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strangerstilinski · 1 year

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𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙤𝙬, 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary; it’s been a long couple of months, and after a particularly rough night, your ex boyfriend finds his way straight back to you.

warnings; no use of y/n, post s4, exes-to-lovers, description of injury and blood, hurt/comfort, emotional sex, unprotected vaginal sex, a lil bit of cockwarming

word count; ~5k

a/n; i meant for this to be a quick little hurt/comfort thing but then my mind kind of ran wild and it turned into.. this. but i think i really like how it turned out sooo, y'know.. leave a comment/tag/reblog if you enjoy!

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

You're not entirely certain who you were expecting to find on the other side of your door at two in the morning, and maybe you should've given the possibilities a bit more thought before unlocking the door and swinging it open wide, effectively exposing yourself to whatever may be waiting on the other side — but you don't. And it's with a sleep-slowed brain, a baggy tshirt resting high on your naked thighs, and bare feet that drag lazy across cold floorboards, that you find yourself staring at your ex boyfriend.

Steve Harrington.

He's standing in front of you looking a little nervous, a little lost, and a whole lot like he's just come from some sort of brawl. The sudden brightness of the hallway lights outside of your apartment makes your eyes ache and you're squinting, one hand coming up to block a bit of the light just as your heart drops as you take him in.

His hair is a little longer than when you last saw him, impossible for him to keep from flopping down over his forehead while the ends curl at the nape of his neck, light shining down on the strands and streaking golden through the locks that you'd run your hands through once upon a time. But you're hardly able to process or file away those small changes when your gaze begins frantically to absorb the more important and wildly more alarming details in his appearance.

The light wash of his jeans is covered in splotches of denim slightly darker than the rest where something's been spilled down his leg, streaks of dirt rubbed into the knees like he'd fallen down, and blood — there are crimson drops of it splattered along the fabric at his thigh, likely his, likely from the split lip he's sporting, or perhaps from his bruising nose.. When those red smears crusted beneath his nostrils had been fresh and wet and had clearly dripped down past his chin and onto the collar of his shirt, which also seems to be stained in an array of red-splotched fabric.

“Fuck. Steve, what-” Your voice shakes through the sleepy rasp in your throat, blood roaring in your ears at the familiarity of it all — the scene in front of you sending that achingly familiar trickle of fear and worry and panic all racing down your spine.

“I- Hey, sweetheart.” His own voice cracks a little like his throat's been scraped raw from shouting. He's got his hands tucked away in his back pockets like he might be able to make himself small enough that you won't start yelling, his eyes sad and a little pleading as he gives you a weak smile. He lets out a small hiss of a wince when the motion pulls at the slow drying scab on his lower lip.

“Stevie..” The nickname slips out before you can swallow it down.

You think that you might be in shock, if the adrenaline shooting through your veins is anything to go by. It's making it a little difficult to think clearly as you stumble through the doorway, hands coming into contact with his chest as you brace yourself. Your thumbs find those drops of blood that are still drying into the fabric of his shirt, shaking fingers dragging over the freckles on the side of his throat on their way to his jaw.

You have to fight the instinct to linger on those faded scars encircling his neck, have to fight to push back the memories of the night that things between you had finally fallen apart — when all of Steve's half-truths and secrets and outright lies had finally pushed you to your breaking point. The night of the earthquake. When he'd shown up on your doorstep in the early hours of the morning, just like this, looking like he'd been to hell and back, in search of comfort and someone to patch him up but apparently not looking to give out any explanations for the state he'd come to you in. Not for the marks on his neck, and certainly not for the horrifying chunks of flesh that had been torn from his stomach and sides.

The fear you'd felt that night coils in your gut again. It's the very same fear that you'd endured eight months before the end, when Steve had gone awol for forty-eight hours only to find you the evening of the mall fire. That time, his left eye had been nearly swollen shut, body littered in bruises in varying shades of black and purple. You'd sat with him in the bathtub with your limbs carefully wrapped around him for hours, until the water had gone ice cold, and even after that he'd been glued to your side until morning. You'd both burrowed beneath a pile of blankets despite the summer heat, legs tangled and sweaty bodies clinging to one another. Even though you couldn't begin to understand how the fire could have been the cause of his turmoil, of his injuries, you'd still held him tight, one hand tangled in his damp hair at all times while he'd clutched onto you like you were his lifeline. The hours it had taken for the tremble in his hands to fade had nearly broken your heart.

It's all a little too much, the position that you've suddenly been thrust back into.

“Wh-? What the hell happened?” You question hoarsely.

Why you bother to ask now, you're not entirely sure. You're certainly not expecting him to give you any answers, but as your thumb pushes gently into the swelling softness of his busted lip, the fingers of your opposite hand brushing the hair back from his blood-spattered forehead, Steve sighs.

“It's not.. I was at the bar. Got into a fight.” He admits with another wince as your thumb skates up the bridge of his nose.

“Got into a fight or started a fight?” You ask quietly, eyes flicking slow between his; they're tired and bloodshot, his lashes clumped together like maybe he'd been crying, caramel swirling in the pretty brown depths that you'd been steadfastly avoiding thinking about these last few months.

A huff crackles as he tries to push a sigh from his blood-clogged nose, his hands finally leaving his pockets to hang awkwardly at his sides while he gives a small shrug, “..’was stupid.” He says in lue of a direct answer.

“I'm sure it was,” You grumble under your breath, swallowing your instincts and forcing yourself to take a small step back, your hands falling away so you can hug your arms across your own chest with a sigh, “What're you doing here, Steve?”

“I didn't know where to.. I..” The words don't seem to come and he falters, shrinking in on himself further, “I don't know.” He admits after a moment.

Your eyes close as your emotions threaten to overwhelm you, “I can't-”

“Please,” Steve nearly whispers the word and when you meet his eyes again, his gaze is a little watery, “I know you don't want to see me. I know you're still mad. And.. You have every right to be, okay? But-”

“But what?” You plead weakly, fingers digging a little meanly into your own arms.

“I just..” He struggles for a moment, hands raking through his hair and ruffling it into further disarray, “I just needed.. I..”

The fissure in your heart cracks wide, the slow healing wound tearing open to expose this gaping thing that feels a little like it might be enough to shatter your soul. Even while the more sensible parts of your brain scream at you to shut the door in his face, you find yourself taking his hand in yours, swollen and blood crusted knuckles under your thumb as you pull him into the dark apartment and close the door behind you.

You push him to sit down on the couch, a wordless order for him to stay put implied in the sidelong glance that you shoot him before turning away to move down the hall and grab your first aid kit and a wet cloth from the bathroom. When you return, Steve hasn't moved an inch, just as miserable and small-looking as you'd left him a few moments before. He's got his fingers tucked into the crook of space behind his knees, the tall streetlight across the road allowing stripes of light to cut across his hunched form, late night shadows eating up everything else.

The coffee table is nudged closer to the sofa with your foot as you sit down in front of him, your bare knees brushing filthy denim when you scoot to the edge of the table and bring the cloth up to his blood-spattered cheek. You're gentle with it, wiping at same spots a few times with the lightest pressure you can manage as the mess proceeds to smear, red-tinged streaks of water against his skin lessening with each careful swipe. Once his face is clean, you move on to the knuckles of his right hand, pulling it from where he has it tucked beneath his thigh to softly wash away the crusted blood from his split and bruising skin.

You work silently for a few minutes. The soiled cloth is dropped against the coffee table with a wet slap and you immediately turn to find the alcohol and cotton balls in the messy basket you keep stored beneath your bathroom sink.

You've just begun to open the package of cotton when Steve says your name, nothing more than a hoarse whisper to break the heavy silence.

When you meet his eyes, the desperation you find there has you faltering for a moment. The warmth that seeps into your skin from each point of contact between you suddenly seems so much stronger. Heat and nerves creep up the back of your neck as you blink at him in question.

The backs of his damp knuckles drag up over your calf before pushing into the smooth skin on the outside of your thigh, his thumb pinching lightly at the doughy flesh there, “I.. Can you..” His hand unfurls and he lets his palm settle against you, his fingertips high enough to slip beneath the hem of your oversized shirt and brush the crook where your thigh meets your hip, “I just.. want..”

He seems incapable of finishing his thoughts, but he doesn't really need to because you know. With the way his free hand comes up to push a lock of hair behind your ear, thumb tracing the line of your jaw to your chin before catching against your lower lip in that all too familiar way, you know what it is that he's asking for.

“Steve..” Your accompanying sigh comes out a little shaky as you exhale it over the pad of his finger, your lashes fluttering as something stirs in your gut in response to his soft touch, “I don't think that's a good-”

“Please.” He whispers again — and, how could you possibly deny him when he sounds so pitiful that it wrenches at your broken heart? While his brows are drawing together like he's already bracing himself for your rejection even as his eyes remain soft and pleading?

And when the hand on your thigh pushes up to slide over the bare skin at the base of your spine, when he applies the barest pressure to urge you toward him, when the fingers on your face slip behind your neck — you're climbing into his lap with little encouragement. Your shins push into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs, hands finding the hem of his ruined shirt and guiding it up over his head in an easy movement that has his hair flopping down over his forehead again.

When your gaze drops, you allow yourself all of ten seconds to trail your fingers over the rough scars across his abdomen. The skin is a little puckered and pink, mottled in a way that it probably wouldn't be if he'd found himself at the hospital that night in late March instead of on your doorstep, but they've healed. It's a far cry from the jagged wounds that you'd tried to clean with blood-stained hands, through quiet sobs and glassy eyes. They'd been so deep, as if something had tried to carve out little bits and pieces of him over and over, like something had torn into him, like something had feasted on his flesh then and left behind nothing but the evidence of small, frighteningly sharp teeth.

Your choked questions ring in your ears even now, the way you'd begged for him to tell you what was going on, who kept hurting him like this — but as easily as your own voice echos in your memories, so does Steve's. You can still hear his agonized groans and cries of pain as you'd tended to his injuries, can still remember the sound of his desperate pleas for you to drop it, to just accept that he couldn't explain-

And you'd asked him then, if it was that he couldn't or that he wouldn't. The resulting silence from him had been answer enough.

Now, Steve seems to know exactly where your mind has gone and he covers your hands with his own, pressing your palms flat against the lingering marks on his skin.

“They're healed.” You state quietly through the emotion clogging your throat. The obviousness of the statement rings stupidly in your ears but you're not sure what else to say in the heavy silence.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, voice hoarse, “I had a pretty good nurse.. Cleaned me up real nice so that I didn't, I dunno, die from an infection or somethin'.”

A laugh pushes up from your throat that borders on a sob, “She sounds cool.” You manage, your thumbnail scraping lightly into the healed patch of skin under your hand.

“Oh, yeah, the coolest.” Steve tells you with the barest hint of a smile pulling at the unbruised side of his mouth. “You okay?” He asks quietly after another moment of silence.

“Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine.” You tell him with a shake of your head.

“Sweetheart..” Steve starts slowly, “I want.. Shit, I- I want you so bad right now, but if you don't want this-” When his hands move to the hem of your sleep shirt, his eyes meet yours in silent question, and your head is nodding a little wildly in approval before you can begin to think too hard about it.

His hands nearly burn with every brush against your bare skin as you strip one another down to nothing, his touch leaving behind invisible streaks of something heavy and terrifyingly melancholy, something that you're sure will linger painfully in your chest long after he's gone and left you with a broken heart and an ever growing list of unanswered questions.

“I still have to clean your cuts.” You tell him quietly.

Steve's eyes only rake over your naked body for a moment before his gaze settles back on yours, “Okay.”

You settle over his lap again and wet a cotton ball with alcohol, “It's gonna hurt.” You warn in a whisper.

“I know.” Steve returns just as softly.

Bracing one hand on the side of his neck, you dab featherlight over his split lip. Steve's jaw clenches at the sting as it seeps into the cut and you murmur a soft apology while you continue to clean the area with careful fingers.

Steve's hands settle on your hips and his eyes flick between yours as he waits for you to meet his gaze. When you look up from his swollen lower lip, he gulps, adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

“Is this okay?” He asks, fingers digging into your flesh a little as he pulls your hips until your groins align nicely.

“Yeah.” You murmur, dabbing at the cut on his lip again just so that you have an excuse to look away from his eyes.

Your heartbeat ricochets against your ribs sharply as Steve guides you to grind slow over his lap, the warmth of him wedged between your spread folds. The way he manhandles you isn't rushed, the movement not nearly as desperate as you'd been expecting from his plea for intimacy. It's slow and quiet and filled with a weight that you wouldn't quite be able to explain if you tried.

It doesn't take long for his cock fatten up and grow stiff underneath you, his length and the patch of hair surrounding it both streaked with slick where your wet cunt has been dragging back and forth. You're both breathing a little heavy as you finish cleaning the cuts on his lip and the bridge of his nose, your faces close though neither one of you make any move to close the distance.

Steve curls an arm around the back of your thigh as he reaches around to guide himself toward your entrance. A breathy sound falls from your lips when you roll your hips back and feel his tip catch, just barely pushing in. He's as thick and warm and perfect as he's always been, and that hunger to have all of him spreads down the back of your tongue like warm honey, but the moment you spread your thighs a little farther to take more, Steve is stopping you.

“Wait, wait, wait. You.. Are you sure you're okay with this?” He asks suddenly. His fingers are digging into your hips, holding you in place to keep you from sinking farther down onto him as he awaits your response.

“Wh-?” Your jaw trembles with something like petulance, a little desperate yourself now that you can feel the fat head of his cock inside you, stretching you wide despite barely breaching your entrance, “You said that you-”

“I do. Fuck, I do, I just want to make sure you're sure.” He says it so soft, so earnest, and his concern has you feeling something resembling whiplash. The two of you haven't spoken in months, but he'd shown up at your front door in the middle of the night and practically begged for you; for your presence and your care and your body.

You want to feel angry with him. For looking out for your well-being now, for being Steve, for bringing up so many feelings that you'd tried so hard to bury, but he's looking up at you with imploring eyes — a gaze that says if you climbed off of his lap now, he wouldn't be upset with you, if anything, he'd be upset with himself and..

It has you reeling a little bit, that blooming affection crawling like rapidly expanding ivy inside your chest.

You brush that stubborn chunk of hair back and off of his forehead again, your fingers combing through to the back of his head until they can toy with the bits curling at the nape of his neck. Your mouth finds its way to the space between his brows, a shaky exhale masked by the kiss you press to his skin before dropping your foreheads together.

“I am. I'm sure.” You promise in a whisper.

When you sink down, both of you groan in synchrony, breathy and guttural. The stretch hurts more than you were expecting, but it's been months since you've done this, so you suppose that the sting from him filling you up is warranted. Your hips settle against his and his arms curl around your back to hold you in place, to hold you close. His chest is flush to yours, scattered hairs on his pecs pressed to your breasts, the tip of your nose still barely avoiding brushing against the bruised bridge of his own.

The sensation of being so full leaves you feeling a little overwhelmed, the intimacy of the moment suddenly too heavy. His breath mingling with your own and his soft hair tangled up around your fingers brings pinpricks of heat to your eyes that you stubbornly attempt to blink back.

“Hey.. Hey, honey,” Steve murmurs softly, one hand coming up to swipe a thumb along your watery lashline, “What's wrong? You okay? You hurting?”

Another strangled sounding scoff of a laugh tumbles from your lips, a weak sniffle as your fingers find their way to those smooth, faded lines along the front of his throat again, “I should be asking you that. You're the one who's had the shit beaten out of him tonight.”

“I'm fine. Two weeks n' I'll be good as new,” Steve assures you with carefully crafted nonchalance, his tear-stained thumb dragging back and forth along the apple of your cheek, “Now what's goin' on in that beautiful head of yours, huh?”

“I just..” You huff out a sigh, rolling your hips experimentally to test the ache between your thighs, “I missed you. Fuck, I- I miss you so much, Steve.”

A few tears do manage to break through then, something about the way the patchy light coming in through the windows casts a glow over his battered face, the browns in his eyes shining golden in the dark.

“Me too, I miss you too,” He rasps desperately, “Shit, honey. If you think I don't miss you every goddamn second- You're everything. You're my everything.”

He's holding your face in both hands now, palms cradling your jaw so gently, arms trembling like he's trying to fight the urge to hold onto you tighter. His restraint and his words twist sharply in your gut, something akin to dread weaving its way inside of you.

“I'm scared,” You admit, voice quiet and buried beneath tears, “I'm so scared-”

“Scared?” Steve repeats, concern flashing in his eyes, “What're you afraid of?”

“Losing you.” You gasp.

“Sweetheart-”

Your chest is heaving a little with the labored breaths beginning to tumble past your lips, “I'm gonna lose you all over again, because I can't.. It- It is terrifying. To see you hurt and bleeding and not know why. To worry that the next time might be even worse than the last and have you keep skirting around the truth or outright lying-”

“Hey, hey. Honey, hey,” Steve gives your cheeks a soft shake under his hands and your gaze falls back to his, “I'm sorry-”

“Jesus christ.” You bemoan quietly as another tear falls, halfheartedly pushing at his arms to dislodge his hands.

“No, no, I mean it,” Steve pleads softly, “I'm so sorry I kept you in the dark, I just- Shit, it's so complicated, I-”

“Asshole.” The interruption comes out a grumble under your breath, and you're gearing up to climb off of his lap entirely when his weak chuckle meets your ears.

“I am,” He nods, brushing your hair back from your tear streaked face, “I'm an asshole and I'm sorry. I- I'll tell you everything, alright? I will. I will.”

“Promise?” You hate yourself for how small you sound, how unsure and broken.

“I promise.”

You crane your neck and tilt your head to brush your lips featherlight over his, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on the mess of purple and black and red along the bridge of his nose, your thumbs gravitating yet again to drag over those smooth, barely visible scars around his neck.

“Does your mouth hurt too much, or can I-?” You ask quietly, eyes flicking between his.

“'course you can,” His hand pushes into your hair behind your ear, cupping your head to guide you forward carefully, “C'mere.”

Your mouths come together with all of the gentleness you can manage and you leave one soft peck, then two, then three. You begin to work your hips over his all the while, and neither of you can hold back a keening noise of pleasure at the slow drag of his cock inside your warm walls.

You ease back from his mouth to drag the pads of your index and middle finger lightly over the bruises coloring his skin.

“Did.. Did you really get into a bar fight?” You can't help but ask, even as you're lifting up and dropping back down hard enough to have you both letting out a breathy whimper.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, his fingers trailing along your ribs and stomach like he's trying to re-familiarize himself with every inch of your skin, “I.. It's possible I have some unresolved anger or something from- After everything that happened. Sometimes it kinda takes over, like tonight, and then I pick a fight I know I can't win, but.. 'm not lying to you anymore. I mean that.”

You nod and his arms curl around your back to pull you impossibly closer. Trapped in his embrace, you can't do much more than grind on him with slow swivels of your hips, the head of his cock rubbing at that spot on your inner wall that has your brows pulling together in pleasure.

He's so close like this. His chest hair drags against your bare breasts and your tummies are pressed together and the sweat on his forehead mingles with your own. You feel warm — in the physical sense, yes, but also in your stomach, in your bones, in your heart.

“I love you.” Steve says with emotion, like he's feels that warmth too.

Your eyes prickle a little traitorously, fingers toying with the soft ends of his hair, “I love you,” You manage in a choked gasp, “I love you.”

“Ho- Shit..” Steve groans, chin tipping up toward the ceiling for a moment as he throws his head back, “You feel so fuckin' good, honey.”

“Y'r cock feels good,” You pant in response, “So good. So big. I- Fuck.”

“So tight,” He mutters, sitting up a little straighter to meet every roll of your hips, “So perfect. 's like you were fucking made for me, you know that? Take me so well. You were made for this, for me-”

The way that your clit is rubbing against the thatch of hair on his pelvis has you a little dumb already, and his lust-fueled rambling only intensifies your budding orgasm, both of your thighs slick with how fucking good it feels to have him inside of you again. You nod in agreement to his words and manage to give a small whimper, but it seems that he's not done yet.

“-Missed this so much. Missed you, missed this.. Fuck. Honey, I love you. I love you. I-”

“Steve,” You whine, “Love you too.”

His tanned cheeks have gone a little pink beneath the dusting of bruises on his face, breathy groans fanning out past his busted lip. The pretty little noises of pleasure that he can't seem to hold back have you reeling, your gut twisting with heat at the sight of him, the sound of him.

“So goddamn wet for me, honey,” Steve grumbles, his voice catching in a way that has your cunt clenching down on him, “Listen to her. You hear that?”

You do. There's a lewd squelch emitting from the place where you're joined, the sound filling the otherwise quiet apartment every time that your hips roll at just the right angle. It happens again just then, his cock stretching your hole wide enough for the drag of slick and air to create a mildly embarrassing noise that has Steve giving another needy groan, his hips bucking up into yours.

“God, fuck, please tell me you're getting close,” He nearly whimpers, lifting up off of the couch to drive up into you again, “Please, I'm getting so close, babe. Need you to come.”

Euphoria licks up your spine in a white-hot flame, your weight bearing down that much harder to apply more pressure on your puffy clit. Sweat trickles down your spine, disappearing beneath Steve's forearms where they're looped tight around you.

“Mhm,” You hum, the sound catching in the back of your throat, “M'gonna come, Stevie. Y'r gonna make me come.”

Your hips roll a little faster and Steve continues to buck up into you, his cock pressing so, so nicely against the spot that has your brain whiting out a bit at the edges.

“Come on, sweet girl. Come for me,” Steve moans, warm breath fanning out over your lips, “Please, honey. Please come on my cock. Shit, I need it. Need you t' come, please.”

“I am, I am, I am,” You babble desperately, “M'gonna, fuck, fuck, 'm-”

The knot of pleasure in your gut twists sharply and you cry out, face burying in his neck with a whiny gasp as your orgasm crashes over you. Your cunt tightens and trembles around him and a deliciously choked sounding moan tears past Steve's lips as he finally lets his own release wash over him.

The warmth of his come coating your insides has you fluttering around him further, your hands grappling restlessly for any part of him to hold on to, his hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders, his biceps. Breathy little whines and gasps and groans tumble from both of you as you ride it out, the trembling tenseness in your muscles releasing all at once as you go limp in his arms.

It takes a minute, but you eventually come back to yourself a little, peppering a delicate kiss to that infuriating strip of scar tissue along his throat before you're pushing up with weak limbs to look at the man underneath you.

“Hey.” It comes out in a murmur, a breathless little thing that leaves you feeling kind of silly, but your brain hasn't yet recovered enough to work at its full-capacity.

Steve only grins, his lips curling to reveal perfect teeth, a pretty smile pulling at his busted and bruising lips. His eyes twinkle in the patchy darkness of your living room, a pretty mosaic of brown and gold and speckles of green catching in the light and forcing your heart rate to tick up in adoration.

“Hey, honey.” He returns sweetly, one arm uplooping from around your spine so he can reach up to push the sweaty flyaways back from your face.

You can't help but shift over him, sore legs flexing where they're spread over his hairy thighs, a trickle of warmth leaking out from where you're still joined and dripping down into the thick hair at the base of his cock. It feels dirty and intimate in the best way — his come mingled with your own, your fingers in his sweat-dampened hair, his wide palms rubbing softly from your hips to your spine and then back again.

“I kinda want to stay like this forever.”

Your whispered admission has his eyes crinkling softly and he drops his forehead to your chest, his breath fanning out over your breasts as he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“You won't hear any complaints from me.” Steve mumbles into your skin.

You never want to leave this moment. Your nose pushes into his hair and you pull in the familiar melding of scents, of expensive shampoo and hairspray and an underlying smell that's just Steve. You want to stay right here, in this perfectly imperfect bubble, but you feel Steve wince when he burrows his face into your chest just a little too hard and the serenity cracks.

“Steve?” You murmur softly, fingertips scraping gently against his scalp despite the nerves in your stomach.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You steel yourself with a deep breath, “You know I'd do anything to protect you, right? You.. You know that I'll do anything for you.. Know that.. That you can trust me?” It comes out in a rush, and your nerves increase tenfold when Steve pulls back to look at you, “..Right?”

“Honey,” The endearment comes out laced with something sweet and sticky that makes it sound an awful lot like an apology, “Of course I do.”

His eyes are so soft as they flick between your own, his hands smoothing up the length of your spine in a soothing drag of skin on skin. One hand leaves his hair only so that you can trace your thumb over those two wide freckles on the apple of his cheek, a self-deprecating sort of smile pulling at your lips.

“And.. And you're gonna tell me what's been going on with you?” You nearly whisper.

His mouth finds yours to press a featherlight kiss to your lips, “Yeah, honey. No more secrets. No more lies.”

“Promise?” You ask again, lips pulling into a smile where they're still brushing his own. Your faces are so close it's hard to focus on the way his eyes shine with adoration when he looks up at you, the bruises on the bridge of his nose blurring in the darkness.

“Promise.”

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hom3landr · 3 months

Text

Blow Me (One Last Kiss)

18+

Homelander teaches you an important lesson at one of his rallies

CW: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Dubious Consent, Slight spoilers for S4

You’ve long grown accustomed to the roar of a crowd. It comes free with admission as Homelander’s lover. Sometimes it’s as if the noise itself follows you even into the dark peaceful nights spent dozing in his arms. Your ears still ring with cheers. You don’t mind too much even if you can tell the constant mindless applause has started to grate Homelander’s increasingly sensitive nerves. You know the alternative would be much worse.

You’re especially thankful for the noise as you kneel under the podium with his cock down your throat. Well, you call it a podium but it might as well be a pulpit with the way he preaches to the masses. Your precarious situation is the result of you correcting him in public. His firm grip on the back of your head ensures that your nose remains fully nestled in the nest of hair at the base of his cock as he begins to hush the crowd so he can begin his speech. You’ve heard him practice so many times by this point that it’s almost become gibberish to your ears but you’d never dare tell him that. He takes a moment to look down at you before he starts, a wicked smirk as he takes your wide teary eyes and the way your mouth puffs around his cock.

His fingers nestle in your hair and pull you off him, a line of spit connecting you to the tip. He gives a wink before shoving you back onto him. Despite how many times you’ve done this, you still gag a bit and you flush crimson when the mic manages to pick up the sound in the lull between words. Homelander chuckles.

“Sorry everybody, it looks like we have a little mic feedback.” He laughs good naturedly as the crowd echoes with mild laughter of their own. Your hands fly up to grip his hips as he slowly starts to fuck deep into your throat. His voice is able to mask the wet sloppy sounds of you sucking him off but if someone listened close enough, they’d be able to hear what he’s doing to you.

You’re embarrassed but the depravity has you moaning quietly around his cock as heat pools between your legs. You know he can smell your arousal because even from your awkward angle you can see his cheek twitch smugly. Drool drips down your chin and onto the stage below. You’re grateful that the sides of the podium shield you from the curious looks of the stage crew. They know what’s happening but they have no idea what it looks like when Homelander fucks your face. He loves showing you off like a trophy but there are things that are for him only. (At least if the viewer is meant to stay alive after. You can’t forget when he showed off your skills in front of Todd and his pals before ordering his teammates to beat their brains out to advance his plans.)

He speeds up right as he hits a lull in his speech and you can’t help but whimper as obscene noises fill the arena for a moment.

“There’s that feedback again. I might need to get a new mic here.” His voice is lighthearted but smug. He knew that didn’t sound anything like mic feedback but who’s going to question him. His hand gently scratches at your scalp mockingly. You tease at the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue until he can’t help but whine for a moment. That earns you a sharp tug but your satisfaction masks the sting.

He’s careful not to finish until he’s done with his speech and when he does and the tech crew comes out to check the equipment in between sets, he tugs you off him to fix you with a stern look.

“Have you learned your lesson?” He asks you mockingly, his thumb swiping a drop of his come off your bottom lip.

“It depends, are you going to stop being so petty?” You reply in turn, cocking your head cheekily. The effect is slightly dampened by how fucked out you look but Homelander’s eye twitches in annoyance even so.

“Guess not.” He says before tugging you down on his still hard cock once more. After all, he still has so much he needs to say to his adoring public.

It’s alright though. He doesn’t need to know that you don’t really mind.

#homelander #homelander x reader #x reader #dubious consent #it’s meant to be a punishment #but reader is kinda into it #him being completely unhinged in the new season is really doing it for me #Homelander spoilers #there’s one reference to an event in s4 but the rest could be set anytime #but just in case

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flowercrowngods · 8 months

Text

who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now.

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard.

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work.

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone.

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened?

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it.

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?”

No. “Thanks.”

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening.

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she—

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees.

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again.

“Hi.”

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.”

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe.

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again.

“What about Steve.”

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth.

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.”

“He… He’s hurt.”

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.”

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.”

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her.

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it.

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall.

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled.

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can’t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he—

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine.

People don’t just die.

They don’t.

He’s fine.

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression.

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this.

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently.

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue.

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time.

He needs a smoke.

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life.

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes.

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles.

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him.

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him.

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt.

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit.

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or—

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today.

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate.

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.”

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while.

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie.

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.”

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug.

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it.

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself.

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t?

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs.

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off.

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?”

It’s stupid. Don’t say it.

“Eddie?”

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out.

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues.

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state.

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing.

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year.

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three?

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does.

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues.

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person.

It’s so fucking surreal.

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead.

And silence reigns.

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.”

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped.

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues.

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.”

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat.

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.”

Tell me about your favourite person.

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into.

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her.

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication.

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?”

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head.

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.”

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin.

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…”

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now.

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does.

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there.

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now.

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him.

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then.

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare.

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve.

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring.

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next.

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.”

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.”

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean?

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.”

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse.

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley.

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth.

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley.

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing.

“Why’d you call me?”

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson.

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips.

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.”

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession.

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?”

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow.

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?”

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue.

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers.

“What, the ice cream parlour?”

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…”

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses.

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened.

“He saved your life?”

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation.

“In the fire? Were you there?”

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.”

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again.

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters.

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?”

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.”

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.”

It is, isn’t it?

You’re so blue, Stevie.

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice.

Yeah. Yeah, he is.

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look.

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago.

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around.

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around.

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait.

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence.

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?”

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.”

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #who did this to you #something has Shifted in this part and i wanna do a literary/meta analysis of it but i dont wanna ruin the fun or be annoying but hhh #also sorry if you don't like this bc it's so different from the other two but the sudden adrenaline crash will do that to ya #we'll get Blue back soon don't you worry 🤍#also eddie's mind is running in circles and he doesn't have wayne to stop him this time sooo if this feels repetitive and redundant???#then let's pretend it should read that way actually (and also eddie is an obsessive little guy he'll ruminate forever if he doesn't have #an outlet sooo)#also rambling fumbly robin going deadly still over an injured steve is the hill i will die on actually like that just makes me feral #dio words

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sserafics · 4 months

Text

VALENTINE — henry h. x fem reader

use of y/n, reader is rays niece, enemies to lovers? fluff, set in s4-5, 2nd person pov

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ (heavily inspired by s3 e1 of game shakers!)

your eyes scan the room as you stand in the kitchen of the hart’s home, unsure of why you’re even here.

your gaze drifts to your uncle, who is of course, flirting with henry’s mom. oh right, he brought you here, claiming you need to “socialize more and leave the man cave more often.” though it’s obvious he just wanted you to come so he could have an excuse to hit on henry’s mom. since this party is mostly teenagers, it’d be odd if a grown man just showed up alone. so, that’s why you’re here.

you sigh before taking a sip from the cola in your hand, glancing around to see the familiar faces surrounding you. piper, who threw this godforsaken valentine’s day party, charlotte, aaaand… henry. he’s talking to some girl, who you know is named valarie, but that’s about it.

an odd feeling bubbles up in your stomach at the sight of her leaning closer to him, laughing flirtatiously.

you scoff and turn away, trying not to think of the scene unfolding before you, but your gaze keeps moving back to them, the sight making your stomach twist in a way you’re unfamiliar with. you decide after a moment of watching to just leave. it’s not like your uncle is going to notice anyway, he’s too busy flexing his muscles for henry’s mom.

as you walk to the front door, you hear the sound of henry’s laugh ring through the music, making you roll your eyes at the flutter you felt in your stomach after hearing his laugh.

the cool air of the night hits your face as you step outside, grabbing your phone from your bag and opening the uber app, scheduling one. it arrives almost immediately, and you get in the car.

you look up as you settle in the backseat of the car, about to tell the driver where you need to go, but the sight shocks you. no driver? you’re about to speak, when a voice, monotonous and robot like, rings out.

“welcome to your self driving car, what is your destination?”

“oh, uhm.. just take me to junk n’ stuff.” you reply, still a bit weirded out by this car, but still you divert your attention to your phone, still trying to get your mind off of the scene at the party. the car begins driving.

“yeah, so i’m thinking ‘bout starting a band-“ henry began, talking to another girl who just arrived at the party.

charlotte suddenly rushes to him, her phone in her hand and her eyes wide. “henry! y/n needs help!” she shows him her phone, where a text from you reads that your uber is a self driving car and is out of control. the text also reads to send your uncle, not henry.

he resists the urge to scowl at the last part of your text, before excusing himself from the girl he was talking to and rushing to the front porch, popping a gumball and transforming into kid danger.

“damn it, y/n.” he mumbles before pulling his phone out and scrolling to find your contact, calling you.

“opening sunroof.” the robotic voice of the car speaks.

“what?- i didn’t even mention the sunroof-“ you blurt out, your voice tinged with panic as the car swerves, narrowly missing an old woman who was for some reason, walking in the middle of the street.

“y/n! just tell me when you’re about to pass swellview junior high!” henry’s voice rings out from your phone, reminding you he’s on the phone.

“what? oh- uh- yeah, i’m about to pass it now-!” you reply, trying your best to look out the windows to see where you are, but the car is speeding too fast to really tell.

a thump on the top of the car makes you yelp, accidentally dropping your phone onto the seat next to yours.

“i’m fine, actually!” you shout when you see henry on top of the car, peeking in through the sunroof to try and make out what’s going on inside. the jealousy from seeing him with valarie earlier bubbling up again.

“oh really? because it looks like your stuck in an out of control car, so.” he retorts sarcastically, sounding equally as annoyed as you do. you scoff but it quickly turns into a gasp when he drops down into the car, landing in the front seat.

“jesus! a warning would be nice next time!” you yell, glaring at the back of his head.

“yeah, okay, i’ll keep that in mind for the next time you get stuck in a self driving car!”

he tries to take control of the car, gripping the steering wheel, but the car jolts to the opposite side.

“don’t touch my wheel.” the car rings out in that same, robot like voice, jerking the car to the side again.

“come on-!” he murmurs, still trying to gain control of the car, but to no avail.

“closing sunroof.”

“what?- i didn’t even mention the sunroof-!” he exclaims, utterly confused.

“she’s obnoxious! just stop the car!!” you shout, holding onto the passenger seat in front of you for dear life, suddenly wondering why you didn’t put your seatbelt on.

he groans and pulls out his phone, scrolling and finding schwoz’s contact, quickly pressing call.

“are you seriously making a call right now-?” you ask, irritation lacing your voice.

“i need absolute silence.” he cuts you off, holding a hand up while he silently prays that schwoz will pick up.

“are you serio-“ you began but cut yourself off when schwoz’s voice spoke from his phone.

henry quickly explains what’s happening, his voice panicked. he puts the phone call on speaker phone, placing the phone on the dashboard.

“open up the front panel,” schwoz deadpans, his voice slightly muffled as if he’s eating on the other line. typical.

henry easily pops open the front panel, using some sort of gadget from the man cave, as usual.

“okay, it’s open- now what?”

“look for a red wire.”

“what?! there’s all kinds of red wires, man-“ henry tries to keep the car steady on the road— while also trying to figure out which red wire he’s supposed to be looking for, but the car suddenly swerves to the left, practically throwing you against the window.

henry’s head snaps back to you, noticing your wide eyes and he realizes he’s not going to be able to stop the car this way. he mumbles something under his breath and then moves to the back seat, sitting next to you.

“protect your eyes!” he tells you, reaching into his pocket and grabbing his laser.

“protect my eyes? what- why?-“ you began, but before you could finish, he pulled you against him and hid your face in his chest, making sure to cover his own face as he used his laser to zap at the front panel repeatedly, effectively short circuiting the car.

immediately after, he lets go of you and leans forward, taking hold of the steering wheel, making sure to guide the car to the side of the road as it slowly stops, letting out a sigh of relief after. he slumps against the back seat, panting.

…

an awkward silence fills the car as you fiddle with your bag, tracing one of the straps with your finger. the atmosphere feels tense yet oddly serene, the arguments that usually surround you two absent in the moment.

“why’d you come?” you ask after a while, your voice quieter than usual.

a beat passes without an answer.

“ray was too busy hitting on my mom.” he speaks after a while, glancing out the window awkwardly. that’s not the reason, and you both know it.

he transforms back to his regular self, the pop of his bubble gum causing you to turn back to look at him, suddenly becoming acutely aware of how close he’s sitting to you. your arms are brushing against one another, his face now fully exposed without his kid danger mask.

you reach for the door, hoping to get out of this awkward moment, but it doesn’t open. you sigh.

turning back to face him, you finally decide to vocalize the question that’s been lingering in your mind since you saw him at the party earlier.

“who’s valarie?”

he blinks, looking confused before smiling smugly, which makes you groan, turning away and facing the window again.

“we used to go to camp together, years ago.” he replies, though you can practically hear the smirk on his lips. “why? you jealous?”

you scoff and finally realize where you are. outside of his house again. of course, all of this trouble and you’re not even at junk n’ stuff.

“y/n.”

the serious tone in his voice makes you turn back to look at him. you opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, he cups your cheek and leans in, pausing just before your lips meet, as if to give you an out if you don’t want this. you meet his gaze before leaning in, your lips connecting in a kiss.

it was a short, sweet kiss, yet it felt like it lasted centuries. he pulls back slowly and you open your eyes to see him already looking at you, forehead pressed against yours gently.

“happy valentines day, y/n.”

(a/n) ahhh i finally wrote my first fic!! this took me so long but i like how it turned outtt, i feel like the ending might’ve been a little ooc for him and it kinda sucked 😞 but it’s almost midnight so im posting it 🤞🏻anyway thanks for reading!! it was pretty long so sorry abt that 😭

#sserafics #henry danger #henry hart #henry hart x reader #henry danger x reader #༺ ♰ ༻

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you-were-alone-too · 3 months

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the aftermath of eddie's death & what it means for mike's arc in season 5

someone may have already posted a similar theory before, so i apologize if i'm super late to this, but i've had this theory in mind ever since the s5 set pictures of dustin and mike were dropped, and i've been wanting to make a post about it ever since. basically, we're going to take a look at eddie's respective relationships with dustin and mike and how his death will affect them both, but especially mike in s5.

in s4, the show made it super clear that eddie had a close relationship with the boys in the party, more specifically mike and dustin (since lucas is on a quest to be popular and joined the basketball team, we can guess this prevented them from being as close). although we don't get to see much of eddie's relationship with mike, his friendship with dustin is heavily established throughout the entirety of the season. while both mike and dustin value eddie for being a cooler, older high school boy that embraces their shared interests despite the fact that it makes him an outcast, the impact of these relationships, and ultimately, his death, will affect them in completely different ways.

while both mike and dustin value eddie's commitment to embracing his true self/interests, the difference in the impact of their respective relationships is that mike struggles with the fact that he's different whereas dustin is more comfortable in his own identity.

a great example of this is when eddie talks about how he remembers the first time that he met dustin and mike; he says dustin was wearing a weird al t-shirt, which he "thought was brave," while mike was wearing "whatever his mommy bought him from the goddamn gap". not to mention mike trying to "dress cool" when he visits el in california, being afraid of seeming childish by playing d&d and liking christmas presents, not to mention:

so what does this have to do with their arcs in s5, particularly mike's?

eddie's character represents one of the show's core themes: non-conformity. right before eddie dies, he makes dustin promise to never change. and when dustin tells wayne that he was with eddie when the earthquake hit, the main thing he emphasizes is that eddie never changed even as he was dying.

one of the first scenes that gaten filmed for s5 shows him wearing his hellfire club t-shirt, which is now faded and full of holes, and his hair is also grown out even longer (possibly to resemble eddie's hair, like mike in s4). in the picture of the party members' hands on top of each other, we can also see he's wearing (presumably) one of eddie's rings.

as for mike, one of the first pictures we see of him on set for s5 shows him with a haircut and outfit that nearly resembles his appearance in s1. after the beginning of s4 showed mike growing out his hair (which was confirmed to be inspired by eddie), playing d&d again, and saying he doesn't want to be popular, we now see him in s5 conforming back to how he used to dress. how his parents want him to look. normal.

in the aftermath of eddie's death, it's clear that as a symbol of non-conformity and self-acceptance, his death has impacted dustin and mike in completely different ways.

for dustin, he sees eddie's untimely death as a legacy he must continue. a vow he made to eddie in his dying breath to never change. and now, he's sticking to his word by embracing all that eddie did and stood for in life, almost as if he's trying to physically emulate eddie to become that symbol for himself and others.

as for mike, he's lost without that symbol. he saw eddie as a symbol of hope, safety, and bravery, a person that made him feel like it's okay to be different, to stand out, to not conform with what society wants him to be. without eddie, he's on the opposite trajectory; now that eddie's gone, that reassurance and safety he felt about standing out is gone too, and now he's regressing into the person that he thinks everyone expects him to be.

it's not that shocking since as soon as he's away from eddie in s4, he goes back to trying to fit in around el. but what's even more interesting is that mike seems to become himself again once it's just him and will in s4; although will carries himself in a much more subtle way than eddie, will also inspires mike to feel confident in himself, to feel like he can be different.

but before there was eddie as a symbol of non-conformity, there was jonathan byers. from the get-go in season 1, we see jonathan encouraging will to be himself, such as telling him "you shouldn't like things because people tell you you're supposed to." then we see mike get a similar, louder version of this encouragement in the form of eddie. both mike and will have role models that encourage them to be different. both mike and will feel like they can be themselves around each other in a way they can't with anyone else because they're the same kind of different. "i saw you on the swings, and you were alone too" "maybe i feel like i lost you or something" "hawkins, it's not the same with you." "you make [me] feel like [i'm] not a mistake at all, like [i'm] better for being different" "we'll go crazy together, right?"

even though will does make mike feel like it's okay to be himself, it's not enough to fully pull him out of his shell. eddie had that power as an older male role model that mike could look up to and admire. someone that could give him a look into the future and show him that being different on the outside isn't all that bad. but then, not only does eddie die, but even in death, he's still viewed as satanic and monstrous because he was openly different.

now in s5, mike is going to have to come to grips with eddie's death and the loss he associates with that. how he thinks that eddie being dead is proof that standing out is dangerous, that it's wrong, that it's sinful. he has a lot of fear to work through, but in the end, he's going to get there, and will is going to be there at his side the entire time, reminding him that they make each other feel like they're better for being different, so it must not be so bad after all.

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things 5 #st analysis #analysis #theory #mike wheeler #will byers #dustin henderson #eddie munson #byler #byler analysis #byler theory #text post #mine

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love-toxin · 2 years

Note

Okay but miscommunication trope is only super yummy when there’s a happy ending. Liiiike reader thinking they’re getting kicked out of their relationship in the fruity four, they’re not wanted anymore, maybe even bring replaced (ie with someone like Chrissy), and so every little sarcastic quip or ignoring is seen by them as the others not loving them anymore 🥺. Until one day it all comes crumbling down and I can’t decide with is more angsty, you breaking down telling the others they don’t love you anymore, or you trying to be brave by announcing you’re leaving and the fours hearts just dropping as they try to scramble to convince you to stay and why?! Why are you leaving!?!?! Please! But of course, happy ending when everything’s properly explained and angel is reassured they could never all fall out of love with them ❤️

oh.......miscommunication trope, you say? >:)

(cws: fruity four, gn!angelface, jealousy, post-s4, PTSD, huge miscommunication trope, domestic arguing, you have a tattoo + kinda shitty parents + bad home life, chrissy's a jealousy target, breakups, jopper appearance, you're childhood friends with jonathan, mentions of grief, an almost car crash, very mild head trauma, crying, angst with a happy ending--stick with me angels!)

Sometimes you wish Chrissy would just disappear. Just--poof--and she'd be gone.

It's awful of you to think, but you can't help it. She's just always around, ever since her breakup with Jason she's been by the house much more frequently. You were happy for her at first, because you liked her up until then, and she's always been nice to you. Plus, your partners saved her life back when all that crazy stuff with the Upside Down happened, an event you weren't privy to until after the fact, when you started dating them.

But she's always on Eddie, always chatting him up, always giggling at his attempts to cheer her up, and now she's attracted the attention of your other partners too. They're good friends, and that's good, but....why can you not shake this feeling that there's something more going on? That the arm touches over his jacket and the inside jokes aren't as friendly and harmless as they want you to think?

It's worse than that, though. The honeymoon phase is clearly over--cause all four of them just brush off your concerns, insisting that you're overreacting or just not addressing them at all. So you haven't been piping up when a joke hurts your feelings, and you've bitten your tongue when one of them has to reschedule something you've planned, and it's gotten to the point that they've wondered why you're so quiet all of a sudden. Why would they care? You think with a sour feeling in the back of your throat, rubbing the tattoo on your arm that Eddie gave you and wondering if that was just practice for someone else. You're not oblivious to the way Chrissy is slowly being invited into gatherings and dinners with everyone.....just like you were in the beginning. And after an especially heated fight with both Eddie and Robin, the worst one you've ever gotten into in your entire relationship, he got so pissed off that he just told you not to come to the dinner they had planned, and they'd take someone who actually wanted to go.

That was a couple days ago, and the air in the house has been strained for nobody else but you. You're equally as hurt by Eddie yelling at you as Robin silently going along with it, even though you slammed your bedroom door in her face when she tried to follow you, and waited until Eddie tugged her along to leave before you allowed yourself to cry. You're sick of the feeling that none of them really care for you, that you've been demoted to a piece of furniture in the house, because they've clearly lost interest. And they don't care when your things start disappearing from the house, when the clothes in your closet start dwindling, leaving behind nothing but the ones they've bought for you--no, they'd rather moon over Chrissy fucking Cunningham, and you've just taken all you think your heart can handle.

"I'm going out!" You call into the house from the front door, without any of their four voices responding. When you sigh, turn, and step out to turn the corner of the house, though, you bump right into one of them.

"Oh! Hey, baby." Steve steps back and readjusts the paper bag full of groceries he's got his arm around, keys halfway tucked into his pocket. "Where you off to?"

"Um....just, uh, gonna go visit my parents." You weren't really expecting him to pry, with how in your head you've been lately. But you're not gonna relent just cause one of the people who promised he'd love you forever, yet somehow can't be fucked enough to find the time to even watch a movie with you, asked you a question that remotely shows an ounce of concern.

"Your parents?" He blinks, shifting again to rest the bag on his hip. "You sure?"

That tone is so irritating. You used to love that almost parental sense of duty, the desire of his to know every detail of every problem so he can solve it. But now, you just feel suffocated, even though you're more distant from all of them now than you've ever been. "What, I'm not allowed to see my family?"

"Hey, that's not what I said! hold on," He moves to put the groceries inside, but you wave him off and start walking past him, your tone clearly frustrated as you encourage him to just forget it. But, in a tizzy, Steve hurriedly sets the bag down on the ground and runs to catch up with you, his hand descending on your arm only to be swatted away--but not for long, when he grabs it again and grips it tighter as he turns you to face him. "Jesus, wait! What's the big fuss? Did I do something?"

"Let me go, Steve." You refuse to look him in the eyes, but you can't break his grip. Why can't he just let it go, so it's less painful? "I don't wanna drag this out."

"Drag what out?" Finally, it dawns on him as his eyes dart from the keys clenched in your hand to the windows of your car parked in the driveway, boxes clearly piled up in the trunk and in the backseat that none of them seemed to notice you moving.

".....So that's it? You're breaking up with us?" Steve says it with disbelief, like he's expecting you to say something or anything different. It's almost a little satisfying when you respond in the way he never could have expected, even though he should've by now. Even though it feels bitter on your tongue as soon as it comes up.

"You know what? Yes. That's exactly it." You finally wrench your arm out of his grip, and each of those words sting as they come out, but you won't cry, you refuse to cry in front of Steve today. "I'm leaving tonight, and I'm never coming back to Hawkins again."

"Why?"

"Ask your new girlfriend."

"Who? Wait--Chrissy?" He shakes his head, and what comes out next is more cruel than you wanted to be--but he just won't get it, it won't happen unless you make them realize why they don't want you anymore.

"Wow, the jock has a brain! Well done, Stevie." He grimaces at once, and god, you wish it would all stuff itself back into your throat.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you being such a-"

"I know you're in love with her, Steve! For fuck's sakes, I'm not as stupid as you think I am!" You shout into the broken silence of the front lawn, wishing from the deepest reaches of your heart that this could all just be a horrible nightmare. Not reality. You don't want to be facing those big, soft eyes of Steve staring back at you in shock and pain, so you just turn your head and hope he doesn't see how much you're shaking.

"I get it, okay?! She's prettier than me, and nicer, and she doesn't have my fucking issues--and you guys clearly like her. It's like I don't even exist when she's around." You move aside to gesture towards your car, keys clutched in your hand so they won't fall or get taken from you, because you know Steve is reckless when he's upset. "None of you even noticed I was packing. Nancy fucking helped me put a box in yesterday."

Just then, both your heads turn at the sound of a car approaching--and just in time, you realize it's Eddie, his van's tires crunching the gravel of the long driveway as he pulls up to a stop beside your car. And lo and behold, sitting in the front seat with a smile on her face is her. Chrissy waves to you through the window, and as if your heart isn't in the process of shattering into shards that dig into your lungs, you raise your hand to acknowledge her back. You turn back to look at Steve one last time. Memorizing his face, because you know you won't ever see him again, as you take a few steps backward and hand him your parting words.

"Don't break her heart, Steve. It sucks."

With that, and with nothing but confliction reflecting back at you on his face, you turn on your heels and make your way around your car, bidding Eddie and Chrissy a stiff goodbye as they get out of the van and you get into your car. You reverse, roll back out of the driveway, and shift gears to start puttering down the road. And as soon as the house is out of your rearview mirror, that's when you feel those tears spilling out that won't stop until well after you pass the Leaving Hawkins sign on the side of the road.

A week into your new start in the city, you haven't gotten any more closure than when you left.

Living with your aunt isn't great, but it's something. The apartment is small, and you still haven't found a new job--you did call the Palace to inform them that you were quitting, though, to which you were greeted with nothing but indifference as you left a message on the answering machine. Figures that nobody in that town would miss me, you think, but you can't dwell on it for too long, because then you'll start thinking of them and it'll have you sobbing into your pillow again. Even worse is that you can't even fully express your pain to your family, your aunt, anybody--because they'll all think you're a freak, and it won't be surprising that your "relationship" ended so badly. You don't even really speak to your parents or your family in the first place, so you can't expect them to show you any sympathy. In fact, if they said anything to you, it would probably be that you should be glad it's over so you can live a normal life.

You don't want normal. You want your Robin talking your ear off about something gross for hours, you want Eddie burping into your ear and laughing, you want Nancy falling asleep on top of you and drooling on your chest, and Steve--you want Steve to come over while you're both on your breaks, talking with his mouth full and stealing bits of your lunch while kissing you in between each bite. You want that love back, you want it so badly it hurts, it hurts your heart every time something reminds you of them.

Maybe that's the worst part. That they don't want that anymore, they want someone that can share those memories with of that terrible tragedy, who knows how they feel and relates to those nightmares that wake them up in a cold sweat, who they can compare scars with and laugh with now that it's all over. They want someone scarred but beautiful, someone perfect, and you can never be that way no matter how hard you try. It explains why you haven't gotten a single phone call, or a letter, or anything since you left, and that treatment extends into your second week in Indy and right into the third. But it doesn't get any less painful, even when you get a job at a convenience store around the corner to busy yourself and help with the rent. Nor when you try going on a date or two, just to spend the whole dinner staring off into space as they talk and wondering what the people you loved are doing right now.

While you're behind the counter at work, your thoughts often drift back to that house by Maple Drive. The path around the back that leads into the woods, where Eddie would take you out for a smoke and to watch the stars for awhile--always with a walkie on hand, just in case, as Steve used to say. The pool that often sits empty, and sometimes you'd look out the window to see Nancy lifting up the cover on it to peek underneath, before breathing a visible sigh of relief and briskly walking away. Sometimes even in the middle of the night, creeping out the sliding glass door in her pajamas. And you remember that bed you often shared with Robin, who gets so clingy when she sleeps....and you wonder if she's sharing it with Chrissy now, if the cheerleader you always thought was such a nice girl is occupying the spot you thought would be yours forever.

Your brow furrows as you stock Camels on the shelf behind the counter, sliding each one into the perfect spot but feeling an itch of irritation when they don't line up. Is Eddie holding her right now? Is he coming up behind her every morning, and nuzzling his nose into her cheek as she stirs milk into her coffee? Is Nancy cuddling her and chatting her up about whatever project she has going on right now? Is Steve picking up her bag, and insisting she let her boyfriend hold the heavy stuff while she sits and looks pretty? They probably are. And they're probably much happier doing it with her, than they ever were with you.

Something thuds on the counter behind you, and you sigh without a sound as the gruff voice at your back asks for a pack while you're at it. Your fist squeezes around the box you've got in hand, and when you turn on your heels to toss it on to the tabletop and reach for the scanner, your eyes widen, and so do the ones on the moustached man that's towering in front of you with a petite woman at his side.

"Hop?"

You breathe out the name, trying to regain yourself as quick as you can--you're pretty used to keeping your tears back now, adjusted to having a straight face so nobody will pry or prod for your feelings. The former sheriff of your hometown that you used to duck out of sight from, laughing and hiding your goods with Eddie right behind you, is standing at your counter with a shocked expression, along with Joyce Byers who seems just as surprised to see you here. And with little else you can think of, you clear your throat and try to crack that tense silence.

"Uh...so, you two on vacation, or someth-"

"Are you fucking with me?"

Hopper cuts you off, hands bracing the edge of the counter as he looks you up and down, the two glass bottles of Coke getting shoved aside by him to fall over and roll across the counter as he reaches across the barrier to grab your arm. Without much struggle, because you have no clue what's going on, you allow the older man to yank your wrist up and turn it over, Joyce hurriedly pushing up your sleeve with her gaze pinned to your skin, like she's desperately searching for something that has nothing to do with your confused questions spilling out on top of each other.

When they've finally uncovered that patch of skin they were looking for, the two of them share a look between themselves, before finally looking back up to acknowledge how baffled and worried you are. It isn't until you scan down to see what they found that the pieces start coming together, the black ink of the tattoo Eddie gave you when you first started dating peeking out at you. It's just a thin, mid-sized black circle on your inner forearm, with five points reaching outward like a sun. But the detail of it has always enchanted you, Eddie's diligent stare as he inked it into your skin burned into your mind. You've considered getting it covered since then, but....you can't bring yourself to do it yet.

"I'll call it in," Hopper says cryptically, stepping back and turning away to bring out the walkie from his belt and start mumbling into it. In the meanwhile, you're left with his partner, and the lady you've practically grown up with since she babysat you a long time ago. You often forget that time, when you and Jonathan would run around her backyard with sticks and rocks to try and build your own castle, while his baby brother watched from the stairs and giggled at your antics. You were so young, and so carefree, it seemed....but it was a happy time, one of few before you met those four.

"Honey, you're alright?" Joyce's voice quivers, anxious for the answer, but you nod as soon as her question registers because you hate to see her like this.

"Ye...Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" She circles round the counter, coming right in for a hug that you return without question. The squeeze is tight, like a mother's embrace upon returning home from a long time away, and you instantly feel a pinch of guilt for neglecting to include her in your plan to leave Hawkins. Now that you think about it, you really didn't tell anyone, except....

"-Kid, relax, we're coming there. No, do not get in your car, sit your ass down so you're there when we get back! Jesus," Hop gets more animated as he talks over the channel, and your hug splits as your head swivels towards the sound of a familiar voice through the static. Steve.

"Are they there? Let me talk to them! Please, Hopper, let me hear their voice-"

It's so frantic, desperate. The first time you've heard one of their voices in what feels like your whole life, and you have to struggle not to cave, bringing a shaky hand up over your mouth as you whisper a "What's going on?" to Joyce. And with your ears perked up, you can distinguish the background noise in the transmission--there are three other distinct voices, talking just as fearfully amongst themselves as they also try to get through to Hop. Nancy, Eddie, and Robin, each with as much indignation as Steve, who must be holding the other walkie.

"We're coming down right now, kid. Just try to calm down in the meantime." With that, Hopper shuts the antenna and gestures for you to follow him, the sweet woman at your side holding your arm as you obey him, like she's afraid you'll vanish if she lets go. You're led out of the light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead to Hop's truck parked by the curb--you at least have the sense to fumble with your keys and lock the front door before you leave--you let him open the door and sit yourself in the backseat, and shakily buckle yourself in as they get in front with promises to explain everything. Still struck dumb with shock to the point that it hasn't really registered that you just left work in the middle of your shift.

But you get an idea of what's happening when you turn your head, and catch a glimpse of a scattered stack of papers on the seat beside you out of your peripheral. Tentatively, as Hop starts up the ignition, your fingers brush over one of the nearest pages--and when you lift it up to survey it closer, the two of them notice you and share another sobering look between them. What's staring back at you is undeniably, unmistakably, a missing person's ad. And the picture is one you recognize immediately, because it's yours. Your photo, details of your last sighting, a description of your tattoo, a list of things for people to look out for....

"You really worried everyone back home, kid."

Suddenly, a bitterness rises up inside you, and the paper crumples slightly as you realize what's really happening. "I'm fine. I just...decided to get out of Hawkins."

"Yeah, well, maybe tell your roommates that, first."

"Hop-"

"They didn't care! I told Steve anyways, so what's the big fucking deal?" Even though Joyce flinches at you raising your voice, you can't be quiet right now. Anger is something you've been almost too numb to endure these last few weeks, but now you could just put your fist straight through Hopper's window--they put up such a fuss for what? To drag you back to that shitty inbred town in the sticks, just to make sure they didn't want you in the first place? It's bullshit.

"They sure as shit care!" Hop shouts right back, casting his signature scowl over his shoulder as he drives through semi-empty streets. It's so late, and so dark, it's unlikely there'll even be many pedestrians. "Do you realize how many times Nancy Wheeler has shown up on my doorstep, begging me to go on another search and rescue for you?! They're worried sick!"

"Why?"

There's silence for awhile, very tense silence, before you repeat your question that says much more than just that one word.

"....Because they thought you were gone. They thought you were there."

There. That's what he means--the other world, the Upside Down. The place you've never seen, only heard horror stories about and snatches of descriptions of when you comforted one of them during a night terror. The missing people, the murders, the experiments....they're all so hard to believe, but then again, you can't deny Will's remarkable return from the dead or Barbara Holland's coverup death, both of which you've been close enough to to know that there's no way they're just elaborate lies.

So they were worried you had died. That your disappearance wasn't of your own volition. They're going to be in for an unfortunate surprise, but by the tightly shut locks on Hopper's truck doors, you know there's no getting out of this until he brings you right back to drop you in their laps.

"We came here to look for you. Your mom finally told us you had an aunt in the city." Joyce offers you another piece to the puzzle, but your mind is still stuck on the fact that your ex-partners seemed so desperate over the walkie. They....they wouldn't want you to die, but that doesn't mean they want you. Figures that your parents would make it more difficult for two of the only people that even remotely have any concern for you too, they're probably profiting off all that glorious attention of having a missing child.

"I have a life here, now. I don't want to go back." Lies. You know it's all lies.

"Listen, kid, whatever happened with your friends, I promise it's not worth throwing in the towel. You've gotta see things through." Clearly it's not worth an argument, you'd rather save your energy at this point. You're gonna need plenty to face that hard conversation you know is coming, when you're gonna have to confirm to them directly that you're moving on. No more running away, or hiding from the problem. You have to face it.

"You don't know anything about me, or them."

The already long drive drags on even longer in the silence that follows, and you make a mental note to call your aunt when they get you back to Hawkins, so she doesn't freak out when she comes home to an empty apartment. You can imagine your manager's gonna call and cuss you out before firing you for leaving the store unattended, too, and you groan and let your head hit the seat behind you. Now you're gonna have to find another job, gonna have to explain to your aunt what you did....or maybe she won't even notice your absence, not until someone makes a fuss about it.

Your mind is left racing with so many thoughts and worries that the scenery passes by without note, the moon barely shining any light on the landscape, like it's all one huge plain with little dots for buildings and trees. Like one big hellscape, but it's numb and frozen over with nothing left but a mocking echo of the world that's no longer here. You don't even really recognize your surroundings until a couple hours have passed, and the Welcome To Hawkins sign zips by and has you sitting up in your seat. Just as you pass it, though, you think you see the glimmer of another set of headlights, a rarity on these quiet streets--and then your whole world shifts violently.

"Shit!" Hop curses as he swerves suddenly, and Joyce shrieks as you all nearly careen off the road and into the ditch, your head cracking against the window and bouncing off for you to clutch at it in pain. A groan is all you can get out when he calls back to you, the dizzy feeling making you a little sick, but as you lift your head and the truck rolls to a stop, you spot the culprit of that downright suicidal speed driving that nearly caused a head-on collision.

Your heart is pierced with a deep chill immediately. You'd recognize that van anywhere, and that curly mane of hair as the driver stumbles out his door even moreso. He's not hurt, just dazed--and for the moment, your brain doesn't immediately go to the question of why you should even care. As he stands there in the road, in the dark, Eddie's form is lit up by the headlights still shining without a flicker, but he doesn't flinch even when it must be glaring directly into his eyes, just holds a hand up to block it out. And when they meet yours as you lean over the console to see him, he doesn't wait a second, hurrying around the passenger's side of the truck to fumble for the handle of your door. With a click, and the light above you switching on as a beeping starts to emit from the vehicle, Eddie's suddenly cramming himself into the backseat with you--and there's tears already wetting his cheeks as he grabs you in a hug, gasping in a shaky lungful of breath like he's shocked he's really touching you. Crying and mumbling into your hair, Eddie buckles when you squeeze him back, falling victim to that desire in the deepest part of your soul that just wanted to hold him again.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it baby, I didn't--everything I said, I swear, I was being such a fucking moron-" He starts babbling from nowhere, and his voice itself is a comfort, having not heard it next to your ear for so long that it aches now.

"Eddie-"

"You're mine, okay?! You're my everything!" He cries, burying his face even deeper into your neck and inhaling whatever scent he can get. You're stunned into staying limp, letting his hands grab and squeeze at you wherever they land--his curly hair tickles your cheek and sticks to it, and that sensation alone drags tears up to the surface, only allowing them to spill when you hear him whispering those croaked pleas of "I love you, I love you, I love you" until you're crying right along with him. It's been so long since you heard it, you'd started believing it was never really true.

It takes minutes that feel like hours for you to both calm down enough to look at each other, your face cradled in Eddie's rough hands as he sniffles and murmurs a "You're so beautiful" so innocently sincere, that it instantly makes you wish you had never left. He smiles, and the world that seems so dark grows a little brighter around you. You're not even privy to the looks Joyce and Hopper are giving each other in the front seat, clearly a little surprised at the passion you two share that nobody else has ever seen. But they know. And when Eddie starts pulling you out of your seat with the promise to take you back, Hop only reminds him to drive safely before he allows you two to shut the truck's door and circle round the vehicle with Eddie's arm clinging to your waist. The air hits you, cool and dry, just like it always is in Hawkins. And when he opens your door for you and waits for you to clamber in, before getting in on the other side and fumbling contently with his keys, you're not sure you really know what to expect. He briefly elaborates that he'd gotten worried, and that he's just glad he spotted Hop's truck before he'd sped all the way out of Hawkins and missed you--but it doesn't last, because soon he's grabbing your thigh and sighing out a breath of relief.

"We'll talk about everything when we get home. For now, I just want to hold you." Eddie offers his hand to you, giving it a grateful squeeze when you slip yours into it and interlace your fingers together.

They'll all hate me for real, this time.

That's exactly how the drive goes, Eddie's shoulders relaxed even as he steers with one hand, and navigates while stealing glances over at you with relief written all over his face, and brings your hands up to kiss your knuckles every so often. But he's just one. The other three....your heart sinks as you run over that last conversation you had with Steve, the way you'd ignored Robin completely, and how you pretended everything was absolutely fine with Nancy up until the moment you left. And it somehow dawns on you only then--they thought you were gone, that you had been taken to the Upside Down, and your heart sinks as you watch the trees pass by in clusters while that dread creeps closer down the road that's so familiar.

Not even the comforting warmth of Eddie's hand could drive that thought out of your mind, even less so when he turns and you hit that patch of gravel that leads up the driveway. He'll stop soon, and you'll be facing the music....and when Eddie shifts into park, you sort of float from your seat to the walkway where you threw your feelings back into Steve's face, and up towards the front door that Eddie opens for you before you cross the threshold into the house. It does feel like home, and you don't want to lose it right on the welcome mat, so you blink away any tears that threaten to spill before you quietly follow him into the living room.

Three heads turn to look your way, too inundated in conversation around the coffee table to hear the door opening, but that stops the second their eyes land on you. Steve and Robin are the ones sitting closest to where you stand, but Nancy's the one that makes her way to you first, her lower lip already quivering enough to break into a sob as she crosses the patch of carpet to throw her arms around you. She's strong enough to grip you tight enough to hurt, but too weak to keep herself on her feet, and you end up sinking to the floor with her as your name floods out of her lungs on repeat, getting louder and louder and louder until she's wailing. You could swear the walls rattle with the volume she cries at, completely coming apart in your arms like you've never seen her do before.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!" She shouts, yet her voice is like a child's, wobbling and whiny and so miserably pitiful that it pains you even to listen to it, especially when she's clutching you so close to her body--so afraid that you won't be there when she pulls away, so she refuses to. You don't have any right to cry when she's so distraught, but with your head over her shoulder, the other two watch your lips curve downwards and your eyes screw shut into a flood of tears that won't stop easily.

"I'm sorry, Nancy. I'm okay." You whimper, burying your face into her curls until your lips brush her jawline, and she shudders into each gentle, praiseworthy kiss that you press there. Up until her sobs subside, and she breaths a sigh of relief that you can feel from her chest against yours, each one sinking and rising into each other as you breathe along with her. "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

She shakes her head, and finally pulls herself back to look at you, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her cheeks when she gets a good look at you. Nancy touches your face, thumbs away your own tears--and you know she's not just looking at you, but the girl she lost so long ago, whose smile she sees in yours on those days she misses her the most dearly. "I never wanted you more when I thought you weren't coming back," She whispers back. "How could I not want you? I love you."

The kiss she lays upon your lips is breathtaking, shaking and sweet and just....everything. Everything you missed and craved like air and water and life.

You're already halfway into her embrace when she laughs out that half-hearted joke, walking back with you a couple steps when you throw yourself into it. And she squeezes you so tight, so hard, the kisses a flurry of needy, fluttering touches all over your face until she somehow finds your lips--and when she does, she makes that last one a kiss you won't shake off for days, the feeling tingling your lips even when she pulls away. Still rubbing that spot on your back that she knows is sensitive, Robin grips you in an even harder hug that nearly cracks your spine, and whispers into your ear: "I'm so happy you're here with me." before she kisses you one last time, last one, she swears, fingers crossed behind your back. But then, she takes notice to the man standing just a foot away--and she lets you go to turn you around, her fingertips grazing your arms as you finally face him.

"Yeah, she, uh....she cried, like, every night," Even as Robin says it and breaks the quiet, she herself is rubbing tears from her cheeks, trying to keep that smile going as you stand and Nancy loosens her hold. She moves aside for Eddie to lay his hands on her shoulders from behind, and keep her steady on her feet. "So did Steve. I told you he cries when we watch Princess Bride!"

"I-I....I didn't mean it, Steve. I never...I've never thought you were dumb." Your voice comes out as a whimper, fingers fiddling with each other as you endure that big, brown, wide-eyed stare.

"I know." He breathes, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wants to move, he's antsy, but he won't take another step. "I know, baby."

"Can I hug you?" Steve just nods, but his lip quivers and his features gain that pathetic, sad puppy look, because he was hoping and praying you would say those very words. Your heart soars as he meets your step forward and flings his strong arms tight around your body, crushing you with his huge stature but never loosening up. He instantly brings his hand up to cradle your head against his chest, kissing the crown of it with so much firmness that you know he's reaffirming you're really standing in front of him again.

"I shouldn't have let you leave. I should've slashed your damn tires." He chuckles along with you at the lighthearted crack at breaking the tension, until he chokes up again into a sob. "Nobody could ever replace you. And I swear, I'll never break your heart again."

Steve holds you for a long time, squeezing you and kissing you and brushing strands of hair from your eyes to just look at you, surveying the face of the love he feared he'd never get to cherish again. It's a long time coming, and when he's done, there are three other warm bodies in the room that need attention from the sweet thing they've been killing themselves over these last few weeks.

From there, they catch you up with what had happened in your absence. Steve had walked off to clear his head after you left, and hadn't returned until late in the day--burst through the front door during an unusually quiet dinner and sent them all into a panic, when he realized you really had left and you weren't coming back. The four of them had jumped into action to split up and look for you, Nancy contacted your parents and other family while Steve and Robin tried to find some hint of your whereabouts in the house, cracking open your drawers and notes and realizing how much of your stuff was missing. Meanwhile, Eddie had driven in circles round Hawkins and the outer city limits, trying to find any trace of your car in the dark with the help of passing streetlights.

When those attempts had failed after stretching out into the next day to mid-afternoon, and with your very unhelpful parents insisting they had no idea where you could've gone, that's when your partners had started printing out missing person's flyers and put in an official report with the sheriff's office. And, seemingly having forgotten that you were really the only one who ever checked the voicemail at work, your message tendering your resignation had been errantly erased by your manager--worrying them even further when they questioned him, because if you were really planning on moving away like you said, how could you not tell your employer? It wasn't like you. Their fears had only gotten stronger from there.

The worst had yet to come, though. Because when your car had been found on the side of the road way out in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles away from Hawkins and completely destroyed, the four of them had reached the point of no return. The plates had been torn off, but it was your exact make and model of car, and what were they supposed to believe? That it was just coincidence? That's what Hopper had tried to reassure them with, tried to insist that plenty of cars get found gutted out in the bush, but they couldn't be convinced that it was just some freak happenstance and delude themselves to think that you were fine and dandy somewhere else. The same thing had happened to Max's stepbrother, and they all knew how that had ended.

So started the search parties, the nights spent staying up and studying maps by lamplight, the microwave meals in place of home cooking and sleeping in shifts by the phone, waiting and hoping for some kind of clue to your whereabouts to appear. Finding you had become more important than eating, proper sleep, showering, or attention paid to anything aside from looking towards the horizon to see if you would magically walk back into their lives.

And all that time, you had believed nothing but that they couldn't care less where you were, or what you were doing. When in reality, they could think of nothing but you. That was what had led Eddie to nearly crash into you as you re-entered Hawkins, having been pacing the living room for those long hours after Hop's call until he just couldn't take it anymore--despite the other three trying to stop him, he had dashed out to his van and peeled out of the driveway like a lunatic, just for the slightest chance that he might be there when you needed help. It was so stupid, so reckless, and you'll remember that moment he came rushing around the side of the truck to get to you forever.

Despite them reassuring you about Chrissy, too, when the tears have dried--promising you she's nothing but a friend, and they would have no problems limiting her interaction with all of you from now on--you wave it away, smiling off your stupidity and letting them know that it's fine. You were just being dumb, acting crazy, but you're fine now. And Eddie's eyes narrow at that.

"You're not crazy." He murmurs absentmindedly, and says nothing more until he can slip away from your reunion, and reach the phone in the kitchen. While you're busy dealing with your other partner's crippling absence of affection, he taps his blunt nails into each button, numbly dialing the number he's memorized until the ringing starts and stops.

"Hey, Chris. Angel's back home."

"Oh, that's great! Oh...Eddie, I'm so happy for you. You must be relieved-"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Listen, no hard feelings, but....you're my friend, so I'm just gonna be straight. Don't come by the house anymore."

"I--what? Really? I....Eddie, I'm sorry, if I did something to upset you-"

"No, no, nothing you did. Well, not really. But I know how you feel, Chris, and I can't really ignore it anymore." He swallows deeply, and sucks on his teeth as he tries to think of some better way to say it. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't feel the same. I never have, and I'm sorry if I made you feel like that might change."

"......So that's it?"

"That's it. We can still be friends, but we need space for awhile first, and I'm not gonna ignore you flirting with me anymore. I'm in love and it's not gonna change. Sorry."

"Can we at least talk about it, Eddie? Please? I'd rather talk this out in person."

"No. Bye, Chrissy."

He thuds the phone back on the receiver just a little too hard, and brings his hand up to rub at his neck and try and get the ache out. That didn't feel good, having to confront one of his very few friends with a truth he just wanted to ignore--but the sick feeling he has now can't even compare to how he felt when you were away, and it's an easy decision to make in that regard. He'd take you over her any day. It's a bit of a guilty feeling, but he knows it's the truth even if it hurts Chrissy's feelings, and he's happy even so.

"....Yeah, I missed you real bad, sweetheart. Don't you ever think I wouldn't....or else you are crazy."

"Eddie?" You call out from the living room, and following that sweet voice to its source, he feels himself light up at the sight of you settled back into the couch. Legs tucked up in Robin's lap, halfway into Steve and Nancy's, looking so comfortable and cute as you look up at him. You're where you belong. He's so distracted by the glee and relief of having you home, he didn't even realize how quiet it had been between you all until he came right back from his task. You say nothing more, just hold your arms out to him--and when he gets close enough, you capture him with those pretty eyes of yours, and melt away any ill feeling as you pull him into your chest.

#fruity four #fruity four x reader #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #eddie munson #robin buckley #steve harrington x reader #nancy wheeler x reader #eddie munson x reader #robin buckley x reader #jim hopper #joyce byers #st 4 #stranger things #eddie's angelface #ellie writes #anons

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beansprean · 1 year

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Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what their dynamic is. But when I see it, I SEE it.

(ID in alt and under cut)

1a. Nadja and Nandor standing at a small lit-up circular table at the nightclub a la their conversation in s4 e3, both in their outfits from that episode: Nadja is wearing her red leather dress with long gloves and nails, lace-up bodice, and two sparkly hats and Nandor is wearing his patterned brown tunic. The neon "Nadja's" sign is visible in the background. Nandor grins happily, pushing himself back from the table with both hands braced on the surface on either side of his half-drunk tumbler of blood. He cheers, "Thank you, Nadja!" Nadja, leaning on the table with both forearms, closes her eyes and nods with a smug smile, replying, "Anytime, babe." 1b. Repeat. Nandor turns to leave and is halfway out of frame when Nadja snarls, tossing up her palm, "Um, hello? Aren't you forgetting something?" Nandor pauses and looks back at her.

2a. Repeat. Nandor walks slowly back toward the table, fingers twiddling together at his waist and head tilted to the side, face scrunched up in confusion as question marks float around his head. Nadja continues to glare at him, frowning, palm out. 2b. Repeat. Still looking very confused, Nandor inches closer to her, placing a palm on her shoulder and tilting his head the other way, craning his chin up as if searching for something on her head. Nadja begins to look confused now, as well, wrist dropping to hand her hand in front of her chest and head leaning back slightly, wary.

3a. Repeat. Nandor leans forward those last few inches and quickly places a close-lipped kiss on Nadja's temple, causing her to startle and freeze in surprise. 3b. Repeat. Nandor quickly whisks himself away from the table again, half out of the frame and showing no signs of coming back this time. Nadja, a little flustered, throws out both arms helplessly toward the abandoned glass on the table and bares her fangs, shouting after him, "Pay your bill you fucking plonker!!" This is a gag lifted from Brooklyn 99. /end ID

#wwdits #nandor the relentless #nadja of antipaxos #wwdits s4e3 #nadjas nightclub #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #this gag is from brooklyn 99 for those unaware

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hitlikehammers · 3 months

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Steddie Post S4: If All That's Left of Steve in the Final Battle is Ashes—

...are they REALLY JUST ashes? 🔥

The final battle—like the last part of the very final battle—ends with shattering, and with dust.

It starts, the first bad dream and the first bloody nose and the first Code Red on the radios: well, that’s three months into something, for the first time in Eddie’s sorry-ass-but-honestly-actually-since-almost-not-having-any-life-at-all-any-more-and-miraculously-making-it-through-a-night-then-a-week-then-a-month-then-rehab-then-chronic-pain-then-more-friends-than-he’d-ever-had-before-and-frankly-in-the-beginning-more-than-he-could-count-plus-three-new-mother-figures-and-two-maybe-three-extra-maybe-father-figures-plus-one-friend-of-Dorothy-who’s-the-platonic-soulmate-of-maybe-the-love-of-Eddie’s-not-actually-still-sorry-ass-life: he’s about three months into something wild and reeling in his chest, brushing hands and lingering looks and flushed cheeks and little secret smiles ducked in toward shoulders or behind stray curls, or falling asleep pressed arm-to-arm only to wake up in one lap or another, and the whole of it’s shameless and intentional and giddy somewhere low in Eddie’s belly because it’s not uncertain, it’s honestly just fucking bashful, it’s shy and it’s the both of them wordlessly leaning into it, careful but sure, and almost all the more buoyant for it.

It’s three months in, and when they step up to that last battle—that final turn, do-or-die—maybe Steve pulls him behind a truck Eddie doesn’t even know the owner of, where it came from or why it’s there; but maybe Steve pulls him behind and draws him close without a word and kisses him relentless, drags his teeth and draws a little blood for the force and leaves them both raw, and panting, and desperate: it couldn’t really go any other way, like this—here.

Now.

“Live through this,” Steve had breathed against his angry red lips, hard enough that it stung; “so we can pick up where we left off.”

“I will if you will,” Eddie had shot back, defiant; still begging.

And Steve had kissed him again, and Eddie’d watched as Steve walked away with the lightest smear of Eddie’s blood on his lower lip as he’d spoken:

“I’ll hold you to it.”

And they’d parted, to do their fucking jobs, to play their fucking roles. They’re come back together, ready to take the final boss down as a unit, and Eddie remembers that he’d felt hopeful, he’d felt so fucking relieved because this was it. They were gonna nail it, all for one, and—

So it might be near the end, actually—they may have almost done it, finished the job and killed every last bit of this hellscape, every beast big and small, crushed what’s left of the husk of Vecna orchestrating it all: it might happen near the end. Or maybe just shy of the beginning. Somewhere in the middle.

All Eddie knows is that it happens. There’s light, and people floating in the air and then more light, dragged back down by the same lightning-spark power, and it’s back and it’s forth and when it hits anyone, Supergirl pulls them back to the ground and fights back harder, her face blood red dripping to her neck, her teeth bared all wrath and fury, and then—

Then there’s something that shoots different, hits Steve and he doesn’t float. It looks different, so it probably is different, and he doesn’t float when it hits him.

And so: Eddie holds to the bargain.

But Steve.

Steve…Steve Harrington, with the bitchiest glare and the brightest smile and the goofiest laugh and the biggest fucking heart, the bravest of all of them and the best part of Eddie’s whole soul—

Steve gets hit, and disappears from the world in nothing but a cloud of dust.

No one tries to shush Eddie, when he screams, when he wails and sobs; drops to his knees and fucking howls.

No one tries to stop him when he crawls to the space that held his whole heart, and now lies empty, save a dusting of something almost shiny, coarse to the touch but fine to the naked eye, hard to distinguish from the dirt on sight alone—is that him? Is that his Sweetheart, all that’s left of him—

Eddie thinks maybe they try to stop him halfway through the way he starts frantically sweeping, scooping up the ash and filling every pocket he has with as much as he can. He vaguely feels a hand on his shoulder, maybe the sound of his name, but it’s all white noise because Eddie’s picking up the pieces of his heart, here, Eddie’s trying like hell to hold on to something of the man he loves and anyone who doesn’t like it, or thinks he’s crazy, or wants to rush him, ask him to leave any little pouch in any layer of his clothes unfilled, less than overflowing with all that remains?

Fuck them. Fuck them all. Because Eddie kept his side of the deal.

Live through this.

I will if you will.

And now he has to live with the way his Stevie…didn’t.

——

The rest of the Party sticks together after it’s done. Dustin is inconsolable, Erica and Max scowl in each other’s direction but not really…at each other. Mike’s having a weird…frenzy response, denying Steve’s dead at all and demanding Lucas help him get El to look for him, he has to be somewhere, he has be saveable like Max, like Eddie. Robin’s fucking catatonic—the real adults take most of the burden, trying to figure out who to call, because Steve’s their only casualty, the beating heart at the center of all this and it’s gone, no wonder they’re breaking—

The Party stays together. Eddie falls back on what he knows.

He runs.

Specifically: he runs home, carefully though, he can’t jostle his pockets, and he knows exactly where he’s looking when he gets to his room, crawls to the farthest corner of his closet in this still-weird-to-be-so-big bedroom after the trailer: and he finds it.

His mom’s old little hope chest.

There are a million little fake velvet pouches inside, a couple pieces of actual jewelry kept in an empty film canister, and then a smaller jewelry box type thing meant for a dresser or something: Eddie doesn’t think he can fill the hope chest.

But the rest…

He starts with the jewelry box, since it’s already empty, carefully cups his palms to fill it with the precious dust until the lid doesn’t close.

Then he sorts the pouches, puts aside the ones that don’t pull tight enough shut for his liking. The rest…those will be temporary. He’ll find a better home for the ashes soon, but for now they’re safe, and all that’s left is…

The film canister is special.

It’s stupid and plastic and like every other fucking black-and grey tube thingy that smells like vinegar on the inside of you hold it up too close. But this one—

He’s always gotten a little teary-eyed to think that this was the one his mother kept.

Because he’d poked a hole through the rough little peak in the top of the lid with a fork, took a piece of thread from the junk drawer and made himself a necklace to match the one she had and she’d smiled at him so bright, poked another hole next to his, and threaded his string-chain through the back of the lid so it’d close up tight, to keep all your most secret prized possessions, my sugarbean and he had. For years.

Now it held what was left of her jewels, mostly cheap stuff with sentimental worth he couldn’t calculate—but now he has to take the faulty pouches and give the jewelry a new home.

Now he’s never had something more prized and precious to keep.

He finds fishing line in Wayne’s stuff, stronger than the thread worn and aged over a decade and a half, swaps it out with the string. Covers the inside with electrical tape to make sure nothing can sneak out of the holes, even so.

And then he fills it. Last of the ashes, and it all only just fits but the lid pops on perfect.

Then he pulls it over his head, and lies down on his bed.

And fucking sobs when the canister falls to settle right over his heart.

——

Some of the kids try to coax him out, argue grief is better shared or whatever, but Eddie’s deaf to the knocking, the way they try to yell at his window—not even cracked open, he won’t risk a rogue bird or a stray breeze disturbing all he has left of his, his—

The kids go away, eventually.

Wayne finds out through the grapevine what’s happened—he comes into Eddie’s room and holds him even if Eddie doesn’t want it, doesn’t ask. He’s grateful, though, even if he doesn’t say it, and Wayne sheds more than one tear; he’d been warming quick to Steve, called him son.

That wasn’t something Wayne did lightly. Not that anything Wayne did was done lightly.

However many days pass, Eddie doesn’t keep track. He wakes and runs to the little box on his dresser, just to make sure it’s safe, clutching the film tube around his neck while he does, weighing it desperately until he can be sure the bulk of the ashes are undisturbed. The rest of his time is spent lying in his bed and rolling the little canister across his fingers, taking off all his rings so he can just…touch it. Be close to whatever lifeless pieces of Steve—and likewise, then: pieces of Eddie—remain anywhere at all. He passes the hours like that, largely. Sometimes he thinks he’s hungry, like his stomach aches in that pang kind of way, but thinking of eating in a world where Steve doesn’t breathe makes him sick every time, so he doesn’t follow through. Wayne pesters him to at least drink something, so he sometimes shuffles to the bathroom, or the kitchen, drinks from the sink because glasses are for people who make plans for the future, who intend to drink things over the course of a lifetime, a life maybe with a purpose, a purpose that—

Eddie throws himself back into bed again, every time. Presses his film-canister-talisman tight to his sternum until the hurt of the pressure blurs with bigger hurts, and ultimately blurs into black.

Until one day, he opens his eyes. And after he’s done with the subtle disappointment that he had to, that morning came at all; when he gets up and checks the box?

The lid’s flipped off.

And there’s a tiny pile of dusty ash, glittering next to it, when there’s no light in the room to even catch it.

Eddie’s heart drops, then seizes in his chest.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

No one comes in but Wayne, and he just pokes his head in. Nothing can get in, either, unless…but they closed all the gates, there is no Upside Down anymore—

Eddie’s hands are shaking as he tries to brush the little pile into his hands, pulse tripping when the thinks of what it is, inside his hands, and he carefully lets it sift back into the jewelry box, tries to judge if any’s been lost, closes the top when he starts breathing too heavy, when his anxiety threatens to make the situation worse as he tries to bend down and see the furniture at surface level, find any precious speck of—

Not a speck. Not a…mote.

The escaped ashes were on top of something, though. Something Eddie’s never seen before. About the size of a notecard but, kinda like…ancient, weathered; that yellowed look you can never fake just right, traced alone with…some kind of calligraphy out of fucking Camelot or some shit, metallic gold in script:

I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.

The…fuck?

Eddie tries to squint, because the text is weirdly positioned; it does look like something’s worn off, and some of what’s actually there is brighter, bolder than the rest, and then there’s a whole other style, almost backward, like a mirror-image of handwriting, and Eddie lifts the card up to the mirror instinctively, only to see…

There’s writing on the other side.

Eddie’s breath catches when he recognizes the handwriting. Small, and more words than should be able to fit but…it fits. It’s dried blood in color, and Eddie’s not convinced it’s just a color for how it’s a little raised and flaky, but it doesn’t come off when Eddie touches it, traces it because the cramped little letters, tall and short all mixed and mismatched, so familiar, so tight in Eddie’s chest—

It’s…Eddie…

Eddie’s eyes skim the first few lines in Steve’s handwriting, and he cannot fucking breathe—

Hey, wow, that’s some crazy shit there on the other side of this piece of paper, my gran says it’s a warning even if I don’t personally get it, but I’m pretty sure it’s enchanted? The paper, I mean. The warning’s probably about being too close to…this, without being prepared. But that’s, whatever. Point is, I don’t think I can make new enchanted paper, so here’s the deal: First, thanks for grabbing the ashes? I didn’t actually expect anyone to do that. I hope it was intentional, like that you weren’t sweeping or the ash got stuck in your shoes or something, because intentional will make the rest of this way easier (hopefully, or like, maybe), and if you’re a part of the bigger Hawkins fuckery it’ll be way easier to believe at the least so, fingers crossed I guess but: I’m kind of a phoenix? Firebird? Thing? It’s a bloodline “curse” but especially since the, umm, incidents with the Lab I’ve been thinking maybe it’s actually kinda cool? Like insurance. But the extra fucked up thing is that someone has to grab the ashes without being, like, told to. Free will or some bullshit. And apparently we’re not a very spontaneously likable bunch of dungeons-and-dipshit-type creatures, because not many of us even get to re-birth ourselves. Because of the ash…thing. But you! You did that! And now I can do the rebirth thing! Which I hope is okay. There are a lot of, like, bond-type things that go along with the person who ‘cares selflessly to gather ash unbidden’—I think that’s what makes someone more than a ‘mere human’ consumed by the Fire and they won’t get burned, they’ll be…well, if they wanted. Bond-stuff. Not important. I’m not gonna hold you to any of that shit, like, nothing you don’t want to happen will happen because of this, I 100% promise. Except maybe I’ll do some over the top gestures of gratitude—and on the off chance you already know me, at all? Over-the-top is kinda how I do most feelings, so. Should not be a surprise. Only thing I will ask, and if it’s too much no worries, the whole resurrection shebang was a gamble from the get-go but, if you can just keep this pile of ashes safe for a little bit? It takes longer to heal based on how old you are when you, y’know. Kick it. So…yeah. I never learned how to come back as a baby because that sounded weird. Quicker, but weird. I only learned the slower way so I can just…come back how I left, like no time passed. But if you can keep the ashes safe until then that’d be totally cool. Anyway, thanks, whoever you are. Kinda owe you my life, here. I’ll show you the appreciation you deserve when I’m, you know. Not-ashes. Once I have opposable thumbs again and stuff. But really. Thank you. See you soon, hopefully (if that’s cool, I mean, I can get out of your hair ASAP too if you’d rather, just say so soon as I pop up)— ~SH

Eddie…falls to the floor at some point, nearly ripping the note, no: no, actually, he should have decimated it, macerated it the with the way his hands clench and his tears have fallen and made not a single mark: enchanted paper.

Ashes that…maybe are Steve?

That maybe mean Steve could come…will come back?

Eddie really can’t breathe, now, and when the black swallows everything, he’s still on the fucking floor.

——

When next he comes-to, Eddie splashes water on his face after he checks on the jewelry box, reads the letter again, clutches the ash-filled pendant in his hand as he drinks, considers eating—no.

No, not yet. His stomach’s still unsteady. His chest is swollen, pressed with something like hope for the impossible because what the fuck, first and foremost, but then, then…

There was a horrorscape under his feet for years before it came for him personally, before he almost died at its hands once, and then again by proxy when, when it took his…

His maybe-love-of-his-life-and-also-possibly-something-like-a-phoenix-who-might-be-coming-back-to-Eddie-which-would-mean-Eddie-could-keep-breathing-and-his-heart-would-be-returned-to-his-chest-by-the-hands-of-the-man-he-loves-because-he-thinks-it-died-with-Steve-but-if-Steve-isn’t-dead—

He basically almost died again when…maybe his Steve—who Eddie fully acknowledges at this point he’s absolutely fucking gone on with his whole heart and soul, because there’s no other real explanation for his total and complete shutdown as a human for the sake of Steve’s loss—when his Stevie died, but maybe didn’t.

But then now, now maybe…

Maybe the impossible could be something that saved them, saved him, instead of something that only sought to ruin.

Eddie doesn’t think he can believe he’s that lucky.

But it’s easier to entertain the possibility, than to continue just…knowing Steve died before Eddie could acknowledge with his everything that he—certified cynic and self-deceiving dumbass Edward Elliot Munson—was ass-over-ankles in love; and more than that: before he could tell Steve as much, because of anyone Eddie’s ever met, Steve Harrington deserves to know how impossible it is not to; how ineffably much he is loved.

“Hey,” Eddie ultimately finds himself curled up back in his bed again, clutching his film canister to his chest, tight enough to leave an impression on his skin.

He wants it to. Right over the way his heart slams against his ribs. He wants a bruise. He wants a scar. He wants inviolable proof.

“Umm, so I don’t know if this is real,” Eddie’s eyes flicker to the jewelry box of ashes, the strange potentially-enchanted note on his dresser; “or if it is, how this works?”

This apparently being talking to the cobbled together film-pendant around his neck, he…he’s so fucked, isn’t he, this is insane—

But it’s not like that’s ever stopped him before.

And before never had love in the mix. So.

“If you can hear me,” Eddie runs his thumb around the circumference of the cap, over and over; “I pretty fucking sure I’m in love with you,” and it’s maybe fucked up, how it feels as nervewracking to say it to a plastic canister of ashes as he imagines it’d feel looking into those stupidly-wide amber eyes, but yep: said plastic ash-pendant’d be fucking bouncing with his heartbeat if he wasn’t holding it so tight to the furious drumming of his pulse.

“I know it’s fast? But,” and Eddie swallows, shakes his head for reasons that are maybe about dispelling the idea that anything’s too fast or too much in the life they’ve led, one where more might be possible, where a future might still exist beyond all possibilities, all hope except for the fragile frail thing in Eddie’s chest written in blood red, in Steve’s hand on Eddie’s fucking bones:

“I don’t think losing someone hurts like this if your heart’s not in it all the way,” and that’s, that is…

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it. His heart is the heart of it.

“Sorry, about that, if you,” Eddie swallows, sour around the idea that maybe, even if the impossible’s possible, this part, where he feels like this, is just…maybe not too far but in the wrong direction.

But he wants to believe. He wants to think Steve saw something pointing in this direction when he told him to survive, so they could have, so they could finish, so they—them, together—could…

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s voice is hoarse enough to hurt, now, so he lifts his little film canister to his lips and presses them hard, sure: it’s weirdly warm against his mouth, held too close to his chest for too long.

Not long enough. Not close enough.

“Be careful about taking care of yourself, about, coming back and,” Eddie grips his pendant of ashes back tight to the center of his sternum;

“I’ll watch over it, watch over you,” he promises; “long as you need.”

And he breathes, holding the canister close before he brings it back to his mouth again and whispers to it like it matters, or…just in case it matters:

“Come back to me,” his words come out in a shudder, all trembling; “I’m just a mere human, maybe less than,” and that’s true, that is so fucking true but:

“But you already consume me,” Eddie speaks it honest, and kisses the rim of the cap— if there’s any chance of getting in, it’s there:

“So burn me up, as much as you need to,” and Eddie means it, he fucking means it with everything he is; “just,” and his voice cracks, and he shoves the canister back tight to his shaking heart when the first tear falls on it, covers it with both hands and cups it safe and damn-near painful as he whispers to whatever might listen:

“If any of this is real,” he barely fucking breathes: “please come back.”

He loses the battle for consciousness to his tears, but awake or asleep: he doesn’t once let go of the pendant pressed to his heart.

——

Eddie’s warm. Like, fell asleep in the sunlight, swaddled in a blanket, embraced and held and wrapped up in pure comfort warm.

“You’re more than a mere human,” a voice exhales right behind his ear: also warm, also comfort, also fucking impossible and he turns, frantic and even more so when he feels the lack of his film canister against his chest, and he tries to scramble for it but he’s…he’s held the whole time in strong arms that he knows, same as he knew that voice, same as it’s clear that he’s warm because he’s wrapped up in a body, tangled from the legs up with, with—

“How,” Eddie barely speaks, more mouths as that chest lifts, those lungs fill, that mouth curls warm and sweet and his Steve is watching him, those eyes so alive and then those strong hands are reaching for him, cupping Eddie’s cheeks and marveling like Eddie’s the wonder, here, like Steve isn’t lying in his arms like a full-on fucking miracle.

“You offered burning, and pledged your heart unasked,” Steve says it in this…this way that is exactly that simple, and exponentially more profound.

“That is some lore shit,” Eddie breathes out almost on instinct because…that’s some lore shit.

And Steve—Steve, his Stevie, wrapped around him and moving and breathing and being and definitely one-hundred-percent naked but that is totally irrelevant right this moment because Steve—

Steve laughs at him, soft and fond and god, god but Eddie thought he’d lost it. He was so sure, and his heart was so broken but now Steve’s heart is strong against his skin and Eddie can, he can…

Eddie can fucking breathe.

“I don’t think anyone expects our kind to be…cared about, like that,” Steve shrugs a little, and Eddie wants to protest because Steve Harrington isn’t only cared about, he is adored, and fuck anyone who says different, who so much as thinks otherwise—he wants to push the point, but Steve’s eyes are so intent, so saturated with feeling.

And fuck, but Eddie missed those eyes.

“Speeds the whole re-personing thing up, apparently,” Steve’s smile is a little wider before he shakes his head with a cute little toss of that hair.

“Old magic things,” he dismisses; “for later,” and then he draws Eddie back down close to his chest and snuggles him in so, so close.

“Tired,” Steve sighs a little into Eddie’s mess of curls; “and you need taking care of.”

And it’s…out of everything, the protective certainty in those last words are maybe the most unshakable proof that settles in Eddie’s chest and reminds the still-reluctant, still-too-scared parts of Eddie’s heart to commit and start back to beating because: only Steve Harrington is protective…quite like this.

“You’re really here?” Eddie whispers, wondering and hesitant all at the same time.

“Thanks to you,” Steve kisses Eddie soft, sure: taste strangely of smoke and cinnamon but underneath—all Steve.

His Steve.

He folds into Steve’s chest and just, fucking, clings.

“So fast,” Eddie mouths against Steve’s skin, because the heartbeat under his lips is almost indecipherable, one beat to the next. “And you’re so warm, are you,” Eddie props his chin up and looks up at Steve, anxious and flooding with worry before he sees Steve’s smile, still sweet and steady.

“Bird,” Steve drums his fingers against Eddie’s forearm, lightning quick; “fire bird, so,” and the heat makes sense then, too, as Steve wraps him up again tighter and sighs, satisfied as he envelopes Eddie’s frame.

“Also extra energy, I think,” Eddie listens to Steve’s words around his heartbeat through his chest; “like, I couldn’t make it past your kitchen but, I don’t know how I know it, but I know I can give some of it to you while it’s settling.”

Magic. Steve. Can share his phoenix magic. To take care of Eddie. Immediately after coming back from the fucking grave.

On brand, Eddie guesses. Jesus fuck.

“I am pretty damn positive I’m in love you with you, too, by the way,” Steve shakes Eddie back to his body, to the moment, to the soft sure way he breathes those words and kisses Eddie’s temple like Eddie’s pulse doesn’t trip around the sentence, the sentiment.

“Also thank you, for,” Steve adds, and drops another kiss while Eddie reels, floats in the moment of hearing the words, of knowing for sure, of feeling it: “for loving me, somehow, enough to,” and Eddie can imagine where that’s headed, the way Steve says somehow like an unthinkable thing.

And there will be none of that, so he stops it and kisses hard, wet, open-mouthed at the center of Steve’s chest, over his bird-flutter heartbeat.

“It broke me,” Eddie breathes there, cracked open and still raw; “I already mostly figured but,” and his voice breaks, and Steve pulls him closer, so warm, and the bird-heart-flutter feels more like full broad wings, majestic, almost embracing and ensuring Eddie of all things is safe, and kept.

And warm.

Fuck if Eddie doesn’t fall into the feeling, full body; whole heart and soul.

“If there was any question whether I already loved you with everything, the way I fell apart,” and Eddie just moans a little because there aren’t…he doesn’t have words for it at all, he—

“Let me put you back together?” Steve murmurs low in a way that’s so soft and gentle but trembles the marrow inside Eddie’s bones.

Timeless. Endless.

Eddie kisses Steve’s chest again and hopes Steve knows that means yes, and please, and forever.

Unequivocally.

“Could we maybe talk about that, um, bond stuff, that the letter…” Eddie eventually speaks muffled into the hair on Steve’s pecs, after soaking in the heat and pulse and realness of him.

“I meant it,” Steve murmurs straight into Eddie’s skin; “I’m not holding you to—”

“I want you to.”

Eddie did not for a second think or feel otherwise, from the moment he saw the words, before he even started to believe at all: his mind was filled with possibilities by those words. His chest was…

“You…” Steve nudges Eddie’s head up from his chest and studies his face, reads something in his eyes before his breath catches, this time; before his bird-pulse skips, something light and giddy against Eddie’s weight and Steve huffs, disbelieving but…maybe happy for it.

Maybe…maybe overjoyed, even.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and leans to kiss Eddie full on the lips again, consuming: familiar for it.

“Yeah we can talk about that. But later.”

And then he settles Eddie back against him and wraps him in his bare skin, the still-radiant warmth.

“Now you sleep, and when you wake up, I feed you, you shower, you put on new clothes,” Eddie wrinkles his nose, doesn’t even know how many days it’s been since he cared for those things; abandons any shame for it when Steve feels him recoil and presses him closer, chuckles once and nuzzles his hair;

“Then I feed you again, and then,” Steve kisses his head once, and then twice, and then three times and Eddie feels it tingle through his goddamn veins like a vow, filled up with promise when Steve whispers, so alive:

“Then, we can talk.”

For @klausinamarink, who requested '"I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.”' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST and also for @steddie-week for the Day Seven prompt 'Free Space'

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human @micheledawn1975 @lumoschildextra @dotdot-wierdlife @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @grtwdsmwhr @eddie-munson-addict

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #post s4 #established steddie #angst with a happy ending #emotional hurt/comfort #true love #presumed dead #except SOMEONE was secretly a mythical creature the whole time #mythical creature steve harrington #phoenix steve harrington #eddie munson is a mess #(because he is in MOURNING)#(given he ALSO DOES NOT KNOW YET THAT HE WAS DATING A MYTHICAL CREATURE)#protective eddie munson #(he gathers Steve’s ashes a little obsessively in all honesty)#little does he know: THAT was the best possible thing to do!#inherited firebird powers #resurrection #(or something like that don’t think too hard on it—steve sure as hell doesn’t)#happy ending #established relationship #stranger things #gift fic #klausinamarink #hitlikehammers' hobbit-birthday prompt fest #hitlikehammers v words #hitlikehammers writes #steddieweek2024

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queenie-ofthe-void · 4 months

Text

pre-S4 Robin and Max || wc: ~1.6k || rating: teen || cws: depression, brief mentions of bullying and child neglect

~~~

Robin drops her lunch tray onto the table, falling into the seat with purpose. The young girl across from her startles at the movement. Pulling her headphones down slightly, Max raises her eyebrow in question, clearly annoyed at the unwelcomed company. Robin mimics the look in an overly dramatic way, and takes a large bite of her instant mashed potatoes.

When Max only rolls her eyes and goes back to her homework– headphones off– Robin considers it a win. The girl’s been pulling away since Starcourt, drawing into herself in a way that’s putting everyone on edge, and the Party is at a loss for what to do.

The beginning of freshman year was tough on all of the kids, but especially Max. Robin would eye her from across the lunchroom, seated at the opposite end of the table from the loud, brash, super super senior along with the rest of the Party and Hellfire boys. The poor girl would startle anytime Munson laughed too harshly and flinched at the loud bang of his fists on the table, shrinking into herself during his tabletop tirades.

Needless to say, sitting with the Hellfire boys didn’t last long. Max’s patience for Eddie thinned even further after settling into the trailer across from him, complaining about music keeping her up at all hours of the night– the same electric guitar riffs over and over again. And she’d made more than one off-hand sarcastic remark about Munson’s late night customers causing the dog to howl at all hours of the night.

Robin looks towards the Hellfire table now. Sure enough, Eddie’s flailing his arms around in what is most likely a lecture on The Man. Dustin’s wide eyes and Mike’s entranced smile tell her they’re fully proselytized to the Munson Doctrine now, after a full five months of brain washing. Hopeless, the both of them. She has no idea what they see in the town drug dealer beyond D&D. Mike didn’t even like rock music before he joined Hellfire. Now he’s subconsciously crushing so hard on their fearless leader that he’s starting to dress like him.

She supposes she’d be a bit of a hypocrite to judge him too harshly though. She only joined the pep band to see Vickie after school.

Cutting off her own dating anxieties, she focuses back on Max. The young girl is more relaxed than when Robin first sat down. She’s hunched over an old copy of Romeo and Juliet. Not one of Robin’s personal favorites, and she’d guess not one of Max’s either if her frustrated huff means anything. Why it’s required reading for freshmen she’ll never understand. But speaking of Romeo…

She looks around again, and her eyes lock on to Lucas’s. He’s staring directly at her with a desperate look in his eye that Robin tries to acquiesce with a tight smile. Another boy in a letterman jacket is trying to get his attention, but he’s shrugged off as Lucas moves to stand.

Panicked, Robin checks to see that Max hasn’t noticed and shakes her head. A silent plea to not ruin the small ground she’s gained-- the first ground anyone has gained with Max in weeks. Hurt flashes across his face, but he sits down. Robin nods, hopefully telegraphing her thoughts. She can tell he's not happy about it, but he settles back into the conversation with his teammates.

Max dumped him just before Halloween and just shortly after she quit sitting with the Hellfire boys. Lucas had tried sitting with her instead, but the older boys stomped their proverbial toddler feet, arguing that he was already splitting too much of his time between D&D and basketball practice. They couldn’t believe he then had the audacity to spend even less time with them just to hang with some girl.

Needless to say Mike and Dustin had been less than supportive, caving to the peer pressure from the older members and Robin knows it’s one of the reasons why Lucas eventually ended up sitting with his teammates.

Then her mom started pulling doubles during the holidays and Max did her best to hole up in the trailer, refusing to come out no matter how much caroling the boys tried. Robin understands why Max wouldn’t want to go to the Party’s holiday gatherings. The boys were the core unit of the group, backed up by the Wheeler and Byers families. But the Byers’ left and took her best friend with them, the boys were fighting, and they weren’t even sure if Lucas would show up if Max wasn’t there. Robin was one of the few people involved in the Upside-Down bullshit who understood what isolation from the core group felt like, so why not try to include Max in their own tiny group of three.

A few days later, on the coldest day of break, Robin sat in the passenger seat with her fingers smashed up against the beemer’s heat vent and watched out the window as Max opened the door for the only person she was still talking to. The girl put up an argument, but no one can out-bitch The King himself. She let him in and they stepped out a few minutes later, a bag slung over her shoulder and a small dog in her arms. He never complained, even when the house smelled like wet dog for a week later.

Now it’s almost March, and it’s been weeks since she’s talked to anyone. She’s been sitting alone everyday, not answering the phone. So maybe it's Robin's turn to try talking with her, girl to girl.

“I know what you’re doing here,” Max states, hiding her hesitancy under a false bravado, the casual air of her tone undercut by her shifting gaze. “You can tell him to stop worrying, I’m fine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Random Girl,” Robin answers with an innocent wave of her hand.

Max’s deadpanned stare says she’s not buying it. The nickname all but confirms her motives.

That’s fine, Robin just needs a foot in the door and now that Max has opened said door, it’s like the dam between Robin's brain and mouth has burst.

“I was just sitting here eating my lunch and minding my own business, when you decided to say something. And honestly, I think that’s pretty good for me considering I’ve been sitting here for almost twenty minutes in complete silence, which– you know– is not really my forte. Normally I like when people talk to me, it’s how conversations are supposed to work, ya know? But when it’s just me I can’t seem to stop and I’ll, like, keep going and going until it gets awkward.”

She can’t stop rambling and oh god she’s going to ruin this, she’s sure of it. Max let her sit here and now she’s going to ruin this for Lucas and the boys and–

“Just,” Max interrupts. Robin takes a deep breath, in and out. Calming herself down and keeping her mouth shut. “You can sit here, alright. But don’t, like, expect anything from me. You’re not going to get me to open up, or some shit– don’t even say language right now Robin I swear– so that you can report back on how I’m doing. Because I’m fine. Really.”

“Why would I report back to Lucas how you’re doing–” Robin starts. But Max interrupts again.

“You know that’s not who I’m talking about,” Max says quietly. Her eyes are turned downward, avoiding eye contact now that the fire’s burned out.

“Max,” Robin tries again, yet doesn’t know what to say. Anything she says will either be a lie, or so genuinely truthful Max might withdraw again.

“Max, I just want to sit here. Ok? I promise I won’t jump in the beemer after school and spill all your secrets. We don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to! I’ll just sit over here and do homework, while you sit over there and do homework. Because Nancy’s busy with the newspaper now and maybe I can help you with Spanish and just--,” but she stops. She has to be honest. Or at least try without it being too much.

Max is looking at her. Watching intently, searching for something Robin can’t figure out.

She sighs, exhausted but unwilling to give up.

“He’s worried about you. Of course he is. That’s, like, Steve’s whole entire personality.” It gets the small smile out of Max that she was trying for. “But I’m sitting here because I want to, not because he told me to or so I could, I don’t know, gather information for him. Talk to me or not, but I’m sitting here for lunch from now on.”

Max eyes Robin, and must find whatever she was looking for.

The bell rings, and they both move to pack up their books. “If you’re sitting here,” Max says “then you’re going to have to listen to me gush about Kate Bush.”

Like that’s a deterrent. Hell, it’s an incentive.

“Fine,” Robin makes a show of it, whining and rolling her eyes. “Then you’re going to have to get over it and listen to me bitch about Steve being a dingus and a total loser when it comes to picking up girls at work. I spend too much time with him to not get it off my chest.”

“Totally understandable,” Max says, a huff of laughter escaping behind her restrained smile. “See you tomorrow then.”

Robin turns, bouncing lightly on her feet to her next class after a successful mission. Steve might not have asked her to do this, but she’s doing it for him regardless. For both Steve and Max.

She can’t wait to tell him all about it.

~~~

@devondespresso thanks for the WIP ask! I've actually been sitting on this for a while, so you gave me a good kick in the ass to finally finish up edits and post. 💜💜💜

#steve and max is still my favorite thing #i'll write it until i personally fix the Duffer's mistakes #no one can kill my obsession with Steve and Max #also please don't read the end as Robin breaking Max's trust. Stobin practically share a brain #and if someone is struggling like Max they need all the help they can get even if they feel they don't deserve it #max mayfield fic #robin buckley fic #max and robin #platonic stobin #implied steve and max have a sibling relationship #the party #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things s4 #stranger things ficlet #lumax #the hellfire club #QueenieWritesStories

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captain-hen · 1 year

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something i really appreciate about s6 is the sheer number of callbacks and references to the previous seasons, and the resolution of storylines that had seemingly been dropped. athena’s trauma regarding tanya was brought up for the first time since athena begins, three whole seasons ago. the whole couch metaphor was built off a seemingly throwaway plot point from 5x13. i’m pretty sure that 6x11 and 6x12 is the first time since s1 that the plane crash and its aftermath has been dealt with in so much detail. they went to the trouble of bringing back the exact same character and actor from buck begins for the sperm donor storyline. chim’s issues with his dad were brought up for the first time since s3, the existence of daniel was brought up in so much detail for the first time since s4. and it would take too long to list all the easter eggs and hidden references to previous key moments in 6x11. like idk, they’ve always done this to some extent in previous seasons, but i think s6 really shows us how much the writers respect their own canon and are clearly very aware of even the smallest of details. i also think it’s a good reminder for us that we can never be certain that any particular storyline has been completely dropped for good, as the show has emphasized over and over again, it always cycles back and picks up threads that were left hanging when they’re relevant again.

#neethu speaks #911 fox

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abibliophobiaa · 2 years

Text

Begin Again: Chapter Three

Summary: The year is 1988. After the loss of a beloved family member, you find yourself inheriting an old coffee shop. The quiet bartender at the Hideout across the street just so happens to catch your eye.

(23k+ words; eddie munson x afab!reader; sunshine!reader x grumpy!eddie vibes)

Note: Tumblr ate my formatting, so AO3 is probably best. 🙃

Warnings: Vignette style (sorta); Eddie’s post S4 trauma; panic attacks; nightmares; family member loss; grief; alcohol use; nightmares; suicidal ideation; mild smut in later chapters so 18+; additional warnings to be added.

AO3 | MASTER LIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

Fall, 1988

It’s funny, you think, as those first leaves fall outside your bedroom window with the changing weather.

This feeling of shedding the old and making room for the new. Going away for a season, with hopes of something special ahead.

It’s this expectancy, this wonder, in trusting in the unknown.

It’s the dizzying free fall, the twirling, fluttering comedown.

It’s the flicker of color, the splashes of light in a heart, the things that make it warm.

It’s like the stars that fell over Hawkins as summer slipped away slowly like a bottle of wine to be savored.

It’s the time shifting through an hourglass, always moving, always in motion, fingers coming up to catch before they’re gone too soon.

In six months you’ve created a strand of memories.

A reel of moments that have made your eyes crinkle and cheeks hurt, have made your stomach burn from laughter. You’ve cried and you’ve rejoiced and yearned.

They’re moments captured in the photos sitting on the bedside table you picked up with Eddie only a week ago, now littered with photos of the people that make you wonder if home isn’t really a place at all—but instead those you surround yourself with.

Your chosen family to stand beside you in the good, bad, and the ugly.

Your grandfather’s face smiles up at you from the frame it’s safely kept within. Your decision becomes easier every day.

Nothing really changed initially after that night at the movies.

When The Lost Boys credits rolled along the scene, and you lifted your head from where it was tucked against Eddie’s chest, neither of you acknowledged the closeness in proximity between the two of you.

Robin and Steve seemed none the wiser to what occurred either, both too wrapped up in talking about the movie as they closed the back doors behind them and Eddie opened the passenger side door for you to get in. If his hand lingered a little longer within your own, you say nothing of it, chalking it up to the hour or so you spent cuddling him. A touch of skin against skin seems a little silly when you have that reality to now consider. This…intrigue between the two of you that you supposed started at the fair. Maybe even sooner, when painting your bedroom.

You weren’t very certain, but all you knew in that moment, as his eyes clashed with yours in the night, was that something shifted.

Irrevocably so.

There was a line of where you two stood before, and there was a line for what would come after, and neither of you dared to venture there—at least until now.

The ride home was spent in that murky questioning. The will they, won’t they every couple must eventually face. Steve and Robin filled the open air with conversation, but it did little to quell the tension wrapped around the atmosphere. The way Eddie’s ringed fingers curled around the steering wheel, how his eyes shifted to yours every so often. As if he were expecting you to be gone—as if he wondered if you were even real at all.

Steve and Robin were eventually dropped off and Eddie drove you back to your apartment, keys jangling as he tugged them free from the ignition. You didn’t expect him to walk you to your door, and yet again he’d surprised you these weeks. You also didn’t expect him to tug off his leather jacket and drape it over your shoulders, making sure it was pulled around your body enough to block out the chill in the air.

From the man who used to speak single word sentences to you months ago, to the man who now held your hand at the fair, showed you the constellations in the sky, and curled you close to his body to keep you from the cold.

“This is my stop,” you whispered at the bottom of your stairs, tipping your head to the door. Your fingers toyed with the zipper on his jacket, eyes glancing down to your sandaled feet. “I had fun tonight.”

“Me too,” he said, brushing at your shoulder with the back of his hand. At your confusion, he held out his closed palm and lifted it in front of your face. He opened his palm and there sat a tiny lightning bug, tail end flashing like a strobe light in the night. “My mom used to say lightning bugs were these little lights shining bravely in the dark, there to remind us we all have a light within us. I think she really only told me that so I wouldn’t get scared.”

“And now?” you asked, watching those wings as they fluttered and it took to the skies, trailing high above Eddie’s wavy head of hair.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted softly, glancing up at the sky. You followed his gaze, watching as other lightning bugs flickered and pulsated in the air, a pattern only they understood, reaching out to one another in the night. Calling to one another, being light for one another. “But at least it’s not all dark now.”

Suddenly he was looking at you, and you felt that light reflected back at you within his eyes.

The wind tickled at your thighs, ruffled the ends of your dress, pushed you nearer to him. Your fingers trailed along the inside of his jacket once more, the scent of leather, cigarette smoke and his after shave just inches from your nose and comforting in the sense they all reminded you of him. So it pained you to pull it free from your shoulders, placing it into his awaiting palm, before crossing your hands behind your back, swaying awkwardly on the balls of your feet.

“I should, uh, probably head to bed,” you said, glancing up at his face. He was unreadable. All placid features, rested mouth, unfurrowed brows. Calm, undoubtedly so, and it warmed your heart to see his soul in such a state of rest. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

He nodded. A slow movement cut short when his arms opened and curled around you. Before that, hugs had been initiated by you only, and rarely to respect his carefully laid out boundaries. But now, like this, within the cradle of his arms with your face pressed into his chest, you let out the deepest sigh. Your fingers worked around his back and slid into the middle of his shirt, pressing into the fabric there, pushing him closer to you. He sighed, his breath fanning around your shoulder, face pressed right against your cheek.

It was one of your few hugs with Eddie, but you know they had already become your favorites. The way he cradled the back of your head and kept you close, pushed himself tight against you so you could feel his harder edges against your softer ones—the warmth of him seeping into your skin, blocking out the cold.

Safe.

He made you feel safe.

Untouched from the rest of the world, just like that very moment.

“Goodnight,” he whispered against the side of your head, pulling back enough that you could see the outside light from your front doorstep reflected within his gaze.

So you bid him goodbye with another hug, and the sound of your shoes as they walked up your steps. You glanced down at him, his form still there as you slipped your key into the lock and opened, fingers curled around the doorknob.

Then, and only then, as you flicked on your apartment lights and the room was basked in light, did he raise his hand and slip away with your heart thumping in your chest, and mind wondering what any of this meant.

“You need to tell her to stop,” El laughs, her smile beaming as Eddie slips in the front door and arches a brow at the sight of you standing behind the front counter, bent low over a mug. “She’s been going at it for over an hour now.”

“It’s looking more like a ghost the more times you try,” Will says sadly, glancing down at your sad attempt at latte art. “I also don’t think I can drink anymore coffee.”

“Me neither,” El gripes, patting her abdomen.

“What’s going on here?” Eddie muses, leaning over the counter to get a look at what exactly you’ve been up to.

“She’s trying to make a pumpkin since it’s October first,” El explains.

“Only, she’s really good at making leaves…and not so much the pumpkins,” Will says, and you huff out a whine. “Sorry, boss.”

You glance down at the mug and grimace at the swirling blob that’s smiling up at you. It’s…more like a ghost just as Will suggests, a circular foam blob with a trail at the end. You add two little eyes and an open mouth and slide it across the counter to show Eddie.

His eyes meet yours and then shift to your drink, a hum of approval spilling from his lips. “It looks…well, it’s not a pumpkin.” He’s humoring you, and it reminds you of those early days in your relationship when you would write jokes and facts on his cups.

You still do even now, just to make him smile.

At your frown, he continues, “It looks nice though. Really. I mean it.”

“Will you try it?” you ask. You know it’s not his normal choice for coffee preferences, but it makes your face hurt from grinning so hard when he nods his head once and lifts it to his lips. “There's vanilla powder in it. So…it’s got a little bit of the sweetness you like.”

He takes a cautious sip for dramatic effect, mouth hovering over the lip, inhaling the vanilla and espresso before he drags his tongue over the foam and makes your chest burst with a giggle. Your laugh makes him laugh and he’s suddenly got foam on his upper lip, the kids awkwardly looking on as you quickly pass him a napkin that he dabs against his face.

“It’s good,” he says brightly.

“You didn’t even try it.”

He takes a sip for real this time, waiting a moment with his eyes on a point far away at a distant wall. “So, not my usual, but you can definitely tell it’s made with love.”

And that’s enough for you, because you think about what you told him in your apartment, about wanting to uphold your grandfather’s legacy, and you feel your insides churn with the honey richness of the words he’s given you.

The purpose within them is not missed.

He catches your lips as you mouth ‘thank you,’ and shift about behind the counter to go make his actual coffee for the day. When you whirl back around, he’s there with a broad smile and his money at the ready. The kids choose that moment to make themselves scarce, your hands moving about as Eddie regards you carefully, dimples full on display today.

“You still want to go get that tattoo?” he asks you, and nervousness pools in your belly once more at the prospect.

You mentioned to him in passing after your movie night that you thought you might want to get some sort of piece to commemorate what you’ve done so far in coming to Hawkins and reopening the shop. Had even spent the time to ruminate about what exactly you wanted to do a bunch, when you glanced at Eddie’s tattoos and suddenly it became all that much more clear to you.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, handing him his change that he immediately tosses into the kids college fund jar (as he always does). “I want to…I just don’t know what to expect, or what it’ll feel like, or—”

“I’ll be there,” he reminds you. “I’ll talk to you the whole time to keep your mind off of it. You might even get sick of me, that’s how much I’ll be talking.”

“I could never get sick of you,” you tell him, wrinkling your nose up at him.

“I hope not, sweetheart,” he says, a little forlorn. You open your mouth to question the sudden change in demeanor when the door jingles and Max walks in, ready to start her shift. When her eyes lift and meet Eddie’s frame, she pauses, not moving any further into the room. “Hey Max—can I talk to you for a second?”

“Eddie, if it’s about school, Wayne already talked to me and I’m—”

“Privately,” he says, tipping his head over his shoulder to glance back your way. “I’ll see you later, right?”

The two of them step outside and you watch as you hand customers their drinks in piping hot cups. Max crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head to the side, obstinate as Eddie talks to her. There’s a hardness to his posture, his head angled down toward her as he speaks, one hand waving in frustration beside him.

You’ve never seen them angry with one another—not in the months you’ve been friends with the group. They’ve always been that of close friends in your vicinity, or even comparable to that of siblings, though you know neither of them has any. But it’s clear now in the way her head jolts as she talks back to him, clearly upset by whatever he’s just said, and his hand comes up to cuff her around the back of her skull and pull her into a reluctant hug.

He’s pulling back a moment later, tapping his fist gently against her chin and wiggling her head slightly, making her laugh and smile through the clearly evident tears brewing in her eyes. And then she’s hugging him again, longer this time, her freckled face pushed tight against his chest.

He holds her tighter still.

“I’d like a medium coffee, milk two sugars, please,” your customer requests, and you’re back to reality, hand curling tight around their money they must have handed to you as you found yourself caught up in the happenings of the duo outside.

“S-sure,” you say.

When you glance up, Max is rushing inside tying her apron around her waist and Eddie’s gone.

Wonder what that’s all about?

It’s quiet that day in the cemetery.

Then again, it always is.

You brush your newly placed flowers in the vase at the base of your father’s gravestone, fingers trailing across the stone slab where his name is written in a blocky font. Your fingers drop to the date of his birth, across the epitaph, and the date of his death. The wind drifts along the hood of your jacket, rustles the fabric against your back, the leaves on the ground around you. You pick one up and twirl the stem around between your thumb and forefinger, eyes squinting as you open your mouth to speak.

“I’ve really been thinking about staying,” you say into the atmosphere, and the silence is broken. You tilt your head up to the sky momentarily, wondering if he hears you even now where he is. You believe he has to. “Had a conversation with a friend of mine recently. Wonder if you’ve ever met him…his name is Eddie Munson. He’s…well, he’s quiet, but he’s kind. He’s been opening up more, though. All his friends tell me so. But he asked me why I picked Hawkins, and if I was thinking about staying. And you know what—up until recently that idea scared me. Like really and truly terrified me. But I know how much you loved it here, how you stayed here even when it got hard, and I think about all the memories I had of you while growing up…and I start to think that maybe it’s worth it. Maybe it’ll be nice to slow down. I feel like I can picture you laughing at me, in that way you always did, where your head would shake and you’d say ‘oh, girlie.’”

You brush your sleeve against your eye, collecting the tear you refuse to let fall. “All this time, I’ve thought home was a place. I think that’s why I always move around; I never could figure that out. What makes home home, you know? But I’ve got these friends and they’re wonderful and warm and bright, and they’ve started to feel like that for me. I look forward to the end of my day when I can just see them, get to know them, and be an active participant in their lives. I haven’t had that before, but I think back to how everyone in town used to see you and wave when we’d go on our walks, and I’ve started to think that I want that. To plant myself and finally just …grow in one place. What do you think about that, gramps?”

You pause, dropping your gaze back down to his grave stone. You can still picture his face even now, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the sound of his laughter, the tone of his voice. You can picture the sticky fondness of his kiss upon your forehead, as he croons how proud he is of you, tells you how much he loves you, that you’re his ‘girlie.’

The wind tickles your cheek. A gentle hum that trickles on by, ruffles the ends of your hair.

“I think so, too,” you tell him, standing to your feet. You adjust the flowers once more and make sure they’re in place, stepping back to make sure they’re just right and say, “I’ll see you soon, okay. Love you so much.”

You’re about to head back to your car when you see Max sitting in the distance, body between two gravestones. She’s mouthing to them— both of them, with her head low and a smile on her face. Her glasses she usually wears are sliding down the bridge of her nose, fingers coming up to press them back into place when she finally glances your way, raising her fingers in a silent greeting.

Sensing your hesitance, she calls your name into the open air and you walk the short distance between you, boots crunching loudly against the freshly fallen leaves. As you lower yourself down beside her, your eyes trail the names on the two headstones.

One Susan, the other Billy.

Loving mother on one.

Beloved son and brother on the other.

Your heart splinters in your chest, but you don’t let it show on your face, instead you train your eyes forward and wait until she says something.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long before she’s asking, “You came to visit your grandpa?”

“Yeah,” you kick your feet out in front of you, tattered boots crushing leaves beneath them. “I try to come once a week if I can. Tell him about my week.”

Max nods, as if she understands, and it hurts you because she shouldn’t know this grief. Not now, not at her age, not ever really. And still, she stares at her mother’s name all the same, and the brother she had loved and lost, and anguish rushes over you in waves.

“My mom,” she says, pointing to the stone on her left. “And then my asshole step brother.” She says the second part with a chuckle, and your heart clenches at the affection that seeps into her tone when she does so.

Your eyes scan the dates. One is July fourth of 1985, and the other March twenty seventh, 1986.

It’s that same date you keep hearing about over and over again.

What happened that day to have hurt so many people?

Changed so many lives?

“I’m so sorry, Max,” you breathe out, scooting closer to her.

“Billy died in the mall fire back in July. He was an asshole, but he was my step-brother and I loved him,” she says firmly, like she wants you to believe her, but you don’t need any convincing. You can see it in her eyes, the love she bore that boy.

So young. He was so young.

“And then it happened in the earthquakes for my mom, but I hadn’t been awake for it,” she continues to say. “I was in the hospital. Eddie and I both, actually.”

“Max.” Your exhale is shaky. Broken. Watery.

“Both our hearts stopped that night,” she says, chuckling a little bit. “Mine right before all the earthquakes, and then his heart stopped in the hospital on the table when they were trying to save him.”

You don’t know what to say.

There aren’t even words that can express the feelings that swirl endlessly in your mind.

The reality that both Max and Eddie had died, however brief, but died nevertheless.

Two people that have changed your life in a short period of time for the better almost were snubbed out before you ever got the chance to know either of them.

“Figures that’s why we’re so close now,” Max says, fingers reaching down to pick at the grass there. It’s starting to die with the chillier weather.

“I didn’t know that you were so close,” you admit, the leaf in your hand twirling as your fingers shift it around and around and around again. “I saw you two talking at work.”

“He’s kind of like my brother now…in a weird, dysfunctional kind of way.” She shrugs, glancing up to the sky. “His Uncle Wayne met one of our other friends, Hopper, when I was in the hospital. He was visiting Eddie a bunch while he was recovering, so they saw each other often. And then I guess…I don’t know, because I was unconscious for most of it, Wayne offered to try and petition to be my guardian. He has…really good insurance because of where he works. My dad’s been shitty for as long as I can remember, so it apparently wasn’t that hard. I don’t really understand all the legal stuff. So I’ve been living with Wayne for…over a year now?”

You’re silent. Stunned silence.

“I got really lucky in a crap situation,” she says a little breathlessly, tucking her head against her knees, her freckled face shifting enough where you can see the blue of her eyes. “It’s why I really needed this job. I hate him having to pay for me, so I try to help where I can. Eddie’s an annoying little shit and also pays for my crap too, no matter how much I tell him I’ve got it. He already moved out so I could take his bedroom. So I just wanted to say thanks.”

You swallow thickly, trying to imagine what it must have been like to have been in Max’s situation. Unconscious in the hospital for ages, unknowing that her mother had died, and that she’s been taken in by someone she barely knew. And then there’s the fact of Eddie, trying to care for her, always putting others' needs before his own. Moving out of the room you know he’d spent the better portion of his life in from what he’s chosen to share with you.

“Of course, Max,” you whisper softly, offering her a smile. Catching the downturn of her lips, you smirk. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re always trying to force something between the two of us. You’ve got that little sister role down.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Her cheeks flush bright red, hand coming up to brush at a stray hair that blows in the wind. “He’s just—he’s been through so much shit and he didn’t deserve any of it, and people are so shitty to him, so when I saw you being nice to him and him opening up again I figured…maybe something could happen.”

“You really care about him,” you say. It’s not a question.

She dips her head. “Yeah. Don’t know when it happened, but yeah I do.”

And you suppose you understand.

In the time you’ve known Eddie, you only know his heart to be kind and open and generous.

He’s been there to lend a helping hand, to help you with your apartment, to reassure you when scared. He’s been steely and rough around the edges, but he’s opened up. Really and truly started to bare his soul to you in a way you know he doesn’t frequently do so with much of anyone at all these days.

But you don’t want to tell Max the depth of your feelings. The swirling and hum that settles within your gut as of late when you’re near him. The wonder of ‘what if’ lingering in the spaces between the two of you.

The line between friendship and the something more you felt the beginnings of at the end of summer.

So you offer her solace with, “I really care for him, Max. Don’t worry. And I’m here for you, no matter what you need. Always, okay?”

She whispers a quiet thank you, and you sit in silence, honoring her loved ones lost.

The Mad Tatter sits just outside of Hawkins, about twenty minutes from both the Hideout and Sunshine Coffee. Eddie sits in the van beside you, watching your foot as it taps along the floor, an endless tap tap tap of nervousness that bubbles and bursts along your skin.

“Are you ready to go in? Your appointment is soon.” His head shifts just enough to look at you, those dark eyes of his warm and welcoming before you. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll look at me the whole time and you’ll barely feel it. And the sketches look great. Plus, I know the artist; they helped with my tattoos after…my accident. I wouldn’t take you just anywhere. I actually care about you, in case you forgot.”

Your hands slide along your jeans, sweat pooling in the hollow of your throat at the nerves jumping to life in your belly. Eddie’s words are a comfort, but they do little to quell the impending worry of what to expect, whether or not it’s going to hurt, and if you’ll be able to sit for the whole tattoo process.

But it’s Eddie, and you do trust him, so you dip your head as you follow him into the building and begin the process of filling out what seems to be heaps of paperwork for the ink that’s about to be permanently etched into your skin.

Eddie stands near the counter, talking amongst the workers, showing off the pieces you assume they’ve done for hom along various places of his body. He’s boisterous, all raucous laughter and head tipping to the ceiling with them.

Livelier, now that he’s no longer in Hawkins.

You wonder what that’s about.

Once you’re done, however, you have little to focus on other than the various drawings of tattoos along the walls. Tiny sketches that mimic those in the endless books laid out for all the artists' works and their individual tattoo styles.

Eddie had referred you to his friend, Theo, who had apparently worked on some of his newer stuff. Especially the still in progress pieces meant to cover up some of the visible scars he has along his arms.

Your name is called and you’re introduced to a man with a trimmed beard and a pair of oversized glasses, hands already snapping a pair of gloves into place as he preps your skin to be ready for the piece he’s created for you.

It’s two daisies, like those that scrawl underneath the title of your coffee shop, set to be inked just above the crook of your elbow along the flesh of your bicep.

Dainty line work and delicate shading, from what you can see of the stencil he places against your skin.

“Before we start, how do you feel about it? Placement and everything,” Theo asks, but you’re turning to look at your reflection in the mirror, and then over to Eddie beside you. “I can give you a second?”

He steps away just over to the front counter, and you turn to look at Eddie once more, eyes wide as your gaze drops down to your bicep then back up at his eyes. “It’s good, right?”

“How do you feel about it?” Eddie asks you. “It’s going on your body.”

“The design is perfect. Exactly what I wanted,” you say, glancing down at the design once more. “He did a really great job with it. I’m just…scared, I guess.”

“What if I hold your hand?” he asks, his fingers already reaching for your own. You reach down and feel his fingers lace within yours, the weight of them heavy in your palm, and then settling against your thigh when you drag it down to rest there. “Are you ready? Just remember that I’ve got you, okay? No matter what.”

Your head dips once. “I guess as I’ll ever be,” you say, exhaling shakily as Eddie calls Theo’s name above the quiet of the room you’re sitting in.

The burly man shuffles back into the room with a stiff nod and settles back down on his stool, prepping all his machinery for the tattoo he’s about to work on. Your foot taps against the table you’re splaying out upon, Eddie’s fingers squeezing tight within your own to remind you he’s there and not going anywhere.

By the time he’s ready, your eyes linger on Eddie’s face as Theo walks you through the fact he’s set to start. You hear the whir of a buzz coming to life, the voice of Theo asking you if you’re ready, and you nod.

The first pass of the needle isn’t painful, no. That’s not the word that comes to mind when you feel the first prick against your skin. It’s more like that of something scratching into your skin, like an uncomfortable itch deep within you. Sharp in nature, just like the sounds coming from the machine, but not terrible.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, leaning down close to your ear. His shoulder brushes your free one, his hand still in yours against your thigh. “It’s not so bad, right? Just a little pinch.”

“A bunch of little pinches,” you correct, glancing down at the top of Theo’s head. From this angle, you can’t see the tattoo yet, but you’re sure it’s great because you’ve seen Theo’s work and liked all of it. You’re not really sure he’s really paying attention to you two, because he’s nodding his head along and mouthing the lyrics to the metal music blaring in the room, so you tilt your head back to look at Eddie and say, “I bumped into Max at the cemetery yesterday.”

His mouth drops into a line. “She’s been thrown a lot in the past few years.”

“She told me how kind you’ve been to her,” you tell him, feeling your chest swell with that sticky fondness that’s been growing in his presence as of late. “How you and Wayne took her in, and that you moved out to give her space. I thought that was really selfless.”

You leave out the parts about what you now know about the both of them. That for a moment they were gone, before they were brought back. The fact Eddie’s body had been so broken, he’d needed to stay in the hospital for so long. The fact Max had needed to do the same.

He gives your hand a squeeze, eyes softening. “Red’s just a kid. Figured I might as well move out, you know? I was twenty-two. Seemed about time to get out of Wayne’s hair. Plus I’ve grown to love the little monster.”

“She loves you too, you know?”

He dips his head. “I know. Closest thing I’ve had to a little sister. Even if she drives me crazy with her stubbornness. It’s why we were fighting outside your shop; sorry about that, actually. Wayne’s too soft on her, plays the good cop with her.”

“So you're the bad cop in this situation?” you muse lightly, wincing at a particularly harsh pass of needle against skin.

“Someone has to be,” Eddie says, brushing his thumb along the back of your hand. Awareness prickles there, tiny champagne bubbles dancing along skin. “Took me three years to finish senior year. I’m not about to watch her do the same.”

You glance up at Eddie’s face. The soft lines of his features, paleness of his skin except for the darker shade of the scars that crawl along his cheek and neck, stark against the shock of raven waves at the top of his head. His thick span of inky lashes, framing those chocolate brown eyes that look to you with such affection you feel like your chest could burst aflame.

Your tongue dips against your bottom lip, your lungs drawing in a deep inhale as you shift on the cot and say, “You’re a good man, Eddie Munson.”

“You’re a good man, Eddie Munson.” The words beat like a tattoo against your ribcage. His brows start to furrow together upon his forehead. A sort of melancholy settles against the lines of his face. Almost like he’s not heard those words before, almost like the mere idea of him being a good man is unfathomable. It burns in your chest to see him struggling with the compliment to his character, evident in the tremor that spills from deep within his chest, a hitch of his breath falling on your ears.

Your hand still presently holding his own against your thigh squeezes lightly. You stare deep into his eyes and reiterate, “You are, Eddie.”

In that moment, away from Hawkins, away from your friends and loved ones, away from Theo who’s occupied with tattooing your arm, Eddie’s ringed hand comes up to curl around the side of your face. It just lingers there, the pad of his thumb a gentle sweep low against your chin. He just stares at you, like he’s painting a picture of you in his mind, memorializing this moment for him to keep.

And you’re doing the same.

Relishing the feel of his skin against yours, of the light and teasing affection, of the calluses on his fingers from the endless hours of practicing his passions for music, the way he stares with his head tilted to the side, just full to the brim with kindness that spills into the spaces between you.

You’re upset when the moment shatters, Theo’s voice booming into the quiet to tell you he’s done. Your gaze drops to your bicep and Eddie’s hand drops from your face—though it never leaves your thigh—and the two of you take in the new piece before he has to cover it up from view.

It’s just as you wanted. Delicate line work, two twining stems of the daisies, their petals lightly shaded. Pretty and purposeful. A reminder of your grandfather and the shop, forever written into your skin.

“It’s perfect, Theo,” you say, staring down at your arm, feeling Eddie’s hand tighten around your own. “Thank you so much.”

“Looks great, sweetheart,” Eddie agrees, and Theo gets to work bandaging it up properly.

He walks you through all the steps for the upcoming days, steps you’re grateful you also have Eddie remind you of if need be, to ensure it heals properly as you head up front to pay your bill. You thank him again and tip him generously, waving to everyone inside as you go. The workers give Eddie a knowing look and you feel heat bloom in your face, before you’re both heading out into the crisp fall air and climbing into the van.

“Thank you for…in there,” you mutter softly, lowering the dial on the radio.

“That was all you,” he says, smirking lightly. “It just gave me a chance to hold your hand again.”

You shove at him lightly, feeling butterfly wings rustle to life deep in your belly. Rapid beats that swoop low against your skin. A peal of laughter spills from your lips as the two of you bask in the newness of flirtation.

Eddie raises the knob on the radio. His fingers reach out and buckle you into the seat beside him, curls dancing along your collar bones, and you can faintly smell his shampoo from this morning. Something citrus and sweet. A contrast to what his outward appearance portrays. All dark wash jeans and equally dark colored clothing.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“I am now,” you reply, feeling his eyes linger on your face.

There’s a brief moment where you think he wants to say something.

Intends to say something.

But it never comes, and that’s okay because in a sea of uncertainty, you know with Eddie all you have is time.

The realization hits you harshly that morning: you want to tell Eddie how you feel about him, how you have been feeling about him, but it’s met with the trepidation of how one might do so.

“You just tell him, babe,” Robin says when you meet her for lunch that evening, mouth full of freshly baked macaroni.

“You make it sound like it’s so simple!” Your voice comes out in a whine, at which Robin simply rolls her eyes and stabs her fork into her bowl.

Her hands move upward to fold across the table in front of her. Eyes firmly set on your face as she says, “Then don’t overcomplicate it. You like him, I’m sure as hell he likes you, you tell him about this revelation and you ride off into the sunset.”

“You really think it’s that simple?” you ask, stirring your own food around in your bowl, prongs of your fork digging into the noodles as you do so.

“I’m telling you, it’s exactly what Steve would tell you to do,” she tells you. “And sure, he’s not quite found the right person yet, but he’s dated, like, a lot of girls. So he must know what he’s doing.”

“Okay, okay. So I just…come out and tell him.”

“Yeah, I mean you can get a little creative with it, maybe. Don’t you write little jokes and facts on his cups or something?” She glances up at you expectantly.

“Yeah, I do,” you say, mulling over her words. An idea blooms, then. A smile crosses your lips as it settles and stirs, hand tightening around your fork. “I—I think I have an idea.”

It’s how you find yourself the next day scribbling away on his coffee cup a few minutes before he comes in. You hide it from the kids, making sure none of them see, because if you’re about to embarrass yourself, you would rather do so in private. You can’t fathom to think of them witnessing your possible rejection first hand.

Couldn’t even think of it.

And suddenly, just as your hand stops shaking long enough for you to set his cup down on the counter and slide on a sleeve to keep his hand from being burnt, the door chimes and Eddie spills in as usual.

He catches your wobbly smile at the register, brow arching as you hand him his coffee and he says, “You’re being extra…bouncy today.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

He shakes his head. “No, never. Can I get one of those peanut butter cookies you made the other day? I…ate all the ones you gave me.”

You gasp mockingly. “I’ve turned you into a cookie fiend.”

He pats his abdomen, laughing. “Who knew the way to my heart was through my stomach? Although I am going to have to cut back eventually…maybe after the new year.”

You wrinkle your nose up at him, giggling brightly as you reach into the glass case and hand him what he’s asked for. Your fingers brush for just the slightest moment, your eyes lingering on your scrawl across his coffee cup.

He’s not seen it yet, and you’re grateful for it.

You almost hope he reads it in private, over when he’s at the Hideout, so you can’t see his reaction. Especially if it’s not the one you’re hoping for.

“I’ll see you later?” he asks, getting ready to head for the door.

“Yeah, I’ll be over after I close up shop,” you tell him with an eager smile.

As soon as he’s gone, you work on making yourself busy. Your nerves feel alight with anticipation. With this fear of the unknown dangling in front of you.

The wonder of if he’ll mention the confession at all.

The words you had written in curly font across the side of the cup, saying, ‘Fun fact of the day: I kind of sort of have feelings for Eddie Munson.’

You can’t take them back now. It’s the reality you come to accept as the sun starts to set over Hawkins and most of your customers have left for the afternoon.

Max and El have since clocked out for the day, leaving you to close up alone. You find you like it most nights this way. You turn on some music and sing along as you clean. And by the time you’ve finished sweeping and mopping the floors, the place is glowing and ready for a new day.

Your eyes catch the time on the wall and you flip the sign hanging on the door from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED,’ your heart already pounding faster in your chest as you slip your apron from around your waist and place it up on the coat hanger.

You feel like a teenager with a crush all over again as you rush up the stairs to your apartment and look at your appearance in the mirror that Eddie had found you at a store near his apartment and surprised you with. You quickly brush at the mascara that has melted beneath your eye throughout the day, fix your hair a bit, and apply just the smallest smudge of chapstick.

And then you’re fixing your sweater, adjusting how it’s tucked into your jeans, nervousness pooling in your belly.

It’s Eddie.

It’s a reminder you force into your mind.

Eddie, who has seen you in all states of dress. Who has never once said you look anything but nice. Who has only ever been kind.

So with that knowledge, you lock up and make your way over to the Hideout, jacket enveloping your form from the cool air, pocketbook bouncing against your side.

Eddie’s there with a wave as you enter, a glass of wine already on the counter as you approach, with a little napkin tucked underneath it. Stark white against the cherry wood.

Curious, you think, but you settle down all the same and pull out your current read.

The Mists of Avalon. A take on an Arthurian legend from the perspective of female characters.

Another slice of influence from Eddie being in your life, thoughtfully picked for you by him.

It’s only when you glance down at the napkin a few moments later once Eddie’s done with helping another customer that you see he’s written something there in his messy handwriting.

“I read your little fact of the day,” he says, his chuckle like music to your ears as he adds, “Probably my favorite one so far, if I’m being honest.”

He pushes it closer to you, the silver of his rings catching in the light.

And there, on that napkin, he’s written his own tidbit.

Fun fact of the day: Eddie Munson kind of sort of has feelings for you, too.

“So what do we do now?” It’s you who asks, holding the napkin in your palm against your chest. You want to wrap those words around yourself like a blanket, joy unmeasurable filling every atom of your body. Your fear of rejection quells and settles into nothingness, because the feelings are mutual.

A tentative start at friendship has blossomed into something more. This is your something more, you realize.

Eddie tucks a bit of hair against his mouth at your words, all frenetic energy as he bounces a bit on the balls of his feet nervously. “See, not going to lie to you, sweetheart. I’m not really a pro at this. Might need your guidance here.”

You know, from what he’s insinuated previously, that he’s never been one for relationships. A few interests here and there, always brief. It’s a fact that had been hard for you to grasp then, and even harder now, that people wouldn’t realize the absolute wonder and privilege of being a friend to Eddie Munson. It’s even more baffling that, knowing who he is at his fundamental core, would prove to be a hindrance in his romantic life.

“Generally, one starts with a date,” you tell him teasingly, feeling your lips quirk upward at the corners of your mouth.

“Okay, okay. That’s when two people sit around, typically over food, and talk about the weather, right?”

Your grin turns wry, complete and utter giddiness sloshing around low in your belly. “More or less.”

He smirks at you, elbows dropping down against the bar as he hovers closer. “Sweetheart, I know that part. And I’d love to take you on a date.”

“Is that so?” You hum thoughtfully, folding your arms across the bar in front of you. Your fingers trail the bat tattoo on his forearm, watching gooseflesh pimple against pale skin.

“How does this Saturday sound?” He glances down at where you’re touching him, his voice a soft husk as he speaks.

“You’ll pick me up?”

“Seven sounds good? I’ll switch around my shift with someone else,” he says, eyes flickering to your face. “And of course I’ll be picking you up, I am a gentleman.”

“Sounds like a date then,” you say.

“Yeah, definitely,” he agrees, and that nervousness wells.

Bubbles.

With your spoken agreement set into place for this upcoming Saturday, he resumes work as the bar grows busier, and you drift back into your storybook, letting the words flow behind your eyes to temper the rapid thump of your heart.

For the rest of the evening it’s all quiet glances from the boy. It’s Eddie stopping every so often to ask if you’re okay, make sure you have water, offer you some food when he hears your stomach grumble from even above the music. It’s all fleeting looks and the brush of his hair against your shoulder when he looks to see what page you're on and asks if you’re enjoying, it’s him simply wanting to make sure all your needs are met, when all you’ve only asked for is to simply spend time with him.

And at the end of the night, when he helps you into his van and does his normal loop around the parking lot, that an awareness of mutual affection stirs between the two of you. Neither of you speaks for some time, eyes trailing to the moon, the buttons of the radio, the cup holders with various used cups within, his box of cigarettes fallen to the floor of the vehicle, the dangling pine scented air freshener.

He exhales from beside you and mutters, “You should get some sleep. You’re up early in the morning,” he says, and he’s not wrong. Your start time is just a few hours out now.

You want to tell him to get some rest as well, but you remember he doesn’t like the dark, doesn’t enjoy rest until the sun starts to rise in the sky.

It’s one of the areas in his life you don’t pry into.

So instead, you settle on, “Goodnight, Eddie,” and loop your arms around his neck, feeling the weight of his palm against the center of your back as he comes to curl his own arms around you, hugging you close.

You wish each other goodnight with quiet words.

With the slow slide of your hands down his arms as you separate.

The bashful wave as you stand outside of his van, shifting to go walk toward the apartment.

The shared knowledge that you like him and he likes you.

And the promise of a date to explore it.

The day of your date, the worst thing imaginable happens: you find yourself coming down with something. A sort of head cold that starts the night before behind your eyes with a little pressure, a tickle in the back of your throat, and a sniffle here and there—and by morning, you’re feeling a lot like warmed up death, trying to calm the sandpaper currently tearing up your throat and wishing you had stocked up on more tissues at the supermarket.

The kids are more than kind, taking over opening up for you. Will and El bring freshly made soup from their mother, Joyce, to your apartment and you gratefully sip at the warm broth to ease some of the ache. But the ache in your bones is the worst part, chills making you seek out the comfort of your warm bed and a sea of blankets and pillows.

Your television plays in the distance, a VHS of The Lost Boys popped in as a little saving comfort, reminders of the back of Eddie’s van there to keep you content. It’s around then that you hear a soft rap at your door, your eyes drifting to the alarm clock on your side table reading five in the afternoon in glowing red neon lights. You’re not expecting anyone, and you tried to call Steve earlier to tell Eddie that you wouldn’t be able to see him today because you don’t want him getting sick, but he’d only dug into you asking what your plans were for the afternoon and why he hadn’t yet been informed of them. After much groveling, however, he did say he would relay the message.

So it comes as a shock to you, when you pull your knitted blanket over your shoulders and tug both ends tight to your chest, that when you open your bedroom door it’s to none other than Eddie Munson. Before you can protest that he shouldn’t actually be there, he’s pushing into your room with two giant brown paper bags in hand, and immediately laying them out on your kitchen counter. You catch a few bottles of gatorade, some water bottles, boxes of tissues, different cold medicines. He’s also brought along with him some snacks, throat lozenges, an oven bake pizza, a five hundred piece Star Wars puzzle, and a thermometer that he’s already running along under water before popping it into your mouth.

You raise a hand to protest, but he taps your chin and mutters, “Quiet. Stay still, sweetheart.”

You huff out a sigh as he comes to stand behind you, thumbs running along your trapezius muscles as you wait for the few minutes to be up on the cool metal currently perched between your lips. You can’t deny that the feeling of his fingers pressing into your skin does feel amazing; especially with the soreness throbbing and aching within every inch of your being, likely from fever. After a few moments, Eddie moves back around to pluck the thermometer from your mouth, tutting at the number he reads there.

“What’s it looking like, Dr. Munson?” you grumble, swiping a hand down the front of your face.

“One hundred and one,” he reads out loud, eyes squinting to see the temperature accurately. “Maybe one hundred and two, hard to tell on this thing. But either way, your diagnosis is that you're sick.”

“You shouldn’t be here…I’ll get you sick,” you say, but you’re grateful anyway when his arm loops around your shoulders and pulls you close to him, your body just melting into his own.

“If I remember correctly, we have a date planned for today,” he replies, his voice a warm puff of breath against the crown of your head. “And no one, in my professional opinion, should be all alone when they’re not feeling well.”

You sigh against him, pulling back just enough to take in what he’s decided to wear tonight. He’s in a simple black sweater, a thin red line across his upper chest. His typical jeans spread tight over his eyes are on full display, wallet chain dangling silver against his hip. He’s got his hair back, revealing the fullness of his striking jaw, the fullness of his lips, the angles of his cheekbones, the little crinkle around his eye when he smiles, the scars on his cheek and neck visible against the low collar of the shirt.

He’s handsome as ever, and you whine miserably at the fact your original date got ruined, though there’s some solace in the fact he’s willingly standing there now, keeping you company. “Go lay down, I’ll grab you some medicine and get started on dinner.”

You part from him fully, tugging your blanket closer as you clamber over to your bed, climbing on top until your back bumps against the headboard. Eddie’s diligent as ever, popping open the box of medicine and reading the instructions on the side before pouring some questionable colored liquid into one of the measuring cups given along with it. He then proceeds to grab one of your little breakfast trays you keep hidden in a cabinet and places some fruit onto a plate, along with the box of tissues and a water bottle. He moves toward the oven next, prepping a tray and reading how to make the pizza, his brows furrowing together as he does so. The oven is set to preheat and he’s walking back over to where you lay, the tray in hand.

He settles it down over your lap and says, “Medicine and water first. Snacks after.”

You sniffle involuntarily, lifting the cup of liquid to your lips and downing it in one swallow. Your face wrinkles at the taste, Eddie already holding out the water bottle, lid already tugged off. You swallow it greedily, wincing at the aftertaste of the syrupy goo that just slid down your pained throat. “How did you know that I was sick? I was going to call you…but I realized I don’t have your number.”

“You called Steve, and if there’s one thing you must know about Steve’s, it’s that he has a big mouth and he immediately called me and said I better get over here,” he says, capping your water bottle once you’ve drank a little more. “Our date wasn’t till seven, so I figured I could go to the store and grab you some things to surprise you with…but then I got a little excited, so here I am at five.”

“You’re going to get sick,” you reiterate.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and you shift just enough on the bed to make room for him. He settles down beside you, plucking a pineapple from your tray. “Eat up. I’m at your service for however long you need me.”

You sit like that on your bed watching Beetlejuice, your head lolling from sleepiness against Eddie’s shoulder. He’s never one to protest, pulling you closer into the fold of his body as the characters move about the screen and the smell of pizza fills your nostrils, even despite the fact your sinuses are practically screaming at you.

“Funny enough, Lydia looks so much like Joyce,” Eddie points out, and you can’t help but see the uncanny resemblance. His hand slides over to where it rests against his side and pulls it to his face within his own, kissing the back of it softly as he climbs up off your bed. “Let me go check on dinner.”

You lift your remote to pause the movie and grab some tissues as Eddie walks about your kitchen, compiling some things he knows you’ll need from your various cabinets. “Where do you keep your cups again?” he asks, his broad back covered in black filling your vision.

“Bottom shelf, left upper cabinet,” you tell him.

“Okay, close your eyes, sweetheart,” he says, peeking over his shoulder to look and make sure you’re doing as he’s asked of you. “No peeking.”

Your heart dances in your chest, hands coming up to cover your eyes as he moves about your kitchen. You can hear the clink of glasses here and there, the sounds of silverware as he digs them out from the drawer, the flicker of a cigarette lighter, the slide of plates across a rickety wooden table, the scrape of wooden chairs against tile as he pulls them out to make room for the two of you.

“Keep them closed,” he repeats, the sound of approaching footsteps greeting your ears as he brushes his fingers around your wrist, a solid circle of his thumb and pointer as he picks it up within his own, and slowly slides them lower so his fingers lace delicately between your own. “Eyes still closed, but slide your feet over the side of the bed.”

You do as told and he helps lead you into the kitchen, your slippered feet recognizing the soft tap tap tap of the plastic grippers on the bottom of them meeting the tile. Your eyes remain closed as he settles you down into a chair and slides you closer to it, and then listens as he does the same across from you and finally says you can open your eyes. When you do, your heart nearly bursts in your chest at the sight Eddie’s made in front of you.

It’s so silly, you think, because you’re eating an oven-baked pizza while fighting off the cold from literal hell, and Eddie’s gone on to make things as romantic as possible for you. He’s picked your nicer plates, glass cups full of ice water, silverware resting on folded napkins. And there in the center he’s lit little tea light candles, because they’re all you have, illuminating your swiftly darkening apartment in a yellow glow.

“I figured, yeah…it’s not what we had originally planned for today, but I still wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Say thank you to the chef for me,” you laugh, bringing up a slice of pizza to your lips and smiling around a mouthful of cheesy goodness. “It’s perfect. You even set up candles. This is the sweetest thing anyone has done for me.”

“Laying down the pressure already for our next date now that the bar is set,” he teases, sipping some of his water.

“Next date, hmm?”

“Oh absolutely, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

“I would say it is very likely,” you chuckle.

“So what does one talk about on a first date?”

“We talk about whatever we want to talk about,” you tell him, leaning forward in your chair. The blanket around your shoulders shifts a bit, one side falling over. Eddie’s quick to jump up and tug it tight around your shoulders, his palm curling about your shoulder and squeezing tight. You thank him quietly and continue, “There are no rules. A first date is whatever we want to make of it, though I really doubt this is your first date ever.”

He shakes his head, the loose curls on either side of his face bouncing about his shoulders. “Not my first date ever, no, but the first one in over two years. And I really want to impress this girl.”

“You already have,” you tell him sincerely, gesturing to the table. You sniffle noisily, earning a soft laugh from the dark eyed boy. “You’re here when I’m sick, made me dinner, brought me all kinds of things to make me feel better…I’d say this is a pretty great first date. Just maybe not ideal.”

Because you find you really want to kiss him at the end of the night, but you know better than to risk giving him your cold any further than he’s already done so by staying here with you. “So…since high school then. I am so curious to know what high school Eddie was like.”

“Oh, you know, Freak of Hawkins High, leader of the school’s DnD club, not really anyone's cup of tea.” He’s smiling at you as he says it, but there’s a little bitterness that seeps into his tone and catches you off guard.

You reach across the table to rub a thumb along his knuckles. “Pretty sure I’d have liked him. I like you now.”

So it carries on like that, simply sharing in the comfort of quiet conversation as you snack on pizza. He asks you the simple questions, those little tidbits neither of you is yet privy to with one another. What are your favorite colors? He’s red, a darker shade, and you wonder if it’s because his guitar is that color. Yours, you state, changes often (which he argues isn’t fair if he needs that information for later), but at present is blue; not just any blue, however, blue like the color of the Hawkins sky, that pale shade that signifies a new day dawning. You talk about your favorite seasons. You the warmer months, him those quieter, cooler ones where he can stay in and relax. He jokes about how you’re the sunshine to his dark storm cloud, and you argue that he’s not a dark storm cloud at all.

In the past months you’ve seen him open up, watched him flourish and share with you, learned his heart. He’s harder around the edges, maybe, but there’s a softness he shares with his loved ones—and it’s the same softness he shares with you now. That flash of gold in his interior, a special gift to those who have the privilege of knowing him. That warm, beautiful center of his heart, where you have learned he is kindness personified.

That is Eddie Munson.

Once you’re done eating, Eddie maneuvers around the kitchen table to drop a kiss to the crown of your head, suggesting, “I’ll go ahead and clean up. Why don’t you shower and get comfy, and we’ll watch that movie while we…start this puzzle?”

He holds up the box that’s on the kitchen counter and your grin widens, head dipping once.

“You continue to impress me,” you admit, laughing as he excitedly shakes the insides of the box. It looks to be five hundred pieces, a scene of C-3PO and R2-D2 from one of the movies. “Give me like…fifteen.”

“Take your time,” he calls over his shoulder as he gets to work, sweater rolled up to his elbows.

You’re grateful for it as you slip into the shower after rooting around for some sweats and a pull over, hot water rolling over your hair and skin. It helps to ease a little of the soreness in your muscles, assisting your medicine with the congestion in your nose and chest. You hum contentedly to yourself and shut the water off after a while, snatching a towel to dry yourself before patting your hair with another.

Once dressed and dry enough, you slip back out into your kitchen to find Eddie with a blanket folded on your chair and him sitting in the one beside yours, pieces of the puzzle already spread out over the table. He’s got the remote in his palm, ready to hit ‘play’ once you sit down.

You work in a comfortable silence. But it’s in that silence the evening shifts. Eddie’s more open with his touching, growing braver with every passing minute. Soft brushes of skin when you reach for the same puzzle piece, the heat of your thighs pressing together when he grows tired of the space between you two and slides your chair closer to his. Whenever your blanket starts to fall from your shoulders, he’s there to pull it back up, fingers lingering there longer and longer. And as the puzzle takes form and shape, you catch the way he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

This curiosity behind his eyes, a want burgeoning between the two of you. You can feel it— have felt it since he made you dinner and set up a romantic table for you. You bite your lip after a while and say, “I’m not kissing you. You’ll really get sick then.”

He sputters a bit, laughing as you narrow your eyes his way, as if that isn’t what he's been thinking about when looking your way. Have you read the signs all wrong?

“On a first date?” He’s light and teasing, thumbing at your chin when you force a pout.

“Remember what I said?” You press a puzzle piece into place, glancing up at him through your lashes. “About there being no rules on a first date?”

“Except for right now…because you’re sick.”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“But next date…”

You dip your head. “Next date.”

He’s all smiles and boyish charm, that dimple in his cheek popping as he glances down at the table to try and hide the grin that slides across his face. Sticky fondness bubbles in your chest, driving you to move closer, thighs draping over the top of his, your cheek pressing against his shoulder as the two of you resume your puzzle.

Soon enough the movie ends and your clock reads ten at night, and Eddie’s making sure you take another round of medicine against your many protests. He drops the cup in front of you on the table and hands you another water bottle, smiling fondly as you stick your tongue out in disgust.

The puzzle is still not finished, only about halfway done, and your eyes are practically closing where your head rests against his shoulder. It’s then and only then he starts to stir from beneath you, standing to his feet as he suggests you start to get ready for bed.

You’re sluggish in movement as you do what he says, body thumping against the mattress as you curl on your side. His head pops up beside you from where he kneels beside your mattress, head of curls beckoning your hand toward his face, tangling with the strands there.

“Thanks for a perfect first date,” you murmur sleepily.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be better for the next one,” you say, glancing over to your television set up. A sad TV sat on a packing box. “I think I need something better for the TV to sit on…and maybe a couch. Come with me?”

“I’d love to,” he says, cupping the side of your head and gently brushing the backs of his knuckles against your hair. “You should get some rest. You’re a little warm again. I’ll come check on you tomorrow.”

You sigh, eyes closing. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

He leans over your bedside, lips featherlight against your cheek. A soft press of his skin against yours, and then he’s leaning back to whisper, “Goodnight.”

Your head burrows deeper into your pillow, arms coming up to tuck beneath your head, and Eddie’s jingling wallet grows more and more distant as he heads toward the door.

He whispers goodnight once more, and your eyes grow heavier.

The last thought before bed is that of all the first dates you’ve been on, this one’s the most special.

You waste no time in seeing one another again. Luckily, Eddie’s immune system is stronger than either of you predict, because he never gets sick and soon enough you’re climbing into his van and greeting him with a giant hug as you head to the thrift stores in search of some sort of entertainment system or couch.

You plan on splurging a bit on at least one of them today, and excitement seeps into your veins at the thought of spending more time with the man.

It feels like a whirlwind as you waltz into the first thrift store, not quite finding anything you’re looking for. Most of the furniture looks a little too aged for your liking, with holes that seem a little questionable.

But it doesn’t stop you from shoving Eddie into a dressing room with a bunch of ridiculous clothes. Bright patterns full of color, hats too big on his head, and the most ghastly sunglasses you can find. When he walks out you wish you had brought along your camera, his hands on his hips as he strolls out casually, asking what you think.

“It’s definitely a look,” you laugh, coming forward to toy with the button on the shirt you’ve picked for him. “I think the hat really sells me on the whole thing though.”

He grips the bottom of your chin and wiggles your face lightly, reaching forward for a moment, and you wonder if he’s about to kiss you, but he only bumps your nose against his and murmurs, “Your turn, sweetheart.”

His choice is worse, you think, as he disappears from you for a moment and rushes around the aisles. When he returns, he’s got this frilly pink dress full of tulle and a hat with plumes of feathers on top, and a clashing plum velvet exterior. Still, you disappear from view and head into the dressing room, slipping the hideous combination on and laughing at the reflection that stares back at you. Endless fabric spills around your frame, and the hat atop your head falls into your eyes unless you keep pushing it up, weighed down by the feathers.

You drag Eddie in with you, glancing at both your images in the long mirror, his features filling in the spaces beside you. You pull out your camera shoved into your bag and snap a few photos, wanting to save this moment to join the other photos you keep sitting on your night table and bookshelf.

He tugs you close there and kisses your temple, and your fingers curl in his shirt. You look like a kaleidoscope of garish color, but your joy burns bright, the newness of whatever this is scoring a memory across your heart.

The next thrift store ends up being a little more fruitful. You don’t tempt one another with hideous outfits; instead, you manage to score a beautiful, barely used looking entertainment system that looks close enough in color to your bookshelf that it should work with the apartment.

A worker helps Eddie carry it out to his van, sliding it into the back, and the two of you stare at one another over the center console when you’re all ready to go back inside. He reaches over first to grab your hand, slides his fingers through your own after he raises the volume on the radio a bit and announces your next location.

You end up at a furniture shop where a salesperson immediately asks you a thousand different questions. “What are you looking for?” “What kind of space?” “What color?” “What fabric?” And Eddie’s there to help you answer, his hand in your own as you try out various different couches.

“I feel like Goldilocks or something,” he laughs after a while, wincing as the two of you drop into the most uncomfortable of the bunch. “The one before this had me feeling like I was about to fall into a black hole. This one I think just broke my ass.”

“Mine, too.”

“Not the one?” the worker asks, interrupting your private moment. “I think the next option might be a good fit then.”

And it is.

If anything, it’s perfect. Not too hard, not too soft, just right.

Eddie curls you against his chest later that evening on said couch when you return to your apartment and set up your new things. You’ve worked on your puzzle a bit more and it starts to look a little bit more like the photo on the box, but decide to relax and put on a movie.

His legs kick out beneath him, back against one of the armrests, your side stretching across his chest as his arms rest low around your waist.

It’s then with the sun starting to set over Hawkins, sky growing a beautiful red and orange color like a burst of fall in a perfect painting, that you tilt your head up and look at Eddie’s face. His profile stares back at you, head turned just enough to watch the scenes playing out on your television.

Your fingers slide up the side of his face, body moving up and off of him just enough to do what you want to, and those chocolate eyes slowly shift until they meet yours. His head follows suit, tipping ever so slightly to let you know he wants this just as much as you do.

Your breath halts as he lifts a callused hand to your cheek and slides his fingers along the side of your face until they rest comfortably against the hinge of your jaw. His thumb brushes your bottom lip and you shudder a breath. It’s a gentle perusal as the pad of his thumb slides to the corner of your mouth and lingers there, eyes dropping down ever so slightly to where you equally want him just as much.

“Can I—”

He’s barely gotten the words out before you nod and he’s leaning down to press his lips against yours. You meet softly in the middle, the plushness of his lips sealing over your own, your own hand pushing further across his skin.

You feel the roughness of stubble forming along his jaw as his lips move over your own, all gentle presses of skin, heat sparking life in your belly, a quiet hum falling from your parted lips as he pulls just back enough to rest his forehead against yours. He’s all puffy lips and red cheeks, shaky breath panting against your mouth.

But it’s not enough.

You lean back forward, claiming his mouth with your own, easing him in slightly. He’s hesitant at first, hand still on your cheek, just gentle caress after gentle caress, until the uneasiness of kissing someone new dissipates into something deeper.

You can taste the sweetness of the fruit you shared earlier on his tongue as it slides across your bottom lip, seeking entrance, sliding against your own. Can feel the throb of his heart against your ribcage as he shifts the two of you with an arm around your lower back and rolls you over until your spine hits the plush cushions beneath.

Eddie groans as your fingers curl around the back of his neck, dragging him down closer to you, your body relishing and twisting beneath him at the solid press of his weight molding you into the couch.

He slows down after a while, soft sigh after soft sigh pouring from his lips into your own, making sure things don’t progress too far too fast. And when he parts, your breath shakes against his bottom lip, eyes clashing with his in the dark. It could have been minutes or hours you’ve spent languishing in his presence, you’re not even certain, all you know is you crave more of it.

You lift your head just a bit to close the space once more, the smack of a quick peck filling the quiet of your apartment.

“Hmm,” you hum, nuzzling his nose a bit when he curls a hand around your neck and leans down above you. He does the same, a slide of skin against yours, and drops a kiss to your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Well, I’d say our second date was a success.”

He rests his head down in the crook of your neck, his muffled laughter making your skin warm. You lift a hand to thread it through curls, feeling his arm loop around your waist.

“How are my odds at a third?”

“I’d say highly probable,” you tease, holding him tighter.

The next date finds you at a local harvest festival. It’s outside of Hawkins and all bright and welcoming. Everywhere you look are things to see. From the pumpkin patches, to the apple orchards. There are fresh pumpkin donuts wafting in the air, caramel apples on display, corn being sold by the ear.

Kids skirt and weave about you and Eddie as you walk through the crowds hand in hand, both of you wearing thick sweaters and flannels overtop. To your right stands a hulking corn maze, and to your left the worker currently smacking their gum between their teeth protects the farm stands and pumpkin patches at the entrance from behind their register for entry.

Your idea had been simple: grab a few pumpkins and carve them back at your apartment with Eddie and have a cozy night in. That’s quickly turned into a grand event, with your friends trailing on ahead, a prospective pumpkin carving competition on the horizon.

Steve and Robin lose it upon seeing the two of you holding hands openly, commenting that it’s ‘all thanks to them’ you’re together in the first place. You whisper to Eddie later that it’s not, and he brushes a kiss along your temple when no one is looking to reassure you you’re right.

So you and Eddie set off to look for the perfect pumpkins, perusing the patch with a wheelbarrow trailing behind you as your friends mill about in the distance trying to pick their own. It’s also then Eddie starts this game of making the absolute most ridiculous flirty pick up lines that make your sides hurt from how hard you end up laughing at them.

In the patch it’s, “If you were a pumpkin, I’d pick you.”

Later, when trailing through the check out lines and waiting with the other dozens of people who have the same plans in mind as you for the weekend activities, he holds up a gourd and bats his eyelashes, muttering, “You’re gordeous. I can’t be-leaf you’re mine.”

In the corn maze, when you and Eddie end up deciding to split up with Robin and Steve and see who gets out first, he’s tugging your hand to his lips and saying, “You’re a-maze-ing.” (You roll your eyes at that one, but reward him with a kiss when he ends up pouting).

And later, as you crowd around on a line to grab something warm to heat yourselves up, Eddie leans down to the hollow of your ear, chuckling out, “Want to go on a coffee date? Because I like you a latte.”

You shove at him lightly, waiting till Steve and Robin are too preoccupied in their own coffees to lean up on your toes and press your lips against Eddie’s. He’s warm, lips tasting of hot chocolate, and smelling like those sugary donuts, mixing in with his aftershave and the leather of his jacket, the cigarette he smoked as you stood in line to get into the festival.

Later, you all stand around Steve Harrington’s kitchen table covered with a giant plastic bag to keep the mess at minimum. You all sip on chilled beers as you crowd about, Dustin there to judge the pumpkin carving competition. You and Eddie choose to carve a Yoda into the front face of the pumpkin, which proves to be more ambitious than you initially plan for, but Eddie’s up for the challenge. His hair is tied back, sleeves rolled up high on his elbows, tongue pressing into his lips. You’re there to gut the pumpkin, arms deep into the cavity to pull the guts from it, the sticky sludge sliding between your fingers. He’s laughing to himself when you pretend to be a zombie, murmuring ‘braiiiiins’ and walking toward him slowly as you hold aloft the gooey mess in your palm, fingers deftly holding a knife to the front of your pumpkin as Steve and Robin look on happily.

Dustin only gags at your public display of affection, groaning out, “Get back to work, you two. This is a competition and you’re being timed.”

In the end, you and Eddie don’t end up winning. Which is understandable, because despite all Eddie’s best efforts, Yoda hardly looks like Yoda and at least Steve and Robin’s pumpkin looks like something. Theirs is merely a grinning mouth with endless rows of teeth, and yet it’s easy to crown them winners and you hand over their aforementioned bet money, knowing you’ve already won the best prize.

And it comes in the form of Eddie pulling you close by your belt loops later that night, him sighing into your mouth as your tongue drags against his and you tug him closer.

Always closer.

“Goodnight,” you whisper.

There’s a press of his lips against yours once more.

A seal for the end of the night.

“Sleep sweet,” he murmurs against your skin, and date number three ends better than you could ever imagine, with his arms curling tight around your frame, holding you close, simply basking in your newfound closeness.

You continue on like that for the next two weeks.

In the morning, you wake and open the coffee shop. Pass out endless coffees and tend to your workers, laugh with the kids, talk with your customers about their day to day. In the afternoon Eddie comes to visit for his coffee, lingers to talk with you and the kids. Reminds Max about her homework assignments.

Some nights you visit him at the Hideout, sitting near the bar as you read a good and pass him smiles from where you sit, counting down the minutes until you can see him again. Other nights you spend in the company of Steve and Robin, telling tales of your travels, listening to them rant and rave about their jobs at Family Video.

Some nights, Eddie comes barreling into your apartment seeking you, wanting to be near you. Clings to you with hands, lips and teeth. Presses you against the cushions on your couch, holds you tight as he nips and kisses along your skin, always tasting, never venturing further. But you don’t press him—you don’t wish to push him further than he’s ready to go. He confides in you one night that he’s never been with anyone—not fully, at least. He’s tried things before, sure. Has kissed his share of people. But when it comes to intimacy, he’s nervousness embodied. So you only reassure him you’re in no rush, you’re ready when he’s ready, you want him to be happy. That you want that moment to be perfect, and you’re more than happy to wait for him.

Some nights Max teases Eddie about where he’s been. Questions a fading mark on his neck nearer to the front of the store so you can’t hear (you always hear). Asks what his plans are for the weekend. Wonders whether or not he’ll be joining her and Wayne for dinner. It’s on those nights he questions her grades, asks if she’s done her homework, threatens to tell Wayne to take away her allowance or phone privileges. She’s always quick with a quip, and he’s all smiles and wit, hugging her despite her protests.

Soon enough it becomes a comforting pattern for you.

A daily constant.

Something to rely on every day, because it’s a certainty just like the sun rising every morning, and setting in the evening.

Work, friends, Eddie.

You don’t know when it happened, but you suppose it’s exactly how it was meant to be all along. Your soul sings and your elation hums in your veins.

Life is good, things are good.

The shop is growing, you’re thriving, and you’re falling for Eddie Munson in the midst of all of it just like the leaves that drift and tumble to the ground.

It’s hard to admit, even scarier to accept, and yet you’re falling all the same.

“It’s not even fair,” you grumble, watching as Eddie walks out of your bathroom wearing his leather jacket, a dark shirt underneath, hair down and earring on full display.

You’ve opted for a flowing skirt, and a white tank top you found that looks as close to Star’s from The Lost Boys that you could muster. All in all, you’re Michael and Star, minus the literal vampirism, and ready to head out to Steve’s party for Halloween.

“What’s not fair, sweetheart?” he asks you, moving about your kitchen to grab his keys. You lock up behind him as the two of you slip out of the apartment, curling your hand around his as he leads you down the steps.

“That you look like that right now.”

“Speak for yourself,” he says, helping you down the last step, grunting as your form bumps into his own. “Easy there. Look at you falling for me, sweetheart.”

You want to laugh, because you already are.

Instead, you follow him to the car and pop in one of his Metallica cassettes. The familiar opening notes of one of the songs greets your ears and you watch Eddie’s fingers strum along his steering wheel.

“What time is Charlotte getting there?” Eddie asks.

And that’s right, because you’ve invited one of your customers you caught Steve Harrington practically fawning over the last time he and Robin came by. She’s pretty, all long curly hair and striking blue eyes, a dance teacher. So when Steve mentioned you and Eddie could bring whoever you wanted, you had asked the girl and she hesitantly said yes, yet said yes all the same.

“Look at you matchmaking,” he teases.

“Yeah well, the kids all have someone. Robin has Vickie. I have you… it’s Steve’s turn.”

He reaches over and grips your hand in his gentle kisses brushing over to the back of your skin. “The fact you’re so thoughtful is one of the reasons I like you so much.”

“Not that I supply you with endless coffee and snacks?”

“Those are definitely brownie points. I cannot lie, sweetheart.”

When you arrive at the party, Robin’s dressed with Vickie in a style that looks like that of the seventies. All flowing bell bottoms, tassel tops, oversized circle sunglasses, dangly earrings. And then there’s Steve dressed up as Danny from Grease .

The rest of the kids stand about the Harrington home, their little core group dressed as characters from Star Wars, while Jonathan and Nancy are dressed as Johnny and Baby from Dirty Dancing. Her in a dainty pink dress and heels and Jonathan in his all black garb.

“You two look so good,” Robin coos, reaching up to toy with the curls around Eddie’s shoulders. “The fact you got him to wear a costume, babe, is a true miracle. Last year he dressed as himself.”

“I’d say I’m dressed as basically myself now,” Eddie points out, batting playfully at her hands.

“He does dress very similarly,” you say, leaning closer to his side, waving hello to Vickie.

“Still, it’s the thought that counts.” And Robin’s swooning around the kitchen as the older girls flit on inside, commenting on each other's costumes and making yourselves drinks.

Nancy talks about the journalism department at her college. Vickie mentions she’s happy to just be home for a little bit and kisses a blushing Robin on the cheek. You update them on the fact you’re finally feeling like the shop is making you the money you actually need. And then the door rings, just as soon as Robin’s handing you all red cups full of whatever concoction she whipped up today.

In walks Charlotte and you burst over to her side just as Steve intercepts her, giggling to yourself over the fact she’s dressed as Sandy, with her hair all curly, a black top, black pants and a little pop of red on her high heels.

You didn’t plan this part, and yet it’s somehow infinitely more perfect than you ever could have anticipated. You give her a hug and introduce her to everyone before telling her you’ll show her where the rest of the girls are, mouthing over your shoulder at a very smitten looking Steve (and a bemused looking Eddie), “Act natural.”

Steve only mouths back, “I love you!”

And then mutters to his best friend, “I think I love your girlfriend,” and is effectively elbowed in the ribcage by said friend.

Later, after Charlotte’s warmed up and the group of girls has had a drink or two in their systems to loosen up a bit for the night, you find yourself back at Eddie’s side while Steve and Charlotte talk together in the distance. He’s carding his fingers through his hair and laughing at something she’s said, her smile bright and wide across her pretty face.

It feels perfect.

Steve talking with the girl he’s been pining over with a new light in his eyes.

Said girl looking up at him like he’s as wonderful as you know him to be.

Robin and Vickie kissing in the kitchen.

Jonathan and Nancy sway as he holds her in his arms.

The kids outside play with their fake lightsabers, shouting loud above the music.

And then there’s you, standing with the boy in all dark clothing that makes your soul sing.

“I feel a little floaty,” you murmur sleepily, pressing your face into his leather-clad shoulder.

“It’s your good friend Robin’s love for tequila.”

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. “Probably.”

“I tell you how pretty you look tonight?”

You shift in his arms, glancing up at his kind face. “Don’t think so. But maybe you can tell me now?”

He chuckles and lowers his face to your ear. “You’re so pretty. And I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Here as in the party?” You ask, face warm still from his compliment and the way it tingles down to your toes.

“As in Hawkins. Here.” He curls his arm around your shoulders and presses you against his chest. “With me.”

The next weeks pass swiftly, and it’s only because with the cooler weather, you find yourself busier than usual. You end up hiring another two openers, this way you can stagger out the kid’s schedules and also to allow yourself the opportunity of some flexibility after Eddie catches you falling asleep at the bar one night and suggests you need to take care of your own self too.

Apparently working seven days a week isn’t sustainable.

So for the next couple weeks you work on training them up, helping them learn all the functions of the shop, as well as showing them how to manage the money for the earlier portion of the day, while the kids know how to handle the night shift.

Soon enough, you find yourself able to take a day off when you actually want to, visiting Robin and Steve at Family Video here and there, and Wayne on the days he’s off from the power plant.

That’s a newer development.

Since meeting him at Eddie’s birthday back in August, you’ve gotten closer with the man.

The two of you try to get together just to sit and talk even if it’s for thirty minutes every so often.

But you enjoy it. He’s an addition on the list of things that make Hawkins more like home.

Your photo collection grows in those weeks as well. Jonathan helps you develop your photos and soon you have the ones of you and Eddie from the thrift store, Halloween, a photo of Eddie kissing you that one of the kids must have taken when you weren’t looking during one of your ‘family game nights’ at Steve’s.

Steve and Charlotte have started to date as well.

You’re not shocked at all by that. It was easy to see at the party they were smitten with one another, and now he’s set to be spending Thanksgiving with her family in New York. He says it’s serious, and you’re more than overjoyed to hear it.

He deserves the world. Especially for the kind of friend he’s been to Eddie these years.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie with his glowing smile. Eddie with that sweet dimple. Eddie who comes over more and more to make you dinner, to hold you close, to kiss you until your head spins. Eddie who murmurs his affection low in your ear, words meant only for you to hear, who opens up and blossoms before your eyes, who whispers of a future he hopes you see in Hawkins, paints the picture with his dreams.

It becomes more and more clearer every day.

“Okay, so Max doesn’t like cranberry sauce,” you say, holding aloft the grocery list in your hand. “Should we just forget about it then?”

“Do you like it?” Eddie raises a brow, pushing along the shopping cart beside you.

“No.”

“I don’t like it,” he says.

“I don’t think anyone really likes it, babe,” you laugh out, gasping in shock when Eddie grips your hand and tugs you against his chest. “We’re in a store.”

He presses a kiss to your lips. “You didn’t say hello.”

“I did. Many times.” You lean up and kiss him once more, pulling back to whisper, “Hello.”

His fingers curl around the belt loops of your jeans, tugging you close in a hug, his hand sliding just slightly into your back pocket. The aisles are empty, and to anyone who might pass, you look like just another couple in the honeymoon phase. All bright colors behind your eyes, whimsy, kiss stained lips. Girlish giggles and boyish laughter between closely bent together faces, hands brushing, fingers trailing, that constant need-to-touch behavior.

“I just want to make a good impression,” you remind him once the two of you have separated. “It’s my first Thanksgiving with…well, with family in a long time. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“It’s Max and Wayne…who both already love you.”

“I know, but I just think it should be perfect. It means a lot to me, Eddie.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And he does.

You’d whispered to him the night he mentioned to you how Wayne wanted you to spend Thanksgiving with them that the invitation alone meant more than words could say. Your own family had never been one for the festivities. They’d often travel somewhere tropical and have whatever food was offered there to celebrate, and often left you behind because it was generally under the guise of a ‘business trip.’

But that traditional Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving you’ve seen only in movies…that’s the kind you want that year. The kind full of family and friendship, of the people that make you happiest, the ones that make you feel warm.

“It’s going to be perfect,” he promises, lowering his hand to the small of your back, his lips a gentle brush against your temple.

You walk in and out of the aisles in search of everything you need, talking amongst yourselves, merely enjoying the day together. And you’re ready to check out when you see a woman with a shock of blonde curly hair standing behind you in line staring at Eddie like she knows him, like she loathes him.

He doesn’t see her at first, but you do, watching as the cashier works on ringing everything up and Eddie stands at the end of the belt to pay.

“You shouldn’t be with him,” she says out loud.

You’re not sure she’s talking to you.

And why would she?

She doesn’t know him.

You merely nod your head and glance away, uncomfortable.

“He’s not a good man.”

There’s that voice again.

That haunted sounding voice that makes your blood run cold, but not because the words hold any weight, but because of the hollow tone to them.

You move further away from her, glancing at Eddie who is still caught up with whatever the cashier is talking to him about. Apparently they share an interest for metal and were talking about the upcoming concert the younger boy was planning on going to.

“Miss, I really think you should kindly mind your business,” you say as nicely as possible, your voice high and tight at the end.

It’s then Eddie finally hears you, eyes darting to your face, and then further still over your shoulder. His mouth drops open as he meets the woman’s eyes, handing the cashier his money so the two of you can get the hell out of there.

“You shouldn’t be here, young man,” she says directly to him, and ice crawls down your spine. “I don’t care what they say, you shouldn’t have been allowed back.”

You shove your cart forward and Eddie moves to turn you away from the woman, rushing the two of you out the front doors to the supermarket as she shouts again he shouldn’t be there into the cold fall air.

Your heart is racing as you load up your car with the groceries, Eddie pushing the cart away into the corral once everything is stowed away. You drop down into your front seat and lock your buckle into place, hand against your chest to try and calm yourself down.

Eddie appears a moment later across from you, looking just as fearful, but though your fear is for him, his is solely for you. He reaches across the space between the two of you and cups your face in his hands, pressing his forehead against yours as your raspy breath fills the car.

“Are you okay?” He finally breathes into the open cabin of the car.

“Am I okay? Eddie, she was harassing you.”

“I’m okay.” The tremor in his voice tells you he’s anything but.

“Who was she? Why was she saying that?”

“Sweetheart, there’s…I…the things that happened two years ago. I—”

He’s struggling.

His breath comes quick and staccato in your ears, his eyes growing rounder and rounder in his growing panic.

Your hands come out to rest on either side of his shoulders, feeling them as they tremble, his mouth working over words that won’t come up.

They die on his throat, and all you’re left with are the sounds of his struggle.

“Eddie,” you whisper, sliding a hand up and down his arm. “Don’t. I…would never want you to talk about something if you’re not ready or comfortable. Please know that, okay? Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. But not a moment before that.”

He’s rasping out, “Okay” over and over again and your heart breaks for him. For the fear crawling up his throat and choking him.

Your anger builds for the woman who thought it okay to openly yell at him in a public setting and left him like this.

Your anger builds for the woman who left him broken like this.

“Let’s just go home, okay?” you whisper, sliding your hand down until you can feel his palm within your own.

You give him a gentle squeeze and he returns the pressure, training his gaze ahead.

Let’s just go home.

Thanksgiving dinner isn’t perfect, but you think it makes it infinitely better.

The turkey you tried to cook…doesn’t exactly work out as planned, and despite you nearly bursting into tears in front of Eddie over it, he’s there with his arms at the ready holding you close and reassuring you that you also brought chicken wings, and he and Wayne like those a thousand times more than ‘boring dry turkey.’

Dessert is easier.

You’re good with dessert and end up baking an apple pie and a batch of chocolate chip cookies (the ones you know Eddie and Max like).

When all is said and done and your apartment smells like a bakery, you get ready for the evening in a simple brown sweater and jeans. Something comfortable for all the food you’re about to consume.

And as you arrive at Wayne’s with Eddie in tow, all your worries about everything that might have gone wrong dissipate. Because Wayne’s there with a giant hug and a booming welcome, with Max lingering in the hallway a little further behind, practically screaming at Eddie when he rushes forward and picks her up in a bear hug.

Her head dangles over his shoulder and her fists rap against his back, but she’s laughing, red hair spilling around her like a fire, smiling when he places her back on the ground and pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

“Asshole,” she mutters, but it’s said through her grin, before she pushes past him and hugs you too. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

You unpack the things you bought and lay them about around kitchen counters and tables, Wayne admonishing that you’ve made too much, that it’s more than he could have expected.

But you wanted perfect for your first Thanksgiving in your new town, and can only grin to yourself as you swat both Eddie’s and Max’s hands away when you show Wayne the cookies you worked on.

Dinner is spent passing plates over the table to one another, with Max announcing she wants mashed potatoes, Eddie shoveling yams onto her plate, making sure she’s also got vegetables in there somewhere. It’s spent with Wayne telling you stories about Eddie’s childhood. Like the time he cut his own hair and tried to hide it from Wayne for a week with a knitted hat…in the middle of summer (he later took him to a barber shop, where they ended up chopping most of the length off). He tells you about the first tattoo Eddie got and also tried to hide from him. Eddie only balks that he was too young at the time, and wasn’t about to tell his uncle he’d gotten a stick and poke from a friend who was only learning then.

Max tells you about her schooling, her hobbies. Eddie laughs that she’s always covered scrapes and bruises because she still holds her title as ‘Mad Max,’ as given by her friends, but sobers up when he says he’s happy she can again, and he’ll always keep Wayne’s place stocked with band aids since he’s so happy she’s back to full health.

Apparently there were many months of physical therapy after her accident to regain full strength back in her body.

After a while she announces she’s going to the Sinclair’s for dessert, but steals one of your cookies on the way out, thanking everyone for a great dinner. You’re left in the kitchen washing dishes with Eddie as Wayne sits in front of the TV in the living room.

Eddie’s hand curls low around your waist as you clean up, your soak slick hands roving around one of the plates. “How’s the first Hawkins Thanksgiving?”

“Perfect, Eddie,” you whisper gratefully, “thank you.”

“I’m going to go ahead and get dessert set up,” he says, brushing a kiss against your temple.

You hum as he goes, singing along to a tune unknown as you work, glancing over your shoulder to where Eddie stands in the living area opening different dessert trays with his hair falling forward around him. And then further, you catch sight of the elder Munson, your heart swelling at how much they already have come to mean to you.

Both of them.

It’s a little overwhelming, and a lot scary, but you lean into that feeling.

You let it roll over you in waves, this feeling of family that grows with every passing day here.

Dessert feels like an orange glow. Like the heat of a fire warming your skin. Pillowy soft and honey sweet. It feels like candy, sugar coating your mouth. It’s the heat from Eddie’s body rolling into yours as Wayne pulls out Eddie’s old talent show tape from when he was younger. Shaved head, no tattoos, with a more youthful face. Eddie cringes as the three of you watch, his movements along the strings still just as impressive then as you know them to be now, and you lean into his arm to give him a kiss on the cheek through the awkward laughter he lets out. It’s the quiet call of your name as Eddie moves to go clean up dessert and slips into the kitchen.

Wayne leads you outside with a fresh mug of coffee in both your hands. The instant stuff, he laughs, not like the good stuff you have back at your shop. But you don’t mind it, not at all, as you settle down on a chair beside him, a blanket swallowing your form as you tuck your thighs beneath you.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” you say after a while, eyes lingering on the beautiful moon up above.

You hear the rustle of leaves pick up in the wind, the sound of wind chimes dancing in the air, the bark of a dog in the distance, a low hum of a car engine as people head back home for the night.

It’s nice.

“It’s my pleasure, little missy.” He looks over to you and smiles, the wrinkles around his mouth crinkling as he does so. “Been a long time since I’ve seen my boy smile like he does with you. Grateful for that tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Munson,” you reply, feeling your eyes burn. “It’s all I want for him, really. I…I really care about him. He’s such good person, and I know a lot of that is thanks to you.”

“He’s a good kid, despite everything he’s been through,” he agrees, tipping his head up to the sky. “You’ll look out for him, won’t you?”

“Always,” you promise.

After saying goodbye to Wayne for the night, you tell Eddie you want to go back to your apartment to hang out for a little bit.

You sit in the quiet of comfortable companionship. Talking about your favorite moments from the night, laughing over the videos from Eddie’s talent show.

“Looked like a whole different kid,” he chuckles out, recalling the shaved head and lack of ink you currently run your fingers over as he sits beside you. “How about you, what was your favorite part of the night?”

“Just getting to spend time with you all. It felt right.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, his head rolling a bit on the couch cushion to look you in the eyes. “Meant a lot to me you were there. You mean a lot to me.”

Your fingers brush his jaw, right along the ridges of his scar, ever so gently. “You mean a lot to me too, Eddie.”

“Seems so silly to ask you to be my girlfriend when I think about it. But then again, we’ve never really talked about what we are. I just know I’m serious about this, about us. And I know I’ve been a real idiot about certain things in the past, but this is one thing I want to get right.”

“I want this too, Eddie. More than anything.”

What happens next starts out hesitant.

Eddie presses his lips to yours and hums into your skin as you clamber up and onto his lap. In the distance, your TV plays, but right now all you can focus on is the rapid beat of your heart, the flush that warms your skin.

His hands are hesitant. Splaying on either side of your hips as your knees press into the couch cushions, your mouth sliding over the curve of his cheek, the gentle slope of his jaw. You grin at the sound of the moan that spills from him as your teeth lightly drag along an earlobe, scoring a path down his neck.

Those hands around your hips tighten reflexively as you mark your path back up his neck and claim his mouth once more with your own, exhaling shakily against skin at the first experimental roll of his hips up into yours, fueled only by natural instinct.

He’s already hard there, impossibly so, your hips rocking forward slightly against his zipper, hissing low in your throat as heat drags low along where you want him most.

He mutters your name to stop you as you reach behind you to grip the hem of your sweater in both arms, those callused fingers replacing your own a moment later as he helps you push it up and over your head. You’d foregone a bra as soon as you got home, and you’re happy for it now with the way he murmurs, “Babybabybaby,” against your collar bone, and then lower still at the first swirl of his tongue against hot flesh.

You yelp at the shift in weight as he flips you beneath him, thighs parting around his slender hips to make room. You feel so very exposed laying there half naked while he’s still fully dressed, but the way he looks at you quickly quiets that fear.

All dark eyes blown out only for you, gentle touches against skin, murmurs of how beautiful and perfect you are against the hollow of your throat as he punctuates each compliment with a kiss.

You rock your hips upward against his slowly, his answering groan against your lips before you swallow the sound making heat pool. At the first press of him at your core, just the slightest of rolls of his hips as he grows more comfortable in the moment, you let out a breathy sigh, body practically humming with delight from the nearness of him.

But it’s not enough.

And he agrees, because it’s suddenly a frantic clash of lips and teeth. His elbows lowering to either side of his head as his chest rests against yours, his heart thrashing against your sternum. His fingers work deftly at the button on your jeans, zipper slicing into the silence of your apartment as he slides it down.

Every inch of you burns bright.

Your lips are kiss swollen, breath heavy, chest tight. You can feel the slick of your center, the need spiking with every second that passes he’s not inside you. And you know he feels it too, can feel it in his kisses, the sounds rolling from deep within his chest, the press of him hot and hard and ready at your core.

But that’s where it all goes wrong.

He’s kissing your throat and sliding his hand down the front of your jeans, fingers just barely skimming the line of your underwear, when you decide you need more of him.

It’s your hand sliding beneath his shirt and running along the first ridge of a scar you hadn’t even known was there that does it.

It’s like tires on a tarmac.

The rust of brakes gone bad.

The scratch of a record as the moment screeches to a halt before things can go any further.

Because Eddie’s flinching and murmuring, “Waitwaitwait.”

And suddenly he’s rolling off of you and standing to his feet, breathing heavy and looking up at the ceiling.

You curse under your breath, snatching your sweater from the floor and sliding it back over your form, reaching for him because you don’t know what else to do.

“Did I hurt you? Eddie, please tell me I didn’t hurt you—”

“No, shit, sweetheart…no.” He curses again, fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I just fucked it up, I’m sorry—”

You wrap your arms around his midsection slowly, feeling the tremors wracking his form, pressing your cheek over the frantic beat of his heart. “Eddie, you’re all I care about. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. All I’ve ever wanted is what you want. You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I just…I don’t look like I used to. It’s—”

“Eddie, please don’t feel like you need to explain. It’s okay.”

“I’m just—I look like a monster under there,” he admits, dragging you back down over to the couch. You curl up on his lap, his hands twining with your own, your thumb rolling lazy circles into his skin. “It’s wrecked to shit and…”

He presses the heels of of his palms into his eyes and curses out with a low groan.

When he pulls them away, your eyes meet his. Your voice is soft as you whisper, “Eddie Munson, a few scars don’t make you a monster. A human heart does, and I know you have a damn good one, okay? One of the best. But I want this to be enjoyable for you too, and I only want it when you feel absolutely, one hundred percent comfortable. Not a moment before. So just hold me and watch this movie with me, because I really don’t want to say goodnight to you yet.”

His arms curl tighter around you as your head turns to take in the movie. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against your head.

“Don’t apologize,” you reply, giving his hand another squeeze. “I’m here, I’m with you, you’re safe and I’m safe and we’re happy. That’s all that matters.”

Your chest aches, because you love him.

You don’t know yet you’re in love with him, as you’ve got nothing to compare it to, but you know you love him.

Nine months of knowing someone will do that.

And it kills you to think he still sees himself as this ugly monster, when he’s only ever been beautiful to you. It kills you because you don’t even know what it is that’s made him that way. You wish you could take it all away.

So you settle for, “You’re beautiful, Eddie Munson, and I wish I could silence everyone who has ever told you otherwise. Even if it’s just the voices inside your head.”

He buries his head into your shoulder, his swath of dark curls falling around your face. And if he cries silently into your skin, a few droplets sliding down the collar of your sweater as proof, you say nothing of it, not wanting to upset him further.

You only hold him close, for as long as he needs— forever if he asked you.

The night at your apartment becomes a memory.

Not in the fact either of you have forgotten, but in that you’re currently preoccupied with making Eddie’s apartment look like a winter wonderland. Your space isn’t large enough for anything impressive. You bought a few decorations and lights here and there for the upcoming winter festivities, but after much groveling (much, much groveling) you find yourself trailing behind Eddie as you walk through the local tree farm in search of the perfect Christmas tree for his space.

“It just can’t be bigger than eight feet,” he tells you on the way in the car, his fingers curling within your own. “I’m serious, no bigger than eight feet.”

Your knee bounces erratically. And it’s not simply because you’re on your way to buy him a tree, but because it’s also the first time you’re going to his place, just outside of Hawkins. It’s a fifteen minute drive, in a complex full of nicely decorated spaces. Definitely more upscale than anything you might be able to afford. But you don’t question it, and instead focus on the task at hand.

All around you are towering branches, full trees, sparse trees, trees covered in the snow that recently dusted Hawkins. Earlier than usual, the news had said, shocked by the six inches of snowfall that hit the town within the past day or so. Still, it makes for the perfect atmosphere. Tickled pink cheeks on Eddie’s face, a scarf tucked around both your necks, fluffy jackets on and knitted hats with pompoms bouncing as you walk about the place looking for the perfect pine.

“What about this one?” You stop to ask, glancing up at the tree before you. It’s likely not as full as Eddie has grown to want, but the color is vibrant, and the height is within his specified wishes.

“It’s…I just don’t think it’s the one.”

“Well, how will you know?”

“I’ll know,” he says, leaning over to brush at some snow that’s fallen onto your shoulder.

“For someone adamant against buying a tree, you sure seem invested.”

“Because now that I have the idea in my head, I want it to be perfect.” He turns around and stops you in your tracks, looking down at you. “We never really did the whole…Christmas thing when I was growing up. Dad was…you know, in and out of jail. And mom was usually out of her mind on whatever she was doing at the time. Wasn’t till I was at Wayne’s that I really did much at all. But this year I want it to be special.”

It’s the unspoken words that spill between you that make your heart swell.

This year he has you.

The next tree you stop in front of is actually perfect. Full branches, no spaces, the perfect looking height. You’re about to tell Eddie as much when your foot slides out from beneath you and you go tumbling to the ground. Eddie’s hand, practically fastened to yours these days, ends up jolting upon your impact and sends him hurting after you. You’re a swarm of limbs and laughter, your head in plush snow as Eddie’s form trembles above you, his sides shaking from his own mirth.

An attendant rushes over, likely afraid he’s about to be sued, and asks if the two of you are okay.

And you’re fine. Truly.

You’re more than fine.

You’re all wide smiles and sticky sweet kisses as Eddie leans down and presses his mouth to yours.

You're wide eyed and joyful as the attendant helps wrap up your tree and fastens it to the top of Eddie’s van.

And you’re over the moon when the two of you make your way back over to his apartment.

It’s the first time you’ve been there and it’s not lost on you as you enter, taking in the sights all around you.

It screams Eddie.

His living and kitchen area are separate from his bedroom. Already much different than the open floor plan of your apartment. He doesn’t have much other than a cough and TV, a little kitchen set, some nicknacks here and there. Memorabilia from Dnd and Lord of the Rings rest against his entertainment system, and you run your fingers along his bookshelf, taking in the broken spines of the books he has there. They look well-loved and appreciated, worn from years of tender love and care. It’s a little messy, sure, but it’s quaint.

It’s his and he’s choosing to share it with you at the moment.

The two of you help carry inside the tree, fanning out the limbs in the holder Eddie’s purchased in preparation. It overwhelms the space, broad branches spanning into the room and making it feel full. But Eddie seems happy with it, moving about to the small closet he has to pull out various lights and ornament boxes.

“Didn’t know you had all of this,” you say, holding up a strand of colorful lights.

“I was waiting for the right moment,” he says, and the two of you begin working on setting up the tree.

Eddie puts the radio on, where holiday tunes are already playing, and it fills his apartment with sound. You move around one another, handing each other lights and stringing them up on the tree until it glows in a colorful rainbow of light. And once you’re done with that, it’s the two of you bobbing and weaving as you put ornaments on the tree. Various bulbs of silver, gold and red, spread out messily, and yet still somehow coming together to form something special—something uniquely yours.

And neither of you would change it for the world. Not as you stand back and admire the tree, holding one another close. Not when you begin to get ready for bed in his bathroom, the two of you brushing your teeth in tandem, excited to spend your first night together. There’s no expectations, nothing further than a kiss here or there, and yet your heart thrums speedily in your chest.

It always does when it comes to him.

Later, as you walk into his bedroom and take in the sights, you feel that love for him growing all the more. His acoustic guitar in one corner, electric guitar in the other. The various metal music posters for the bands he likes strewn about the walls. His dresser isn’t fully closed, some of his shirts and jeans poking out here and there. And his closet looks to be full to the brim with laundry. But he turns to you in the dark and whispers that he’s happy you’re here.

Presses his lips to yours and walks you backward to his bed. Your back hits the comforter as your kneecaps hit the mattress, fingers curling in his hair as you hum a sigh when his lips connect to your collarbone.

And later, as you melt into one another beneath his blankets, your body curled against his, his arm wrapped low around your waist, you feel like this is how it has been meant to be all along.

All your wandering, all your searching has led you to this moment in time.

You and Eddie, folded into one another, seeking warmth, seeking love.

Rest comes easy that night.

Red sky.

Inky darkness.

Flashes of light, slicing the dark.

Whip of a tail around his throat, circling, tightening, choking.

A crude noose.

Smack of his back against concrete.

Stars in his vision as he’s momentarily jolted.

He can’t think, can’t hear over the sound of flapping wings, over the screeching in his ears.

The whip of tails around his appendages, a painful spread of his limbs.

Stretching taut, tight like a medieval torture rack.

Teeth biting into flesh.

His flesh.

Over and over and over again.

They rip into him, take pieces of him, consume him.

He’s screaming, screaming, screaming.

It never stops.

The pain never. Stops.

It is waking death.

Living torture.

He cries, and no one listens.

No one…hears him.

Pure agony.

Blood.

So. Much. Blood.

Praying for death.

Wishing for it all to just end.

The pain of it not.

Gasping, writhing, pleading.

No one hears him.

No one ever hears him.

It’s lonely in the Upside Down.

And then there’s Dustin.

He’s crying and asking him to stay.

Pleading with him.

Telling him he loves him.

Dustin loves him.

He wants to stay, wants to graduate, wants to live.

Fuck, he wants to live.

But there’s too much blood. There’s always so much blood.

It oozes from him, bubbles up on his lips, chokes him.

He can’t breathe.

His lungs constrict, he gasps, he begs for mercy.

It never comes.

Why would it ever come?

He doesn’t deserve it. Chrissy is dead, Fred is dead, Patrick is dead.

It’s only right he dies too.

Isn’t it?

This is his punishment.

This slow, painful death. This slow ooze of life into the dirt, this slow plea for the end, this cry for help that never comes.

It never comes.

His eyes flutter closed.

He wakes up.

“I need to tell her,” Eddie says, discarding his cigarette into the ashtray between the two lounge chairs Steve and Eddie rest upon.

Steve takes a sip of his beer and dips his head. “You mean about the Upside Down? What happened to us in March?”

“Yeah,” he says cooly, his voice carrying in the fall breeze. “She, uh, stayed the night—don’t make that face, Harrington, it wasn’t like that. But I had a nightmare. Woke her up in the middle of the night and I think I scared the shit out of her. Was the first in a while, of course it has to be when I have company and I’m trying to not make her think I’m some fucking Freak.”

He lets out a bitter laugh that has Steve’s head whirling his way.

“You’re not a Freak, you idiot. You almost died two years ago.” Eddie winces at the harshness of Steve’s words, but he knows his anger is not directed at him. “We tried to take down some sadistic torture wizard and lost that first time. You had a whole damn town chasing you down like they were on some sort of witch hunt. You were pinned for the murders of three people. You were acquitted, sure, but there are people in Hawkins who are conspiracy theorists who will do anything to paint you as that murderer. You could have ran away, but you stayed because of Wayne and Max…and all of us, too. It’s expected that you’d still struggle with it, man.

Steve’s right.

He knows it in his heart of hearts.

But it’s hard to separate that from the fact it happened—that it’s still happening.

That you had to witness Mrs. Cunningham run him out of a store.

That you saw him have a panic attack in your kitchen over the bat that flew into your window.

That he flinched when you tried to touch him the other night.

That he woke drenched in sweat from a dream of swirling red clouds and endless teeth ripping into flesh.

“Will you help me tell her?” Eddie asks sullenly, meeting Steve’s gaze. “I don’t know if I can. Not fully. Not all of it, man.”

Steve nods his head. “Of course. Whatever you need, just tell me when.”

If there’s anything Eddie Munson knows for certain, it’s that Steve Harrington is a good man.

It’s that he’s lucky he has friends who stayed by him after everything that happened and worked to see his name released from the accusations set against him, that he had his Uncle to care for him when he was healing.

It’s that he needs to tell you about what happened, because you deserve to know, because he wants to be fully open with you.

Because Eddie Munson’s never been in love, but he thinks that’s what he’s starting to feel for you.

Chance Muller comes in like he does any other day, except this time it’s the afternoon; that’s not typical for him.

Though your relationship had been fleeting, just the slightest of interests fizzling into a dull spark, he’s not held it against you. Instead, he still visits multiple times a week before his shifts, resuming your normal day to day as though nothing has changed.

That evening, however, he’s like the cat who swallowed the canary. All overly eager smiles, elbows leaning expectantly on the countertops, looking like he’s having way too much fun for a man who likely only just finished up a long shift.

You almost don’t want to ask him what’s got him smiling like that.

Alarm bells sound in your ears.

Scream at you that something is wrong, though you cannot know what until you ask.

The shop is dead for this time of day. Eddie’s set to come in soon before his shift, the cookies you made him already put to the side for snack should he crave one, and other than the two patrons sitting outside over a cup of coffee with their dog, you’re all alone with him.

“I didn’t know you and Munson were dating,” he says all of a sudden, picking at the straw sticking out from his cup. At your confusion, he continues, “I didn’t mean to pry, believe me. I just saw you wishing him farewell early this morning when I was getting in my car. You two seem very cozy.”

You bite at your lip, not quite understanding why he even cares in the first place. It’s not like you two were ever anything serious, and it’s not like Hawkins isn’t a small town anyway. It’s likely people would find out by way of gossip eventually. Still, you make a mental note to be a little more careful when wishing him goodbye. Not even just around your customers but also the kids. As much as you are close with the kids who run your shop with you, you don’t want your relationship to veer too far into that of friendship; there still needs to be that balance.

That and Hawkins doesn’t really need to see you kissing Eddie goodbye after he’s spent the night. Those moments, so special in their meaning, are not meant to be spread to the world. They’re for your safekeeping within your own heart, and meant to be shared with him and him alone.

Your fingers brush along your lips at the memory of his lips ghosting yours that morning. The feel of his fingers curling around the side of your neck, thumb tipping your jaw up up up so he could kiss you sweetly.

Soundly.

“We’re seeing each other,” you state plainly, moving to rearrange the treats within your glass case into a prettier assortment.

Your fingers curl around a croissant when he says, “Did he tell you about what happened two years ago?”

You pause on the spot.

The croissant drops to the bottom of the case, forgotten.

“I know there was an accident, or something,” you say, humming brightly.

Or at least it’s what you think happened. You know from Maxine that two years ago some stuff happened that Eddie found himself in the middle of. You know he has scars that cover a large portion of his body, have felt them now beneath your fingertips, know which ones still cause him discomfort sometimes. But you’ve always thought them to be akin to those of a fire or some sort of car accident.

Because it’s not your story to tell, you’ve respected his wishes and kept the conversation out of your mouth. You have waited for him to be the one to share that with you—to tell you about that March two years ago that changed his life.

An image, a memory, flashes across your eyes of just days ago. Of running your hands beneath his shirt and feeling him tense underneath your fingertips at those first subtle brushes of your skin against his scars. The way he jolted away like he’d been struck by lightning, by fear.

“Pretty girl, you’re telling me you haven’t looked into it at all?” Chance asks, shifting his body weight so his elbows rest on the counter and his head tips to the ceiling.

“Didn’t think it was my place to meddle,” you tell him, closing the glass case shut and spraying some glass cleaner over the surface.

It sparkles under your attention and Chance only chuckles. “So when you moved here, you didn’t research the place at all? Anything about what happened?”

You didn’t have to.

People were more than ready to talk about the curses laid over the town.

Over the satanic worship and the cults that walked the earth.

Of how the gates of hell opened up beneath the place.

The deaths that happened in the span of days.

The ‘Freaks’ that live in the town.

The girl in the trailer park, with her eyes ripped out of her body.

You heard about it all and still chose to move here—still chose to take a leap, despite all that stood against you.

“People talk,” you admit, tossing your rag into a bin to be cleaned later. “Back where I lived before here. Told me I was crazy for moving to this ‘cursed town.’”

“That’s all true,” he tells you, voice dropping an octave lower. “The rumors about hell being here, about all the devil worship and the sacrifices. It’s all true.”

“Chance, stop.”

“I’m not lying to you,” he promises, whirling back around to face you. “Do you know where Eddie Munson lived? Not where he lives now, where he lived.”

You do.

The trailer park.

The same trailer park that’s being rebuilt to this day.

You shake your head. “I’m not talking about him with you.”

“He’s not safe,” he shouts when you try to maneuver around him to wipe at one of the many tables littered with coffee stains.

Eddie..not safe?

You nearly laugh in Chance’s face.

Eddie, the same man who helped you paint your apartment. Eddie who used his bare hands to put together a bookshelf for you. Eddie who held your hand at the fair when you were scared, and then later when you got your first tattoo. Eddie who held you when you were bedridden with the flu. Eddie who sat behind you and showed you how to really carve into a pumpkin. Eddie who caressed your face in bed the night before as if he were holding the most precious thing in the world. Eddie who kisses you like a butterfly's wings kisses the skin, soft brushes, gentle flutters.

He’s not talking about your Eddie. There has to be another, it’s your only explanation.

And yet, your mind hitches on the ‘trailer park,’ and the rumors you heard.

The girl in the trailer park with her eyes ripped from her head.

Not Eddie; not your Eddie.

Maybe someone else’s Eddie, and you’re sorry for them, but it’s not Eddie Munson.

“Four people died,” he starts, walking closer to you. You feel like you’re caught in a trap, his dark eyes chilling you right to the bone. “Four people. They’ll tell you Jason Carver was fueled by jealousy. They’ll tell you that he was so angry that the Freak of Hawkins High had lured his sweet little Chrissy to his trailer that he went on this wild man hunt. They’ll tell you that Patrick McKinney drowned in Lover’s Lake. They’ll tell you Fred Benson, so overcome with grief , claimed his own life. They’ll tell you that Jason killed Chrissy out of anger for being cuckolded. Not his Chrissy; never her. They’ll tell you that Jason tried to kill another girl and her friends, and ended up with that girl being bedridden for months while he died shortly after in the earthquakes that destroyed the town.”

“I don’t…I’m not..” Your words are a babble.

Your mind spins.

It reels, because you don’t know what any of it means.

Why is he telling you this?

Why does it matter and what does it even have to do with Eddie?

Eddie, you remind yourself, who woke up that morning and hugged you from behind. Kissed your shoulder and told you he’s never felt this way about anyone before.

Eddie, who you were sure you were falling in love with—a feeling you’ve never truly felt before.

“I don’t know how he managed it. I don’t know what kind of lawyers he had, but people will say Eddie was innocent in all of it. That he hadn’t been around when Chrissy died, and wasn’t around when Patrick or the others died either. The evidence is ‘too loose and flimsy,’ they said. And the news just fed it to us,” Chance goes on to say, spitting venomously. “You know he got out with no jail time? All those murders, he just got away with them all.”

“You said Jason Carver was responsible—”

“That’s what they told us to believe,” Chance barks out, hand fisting at his side. “But I know Jason, and I know he would have never hurt Chrissy. He’d never have hurt that other girl, either. It wasn’t him.”

“But you said he went after Eddie—”

“Because Eddie killed Chrissy!”

“I think you should go,” you say through a clenched jaw.

You want to hear nothing more of his delirium. This warped idea he has of Eddie in his mind.

Not your Eddie, not your Eddie.

Never him.

It can’t be.

“You don’t really know who you’re dating,” Chance warns, cornering you against the countertop. “Three of my friends died that week. Three.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it wasn’t Eddie. They ruled him out. They wouldn’t have let him go free if they didn’t think he was innocent.”

“What do you know about it? You didn’t know him in high school like we did. Didn’t know about his satanic club he had. They called themselves Hellfire. How more obvious could it be that it was him? It was right there all along—!”

“Chance,” you shove at his chest, sensing the sorrow and grief radiating off of him as his eyes water and his breath heaves on a sob. “Again, I’m very sorry, but you need to go—”

“What’s going on here?” Eddie calls from the doorway. He’s in a red and black flannel. A sight that would normally make heat pool low in your belly, but now only makes your heart ache because of the way he looks at you.

Pain, he’s in physical pain.

Your eyes glance up to the clock, and you breathe a grateful sigh of relief in knowing it’s time for him to head off to work. Another chill slides down your spine at the way they look at one another.

Recognition flares in Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie repeats, “What’s going on here?”

Chance steps away from you, your breath coming in shaky exhales.

Chance lifts his coffee cup from off the table he sat it upon, tipping it toward Eddie. “Just filling her in on Chrissy…Fred…Patrick…oh and Jason, too. Seems you forgot to. Don’t worry, I took care of it for you, buddy.” Chance glances Eddie’s way, smiling. It’s not a sincere smile, no; it’s the kind of smile that makes your heart stutter, your breath halt in your lungs, because of how empty it is. “Take care.”

He leaves with the jingle of your door bells, leaving you and Eddie in stark silence. You want to scream in your frustration, but instead rush over to him, hands coming up to rest on his forearms.

He’s unblinking, unfeeling, unseeing as his eyes dart to yours.

You lean up on your toes and kiss the side of his jaw, dropping back down when he winces.

Actually winces.

Your heart shatters at the rejection that bleeds.

Seeps from the wound.

“Eddie?” Your voice cracks on the whisper, his form stiffening further as your hand slides up along his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart beneath.

He’s shaking.

Full body shakes that make you reach forward to hold him, but he steps backward, head shaking as he chokes on his words. There are tears swimming in his eyes and you feel another crack wedge its way into your heart.

You whisper his name once more.

Your hand reaches out to grab his hand but it meets empty air, because he’s slipping from you, out the door and muttering, “I-I have to go.”

And you’re left standing there, with your hand over your chest, heaving out a sob for the man with pain in his face and disaster behind his gaze.

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