#she writes

[mappingthesky]

planymphia wives honeymoon cutesy fluffy and overwhelmingly emotional drabble pleaseee

take my hand (take my whole life, too)

or: it’s their first week of being married - jane can’t stop referring to nymphia as ‘my wife’, nymphia can’t stop crying, and no one has ever been more in love in all of time.

Jane wakes up when Nymphia rolls over and flings a heavy arm across her torso in sleep.

Jane’s eyes flutter. Sunlight threatens to spill in from the other side of the heavy hotel room curtains all too soon. She’s only half conscious, and her eyes are still a little blurry with last night’s wine, and she’s content to drift back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle brush of Nymphia’s fingertips down her sternum, but then-

A little gasp, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god.”

“Mmwhat?” Nymphia mumbles, her eyes still closed as Jane grabs for her hand. Again, when her wrist is nearly pulled from the rest of her arm. “What?”

“Nymphia,” Jane whispers, but it’s thin, because she’s smiling. Nymphia can barely make it out through the dim light of the room and the sleep that clouds her vision, but she knows it just the same. She would recognize that smile by the sound of Jane’s words spoken through it, by the feeling of her soft gaze upon her. She would know it anywhere - even in the dark.

“We got married.”

Nymphia’s eyes blink open and look over at Jane. She’s on her back, holding Nymphia’s hand up to the light. She turns it over carefully, fingertips against her open palm, thumb tracing over the silver band on Nymphia’s ring finger. A diamond glitters in the dark.

“I know,” Nymphia grumbles, still half-asleep, still unwilling to be awoken for anything at all. “Spent eight months planning it, ’member?”

It was longer than that. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of planning, of Nymphia ironing out every last detail, Jane somehow even more stressed than she was, because she’d wanted it all to be perfect. For her.

(“You have a say, too,” Nymphia had reminded her on more than one occasion. “This day is about the both of us.”

“I know, baby,” Jane said, that spot between her brows that creases when she thinks too hard momentarily relaxing as she kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “But it’s really about you. Everything is about you.”)

Jane pulls Nymphia’s hand closer, studies it for a long while. Nymphia’s eyes are just closing again when Jane presses a kiss to her ring finger, then to her palm, more kisses up the inside of her wrist, the length of her arm, up her shoulder. Nymphia whines.

It comes back to her slowly as Jane coaxes her from her sleep, the only one she’d ever allow. Their night. It was everything they ever could have asked for, more than that. Their friends lining the aisle, swearing that they knew this day would come, arguing over who had really called it first. Jane, who had sworn she wouldn’t cry, who had warned Nymphia not to be worried if she didn’t, dissolving into tears the moment Nymphia emerged in all white. Nymphia, unsurprisingly to everyone, openly sobbing for half of the night, dabbing a tissue underneath her damp eyes at the dinner table. They’d had two glasses of champagne each, and nothing else.  They’d promised, because they wanted to remember this: the toasts, the dancing, each other, every moment.

Nymphia is beaming by the time Jane kisses her shoulder blade, eliciting a hum.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Jane murmurs, brushing a dark strand of hair back to kiss Nymphia’s ear.

A smile splits through Nymphia’s sleep, eyes still closed as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, deeper into Jane. “It was perfect.”

Jane kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “What was your favorite part?”

“Mmm,” Nymphia hums, because how could she ever pick just one shining moment to stand out among the rest? How could she even begin to split the single most incandescent day of her life into segments? 

“The part where we went home,” Nymphia says, and Jane is pulling her closer. “The part where we went to bed and you let me sleep in.”

“Can’t let you sleep in,” Jane says, chin coming to rest on the crown of Nymphia’s head where it comes to press against her chest. “Too in love with you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, basking in the warmth of last night as it rolls over to this morning.

“Wanna know my favorite part?” Jane asks, and Nymphia can feel the soft reverberation of her voice through her skin. “The part where we wake up and I get to say that you’re my wife.”

Nymphia can’t help but laugh at the sentiment. “This part?” she says, finally tilting her head up to look at Jane. She’s never gotten used to this - Jane looking at her every day like she’s still shiny and new. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

“Yeah. This part,” Jane beams, one hand coming to cradle Nymphia’s cheek as she smiles. “You’re my wife.”

“This part’s pretty good,” Nymphia stares into Jane, belly burning with butterflies, a love bigger and brighter than she ever thought was possible. “Say it again.”

Jane grins and brings her lips to Nymphia’s, kisses her with a lifetime of devotion. She pulls away, and there’s forever in her eyes. 

“You’re my wife,” Jane smiles. “And I’m yours.”

-

Jane doesn’t travel well.

She puts her packing off until the last possible minute and grumbles all the way to the airport. Nymphia can’t be upset though, because Jane ‘my wife’s’ Nymphia at every possible opportunity - she does it to the disgruntled employee who checks their bags, and the TSA agent who checks their passports, and the barista who makes their coffees while they’re killing time at their terminal. Nymphia rolls her eyes every time, but she’s smiling too, and can’t stop examining the sparkle on her left hand ring finger. 

Jane goes so anxious on the plane that Nymphia has to hold her hand through the takeoff. She doesn’t let go until thirty minutes into the flight, when Jane is finally distracted enough to drop her shoulders and stop thinking about the miniscule possibility that they go plummeting to the ground.

Eventually, they settle in. It’s a long flight, nearly twenty hours, and they shelled out on first class for the occasion. Nymphia’s got the window seat (partly because Jane knows she likes to look out the window, and partly because she can’t stomach seeing the ocean several thousand feet beneath them), and Jane wastes no time getting comfortable. 

(“It’s for my wife,” Jane tells the stewardess when she requests an extra blanket. “She runs cold.” 

Nymphia stares up from her book just long enough to swat Jane’s arm, muttering “that’s not even true.”

“I know,” Jane shrugs. “Just wanted to see what playing the wife card could get me.”

“Careful,” Nymphia warns. “You’re gonna wear it out.”

“What, calling you my wife?” Jane grins. “Baby, that’s never gonna get old.”)

They’re curled up together, alternating between books and movies and laughing at odd little happenings around them. Jane scoffs at shitty jokes on the screen, and Nymphia leans over to read her passages from her book, and Jane hums like she’s listening, but really she’s just admiring Nymphia in her comfy clothes, dark hair pulled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She likes her the best like this.

At the end of her movie, Jane glances over at Nymphia. “Are you excited?”

She thinks she knows what the answer will be, but she’s asking anyway, because she wants it to be perfect - their honeymoon, their first trip together as a married couple, their first foray into the rest of their lives together. They’d debated on a destination for weeks on end. They’d considered a roadtrip across America (too pedestrian - they’ll save that one for another summer), or a week in Vegas where they’d get married again in some cheap chapel (too cliche - they’ll save it for their vow renewals). They’d debated on whether or not to book a room in the most luxurious resort they could find in Thailand, but had settled on a cozy beachside bungalow instead. Jane thought Nymphia would like that the best, knew she would too, because she’d be happy if Nymphia was.

It’s funny how someone can change you so completely and entirely, how they can bring out the best part of you that was waiting to be discovered. Before Nymphia, Jane had always put herself first, even at the expense of others. She was content like that, and then she met Nymphia, and the center of her universe shifted outside of herself. For the first time it wasn’t a chore to care for someone else, and Jane was better because of it. 

“For the honeymoon?” Nymphia asks, folding her book in her lap. She looks down at Jane all nestled in her blankets, hoodie pulled over her blonde hair, and can’t help but smile. 

Nymphia had always been a hopeless romantic, all too eager to hand her heart over to the wrong person. She was a tender thing then, bruising easily in careless hands, burning through her own wells of hope faster than she could replenish them, and after the almost-great-loves of her young adulthood, she felt like she’d been cored. Having her heart handed back to her so unrequitedly time after time, she’d thought she’d been selfish to want a love as big as her own, to expect anyone to be able to return what she gave to them. She’d stopped dreaming of it altogether, and then she’d met Jane. Jane, who reveres her like the Earth reveres the Sun, who worships the ground that she walks on, who straightened out every desire Nymphia had crumpled up inside of herself and gave her more than she could ever dare ask for. 

Now, Nymphia knows she can be selfish. She looks over at Jane and thinks that she wants this for all time - all of Jane, all to herself. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m so excited.” Nymphia reaches over to take Jane’s hand. “Jus’ wanna spend time with you.”

“Good,” Jane smiles, “me too.” She tilts her head up, puckers her lips in a silent request for a kiss, and Nymphia obliges.

-

The plane starts its descent several long hours after they’ve woken up, and Nymphia is grabbing Jane’s hand before she even has to ask, because she knows she hates this part the most. Jane sucks air through her teeth as the last bit of turbulence rocks the plane, and Nymphia rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand. As soon as they hit the tarmac, Jane snaps back into place, blocking the whole aisle just to get Nymphia’s carry-on out of the overhead compartment.

“Sorry,” Jane says over her shoulder to a disgruntled passenger. “My wife. She’s pregnant.”

“Jane,” Nymphia hisses through her teeth. “You of all people should know I’m not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” Jane kisses her shoulder before they maneuver down the aisle. “But when I’m through with you…”

Nymphia scoffs, smiling into the air, because she knows it’s impossible, but if anyone’s love could defy the laws of science, it would be theirs.

-

Despite their sleep on the plane, Jane and Nymphia are so impossibly jetlagged, and the car ride to the bungalow is a delirious haze. Determined to push through the rest of the day, they tumble out of their room and onto the tree-lined streets, perusing the local offerings and getting dinner while they speak to each other in exhausted, two-word sentences that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s all they need.

And then they’re out under the sky, wandering in this beautiful place with blue-green water that laps in whispering waves over the sandy beach, and Nymphia has never looked so beautiful to Jane as she does under the moonlight. 

She’s running up the beach, shrieking as the water splashes at her feet, or when Jane chases her up the shore and catches her, spinning her around and pressing crazed kisses against her hairline. Nymphia is laughing, and then her cheeks are wet with tears, and Jane is wiping underneath her eyes.

“Hey,” Jane says, pushing Nymphia’s hair behind her ears, a careful concern crossing her face. “Why tears?”

“I’m just so happy,” Nymphia blubbers, smiling through the silver-wet stars in her eyes, because it’s all been such a beautiful blur, and it hasn’t hit her until right now that this is the rest of her life. “I can’t believe we get to do this forever.”

“God, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jane smiles. “Here I was thinking you stepped on a sea urchin. Or you got stung by a jellyfish. And I’d have to pee on your leg or something. Wouldn’t that be a great start to our honeymoon?”

“Shut up,” Nymphia sobs. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“M’sorry, my love,” Jane coos, wiping another tear from Nymphia’s face. “You’re the most sentimental girl alive, you know I can’t keep up with that.”

Nymphia just laughs, because yes, she’s endlessly sentimental, but, secretly, so is Jane. She still remembers the first time she’d opened a card from Jane and was met with pages filled almost entirely with ink, letters squished together to make room for as many as possible, words winding around whatever tacky quote was stamped in the middle. Jane had a way with words, despite whatever she’d tell you otherwise, and never ceased to amaze Nymphia with the sincerity she seemed to save just for her. 

(It crosses Nymphia’s mind then what her favorite part of the wedding really was - when Jane had recited her vows from memory in front of all their family and friends, had taken those impossibly beautiful things that were usually relinquished to their most intimate moments and had loved Nymphia enough to profess it in front of everyone. Not that they didn’t know already. You can’t hide a love as enormous as this one.)

“You keep up just fine,” Nymphia says softly, resting her cheek against Jane’s hand. She swears Jane’s eyes go misty just before she kisses her right there on the sand, beneath the stars, beneath the universe that brought them together.

-

Nymphia smiles when Jane crawls into bed. She’s in a gray crewneck that’s cut across her shoulders, and she’s propped up against fluffy pillows, and Jane is pushing the book out of her hands.

“Dinner was perfect,” Jane kisses her cheek before slipping into bed beside Nymphia. “But is it bad that I just wanted to get back to the room?”

“It’s terrible,” Nymphia turns over, slotting her back against Jane’s chest. “Is this the part where we get old and boring?”

“Yes,” Jane envelops Nymphia in her hold, fits against her in the way they’re going to for the rest of their lives, slides a hand down the length of her torso and up the inside of her thigh. 

“Not even gonna call you a whore or anything,” Jane kisses her ear. One hand cups Nymphia’s breast, the other dips between her legs. “Just gonna fuck you good and tell you how much I love you.”

“So boring,” Nymphia sighs, already melting away.

“So boring.”

(It’s not boring at all.)

-

Now that it’s hit Nymphia, she can’t stop crying every time the sheer enormity of it washes over her.

She’s always been emotional, but sometimes there’s a delay. Her life moves so fast, always swept up in the current of whatever dream she’s chasing, and sometimes it isn’t until she has a second to slow down that she realizes just how special every fleeting moment has been.

It’s been a whole week of being married, of wandering through villages and long hikes up mountain sides and afternoons spent sunning on the shore, of dawns and dinners and keeping a distance from the rest of the world as they know it. Now, Nymphia is sitting in a hammock at the edge of the beach, and she’s looking out over the water, and she’s basking in the overwhelming perfection of this moment. It’s something out of a dream, the sort of thing she’d long thought would be impossible for her to experience, and she can’t help but want to slow it all down, to draw out every precious moment long enough to memorize them, to make them last forever.

She’s sniffling just a bit when Jane finally finds her. She slides into place beside her, knees tucked into her chest, and stares quietly at the last of the sun as it sets over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” Jane murmurs, and it’s about the sunset, but it’s about Nymphia too. She presses a soft kiss to Nymphia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to end,” Nymphia sighs, unwilling to look away from the heaven that’s in front of her. They still have another day of this, one more perfect day at the edge of reality, and then they’ll be packing their things, leaving the quiet paradise of their bungalow and flying home. Back to work, back to their crazy, stupid friends, back to the never-ending rush and whirr of the city.

It’s not just that Nymphia doesn’t want the honeymoon to end. She doesn’t want this to end: her and Jane, so head-spinningly in love that nothing else matters, so finely attuned to one another, so freshly devoted to making it last. Nymphia wants so desperately to do it right, for their love to outlive that of either of their parents, for them to see all of their promises through for years to come. The possibility that they can’t pull it off is mind-numbingly terrifying, but the possibility that they can…

It’s an impossible promise to make to one another, and yet they’ve already done it. 

Nymphia sighs, mind swirling, and Jane somehow knows exactly what she means when she says, “what do we do now?”

Jane goes quiet for a moment, staring out over everything she’s ever wanted, and does her best to be brave for Nymphia.

“We sit out here until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open, and then I’ll take you to bed,” Jane says softly. “And then we have one more beautiful day, okay?”

“Okay,” Nymphia says, chewing on her cheek, still unable to look away from the landscape should it all disappear on her. “And then what?”

“And then we go home,” Jane looks over at Nymphia. “We go back to our house. And I’ll take you to work every morning, and then I’ll come home and be pissed about something, probably, and you’ll roll your eyes and tell me to shut up and I will, because I love you and, y’know, I generally think you’re right about everything. And we’ll have our stupid friends over and show them a billion pictures from our trip and kick them out so we can watch Project Runway and fuck. How does that sound?”

Nymphia giggles, and when she finally tears her gaze away from the beach, she realizes there’s another heaven right beside her, one that she gets to take home. And home, their home, the one with the fat cat and the mismatched furniture and their pictures all over the wall, that's another heaven too. Suddenly, the trip being over doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Nymphia is almost looking forward to it.

“Are you scared?” Jane ventures softly, searching Nymphia’s face carefully. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Only a little,” Nymphia mumbles, voice wavering, eyes watering. 

“I’m a little scared too. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Jane continues, looking a little smaller all of a sudden, pushing through every worry that threatens to override her strong front. “I know we’ll have bad days too, Nymph. I know I’m gonna fuck up and not listen enough and piss you off sometimes, but I love you to fucking pieces. I’m gonna give you the best I’ve got, I promise you.”

Nymphia takes Jane’s hand, and there are silent tears streaming down her face, because it’s only been a week and she already loves Jane more than she did on the day that she married her. It’s enough love to override everything that threatens to pierce through their perfect bubble, enough to fuel the years to come, enough to roll over into the next life and the one after that.

“And if you get sick of me,” Jane teases, squeezing Nymphia’s hand. “Y’know. Just say the word.”

“Shut up. I’ll never get sick of you,” Nymphia cries, throwing her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Jane laughs into her neck, pulls her closer into a bone-crushing embrace. This is the best part - Nymphia married her best friend. It’s enough just to hold her, just to be beside her. All those other parts, the sex and the sweet nothings and the swearing each other to forever, they’re just the luxuries of being in love with her. 

“You promise?” Jane says into Nymphia’s hair. She knows what the answer will be. She just wants to hear it anyway.

“I promise,” Nymphia whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Jane says. “With all my heart.”

(They go home two mornings later, back to the city and their couch and their cat, and they aren’t scared anymore, because the warm glow of one another lasts much longer than fleeting sunsets over foreign shores. They wake up together, kiss goodbye on the way to work, hang their wedding photos on the wall and muse over the best day of their lives for years to come. They have lots of good days, and a few bad ones, too. They fight, and then they talk, and they never go to bed angry, just put each other back together in the way that only they can. And then they wake up and love each other more in spite of it.

The honeymoon was great, but here’s the best part: they make it last.)

[soulinkpoetry]

When you’re trying too hard to get someone to love you, all you achieve is the opposite. Love can not be forced upon anyone. You either feel it or you don’t.

-Soulinkpoetry

.

[jackaltarino]

Ya no me conoces. Y yo solo conozco la versión de ti que ya ni tú reconoces.

[kookygranger]

Top five, most memorable kisses of all time

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin move to Chicago and find their people. Eddie finds you behind the counter at Championship Records. He thinks you're cool. You think he's gorgeous. Life outside of Hawkins might just be worth fighting for.

Warnings: swearing, kissing (obvs), fluff, fem!reader, mostly Eddie's POV, our boy has no rizz, alcohol consumption, I don't think anything else, too many high fidelity references?

Word count: 4k

Author's note: This is a one-shot, that has been sitting in my drafts since last Halloween and thanks to a wip game has finally seen the light of day! Find the playlist that inspired the fic below.

Masterlist

One pill makes you larger,

And one pill makes you small

The bell above the door jingles as Eddie steps through the threshold, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth seeps back into him and he scans the racks of records before him. Perking up as he notices the music playing over the speakers, he was still getting used to how much cooler things were in Chicago than back home – and shit, how much cooler people were.

Eddie clocks you sitting on top of the counter with one leg crossed under you, the other swinging down the side as you sticker a stack of vinyl. You mouth along with the music, not even noticing him slip through the aisles as he stops in a random section with a perfect view of you across the small store.

He’d only come in here to kill some time between soundcheck and the gig tonight at a venue down the street. The rest of the band had gone to find some food, but Eddie wanted to check out the record store they passed on the drive in. And boy, was he glad he did.

He mindlessly flicks through the records in front of him, trying to come up with a good conversation starter. It wasn’t that often that he missed Steve Harrington, but he could sure use one of the boy’s famous pep talks right about now. Fuck, what was it about pretty girls that got him so tongue-tied? Probably the pretty part.

But you weren’t just pretty, you were obviously very cool, and he certainly wasn’t used to girls sharing the same interests as him – but he’d met a lot of them since he’d moved to Chicago a couple of months ago.

Just as he’s thinking about what albums he could pick out to impress you, the bell above the door jingles again. A guy around his age walks in, his short hair spiked, nose and ears pierced and tattoos peeking out from a crisp white t-shirt. He walks with confidence to where you sit and makes you jump slightly as he greets you boisterously.

“Shit, you scared me.”

He snickers and starts rummaging through a crate of cassettes by the counter.

“Yeah, you look like you were in the zone. Did you even notice you had a customer?”

You turn your head in Eddie’s direction just as he ducks his down, continuing to flick through the disco section. Wait, shit where’s the metal?

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath and turn your attention back to the other guy, not quite lowering your voice enough so Eddie couldn’t eavesdrop. “No, but in my defence this song is a banger.”

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

Severin, down on your bended knee

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that led to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you coming to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing. Apparently, they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god-awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points his hand in the air, drawing your attention to the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s now sure you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorts. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the way your face lights up quietly when you realise what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You look up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile creeps up on you.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?”

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

***

“Hey, Carlos.” You greet your friend at the door of The Allied, who waves you in without payment. “That Darondo record came in, I put it aside for you.” You call back on your way in, hearing a muffled thanks as the music from inside hits your eardrums.

There’s a decent crowd tonight, and you have to push past a few people to reach the sticky top bar.

“Oh, she showed up! Surprise, surprise.” Simon makes his way over to you, ignoring the calls of indignance as he passes other customers. He slings a rag over his shoulder, which makes you bite your lip, attempting to hold in a laugh, remembering how he’d practised that move in the mirror when he turned twenty-one and landed the second most coveted job of your teenage selves.

You shrug nonchalantly, despite your cousin knowing the exact reason you’re here. “I ended up doing inventory ‘till late. Thought I may as well drop by before catching the L.”

Simon flicks your nose, your retaliating slap missing him as he moves to pour your drink. You thank him with a forced smile when he slides it across the bar, picking it up and turning to find a spot in the crowd.

“No tip?”

You call over your shoulder, “Yeah, take it easy on the cologne.” You smirk, not even having to turn around to know he’s probably sniffing his shirt.

You take your usual spot leaning against the wall, up the back and away from most of the crowd. Your rule was front row or back. None of that squished in the middle, view blocked by the tallest guy you’d ever seen crap. Either it was front and centre, immersed in the moment, or your own space with a view of it all.  

You’d never be up front for a band you didn’t know, and tonight was no exception, no matter how large the butterflies in your stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, apart from the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. Maybe it was something in his presence. But when he walked up to the counter earlier with a record you’d just been talking about and a shy smile on his face – you were a goner.

The murmurs of the crowd quieten when the house lights are switched off, a yellow glow on the stage and above the bar now the only sources of light.

There are a few enthusiastic cheers when the band appear from a door behind the stage and a smattering of applause as they take their place. You take a sip of your drink, ignoring the feeling in your chest when Eddie steps up to the mic and adjusts his red Warlock guitar. He smiles and you duck your head, trying not to look too much like the girl who’s just fallen for a lead singer when he addresses the crowd.

“Evening. Hope you brought your earplugs, this one’s new.” The quiet, reservedness of his introduction and the boy you’d met earlier is undone with the first crashing of cymbals and thrash of power chords.

Stage Eddie isn’t what you were expecting, but still somehow makes total sense. He’s more comfortable, more himself up there as he thrashes back and forth, hair whipping wildly. And they’re good. Really good.

Maybe you’d write about them after all.

The band are almost through their set when he spots you. Your back straightens as his eyes lock onto yours. Normally you hate making eye contact with someone on stage, but you can’t seem to look away when his chocolate-brown gaze twinkles over the heads of the rest of the crowd. In between songs, he gives you a wave, and you nod, returning his small smile.

When they finish, you move back to the bar. Waiting for the lingering fans to clear over a rum and coke. You’re only on your second sip when you feel a burning hot presence behind you.

“You made it.”

You turn around, and Eddie leans an arm on the bar beside you, moving in closer as the growing line pushes him forward.

“I did.” You nod, taking another sip of your drink.

He clears his throat, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“So, uh, what did you think?”

You smile, “I think you’re going to fit in very well here.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” he chuckles.

“Oh, it is. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the dark side, Eddie.”

His eyebrows raise, the ghost of a smirk kicking up when you’re interrupted by your cousin.

“Man, that was sick! What can I get ya?”

Eddie thanks Simon, then looks back at you, “What are you having?” He holds up two fingers when you answer, signalling for another round, then starts playing with a beermat while you wait. Your eyes are trained to the glint of silver on his fingers.

“How are you liking Chicago so far?”

Eddie looks back at you and puffs his cheeks up as he exhales. “Honestly?... I didn’t know life could be this good.”

You feel a sharp tingling in your nose as your eyes well up a little for the boy standing in front of you, his cheeks dusted with pink as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Trust me, things are only gonna get better from here.”

“Yeah?” He beams at you then and you inhale deeply as you fight the urge to reach out and wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah.”

***

Eddie had seen you a few times since the gig at The Allied. Dropping into the record store when he could. In small crowds at gigs in the city. You’d greet him with a hug or a squeeze to the arm that never failed to get his heart rate going.

Today, he’d gotten off early from his temporary new gig at the auto shop and he found himself parked outside the record store.

It was overcast, but there was no bite to the air. A balmy wind tousling his hair as he ran across the street to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, avoiding the fat drops of rain that had begun to fall sporadically.

He spots you through the window when he makes his back to the store, bobbing your head along to whatever’s playing as you fill the racks. The now familiar bell jingles and he smiles when he recognises Joy Division over the speakers. He’d seen you in their shirt on more than one occasion.

He meets you as you're walking back to the counter.

“Oh, hey Eddie.” You smile and do a double take, taking in his greasy coveralls, and suddenly he’s wishing he’d gone home and showered. Even if it was an hour out of his way.

“Hey.” He places a coffee on the counter along with a white paper bag. “Thought you might like a mid-afternoon pick me up. I’ve uh, I’ve seen you with one of those cinnamon things before.”

Your eyes light up as you inspect the inside of the bag. “Oh my god, you’re my hero! Thank you, that’s so sweet.”

He shrugs, taking a step back from the counter, his own black coffee still clutched in his hands.

“So, this is the day job then huh?” You gesture to his outfit.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah for now. Until the music starts paying off. If the music starts paying off.”

You nod, taking a bite of your cinnamon scroll and he can’t help but smirk at the way your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head. “It will.”

His free hand goes to his pocket, face hidden slightly by his hair as he tucks into himself at your confident statement.

“Thanks.” He turns around to start perusing the aisles.

“Oh, we will be getting the new Metallica album on the day of release by the way. I’ll put a tape aside for you.”

“Thank you.” He offers you a smile over his shoulder, and you tip your coffee to him.

He takes his time flicking through the rows, a few customers coming and going as he does, although he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Once the store is quiet again, he walks back over to you, selection in hand.

“Lee Hazelwood?” You take the record from him with a look of surprise.

He nods, “Yeah, I liked that song on that pre-goth mixtape you gave me. It’s like the kind of thing my uncle would listen to but…”

“Sinister.”

“Yeah.”

You smile, “It’s cool isn’t it? You know he actually wrote These Boots Are Made For Walkin’. Helped save Nancy Sinatra’s career after the teeny-bopper thing didn’t work out. They made a couple of albums together actually, and you know the first time he retired from the music industry was because the success of The Beatles’ made him depressed.”

He leans his arms on the counter as you talk. “Wow, you really are a wealth of knowledge for this stuff huh?”

You shrug, “What else is there?”

“Apart from books.”

You nod, “Good movies.”

He smiles, “Pizza.”

“Dumplings.”

“DnD”

You frown, “That nerdy board game?”

“No, uh d–dumplings like you said, and uh– dough–doughnuts?”

You scrunch up your face, “Okay,” and giggle at Eddie’s strained smile.

“So uh, what–would you–“ Not screwing this up at all Munson. “Would you maybe wanna do that together sometime? The pizza and dumplings, or probably one or the other I guess, and a movie, good music–“ he blows out a puff of air, scrunching up his face.

“Are you asking if I wanna go see a movie?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, “that and dinner. If you want.”

“I do like both those things.” You smile. “How about Thursday? I finish closing up at six.”

“Yeah. Cool. Thursday sounds good.” The guys and their weekly standing appointment for band practice would not agree.

***

Thursday rolls around faster than Eddie’s prepared for. Predictably, his bandmates all made fun of him for cancelling practice for you. But he just ignored the high-pitched ooohs and went to make sure his lucky Sabbath shirt was washed before he needed it.

He’s wearing it now as he paces outside the movie theatre, twisting his rings, oblivious to you sneaking up behind him until it’s too late.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ.” He jumps and twists around, your hands that had reached out to scare him still on his hips, his arms float in the air for a second before landing on your shoulders.

“You’re on edge,” you tease before your face sets a little more seriously. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just uh, you wanna head in? It starts in like five minutes.”

You nod, your hands leaving his waist as his fall back to his sides. “What are we seeing anyway?” You look up at the black lettering above you, smiling just as Eddie reveals your viewing choice for the night.

“Thought we could see Young Frankenstein. Saw they were doing an old-school horror weekend here in the paper.”

“That sounds great.”

He lets out a breath of relief when you bump his shoulder affectionately, and you begin walking into the theatre side by side.

“Now the real important question Eddie Munson. What are your go-to movie snacks?”

His hand twitches when it accidentally brushes the back of yours.

“Well, popcorn obviously.”

“Obviously.” You nod.

“Sour Patch Kids and you gotta add a packet of Reese’s Pieces in there too.”

“Wait, in there as in–?”

“In the popcorn bucket. All of it. Like a good version of a trail mix.”

You grin, “Very interesting.”

“Just wait till you try it, sweetheart, you’ll never do it any other way.”

You laugh, “Okay, lead the way.”

He bows, gesturing his hand towards the confection stand. “After you m’lady.”

Your giggle, Eddie quickly finds out is his new favourite sound. When it appears again in the movie theatre, he can’t seem to keep his eyes on Gene Wilder, only watching you light up with laughter.

He can’t quite believe how well it’s all going. That is until you’re sharing a large pepperoni, on the bench outside the place you insisted served the best “pies” in all of Chicago, and your confusion stops his heart for a second.

He groans when he takes the first bite of cheesy dough.

“Good right?”

He nods, chewing and swallowing quickly. “My uncle told me pizza wasn’t a first date kind of meal, but we don’t have anything like this back in Hawkins.”

You’re sitting so close that he notices you still right away.

“Wait, this is a date?”

“Oh,” he swears his heart drops to his stomach as he sees the surprise on your face. “Oh well, yeah I thought it was but I guess I–it doesn’t have to be, sorry.”

You reach out to grab his arm when he instinctively moves away, “No! I just didn’t realise you were asking me out, out. You kinda just kept listing food.” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “I want it to be a date.”

He bites his lip, looking back at you with eyebrows raised, “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, squeezing the arm still in your hold. “Of course. I would love to…be on a date with you right now.”

He beams, “Well, it’s your lucky night sweetheart.”

***

The date (once it’s established as one), goes so well Eddie finds himself back at your apartment, admiring your wall lined with records while you find the both of you a drink.

His eyebrows marry together when he notices Dusty Springfield next to the Sex Pistols.

“What’s the system here?” You hand him a beer when you reappear by his side. “Not by genre?”

“No. Autobiographical.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How–?”

“Well,” you step forward, reaching out to pick a plastic sleeve as if from memory, “if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 but didn’t give it to them…for personal reasons.” You show him the white cover of the album.

“That sounds…”

“Comforting.”

He nods slowly, “Yes.”

“It is.”

God, you’re weird. And cute. And cool. And, shit he was going for it, you said you wanted to be on a date with him. You invited him back to your place. No one’s ever done that before. He should go for it. He’s going for it–

Your lips feel even softer than he imagined, and he can’t help but give himself a mental high-five when you immediately move closer to him, face melting into the hand that cradles your cheek. You taste almost vanilla-y with the combo of rum and coke still sitting on your tongue when his meets yours. He places his beer down on the coffee table, and your lips follow him when he has to dip down slightly before his free hand comes to sit on your waist.

You part for a breath, “Didn’t realise vinyl categorisation would get you so hot.” You tease him, lips plump and eyes slightly glazed over, and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to keep you looking at him like this.

“Yeah uh, really love that Dewey Decimal system.” He leans close to capture your lips again, but you pull back, leaving him to chase you.

“The Dewey Decimal system is for books.” You shake your head.

Eddie huffs, “I really don’t care.” He finally finds your lips again and he swears they taste even sweeter the second time, despite being tainted by his own.

You guide him back to slowly sit on the couch, bodies falling a little clumsily together before you situate yourself in his lap, legs straddling his. You both stay like that for what could be hours for all Eddie cares, lips clicking in the silence.

“Fuck, I could kiss you all night.” He leans his forehead against yours, heavy breathing synced with your own, as you finally come up for air.

You shake your head, eyes soft and reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie.”

God dammit, is he glad he left Hawkins.

Tagging: @storiesbyrhi (I hope you like the coffee shop across from the record store 😉), @bettyfrommars (I finished it!)

[nookisms]

A love poem for the Last Universal Common Ancestor, the last of its kind and the first of our own at the beginning of the world.

[carnivalls]

the opening to my dissertation (it is meant to count for 90% of my grade)

[hertwood]

a collection of statistical improbabilities (9k, Logan/Alex, uni/college au, Explicit)

Logan’s two month study abroad is thrown into jeopardy when his housing falls through. Looking for new accommodations last minute, he meets Alex, a grad student behind on rent, with a fold out couch.

[chand-ki-priyatama]

It's almost midway August but I haven't even bidden a goodbye to July , My thoughts are stuck in the past....

I am not yet ready for another forced goodbye to August , I am not yet ready to embrace September wholeheartedly....

I can feel the air turning nostalgic with a smell of bittersweet regret mixed in it , I can feel the sky turning gloomy from all sunny as it once was....

Everything is changing including me and now I reflect back and realise that change is the only constant in life....

The once green leaves will now start turning yellow , the trees which one stood in glory the entire Spring will slowly wither away....

~Is this what life is all about ?

- Serene Melancholy ~K.Y

[ariasmontage]

there is a high school in front of my apartment. during lunch break, i look at kids playing basketball or just walking. i tell myself, this is how you will keep in touch with your childhood.

as an observer.

I piece my life together in this way, living vicariously through these strangers, from a small window.

sometimes, it's not so bad.

[dear--void]

Please stay the one I could never understand,

That’s your magic.

I beg you to never let me out of this spell,

I’m okay being a fool for you.

– Rune

[mappingthesky]

never not mine

here’s the long-awaited jealous nymphia prompt i have been promising for some time now.. thank u for ur patience :’) i also want to thank @headgleeksana for her contributions to this fic & for being the best beta reader in the universe (and for being a total muse) without further ado, pls enjoy some sexy sweet angst ::)

It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, because this is what she’d said she wanted, but it comes as one anyway.

It isn’t Nymphia’s party, it’s really just Xunami’s excuse to get a bunch of beautiful girls in one place, but the whole thing feels like it’s orbiting around her. She’s sitting pretty in the center of the room, a vision in hot pink and a ponytail, and feels every bit as effortless as she looks. She’s freshly unattached to anyone, for real this time, and, by the looks of it, other people have caught on. She exudes a quiet rule over the room, gracious and bubbling and effervescent. She feels the eyes of other girls on her outfit, on her lips. They hang on her every word, their laughter following the last word of her jokes like thunder after lightning. They want her, or they want to be her. She feels in control, like she could make anything happen, like she could change the flow of the whole night with the flutter of her fingertips. Everything comes back to her - she’s the center of gravity.

She’s only vaguely aware of Jane’s arrival, and is determined not to pay any attention to it. Jane is a mere tug on Nymphia’s force field as she circles the party, honey blonde and apparently happy, her smile a glittering flash in the corner of Nymphia’s eye. Jane, Nymphia reminds herself, is just one of many small planets revolving around her. Even if she happens to be exceptionally, unfortunately gorgeous. Even if she’s dressed in something black and skintight. Even if her hair looks a shade darker, and making Nymphia wonder whether she’s the reason why. 

She brushes the thought away, because this is what she wanted, and focuses on making the pretty girl across from her lose her mind. The girl is going on about the band Nymphia mentioned liking, clearly trying to make a lasting impression, although Nymphia’s attention seems to have been diverted for no particular reason. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. She’s back now. Nymphia hones in on the girl with expertise; leans in ever so slightly, locks eyes and flutters her lashes. The other girl stutters, tries to stumble through the rest of the sentence before losing sight of it completely. 

It doesn’t matter that Jane doesn’t seem to be looking at her, at least not when Nymphia steals a second glance, because it's better this way. Crazy things happen when Nymphia and Jane get together - crazy, obsessive, mind-altering things that contradict Nymphia’s attachment to not getting attached. She doesn’t need someone who can’t tear themselves away from her, she needs her freedom. Besides, should Nymphia ever need her, Jane will never be too far away. She doesn’t have to catch her staring to know that Jane’s eyes are on her, stealing glances when Nymphia isn’t looking. It’s inevitable, not that Nymphia really cares. Still, she reasons that, if she’s going to be looked at, she might as well look good. Besides, she’s got it down to a science: she sits up straight, or stands with a delicate arc to her spine so her ass sits right. She flicks her hair, flashes smiles, holds her drink just below her mouth to emphasize her lips, drags her finger slowly where the cocktail is clinging to the corner of her mouth. She’s sure of her approach, sure that if she turned her head just now, she’d find Jane staring. So, just to prove a point…

It’s a calculated glance, a cinematic turn of the head worthy of slow motion cameras and silver screens; Nymphia’s hair flying over her shoulder, her lips parted mid-word, like she only just happened to look in Jane’s direction. Everything is precise, perfect - except for what she finds when she gazes across the room and into the kitchen. Because Jane isn’t looking at her.

Jane is thoroughly distracted. She’s got a drink in one hand and a girl in the other. A pretty, short, curly-haired brunette who slides herself suggestively between Jane and the edge of the countertop. Wedging herself perfectly into the space Nymphia has created for her. The space Nymphia said she wanted.

It’s a tiny deviation from the natural order of things, a miniscule slip in the grand cosmic scheme, but it upends everything. The entire order of the universe as Nymphia knows it ceases to exist. Gravity fails, and every celestial body orbiting around her becomes little more than stray debris floating haphazardly through space. 

Someone might be speaking to her, but Nymphia isn’t listening. She’s watching, transfixed, as Jane’s hand flies to the brunette’s waist as though compelled there by some strange magnetism. She smiles down at the girl and it’s gut-wrenching - it’s toothy, her canines pointed with want, tongue catching just between her teeth like she has to hold herself back from attaching herself to the other girl’s neck. The brunette says something and Jane laughs like she has to, her hand inadvertently lifting as she gives some flirty response, then willed back to its resting place on the shorter girl’s waist by some force Nymphia can’t comprehend. Nymphia glares at the back of the girl’s head, her chocolate curls bobbing as she laughs. She talks and Jane tilts the last of her drink into her mouth, sets it aside, and lays her palms flat on the countertop on either side of the girl. Nymphia watches as Jane leans into the brunette, looking down at her with this devious, fascinated sort of expression. It’s not quite the way she looked at Nymphia just a few weeks before, but it’s a little too close. It ignites something in Nymphia she didn’t know was capable of burning. 

Eventually the girl is dragged out from under Jane by a friend. She holds her hand until she’s torn away, and promises she’ll be back. Don’t bother, Nymphia thinks.

Jane’s looking after the girl as she totters off after her friend, her eyes low and almost certainly on the brunette’s ass, and Nymphia’s up off the couch and crossing the room to her in half a second flat. Jane’s head turns when Nymphia storms into her periphery. She straightens up and is halfway through some polite, only half-surprised hello until she sees the look on Nymphia’s face. 

“What?” she says, wide eyed and suddenly serious. She doesn’t look caught, in fact she actually looks concerned, and Nymphia doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Jane is a deer in headlights, desperately trying to work out just what has Nymphia so uncharacteristically riled up. She doesn’t have much time, because Nymphia just grabs her hand and drags her down a hallway. She hardly has a plan, much less an idea of what it means - the inexplicable notion that she needs Jane, needs her anywhere but here.

“What?” Jane questions over and over while Nymphia’s shoving her into the bathroom and locking the door behind them. Nymphia turns and huffs and it’s supposed to be out of frustration, but her breath catches in her throat halfway through, because for the first time tonight she’s letting herself really look at Jane. 

“What is it?” Jane presses, dark brows knit tightly together. Her eyes look almost silver, rimmed with a sparkling shadow and searching Nymphia’s face. Nymphia sees them and thinks of a hundred different ways to keep them on her, thinks she wants to try them all one by one. She looks at Jane’s lips and wants them, wants the pale pink of her lipstick stamped across her skin as evidence that Jane still wants her. The honey blonde of her hair cascades in waves down her back and Nymphia wants to ruin it, to bury her hands in it while Jane moves down her body. She’s wearing this little black dress that’s making everything worse, because Jane looks so good in black, and the thin straps are begging to be slid down her shoulders, and her shoulders are begging to be bitten, and Nymphia isn’t quite begging but she’s not that far from it.

“Nymphia,” Jane looks actually worried, and it’s a painful reminder how much that she actually cares. The last time they’d spoken it had been about seeing other people, and it’s too soon to say whether or not that was a mistake, but from where Nymphia is standing it sure looks like one. “What’s up? What happened?” Jane urges.

What happened is that there’s a room full of people who would probably take Nymphia home in a heartbeat. What happened is that she thought that's what she wanted. What happened was she saw Jane wanting someone else, and she wanted her to want her instead. But Nymphia doesn’t say that. All she can manage right now is, “Are you having fun?”

Jane blinks. “That’s it? You’re holding me hostage in a bathroom to ask me if I’m having fun?”

Nymphia shrugs and leans back against the wall. It’s supposed to be an invitation. “It looked like you were.”

“Did I do something?” Jane asks, and she’s so concerned with not upsetting Nymphia that she’s completely missing the point - that Nymphia wants her to ruin her completely. “Because I’ve been trying to stay out of your way. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Is it not cool that I’m here?” Jane continues, “because I thought about staying in, but ‘Nami told me I should come. She said you’d be fine with it.”

Nymphia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well that’s because she wants to fuck you, Jane.”

Jane groans, tilts her head back and stares at the ceiling because here we fucking go again. “Ok. I’m not fucking Xunami, if that’s what you’re worried about. I told you I wasn’t interested in hooking up with your friends, remember?”

Nymphia does remember, remembers how she was so certain that she was the only one Jane really ever wanted. It was easier to brush her off when she thought that would never change.

“What about that other girl?” Nymphia’s voice is low, decidedly sultry as she steps closer. “In the kitchen.”

Jane misses a beat, cocks her head. “I’m sorry, did you not tell me I should sleep with other people?”

Nymphia ignores that last bit, and closes in on Jane. She slides herself against the sink, trying to work out what it’ll take to get Jane pressed against her like she was with the other girl. “Do you want her?”

Jane looks confused for a moment, then it all just melts away. “Oh,” Jane makes some personal revelation, smiles like something is funny. She steps back and Nymphia’s spell is broken.

“What?” Nymphia whines, actually stamping her foot because she’s trying to seduce Jane and there’s nothing funny about it.

“You’re jealous.” Jane turns back, suddenly smug, Nymphia wants to wipe the grin off her perfect fucking face. Wants to dip her fingers in her mouth and pull her smirk apart. 

Nymphia tries to shrug it off, to remain unflappable, but feels flimsy. “Maybe I just don’t like the way you looked at her,” she says. Jane doesn’t fall for it. 

“You’re so jealous,” Jane repeats, and she has Nymphia completely trapped in more ways than one. She angles closer, nearly pinning Nymphia to the countertop. “Ironic, isn’t it? Weren’t you the one telling me I was too obsessed?”

She’s hovering over Nymphia now, looking at her like she’s trying to decide just how worth it it would be to tear into her, trying to determine just how fucked she’d be afterwards. It crosses Nymphia’s mind for the first time that it doesn’t have to be like that, but more on that later. 

“Look at you now,” Jane coos, soft and searing. She’s smiling, because she’s actually the fucking worst. Her eyes drag over Nymphia’s face like she knows they’re allowed to, seeing right through her and directly at the things she’s not saying. Jane always had this gift for reading people, for turning them transparent, for finding that one thing that they’re desperately trying to hide and bringing it right to the surface. Out of admiration or kindness or something much bigger, Jane’s always given Nymphia the courtesy of a blind eye, but not anymore. Now Nymphia’s on the other end. She feels wholly and completely exposed, and it should be terrifying, but instead it's overwhelmingly sexy. Voyeuristic somehow. 

“Okay,” Nymphia gives a little. Maybe it’ll be enough. “So what if I am jealous?”

“So what if you are,” Jane shrugs, playing as unbearably indifferent. “I went after her because you told me to.”

Okay, so maybe Nymphia’s jealous. Maybe she misses Jane, and maybe it’s that the girl she was seconds away from tearing into looked nothing like Nymphia, and it’s doing horrible things to her head. Maybe she’s just fully lost her mind, because she deviates. She doesn’t say the thing that’s scientifically proven to seduce, she looks up at Jane and says the thing she really means:

“Don't you still want me?”

It’s supposed to be sexy, and to some degree it is. Nymphia is baiting, because she thinks she knows what the answer will be. It’s not until the words pass her lips, until she’s already asked the question, that she realizes she may not like the answer. It’s not until then that she realizes why she’s really asking - because she’s uncertain. Her doubt manifests as an almost undetectable lilt to her voice - just a touch too sad, too pleading.  Most people would miss it, but most people aren’t Jane. There’s a little flash of feeling in Jane’s eyes when Nymphia says it - like she can't fathom why Nymphia would ever have to wonder.

Nymphia is a little awed by it - the way that Jane, just for a moment, goes immeasurably tender. How immediately she’s willing to do it for Nymphia; even here, even now. There’s a small shake to her head when she says it, Jane’s eyes soft and her voice unmistakably sincere. “You never have to ask me that, Nymphia.”’

It’s everything Nymphia didn’t know she needed to hear, and suddenly she’s moved by something much more than simple desire. She’s leaning up to seal the deal, to make Jane hers again - that’s when Jane hardens once more.

“Ah-ah.” Jane pulls back; not by much, but just enough to watch it happen - the way Nymphia’s eyes fill with want for what’s just beyond her reach. She’s finally got Nymphia right where she’s always wanted her, melting and malleable and in the palm of her hand, and she’s going to make the most of it. “I want to hear you say it.”

Nymphia gapes up at her, lips still parted in what was almost a kiss and eyes still filled with love-struck stars. All she can manage is a flustered, fluttering, “huh?”

“You’re jealous,” Jane smiles as she stares down at the indisputable proof. Her words burn like liquor - hot and addictive and getting Nymphia a little high. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Oh, Nymphia thinks, and her mouth moves towards a grin, because she knows what happens next. This is the part where she gets the upper hand, where she exacts her carefully calculated control over Jane like she knows she can. She keeps her eyes on Jane as she wets her fingers with her tongue, watches her eyes fill with want as she slides her hand down her torso, dips beneath her skirt-

“Uh-uh,” Jane stops her hand. “Use your words.”

Nymphia scoffs, starts on some sort of excuse, but it’s no use. Jane presses against her, and there’s nothing she could do about it, even if she wanted to. She knows her too well. Jane leans and offers the slightest incentive, her lips brushing all too softly on Nymphia’s neck. “What do you want?”

Nymphia’s eyes flutter at the feeling of Jane finally on her, at the feeling of all the places she still isn't - all the places she still needs her to be. “I want you,” Nymphia whispers. It’s an admission, but it’s barely audible, and it doesn’t even come close to the full extent of the truth.

Jane nips at her neck and Nymphia actually fucking gasps at everything it is - pressure, presence, punishment. “You can do better than that.”

“Jane,” Nymphia pleads, because she doesn’t know if she can. She’s flushing red and she feels hot to the touch, and Jane’s hands are firmly planted on the sink but Nymphia needs them everywhere. Speaking with her body is one thing, but actually saying it out loud has her uncharacteristically nervous. 

“You can say it, baby,” Jane encourages, drawing back, eyes reverent. It’s cruel, and it’s caring. She brushes the hair behind her ear, a small gesture of composure in the face of Nymphia’s falling apart entirely. She leans back in, offers a start. “You want me to…”

She sinks her teeth into Nymphia’s earlobe, and her hand flies to the nape of Nymphia’s neck as she nearly dissolves in her hold. Something swells inside her. It’s the collapse of everything, the world as Nymphia knows it, and the birth of something new: A supernova, an unexpected safety found in the complete surrender of herself to things outside of her control. She finishes Jane’s sentence, as easy as an exhale, “fuck me.”

All at once Jane is everywhere - lips at her lips, right hand at her hip, knee sliding expertly between Nymphia’s thighs. She kisses her and Nymphia’s not afraid anymore, not of anything. She offers half a dozen alternate endings, the words surging up and out of her.

Have me, when Jane’s thigh works against her. Make me yours, when Jane pulls Nymphia’s hair from her ponytail, sends it streaming down her back. 

Take me home, when Jane’s eyes meet hers. When Jane leads her through the hallway, flushed and flustered. When they pass through the party hand-in-hand. When they make it known that it was never over, not really. 

[soulinkpoetry]

When his love enters my soul…

.

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Music by Glorybox -Portishead ( Live at Roseland 1998)

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[jackaltarino]

Estoy en ese punto de la depresión en donde ni siquiera la música puede salvarme.

[kookygranger]

Fairytale of Hawkins: Part One

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

A cheesy hallmark Christmas fic inspired by @bettyfrommars's tow truck!Eddie and prompts #1 & #6 from Betty and @allthingsjoeq's Holiday Prompt Party

Summary: You're spending Christmas in your best friend Robin's hometown this year, after spending far too many alone in the city. She can't wait to introduce you to the gang and all the wholesome festive activities they get up to, but you may have already made a not-so-good first (and second) impression on a certain metalhead in the first few days of your visit.

Warnings: mention of car crashing into snowbank (no damage), reader gets drunk (happy holidays!), reader doesn't have family, reader and Eddie are in their late 20s/early 30s, swearing

Word count: 4.4k

Author's note: I've spent far too long agonising over this when it's supposed to be silly and fun and not perfect, so please just have this first part and ignore me screaming into a pillow in the corner.

Part Two

6 Days 'Til Christmas

You really weren’t feeling the holiday spirit this year.

Not that you normally did.

Christmas for you, meant taking advantage of a quiet city, spending the hours alone walking the empty streets and having nothing but smoked salmon and champagne for dinner without feeling guilty. Sometimes (every Christmas), you’d let a corny Hallmark movie play on your TV and cringe and laugh at the predictableness of it all. Maybe, you’d be a bit quieter when the lovesick couple inevitably kissed at the end, maybe you’d pour yourself a little more champagne.

The aesthetic of the holiday season itself, you didn’t mind so much. The pretty twinkling lights, spiced hot drinks, and cookies you could take. But the frenzied crowds, all the talk of “goodwill” and “Christmas cheer”, when all you had to do was spend an hour in a department store to witness the real ugliness of humanity – hard pass. And let’s not forget Christmas day itself, either people would be spending it stuck with family, passive-aggressive comments and secrets coming out after the first few rounds of spiked punch, or they’d be forcefully and painfully reminded of just how lonely they were in this world.

The snow was nice. You secretly enjoyed the quiet and stillness a fresh blanket of snow could bring to the city. But out here in the sticks? Snow was your worst enemy.

Once your heart had settled back to a normal pace, you got out of the car to assess the damage. There was no smoke coming from places it shouldn’t, no visible scratches or dents that you could see – but there was also no way in hell that you were getting this car out of the snowbank you’d crashed into. At least the deer you swerved to avoid was probably off in the trees to your left with its family, living to frolic another day.

“Shit.”

You had no idea where you were. Already lost on the horrible directions your best friend Robin had given you before that damn deer came out of nowhere. The snow was coming down faster than the street plows could keep up with, your hair drenched in a few minutes as another shiver ran through your whole body.

Hawkins was cold. Like, freezing. You always thought winter was winter, but they really took it to another level here in the Midwest.

The day still had a little light left in it, but darkness was fast approaching. You decided the smart thing to do was wait in the car and hope that somebody driving by would be able to help. Or pretend to help before murdering you. Well, you didn’t think walking on a fairly deserted road in the middle of a snowstorm when you had no idea which direction to go would produce better results. So, you waited.

And waited.

Oh god, you were gonna die here all alone. You never should’ve let Robin talk you into coming home with her for Christmas. You could be happily wrapped up in blankets in your climate-controlled apartment with a warm mug of eggnog right now.

Wait! The rum you bought for making eggnog with Robin.

You scramble to reach over the car’s middle console, hands rummaging through the paper bags on the floor in the back until you find the smooth glass neck of a bottle.

The rum burns your throat on the way down with the first swig, but the edge is taken off soon after with a couple more swallows – the familiar warmth settling into your skin once you’ve polished off about a quarter of the bottle. You curl up into your seat, tucking your legs into your coat and holding the bottle of rum close to your chest.

Distracted by the fuzzy feeling seeping into your head and thoughts of which picture of you they’d use to announce your death on the local news, you don’t notice the sound of a truck approaching or its headlights shining across the back of your car.

Maybe Robin will give them a good one of you on vacation together in The Bahamas last year. God, you wish you’d gone somewhere warm instead.

You almost jump out of your skin, letting out an involuntary squeak when someone knocks on your window. Barely making out the shape of a man with wild hair through the condensation that had fogged up the glass.

“You alright in there?”

Please don’t be a murderer, please don’t be a murderer, please don’t be a murderer.

You open the car door and step out on shaky legs, almost stacking it when your feet are swallowed by a much thicker blanket of snow than you were expecting. The man reaches out to steady you, his hands engulfing your forearms as you look up at your rescuer. Or potential downfall. A black beanie covers the top of his head but does little to protect the rest of his wild curls that fall across his shoulders from the still falling snow. You briefly take note of the blue coveralls with a name sewn in red thread across his heart, before you’re sucked in by the worried look in his brown doe eyes.

“Are you alright?”

You nod, stuttering when you try and speak, gesturing to the car behind you and then to the road. “I–the car, there was a–and then, the ice just sort of…”

The stranger straightens up, the warmth from his hands leaving you as he eyes you wearily, “You been drink driving?”

“What? No! God, no…I–I,” you take a deep breath, trying to compose the thoughts that were tumbling too fast out of your mouth. God, he was pretty. “After I realised I wasn’t going anywhere,” you point to the front of the car, barely visible from the snow piled around it, “I may have opened a bottle of rum to keep warm.”

He scoffs a little meanly, “You realise that’s not how it works right? You actually lose heat faster when you’re drunk.”

A tingling warmth crawls up your neck at his scolding and you shrug, “Well, I thought if I was gonna die I might as well do it with a good buzz.”

He squints at you, his stare stony and you can’t tell what you’ve done to warrant this level of offence from a total stranger. Was he helping you or not? “You’re not from around here are you?”

You straighten up reflexively, shoulders going back in defence, “What makes you say that?”

He gestures vaguely to all of you, “Well, apart from the fact that you ooze city girl,” you frown, “it’s a small town. I woulda remembered you if you grew up here.”

He didn’t say it with a smirk or a sly look at your body. You knew it wasn’t meant as a compliment. Not a ‘you’re so pretty I would’ve remembered you’ but a ‘you stand out in all the wrong ways’.

“Okay, um,” you look around and notice his truck parked behind him, disbelief painting your face when you turn back to him and take in the ‘Munson Motors’ patch on the other side of his name. “Would you be able to help me?”

He answers with a frown as if the question itself is offensive. He has a tow truck and you're stranded on the side of the road in below-zero conditions. Of course, he’s going to help you.

Eddie, goes straight to work hooking up your car to the back of his truck, pulling it out of the snowbank and parking off to the side of the road again as you stand out of the way and watch, shivering now that the freezing outside air has begun to sober you up.

When he jumps back out of the truck to check your car is secure, he clears his throat, speaking to you like he's continuing a conversation, “How long you been out here?”

Your breath catches in a cloud of condensation as you exhale. “What’s the time?”

He pulls back the blue fabric of his left sleeve to check his watch, “Quarter past six.”

“Oh, um…a couple of hours I think.” It had been 45 minutes.

He nods as he gives a chain one final tug. “Guess no one’s come past ‘cause it’d be dumb to drive around in these conditions.”

You had to hold back from reflexively rolling your eyes. Here comes the mansplain.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be driving without chains on your tires.”

You huff, “Well, it’s not my car and I was only popping out to the store to get some groceries…an–and I got lost and then a deer just–” You wave your hand across the road stumbling over your words as the stupidly pretty tow truck driver turns to you and raises his eyebrows. “Forget it.” You sighed, “Is the car gonna be alright?”

Eddie licks his bottom lip, his intense gaze starting to heat you up again as he slowly nods. “The car will be fine. I can drop you and it off if you’ve got an address for me in town.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

***

A sigh leaves you as the warmth of the truck cab engulfs you, the smell of tobacco and the black ice magic tree hanging from the rearview mirror, along with something woodsy surrounding you on the inhale.

“Where to?” Eddie plops himself into the driver’s seat, pulling out onto the road as you give him Robin’s parent's address.

The ride there is mostly quiet, aside from the low hum of a Black Sabbath song coming out of the speakers, and you get the feeling Eddie the tow truck guy doesn’t take well to city girls getting themselves into sticky situations on his roads. You’re starting to feel a little silly yourself as the rum buzz well and truly wears off. This was a little too damsel in distress-y for your liking. You were an independent woman for god sake, the best solution you could come up with was getting drunk before an incredibly well-timed, handsome local had to come to your rescue?

As soon as Eddie pulls up to the curb he’s jumping out of the truck, clearly not wanting to spend another minute in awkward silence. You were never really good at small talk.

It isn’t until the passenger side door slams behind you that you notice the yelling.

“Oh my god! I thought you were for sure dead!”

Robin almost knocks you onto the sidewalk when she slams into you.

“Oh, I was so worried! I kept telling my dad, I think I told her the wrong directions. I told you to turn right on Maple when you should have turned left–“Her arms flail about in the air as she rambles in a panic and you just smile at her.

“Rob, I’m fine. I got to the shops okay in the end, it was getting back that was the problem. Then this deer ran out in front of me and I lost control when I swerved.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I almost killed you. You haven’t even been in town a full day!” She squishes your cheeks in between her hands, and you laugh.

Once she’s satisfied that you’re okay, she turns to Eddie as he walks up to the both of you. “Thanks for bringing my girl back alive Munson.” Robin beams and you notice Eddie’s eyes darting between the both of you, things clicking into place before she tackles him with a hug.

“Nice to see ya Buckley.” You hear Eddie mumble something into Robin’s hair and she laughs.

Figures. He was that Eddie. The metalhead with a heart of gold. Fantasy nerd that you were “going to love.” Obviously, your mind hadn’t immediately associated the grumpy tow truck driver Eddie with the one you’d heard hundreds of stories about, the one that was supposed to be warm and quick to welcome outsiders. Maybe it was just you?

“The car’ll be fine. Might just take a little while to warm up next time you go to start it, but if you have any issues just drop it by the shop.” He speaks directly to Robin as if it were her that he’d just rescued from the side of the road.

She thanked him with an affectionate punch to the shoulder and you tried to catch his eye before he turned away.

“Thanks again, for uh–for your help.”

He just nods, eyes briefly making contact with yours before they flit away again and he walks back to his truck.

“Don’t let her get lost again. It’s only gonna get colder over the next week.” He shouts before he slams his door shut behind him.

You turn to Robin who’s cheerily waving him off.

“Cold-er? It gets cold-er?!”

***

5 Days 'Til Christmas

“This is ridiculous.” Condensation forms around your huffs of breath, Jack Frost nipping at the tip of your nose and cheeks as you pull your coat tighter around you, stumbling slightly on the icy ground.

“The only thing ridiculous is your dress sense.” Robin giggles, pausing to let you catch up with her, arm linking with your own as you cross the car park together.

“This is my favourite coat.” You pout.

She shakes her head, “I know it is. And I know how much it cost, but we need to get you something sturdier and some thermals or something.” Her free hand rubs the thin, expensive material on your shoulder.

“Maybe, we should just stop leaving the house.” You grumble, causing Robin to knock her shoulder against yours.

“C’mon! I know we’re meeting everyone in a couple of days, but when Steve told me Jonathan and Nance we’re going to be at the bar tonight as well I thought it’d be the perfect opportunity for you to meet the grown-ups first.”

“Aren’t the kids at college now?”

You’d learnt a lot about Robin’s chosen family over the years. Having met Steve multiple times when he came to visit her in the city and been regaled by countless stories of the trouble they’d all gotten up to in high school.

“Yeah, but they’re not legal drinking age yet and it’ll be much easier meeting everyone else without them around trust me.”

The Hideout definitely wasn’t anything like the bars you frequented in the city, and you couldn’t help thinking about where you were a week ago – an office Christmas party that involved two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne and coke in the marbled bathrooms – as your weather inappropriate shoes found the sticky floor and your nose wrinkled involuntarily at the smell, eyes wandering over the small crowd of mostly old men hunched over their half-empty drinks.

“Charming,” you murmur, Robin’s arm tightening its hold on you upon seeing her best friend waving at the both of you across the room.

“Hey dingus,” She ruffles Steve’s hair as you approach the group sitting around a small wooden table.

“Hey numbnut.” He was quick to push his hair back, everything but a lonely strand falling back into perfect place. Robin took an empty chair, while Steve captured you in a much-needed embrace, greeting you warmly and without a childish nickname.

He kept an arm around your shoulder as he introduced you to the three other occupants of the table. You shake Nancy and Jonathan’s hand, smiling at the way they held each other, but when you hold out your hand to their friend Argyle he just laughs and gets up to hug you with a “Come here my lil’ city slicker.” The scent of pineapple and pot clinging to you as you take a seat while Steve heads to the bar to get you and Robin a drink.

“Where’s Eddie?”

The pang that jolts you at Robin’s casual mention of her friend’s name is slightly concerning.

“He’s over there with the guys.” You follow Jonathan’s gesture to a group of boys standing next to a makeshift stage at the far end of the bar. A tousle of brown waves in a leather jacket stands with his back to you with three others dressed much the same, all drinking beer and laughing. You couldn’t see his face, but even from here you notice his shoulders look more relaxed than he was during your encounter yesterday.

Maybe you’d get to see the “warm” Eddie now that he wasn’t having to haul your car out of the snow.

Steve returns to your table with drinks and takes the seat next to you, reaching over your shoulders to pinch Robin when she complains about hers not having enough ice before letting his arm relax around you. Steve had seamlessly fit himself into your life when you first met just as he always did in any situation, and you knew that he could sense your nerves about meeting the rest of the group. You just hoped he didn’t pick up on any nerves about the presence of one in particular.

“Nice of you to join us Buckley.”

You tense as Eddie appears at the table and Steve squeezes your shoulder, smirking into his drink.

Never fucking mind.

“Oh my god, you guys I have to tell you all about Eddie’s hero moment yesterday!”

As Robin captures the attention of the group with a dramatic retelling of yesterday’s events, your eyes wander to your reluctant rescuer. He was yet to acknowledge your existence, only rubbing his neck and blushing when praise was thrown his way. His attention is mostly on Robin’s theatrics before it shifts, and you notice his gaze land on something by your shoulder. You look down at Steve’s hand still resting there and when you look back up your eyes catch shining, dark chocolate ones.

You’re the first to break the spell, eyes quickly landing on the table, unable to hold his intense stare.

When Robin finishes her story you excuse yourself to get another drink, having nervously gulped yours down already and you pass Steve on your way back to the table.

“Hey, can you give these to Eddie? He’s just outside. I need to take a leak, thanks.” He walks away quickly, leaving you with a packet of cigarettes in your hand.

***

Eddie stands with his back to you, leaning against the brick of the bar as you exit the swinging door, a blast of arctic air hitting you as you immediately wrap your arms around yourself.

“Hey.”

He spins around at the sound of your voice.

“Uh, Steve said you needed to borrow a smoke?” You hold up the pack.

He stares at you for a second before he lifts an unlit cigarette in between his fingers.

“I’m all good. Bummed one off Gareth.”

You nod and shove the carton in your coat pocket.

“You smoke?”

“God no, I value my lungs. These are Steve’s.” You shake your head and Eddie raises his eyebrows, pausing in his motion to light the cigarette now pursed between his lips, the yellow flame from his scuffed bic lighter flickering in the chilled breeze.

He releases his thumb from the lighter, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and frowning at it.

“So uh, I didn’t expect you and Buckley to show up tonight.”

You grip your coat tighter around you, it’s far too cold to be out here but you’re pleasantly surprised that he’s initiating conversation with you. “Oh yeah, Robin dragged me out of the house to come see some lame band. Personally, I think it’s too cold to do anything other than drink tea under a pile of blankets but–“

“Robin said they were lame?”

“What?”

“The band playing here tonight, she said they were lame?”

“No, she just mentioned that they’re here every Tuesday,” you look up at the neon signage hanging above the door, missing a ‘d’ with a barely flickering ‘o’ and shrug, “I figured–“

“Hey, Ed!” One of the boys Eddie had been standing with earlier pops his head out of the bar door, giving you a curt nod when you turn around. “You ready? We’re on in two.”

“Yeah, just give us a sec.”

The boy disappears back behind the door and you screw your eyes shut. Of course it was his band.

“Shit, Eddie I’m sor–“

“You always just say things without thinking?” His arms are crossed, eyes squinting at you in that offended disbelief that seemed to be reserved just for you and your big mouth.

You sigh, “Only around you apparently.”

You swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch. “Why’s that city girl?”

The nickname could almost pass as a term of endearment, the way it comes out of him in a drawl if it wasn’t for your terrible first and second impressions preceding you.

You shake your head, “Never mind. I’m gonna–“ You point your thumb behind your shoulder, “Yeah,” and walk back inside before you manage to say anything else idiotic, Eddie grinning after your retreating form.

***

You watch Eddie thrash about on stage under the haze of a couple of shots, needing a little liquid courage before you could throw yourself back into socialising – at least you seemed to be getting along with the rest of the group.

His skin was glowing with sweat under the cheap yellow stage lights, leather jacket abandoned so you could now see the tattoos peaking out from under his tattered old band shirt. One that hugged his biceps as they flexed with the ferocity of his guitar playing. Holy shit.

When he jumps off stage and approaches his friends, you can’t take your eyes off the damp hair that sticks to his neck and forehead.

“You guys were amazing.”

He bows his head at your compliment. The two of you now slightly off to the side of the rest of the group as they figure out whose round it is. “Not lame then?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no, I shouldn’t have–that was shitty of me to judge without hearing you. To judge, full stop. I’m not like that normally. I know you think I’m just some city girl who’s completely out of touch but I’m just–I got a bit nervous about meeting you all and making a good impression for Robin. I’m sorry.”

He rubs the back of his neck, “S’nothin’ to apologise for. Not like we’re playing The Garden or anything.”

“That doesn’t matter.” You frown, “You’re great–I mean the band are great–I can tell that you all love playing up there no matter the audience. That’s what’s important.”

“Thanks.” His soft tone and doe eyes threaten to swallow you whole. You look away, burning up under his attention again.

“You’re welcome.”

“We’re playing pool now, I need you on my team c’mon.” Robin wraps her arms around you and drags you away before Eddie gets the chance to keep you talking.

***

“Wait, Steve! You’re not driving?” You cringe at Robin’s slurred volume as she shouts across the small car park, thankful this isn’t a residential area.

“Pfft no! I’ve had way too many. I’m going in Nance’s car.” She glares at her best friend as he follows Jonathan and Argyle, waving her off.

“How are we getting home?!” She raises her arms in exasperation and turns to you as if you’d be able to offer a solution, the creaking of the bar door opening behind you grabbing both of your attention as Eddie steps out. He stops short, car keys coming to a halt mid-swing when he notices eyes on him.

“Eddieeee.” Robin sing-songs, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. His eyebrow quirks up. “Fancy dropping off two gorgeous young girls and making sure they get home safe?” She leans her head into yours and you giggle.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah whatever, get in.”

Robin turns away abruptly to head towards his van, leaving you to stumble without the support, Eddie’s warm hands brace your arms before you even have time to think.

“You good?”

You nod, “Had a lot to drink.”

He huffs a laugh as you sway, breath stuttering when you look up at him, “Yeah, you did.”

The snow that falls around you two lands softly on your face, melting in your hair and on your eyelashes as you crinkle your nose.

“It’s so cold.”

He licks his bottom lip, “Right, right let’s get you home yeah?”

***

Despite Robin’s clumsy nature she always manages to stay light on her feet when she’s drunk. So, by the time Eddie pulls up to the Buckley residence she’s shooting out of the van, cackling at her own joke while you’re still trying to undo your seatbelt. Eddie tells you to stay still before he jogs to the passenger side and unhooks you, holding onto your arm as you step down onto the ground on wobbly legs.

“Where’s Robin?” You look around, the front yard frosted in snow that’s warmed by yellow fairy lights hanging around the edges of the house, but noticeably void of your charmingly sassy friend.

“She’s already inside. Here, let me get you to the door.”

His hands help steady you, guiding you to safety up the icy path, one stretching over your lower back the other holding your elbow. You hadn’t noticed his rings before now, silver glinting under the lights now directly above you as you walk up to the front porch. These hands adorned in skulls seemed to keep coming to your rescue. But you don’t need some hot tow truck, sexy guitarist guy coming to your rescue. You’re a capable, independent woman.

You feel Eddie’s breath on the back of your neck when he laughs softly.

“You think I’m sexy huh?”

You frown as you stop at the front door, shaking your head “What, why would you think that?”

“’Cause you just said it.”

“Out loud?!”

He snickers as you bury your face in your hands, “I have to stop drinking around you.”

Eddie bites his lip as you slip through the front door mumbling a good night and close it behind you without another glance at his smug face. He’s still smiling as he turns the ignition, the radio on low as Fairytale of New York fills his van with warmth. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head before pulling away from the curb, this fuzzy feeling in his chest not something that’s familiar to him.

“Fuck.”

[princessrhaellatargaryen]

A Midnight Rescue

“You’re safe now, Princess, I have you. You’re safe.”

Warnings: blood, death, murder, kidnapping.

Rhaella was woken by a calloused hand covering her mouth. Eyes wide, she frantically searched for who was responsible and found two cloaked figures towering above her.

“Are you sure it’s the right one? All these Targaryen bitches look the same,” whispered the one not holding his hand over her mouth. He instead held a blade to Rhaella’s throat, she was able to see it winking up at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Positive. He said she’d be in these rooms, with silver ‘air and purple eyes,” replied the one whose hand was covering her mouth. “We followed the map true and I see silver ‘air and purple eyes.”

“I dunno, her eyes look kinda blue,” the man holding the knife. Rhaella slowly reached out for the book next to her on the bed while they were distracted with their bickering over the exact shade of her eyes and chucked it at the one with the knife on her throat. “Oi!” he cried, releasing the knife and clutching his bleeding forehead.

Rhaella bit down on the other man’s hand and he cried out in pain. Blood dripping from her mouth, she rolled over to the other side of the bed and bolted for the door. She managed to get it open but her relief was short lived as her feet slipped on something and came crashing down. Horror coursed through her as she realized what the cause of her fall was: blood. The guard posted outside the door had been slain.

Rhaella was pulled to her feet sharply by her hair, pulling a cry from her lips. She blindly kicked out and scratched around her in a desperate attempt to subdue her attackers. A groan of pain came from behind her but Rhaella felt a sharp pain splinter from her jaw. She was pulled against the chest of one of the men, blade at her throat once more, though it was no longer gently resting on her skin.

“Fucking bitch broke my nose!” cried the other man across from her, his hands cradling his face as blood dripped from between his fingers.

“Tie her up so she can’t do it again, idiot,” the one holding her said, the blade cutting into the delicate skin of Rhaella’s neck. Blood dribbled down her chest to join the blood of the dead guard, which marred the fine white linen of her nightgown.

In the dying light of the fire, Rhaella helplessly watched as the man with the now broken nose roughly tied her hands together, the coarse rope soaking up the blood that coated her wrists. He grabbed a blanket draped over one of the armchairs across from the fireplace and threw it over her head and shoulders. The man behind her moved the knife from her throat and dug it into her side.

“Now we’re going to walk outta ‘ere nice and quiet like. You make a sound, bitch, and I gut you like I did your man out there, yeah?” he growled into Rhaella’s ear. Heart thundering in her chest, she nodded shakily. “Good, now walk.” He prodded her forward.

Rhaella followed the man with the broken nose, her eyes trained on the center of his back as they left the room, carefully avoiding the massacred body of the guard at her feet. His blood squelched through her toes and left a crimson trail behind them as she was led to an unknown fate.

The Red Keep was still and quieter than she’d ever seen it. Torches were lit but everyone was abed, as Rhaella should have been. She had fallen asleep in her mother’s bed, waiting for her to return from saying goodnight to the younger children. Rhaella had been engrossed in a tome about the fall of Old Valyria, given to her by her grandsire, the King. Her father was out riding with the older boys, teaching them how to fly their dragons at night. As Rhaella had yet to claim a dragon, she was not invited. So, she instead came to her mother’s chambers, waiting for her, and read until she fell asleep.

These men were no doubt hoping to find the heir to the throne, the Princess Rhaenyra, asleep in her chambers instead of her eldest daughter. However, as one of them had pointed out, the Targaryen women did look very similar. Both had long white hair, but where her mother’s eyes were lilac, Rhaella’s were periwinkle. An incredibly subtle difference, difficult to make out in the light of a dying fire. Due to a case of mistaken identity, Rhaella was now about to pay the price of being the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.

The blood had now dried on the bottom of Rhaella’s feet, no longer leaving a trail of footprints behind them. Any hope of someone following that trail and finding her within the walls of the Red Keep were gone. Tears pricked at her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the dried blood there. Rhaella thought in the back of her mind that she was more blood than person at this point, covered in the blood of two people, not even including herself.

Their trek through the Keep had been quiet and uneventful, strange, given the amount of Kingsguard supposedly required to be on duty during the Hour of the Owl. It was almost as if someone had plucked each of the guards from their stations, purposefully ensuring that their path be free from deterrents.

Rhaella knew that once they left the Red Keep and entered the gardens, she would have one last chance to escape. One last chance to fight back. She desperately looked for a guard, but none were to be found. Steeling herself for further pain, she took a steadying breath and rammed her elbow into the gut of the man behind her.

His blade pinched her side, but Rhaella sprinted, pulling up her bloodied nightgown so as not to get tangled in her legs. She screamed as she ran, taking sharp turns through the hedges in an attempt to lose the two men.

Rhaella chanced a look behind her and was relieved when she did not see anyone on her trail until she ran into a hard body.

“No! You will not take me! Help! Please! Someone help!” Rhaella screamed in terror, hammering her bound fists on the body in front of her.

“Princess! What in the Seven Hells has happened?” asked a familiar voice. Rhaella gasped and looked up. The piercing stare of her uncle Aemond greeted her. She sagged against him in relief, tears freely flowing down her face. His hands grasped her shoulders as he assessed, in shock, the sight in front of him.

Rhaella’s hair was unbound, falling around her in messy waves, the white strands caked in blood in some places. Her lip was split and a bruise was forming on her jaw. Tears trailed through dried blood around her mouth, which had dripped down her chin. Her neck had a slice across it, which had drawn more blood. The fine white linen of her nightgown was absolutely soaked in blood, Aemond unsure if it was hers or not.

Approaching footsteps drew him out of his shock and assessment as two cloaked men rounded a tall shrub.

“Oh shit, that’s the Prince!” the one with the knife swore, shoving the other in front of him as he fled. Aemond sprang into action.

Steel sang as he drew his sword and pursued them, easily cutting down one and following the other around the shrub. Rhaella grasped the pillar next to her and slid down, the adrenaline leaving her body as quickly as it came. She blankly stared at the man Aemond had killed, watching him as blood seeped out from him. So much blood on this night.

Aemond returned at some point, though how much time had passed, Rhaella was unsure. He sheathed his blade and knelt down in front of her, the moonlight glinting off his hair. Concern was etched on his face as his lips moved, but no sound came out. At least, Rhaella did not think so. He gently cupped her face and repeated himself.

“Princess, are you injured anywhere else? Can you stand?” he asked, his brow furrowed. Rhaella barely shook her head, knowing her legs no longer worked. Aemond nodded and carefully lifted her arms over his head and scooped her up gently against his chest. He rose and carried her back inside the Red Keep, stepping over the body of one of her captors. Where the other was, Rhaella neither knew nor cared.

She clung to Aemond, burying her face in his shoulder, shuddering breaths shaking her shoulders. His thumb gently rubbed her arm as he climbed the stairs.

“You’re safe now, Princess, I have you. You’re safe,” he reassured her. Rhaella shakily nodded and pressed herself closer into his arms, if possible. He was warm and smelled of spice and leather, which helped Rhaella ground herself. Safe. She was safe. Aemond had her. Safe.

He rounded a corner and they were greeted by the panicked, near hysterical sounds of a crowd.

“Send out a search party! I want the Princess found!” commanded Daemon.

“At once, my Prince,” replied Ser Westerling. “Ser Arryk, Ser Erryk, with me. We follow the blood trail and from there we-“ he was interrupted by a sharp cry.

“Rhaella!” Rhaenyra ran over to her and Aemond, her dressing gown billowing out behind her. “Thank the gods! What happened? Are you hurt?” she questioned, helping Rhaella to her feet. Rhaella’s arms were still around Aemond’s neck, his hands steadying her on her waist.

“She’s covered in blood! What did you do to her?” Daemon sharply questioned, approaching Aemond, his hand going to Dark Sister.

Rhaenyra’s hands were investigating the cause of the blood on Rhaella’s nightgown and her touch snapped Rhaella out of her daze. With a broken cry, she removed her still-bound wrists from around Aemond’s neck and collapsed in her mother’s arms, sobbing.

“Shhh, sweet girl, I’m here. Your mother is here,” Rhaenyra said into Rhaella’s hair, kissing the top of her head, her arms wrapped around her trembling frame.

“I won’t ask you a third time, Princeling, what the fuck happened to my daughter?” Daemon demanded, drawing Dark Sister. Aemond drew his own sword in response, ready to defend himself.

“I was simply out for a walk in the gardens when the Princess found me. She was running from two captors, one of whom is now dead, the other is incapacitated behind the statue of the nymphs. Go and see for yourself, uncle. No harm fell upon her from my own hand,” Aemond replied, his eye trained on Daemon. Rhaella, sniffed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks as she broke away from her mother and stood in front of Aemond.

“What he says is true, father,” her bound hands in front of her. Aemond sheathed his sword and gently got to work, untying the rough rope from her raw wrists. Rhaella relayed the story to the crowd, noticing everyone who stood around her, intently listening. Not only were her parents there, but also Jace, Luke, Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, Viserys, Rhaenys, Corlys, Otto, Laena, and Laenor, in addition to several members of the Kingsguard.

“I ran through the gardens and ran into him,” Rhaella finished. “He saved me. Go into the gardens and see for yourself. He did not lie. If it weren’t for him, gods know where I’d be now. I’d have met whatever fate they intended for you, mother.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Rhaella’s, the latter finally noticing her tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes.

“This was an attack meant for the heir to the throne,” Daemon said, turning to Viserys. “For your daughter, brother.” Viserys, looking more aware than he had in ages, set his jaw and looked to the few members of the Small Council that were present.

“I want the remaining attacker questioned at once. I want to know who hired them and how they got in my fucking hall!” he shouted, turning to look at the knights of the Kingsguard around them. “Ser Rion’s death should have been prevented and my granddaughter should have been safe in her mother’s bed! I want answers before we break fast in a few hours time. I want an increased presence of the Kingsguard surrounding my family at all times. This is unacceptable!”

Ser Westerling nodded. “I take full responsibility, my King, and will thoroughly investigate as to how they went through the Red Keep undetected. I vow to have answers for you shortly, your grace,” he promised, bowing his head. “Ser Criston, Arryk, escort the members of the Royal Family back to their chambers. I want their rooms cleared before they enter,” he ordered, nodding to the two guards. They nodded, ushering everyone to follow them.

“Ser Erryk, Rickon, with me. We go to the gardens to retrieve the remaining attacker and question him. The rest of you, I want you patrolling the corridors, looking for how those vermin got in the Red Keep.” Everyone went their separate ways, Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around Rhaella and attempted to guide her back into her chambers.

“Nononononono,” Rhaella moaned, planting her feet firmly. She could not get any closer to Ser Rion’s body. The pool of blood surrounding him flickered in the torch light, the evidence of her fall clear in the disturbed puddle.

“To your chambers then, my love,” Rhaenyra said, seamlessly turning around and walking Rhaella away from his body. “We will fetch the Maester and get you cleaned up. Daemon will you-“ she started, but was interrupted by Aemond.

“I will fetch him, Princess,” he said quietly. Rhaenyra nodded and continued walking with her arm wrapped securely around Rhaella. Daemon stayed behind with Otto and Corlys to investigate the body while everyone else was escorted to their rooms. One by one, they left the party, giving Rhaella their good wishes and love, thankful that she was safe and that no mortal harm had come upon her until it was just Rhaella and Rhaenyra with Ser Criston and Ser Arryk. They approached the doors to Rhaella’s chambers and Ser Criston held out a hand to stop them from entering.

“Let us clear the room before you enter, your highnesses,” he said, nodding to Ser Arryk. Rhaenyra held Rhaella while they swept the room, checking behind curtains and in the dark corners of the room before beckoning them inside. Rhaenyra ushered Rhaella into a chair before pouring water from the pitcher on the chest of drawers into the wash basin, The two guards excused themselves after stoking the fire, giving Rhaenyra more light to work in.

Her mother gently wiped the blood off her face, taking care to avoid the split in her lip and the cut in her neck. She wordlessly worked, cleaning the blood off Rhaella’s chest and arms. There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Rhaenyra said, wringing the water out of the cloth she was using to clean her daughter. One of the Maesters entered followed by Aemond. Upon seeing him again, Rhaella stood on wobbly legs and approached him.

“Thank you, Aemond,” she said, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lip stung at the contact but she ignored it. He looked down at her and nodded.

“No thanks necessary, Princess,” he replied quietly. Rhaella put a hand on his arm.

“You have my gratitude regardless. I dread to think of what would have happened if I had not found you out in the gardens. I can never repay you, uncle,” she said, looking up at him.

“You will never have to,” he said. Aemond bowed his head at Rhaenyra before bowing his head to Rhaella. “Goodnight, Princess.”

“Thank you, brother,” Rhaenyra said, escorting Rhaella to the Maester. Rhaella watched as Aemond left, the flash of silver hair disappearing as the doors closed behind him.

Rhaella was poked and prodded by the Maester and her mother, the former determining that any wounds she had suffered were non-fatal and bandaged them quickly. Rhaenyra helped Rhaella dress in a clean nightgown and guided her to bed. Rhaella watched as the Maester left and her mother climbed into bed next to her, her arms immediately encircling Rhaella. Sobs wracked her body and Rhaella barely registered the tears that fell on the top of her head from her mother.

“I thank the gods that you have returned to me, my darling Ella. I thank each and every one,” said Rhaenyra tearfully, kissing the top of her daughter’s head and squeezing her tightly. Rhaella was glad for the pressure as it aided in soothing her shaking body. Over the next several minutes, or hours, Rhaella eventually drifted off to sleep in her mother’s arms, repeating Aemond’s words over in her mind. Safe. She was safe.

[sheawritesstuff]

Sorry Mama

[Pre-Sam Darlin and Marie Greer - mentioned Quinn]

[Angst - Hurt/Comfort - 1347 words]

[TW: Violence, Brief Thoughts of Death]

It didn't start as anything too out of the ordinary. Tank was upset Quinn wouldn’t let them spend any time with other people. He always claimed their friends were bad news and only stuck around to try and split up their relationship. None of them cared for them like he did. No one else could understand them as he did. And even though they were not allowed to spend any sort of time with people he didn’t approve of, he would be gone for hours at a time doing who knows what with any number of people Tank didn’t even know.

It was a standard argument that followed them out into the park and toward wherever Quinn planned on running off to…Then it escalated.

There was screaming and pushing that led to threats and full-on fighting. Teeth, fists, fangs, claws. They both came out of it pretty beat up, but Quinn played dirtier. When they saw the chance to shove his “lover” head first into the ground and run into the night, he took it. 

So Tank laid face-down in the mud, feeling the blood seep into their clothes. They considered just closing their eyes and letting go - letting the pain win and float them down the river of death. They felt their ribs ache as they took a deep breath in. Slowly, they moved their arms up and pushed against the ground. Whole body shaking, they lifted their torso out of the mud and rolled over. Their back hit the ground with a thud, causing another jolt of pain to run up their spine. Staring up at the stars reminded them of everyone waiting for them, the whole pack wondering where they’d gone and when they were coming back. 

They pulled their knees up and grabbed at their legs to sit themself up. They winced and clenched their teeth. Once they were upright, they pressed their palms back down in the mud. “Alrighty,” they groaned. “Up we go.” 

Their whole body screamed as they pushed upward but after an agonizing minute, they were on their feet. They swayed back and forth uneasily as they reoriented themself. With a deep breath, they shifted into their wolf form and began the slow, painful journey. 

The route was so familiar it was practically second nature. Going from Quinn’s place to Marie’s after one of their fights was a disappointingly frequent occurrence so their body almost moved on instinct. 

Tank’s muscles burned as they finally approached the quaint little house. Once they reached the porch, they shifted back and forced their way to the door. They rang the doorbell and knocked in the same pattern they’d made up to identify themself years ago. As they waited for an answer, they looked down at their ripped-up clothes. Dirt and blood almost completely covered their body. “God, I’m disgusting.” 

The door peeked open a second later as Marie stared out at them. She sighed quietly as she opened it the rest of the way, ushering them into her home. She pulled them into the front room and quickly looked them over. 

“Oh, honey, you’re a mess.” Her voice was soaked in concern with a tinge of sadness that they were back in this situation. Tank stared at the floor, refusing to meet her eyes. She carefully pulled at the outermost layers of their clothes and set them on the floor. The silence was almost more painful than the actual wounds. 

“Would it make it better if I said not all the blood was mine?” they tried to joke, lip quivering. Marie huffed and held their hands gently in hers. They finally lifted their head and looked at her. She looked at them with kindness and compassion they’d never experienced from anyone else. They didn’t know how to handle it, so they just stared at her.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, baby.” They walked together to the bathroom. Tank sat on the toilet while Marie set up a little fold-up chair in the shower for them. She slowly helped to undress them and sat them down. Her hands gently roamed over their body, switching back and forth from healing their wounds to washing the grime from their skin. 

A warm tingle filled their body as the overwhelming pain melted off their skin. After about half an hour, they were clean and without their more major injuries. Their whole body was still sore and a little bruised, but they were a far cry from death’s front door. Marie gently dried them off and wrapped the towel around their shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Tank whimpered. They looked up at her and pulled the towel tighter around themself. She touched the side of their face and pushed some of their hair out of their eyes. She looked sad for just a moment before smiling meekly. She kissed their forehead and helped them up to their feet.

“Let’s get you dressed, alright?” They nodded in response and followed her out to the guest room. She pulled out some of the clothes they’d left there and set them on the bed. Marie took the towel from their shoulders and dried their hair again before laying it on the bed too. She helped them into their clothes, conscious to avoid the bruises. It was slow and tedious, but she didn’t mind. Doing this was better than the alternative. Once they were dressed, she sat them down at the foot of the bed and stood in front of them.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” It was the same question she asked every time this happened. She knew there wouldn’t always be a response - that was ok too. Tank looked down at their newly clothed form and thought about it. They remembered the look in Quinn’s eyes and the things he said. It was the same as it was every time they fought. Did they really want to tell Marie all of that that again? Especially after they kept going back to him again and again?

“Tank, it’s ok if-” she cut herself off. They squeezed her hands and looked up at her through misty eyes. They sniffled and took a shaky breath. 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” they mumbled as tears fell down their cheeks. She held their hands tight and smiled the same sad smile she always did. Marie sat down next to them and wiped the tears away. They held tight to her arms and shook as they tried to hold back their tears. She held their head softly and nodded. It was ok. Everything was gonna be ok. 

They collapsed in on themself and sobbed. Ragged breaths echoed through the almost empty room as they struggled to keep air in their lungs. She pulled them into a hug as their body shook with sadness, regret, and anger. Marie held them close against her chest and waited. They babbled barely audible apologies as they gripped onto her for dear life.

Eventually, their breathing slowed and evened out and they were able to pull away. Marie wiped away the tears and snot with her sleeve and pushed the hair out of their face again. Tank gazed at her with half-opened eyes and sniffled again. They looked absolutely exhausted. 

“You need some sleep, honey. We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she cooed. “You need to tell your family about this too y’know- and probably David.” They knew that. They could pretend it wasn’t a big deal all they liked, but Marie knew when to put her foot down. Most things dealing with Quinn qualified as times to put her foot down. 

Tank nodded and took a deep breath. They rubbed their eyes before crawling up into bed and snuggling under the blankets. She kissed their forehead and ran her fingers through their hair. 

“You don’t deserve any of his shit, baby,” she whispered. “I wish you could see that.” She pulled away and turned off the light. She went to walk out back to her room and paused in the doorway. 

“Good night, Tank. Sweet dreams.” “Good night, Marie.”