GODSTRUCK

you're mad— godswept, godstruck, godnonsensical

[waldenwritess]

she's baaaaaack (threat)

check out my newly revamped muse page and dm me if anyone catches your eye! i write a lot of ocs-- some in a 70s band verse, some in a shameless-slash-hot-summer-nights-inspired verse, and every now and then i write canon stranger things characters! ( 21+! )

[timotheecontent]

Timothée Chalamet for CHANEL: BLEU DE CHANEL

[possession]

JEREMY ALLEN WHITE for Entertainment Weekly (November 2023)

[dykeplaything]

wears a big button that says “ask me about my near-pathological need to please women” and when you ask me about it i drop to my knees without question and gaze up at you adoringly with my big brown baby cow eyes

[bowie-byers]

If someone were to look at Jonathan Byers’ phone right now it would have a pitiful receipt of eight unanswered outgoing calls: Three for a guy called Argyle. Two for a girl called Nancy. One for someone called … “Bald Eagle”? And four for the disconnected cell number of Will Byers. Jonathan didn’t bother leaving voicemails for anyone except the latter but got tired of trying after hearing “we're sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed, and please try again” for the fourth time in a row. The list might have been longer if it weren’t 1am and he’d been anywhere other than stumbling down the shockingly lit streets back to his new home of … Lincoln hall? – Lagoona Falls? Fuck. He had a hard time remembering. Thankfully his phone still had 5% battery to figure it out. It’s not like Jonathan spent much time in Lipton Hall outside of making his bed and hitting the dining hall before the roommate had a chance to get up and, god forbid, meet him. Respectfully putting off the introductions was a solid way to ensure that the other guy didn’t have an opportunity to hate him – or vice versa. Yet. They'd have lots of time to figure it out over twelve months of waking up to the sound of the other's breathing.

Jonathan looked completely misplaced as he strutted down MacDougall Street with a box of multi-coloured string lights wedged between an arm. The fact that a shady hardware store was open at 1am (let alone carried Christmas gear in September) was a miracle. The young man blew past streetlights with an urgency that could only be characterized as Joyce-like, incapable of extinguishing the drunken thought that maybe if he just …. if he could just … string up the lights one last time ….  if he gave himself a final moment to entertain the suppressed wish that Will might be caught somewhere that wasn’t four feet deep in Hawkins’ Cemetery ... then maybe he could accept that his brother’s disconnected number was, in fact, not an error. That it was forever. Permanent. The flicker of a slowly dying lamp and the six beers he’d been handed between a few shitty conversations about cinema made it make sense in the only place that mattered. His brutally stuffy head.

The shoddy wooden chair dragged against the carpet. Jonathan registered nothing in his surroundings except the need to find an outlet in the wall. The rush in his head was akin to white noise - pushing him forward despite the bubble, bubble, bubble, in his stomach and the ever growing need to let it all out. He struggled to hold up the string of lights against the wall, chair creaking beneath him. That's when Jonathan finally realized that he had nothing to pin them up with. He burst out laughing to himself, wheezing with his arms still slopped high up on wall with lights in his fists. The drunk freshman didn't register his roommate's presence until Cole was right behind him, steadying the chair. Hearing a voice outside of his own mumbling scared the hell out of him. "Jesus F-Fuck!" He jumped in terror, knees buckling as his arms dropped along with the lights. The mangled string tumbled to the ground. Jonathan whipped around to narrow his eyes on the dude, steadying himself with the back of the chair. The rush of adrenaline heightened his disorientation, world spinning unbearably. Dots finally started connecting on who this guy was, running a hand through his sweaty bangs as the realization came to him. The roommate. He was too drunk to put together an introduction, eyes moving away from Cole to the lights scattered below him - slurring out a desperate "Shit ... Do you have tape, man?" in the process.

[waldenwritess]

Cole was sure there'd been some orientation session led by a mid-40s resident director about getting to know your roommate and conflict resolution. He was also sure that, even if he hadn't ditched it in favor of smoking out back, their tips and tricks wouldn't apply to a roommate who stumbles in drunk past midnight with a sudden urge to hang Christmas lights. In September. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Cole peered up at a mop of shaggy hair and beer-breath Cole could smell even from here. "Jonathan Byers, I presume?" he asked, the tiniest inkling of hope supposing that the other might apologize and say he had the wrong room. Somehow, the guy hadn't expected Cole to speak, and his startled jump sent the unplugged lights clattering to the ground. "Jesus, dude, you're gonna wake up the whole fucking hall," Cole grumbled, abandoning his post at the chair and snatching up the string of lights. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cole's jaw went slack at Jonathan's desperation for tape. "Fucking hell," he muttered, looping the lights over his forearm with an ever-growing crease in his brow. "Tape is not gonna hold this shit up, for the record, and your jolly fucking holiday decor can certainly wait until tomorrow." Cole made clear that he wasn't asking, but telling Jonathan to get in bed or piss off. Cole dropped the lights onto Jonathan's desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He had a couple inches on Jonathan, which Cole took advantage of by straightening his spine and doing his best to look imposing in spite of his boxers and two-sizes-too-big Steely Dan shirt. "Okay... Jesus, you need to shower-- don't wake me before noon. That's just common fucking courtesy, by the way, which you'd know if you'd bothered to be a roommate before today." Cole shook his head, muttering something unintelligible about boundaries and stupid fucking lights under his breath.

[killbilled]

Hey, was Richie always an asshole? Dude, always and forever. Dude, he’s the fucking worst. Mm, yeah, he sucks. Dude, he’s not a nice guy. He’s just- he’s sad inside.

EBON MOSS-BACHRACH as RICHIE JERIMOVICH in THE BEAR

[bowie-byers]

Band Fantasy 2.0

Paul Johnson x Cole Montgomery @waldenwritess

Thread #1: Cole's Dingy Y/N Band Fanfic

Paul held the guitar high on his abdomen. The pick guard had fallen off the mahogany body a long time ago – fingers calmly strumming down against a scratchy patch of unvarnished wood. He was gearing up for his last song of the night, bar cheering lightly as he transitioned out of his final original tune. With these occasional solo nights, he preferred to end the evening with a cover – mostly as an ode to the crowd. Dingy bars had a tendency to hum along, which was a nice change of pace from radio silence. “Some of you out there might know this next one.” Paul spoke softly into the microphone, flopping sweaty bangs away from his forehead. He proceeded to move the capo down on the fret of his guitar. It gave him an opportunity to break. “I picked it up while driving down the coast last summer – If you know it, I’d love to hear you sing along.” He caught a drift of pink in the crowd, not entirely registering what it was, but stuck on the colour for a moment longer as he began plucking the intro of Bruce Springsteen’s I’m on Fire. Pub dwellers were slow to recognize it. Paul's cover was even more subdued than the original, without a beat to support gravely vocals. His eyes closed in preparation to sing, chest leaning forward into the microphone stand. “Hey little girl / is your daddy home? / did he go and leave you all alone? / I got a bad desire / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire.” – A coy smile formed. He peered through bangs obscuring his vision, finally glancing back into the crowd. “Tell me now baby is he good to you? / And can he do to you the things that I do? oh no / I can take you higher / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire [...]” His sweep of the audience halted as he landed on a group of women singing along by the bar. His eyes fluttered away, once more taken off guard by the distracting mop of pink hair.

Maybe it was the power of sticking out in a sea of mushy colours, but Paul stayed on them for a touch longer. Enough to take in their features - fully making eye contact now. It was comfortable for him. “At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet / and a freight train running through the middle of my head / only you can cool my desire / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire.” He held the stranger's gaze, head cocking back every so slightly to smirk - and also get a better look. The guy wasn't bad looking. Something about the other guy's stare gave him a hunch that it was mutual. The entire thing felt like a playful game of cat and mouse. He continued to power through the song - intermittently returning to find the splash of pink up until the final chorus. It felt nice for a change. He'd performed enough times to have experiences like these - chest weighed down by a curious pair of eyes in the crowd. It was all very much fleeting, but Paul's emotions always ran higher on stage. It wasn't abnormal for him. He managed to find them one last time before the song tapered off, completely exhausted. Paul muttered a genuine “thank you – have a good night!” to the crowd before darting off the stage to find his hard case by the bar, brain completely overridden with pink. Paul brushed it off as he slid his trusted purple pick between his lips, knees bending to tuck away the instrument.

[waldenwritess]

Maybe Cole had been naive when he'd first stuck his thumb out and hitched a ride out of Oregon. Traveling the country, taking whatever ride he could get with whoever was offering, seemed romantic in theory-- more than that, it was exactly what he needed after years of the same arguments in the same classrooms. It was the only way he could think to subvert a punishing future of suits and briefcases and courtrooms. Plus, he was pretty good at thinking on his feet; He could tell when his luck was running out with a ride, or when a ride was getting too eager about him and it was time to go their separate ways.

He'd ditched his last ride in Omaha, and had been on foot since. The last couple of days had blurred together-- libraries during the day, the occasional nap in the park, and pubs and bars at night. Cole'd lucked into some good live music for once-- not just some old dude strapped with a banjo and a harmonica. These guys could sing, and though Cole was typically happy to lurk in the back of the bar, he hardly even noticed his feet pushing through the crowd to afford him a closer look.

Something about the singer was magnetic, and Cole couldn't help but watch the way sweaty hair clung to his forehead and the way he preferred to hunch over his guitar rather than bask in the crowd's attention. Cole grinned when they finally made eye contact, letting his lips curl into a smirk when the Springsteen enthusiast looked back a second time and a third. Cole forgot about Omaha then, and the half-baked plan he'd made at the library today to hitch a ride up to Sioux Falls. Instead, he raised a suggestive brow at the musician and watched the other's next moves carefully.

Cole took his time, though, moving through the crowd to the bathroom for a cigarette, which he dutifully smoked one puff at a time. Springsteen could handle a little wait, no? When he'd had enough, Cole put out the cigarette on the side of the sink, ran a hand through his hair, and pushed through the crowd to the familiar figure at the bar. "You ever think it's a little odd?" Cole asked him, teasing glint in his eye. "'Hey little girl, is your daddy home?'" With a wave to the bartender, Cole turned on his heel to face the other. "Comes across creepy, is all," he shrugged, though he didn't drop his gaze. "Sounded good, though. Buy you a drink?"

[waldenwritess]

WHO: cole + lee (@soemotional) WHERE: the bennett residence WHAT: boy next door's birthday bash! (previous posts here)

Cole was used to pushing boundaries-- whether with the pink hair dye he'd lifted from Mom's shop or with the silk flair pants he'd borrowed from Heather Holloway or with innocent-looking touches: a brush of the fingers, a lingering hand on a bicep. Things that could certainly be platonic... or not so platonic. His new neighbor didn't seem to mind, and when Lee Bennett returned the favor by way of a hand on the back of Cole's neck, Cole didn't bother hiding his grin.

Curious eyebrow cocked, Cole dragged his eyes up Lee's face to meet the other's gaze. He pressed his lips together, humming at Lee's coded meaning. "So, that why you left, church boy?" he ventured. Cole pressed his knee back, taking a drag from the cigarette and rolling it between his fingers as he responded, thoughtfully. "There are ways to get around it. If you're discreet, that is."

For a moment, Cole's heartbeat quickened at Lee's proximity. Surely it couldn't be this easy-- and he was halfway through the thought when Lee brought his hands back and changed the subject. Mourning the loss of warmth on his neck, Cole let his lips tug downwards. "Do I look like I play sports?" Cole asked with a teasing smile, twirling a ring on his middle finger and refusing to break eye contact. "That your thing?"

[waldenwritess]

WHO: will + jonathan (@bowie-byers) WHERE: jonnie's emo boy bedroom WHAT: the moment you've all been waiting for... (previous posts here)

For as long as Will could remember, Jonathan was always there to give him an out. Whether it was saving him from the pinching fingers of their aunt or the drunken fists of their father, Jonathan took the blows. Sometimes, Will felt like he could see the wear in Jonathan's frame-- the way his shoulders slouched from years of weight, or the crease of his eyebrows and the way his face was never completely at rest. Maybe it was selfishness or simply the luxury their birth order afforded him, but Will had been more than happy to let his brother carry this unconfessed weight. He'd even thought maybe they could do this song-and-dance forever, Will ignoring Jonathan's knowing looks in the rearview mirror the same way Jonathan ignored Will's quiet longing for a fuller life.

But, maybe Jonathan was right. Maybe Will was growing up, and maybe saying it out loud was a piece of that puzzle. He's different. He'd always been different, he always will be different. Accepting it felt a hell of a lot nicer than avoiding it, at least for now. Will was always safe with Jonathan. Always. The lump in his throat was heavy, threatening to render him silent. "Thanks," he managed, twisting his lips into a light, teasing smile. "More guts than everything else?" But Will wasn't sure they were all that different, he couldn't tell which one was a prerequisite of his existence and which one was the monster inside him. Never satisfied, never not clawing its way up his throat or deeper into his skin.

As his brother fumbled through what he really meant to say, Will nodded encouragingly. He bit down on the inside of his cheek at the mention of love, entirely convinced that that was years away. Decades, even. But Jonathan meant well, and it was the least Will could do to listen and not protest. At least, until Jonathan followed up boy problems with mention of Murray Bauman. "If I ever go to Murray for relationship advice, I'm definitely being coerced," Will teased, though his smile was genuine. Grateful. "I-- I know what you mean...," his laughter tampered off, and Will settled into a comfortable silence. It was one of his favorite things in the world, probably, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Jonathan and saying nothing. Listening to the new Bowie or seeing who could hold their breath the longest or just listening to the steady in-and-out of Jonathan's breath while he read. "I-- thank you. I know you will. You-- you're a good brother. The best."

Will dropped his eyes to the floor as Jonathan began to speak again, curling and uncurling his toes in an attempt to relieve the tension curling its way up his spine. His brother seemed so certain that Will had nothing to worry about. But how could he be, when he didn't know about the ugly thing inside him, the black tendrils that contracted with want and want and want-- for the wrong things from the wrong person. Someone will show up when you least expect it, Jonathan promised, and yet Will couldn't banish thoughts of Mike clamoring out of his window. "I don't think....," Will flushed at the implication, electing instead to shake his head and press his lips thinly together. He hazarded a glance at his brother, wondering if Jonathan could see right through him. As often as he wished to crack open his skull and pass it around, to Jonathan, to Mom, to Mike and Lucas and Dustin and Max-- he was paralyzed.

Once again, Jonathan grabbed Will by the ankle and pulled him out of the dark... even if it was by annoying him. "I'm not-- no one's gonna be climbing out of my window, Jonathan." Will narrowly avoided tacking on an ew, just for emphasis. Still, he laughed, relief rattling through his chest. Jonathan knew, and things were still normal. They could still laugh. "If she had a sixth sense, she wouldn't even have to use it to know when Nancy's been here," Will noted, raising his eyebrow in challenge. His bratty little brother act quickly melted into a genuine promise, "You can talk to me too, you know. Not that I... I don't really know anything about girls," he confessed. Yet, his point remained-- Jonathan didn't have to be so alone, either. Will brightened, "But, I mean, I can always get intel on Nancy! From Mike!"

[waldenwritess]

WHO: cole + jonathan (@bowie-byers) WHERE: lipton hall, room 313 WHAT: the roommate from hell

Greenwich Village was cool-- that was a win, at least. Being nestled in the middle of so much history and culture was a far cry from Depoe Bay, Oregon. Cole had been keeping notes in his Moleskin of record stores and dives he wanted to explore once he'd gotten moved in. Of course, all he really had to his name were a couple of odd '80s posters, a couple boxes of books, and a t-shirt collection that desperately needed a wash after the three-day cross-country drive.

He'd made a deal with himself-- a week completely off the grid, settling into his new surroundings before he ventured a call out to Max or his mom or, God forbid, Akeem. It was nice, though, the almost-cold breeze in Washington Square Park; the shitty bodega coffee that reminded him of how Maude always makes it way too strong. But every time he found his way back to Lipton Hall, Cole felt like he was holding his breath, wondering if he'd finally meet his elusive roommate.

He could tell that the other boy had moved in already, from the painstakingly pressed plaid sheets and the single Bowie poster-- but the guy was all but a ghost. He was gone before Cole got up at six and out until well after Cole went to bed. If they'd even talked once, Cole would guess the dude hated him. Whatever, maybe he'd get lucky and the sucker would drop out pre-semester, leaving Cole with a suite to himself. He could always dream.

... Which is exactly what he was trying to do when the door beeped open, yellow hallway light pooling into the doorway. Cole groaned, turned his back to the door, and promptly fell back asleep despite the shuffling feet and clumsy movements of his roommate. At least, until the chair scraping across the floor caused Cole to bolt upright, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the red, blue, green, and yellow lights the other plugged in and held up towards the ceiling.

"Wh-- what the-- fuck, man?" Cole tripped over his words, grogginess pressing against his eyelids. "What... are you--," Cole shoved out of bed to steady the chair while his roommate balanced precariously on its edge. It took him a beat, but Cole frowned upwards. "Dude, are you fucked up right now?"

[jonathanbyersphd]

The Byers Brothers

Chapter 1: The Vanishing of Will Byers/Song of the Insensible, Andrew Kozma/ Rule #4 , Fish in a Birdcage/ Chapter 2: The Weirdo on Maple Street/Chapter 8: The Mind Flayer/ He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother, The Hollies/ Chapter 8: The Battle of Starcourt/ Tumblr User: bookwyrminspiration/ Chapter 9: The Piggyback/ TikTok User: blaineunderstudy/ East of Eden, John Steinbeck/ Chapter 9: The Piggyback

[fairyrotting-deactivated2023080]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU dir. Gil Junger

[waldenwritess]

[from mike to dustin] so... this is where the enemy sleeps.

"Yeah," Dustin whispered back, shifting the eggs in his hands and peering up at Troy Walsh's house. "Wait, what?" he recoiled, staring at Mike. "Why are you talking like you're in Macbeth? Can you just throw a goddamn egg already?" he implored, opening the carton and offering it to Mike. It was his idea, after all.

[waldenwritess]

[from max to dustin] do you give a shit about a t-shirt?

Dustin studied Max for a second, trying to figure out exactly what game she was playing. When he couldn't find any traps, he sighed, exasperated. "Depends on what shirt. Why do you suddenly give a shit about what I give a shit about?"

[waldenwritess]

[from steve 2 dustin] now listen. get it together.

"You're telling me to get it together?!" Dustin screeched, looking at Steve incredulously. "Which one of us knows all the digits to pi?! Or better yet, which one of us has never gotten his fist stuck in a chain link fence, huh?!?"

[waldenwritess]

@soemotional

"i mean... you look hungover." max affectionately clapped suzie on the shoulder, "you having fun at those community college parties?" to be extra antagonizing, she swatted at her and continued to tease, "washing the mormon away one shot at a time?" when she was done prodding, she rolled her eyes. "it wasn't shit. it was true."

"Oh, sorry," Suzie looked behind her, "Who were you talking to?" she said, faux-genuine, before breaking a smile. "My Caltech parties are great; who knew a bunch of nerds could have fun." She rubbed at her eyes, trying to banish the headache that was beginning to form. "Not nearly fast enough," Suzie groaned. "If this is the price, fine. Fine!" she said, more dramatic than entirely necessary. She took a second to study Max's appearance-- she looked suspiciously well-rested. "Surely you weren't studying on a Friday night?"

[waldenwritess]

@soemotional

sean grimaced as she looked down at the shot glass being thrust into her hand. she shook her head and attempted to hand it back to allegra, "i…it's…no…i shouldn't." she said slowly. when allegra didn't budge, she sucked in a breath and flatly informed her, "you can't make me." this was why she didn't go to parties. "take it back." she insisted.

Allegra groaned, but wasted no time in snatching the shot from Sean’s hand and throwing it back. “You are–” she wiped her mouth. “So utterly lame, Kennedy.” Allegra tossed the cups to the side, planting a hand on her hip and studying Sean’s face with narrowed eyes. “So what’s, like, your thing then? You a pothead? I can get you an edible.”