants you to go to his class play, but he was never gonna ask,” you look at Eddie again, grinning, “It’d mean a lot.”

Eddie thinks this is it. Under the pale moonlight his mother always told him was angel’s kisses, his stupid rage and dislike dissipate and that’s the moment he also realizes that maybe he never hated you as much as he proclaimed he did. He was bitter over an idea and he was foolish.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll go. I’ll even wear my fancy ‘I fuck on the first date’ shirt.”

“Shut up,” you toss your head back and smack his arm in a giggle, “It’s tomorrow night at nine. Hawkins elementary. And my parents aren’t going. Grandma’s cousin is sick or something.”

“Sounds incredible.”

Tomorrow night at nine, at Hawkins Elementary School, Eddie shows up in a white shirt with black, bold letters that spell “I fuck on the first date”. You’ll jaw drop, caught in the middle of disgust and humor, but when your brother is up on stage and spots you both in those uncomfortable metal folding chairs with the rest of the audience, he waves. All smiles and excitement and sunshine. And when Eddie is dropping you both off at home, he tells your brother to leave a watermelon on the porch of the boy he hates - for free, legal confusion. And your brother will beg to see him again as soon as his whistling, rusted van is out of sight.

Tonight, though, before suits are found and plays are attended, your mom’s car pulls up to a dingy little bar called The Hideout.

Eddie stops you before you can step forward, though, “Is there anything you’d say to your dad if you saw him again?”

There are so many things you could say. You could weep and cry and yell and scream and break things, if you wanted to. You could be shrill and pathetic, you could be evil and vindictive, you could be devastated, you could be lots of things.

“No.”

Because what in God’s name would actually make him change?

You smile shortly and bounce as you head for the passenger side door of your mother’s car. You stop halfway, putting up a single finger in wait, and running back over on shoes that sort of squeeze your toes when you run. Snagging his leather jacket by the lapel, you pull Eddie down so that the rosy apple of his cheek is exposed.

Pressing a cherry chapstick kiss to his cheek, your plans of leaving him daydreaming for more are dashed like meaningless soot under Eddie’s battered sneaker in a snap second. Before you can return to that car with the broken heater, Eddie grabs you by the elbow and tugs you to his side.

He slings you back enough for it to count as a dip, and pauses, rearing back with a giggle long enough for you to stop him and command that you be let up. But you don’t, and you don’t want to, so Eddie leans forward as you do.

It’s more of a peck than anything - certainly more tame than what John Bender and Claire Standish pulled at the end of The Breakfast Club, but most especially tamer than what you might expect from Eddie Munson.

But may your soul be forfeited if that mere peck doesn’t snatch the air straight from under you. He tastes like strawberries and cigarettes and even though his lips are chapped, they’re loving.

Eddie lifts you slowly, shooting a wink, “See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hate feeling shy and coy, it’s embarrassing, but something inside you just sings at his voice. So, sure, there is a shot that you’re shy when he whispers so low it rattles.

There’s a titter in your voice as you murmur back, “See you tomorrow.”

Eddie gnaws his bottom lip when you scamper off into the car. You slide onto the leather of the passenger seat and your mom is comically wide-eyed, “I’m gonna forget that for now, and ask if that young man needs a ride.”

“What?” your mom leans over despite the sudden thumping in your chest, “Mom, no!” She sucks in a breath to shout but you work faster, rolling up the window as you repeatedly mutter, “Just drive, just drive, just drive!”

Eddie laughs, open-mouthed and thick, his curls bounce when he tosses his head, waving you off before he slinks back into the loud, musty bar.

You’re damn near stuck frozen as your mother settles back into the driver’s seat. She raises her brows and points right at you, “I want answers out of you when we get home, young lady,” she wags a finger in your face before reaching for the knob of her stereo, “But right now, we’re listening to Billie Holiday. So I don’t wanna hear it yet.”

You nod curtly, face igniting like Satan's very inferno, “That is not a problem.”

“After I go to your concert, will you finally follow my actual plan?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go, baby. What’s next?”

“Next, you finally- “

Get a Date.

Eddie makes his walk of shame back towards you after an absolutely brutal rejection from the only girl in Hawkins with more than her ears pierced (not that the eyebrow bar looked anything other than infected).

Wait, he thinks.

Did he mention that he’s in a band?

Shit.

Should he have mentioned that he’s in a band?

Maybe that’s the way to a punk’s heart.

He thinks of asking you - you would’ve said no (that’s only for you).

Either way, he ends up at your side, right in front of a trashcan by the straw station of Hawkins’ Theater. You don’t know what it is, but a deep thing inside you actually feels relieved that Eddie got rejected. Similarly, a deep thing inside Eddie just wishes you’d choke back the caveat to this step and let him take you on the damn date.

“No luck, wonder boy?” you pout.

“No,” he copies your expression, twisting his hands into his pockets, “I’m hopeless and in desperate need of guidance, dear princess.”

“Hm,” you flip around the theater lobby for a potential date, ignoring the rolling muck that clunks your lungs and throat, “Not a whole lot of options for the local metalhead and Dungeon Master, I fear.”

“What about…” Eddie purses his lips, eyes narrowed in search, “her.”

A woman with a toddler on her hips is watching with exasperated, wide eyes as a young man struggles to tear her ticket stub. You shake your head, posture straightening, “No way. She’s looking for something serious if she’s looking for anything at all.”

“You don’t think moms want flings? Shame on you.”

You’d actually feel ashamed if he meant it, instead, you roll your eyes, “I guess, but how would you even get with a mom? They’ve gotta be harder to impress.”

“Easy. I’d go over in a wife beater and offer to mow the lawn, and then halfway through I take off my shirt.”

Good God, he’s so stupid. You love it, though. It, surely.

Boots thud on the colorful, confetti-styled theater carpet, jewelry jingles and clings as a couple looking straight from the posh, wine-dry era of Victorian London passes by. Arms looped and loving, they reek of haughty money.

You jerk your chin towards the couple, “What about them? How would you seduce them?”

Eddie clears his throat, brows furrowing, “Let’s see… I’d book a table at a really nice restaurant under the name Ricky Schroder because nobody else is named Ricky fuckin’ Schroder.”

You can’t help but laugh, “And what if the staff ask where Ricky Schroder is?”

“‘He’s gonna join us later,’” he shrugs, “You know what? Anybody here would be lucky to have me. I’m the ideal woman with no high school degree at 19-years-old and children as my best friends,” he cringes suddenly, shucking out his tongue like something vile died there, “Gross when I say it like that.”

“Always was,” you punch his shoulder.

Eddie suddenly perks up, and that typically would be no stress, if only you hadn’t trailed his line of sight. He gestures loosely, doing an excellent job of pretending he was disinterested in the development, “What about Chris?”

Chrissy Cunningham. Utter queen. Warmhearted. Peachy beautiful.

“Chris?”

Nobody but Jason called her that, and she and Jason dated. What the fuck is Eddie doing?

“Yeah, Chris. Sorry, that’s what I call her. She’s a friend, she’d get the situation.”

“Oh,” you hate the way you seethe, “Yeah.”

“See you in a bit,” Eddie waves gingerly, “Snowflake King is in the bag, baby.”

Peachy beautiful. Peachy fucking keen.

Eddie and Chrissy are a little too giggly familiar for your tastes. It’s like moldy cheese between your cheeks, watching Eddie try (and horrendously succeed) to ask out your very own friend, Chrissy. You should’ve thought this through, maybe, just how much you now hate the idea of Eddie going out with a different girl.

But to be fair to you, he never asked you out on a date following that Hideout kiss, and to be equally fair to him, you never asked him out following that same Hideout kiss.

Part of you rears back at the idea of taking that first step, though. It’s easier when other people come to you, and unfortunately - Eddie either knows what you’re attempting to goad him into, or he’s simply that dense.

You made the rule his date couldn’t be you before you two even really knew each other anyway.

“Alright,” Eddie pinches your arm and you cuff his hand sharply, “it’s a done deal for Thursday. Enzo’s. On me.”

You bare your teeth in what is a desperate attempt to smile, “Awesome!”

It is decidedly not awesome.

“Well,” he fidgets with the twisted, folded material of the letterman jacket you made him give another whirl - you notice it suits him more than it did last time, still weird though, “I can take you home now, dearest.”

“Oh- uh,” flashes of Chrissy in her sweetheart neckline dresses and pleated skirts across a table alone with Eddie make you suddenly ill. Violent heat flashes that blot sweat along your brow and twist your gut into something wretched, “No worries, Eddie, I’ll get one from my mom.”

Before he gets the shot to check again, you’re darting out the push doors and to a pay phone, coins slick in your palm when you tug some from your pocket. Holding the potentially spit and gum decorated receiver decently far from your actual ear as the tone sings.

Later on, when you’ve actually been taken home, your instinct is to call Chrissy. Bizarre. Your step-father and brother are watching reports on the Saturday news that follows the cartoons - a young man injured by a drunk driver, and you immediately rush to the kitchen phone. No wonder John Hughes and neurologists are so obsessed with the teenage mind.

“You don’t actually like Eddie Munson, right?”

Chrissy giggles in that classic way she does when you’ve been foolish, and you can imagine that she tosses her head back - part exasperation and part humor, “Jesus- you two!” an overly long sigh follows, “Good God, no. I love Eddie, but I don’t love Eddie. He’s great, but definitely not for me. You, though. You know. You two would be great.”

“Okay, okay,” you sigh something guttural, “Enough teasing. I was just asking a damn question.”

“Yeah, right. You’re so jealous and nothing’s even gonna happen.”

“I’m not- “ she hangs up before you can even get the words out.

You groan and let the receiver tumble back into place, moving into the doorway between kitchen and living room to finally get an eyeful of the news.

“Holy shit, Keith got hit by a drunk driver?”

Your step-father raises a brow, sipping his beer - entirely unimpressed.

“Then,” you tap Eddie’s forehead when you notice his attention drifting to a string of polaroids around your vanity mirror, “we get to add a little bit of- “

Mystery.

Before you are two suits - both purchased in kind by your step-father. One blush pink to compliment Eddie’s complexion, and the other a pale arctic blue to pair with the actual winter wonderland dance theme. A white undershirt for either. It’s a truly difficult choice when Eddie Munson could pull off either color and still be your top choice for Snowflake King. And not just because you want to win that damn bet.

Your savior from the truly world-bearing decision comes in the form of your bubblegum phone prattling. Your hand flings for it loosely, making contact after two tries and yanking it to your ear.

“What?”

“Wow, aren’t you a bowl of candy?” it’s Eddie, undeniably, but he’s hissing in pain after the question.

That makes your brows screw closer, “What’s your problem, Munson? I’m trying to pick your tux.”

You hear him swallow thick and noisily exhale, “Yes, that sounds very hard, babe,” a gruff and he finally spills the beans, “I’m getting a rib tattoo, we took a break,” he blows thinly between pursed lips, “Can you come down here? I’m about to puke.”

“You’re getting a rib tattoo?” you press the phone closer and stand up from your comforters, “Are you insane?”

In your head, Eddie’s eyes shoot up to the water-browned ceiling as he speaks, “I dunno. Maybe. They’re mysterious, right? And cool, yeah?” he sighs, “Come down here. Please.”

You grumble, naturally, but there was never a chance you could turn Eddie down when he needs help, “I’ll be over in ten.”

There’s one parlor in Hawkins, and you assume that’s where Eddie got a majority of his tattoos. If not all. It’s twelve minutes from your house, closer to the outskirts of town than even most of the rundown bars, but you make an effort in rushing there. Probably more effort than what somebody keeping this sort of bet strictly transactional would, but still.

Eddie sighed in relief when he saw you and if he hadn’t been in the midst of a raw tattoo then perhaps he would’ve hugged you in all his shirtless glory. He now lays on his side, squeezing your hand like a nutcracker to shell, “This really fucking hurts.”

You brush tangled curls from Eddie’s forehead carefully, “What’re you getting, big guy?”

“Surprise,” he snickers until he hisses, “Fuck.”

You scratch your brain for anything he might enjoy. Anything that may distract.

“You ever seen The Dark Crystal?”

Eddie would show his utter shock in a gasp if there wasn’t a needle in his ribs, “You’ve seen The Dark Crystal? No way.”

“Yeah,” you squeeze Eddie’s hand as he presses yours, “my brother owns it. Wanna watch it after this?”

“God yes,” he sounds breathless and you hate how your heart seems to twist at the sound, “who’s your favorite character?”

“Kira. I also liked Chamberlain.”

“No shit, I love Kira and Chamberlain,” Eddie beams up at you, “I know that it isn’t very good, but I fuckin’ love that movie.”

“Even the Poddling slave scene?”

“Hm. That one might be terrifying, actually. Still a good movie.”

“Well, my brother never watches it, so you can come over and we’ll have a viewing party whenever you want.”

He releases your hand and motions as if to brush his fingertips gently over your cheek, “Sweet, sweet angel, how I adore you.”

“Shut up,” you hate when he flusters you. It’s embarrassing.

When Eddie stands straight before the parlor’s mirror, he looks at you with big, bright eyes. Once again, like a puppy for praise.

A full moon in front of a starry sky and clouds paint his pale ribs, raw at the outlines.

“Aw,” you twine your fingers and let the excuse of his tattoo explain why your eyes linger by Eddie’s chest, “for your mom?”

“For my mom,” he confirms, quieter. Baby cow eyes flip to his raw flesh, “Do you think she’d like it?”

Realistically, you never knew her, and you have no idea - Eddie knows that, most definitely. But you know Eddie (somewhat) and if she was someone worthy of his time, then she would’ve adored him now - and his tattoos.

You take one of his fidgeting hands in yours, “Absolutely.”

“And what after that?”

“After that,” you settle your hands on your hips and nod assuredly, “you win Snowflake King.”

Snowflake Ball.

It’s been a solid handful of months, Eddie is far more popular than he was before and you genuinely think he has a chance. And not just because of your desperate need to win this bet.

Before you, on the floor by your feet, are your step-brother and his date, Carrie Kith, to their own winter dance at Hawkins Elementary. Carrie turns to you, wide crystalline eyes and freshly braided hair, her cherry button nose turned up as if to say that one wrong answer may set her off.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Who?”

She points at the staircase, “Him.”

Your eyes flit to the clock your mother has hanging above the TV, "No."

"Why not?" she tilts her head, golden braid falling to her shoulder.

You shrug flippantly, "Boys are a waste of time.”

Carrie visibly considers the wisdom, nods, turns to your brother, and says, "You're a waste of time."

"What did you teach these poor kids while I was away?" Eddie stands at the final step of your stairs, holding his arms out wide and giving a twirl, "What do you think?"

You pick up your jaw and cross the carpet to where he stands. Pale arctic blue suit to match your dress and you can see the faintest touch of the tattoos that terrify locals through the low-cut chest.

"Incredible, you're- " you stop yourself, "Incredible," Eddie looks ready to tease so you speak before he gets the spotlight, "If you lose in this, then maybe I'm not the fashion genius I think I am."

“Don’t put that much weight on it, sweets,” he digs into his pocket and pulls out a closed fist, "You should wear these."

The first uncurls and in his palm - bitten red raw from the cold - is a pair of glittering rubies.

"They're fake," he lampshades, moving the earrings slowly closer, "but… here."

You take the jewels and find yourself biting your bottom lip to contain the bubbling affection in your chest.

"I wanted to get you something nice," from his voice, you can hear shame and nervousness. It's nice to know you aren't alone, then. Eddie cards his fingers through his hair and brushes a lock behind his ear. A ruby gem sparkles through stray tresses, "I wanted people to know who I was with. Don’t need them mistaking me as Chris’ new boyfriend.”

"Thanks," you press your thumb into one of the pointed edges of your gifted earrings, "you didn't have to. Really."

When you look back to Eddie, he mouths shut up and holds out his hand, "I'll put 'em in. And yes, I did have to get them. I saw them and thought of you and then couldn't stop thinking about it until I bought them."

"So you think of me?"

You don't think you're teasing when you ask that.

It stills.

Eddie pauses.

Your brother gags and Carrie joins.

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie rushes to click the earrings in place, pecking your cheek before running to the door. He puts his hand on his hip and you're frozen in the living room as he speaks, "Alright, rugrats, you wanna go to your dance or no? Train's leaving the station."

You're so stupidly muddled that you don't even comment on the way Eddie's van has been cleaned out. No cans or wrappers or empty bags to crinkle or shriek when you shift your legs.

By the time you're actually inside the gymnasium's snowed-in forest set, voting has begun. You put on the theatrics of disappointment, but you can't pretend to not be grateful you missed the Jason Carver power hour. And you can't pretend to not be shocked when you see your name under the title of Snowflake Queen, right between Stacey and Chrissy.

"You know, I think you deserve a win tonight. In case I don't," Eddie ticks the box next to your name.

"Chrissy is gonna win," you x the box by Eddie Munson for Snowflake King, "We both know that."

"I guess," he checks himself for King as well, "but what kind of king would I make if I didn't support the woman that got me here? Hm?"

Not one at all.

You roll your eyes at his jest and Eddie checks the box by your name on your ballot. Snatching the paper from your hand, he practically skips to the locked box for votes and slips both ballots between the top slot. On his way back, Eddie hops and clicks his heels like a showtunes all-star.

"You're ridiculous," you simply watch as he takes your hand.

"And you're stunning," he kisses your knuckles.

You look away as he peers at you through his lashes. Heat fans your face and there's the sudden, unwelcomed concern that he may think you look sweaty,

"I've gotta powder my nose."

"Coke?" he gasps sharply, all for show, all so you laugh, "I can't believe you."

You grant his desires as you shake your head, "You know what that phrase means."

"I just like teasing," so you've gathered.

…

By the time you return to the cornstarch-stenched gym floor, principal Higgins is on stage with the band forced behind curtains. How cruel.

Chrissy flutters to your side in a lavender ball gown and wraps her arm around yours, "You're gonna miss it, we're getting called up!"

"Huh?"

Trin picks up the train of her periwinkle mermaid dress, "Nominees for royalty are being called to the stage. Duh!"

Stacey nods and presses a curl back into place as you all walk, "Honestly, what would you do without us?"

"Not be on stage," you climb the carpeted, moldy steps to where Higgins stands, "Which is actually looking pretty good right now."

Snowflake King nominees line up on the other side of Higgins. Eddie at the very edge, closest to you - at the head of your own line. You do your best to not squint under the harsh stage lights that beat on you.

Eddie, meanwhile, can't help but watch how your ruby earrings move as you do. He likes that you went with them. That you matched a dress to his suit. He likes that people can tell you two came together. Because he really didn't want people thinking he was Chrissy's boyfriend, but he wouldn't mind them assuming he might be yours. The stage lights cast a shine like heaven and the brief idea of you being an angel doesn't feel so lost when you two make eye contact. Painted lips stretch and you wave, he's utterly helpless to return it.

On his other side is the student council vice president, Thomas Heron. Somebody has to hear the good news, and Eddie decides it's him.

He turns and Thomas doesn't flinch away like he would have before you popularized him. Eddie jerks his head towards you, "God, isn't she beautiful?"

It echoes around the otherwise silent gym and that's how he realizes the microphone in front of him is still on and incredibly sensitive.

“Dude,” you tilt your head, chuckling.

He’s embarrassed. It’s nice to see things come full circle.

“Sorry,” he tries speaking into the mic, but now it’s suddenly dead.

Principal Higgins leans into the head microphone, and reads the letter handed to him by counselor Kelley, “And for the moment I know everyone has been waiting for… our Snowflake Royalty.”

Your heart echoes thickly in your ears, skin chills and bumps and you feel the telling of ants in your stomach. Butterflies in your dress.

“Snowflake Queen,” Higgins turns to your line and smiles, “winning by a landslide is…” students stomp in a makeshift drumroll and you already know who the winner may be, will be, “our very own - Chrissy Cunningham!”

No shit.

You, Trin, and Stacey lavish her in applause and hugs and lipstick-printed kisses to her cheeks as a bouquet and crown are slung to her sides. She’s nothing if not modest, and there are tears of joy springing in her eyes while the plastic crown of snowy clouds and crystal is laid on her honeyed head.

“And our Snowflake King…” he trails as the students drumroll stomp again.

Chrissy leans back, nudging you with her tulip bundle, “Nice earrings,” her eyes move to Eddie and she whispers, “Matching with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my- “ you stop, glaring, “Hush.”

“A surprising usurp of our Homecoming King!” Higgins gestures to the line of nominees.

Eddie’s fingers knot together and this is the first time you get to see how much this bet actually means. Originally, you assumed he was in it for the twenty and your brains on his essays (figurative), and maybe - just maybe - he grew to love your company the way you did his. But you never quite thought he really cared.

Now, though, he watches with wide and petrified eyes as Higgins moves to stand between him and Thomas Heron, “It’s a close call, folks,” he claps both boys on the back, “With only a two-vote difference! Our winner and Hawkins High Snowflake King is…!”

The student body freezes as one. Your breath tightens and chest sticks together by the ribs.

The moment feels like eons.

You hear Chrissy crinkle the wrapper of her bouquet and you wrinkle your nose at the sound.

“Thomas Bradley Heron - our senior class vice president!”

Confetti in whites and blues of varying shades rains down upon the winners and the royalty rejects.

You deflate, the confetti shredding through your bravado like glass to a balloon. Even Chrissy’s disappointment is palpable until she remembers she’s illuminated by a spotlight. Eddie hisses a “fuck” and tosses his head back, though he does clap for the sweet puppy incarnate that resides in Thomas Heron.

“Congrats, man,” Eddie mutters to Thomas - and nobody flinches when he speaks or raises his hand.

The bizarreness is not lost on Eddie. That everyone hated him and now waves when he walks by in the corridors.

You meander to Eddie’s side as a bedazzled crown is laid on Thomas’ head. He holds out a hand and assists you down the stage stairs, “Well, that was a major bust.”

“Yeah,” he reaches out and delicately picks a confetti sprinkle from your shoulder, “but we had fun, right?”

“Hm,” you rustle a few confetti slips from his hair, “we did.”

When Eddie was younger, he used to think that the vows said during weddings were “in sickness and in hell” - it was only when he was sixteen and ring-bore for Wayne’s best friend that he learned otherwise. He likes his childhood version better though, “in sickness and in health” implies that there is only a desire to stay if better times are promised. But since being corrected, he’s known it as health. However, with you, Eddie now wonders if the difference even matters. He also wonders if maybe in a dream world there’s the chance you’ll let him swear to you that he’d crawl through hell for just a second of your time.

God, he’s changed.

Jason, in all his usual assholery, slow claps as he approaches you and Eddie at the landing of the short stack stairs.

“Not now, Carver,” you groan.

“Yeah, you’ll get your money, just back off,” Eddie shoves Jason back by the shoulder.

But the dimwit remains unperturbed, Jason steps closer and purses his lips, “You’re not so tough when your Satan disguise isn't on, are you, Munson?”

Eddie grabs him by the collar and throttles him a little, grinning “Don’t be too excited, Josie, tomorrow is business as usual,” his grip tightens, choking Jason a little, “So just be patient, okay?”

The venom with which Eddie spits his words proves too heavy on his shoulders, and Jason scutters off to where Patrick and Andy stand in plain, vomit-inducingly boring black suits.

You watch as the trio high-five and circle jerk over their victory.

This is technically the end.

You and Eddie don’t need each other.

Tomorrow, he returns to Hellfire and you’re back with the jocks and preps. It isn’t like you two are dating. Just a couple of good months. A handful of memories to giggle at until you two eventually grow so distant that you won’t even wave at each other in the hallways.

Your eyes drift to Eddie, cluelessly picking confetti out of his twisted hair under golden and cornflower lights, and you can’t help but shrink at what a miserable existence that will be. So you prolong your delight now.

“Wanna watch The Dark Crystal again?”

He sighs deep and plucks another confetti slice from you, “Absolutely nothing sounds better.”

…

You can’t believe that you didn’t notice how clean the van floor bed was until now, “Holy shit. Was this already done when you drove us here?”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs, glancing at you through his peripherals, “Damn, what had you so distracted?”

“I don’t even know,” a terrible lie, but you don’t bother to rectify it. Something weary rests on your bones. Dies there and rots. You lean back into the passenger seat and stare at the full moon, its beams hit Eddie’s face lovingly, “You know, we may have lost, but at least you don’t have to clean out the van post misery. Still impressed, by the way.”

“Just didn’t feel like hearing you complain the whole way home.”

You pointedly ignore the way he refers to your house as home, “Aw, you remembered I hate wrapper crinkles.”

“Of course, I did, I’m in love with you,” he says it like he’s talking to a friend. So casual and at ease until he realizes exactly what it was that he really said.

You rock forward and bang your chest, breath hitching, “You’re what?!”

“Nothing,” he blanches, “A dick. I’m a dick, that’s what I said.”

“No way, I totally heard you, Eddie! Just say it again!”

“Why?”

He looks at you and you smile, head tilting with all that charm he so desperately fell for, “Just say it again.”

Eddie matches your expression and shrugs, tense, “I’m in love with you.”

You suddenly feel the urge to make him pull over. Just to be closer than what the center console allows.

But you were never the best at speaking so plainly, “Of course, you are.”

“Okay. you know what?”

He glares thinly.

You giggle and he joins.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

You're quiet, but he hears it. Most definitely, he did - he was searching for it, in fact.

Eddie tries to smother the lopsided grin that surfaces, but you most assuredly see it, “Of course, you are.”

The beloved rustbucket van sputters as Eddie pulls along the curb of your house, and you two hurry inside. In the doorway, you peel off ache-rucking heels and leave them in one of many cubbies, Eddie copies.

“So, what should we- “

He takes your cheeks in both hands, pausing long enough for you to stop him if you so desired. Then he commits to the possibility of rejection, “Can I kiss you?” he breathes in shaky, nervous, “Please?”

You cup his face in your hands, giddy and heart thrumming at the warmth there, “Yes. Please.”

Eddie lets his eyes flutter shut, whispering against your lips, “Thank God.”

He kisses you there, sweet and adoring and all things you never would’ve assumed from Eddie upon first meeting him. He tastes like strawberries and cigarettes and he smells like weed and cheap cologne and, faintly, gentle wafts of your own perfume.

When you two part, it’s like the confetti is raining again - but this time, you are the winner. Maybe not Snowflake Queen and King, but something sweeter. Ambrosia and nectar.

Eddie simpers, then rears his head further, brows rising as he “Hmmmmmm”s in an imitation of Barry Dennen’s Chamberlain.

“Ew, don’t- “

He bounces off towards your living room, clinging to one of your hands, “Come on, you promised The Dark Crystal,” when you refuse to immediately jump to his side, he inhales and calls out just as Kira does to beckon her animal friends, “Kame-le-ahhhhh!”

“Alright, jeez,” you yank Eddie back to yourself and kiss his cheek, “You, Eddie Munson, are despicable - just using me for my possession of The Dark Crystal.”

“And you, sweet angel, are evil for making me wear letterman jackets,” you both gag at the very memory.

“Rest assured, that’s never happening again,” you kiss his lips again, another peck that he seems desperate to elongate, “You look hotter in your clothes.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then let’s get me outta this itchy suit, yeah?” he winks.

You roll your eyes but already begin pulling him towards the staircase for your room, “Yeah. Okay.”

Even if you have to put up with Eddie reciting half of The Dark Crystal in a holey black shirt and checkered boxers on your couch by the end of the night, you’d still gladly consider yourself a winner. And that is worth more than any fifty bucks or a Snowflake royalty title. Fewer crowns, though :(

rbs appreciated (slay)

tagging people i think would maybe enjoy this

@kitmon @chainsaw-man-inserts @punk-in-docs @ramona-thorns @indouloureux @bbylogs

#pukes and cries this took so long #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things fic #enemies to lovers speedrun #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie.🍓

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