They Need More Esims!

shakespeare is metal. (2/?)

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: eddie munson desperately needs to graduate this year, and you're the only tutor that hasn't turned him down. (part 2 to "i’m not above begging")

warnings: cursing, mentions of murder/suicide (in regards to shakespeare), jason carver being a shithead (is that even a warning??)

a/n: you guyssss 🥺 I can’t believe the first part of this has 100 notes! thank you all so much for being so kind. i’m truly grateful for every single one of you that took the time to read this and provide such positive responses. it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. I got carried away again at 2,764 words (I have a too much gene, oops). as always, all feedback is welcomed/appreciated! please let me know if you want to be tagged in the next parts!

tags: @uraveragequeer

It had been three weeks since I had started tutoring Eddie. I really wasn’t sure what to expect when I had agreed to the arrangement in the first place. I had known of Eddie, but I didn’t know Eddie. Not really. The morning of our first tutoring session, I ransacked my entire closet trying to figure out what to wear. I had never given so much thought into an outfit, despite the obligatory first day of school outfit of course. I stared at my frazzled face in the mirror, cheeks glowing red from hurling clothes on and off my body, my once neatly curled hair now sticking out in odd places. Why do I suddenly care so much what Eddie Munson thinks of my clothes? He wears that same Hellfire shirt every other day. 

Eddie had agreed to meet me that Monday morning in the library at 7:30 am sharp. I had expected him to be late, partly because Eddie Munson was not known for his punctuality, but also because I literally had to give him directions to the library. It amused me that the place I had spent a majority of my time in high school, he had never stepped foot in. I arrived at 7:15 and took a seat at one of the tables near the back. The library was empty, not even the librarian had arrived yet. My knee bounced in anticipation as I continuously checked the clock behind the desk what felt like every 30 seconds. 

7:17. 7:19. 7:21. 7:23. 

Just as the minute hand landed at 7:30, Eddie Munson was bursting through the library doors with a large, goofy grin on his face. My face must have betrayed my inner thoughts, because he looked at me with a knowing smirk and pointed in my direction as he took a seat in front of me.

“You thought I wasn’t gonna show, didn’t ya?”

“No! I just..expected you to get lost..that’s all. Since you’ve never been in here. Um, let’s get started, yeah?”

“Sure. But just so you know, I’d never stand you up angel.”

Eddie shot me a wink and a lopsided grin, pulling out a pencil and a notebook that had definitely seen better days. And me? I was malfunctioning. Eddie Munson winked at me. And called me angel. And I liked it. Why did I like it so much?

That was essentially how all of our tutoring sessions had gone so far. Eddie would be his usual charming self, say or do something flirtatious, and I would be left a stuttering mess trying to steer his attention back to the task at hand, which was a victory in itself. That boy had the attention span of a baby goldfish when it came to topics he bore no interest in. Dungeons and Dragons? Oh he could go on for days. Shakespeare? I couldn’t even get him to hold a book in his hand for longer than 5 seconds.

“I don’t understand why I have to do this. Why do I have to agree that this old dude is ‘one of the greatest writers of our time’ when I think he sucks? It’s forced conformity. I mean who even decided Shakespeare was so ‘great’?  Why should we have to be forced to study him until the end of time because of one stuck up asshole’s opinion who’s clearly never read anything worthwhile? Now Tolkien, there’s a fucking writer. Why can’t I do this stupid project on Lord of the Rings?”

“Because you want to pass Mrs. O’Donnell’s class and graduate?”

Eddie groaned loudly, rubbing his large palms over his face and tilting his chair back as he put his feet up on the table which earned him a dirty look from the librarian. His arms crossed over his chest and he stared down at the several books in front of him with detest, as if each one of them had personally offended him. His final project was to pick a work of Shakespeare, read it, and write a three page essay on its meaning. The project itself wasn’t difficult, but Eddie was.

“Look why don’t you think of it as a..um..what do you call it in your game? A challenge?”

“Quest, sweetheart. It’s called a quest.”

Sweetheart. 

“R-Right, quest. Think of this as a quest. Shakespeare, is your key to getting out of Mrs. O’Donnell’s class, and Hawkins High itself. Except instead of dice, you have to write a paper.”

“But dice are so much cooler! The new set I got last week are-”

“Eddie.”

“Fine.”

Eddie grumbled and picked up a copy of Romeo and Juliet, eyeing the cover in disgust. His large brown eyes scanned over the various copies laying on the table, all of which he held with contempt. Eddie’s eyes were quickly becoming one of my favorite things about him. They were so warm and expressive, like large pools of melted chocolate. It was hard not to get lost in them. They felt like a safe space. His fingers slowly moved over the covers of the worn paperbacks, his large rings gleaming under the harsh lights in the library. Eddie’s hands were also becoming another one of my favorite things about him. They were so large, and everytime I looked at them, I remembered how soft and warm his skin felt against my own. Eddie was an expressive talker, always talking with his hands and animated gestures. I often found myself getting caught up in his movements, eyes so focused on following his fingers I couldn’t even hear what he was saying. During the past 3 weeks, my mind constantly wandered to his hands. He had mentioned being in a band once, which instantly sent my mind into a frenzy wondering what his hands looked like when he played.

Eddie had been a constant figure in my mind ever since our interaction in the tutoring center. The more time we spent together, the worse it seemed to get. I found myself worrying about my appearance more, tripping over my words in front of him, constantly looking for excuses to talk to him outside of our sessions. I had no idea what was happening to me or why I was all of a sudden so enthralled with Eddie Munson.

“Alright, level with me angel. Which one of these books will make me want to slam my head in my van door the least?”

The completely unamused expression on Eddie’s face caused me to laugh out loud. I quickly cupped one of my hands over my mouth and flashed the librarian an apologetic look. I shook my head as I regained my composure, looking over at Eddie who had a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I made the mistake of letting Eddie know that I thought he was funny. Since the first time he made me giggle, he made it his personal mission to get at least one laugh out of me every session, no matter what it took. There was no length he wouldn’t go to.

“You are going to get us kicked out! I can’t be banned from the library Eddie, I practically live here! Look, Shakespeare is not that bad. If you would pay attention, you would know he’s actually pretty..metal.”

Eddie stared at me incredulously with wide eyes, his chair landing back on the floor with a loud thunk as he leaned over the table. His dark brows knit together in the middle of his forehead as he mimicked my words.

“I’m sorry..did you just say Shakespeare is..metal?”

“For his time, yeah. A lot of his plays involve murder, or suicide, or a murder-suicide. Some of them are pretty violent. He was also actually kind of a rebel. He wrote tons of plays that cryptically called out the royals of his time, knowing that they would be performed in front of them. He essentially mocked them to their faces, and they had no idea.”

Eddie’s eyes flickered between the titles on the table and me, disbelief written clearly all over his features. He leaned forward to rest his cheek in the palm of his hand. After several minutes of contemplation, he nodded slowly with a click of his tongue, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

“Huh, that is pretty fucking metal.”

I pulled out a copy of Hamlet from the stack and put it in front of Eddie, gently tapping on the cover.

“You’ll like this one. There’s murder, suicide, witchcraft and other supernatural stuff. Arguably one of Shakespeare’s best soliloquies. It’s one of my favorites. Plus, I think you’ll like Hamlet. He’s a drama queen, like you.”

Eddie let out a sharp gasp, covering his chest in an exaggerated fashion with one of his large hands. He painted an expression of mock offense and quickly stood from the chair, gaining everyone’s attention in the library.

“Excuse me? You..you think I’m a drama queen? Wow. I just..you know..you think you know someone and then..they just break your heart. Unbelievable. I really thought we had something Y/N, something special.”

I tried my hardest to contain my giggles, quickly reaching out to grasp onto Eddie’s wrist as he started to walk away from our table. My cheeks flamed when I realized all the other students in the library were staring at us. Some of them looked amused, some of them looked disgusted. I hated the way people stared at Eddie. I hated how much they judged him. 

“Eddie! Shh! Seriously, please sit down. If we get kicked out of the library, I can’t tutor you anymore. You know I can’t bring you to the tutoring center anymore.”

Eddie had been unofficially banned from the tutoring center after our second session for being a “distraction”. After ten minutes of drum solos with pencils, Eddie being well, just Eddie, and a heated exchange with one of the jocks, we moved permanently to the library. Although, it seemed like it was only a matter of time before we were unofficially banished from here as well.

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, his long fingers nearly covering the entire front cover of the copy of Hamlet still in his hand. He cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips, eventually sitting on top of the table right next to my chair. The sudden closeness caused me to tense as the scent of his cologne filled my senses, leaving me somewhat dizzy.

“Fine. But only because I want to sit. Not because you said so. I want to make that perfectly clear.”

“Crystal. But for the record, you know you’re a drama queen. You practically put on your own Shakespearian show everyday at lunch.”

“Well if you wanted a front row seat sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”

My next words of banter immediately caught in my throat, and I prayed to whoever was listening Eddie couldn’t see the change in color of my cheeks. Eddie Munson was a natural flirt. That was just his personality. I had to remind myself that several times over the past few weeks. He’s not flirting with you, dummy. He’s just being nice. He talks like this to everyone. Luckily the bell rang and saved me from becoming a stumbling mess in front of Eddie once again.

“I mean it, you should come sit with us sometime. If you’re feeling brave. See ya later, angel.”

I grumbled under my breath the entire walk to my locker. Damn Eddie Munson. Damn him and his stupid wink and stupid smirk and stupid cute dumb face that sends my brain into a total meltdown.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely registered the pair of blue eyes that were staring at me expectantly as I shut my locker door.

“Hey..you.”

Jason Carver. I had tutored him several times in the past two and a half years, and he still didn’t know my fucking name. I forced a tight-lipped smile on my lips and held my books protectively against my chest. 

“Hi Jason. What can I do for you?”

“I’m actually here about what I can do for you.”

My face must have given away my confusion, since Jason started to laugh and leaned against the locker next to mine. A little too close for my liking.

“You know, about the freak.”

“Excuse me?”

I hated the way that word rolled off his tongue so easily, as if it had said it a million times before. I knew he had. And I knew exactly who he was hurling that word at.

“Come on, you know you don’t have to tutor him right? You can say no.”

“No I can’t, Jason. It’s my job.”

“I know plenty of tutors who have turned that freak down, for good reason.”

“Well unlike them, I take my job seriously. I can’t just turn away a student that needs my help.”

Jason’s lips stretched into a grin that I’m sure was supposed to be charming, but to me it just looked threatening. Jason didn’t like to be challenged. He took a step forward to lean against my locker, placing his arm on the metal above my head. I didn’t like the way he towered over me. It made me feel like a helpless animal trapped by its prey, being taunted. 

“Look, I get it. You’re a sweet girl, and a saint if you ask me. I know you take it seriously. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have passed chemistry and been kicked off the team a long time ago. I owe you a lot. Which is why I’m here. I’m just looking out for you, okay? I know you try to see the good in people and all, but there’s no good in that devil worshiping freak. Like I said, I owe you. So if he starts to bother you, or make you feel unsafe, come to me. I just wanna protect you.”

Protect me? You don’t even know my fucking name. And you don’t know Eddie. It took everything in my power not to laugh in his face, every shred of self-control not to call him an asshole and to mind his fucking business. But I couldn’t do that. I’m the nice girl. Nice girls don’t talk like that. Nice girls don’t cause a scene. Nice girls smile and nod. So, that’s exactly what I did.

“Thank you, Jason. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Hey, you looked out for me. I just want to repay the favor. You’ll come to me, right? Promise?”

There was an edge to his tone, like he was daring me to disobey. My fingers gripped onto the spine of my math textbook so tightly I knew they had turned white. I did my best to appear natural, forging another submissive smile onto my lips.

“I promise.”

My answer seemed to satisfy him. He gave my shoulder a tight squeeze, threw me his most charming smile, and took off down the hall towards the gym. I felt dirty. I felt like I needed to take the most scalding hot shower I could stand to burn away every piece of evidence of Jason Carver’s hand on my shoulder. But mostly, I felt guilty. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t correct him. I didn’t stand up for Eddie, which is what I should have done. Social status be damned. Not like I really had one, but still. There was a nauseating feeling building in my stomach. He would have done it for you.

Eddie would have stood up for me. He wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t be a coward like me. At that moment, I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he could see right through me, see me for who I really was. A coward. A girl that always did as she was told so she didn’t make waves. A girl that kept quiet, and never spoke up, even against something she knew was wrong. Another conformist. 

He would be ashamed of you.

That one thought played over and over in my head all night as I laid in bed. That nauseous feeling never went away, it just continued to gnaw at my nerves and only grew in strength as the hours ticked away. I thought about Eddie, and how I was going to handle seeing his sweet smile while my guilt was eating me up inside. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

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Dependence (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

((SUCCESSION SPOILERS))

Character/s: Kendall

Word Count: 1,583

Warning: addiction/addiction mention

A/N: Baby girl!!!! I love him so much!!! I love how this turned out too :) it's v angsty, v sad, and hopefully in character! I'm having a lot of fun writing for Succession! 💞 Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 2

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 1

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 2

He smelled rich, sharp, daunting. The kind of scent your father would have worn, the kind men like him always did. Bared their teeth to seem more intimidating. It wasn’t like him at all. You sniffled against his suit, knowing your tears sat damp within the fabric, ruining the press he’d probably had. Ruining everything, like always. His arms wrapped around you so fiercely, so violently, holding you in place. Keeping you from running. Escaping. You were trapped on the boat sure, but there were stairwells, closets, you’d swim back if it meant leaving the scene of the crime. Your mind ran with exits, those bright red signs a welcomed attraction. Anything to get away, to be alone, to self-destruct on your own accord. You rubbed your palms against your pants, itching out of his grip, your sleeves balled into your palms. Whatever this attempt at love was, it was beginning to suffocate. He refused to let go. Anger rose in your throat like bile. A fury you’ve tried to outrun began to settle in the middle of your chest. You wanted to throw the same tantrums your father forbid. Kick, and scream, and break everything in sight. Burn the whole world down if it meant feeling an ounce of relief. Break your own bones if it meant putting out this fire. Numb it all like you’ve been doing your entire life. Maybe your brother knew this. Maybe he didn’t want the scene, the mess, to have to pick up the pieces. Maybe not. Maybe he was just sad, needing someone to hug. You would never be sure.

You stifled a sob, shaking despite yourself. You could see your brother and sister, talking, crying, saying what they needed to. Whatever you said, whatever you told him or begged from him, it was already gone. Forgotten. Your lips moved rhythmically, asking the same thing, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything, but this high pitch whine.. He rubbed your back, awkwardly at first, hesitant, and then comfortably. Soothingly. His throat vibrating, speaking, again going unheard. You squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting to be here anymore. Not wanting this moment to exist. The last time you’d seen your sister cry, your brother retreat into himself like that, decades ago. Before you knew any of what you knew now. Before you’d been at one another's throats long enough to forget why. The inky black of your world could only do enough. Their voices, muffled, coming back to you. Closer. The hurt dripping from their words like honey. Sticky. Sweet. The fear. You tried to pull away, get some space, air. Again he refused. 

Did I tell him I loved him? Y, yes- of, of course you did. Did I tell him I loved him? 

Your father didn’t love you. He couldn’t stand to look at you in your later years. It was your brothers, sister, coming to your rescue. Scheduling cars, calls, making space for you on their couches, spare rooms, while you picked yourself up from rock bottom. Detoxing in their bathrooms, their beds. All you knew was excess. Excess wealth, yes, but also booze, drugs, pills. Everything except love. Using since you were a child, too young to understand, old enough to know no matter what you did, it would never be what he wanted. Taking drinks of silver platters, mixing whatever you found in the bathroom cabinet, what you found in your brothers pockets, sick as a dog in the morning. He had to know. There were always eyes watching, ears listening, someone to leave clean clothes on your bed when you threw up on yours in the middle of the night or when blood ran from your nose down the front of your shirt. And yet, he never said a thing. He never thought you should see someone, talk it out, get help. The baby of the family. The most expendable. Con was already out by the time you came around, the rest following. An accident, they’d all joked as soon as you were old enough. There was some truth to it, though. A hard truth. Logan ignored Connor, he hit Roman, disregarded Shiv, he thought Ken was incompetent, but you? He loathed you for reasons you’d never get answers to. Too much like your mother, your sister thought. Too much like him, your brother said. Whatever it was, whatever reminder you were, it was enough for him. You weren’t trying to outrun him, his disappointment, his wrath, but rather your own. 

You’d always been an angry kid. Overcome, blinded, by rage. You couldn’t put it into words. You didn’t have the vocabulary. You shattered glasses. Slammed doors. Banged your head against walls. Screamed into pillows until your voice was coarse. When bruises showed, when tabloids dragged your name before you were twelve, you’d receive the only fatherly advice you’d ever get in your life. Summoned to his study, barely taller than the door handle. He didn’t even look up from his papers. When he was done, only two words spoken, the housekeeper led you out. Quiet down. As if you weren’t barely keeping yourself together as it was. You’d kicked a hole through the wall after that, your shoes dusty with plaster. You threw everything in your room like a tornado until, eventually, he took those things away. A bed, a dresser, that was all you were allotted. They tried to help. To understand. To give you advice. What was there to say? How could you defend yourself? He was so much bigger than you, so much more powerful. When your fork ended up in the table, he sent you to your room for days at a time. The door wasn’t locked, but it didn’t need to be. Every so often you could see him, in the crack between the floor, standing there, not saying a word. It wasn’t long after that that you had your first drink. Romans, you think, left unattended. Brown, thick, smelling of gasoline and tasting of fire. It wasn’t a lot, but enough. Enough to settle the fury. Turn the heat down. Take the edge off. Everything clicked. This is what he must have meant. Quiet down. Do what you needed to do without the allegations scorning his name. Do it in secret. 

They didn’t always know when you were drunk, high, both. You weren’t messy, you weren’t about to cause a scene or ruin your fathers reputation. The volume was turned down, that was all. It took them longer than any of them would like to admit to realize that you weren’t okay. That the occasional drink or sip was an everyday occurrence, that those long trips to the bathroom and bloody noses weren’t a coincidence. They had their own lives now, their own affairs. What their baby sibling did was not that the top of their priority list. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t their job to take care of you, it wasn’t your father or mothers, who moved away soon after your anger disappeared, sure you were finally okay. It was your job. Always had been. Now you saw her on holidays if you were lucky, once or twice a year. She thought you’d be better off with him. Leaving a baby in a wolfs den. No wonder you ended up the way you did: a complete disaster. You tried to get sober on you own. Stop cold turkey. That never lasted long. Not that he cared. The first time you overdosed, the second, third, he swept it under the rug. It was easier dealing with you now that you were sedated. A shell. You wouldn’t have gone to rehab if they hadn’t forced you, tricked you with an intervention. Again and again, they did this. For years. When you stayed with your mother, things were more bearable, but she didn’t want a child. She didn’t want to be a mother, so, when she grew tired, she’d ship you off to him again. 

Today, you were clean just over a year. From everything. You didn’t do chips or meetings, that would mean admitting to the public that you had a problem, and that wasn’t something you were allowed to do. This was an internal clock. Every day you wanted to cave in and every day you found a reason not to. Today you didn’t have one. Not a single reason came to mind. Because the man you spent your entire life being afraid of was dead and your family was falling apart at the seams. Con didn’t even know. No one had told him yet. Tom stayed on the phone, but no one was speaking. No one had anything to say.  Kendall never loosened his grip. He never let go. He wouldn’t not for a long time, not until he knew you’d be okay on your own. Too many times he’d failed you as an older brother. Every time he let Logan near you was a failure on his part. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt you anymore, but you could hurt yourself and sometimes that was more dangerous. Of course you’d told him you loved him. Of course you did. Even when you didn’t, even when you couldn’t, you did. He did, for the both of you. He wasn’t a perfect big brother, he wasn’t even a good one, but he could try now. He had to try now. For all the times he hadn’t been there. All those years.

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I really like the idea of Vamp!Eddie ◝(*'◡'*)◜

(i'm shit at shadeing daaamn)

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Hard To Love (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman

Word Count: 1,210

Inspired By: Puke by Ava Maybee I loveeeee this song

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: This is definitely for therapy lol I hope no one minds. Ya gurl feels very unlovable atm. Idk. It stems from something someone said to me once, someone who is supposed to love me unconditionally, they said I am hard to love. Of course I forgive them, I love them, but it still stings y'know? Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Is there something wrong with me? You don't know if you’ve spoken the words or only thought about them. Either way he rocks you both back and forth, arms around you, hushing your fears. Your cheek is pressed against his chest, his heartbeat rapid, playing a tune you can’t quite name. Is there? There must be. Some innate, genetic wrongdoing. Something must be missing from you to make you this way. Sensitive. Forgotten. An easy target. They shoot their arrows into you, through you, but you always come crawling back. Always. The pain, the blood loss, the look in their eyes, none of that matters. You don’t matter. They know they can do whatever they want and you’ll cling to them like a lost child. Because they’re your family. Because they’re supposed to love you unconditionally. But they don’t. And that is not a fault on their part, but your own. You have done something to make them hate you, you have done something to make them turn on you, it is all your fault. You’ve seen them love others the way you have wanted to be loved. You have seen them be so caring, so devoted, so in love with someone it breaks you into pieces. It threatens to undo your very soul. There is something about you that is so undeserving, so unlovable, so broken that they could never fathom treating you that way. They could never see you as something to care for, to give a second thought. 

Is it my fault? No, he fights back, no, no, never. But he’s wrong, biased, blinded. You’ve done a good job fooling him. Everything is. Right? Everything, everyone’s emotions, their well-being, it’s all on you. You take care of them. You heal their wounds. You dry their eyes. And in return, you get nothing. You are forgotten. His arms grow tight around you, together, stronger, as if he thinks holding you will keep your brokenness from showing. Pieces of you slide off his lap, shattering against the ground. You want to fight against him, against his word, but you’re too tired. Exhausted. Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to fall. It can’t be like this every time. You question why you come crawling back every time, hind legs wounded, but you do it. The moment they give you a second of attention, you forget everything that has ever happened. Every unkind word. Every look. Every comment. It sticks into your hair like gum. You are so hard to love. A direct quote. Spoken to you in a moment of fury, of anger. Does that make it any easier to swallow? Does it make it any better knowing it was spoken out of frustration? No. The anger bites back, chewing you to bits and pieces. It is the hard truth, the thing that needed to be said. He knows the sensation, that sinking feeling in the pit of your chest, the expectations you’ve been carrying for this single moment deflating, dying in your arms. 

Why am I so hard to love? You whimpered through the bathroom door. What, what are you talking about? He jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. You sat with your back against the door, not letting him in. You wanted to, no you needed to be alone. To cry this out. I can’t help you if you won’t let me in. You didn’t want his help though, you didn’t feel worthy of it. You deserved to be alone, to feel alone. You were a burden, a hindrance, something people didn’t want alone. You kept running through the list in your head, all the reasons, the myriad of explanations. If they picked one, just one, maybe you could change it. Fix it. Fix you. Make yourself into something deserving of love. You pressed your face into your crossed arms, feeling small. Insignificant. He slid down to your level, speaking quietly, tenderly. You know whatever they said or did, it’s not on you. No one who loves someone would hurt them like this. Like his father. Like your family. You just shrugged, knowing he can’t see. You weren’t sure why you listened to them, why you let it get under your skin, it just did. Too sensitive, they called it, as if it were a bad thing. As if it were another reason to disregard your tears, your feelings. You never should have gone home, but you missed it, the idea of home. This grand notion that things would be different, they would be different. You always do. Hopeful, he calls it. Fucking stupid, you correct. It's naive of you to think they’d ever change, ever soften, ever share the same heart as you do. As soon as you go back you remember why you left, why you built this little life with him in your home, why you came home crying every time. 

Maybe he should have warned you. He didn’t want to dampen the mood. Roman could see how excited you were, proud to show yourself and all your achievements, no matter how small. Naming every relative, how much you missed them, how long it’s been since you’ve seen them. Maybe he should have gone with you, protected you, becoming your human shield. It wouldn’t have mattered. You wouldn’t have let him get hurt like that. They were smart in their cruelty, knowing just the right insecurities, the right buttons to push to shatter who you are inside. He watched you try on countless outfits, worried they wouldn’t like what you chose, worried you wouldn’t make the best impression. It didn’t matter what you chose in the end, they had enough choice words about your body regardless. Y/n, will you let me in? He asked softly, not moving. You let the question hang in the air, sniffling, letting yourself relax, take deep breaths. He checked your bedroom, the couch, kitchen, every nook and cranny where you might try to hide. This always happens. The disappearing act, the lack of self-worth, the hatred turn in on yourself. It’s them you should be mad at, but you can’t be. You love them too much. You need them too much to think harshly of them. The handle turns, the door creaking open. He moves with open arms which you fall into.  He doesn’t have any jokes to make it better, anything to lighten the mood, he knows better than that. Now, you need comfort. You need soothing and reassurance. Your head against his chest, the rest of you heavy with grief. You go back every time because you want to be loved the way you’re supposed to, the way all the songs and shows and movies promise you: unconditionally. And every time you’re disappointed. Because your life, this life, isn't a movie. It doesn’t have a happy ending. It just keeps going despite the heartache, despite the pain. It threatens to collapse in on you, cave in, when it gets bad. There’s no such thing as unlovable, he says to you, to himself, to the universe. Discarded like a kicked puppy. He can handle it from his father, Gerri, everyone, but you? You don’t deserve that. There’s no such thing as unlovable, he’s sure of it.

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when roman said he's gonna do the funeral speech i just went "oh no..."

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BERLIN

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CIGARETTES & DIOR 4

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note: for anyone who's read the previous 3 chapters before chapter 4 was released, I'm currently rewriting them so some time this week they'll be updated!

beta read by the darling @raelwrites

—enemies (?) steve harrington X reader, follows along with 'the bathtub'

[#: @fixtionlover + anyone else who'd like to be tagged let me know]

 It only took a handful of minutes for Joyce Byers to show up. Though you’re not surprised. If you found out your child was at the police station, was arrested, you were sure you would be arrested too with how fast you’d drive.

 During those minutes, you stared at Nancy and Jonathan. You couldn’t help but entertain the ideas brewing in your head.

 But what if there was something going on between the pair. I mean, one look at them now and you’d figure they’d been together for months if you didn’t know better.

 Maybe you didn’t know better. If Steve was so panicked he’d come to you... well. But the more you think, the more you realise you’d been around the two most all times they had interacted, to your knowledge at least. If anything was going on, surely, you’d have noticed, right?

 Joyce knocks you out of your head when she arrives. “Hey. Jonathan? Jesus, what… what happened? Why is he wearing handcuffs?”

 “Well, your boy assaulted a police officer. That’s why,” One of the officers answered.

 Joyce wasn’t happy. “Take them off.”

 “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

 Joyce wasn’t happy at all. “Take them off!”

 “You heard her. Take ‘em off.” Hopper backs Joyce. You muffle a laugh. You’re pretty sure you’d find this exact dialogue in a shitty porno.

 “Chief, I get that everyone’s emotional here, but there’s something you need to see.” That doesn’t set you on edge, not at all.

 The box that the officers deposit on the desk 5 minutes later does, however. The rattle of ammo boxes, a gun, a fucking bear trap.

 “What is this?” Joyce questions, disbelief in her voice, as she sifts through the contents.

 “Why don’t you ask your son? We found it in his car.” Hopper replies, walking closer to the desk. You look over at Nancy with a confused furrow to your brow. She looks away.

 “Why are you going through my car?” Jonathan accuses.

Hopper leans over to stare at Jonathan directly. “Is that really the question you should be asking right now?” he moves back. “I wanna see you in my office.”

 “You won’t believe me.”

 “Why don’t you give me a try?”

 It seems, however, the other Hawkins residents had been going through similar frights as you had, because Hopper doesn’t even look that confused when he looks at the super-sized photograph of the monster.

 “You say blood draws this thing?”

 “We don’t know,” Jonathan replies.

 “It’s just a theory, Barb- she cut herself that night, we think she must’ve bled and attracted it,” Nancy continues, and you hadn’t heard about this theory before so you’re definitely missing something.

 Joyce throws Jonathan a look and the pair stand up. You quickly inhabit Jonathan’s abandoned seat next to Nancy.

You don’t even wait for the door to close behind Hopper before you ask, “Right. Fill me in, please? Because what’s up with that box o’ horrors back there?”

“When- when you were with Steve… me and Jonathan, we went into the woods…” She trails off, quiet, and you can feel your stomach twist.

 “Oh my god- are you okay? what happened? You should’ve come found me! or, like, called at least.”

 “Yeah- yeah, I am now… it’s alright. Jonathan took me home, I- sorry, that I didn’t call. Jonathan- we…” When Nancy pauses, your throat tightens. That was when Steve saw them together, wasn’t it?

 “You, you didn’t… like, get with him, did you? You had all night to ring, you know.”

 “What? No! no, no, no…-” Nancy grabs your hands. “I just, well, I- I saw… it, that, that thing- the monster in the photo.” She’s whispering now, voice shaking along with her hands.

 “And- and you’re okay now?”

 “I think so… Jonathan- he, he stayed with me, made sure I was ok. It just- calling you just slipped my mind, I’m sorry.” Your stomach drops a little.

 You pull her into a hug. “It’s okay, ‘m glad you’re ok, at least. It’s okay.” You whisper into her hair.

 If you say it enough, it might even come true.

 Nancy just holds on tighter.

 When Hopper fails to talk you into going home, unable to disagree with the fact that you’d already seen too much to not involve yourself, and when you follow Nancy into the backseat next to Jonathan, you had resigned yourself to the fate of never having a normal life again.

 Between interacting with Steve and coming out the other side unscathed and learning about government conspiracies and monsters in Hawkins, you’re not actually sure which surprises you more.

 “Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?” Hopper throws the question out, but you can barely keep track of where Nancy is these days, much less her kid brother.

 “No, I don’t.” Neither can Nancy, it seems.

 “I need you to think.”

 “I don’t know. We haven’t talked a lot. I mean, lately…”

 Joyce tries this time, attempts to prompt Nancy, “Is there any place that your… your parents don’t know about that he might go?”

 Again, Nancy can’t answer.

 You’re glad that your family isn’t as active in your life as other people’s are. The constant fear that something might happen to your friends is enough to have you on edge. If you had to factor in family? Unimaginable.

 “I might,” Jonathan says, “I don’t know where he is, but I think I know how to ask him.”

 “And how’d you figure that?” you ask.

 “Walkie-talkies. Will had one. I can bet Mike has his with him too, wherever he is.”

 Hopper pulls up to the Byers’ residence and before the car can even come to a full stop, Nancy and Jonathan have already hopped out. You stumble along with them and almost trip over your feet when you walk through the front door.

 Furniture askew, books everywhere, lights hanging like vines.

 “Don’t you think it’s a little early for christmas décor, guys?”

 Nancy elbows you but she looks just as surprised.

 When the group piles into Will’s room, you’re greeted by even more lamps and general disorder. Somehow, Joyce manages to find the walkie-talkie.

Nancy takes it from her instantly, sitting on the bed next to Joyce and turning the walkie on. “Mike, are you there? Mike? Mike, it’s me, Nancy.”

 Static. You hold your breath.

 “Mike, are you there? Answer. Mike, we need you to answer. This is an emergency, Mike. Do you copy? I need you to answer.”

 Static. You gnaw at your lip.

 “We need to know that you’re there, Mike.”

Static. You clench your eyes shut.

 Hopper grabs the walkie from Nance. “Listen, kid, this is the chief. If you’re there, pick up.”

 Static. Your hands shake.

 “We know you’re in trouble and we know about the girl. We can protect you; we can help you, but you gotta pick up. Are you there? Do you copy? Over.”

 Static. Your heart sinks.

 “Yeah, I copy.” The voice of Mike Wheeler cuts through the static. “It’s Mike. I’m here. We’re here.”

  You relax into the wall, boneless in relief.

 “What’s taking so long?” you break the silence. “They should be back by now, right?” your leg bounces. It was night, Hopper had left with the daylight.

 Suddenly, car lights flood the driveway and tires crackle on the gravel.

 The four of you pile outside after a beat, and Nancy jogs to hug her brother. “Mike. Oh, my god. Mike!” he stands, a little perplexed. “I was so worried about you.”

 “Yeah, uh… me, too,” Mike says, though it’s not very convincing.

 “Is that my dress?” When Nancy asks, you take in the remaining faces. Lucas and Dustin, obviously. But the girl you don’t recognise. She must be who everyone kept referring to, then.

 When everyone is seated at the table and introduced to each other, Mike starts to draw on a sheet of paper.

 “Okay, so, in this example, we’re the acrobat. Will and Barbara, and that monster, they’re this flea. And this is the upside down, where will is hiding.” He flips the paper so that everyone can see. “Mr. Clarke said the only way to get there is through a rip of time and space.”

 “A gate.” Dustin elaborates.

 “That we tracked to Hawkins lab.” Lucas continues.

 “With our compasses.” When Dusting is met with blank faces, he explains, “okay, so the gate has a really strong electromagnetic field. And that can change the direction of a compass needle.”

“Is this gate underground?” Hopper asks.

El answers, “Yes.” It’s the first time she’s spoken since arriving.

 “Near a large water tank?”

 “Yes.”

 You look over to Hopper, baffled. “How do you know all that?”

 “he’s seen it,” Mike answers.

 “I-is there any way that you could… that you could reach Will? That you could talk to him in this-” Joyce croaks out, and you can’t begin to imagine how tough it must be. To know Will is alive, but still be unable to reach him.

 “The upside down,” El finished.

 “Down, yeah.”

 El nods.

 “And- and Barb? Barbara, can you find her too?” Nancy asks.

 El smiles.

 Static. You stay silent, watchful.

 The lights flicker.

 El turns looks out at everyone, tears in her eyes. You bow your head.

 “I’m sorry.”

 The chair scrapes obnoxiously when you stand.

 Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

 “W-what’s wrong? What hap- what happened?” Joyce asks.

 “I can’t find them.” El starts to cry, and you can feel your own eyes water.

 “So that’s it then, huh?” You sniffle, “nothing else we can do?” your eyes follow El as she’s shown the bathroom.

 “Uh- well-” Mike calls your name, draws your attention, “not exactly. Whenever she uses her powers, she gets weak.”

 “The more energy she uses, the more tired she gets,” Dustin continues.

 “Like, she flipped the van earlier,” Lucas says.

 “It was awesome.”

 “But she’s drained,” Mike explains.

 “Like a bad battery,” Lucas adds.

 “Is there no way to recharge that battery?” you ask.

 “No, we just have to wait and try again,” Mike answers.

 “Well, how long?” Nancy asks before you can.

 “I don’t know.”

“The bath,” El says, making both you and Joyce jump at her quiet appearance. “I can find them. In the bath.”

 Sometimes, you were glad for the involvement of police. With the speed that the car was going to reach Hawkins Middle School, you were sure had any cops caught you, you would’ve been pulled over.

 Having Hopper around made breaking laws quite fun.

 You were divided into little groups, each having a different task. Hopper and Jonathan went to get the salt; Mike, and Nancy the hose pipes; Joyce was with El getting her ready, and you were hauling a heavy tied up swimming pool across the floor of the gym with Dustin and Lucas.

 When you had managed to roll the pool to the centre of the court, you went about untying it and spreading it out.

 “Come on. it’s upside down,” Dustin says. You laugh, otherwise you might cry again.

 “No, this way.” Lucas twist and unravels his side of the pool.

 “How does this even work?”

 “Try that side.”

 “Son of a bitch.”

“Hey!” you exclaim, whirling around to face Dustin, “watch the language, teeny bopper. You’re like 10, how do you even know that?”

 “I’m 12!”

 “Try that side.” Lucas interrupts your argument. “Pull it back. Pull it back.”

 “I am!”

 “One, two, three.” At three, you let go of the pool sides and the thing collapses.

 “Shit!” both you and Dusting shout. You say nothing about that.

 “I’m guessing it’ll stay up when filled, right?” you tank on the pool sides once more. “I mean, it’s- it’s gotta. If this doesn’t work…” you trail off, huffing when the pool once again collapses in on itself. “There’s always the actual swimming pool,” you mutter dejectedly.

 You three go back to spreading the pool, lifting the sides, hoping.

 “Aha! We did it- step back, step back,” Dustin calls, and the doors open to Nancy and Mike wheeling in the hose pipes, followed by Hopper and Jonathan with the salt, and Joyce with El.

 You move over to Dustin as Mike drops two ends of hose into the pool, and as water starts pouring in, you clap Dustin on the back lightly. “You’re a genius.”

 “Thanks -,” he says your name, “but without Mr. Clarke, we wouldn’t have known how to do any of this.”

 You grin. “But without your idea we would still be at the Byers’, grasping at straws.

 Dustin grins back.

 “Colder!” Lucas shouts, holding the thermometer in the steadily rising water. “Warmer!” he shouts again. “Right there!” and the water stops.

 Once the temperature was fixed, Hopper and Jonathan begin to cut open the bags of de-icing salt, pouring them one by one into the pool.

 “How much was it we needed?” you ask Dustin.

 “Hold on,” Dustin says, crouching to open the carton of eggs by his side. When he places one in the water and it sinks, he calls out, “’Till the egg floats.”

 With that, you walk over to the bags and grab one, tearing it open with the knife Hopper passes you over the pool, throwing the empty bag into the pile.

 When you look over at Dusting and see that the egg he placed in the water bobbed on the surface of the pool, you drop the salt bag you had picked up with a sigh of relief.

 The walkie-talkie is set up on the trolley.

 Static.

 El takes her socks off and Joyce hands her duct taped goggles, guiding the girl into the pool when she puts them on.

 Almost the second she lays down and floats, the lights in the hall begin to flicker and then go out.

 El’s breathing starts to quicken, and the lights flicker once again.

 “What’s going on?” Nancy whispers, looking around.

 “I don’t know,” Mike answers.

 “Is Barb, ok?” You ask, “is she ok?” you tighten your hold on Dustin’s shoulder, hands shaking.

 “Gone. Gone. Gone.” El repeats. You’re frozen still.

 Joyce attempts to comfort her but she continues to repeat ‘gone’. With every agonising repetition of the word, you can feel your face slacken more, shoulders drop, hands quiver.

 “Will?” El asks, and you can only just hear her. Joyce’s words don’t register through the buzzing in your ears.

 “Hurry.” Comes from the walkie-talkie.

 El sits up in a panic. Everyone jumps back, and you quickly remove your grip from Dustin’s shoulder when the boy moves.

 “I’ve got you,” Joyce comforts El, hugging her into her chest. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you. I got you, honey. You did so good.” You sort of feel like you might need a Joyce hug next.

 You don’t get a hug.

 After a moment of reconciliation and sharing of information, you follow Nancy to the far wall. Reclining on the cold bench by the mural, counting the blemishes in the ceiling as you wrap your mind around what you witnessed. Nancy sits by your feet.

 When the door slams, you startle and look over to see Jonathan coming closer. He sits next to Nancy. You look back to the ceiling.

 “We have to go bath to the station.” You hear Nancy say. “Your mom and Hopper are just walking in there like bait. That thing is still in there. And we can’t just sit here and let it get them, too. We can’t.”

 “You still wanna try it out?” Jonathan asks.

 “I wanna finish what we started. I want to kill it.”

---

Persecution (Roy!Sibling x Roman Roy)

Character/s: Roman, Jeryd, Kendall, Shiv

Word Count: 1,465

Requested: Hihihi!!! Would it be okay to request? Or maybe just as inspiration or something: i'd love to see the dynamic between roy!siblingreader and roman and how he would interact with them trying/being the big brother to them like connor and kendall are especially takeing care of them or being protective? I have severe roman brainrot rn lol and i love how you write each of them and overall the way you use words and how alive it all feels! ♡- anon

Inspired By: Family Jewels by Marina

Warning/s: sexual harassment, harassment, men being creeps

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: You know I had to do it!!! You know I had to!!! I can't actually remember all of the election party episode, so this might be a bit off. My apologies!!! Stop my love, Roman makes my brain rot too he lives in there 24/7!!! Thank you for such kind words!!! I try my best :) I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

His hand lingers on the small of your back, on your shoulder, on your body. It burns all the way through. You don’t shake it off though. You can’t. So you smile and excuse yourself, trying to stop yourself from shuddering. It seems wherever you go, wherever you disappear, he is there. He is always there. If not in your presence, then calling, texting, emailing. He is obsessive, hungry, and you have been served to him on a silver platter whether they realize it or not. You sit alone on the couch, nursing your drink, your fourth or fifth of the night just to get through it. His knee touches you, his arm is around you. No one takes notice, not your brothers or sister. No one can save you. He speaks, but only to get closer, so close you can smell the scotch on his breath. He talks mindlessly of his campaign, of the work he and your brother have put into it. That is why you can’t resist. That is why you can’t push him away, throw your drink in his face, call him names that sit on the tip of your tongue. Because your brother has spent too much time building this relationship up, building this man up. You’ve told him time and time again that you don’t like him, that you side with your sister on this, but he doesn’t care. He is not your President yet, though God help you if he becomes him. You won’t be able to escape him. You won’t be able to run. 

His hand is on your thigh, inching down. As if his touch is fire you jump up, dropping your glass, spilling all over him, all over Shiv's carpet. Fuck, you think, fuck, fuck fuck. You apologize profusely despite yourself, picking up the shards. They glitter under the light. The mumble of the crowd never stops, there isn’t a single pause in conversation. You are the baby, the least significant one. These politicians, their groups, they don’t see you. They don’t notice you. No one is coming to help you. He doesn’t seem to notice your distress, instead leaning down, face to face with you, watching you avoid his eyes. He rubs your shoulder, explaining that it was an accident, no big deal. With his finger he tips your head up, smile for me, sweetie. You recoil, apologizing, taking what pieces you have, headed towards the kitchen. You’re unsteady on your feet, too tipsy. You drank too much. You curse yourself, trying not to let the tears that welled up in your eyes fall. You weren’t even supposed to be here. You were supposed to be home, safe, far away from him where he could not possibly reach you. But they wanted you here, they needed you here, the biggest night leading up to the election. You could never disappoint them. Never. So you showed up and you drank and now you’re in this mess. You can feel him behind you, like a shadow, close but not close enough. You catch one look behind you, biting back a scream. He shakes hands, introduces himself, cracks jokes, all while moving through the crowd. You are his target, you always have been. 

From the moment he laid eyes on you, you knew it was over. Too late. You were drowning and they were doing nothing to save you. He spoke to you like you were old friends, touchy from your moment of introduction. Y/n Roy, a pleasure to meet you. A kiss on the cheek. His arm snaking around your waist for the family photo. Pleading with your eyes, but no one to see, no one to understand. Your father was more than happy to serve you to him, proud you’d made a connection so quickly. Oblivious to your disgust, to your discomfort, as always. Still, he hadn’t been that proud of you in a long time, perhaps ever. You thought you could keep up the niceties until he lost, then you would rid yourself of him for good. And then your father died. And then Roman made his deal with him. And now? Now you’re leaning over the sink, trying not to throw up, your hands shaking at the thought of him being near you like that again. He got caught in conversation with a lesser political opponent, his eyes never leaving you. Someone had given him your contact information. First an email here and there. A thank you for being so kind to him. A proposition for coffee, then drink. Texts next. Jokes that fell flat. Apologies for your father. More dates, more events, all of them, he’s hoping, you’ll be there. Calls, too. Pictures. So many pictures. Silly ones, then not so funny. If he wasn’t constantly watching, talking, touching, then he was trying to. You never responded, but that didn’t stop him. It would never stop him. 

What were you going to do? 

You clutch the edge of the sink, taking a few deep breaths. As quickly as you can without making yourself even more nauseous, you cut through the pack, headed towards the bathroom. Without meaning to, your barge through your siblings semi-circle conversation. The tears are falling. All of them look up at you, startled, but you slam the door shut before they can ask anything. Shiv knocks softly, saying your name, trying to get you out. Y/n? Y/n what happened? Can you come out and talk to us? Knees to chest you slide down to the floor, drunk, tired, your skin still crawling. Trying to catch your breath. Y/n, come on, come out. Whatever happened, we can fix it. Kendall sounded exhausted. Rightfully so. You stifle a sob, the words coming out before you can stop them. I didn’t mean- I didn’t- I know this is important to you guys. Mencken. He’s important to them, he’s important to your brother, he was to your father. You couldn’t just suck it up for a little while, you had to cry like a child. Who? What are you talking about? It’s Roman now, his voice close to you. He’s not standing like the others, he’s on your level now. You don’t know how to explain it, you can’t. You fear it’ll sound ridiculous. That you’re making a bigger deal about this than necessary. You’re not sure what else to do. You open every tab, every phone call and text thread and email. Then you open the door just a crack, sliding the phone through, shutting it again. There's a moment of silence that feels like eternity. How long has been this going on? Roman sounds angry. At you? A while. It’s all you can manage, curling into a ball, bracing for the worst. For the yelling, the disappointment, for one of them to bang on the door and demand that you come out right now. You wait, and you wait, but it never comes. It never happens. Instead your brother and sister call after Roman, trying to stop him, but he’s seeing red. 

There’s no stopping him. 

It’s quiet for a long time, but you don’t move a muscle. Your nausea has gotten a little better, your head a little clearer. You call for your siblings, but none answer. What were they doing? What were they saying? You can hear muffled yelling through the door, but the words melt together. Tones rise in pitch. The apartment has quieted. Someone laughs, you think it’s Mencken. More quiet. A door slams. You wince. This is all your fault. Whatever they were doing, whatever was going on, it was your fault. It was all your fault. Then a voice, softer now. He’s gone, kid. You can come out. Roman. He didn’t sound angry, but when did that ever stop anyone? Certainly not your father. When you don’t, you hear him groan, getting to the floor. Through the door, you can hear the weight in his voice. I’m not mad at you, I, I could never be mad at you. A pause. You honestly think I would have chosen him over you? You nod before choking up a yes. It’s my fault, you start, but he doesn’t let you finish. It’s not, it never was. He’s a fucking creep y/n, a monster. I’m, I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner. He's gone now. He won’t come near you ever again. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. He would never let fucking Mencken do that to you again. He wouldn’t let anyone do that. He shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place, he’d carry this for the rest of his life. He let you down, your big brother. He let you down for the last time.

---

Trans women make the world a brighter place

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I want to live by myself when I move out of my parent's place but I'm really afraid of money problems? I'm afraid that the only place I can afford will be in the ghetto and it'll all be torn apart and I'll only be allowed to eat one granola bar a week. I'm really stressing out about this. I don't know anything about after school life. I don't know anything about paying bills or how to buy an apartment and it's really scaring me. is there anything you know that can help me?

HI darling,

I’ve actually got a super wonderful masterpost for you to check out:

Home

what the hell is a mortgage?

first apartment essentials checklist

how to care for cacti and succulents

the care and keeping of plants

Getting an apartment

Money

earn rewards by taking polls

how to coupon

what to do when you can’t pay your bills

see if you’re paying too much for your cell phone bill

how to save money

How to Balance a Check Book

How to do Your Own Taxes

Health

how to take care of yourself when you’re sick

things to bring to a doctor’s appointment

how to get free therapy

what to expect from your first gynecologist appointment

how to make a doctor’s appointment

how to pick a health insurance plan

how to avoid a hangover

a list of stress relievers

how to remove a splinter

Emergency

what to do if you get pulled over by a cop

a list of hotlines in a crisis

things to keep in your car in case of an emergency

how to do the heimlich maneuver

Job

time management

create a resume

find the right career

how to pick a major

how to avoid a hangover

how to interview for a job

how to stop procrastinating

How to write cover letters

Travel

ULTIMATE PACKING LIST

Traveling for Cheap

Travel Accessories

The Best Way to Pack a Suitcase

How To Read A Map

How to Apply For A Passport

How to Make A Travel Budget

Better You

read the news

leave your childhood traumas behind

how to quit smoking

how to knit

how to stop biting your nails

how to stop procrastinating

how to stop skipping breakfast

how to stop micromanaging

how to stop avoiding asking for help

how to stop swearing constantly

how to stop being a pushover

learn another language

how to improve your self-esteem

how to sew

learn how to embroider

how to love yourself

100 tips for life

Apartments/Houses/Moving

Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 1: Are You Sure? (The Responsible One)

Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 2: Finding the Damn Apartment (The Responsible One)

Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 3: Questions to Ask about the Damn Apartment (The Responsible One)

Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 4: Packing and Moving All of Your Shit (The Responsible One)

How to Protect Your Home Against Break-Ins (The Responsible One)

Education

How to Find a Fucking College (The Sudden Adult)

How to Find Some Fucking Money for College (The Sudden Adult)

What to Do When You Can’t Afford Your #1 Post-Secondary School (The Sudden Adult)

Stop Shitting on Community College Kids (Why Community College is Fucking Awesome) (The Responsible One)

How to Ask for a Recommendation Letter (The Responsible One)

How to Choose a College Major (The Sudden Adult)

Finances

How to Write a Goddamn Check (The Responsible One)

How to Convince Credit Companies You’re Not a Worthless Bag of Shit (The Responsible One)

Debit vs Credit (The Responsible One)

What to Do if Your Wallet is Stolen/Lost (The Sudden Adult)

Budgeting 101 (The Responsible One)

Important Tax Links to Know (The Responsible One)

How to Choose a Bank Without Screwing Yourself (The Responsible One)

Job Hunting

How to Write a Resume Like a Boss (The Responsible One)

How to Write a Cover Letter Someone Will Actually Read (The Responsible One)

How to Handle a Phone Interview without Fucking Up (The Responsible One)

10 Sites to Start Your Job Search (The Responsible One)

Life Skills

Staying in Touch with Friends/Family (The Sudden Adult)

Bar Etiquette (The Sudden Adult)

What to Do After a Car Accident (The Sudden Adult)

Grow Up and Buy Your Own Groceries (The Responsible One)

How to Survive Plane Trips (The Sudden Adult)

How to Make a List of Goals (The Responsible One)

How to Stop Whining and Make a Damn Appointment (The Responsible One)

Miscellaneous

What to Expect from the Hell that is Jury Duty (The Responsible One)

Relationships

Marriage: What the Fuck Does It Mean and How the Hell Do I Know When I’m Ready? (Guest post - The Northwest Adult)

How Fucked Are You for Moving In with Your Significant Other: An Interview with an Actual Real-Life Couple Living Together™ (mintypineapple  and catastrofries)

Travel & Vehicles

How to Winterize Your Piece of Shit Vehicle (The Responsible One)

How to Make Public Transportation Your Bitch (The Responsible One)

Other Blog Features

Apps for Asshats

Harsh Truths & Bitter Reminders

Asks I’ll Probably Need to Refer People to Later

Apartments (or Life Skills) - How Not to Live in Filth (The Sudden Adult)

Finances - Tax Basics (The Responsible One)

Important Documents - How to Get a Copy of Your Birth Certificate (The Responsible One)

Important Documents - How to Get a Replacement ID (The Responsible One)

Health - How to Deal with a Chemical Burn (The Responsible One)

Job Hunting - List of Jobs Based on Social Interaction Levels (The Sudden Adult)

Job Hunting - How to Avoid Falling into a Pit of Despair While Job Hunting (The Responsible One)

Job Hunting - Questions to Ask in an Interview (The Responsible One)

Life Skills - First-Time Flying Tips (The Sudden Adult)

Life Skills - How to Ask a Good Question (The Responsible One)

Life Skills - Reasons to Take a Foreign Language (The Responsible One)

Life Skills - Opening a Bar Tab (The Sudden Adult)

Relationships - Long Distance Relationships: How to Stay in Contact (The Responsible One)

Adult Cheat Sheet:

what to do if your pet gets lost

removing stains from your carpet

how to know if you’re eligible for food stamps

throwing a dinner party

i’m pregnant, now what?

first aid tools to keep in your house

how to keep a clean kitchen

learning how to become independent from your parents

job interview tips

opening your first bank account

what to do if you lose your wallet

tips for cheap furniture

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Once you’ve looked over all those cool links, I have some general advice for you on how you can have some sort of support system going for you:

Reasons to move out of home

You may decide to leave home for many different reasons, including:

wishing to live independently

location difficulties – for example, the need to move closer to university

conflict with your parents

being asked to leave by your parents.

Issues to consider when moving out of home

It’s common to be a little unsure when you make a decision like leaving home. You may choose to move, but find that you face problems you didn’t anticipate, such as:

Unreadiness – you may find you are not quite ready to handle all the responsibilities.

Money worries – bills including rent, utilities like gas and electricity and the cost of groceries may catch you by surprise, especially if you are used to your parents providing for everything. Debt may become an issue.

Flatmate problems – issues such as paying bills on time, sharing housework equally, friends who never pay board, but stay anyway, and lifestyle incompatibilities (such as a non-drug-user flatting with a drug user) may result in hostilities and arguments.

Your parents may be worried

Think about how your parents may be feeling and talk with them if they are worried about you. Most parents want their children to be happy and independent, but they might be concerned about a lot of different things. For example:

They may worry that you are not ready.

They may be sad because they will miss you.

They may think you shouldn’t leave home until you are married or have bought a house.

They may be concerned about the people you have chosen to live with.

Reassure your parents that you will keep in touch and visit regularly. Try to leave on a positive note. Hopefully, they are happy about your plans and support your decision.

Tips for a successful move

Tips include:

Don’t make a rash decision – consider the situation carefully. Are you ready to live independently? Do you make enough money to support yourself? Are you moving out for the right reasons?

Draw up a realistic budget – don’t forget to include ‘hidden’ expenses such as the property’s security deposit or bond (usually four weeks’ rent), connection fees for utilities, and home and contents insurance.

Communicate – avoid misunderstandings, hostilities and arguments by talking openly and respectfully about your concerns with flatmates and parents. Make sure you’re open to their point of view too – getting along is a two-way street.

Keep in touch – talk to your parents about regular home visits: for example, having Sunday night dinner together every week.

Work out acceptable behaviour – if your parents don’t like your flatmate(s), find out why. It is usually the behaviour rather than the person that causes offence (for example, swearing or smoking). Out of respect for your parents, ask your flatmate(s) to be on their best behaviour when your parents visit and do the same for them.

Ask for help – if things are becoming difficult, don’t be too proud to ask your parents for help. They have a lot of life experience.

If your family home does not provide support

Not everyone who leaves home can return home or ask their parents for help in times of trouble. If you have been thrown out of home or left home to escape abuse or conflict, you may be too young or unprepared to cope.

If you are a fostered child, you will have to leave the state-care system when you turn 18, but you may not be ready to make the sudden transition to independence.

If you need support, help is available from a range of community and government organisations. Assistance includes emergency accommodation and food vouchers. If you can’t call your parents or foster parents, call one of the associations below for information, advice and assistance.

Where to get help

Your doctor

Kids Helpline Tel. 1800 55 1800

Lifeline Tel. 13 11 44

Home Ground Services Tel. 1800 048 325

Relationships Australia Tel. 1300 364 277

Centrelink Crisis or Special Help Tel. 13 28 50

Tenants Union of Victoria Tel. (03) 9416 2577

Things to remember

Try to solve any problems before you leave home. Don’t leave because of a fight or other family difficulty if you can possibly avoid it.

Draw up a realistic budget that includes ‘hidden’ expenses, such as bond, connection fees for utilities, and home and contents insurance.

Remember that you can get help from a range of community and government organizations. 

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