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#who gives a shit if one person becomes a star or whatever when the rest of the team suffers

fastcardotmp3 · 1 year

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Eddie Munson does do the whole rock star thing, but it doesn't quite go the way it did in the daydreams of a sixteen-year-old kid trying to stay awake in school.

He leaves Hawkins after the world doesn't end, gets himself out there, takes all the hurt and fear and fucked up shit and puts it into a handful of good enough songs to get himself signed.

It's not quite the genre he grew up with, not quite something any of his idols might have played, but only because it is so entirely Eddie, so influenced by where he's been and what he's seen that it kind of doesn't fit one specific influence.

It's new and it's good, is the point. Really good. And he skyrockets fast enough to give himself the spins.

He's recognizable and then he's famous and then he's too famous and too young to know what to do with it and too far from home and everyone he loves to really cope with it and it's just.

Eddie isn't built for it. Eddie hasn't even processed the fact that he was maybe supposed to die in that place, or the fact that he did watch people better than him actually die, but he's out here shooting to the top of the charts and being called the next big thing and it's too much.

It's just enough, at the end of it all, for him to self-sabotage his way out of being more than a one-hit wonder.

One big hit, a contract broken by the guys at the top with the fancy lawyers because Eddie has become the too much thing, just like always, and it's over as quick as it started.

He disappears, becomes one of those whatever happened to him? he was supposed to be the next big thing? stories that travel by word of mouth and then fade with the shift in conversation.

So what does happen to Eddie Munson?

He falls hard, he hits rock bottom, he crawls his way home to an uncle who deserved for Eddie to really make it, make him proud, have him financially set for life and get him into a real house with two stories and a garage to park the truck in, maybe even a yard for a dog.

He spirals and isolates and falls apart and stops letting himself make music at all and makes some personal choices that will probably have lasting effects on him for the rest of his life and then somewhere along the line a girl with hair like tangerines and terrible aim manages to smack him with her cane and says if I learned to walk again, so can you, asshole.

There are people in his life again after that, a reason to get out of bed and realize that he can make Wayne proud in more ways than the one he'd already fucked straight to hell.

Eddie watches a bunch of kids graduate high school and then he packs up and chases down some people who pulled him out of hell once before up in Chicago, crashes on Steve and Robin's couch until he gets himself a job painting houses and they can afford three bedrooms instead of just the two.

He cuts his hair, not short but shorter, and he gets more tattoos and itches for the guitar that sits in a case under his bed, ignores it. Itches for the pen in his hand, ignores that too.

He's still barely past his mid-20s and he still has some fucking around left to get out of his system, some finding out to accomplish doubly so, but he learns as he goes no matter whether it's forwards or backwards.

He falls in love and falls out of it, gets fired from jobs and tracks down new ones, gets into fights with his friends because they're all a little fucked up and codependent and weird but makes up with them for the same reasons.

The thing with Steve happens slowly, going from tolerating each other for the sake of knowing they'll always be on the same team to genuinely liking each other to discovering a care between the two of them that's a bit too strong to be normal about even if it still takes them a half-dozen so-called turning points to really name it and take it and keep it.

Eddie's 33 when they buy a condo together on the outskirts of Chicago two weeks after they fall into bed with each other for the first time, and he's over a decade on from being a kid who rose to the top too fast but it doesn't feel dissimilar, that sensation of a too-good thing that's bound to go wrong.

Only this time he doesn't try to sabotage it, tries the opposite, tries to hold it tightly in ways that would probably be too tight for anyone other than Steve Harrington with all his deeply intense feelings and inability to love at anything other than an eleven.

It's in the move that Steve finds a box of notebooks, snoops because it's who he is, and finds years worth of words that never made it past the tip of a pen but did, eventually, make it that far.

And it's not an easy thing, convincing Eddie that they're words worth sharing, because Eddie doesn't want it to be an easy thing. He can't let kind words shoved into his orbit by a beautiful man be enough to make it feel worth it, can't see a world where sharing his art doesn't end in another great big self-induced mess that he can't let happen when he's finally found something good.

He doesn't want to go on tour and get screamed at on stage and, besides, he's pretty sure the rest of the world doesn't want to scream for him anymore either, but then Steve has to go and remind him--

"You don't have to be the face of it. You can just be the words; you are so fucking good at being the words, Ed."

Which still isn't quite enough to be convincing, but it's a start in a solid six months of the words coming easier now that he has someone to share them with, someone to listen as Eddie plucks away at a guitar that sits out in the open now, free of dust.

It stops feeling like something shameful to hide, his music, and the thing is? It doesn't feel how it did back then either.

It's not an escape or a purge of violent energy or a distraction from everything he didn't know how to think about. Sure, it takes all of that into consideration because it takes the whole of Eddie into consideration, but more than anything it's just fun.

Like he's thirteen and still learning how to play the guitar, like it's just a hobby that never has to go anywhere, like it's just art that maybe deserves to be heard.

Everyone pitches in on ideas when they find out he's trying to come up with a pseudonym, and it's goofy and supportive and kind of the final straw in reaching out to old, burned bridges to see about any new artists looking for equally new tunes.

The first time Eddie and Steve catch familiar lyrics being sung by a new hotshot band on the radio, Eddie cries not because he's jealous or disappointed, but because it feels right.

He doesn't like being up in front of the crowds, had only ever walked across tables and made himself big and scary and loud out of self preservation, would always rather his biggest performances be for the people he knows really care.. Besides, after everything he's survived he's learned, albeit slowly, that he really likes the freedom of the quiet.

This way he still gets to say what he has to say, gets to throw his hat into the ring of an artform that he loves without selling his soul to a machine that tried to eat him alive (trust him. he knows what that feels like.)

Of course, someone is going to put 2 and 2 together eventually, the industry isn't as big as it looks and pseudonyms only pull so much weight when you went out in such a spectacularly messy and memorable fashion, but Eddie's got his condo in Chicago.

He's got the guy he shares it with in his bed.

He's got two cats and a windowsill full of plants he's going to keep alive this time, Steve, just you watch.

He's got his uncle settled in Indy these days, a small place with a small yard.

He's got music, too. Turns out even his own tendency to self-destruct couldn't take that away, huh?

It's what got him out of hell alive, after all.

#dot post #dot fic #eddie munson #steddie #one hit wonder eddie has lived rent free in my head for too long you guys have to join me in this before I lose my mind to it #rockstar!eddie #writer!eddie

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powderblueblood · 6 months

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

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

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

So you do it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay out of my way, then.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking.

But he’s done it.

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

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

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

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

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

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

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

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

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

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

“How was it?” you press.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

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

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

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

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

You’re drunk.

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off.

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

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

And it would mean nothing.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shit!”

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

Trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this.

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

“Uh– Lacy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.”

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So somebody must have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wayne–”

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day.

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

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

Regret stabs at you.

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

“What?”

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

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

“Ugh, thank god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re never late for first period.”

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

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

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

Until now.

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

Until now.

“So?” he says, all expectant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

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

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

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

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

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

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

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

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

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

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

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

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

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celabi · 1 year

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Fem!reader.

To say 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 was mad was an understatement, because he was fucking fuming. His rough and scarred hands clawing at anything they could grab on to, with the unfortunate victim being the arm rest of the couch he was sitting on, well— half sitting on, considering the fact that his body, trembling in rage, was hunched so far forward that it looked like he would slip off at any second.

Kaminari— who was seated beside him (albeit further away then usual) decided he wouldn’t make a snide comment on this one, like he normally would, because he knew the moment he’d open up his big mouth, his head would no longer be attached to the neck. So he fought against his urges to tease the hot head and just mind his own business, though occasionally throwing him glances to make sure that he would not become Bakugou’s next victim when the armrest gets boring to scratch at.

‘I’ll kill that bastard, I’ll really kill him this time!’ The ash blond screams in his head, his fierce, red eyes locked onto one thing and one thing only— you. You looked so pretty in your casual clothes, better then the ugly fucking gym clothes you’d choose to wear when training, because the design of them does you no justice. But these clothes do. It’s cold today, so he’s at least glad you decided to be smart for once and wear a long sleeved shirt to stay relatively warm.

Though it’s not your choice of clothing Bakugou should be focused on right now, but the damn stupid extra, cluelessly standing right in front of you, and although you don’t seem to mind the closeness of their presence, It’s way too close for Bakugou’s liking, because in his opinion, you should communicate with anyone at least three feet away. But alas, he doesn’t own you and you have free will to say and do whatever you please. Though sometimes he wished you wouldn’t, not when the person you’re talking with is him.

Stupid, fucking, Deku.

Stupid fucking Deku who smiles at you so sweetly— a hand on your shoulder while you both converse about hero society and whatnot. Boring stuff that Bakugou couldn’t give a shit about, which is exactly why he shooed you off with a ‘leave me alone’ and left to take a seat when you tried to get him immersed into the conversation. Though now— if he knew how your attention would be solely onto the damn nerd, smiling and looking at him like he hung the stars and more— he would have put up with it and kept guard.

Is he jealous? No, Bakugou doesn’t get jealous. He gets angry. And when he gets angry, he takes it out on anything and anyone. So— with the already little patience he had, had finally dried up, he wastes not time in shooting up from the couch and stalking over towards the both of you, ignoring Kaminari’s exaggerated, loud exhale of relief when he leaves.

He successfully makes his presence known— either from his heavy booted footsteps thumping across the hardwood floor in your direction, or how he’s already shouting loud profanities at the top of his lungs, directed to the poor green head nerd he’s been violently eying for the past minute. “Damn Deku! Get your grubby hands offa’ her!” There’s not a hint remorse laced in his tone, a sign that he’s not messing around.

Izuku quickly does as he’s told, throwing his hands up in front of his face defensively, praying to god that he didn’t anger the boy even more the he already is, when he unconsciously lets out a small, pathetic ‘eek—!’ in surprise. “K-kaachan! What’s wrong?! What did I do?!” He stutters out, mentally passing out when his arms are swatted away and his shirt collar is roughly being pulled upwards, his tips of his feet just barely kissing the ground.

“What do you think you did, ya damn loser!” He carelessly shakes the poor, smaller boy around in air— excavating multiple scared squeaks from him in to process. And when you start to see vibrant, red sparks emit from the blond haired boys hand, you decide to finally step in and break them up.

“Katsuki, quit it. Leave Izuku alone, he didn’t do whatever you’re mad about.” He turns his head towards you, his previously narrowed eyes slightly softening when they land on your face. And although you’re staring at him in annoyance— he still thinks you look as beautiful as you did the day he met you, all while unconsciously letting his hand loosen and dropping Midoriya from his grip, letting him fall ass first on the floor.

“You’re on first name basis with this guy? When did you get so close with him?” He asks, mentally cursing himself by how much softer his voice sounds when it’s directed towards you. You blink once, then twice, making his eyes twitch when you blink a third time. “God, don’t look at me like that!” He tries to ignore the way his face starts to feel hotter, but he’s sure his ears are bright red.

“Why… do you care, who I’m friends with, or who I’m close to?” You slowly question— sending Midoriya an apologetic, tilted smile when he cautiously waves you off and quietly crawls away from the now awkward situation he found himself in. “It’s not like we’re dating or anything, I can bond with whoever I want to. But since you asked, Izuku and I grew close when I helped him confess to his feelings Ochako.”

Now it’s his turn to blink in confusion, staring at you like you grew a second head. “You mean, those two idiots are… dating?” You nod, a teasing smile slowly etching across your face at his baffled expression. “And you don’t have feelings for him… do you?” You once again, nod, making Bakugou let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Why do you wanna know? You jealous or something? Ohh, I see. You like me, don’t you.” Except your teasing words don’t receive the reaction you were expecting. Usually when teased about his feelings, Bakugou would blow up and threaten your life, but this time, his voice his just above a whisper as he embarrassedly looks off to the side.

“Yeah… maybe i do. So what?”

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wannaeatramyeon · 1 year

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Goo Kim x Reader: Cookies (feat Gun)

Goo and Gun at the bakery for you

Goo loves you, y'know.

It has sorta become a tradition that when one of you is ill, whatever the ill person want, the ill person gets.

And you're there on your deathbed, head full of cold, with a craving for cookies. Not just any cookies, the ones from that extra special fancy little bakery you just love.

So here Goo waits.

With Gun impatiently by his side, wishing death upon Goo and death upon you because at least he would never be dragged into these mundane bullshit situations again. Why the fuck is he here when there's minors to cripple and hospitalise? Seriously, jesus fucking christ-

"Next!"

Disregarding Gun's grumbles, Goo shuffles forward and rocks excitedly back and forth.

Just one more person to serve, and then it's his turn! Only, Goo checks his watch, 5 minutes until close and there are loads left! Well, not loads loads, but there's more than a dozen. Surely enough for you and for the customer in front-

"I'll take the whole lot, please!"

What the FUCK!

"HEY!" Goo lunges just short of the aforementioned customer, "YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"

After paying and receiving her bag of goodies, the little granny with kind eyes amplified by round glasses, smiles up sweetly at Goo.

"I'm so sorry young man. I'm seeing my family today and want to share these with my children and grandchildren. I absolutely love this place and have been raving about it. It's been so long since I've seen them so I thought I would bring a treat. Ever since my husband died-"

Goo stands there agape, seeing red as she rambles on. Who the fuck cares, you just bought all the fucking cookies.

Respect your elders? He swears he will sock that old bitch in the mouth. He hopes she and the rest of her whole family chokes on those delicious cookie crumbs!

"YOU OLD HAG-"

Gun immediately clamps a hand around Goo's idiot mouth and holds him back.

With Goo struggling in his arms, he gives the friendly granny a polite nod as she waddles away with her bag full of baked goods; blissfully ignorant and not knowing how close she was to getting slapped by an irate blonde.

Outside the bakery, the sun is shining, there's a gentle autumn breeze, and the evening is beautiful.

Goo doesn't feel the sun. He doesn't feel the breeze.

The sun is shit and the breeze is shit and the evening is shit. He lives in darkness now, he doesn't deserve your love, he can never be happy again.

Dejectedly cradling his bag of crap, he wonders how he could go home to face you, his beloved. He bought what he could, some deliciously sweet and overpriced monstrosities, but it's not a cookie.

Really, Goo should thank his lucky stars that the main cause of grief in his life are goddamn fucking cookies. But.

It's still not a cookie. It's not what you asked for.

What if your sniffly nose and sore throat took a turn and you're dying? What if you're actually dead right now and the last thing you wanted was a cookie and he couldn't do that for you?

"Hey," Gun elbows him, snapping him out of his distress, "Look."

Literally standing a few metres away appears to be a father and daughter. He's wiping crumbs from her mouth, and- what's that in her hands?! Goo's eyes hone in on her little bag of cookies like a hawk.

"KID!!" he screeches, jumping over and crouching down to her height as she stares at this funny, weird man.

"How many cookies you got left?"

She peers into her bag, takes her time counting, then holds up four fingers, "Four!"

"How about I trade you this," Goo opens his bag of baked goods, "For your cookies?"

The little girl shakes her head, pigtails following the movement.

"Kid, don't you know these are more expensive." Another shake, "AND SEE! Icing! Sprinkles! Don't you kids love icing and sprinkles?"

The little girl shakes her head once more and Goo's eyes bug out.

For fuck's sake. Gun pinches the bridge of his nose, considering punting the kid or Goo, whoever is closest.

Whatever.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring Goo, who is on the verge of tears and a mental breakdown, Gun opts for the logical choice and approaches the father instead.

"This guy," Gun points at Goo, now wallowing pathetically on the ground, "Will give you 100,000 won for those cookies."

Seriously?! Just as Dad is about to say fuck yes, he takes a step back and eyes them up. Their impeccably tailored designer suits, their excrutiatingly expensive watches, their general aura of 'fuck you' money-

"500,000."

Gun shrugs, it's not his cash, "Deal."

Heh, suckers. Dad squats down to his daughter. With the experience of being on the wrong end of a screaming tantrum one too many times, he promises toys and TV time and whatever the hell she wants, in exchange for the bag of cookies.

Obediently, and with a peppy smile, she hands them over to him.

Dad holds the bag out in one hand to Gun, and pointedly, his other cash-less palm.

Gun nudges Goo, currently rolling around forlornly on the floor, with his foot, "Pony up, you fucking moron."

Holy shit, Goo could kiss Gun right now. Goo springs up in joy.

Finally! These motherfucking cookies!

Is that the warmth of the sun he can feel? The refreshing breeze? And isn't this evening magical-

Hold the fuck on. Unwelcome clarity slams into him. Five hundred fucking thousand won?!

With tears in his eyes, Goo digs out his wallet and forks over the cash.

#ok srsly last one today. sorry for all the posts #this one is #i dont even know #lookism #lookism x reader #lookism headcanons #lookism hc #lookism fic #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #goo kim x reader #goo kim #kim joongoo x reader #kim joongoo #gun park #park jonggun #wannaeatramyeon

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rius-cave · 3 months

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I'm so sorry but I saw the supernatural ask and I felt compelled to explain the Lucifer situation. Ignore if you don't care lmao

The base premise is that Dean and Sam are two brothers who hunt the monsters that go bomp in the night because their mom was killed by a demon when they were children and their dad (John) decided to make it his life's mission to avenge her, going as far as to basically make child soldiers out of his kids. Dad disappears so they start looking for the demon with yellow eyes (iirc Azazel) because they think he's the one at fault.

During the various seasons both brothers keep dying, but the other never accepts it and every time they find a way to resurrect each other. During all this Dena has got a reoccurring "sure, demons exist. But they're not like the biblical kind. It's not like God is real. It's not like angels exist" while Sam still believes that something good MUST be out there so he thinks angels exist.

Sam develops demon powers. Long story. It's like, very thematic in the context of the show. The yellow eyed demon fed him blood as a baby, now he has like. Telekinesis.

Dean dies as a result of a shitton of things, spends 40 years in Hell (about 4 Earth months) until Castiel the angel "gripped him tight and raised him from perdition" (actual quote. This was season 4. They spent the rest of the 11 seasons denying he's in love with Dean).

Surprise! Angels are real!

Less of a surprise! They're jackasses! Also God is an absentee father!

Blah blah blah parallel between Cas' faith in God (his dad) for whom he's a soldier, and Dean who only sees himself as a weapon blah blah blah

War!!! The angels explain that the Winchesters were basically manufactured. The whole show has a theme about free will and predestination and defying faith. So here they discover that the angels manipulated events, like their parents getting together, their grandfather dying, their mom dying, etc. To ensure the brothers existed.

Why? Because Armageddon is near and Lucifer and Micheal are destined to fight against each other. However they need human vessels to do so. Both angels and demons do (Case is inside the body of a guy called Jimmy Novak. He dies at one point but Case keeps using his corpse. He had a daughter and wife). And apparently the Winchesters are the perfect ones.

And that's where they come to play! Dean cannot escape the destiny of only being useful as a weapon, cause that's what he is for Micheal. And remember the demon powers shit Sam went through? Also connected to this!

The one caveat is that Micheal needs permission to inhabit Dean's body, while Sam gets possessed by Lucifer. So Dean keeps denying it and postponing the battle trying to free his brother. Sam comes out of this hallucinating Lucifer for a while.

Their half brother also gets possessed by Lucifer at one point. He was also a rock star and I think the president? At one point? Iirc.

So no Sam doesn't really BECOME Lucifer. Still. Show's wack. Cain is kind of still alive in the show lmao. I only watched up to season 13. That's when they lost me.

It's so hard to crossover Hazbin Hotel with other Bible inspired stories because of the wild differences in Lucifer's personalities and stories. There's no way to reconcile whatever is going on with Supernatural Lucifer and Hazbin Lucifer.

I think Good Omens is the only one where I could kinda see it? But then there's Beelzebub that kinda fucks it up, and also Crowley having been the one to give Eve the fruit.

Sorry for the off topic ramble!

-🐇

#ask

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snowangeldotmp3 · 1 year

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dear lucas; from max

hehe i have more letters. anyway, this is from my kas!max wip, and these letters are supposed to be holding back a little bit like max was in the series, as these were supposed to be written around episode 4. this is my first Real time writing for max, so please be kind lol. again like with the dear barb letter (which you can read here) it will be in first person, and will be posted to ao3!

Lucas,

Hey, stalker.

You know what this means if you’re reading this.

I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I just didn’t know how. I’m sorry I kept pulling away.

And before you start, don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault, and you couldn’t have stopped this. Vecna is just an asshole, and I was a bad girlfriend. A bad friend, too. Friends don’t lie, or whatever, but I did. I said I was fine and I wasn’t. I’m sorry for being a bad friend.

I heard about the game, by the way. I listened to it on the radio. I can’t believe your Hawkins High’s star player now.

I should’ve been there.

This is about to get really sappy and gross, and if you tell anyone I swear to god I will haunt your ass, Sinclair.

I’m glad I came to Hawkins. Sure, every six months there’s a world ending threat and now one of them is directly attacking me, but, I’m still glad I met you guys. Hawkins was new and scary, not just because of the monsters.

You asked me, about two years ago, in the back of the Palace Arcade, “Do you accept the risk?” Do you remember that? Back then I thought that it was just a story, that you were just really, really into the nerd shit that you and your friends had created and just wanted me to play along. I hadn’t realized it was a serious thing until the junkyard. Until I saw the monsters for real. Then I understood.

I’m glad I accepted the risk. I’m glad I got to meet you and the rest of the Party and become part of your weird little friend group. I don’t regret it. Even if it seems like I should, especially right now, especially with what happened in the summer. But I don’t. I don’t think I would change anything about how we met. I would still accept the risk.

I do want to make him pay, though. The shit head behind all of this. He’s been doing this shit the whole time, the Mind Flayer, the Spider Monster, and now all of this. You have to swear to me, Lucas. You’ll make him pay. You and the Party and Steve, Nancy, and Robin. Shit, El too. She probably already knows that something is up even if she doesn’t have her powers. You all have to make him pay. Not just for me, either. Everybody who’s been affected by this. Will, Nancy’s friend, all of those people last summer, Chrissy, Fred, everyone.

This letter is the hardest one, besides the one I wrote for my mom, and I’m glad you’re all asleep right now so you can’t see me crying like a baby trying to write this. Don’t laugh at me. I’m really gonna miss you guys. Our movie nights, or sneaking into the movie theater and the drive in or walking downtown and just talking or planning our Halloween costumes together. (You have to go as the Green Lantern this year. Especially if I don’t make it out of this. I don’t give a shit what Mike plans.)

I’ll miss you most, Lucas. You are such a good person, you’re so kind. You were there for me and wanted to be there for me when I didn’t want to be around people at all. I know it’s cliché to say, but you’ve got a heart of gold, Lucas. You have never given up on me. And I know that if you’re reading this it means the worst has happened, but I’d like to think you didn’t give up on me then, either. That you were there until my final moments.

You are my guiding light. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were there for me. I hope whenever you hear Kate Bush, you’ll think of me, Stalker.

From,

Love, your girlfriend,

Mad Max.

#stranger things #lumax #kas!max mayfield #my writing #again this is my first time writing as max so pls be kind!! still getting her voice down lol #but yeah i wanted these to be still holding back a little bit like she was in episode 4. still a little closed off. ya know?#max mayfield #lucas sinclair #not my usual stuff but!! glad i'm writing these. i love stepping out of my comfort zone [said through gritted teeth]

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mdhwrites · 8 months

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So, any theories on what Sasha's parents are like? Like I doubt they were perfect considering Sasha's behavior (remember when she outright stated in True Colors that she was okay never going back home and having zero problem with smashing the box, plus the fact she never shows signs of missing them even after her redemption in season 3). And considering how other redemptions are with their flawed relationship with family like Pacifica on Gravity Falls, Amity and Hunter on Owl House, Andrea on Ghost & Molly McGee, Zuko on Avatar the Last Airbender, Eddy on Ed Edd n Eddy, Catra on She Ra 2018, Lena on DuckTales 2017, Ludo on Star vs the Forces of Evil, and Helga on Hey Arnold, it's hard to believe Sasha had the best relationship with her parents. Granted Sunset Shimmer from the MLP FiM spin off Equestria Girls is a redemption character who also never had her family brought up or ever had an onscreen reason for why she was an evil and mean bully in the first movie (aside from probably just being an arrogant power hungry spoiled brat) so maybe Sasha's kinda like her in a sense too.

So this is a question I actually LOVE. There's a LOT you can glean off of a parent by their kid in general, let alone with any references to them. However... Them being redeemed doesn't always say anything about their relationship. Hell, for Amity since you listed her and I can comment, the speed of her redemption versus how much of a mustache twirling villain Odalia is ACTIVELY CONTRADICT EACH OTHER. It's REALLY bad.

Sasha's redemption says literally fuck all about her parents. Mostly because they don't mean anything to Sasha. Very little means anything to Sasha besides herself and her two best friends. Arguably not even Marcy.

The rest of her context to being willing to see the box destroyed and not return is critical here because she does actually explain herself. "Why rule a school when I can rule a world?" Her priority is self aggrandizing. It's not about freedom and it's not about safety. In fact, Sasha has cared very little for other's freedoms or her own safety. What matters is that Sasha is winning. Even Battle of the Bands made it clear that she is used to doing whatever it takes to be on top and getting her way.

Which to me doesn't mean abusive parents like you want to imply just through saying a lot of other shows did the trope of blaming abusive parents for bad behavior... It just means parents who thought the best way to make their daughter happy was to never tell her no. They let her live a life that had no consequences and where she didn't have to worry because if she skipped school or needed fifty bucks for gal pal time, they'd give it to her. This fits a lot more with Sasha's arc too because her arc has nothing to do with rebelling against her parents. She CHOSE to be a bad person. To not care about others. It's only by realizing that what she does hurt people with her actions and deciding they matter that she becomes a better person.

And to me, that's MUCH more compelling than trying to scapegoat what someone does onto their parent. It's not like everyone is evil just because their parents are shit. It devalues their choices as a character and is honestly a trope I'd like to see LESS. Or, bare minimum, not have standing up to their parent be like flipping a switch and making them automatically a good person because those scars last and their parents couldn't have made them do EVERY bad thing they did. Just look at Amity who decided "I'm going to make my ex-friend's life hell for YEARS despite only having to tell her we're not friends anymore to make my parents happy." That's not her parent's fault, that's her decision to be a monster.

At some point, the blame is on you for what you do. Narratively, for me, that's also more compelling and satisfying because it means you are the only one to blame for your gains too. People always have the choice to do good. It's their decision if it's too much work or relies on caring about others too much.

That to me is what makes Sasha so compelling and why anyone who wanted to see her parents I think are just asking for a categorically weaker story.

======+++++======

I didn't mean for the two blogs to be on a theme today but I decided on this anyways since I had both typed up. For anyone curious why I thought the previous one was dumb but this one was fun, it's simple: One asked if it belonged in the narrative. This one is just nice old character analysis.

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

And finally a Twitter you can follow too!

#amphibia #sasha waybright #Sasha Waybright Parents

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mrs-dr-reid · 2 years

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My Personal Bucky Barnes Headcanons

Part 1/?

He’s stupidly good at hide and seek. So much so that you have to buy a metal detector, because he can literally go unfound for a week and a half because of his “ghost of HYDRA” training

He was genuinely terrified of microwaves when he first came back. Because “why is it beeping at me, Y/N? What do you mean the food is ready?! It’s only been two minutes, I don’t understand!!!”

He hoards Girl Scout cookies and stashes them in the weirdest places. You move the couch to dust behind it and find 6 boxes of Tag-Alongs, you’re restocking the linen closet and find 4 boxes of Do-Si-Dos behind the good towels, and you almost have a heart attack when you open the hatch to your attic to grab the Christmas decorations and 14 boxes of Thin Mints fall out

He takes you out dancing every Friday night when he can, especially if he can find Throwback Sockhop Nights near you guys and you can get all decked out in 40s fashion and make an evening of it

For a while he was really self conscious about his metal arm and only ever wore long sleeves and gloves, but the longer he’s with you the more his confidence goes up, and eventually he’s confident enough to go topless at the beach (which is a good thing for the both of you *wink wonk*)

He loves karaoke. If you guys are out with the team at a bar and there’s a karaoke machine, you bet your ass he’s going over there and absolutely KILLING whatever Frank Sinatra song he can find. One time he even got you to perform “Somethin’ Stupid” with him

He either drives like a maniac or a grandpa. There’s no in between. You’re either massaging your temples because he’s driving fifteen under the speed limit, or you’re white-knuckling the “Oh Shit Handle” because “JESUS CHRIST, JAMES, WE ARE NOT IN A CAR CHASE, WHY ARE YOU GOING SO FAST?!!?!?”

His table manners were ATROCIOUS when he first met you. Since he had limited social interaction for 70+ years, he would eat everything with his fingers and a frickin tactical knife and chew like a goddamn llama. After months of work, he eats with actual utensils and chews like a normal person now

He taught himself how to crochet when he was bored out of his mind on a stakeout once, and now y’all’s house is littered with little animals he made and pattern books. Your favorite is the little turtle he made that’s wearing the Cap uniform and has a shell that looks like the shield while he’s partial to the pigeon he purposely added Sam’s headgear to

Peter gets him hooked on Star Wars, and now they have lightsaber duels around the compound all the time (because of COURSE Tony helped them make functioning lightsabers. Peter’s is blue and Bucky’s yellow)

Much like his best buddy Steve Rogers, he’s a gentleman to a fault. Always gives you his arm when you’re walking anywhere, opens doors for you, pulls chairs out for you when you go out to eat, and is constantly kissing the back of your hand

He’s very wary of trains when he first comes back because of the accident, but after some time and “exposure therapy” (aka making him take the train with you to various places) he gets over it

You buy him a box set of all the “Lord of the Rings” books for his birthday, and he cruises through all of them in about a month, then he makes you marathon the movies with him

He’s a gigantic cuddle monster. If he had a say, he’d just become a blanket burrito for the rest of his life, and cocoon you in his pile of blankets for the rest of yours. If he can hold you as close as he can while watching cheesy romcoms, he’s happy

He gets really into laser tag and paintball, because why wouldn’t he use his assassin training for something fun and harmless as a final “fuck you” to HYDRA? The only problem is that he gets too good at it and nobody wants to play with him, so now he just goes to random arenas where no one knows who he is and destroys a bunch of teenagers for shits and giggles

He accidentally stumbles upon bullet journaling, and it becomes his entire personality for a month and a half. He’s a lot more casual about it now, mainly because he was just so excited to find something that would help him get all of his thoughts no matter the subject material out of his head and onto paper. He used to go all out with very specific themes for his journals, but now he just says “this month my journal is green, next month, perhaps it will be blue”

He overreacts to jump scares. He can’t handle them. Horror games, scary movies, spooky tv shows, you name it. He can’t do them. So obviously Sam exploits the hell out of that and scares the shit out of him whenever he can

He gets really into Animal Crossing. Like… REALLY into Animal Crossing. He makes his little character look exactly like him minus the metal arm, curates the cutest little outfits once he gets his mits on a wand, cycles through all of the villagers until he gets a collection of them that remind him of all of his friends and you, makes his island look like if the Compound was a college campus, and completes the whole musuem in the shortest amount of time possible

#logan speaks #logan writes #bucky barnes headcanons #logan has headcanons

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tourmalinatedquartz · 2 years

Text

Milo invites Lasko to a pack party after they become closer.

He enjoys the party and meeting his friend’s pack mates.

But at one point he just gets really overwhelmed and sneaks out to get some fresh air.

He’s just focusing on his breathing and feeling the breeze on his skin like a comforting hug.

And then he starts mumbling to himself through his anxiety.

But then someone speaks up from the shadows, telling him it’s okay to need a breather.

Of course they scare the shit out of him and he has to take a solid minute to regulate again.

The stranger steps into the porch light and Lasko recognizes them as Tank.

They apologize and tell him again that there’s nothing wrong with him and he hasn’t done anything wrong.

They spend a few minutes in silence, just enjoying the mutual understanding of not liking crowds.

Eventually Milo comes looking for Lasko and finds the two of them sitting about 3 feet away from each other just staring at the stars.

He checks on them both and asks if they’re ready to rejoin the party.

From then on at any get together or event that they’re both attending Lasko and Tank manage to always retreat to the same place.

At first they don’t talk much. But eventually they both start to open up a little. Of course Tank learns a lot about Lasko’s story first with how he rambles and how careful Tank is about what they say.

But Lasko is observant and picks up on a lot of Tank’s non verbal queues. Which Tank is both thankful for and nervous about.

They like not having to say certain things, and just being understood. It makes things easier. It makes their friendship easier. (Although neither of them would probably classify it as friendship because neither of them thinks the other would consider them a friend).

But Tank also hates being read so easily. They shut themselves off from people and keep their distance for many reasons and sometimes it seems like Lasko can just see through every defense and wall they put up.

There are plenty of times Lasko is just as in the dark about what’s going on in their mind as the rest of the world but in those moments he just observes what they seem to need.

Silent company, reassurance, a listening ear, whatever. And he gives them that. Because they deserve it.

At some point, the get togethers they both attend become smaller and more relaxed as opposed to the formal pack events.

This is when they really start to get to know each other on a deeper, friendly, level.

Neither of them could tell you the moment they finally considered each other friends. But eventually they realize how easy it is to be around the other.

Both of these anxious people managed to find a true friend in each other and add one more person to their list of people who care about them.

#I can’t stop giving tank more friends #I can’t stop thinking of how tank would be so protective over these characters #like tank is totally the scary dog privilege friend #and these precious beans would turn deadly in a second to protect tank too #redacted tank #redacted darlin'#redacted lasko #redacted headcanons #redacted asmr headcanons

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valeriasdream · 2 months

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HSR S/O's

I'm not giving them their own pages because I'm lazy so... anyway!! I changed their heights to a little taller... because I wanted to.

Also if anyone is a MBTI dork like me and knows that they're typed differently on PDB... well that's because they're typed wrong on PDB imo. If you disagree with that then idk, argue with the wall. 😜

Also this is really long, I'm just really detailed. 😭 I left a bunch out to try to keep it less... insanely detailed. But it's a lot.

Name: Dan Heng/Dan Heng Imbibitor Lunae Nicknames: Moon (I am the only one who calls him this), Cold Dragon Young, my dragon wife <3

Age: Physically 25 (Actual age ???)

Height: 185cm/6'1"

Race: Vidyadhara, disguises himself to look human 90% of the time.

MBTI: INTJ 5w6 514 so/sp

Personality: Stoic, reserved and seems quite cold, he's very intelligent and very good at remembering information and facts about stuff. But when he opens up, he's very gentle, kind hearted, and patient. He can be very sarcastic and direct in how he interacts with people sometimes, he often makes a lot of really funny sarcastic burns against people (especially March). He can seem bossy sometimes, and often will berate me, March or even sometimes Stelle for our reckless behavior but he's also very protective and kind of just goes along with whatever chaos the rest of us are getting up to.

Path: The Hunt/Destruction

Element: Wind/Imaginary

Weapon: Cloud Piercer

Background: The guard and archivist for the data archives on the Astral Express. He was born in the shackling prison and is the reincarnation of the previous high elder of the vidyadhara, Dan Feng. He joined the Astral Express as a means of escaping his past and became one of the Nameless, joining the path of the trailblazer. He manages the data archives on the Astral Express, and after a few months of us traveling together on the express, we started dating.

Name: Blade/Yingxing Nicknames: Bladie mostly by Silver Wolf and Kafka, Old Man/Grandpa (I call him this as a joke)

Age: Physically late 20s (actual age 750+ but not completely sure on exact age)

Height: 191-192cm/6'3"

Race: Human - Mara Struck

MBTI: ISTP 6w5 648 or 684 sx/sp I'm not really 100% on his tritype tbh

Personality: Quiet, anti-social, but also quite sarcastic and funny. He seems like he would be a real dick but he's actually very sweet in his own way! He doesn't say much to most people around him, especially in the Stellaron Hunters, but he's very smart and he knows a lot about very specific things. (Especially weapons) He can be really caring, protective in his own way... But he will never ever admit this to anyone's face ever. When the mara's influence takes over his mind, he becomes violent and consumed by his hatred/rage from his past, during these moments only Kafka or myself are able to calm down the mara's influence on his mind and return him to a calmer mental state.

Path: Destruction

Weapon: Shard Sword - A sword forged by Yingxing for his friend Jingliu, the sword was forged from the remnants of a star and is said to be very heavy to lift. The sword is now also heavily cracked, as it's meant to be a reflection on his mental state.

Background: A mysterious member of the Stellaron Hunters and in some instances a "villain". He has been chasing down Dan Heng for many many years because they have a connected past together. His real name is Yingxing and he was a member of the High Cloud Quintet and closest with Dan Feng (they were married/lovers in my DR). A bunch of shit happened and Dan Feng turned Yingxing into a mara struck beast before Dan Feng was forced to undergo molting rebirth and imprisoned in the shackling prison. Yingxing was taken by Jingliu to a distant planet/star and she broke his mind (I won't get into details, it's hella sad) so his memories are very fragmented. He also cannot die and because of the mara struck, he was pretty much "reborn" into a younger body from an old man. When he joined the Stellaron Hunters, Kafka gave him the name "Blade" as he abandoned his old identity of Yingxing, though he told me I'm allowed to call him Yingxing in private. <3

Relationship Info:

So we're poly... I started dating Dan Heng first because I knew him first, and Yingxing came after... It's very complicated. Obviously Blade and DH have a past together that seems very toxic at times, but there's also still lingering feelings between them both because of Dan Heng's previous life married to Yingxing and Blade's former identity being Yingxing... I meet Blade on the Xianzhou Luofu when Dan Heng and I leave the Express to track him down because Dan Heng was worried that Stelle, March and Mr. Yang would be in danger. After we leave the Xianzhou Luofu and head to Penacony, I don't see him again for awhile... but we eventually meet up again. I do get separated from the Express (which is divergent from the canon storyline from the game) and end up being "rescued" by Blade, and that's kind of how we connect.

To add an extra layer of complication, I knew Dan Feng and Yingxing about 700+ years ago before YX became mara struck and before Dan Feng died and was reborn as Dan Heng. They had come to my kingdom kind of as delegates (Dan Feng was a delegate along with Jing Yuan, Yingxing just went with them even though he kinda wasn't supposed to lol) to try to help my father, the emperor, deal with the heretics that worship the aeons Yaoshi and Nanuck but it didn't really go to plan... DF and YX both showed an interest in me at the time and that was originally how all of us met, but then my kingdom went into major turmoil and they thought I had died because I disappeared. I wasn't reunited with either of them until WAY after Dan Feng was reborn as Dan Heng and Yingxing became Blade... Dan Heng also doesn't fully remember me other than through dreams as part of some Vidyadhara customs involving his past life as DF as he dreams about both me and Blade sometimes.

We are meant to represent the sun (me), moon (Dan Heng) and stars (Yingxing). Blade is the star because his real name Yingxing has the Chinese character for star in it, Dan Heng is the moon because Imbibitor Lunae is moon drinker (Yinyue Jun) and I am the sun bc Ming Xia translates roughly to “bright glow” like the sun.

There's a bunch more about our relationship but this is already so long so... I'm gonna leave it at that. 😭

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blood-injections · 1 year

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Imagine Kobra and Party in the place of Blue and Red in the comics. It starts off the same, Blue(Kobra) goes out to try and get a new battery for a dying Red(Poison), cause his is faulty, he’s a slightly older model than Blue. Porno droids can be either sex, so Red is a male model in this case but Blue is a female model. Blues sure to change that when she becomes Kobra, though. So, the beginning is the same, Blue tries to get a replacement battery for Red but the paperwork keeps getting turned down and eventually in the deep, abandoned levels of the social services building, the droid at the kiosk tells her that Red can’t get a replacement battery because he’s an outdated model and that he’s obsolete and that he’ll be collected for scrap. This is where their story deviates from the comic, becuase instead of breaking into a vending machine for plus that Reds not going to be able to process anyway, Blue breaks into a storage facility and just steals a battery. She makes it out but not without having to shoot her way out a little. Luckily she remains unscathed, and makes it back to Red. She replaces his battery, and he’s good as new, but now they’re both wanted. Reds going to be collected and repurposed because he’s an outdated model and Blue just killed Better Living Employees. So their choices now are to go underground and hide until their joints corrode and their batteries die- or to risk freedom by making a run for the desert. The electricity cuts off at the edge of the city, they won’t be connected to the grid, they’ll have to rely entirely on plus to survive and the sand won’t be kind to their hardware, but it’ll be worth it to them. As long as they stay stockpiled on it, they’ll be fine.

So they run for it and they make make it, the dracs stop shooting when they cross the point at which the concrete turns to sand, and they’re unscathed and home free. The first thing they notice is that they can see the stars. The desert is beautiful.

And they begin walking, they escape on foot, so they’re walking, searching for someplace to call home, or at least to rest for a night or two while they get things sorted out. They spend the time walking, talking. Planning and thinking and deciding that they want to do something. They’re not in the lobby anymore, doomed to sit and wait for destroya to come and save them. They decide to fight, to be people, not machines with some sole purpose. They decide to be their own people, they decide to be killjoys.

“You said we could go by actual names, be someone, who will you become?” Blue asks at one point.

“I’m not completely sure yet.” Red replies, “I used to think about it all the time, but now that I’m actaully here I’ve changed my mind on it all. I always thought Gerard could be a cool name for me, a real, normal name. But I don’t care for it as much now, I want something cool, y’know? I want to be someone cool, unique. Like we hear about killjoys that gave all these badass names that tell a story, that mean someone to them. I’ve been trying to come up with one that fits.” He explains. “What about you.”

“I have no clue.” She says after looking down at herself, “I can’t think of a name but I could go for something cool, too. Maybe you could choose one for me, once you figure out your own. I just know I want to be different, I want to defy everything I was created to be. I want whoever’s out here to look at me na d know I’m one of them. I don’t want to be seen as an object anymore, I want to be seen as a person. I’ll- do you think bleach works on out hair? Whatever, if it doesn’t I’ll shave it all off. I wasn’t as sure earlier, but I am now. I want to be loud, I want to speak my mind, I want to stand for something beyond what the city made us for. Maybe we can’t help other droids out here, but we can help humans leaving the city, we can help the killjoys that are already out here by standing with them, they’re BLI’s Poison. Better Living doesn’t give a shit about us, they leave us to rust in the streets and replace old models and recycle us like we’re not people too. They can get rid of us and they do- but they can’t ever get rid of the killjoys. They’re always out here fighting, even after years.”

And Red understands her. “I admire them too.” He says, in love with the thought of becoming one of them, a freedom fighter. “It sounds like such a great way to live. And me too- I want to be loud, too. I want to make art and do something that just screams fuck you to BLI. I want to- I want to fucking party.”

And that’s when the thought comes, and he throws back his head and laughs like never before because he’s free, and he knows who he is. “Hell yeah, I want to party. And what you just said about the killjoys being their Poison- that have me an idea. I like it. What do you think? Party Poison?”

“For your name?” Blue asks, giddy and proud.

“Yeah.”

“I love it. It suits you. Got one for me?”

“Maybe, but try coming up with one yourself first. The thrill of it is.. it’s finding yourself. It’s immeasurable.”

“Alright. Give me a nickname, then. I don’t want to be blue anymore.”

They try a few things. Party suggests sis, because they’re very much siblings in each others mind, but it doesn’t fit, makes something twist like a knife in her gut. They try a random letter, but none work out. Ultimately they settle on just not really referring to her at all, and that works.

Then they stumble upon the diner. They have enough plus for their first month, and the diner has everything from power out to a med kid in a back room for any passing joys. There’s a radio tucked under the counter, and they settle in. For the first few days they figure stuff out, always listening to the radio, learn to shoot with the gun Blue got to fight her way out with when she got the battery for Red. They take note of anything important spoken by the dj, who they learn is Doctor death defying. He purrs over the airwaves about Tommy’s shop, and concerts at the fuck you house, and the traffic. It’s how they start learning their way around. They know Tommy’s shop is west, and they have a few carbons, so they head out, walking once again. They buy hair dye and more plus and another gun and spray paint Poison finds a mask that’s perfect for him and they find jackets that suit them both, that they’re definitely going to customize a little with the paint they got. They’re set, and at the checkout Tommy welcomes them to the zones, recognizes that they’re new, thinks that they’re human, because they pass as it, and that’s just what they wanted. They decided not to tell anyone they’re droids, because surely they’d be looked at differently. Even by killjoys.

But tommy welcomes them and asks them what they’re called and what they go by. Blue asks what he means with the latter and Tommy has to raise his eyebrows, explains the concept of ‘he, her, they, them, nothing at all, all of the above? Some people come up with brand new ones and some people go by their names exclusively. Folks out here just don’t care. Personally, I’m Tommy Chow Mein, owner iff this shop, and I don’t really care either. It’s just another way of defying Better Livings rules and stereotypes and shit, you can be whatever you want to be’

This, of course, awakens something in Blue. Poison goes, “oh, that’s awesome. I haven’t really thought about it but you know what? I really like they. Actually, I don’t care, you can call me whatever you want. But I think I do prefer they.” and they’re overjoyed at their realization.

Blue isn’t really sure, and she voices that. “I’m not sure what I like it go by.” She has made one decision, though. “My name, uh, my names Kobra, though.”

They had decided it between arriving at diner and leaving it for the shop, hadn’t thought of something to follow it with, just the one word, but they knew it was them. They hasn’t told poison yet, and in this moment their brother looked so, so proud. Tommy says “you’ll figure out the rest, kid.”

They get back to the diner and Kobra cuts their hair short and bleaches it sand-blonde, all traces of Blue gone. Seeing this in the mirror, Kobra finally Knew. “You look good.” Poison says when Kobra remeerges. “And you look happy, happier than I’ve ever seen you.

“I think.. I think I just finally realized who I am.” Kobra says. “And it’s amazing, finally knowing, but uncomfortable too, I-“

And Kobra breaks off, and then starts to explain exactly how they feel, who they want to be.

The conversation ends with Poison calling Kobra their brother. And all is finally right.

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rxin3akamallory · 8 months

Text

I wrote a GotG OC X Canon fic??? Not Clickbait???

Hell yeah I did! It’s not really a fic but it’s a scene from Vol. 2 I’d imagine between Rocket and Magril!

For more info and images of Magril, click here! :D

Note: They become a couple by the end of Vol. 2. Rocket and Magril grew up on Halfworld but weren’t close. Hell Magril was in a cage completely opposite to Rocket’s. Magril escaped a few months before Rocket, but Rocket didn’t know, making him and the rest of batch 89 believe her to be dead. Then Rocket escapes Halfworld, y’all saw Vol. 3 so you know. The two reunite in Vol. 1. While Rocket became a bounty hunter with Groot, Magril became a Ravager and had known Peter Quill since he was a teenager. They butt heads constantly in Vol. 1, all the while they have slight feelings for one another that they deny and put on the back burner. But then, Vol. 2 happens! Without giving away major details, Rocket actually tries to make an effort to patch things up with him and Magril.

This takes place right before the Southern Nights scene in Vol. 2. I wanted to share it here just because of how proud I am of how it turned out! But yeah enjoy ig lol

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Magril walks outside the Milano to find Rocket on a tree branch, tinkering with something while humming to Quill’s music from the ship’s speakers.

Magril: The hell are you doing?

Rocket’s ear twitched at the sound of Magril’s voice. He peered down before rolling his eyes and going back to what he was doing.

Magril: You having a little pity party up there?

Rocket: *scoff* I don’t need any pity from you.

Magril: Oh, I’m not pitying you. I just think you’re an idiot.

Rocket: This better be important.

Magril: I just wanted to see how you’ve been holding up after what you said to Peter. Argue with me all you want, but I know you didn’t fully mean it. You better apologize to him when he gets back.

Rocket: Why should I? He’s been nothing but a pain in the ass recently. Plus I already have to carry the burden of repairing the Milano and keeping an eye on Gamora’s psychotic sister, no thanks to Star-Munch and his old man.

Magril: Come on, you just have to say two words. It’s not that hard.

Rocket: If any of us needs to apologize, it’s Quill. And until he does, I’m not saying a word.

Magril: Rocket, you know that you’re the one who started this mess to begin with, right?

Rocket: Yeah I started it, but Quill provoked it because Drax just had to rat me out!

Magril: So what? You still took those stupid batteries and now we’re on the Sovereign’s target list. Nice going there, genius.

Rocket: Huh? Really?

Magril: *sigh* Sarcasm.

Rocket: *groan* Every frickin’ time!

Magril: Whatever, care to explain why you’re not inside fixing the ship right now?

Rocket: What am I, your servant? I’ve been working on the ship for hours. Can I not get some fresh air?

Magril appears in front of Rocket, hanging upside down by her tail.

Magril: Of course you can,

Rocket: Aah!

Magril takes the small gadget from Rocket’s paws and moves behind him, still hanging upside down.

Magril: but I’m pretty sure whatever you’re doing right now isn’t as important as the Milano’s repairs.

Rocket grabs the gadget back and Magril sits upright on the branch beside him.

Rocket: Keeping us and my ship protected isn’t as important?

Magril: Protected from what? Nothing’s out here for miles.

Rocket: The Sovereign can still track our coordinates. We’re only safe for now.

Magril: And you expect this tiny little thing to protect us from the Sovereign fleet?

Rocket grabs Magril’s head and turns it toward the ground. A bunch of those tiny devices Rocket made were scattered across the ground.

Magril: Whoa. But still, they managed to fly a bunch of aircraft without being inside of them. You can’t expect them capture us in person.

Rocket: Right, the Sovereign wouldn’t. But, they would.

Rocket points farther north. In the distance, a large Ravager ship was parked.

Magril: *gasp*

Rocket: I heard it land here an hour ago.

Magril: Shit.

Rocket: You’re welcome. Now get back in the ship before they get here.

Magril: You’re gonna deal with a group ravagers by yourself!?

Rocket: I’ll be fine, go back to ship. Groot’s down there alone.

Magril: He’s fine, Nebula’s there.

Rocket: That’s what I’m afraid of, so go.

Magril: You don’t even have your blaster, you idiot! Let me help you!

Rocket: Don’t need it, don’t need you. Go!

Magril: Rocket, no! That’s suicide!

Rocket: I’m not repeating myself, get out of here now!

Rocket slightly shoved Magril away, causing her to nearly fall off the tree.

Magril: Whoa! Aah! Aah!

Rocket grabs Magril’s wrists, pulling her back up.

Rocket: Okay, new plan, you’re staying here.

Magril: Finally won over the stubborn trash panda.

Rocket: Shut up. Just follow my lead, and don’t fall. Please.

#oc x canon #fanfic #one shot #self insert oc #gotg oc #GotG #guardians of the galaxy #gotg vol 2 #guardians of the galaxy vol 2 #rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x oc #magril opossum #magril gotg #magril x rocket #magril opossum x rocket raccoon

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tomathy-inside-of-the-it · 1 year

Text

to pile on to the cat aus, Warriors TNP sbi au where it’s like each of sbi are from a different clan and they’re forced to go on a mission together by prime(star)clan

Cue begrudging comrades to found family montage

full designs + more info under the cut

Tommy- Wildpaw (Wildheart)

Thunderclan

-Struggled the most with his name ngl

-He's an unruly new apprentice who went through multiple mentors and never fully connected with any of them, until he met the other traveling cats who "got him" a bit more. Especially Sootsong because i'm a weak person.

-Also considering having Wildpaw want to change clans to be mentored by Sootsong, plus he made windclan life as a runner sound so amazing to wildpaw

-Got the name "wild" because he was unmanageable, gets the name "heart" as a sort of 'look how much you've grown!' after the journey

-definitely the most excited initially to go on the journey, but 100% acts like an absolute shithead for the majority of it. This guy will not SHUSH

-Tubbo as his littermate maybe?? I could go with Beepaw for him, but I also like Strongpaw. I'll think abt it

-Thinks Boarblade is so incredibly cool and will not leave the poor guy alone

-Him and Sootsong find eachother really enjoying their company. They go back and forth trying to make eachother laugh

Wilbur- Sootsong

Windclan

-Sootsong, Boarblade, and Crowtalon all knew eachother previously from gatherings and such, and are on amicable enough terms. Never stopped them from getting into it during battles though

-This dude has a thousand-yard stare. He looks at you like 0_0 and you think he's reading your mind. He really is just thinking about a strange tree he saw earlier and if it has ghosts in it

-Sings for the other three traveling cats quite a bit. They enjoy it. Especially Wildpaw who is just a fanboy and a half

-Very spiritually connected to Primeclan. Was encouraged to be a medicine cat apprentice but turned it down. He wants to become leader one day, but to do that he needs an apprentice. His leader does not trust him with the responsibility, out of a reasonable fear of Sootsong just completely starting an uprising with whatever poor sap becomes his apprentice. If Wildpaw comes to windclan after the journey the leader kinda has to begrudingly give him to Sootsong

-Really loves just saying weird shit to mess with Boarblade and Crowtalon, and was absolutely delighted when Wildpaw overzealously 'yes and'd' him for the first time. Crowtalon was just kinda like "Oh great, there's another one now."

Techno- Boarblade

Riverclan

-I tried so hard to not just call him Technoblade. I could have. Nothing was stopping me.

-Angsty anime tragic backstory, it's so horrible I can't even say trust me, just imagine the most worst thing ever

-Definitely the least enthusiastic to have to be forced to spend time with three strangers. Too much socialization, thank you very much. Was relieved when he saw Crowtalon there at the first nighttime meeting, at least someone sensible was coming. That relief disappeared when he saw Wildpaw strutting in. Oh no.

-Fond of wildpaw no matter what he tells himself.

-Catches the other three off guard when he first starts joking with them, they quickly discover he's insanely witty and funny, while previously they thought he was kindof just a fighter.

-They assumed Primeclan sent him as the muscle, but no, he is absolutely the brains. Most of the time.

-When they finally crack his shell they discover that he is fully capable of being a little shit just like the rest, and they are absolutely delighted.

-Poor wildpaw gets bullied so much (affectionate)

-He stays up later then the others, especially when he's not on watch duty. One night, when Crowtalon was on watch, he looked over and saw Sootsong curled around an awkwardly sprawled out Wildpaw, and he felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest. He wondered how they could get so close to eachother when they knew all four of them would go their seperate ways eventually. Crowtalon found him awake, and they ended up talking. Having meaningful conversations and all that. The next morning all four cats woke up in a fluffy pile together.

Phil- Crowtalon

Shadowclan

-Highly respected warrior, known for his clever battle tactics, always narrowly avoiding defeat

-Oldest brother/father figure of the group. Obviously.

-The other three all kinda put him on a pedestal, (especially Sootsong) they see him as this perfect, kind, powerful warrior. Crowtalon sees how messed up they are and feels like he has to be that perfect cat for them.

-Over time that facade breaks down and they start to see Crowtalon as he is, kind and strong yes, but also mischievous and witty.

-With both as forest cats, Crowtalon and Wildpaw love to run through the trees together. Crowtalon tells him that his greatest fantasy is to fly one day. Just fly, and never have to look back or worry about anything ever again.

-He has a cat wife (kristen) named Arrowstrike back in his clan, and he misses her every day on the journey and talks about her to the other three frequently. They all express that they'd like to get to know her too.

CATSCATSCATSCATS

#myart #mywriting #mcyt #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza minecraft #sleepy boys inc #sbi fanart #sbi au

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persimminwrites · 1 year

Note

That self ship tag of you and Fives being together 50+ years is so cute 🥺 I don't have a headcanon for that but would love to hear if you have more 🤩

omG I WOULD LOVE TO TALK ABOUT IT MORE

fives x min is definitely the sunshine character x grumpy character trope on the surface where fives is of course sunshine and i am the grump. irl, i come off as very intimidating and grumpy and have resting 'ill murder you face' and i tend to be drawn to people who are outwardly the opposite. HOWEVER, on the inside and around ppl im comfortable with, im much more like how i present myself online. and i believe that fives when he's around someone he's comfortable with would allow himself to be more serious and contemplative in addition to being his goofy, lovable, talkative self

i think that if i met fives, our first interaction wouldn't be amazing. potentially i would come off as cold and i think that fives would take that as a challenge to get me to open up. and eventually it would work bc i am not immune to goofballs. in fact i would say i specifically love goofballs so much that im instantly drawn to them even if i try to hide it. eventually we'd become friends and one thing would lead to another and we'd realize "shit i love this idiot" and since im a firm believer that fives once he knows what he wants will do whatever it takes to get it (im also like that) there wouldnt be any pining or drawn out will they wont they. it would just be 'hey i like you' 'cool me too' 'nice' and that's that

i believe that fives is a really good communicator and is incredibly in touch with his feelings (or at least if he's feeling confused would want to sit down and talk through his feelings) and those are both really incredible traits to find in a partner. communication imo is key for a long lasting relationship. i think we would have arguments of course bc every relationship has those but at the end of the day we would never go to bed angry at each other.

i think fives would be the best partner (i have many thoughts about this like thousands of words of thoughts) and would bring out the best in me. he would help me open up and relax and laugh at life when i feel like i cant. and i think i would ground him and be someone he draws strength and comfort from. im personally an acts of service love language girlie (both giving and receiving love) and i think fives would love to do things for the person he loves but he would personally value physical touch and words of affirmation as ways of receiving love

i think we would be best friends and value our friendship as much as our romantic relationship. i think we'd do so many things together from something as mundane as going to the grocery store to going to concert together to planning trips together so that we can experience the world (galaxy?) together. i think i'd teach him how to cook and he would learn to bake and we'd bond over food. but just as much as we would do things together, i think we would be comfortable and happy having space for ourselves.

if this is irl, i think fives' hobbies would include learning how to play an instrument (personally i think he'd like to learn how to play the guitar) and he'd like to go hiking and take pictures of nature and document things he finds in nature in a journal (like little sketches of plants and animals). i think he and echo would go whitewater rafting and backpacking. and as i already mentioned i think fives would get really into baking.

if this is star wars universe and we're in a post war galaxy where clones have recognized rights and are free to live their life as citizens of the republic (bc i want to be happy this am) i think fives would still love baking, but i think his post war job could be a couple of things. he could go to school and study ecology and either become a teacher ( i think he would be a great teacher sOBS) or would become a scientist that goes to different planets to documents and study different species of flora.

we wouldn't get married in any traditional sense. but we would be together for 50+ years as i said and get sappier and more silly as life goes on aND YEAH

SORRY I WROTE A LITERAL ESSAY UL BUT THANK YOU FOR ASKING BLOWING YOU SO MANY KISSES MWUAH <3333

#i could literally go on foREVER #thank you for allowing me to ramble and share my thoughts <33333333 #i actually have several fic ideas for fives bc i feel like i should write for him more and he is one of the few ppl other than wolffe #that i feel inspiration to write for #self ship thoughts #fives x min #<- thats a funny tag but actually he is my husband #min answers

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dynaknights · 11 months

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21/06/23

[Oh my fucking dog, I just figured out how to cut posts and I feel like a dumbass ACK ｡ﾟヽ(ﾟ´Д｀)ﾉﾟ｡]

It's officially summer... and it's already so, so hot. Nice 89 degrees F [31.6 degrees C] weather with the eternally scorching sun glaring down at me at all times, eh? Nice drop in air quality, too. Nice, nice. The sun also looked red a few days ago because of it [I've been told that this is so Star Wars, drop in air quality is so Heart Palpitations! So Palpatine. I don't know any other characters other than the most well known ones. This smoke is so Reel Two Dialogue Two.]. Anyways...

I should really update this thing less often, I don't want to flood my dusty and dead Tumblr blog with this crap, y'know? But I'm already here, so... How am I doing? Eh, alright. I've got some job interviews coming up [my first ever!] which I've been shitting myself over as of late, I'm very socially awkward so I'm just hoping that the managers are desperate enough to hire me. Pros? I make money, the position I want is 18-20$ an hour and that's like music to my ears because I can finally save up to get a better PC or something! Finally, I can play my silly video games at full graphical power without the jet engine noises of my computer fans! Cons? I have to work, I have to go to work, I have to be at work, I have to be around people, fast food, capitalism, the list goes on and on... but at least it's not customer service!

I've also gotten myself into a game development summer course program thing! Although, I'm pretty sure all of the people there are younger than me. Like, sixth graders to sophmores... But hey, I'll ignore that aspect to finally be able to fuck around in Unity! I'm a bit excited to finally have at least some idea what I'm doing when it comes to making games since I've wanted to make them for a long while! Bit of a weird coincidence, but my urge to make a game sprouted at around the same time that I officially declared myself to be a transmasc. Hmm... The weird kid FNaF and Undertale fan to transgender aroace pipeline also includes wanting to become a game dev, I suppose?

What game do I want to make? That I'm not quite sure! I made a story one time about a kid who befriends a lonely and delusional ringleader who is desperate for affection or whatever when I was 13 because of a clown fixation[?], I believe, and then I let it down to rest once my clown fxation died.

So I revived it, and added a few things to it! Character design changes, trying to make a narrative that does not sound like I tore it from the brain of a four-year-old, trying to see what kind of game it would be [I'm thinking of something similar to Smile for Me or Subway Midnight, currently! I do indeed chomp down on 3D environments like I haven't been fed for days, they're so interesting to me!], giving characters some actual personalities, making a house for them, adding The Horrors, things like that!

Woah. This thing has gone on for a bit too long with all of my ramblings. It's what this page specifically is for but I don't want to give people eye sores and brain sores with all of my ramblings, y'know?

See ya!

#[ Grimm's Voicebox ]

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