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bigsloppycrush · 1 month ago

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lacrimal [sam winchester]

you can see his sadness. you’ve always been able to. he wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. so when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. you know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too. 2k.

early spn, f!reader, no use of y/n, smut, angst, trauma avoidance. nobody orgasms (sorry). cross-posted to ao3. shout out to all my fellow criers during sex, you're all real ones and i'm sending you a million dollars.

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Sam cries during sex sometimes. He’s done it before and you know to expect it. Sometimes he asks to stop and sometimes he keeps fucking you through it. It’s not something he’s navigating perfectly. He knows it’s something he should figure out instead of asking you to deal with. But he’s thankful for the grace you give him and for the spot in your bed that he thinks might be his.

Sam isn’t like Dean. Sex to Sam is an overload of chemicals, his brain can’t disengage from his body and he feels. He feels so much, all the time. Why would sex be any different? He tried to explain it away the first time. Tried to dismiss his tears as nothing more than a crazy hard orgasm. That was the first and last time he ever tried to talk about them. He thought you might not want to see him again when it happened those first few times in succession. In fairness, you had thought about turning him away. Sleeping with a coworker was not and had never been the issue. Hunters live messy lives, and normalcy is hard to come by. You just didn’t want to be the thing Sam used to hurt himself. You told him as much once, in a dive bar somewhere in upstate New York. I won’t be your sharp object, you said. You slept alone that night.

Sam couldn’t leave it alone, though. After a few days of distance he came knocking. He didn’t have much to say for himself, sitting beside you on the edge of your motel bed. It wasn’t on you to speak first so you didn’t. He couldn’t look at you. In his head he told himself it was something about the darkness in the corners and the green light of the lamp making you seem scarier than you were. You’re not. He was so quiet. You might be the only soft thing I have.

All this way, you’ve met Sam wherever he is. You’ve held the map for him from the passenger seat, you’ve poured salt on his hand at the bar, you’ve knelt by his bed when he couldn’t get up. You’ve straightened his collars and unbuttoned his jeans. But he goes somewhere sometimes. His head takes him to places you can’t follow. Despite his denial that he’d ever use you like a knife, you don’t know if you can believe him. You know he says things sometimes, if only to soften the blow. But he keeps knocking at your motel room, nose pressed nearly to the door, falling inside before you can stop him. You can see his sadness. You’ve always been able to. He wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. So when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. You know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too.

Sam has sex like he does everything else: with his entire focus. When everything feels like it’s always ending, it’s easier to do one thing at a time, to focus only on the one disaster in front of him. If he’s lucky, it's something he can solve. If he’s lucky, it’s something he won’t break if he touches. Sam eats your cunt like he needs it. Like he needs to prove to himself that he can do something good, even if it’s just this one thing. You can feel his mouth everywhere, like he’s trying to learn the topography of your folds for the first time, every time. He licks you wholly, tongue spread to catch as much of your slick as he can. He does this thing sometimes where he sucks your clit into his mouth and savours it. As hard as you pull his hair or push his head further down, he never wavers, languishing in the feel of it between his lips. You know it gets him hard too. It gets you off to know he’s palming himself through his jeans, to know he won’t fuck you until he gets it right.

He loves when he gets up on the bed and the sheets are already wet, whether from sweat or slick. He likes putting it in while you’re still coming down from your first orgasm. He tries to engineer your pleasure, to create a seamless high. It’s rare he’ll let you suck him off unless you get to him first. He has such a hard time accepting it. You’re so good at it, always just the right amount of messy, but he doesn’t like when it’s about him. Something about it makes him feel useless.

He’s fucked you everywhere by now. Rural Montana, the east coast, the borderlands of Texas. It doesn’t matter though. It could be raining hellfire outside your dirty window but when you’re together it’s always just you. Sam doesn’t care to see anything but you.

Tonight could have been any number of nights from the past year, except that it wasn’t. Wins and losses don’t always amount to much in this life. You could exorcise a spirit just for the house to burn down from an electrical fire the next week. You could be too far away to burn the bones in time but sometimes the death of a sole lonely man goes unnoticed. It’s strange, things that get to you. You talked to a ghost once, of a teenager haunting a school gym. It reminded you so much of a kid from your home town who died in a car crash. It was hard to explain. It picked open a weird wound. Something had gotten to Sam earlier, you weren’t sure what it was. Today counted as a win, you supposed, but that doesn’t always mean much. Dinner was quiet. Sam picked at a club sandwich for an hour before turning in. Dean knew more than you about it, whatever it was that Sam was thinking, and that gave you comfort. Maybe he could help where you couldn’t.

It had been a few days so you showered, but you put on the same pajama shirt as the night before. You ran your bare legs over the cooled sheets. You knew you wouldn’t be tired for a few long hours so you turned on the tv and waited. Your back was tight and your feet were sore. You thought about home and how far away it was.

Really, you hadn’t expected a knock to come, but it did anyway. Sam’s hair is raked through and he’s looking behind him like he’s hiding from something. When he sees your tired eyes he looks sorry. He does this sometimes, second guesses his welcome. You’re always trying to show him that you keep an open space for him beside you but he doesn’t always see it. He kicks his boots off when he comes in and starts to undress. You wait for him in the bed and he slips under the covers when he’s down to his boxers.

He curls into you tonight, his head under your chin and his legs brushing with yours. You like when he lets you hold him. You wish he knew how badly you wanted him to need you. The television makes noise and you brush his hair away from his forehead. His bangs aren’t long enough to tuck away behind his ear but you keep smoothing them in that direction. You hold him for a long time before he starts nosing at your neck, his warm breath a welcome difference from the overly chilled air.

His hand is under your shirt even before he starts kissing you, looking for the softness of you. Your eyes stay closed as he rolls over you, finding space between your hips. He can feel your warmth through your panties, through his boxers. You tilt your hips up to feel the shape of him and he thinks you look so, so beautiful.

He kisses down your body, over your shirt, over the center of you. He thumbs at your clit and loves hearing the familiar way you inhale. You look and he’s already waiting for you to open your eyes, his cheek pressed to your thigh. He’s so pretty like this, looking like he was made to adore you. You let him take off your panties and he sets them to the side, he never throws them. His fingers look for your wetness and find it, dragging it up before smearing it around. His middle finger teases your entrance and he keeps looking at you with his heavy eyes. You whine and he gives it to you, sinking in to the knuckle. He ducks to start mouthing at your clit before he finger fucks you. He’s good to you. So, so good.

He dutifully gives you your first orgasm and it takes its time moving through you. He’s lining up his cock before you open your eyes and when he plays with your wetness, your legs twitch to close. One of his hands holds them apart and the other presses his head inside of you. His stomach drops at the feeling of your lips kissing his cock and he can’t hold himself there for long. Your pussy welcomes him, always a little tight until he gets going. He fits his hips against yours and waits for you to come down a little more. He keeps his thrusts short and punchy until you can look at him. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he kisses you, although you wish he wouldn’t. You can’t kiss him for long, your breath still coming back to you, but he chases after your mouth anyways. He sucks on your lip and lets you breathe into him as his thrusts get longer, deeper.

Sam knows he’s a feeler. He tried his whole childhood not to be to little avail. He still doesn’t understand where his emotions live or where to keep them when he’s not ready for them. He knows there’s a link between emotions and the body. He usually tries to exploit the connection, using his body as a way to move around his feelings. If he focuses enough on a physical sensation, if he swims a stupid amount of laps in the motel pool or fucks you hard enough, then he can put off feeling almost anything.

Sam doesn’t want to cry. He never does, but he doesn’t usually get what he wants. He can feel a sharpness behind his eyes as he watches you underneath him. He’s got you in that sweet spot, your lashes kiss and your mouth opens when he drags himself out of your cunt before fitting snugly back in. He wants to be good for you. He’s frustrated with himself for still not having this figured out. He doesn’t get why it happens some times but not others. He tries to outrun the tears he knows are coming by fucking into you faster. He whimpers and cages you under him, mouth pressed to your forehead. You make sick little sounds and he’s losing it.

He tries, he really does, but he can’t keep up with what his body wants. You can tell when it gets too much. His thrusts get sloppy before he stops, his head bowed to press your temples together. He’s so far inside of you and he’s shaking. Sam, you whimper. He kisses across your cheekbone and his mouth is wet. He kisses you hard and you meet him there, licking into his mouth and holding the back of his neck. You tug on his hair and he can’t stop it from happening. He’s heavy, faltering in supporting himself, but you hold him to you anyways and he cries into your neck. His cock is twitching and you’re still so, so full.

Let’s stop, baby. Your voice is soft. Sam’s breath shudders as he pulls out of you. He’s thankful that you don’t let go of him fully, tucking his head back under your chin where he started. He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to make you come and hates that he couldn’t. He wants to say something, anything, but it’s all tears.

After he cries himself out his breathing is still choppy. You rub his back as his hiccups lessen. You let him go when he’s ready to get up and he takes himself to the bathroom. He avoids his eyes in the mirror. He pees and blows his nose and wipes his face with wet hands. His eyes water again when you look at him as he returns to you. You sit up with him when he sits on the bed. Facing each other, Sam wants to kiss you. He kisses you because he knows he’s aching, because he knows he needs you, because he doesn’t have the words.

In the morning, you’ll wake up pressed together. Sam will use your toothbrush and you’ll get him some clean clothes from his room next door while he showers. You’ll skip the continental breakfast and pick up cinnamon rolls from the gas station. You won’t make him feel bad for breaking down and he’ll come back into himself once you’re on the road. You’ll let him keep sleeping in the back seat and Dean won’t say anything because he knows better.

☆

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #sam winchester x you #sam winchester smut #sam winchester angst #supernatural #supernatural x reader #early supernatural #supernatural fanfic #sam winchester fanfic

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bigsloppycrush · 1 month ago

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collagen [eddie munson]

there was a time while eddie was still healing when he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. eddie’s always been the kind to lick his wounds in private, and for a while it felt like he was all wound. 8k.

undead!eddie (kind of), f!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, angst, first kiss, processing trauma, lots of talk of scars. cross-posted to ao3. originally inspired by my idol @luveline 's fic 'love bites'. go read it.

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Eddie stares at himself in the small mirror of the medicine cabinet. He contemplates his body from the waist up, trying to discern if any of his scars appear a little fainter, a little less noticeable. His face seems to have healed nicely, no raised skin despite the slightly uneven colouration in places. His body is a different story; deeper wounds heal differently. He’s been using the fancy oil Wayne got him after every shower. He isn’t sure it’s really making a difference but it smells good so he uses it anyways.

Eddie spent a long time recovering after the Upside Down, feeling and looking like the undead. Face gaunt, hair limp, skin marbled with reds, browns, blues. Most days he still feels only half alive. On good days, he plays it up in his mind. How metal is it to be the world’s first zombie, he thinks to himself. On worse days, he can’t do much other than rot in his bed, unsure if he was ever meant to make it out alive.

He traces the big scar he deems the worst of his collection, ghosting his fingertips down his neck, towards his chest. He gets lost in the sensation, absentmindedly running over skin, scar, skin, scar. The thought of you flits into his head and for a moment, Eddie wonders what your fingers would feel like on his chest. He gets carried away briefly, entertaining the fantasy of intimacy. He can’t remember the last time he welcomed the physical sensation of someone else’s skin on his. Certainly it had to have been before he became Hawkins' resident zombie. In the safety of his head, in the privacy of his small bathroom, he rules that your fingertips would feel like angel kisses all over. But what would your lips feel like? The question enters his mind and he flushes, embarrassed to be having thoughts like this about you. You were his coworker and also his friend, and friends do not think about their other friends’ lips.

Eddie shakes his head, trying to dispel the phantom pleasure of your imagined touch. Everything is tingling as he steps into the shower.

You're mouthing the words to the song stuck in your head as you step outside. You meet Eddie out front of the Radio Shack that employs half of the young adults in Hawkins, the both of you included. You shrug off the thin hoodie you wear to work, stuffing it into your tote. Eddie looks up at you, eyes tracing your bare arms. He pulls his sweater a little further down his wrists before meeting your smile and offering a charmingly timid greeting.

You've noticed that Eddie’s a diligent type, always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave no matter the occasion. Maybe diligent isn’t the right word. Considerate, maybe. Today, you find him sitting on the curb, patiently waiting for you to finish your shift, unsure of how long he'd been there. On this momentous Wednesday Eddie is taking you to the movies. Not alone, not this time, though it’s something he thinks about. Something pulpy just hit theatres and the kids are just dying to see it. Dustin, having begged Eddie to drive, is dragging everyone out for the evening.

Backtracking into town, Eddie drives the way to pick up Dustin and Lucas, then Mike and El. Steve would be meeting you at the theatre after grabbing Robin and Max. The heat of the day has broken now, the sun getting close to setting. When you ask Eddie about his day, he tries not to look at you for too long in the pinkening light.

“Any progress today?” You ask when you catch his eyes.

“Nah, not much. Was too hot to think.”

Eddie’s been writing lots of music lately. Fewer lyrics, more riffs and melodies. It’s something that brings him out of his head and into his body. He loves the way his guitar strings feel under his fingers and the way the vibrations from the instrument’s body feel against him. He preens a little at your interest. He’s glad you think his music is cool, glad he can share this part of himself with you.

“You should come write in the Shack, it’s fucking freezing in there.”

“And distract you from repairing Steve’s Walkman for the third time?”

“Maybe if you played live he’d have less reason to keep using the poor thing. I keep telling him to just buy a new one.”

“Imagine a rock concert by the VCRs. For one day only: Eddie Munson and The Tapes.”

You make a noise imitating roaring applause and Eddie laughs.

“When are you finally gonna play for me?” You tease. “I’ll keep asking until it happens.”

“You’ll have to buy a ticket just like everyone else, sweetheart.” He glances at you to make sure he got his tone right and he’s pleased when you scrunch your nose at him. Little pieces of himself seem to find their way back to him when he’s with you.

“You really should’ve picked Dustin up first, you know.”

Eddie had hardly registered entering the suburbs. There was no world in which he was ever going to pass up the chance to have a few minutes alone with you. Most of your time together is spent at work or in the company of your mutual friends. Sure, he’s gotten to know you pretty well, and sure, it’s not like you never get the chance to talk one-on-one. It’s just that recently he’s been wondering what it would be like to have you all to himself for a day, to have more time alone with you outside of Radio Shack shifts and outside of the brief stretches of time when everyone else is busy talking to each other.

“So he could ride shotgun? No way.” Eddie’s eyes glint at you. If he had been braver in the moment he might have said something about your seat being reserved for pretty girls but he’s still working on his courage.

Your answering smile warms him, his hands now a little tighter on the wheel.

The theatre is busy by Hawkins standards and there’s a line at concessions by the time all of you are assembled. The kids decide to forgo popcorn to try and get good seats, and leave the adults (air quotes around that word) to make their decisions. You laugh as Steve and Robin bicker about whether or not to get a combo and which one would really be better value. Piping in at first then backing off, it’s clear you recognize your input won’t help or speed things along. Still, you watch amused as your friends have it out. Eddie thinks it’s sweet, both his friends and your patience for their antics. He wants to get involved, rib Steve a little, but he’s starting to feel antsy.

Eddie feels hypervisible to all people who aren’t his people. It’s like everyone in Hawkins can sense the death radiating off of him, his aura drawing unkind eyes and whispers. He starts edging slowly towards the theatre hoping either Steve or Robin might get the hint. As the slow minutes stretch on, he feels his clothes itching against his skin. It’s not that his friends aren’t usually attentive, they’re the best friends he’s ever had. They just get caught up in their fun and he can’t fault them for that.

Eddie almost startles when he notices you noticing his, frankly, scared expression and posture before you turn back to Steve and Robin. There’s a searing second in which Eddie is terrified you’re judging him, that you’ve seen through him and straight into his damage. He hasn’t been in very many vulnerable positions around you and you’ve yet to see him really panic. It's much easier to hold down his anxiety in when he's safe in Steve's basement. He doesn’t know how much you know, how much anyone else has told you about what happened. He knows you’re kind to the others and that they feel comfortable around you, but Eddie knows he’s different. He knows you’ve picked up on his aversion to closeness and his constant modesty. He’s broken in a way the others aren’t. He doesn’t know how to make sense of that. He’s terrified that he’s too fucked to ever re-enter society outside of his fellow survivors. He’s terrified of himself.

He watches as you put your hand on Robin’s arm catching her attention just long enough to let her know you’re heading inside and then turn back to Eddie, nodding your head towards the theatre. You take the first few steps slowly, waiting for him to follow.

And just like that, he feels seen.

Not in the way he usually does, not like you’re surveilling or assessing him. Like you get him. Like you don't mind all the weird.

Eddie trails behind you, eyes still a little wide. When you ask him quietly where he wants to sit he gestures non-committally to some seats nearby. You nod and pick a spot not too far from the door, no indication that you’d rather venture further in to be closer to the screen. Settling in, Eddie tries to breathe quietly, glad there’s nobody on his other side. He’s overly aware of his skin, his scars. Everything is warm. He thinks it’s an anxiety thing, this new full body sensation. He never felt like this before everything.

“You okay?”

You float the question casually, eyes fixed on the previews to give Eddie a moment of privacy. He nods lightly to himself more than anything before whispering an affirmative. Your gaze finally turns to his and you smile softly, your hand reaching for him. Your open palm hovers over his wrist on the armrest between you for a millisecond and he watches you catch yourself, thinking twice.

“Sorry, I should ask before I touch.” You say, withdrawing. You’re still smiling at him.

His body lights up again. You see him. He feels like you see him.

You turn back towards the screen, hand settling in your lap. He knows you well enough now to know you feel a little embarrassed that you reached for him without thinking. He wishes you didn't. He wishes he knew how to tell you he doesn't mind anything you do, ever.

When Eddie gets home later after dropping you off, he won’t remember most of the movie. He’ll remember how he spent the first act imagining your touch and daring himself to do… something. He’ll remember his heartbeat as he eventually, finally reached for your hand and how soft it was against his. He’ll remember the way you gently squeezed his fingers and the heat that rocketed through him. He’ll remember that you didn’t let go until he did, and that his palms itched against the steering wheel the whole way home.

A girl is in Eddie’s room. A real live girl is in Eddie Munson’s room. You are the real live girl in Eddie Munson’s room and he’s trying so hard not to freak the fuck out. He didn’t exactly mean for this to happen but, well, you’re here now and he’s doing his best to roll with it.

You don’t work every shift with Eddie, your hours far outnumbering his, but most of his shifts are ones he works with you. Today was one of those days when you were in together but not one where you got to talk as much as he’d have liked to. His favourite shifts are when you’re both on repair. Paired with anyone else he establishes his space, setting up on a small section of countertop off to the side and out of the way. With you though, he’s learned not to curl in on himself so tightly. He’s grown accustomed to and even excited for the chance that you might share tools or that your small bits and bobs might bleed into the space of his small odds and ends. Eddie Munson is not a yearner by any means but god does he spend a stupid amount of time hoping you might brush fingers or elbows while on the clock. Today was a let down in that you were on inventory while he was in his usual spot at the counter. Not only was he unable to figure out what was wrong with the radio he was working on, he also did not get to spend six hours working beside you. You, being as sweet as you are pretty, snuck over when you could though. He both loved and hated feeling you lingering over his shoulder when your manager wasn't looking.

On the whole, Eddie missed you today, which he felt weird saying in his head. So when you asked him about his after work plans (of which there were none) and he asked you about yours (also none), he asked if you wanted to hang out with him before he could think about it for too long. Or think about it at all. In an extended moment of bravery, or maybe brainlessness, Eddie seems to have invited you over and shown you into his room.

Eddie never really liked bringing people home. It wasn’t due to embarrassment exactly, it was something closer to a kind of fierce protectiveness. Eddie loves his trailer and his uncle. Lifetimes ago, when he used to invite people in more loosely, it wasn’t uncommon for people to look out of place there, their stiff bodies lingering close to the door.

You look perfect though. Like the right throw blanket, or a new window, or something else that’s supposed to tie a room together. Eddie isn’t sure how to qualify exactly what it is he thinks you add to his bedroom, but he's never really been good at interior design. Or having girls over.

“This is where the magic happens.” Eddie’s delivery is half-hearted as his hands find his pockets. He stands in the door frame in what he knows is an awkward approximation of appearing relaxed. You respond enthusiastically, making up for his hesitation. Eyes wide and curious you take a few cautious steps around his space.

“Cool.” You breathe softly, and Eddie knows you’re being sincere.

Tidier than he used to be, his bed is made and his stuff is somewhat neat. Your hands skim over his nightstand and the clutter on it. Dice, figurines, guitar picks and a book lying spine up. Eddie tries to shake the tension in his back but he finds he can't help it. He really, really wants you to like him, even though he's already pretty sure you do. He finds he feels naked despite his usual armour of long-sleeved shirt and baggy joggers.

Turning back towards him, your eyes catch on the shiny red thing hung against his wall. Laying pretty between two dark and dramatic posters, it's easy to tell that Eddie's guitar is a highly treasured possession. This is where Eddie feels confident jumping in.

“This,” he gestures grandly, “Is Sweetheart.”

You ooo appropriately as he takes her down for you to look at.

“She’s a B.C. Rich Warlock, I bought her brand new a few years ago. I saved up for months before I turned 16 and Wayne still had to spot me."

You smile at the pride and fondness in Eddie's voice. He looks pretty like this, eyes turned down, soft and adoring.

“She, huh? I knew there had to be someone special in your life.”

He looks up from the instrument's body, unsure about what exactly you’re poking fun at.

“You’re a catch,” you clarify, “I knew there was no way you were really single.”

Eddie ducks his head quickly before trying to meet your gaze again. He fails at this, eyes jumping right back down to Sweetheart, flattery and insecurity flaring equally inside of him.

"I'd love to hear you play something." Your tone, imploring though not pleading, has the most ridiculous pull on his heart.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, any requests?" Eddie is still trying to be brave.

"Whatever you think I'll like." Your smile makes him ache. "You think about it while I snoop some more."

Your attention is quickly captured by his small yet packed bookshelf. The warmth in his chest persists as he watches you tilt your head sideways to read the titles. Setting down on his bed, Eddie tucks his legs into a crisscross. What would you like? Eddie reckons you like a bit of everything so he thinks he could maybe pick a rock ballad? Something not too heavy but still true to his tastes.

Noodling a little to ease his nerves Eddie can feel the seam of his sleeve pressing uncomfortably between his guitar and his arm. He usually gets changed when he’s home, shedding his shirt in favour of one of his DIY tank tops and his pants in favour of his boxers. He often finds it warm in the trailer and he knows he’s safe here. Thinking about it, he realizes he never plays his guitar with long sleeves on anymore. He decides right then and there that it's uncomfortable and that he doesn’t like doing it. This, of course, is problematic for a few reasons. For one, you’re here in his room and you’ve never seen anything more than slips of Eddie’s wrists, ankles and collarbones. He knows you know something’s wrong with him. Or, rather, he knows you know he has scars. Anyone would notice how they peek out of his clothes in places, not to mention the unevenness of his face. As he plucks away tensely, Eddie weighs his options. He could suck it up and suffer through the sensory hell he’s experiencing, but that’s not seeming very feasible. He could change and put a tank top on, but that might be a bit more exposure than he’s ready for.

“You don’t actually have to play me anything if you’re not ready. I know I can be a little pushy.”

Eddie looks up to meet your soft smile from over your shoulder. Knelt in front of the book shelf, you've twisted around to speak to him. He knows you mean it, and for some reason that makes him all the more desperate to show off. Setting his guitar aside, he rubs his palms against his thighs. He opens his mouth but he’s not entirely sure what to say.

“You can tell me about your books instead? I keep hearing about Carrie, is it any good?”

The sweetness of your redirection dries his mouth. Leaving Sweetheart on the bed, Eddie comes to sit beside you and pulls his collection of Stephen King novels from their places. By the time you leave, you've taken a couple books to borrow and Eddie's promised to rent The Shining for you to watch together. His heart is still a little frenetic driving you home.

Eddie parks in your driveway and there's a pause in which neither of you wants to be the first to say goodbye. As you look at each other from opposite sides of his van, Eddie's chest squeezes and he can't tell if he's getting closer or if you are. He's not sure if you actually make noise when you tell him you'll see him tomorrow at work but he reads your lips all the same. He reaches out to squeeze your hand and you squeeze back, reluctant to let go. But you do, eventually, and Eddie watches to make sure you shut the door behind you after giving him one last wave. Pulling away, he can still smell you in the van's closed circuit of air. He waits until he's a little past the point of overheating to open the windows on the drive home.

Sometimes Eddie thinks about quitting his job. Every now and again his life will catch up to him and he thinks about leaving. Leaving his trailer, leaving town, leaving the circle of everyone he knows. He gets swept up by the urge to disappear until Wayne asks him to do his dishes or Steve calls to try and get him out of the house. Then it's all guilt. Where would he go? Would going somewhere else really solve anything? Was this urge really even about leaving at all? Really, he knows what happened to him isn't his fault. What happened to all of them was a freak accident, a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. But it's hard to heal. It's so hard to keep moving when he knows he's not the same and he never will be again. He knows Wayne is overworked and Steve gets worried. Dustin misses him all the time but most days he just… can't. Can't do anything at all. It's a hollowed kind of existence, living in the shape of the person you used to be. The old Eddie left some surprisingly big shoes behind when he went into the Upside-down. This new Eddie has no clue how to fill them.

Wayne is asleep on the couch when Eddie gets in. It's only seven and the TV is playing a sports game that's mostly static. Eddie considers going over to thump the thing so it clears but he'd rather not risk waking up Wayne. Not like he's watching the game anyways.

Shuffling into his room he drops back onto his bed. His head hurts and he knows he should probably have some water. His eyes close slowly. Five seconds of dark, five seconds of lamp light. Letting his head loll to the side, he enjoys the light stretch in his neck. His tired eyes find his bookshelf and the new empty spaces between books where you'd taken them from. On top of everything else to think or not think about, there was also you.

It's weird to want something. For what feels like a long time now, Wayne has been doing all the necessary wanting for him. He goes to work, he sees his friends, he tries to keep the house clean because Wayne wants that for him. Eddie has no problem with that, he's fine listening to someone else. It's nice, honestly. It's some kind of direction at least. But wanting something himself? It feels foreign. Especially not knowing what exactly it is that he wants, or even what he's allowed to want. Wayne tells him all the time: Slow down, son. One day at a time. Or one hour or one minute if that's what'll get you through it. That kind of works when he's trying to get to the other side of bad day, but he's unsure if that can apply to other people too. Is he allowed to just want to see you again, as soon as possible? Is he allowed to want to try to hold your hand and to drive you home as much as you'll let him? Does he have to know exactly how he wants this to go? Because he doesn't. And he doesn't know if or when he will.

Listless, Eddie pulls himself up and into the bathroom. Drinking from the faucet, he splashes his face while he's at it. Cold water is his friend. Although he scrubs his face dry with a towel, the hair framing his face stays wet. Eddie looks the guy in the mirror in the eyes, deeply. Was this someone who acted normal? Was this someone who was, like, bearable to spend time around? Was this someone who could have a relationship? Of any kind? He wonders how he appears to you.

Reaching across himself, Eddie ghosts his hand over his bicep. Brushing lightly against his loose sleeve he tries to recreate the feeling of you knelt beside him, arms side by side but not touching. His own hand is cold where you had been slightly warm. Reaching down to hold his wrist he wonders if he would feel soft to the touch. He's sort of desensitized to the terrain of his skin, he can't really judge objectively whether or not it would feel wrong to someone else. Meeting his own eyes in the mirror, Eddie cringes. He's being weird, he knows. If Wayne had been awake, he would have called after Eddie by now, telling him to stop spending so much time in front of the mirror and asking him to open the bathroom door. Grimacing, Eddie turns the bathroom light off before brushing his teeth in the dark.

When Eddie opens his door he finds you vibrating on his porch. All week, you've been excited to watch The Shining. He knows this because you told him when he saw you at work on Monday, and again on Wednesday, and because Steve had teased him after you had told him, too. He did a good job of denying anything was "going on", as Steve put it, and he had assured Robin that nothing was "going to happen" when she caught wind of it too. This was just a simple movie night between two friends with shared interests. Totally casual.

Your grin is infectious. You haven't even said anything other than hello and he's smiling hard, a mirror of your excitement. You don't even wait until you're fully inside before your thoughts start spilling out of you.

"I finished Carrie in like two days, it was insane! I got caught reading behind the counter at work and got told off but I was bewitched, I actually could not stop reading."

Eddie kindly takes your hoodie from around your shoulders and the packs of microwave popcorn of your hands. You continue to talk animatedly as the smell of butter starts to fill Eddie's small kitchen.

"I felt so bad for her, and honestly, I think everything she did was perfectly justifiable. I mean imagine you're seventeen and prom is, like, the representation of freedom and getting to leave everything behind, and then you can't even enjoy it! The one thing you've been dreaming of for years is ruined!"

"Oh for sure, I'd go batshit too. What did you think of the blood bucket? So much more metal than paint, right?"

"It was awful! Like that's actually so cruel, it made me sick." You grimace.

"You're going to love The Shining then." Eddie grins.

Your brows pinch with worry as Eddie's smile only grows.

"What does that mean? Eddie, what does that mean?"

Eddie says nothing more on the matter to your displeasure and his amusement. You whine at him and he laughs at you while he transfers the popcorn to a bowl.

Eddie's hand twitches, too shy to press against your back as he leads you to the couch and something strange swells in his heart when you fall back into the cushions and tuck your legs up under you, looking at ease. He can hear Steve and Robin's voices in his head as he sits down next to you after starting the VCR. Steve's voice reminds him to keep his hands to himself and Robin's chirps at him to leave room for jesus. You shift a little closer to Eddie to make sure he has access to the popcorn bowl and suddenly his skin is hot. The inch of couch between you is both way too close and way too fucking far.

Yep. Totally casual.

Eddie's seen this one before so he doesn't have to pay attention as hard as you are. He loves The Shining so of course he's paying attention, he's just also fine with missing a few of the things happening on screen in order to watch your reaction to them instead. You're rapt. On edge but having a good time, Eddie thinks. He's thrilled to hear your commentary, your low voice in his ear buzzing through him. He's endeared by how fond you are of Danny, and you point out details he'd never think to notice on his own.

It isn't long after the movie starts before you're pressed together, arm against arm, leg against leg. It's not surprising, that's just what happens when two people sit on a couch together. What is surprising though, is how warm you run, and how desperate he is to keep you right where you are despite his predisposition to overheating. He wants so badly to push his sleeves up to allow his skin to cool down a little but he hesitates. Last time you were here, he couldn't do it. He had still been too worried about making a perfect impression, or at least a good one, and he couldn't risk his scars ruining that. But you came back, Eddie reasons. You were back in his house, sitting next to him, excited to spend time with him. Maybe if he moves slowly enough, you won't even notice. He'll cool down a little and then he can cover up again when he's good. He settles tentatively on that plan of action and inches his sleeves up as inconspicuously as possible.

You do not, in fact, notice the newly revealed expanses of Eddie's skin. You're far too busy whispering warnings to Danny as if he can hear you. Clutching the now empty bowl to your chest, your eyes are fixed on the screen, wide with trepidation. But to your, and Danny's, immense surprise, something flashes on screen and you flinch. You all but leap onto Eddie, your hands reaching for and holding his arm, pulling it against your chest, bowl cast to the floor. Automatically, Eddie tenses.

Sure you’d brushed by each other before, usually knuckles against knuckles as you walked or a hand on a shoulder in passing, and sure you'd held hands on one or two occasions. But this was different. You were holding him, feeling his scars with your hands for the first time. It was strange to him, to feel skin on his skin after so long. It didn't hurt like he'd worried. It didn't burn or spark or sear. It was soft. And clearly his skin wasn't made of barbed wire like he believed. You weren't letting go. You hadn't recoiled or even reacted at all. He felt exceedingly…..normal.

Eddie was still sitting stiffly when the scene ended and you released your breath, hands still holding onto him. You turn your face up to him, eyes wide and ready to laugh off the scare when you notice the tension in his shoulders. You notice where his eyes are stuck and you pull your hands away, immediately understanding.

“Oh! Eddie, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

You shift over on the couch to make space between your bodies and for some reason the small distance between you distresses Eddie more than the feeling of your hand on his arm had. Eddie realizes his awe may have read as shock or horror and he needs to correct that. He reaches for you before he really thinks about it, hand grasping just above your knee, tugging your thigh ever so gently back towards him.

“No– I mean, I’m fine, are you fine?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“No, it’s okay, I uh, I just– I haven’t been touched in a while?” The end of his sentence pitches up into a question.

His arm stays extended in the space between you. He wonders if this is the moment he’s been waiting for, the moment where the other shoe drops. He knows you’re a more tactile person than he is, never shying away from Steve’s bear hugs or Robin’s cheek kisses. He knows you respect his boundaries profoundly, and that you'd never want to make him uncomfortable. It's too much to try and articulate in the moment, how weirdly comfortable he feels around you, but he hopes you can still understand the intimacy of his hand on your leg, the heavy meaning of the action.

You blink at him. The movie keeps playing in the background, casting alternating warm and cool tones across your faces. More firmly, he starts to pull your thigh back against him, and the rest of your body follows. He leaves his hand where it is, hoping you understand what he's offering. He doesn't think you know what to say but that doesn't matter. When you curl lightly around his arm again he thinks you get it. You press a shy cheek against his bicep and his body is all nerves.

When the blood finally spills out of the Overlook's elevators, you hold him tighter, turning into his shoulder to avoid looking.

"Come on, you're missing it! This is, like, the best part."

"That's so fucked up, Eddie."

You're not amused but he laughs, glowing as he rubs his thumb over the inside of your knee.

There was a time while Eddie was still healing when he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Eddie’s always been the kind to lick his wounds in private, and for a while it felt like he was all wound. He’s since come around to light touches. He can handle Steve’s arm around his shoulder, Robin's hip bumps, Dustin's side hugs. But there’s still something about letting people touch his skin that makes him squirm. At the root of it, he’s embarrassed. There's a shame that comes with major illness or injury that's difficult to understand. Steve recognizes it, though. Steve also recognizes that something's changing in Eddie. Steve would still absolutely call Eddie a sulky baby, but he's definitely different when you're around. Maybe it's that Eddie's less scared, less convinced that there's not a place for him anywhere. Whatever it is, it's nice. It helps Steve relax a little too, knowing Eddie's alright.

Steve knows he's staring but he can't help it. You're sharing a chair with Eddie, having come around from your end of the table to listen to whatever Dustin and Eddie are arguing about. Dustin's pointing agitatedly at the menu, likely dying on a hill of little consequence. It's as if they've never been here before despite Benny's being the only place in town that can always accommodate a group of twelve without notice. The seats are small so you're all but on top of Eddie. Your arm comes up behind one of his shoulders and, if Steve were to hazard a guess, Eddie's probably holding your leg against his own under the table. Steve wonders why you didn't just sit together to begin with. Eddie feels Steve watching and sends him a less than discrete middle finger. Totally casual my ass.

Eventually you give up on sharing and Eddie makes Mike switch seats with you so that you can be across from him. After Dustin finally settles and everybody orders, he's surprised to see Eddie sharing. He holds his burger (featuring quite a unique combination of toppings) out for you to take bites and you let him sip your milkshake in exchange. In contrast, Eddie's hand keeps slapping Dustin's away when he reaches for some of his fries. Very subtle.

“Apparently, when you get scurvy, all the collagen in your body starts to break down. Your scar tissue dissolves and every wound you've ever had reopens.” You tell this to an enthusiastic audience. You're embellishing a little, knowing the boys are prone to theatrics, but it's all in good fun.

"That's so sick." Dustin enthuses while Mike and Lucas agree.

The kids, having recently rented some stupid movie, are now deeply interested in running a pirate themed campaign.

"That could work as a hazard, what do you guys think? Instead of starvation the effect could be scurvy." Will is writing quickly into his notebook, looking down while he listens to the ensuing clamour.

"Where'd you learn that?" Eddie prompts you while the kids start to bicker about whether vitamin C potions should exist in game.

“Some article online. I was reading about afflictions."

"Afflictions? Slow down, Heathcliff, you know regular people say sickness, right?"

"Watch it, geek. You know regular people don't have Wuthering Heights memorized, right?"

You're both smiling impishly at each other, greatly diminishing the bite of your words. Eddie throws a fry weakly in your direction and you reach over to flick his fingers. Robin pokes Steve to ask if he's seeing what she's seeing.

"Totally casual my ass." She whispers.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Steve mutters.

After dinner, when the kids are unlocking their bikes and Robin's already waiting in his car, Steve watches Eddie close the passenger door of his van once you're safely inside. Steve's not stupid, he can see exactly what's happening. Eddie is stupid though, and probably doesn't have a clue what to do with himself. When Eddie catches Steve watching from across the parking lot, Steve smiles big. Eddie rolls his eyes dramatically and gets in the van, looking to make sure you're buckled before backing out.

Tucked into bed after work, Eddie counts the things in his room like he does every night to help him fall asleep. Eight corners, seven posters, one dresser with five drawers, four pairs of shoes shoved under said dresser, three shirts that missed the laundry basket, one lamp. There are less books on his book shelf than usual. He counts 33 out of his usual 37. You're still holding on to his Stephen King books even though you've already read through them all but Eddie doesn't mind.

Today was a difficult day. In true undead fashion, there was just something about excessive sunlight that bothered Eddie. It was maybe less about the sunlight and more about the uptick of reminders of his brokenness. Seeing Sarah Teagan from high school holding hands with a shirtless Kevin Cooper on their way to the pool on a beautiful day was irritating. Knowing Robin was going to watch an outdoor movie with some new friends in the park was cutting. Catching wary glares from behind sunglasses while he ducked into the gas station was steamrolling. Sunglasses don't make you imperceptible, people. It's the wishing that gets to him. He wishes and wishes and wishes. Eddie wishes he could walk shirtless down main street. He wishes he could make friends effortlessly. He wishes anything, everything was different.

It's not all bad, though. He takes great pains to remind himself of this. He might not buy into gratitude journals but he still knows it's good to remember the things he likes, the things he's looking forward to. He's DMing a game for the boys next week and he can tell they're frothing at the mouth to play. Steve scored two tickets to a rock festival in Indianapolis next month. He has this weekend off. With any luck, you might even want to see him sometime soon.

Turning his head into his pillow, Eddie feels his face start to warm. Despite having known you for a little while now, you were still a new development. It had been a long time since Eddie blushed at such a frequency. It was profoundly humiliating. He never blushed in high school. But obviously, lifetimes had passed since then. He was a different person now, mentally and physically. He’s more nervous, less confident, worse at flirting. When he blushes, he feels it in his whole body. He becomes overly aware of his skin, his scars. Everything kind of fizzes. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, it’s just unnerving. It makes him feel vulnerable, like he might come apart at the seams. In his head he avoids the obvious, that there's really only one cause for this new angst. If he pretends, he can believe he's not obvious. If he pretends, he can believe you can't tell.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie shuts his eyes tight feeling all kinds of miserable and lonely and, worst of all, hopeful. He turns onto his stomach and falls asleep with the light on.

Summer will soon come to a close in Hawkins but for now the sun still beats down.

On a blanket spread out on the grass behind Steve's pool, you and Eddie sit next to each other drinking twin pouches of juice. Eddie thinks you’re a strange pair, you in your swimsuit and him in long pants. He's traded his usual long sleeve for a t-shirt because of the weather, feeling only slightly, kind of, just a little bit, completely, utterly naked. He can feel how warm your skin is when your arm brushes against his and he knows you should both find a way to cool down soon. Steve is losing to Lucas in a cannon ball competition scored by the other boys. A much calmer Robin, El and Max are hanging out the shallow end of the pool.

Sore loser that he is, Steve eventually huffs his way across the yard while the boys yell after him. Eddie looks up to find his dripping body towering directly over your sitting forms.

“And how can we help you, Steve?” Eddie sounds grumpy. The heat must be cooking him.

With a wicked grin Steve shakes his head hard, spraying you with pool water. You squeal and Eddie groans, much to Steve's amusement.

“You dog!” You chastise, wiping water from your face.

“As if you weren't about to get in the pool.” Steve snips lightheartedly, setting down hard on the blanket near the both of you.

“I was going to. Later. When I felt like it. On my own terms.”

“Get a load of sassy.” Steve addresses Eddie as if you can't hear. You reach over to punch Steve’s arm.

You decide, stressing that the decision is solely of your own volition, that it's time to get in the pool. Steve laughs at you as you get up because he knows it'll wind you up.

"You're a shit." Eddie admonishes.

"You can join her if you want, lover boy."

Eddie narrows his eyes, choosing not to answer so as not to give Steve more ammunition.

Steve leans back on the blanket, propping himself on his elbows and sprawling his legs out parallel to Eddie. There’s a calm silence in which Steve suns himself and Eddie watches you in the water. The skin across your shoulders and the back of your neck has already started to darken, he doubts you put on sunscreen. You and Robin are motioning wildly, very likely as part of a game the two of you invented sometime in the last two minutes. A breeze shoots by him, sneaking up into his sleeve and he misses having your body beside his. He’s not sure how he should be reacting to Steve teasing him about you. He knows he’s been acting out of character. He’s coming out more, wanting to go where you go. He smiles more often. His laughter comes easier. He's pulled towards you, comfortable enough to let himself touch and be touched in little ways, even in front of the group.

“You can give yourself permission.” Saying this, Steve keeps his eyes closed, still sunning.

“What?”

“Like, to be happy.”

“What are you, my therapist?” Eddie’s words come out with a little more bite than he wanted. He can feel himself recoiling from a possible moment of vulnerability and the overbearing heat is not helping his mood.

“Eddie, it’s okay.” Steve opens his eyes to look at him earnestly. “It’s good that you feel good, it’s great even. You can give yourself permission."

Eddie twists his mouth. He wants to tell Steve he doesn't know anything but the truth is that Steve probably knows Eddie better than anyone on earth. If Eddie's going to take advice from one person in the world, it's gonna be Steve. Still though, where does Steve get off telling him what to do.

"Gee, thanks Mr. Know-it-all. I'll be sure to run all my very private personal decisions by you from now on."

"Dickhead. Don't be stupid."

"And here I thought you loved me."

"I do. You know I do. Don't be stupid." Steve closes his eyes again, confident he'll get the last word in. "She doesn't care, you know. She clearly has a thing for freaks."

Eddie holds up two emphatic middle fingers to the side of Steve's unseeing head.

“You can ask me,” Eddie offers on the drive home. "About them. If you want."

The rest of the afternoon had passed peacefully despite your sunburn and Eddie's dehydration. You had insisted you could walk from Steve's but Eddie wouldn't hear it. A pretty thing like you walking home by herself? No chance. The two of you sit tired and sun-soaked, cooled by the van's AC.

Much to Eddie's chagrin, Steve managed to get through to him earlier. He knows the hangup is inside of him. Really, he thinks you'd say yes if he asked you out. He thinks you'd say yes to most anything he asked. But annoyingly, Eddie is still on the never-ending journey of working on his courage.

“If you’re… If we’re… ” He trails off, his hands tensing and un-tensing on the wheel.

You look over to see him, watching him watch the road. Your eyes drift down to his forearms, following the scar pattern that's starting to become familiar to you.

You take your time answering.

“I don’t need to know, Eds. I’ve never needed to know.”

He nods but stays quiet until he pulls into your driveway. He puts the van in park and turns off the ignition. You wait patiently for him to put together what he wants to say.

“I want to tell you.” He turns in his seat to face you. “I want to tell you but it's so much and I wouldn't even know how and—"

He cuts himself off, getting frustrated. You're patient, giving him all the time he needs to find the right words. When you offer your open palm, he takes it, holding your hand with both of his in his lap.

“You make me feel like I have scurvy."

You pause, not quite understanding. “I make you feel sick?”

“No, not like that, it’s like–” He forces himself to breathe. "It's like I'm falling apart in all the places I used to be open. I used to be…I mean I'm better than I was but it's still hard. And it's not a bad feeling, it's not like it hurts or anything, but when I'm with you I just feel so raw sometimes. Like, after everything, I had to learn how to be a person again. I have most things figured out but with you…I don't know what to do with myself sometimes."

"Am I doing something wrong?" You know he's not blaming you for anything, you just want to know how to help.

Eddie shakes his head.

"No. No, I feel like I'm the one doing it all wrong. I feel like I am wrong."

He doesn't meet your eyes.

"There's not a right way, Eddie. There's just…There's you and there's me and there's what feels good. To both of us. That's kind of it." You speak softly.

"What if I don't know what feels good. What if I don't know."

"Then we try things. I'm not in a rush, Eddie. I'm here for you, not anything else."

You can see him thinking. He looks up with pinched eyebrows and you try to tell him what you said again with your eyes.

"Can I please kiss you?" He barely manages to whisper.

"I would like that."

It takes a second for Eddie to move. He lets go of your hand to hold your face, feather-light. He treats you as if you're the skittish animal, moving tentatively but with purpose. You want him to know you're not scared so you still, letting him take his time in this moment. He tilts your head gently, his nose brushing yours. Both of you breathe shallowly. He finds your mouth with his and presses gently. Something heavy inside you dissolves. He pulls back to take a shaky breath before kissing you again, just as tender as the first time.

Eddie stops at two because it's what feels right, for now. Your eyes are so bright and he knows his are glassy. He tries not to let his mind blind him by spiralling beyond right here. For now there is only you and him and all of his collagen.

☆

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