#stranger fucking things i guess!!!!!!!!

[scottspack]

LIKE A PHOENIX FROM THE ASHES......: UNTAMED FIC REC PART 5

WELL HOWDY YALL! HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO THOSE WHO CELEBRATE! In my last fic rec, published on February 12, 2021, I made a joke about how one day I would get a job and wouldn’t be able to read 856 fics a day. I started another fic rec on April 21, 2021, and then promptly got my job back in early May, causing the fic rec to remain abandonded in my google docs for a year and a half. In that time I’ve moved across the country, settled in a new city, stanned BTS, and had many incredible professional and personal opportunities. And where has all of that brought me? Right back to untamed fic, apparently. This past week i got the itch and have been consuming untamed fic at unprecedented rates, which has inspired me to blow the e-dust off of my abandoned untamed fic rec, add in the shit i’ve read since then, and present it to you; anyone who still cares about the untamed in November 2022! (But mostly this is for @kerasines​, who enouraged me to do this, and @jlf23tumble​, who all of my fic recs are for, always.)

The rules to this rec are the same, but since it’s been a minute: these are in no particular order, they’re mostly wangxian, my favorites are marked with asterisks, and if you read any of these you are contractually obligated to come discuss them with me.

[jungkook bts voice] let’s get it!

The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (Wangxian, E, 66k) ***

Wei Wuxian travels to Lanling for his nephew’s one-month celebration alone, without Wen Ning.

Lan Wangji lives with the consequences.

Canon divergence au where lwj ends up joining the wen settlement and things play out differently from there. OKAY. Okay. I think this might be the last of the Really Big Fics in the fandom that I put off reading for whatever reason and GOD. DAMN. I should not have put off reading this. There is a reason this fic is Big and it’s because its SO GOOD!!!! One of those fics where every single chapter had me gasping out loud, crying real tears, and re-reading full paragraphs bc they were so GOOD. AHHHH!

2022 note: Some of these fics i havent returned to in the year and half since i was ass-deep in the untamed fandom. This is not one of those fics. This is a true, bonafide Classic that I’ve reread multiple times, and been impressed by every single time.

Last note: it wouldn’t be me if i didnt embarrass myself fully in a fic rec, but this author also has an absolutely AMAZING bts namgi fic if that’s something you’re into...actually...all of their bts fics are incredible...

Still in the Water by airgeer (Jin Ling & Lan Sizhui, background Wangxian, T, 45k)

A year after Jin Ling's early succession to the position of Sect Leader, a letter is delivered to him under strange circumstances. A night-hunt follows.

Hanguang-Jun shook his head, and played again. This time, the response was slower, almost coy.

“What did it say?” Jin Ling asked.

“Hanguang-Jun asked what it was doing here,” Lan Sizhui translated. “The response was ‘Waiting.’”

HOLY SHIT. this fic…..is bonkers. It’s another extremely interesting and action-packed case fic. Written in Jin Ling’s perspective, strange forces have been gathering the sect leaders to a strange town where they have to solve a mystery. When i tell you, this fic was the first ever untamed fic to made me cry for non-romance related reasons. It’s SO intense, and SO high-stakes my hands were literally SWEATING reading this shit. 10/10, would let it give me a panic attack again.

After the Final Rose by azurewaxwing (Wangxian, E, 55k)

(A talking-head interview. JIN ZIXUN, 36, entrepreneur.)

JZX: Oh, yeah, he’s a fucking catch, alright. He’s rich, he’s hot, he’s a Lan. Like, he’s been ranked number two among the local bachelors for years, and now that his brother’s seeing someone, he’s number one, right? So, yeah, of course I want to win.

Offscreen voice: Do you know anything else about him, besides that he’s rich and hot?

JZX: (shrugging) What else is there to know?

In which Lan Wangji agrees, reluctantly, to be The Bachelor, only to fall in love with Wei Wuxian, his cameraman/producer. Can the Bachelor find his way to a happy ending? And will The Bachelor: Lan Wangji be a ratings hit?

UM LMFAO!!!!!!!! Have I ever watched the bachelor in my entire life? Absolutely not. Was this au well written, thoughtfully planned out, and extremely interesting enough to make me not care? Yes oh my GOD!!!!!!!!!! I fully screamed through the entirety of this fic because it was so FUN! 

too much, not enough by Shamelesscooper (Wei Wuxian/Jiang Cheng, E, 14k) 

“Okay, so good news!” Wei Wuxian says, swanning into the room with just enough energetic cheer that Jiang Cheng knows whatever it is he’s going to say is going to be awful. “We figured out the nature of your curse! You’re probably not going to die! It’s not even going to hurt!”

“Yeah? And what’s the bad news?” Jiang Cheng gruffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Wei Wuxian does a double-take, like he’d expected his (fake) good mood to fool Jiang Cheng. Like it’s ever managed to fool Jiang Cheng. His laugh is a little shrill, a little frenetic as he says, “Well, uh. You know our ghost friend back there? Yeah, she’s possessing you. Which is why...” He makes a gesture at the general area of Jiang Cheng’s... problem.

“Ah,” Jiang Cheng said, expression souring. “I’m not going to like the cure, am I?”

“You’re not going to like the cure,” Wei Wuxian nods.

-

Jiang Cheng gets cursed on a nighthunt. Wei Wuxian helps him with the cure.

It’s not one of my fic recs if there isn’t at least one (1) fic i feel deeply ashamed for reccing. Here’s that fic for this rec! Post-canon Jiang Cheng gets hit with a sex curse and wangxian, who are married, agree that wwx is the best one to help him out. This was very well written and made me very emotional and i’m always a sucker for yunmeng bros reconciliation, even if it’s in a form that could get me hashtag canceled.

Three Days and a Morning by snickersnacker (Wangxian, E, 14k)

“Do you know how annoying you are sometimes?” Lan Wangji asked, not unplayfully.

Wei Wuxian beamed. “Do you know how stodgy you are sometimes?” he replied.

“How stodgy was this?” Lan Wangji said with a tiny smirk, referring to what they’d just done together in bed.

Wei Wuxian conceded the point. “This has to be against at least one of your rules,” he replied.

Lan Wangji looked suddenly serious. “There are no rules against love.”

---

Between the lines of episodes 42-43, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji return to Cloud Recesses and finally figure things out.

Another episode 43 canon-divergence au that i really really enjoyed! Highlights of this one include wangxian crying about how much they love each other and a very fun sex scene, both of which are just *chefs kiss*

Let's take a ride round the curves of desire by feyburner (Wangxian, E, 5k)

Wei Ying was sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan when Lan Zhan got home from work.

I’m still mad at feyburner for starting that really good wangxian star trek au and then never finishing it, BUT. this sweet little wlw!wangxian ficlet asuages the anger in my heart just a little bit.

2022 note: THE WANGXIAN STAR TREK AU HAS BEEN FINISHED AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

i will be soft in your heart by martyrsdaughter (Juniors OT4, E, 11k)

"You've been sitting on this," he said, "for five years? A little warning would be nice!" 

Sizhui's responding look was somehow both wicked and absolutely serene. Jingyi saw some of Zewu-Jun in it, which made him just... unfair. Unjust! Ridiculous! So attractive he once again wondered why he'd ever been invited to this relationship. Zizhen was there for moral support, obviously, and because he was too sweet to resist. Jingyi offered little of that.

"I didn't think you were unaware," Sizhui pointed out, as though he were merely reminding him of a pressing appointment. "After our last visit to Koi Tower, did you not ask me to, quote, 'fuck you until you forgot what Jin Ling's forearms look like'?" 

I can’t believe this is the first ever juniors foursome fic i've ever come across bc the material is RIGHT there, but it’s fine bc i've found it now! General plot is Jingyi/Sizhui/Zizhen have all been in a throuple for a while and finally get Jin Ling to join and it’s very cute and sweet and i love all my cute sweet boys!

The Ritual by nightwalker (Wangxian, E, 12k)

Lan Xichen asks Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji to participate in a ritual for the protection of the Cloud Recesses. There may be some ulterior motives going on.

Wangxian have semi-not-really-public sex for the greater good of the Gusu Lan, as you do.

Crack me open, pour you out by Tenillypo (Wangxian, E, 16k)

"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says carefully, "do you truly not know you have been speaking?"

Lan Wangji claps a hand to his mouth and, to his horror, feels his mouth opening to answer despite having no intention to do so. Clamping it shut again takes a great effort.

OR

The one where Lan Wangji can't stop talking, and a mild amount of chaos ensues.

I bet you were like “damn, this far into a fic rec from liv and not a SINGLE post-canon-get-together-via-a-curse fic?” YOU FOOL. here it is! Lwj gets cursed to speak his mind! Three guesses as to what’s on lwj’s mind :)

can’t turn off what turns me on by sophiahelix (Yizhan, E, 2k)

The phone screen goes black, and he lies next to Yibo, feeling like he’s been turned inside out. As far as porn goes, it was barely even explicit, but the intimacy of the scene and knowing it’s something Yibo likes enough to watch over and over have left him stunned, not sure what to do next.

At long last, Xiao Zhan licks his lips. “That’s — what you want?”

It was so simple, but he can tell Yibo’s embarrassed as he clears his throat and mutters, “yeah.”

YIZHAN! For whatever reason, this smutty little yizhan one shot has stayed on. my. mind. And i’m not even someone who’s big into daddy kink. The power of sophiahelix i guess! WAIT SPEAKING OF…

yesterday, tomorrow by sophiahelix (Yizhan, E, 80k) ***

Before he’s even finished reading, Xiao Zhan knows this is the script, the one that could alter the course of his career. Not like Chen Qing Ling changed his life six years ago, catapulting him from a minor idol to a household name, or the way his more serious roles have slowly taken him to the upper echelons of dramatic actors. This is a love story, daring and bold, groundbreaking and unforgettable, if only he’s brave enough to do it.

So of course, eventually, they bring up the idea of casting Yibo as his lover.

In the summer of 2025, Xiao Zhan and Yibo reunite as the leads in a gay indie film, bringing their complicated offscreen history with them—and secret hopes of making things right.

AUTHOR SOPHIAHELIX DESERVES A NOBEL PEACE PRIZE FOR THIS FIC. yo……. YO……. The premise is that yizhan are back together to film a gay indie movie where they play lovers SO IM SURE YOU CAN GUESS WHERE THIS IS GOING. Boy howdy. This might damn well be one of my favorite fics of all time. I know some people aren’t into super long fics but if ever there were one i would urge you to give a shot, it’s this one. *lady gaga voice* talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular

2022 note: a year and a half later and i still think about this fic CONSTANTLY. i just think.......2025........it could happen.........

Pins and Needles by kisahawklin (Wangxian/Wen Ning, E, 7k)

Wei Wuxian works out how to give Wen Ning various sensory experiences. Of course this was always going to lead to sex.

It’s my fic rec and i’ll rec wangxian/wen ning fic if i want!!!!!!! I just think there’s nothing wrong with Wen Ning being appreciated in the way he deserves! Wen Ning stans make some NOISE!!!!!!!!!!

Lucky man by Onomatopoetikon (Wangxian, E, 3k)

“They really wore you down this time, huh, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks as he removes the elaborate headpieces from Lan Wangji’s hair after dinner, his nimble fingers unlocking clasps and unpinning needles.

“Mn” he agrees, almost falling asleep already. “Good to be home.”

“It’s good to have you home” Wei Ying says, running his fingers through Lan Wangji’s freed hair and planting a kiss at the crown of his head. “Good to have you where I can take care of you.”

---

Lan Wangji returns home after some particularly exhausting Chief Cultivator duties. Luckily, Wei Ying takes care of him.

Just a lil tender love and pwp ! I think it’s nice for lwj to have a nice time with his husband who he’s very much in love with. Feels good on my heartstrings!

with intent by Lirazel (Wangxian, E, 10k)

Under other circumstances, it would make no sense for a healthy young cultivator’s golden core to be overwhelmed by mere cold, much less for qi infusions to be fruitless. But these caves and the tunnels that connect them are no ordinary place. This attack on Wei Ying--because that’s what it has to be--is intentional: this place, suffused with the presence of Lan Wangji’s ancestors, is attacking the presence of a stranger as automatically as a guard attacks a thief in the night.

The forehead ribbon isn’t enough.

After wangxian handfast in the cold pond cave to get past the Lan ancestors, lwj realizes that just tying their hands wasnt enough, they have to consummate their fake marriage :)

The dreamers. by orange_crushed (Wangxian, E, 17k) ***

“Stop mothering me,” Wei Ying protests. “Why don’t you ever listen?” He scowls at Wangji, but then the lure of the clean water is too much; he sits grumbling and strips off his vambraces and loosens the collar of his robes and wipes himself down in the steam. Wangji sits on a stool and watches him, and after a while Wei Ying slaps the rag into the bowl and glares back. “Are you going to sit and stare the whole time?” he demands. “You want to see me strip naked and give my filthy evil self a good scrubbing, huh?”

Yes, Wangji thinks.

[This is a story about a horrible war and a beautiful dream; about grabbing happiness where you can find it, and not letting go.]

An EXTREMELY interesting canon-divergence au where wangxian use a mindlinking spell early on in their relationship to fight better together but the connection between them is too strong and the spell doesn’t dissipate so they stay linked through the rest of canon. This one also had me gasping out loud on multiple occasions. 

2022 note: this has been a Frequently Revisited Fic over the past year and a half, it is just as shocking and intriguing every single time!

From my heart's ground. by orange_crushed (Wangxian, E, 38k)

After a while he can feel a palm against his face, gentle fingers soft and soothing. It’s not real, not exactly: he can tell the difference between a ghost’s touch and a living person’s, between a spirit-vision and an overactive imagination. His education has been thorough. But the beating has also been thorough, so for now he forgets what he knows and leans into it, into the hand cupping his cheek. It’s soft and dry as those forgotten petals, as the touch of a pillow. He can smell wildflowers, can taste blood and dirt. My baby, his mother says, and he closes his eyes. My treasure. He barely remembers the sound of her voice, but the feeling of it is just the same. Just the same as ever.

[In which Lan Wangji loses almost everything, plants a garden, and grows a second chance.]

Holy fucking shit, i just realized that this one and the last one are by the same person. Author orange_crush has an absolute GIFT for mind-boggling canon-divegence aus oh my GOD. This one is lwj post-wwx’s death discovering some of his mother’s old things in the jingyi and using them to extremely surprising results. I think about how crazy and brilliant this fic is literally all of the time. Insanity. I love it. 

bless my soul (i'm losing control) by aroceu (Wangxian, E, 31k) ***

Wei Wuxian returns from the Burial Mounds as a vampire.

WHAT IT SAYS ON THE TIN. A full canon-divergence au following vampire wwx post-burial mounds. I’ll give you one guess as to who offers to be his lil juice box :) Little known fact about me, i LOVE a good vampire au, and am frankly astounded that this is the first one i've come across for wangxian, but i’m not complaining bc this one fucking SLAPS. I’ve read it three times.

2022 update: i’ve read this WAY more than three times at this point

Brilliant Mistake by brooklinegirl (Wangxian, E, 53k) ***

"Fine," Wen Qing says, turning back to Wei Ying. "You're pregnant."

Lan Zhan feels his mouth drop open and has to work to shut it.

Wei Ying reacts not at all. He's swinging his feet where he's sitting on the table, a bored expression on his face.

Wen Qing just looks at him. "I am not joking about that."

Wei Ying stops swinging his feet. He blinks several times in a row. "Wait," he says.

Or:

I woke up at 3AM and sent myself an email that just said:

Modern cultivation friends curse sexy pollen hook up desperate WWX gets pregnant

And then I wrote it. In three weeks. IDK.

[deep shuddering inhale] MY NEW FAVORITE FIC, BITCH!!!!!!!! Remember back when i was like “omg so weird that i read a wangxian mpreg au, i’m never into mpreg aus.” and “omg so weird that i read a wangxian modern au, i’m almost never into modern aus” well when i’m wrong, i’m wrong. If brooklinegirl wants to write a modern cultivation mpreg curse fic then OF COURSE I WILL READ IT. What i didnt expect was for it to be so good that i read it FIVE (5) more times. But sometimes that’s just how life goes. If you’ll excuse me, i’m going to go read this again. 

2022 note: according to ao3 I’ve now read this FOURTEEN TIMES. So. If that’s not my gold stamp of approval on a fucking mpreg fic, idk what is. Life is full of surprises.

like the paradise found by occultings (Wangxian, E, 4k)

It isn’t often Lan Zhan finds herself at strip clubs.

If i’ve said it once, i’ve said it a million times: madame occultings can do no wrong in my eyes. A modern wlw!wangxian au where wwx is a stripper and lwj has a gift card. Let the congregation say amen.

a history of the body by northofallmusic (Wangxian, E, 14k)

Wei Ying's body hurts sometimes; she lets Lan Zhan help her.

A fic about the complicated nature of having a body, and also the versatility of sex toys.

A nice little wlw!wangxian modern au where they get together and have nice sex about it. Chicken soup for the soul.

A Sure Thing by mrsronweasley (Wangxian, E, 95k)

The message says, I require exclusive commitment as well as flexibility. You may spend the night, but not always. I will be the one to keep the schedule of our meetings.

Wei Ying crunches on a chip thoughtfully, then takes a deep breath and writes back, What do I get in return?

This was a trip and a half. A modern au (who am i) where lwj becomes wwx’s sugar daddy. Another instance of “if mrsronweasley (2022 note: who now goes by vesna??? how long have i been gone...) writes it, i will come.” Who am I to turn my nose up at 95k of excellent writing and delicious pining from the queen herself?

all I find is you by daltoneering (Wangxian, E, 10k)

There’s some cruel irony at work here, that the only inn for days would be off-limits to him. It has been months now that he’s been travelling, months since the last rays of sunlight brushed a Gusu mountaintop golden and he wrenched himself away and out into the world, months since he’s seen—well. What are months compared to years. What are years compared to a lifetime.

;

Wei Wuxian has been on the road for months, without a conscious end goal in sight. He isn’t expecting to find what he was looking for in a fully-booked-out inn in the back of beyond.

God is good but a 436th soft and tender post-canon get-together fic is better! This fic has it all: a chance meeting, a fully booked in, BED SHARING, lan wangji with braided hair, the works!

i'm the one for your fire by occultings (Wangxian, E, 43k) ***

Wei Ying, virgin and noted heterosexual, gets hit with a curse of an unusual nature on his 30th birthday — through physical contact, he can read the minds of others around him.

Enter Lan Zhan, hot former rival and current coworker, whose true thoughts about Wei Ying are nothing like he expects. (A loose Cherry Magic AU)

This is a modern au based off of a show that i think is japanese, but im not 100% sure, that’s about a curse where if youre a virgin when you turn 30 you can read people’s mind by touching them, which is an INFINITELY fun premise, so imagine my fucking delight when i realized this was written by MADAME OCCULTINGS!!!!!!!!!!!! CAN I GET A HELL YEAH!!! This fic is so fucking good, another one i've read multiple times already. I may have to formally rescind my statement that i don't read modern aus.

2022 update: this fic has become such a STAPLE to me that i was genuinely shocked to have found it on this unfinished fic rec. READ THIS SHIT!!!!!!! (Also I absolutely have to rescind my no-modern au stadnpoint. I do in fact love a good modern au now. People change!)

flux by SugarMilkTea (Wangxian, E, 60k)

When Wei Ying receives a strange figurine in a rural Gusu village, he thinks nothing of it. Ten months later, he finds himself walking a familiar path.

Ten months spent on the road. Ten months away from Lan Zhan. Ten months after they parted on that ridge in Gusu, Wei Ying comes home.

Another DOOZY of a post-canon-get-together-via-a-case fic. This time there are body swaps. There are ancient deities. There are strange old ladies. I read this feverishly in one sitting bc every single chapter i was like “wait WHAT.” Good good case fic antics.

2022 note: I went to link to the author’s ao3 and they have ORPHANED THIS FIC!!!!! the passage of time is cruel and ruthless.......

Pull out game weak by 74243 (Wangxian, E, 23k) ***

Wei Ying swipes right.

2022 note: i deleted my entire comment on this fic because it simply did not come close to expressing the cultural impact of ao3 user 74243. They showed up at the end of 2020. Wrote some of the filthiest lesbian wangcxian smut fics ive ever read. And then disappeared at the end of 2021. This fic in particular is my favorite of theirs, but honestly if you read it and are into it, i highly reccommend checking out all of their works. i..... [sweats]

Superfan by 74243 (Wangxian, E, 19k) ***

“I’m not going to apologize for my job,” Wei Ying said, “so if you want to give me some kind of lecture--”

“No,” Lan Zhan said. “You misunderstood. I am...” she paused, as if considering the best way to put it. “I’m a fan.”

Okay actually im also going to specifically throw this one on here bc its my other fave of theirs and ive read it...many times. This author kicked off what i can only refer to as a dyke lan zhan renaissance that has truly stood the test of time.

OKAY SO. There are the 26 fics that I had on my fic rec back in April 2021. INSANE. I was sitting on gold! Despite not keeping up with fic recs, i have actually read a fair amount of untamed fic over the time i’ve been gone, and especially in the last week, SO HERE THEY ARE! [OPRAH VOICE] YOU GET A FIC! YOU GET A FIC! YOU ALL GET FICS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

miss me once the thrill expires by idrilka (Wangxian, E, 12k)

“Lan Zhan, explain one thing to me,” Wei Ying says as they make their way through the woods. “What is it about people saying, don’t go into the abandoned, potentially evil shrine, that makes teenagers immediately go into the abandoned, potentially evil shrine?”

Wei Ying and Lan Zhan team up to investigate a curse. It doesn't go quite according to plan.

i HAVE to start with the fic that kicked off my untamed fic rennaissance! my favorite untamed author, madame idrilka, recently started posting all of her fics on tumblr with fun graphics and to my utter surprise 1. i was already following her and 2. SHE POSTED A FIC I HAD NEVER READ BEFORE!!! if there’s any proof that god is good all the time, its idrilka posting a modern cultivation get-together-via-a-curse au. *chefs kiss until my fingers fall off* i owe you my life!

Better When We're Together by emmagrant01 (Jingyi/Sizhui, E, 64k) ***

In a universe where Wei Wuxian did not leave the Burial Mounds after settling there with the Wens and managed to live peacefully ever after, Jingyi grows up in the Cloud Recesses alone. Then one day, Hanguang-jun takes him to meet an old friend, and the course of Jingyi’s life changes.

OKAY SO. One of my favorite fics of all time is this 285k behemoth of an omgcp fic that genuinely is one of my most well-written and amazing pieces of fiction that ive ever read. so IMAGINE MY SURPRISE when i went to check in on miss emmagrant01 and found that she’s WRITING UNTAMED FIC NOW!!!! GOD. IS. GOOD. ALL. THE. TIME. this fic yall.........i truly cant sing it’s praises enough. there is so so so much good shit here. sizhui being raised more fully by wwx, jingyi being raised by wwx, childhood friends to lovers, wen qing is there. it has the works. PROMISE ME YOU WILL READ THIS FIC AHHHHHH

good friends by plonk (Wangxian/Nie Mingjue, E, 11k)

“I could invite her over for when the game’s done,” Nie Mingjue offers.

Lan Zhan hums, considering it.

They do that sometimes. Take omegas down together.

now listen.........like i said. ao3 user 74243 kicked off a dyke lan zhan era in untamed fic. and my most controversial love-to-hate author plonk wrote this fic FOR ao3 user 74243. is it a modern au? yes. is it also a fucking abo au? yes. have i read it many times bc im gay and it’s hot? WE DONT NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!!!!! read it or dont, im not your mother! gosh!

Wrong to Say by easilyexcited (Wangxian, E, 5k)

When Wei Wuxian starts talking about how small his own dick is, Lan Wangji is...confused.

i actually found this fic for an anon of Jen’s recently and remembered that i liked it! not to pretend this is anything other than smut, but there are some fairly interesting character study bits for a 5k fic about wwx’s degradation kink

A storm without a warning by Spodumene (Wangxian, E, 22k) ***

Wei Ying loves his life. He wouldn't change a thing.

Change is like a storm. It comes anyway.

UGH man. this fic. talk about fics that made my hands sweat and my stomach flip from the sheer levels of YEARNING AND LONGING. realizing right here right now that this rec will have the most modern aus of any of them. oh how the turntables!

My stranger in the dark by becka (Wangxian, E, 20k)

Wei Ying, bartender at the Unclean Realm nightclub, likes making small talk with mysterious and beautiful Lan Zhan when she comes to the bar. It's a little bit of shock to find out that her favorite customer is a vampire involved in a fight for the safety of the club.

ANOTHER modern au, but this time they’re lesbians and lwj is a vampire. the spice of life!

bend me back, send me flying by  occultings (Wangxian, E, 9k)

It takes longer than it usually would for Wei Wuxian to catch on; the waiter’s mortified, flushed face, the couple with their hands under each other’s robes. The unusual warmth in his belly he has thus far, this evening, chalked up to his feelings for Lan Wangji.

“Oh!” Wei Wuxian says when the realization strikes him. It hits him so strangely that he hears himself laugh, even though the situation isn’t funny. Maybe it will be, someday. But tonight, he — oh.

—

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji get served the wrong pot of tea.

Newly married wangxian + aphrodisiac tea + madame occultings writing = *chefs kiss*

No Compasses, No Signs by brooklinegirl (Wangxian, E, 36k)

The old woman looks at Lan Zhan. "What's his name?"

Lan Zhan looks down at the man's pale, slack face, and presses his own hand against the cut, trying to staunch the blood flow with his glove. "Wei Ying," he says without thinking about it.

The man stirs slightly in his arms, his eyes blinking open for a moment. "Oh," he says faintly. "It's you."

Lan Zhan stares down at him, the stranger in his arms, whose name is Wei Ying. Which is something Lan Zhan knows. How does he know that? How does—he can't—this isn't—

"It's okay," Wei Ying says, reaching up to pat vaguely at Lan Zhan's face. "It's all—" His eyes slip closed again and he's limp in Lan Zhan's arms.

modern soulmate au that was VERY intersting and engaging! that’s love bitch!

sweet talker by vesna (Wangxian, E, 19k)

There's an unfamiliar middle blocker on the opposite team, one they've played a thousand times. "I've never seen her before." And Wei Ying is pretty sure she would have remembered her.

"That? I don't know her name, I think she's new to the team." Wen Qing assesses the woman. "I bet she's trouble. Look at how tall she is."

Well, yeah, she's a middle blocker. Wei Ying bets her height is what got her the position. She's tall and she's, like…super cool. Her dark hair is pulled up into a tiny pony at the crown, revealing an undercut underneath, and she's lean and muscular. She must notice Wei Ying's gaze on her because she shifts where she's looking and looks directly at Wei Ying. Wei Ying grins and waves, but the woman just skitters her gaze elsewhere, pursing her mouth. Hmph. Well. Rude.

When i said there was a modern au dyke lwj renaissance, i meant it! even vesna, aka fandom great mrsronweasley, jumped on the trend to AMAZING results. this made me sweat. when will dyke lwj dick ME down???

Let's Get Real, Baby by vesna (Wangxian, E, 22k)

If Wei Ying had been asked “what sort of pajamas does Lan Zhan wear to bed?” her answer might have been: something utilitarian, like shorts and a t-shirt. Or maybe a set of striped pajamas, like the kind grandpas wear. It would never, in a million years, have occurred to her to say “a slinky silky lacy cami and tiny shorts set,” but that is what she is currently staring—gaping—at as Lan Zhan makes her way from the bathroom to her side of the hotel room.

oh ho ho ANOTHER modern wlw wangxian au by the former mrsronweasley! not dyke lwj particularly, more girl boss powersuit lwj, but it still hits!

give me one good honest kiss by occultings (Wangxian, E, 16k)

The text keeps flashing over and over in Lan Zhan's head like the bulb lights on a marquee. They’d been talking about homework directly before that, swapping notes on music theory in the baroque period. Then, like a fork of lightning out of a clear blue sky: wanna practice kissing? 😚

—

Wei Ying suggests an arrangement. Lan Zhan, in love, deals.

i guess this is the modern wlw wangxian au rec????? the further back i get in my ao3 history the more i realize that the bulk of wangxian fic i’ve read in the last year and a half has been wlw shit. im not complaining!!!!! this one was great, STEEPED in gay pining! delicioso!

mercy, tear it down. by orange_crushed (Wangxian, E, 31k)

“You want me to call you good?” Wangji says. “To make you feel good?” Wei Ying makes a wretched, soft, surprised sound in the back of his throat. “Then will you be good?”

“Uh,” Wei Ying says. His lashes flick down again, nervously. “Good how?”

Wangji hasn’t quite thought that far ahead.

i really like this fic!!! wangxian fall into a bdsm relationship after wwx comes back Wrong from the burial mounds, then evolves into a pretty interesting canon divergence fic. ive reread this a couple times bc the tension is great and this author has such interesting ideas about canon divergent elements!

Love Don't Belong To Me by airinshaw (Wangxian, E, 29k) ***

Ten years ago Wei Ying was forced to disappear from his own life, changing his name and hiding from everyone he loved. Then on his birthday he runs into Nie Huaisang, who invites himself to Wei Ying's birthday party.

The clash of old and new lives freaks Wei Ying out, and he ends up drunkenly agreeing to call Lan Zhan to tell him that he was the love of his life.

But now that Lan Zhan has contact details for Wei Ying, he won't let it go.

WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW. THIS FIC. like the summary says this is a modern no-magic au where wwx disappears for 10 years to start a new life and then drunkenly hits lwj up one night. i cant emphasize how much every part of this fic was a punch to the gut, had me gasping, crying, screaming, throwing up, etc etc! ive reread this so many times bc its just SO emotional!!!! AH!

estuaries by vesna (Wangxian, E, 34k)

Wei Ying's back is to him, but Lan Zhan would know him anywhere. His hair is tied into a low ponytail, messy, as always. It's longer now than it was three years ago, snaking down his back, ending just above his shoulder blades. With him is a child—a boy—who's holding onto his hand and looking up at him with his eyebrows furrowed, one finger stuck in his mouth.

Lan Zhan feels utterly foolish peeking from behind a display case at them, but he's rooted to the spot. He cannot move.

another modern no-magic au! this one is pretty angsty but it has a happy ending and i love a kid fic so this one got me good!

got your way with me by vesna (Wangxian, E, 51k)

It doesn't hit Wei Ying until the third time it happens. In his defense, he's not running on all cylinders, and definitely only on four hours of sleep. So if all he's noticed about the guy sharing the elevator with him for the third time in two weeks is his hotness, who can really blame him?

But now that he's looking a bit more closely, as the guy stares resolutely at the number display ticking up, he sees the telltale signs: slightly rumpled collar on an otherwise pristine outfit, bags under his eyes—not so noticeable that they are instantly apparent, but there if you look closely enough—kiss-bitten lips, and (the most damning evidence of all) a hickey blooming just under his ear.

This guy is coming back from a hookup of his own.

we’re in modern no-magic au mode okay, but this time its a fwb au! LETS GOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

I Wish You Would by brooklinegirl (Wangxian, E, 52k)

Lan Zhan takes a breath. His hands are in fists on his thighs. He stares down at them hopelessly, then carefully unclenches them, one finger at a time, before taking another breath and reaching for his lukewarm tea. He'll go out, tomorrow. Maybe in the late afternoon. Something quick. Something easy. He'll text his brother first, the short note of when he should be home, so he'll know to track him. He'll be fine, just like he said.

i think this might be the last of the modern no-magic aus i have for this part! in this one wwx finds out that his long term boy best friend lwj FUCKS and it sends him into a late in life gay sprial. love it!

Not What We May Be by brooklinegirl (Wangxian, E, 30k) ***

It's Lan Zhan, standing tall, his hand gripping his sword. Has his hairpiece gotten even more elaborate? Or has Wei Wuxian just forgotten how stately it is? He's at the forefront of the group of Lan cultivators and if the pulsing darkness pushes Wei Wuxian's eyes away, then Lan Zhan draws them like there's nothing else worthy of looking at.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head at himself. He's been on the road too long. He's thinking in lines of poetry.

back to my origins, this is a really really really good case fic. another one where the case plot is intriguing and engaging and the wangxian plot is VERY sweet and romantic and satisfying. as far as case fics go this gets a 10/10 gold star!

Give Me a Chance to Fall by brooklinegirl (Wangxian, E, 38k)

Jiang Cheng just blows his breath out and rolls his eyes right back at Wei Wuxian. "Stop being an asshole," he says. "You're lucky this is being set up for you. Do you know how many people would die--literally die--to get the chance to be betrothed to Lan Wangji?"

"Betrothed." Wei Wuxian rolls the word around in his mouth. "It even sounds stupid."

Or, an arranged marriage canon-divergent fic where the war doesn't happen, the golden core loss doesn't happen, but Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu still die, Jiang Cheng is the sect leader, and Lan Wangji is still called Hanguang-jun because, well, look at him.

okay i already KNEW brooklinegirl is a powerhouse in the fandom and has written many of my favorite untamed fics but i just realized the last two fics and a couple other in this rec were ALSO by her, CMON QUEEEEEEN! love that she can write diverse many different types of stories and they’re all so interesting and emotional and engaging. this is my little love letter to a03 author brooklinegirl. ANYWAYS this fic is a no-war wangxian betrothal au that made me blush multiple times because it was SO sweet and romantic and i had an absolute blast reading this. I’LL STOP DESCRIBING BROOKLINEGIRL FICS AS SWEET AND ROMANTIC WHEN THEY STOP BEING SO FUCKING SWEET AND ROMANTICCCCCCC!!!!!!!!!!!

a light hidden and singing by  occultings (Wangxian, E, 48k)

Since he was a child, since Lan Wangji had first become aware of his own alienating effect on others, he has long resigned himself to a loveless marriage. Perhaps even a companionate one, so long as his partner was agreeable and unbothersome and let him have his own space.

He could not have even begun to predict Wei Wuxian.

(A canonverse arranged marriage fic.)

OKAY! We’re ending it on ANOTHER betrothal au by the amazing madame occultings. this was really so good, the flirting, the uncertainty, the pining, all very well written, in-line with canon, and just all around enjoyable to read! saturated in longing without making me want to bash wangxian’s head together, which is a feat in itself! madame occultings can do no wrong!

THERE YOU HAVE IT. AFTER A YEAR AND A HALF. I PRESENT TO YOU: 1.3 million words across exactly 45 fics. Even though i dont have the time to hyperfixate on the untamed anymore, it has continued to be something i enjoy reading and revisiting when i can. even to this day, there is an embarassment of riches when it comes to the untamed fandom whether thats fic writers, fan artists, or gif editors. i am so thankful to the untamed for getting me through lockdown, keeping me busy while i was unemployed, teaching me so many new things, and letting me make so many new friends. i cant say for certain this will be my last fic rec ever, but it’ll definitely be my last for a while. thank you for reading! i love you!

[plistommy]

[silverliing]

i have an art prompt: imagine lesbyler at senior prom!!

(thank you for drawing lesbyler im fucking obsessed)

Class of ‘89 let’s go!

[jadewritesficshere]

Happy Birthday

Steve Harrington x female!reader

Summary: Steve gets a video from you for his birthday.

Warnings: masturbation (male and female), f masturbation on video, pet name (baby), no use of y/n

18+ only

Steve sighed contentedly as he flopped onto the couch. He propped his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. He surveyed the destruction across his living room and smiled. Balloons were strewn about, streamers falling off the walls, and random cups that had been forgotten. Robin had thrown a surprise party, and though part of him thought he was too old for a party being in his 20s, he couldn't help but feel elated. Cherished even.

He glanced at the pile of gifts he had received. Eddie had gotten him an album, Nancy had given him more clothes in yellow, and Robin had gotten him tickets to a hockey game. You had given him three movies: one was a favorite of his, the other a new release he had wanted to watch, and then a home movie. You had asked him to watch it alone, claiming it was too embarrassing to show everyone and that you had been emotional in it. You made him promise, and Steve tried not to break his promises.

Steve hoped you were emotional because you confessed you liked him. Steve and you had a flirty relationship, but neither of you had "officially" said anything. One drunken make out session kiss was enough to fuel his fantasies for months, a kiss that you didn't seem to remember. Steve wasn't sure if he should bring it up, afraid of rejection. He wondered if you were silent for the same reason, or if you didn't even remember.

However, you could be emotional because one of the times you had your camera, you had found a stray dog. Both you and Robin were bawling about how the dog had been abandoned, leaving him as he wrestled with the dog from hell. Steve cursed that stupid rat dog, he would even curse the breed if he knew it, as it had scratched him relentlessly. Giving the dog a bath was funny in retrospect, but at the time Steve was fuming over this dog soaking both him and Robin and causing Robin to somehow fall into the tub, yanking Steve down with it. Of course, you were recording the whole time. The only good part was hearing your laugh.

Or maybe it was the time everyone had went to the lake. A seagull, which made no sense to Steve as it was the lake and not the sea, had stolen Eddie's sandwich. Eddie had taken off chasing the bird, yelling and cursing the whole way. Steve remembered laughing so hard he was crying, and he remembered the way your face had beamed at him. The way you pushed the hair out of his eyes.

Or it could be the party where everyone had gotten drunk, except for him. Sure, he had done a few keg stands in his days, but he wanted someone to be sober to take care of you. You had been rambling about something before stopping and calling him "pretty". He had blushed and tried to deny it, somehow making you think that he didn't find himself pretty. You had started trying to convince him, getting more sad that he felt bad about himself. Which Steve didn't feel bad about himself, but he wasn't going to complain as you gave him compliment after compliment. You even wrapped your arms around him and cuddled him. You were so warm in his embrace. How he wanted to embrace you in other ways.

Steve snapped the VHS case open and stared at the tape. He was alone now and his mind was going crazy with what ifs. He probably was overthinking it. He popped the VHS in the player and grabbed the remote before sitting back on the couch. He hit the power on and-

Steve's eyes widened and he dropped the remote. He wasn't sure what he was expecting but seeing your chest in red lacy lingerie was not it. The swells of your breasts pushed up slightly. He wanted to kiss and suck at your chest. Red lace contrasting against your skin. Your chest moving up and down as you breathed. Your hand comes into view and gently grasps your breast, squeezing it. Steve wished it was his hand.

Steve inhaled deeply and his hand shook. Holy. Fuck. His jeans were unbearably tight as he watched you slowly remove the bra. Your nipples were hardened-God, how he wanted to lick and tease them. You pinched one and let out a moan. Steve wanted to make you moan like that, but just hearing you? He was harder than he ever had been in his life. You sounded sweeter then anything he could imagine. You sounded like an angel, and he was in Heaven.

Steve unbuttoned his jeans and peeled them down enough for his cock to bob up and hit his navel. He was already leaking. He spit in his hand and wrapped it around his hardened length. He focused back on you and-

Steve moaned. You had moved the camera down to the red lacy panties you were wearing. "See that Baby?" You were out of breath, barely speaking above a whisper as you traced a finger over your clothed pussy. A damp spot was noticeable in the fabric and you sighed as your finger traced over the spot," See how wet I am for you, Baby?"

Steve's eyes closed instinctively before he snapped them open. He didn't want to miss a second of this. Steve's hips bucked into his hand as he stroked up and down his dick. On screen, you removed your panties, and his mouth watered. Steve bit his lip as he got a clear view of your pussy. You were so wet; he wanted to lick every drop. He wanted to taste your arousal. He wanted to hear you scream and writhe against his tongue as you came. He wanted his face covered in your release.

Your fingers on screen played with your clit before circling your weeping hole. One of your fingers easily slid in due to how wet you were. Steve moaned at the site of you adding another finger and pumping in and out. You moaned and ground against your hand. You added another finger and Steve couldn't help but think of how small your hands were and that it wouldn't even prepare you for his dick. As you picked up your pace and started to buck your hips wildly, Steve sped up to be at the same pace as you. He imagined that it was his cock spreading you open. How wet you would be. How warm. How tight. Your mouth dropping open in pleasure, your whimpers under him (or over him he wasn't picky).

"Steve!" You let out a gasp and moaned on screen, fingers getting drenched by your release. "Oh fuck shit fuck," Steve rasped out in between whines as he came all over his hand. His chest was heaving. Brain foggy from pleasure. His hair was stuck to his forehead from sweat. Steve sighed as he grabbed a napkin off the table and cleaned his hand, rubbing at the hem of his shirt that had gotten dirty. He looked back up on the screen to see your smirk. "Call me Stevie, next time you could do this to me yourself." The screen went black as you covered it with your hand. He could faintly hear,"Oh God what did I just do fuck ok this is fine, he'll like it right?" It took Steve all of two seconds to jump up and grab his car keys to head to you. Oh he definitely liked it. Fuck calling you though. The only calling that would be happening tonight was you calling his name.

[eddiezpaghetti]

Okay, so my experience with Stranger Things is a weird one.

I didn't care when it first came out, started to watch it out of "might as well" in 2020, wasn't interested in it enough to make it past S2, forgot about it outside of going "oh, hey, cool, there's a lesbian in it now, I guess," in S3, got really annoyed when "Running Up That Hill" got popular from it because it was a song I listened to on fucking loop after one of my best friends died in high school and I fully expected its appearance in the show to ignore the whole survivor's guilt theme of the song (and was very happy to learn later that it did the exact opposite of ignoring the lyrics), saw people drawing Eddie, suddenly got a lot more interested, watched just the fourth season like a fucking psychopath because I was seriously only there for Eddie, then got interested enough to start the show over properly, having mostly forgotten what I did watch of the show before.

And let me tell you something from the perspective of someone who started with the complete fourth season, who wasn't there from the start, who wasn't tainted by ship goggles or this internal battle of hope and despair, who wasn't theorizing about what the painting could be or expecting Mike and Will to kiss when Volume 2 happened or rooting for Mike and Eleven's relationship to go down in flames or whatever the fuck. Just someone who went blind into Season 4.

It's really fucking obvious that Will and Mike are gonna be endgame.

Like holy fuck. It's so fucking blatant I don't even know why people are nervous.

No sane fucking person would shoot this scene this way if they wanted the audience to care about El and Mike as a couple. Despite being all blurry in the background, Will's reaction to what's happening here is smackdab in the fucking middle, clearly showing that the important part is what's going through his head here. What he's feeling. It's like the opposite of that scene from Kingdom Hearts II where Sora and Riku reunite and Kairi just fucking vanishes into the aether while it's happening because, despite the fact that she was standing between them when the scene began, she doesn't matter to the scene, so she's just kind of gone when the camera angle changes. Will could have been behind one of their heads, or so far in the distance he blends in with the background, but he's not. He's so obvious that despite being massively blurred out, he's still the first goddamn thing you look at. What, you think that's an accident? You think he's in the middle of this dramatic fucking scene because of a mistake? He basically has a big flashing neon arrow pointing at him with "THIS IS THE POINT" being screamed through a megaphone.

And then this?

They're paired up like they're taking fucking prom pictures. Each one of these pairs is so fucking close to one another and so fucking far from everyone else. It's not, "Oh, they're standing vaguely near each other in a group shot," it's fucking Noah's Ark out here. Again, there's no way to take this as an accident. It's not just a framing issue. If they wanted to make the shot look balanced while still not hiding anyone else behind El, they would have scattered people around much more naturally. Even if they wanted to keep Nancy with Jonathan and Hopper with Joyce, there's so much room on that hill for three people to stand on El's left and three on her right. But they didn't do that. They put Mike and Will together on purpose in the most obvious way possible.

Like I get that coming up with crackpot theories is fun in and of itself and I'm not blaming anyone for having fun. I totally get the appeal of arguing a point and reaching for every stupid little thing to pull into it because it's like a game, okay? I've done that. But if you're trying to actually convince someone (whether it's someone who wants to believe or someone who's pissed at the very idea that Mike and Will could be in love), stay away from blue and yellow lights, stay away from costume design, stay away from the existence of closets in backgrounds. And don't worry about whether Mike's gay or bi when he's in love with Will either way. I'll give you a little tip about persuasion: You're only as strong as your weakest argument. Even if you've got strong stuff in there, too, the person you're trying to convince is going to dismiss anything you say as complete insanity the second you start going on an entire tangent about the shape of a character's fucking pocket.

Sometimes, clothes are just clothes. Sometimes, there's a closet in the background because it helps establish that a character is in a bedroom. Sometimes, blue and yellow are just a couple of colors that look nice together. And sure, it might be set designers and costume designers and cinematographers smirking and winking at the audience from behind the camera. But if the show was just those things, instead of those things in the context of everything else, they wouldn't be saying anything of note.

But this?

This tells a story all on its own. Someone with no context can look at this and automatically assume that each paired person is standing with someone they care about deeply, seeking comfort as they watch some sort of disaster unfold. And yeah, romantic couples usually come in twos, and we live in an amatonormative society, so that's going to be the first association anyone makes seeing a bunch of people paired off.

It's the same reason you look at this

And go, "Oh..."

"Those two are probably a couple."

And I genuinely don't understand how people could have watched S4 Vol. 2 and gotten scared. Because as someone who went in with no investment whatsoever, I just looked at these two--

--and went, "Oh, those two are a couple. Good for them." And I moved on. Shut up about the trees for five seconds and just see the forest for what it is.

Oh, and if you're still nervous? Little thing from a storyteller here: You don't leave a hanging thread like "Will confessed his romantic feelings for Mike by projecting them onto El, but Mike either didn't understand or at least didn't say he understood," without coming back to that later. That's Chekov's gun hanging on the wall, babes. It's gonna fire at some point. If Mike was going to reject Will's feelings, if they weren't relevant, they would have had that discussion in Argyle's van. There'd be no reason to leave you in suspense.

[apomaro-mellow]

Every Baby Needs a Daddy 9

Part 8

I know some of yall were upset by the cliffhanger last time. I hope this makes up for it

Eddie had been more than ready to spend the next week taking care of himself with his own hand and whatever fleshlight Chrissy could get for him, as mortifying as it sounded. He hadn't packed anything for himself. He never anticipated going into rut while on the road. Then again, he never anticipated Steve.

Steve, who made him want to drop everything and breed him full of pups and then raise those pups somewhere nice.

Now, said surprise was on top of him grinding down on him and promising a night of ecstasy. Steve pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor, hips still moving. Steve helped Eddie out of his own shirt and leaned in to kiss him. Eddie nipped at his lips and couldn't help but nose at his neck. The bandana wrapped around it was thick with his scent. This was his omega.

"Mine", he growled just as Steve pulled away.

Steve unzipped the alpha's pants and began to drag them down his legs. "When you pushed me away earlier...I thought...", he laughed and shook his head. "I thought you were running to someone else."

Eddie shook his head in protest. "I'd never do that to you, I wouldn't."

"I know", Steve said, pulling his cock free from his boxers. "Mmmfuuck", he moaned as he took a deep breath, nose buried in Eddie's bush. He kissed up the length, keeping one hand on it.

Eddie watched as the other hand dipped between the bed and his body, the shifting of his hips confirming that Steve was rubbing himself through his pants while he licked at Eddie, eyes closed in rapture.

"Tastes that good baby?"

"Thinking how you're gonna knot me so good, Daddy."

"Oh fuck..."

Steve grinned and reluctantly pulled off. One of these days, he needed to suck Eddie off while humping his leg. He needed to cover him in his slick and be covered in his cum. For now though, he removed the rest of his clothing and crawled back over Eddie's body.

"I need you to get me ready for your cock. Think you can do that?"

"Y-yeah, yes."

Steve smiled and then turned around so that he was on all fours, face to face with Eddie's crotch while he had a similar view of his own.

"Shit, holy shit."

Anything smart Steve had to say was cut off by a shocked moan when Eddie grabbed his hips and pulled them down, absolutely devouring his cunt. Any plans he had to give Eddie a blowjob while in this position were for naught. He was helpless to do anything but rut against his face.

How could Steve put such a beautiful pussy in front of him and not expect Eddie to worship it? Especially when it was about to take his knot over and over? He caressed the swell of his cheek, drinking him in, tongue delving in and reaching even deeper. Steve's cries were music to his ears. When he felt Steve's cunt clench around his tongue as he came, he wanted to do it all over again.

But Steve shakily rose up, turning around and rubbing his cheek against Eddie's, their scents mixing. He'd said earlier that the bed didn't smell enough like them. They'd be rectifying that tonight.

Steve straddled his hips again, placing his warmth against Eddie's cock. Eddie's hands smoothed up his thighs while Steve slid on him. It was like he was giving him the dirtiest, wettest lap dance.

"Baby", Eddie whimpered, cock already leaking at the tip. "Baby, please, don't tease. Need you. Need your sweetness." His hips bucked upward, making Steve bounce.

"Oh, poor Daddy", Steve cooed. "You can't be more patient? What if I wanna cum like this?"

Eddie sobbed. He wanted to cum and normally where didn't matter. But-

"Don't worry, alpha. I know you can't give me pups unless you cum inside", Steve assured him playing into it. He lifted up to position himself and slowly slide down on Eddie's cock, watching with pride as Eddie bit his lip and held back until he was fully seated.

"You've been so good for me, alpha."

"Can I? Please, baby, lemme-"

"Yes", Steve permitted, allowing Eddie to set the pace from under him. They rocked against each other, meeting each other thrust for thrust. The bed under them creaked and Steve might've had sympathy but then Eddie reached between them to rub at his clit and Steve didn't care who heard now.

Eddie was entranced. This beautiful, beautiful man was his, all his and the cunt milking his cock right now was his and it was taking his knot and he was gonna give his omega all the pups he wante-

"Fuuuuck Steeeve." Eddie's body felt like a livewire as he drained into Steve, pumping him full.

Steve fell on top of him, kissing up his neck and then to his lips, tasting some of the remnants of his juices on Eddie. His fingers curled into the alpha's hair. Eddie's own fingers tangled in Steve's honey brown tresses and slowly rutted up into him, pushing his cum deeper. Steve moaned into his mouth. He was going to need to take double doses of birth control. He knew it didn't work that way, but every single force in the universe, including his own will, seemed intent on getting him pregnant.

The next morning, Steve was slow to wake up. Before Eddie's knot had gone away, he had gotten hard again while still inside Steve and fucked him again.

When he did awaken though, he noticed a slight change in decor. And an absence of Eddie. There was a sheet draped over the four posts of the bed, turning it into a canopy. Some of both Steve and Eddie's clothes had been left on the foot of the bed. Items that had been in their suitcases.

"Alpha?", Steve called out, voice thick with sleep still.

Eddie immediately showed himself through the curtain from the foot of the bed. He nodded to the clothes that he must have left. Steve's brain began to wake up as he realized what was happening. Eddie was denning. While omegas nested during heat, creating soft and comfortable spaces for themselves and anyone they trusted, alphas denned, building an enclosure. One that was meant to be nested in once they courted an omega. If an omega liked their den, they would nest. Eddie had brought their clothes as an offering.

Steve didn't know how good of a nest he could make when it would need to be taken down in just a few days, but he wasn't going to reject his alpha's efforts. And it made him think of perhaps building a more permanent one with his and Eddie's scents. Steve sat up and selected a few pieces, placing them near the headboard. Then he held his hands out to Eddie.

"Need you~"

Eddie crawled right up his body, it seemed he'd put on some pants before making the den. "How are you feeling?"

"Mmm, good", Steve said before letting out a soft yawn. He rubbed at his eye. "But you could make it better."

Eddie obliged right away, pulling the covers down just slightly to kiss his collarbone, then his just. For a moment, Eddie just rubbed his face in the hairs there. Eddie's lips on his stomach tickled in just the right way and it was in that exact moment that his phone began to ring. He was ready to ignore it. And then he remembered that he needed to be Eddie's contact with the outside world. He stretched over to reach for it off the nightstand, expecting to see Jeff's number, or Grant's, or Gareth's, or an unknown number because he didn't have Chrissy's yet only to see Dustin's name.

Steve truly had no idea why he could be calling him right now but at the feeling of Eddie spreading him wide and pecking at his clit, he decided it could wait. Eddie wrung out another orgasm from him with his mouth before Robin called this time. Steve hadn't the energy to answer her and let it ring. Maybe she'd get worried and think something bad happened, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Steve would fill her in later when he wasn't getting his brains fucked out.

She called again at literally that moment. Steve and Eddie had left the den to get something to eat. Had done so with Steve still fully naked, and that led to Steve being bent over a table, cunt on display before Eddie plunged into it. After that bout and a shower, Steve finally texted her back, scrolling through any of the ones she already sent. He looked himself over in the massive bathroom mirror. Of course, there were quite a few bite marks, but nothing Robin hadn't seen in case he needed to send a pic to prove his safety.

'im fine' 'im literally getting railed on the hour'

His phone buzzed in his hand and Steve could already hear the tirade his friend had prepared about not answering when he went on a cross country trip with strangers. Eddie came up from behind, body still a little damp from the shower they had just shared. He kissed Steve's shoulder, nipping every time he reached a mole.

Steve let out a sigh and answered. "Hey Robs."

"Steven Anita Harrington!"

"You know that's not my middle name-"

"Don't crack wise with me! Is that guy forcing you to be his cocksleeve while he's in rut!?", Robin accused.

"He's not exactly forcing me", Steve said, body tingling as Eddie made a soft sound against his skin.

"Angel, miss your sweet cunt, need it."

Steve took pity on him, since the last time he made Eddie cum with only his mouth. "Misses you too", he whispered, forgetting for a moment that Robin was on the line.

"Steve! Are you listening? What's he doing to you?"

Eddie knelt down, hand to the small of Steve's back to make him bend over the bathroom sink. Robin was asking the wrong questions.

"Look, Robs, can I call you back? I promise I'm safe, I promise I'll-", his sentence cut off with an incredibly pornographic moan when Eddie licked up his pussy. He had the decency to look ashamed while Steve craned his neck back to look at him.

"Actually Robin, I'm gonna call you back in a literal second. Just hang tight." Steve hung up and then turned around to frown at Eddie down on the floor. "That wasn't nice. I was on the phone."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I just couldn't resist, your pussy drives me wild baby, I needed another taste." Eddie put his hands on Steve's thighs, pleading at him with his eyes.

"You need to learn patience, alpha. And now you need to wait for it to come to you."

Eddie let out a whimper as Steve got onto the counter and opened up his legs. He dialed Robin again and held the phone with one hand while the other stroked his thigh.

"Hey Robs, so what did you wanna talk about?"

"Dustin tried calling you earlier to tell you, dingus but when you didn't answer, I assumed the worst. Twitter's blowing up because apparently you caused your rock star's rut?!"

Steve licked his fingers and then just barely touched his lips between his legs. "How would twitter know that?"

"I don't know, I only got a summary from Dustin. I was hoping to get the rest from you?"

Eddie was watching, hypnotized as Steve touched himself with the lightest of grazes, denying himself and Eddie what they truly wanted. He swallowed and let out a whimper as a little drop fell from Steve onto the counter.

"I'll fill you in later", Steve promised. "But I'm not in any danger. Having the time of my life, actually."

"Okay, just needed to hear your voice to confirm it. Go and finish getting your brains fucked out or whatever."

"Will do. And thanks Robbie, for caring about me."

"Anytime. Have fun slutting it up."

Steve hung up and gave Eddie his full attention now. He slid off the counter and grabbed the back of his head, pushing it into his pussy. Eddie could have cried. He nearly did, grasping Steve's thighs and letting him use him, with little to no finesse. Just a slide as Steve covered him in that glorious nectar.

Only when Steve was satisfied with how Eddie was anointed with his slick did he turn around and let Eddie bend him over the sink to fuck him.

In between their couplings, Eddie would sometimes press a hand to his torso, as if checking for new life. The den still didn't have a fully complete nest, just some of their clothes strewn about. Steve's omega felt it inadequate and in turn felt that he wasn't worthy for an alpha that tried so hard but he tamped it down. This wasn't about him. And for now, his alpha was pleased with his nest.

It had their belongings and smelled like them and thus far no one had come to challenge his claim or territory. On the fourth day, it seemed that Eddie was getting over the final crest of his hump. Steve would miss the moony, pussy-drunk version of his alpha, but maybe on the next rut-

No, not the next rut. Steve probably wouldn't be here for the next one. This whole thing was supposed to be temporary, as intense as it was right now.

Eddie's mind was clear enough to attempt to cook something substantial. While he did that, Steve finally opened up social media to see how the world had taken CC's tour delay. Fans seemed upset at changed plans but mollified since they were given refunds or allowed to exchange tickets for the new event time. So thankfully there wasn't any blowback from that.

The drama was all concentrated on the reason for the change. The band's official statement was a health concern. But since everyone but Eddie was shown in the statement, most people had made the correct assumption that it was due to a rut. What made Steve's stomach flip was a picture of him from a tabloid the night of the concert.

EDDIE MUNSON'S NEW HOT PIECE?

Part 10

Doing something new with this one! I want to show the whole circus of speculation and theory in the next part so if you'd like to show up in the next chapter, here's what to do:

Comment or reblog with how you'd react in universe to the news and rumors that Eddie went into rut thanks to a random omega (that he's possibly been sighted with before) and I'll add it to the next part. I just think it'd be fun. Be as nice, off-base, mean, bitchy, or neutral as you like (it's all in good fun and in the name of fic drama after all)

Tag Team

@awkotaco24 @lingeringmirth @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @tartarusknight @velocitytimes2 @mrsjellymunson @trashcanniballecter @paintsplatteredandimperfect @a-little-unsteddie  @sllooney  @starman-jpg  @oxidantdreamboat  @xxbottlecapx   @newtstabber @tiny-enthusiast  @desidrarry-wolfstarshipper @y4r3luv @hello-fellow-nerds  @anonymousbandgirl @alyelf @potato-of-the-lord  @beckkthewreck  @croatoan-like-its-hot @pluto-pepsi @abstractnaturaldisaster @ellietheasexylibrarian @eyesofshinigami @dragonmama76 @marklee-blackmore @greatwerewolfbeliever @chaosgremlinmunson @blackpanzy @millseyes-world @batxsignalsx @lilpomelito @goosesister @libraryofgage @aresthelostboy @royjaimie4eva @silenzioperso @she-collects-smut @lost-wondering-souls

[runningupthatvecna]

i saw this post of eddie recently and it gave me so many (majorly self-indulgent) ideas which is why i couldn't stop myself with this and– nghhh rrrrr

eddie x plussize!fem!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ only! smut, oral (m receiving), plus size!reader and the issues that might come with growing up without male validation, established but relatively new relationship, softdom!eddie, unprotected piv (reader takes birth control but it's not mentioned), pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling), heavy dirty talk, eddie is down baaaad for reader, fluff at the end, inexperienced!reader if you squint, no mentions of y/n, no plot, just loads of filth basically oops don't look at me i got slightly carried away

Greedy and needy hands run down his torso, over the denim of his vest, they sneak underneath his worn out hellfire shirt, soft fingertips dancing over the heated skin of his waist, soft expanse of his belly, the back of an index slowly feeling its way south.

You don't know where your confidence is coming from, maybe it's transpiring into your own skin from the way your man's breath is a burning hot sensation on your neck, unmistakable consequence of your actions, the feeling of his heaving chest against your own.

A promise that he's right here because he wants to be. He really, really does.

His eyes are closed, brows furrowed and his lips are parted, making way for a symphony of sweet sounds he's about to make for your ears to hear, entirely focusing on you and you and you only, and whatever it is that you're about to do to him.

You, who's got his head spinning every time you're around. You, who's the only thing Eddie can think about ever since he worked up the courage to approach you at Steve Harrington's last party. You're the epitome of his wildest dreams, someone he still couldn't believe he deserved.

But god, you think, does he deserve you.

He lets out the sweetest moan-ish sigh when your index curls into the waistband of his boxers, both of your hearts blooming with anticipation, and your plush hip presses against the hardness that has started forming ever since you – totally on accident – brushed the back of your hand against his thigh as you had walked past him in the hallway of his uncle's trailer.

He's been half hard since then, eyeing your every move from the couch in the living room, darkened doe scanning over every curve and dip and valley and hill of your landscape as you were getting yourselves drinks.

Lips attached to his neck now, you're reveling in how reactive, vocal and pliant he's becoming under your touch as a desperate grunt escapes him at the feeling of you doing things.

"Shit, baby, need you so bad", he pants as you finally cup the evident excitement through the denim of his black jeans.

With a smile you look up from sucking a bruise into his the side of his neck, just to find his half-lidded dark brown eyes, incredibly lustful gaze set on you.

It flusters you to no end, having this effect on him. It's not something you're used to at all, it's a foreign concept, even strange if you're honest, but you're letting it happen. Accept it, slowly, because deep down, you really want to have that effect on him.

You're starved after all.

-----

Your pink lips finally close around his even pinker tip, the mix of your saliva and his precum running down your chin in tears.

All Eddie can see, can focus on, is you on your knees in front of him, with the sincerest intention to make him feel good. Yeah, he's been dreaming of this, of seeing you like this, of feeling you like this for a generous amount of time.

You've already taken your time transforming the skin over his hips into a field of gradients from light red to deep purple, and with every pop of your lips leaving him, he'd whimpered your name under his breath, eyes fluttered close, lips parted, his beautiful face pulled into an expression for the books.

You suck on the tip for a few moments, causing his hand to fly into your hair trying to keep you where he needs you most. One of yours is resting on his thigh, while the other comes up to cup his balls.

"Fuck, baby, s-so good", he murmurs as he quickly opens his eyes and his other hand comes down to cup yours over his heavy hang.

He wants to teach you, let you know, show you exactly how he likes it, since it's your first time sucking him off. It's endearing you think, and incredibly sweet. He wants you to learn him, and not in a demanding way, but more with a desperate and gentle undertone. Eddie's palm on the back of your hand is a welcome burning sensation to you, his kind understanding for your inexperience blooms between your two body parts, causing the same heat to rush all the way into your cheeks at his sweetness.

He wants to feel the wetness of your mouth around his length, taking him in as far as physics allow you, he wants to feel your throat constricting around him as he makes you swallow everything he has to offer.

You're lost for words, and not only because you're physically unable to form any sentence with how his cock is stuffing your eager mouth, but also because seeing him experience so much pleasure from doing this with you is something you'd never expected.

And suddenly, he grabs your chin and pulls you up to your feet.

"Gonna cum if you keep doing that, baby", he clarifies with a chuckle, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips as he cups your ass, "gonna let me take care of you too?"

Eddie's leaning down to look at you from under his bangs, hopeful doe eyes and this fucking dimpled smile making you melt to your core.

It sends a shiver through your system, hearing someone prioritize you, hearing someone care about you and your needs enough to go this far with you.

Your mouth cracks into a smile.

"Make me feel good, then."

-----

Eddie trails the softness of his plushy lips over your shoulder up up up, brushes a strand of hair away with his nose rubbing along the skin. He needs to make room, room because he knows that he is going to need to sink his teeth into the nape of your neck soon, the junction that's already bruised, marked in soft shades of red from earlier.

You hear the deep groan from behind you as you feel his tip softly touch your outer labia, carefully breaching its way between as he grabs his hard cock and slowly rubs down and then up again, catching your preciously hidden clit deliciously on its way, forcing a whimper out of your lungs.

You're burning for this man – it must be that you think, because you're indeed letting him feel you – hell, even see you like this, a vulnerable state you thought you would never let anyone see you in. Until Eddie came along, proving to you over and over again that he was worth letting your guard down. That he was going to be just what you needed. His gentlest, warmest, softest – for you.

The sound of him slowly pushing into your sopping warmth is so sinful, stretching you open on his pulsing cock and causing you to gasp at the feeling of getting filled.

Eddie himself is furrowing his brows, parting his lips and closing his eyes, his warm breath tickling down your neck from behind. The feeling of having your thick cunt wrapped around him entirely again is driving him mad to no end.

It only takes a few slow thrusts for a creamy ring to form at his base already, the schlicky sound and Eddie's low groans and your own moans the only thing your ears are able to take in.

"Oh god, babybabybaby, s-so fucking tight, mhhhhh", he babbles out under whimpers of his own, fingers gripping and digging into the supple flesh of your hips to pull you back onto his soaked cock repeatedly.

"Only for you Eddie", you manage to get out, shortly followed by more whimpers and louder squelching as he gently picks up speed. Your back arches as Eddie presses his plump rosy lips to your neck,

"Yeah baby? You're this wet– fuck, just– fuuuuck .. –just for me?"

"Mhh-hm", you hum in agreement over the slapping sounds of his hips against your ass before your jaw falls open and your back arches even further as Eddie wraps his arms around you just for one hand of his to find your tits, pinching and rolling one of your nipples between his ringed fingers, while the other wanders south to help you along.

It's all so much, almost too much, and it's sending you straight towards your desired destination.

"S'good, feels s-so good baby, mhh yes", slips past your lips, one of your hands goes up to tangle itself in Eddie's mess of a curly mane, the other has already found his sticky palm that he eagerly buried between your thighs, repeating his own gesture of showing you.

"Yeah? Been dreaming of this pretty cunt for the whole week darling", Eddie paused as you let out another whimper at his admission, "god, you're so f-fucking hot", he mouthes at your shoulder, admiring how truly fucked out and needy you are for him.

Goosebumps spread over your arms, your legs, even your back at his words, his sultry praise laying bare on every inch of your sweaty skin.

He'd probably been fisting his hardness to the thought of your sopping heat every morning and every night of the last days in which you didn't have the chance of seeing each other, and the thought of him thinking of you, especially in this context, is more than enough to help bringing you closer.

His thrusts become sloppier, a sign he's nearing his own sticky-sweet release, amplified and sped up by the flow of his name coming over your lips.

"Mhh, wanna cum Eddie, please– oh fuck, please."

"Oh shit, yeah baby, yes – god yes, soak this cock for me like the good girl that you are."

He bites into your shoulder to hold back, he's so damn close but he wouldn't dare to come before you, his own desire and the determination to make you feel good making his fingers that are still rubbing your sensitive bud continue at the same exact speed all while his cock is being buried deep inside you over and over again, hitting every place you need him to touch.

And there you are, flashes of white appear beneath your eyelids as he continues to pound into your creamy hole, the grunts and groans escaping him enough to push you over the edge. You're surprised at yourself – though you had plenty of experience doing it solo – about your own capabilities of cumming this hard.

Your head falls back on Eddie's shoulder, you feel your pussy clench and flutter around him as he finally lets go with a grunt of your name surrounded by "fuck, baby"'s and soft whimpers, stuffing you full of his cum.

A laugh rumbles through his chest as you're both coming down, his hand on your clit finds your own, guiding it upwards and placing it on your belly along with his other arm that had been a great help in holding you steady against him just moments ago.

Wrapped up in him, you're fighting the familiar urge to leave his grasp and hide back underneath your clothes, which at the same time sounds absurd to you since you'd just let him rail you silly, it's real nonetheless.

Stirring you out of it, Eddie's hot tongue comes out to lick a broad stripe up the side of your neck, relishing in the taste of you, "now that was something else baby, holy shit", he then nuzzles against your cheek as he presses you closer into his body.

Still panting from your blissful high, you swallow and nod against his face, breath hot on your cheek.

The next thing he says melts you.

"You're so soft, I fucking love you, sweetheart", a warm hand comes up to your other cheek, turning your face towards his gently, the dark brown ocean in his eyes finding yours and you're mere milliseconds away from getting lost in it.

He bumps his nose against yours, a gesture so sickeningly sweet it makes your heart nearly burst, showing him with a wide smile and a soft "I love you too", before his lips land back on yours, and you welcome his tongue with pleasure.

You feel his thumb brush back and forth over the heated skin of your plush cheek, a low moan transpiring from his lungs into your own.

Without breaking away, Eddie draws his hips back just to slowly give you one more gentle thrust. Your fucked raw cunt clenches around him yet again, still sensitive, and you start to realise he's already hard again just from kissing you. And, maybe also, feeling your mixed cum drip down both of your thighs.

Eddie bottoms out once more, mumbling one more thing against your lips, as his grip on your cheek and belly tightens, not intending to let you go any time soon,

"the lonely days are over, sweetness."

-----

[bizaar]

Cruel Summer Epilogue - Part One

Masterlist - Part One - Part Two

pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+) minors DNI (you guys they go the fuck off idk what to tell you, gird your loins), pregnancy, mentions of sickness and vomiting, traumatic flashbacks, angst, swearing (please let me know if I missed anything, there's a lot going on here)

word count: 23k (oof)

a/n: tumblr is really gonna make me split this thing up more than I already was going to — oh well, it doesn't matter because it's here! Forgive me for how I had to lay this out, and for everything that follows, because part two is going to be nothing but complete rabid bunnyfucking...

Melvald’s is slow today. 

Of course, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Melvald’s is always slow. You don’t think there has ever been such a thing as a morning or afternoon rush within these cluttered walls, and you’re fine with that. 

You have to be, because it’s not like you have a lot of other options left in Hawkins. 

After everything went back to normal again — as normal as normal can be, considering the circumstances — you didn’t dare go back to ask for your job at Benny’s. You tell yourself it’s because you’ve got too much self-respect for that (and certainly not because you’re quite sure they’ll laugh you out of the building if you tried) so now you stock shelves at Melvald’s.

The hours are long and the pay is crap, but your commute is a quick ten-minute walk, and that’s more than you can ask for. Because you never got your car back after you went sailing out the front doors at Benny’s with the singular purpose of finding Eddie, getting out of town, and never coming back – a purpose you mostly succeeded in. 

Mostly.

You found Eddie, but you never managed to get around to getting out of town. You did eventually end up coming back, though only to discover that while you were away your trusty little Toyota Corolla had been towed.

Figures. 

Funny how you can’t just leave a vehicle sitting unclaimed in a private lot for over a month and expect there to be no consequences. 

By the time you got around to finding your car, you ended up having to sell the damn thing just to cover the impound fees, and you quickly learned that despite what all those sappy greeting cards like to say, you can put a price on your memories. Hundreds of hours of carpooling trips to and from school and the arcade and movies and innumerable Corroded Coffin gigs, all the jam sessions and make-out sessions and “you gotta hear this song” sessions that resulted in blown out speakers and deeply existential conversations and fights about nothing and everything. All the time and people, friends and lovers and emotions permeating it’s dingy cloth seats and hard plastic siding was whisked away in the blink of an eye. 

Your bittersweet adolescence, gone in exchange for a measly four thousand dollars. Somehow, you’re never going to forgive yourself for letting it go like that. 

And yet, for as sad as you were to part with and old friend, it wasn’t all bad, because even with most of that blood money sent off to the Roane County municipality, you still had a little left over. 

Enough to get the van towed out of the ditch and back into working order, at least. It wasn’t pretty, and it needed more work than any of you could really wrap your heads around just to bring it back to its previous semi-shitty condition, but it was alive and that was all that mattered. 

If selling your car meant that Eddie didn’t have to lose anything else, then you were happy to let it go.

Anyway, you like your walk to work. It’s short enough that it doesn’t give you time to think about anything that isn’t immediately in front of you. It doesn’t remind you of anything you might be mourning from back in the good old days, and it means, if need be, you can get home as fast as humanly possible.

Unlike at Benny’s, nobody at Melvald’s gives you shit if you have to go sailing out the front doors and across the parking lot to rescue Eddie from his demons.

That mile-and-back commute does not, however, keep you safe from the perils of being late for work. Not in the cold blue light of morning, when Eddie snakes his arms around you and holds you hostage, leaving sleepy, sloven kisses down the stretch of your neck and sending shivers up the length of your spine as he begs you for five more minutes, and five more minutes after that. 

You find that you have a hard time arguing with him on mornings like that when the only thing that can chase away the lingering sting of bad dreams and worse memories is to lay pressed together in a heap of tangled limbs, listening to the muted thump thump thumping of his beating heart and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

You’re spending a lot of mornings like that lately, laying in as late as you possibly can before slinking into work a cool twenty minutes late. And if anyone on Melvald’s barebones staff cares about that, you haven’t heard about it. Even if you did, the feeling would not be mutual.

Who gives a shit where you decide to spend your mornings? Mornings are for people who never came so close to losing everything, so what’s the harm in five more minutes? 

Plenty, it turns out, when you finally manage to extract yourself from that tangled mess of limbs and are hit with a wave of nausea like a speeding train the moment you sit up. You were late to work this morning, sure, though not because you couldn’t stop indulging Eddie in five more minutes, it was because you couldn’t stop your insides from turning into outsides and spent almost a full half hour with your head in the toilet.

You mostly don’t wanna talk about that. 

If you have to, you chalk it up to the bizarre sickness you can’t seem to shake. You just can’t stomach much of anything these days, except for herbal tea, and that is only consumed against your will, because herbal tea is gross, despite how it’s the only thing that abates your nausea. 

Well, you thought it did. 

Joyce Byers is on an extended smoke break, so you’re alone in the store when it hits you. 

One minute, you’re sitting behind the cash wrap, absently flipping through Cosmopolitan Magazine with a steadily cooling cup of stagnant bog water at your elbow, and then someone hits the ejector button. The next thing you know, you’re sprinting for the bathroom with a harsh squeak of Chucks on linoleum.

You barely make it to the stall in time to send your prayers to that eternal porcelain god.

Zero to sixty in half a second, just like this morning and every other morning this week. 

By the time you come slinking in again from the employee’s bathroom, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, Joyce is still not back from her fifteen-going-on thirty minute break. There are no customers, no coworkers, just you and the lingering air of your spectacular Regan MacNeil impression – getting better and better every day – because it’s just another boring Thursday afternoon, and Melvald’s is always slow. 

Your insides cramp with the threat of sustained illness as you slide in behind the cash register, ready to resume the spell of your boredom, then, you find yourself face to face with a pharmaceutical ad you don’t remember seeing when you last flipped the page. 

You stare down at the image of a beautiful woman with her face stretched into a wide, open mouth smile, which is manic enough that you could easily mistake her for screaming rather than laughing. 

You begin to feel a cold, creeping dread raising the hair on your neck and arms as you read the copy. 

“Morning sickness? Not me!” 

Jesus Christ, you think with no small amount of disgust, Somebody got paid a million dollars to write this – and yet all it takes is those four measly little words.

They fall into place one right after the other, each with a hollow boom that sends shockwaves radiating out across the expanse of your body with goosebumps. A previously darkened part of your brain slowly begins switching on as the phrase is fed through its internal processor over and over until something starts to come into focus.

A question you haven’t yet asked yourself, and the answer you’ve been subconsciously dodging, like lightning in the storm of your sudden onset illness.

Morning sickness? Not me… surely not me…

Still, you immediately begin counting the weeks on your fingers and think yourself in circles, trying desperately to remember when you had your last period. Last week? Last month? You don’t remember. You’ve never been the type of person to keep regular track of something like that, though only because you never needed to. 

You were a virgin until you met Eddie and now you can’t seem to recall when you had your last period.

It takes you too long to remember, and when you do, you don’t believe it, so you count it out three times just to be certain and swallow hard against the sick feeling roiling in your esophagus.

January… February… March… March? No, that can’t be right… 

You rustle a piece of scratch paper from the register to draw it out so you can visualize it, and when the data still doesn’t change, you get up to go and find the calendar in the employee’s locker room just to be certain that it really is – June. 

According to your math, you haven’t had a period since March, and according to the calendar, that was two months ago. 

Holy Shit.

If you were thinking rationally, you might understand how two months could pass without a person noticing, especially when they’ve been living their life by the second. 

But you’re not thinking rationally, and if you were being honest, you haven’t been since last Spring. 

Time stopped for you in the other place, when Eddie’s heart stopped down on the wrong side of the world, and ever since you slipped back through, it hasn’t really started back up again in a way you can wrap your head around. You live your life by the days of the week, so how were you supposed to know something was amiss when your only basis of passing time is “it’s Thursday again,”? 

Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach and you feel like you could be sick again as the facts begin to present themselves in neat little lines. 

You and Eddie are living together now. 

After everything that happened, when the dust finally settled on the Forest Hills trailer park, the folks from the Hawkins Lab came out from their fortress like feudal lords in lab coats. They took samples, corded things off with a mountain of red tape, performed test upon test upon test on the ruined contents of the trailer, and after all was said and done, it was deemed “uninhabitable”. 

Which meant the Munsons were out of house and home. Wayne, it turns out, could get temporary housing through the Plant, but only so long as he was actively working. Someone was going to have to be the steward of Eddie’s recovery once he got out of the hospital (and that was shaping up to be a full time job in and of itself) but if Wayne took any time off to take care of him, he was going to lose his bid for company housing. Without it, he would have to move the pair of them back into the extended stay rooms in the Motel 6 out on the interstate, which he could only afford to pay for if he was earning a steady paycheck – such are the perils of selling your soul to the company store. 

So, Eddie came to live with you in your icebox of a basement apartment, which seemed like the most practical, level headed idea until you were left alone and the reality of your sudden and total privacy settled in. It didn’t take long for the both of you to completely lose your minds in a haze of traumatic aftermath and unchecked hormones.

To you, it was the greatest idea anyone had ever had in the history of mankind – to your neighbors, Eddie moving in has been a catastrophic turn for the worse. 

Because at the end of the day you’re just a couple of horny kids, sharing four hundred square feet of space, most of which just so happens to be taken up by a queen sized bed. 

There have been noise complaints abound, but honestly, what did anyone expect to happen? 

And what did you expect to happen when all either of you seem to do outside of basic human function is fuck like bunny rabbits? 

You bury your face in your hands and choke on a horrified moan as you wrack your brain trying to think if, in fourteen months of domestic bliss, you ever once remembered to use protection..

The answer is a resounding no.

Who has time for condoms when you’re busy living your life to the fullest? What’s the saying? Wrap it before you tap it? Not me! You both almost died, remember? Live a little! 

At least that’s been the logic for fourteen fucking months. 

Jesus wept. 

In the silence of the store, in between the waning notes of royalty-free Muzak and the gentle murmur of outside traffic, you can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the overhead clock. Wretched time, quietly counting down the seconds as potential disaster comes hurtling toward you like an atomic bomb.

Your stomach is cramping again as you move out from behind the cash wrap and stagger over to aisle three on stiff legs–

Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God 

– where you drop to balance on the balls of your feet and come face to face with the little white and purple boxes hanging there – pregnancy tests. 

You think back to the way you’d so casually racked them the day before and cannot believe it never once crossed your mind. 

Morning sickness. 

Except you aren’t just sick in the morning, are you? You’re sick all the time, any hour of the day… so it’s probably not that, right? You probably just contracted some weird parasite at the lake or from a bad burger and now it’s wreaking havoc in your guts, right? 

Right! a condescending voice tells you, It’s called a fetus. 

Your mind outright rejects the notion, but now that the idea is there, the hint of nagging possibility will not be dismissed. So you sit there, eyeing the vaguely feminine graphic design, promising quick results in big bold letters.

Ten minutes or less. 

You nibble your thumb and reach for the box before thinking better and stopping short.  

Do you really want to know? And what are the consequences if you decide you don’t? 

Maybe nothing. 

Maybe big ones. Big round baby-belly-shaped ones. 

You abuse your lower lip between your teeth and glance reflexively at your watch, which you discover is not there, but you’re too pressed to notice as you twist around to find the clock on the wall — half past one, and still no sign of Joyce. 

You turn back to the promise on the box burning itself into your retinas — ten minutes or less — and count the months again. 

The math doesn’t change. You’re definitely late, which means you are definitely— 

Shut up! Don’t say it, don’t jinx it! 

Then again maybe not…it’s a fifty-fifty chance, either you are or you aren’t. The answer lies in front of you, readily available in ten minutes or less. 

…So, what’s ten minutes? 

Joyce is still on a smoke break, so there is no one to cover for you, but what can possibly happen to an unmanned store in ten minutes? In Hawkins? On a Thursday?

Melvald’s is always slow — what are the odds you’re going to be hit with the first rush in the history of it’s time as a brick and mortar staple if you decide to pop back into the bathroom for a moment? 

Ten minutes more like.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything as you snatch the box off the shelf and wobble back out of the aisle on stiff legs. 

Back to the employee’s restroom to take a pregnancy test – the reality of that information is profoundly disturbing. 

You’ve never taken a test before — never had to — but you distinctly remember instances back in High school where you’d been enlisted to stand guard outside of a bathroom stall while Carol Perkins and Tina Burton took “just in case” tests. 

You just want to sate a curiosity — just in case. What’s the harm in taking a test? 

It’s ten measly minutes. 

When Joyce finally comes back in, it’s been fourty-five minutes since she originally left, and you’re a vibrating ball of nervous energy. You sit, bouncing your knee erratically, fidgeting with the ring with the dark stone sitting snug on your finger – a promise, given, returned, and given again, pulling your t-shirt up and asking for five more minutes… just five more minutes – and she greets you with a tight-lipped smile.

You hardly wait for her to get through the door before you’re rounding the counter.

“I don’t feel well,” You say in a garbled rush, snatching your bag from where you’ve had it strategically stashed at your feet since you slunk back out from the restroom a second time, “D’you think it’ll be okay if I head out?”

She blinks back at you, and for a very brief moment, you’re terrified that for the first time since you started here, someone is finally going to give a shit about you leaving.

Thank God Melvald’s is always slow. 

“Oh. Sure, Honey. That’s–” Joyce begins, brows tweaked together in confusion as you rush past her.

You’re out the door and headed up the street before she can finish asking if you’re alright. 

You don’t think you could stand to answer that question right now, and she couldn’t help you even if you did. 

You need a quiet place to sit and think. You need to be swaddled in a blanket of cloying familiarity while you watch the rest of your world come crumbling down. You need… Eddie?  

No, a voice answers, startling you almost as much as what you’d learned in those previous ten minutes. You don’t need Eddie. Not right now, at least.

Right now, what you need is for it to be like it used to be. You need an adult, you need to go home, but you don't live there anymore, and your parents haven’t lived in Hawkins since the Summer of 1985. You can't even call them, because if you do, they’re just going to come down here and try to take you away again, like they did when you got out of the hospital.

You can’t have a repeat of that mess. You can’t leave Eddie, but you also can’t face him just yet. You need to be sure before you can go home, and before that, you need to get as far away from Melvald’s as you possibly can.

You briefly consider calling Wayne, just to try and get the closest thing you can to fatherly advice, but what is he going to do for you? What is anyone supposed to do for you right now besides tell you that you ought to have known better? 

You don’t need to be told what you already know. You need a second opinion, and you cannot get that sitting at home, socked in to four hundred square feet of domestic bliss with the ghost that haunts those walls.

But there is nowhere else you can go … not unless you want to make that long hike up Cornwallis and bang on the Henderson’s door like it’s the good old days and you’re there to babysit. 

You’re not about to submit yourself to the abject humiliation of Dustin (or, God forbid, Claudia Henderson) finding out, because you can’t just go closing yourself up in their hall bathroom for ten minutes (or less) with no explanation. You'd have to tell them what was wrong, why you couldn't use your own bathroom, and you're not ready for that kind of drama.

You can just picture the look Dustin would give you, admonishing you with a terse utterance of your name and a heaping helping of as much paternal disdain as a fifteen year old boy can manage. 

“Why weren’t you using protection?” He would demand, “— that’s the first thing they teach us in health class,” followed very quickly by a not so gentle reminder that “they hand out condoms at school like candy!” 

As if you didn’t know that. As if you (and everyone you knew) didn’t used to come home with those shiny little packages lining the inside of your bookbag like legal contraband. For the duration of your tenure at Hawkins High, you lived in the surety that you could open any drawer in your bedroom and be sure to find a condom there.

Not that you needed one. 

You were a virgin until you met Eddie, but none of that is any of Dustin’s business, and beyond the fact that you’re not in school anymore, you’re not going to go all the way up to his house just to take a pregnancy test.

You don’t need to, the soiled plastic applicator you’d hidden way down at the bottom of the wastebasket back in Melvald’s employee bathroom has already told you everything you need to know.

Suddenly, all you want to do is go home, crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head. You want to go back to the days of everyone telling you “you’re just a kid,” and you want to revel in the frustration of it.

More than anything, you want to smack yourself in the face for ever daring to suggest you were “grown up” enough for anything.

You’re just a kid. Eddie is just a kid. How could this have happened? Why on Earth didn't anybody stop you?

You just want to go home, but you can’t go home. Not yet, so you walk. One foot in front of the other, aimlessly without really seeing, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting at the warped, termite infested picnic bench in the woods behind Hawkins High, and you have no memory of getting there.

You know you should be more concerned about that.

Your shift is technically over at three, and you really should try to get home sometime around then (just so Eddie doesn't start to worry) but time was fake before you slipped back into the eternal dark of November ’83, and now you have no use for it at all, especially when you're so patently avoiding going home.

It seems like just yesterday you were sprinting out into the parking lot at Benny’s, ready to throw caution and everything you ever thought was important to the wind to go and save the jerk who’d so spectacularly broken your heart the previous summer – fifty-four Saturdays ago, your subconscious unhelpfully informs you.   

It’s a wonder you’d actually convinced yourself that anything of what followed that week could be the scariest thing you’d ever have to endure. Turns out, giant man eating bats and interdimensional wizards are nothing compared to realizing your period is two months late. 

You trace your thumb across the faded carvings in the tabletop and linger over your inscribed initials x E.M. – you did that, in the summer between your Sophomore and Junior year, in the first weeks of your official attachment to Eddie.

It felt like such an important gesture back then, but you had no idea what important looked like in those days.

You think back to those stupid kids who pledged to stand together against the world without knowing what that really meant, or just how viciously people could hate, and your heart throbs.

After everything that happened, Munson Mania in Hawkins has never been worse. 

The good people of Roane County had already done all the mental gymnastics to decide that Eddie killed Chrissy. It fit perfectly in their narrative about him, and it would be too much work to untangle the mess they made coming to that conclusion, no matter what the second coming of Jim Hopper said. Guilty or not, they whisper among themselves, point fingers, hurl insults, and shout accusations. 

Freak. Murderer. Psycho killer – qu’est-ce que c’est? – Barbed wire candy-grams for the town pariah, hurled like molotov cocktails, even in the light of the truth. The murky, inconclusive truth.

You had to learn how to adapt very quickly to the ramped-up prejudices of all these nice God-fearing people, because for a while there, Eddie couldn’t even walk down the street without fear of being reminded that everyone in this town thinks he’d be better off dead. The bolder of the good people of Hawkins have no shame about telling him so, either. 

Now, Eddie stays mostly out of sight of all your neighbors and you take care of everything that has to be done.

You go out, do all the shopping, work to pay the bills, keep your life support afloat and you bend yourself painfully out of shape to be his shield. You provide the bread and butter and all the love he could ever possibly need. You smother him in it, keep him well fed and swaddled in affection so that he never has to feel the cold touch of its absence. 

You're everything to him. Friend, lover, caretaker – you wish there was room for just a little bit of help in that, but Eddie doesn't have friends anymore.

He just has you.

Anyway, how are you supposed to explain to Adam and Jeff and Gareth that the Eddie lurking in the shadows of your basement apartment isn’t the Eddie they remember? What would they say if they knew he can’t make his fingers work well enough to play the guitar anymore, or that he can barely even look at his D&D books without breaking into a cold sweat? 

You know what they’d say – they’d want to know why. They’d want to know what the hell happened, because when they’d tried to visit Eddie in the hospital, they got one look at him before making a bullshit excuse about needing to leave, and he didn’t want to see them again after that. 

So now, when they call (and they so seldom call, these days) you tell them he's fine, and you hold them at bay, because it's your job to protect Eddie, no matter what. If that includes keeping all his friends in the dark, then so be it.  

If you can’t get around to explaining what happened to Eddie, and what is so terribly wrong with him, you can’t even imagine trying to break the news that you’re pregnant.

Christ, how are you supposed to tell people when you can barely conceptualize it yourself?

How are you supposed to tell Eddie?

He can barely hear that you’re going to be working late or picking up a shift, because it means he’s going to have to stretch his imagination to find ways to occupy his time without you. It means a change in his routine, and routine is all he has besides bad habits and nightmares.  

And now you’re just supposed to add a whole other person to that? One who can’t take care of themself or tell you what’s wrong or when they need something or when they’re on the brink of death or… or or or…? 

Your stomach is in knots again, because having a baby is suddenly starting to sound just like having a whole other Eddie to take care of, and you can hardly manage one of him. 

You have no idea how he is going to react to hearing that your tight little twosome is about to expand.

Eddie doesn’t have a lot of things that are strictly his, and when it comes to those things he is not exactly the sharing type. 

He’ll go blue in the face arguing he doesn’t get jealous, then turn around and have a conniption when you stay on the shore of Lovers Lake with Dustin and send him out in the boat with the others… dot dot dot - dash dash dash - dot dot dot…

You bite back the cloying scent of mildew suddenly filling your sinuses and dig shallow crescent moons into your palms until you feel your feet touch back down on Earth. Then, all the hideous questions you’ve been successfully holding at bay all afternoon come flooding in like the tide. 

What if Eddie doesn’t want this? What if this is one of those cataclysmic deal breakers and you lose him forever… again? 

And why does this all suddenly feel like your fault? 

In an instant, you’re once more brimming with that irrational anger, because if this is anyone’s fault, it’s his. He’s the one who always wants five more minutes, who pulls you back into bed and paws at your clothes and does all the little things he knows you can’t resist and takes and takes and takes. 

He’s the one who did all the work – what did Carol and Tina used to call it? The good ol’ pump and dump? 

How many mornings have ended with Eddie taking those five minutes more, then rolling over to go back to sleep while you run around trying to clean up the evidence and pull yourself back into shape?

He’s the master behind this little ritual, you’re just the vessel – and what is the vessel for if not to carry the seed?  

You need to walk, you need to think. You need to talk to Eddie.

You take the long way home, going past the haunts of your youth and all the places you don’t go anymore. All the places you’ll never go again — all the places that don’t exist like your childhood home, the Starcourt Mall, Benny’s Diner, and the cozy little double wide on the far end of town, and you think about how Hawkins is a ghost town that doesn’t know its dead. 

You walk, and you think about Eddie, like you always do.

You think about how bad those first few months were, about his nightmares and how he could barely stand to shut his eyes, let alone sleep because of the monsters waiting for him beyond the hypnotic pull of his circadian rhythms. You think about how in the beginning, sometimes he didn’t even have to close his eyes to become trapped down there in the dark again. 

You think about how hard you’ve worked to get him to where he is now, all the blood, sweat, and tears it has taken to curb the itch for all the bad habits that got infinitely worse in his attempt to soothe all the things that hurt. Everything you had to do to center your world around his needs, his worries, his recovery, to make him feel safe. It’s taken a long time, with a lot of set backs, and a lot of bad days, but you tell yourself that you’re happy to have them at all. 

Recovery is a road, not a destination, or at least that’s what Eddie’s physical therapists liked to say before he quit on them – if all you have to worry about is making sure the rent is paid and the pantry is stocked and the door is barred against the monsters out there, you’re fine with that. 

Nevermind your nightmares and all the little things you have to do to cope.

You’re only the one who had to sit there and lie to Eddie that everything was going to be okay while his lips turned blue and his eyes went dark. You’re the one who had to stand at a basin in the hospital and try to scrub his blood out of your clothes, your skin, your hair and lock your knees to stay upright while you did everything you could to try and keep your shit together.

You’re the one who had to sit at his bedside and tune yourself in to the new normal of monitored heartbeats and machines forcing compressed air into collapsed lungs, feeling so incredibly helpless to do anything but wonder how you ever told such a hideous lie. 

Everything is gonna be okay… you wish you could make yourself believe that. 

On your really bad days, that helpless feeling comes roaring back so powerfully you feel like you’re going to collapse in on yourself like a dying star. It's those days that you can’t pull yourself away from Eddie no matter what, where you need those five minutes just as badly as he does, because you’re the one who sat there and told him he was going to be okay and then watched him die.  

And then, when the feeling passes, you pull yourself up, straighten yourself out, and you go to work, because the only thing that matters is Eddie.  

He’s the only thing you can count on when the world gets too loud, the memories of that other place get too close, and you begin to feel yourself slipping away. He’s the only thing keeping you grounded, even if he doesn’t know it, and you’re suddenly so worried that introducing a third element to your duet will blur those lines again. 

You think about all your progress, how on your best days it almost feels like things are back to good, and you think about how all of that hard work is about to become extremely fucking secondary to the little parasite nestled in your womb – not a baby so much as a tapeworm.

The notion causes your insides to stir with anxiety.

How could you have been so careless?

And why would you or anyone expect anything else to happen when you’re just a couple of stupid kids playing house and sharing a studio apartment, which is getting smaller by the moment. 

Kids having kids. 

You should have known better. 

Because time isn’t real, the sun is starting to set by the time you finally make your way home, well past three o'clock.

Past Melvald’s and ten minutes down the street to the concrete stone steps and into the recessed well containing the red door, marked with a tarnished silver six. You can still see the faintest outline of the other two sixes someone recently graffitied on either side of the metal placard – just in case anyone happened to forget who lives here – and suddenly you think you can hear the distant tones of Iron Maiden playing somewhere beyond.  

Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number… 

It is not the first time you’ve had the misfortune of living in Apartment 666, and as you fumble with your keys and glare at the lingering shadow of permanent marker on paint, you are certain it won’t be the last. 

Funny how you never used to hate Hawkins before. 

Now, you’re painted red with the feeling as you plunge the key into the lock and twist it hard enough that someday you’re certain the blade is going to snap off (and then what are you going to do?) Today, however, is not that day. 

As you turn the key you hear the rotor shift over with a satisfying THUNK. You twist the handle, push the door, and nothing happens. 

You groan to stop yourself from screaming, because despite what you think, the door is not out to get you. 

You’re just having a very bad day. 

The humidity the humidity signaling the inevitable heatwaves of the Indiana summer causes your front door to swell and stick, and you have to give it a firm kick to force it open. You know this, despite how you may have forgotten under the weight of everything else currently on your mind. 

And yet, today, when the door sticks, it feels personal. 

You grit your teeth and shut your eyes against it as you put your foot in the door and give it one more solid push. It swings inward, taking you with it and sending you staggering across the threshold and into the apartment. 

The door swings shut behind you with a loud THUMP, and all goes quiet inside your head. 

Just like that, you’re home. 

A singular room made up of kitchen, dining, living, and bed area, all squeezed into four hundred square feet of what the landlord had originally referred to as “cozy living”, when it was just you and your broken heart.

Now, it’s a chaotic mish-mash of all your things and what you could salvage of Eddie’s before someone went and burned what was left of the Munson residence to a smoking husk. 

When you get in, he is sitting on the unmade bed wearing the same sweat-stained t-shirt and pair of ratty pants he’s been in for the last three days. His hair is greasy and hanging limply around his face, which is lined in the shadow of a patchy stubble. You try to think back to the last time you remember him showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, doing anything but laying in bed watching television.

You aren’t shocked when the memory fails to arrive. 

Don’t be unkind, that gentle voice comes again. You stamp it out before it can finish. It’s hard to be kind when all you have to cling to is the way things used to be. 

Eddie used to have hobbies and interests and friends. Now, he only watches television and reads the TV guide until he’s got it memorized and waits for you to get home so he can use you to chase his demons away.

Eddie’s depressed and you’re pregnant – it’s not much to go on, competition-wise, but the poison of your mood is inclined to suggest that you got the short end of the stick on that one, considering it’s his depression that got you that way.  

Nothing gives such an instant boost of dopamine like an orgasm, after all. 

The apartment is a mess. There are dirty clothes and dishes everywhere, mixed in with piles of the clean you have yet to put away. Socks and underwear hang draped off the backs of the two rickety dining chairs from where you’d washed them in the sink and lay them to dry six days ago. The bedsheets are pushed down and hanging off the mattress, exposing half a dozen Hostess wrappers sitting on the rumpled, stained top sheet. 

And there sits Eddie in the middle of it all with a hand down his pants and a lit cigarette pinched between his lips. 

Your blood flash freezes and boils. 

He’s supposed to be quitting. That same gentle – nagging – voice whines from the back of your mind. And he promised he wouldn’t smoke inside. 

You have to clench your teeth until your ears start ringing to shut that little voice up. 

“Hey!” Eddie yelps the moment you appear, leaping up and waving his arms around to try and disperse the smoke as he kicks the evidence of his afternoon indulgence off of the mattress and steps down with a hard thump – he’s limping ever so slightly as he crosses the room to you, “Hi! Shit… um… this isn’t what it looks like,”

Which is a bald faced lie – it is exactly what it looks like, and suddenly you can’t stop the mental tally of all the things you asked him to do today, and all the things that remain undone. 

It makes your skin itch, then as he gets closer, you see the holes in his socks – holes in his neck and ribs where he’d nearly been eaten alive – and you remember too late that you’d promised to pick him up a new pack of crew socks on your way home from work. You forgot. 

Part of you supposes that makes you even, and you stuff it down with everything else you’re not presently available to feel. 

You decide you don’t care. 

You don’t care that he’s smoking again even though he’s still not fully recovered from his collapsed lung, or that he gave up on physical therapy because it was too hard, or that he never does anything he says he’s going to and still always expects you to give him five more minutes.

And he probably still expects you to let him fuck you later on, even after all that. 

You don’t care you don’t care you don’t care. 

And after a moment, you’re surprised to find that you really don’t, (you do, you really fucking do) you’re just trying to see where the cigarette went when he less-than-subtly flicked it away.

The last thing you need to end your shitty day is to have the apartment burn down.  

Eddie mistakes your silence for anger, as he always does, and you watch him begin to fidget as he waits for you to speak. 

You don’t, because you don’t have anything to say, but also because he’s not wrong. You are angry.

You’re standing there, clenching your teeth and fists and doing everything in your power to swallow the urge to yell at him, or to nit pick all the things that are out of place in your apartment – no, not just yours anymore. He lives here, too – this is his home now.

“Where’ve you been?” Eddie asks when the tense silence becomes too much. “I was starting to get worried,” 

He reaches for you and you surprise yourself by letting him pull you into a tight hug that feels a tad too much like it’s meant to try and distract you from everything he evidently decided was less important than smoking cigarettes, eating Twinkies, and playing with himself. 

You’re mad as hell, and if you were paying any attention you would realize that the emotion is getting stronger by the moment, but you lean into him and snake your arms around Eddie’s midsection. You bury your face in his shirt and sigh against him as you chase the comfort of his embrace, waiting for the world to fall away and the cocoon of his safety to envelope you. 

Once upon a time, all you needed was a good Eddie hug to chase your worries away. Now, under his touch, all you can think is how he reeks of nicotine and smoke and days old deodorant and everything else that comes with unwashed boy.

But you have to remind yourself that you don’t care, because he says he was getting worried. 

“You were?” you ask, and your voice sounds odd against your ears. 

“Yeah,” he shifts back and holds you to the spot, like he needs to get a good look at you to make sure you’re still you and that nothing has changed in the few hours it’s been since you left that morning — he worries so much these days. “I went to get you from work when you didn’t come home,” He says. “But you weren’t there.” 

It sounds strangely accusatory, and you aren’t exactly sure what to do with that as a solid lump begins to form in the back of your throat. 

He rubs his hands up and down your arms in a soothing gesture, like he’s attempting to create friction in slow motion. It’s something he’s always done that has been comforting in the past, but right now it is only making a sore spot where he’s rubbing the skin raw. 

You look from his attempt at gentle, reverent contact to where he is carefully watching you, and feel your brows creep toward one another as that irrational anger begins to rise in the pit of your belly.

This is all his fault, and part of you seems to think he knows that, even if he doesn’t know. 

“Okay, I can see that you’re mad…” Eddie starts, doing his utmost to remain as diplomatic as possible so as not to set you off but also to accept no responsibility, “… are you mad?” 

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him, instead you crane your neck trying to see around him to find that goddamn cigarette before it can catch and send everything up in smoke… literally. 

You feel Eddie’s fingers flex on your biceps.

“Don’t be mad. I was gonna get around to it, I swear, but then you didn’t come home from work and… and I was worried! I didn’t know where you were,” . 

Anger subsides — if only briefly — and you get almost all the way around to feeling guilty about that until you clock the cigarette butt smoldering on the yellowing linoleum in front of the kitchen sink, and then Eddie finishes his sentence. 

“...And I didn’t know if you were gonna be home for dinner,” 

He flinches when your head snaps around and you finally level him with a poisonous look. 

“So you smoked half a pack of camels and ate a box of Twinkies?” you scoff. 

You want to ask where he even got those, but then you remember. He went to Melvald’s looking for you, and when he didn’t find you there, he must have figured he deserved a treat for braving the big, scary world. 

He gets a treat and you get to watch your world crumble – you could spit fire. 

Eddie’s mouth falls open like he’s going to say something to defend himself, but then he just laughs. You can tell it’s out of nerves rather than humor, the way he always does when he’s caught red handed and doesn’t know what to say to get himself out of trouble. 

You would punch him if you weren’t half certain he would break into a thousand pieces if you did. Even then you’re not so sure you’d feel worse about breaking your boyfriend or having to vacuum him up off the floor after. 

“I was worried!” Eddie insists when you turn away and throw your keys into the dish with a thunderous crash.

“You said that already.”  You snap, storming across the tiny living space and stooping to pinch the half burned stock of cinders and throw it into the sink with a hiss. 

You almost wish that he would have just given you that kicked puppy look, then you could have at least felt bad about biting his head off. But no, he had to go and get irreverent on you. 

Hi honey, welcome home! I know I said I would clean up and do some house work and stop smoking so I don’t get lung cancer by the time I’m thirty and die, but you see, I can’t be fucked to care about anything but myself! But remember, it’s not my fault, I’m depressed!

You’d spent so much time worrying about what you were going to say to him, how you were going to break the news, but as you step out of your shoes and drop your bag onto it’s designated doorside hook, you decide that if he can’t be fucked than neither can you.

Those little pink lines say differently. 

You suddenly feel ready to burst. 

You cross to the bed, snatch up one of the pillows and press it to your face, then you scream as loud and long as you can. When you’re satisfied that your lungs are completely flattened, you lean forward and drop down onto the mattress with a muffled THUMP, and let the tide take you out. 

It’s just one more thing that douses you in a fresh layer of red. Because your first foray into real adulthood didn’t begin with moving in together, or engaging in excessive amounts of sex just because you could, or even the unexpected addition to your lives — it began with the waterbed Eddie had insisted upon. 

After he was discharged from the hospital, you learned very quickly that your mattress was too soft for his broken body, and the nice, “sensibly priced” one you’d gone out and tried to replace it with had ended up being too firm. 

After all that talk and research and careful consideration, all the work you put into trying to make him comfortable in his new home, in this new situation, and the mattress was too goddamn firm. 

Then came the waterbed, and Eddie’s first full night of sleep since leaving the hospital, and you didn’t dream of sending the damned thing back, no matter how badly you hated it. 

You still hate it as you lie there, coasting on the waves and stewing in all the ugly thoughts and feelings and emotions that you are meant to be safe from inside the vacuum chamber of your apartment. 

For a time, all you hear is the muffled sloshing of the trussed up waterballoon and the gentle murmuring of informercials playing on the half muted television. Then, you hear the slow thump of footsteps approaching and feel the mattress dip and slosh beside you. 

Your guts heave and for a brief, yet terrifying moment, the nausea returns. 

“...D’you wanna talk about it?” Eddie asks tentatively from somewhere not nearly close enough. 

“No.” You say, knowing well enough that this is not a conversation you can keep putting off. 

“Okay…” he says, sucks his teeth, then tries again, “D’you wanna hear about my day?”

“No.” You insist. 

“Great. So today, I got up at a reasonable hour and totally didn’t sleep in until two-thirty again. I did everything you asked me to and ate a healthy, full balanced meal and only watched, like, half an hour of tv – don’t worry, just PBS, Babe, only the really boring, educational shit. But I swear on my life, this whole place was spotless … and then out of no where – WHAM! You’ll never guess what happened.” 

He pauses for effect, and waits for you to play along, to rise to his prompting like you normally do, but he’s sorely mistaken if he thinks you’re in the mood for games. You wire your jaw shut and leave him waiting for you to answer. When you don’t, Eddie repeats himself,

“You’ll never guess what happened.” 

Finally, he prods you sharply under the armpit with two fingers, and you flinch, curling into yourself with the kind of high yelp that can only come from being tickled. 

“Ask me what happened.” he prompts when you uncover your face to glare at him. 

You tell yourself you won’t, but you’ve never been able to resist him, even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad, and especially with the way he’s leaning over and looking at you, all soft eyes and long lashes. Because in spite of the smoking and the lying and everything else, every part of you loves every part of him, even when you want to punch him in the face. 

“What happened.” You mutter reluctantly, not a question so much as a submission – Eddie smiles. 

It’s a half hearted thing that doesn’t reach his eyes, but you know what it’s meant to convey – Good Girl. Your heart skips a beat and you kick yourself for still being so stupid for him, even after all this time. You’re supposed to be mad at him. 

He shrugs. 

“Killer Klowns,” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“...you gotta be kidding.”

You turn away to bury your face back in the pillow, and Eddie keeps on talking and talking and talking, because that’s all he does anymore – try to talk himself out of trouble. Funny, the way he never seems to remember how that never works for him. 

“Baby? Baby – hand to God…” he says, pausing again. You just lie there and wait for him to finish, “...They were from Outer Space.”

And when his joking fails to garner any sort of joy, the sentiment goes out of him in an almost tangible wave. For a moment, there’s nothing but measured silence as the refrigerator kicks on and vibrates gently against his guitar, hidden from sight and collecting dust. 

In the interval of time between your release from the hospital and Eddie’s homecoming, you went looking for what could be saved in the wreckage of the Munson trailer. Thankfully, you knew where to look for what was most precious, like the family photos and heirlooms. You rescued what you could and replaced what you couldn’t, but there are some things that are too precious to ever replace.

Things like Eddie’s guitar.

When the world came tumbling down in those last few moments of whatever the hell happened at the end there, Sweetheart had taken brutal damage, and that was before someone burned the place down. She was barely clinging to life when you finally unearthed her from the rubble – all but one of her strings had snapped, the heat of the fire had caused her resin to bubble and warp, and without its protective layer, someone had been able to stomp her body nearly to oblivion. 

The violence of it broke your heart, and you’re not ashamed to admit you’d kneeled over her carcass and wept when you found her.

It made you physically sick to have to return her to Eddie in such a state, but there was only so much you could do without taking time and money you couldn’t spare to get her out to the Guitar Center in Indianapolis. 

She’d once been his prized possession, the focal point of his bedroom put on proud display, the only other woman in his life, now, she’s just some forgotten thing tucked into the space between the refrigerator and the wall, hidden from sight and collecting dust. 

Somehow that’s worse than any of it. 

Eddie told you it was because the apartment was so small and she fit so perfectly in that alcove, but you know it’s because after all that happened, he can’t stand to look at her. 

The refrigerator vibrates against her twisted body, and slowly, the room begins to fill with the muted buzz of a low E.

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart.” Eddie sighs, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you.

You feel the mattress dip as his hand comes down to rest at the side of your hip, caging you in beneath him, “I’m just trying to make you feel better… honest.” 

You heave a weighted sigh and roll over onto your back, throwing your arms over your eyes and baring down until you see spots and colors and stars. He settles down over you, and when you feel his weight come down to rest on your belly, your heart briefly palpitates. 

You have to stifle the urge to tell him to be careful, because he doesn’t know. How could he know? You haven’t told him. 

“I’m sorry,” He says again, and you can’t help yourself. 

“You’re always sorry when you get caught, but you always do it again.” You bite. 

You feel the corner of his mouth twitch against you and for a long time you both just lie there, wondering how the hell you got here. 

You like to think that under normal circumstances you might not stick around for so much bullshit, but unfortunately for you, your life never got back to normal after you put it on hold to go looking for the jerk last spring, and now you’re committed to him, warts and all. 

And the pair of you have always existed outside the bounds of “normal circumstances” anyway. 

It occurs to you now that this is exactly why you’d been so leery about coming straight home. You’d needed time to prepare before facing Eddie, to be certain before having to explain yourself, because it’s your job to protect him, but how are you supposed to protect him from himself, especially when he’s hell bent on following this path of self destruction to the end of the line?

But you’re still not certain, and you’re starting to think you really need to take another test…

“Where’d you go earlier?” Eddie mumbles dejectedly - you feel his voice rumble in the pit of your stomach and it sends the faintest stirrings of something you absolutely do not want to be feeling down through your central cortex – arousal. 

“Nowhere.” You say, distantly feeling your lips move and the vibration of your voice, but not hearing yourself speak. 

Before you realize what you’re doing, you shift your lower body, ever so subtly trying to move your hips up in search of a little friction.

Stop that, you silly bitch. You are not going to give him a pity fuck just because you feel bad about making him feel bad. 

You sigh. 

“I just needed to walk a little… stretch my legs… guess I lost track of time,” and then, “Sorry,” 

Eddie says something, and you are vaguely aware of responding – him asking if everything is okay and you dismissing the question, building up another layer of that lie and reassuring him that everything is fine…

At least, you think that’s what you said, you can’t be certain because his voice is still buzzing down through your belly and stirring that raunchy little pot, and you’re still fighting tooth and nail to stop your hips from squirming.  

You know if you don’t do something, you’re absolutely going to end up giving him a pity fuck, and that’s exactly how you ended up in the situation you’re in now. Because when Eddie calls, you come running, no matter what. 

I should tell him. 

You try to take another one of those deep, steadying breaths to banish the skittery tightness forming in your chest, and you choke on it.

Something begins to press in at the back of your eyes, welling up and crowding them in your sockets. Your vision blurs and before you realize what is about to happen, your lashes flood with hot, stinging tears.

You begin to cry. 

Goddammit. It really has just been a very shitty day. 

You uncover your eyes long enough to mask the motion of wiping away the wetness streaming across your cheeks by checking your watch, and you see that it is not there. A bright burst of panic sparks in your chest sending adrenaline shooting down to the tips of your fingers and toes before you remember how you’d removed it to wash your hands after being sick in the employee bathroom at Melvald’s. 

Before your life came grinding to a halt in ten minutes or less.

I should tell him. 

You imagine – you hope – your watch is still sitting there on the edge of the sink. And then you remember that it doesn’t matter if it is, because time stopped in November of 1983. 

Time isn’t real, it’s just another Thursday. 

You heave another one of those measured breaths – this one a little wetter and shakier than the last – and drop your arms to come down gently over Eddie’s shoulders. 

You sniffle and sigh, and he immediately twists over to look up at you. 

You look down and meet wide brown eyes – sad eyes – duller than they’ve been in months, red rimmed and ringed in dark circles like bruises. He’s so pale, his full lips are dry and cracked and raw from where you know he’s been biting at them. 

Eddie’s brows come together to form a deep crease of worry and suddenly your face is bracketed in his hands, brushing at the wetness you can’t manage to stem and apologizing endlessly for everything he’s ever done wrong. 

He doesn’t know what he did to hurt you, but he’s sorry for it. Sorry, sorry, always so incredibly sorry – how many times can someone say something before it loses all meaning? 

Sorry doesn’t mean shit coming from Eddie – yes it does, don’t be unkind.

He’s depressed, and you’re pregnant, and now you’re crying about it and he’s desperate to take the blame for it. 

To his credit, Eddie hauls himself up to meet you and pulls you into his arms, crushing you against him as you go to pieces. You can feel the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

He wants to know why you’re crying, so you should just get it over with and tell him, right? You can’t make the words come out, and now that you’ve started crying, you can’t stop. 

He deserves to know, but it’s your job to protect him, and so long as you keep this secret to yourself, he’s still safe from the harm it might cause. Everything is still okay, you just have to keep holding that door.   

It takes what feels like a very long time before you calm down, and even after you do, you just lay there facing each other, feeling Eddie’s eyes boring holes into your forehead. 

You have to tell him. 

“Are you mad?” Eddie asks before you can get the chance, reaching across to thumb away one last stray tear from the hollow beneath your eye – the lump in your throat threatens to swell again.

Tell him now.

You swallow hard and try not to choke on it.  

“Yes,” you say honestly, “But not at you … not really,” 

The corner of his mouth twitches again as he tries and fails to smile.

“Who do you need me to beat up?” Eddie asks in his best approximation of something he might have said once upon a time. It doesn’t hit quite the way it used to, and despite the shy smile that quirks up at the corner of your lips, you feel a sharp stab of grief for the person you lost on the other side of the world.

It's not a fair thought to have. He’s still here, part of him at least, and he’s fighting to get back to you with everything he’s got. 

You know he’s trying, and it immediately floods you with guilt. About biting his head off, about lying, about going missing long enough to leave him wondering what the hell could have happened to you. 

That was selfish of you, but you’re not going to apologize for it, because above everything else he said he was going to do, he promised to take better care of himself.

You suppose that makes you even. 

The silence that follows is unbearably weighted, like a sopping wet blanket – like the air in the other place – and you have to make yourself look at him to make sure you haven’t gone suddenly deaf, and to make sure he’s still there.

When you look, you’re not surprised to find that Eddie is looking too, like he’s had the same thought and it’s struck him with a bolt of blinding fear. You both do that a lot now, go checking to make sure the other is still there, even when you’re laying pressed against each other like this. 

He’s giving you that strange hard look you’ve come to know very well. It’s the same look he had on his face every time you caught him staring at you over the course of that long, terrible week last spring – the one he gives you when he knows something is wrong, but he is too afraid to ask on the off chance that he’s right about it. It’s the way his face looks all the time, now, ever since he got out of the hospital.  

Are we okay? He wants to ask, Do you still love me?

Because no matter how many times you tell him, it never seems to settle in. He always needs to hear it one more time. 

He always needs five more minutes. 

Just five minutes more more more more more –

Well, what about what you need? You’re the one watching your life fall apart, you’re the one who’s pregnant.

Then again, how do you know you haven’t been hallucinating the whole thing? You do have to tell him, but you really ought to take another test, just to be really, really sure before you share your findings with the class.  

A false positive isn’t unheard of. What’s the harm in a second opinion? You won’t know until you know.

Eddie follows when you sit up, and quickly takes your hands back from where you’ve begun scrubbing them furiously against your face, trying to rid yourself of the cloying miasma of salt drying tacky on your skin. 

“Don’t do that,” he tells you, and you don’t even bother asking him why. 

He does it because you would have done it to him. 

That’s how he operates now, relying heavily on what he knows you would do moment to moment, because he’s still that lost in the reeds. It’s the only way he knows how to take care of himself anymore: what would you do for him in any given situation?

The next thing you know, you’ve got your arms around his neck, squeezing him as tight as you dare, as tight as you think he needs to be held just to remember that he’s still here, and you wish like hell he would just pick up what you were putting down already. You wish he would know exactly what is going on with you without even asking, like he used to.

But you know he can’t, his mind is too clouded for the kind of clairvoyance lovers share anymore.

Eddie’s head thumps forward to rest atop your shoulder and strong arms – less strong than they used to be – squeeze you tight enough around the midsection to cause something in your back to pop. You don’t care. It’s grounding and it’s what you’ve needed all afternoon. 

You go chasing the feeling as you breathe in another two-count and exhale on three, twisting your head to bury your nose into the crook of his neck.

He stinks like days old sweat and your perfume. 

“I’m sorry I was mean,” you say into the filthy curtain of his hair, and you’re suddenly reminded of how you’d stood together like that in the dark of his bedroom a lifetime ago, counting down the moments you had to spare before you slipped back into the other place for the last time.

“S’okay,” Eddie slurs, and you feel the guilt of it throb painfully in your chest as you nuzzle against him, trying to slip beneath the surface and occupy the space beneath his skin. 

It’s the only way he’ll ever feel close enough without being inside of you – the gentle rumbling of your prior arousal begins to stir again, and you have to remind yourself that you’re not doing that.

“I love you,” 

He makes a soft sound and you feel his fingers flex against you, digging needily into your skin and pulling you up into his lap.

“Say that again,” he says, holding you against him.  

The fibers of his well worn t-shirt make the beginnings of a friction burn against your cheek as you shift to compensate for this new position – it’s hard to stay tucked against him now that you’re sitting above him, harder still not to sit right down and press the seam of your pussy against the bulge you can feel forming in his sweatpants. 

For the sake of your own self preservation – why? It’s not like he can get you more pregnant than you already are – you sit back on his thighs and bring your hands up to grace the curve of his throat. Eddie tilts his head back to follow and gaze up at you through his lashes. 

“Say it again,” he says, and days old stubble scratches the ridge of your knuckles as you stroke the side of his face.

“I love you,” you say thickly, for all the times you said it and he didn’t believe you, and all the times he needed to hear it and you kept it to yourself.

You listen as Eddie breathes out a shaky, charcoally sigh. His eyes slide shut and he lets his head drop forward to thump against your sternum. For half a blessed second, everything feels exactly like it should. Not like it used to, but as right as it possibly can be after everything that’s happened. 

It’s just you and Eddie. 

You and Eddie and the sea monkey growing inside of you.

Just like that, your brief moment of perfect peace begins to crack. You curl your arms around his neck in defiance of it and squeeze him a little tighter and do everything you can to hold it in place. 

He’ll be okay if you just hold him tight enough. Everything will be okay – nothing bad can happen when you’re together. 

Except for all the bad that happened at Rick’s Place and Lover’s Lake and on the other side of the world and… shut up shut up shUT UP!

Everything is going to be fine.  

You’ll tell Eddie your secret, and he’ll tell you that everything will be alright. You’ll figure it out, like you always do, and you’ll be happy to have whatever you end up with.   

You press your lips into the crown of his head, and he makes a soft sound beneath you. 

You tell yourself you ought t0 do it now. Don’t make a big deal out of it, but tell him and get it over with all the same so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. 

Eddie will help you – you don’t know how, but he will. He’s the only one who can help you, so just tell him. 

“Are you hungry?” You ask.

Coward.

He shakes his head and breathes a deeply melancholic sigh into your collar. Of course he isn’t, he’s full of sugar and coffee and nicotine, he’s not going to be hungry until next week. 

Still, you know he’s going to crash hard and be sick in the morning if you don’t make him eat something besides processed pound cake. He’s not hungry, but he’ll eat if you’re eating — the thought of food makes your insides clench and heave. 

“Are you?” He asks, shifting back so he can look at you again – in another life you watch him retreat to the stove at Rick Lipton’s place. 

“I made dinner,” that Eddie says, and you’re thrust into a memory of sitting with your heads bowed together over a flaking linoleum table, a sticky pot of Spaghetti-o’s and a hundred and one unsaid things between you — your stomach roils with nausea. 

“No, I’m good.” you tell this Eddie, your Eddie. 

That Eddie was your Eddie too, and sometimes you miss him so badly you can hardly breathe. 

You shift further back on his knees so you can look at him, really look at him, and tell him – you have to tell him – and you take his hands in yours. 

“Eddie, listen – there’s something we need to talk about…” You start, and feel him tense beneath you. 

You know what he’s thinking, more bad news. He’s about to lose something else, and you don’t have the heart to quell those fears just yet. If you get stuck trying to make it all better before it even begins, you’ll never get the words out.

You have to tell him. 

Deep breath in – the words sit on your tongue like burning coals, and yet you continue to fail to spit them out – just say it.

Two measly little words and it will be over. 

I’m pregnant.  

Say it, say it now … for the love of God, say anything.  

It’s only when you turn Eddie’s hands up to see his palms that you are saved from your sudden onset muteness as a spot of bright blood drying tacky in the creases of his hand makes itself known.

“Oh, my God!” You gasp, wondering how in the hell you didn’t see that before, “What happened?”  

“Nothing.” He mumbles, jerking his arm back to try and hide the wounded extremity. “It’s just a splinter.” 

You can feel your face pulling into a frown, even if you aren’t conscious of intentionally emoting, and you reach after him. 

“Let me see,” you say — Eddie says, because you’re out in the woods with two broken fingers that need setting and a black eye courtesy of Jason Carver, “Baby, let me see…” 

To his credit, Eddie doesn’t put up as much of a fight as you did back then, though only because you think after all this time he doesn’t have much fight left, and gives you his hand when you reach for it back in the here and now. 

Fingers in his, you turn his palm up again to scrutinize his shoddy work and feel your heart stutter.  

He’s dug a needlessly ugly crater into the calloused meat between his forefinger and thumb. Sticky, semi-coagulated blood is still oozing up in a ring around the faint shadow marring his flesh, and for half a second you’re afraid he’d gone and done something stupid like try to extract the foreign agent with a pair of scissors. 

When you look, you’re semi-relieved to see that it is only a pair of worn needle nose pliers balancing precariously on the bedside table. Still, you bite the pulpy mass you’ve spent the day chewing into the inside of your cheek until you taste blood to stop yourself from saying anything about it.

Eddie has always been such a boy, blundering through life and bashing his skull against problems because someone once told him to “use his head”. He always makes everything harder than it needs to be, and then wonders why he doesn’t feel any better by the end of it.

“I couldn’t find the tweezers,” he explains sheepishly.

You look up at him and gaze into those big sweet doe eyes — pretty eyes. Sad eyes. 

“They’re in the drawer —” You remind him, taking gentle hold of his face in one hand and squeezing, “—where they belong,” and then you push up to stand over him, “I’ll get them.”

You turn for the bathroom and don’t let go of his hand until the pull of distance demands it – his fingers slip from your grasp, and you blink back the beating of heavy wings and gnashing teeth, wrenching you out of his touch and into the dark of your mind’s eye.    

Across the room and into the little bathroom, you shut the door behind you. 

You click the lock. 

You don’t know why you do that, except maybe because you’ve been doing it all day, and you’re desperate for a moment to yourself in this four hundred square foot box of self pity. You tell yourself you only need a moment, but suddenly you can’t imagine that naïve girl who had been so ready to never have to bother with something like personal space and boundaries again.

What a foolish little thing she was.   

Young love doesn’t have the foresight for things like the shock of falling into the toilet at three o’clock in the morning because Eddie’s never lived with someone who doesn’t take a piss standing up and you’ve never had to navigate sharing a bathroom with someone who does. 

The learning curb has been steep. 

You drop the toilet seat with a loud clacking thump and you upend the grocery bag of prenatal contraband you’d smuggled out of Melvald’s. 

Part of you hopes Eddie didn’t see you grab your bag off the hook, but you suppose if he did, you’ll have to explain that behavior later, though at that point, you imagine he’ll have a lot more on his mind than wondering why you need to bring your purse with you to the bathroom. 

You drop your jeans, pee on the stick, and gnaw your fingers to the bone as you witness a little more of your life flash before your eyes with every passing second until you count out ten minutes … or less, as the packaging so boldly promised.

And when you receive your second opinion, you decide you could stand to get a third, so you lean over the bathroom sink, guzzle as much tap water as you can stomach and you do it all over again.

Colors and shapes and stars explode across your vision in a kaleidoscopic dance as you dig the heels of your palms into the jelly of your eye sockets and you wait … wait… wait to see what will happen next. 

There you sit, wringing your hands, bouncing your knees, and you wait ten minutes and ten minutes more until you get your results in thin pink lines and bright blue tabs and little green plus signs.

Positive results, which means… 

“Shit.” You hiss — the plastic casing creaks and begins to tremble in your hands, “Fuck!”

A sharp rap on the door sends you leaping damn near out of your skin and the test goes clattering to the floor. 

The action is followed by a cautious utterance of your name, muffled by layers of wood vinyl and hollow core. 

Your heart lurches– along the bottom of the bathroom door, you can see the subtle shadow of idling movement. You forgot about Eddie, and you wonder with a start just how long he has been standing there, waiting for you. 

For ten minutes or less, you imagine. You have to swallow the urge to tell him to go away.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you suddenly feel ready to burst into tears again – goddamn hormones.

You glance down at the strip of plastic casing and cardboard bullshit, at the two pink lines standing boldly against the soiled backdrop and grinning wickedly at you for all the smart decisions you didn’t make over the course of the last fourteen months of domestic bliss.

The answer rockets to the front of your mind.

No. You’re not okay. You’re pregnant.

You swallow hard to try and banish the cobwebs blooming in your throat, and when they thicken, you swallow again. 

Eddie is speaking before you can decide how to answer him. 

“… are you feeling sick again?” 

You just manage catch to catch the burst of bitter laughter before it can come bleating out of you, and you shake your head for no one in particular.

“Yeah – I mean no.” You say unevenly, “I’m okay, I’m just–” Pregnant. “–feeling a little bit off.” 

You know between the vagueness of the answer and the discovery of a locked door between you, Eddie’s mind is bound to be spinning out with worry. 

He worries so much about everything these days — just wait until he finds out about the baby, that’ll really give him something to worry about. 

You listen to him shifting his weight from one socked foot to the other on the carpet, to the soft thump that follows and has you picturing him resting his forehead on the door jamb. 

You brace your hands on your knees and push up to stare at your reflection, eyes heavy and ringed with exhaustion, about to get so much worse when you’ve got a tiny helpless creature screaming its lungs out at you in the inability to communicate.

You hear the tentative rasping of your name eke out from behind the door, and watch the handle jiggle in the mirror. 

All you want is to go to bed, sleep this weirdness off, and wake up tomorrow to find that everything has gone back to normal. 

Not the normal of this morning’s blissful ignorance, but the normal of days past. Of school days and homework and gossip and when the only thing you had to worry about not getting caught sneaking out of class just to steal five minutes behind the bleachers with Eddie.

The salad days.

You just want things the way they were — Eddie the way he used to be and you the way you used to be, sitting tucked away together in his bedroom at the old place, before anything went wrong and it was just you and your dreams for the future. 

More than anything, though, you wish you could buck up the courage to tell Eddie you’re pregnant so you can drop this suffering in silence bullshit. 

You carefully wrap everything back in that same plastic bag you never want to see again and stash it in the cabinet beneath the sink, tucked in behind all your forgotten bottles of shampoo and cleaning supplies, where no one will accidently find them. 

Then, you push up on creaky legs and address the elephant in the other room. You don’t unlock the door.  

“I’m gonna shower,” you watch your reflection say, it is a hollow, robotic sound, and Eddie doesn’t answer right away. You can hear him just outside the door.

Thinking. Worrying. 

Pouting more like. 

And you know he’s going to ask before he even says it. 

“…D’you want some company?”

Bingo.

Never has a sentence embodied a more desperate plea to be let in — he may as well have been scratching at the door and whining like a dog who’s been locked out. 

Let me in let me in let me in please let me in. 

You clench your teeth and blink back another wave of those pervasive tears pressing at the backs of your eyes as a strange, misplaced resentment wells suddenly in you.

It’s a startling feeling.

Not the same as the cheap, petty anger you’d felt before but a black and violent thing that does not belong to you. It has no business existing inside of you, and yet here it is, telling you that you can’t stand it. You can’t stand how much Eddie needs you all the time. You give him everything you have and he always needs more. 

Just five more minutes, please just give me five more minutes. Don’t leave me, just love me, let me in, let me in Please please please.

It’s not his fault. You tell the violent feeling. He’s depressed. He doesn’t have hobbies anymore…

He doesn’t have anything anymore — it bites back, he just has you. 

You shake your head in melancholic defiance of these conflicting feelings.

He needs me. You insist.

He’s using you up. It responds. He’s smothering you.

And you hate the feeling for being right. All he does is take and take and take, and you’re nothing if not a fool for giving him everything he needs and then some. You love Eddie more than anything, more than everything, but if he doesn’t stop taking, there’s not going to be anything left for you… for this— 

“—Baby?” Eddie calls faintly, startling you again. 

You have to take a moment longer than is probably necessary to calm yourself enough to decide whether or not you can stomach his “company” right now. 

“No,” you sigh, “I just wanna wash the day off.”

You imagine the pang of fear lancing through his chest as an invisible box is ticked off: the second sign of trouble.

Locked door. His alarm bells are ringing. Can’t get to you. You’re trapped trapped trapped. Let me in let me in let me in let me –

There is the scratching of the chewed edge of his thumbnail digging into the painted wood, peeling it — probably causing another splinter — and you have to bite your tongue to keep from telling him to stop doing that, because you’re not going to get your security deposit back. 

Who cares about security deposits or contraception or personal space, you both almost died, remember? Live a little!

You turn away from the stranger in the mirror and face the door, forcing yourself to sound chipper as you make empty promises about the future to the foreign shell of the person you have to remind yourself you love. 

“I’ll be out in a jiffy,” you call unevenly, “…just let me rinse off, okay?” 

There is a long moment of disappointed silence before Eddie finally responds. 

“...Mm’kay…” 

Fading footsteps thrum a gentle beat as you step out of your abused and crinkled jeans. Oddly, you feel like you’ve spent more time out of them today than in them, and that might almost be funny if it weren’t for the circumstances.

There is a moment of peace as you continue undressing, then the rapid thump thump thump of returning steps. A sharp knock summons another one of those long-suffering sighs whooshing up from the deepest recesses of your body.

“What do you need, Eds?” You ask a little too harshly, pinching your eyes toward the bridge of your nose with your forefinger and thumb. 

You tell yourself you’re not angry with him, you’re just tired and uncertain and scared of that uncertainty. 

“Tweezers.”

Oh. Right. 

They’re in the drawer, neatly tucked away and exactly where they belong. Just where you said they’d be. 

You crack the door as far as you dare and don’t look at your boyfriend when you take his palm in your hand, despite the holes you can feel him boring into the top of your head. 

Don’t shut me out — please – oh, God, please let me in! he begs you with only a few short breaths as you pluck the thick spur of plywood from his hand and douse it in rubbing alcohol for good measure. 

Eddie hisses and bends to kiss you on the cheek. You let him do it, then shut the door in his face. 

If he didn’t know there was something wrong before, he’s bound to be crawling out of his skin with it now. 

You don’t care, and you feel terrible about it as you lean over the tub to pull the pin and turn the water on. 

The shower head roars to life, and as it fills the room with noise and steam, you can barely hear yourself think – thank God.

You stand under the stream and let the water run hot on you until it goes cold, and even then you linger and accept the beating it gives you. 

Eyes shut, senses dulled, body pinging with goosebumps, you feel your muscles begin to loosen and relax. The outside world goes swirling down the drain, and you finally let your hand creep up to touch your belly. You splay your fingers over the expanse of skin and hold it there, feeling for something, anything, some sign of the life lurking there among your guts. When you don’t feel anything — why would you feel anything when the baby is not even a baby yet — you try your hand at rubbing the spot, back and forth, like you’ve seen people do to their fake pregnant bellies in the movies. 

The results are middling beneath pruning fingers and the shower head is pinging ice at you now, stabbing you in the scalp, so you decide with no small amount of disappointment that it’s time to get out. 

Just as you expected, Eddie is waiting for you when you flick off the bathroom light and re-emerge into the bedroom/living room/kitchen combo.

You’re almost surprised to find that the room has been more or less straightened. It’s not clean, by any stretch of the word, but trash, clothes, and all manner of discarded knick-knacks have been removed from the floor and stashed in other strategic places. The bedsheets have been tidied in the best approximation Eddie can manage for making a bed, though you can’t say it looks much different than it did before. He couldn’t do it right before he had his guts ripped out, and time and practice has had no effect on that inefficiency. 

He’s sitting there on the bed, trying to look casual with his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, arms crossed, fingers crossed, and you give him a weak smile as you enter, holding your towel and heading for the chest of drawers on your side of the bed. You stop short when you notice the clothes he’s laid out for you: an oversized Houston Oilers t-shirt you’d thrifted for him before he came to stay and a soft pair of shorts – how unbearably sweet. 

“Feel better?” He asks hopefully, boyishly, as you step into the shorts. 

You nod, and you can’t even call it a lie, because getting the muck of the world out of your skin and hair has made enough of an impact to improve your headspace exponentially.

At least you don’t feel like you’re about to start screaming anymore – Jefferson Starship is happy enough to do that for you, howling to the elusive Jane, still playing that same old game she never can win. 

Eddie’s put on the mixtape you made him in the summer of ‘84, which you’re not certain he’s ever heard the end of – if only because he can’t make it through Dancing Queen without saying something snide about ABBA and disco as a whole – but he’s trying to make it better.

You tell yourself that, in spite of everything else, you have to give him credit for that as you slip the t-shirt over your head and walk your towel back to the bathroom. 

And if he’s trying, then you’re a fool for not trying too, so you do your best to put a happy look on your face when you reemerge and jerk your thumb over your shoulder.

“Okay, your turn.”

His mouth drops open, but you don’t let him protest. 

“Go on – git.” You say, affecting a thick southern drawl to try and lighten the mood. 

Eddie just frowns at you.

“If you wanted me to shower you shoulda let me join you,” He grouses. 

You stick him to the spot with a pointed look.

“If I’d let you join me, we wouldn’t be getting clean in there, and you know it.” You press, “I mean it, Eds. You smell like a garbage truck. When’s the last time you showered?” 

He snorts and does his best to make the jab to his ego look like feigned hurt feelings, but you can see the edges of his mask flickering. Not even near death had been enough to dampen that ego of his. 

It’s a bizarre thing to witness what is left of the Eddie from before fighting for real estate with what has grown into the Eddie here and now. If you could capture it in an image, you’d hang it on the wall and call it “the duality of man,”, but that wouldn’t help you to get Eddie into the shower any more than your attempt at gentle coaxing. 

You have to resist the urge to offer some sort of trade off, because there are scant few things that motivate Eddie these days that don’t end with you opening your legs for him. And you have to remind yourself, once more for the people in the back, that’s exactly how you wound up in your silly little predicament. 

Back when you were in high school and still strangers to one another, there had been a wildly circulated rumor that Eddie would trade weed for head … funny how that has circled back to reflect you and your recent penchant for sexual bargaining chips – if you take a twenty minute shower, I’ll go down on you when you get out.

You don’t wonder how your shitty old friends would react to learning about that development in your behavior, because you rarely ever think about Carol and Tina these days. 

You do wonder how you’re going to get Eddie to stop giving you that sulky look while holding your ground.  

He needs to shower (on his own), and you need a little more time to yourself. 

You hate to press the issue, because it makes you feel too much like his mother – and you cannot even begin to unpack the Oedipal concept of that dynamic – but you absolutely cannot spend another moment pressed against his side and breathing shallowly under a cloying musk of days old body odor. 

“I’m fine,” He insists, crossing his arms and still trying to pretend like he isn’t bothered by your indictment of his personal hygiene. 

“No, you’re not.” You say, “You have to take better care of yourself. I know you don’t think it’s gonna make any difference, but I promise you it will. You’ll feel better.” 

Eddie offers you one of those half hearted smiles, and quirks his brow.

“You always say that.” 

“Yeah, so what? I’m always right. Do it for me, okay?”

It takes him a minute more of contemplative pouting, but eventually he relents, because for as soft as you are for him, he’ll do anything for you, even if it means bruising his ego a little. 

He slaps his hands on the bed and pushes up in the fading glimmer of a gesture he might have made back in the old days – your heart throbs painfully in your chest as you watch him flicker in and out of frame – then makes a show of stretching his arms high over his head. 

You watch as he comes to immediately regret the motion when his bad side hitches and he quickly remembers his limited range of movement. 

Eddie pretends like it doesn’t hurt as he makes his way across the room.

“Okay,” he says softly, pausing to kiss you on the cheek as he passes, “But only ‘cause yer so damn purty,” 

The affectation of the southern drawl you’d used before sounds much better on Eddie, and you lean fondly in to the press of his lips, not even bothering to be annoyed when he takes a cheeky handful of your backside. 

You feel your insides burn with what the touch suggests, and for half a mindless second, you tell yourself that maybe you could stand to follow him in there. Just to help him wash, of course, get the spots he can’t reach… nothing else…

Then, your rationality comes snapping back into place when Eddie strikes you hard on the ass with an open palm. 

You yelp in alarm more than pain and jump. Even after every time he has done that before, you never expect him to do it, and your face is burning as you turn to watch him go, disgustingly pleased with himself and snickering.

“Wash your hair,” you call, knowing it will add at least another five minutes to his shower, and your coveted alone time. “And brush your teeth.” 

Eddie acknowledges you with a dismissive wave and something grumbled under his breath as he disappears into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked in a stark contrast to the way you’d shut him out when you slipped away into the next and only other room. 

Therein lies the ultimate problem of your living situation. You keep trying to build a barrier, brick by brick, because you need your space, but Eddie needs it too, so every brick you put up he takes right back down.  

You feel a muted pang of guilt over that which dissipates the moment you hear the shower hiss on. Then, and only then, do you breathe a sigh of relief you didn’t realize you were holding. 

Your time begins now. 

Because you absolutely cannot abide the state of the bed, even after Eddie’s futile attempts to pull it into shape, you spend the full duration of Jefferson Starship’s regression back into the days of Airplane attempting to wrestle the top sheet into position as Jane fades into White Rabbit. 

Then, as the first strummed notes of More than Words begins to play, you brave the tide and pull the blankets over your head, curling in on yourself protectively. In the dark, the wet sloshing of the mattress is so much worse, so much weirder, and you try not to think about how womblike your cocoon suddenly is. 

You didn’t want the waterbed. You wanted a normal mattress to try and live your normal lives, but Eddie already wasn’t sleeping because of his nightmares, and you couldn’t stand to see him in any further pain, not when it was because of something you could so easily remedy.

Sure, it was a real kick in the teeth to have to send five hundred dollars you couldn’t afford down the drain on a mattress, but thankfully the retailer would accept an exchange on a product of equal or lesser value (emphasis on lesser) and that’s how you’d gone and found Eddie in some back corner of the store, starfished and riding the surf of the floor model waterbed like a blissed out Goldilocks.

The stuff of your nightmares.  

“Babe, it’ll be so cool,” he’d told you when he was trying with everything in his power to convince you to say yes.

He’d spouted some bullshit statistic he’d skimmed in a pamphlet at physical therapy about the benefits of hydrotherapy, and you’d informed him that sleeping on a giant water balloon was not hydrotherapy. But you were just so glad he was getting excited about something, and because mattress shopping is an exercise in twentieth century torture, you took it home for a tentative trial. 

Fourteen months later, here you lay, trying to relax, trying to sink into a quiet, thoughtless meditation, but you can’t stop your mind from spinning.

Because you hate this fucking waterbed. 

You hate the way it lists back and forth when you climb into it, and when Eddie slinks in after you and startles you awake with the sudden lurch of blaring panic, like stepping off a curb in your dreams. 

You hate the leaks it springs, you hate the crinkling duct tape patches that poke you through the sheets when you roll over. 

You hate how it holds the cold in the winter and radiates heat in the summer. 

But you don’t hate how happy it made Eddie to see it delivered, or how you’d lay awake giggling together that first night. You love the childlike glee you’d shared that night, taking turns bouncing each other on the creaking tide and whispering back and forth like kids having a sleepover. 

Of course, that giddy episode of play was the only prelude to what was perhaps the worst night’s sleep you’d ever had, but you’re almost happy to ignore that.   

In a turn of events which you pretend not to be shocked by, Eddie’s shower lasts nearly twenty-five minutes. By the time he shuts off the water and re-emerges, scrubbed pink, clean shaven, and reeking of peppermint, you’ve let the gentle rocking of the bed lull you into a sleepy stupor. 

“How was it?” you ask, regardless of what you already know.

You don’t ask him how long he actually spent washing and how long he just stood there under the tap (you also don’t ask if he allotted any of that time to jerking off in the distant hope that he’ll be satisfied enough to leave you alone) because the subtle change in his posture is all the evidence you need to know you were right. 

Like always. 

He looks over at you and smiles that same goofy smile that made you fall in love with him back in high school, and his brows come down. 

“Cold.” He says, “You used up all the hot water,”

Oh, whoops. He levels you with a sidelong glance which you imagine is meant to make you feel guilty for not letting him share the hot water with you, but somehow you can’t manage to get around to feeling that way. 

He’s clean, that’s all you care about.  

You can’t help but stare as he drops his towel in a wet heap and stands comfortably naked, pulling open drawers and looking for a pair of boxers and a clean shirt – wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles…

“Sorry,” you hum, watching with rapt, unblinking attention.

Eddie turns at the sound of your apology, and it takes a moment too long for your gaze to snap up when he comes to face you. You smile innocently, but he’s already smirking at you. 

“Are you?” he asks, “...or are you just enjoying the show?”

You tilt your head down to press your shoulder to your ear. 

“Maybe,” 

He rolls his eyes and steps into the faded blue plaid boxer shorts.

“Maybe, she says – move over, will ya?” 

You hold the blankets up for him to slide beneath. Pulling the shirt over his head, he settles in beside you and you sit together in silence, listening to the distant sounds of your mixtape playing as you wait for the bed to stop sloshing. 

You know deep down he secretly hates it too, but he’s too proud to admit when he’s wrong, especially after campaigning so hard for it. You don’t care, you’re in this for the long game — you’re gonna make him say it before you do.

You curl your arm around his back and immediately go to work knotting your fingers in the tangles of his hair, tugging gently at the damp baby hairs curling at the nape of his neck and making a mental note to help him comb it out before you fall asleep. 

Eddie rests his head atop yours with a contented sigh and you feel the poke of his tongue in his cheek as he swipes it over his teeth. 

“So, are you ever gonna tell me about your shitty day?”

“Who said I had a shitty day?” You ask.  

He breathes an easy chuckle out through his nose and you hear it rattle all the way down in his lungs. 

“You and that attitude of yours,”

 Before you can say anything in defense of your self, the next track begins to play, bringing with it the iconic intro to Dancing Queen. And because Eddie cannot abide ABBA, he is on his feet in an instant. 

The prelude to a great disappointment begins to well in your chest, because unlike Eddie, you do in fact remember being young and sweet, only seventeen, and you cherish those days – the earliest days of your entanglement with the town pariah, before you’d finished dancing around each other. 

“Eddie don’t–” You whine, but he’s already thumping across the room to the stereo sitting precariously balanced in your rickety bookcase. 

When he reaches the unit, he makes the executive decision that you can neither dance nor jive, and you will not be having the time of your life. He begins agitatedly punching buttons, and the song cuts out.

The track skips, and the next thing you know, your blood is thrumming along to the beat of a crunchy baseline, and Steve Perry is crooning you make me weak, and wanna die… and you know exactly what is coming next. 

The main event. The lovin’, the touchin’, the squeezin’... your insides squirm with an unhelpful reminder of your deep dark secret, and you muster every shred of self control you have. 

You will not be having sex tonight, no matter how good Eddie looks naked, no matter what he does to try and sway you, and no matter how much Steve Perry insists he’s tearin’ you apart… 

You cross your arms and breathe out hard through your nose with wavering determination as Eddie turns back to you, once again disgustingly pleased with himself. 

“That’s better,” He says, crossing back to the bed in two long-legged strides and throwing himself down beside you.

The mattress jumps and rolls, and your muscles tense as you do everything you can to stay upright and sulking.

“Why do you hate fun?” you ask as Eddie crawls over top of you on his hands and knees.

“Hate fun?” he echoes, like he cannot believe you would accuse him of such a thing.

“You know I love that song.”

 “Yeah, but, Sweetheart, this is a great song! It’s the best song on the list,”

Never mind the fact that he skipped three tracks to get there. You set your teeth and try not to take offense to his criticism of your taste in music because you’ve long since agreed to disagree.  

“This is a sex song.” You correct, resisting the asking fingers he’s begun to drum along your tightly crossed arms.

When you fail to open up for him, Eddie rolls his head to the side and looks up at you through his lashes in that very specific way he knows drives you just a little bit crazy.  

“It’s your tape, Babygirl,” he says evenly, “I’m just a humble disc jockey.” 

You snort out your displeasure with the statement, but you can’t deny it. Because you had indeed hidden Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’ among the tracks on your Summer Fling mixtape back in the summer of ‘84 in the raunchy little hope that it would inspire Eddie to do just that to you, and you know that he knows that as well as you do.

So, whose fault is it really when he slips his hands up under your shirt and starts kissing your neck?

You curse yourself for being so unbearably hot for him back in the day, and for the way that, after two long years, nothing has changed.

“Can I make a request?”

He hums out an easy laugh.

“Nope, sorry. We’re only playing mood music for the rest of the night.” Eddie says, and you tilt your head dutifully back when he nudges your jawline with his nose, “Unless you were gonna ask for Dio, ‘cause you always gotta remember to leave room for Ronnie–”

“If you try to put on Holy Diver again I’m leaving.”

He giggles then – actually giggles – and this time when he kisses you, you feel the press of his tongue on your throbbing pulse point.

You tell yourself this is as far as you’re going to go. You can stand to let him suck a bruise into your neck if that’s what it takes to make him happy but you’re not going to have sex, even if you’re suddenly squirming beneath him to alleviate the thrumming between your thighs.   

With everything you still have to talk about, you can’t afford to let Eddie distract you like that.

Of course, you already know what he’s going to say, the question he’ll ask you — what do you want to do? 

You don’t want him to ask you that. You want him to tell you what to do. You want him to have all the answers and put your mind at ease because you’ve been driving yourself crazy asking yourself that question all goddamn day.

What do you want to do? What are you going to do? How far are you willing to let this go? 

Are you prepared to go all the way with Eddie Munson? You’d asked yourself that once in a situation not so dissimilar to the one you currently find yourself in.

Of course, that time had been significant, because it had been the first time, and even now you remember that cold November afternoon so vividly. You should have been in school, but instead, you were parked outside a record store an hour outside of Hawkins, laying in the back of a van beneath the boy you so desperately loved and letting him send you to pieces with a kiss.

It wasn’t a chaste, pretty kiss like you see in the movies — at least no decent kind of movie — it was a heavy, dirty thing, with tongue and teeth and gasping breath. He held your hands pinned above your head, and you lay there rutting up against him in desperate search of something that only your animal brain could explain. 

The natural progression of things, the way of the world and of girls and boys since time immemorial.

You might have briefly entertained the thought of having his baby back then, in the murky heat of the moment. In hindsight, you’re fairly certain that was just latent Darwinism reminding you that you are a mammal and that your only true purpose on this Earth is to breed – so breed, Baby.

And then your rational human mind prevailed, and asked you that terrible question: are you ready for this?

You’d thought you’d been scared of what the question meant then, but the virginal fear of the thing lurking between a boy’s legs — between your legs back then, prodding you through Eddie’s jeans and asking for a respectful permission you could not help but deny — holds no candle to the uncertain, impending future, which you no longer bother planning for.

Pledging your undying love as a horny teen fresh out of a very close brush with death is one thing, but tethering yourself to something and someone indefinitely?

Are you ready to commit to that with Eddie Munson?

Are you prepared to love him and take care of him on good days and bad, no matter what? Through night terrors and fugue episodes and days and days and so many hard days of wishing he would just snap out of it and come back to his old self?

Are you prepared to have his baby? 

“Ground control to Major Tom.” Eddie calls distantly, and you feel a gentle tapping at the center of your forehead, “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”

He guides you gently from the mire of your existential thoughts and fears, and you blink back at him as he waits expectantly for an answer to whatever it was he’d just said.

“Hmm? Oh — sorry, Eds,” you say absently, reaching up to cup his cheek in your hand, “What were you saying?”

He glares at you, but the effect is ruined by the shy twitch of his lips, quirking at the corners despite his best efforts to play mad at you. He’s still on his hands and knees, a mere inch of distance between your noses as he glowers at you in mock offense — how dare you not be fully engaged in the first steps of this stunning foreplay.

Oh please, as if you don’t do this every goddamn night. 

“Only that I need you so bad right now,” he says, “But it’s not so easy getting that message to Mars. I guess NASA’s not really in the business of passing love notes.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, hooking a finger in the collar of his t-shirt. The lingering effects of the shower waft up in a puff of clean air when you release the fabric, and even through the haze of shampoo and toothpaste, you can smell the bitter undertone of all the cigarettes he smoked today.    

“You need me so bad every night.” You remind him. 

He grins and you feel his teeth when he tips forward.   

“Can’t help it.” Eddie says against your lips, attempting to resume the stilted progress of his foreplay by ducking his head to press a less than chaste kiss to the space beneath your ear — flicking tongue, scrape of teeth – his voice reverberates against the drum and you shiver, “It’s Kafkaesque.”

You snort and wonder as he snakes his hands up under your shirt and takes your breasts in hand if that was meant to impress you. 

“Pavlovian.”

“What’s that, Sweet Girl?” He asks, changing direction without missing a beat.

Eddie rocks back on the balls of his feet, and lifts your thighs over his, pulling you down the mattress a tick – your head thumps against the headboard. Ouch.   

He helps you sit up straight with an apologetic hand, boring holes into you with those big dark eyes – pretty eyes. 

Hungry eyes Eric Carmen might have told you, were you listening to the radio and not Journey’s endless waning call of “nah nah nah-nah nah,”.  

“You mean Pavlovian,” you tell him, bracing your hands on his shoulders when he hugs you by the waist and pulls you into his lap.  

“How do you know what I mean?” he asks as you settle into this new position. 

You drum your fingers along his collarbones and tilt your head, smiling coquettishly as you innocently prepare to bore him to death. 

“Because Pavlov trained dogs to drool at the sound of a bell by ringing one every time he fed them,” you say, “and Kafkaesque suggests that you’re trapped in an authoritarian situation that you can’t escape, so I don’t think that really applies … unless you’re trying to tell me something about our relationship.” 

Eddie hums out a low, performative moan, deep from the back of his throat. It’s not so performative a sound, however, that you can’t feel the hard length of something prodding into the crook of your thigh. 

“I love it when you talk dirty,” he says, baring his teeth at you in a wolfish grin that looks almost like something the old Eddie would have done. 

Eddie before the trauma and surgeries and blood transfusion on blood transfusion on blood transfusion. 

You roll your eyes and trail your fingers down down down his abdomen until you’ve reached the less-than-subtle tent in his threadbare boxers. He draws in a sharp intake of breath when you skim your fingers over the tip of his bulge before taking an immodest palmful of his dick. 

Once upon a time you would have wilted at the thought of doing something like that, but time and practice and the way Eddie’s eyes slide shut as he nods his encouragement has turned a gesture like that into something as casual as late night television. 

He rolls his hips forward and you already feel a bead of heady wetness blooming in the fabric of his boxers when you swipe a cheeky thumb over his tip.

His breath hitches, and Eddie has to clear his throat to keep his voice steady as you begin to work him in your fist. 

“Go on,” He says, and you’re nothing if not happy to oblige.   

“You … getting a hard-on …every night at bedtime… is Pavlovian…” You say, stroking him in a measured up and down. 

Big smile, front teeth poking out, cheeks indenting with an elusive dimple, Eddie shakes his head, pulling you forward to press bodily against him, and sandwiching your hand indecently between you. He doesn’t stop moving his hips. 

“You’re so smart,” he rasps, and you detect the faintest hint of a quaver in his voice when you make a ring with your index finger and thumb, encircling the broad flare of him through the fabric and squeezing.

His mouth falls open on a heavy breath, and you close it right back up with a finger on his chin. 

Still moving in short lazy thrusts, he sighs against you and kisses the line of your jaw, teasing your head back once more with a gentle nudge and exposing the taught columns of your throat to him.

“It’s so fucking sexy.”

You fail to suppress a snort and are almost shocked when it doesn’t immediately kill the mood.

“Is it really that sexy or are you just horny?”

“Who says it can’t be both?” Eddie says, “You’re smart and sexy… and I’m super fucking hot for you right now,”

And because he absolutely cannot help himself when he is reminded of even the faintest hint of a song, suddenly he’s singing under his breath.  

“—hot-blooded, check it and see—” Eddie’s Foreigner impression plays against the waning backdrop of Journey turning over to Pat Benatar, insisting We Belong from the competing stereo.

It’s entirely too much, and you burst into a fit of undainty laughter.

“Don’t laugh, this is important.” He says, grinning, “— I got a fever of a hundred and three,”

When you don’t stop, Eddie kisses you, and even under the seal of his lips, you can’t manage to stifle your giggling.

Of course, now you remember why it’s more fun to fool around and have sex every night than it is to be sensible adults who keep their hands to themselves. Because that’s how you get the old Eddie back – fun Eddie – the one who made you lose your mind and fall in love with him that first Tuesday night at the Hideout a hundred Tuesdays ago. 

Even then, you’d loved him so bad you could have screamed. And you did scream, you recall. You’d screamed yourself hoarse even as Corroded Coffin got booed off stage because you were their biggest fan – their words, not yours – even if their name was stupid and made you giggle behind their backs. 

So what if you only ever see that version of Eddie anymore when you’ve got his cock in your fist? As if to punctuate the thought, he stammers over the next lyric and gasps out a breathy moan when you give him three quick jerks.

He laughs.  

“Naughty,” 

You giggle along and part his lips with a cheeky swipe of your tongue, happily swallowing every little sound he makes under your touch and feeling your insides begin to quiver in turn.

You’ll keep jerking him off because it’s fun to watch him steadily go to pieces, but you’re not having sex tonight – so, why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that?

“Babe,” Eddie says, lips clicking wetly as you part, “It’s not funny, it’s a serious medical condition – you don’t have to read my mind, to know what’s on my mind – Man, those lyrics are stunning.”

“Sheer poetry.” You say, nodding and his eyes light up.

“Right? Guy’s an artist,”

You’re still giggling when you feel the scrape of Eddie’s teeth along the tender veins lining your neck, pinching just a little too sharply on your jugular.

It sends a bolt of adrenaline shooting down like sparks to sting the tips of your fingers and toes, and suddenly it’s not nearly as funny or sexy as it was a moment ago.

You gasp. Fight or flight kicks in — you freeze.

Your heart hammers in your chest, your hearing whites out, – your hands are trembling as you struggle to unwind the soiled bandage tied tight around your broken fingers. You press it to the ugly wound in Eddie’s throat, spurting blood as he tries and fails to breathe through it – he coughs and gasps against the pain it causes him and chokes on your name in a way that makes you never want to hear him say it again… help me, it pleads, don’t let me die, make it stop…

You breathe out harshly and shake your head against the intrusive image of blood turned nearly black in the dark of that place. Your hands come up to brace firmly against Eddie’s shoulders, fingers trembling as you dig them into the muscle there, and you shove him without really meaning to.

“Stop—” You gasp.

It’s okay, you’re okay, You tell yourself, the same way you tell Eddie every night he thrashes awake in a blinding terror, You’re here. You’re safe, you’re home — just breathe. 

“Sorry—” He says immediately, “Too much?”

But you can barely hear him over the roaring in your ears.  

You focus on what you can see — the walls of your shared bedroom/dining room/living room, all your collective things illuminated in the amber glow of the flickering table lamp sitting across the room.

And you focus on Eddie, drying curls backlit and flyaway, framing his face — his handsome face — not spattered in blood and twisted in agony, but freshly scrubbed and tweaked in alarm and a less than subtle hint of concern. 

You’re okay, but more importantly, he’s okay, he’s here with you, and nothing bad can happen when you’re together — but you’d been together while he lay there bleeding to death, hadn’t you? 

“Are you okay?” he asks, all traces of teasing gone from his tone. 

It’s amazing how quickly he can shut it off when the mood shifts. Your sweet boy. 

“I’m okay,”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, “I just — I didn’t expect you to do that.” 

It’s bizarre that the motion triggered you like that, especially since you’re not the one who had your throat cut down there.

Down there. 

“...do you wanna stop?”

You fight to suppress a shiver and the urge to immediately agree – yes, you should stop, especially since you have no intention of letting this go any further than heavy petting, but you don’t want to be a killjoy.

You shake your head to try and disperse any lingering memory of that night – that eternal night – and absently pet the side of your paramour’s face.

“No,” You say, “No, we don’t have to stop.” But you’re painfully aware of the lack of enthusiasm in your tone.

Eddie’s brows furrow over his eyes, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you, so you tilt forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Let’s keep going,” you say.

You kiss him, attempting to rekindle what has already begun to die out, and when he doesn’t reciprocate, when you try to kiss him again and he leans back, you feel your insides seize with disappointment. 

“I’m fine, Eddie,” you say, and he pulls a face.

“Liar,”

“I am. I promise.” 

You watch disbelief shadow his face and the muscle in his jaw flex. You can tell he’s getting impatient, not for the starting and stopping, but because he knows you’re not telling him something.

Isn’t that the understatement of the century?

After a moment, Eddie drops his head and sighs your name dejectedly, you try not to flinch or hear it forced out on a burbling bloody timber begging you to make it stop. He slumps onto his hip beside you and he walks two cheeky fingers up the length of your thigh before resting a hand at the top and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“—we don’t have to do this.” He says, “We can just go to bed.” 

You wish that were true. 

You rock back into the pillows and force yourself to smile, feeling your cheeks pull as your insides go tight and twisty. 

Sure, you could just go to bed with a chaste kiss and a “see you in the morning,” and wake up in a few hours to find Eddie on his third cup of coffee, watching late-night television and chain smoking. Or, and far more likely, you can wake up to him thrashing and screaming beside you through the endless circadian reruns of his death and spend the rest of the night trying to calm him down.  

No actually, you can’t just go to bed. You have to do something to help him relax, so that he’s too tired to do anything but sleep through the night.

And the best way to do that, you have found, is to get him off. As it turns out you can only therapy fuck your boyfriend for so long – approximately fourteen months – before it starts to have consequences, like unplanned pregnancies and his being unable to sleep without you getting him off first.

Your hesitation to answer speaks volumes, and Eddie finally shakes his head.

“Let’s just go to bed,”

“No,” you press, pawing at the front of his shirt and hating how whiny you sound as you say it, “I want to keep going.” 

“Don’t just say that because you think it’s what I want to hear,” he says a little too harshly.

“I’m not.”

“You have to tell me if something’s wrong, Sweetheart. I’m not a mind reader, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

It’s startling to hear, like the clanging of a bell. He knows something is up, and while he may not know what it is, Eddie’s not nearly as stupid as he pretends to be, and you’re a bad liar.

So, quit beating around the bush and tell him already.   

You don’t know why, but you’re committed to denying it now, so you wire your jaw shut and shake your head. 

“I’m fine, you just startled me. I didn’t expect you to do that,”

Eddie gives you that hard look again, and you do your best not to wilt under it. 

“And…?” 

“…And I’m–” Pregnant. “– a little tired…” Pussy. “…and my head hurts.” Stupid. 

Oldest cliché in the book — not tonight honey, I have a headache.  

When he still doesn’t let up, you throw your hands up in a lopsided shrug and catch his face to bracket on the way down, as if that’s going to do anything to soften the blow of rejection you’re trying so desperately to avoid.

Suddenly, it feels a lot like you’re the one about to receive it, and you hate how desperate that makes you feel. What are you fighting so hard for? You’re not having sex tonight, remember?

“I found out I have to go in on Saturday to do inventory,” you fib, pulling your shoulders up and fully committing to the bullshit subterfuge, “That’s why I’ve been cranky… sorry, I should have just told you.”

And then, Eddie’s shoulders drop and he relaxes under the blissful satisfaction of the truth. It makes you feel grimy, 

“Ah-ha,” he says, “Melvald’s workin’ you to the bone, huh?”

You nod.

“One box of Kotex at a time.” More like one box of neatly packaged pregnancy tests — results in ten minutes or less! 

Eddie's features soften, and he dips his head to brush his lips across the slope of your shoulder. 

“My Baby’s just tired, huh?” He hums against you, “Poor Baby...” 

You suppress a flinch and silently wish he would stop saying things like that. 

“Yeah.” You say dejectedly, “Anyway, there you go. My shitty boring day. Stocking shelves, live in technicolor,” 

Eddie hums thoughtfully and you watch as he begins a steady descent down your body.  

“That’s hot. Think we could get it on pay-per-view?”

You push up on your elbows just as he slides down to come face-to-face with your midriff, and you clear your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” You say, as he slips a cheeky finger beneath the band of your shorts. 

He pauses to give you a sly look.

“Down unda,” Eddie says, grinning and effecting a thick Australian accent. 

Oh no, absolutely not. Jerking him off is one thing, but if you let him go down on you, it’ll be a one-way ticket to Stupidtown, and you’ll absolutely end up letting him fuck you. 

You’re determined not to let that happen, so you pull your knees up and cross your ankles over his back, squeezing tightly. Eddie makes a put-out sound when you cage him in and he finds he can go no further. 

“You got a passport, Crocodile Dundee?” You deadpan, quirking an unimpressed brow.

“Jeez, can’t a guy worship at his altar in peace?” he says, trying to wriggle free and butter you up in the same breath, “The goddess? My inspiration?” 

You roll your eyes but you don’t let him go when he begins to squirm in earnest. 

It is an effort in futility. 

Back in the day, you spent many an afternoon sitting around the trailer watching professional wrestling, and those sessions typically ended with you in a headlock after boldly claiming you could beat Eddie in a fight. To his credit, he always at least let you try before flipping you ass over tea kettle and holding you pinned to the carpet until you said “uncle”. In those days, you never stood a chance, but that was then, and unlike Eddie, you actually bothered to go to your physical therapy sessions and still have full functional use of your body. 

You’re not trying to hurt him, so you aren’t putting nearly enough pressure on his ribs to really hold him, but he’s out of breath before you’ve even broken a sweat.

“Release me, Foul Temptress.” He demands, struggling against you and the vice you have on him. 

You cross your arms and make a show of leisurely checking your nails. 

“Say uncle.” You say innocently. 

“You’re evil,”  

“No, I’m winning.”

When he stops moving long enough to glare back at you, you push out your lower lip in a feigned pout. 

“Had enough yet?”

You watch the muscles in Eddie’s jaw flex as he contemplates all the biting retorts he could possibly hit you with before evidently decides against retaliation. 

He sighs and goes slack against you, forehead dropping to knock against your belly, and you once again have to resist the sudden and bizarre urge to tell him to be careful.

He doesn’t know, how could he know when you haven’t told him yet? 

Of course, it’s only lost in this brief but looming thought that you momentarily let your guard down, and Eddie finds his ace in the hole.

He presses his nose to the tender softness of your belly and makes a gentle, needy sound, and your thighs involuntarily tremble. 

You unhook your ankles and let your feet drop to the bed on either side of his hips with two solid thumps that sends you rocking back and forth on a sloshing tide.

You don’t know when he started to work your T-shirt up, but suddenly your flesh is exposed to him and those damn lips. 

He doesn’t kiss you, so much as part his lips and breathe out, a long, quivering breath that has your throat closing up and your knees edging open far enough to let him drop and lay with his stomach pressed flat to your pubic bone. 

“I just wanna be good to you,” he says, muffled against your stomach, searching hands skittering up up up over your thighs and into the open legs of your shorts to grace the supple curve of your hip. “Wish I had something nice to say … to make it all better…”

He brushes his lips over the spot just beneath your navel and you feel something flutter there. 

You can’t be sure if it’s just the phantom sensation of your secret crying out to be known, or the way you’ve noticed how he’s begun rocking his hips into the mattress. He still has a hard on, after all, and he knows how much you like to watch him get himself off like that. It causes your breath to hitch in your throat, but you manage catch Eddie’s hands before he can get your shorts off.

Under the looming threat of complete and total mental blackout, you muster your courage, and try once more to pick up where you left off. 

“I – I have something to tell you … actually,” you say tentatively, worrying your lower lip and trying not to get caught on the slow, purposeful canting of his hips.

It piques his interest enough to stir him from where he’s tucked himself between your legs and turn curious eyes up at you, blown dark with needy expectation. 

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is a deep and husky rasp that sends a bolt of want like lightning down to the thrumming apex of your thighs. “Something nice?”

You swallow hard and, despite your subtle hesitation, lift your hips off the mattress to assist him this time as he slides your shorts down and discards them over his shoulder. 

They land softly over top of the lamp, plunging you into a sudden and deeply muted semi-darkness – mood lighting, something inside you suggests and you have to force yourself to watch Eddie work to keep from rolling your eyes.

You’re not going to have sex with him… but that doesn’t mean you’re not just a little curious to see what he has in mind. 

You know exactly what he has in mind, Stupid.

You forgot to make him eat dinner so now he’s just going to have to make due.

“I don’t know if it’s necessarily nice, but it’s something.” You breathe, watching transfixed as he eases your knees open as far as they will go, exposing the thin, damp fabric of your panties to the air.

He hums, a gentle rumble in the hollow of his throat that sends goosebumps flash freezing across your arms and legs when it catches on the end. 

Distantly, you see his hips jump as he catches on a fold in the sheets, and you throb in wanting commiseration.   

“… good or bad?” He rasps, punching a breath out from your already flattening lungs as he skims the junction of at the crook of your thigh with the tip of his nose and moves lower … lower. 

“Oh… good.” You say, voice an embarrassing octave higher than normal, “It’s good… hhmmaybe. I...uh... I-I haven’t decided yet.”

Teeth in the elastic of your panties, a sharp tug pulls his lower lip down before it snaps back into place, and he groans.

You fail to suppress a shiver as Eddie eases your legs up over his shoulders, still working his hips against the mattress at an agonizing pace. Suddenly all you want is to be the bed, laying beneath him as he rocks steadily into you, using you to chase his release, just like he does most nights. 

It briefly occurs to you that if you’re having that thought, it means you’re steadily approaching the point of no return. If you had any sense at all, you’d pump the breaks while you still can, but then you can feel the smooth plane of his face nuzzling the flesh of your inner thigh. You feel the press of his lips, and your tongue goes fat and useless in your mouth. Under the gentle prelude to the way he begins to press slow, reverent kisses along the expanse of your scar, you forget how to breathe, let alone do something so pointless as speak. 

The scar is the only physical thing you carry from that day you slipped through to the other side of the world. It’s a jagged, ugly thing that extends from your knee to your bikini line because while the initial wound had been expansive, the surgeon who attended to you that night last spring knew fuck all about fuck all and somehow managed to make it worse. You’re lucky, because most of your trauma is invisible, but you shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, you should be thinking about something normal, something sexy as Eddie continues with those soft, open-mouthed kisses, leaving cooling wet crescents over the length of the raised puckered skin, higher, higher…

And what’s sexy about scars and surgeons and the lingering evidence of eighty-four stitches?

Nothing, absolutely nothing, but it doesn’t stop you from reaching down to hook your fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. You tug and pinch and gather material until you’ve made a little progress, trying to undress him while he’s busy grinding his cock into the bed, but you’re having a hard time getting it done from this angle.

Thankfully, the reverence of your touch does not go unnoticed — Eddie ceases his ministrations to push up on his knees and help you. Flushed and sweating, he reaches back and takes a fist full of the fabric, pulling the shirt over his head and discarding it in one swift movement. 

And then, just like that, you can see all the punishment he took trying to save you, down there on the wrong side of the world. All his scars and the evidence of just how close you came to losing him. Your heart thumps solidly against your ribs – yours is ugly, but his are worse, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing what those nasty little fuckers did to him. You keep that strictly to yourself, however, because Eddie already hates the way he looks bad enough without the burden of your opinion. He doesn’t need to know how they make you feel. 

You reach for him, suddenly desperate to touch him, and he takes you by the hand. He holds you firmly in his smoldering, blackened gaze, and you watch as he presses your index and middle fingers together. Then, he slides the compressed digits into the dark wet heat of his mouth and sucks on them until you’re flushed so hot your face has started to burn.

On the surface of your brain, the feeling of his tongue slipping up between your fingers, edging them open and flicking at the soft nook of flesh at the valley of their connection is unbearably gross, but that message doesn’t seem to make it down to the places where it matters. Nobody tells your animal brain that it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your fingers go sliding out with a sickly wet slurp, and you shiver.

“Save these for me,” he says, “For later,”

Later? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What’s going to happen later? You find, as he slides down the length of your body, that you don’t actually care. 

What happens in an hour or ten minutes (or less) is none of your goddamn concern when Eddie is busy parting your legs in a mirror image of the way he’d just parted your fingers.

You find you don’t have the capacity to wonder any further than that when he slips back down to prop your legs over your shoulders and hook his fingers in the dampened gusset of your panties. You breathe out a long, wanton noise that something in the back of your mind tells you is whorish when you feel the first puff of air fanning your bare pussy.

That damning something in the back of your mind suggests you should be embarrassed about that, but you can’t manage to feel anything but heated as he eases your underwear down your legs and banishes them to some far corner of the apartment.

Eddie kisses the nook at the highest point of your thigh, directly to the right of where he’s begun to trace the faintest ghost of a touch over your entrance, and suddenly all you can hear is your own heart pounding in your ears. He applies a whisper of pressure and dips into you up to the first knuckle, and you lay there, barely able to take it, wringing the sheets in your fists, telling yourself that at any moment cooler heads will prevail and you’ll put a stop to this.

Stupidtown looms on the horizon, and he’s barely even touched you.

Then, on top of everything he’s doing to you, Eddie has the audacity to try and get you talking again.

“You were saying?… ‘something good, maybe’ … but…?” he says, stretching the word lyrically in a way you haven’t heard him do in a long, long time. 

You don’t get the chance to revel in that before the question is followed by the sharp pinch of flesh between teeth as he bites you, just beneath your scar. Hard enough to bruise, but not enough to break the skin. You yelp and jump against him, but he holds you firmly to the spot so you can’t escape, then he soothes the offended flesh with the wide flat press of his tongue before sucking it in past his lips – it burns, and you can’t stand how much you like it.

“Hey, g-go easy with that, will you?” You try to tell him, “Easy…” but then he uses two fingers to spread your pussy open wide, exposing you to the air.

You trail off into a long, high whine, which turns sharp and loud when he flicks the blunt edge of his nail over your painfully neglected clit. The bundle of nerves screams, and your hips buck up hard enough to break the seal of the bruise he’d been busy sucking into your thigh. 

When he presses his thumb flat to that howling little bitch, you blow right past the point of no return. 

“Oh, fuck! – Eddie!” you gasp, and when he smiles you can feel his teeth as he gives you one last gentle nip for good measure. 

“Ask me nicely,” He growls, and you lose your goddamn mind. 

Never mind all of your bullshit principles. Never mind tests or little pink lines and blue tabs and green plus signs – you need him to fuck you, and you need him to do it now.  

“Please,” you cry, “Please, please, please–”

“Good girl,”

[michaelnotwheeler]

if i said queerplatonic relationship would people be mad

also i fucking love these pictures

[imsodishy]

once again thinking about what an upgrade for S4 it would have been if instead of being the one pulling all the strings in the upsidedown all along Henry/Vecna had instead been a zealous acolyte of the Mindflayer.

Why spend three whole seasons hyping up the Mindflayer as this hugely horrifying, malevolent, otherworldly entity, this destructive force of unnatural evil, just to pivot to some fucking dude with a superiority complex?

Little baby Henry making contact with it, being corrupted by it, twisted by it. Killing his family on it's say so in a (failed) attempt to bring it to our world? Banger! a million times more interesting than he's a born bad """psychopath"""

in a season that draws on the satanic panic and cults? having someone actually worshipping this devil from beyond? maybe it's increasing his powers, maybe Henry's just been convinced that it does. Henry trying to convert El to worship it?

Henry simultaneously awed and deeply jealous of El's strong connection to it, of it's interest in her. That she succeeded where he failed to rip a hole in reality to get to his Master? Good 👏 shit 👏

[findafight]

Ohhh fic where Steve and Robin and Dustin and Erica all casually make funny little haha jokes with each other about getting tortured/almost caught by the Russians under Starcourt because they all have that shared trauma and had many a long late night calls reassuring each other they're alive and playing dnd together and fulfilling lifetime supply of icecream obligations.

They do this because sure the rest of the party knew there were Russians under Starcourt but everything they went through in that basement was sorta...forgotten in the aftermath of literal flesh monster. And with Hopper dead and the Byers moving, there's so much happening that whatever happened to Steve's face (lost another fight...) and why he and Robin went from mildly antagonistic co-workers to codependent goobers who couldn't go literally a day without seeing the other or what made Dustin always ask if Erica was going to come for party hang outs are all sort of brushed under the rug. Not a big deal, really. Bigger things happening after everything.

And they cope together and scoops troop is a weird little section of the party no one but them really understands. Robin and Steve are attached at the hip and to a lesser extent so are Erica and Dustin (but they'll never admit it), and they all have mini gatherings together.

So, the casual mentioning of starcourt and specifically what went down with the Russians is commonplace for them. (Erica is quick to remind them she saved their asses, and are they so lame they need her help again? but she smiles and Steve and Robin just laugh and give her a big hug.) And somehow, they forget that not everyone really knows what went down before July 4th 1985.

And I want them to do it in front of everyone. I want them to have their stupid "this was so fucked up but we're alive and we got through it so now we have to laugh or we may never stop crying about it" banter at a big "we saved the world again!" Barbecue. I want the rest of the folks there to go silent and them not to notice.

I want someone to mention Steve not getting a black eye this time, congrats! and Robin going "the only reason why I didn't get one last time was because the Russians said-"

And Steve, who is lying with his head in her lap, reaches up to gently cup her cheek and says in a terrible Russian accent "don't worry, we will not ruin your pretty face!" (everyone is quiet around them, they do not notice)

She laughs. "And punched me in the gut a few more times. I peed blood for like, three days."

Steve goes "ewwww" only to be pinched by robin.

"you peed blood too, dingus. You got it worse than me and my pretty face."

He giggles and opens his hand up for a high five "pissing blood buddies, hell yeah!" And shifts in her lap. "But they bruised my pretty face. Rude."

"aww. It's okay, Stevie, your face is still so pretty. Prettiest boy in Hawkins."

"thanks Robin."

"at least Dustin and Erica got us out before they started ripping out fingernails." She shudders.

"or used the bonesaw"

"mmm. Unfortunately not before we got funky truth serum drugs though."

He leans up, looking at the two "y'all couldn't have been a bit faster?" But he's smiling, teasing. A well worn joke.

Dustin and Erica respond simultaneously with "I'm missing bones, Steve, what do you want from me?" And "I was ten and my legs were short as shit. Beggars can't be choosers." Respectively.

It is at this point an Actual Grown Up butts in.

"what. What do you mean ripping out fingernails?"

Robin and Steve look towards Joyce, who asked.

"like. To interrogate us? Because we just kept saying we worked for scoops even with the truth serum."

"because they thought we had to be superspies to get into their creepy lair and not a bunch of kids."

"mmhmm"

Hopper jumps in "wait. You were tortured by them?"

Robin and Steve give him eerily similar looks that express how obvious the answer to that is.

"yeah, duh."

"I don't go looking to get brain damage every year, you know."

Hoppers eye twitches. "Why didn't you say anything?"

[theysherobinbuckley]

ugh stobin arranged marriage au........

The Harringtons are a wealthy family and they only have one son, Steve, whose terrible luck with ladies is talked about far and wide. He's a charming, good-looking, athletic boy, so many people think the reason he can't keep a suitor for more than a week must be some terrible awful secret, some insurmountable personal failing.

The ladies assure everyone they meet that no, Steve is quite pleasant to be around. He's attentive, diplomatic, polite, and always respectful. But... that's all he is. There's interest but no passion, friendliness without warmth, smiles that don't touch his eyes. He's not much more than a puppet pretending to be a real boy. And while that may please the fathers of potential suitors (and Mr. Harrington), all of Steve's failed arrangements felt they deserved a little more from their spouse. And Steve, ever so pleasant, normally agreed.

The Buckleys are really their last resort. Word has it that their daughter has been struggling to keep an arrangement herself; it probably has something to do with that nasty independent streak they'd heard so much about, not to mention the number of political incidents she'd almost caused by forgetting basic court etiquette.

The Harringtons are desperate enough to reach out, and the Buckleys, more than a little strapped for cash, are desperate enough to agree.

Steve, terrified of what his parents might do if this thing doesn't work out, is determined to make this relationship the one that sticks. Robin, on the other hand, swears that the ever-pleasant Steve Harrington must be hiding something, something big enough to scare off nearly a dozen women from a life of luxury.

And she's going to be the one who finally exposes him.

Obviously they become best friends and get lavender married etc. etc.

[smoosnoom]

(tturing)

[imthursdaysyme]

When you gotta use your homie as a blanket, stobin edition

[delta-piscium]

@steddie-week day 1: Hunger | 1.1k words cw: light angst in that Steve is a little sad/dealing with some mental stuff but like hurt/comfort (not EDs which mental stuff combined with the prompt word might make it seem like, hunger is used as a metaphor)

Sometimes Steve doesn’t talk to anyone for days. He just shuts himself in his room and hides, barely leaves his bed. Pretends he doesn’t exist, or that time has stopped and he’s the only thing that exists.

Sometimes, he’ll go back too soon, feel bad for the ignored calls and drag himself out of bed to see the people who matter most to him. But it won’t feel warm and soft those times. He’ll be too raw and It’ll feel like they’re grabbing his insides and eating them. Pulling his heart and brain out of his body and devouring them without letting him eat theirs in return. 

Usually, he’s okay with that. He knows his place, he knows that’s what he’s for. For other people to get fed. And he’s happy to feed, to do that for them. 

He loves them, of course he’s gonna give himself over. It’s just that sometimes they take too much. They don’t know they do he thinks, they don’t know they’re eating him alive. That he’s presenting himself on a silver platter and letting them take take take, and that sometimes they take too much.

That’s why he disappears, so he can grow back. So he can give more. Because if he stops giving he's afraid they’ll get tired. He won’t be useful, he can’t give when he’s like that. He starts craving, he starts wanting. He feels starved and wants to take and feed too, and that’s not part of the deal. He’s not supposed to eat, he’s supposed to be eaten. So when he turns hungry and ravenous he hides, he isolates. 

Robin is the only one who truly gets this about him, who doesn’t take and demand. She gently accepts the things he gives and never without giving too, forcing him to stay whole. It’s overwhelming and sometimes he has to hide from that too, he doesn’t know how to deal with the force of it. He’s so used to the constant hunger it’s a shock when it’s gone but he’s gotten better. And anyway, he and Robin are part of one whole so whatever is given or taken between them is never really gone. It stays with both of them.

Robin is the only one, or she was the only one he should say. Because now there’s Eddie. Eddie who gives and gives and gives, almost as much as he does. But who doesn’t seem to dwindle and dim like Steve does. Who doesn’t seem to starve or hunger. Eddie who notices when Steve does, when he stumbles and gets greedy. Who holds him up and makes him whole with a look, a touch, a word. 

Eddie who breaks in through his window when he shuts himself in his big empty house and lays with him in his bed, softly telling Steve stories and running his fingers through his hair. 

It’s wonderful.

It's the worst. 

“I’m afraid you’re gonna end up as empty as me,” Steve tells him, whispers it into the dark. “That you’re here now and you’re giving and I’m taking and you’re gonna be the one left with nothing.” 

Eddie doesn’t respond immediately but hums in acknowledgment, lets him know he heard and is thinking. 

“This is good for me too,” he says eventually, “being with you and resting. Getting to be here for you when you never used to let anyone but Robin be. It’s good for me too.” 

“It can be good and still drain you.” Says Steve, knows it to be true. He doesn’t resent giving the way he does, he loves it, it’s good. It drains him. 

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, “this doesn’t drain me, you’re comforting me too. It’s balanced.” 

Balanced. That’s what Robin tells him too. That’s what Nancy sometimes asked him for when they dated and he couldn’t let her see the cracks. That’s what he wonders about with his other friends. 

He doesn’t usually know how to do that. He doesn’t know where the lines are. He doesn’t understand how Eddie knows. 

“You let me give, and I let you give, so it’s balanced. We don’t take from each other, we gift and we receive. It’s balanced. You have to let other people give sometimes too, Steve.” 

It hits something deep in him, the last words. He knows this, he doesn’t want to know it. 

“I’m afraid they won’t. if I open myself up to it. If I ask, I’m afraid they won’t.” He says it so quietly it’s almost inaudible but Eddie hears. 

His hands still in Steve’s hair for a moment before moving again, gently scratching his scalp. 

“I know baby. But that’s not fair, they want to give too. If they knew how much they took without giving back they’d be heartbroken. It’s not fair to you or them.” 

Steve lets Eddies words wash over him, he knows he’s right. They’d be nauseous with it. His sweet wonderful friends and family would be crushed.

“Sometimes it will happen, maybe,” Eddie continues when Steve doesn’t respond beyond a sharp breath in. “Sometimes people won’t know how to give after only getting but you gotta let them try. Sometimes they’ll learn and adjust, sometimes they won’t and you’ll have to deal with that. But you can’t starve yourself like this because you won’t let them try.” 

"What if I take too much?"

"Then they talk to you, like you should talk to them."

“When did you get so wise,” Steve snorts, his voice is tight but he makes the effort, tries to lighten the mood. Deflects, like he always does. 

Eddie lets him, a little, knows Steve has to. But he’s still serious when he answers.

“Wayne is like a never-ending well of insight and digging around in everything, never lets me get away with shit.” 

The opposite of Steve’s parents who were the first to take from him and never give, never look into his eyes and tell him to eat. 

“He’s a good guy,” Steve tells Eddie instead of weighing him down more than he already has. Instead of acknowledging and relieving the hunger pang that strikes him at the thought. Even now, here, he doesn’t know how. 

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “I’m here to relay his wisdom, like playing telephone with whatever stuff he teaches me. The things your parents took away from you.”

Eddie still knows, of course, he does. He always knows.

“And what do you get?” Steve has to ask.

“I get you. I get everything.”

Steve smiles, turns around to kiss Eddie. He doesn’t feel empty when Eddie kisses him back, hungry. When he takes and devours. 

[paverics]

a gay guy approached my mum on a night out last night and said he “knows” that she is transsexual because he’s a gay man and he “can tell”

but here’s the thing — my mum had cancer. twice. she lost all of her hair. it’s never grown back. she wears a wig. it’s something she’s incredibly self conscious about. and it made her cry

my mum had 2 surgeries to remove all of her female reproductive organs, and she still suffers from the aftermath of those surgeries. i spent 2 years thinking she was going to die. i saw her in hospital for weeks, unable to walk and barely eating. i see her now struggling with the consequences of those surgeries. her lack of hair is the least important or interesting thing about her. i’m just so thankful she’s still here, regardless of how she looks (which is still beautiful btw, and i wish she saw it)

so i just want to encourage people to keep thoughts to themselves because i cannot stress enough how wildly inappropriate it is to approach a cancer survivor and question their womanhood when that womanhood almost killed them. mind your business