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[rainstormies]

bf material

[rainstormies]

Nothing Like High School | Steve Harrington

pairing: steve x r!girl next door

fandom: stranger things

word count: 2,2k (oneshot)

synopsis: you've known steve harrington since middle school, but when you return from college to visit your parents, something about him is different

song aesthetic: another love by tom odell

The Family Video sign is a little more sun-bleached than you remember.

You hadn’t meant to stop. You were just walking home from the bakery your mom likes — one bag of sesame rolls swinging from your wrist, a paperback tucked under your arm — when the low hum of a car stereo and a familiar voice hit you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

The voice says your name.

You blink, turn toward the parking lot, and—oh.

Oh no.

Steve Harrington is leaning awkwardly against the side of a beat-up beige Buick, squinting at you like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

You haven’t seen him in over a year — not since you left for Indianapolis and didn’t come back for Christmas. Back then, he was still King Steve, still perfect hair and cocky grins and slightly haunted eyes. Now?

Well. The hair’s still perfect.

But the cockiness? It’s… gone. Muted. Softened.

He’s in a faded green vest with a Family Video name tag pinned crooked over his chest. A stack of tapes cradled in one arm. He looks weirdly domestic. His posture’s a little slouched. His sneakers are scuffed. There’s a Band-Aid on one knuckle.

And when he grins at you, it’s shy.

“Hey,” he says. “I thought that was you.”

You raise an eyebrow, shifting the bag of bread in your hands. “Didn’t expect to see you working retail.”

He laughs, a little too loud, and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, not all of us ended up in fancy city colleges, right?”

You smile politely, already preparing to keep walking. “I’m just visiting.”

“Right. For the holidays?”

You nod.

He nods back, like this is the hardest conversation he’s ever had in his life. It’s kind of endearing, honestly — the way he fumbles for something to say.

“You, uh…” he tries again, then gives a tiny shrug. “Still reading a book a day?”

You pause. Surprised he remembered.

“Maybe not a day,” you say. “But close.”

He grins again — softer this time. “Still smarter than everyone else, huh?”

There was a time when a comment like that would’ve stung. Back in high school, it would’ve dripped with sarcasm. From him, especially.

But now?

It just sounds like admiration.

You tilt your head. “You seem different.”

He blinks. “That bad?”

“No. Just… not what I expected.”

Steve shifts on his feet, like your words hit something square in his chest. “Well, I guess I’m not really that guy anymore.”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t walk away either.

The silence stretches, full of old memories and half-grown feelings and things you never really said back then. You remember the version of Steve who didn’t even know your name junior year. And you’re standing in front of a version now who looks like he wants to ask you out but doesn’t know how.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but you beat him to it.

“I’m kind of busy right now.”

His expression falters for a split second before he masks it with a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I mean—I just thought—never mind.”

You glance at the bread bag, at the street behind him, at the way the sun hits his eyelashes when he squints.

Then, for some reason you can’t quite explain, you ask, “You still working here next week?”

His face lights up like a dog who’s just been told he’s a good boy.

“Every day,” he says. “Ten to six.”

You smile, finally stepping past him.

“Good to know,” you say over your shoulder.

You don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching you walk away.

You were still thinking about Steve when you reached your driveway.

That stupid, too-soft grin. The way he’d fumbled with his words like he wasn’t the same guy who used to rule the high school parking lot with one smug lean against his BMW. Like he didn’t used to be that Steve. The one who never looked twice at girls like you — the studious, always-tired, high-honors types with too much anxiety and not enough lip gloss.

But that was then. Now he worked at Family Video and talked like someone who meant it when he asked how you were.

And he looked at you like he remembered.

Your house sat five doors down from his — smaller, older, less curated. Your parents weren’t rich, but they were the type who had expectations instead of time. The lawn was trimmed with military precision. The curtains always drawn just enough to look lived-in but not enough to show what was inside.

You took a deep breath before stepping through the door.

“Is that you?” your mother called from the kitchen. Her voice was clipped, full of business and barely concealed nerves.

“It’s me.”

You dropped your bag by the stairs.

Your dad didn’t look up from the paper. “Did you get the grade back for your literature course?”

“Midterm was an A-minus.”

A pause.

He lowered the paper. “Why minus?”

You blinked. “Because I’m human?”

“Don’t be smart.”

You gripped the strap of the bag tighter. “I tried. I am trying.”

“Try harder,” he said, like it was that simple. “That school isn’t cheap. Your future isn’t a joke.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, heading toward the stairs.

“Don’t use that tone,” your mom snapped. “Your dad just wants you to do well. We're not the enemy.”

You turned, something inside you cracking loose. “Then stop acting like one.”

Silence. Thick and ugly.

Your dad stood slowly. “You want to be an adult? Then start acting like one. Try controlling your emotions.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t say anything — just turned, grabbed your coat, and walked back out the door.

The air was colder now, the sky edging into that dull autumn gray that made everything feel half-dead. Your boots hit the pavement too hard, but you didn’t slow down.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just away. Away from questions and pressure and the endless feeling that you weren’t quite enough.

As you passed the Harringtons’ house, you saw the flicker of a TV through their window. The light spilled golden onto the porch.

You hadn’t been inside since you were twelve — some neighborhood barbecue where Steve had barely looked at you and your mom had spent the whole drive home asking why you didn’t wear the nicer dress.

Now, you stopped at the edge of the lawn.

And you thought, suddenly: He used to be so careless. So easy. But at least he never made you feel small.

He never told you to grow up. He never made you feel like being tired was weakness. He just looked at you — today, on the sidewalk, in that stupid vest — like maybe you mattered. Like he saw you for who you were now, not who you failed to be.

You stood there for a long moment, breathing.

And then the porch light flicked on.

The front door creaked open.

And Steve stepped outside, hoodie pulled over his hair, holding a bag of trash.

He saw you.

And paused.

“Hey,” he said, blinking like he wasn’t sure you were real again. “You good?”

You weren’t. Not really.

But somehow, the words came out softer than you expected.

“Not really.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna come in?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

Because maybe you didn’t want to be good right now.

Maybe you just wanted someone to not expect anything from you at all.

You follow Steve inside.

The Harrington house is just as you remember it: big, quiet, almost too clean. Cold in that way money can be — the kind that buys furniture no one sits on. The lights are dim, and some black-and-white movie flickers on the TV, the volume low.

He tosses the trash bag by the back door and gestures for you to take the couch. You sit. Slowly. Like the cushions might reject you.

Steve disappears for a minute, comes back with two sodas and a bag of chips he says he stole from Robin’s secret stash at work. You take one, wordlessly. The quiet settles between you again.

Then he finally says it.

“They’re out of town. My parents.”

You nod, sipping slowly. “You home alone a lot?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You look around. “It’s a nice house.”

He laughs, but it’s humorless. “Sure. Big house. Big echo.”

That makes your chest ache a little. You glance at him. “Sorry I just… showed up.”

“I’m not.” He leans back on the couch, legs spread a little, bottle balanced on his knee. “Honestly, this is the best part of my day so far.”

That’s a lot. More than you expected. You sit with it for a moment, then quietly say, “Mine too.”

He glances over at you, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

The TV hums behind you, throwing shadows on the wall.

Then he speaks again.

“You know,” he says, “when you moved away, I kinda figured you wouldn’t come back. You always seemed like you were meant to be… somewhere better.”

You smile faintly. “You didn’t even talk to me back then.”

“I did a little,” he says. “You were the girl with her head always in a book and a different band t-shirt every week. You used to walk to school with that Walkman like you couldn’t stand to hear Hawkins.”

You blink. “You noticed?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes soft. “You made it look like escaping was possible.”

Your throat tightens.

“I always thought you had it all figured out,” you admit.

He snorts. “Me?”

“You were Steve Harrington. Popular. Pretty girlfriend. Perfect hair. You made it look easy.”

He shakes his head, slow. “It wasn’t. I mean… yeah, I dated Nancy. She was amazing. Way too smart for me, probably. But things didn’t work out.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just looks at the wall like it’s playing something only he can see.

“I didn’t get into any schools,” he says finally. “Grades were shit. My dad didn’t say anything — just left a brochure for some business program on my bed and hasn’t asked about it since.”

You shift closer without meaning to.

“I don’t even know what I wanna do,” he adds. “Feels like I peaked at seventeen and now I’m just…” He trails off.

“Floating?” you offer.

“Yeah. Floating.”

You study him for a moment. The way his hands fidget with the bottle label. The crease in his brow. This isn’t the Steve Harrington who haunted high school hallways in letterman jackets and cologne.

This is someone who feels like he’s failing.

“I get it,” you say, voice low. “My parents want perfect grades and a career path and a husband by twenty-five. I got an A-minus last week and it turned into a lecture about discipline.”

Steve winces. “That’s rough.”

You laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

Then, a pause. The kind that tastes like old memories.

“High school feels like forever ago,” you say.

Steve leans his head back on the couch cushion, eyes closed. “It does.”

“You remember prom?”

He smirks. “I was there. In a tux I hated. I think I drank half a bottle of cheap vodka in the parking lot.”

You grin. “I went home early. Ended the night playing Silent Hill with my cat.”

He laughs, real and warm. “God, that sounds so much better.”

For a moment, it’s like time folds in. No expectations. No pressure. Just the two of you, older now, softer in the places that used to be sharp.

You turn toward him, brushing your socked foot against his.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he says softly, “You ever feel like… maybe we didn’t miss each other? Maybe this is the part where we’re supposed to run into each other?”

You blink.

And something in your chest — something quiet and stubborn — unlocks.

You smile, just a little.

“Maybe.”

Steve's eyes are still on yours when the knock comes.

It’s sharp. Urgent.

He sighs, sitting up straighter. “Hold that thought.”

You blink, the closeness between you evaporating like heat from a flame. You draw your legs in, sit up too, pulling the sleeves of your sweater down past your palms.

Steve opens the door — and chaos floods in.

“Finally!” Dustin Henderson barges in like he owns the place, Lucas close behind, and… a redhead?

You frown, thrown. She’s looks to be the same age as the boys, skateboarding stickers all over her backpack, hoodie sleeves chewed at the ends. She looks at you for half a second and doesn’t even blink.

“We’ve been looking for you for like—” Dustin stops mid-rant when he sees you. “Oh. You’re not Robin.”

“Good deduction, Sherlock,” you mutter under your breath, standing. The warmth from before is already fading. You glance at Steve, confused. “Are you… their babysitter or something?”

Steve just sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You nod, but it comes with a small sting. You’re not sure what’s more jarring — that he’s somehow adopted a gaggle of middle schoolers, or that he seems so… comfortable with it.

Different. Softer.

“You seem to have stuff going on,” you say quickly, brushing nonexistent dust off your jeans. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.” You force a smile. “Really.”

He watches you like he wants to say something, but then Dustin starts talking about “the gate readings” and “El not picking up” and that’s enough to push you fully out of the moment.

You slip past him, careful not to look back.

The walk home is colder than before.

You tug your coat tighter around you, biting the inside of your cheek, thoughts spiraling.

Steve Harrington. In his stupid video store vest. Talking to you like you’re someone who matters. Laughing like that — not to impress you, but because he wanted to. And then those kids. That whole world. It was like seeing a part of him you weren’t allowed into.

You always thought you were the one who’d grow up. Move on. Be more.

But Steve?

He’d changed.

He was still funny and loud and weird, but also kind. Loyal. Brave in a way that didn’t come from popularity or charm — but from something steadier. Something real.

You, on the other hand, still felt stuck trying to meet everyone else’s expectations.

It stung, a little.

You’d spent years becoming what your parents wanted, what teachers expected, what applications needed. You were good. You were tired. You were contained.

And he was free.

You blink, eyes burning for no good reason, and take a deep breath.

You didn’t belong in his world anymore. You weren’t even sure if you ever did.

But still… when he looked at you like that…

You kind of wanted to.

You shift slightly under the blanket, your shoulder brushing his. The TV hums quietly in front of you, credits still rolling from The Breakfast Club, forgotten. You blink up at him in the dim light of the living room, your head still fuzzy from sleep.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

Steve looks down at you with that soft, crooked smile. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t have to stay this close.”

He raises a brow. “You cold?”

You shrug, the blanket tugging tighter around your shoulders. “A little.”

He leans just a bit closer, like it’s nothing. Like being that close doesn’t mess with the rhythm of your heart.

“Better?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

“Not really.”

You don’t know who moves first — maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you — but suddenly his hand is brushing your cheek, fingers pushing a strand of hair behind your ear like he’s been dying to do it for years.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Hey.”

His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb soft against your skin. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

And then?

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. Not planned. It’s a little too eager, a little uncoordinated — like he’s been waiting too long to get it right.

You make a soft, startled sound in the back of your throat, and he pulls back just a breath. “Sorry—was that—?”

You shake your head, already leaning back in. “No. Not sorry.”

This time, you kiss him.

Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer. His lips are warm, a little chapped, and he tastes like soda and something sharp underneath — something nervous, something real.

When you crawl into his lap, it feels natural. Like you’ve done it before in some dream you were scared to admit you had. His hands go to your hips, gripping hard like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You kiss deeper, harder, like you’ve got something to prove.

He groans into your mouth, and you feel it in your chest, low and dizzying. One of his hands slides up your back under the hem of your sweater, not fast, just slow and aching, like he wants to memorize every inch of you.

Your thighs tighten around his waist.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mumbles, breathless, against your lips.

You grin, high on the rush. “That bad?”

“That good,” he says, and then you’re kissing again, messier this time — open mouths and soft gasps and hands that don’t quite know where to land.

He shifts underneath you, and the movement pulls a sound from your throat you didn’t mean to make. It lights something behind his eyes.

You pull back, both of you breathing hard.

“Too much?” he asks, eyes searching yours.

You shake your head, lips swollen, heart pounding. “Not even close.”

You lean in again — but this time, slower. A little less urgency. A little more this-is-real.

Because it is.

You’re straddling Steve Harrington’s lap on his living room couch, wearing his blanket and your heart on your sleeve, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re not pretending to be someone else.

You’re just you — and he’s looking at you like that’s exactly who he’s wanted all along.

[rainstormies]

im trying to get better at writing longer oneshots, so get ready for a suuper long very angsty but w happy ending one for steve🫶🏼☺️

[rainstormies]

am i the only one who has the biggest crush on matt ??? he was sat right in front of me and then gave me his guitar pick😭😭🫶🏼🫶🏼

pls ignore how i put the wrong vid first lmao

[rainstormies]

I know right now your thing is kinda popular girl x Eddie (and it's AMAZING BTW!) But I was wondering if you could write something about Eddie x Best friend! Reader, where reader has always being in love with Eddie but she has never say anything to him cause she doesn't wanna ruin what they have, but she thinks they actually could work cause they're the same (they both like metal, same movies, video games, they're both nerds), so when she finally decides to confess her feelings to him, he tells her that he's got a date with another girl (who's prettier and cuter). The rest is up to you, writer.

Just Friends, Right? | Eddie Munson

pairing: eddie x r!best friend

fandom: stranger things

word count: 2,2k (oneshot)

synopsis: you've been best friends with eddie since sophmore year, which is exactly why you can't tell him the truth

song aesthetic: i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys

It starts like most days do, with you staring at the back of Eddie Munson’s head in third-period English.

He’s got his hood pulled halfway up and his messy curls poking out in every direction. His denim vest is draped over the back of his seat, covered in band patches and a rip along the seam that he swears gives it “character.”

You barely hear what the teacher’s saying. Something about Shakespearean irony and fate and how Twelfth Night is a comedy, even though none of the characters seem all that happy.

You wouldn’t call being in love with your best friend a comedy either. Unless the punchline is you.

Eddie slouches in his chair, flipping his pencil between his fingers with perfect rhythm. You watch the way his foot bounces under the desk, the way he bites the edge of his thumb when he’s trying to concentrate. It should be annoying. It’s not. It’s so Eddie it makes your chest hurt.

And the worst part is: he has no idea.

"Hey," his voice snaps you out of your daze. “Got a pen?”

You blink. He’s twisted around in his seat now, eyes wide, curls a little wild, like they always are. His fingers are stained with ink and maybe a little grease from whatever he was messing with on his van this morning.

You nod too fast and dig through your bag, hand him a black pen with a tiny bat sticker on the cap. He grins.

“Very on-brand,” he teases. “Thanks, spooky.”

Your stomach flips like it always does when he calls you that.

He’s been calling you spooky since Halloween of sophomore year, the first time you ever really talked, beyond casual classroom comments and shared detention hours. It was at a house party you weren’t even supposed to be at. You’d nearly bailed three times, pacing in your bedroom in a hand-sewn Wednesday Addams costume, unsure if anyone would even get the reference. You went anyway — sleeves buttoned, braids tight, a flask tucked into your little black purse like a lifeline.

He was dressed as Ozzy Osbourne, eyeliner smudged, black leather jacket and all. It suited him almost too well.

You’d ended up next to him on the back porch, away from the main crowd. You were sipping cheap punch and talking about how Halloween was the only holiday you liked. How it was the one night you could be weird out loud and no one would care. You mentioned your love for old horror movies and folklore and things that went bump in the night. He lit a cigarette, listened to every word.

Then, right as you’d trailed off with, “Sorry, I’m being weird,” he’d grinned and said:

“You’re spooky. I like spooky.”

And it just stuck.

Now, every time he says it, spooky, you feel sixteen again with your fingers wrapped around a red Solo cup and your heart wrapped around a boy who made weird feel wanted.

You pretend your face isn’t burning.

“Don’t lose it, Munson.”

He gives you a little salute with the pen before turning back around.

You stare at the back of his head again. Same curls, same slouch, same chaos. But it’s different now. Louder, in your chest. The crush that used to feel like a flicker is something else entirely now, a steady burn that keeps getting harder to ignore.

You never told him that you thought he looked really good that night. That his eyeliner was smudged in a way that made your lungs stop working. That you’d almost leaned in when he handed you his jacket because you looked cold, and he was being sweet, and the air was heavy with something electric.

You didn’t do any of that.

Because you liked the friendship you found afterward. The kind where he’d tape bootlegs for you and wait for you after class and let you talk his ear off about horror games and cryptids and the Friday the 13th franchise — which, of course, he said was “all blood and bad choices,” but admitted was still iconic.

You didn’t want to lose that.

Still don’t.

But you’re starting to wonder if maybe staying quiet is the way you lose him anyway.

Later, you’re sitting at your usual lunch spot outside, near the edge of the bleachers, away from the cheer squad, far from the jocks. It’s just you, your headphones, a Walkman that eats tapes half the time, and Kira.

Kira’s eating fries like they offended her and looking at you like you’re the problem.

“You’re not even subtle about it,” she says between chews.

You raise an eyebrow. “About what?”

She snorts. “The way you look at him like he hung the stars with his guitar picks.”

You throw a fry at her.

Kira dodges it with dramatic flair and leans in. “I’m serious. You’ve got it bad.”

You sigh and pick at the sticker on your Walkman. “He doesn’t see me like that.”

Kira raises a brow. “Because you haven’t said anything. All he sees is his best friend who can beat him at Mortal Kombat and has better taste in horror.”

“I like our friendship,” you mutter. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

Kira leans back and kicks her boots up onto the seat. “So don’t confess. Just… ask him to hang out. A horror movie. Casual.”

You chew your lip. You have been dying to see the new Nightmare on Elm Street. Eddie’s favorite genre is horror. You watched Poltergeist together last summer, arms brushing in the dark of his living room, hands never quite finding excuses to stay.

Your voice is quieter when you say, “You think I should ask him?”

Kira grins. “I think if you don’t, I will.”

You laugh. Nervous. Light. But inside, your stomach is flipping.

You decide: after class. You’ll do it then.

You rehearse it in your head during chem lab.

Hey, wanna catch the new Elm Street with me?

No. Too casual.

Just us? I mean- not like that. Unless...

No, no. Stop.

By the time last period ends, your palms are sweating.

You spot him by his locker, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder and joking around with Gareth about some D&D session. His rings catch the hallway lights. His laugh is warm and loud and familiar.

You walk over. Your heart thumps.

“Hey, Munson,” you say, a little breathless.

He turns, smile already there. “Hey, spooky.”

You hesitate. “I was wondering—”

“I got a date Friday night!” he blurts suddenly. Grinning, oblivious. “With that girl from art class. The one with the cherry earrings.”

Your mouth opens. Then shuts.

Oh.

Dawn.

You’d noticed her. Of course you had. With her messy braids and vintage denim skirts and that air of dreamy detachment, like she lived in a Fleetwood Mac song. She smelled like patchouli and paint. Carried her sketchbook everywhere and doodled on the backs of her notebooks in delicate, looping ink. She was… effortlessly cool in a way that didn’t try too hard. Like she’d time-traveled straight out of 1975 with bell sleeves and sunbeam smiles.

You, on the other hand, were the girl who still wore scuffed boots with her band tees. Who got weird looks in the hallways for carrying horror novels in her bag and playing gory, glitchy video games the second she got home. You’d been called “intense” once — by a cheerleader who meant it as an insult.

Dawn was soft where you were sharp. Glowy where you were shadowed.

“Oh,” you manage. “Cool. That’s… that’s great.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice dips. Or the way it takes you too long to smile.

He just shrugs, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. “Kinda weird though, right? Someone like her going out with me?”

Someone like her.

The words twist like a knife.

You force a laugh. “She probably likes weird.”

He grins, that stupid sweet grin that makes your chest feel hollow. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He turns to grab his math book from his locker like it’s any other day. Like he hasn’t just unknowingly cracked something open in you that’s been sealed too long.

You mumble something about homework, the automatic excuse, and turn away before your voice breaks.

You make it down the hallway, around the corner, and into the girl’s bathroom before you exhale.

And it’s so stupid, really. He’s just a friend. He’s always been just a friend.

But you’d imagined asking him to the movie. You’d practiced what you were going to say. You’d let yourself believe — for a second — that maybe he felt it too.

Now all you can think about is cherry earrings.

Kira finds you under the bleachers later, curled into your jacket like armor.

You don’t cry. Not really. Just press your sleeve to your face until the sting in your eyes goes away.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just sits next to you, shoulder to shoulder.

“I was gonna ask him to the movie,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says gently.

And it’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet where your heart feels too full and too empty all at once.

You wonder if Eddie will ever know.

You wonder if it would matter if he did.

You wonder if he’ll save your bat pen or if it’ll just end up in the bottom of his backpack like something forgettable.

The glow of the arcade washes everything in neon — reds, blues, greens blinking like heartbeat monitors in the dark.

You're sitting cross-legged on the cracked leather booth next to Kira, nursing a warm soda and pretending not to watch Eddie.

He's here now, having rolled in about ten minutes late, his hair damp like he'd showered but not bothered to dry it. He gives everyone a nod, makes some dumb quip about Jeff getting his ass kicked at Street Fighter, and then settles into a rhythm — laughing, bantering, being Eddie.

But it's the kind of loud that feels like armor. You know the difference.

Kira leans in as Gareth and Jeff start arguing over whose turn it is.

"He's being weird, right?" she murmurs.

You nod slightly. "Something’s off."

Eddie's standing by the pinball machine now, head tilted as the lights reflect off his rings. Gareth throws an arm around him and says something you can’t hear, and then: “So? Tell us about the date!”

Your chest tightens.

Eddie waves it off with a shrug. “It was fine.”

“Fine?” Jeff grins. “Dude, c’mon. She’s, like, moon-goddess pretty.”

He gives a tight smile. “Yeah. She is.”

They push a little more, laughing, teasing, but Eddie doesn’t bite. He lets the comments bounce off, jokes back a little, but he never gives any real answers. And that’s how you know.

Because Eddie Munson never shuts up when he actually likes someone.

Eventually the crowd thins. Kira leaves to get more tokens. Gareth and Jeff head off to challenge some middle schoolers to a racing game. And somehow, it’s just you and Eddie again, sitting side-by-side on that sticky old bench near the back.

He’s fiddling with a coin between his fingers, head low. You watch him in the flickering red of the Galaga screen across from you.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

He hesitates. Looks over. Shrugs. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You tilt your head. “So... Dawn?”

Eddie exhales through his nose. “Dawn's not for me.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you know not to push. So instead, you offer the only thing you have — your truth.

“Well, then she’s stupid,” you say. “Because you’re… you.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, amused. “Is that a compliment?”

You flush, but push through it. “I mean it. You’re funny. You’re kind, even when you pretend not to be. You know, like, everything about horror and D&D. You talk to people like they matter. You’re real. That should count for something.”

He stares at you.

The arcade noise fades into a low thrum. The kind that makes everything else feel far away.

You shift under his gaze. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice low. “I just didn’t know you’d noticed. All of that.”

You blink. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

And then he's leaning in, slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away — but you don’t.

Because you’ve been waiting. Not even realizing how long.

His lips brush yours like a question.

And you answer it.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss just slightly, one hand warm and steady against your jaw.

When you finally pull back, the neon still pulses around you — but it’s different now. Softer. Private.

He’s still so close. You can feel his breath when he says, “You’re not gonna disappear on me now, are you?”

You shake your head, smile barely held in place. “No.”

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s nothing in the way.

Not Dawn.

Not fear.

Not even the bat sticker on your pen.

Just him. And you.

And all the things you’ve both finally started to notice.

thank u to anon for the request, hope u enjoyed <33

[rainstormies]

over a hundred notes on my newest eddie oneshot😭😭 aww thank you guys soo much!! and thank u for reading and following and liking, i appreciate it so much

[rainstormies]

Bruised Knuckles | Eddie Munson

pairing: eddie x r!popular girl

fandom: stranger things

word count: 1,1k (oneshot)

synopsis: the metalhead and popular girl were never meant to make sense, so of course they did

song aesthetic: do i wanna know? by arctic monkeys

You’ve always hated Eddie Munson.

Or, more accurately, you’ve always pretended to. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. Because he was weird and loud and messy, and you were none of those things.

Because you wore cheer uniforms and lip gloss, and he wore leather and rings and looked like a wolf someone had barely bothered to house-train.

Because the first time you crossed paths freshman year, you bumped into him in the hallway, he made a dramatic show of checking if all his rings were still on his fingers, and then grinned and said, “Careful, princess. You might get glitter on my flannel.”

He’d held a grudge ever since, or maybe it was just a game to him. Every time you passed him, he’d whisper “Don’t trip over your perfection,” or tip an imaginary crown on his head and call you “Your Highness.” One time he’d called you a Stepford Wife. Loudly.

You told everyone you hated him.

But tonight… tonight is different.

Tonight you’re stuck in a group project for English with him — and you swear to god, fate is either cruel or bored. Everyone else paired up fast, and by the time you looked around, the only person left standing was Eddie.

You’d groaned. He’d clutched his chest like he’d been shot.

And now here you are. In his trailer. On his couch. Trying not to kill him.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers against a notebook he hasn't opened. “Do you wanna actually work on this, or should we just stare at each other and try to psychically communicate how much we loathe one another?”

You glare. “Do you always have to talk like that?”

“Do you always have to talk like that?” he says, mimicking your voice with obnoxious precision.

You toss your pencil at him. It bounces off his chest, and he gasps. “Assaulted! In my own home!”

“God,” you mutter. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“You’re such a dictator.” He grins, flipping his notebook open finally. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. You read the book. I’ll pretend to care.”

“I’m not doing the whole thing myself.”

“I never said you had to,” he shrugs. “I just said I’d pretend. That’s called compromise.”

You grit your teeth. You knew this would be a nightmare. You’re not even sure what made you agree to come here — maybe the fact that your house is currently packed with your mom’s book club and their chain-smoking habits. Or maybe it’s because, as much as you hate to admit it, you were… curious. About Eddie.

Not in the way your friends accuse you of, when they say, “You like him, don’t you?” and you scoff and say, “Please.” But maybe in the way you’d wonder what he listened to when no one was around, or what it’d feel like to be the girl he was actually nice to.

He leans forward suddenly, his brown eyes surprisingly sharp. “Why do you hate me?”

You blink. “Why do I—? What kind of question—?”

“It’s just,” he interrupts, “you don’t seem to hate anyone else. Just me. And I’m curious.” His voice isn’t mocking now. Just low. Thoughtful. “Did I do something worse than I remember?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And for the first time ever, you answer honestly.

“I don’t hate you.”

His brows lift, and something like a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Then why—?”

“Because if I didn’t,” you say quietly, “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full beat. Just looks at you.

Then: “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s sad.”

“I know.” He shifts forward slightly on the couch, the space between you shrinking just a fraction. “So… are we enemies, or what?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Are you gonna help me write this essay?”

“No,” he says immediately.

You groan.

But then he grins. “But I’ll let you do it while I make you tea.”

You’re too startled to argue as he gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

He makes good on his promise, though. Ten minutes later, he’s back with two mugs — his has a chipped skull on it, yours is plain — and he sinks back onto the couch beside you like this is just what you do.

You sip the tea. It’s sweet. Cinnamon and honey. Too nice to admit you like it.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, eyes flickering toward yours. “I have a reputation.”

You smirk. “Of what?”

He leans closer. “Being unlovable.”

It’s a joke. You know it is.

But your heart thuds.

You look at him — really look at him. The long lashes, the curve of his mouth, the tiredness behind the charm. And something about being here, in his space, with nothing to perform for — it makes your chest ache a little.

“I don’t think that’s true,” you say quietly.

He freezes.

You bite your lip. “Maybe you just haven’t been loved right.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something dangerous.

And you suppose, maybe, you have.

The silence is thick.

You shift your legs, trying to get comfortable, and they bump into his. You don’t move them away.

He looks down. Then back at you.

“Are you flirting with me, princess?”

You smirk. “You wish.”

“Oh, I do,” he says easily. “More than I should.”

That throws you.

You stare at him, the blood in your veins humming. He notices.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice rough.

“Like what?”

“Like you might actually kiss me.”

You smile. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t stop you.”

Your heart trips.

You lean in first.

And he meets you halfway.

The kiss is softer than you expected. Less reckless, more real. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck like you might vanish if he’s not careful.

You melt into him. One arm around his shoulder, one hand still holding your tea mug, tilting awkwardly as he pulls you closer.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s waited a long time to prove he can be gentle.

By the time you pull back, your face is warm and your brain feels fuzzy.

“See?” he says, his voice husky. “You don’t hate me.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Still not helping with the essay?”

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, your smile pressed between both of your mouths.

So maybe he’s not unlovable. Maybe you just had to stop pretending he was.

And maybe you weren’t pretending to hate him, maybe you were just scared of how much you didn’t.

for anon who wanted an enemies to lovers<3

[rainstormies]

(20) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 899

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

The hospital walls were quieter now, but it was the kind of quiet that always felt temporary. Like calm air before another wave crashed down. 

The corridor smelled of antiseptic and sweat, but underneath it all was something sharper: metal and smoke, clinging to the walls like an old memory. The tiles under Layla’s feet were slick with invisible filth, a thin layer of dust tracked in from boots and blood. The overhead lights buzzed intermittently, flickering in and out like they were tired too. 

Layla stood beside a metal stretcher that hadn’t moved in hours, her fingers pressed into her elbows, arms crossed like a shield. Her scarf was damp with heat at the edges of her neck. The once-soft fabric felt stiff with dried sweat and blood, crusted at the ends. Her chest still rose too fast from running through the building earlier, from the words she’d just heard, from what she knew might be coming. 

She barely noticed anymore. 

“He should’ve bled out,” said the man next to her, his voice worn, like it had been frayed and re-stitched a hundred times. “Anyone else, nine out of ten times, that’s what happens. But he didn’t.”

Layla glanced over.

He wasn’t in uniform — not really — but there was something distinctly military about him, despite the dusty polo shirt with a fading red cross printed on the sleeve. His ID tag read Robert Halvorsen, MD – Civilian Medical Corps. He had salt-and-pepper stubble, tired blue eyes, and a calmness that didn’t come from detachment but practice — like someone who had stood in too many rooms like this one. 

“You’re talking about Elliott?” she asked. 

Robert nodded and shifted the folder in his hands — thinner than she thought it would be, considering the extent of Elliott’s injuries. 

“He’s stable now. Barely. It’ll be a long road. He’ll need multiple surgeries, skin grafts, extensive PT. We’re coordinating a long-term medevac back to the States... eventually.”

Layla watched him flip through the pages. There was blood smeared near the top corner. Real blood. Elliott’s, probably. Maybe Sam’s. 

“I’ve seen a lot of wounds like this,” Robert continued. “IED blasts, secondary shrapnel, bone exposure. But I’ll tell you this — whoever worked on him first, in that apartment, saved his damn life.”

She hesitated. “I just did what I thought was right.”

“Still,” he said, glancing at her now. “I don’t know many civilians who would keep their head with that kind of pressure. You kept him alive long enough for us to do the rest. You probably saved his legs.”

Layla said nothing. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She was still wearing the same shoes she’d worn the day she helped Sam and Elliott, after they’d been pulled in from that broken street. They were scuffed and stained and barely held together. Her soles ached from how long she’d been on them. 

“I was a med student,” she said softly. “Baghdad University. Two years before it… fell apart.”

Robert gave a quiet hum. “Well, if the world doesn’t implode, you’ve got a future.”

She almost laughed, but the sound never left her throat. 

Then — quick footsteps. Fast. Urgent. 

An American soldier rounded the corner at full speed. Young, tall, dirt smeared across his face, helmet askew, sweat streaking down his temples. His eyes were wide, feral — still running on adrenaline. He didn’t look injured, but something about him was worse. Like he’d seen something that wouldn’t go away. 

“Where’s Jake? Or Commander Erik?” he barked. “Anyone got eyes?”

Robert stepped forward. “They’re not here. What’s wrong?”

The soldier’s eyes darted over Layla and back to him. “There’s movement outside. South perimeter. We picked up chatter… locals saying this place might be harboring combatants.”

“What?” Robert snapped. “This is a hospital. Civilians. Kids. There are rules—”

The soldier shook his head. “They don’t care about the rules. They think we’re hiding someone here — or that we’ve taken over the building. And that means it’s now a valid target.”

Layla felt her stomach drop. 

Robert paled. “You’re telling me they’re going to—?”

“Mortars. Maybe more,” the soldier said. “Command’s trying to confirm. But there’s already talk about not risking a second evac vehicle. Word is, the area’s too hot.”

Layla stepped forward without meaning to. “They’re going to attack a hospital?”

The soldier blinked at her, startled by the English. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, but didn’t say it unkindly. 

“She’s with us,” Robert snapped. “She saved one of your own. What the hell are you people doing? We have wounded here. Children.”

“They know that,” the soldier said grimly. “But they also think we're treating their enemies. That makes this a target.”

Layla stood frozen, a ringing in her ears. She looked past them, through the narrow glass window of the ICU. 

Sam lay just visible beyond the glare, his face turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed, tubes in his arms. The steady beep of his vitals was faint but real. 

And still — it might not be enough to save him. 

None of it might be enough. 

She turned back to the soldier, who was already running again, disappearing down the corridor. His footsteps echoed long after he’d gone. 

Robert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They won’t bomb the hospital,” he muttered. “They can’t.”

But Layla wasn’t so sure. 

And she’d stopped believing in rules a long time ago.

[rainstormies]

rainstormies masterlist

stranger things oneshots

🎸 the quiet between songs | eddie

🎸firestarter | eddie

🎸 bruised knuckles | eddie

🎸 just friends, right? | eddie

🎸nothing like high school | steve

stranger things fic

📺 brooklyn at midnight | coming soon | eddie

warfare fic

🥀 what remains | sam

[rainstormies]

got to be barricade tonight at a djo concert😭😭 what a dream come true

[rainstormies]

(19) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 1238

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

The hallway outside Mina’s room was dim and quiet, the kind of quiet that felt too thin, like it might tear at any moment. 

Layla leaned her shoulder against the doorframe for a moment, bracing herself before pushing it open. 

Inside, the lights were low, and the soft hum of machines created a rhythmic white noise. The little girl lay under a rough hospital blanket, an oxygen mask strapped over her face, her chest rising and falling with effort. A nurse had cleaned the blood and grime from her small hands, and her wrists now bore soft bruises from where she’d been held down in panic. 

She looked impossibly small in the bed. Smaller than Layla remembered, smaller than she should be. 

Layla stepped closer, barely making a sound. Her legs ached. Her arms, too — tired from lifting, from pressure, from holding onto everyone else’s pain. 

“Mina,” she whispered, crouching down. “Hey, habibti.”

The girl didn’t wake, but her hand twitched slightly under the blanket. 

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” Layla murmured. Her own voice felt far away, like she was speaking through water. “You did so good.”

She smoothed the hair back from Mina’s face with trembling fingers. The child’s skin was warm again, not that awful waxy color it had been before. Still too pale, but not fading anymore. She would live. That much, at least, Layla had clawed back from whatever line had nearly been crossed. 

“You’re strong,” she said, resting her forehead against the side of the bed for a moment. “You’re so strong.”

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in so long. 

Not when the explosion went off. 

Not when Sam started screaming. 

Not when she had knelt over Elliott’s torn-up legs with blood-soaked hands and had to decide who needed morphine first. 

Her body was simply too empty for tears. She’d passed through exhaustion and come out the other side — numb, like her limbs were full of lead. But still she moved. 

After a while, a nurse came in. He looked at Layla kindly, speaking in gentle Arabic. Layla nodded, stood, and gave Mina’s small hand one last squeeze. 

In the hallway again, everything felt colder. 

She wandered through the hospital corridors until she found the outer loading dock, a quiet concrete step facing the open lot. The air was cooler now, dusk coming on, the sky turning a bruised pink. She sat down slowly and pulled her knees to her chest. 

Her head ached. Her ribs ached. Even her skin felt tired. 

The door opened behind her, and a moment later she heard heavy footsteps. 

She didn’t look up as he came to sit beside her. He didn’t speak either, just dropped onto the step with a soft grunt, his rifle across his lap. 

She didn’t need to look up to know it was Ray. 

For a while, they just sat in silence. The soft clang of distant metal echoed from the lot. Somewhere, someone shouted orders in English. Another door slammed shut. 

Layla stared at the cracked pavement, at a patch of weeds growing through it. 

“I have a son,” Ray said finally. “He’s four.”

She blinked. The words felt sudden, like someone had tossed a rock into still water. 

“Michael,” he added. “My girlfriend named him. I wanted something simpler — Jack, maybe — but she said no, he needed a name that meant something.”

Layla turned slightly toward him, startled by the gentleness in his voice. It was the first time he’d sounded like someone who didn’t wear a gun for a living. 

“He looks like me,” Ray went on, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Unfortunately. Has my eyes. My attitude too, if I’m being honest. His teachers say he doesn’t like to share.”

Layla tried to picture it. Ray in a house somewhere, brushing dirt from a little boy’s knees, answering questions about dinosaurs or stars. 

She couldn't. 

“I thought I was gonna die in that street,” Ray said quietly. “When the IED hit, and Sam started screaming, and we couldn’t get Elliott out fast enough... I just knew it. Thought, this is it. I’m never going home.”

Layla didn’t respond right away. The ache in her throat returned like it had been waiting for this exact moment. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she said finally. 

He gave a soft laugh. “Me too.”

But something in her tone made him glance over. And after a moment, he looked away again, as if he realized she didn’t mean it the way he thought. 

Because while she was glad Sam had lived, glad Mina had lived, a part of her was stuck thinking about the thousands who hadn’t. About the men who never got to say goodbye. About the women still searching ruins for their sons. About the fathers—

She stopped herself. 

Don’t. 

Her throat tightened, her chest locking with pressure. 

She thought about her own father. His rough hands. The way he used to hum tunelessly when he read. How he’d saved and saved to send her to Baghdad for school. How he’d been killed in a market that was supposed to be safe. 

“I waited for him all night,” she whispered. “When he didn’t come home. I thought... maybe he’d just gone to help someone else. Maybe he’d found shelter. But by morning...”

Ray didn’t say anything. 

“I hate that I hoped for so long,” she continued, her voice shaking now. “I hate that I still do sometimes.”

He looked over, face taut. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your sorry,” Layla said softly, though there was no heat in it. “I want it to not have happened. I want people to stop looking at us like we’re rubble they have to walk through.”

Ray didn’t speak again. But he didn’t leave either. 

A long silence passed. 

“I can’t imagine losing him,” he said eventually, his voice raw. “My son.”

Layla looked away, blinking hard. 

“Then try harder,” she said. 

The words weren’t cruel. Just true. 

Because he couldn’t understand, would never understand. The Americans didn’t understand how good they had it. How they had all come here voluntarily. Her father’s death wasn’t voluntary. He’d gone to the market to buy food. And he’d never returned. 

Outside, the tank engines rumbled faintly in the distance. Somewhere, a helicopter passed overhead. The world was still moving. Still burning. Still making widows and ghosts out of people. 

She pressed her hands to her face and breathed deep. She didn’t want to hate these men. Some of them had been kind. Some had helped. Sam... Sam had looked at her like she was more than a body in a war zone. 

But kindness didn’t erase what they were part of. 

Kindness didn’t bring back her father. 

And yet, here she was — sitting next to one of them, listening to him talk about his son. Listening to him be human. 

It was so much easier when they weren’t. 

After a while, she lowered her hands. Ray was still sitting beside her, quiet. 

The sun had nearly vanished behind the hospital now, the sky darkening into night. A few stars flickered overhead. 

Layla thought of her mother, her brother. Mina. 

The ones who were left. 

And she promised herself again that she’d protect them all. That she’d survive this too. 

Even if it meant listening to stories like Ray’s. Even if it meant holding both her grief and her fury in the same breath.

[rainstormies]

(18) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 733

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

The hallway outside the operating rooms smelled like bleach and metal and something sour underneath — too many days of blood scrubbed into tile. Layla sat on a cracked plastic bench, her hands still stained faintly red at the fingertips, the medical textbooks she had brought resting on her lap like a shield. 

Through the glass wall to her right, she could see Sam. 

He lay half-propped on the hospital bed, a mess of bandages wrapped around his thigh, wires snaking from his chest and arms to the machines that blinked beside him. A nasal cannula fed oxygen through his nose. His hair was matted with sweat and dust, but his eyes — those same eyes that had followed her through every room, watched her when she wasn’t looking — were open. 

He looked tired. But alive. 

The nurse inside the room noticed her hovering and gently cracked the door. “You can go in,” she said, her accent heavy, words slow. “But just for a little.”

Layla hesitated only a second before slipping through. 

The room was dim. The only light came from a lamp above the bed, casting soft halos on the floor. Machines hummed in the background, steady and low. 

“You’re alive,” she said softly, a little breathless. 

Sam turned his head, and a tired smile tugged at his lips. “I was wondering when you’d come say hi. Starting to think you forgot about me.”

Layla scoffed gently, walking to his bedside. “You’re the one in a hospital bed. What’s your excuse?”

He gave a short, pained laugh, one hand coming up instinctively to his side. “Touché.”

She dragged a chair closer and sat down beside him, resting her arms on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, she just watched him. The bruises. The lines around his mouth from pain. The way his fingers kept twitching, like they couldn’t relax. 

“You saved my life, Layla,” he said after a while, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I didn’t,” she replied quickly. “I did what I could. But I’m not a real doctor yet. If you hadn’t gotten here, if Ray hadn’t—”

“I would’ve died.” His voice was firmer now. “And so would Elliott. And probably half the team, honestly. You kept your head when none of us did.”

She looked down, suddenly shy. “I just didn’t want to lose anyone else.”

Sam’s expression softened. “You lost people before?”

Layla nodded once. “My father. The war took him. Then my studies took me away from my family for too long. And now... everything feels like it’s been taken.”

Silence settled between them, but not the heavy kind. The quiet kind that meant someone was listening. 

“Hey,” Sam said softly. “Can I tell you something stupid?”

She glanced up. “Please do.”

“I thought you hated me the first time I saw you.”

Layla blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, wincing a little. “You just... looked right through me. Like you didn’t care who I was.”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. Then, after a second: “Not at first. I mean, you were just another soldier taking my house. Taking my city.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a crooked grin. 

“But then you looked at me differently. You listened. You got Erik to let me help.” She looked down at her hands, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. “That’s when I started paying attention.”

Sam turned his hand over, palm open, fingers relaxed on the bed beside hers. He didn’t reach for her — just left it there, like an offering. 

She didn’t take it. But she didn’t move away either. 

“I thought no one noticed me,” she said after a pause, her voice quieter. “Other girls are prettier. Braver. I was always just... the smart one.”

Sam looked at her for a long time, gaze soft and unguarded. “Well, the smart one’s the one who saved my leg. And my life. So I think I’m good with that.”

Layla swallowed hard. “Don’t say things like that. Not when you’re lying in a hospital bed and can barely sit up.”

“I mean it,” he murmured. 

Her eyes stung suddenly, inexplicably. She looked away. 

“I should go,” she said quietly, rising to her feet. 

“Wait.” His fingers brushed her wrist, barely there. “Will you come back?”

She nodded once, already backing away. “Yeah. I’ll come back.”

Then she slipped out the door before her heart could do something foolish.

[rainstormies]

(17) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 622

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

The ride was a blur. 

Hot metal. Tight walls. The engine’s growl underneath them like a living thing. Layla didn’t remember falling asleep — only that the world outside the Bradley had been fire and bullets, and now it was quiet. 

Or nearly quiet. 

When she opened her eyes again, they were slowing. She could hear voices — sharp, clipped orders. The metallic clatter of boots hitting pavement. Someone shouted “Med Incoming!” in English, and then they were moving again, this time on foot. 

The hospital wasn’t much from the outside. A squat concrete building ringed in sandbags and hesco barriers. The windows had been reinforced with sheet metal, the glass long blown out. An American flag and the faded green of the Iraqi one fluttered together above the checkpoint. A Red Crescent was painted onto the wall in streaky, uneven lines. 

They were ushered through a side door under heavy guard. The moment they stepped inside, the world changed. 

Cold. Bright. Bleached white. 

Inside, the walls smelled of disinfectant and something metallic — blood, maybe, or iodine. The hallway echoed with voices. American medics in fatigues pushed stretchers down the hall, barking orders. Iraqi doctors in pale green scrubs walked alongside them, speaking in rapid Arabic. Somewhere, someone screamed. 

They were in a war hospital. 

Not a proper one — makeshift. Temporary. But organized, somehow. 

“Mumkin tsaʿdūn?” Can you help? Layla asked the moment she saw a doctor. 

The man barely glanced at her. “Inti minīn?” Where are you from?

“Baghdad. Ana tāliba. Ṭibb.” I'm a student. Medicine. 

That got his attention. 

Two more Iraqi staff turned, confusion flickering across their faces. The one nearest her nodded. “Tāliba? Tayyib, taʿālī.” A student? Okay, come. 

Before she could say more, someone handed her gloves. A hair cover. A mask. 

Wait — no. That’s not what she meant. 

“I—no, I was just trying to—”

But it was too late. They were already moving. A blur of green scrubs and English orders. 

Layla was swept into a side hallway, her boots sticking on the recently mopped floor. Her heart pounded as she followed them through swinging double doors. 

And then she saw him. 

Through glass. 

Sam. 

He was in a trauma bay, surrounded by moving figures — doctors, nurses, someone adjusting an IV bag. His leg was wrapped tightly in gauze, a metal splint running from thigh to shin. His shirt had been cut away. There was blood on his collarbone, drying in streaks. He wasn’t unconscious, but he wasn’t fully awake either — his head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded, blinking slow and dull. 

He looked… small. Not like the boy who’d joked with her in the hallway. Not the one who’d screamed and fought when they picked him up. 

Just a boy now. 

A broken one. 

Layla stopped just short of the glass wall, one hand resting lightly against it. The hospital air was cold and sterile, but her chest was burning. 

She wanted to go in. Say something. Let him know she was here. 

But her tongue felt heavy. 

Behind her, someone called out instructions. Arabic and English swirled in the air around her. Something about triage. Surgery. A compound fracture. 

Elliott. 

They must have brought him too. 

She took one last look at Sam, watching his chest rise and fall. Machines beeped in rhythm. A nurse adjusted a lead on his temple. 

And then she was pulled away again, someone tapping her shoulder and saying, “Yallā, yallā. Tiji tishūf il-kasr.” Come, come. You’ll see the fracture. 

A door swung open, and the scent of blood hit her full force. 

Layla swallowed the panic in her throat. 

She hadn’t meant to walk into a surgery suite. 

But here she was. 

No one stopped her. 

So she went. 

[rainstormies]

(16) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 863

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

They came for them in the thickest part of the heat, when the dust outside burned gold and red and the walls felt like they were holding their breath. 

Layla had just finished checking the makeshift bandage on Sam’s thigh when the call came from outside the room — short, sharp, final. 

“Go.”

Ray stepped in first, cradling his rifle but speaking gently. “We’re moving them. Now.”

She turned to Sam and froze. 

She hadn’t even said goodbye. 

“Wait—” she started, reaching for his arm. 

He looked at her then. 

Not at the floor, or at his wound, or at the hallway filled with chaos. At her. Like he’d been waiting to. His face was ashen, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood, and his mouth opened like he had something to say — but no words came out. 

Then Jake shouted from the hallway: “Lift now! We’re out of time!”

The boys crowded in, taking positions around Sam and Elliott’s makeshift stretchers. Some of the soldiers had taken their jackets off and rolled them under the injured’s bodies. There were only seconds now. 

Sam’s gaze locked on hers one last time, his lips parting like he wanted to ask something. Like he might say her name. 

Then they hoisted him. 

Screaming. His back arched, one hand clawed at the air. The pain broke out of him in a single, raw cry that turned every head. 

“Hold him, hold him—” someone muttered, as they rushed the two stretchers toward the door. 

Layla stood in the middle of the room, frozen, her hands empty. 

They were gone. 

Just like that. 

The footsteps faded down the hallway, into the sunlight beyond the door. She stood there, numb, until Jake returned. His face was slick with sweat, mouth set into a grim line. 

Ray hadn’t come back. 

Tommy came next — a new face, someone Layla hadn’t noticed before. (Had he been here the whole time?) Towering. Broad-shouldered. He looked like a boy made in the shape of a wall. The youngest among them, but the way he moved told her he knew exactly how to kill. He had the biggest weapon she'd seen, strapped tight across his chest like it was part of him. 

Then Erik entered. 

His face was darker now, streaked with grime, eyes hard as iron. He didn’t hesitate. He moved straight to Mina, now wrapped in a stained blanket on the floor, and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. 

“She goes first,” he said. “Jake, grab the boy.”

Layla stepped in front of Samir instinctively. “What? Why?”

Erik didn’t flinch. “It’s not safe here.”

“You said one evac—”

“That changed,” Jake cut in. “We’re pulling everyone. Now.”

Layla’s mother stepped forward too, voice shaking. “You can’t just take our son—” Her mother only spoke Arabic, she didn’t understand what they meant. 

“We’re not leaving you,” Erik said. “Any of you. But we need to go. Right now.” He pointed towards the door. 

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Closer this time. Someone shouted from the street.

Tommy moved fast — positioning himself between Layla and the front door, his weapon raised and eyes scanning every shadow. “Move. Now. Stay behind me.”

“Where’s Ray?” Layla asked. 

Jake hesitated. “He didn’t make it back to the house.”

Her breath caught. 

He’d stayed with them — Sam and Elliott. He was gone. Not dead. But gone. 

The hallway was darker than before, lit only by the sun slicing through broken windowpanes. The air reeked of gunpowder, smoke, blood. 

Tommy’s voice cut through the fear. “Let’s go. Eyes on me.”

He took the lead, massive frame filling the narrow passage. Behind him came Erik, holding Mina with fierce, almost parental care. Jake walked beside Layla’s mother, who clutched Samir’s hand like it was all she had left. 

Layla stayed at the rear, her feet numb, her mind racing. She kept her head low, her arms around a small medical bag she’d packed in seconds. 

Gunfire barked again — closer now. 

The front door was wide open, the world outside burning with light and sound. The air smelled like smoke and scorched rubber. There were no civilians in the street. Just American soldiers yelling, the guttural roar of the Bradley’s engine, and the sound of boots pounding pavement. 

They rushed the final stretch across the street. 

Pop-pop-pop!

Gunfire tore through the air. Tommy turned, shielding them with his body. “Keep moving!”

“Layla, go!” Jake shoved her forward. 

She stumbled after them, ducking into the back of the tank — the Bradley swallowing them whole like a metal mouth. Inside, it was deafening. Hot. The metal floor vibrated with the growl of the engine. 

Mina was laid gently in her father’s lap. Samir crouched next to his mother, eyes wide and terrified. Layla found herself wedged between Erik and Jake, her knees pressed into someone’s rucksack. 

Outside, the street boiled with bullets. 

Inside, she clutched the edge of the bench and tried to breathe. 

They were leaving. 

But she didn’t know where they were going. 

And somewhere out there, Sam and Elliott were bleeding into the dark. 

note: a bradley is a tank looking vehicle made to transport soldiers under fire

also all follows and notes are suuper appreciated<3

[rainstormies]

firestarter | eddie munson

its my birthday today so heres a lil gift from me to you<3

pairing: eddie x r!cheerleader

fandom: stranger things

word count: 2,4k (oneshot)

synopsis: when the pressure breaks her, she ends up at his door. and he doesn't turn her away.

song aesthetic: war of hearts by ruelle

content warning: super mild smut

You don't cry at school.

That's the rule. The only one that's ever really mattered, ever since you first zipped up that red and white cheer uniform and figured out how to smile on command. There are cameras in every hallway, even if they're just eyes. Eyes with claws and voices sharp as teeth.

But today?

Today, you break the rule.

It happens somewhere between Tiffany rolling her eyes and saying, “You've been weird lately,” and another girl whispering something behind her palm about “the freak” and your “late-night van rides.” Your skin burns under the fluorescent lights. You laugh too loudly, too fake, and say you're going to the bathroom when really, your hands are already shaking.

You make it to the back of the school before the tears fall.

It's golden hour — that time when the sun hits the cracked concrete just right and makes even Hawkins look soft, like a memory instead of a town. Your sneakers crunch over gravel as you head to the back parking lot where the record store glows like a secret. It's quiet here. Nobody follows you here.

Except him.

Eddie Munson leans against the wall, arms crossed, black jeans ripped at the knee and guitar pick chain swinging against his chest like a promise. He doesn't say anything when you walk past him, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket like it's nothing.

You don't make it ten steps before his voice breaks the quiet.

“Didn't peg you for a Mazzy Star girl.”

You turn, startled. His hair is a little wild from the wind, shadows tucked under his eyes like secrets he hasn't slept off yet.

He's not smirking. Not this time.

You almost laugh. “You've been watching me?” you ask, trying for playful. It doesn't quite work.

He shrugs, pushes off the wall. “You always come straight to the sad stuff. Not even a pit stop in the pop aisle. It's kind of impressive.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “And let me guess — you're here for the loudest, weirdest vinyl they have.”

He grins, that crooked little thing that makes your ribs tighten. “Guilty. But I like your taste better. It says you've been through something.”

You glance down, suddenly shy. “Maybe I have.”

He steps closer, voice gentler. “Yeah. I know the look. It's the one you get when you've learned to keep quiet.”

You don't say anything. Not right away. Just cross your arms and shift your weight from one foot to the other.

He softens a little. “Rough day?”

You nod. “They think I'm... changing. That I'm not playing the part right anymore.”

“And the part is...?”

“Perfect girl... I guess. Loud laugh. Thin waist. Small brain.”

Eddie snorts. “God forbid you have thoughts of your own.”

You're too tired to laugh. Instead, your voice is small when you say, “They're not wrong. I have changed.”

He doesn't ask how. Just walks up to you, close enough that you can smell the faint cigarette smoke on his jacket, the leather, the mint gum he's probably been chewing since third period.

“I think,” he says, “you're just starting to like who you are.”

And maybe, you think, I'm starting to like who I am when I'm around you.

His fingers brush your wrist — barely there. You don't pull away.

You end up in the van that night.

Not for anything wild — not yet — just to sit. Just to breathe. Eddie pulls a blanket from the back and throws it over your legs. He offers you a mixtape he swears was made for someone else but you know was for you. A voice you don't recognize sings low about love and bruises and forgiveness.

He doesn't look at you when he says, “I know they talk. I know what they say about me.”

You whisper, “They talk about me too now.”

“I'd take it all if it meant you didn't have to hear it.”

That's when you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you — it's hard to tell, the moment catches like a match and burns before you can stop it. His lips are rough, a little chapped, but the way he touches you is gentle. Like he's scared you'll run.

You don't.

Your hands end up tangled in the front of his shirt. He groans softly against your mouth, thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing it.

And when you climb onto his lap, straddling him in the dark, neither of you says a word.

Your thighs bracket his hips. His hands slip under your cheer skirt, just barely — resting, not rushing. The air is heavy with heat, the smell of dust and rain and pine-scented air freshener.

You can feel him, hard beneath you, and he looks at you like he wants to give you the world and ruin you in the same breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice ragged.

You don't.

But you lean forward until your forehead touches his, and whisper, “Not yet.”

You stay like that for a while — tangled, burning, not ready to go all the way but too far to pretend it's nothing.

It's everything.

And it's terrifying.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

You don't remember walking to his trailer, only deciding to. The party was too loud, too polished, too much. Glossy girls with brighter smiles than hearts. Boys with beer and boredom in their eyes. The kind of party that tastes like cherry lip gloss and leaves you lonelier than when you arrived.

So you walked.

Now, you're standing outside his door with your pulse in your throat. You don't knock. You just open it.

Eddie's on the couch, legs kicked up, half asleep in his faded Metallica tee. His hair's loose around his shoulders, and the room smells like incense and motor oil. A movie hums quietly on the TV — something old, black and white, warbling in and out of focus.

He sits up when he sees you, a little too fast. “Hey.”

You shut the door behind you, leaning against it like you're not sure how to stand anymore. “Your uncle's out, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

“Good.” You step forward, just a little, the quiet click of your shoes sounding loud on the floor.

He notices. He's looking at you like he's trying to figure out how much of you is here and how much of you is still wherever you came from. “You okay?”

You don't answer. Not at first.

You sit beside him, slower than you walked in. “I'm tired of pretending,” you say, so softly it sounds like a secret.

Eddie tilts his head. “Pretending what?”

You look at him, eyes a little hazy, voice steady. “That I don't miss you when I'm not here. That I don't think about this — whatever this is — when I'm stuck with people who only like the version of me they understand.”

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Too quiet. Then he says, “That's a dangerous thing to say. Especially when you smell like cheap vodka and cherries.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension like glass.

He's watching you, but not like the others do. Not like you're a prize to be won or a name to be whispered behind backs. Like you're a riddle he wants to take his time solving.

You lean in, close enough to feel his breath. “I'm not sober enough to lie.”

There's a silence.

Then his hand is on your thigh — not rushed, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Warm.

“You've been gone,” he says, voice low. “I figured you were over it. Over me.”

“I was scared,” you admit. “Of what they'd say. What I'd become.”

Eddie shifts closer. “You mean what you already are?”

You nod, throat thick. “Yeah.”

His touch trails up, over denim, to your hip. “You're here now.”

“I am.”

The air is thick between you. Not heavy — just full. Like something about to happen. Like thunder waiting to break.

He leans in, his nose brushing yours. “Say it again. That you missed me.”

You don't hesitate. “I missed you.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

It's not soft. It's not rushed either. It's just real. His hands slide up your back, grounding you. Your fingers find his shirt, curl into it like you've been needing to hold something solid all night.

He pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and you let him. You're straddling him now, your knees digging into the cushions, your hands buried in his hair. He tastes like cinnamon gum and the end of a long night — sweet and a little wild.

The kiss deepens. His hands press into your waist, fingertips memorizing every inch like he's trying to carve it into his skin. You feel weightless. Reckless. Free.

Your lips part for air, and he's looking at you like you hung the stars. “God,” he breathes. “You drive me insane.”

“You like it,” you whisper.

His hand tightens just slightly at your waist. “Too much,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, his nose brushing yours again like he can't help it. “Too fucking much.”

You stay like that, suspended in the hush between heartbeats. Kissing in the dark. The TV behind you flickers in a wash of silver and shadow, forgotten. The only thing you hear is your breath, tangled with his, and the thrum of your pulse like war drums in your throat.

Then he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, callused fingertips brushing the bare skin of your lower back. You gasp, barely audible, the contact sending sparks skimming down your spine. He moves upward, inch by inch, like every patch of skin is sacred.

And you let him.

His other hand finds your thigh, grips it just above the knee, then slides upward with the same unhurried patience, anchoring you tighter to him. Your body curves instinctively into his, hips pressed together, and you swear he curses softly against your mouth.

Your lips find the curve of his jaw, warm and sharp beneath the stubble. You kiss him there, once, then again, then again — slower. Lazier. Like you're staking a claim.

He lets out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whisper, low and broken. His hands are moving now, one mapping the small of your back, the other ghosting beneath your skirt, bold but reverent. Like he's worshipping, not wanting.

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach.

“Say something,” you whisper against his throat.

“What do you want me to say?” he murmurs, his voice gravel and silk.

“That this means something,” you admit, because the words are already there, too big to swallow.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes are wild and open, like he's showing you every part of himself he's never let anyone see. “It means everything.”

Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter this time — messier. Less careful. Like he's unraveling right beneath your hands. You kiss him like you're starved for it. Like his mouth might be the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Your hips shift. He grips tighter.

His thumb brushes just beneath the band of your panties — nothing more — and yet it's enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your whole body goes taut, electricity singing in every nerve.

But he doesn't push.

Instead, he stills, forehead resting against yours again, both of you trembling under the weight of everything you're feeling but haven't said.

“You wanna stop?” he asks, voice barely there, like he's scared even the question might push you away.

You shake your head, slow but certain. “No.”

His eyes search yours a moment longer, making sure. Always making sure. But then he exhales like he's been holding his breath for days.

You're both breathing hard, the air between you gone heavy and warm, saturated with tension and everything you haven't dared to say. The room suddenly feels too small for all this want — too full of heat and moonlight and everything he makes you feel.

So you reach for him.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and lift, and he lets you, arms raised as you pull it over his head. The fabric falls somewhere to the side, forgotten. His skin is warm beneath your touch, dusted with freckles and old bruises, the kind of soft that hides strength.

Then your shirt is gone too, slipped away like a secret in the dark, and suddenly there's nothing between you but breath and skin and the electric pull that's always been there.

His hand comes to the back of your head, gently, like you're something precious — and he guides you down, slow and careful, until you're lying on your back, looking up at him.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and when he settles there, chest against chest, mouth just hovering above yours, it's like everything clicks into place.

It feels right. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just right.

Moonlight spills through the window, casting the room in silver shadows. It touches everything — the curve of your cheek, the slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes drink you in like you're something holy.

He undresses you like that, moving your legs for just long enough to get his pants off, in the quiet glow of night. Patient. His fingers careful, never greedy, brushing your skin like he's learning it —memorizing the shape of your ribs, the dip of your waist the places where you shiver under him.

Your hand finds his chest, palm spread flat, feeling the thud of his heartbeat under your skin. It's fast. Just like yours.

And then his lips are on yours again.

Slower this time. Deeper. He kisses you like he's got all the time in the world, like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. Every move is unhurried — the soft grinding of his hips, the gentle drag of knuckles across your jaw, the sigh he lets you when you pull him closer.

His mouth trails lower — jaw, throat, shoulder — and every press of his lips leaves a mark, not on your skin, but in your chest.

And not once does he let go.

His hands stay on you, steady and warm. Guiding. Anchoring. Holding you like he's afraid you might disappear if he stops.

And you don't move away either.

You don't want to.

Because for the first time, you don't feel like you're pretending. You're not the girl everyone thinks they know. You're just you, and he's just him, and there's nothing else here but the quiet promise of something real.

The kind of real that lingers.

The kind of real you don't forget.

icl i've never written smut before so pls forgive me if it's shit. lmk if you guys have any suggestions or stuff u want me to write. enjoyy<3

[rainstormies]

(15) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 1130

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

She wasn’t breathing. 

Layla’s hands hovered for half a second, her mind blanking, body refusing to believe what she already knew. Mina’s tiny chest didn’t rise. Her lips were pale, her eyes dull and half-lidded, her skin ashen and slick with fever sweat. 

Then the moment shattered. 

“Mina—” she choked, grabbing the girl and lowering her to the floor. “No, no, no—”

“What’s wrong?!” Zaid was on his feet, stumbling, nearly tripping over Samir’s legs as he lunged forward. “What are you doing? What’s happening?!”

Layla barely heard him. She pressed her ear to Mina’s chest, listening — nothing. 

“Move—please—” she gasped, shoving a pillow away and tilting the girl’s head back, fingers fumbling across her tiny sternum. 

“Is she breathing? Is she breathing?!” Zaid shouted, voice cracking as he dropped beside her, clutching Mina’s ankle like it could keep her tethered to this world. 

“Not yet— she’s not— I need space—”

The yell tore itself out of her throat before she knew she was making it. “Samir, Mama, get Zaid out— I need room—”

She started compressions. 

Tiny chest under her palms. One, two, three — her rhythm too fast at first. Breathe. Think. Fix it. 

Her body knew what to do even if her heart didn’t. 

She counted under her breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. “One, two, three, four…come on… five, six… Mina, come back—”

Behind her, shouting. Boots. 

“What the hell is going on—?”

“Sounded like someone screaming—”

“They’re in here!”

The door burst open and more noise poured in. 

Soldiers. Dirt, sweat, guns, radios crackling. 

“Get out!” Layla shouted, breathless, not looking up. “Get out or shut up, just, quiet!”

Zaid was sobbing now. Her mother, behind her, was praying. Samir held onto the bedframe with white knuckles, eyes huge and unblinking. 

Layla dropped down to breathe for Mina, two small breaths, then back to compressions. 

Her arms were burning. Her knees ached on the tile. Her heart felt like it was going to punch through her ribs. 

“Come on—” she whispered, leaning over Mina again. “You’re okay. You’re strong. You’re okay.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward—Ray. 

“Move,” he said. “Let me—”

“Don’t touch her!” Layla screamed. “She’s mine… just, don’t—”

Ray froze. His face shifted. He backed off. 

Layla continued. “Come on, habibti, breathe for me… breathe—”

Suddenly—

A twitch. 

So small she nearly missed it. Then a weak, reedy cough bubbled out of Mina’s lips. 

Layla’s whole body stilled. 

Then another cough. A gasping wheeze. 

Zaid made a strangled sound, crawling forward to grab his daughter’s hand. Layla nearly collapsed back in relief, hands shaking violently as she pulled Mina gently into her arms. 

“She’s breathing,” she gasped, half-laughing through the sobs she couldn’t swallow anymore. “She’s— she’s breathing!”

“Shit,” someone whispered behind her. One of the soldiers. 

“Jesus Christ,” another said, kneeling with wide eyes. “She just— You brought her back.”

Layla didn’t answer. Her face was wet with sweat and tears and grime. She held Mina against her chest, rocking slightly, still counting each shallow breath. 

The room was silent now. Even the radios crackled softer. 

Ray was watching her like he’d never seen a human being before. 

And Jake, standing in the doorway, finally said, very quietly,

“…I’ll see if we can fit one more.”

There was no time to feel anything after Mina started breathing again. 

Not relief, not grief. Just movement. Noise. Decision after decision being made in rapid succession. 

The soldiers spilled into the room like a shift in wind. Orders were barked, gear adjusted, radio chatter flared like static thunder. Outside the curtained window, the street glared with heat and dust. The building vibrated with the coming of something, she didn’t know what. 

She sat on the floor holding Mina, still trembling, the girl’s breath warm and wet against her collarbone. 

Then she heard it. 

“—One evac. One. That’s it.”

She looked up sharply. 

Ray was speaking with the taller man who’d arrived earlier, Jake, she remembered. He was heavier than the others, his hair tied back in a bandana and his eyes too alert. Behind them, another soldier held something that buzzed softly, it was larger than a radio, clicking as he twisted knobs and muttered acronyms Layla didn’t understand. 

“Only Mina?” she whispered. 

Jake was shaking his head. “It’s not safe. They won’t risk another vehicle. Because of the last one—” He made a slicing motion across his throat. 

“No,” Ray replied. “We need a bird. We can’t move them like this. You’ve seen Elliott. Sam can’t walk. We won’t make it twenty feet.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jake snapped. Then, quieter: “The call came down already. It’s been refused. There’s no way—”

Across the room, Erik stood. Not drifted, not wandered — stood. His spine straightened like something had finally clicked into place, his eyes clearer than they’d been in hours. The shadows under them deepened, but his voice cut through the rising din with something new: authority. 

“Then get them to change it.”

Jake blinked. 

“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” Erik said. “Get it cleared. I don’t care how.”

Jake hesitated for half a breath too long. 

“Jake.” Erik’s voice sharpened. “Fix it.”

Layla didn’t move. She watched the exchange with a knot in her throat, her arms still wrapped around Mina’s limp frame. 

Jake ran a hand down his face and turned to the soldier with the radio. “Tell them we’re surrounded. Tell them we’re compromised. If they need to hear a name, tell them it came from Colonel Reese himself.”

The other boy — young, pale, eyes darting — nodded quickly and leaned over the device again. “Say again, it’s been cleared from above. Confirm— confirm, over.”

Layla couldn’t track the words exactly. She didn’t know what a Colonel Reese was, or if such a person even existed. She just watched the others freeze like animals caught in a sudden storm. 

She stood slowly, handing Mina off to Zaid with careful hands. Mina stirred weakly, but didn’t wake. 

Jake moved quickly now, barking new orders. “Get the roof clear. Prep to leave. We’ve got ten minutes, maybe less.”

Ray passed by Layla without seeing her. “Sam’s stable?” he asked her, absently. 

She nodded. 

“Elliott?”

“Not good.”

Ray grimaced. “Alright. We’re going.”

Layla blinked. “You mean… now?”

“No more time.” His hand briefly touched her shoulder. “Whatever happens next, stay close.”

And just like that, the pieces shifted again. 

But in her gut, Layla felt it—

This wasn’t the end. 

Something else was coming. 

And for the first time since the Americans stormed into her life, she saw Erik, their cold, silent leader, become exactly the kind of man people followed. Not because of his rank. But because of the way every single person moved the second he spoke. 

Even Jake. 

Even her. 

[rainstormies]

the quiet between songs | eddie munson

pairing: eddie x r!cheerleader

fandom: stranger things

word count: 1,8k (oneshot)

synopsis: the outcast and the cheerleader fall in love

song aesthetic: cigarette daydreams by cage the elephant

Eddie Munson had always said the gym smelled like bleach and broken dreams.

You laughed when you first heard it — not at him, not really. You were walking past with your cheer bag slung over one shoulder, hair still pinned from practice. The hallway was half-empty, ghostly in the afternoon hush after practice. Sunlight leaked through the grime-coated windows in long yellow beams. Your teammates had already disappeared down the corridor in a blur of perfume and gossip. But you were still here, walking slowly, the soreness in your calves a reminder that you never really stop moving — not in this school, not in this town, not in your skin.

He was leaning against the vending machine like he was born to do it. Like he was the patron saint of detention and late-night drives and not giving a damn. His jacket was too big for this kind of weather — worn denim over that same Hellfire tee he always wore, holes at the collar, fingers covered in silver rings and invisible ink. He was looking down at the row of sodas like they had personally offended him.

You almost kept walking. You should've. There's a kind of rule — people like you don't talk to people like him. But you were tired of following rules that didn't make sense.

“You hate this place that much?” you asked.

Your voice was quiet, unsure.

Eddie didn't look at you right away. His eyes flicked upward, like it took him a second to believe you spoke. Then, slowly, his mouth curled around something crooked and amused.

“Cheerleader speaks,” he said. “Alert the press.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile threatening. “Don't act so shocked.”

He shruged. “Can't help it. Most of you walk past like I'm one of the lockers.”

You glanced around. The hallway was fully empty now, the walls breathing faint echoes of your voice.

“Maybe we're just not used to you being so... stationary,” you said.

He chuckled, soft and genuine, and that throws you a little. You expected sarcasm, not warmth.

“I'm just taking a break from corrupting America's youth,” he says. “Thought I'd give the PTA a day off.”

You leaned against the opposite wall, crossing your arms. “So dramatic.”

Eddie studied you for a second, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he nodded toward the gym doors behind you.

“You like it? All of that?”

You hesitated. “It's not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” he murmured. “But you wear that smile like armor. Makes me wonder what you're really hiding.”

You didn't answer. You weren't sure how to.

“Just don’t get it,” he said after a while, voice low. “Everyone in there’s so busy pretending this is the best time of their life. Like they don’t know the real world’s gonna chew them up and spit them out.”

You looked down the hallway, past the cracked trophy case, the flickering lights overhead. You knew what he meant. Even if it was different for you.

“Maybe that’s why they pretend,” you murmured.

Eddie blinked. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you to say anything true.

You were the girl who smiled too easily. The one people thought had everything — the uniform, the grades, the crowd. But behind your smiles was the loneliness of always being the version of yourself people expected.

That was the first time you and Eddie spoke. You don't talk every day after that.

But he starts appearing more, the back bleachers during your cooldown laps, leaning against his van when you're walking to your car, flipping through records in the dusty back corner of the store you go to when you want to disappear.

It’s quiet in the back corner of the Spinnin’ Vinyl. The kind of quiet that hums, rather than echoes. Fluorescent lights flicker softly overhead, casting a tired, pale glow over the rows of vinyl. Dust lingers in the air, caught in golden shafts of light leaking in through the blinds. You always come here after school when things get too loud — when your brain is tired of smiling and your lungs feel like they’re running out of air.

You trail your fingers over the spines of the albums, letting them whisper past, searching for something you won’t know you need until it’s in your hands.

“I knew I’d find you here,” someone says, low and familiar.

You don’t turn immediately — but your pulse stirs, a subtle skip. You reach for a record — Joan Armatrading — and then you glance sideways.

Eddie Munson is half a row down, his wild curls tucked behind one ear, a frayed leather cuff at his wrist. He’s flipping lazily through a stack of used cassettes, his mouth curved into that slight, crooked grin he always wears like armor.

“How?” you ask, voice light.

He shrugs. “You’ve got the eyes of someone who listens to heartbreak songs and never tells anyone.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the record sleeve. Your first instinct is to deflect — to laugh, to scoff, to pretend he’s wrong.

But you don’t.

Instead, you look down at the album in your hands.

“Maybe,” you say quietly.

Eddie glances at you, just once, then back down to the tapes. “I come here for the same reason.”

You hum. “Heartbreak songs?”

He smirks. “Nah. The silence. People think this kind of music’s all noise and chaos — but sometimes it’s the only thing that shuts everything else up.”

You move a little closer to him — not too close, but close enough to feel the shared space. “You talk a lot.”

He chuckles. “I’ve been told.”

“Well…” You tilt your head, watching him. “You’ve got the mouth of someone who never shuts up yet still says more truth than most people I know.”

That makes him stop flipping through tapes.

He looks at you — properly now. Eyes softer than they should be, like you said something he didn’t expect.

“Careful,” he says, voice low. “You keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

You smile. “Who says I don’t?”

Eddie blinks once, then covers it with a scoff, turning back to the display like he can’t quite trust himself to keep looking at you.

You don’t say anything else. You just browse in companionable quiet, standing half a step apart.

Later, when the sun starts to dip and you both drift toward the register with a couple of records in hand, he holds the door for you like it’s nothing.

But he holds your gaze like it’s everything.

And that’s how you know.

He sees you.

Even in the quiet.

Even in the corners where no one else looks.

After that, you talk more.

You learn he likes Dio and Black Sabbath and the kind of music that sounds like thunder and heartbreak. You learn he hates math, lives with his uncle, and that sometimes, when he's not joking, his voice gets really soft.

In turn, he learns your favorite kind of silence — the kind where someone just sits with you and doesn't need you to smile.

One day, you're sitting on the hood of his van, the sky that pink-orange color it only turns for a few minutes before dusk. Your knees are tucked up, arms resting loosely over them, and Eddie's fiddling with his lighter again, flick—snap, flick—snap.

You ask him, “Do you ever wish you could leave?”

Eddie glances at you, hair curling wild around his face. “Like run away?”

You nod.

He shrugs. “Sometimes. But then I think... what if nowhere feels like home?”

You look down at your hands. “What if nowhere's worse than here?”

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, “Then maybe you take someone with you.”

Your heart skips.

You say nothing. But the air shifts.

It's raining when you show up at his trailer, soaked to the bone, heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. Your makeup's a mess, your shoes are muddy, and your mom's voice still echoes in your head — sharp words about “reputation” and “wasting your future on a burnout.”

Eddie opens the door in pajama pants and a Metallica tee, holding a half-eaten granola bar.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You'll catch your death.”

You laugh once, sharp and broken. “Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.”

You don't mean to cry. But it happens anyway.

He pulls you in without asking.

Wraps you in one of those flannels that smells like detergent and cigarette smoke and something warm you can't name. You sit on his couch, trying not to shake, while he puts on the kettle and jokes about you looking like a sad raccoon.

He never asks why you're there. Just stays nearby. Quiet.

That night, you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against your arm until you stop crying.

You don't talk about that night. But something changes.

He starts walking you to your car.

You start saving him a seat at lunch — far from the others, but close enough for him to know you want him there.

People start to notice.

The basketball boys glare at you like you've betrayed the crown. Girls whisper.

You don't care. Not anymore.

“Guess I've got a type,” you say dryly one afternoon as you watch Jason Carver spit venom across the hall.

Eddie grins. “Tall, tattooed, and one foot out the door of juvie?”

You smile and bump his shoulder. “Misunderstood and smarter than they look.”

He looks at you then, long and searching.

“You mean that?”

You nod. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He kisses you that night.

Not at a party, not under the Friday night lights. Just the two of you, in the woods behind the school where the trees swallow the sound of the town. Where the stars look close enough to touch. The air smells like pine and coming rain. His hands are gentle, like he's not sure he deserves this. You press closer, fingers tangling in his hair. His hand splayed against the back of your neck.

And the world narrows down to just breath and heartbeat and the way you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “You scare the hell out of me.”

“Why?” you whisper.

“Because you're real.”

You kiss him again so he doesn't have to explain.

And maybe things don't magically get easier. Maybe people still talk. Maybe you still have to go home and lie about where you've been.

But now, when it all feels too heavy, you know where to go.

And sometimes, in the quiet between songs, in the soft breath of the world holding still, Eddie looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world made of cardboard.

And you believe it.

Maybe for the first time ever.

never written a oneshot before so hopefully it's good. anyway i listened to cigarette daydreams by cage the elephant like five times while writing this. enjoyy<3