#cold feet 1983

[itsblosseybitch]

Cold Feet (1983) starring Griffin Dunne, Marisa Chibas, and Blanche Baker.

[logaenhowlett]

THIS NIGHT HAS OPENED MY EYES - L.H.

Summary: Fate isn’t something Logan believes in. So what happens when he crosses paths with someone who has haunted his mind for nearly 50 years?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, A desperate need to hug Logan

A/N: After weeks of pushing this fic aside, it's finally done. I'm happy with how it turned out, hope you enjoy! Title creds to The Smiths.

MASTERLIST

1983 - Alberta, Canada

Logan doesn’t stop running. Even after the soles of his feet turn an alarming shade of purple and blue, marring the once-soft skin with bruises and scars which will eventually fade away. Adrenaline carries him through the dense forest and its unforgiving terrain, but it’s fury - along with sheer horror - that courses through his veins. 

Red is all he sees. His heart thumps in his chest, feeling like an anvil dragging him into the earth. His breathing comes out ragged - the cold air, the newly metal-infused claws burning through skin - it all just becomes too much for him. The constant beat of dog tags hitting his chest echoes as he slices his way through the woods.

A million thoughts rush across his mind, none remaining in place long enough for him to grasp. Logan was never one to dwell on fantasies, always quick to shut down whatever illusions that little flicker of hope within him conjures. But now, he dreams of a world that isn't cruel, a world that doesn't wreck, shatter and destroy this innate sense of good he carries. A world that could never exist.

Glimpses of his childhood fight against the agonizing pain shooting through his body. For a brief second, Logan breaks free from the mental shackles of his survival instincts, enough for his mind to flood with memories he'd believed were lost to the disease of time. His knees falter as flashes of his mother, his father and even his brother momentarily hush the undying streams of insecurity and worthlessness that flow so deeply within him.

It's when he sees himself - that young child who dared to dream of a life worth living, a life he'd be proud to reminisce as he takes his last breath - he thinks it's the end. How would that little boy feel knowing this is what he'd become? A pawn in a game he'd never have a choice to deny.

His vision blurs, stinging in sorrow and heartbreak for his younger self. A tremble runs through his body and Logan wants nothing but to sink beneath the ground under his feet. To scream as exhaustion rips into his muscles, crumbling whatever resolve searing within. He'd give anything for it all to stop. The voices in his head to lull into a silence he desperately craves, even just for a second.

Fear was never something that infected him. Yet, at this moment, he truly is frightened. Terrified that he'd unknowingly sacrificed the only lingering shred of belief he held for himself and all that remains now is but a monster - a machine wired to do the very thing he refuses.

Logan thinks he's on the verge of crashing, to surrender to the plague poisoning his mind, body and heart. Just as he aches to cross that line, a soft gasp from someone nearby startles him. His eyes dart around, strides slowing down so abruptly that the sudden movement leaves his knees shaking. He can't even pull himself together long enough to properly focus on his surroundings, to absorb all the minute details he could once subconsciously catch.

His breath hitches as you reveal yourself, quickly studying you to determine whether you’re a threat. Even as the alarm in his head doesn’t ring, he’s still on edge when you approach warily. There’s just something about you he can’t quite detect.

“It’s okay… I’m not going to hurt you.” You whisper, hands raised.

Logan stares at you, tense and on high alert. Your gaze keeps dropping to the bloody claws between his knuckles, your expression twisting to one of shock and concern. His mind becomes a little hazy, the lucid part of him wants to run away, yet he's rendered frozen.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He hears you murmur once again, your hand slowly reaching towards him. The tone of distress in your words leaves Logan anxious, chest heaving in suspicion. A shiver rolls down his spine as your fingertips brush against his skin, goosebumps rising at the contact. Your eyes find his again, searching for any hint of resistance and when he gives no sign of hostility, you gently rest your palm against his shoulder.

The initial touch sends a current of sensations through his body. Immediately, a wave of calm washes over him and everything around him stills. Logan wills his mind to concentrate on the little bubble you seem to have created. And after what feels like forever, silence diffuses the noise in his head. A sob threatens to escape him as he grabs your wrist, he wants to say something, to question this strength you have over him, but he remains speechless.

He expects to recognise the unmistakable cast of terror across your features, staggering a little when he finds none. Not even the intimidating glare of the adamantium wavers your faith in him. And that realisation overpowers the gentle and soothing aura you seem to radiate. A broken hum cracks through the quietness, Logan drops your hand in an inexplicable panic. He shares one last look with you before sprinting off.

2029 - Eden, North Dakota

As the soft glow of light caresses his face, Logan shifts amongst the heap of blankets delicately wrapped around him. His muscles loosen in relief, finally content to rest after years and years of forcing him into overdrive.

There's a kind of weariness to him now, his movements slow, his healing even slower. He can't recall a time when his body wasn't fighting against him - against the adamantium. Pain becomes such an unceasing feeling that sometimes he doesn't register when one of his stitches pops open, blood staining his clothes with the reminder of his deteriorating state.

He sighs quietly, the conversation with Laura left a heaviness in his heart. Logan couldn't blame her, she’s a little kid after all, one presented with the chance of belonging to a makeshift family. But, he can't be the father she needs. The one she deserves. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's better that way, for her and for everyone who might get involved, to give them a fair shot at life untainted by his cursed touch.

Logan stops resisting his need for sleep, comforted by the fact that Laura's amongst her friends and away from danger for the time being. He drifts off almost instantly, the presence of someone in the room going unnoticed.

Leaning against the doorframe, you watch as his chest rises and falls, his soft breaths filling the air. He looks a lot older since the last time you saw him. Eyes a little sunken, wrinkles decorating skin, streaks of grey twisting into dark hair. Despite the physical changes, you can sense a weight that seeps so far into his soul, this aura of fatigue and defeat he exudes. God, he's so tired.

Feet moving at their own will, you slide onto the edge of the bed, tenderly running your hand along Logan’s arm. The slight shift of his expression as he subconsciously relaxes draws a small smile from you. Nightmares spare him this time.

Logan stirs awake a while later. As reality begins to settle once again, he stares at the ceiling, feeling a sort of peace and tranquillity that sparks only one memory. A brief encounter with a stranger who approached him with nothing but kindness.

The kids rush into the room, eager to see the hero they'd only read about in their comics. When has anyone ever been happy to see him? He wonders, uneasiness creeping into his thoughts.

"C'mon, let him rest."

It's the gentle tone yet one that carries a sway of authority that snaps his attention. The children hurry to leave, brushing past you in a fit of giggles as if they'd been caught doing something naughty.

Logan's eyes lock onto yours. His jaw twitches, chest caving as the realisation sets in. Of course, it's you. The reason why he'd felt such a lightness being here, his mind simmering in a state of serenity. The memory comes back in a sudden, the visions he's had of you throughout the years, ones that provided a fragment of bliss at times when he couldn't bear the misery - all of it comes back, overwhelming him.

Over decades, Logan convinced himself that you were but a figment of his imagination, concocted by his troubled mind as a last attempt at defence. As time went on, the mirage of you slowly dissolved. And now, here you are, standing in front of him - as real as he is. He sits, gradually lifting himself off the pillow, gazing at you in awe. You haven't changed at all.

"I can heal... like you." You offer, foreseeing the question that's lingering behind his lips.

He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, all the dots in his head finally connecting. "You're one of us too." Logan says to himself, astonished, "That day - you did something to me."

Moving closer, you sink next to him on the bed, hand resting on his. A swell of tiredness spreads within him, he gasps under his breath at the sensation. It fades rather quickly, replaced by the inviting embrace of relief. Logan exhales softly, his expression riddled with wonder.

"I can't make you feel anything you don't already feel." Your whisper reaches him, "I can just... amplify it."

The fact sends jolts of shock through his body. Meaning, that day, you had found what little tendril of good he had so desperately clung onto. You saw it. You saw the good in him.

"I thought you weren't real."

Logan doesn't know why he's drawn to you. It just feels so natural to have you this close again - as if he'd found the missing part of himself he didn't know was tied to your soul. The voice in his head crawls to the forefront of his mind, polluting his desire to want you, to have you. He shouldn't be entertaining these wishes, everything he so hopelessly craves would just hurt you in the end.

"I wanted to find you," You tell him, sensing his internal battles, "But... I couldn't risk getting caught."

"Transigen?" He asks, despair slipping into his question.

The sound of laughter outside pulls your attention, "Gabriela. She told me about these kids. What happened... what those monsters did to them? I just - I couldn't let them fight this on their own." You see Laura in the distance, playing along with her friends. "She looks happy."

Logan follows your gaze, "I didn't... I didn't believe her. About this place." His voice wavers, the feeling of guilt clawing at him. He moves his hand away from yours, avoiding the flash of hurt across your face.

"You brought her here anyway. Some part of you hoped she'd be right." There you go again, managing to see the good in him. He shakes his head lightly, ignoring the choking weight in his throat. "You're not coming with us... I heard what you told her."

"Then you know why." He murmurs, eyes turning glassy.

"Logan - " You bring your hand to rest on his cheek, slowly turning his head, "I know you're not healing as fast... I can feel it." His eyes flick down to yours, a tangle of hesitation and longing behind them. "You don't have to give up - you don't have to be alone anymore."

Oh, how easy it would be to give in to you and the future you're promising. Yet, the shadow of agony looms over him. "I'm not meant for this - everyone around me dies." He spits out, angry at whatever higher being molded him this way - a man forever deprived of the simple pleasures of life. "I won’t let anyone else suffer because of me. The kids, Laura, you... you're better off on your own."

He shifts to lie down, too drained to continue this back and forth. The bed dips when you stand, a defeated sigh escaping you. As you’re about to leave, Logan's whisper makes you freeze.

"I'm not... whatever it is you think I am."

Sunlight beams through the windows, Logan scrunches his face as he rouses. It's oddly quiet, he notes, pushing himself off the bed. He takes a moment to focus his hearing on his surroundings - not a single soul around. A fit of coughs leaves him groaning, he stumbles his way outside, the raw intensity of the sun hitting him.

Empty is all he feels. A gaping crater in his heart as he understands what he'd given up by letting you slip away. Even Laura's absence strikes a chord, a small part of him had grown fond of the girl. He lets out a shuddering breath, this is what he intended. So why is every cell in his body yearning for your touch?

A swarm of drones fly overhead. Logan jerks his head at the noise, dread filling him once he sees the logo. He bursts into the room, searching for any medication to numb the pain burning through his organs. A green vial tucked away on the shelf gleams at him, he wastes no time, grabbing both the liquid and a needle before charging through the woods.

Everything within him seems to be on fire as he storms up and down the hills. He's out of breath in mere minutes, gasping for air while his lungs constrict. When the oxygen in his brain starts to diminish, Logan falls to the ground, coughing as his wounds reopen. His consciousness dances around the line between reality and illusion. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles with the syringe, drawing the entirety of the vial - Rictor's warning rings in his head - and injecting the fluid.

It's almost rapid. The way the drug shoots through his bloodstream. Pupils blown wide, he roars, energy rushing into his veins. His legs carry him across miles towards the panicked screams of children and gunfire. Once the Reavers spot him, they direct their weapons at the bigger threat. Logan rips through them, unfazed by the bullets spraying everywhere.

Amongst the chaos and carnage, he spots you struggling against the soldiers' grasp. That momentary distraction sends him flying backwards as the impact of the railgun pierces his body. A primal rage erupts within him, his muscles throb violently, knuckles turning white. The effects of the drug wear off, knees buckling when he tries to stand, he collapses to the ground instead. His eyes glaze over, the wrath that had consumed him earlier now waning into hopelessness.

Laura stills in her tracks, her friends sprinting past her. "No! Run!" He yells, grunting. "Go to your friends, Laura." Logan stammers, knowing she can hear him.

He shuts his eyes for a second, every fiber of his being honing in you. With immense effort, he slowly rises, hand stained crimson while he clutches his stomach. He only moves a couple feet before he's knocked in the head.

X-24 glares at him ruthlessly, drawing his clawed-fist back to strike him again. Logan blinks wearily, catching the terror on your face as you attempt to escape from the soldiers' hold. An angry growl comes from somewhere behind him. Laura launches herself at X-24, slashing at him with all her strength. The clone staggers a little before grabbing her shirt and hurling her towards a tree.

The act makes Logan writhe in anger, but before he can attack him, X-24 lunges forward, extending his claws into Logan's side. Blood gushes out of him and your deafening scream is all he can hear. He doesn't know what's more excruciating - the pain or the look of sheer anguish on your face.

A bang echoes in his head. X-24 drops to the ground next to him, the remnants of a smirk on his half-exploded skull. Laura stands, a couple feet away, pistol in her hands. It's thrown away immediately as she runs to him.

The kids swarm around you, their collective powers thrusting the soldiers far away. In the corner of his eye, Logan sees you racing towards him. Weakly, he convinces Laura to go, to save herself. His words barely louder than a whisper as he gazes at her, pleading. She looks at you tearfully, torn between what to do. Muffled sounds of her friends calling her name reach her ears and with a heavy heart, she goes after them.

"Logan!"

You fall next to him, bringing his body to rest against yours. Your touch provides a sense of solace, a comforting warmth enveloping him. Logan knows you're willing your powers to take his pain away, to distract his mind from the agony tearing through him. All this time, even your indirect presence in his life was a beacon of hope amongst the shadows - a reminder that he was never alone. He whispers your name, faintly.

"No. No." You insist, shaking your head. "You are not dying. I won't let you."

Logan feels your hands press against his wound, your sobs breaking his heart. The emotion in your voice is a dagger to his spirit. He wishes to reach up and brush those tears away, to extend the same sympathy you do to him. Desperation fills your mind, your fingers fumbling with his clothes before your eyes shut, trying to channel your healing powers into him.

"Sweetheart..." A soft smile tugs his lips and his hand finds yours, gently intertwining them. "It's okay."

As his mind begins to finally relax, a vision spreads a surge of content through his body. You and him - on the Sunseeker. Tucked away in your own pocket of time, drifting across the seas without a care in the world. Perhaps he'd let you steer if you asked. He'd do just about anything you ask.

"No - Logan."

"It's all quiet now."

Despite only having one memory of you, he'd always cherished the compassion and tenderness you showed him. He realises now that, over the last fifty years, he'd fallen in love with you. In his own way.

"No... please..."

Darkness engulfs him as he takes his last breath. "I love you."

The world shrinks. A broken whimper leaves you, lost amongst the ringing silence. You don't let go of him, even as he goes limp against you. Your uncontrollable tears stain his clothes, everything loses its meaning. It feels like eternity stretches out before you, fuelled by the weight of your grief.

Then, Logan's finger twitches in your hand. You gasp, heart pounding as life returns to his body, a gentle tide washing away old wounds. The soft thumping in his chest makes your eyes widen in disbelief. You hold your breath as his eyelids flutter open, he lets out a ragged groan, matching your stunned look.

"You saved me..."

Hearing his voice again sends trembles down your spine, without sparing another second, you wrap your arms around him. Logan flexes his muscles, bringing you into his embrace, a mixture of emotions consuming his mind. As you whisper his name over and over again, doubting the reality of this moment, he pulls back slightly - nothing but decades of pure longing in his eyes.

His lips brush against yours, pouring every morsel of affection he can muster. Logan kisses you like a man starved, everything he'd bottled up rushing towards freedom. Tears ache to escape when the feeling of love grows within him and he smiles - that little boy would be happy.

"You saved me, sweetheart."

Don't worry, I'm not letting the story end here. Part two is in the works!

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[a-leg-without-fear]

Insomnia🩸🌧️

some lore for vampire!!!

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 2.0k

Warnings: angst, nightmares, PTSD struggles, cursing, alcohol mention, Logan is a Flirt (i guess?)

Series: Leg's Tuna Tober

You woke with a start. Heart pounding against your ribs so hard you swore they would crack. Sweat dripped down your forehead and the back of your neck. The pale blue sheets draped across your bed were tangled with every limb they could wrap around.

Wooden walls and antique furniture met your frantic gaze as your eyes darted around the room. Your room. In Charles Xavier's mansion. Where you'd lived for several decades at this point.

The concrete walls of your cell in Washington, DC were a thing of the past. Rust-colored blood stains splashed across the floors, slivers of light leaking through the metal door, spiders making a home in the upper corners. You were free of that life.

So why did you still dream of it?

The muscles in your neck groaned as you sat up against your headboard. You were tense, anxiety oozing into your blood. Your head made a thunk when you let it fall back against the headboard.

Nightmares weren't a foreign concept to you. Almost every night, your mind would be filled with your past. Flashes of pain and terror and blood. Scenes replaying over and over, night after night, tormenting you with long claws digging into your mind and scratching your sanity away.

You needed to walk. To clear your head, to calm your pulse.

Unwinding your legs from the sheets was like pulling the limbs from a nest of angry snakes. You tugged at the fabric in near desperation. It clung to your clammy skin, restricting you, restraining you, keeping you captive.

Breathe.

The memory of Charles's calming voice gave you pause. Your eyes fell closed, a deep breath filling your strained lungs. Air blew from your pursed lips as you released the tension from your shoulders.

You were safe. Nothing could hurt you here. Your friends were here, your kids were here, the life you'd built with bloodied fingernails was here. Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Charles would never let anything happen to you.

Now that the shaking in your fingers had subsided, it was quick work to pull your sheets away. The damp fabric fell away like clouds on a windy day. You pushed yourself to your feet. A tremble ran up your legs, unsteady feet finding purchase on the hardwood floor. You gave yourself a few moments to find your balance.

The cold of the untouched floor seeped into the balls of your feet, grounding you. Bringing you back to the present. You were in the mansion. You were safe. The mantra repeated in your mind as you scooped up your sweatshirt from the end of your bed.

Grey cotton filled your hands. Soft, comfortable, familiar. You wore this sweatshirt nearly every day. Finding solace among the plush fabric that shielded you from your own mind. The fleece interior tickled along your arms as you pulled it on. Like securing a piece of armor, you tugged at the zipper until you were completely encompassed.

You made for the bedroom door as you pulled up the hood. Fabric cradled your head, acting like horse blinders and centering your focus, while your fingers wrapped around the brass knob. Cold metal caressed your palm like a frozen kiss.

Another strained breath forced itself through your lips as you pulled open the door. Empty halls decorated in plush carpets, large vases, and dimmed sconces met your tired eyes. All of the wooden doors lining the hall were shut tight. Made sense, given it was the middle of the night.

Bare feet padded along the patterned carpet as you walked. You kept your focus zeroed in on the design woven into the fibers. Spiraling leaves and floating flowers chased each other across the artwork. Faded reds and golds braided amongst one another. You remembered buying this particular rug. In spring of 1983, when you and Charles had been decorating the mansion together.

The fond memory of your shopping spree with your closest friend kept your thoughts comfortable. You clung to the feeling, holding it close to your chest, as you followed the routine path to your destination. Framed paintings of stretched landscapes passed in your periphery not covered by your sweatshirt's hood.

Moonlight shone in gentle rays through the balcony's glass doors. Silver bounced off the polished hardwood and gave the surrounding space a comforting glow. You grabbed one of the iron door handles and pushed out into the night air.

It was cold. Nearly biting, the breeze blowing across your face in brief nips over your sensitive skin. Barren trees spotted along the vast lawns of the mansion. Just barely green grass flowed in an ocean of waving blades under the moonlight. The empty duck pond was still, the water calm, where it sat far off to your right.

Directly beneath the balcony was the dried-up vegetable garden Jean liked to maintain. The tomato plants had withered earlier in the month, with the green beans and peas following closely after. Winters in New York were not to be trifled with when it came to gardening.

You leaned against the metal railing. Chilled metal dug into the fabric of your sweatshirt and leeched the cold into your skin. Though, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was grounding. A reminder of where you called home now.

There was a special sort of peace to be found on this balcony. Especially since during the colder months, it often went untouched. The small table and chair off to your left remained vacant for the vast majority of fall and winter. Not many students preferred the view from the balcony over the comfort of the common areas.

Crisp air filled your lungs as you took in your first deep breath. It poured down your throat like cool water, pooling in your chest and spreading through your body. Tendrils of gentle water ran under your skin. Telling you that you were safe, that you were home, that you were loved. The night air often was the exact thing you'd needed to calm your mind.

It seemed easy to forget your past, now that the comforting chill coursed through your body. Days spent locked away from the world were distant memories. Like glimpses of another life through a thick fog. Flashes of chains and blood were tucked safely away behind a wall of moonlight.

"Mind if I join you?"

You spun on your heel to face this intrusion. This brutal slash through the comforting silence you'd so carefully cultivated.

Logan stood in the open doorway. Sweatshirt that matched yours clinging to his chest, jeans hung low on his waist, dark hair styled in those two points that reminded you of cat ears. A playful smirk tugged at his lips.

"Why?" was all that could escape your throat in your startled state. Your palms dug into the rail as you squeezed at the metal behind you.

The smirk remained firmly in place as Logan sauntered through the doorway. His hands were clutched behind his back, the top of his sweatshirt unzipped to expose his bare chest, hazel eyes catching in the moonlight as he looked at you with faint curiosity.

"Figured you could use some company, seeing's as you're out here on your own an' all," he replied easily. He kept a healthy distance from you as he approached. Long fingers trailed over the table's surface, dragging freshly-formed drops of dew in their wake.

You chuckled lightly in an attempt to mask your wariness, "Trying to make friends on your first day?"

"Something like that," he said softly, stepping up next to you near the railing. Thick arms rested on the iron as Logan mimicked your earlier position. One leg crossed over the other, chest leaning on bent elbows, half-lidded eyes surveying the landscape.

Mirroring him, you turned back to the vegetable garden. Wooden stakes jutted up from the earth like small saplings. Dry brush and long-rotted vegetables lay strewn inside the dirt beds.

An easy silence rested between you, disturbed only by the wind rustling the barren branches of nearby trees. Undeniable warmth spread from the man next to you. Like he was a furnace placed on the balcony to make anyone taking in the view nice and cozy. You could nearly feel the heat spreading from his arms and into the railing beneath you.

"You get nightmares too, huh?" Logan finally asked after several quiet minutes. It wasn't unkind, the way he phrased the question. It was more curious. An offering of relation between the two of you.

"Most nights," you answered simply. A low hum of recognition rumbled deep in his chest.

"Every night, for me. Can never remember them, though," he said with a sigh. You noticed the repetitive tap of his pointer finger on the back of his hand. Nervous tick, maybe.

"Seems we're both pretty fucked up," you joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. Logan barked a quiet laugh.

"You could say that again."

The kinship you felt with him was like nothing you'd ever felt before. From what Jean had discovered earlier, Logan couldn't age. Neither could you. Logan had a troubled past he couldn't fully remember. You had a troubled past, but one you remembered all too well. Logan was the product of experimentation and years of heartache. You were the result of decades under the thumb of the U.S. government, forced to torture POWs during WWII.

Maybe there was finally someone who could understand you. Understand what you've been through.

Charles did the best he could. He was the only one in the mansion anywhere near as old as you. Unfortunately, you still had 27 years on the great Professor X.

"Do they have alcohol in this place?" Logan grumbled with a tired groan. His head fell to rest on his forearms. You couldn't help but laugh.

"Not readily available to newcomers, bud. Play your cards right and you may be shown the secret stash," you said with a dramatic whisper. Logan's shoulders shook with a chuckle, shaking his head where it laid on his arms.

"And what cards would those be? We talkin' blackjack, poker, or go fish?" he replied as he straightened his back. Hazel eyes connected with your own. A spark of familiarity flashed in your mind.

Conversation flowed so damn easily with Logan. It was like talking to your reflection. A male, ruggedly handsome, 6'2" without shoes reflection. The sense of relaxation you felt around this man you'd met this morning wasn't a fact to be taken lightly.

Was this part of his mutation? Getting others to trust him? It wouldn't be too far out of left field. Hell, you could pop people like balloons with your mutation. Manipulating others' emotions wasn't that strange of an idea.

"Y'alright, doll? Suddenly got quiet," Logan asked softly, breaking you away from your swirling thoughts.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry, I just... Zone out sometimes," you explained quickly in one breath.

You jumped as a warm hand landed on your shoulder. Strong, heat bleeding from the large palm into your skin. An involuntary shiver rocketed up your spine.

"Seems like I ain't the only one needing a drink," Logan said with a small smile. The effortless kinship that emanated from him was nearly intoxicating. Reeling you in on an invisible fishing line. Clouding your judgement with a haze of quickly developing trust.

You should pull away. Nothing good could come from falling into friendship this fast. Decades of being a mutant had taught you that intentions weren't always what they'd seemed. A person could be offering you a hand only to shove you into oncoming traffic.

"Know what? A drink sounds great right now," you murmured as you stepped back. Logan's hand fell from your shoulder like a dead weight. You turned on your heel to lead him inside.

Maybe if you pumped this guy full of liquor, you'd be able to tell where his head was at. Why was he being so nice to you? Especially after you'd heard how he'd acted around Scott? You hugged your rapidly chilling sweatshirt closer to your body.

Logan Howlett. "The Wolverine." You'd get to the heart of what made him tick soon enough.

and she doooooes >:) i LOVE my babies so much. exploring their relationship in its entirety is SO FUCKING FUN!!!

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[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader | p. 7

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> <-

June 1983

You awake with an ache near your temple. Dragging yourself onto your right side, a dull pain presses into your lower back until you hear a stiff pop. You take in a breath of hot air, and you suddenly remember the fan on your desk isn’t facing you and it isn’t even turned on.

It comes back to you in a haze of clouded thought. You were awake late last night waiting for your mother to come home from a night of bar hopping, and flirting with men for their money.

It happens like this;

In the night, your mother will come home by blasting through the front door in a spell. Booze leaks from her pores. As she stumbles to bed, she will flick on the light adjacent to your room. Light shines underneath your door. You can see this from where you lay your head at night. It is then, when she’s tucked away in her cave that you would get out of bed. You’ll open the bedroom door, and take a peek down the hallway. Her bedroom light is now on, and you can shut off the light that she’s forgotten. Finally, you feel your way back through the dark and twist the fan on your desk to face just below your chin and you flick on the fan to the lowest setting. It’s quiet enough to not disturb her oncoming hangover, and yet cool enough to keep you from sweating throughout the night.

Last night was the first night that she never came home.

When you open up your eyes, you are flashed with hot sun pouring through your broken blinds. You groan to think that you could have had another moment of slumber. Really, you’re unsure when you fell asleep. You began to breathe slower when you thought that maybe she would be too drunk to even find the light switch. That maybe you could hear the soft clicking of her bare feet tip-toeing through the house, since she always took off her high heels before stepping through the threshold.

There are a few times you could recall that she’s been mad at you for being up when she got home. You would like to imagine her not wanting you to see her in a state of drunkenness, however you also know she’s embarrassed. She won’t tell you out loud, but she’s facing critical debt that you won’t even be able to claw out of when she’s passed away.

You climb out of bed that morning, and you first use the restroom. It’s on the way to your mother’s bedroom. When you knock on the door, there is no answer. Upon opening the door, you’re met with an empty bed that hasn’t been slept in recently. Her sheets are tossed sloppily, but they’re also cold.

Turning on your heel, you double time to the front room. There are emergency numbers to call on the fridge in the kitchen. Someone around town must have seen her. Your worry is for nothing. As you run through the numbers written across many sticky notes, one in particular stands out among the rest. You pull down the envelope stuck to the fridge by a thick magnet shaped like a bear. He wears a Chef hat and holds a rolling pin at his side.

Inside the envelope, you see a hand written note from your mom that says she won’t be back for a few days because she will be at the ocean with Frank. You have no idea who Frank is, but you have no choice but to believe her. She also asks for you to go to the grocery store with the money that she has left. It’s less than one-hundred dollars.

You sigh.

As you tap the money back into the envelope with your fingers held flat, you hear a soft knocking at your front door. It’s so soft you would miss the person on the other side if you weren’t already in the kitchen. The mounted clock on your kitchen wall says that the time is just after nine-thirty in the morning. Not only have you slept horribly warm and you slept on your back, which you never do; you’ve also slept in past your usual hour even for the summer time.

That knocking could only mean one thing. Robin Buckley has biked across town to meet you at your door. She’s very aware, by now, that your mother is in a different place in her life. Your mom comes home late, and she uses the mornings and the afternoons to sleep. Since it is summer, Robin worries that you’ll get cooped up in your house. It’s dark, and there aren’t many decorations anymore since your mom began selling your shared possessions for grocery money. You can only hope that’s what she is doing with the cash anyway.

“Hi, Rob,” you stand in front of her in your old t-shirt and your socks. With the door propped open by your toes, you can feel that the air outside is much cooler than the air in your trailer. Whoever made these tin boxes wanted you to cook like sardines. Yuck!

Robin bounces with a quiet step. She’s always been a morning person, even when she doesn’t have to be. That’s usually because she has something she has to tell you like a secret around school, or there is a question she has that can only be answered in person so she can see you react.

“Let’s go shopping,” she pokes her head around your shoulder, and keeps her voice low enough so that she doesn’t wake the beast.

You invite her inside your home, “it’s nice to see you too, Robin. My mom’s not here.”

Robin knows you well-enough throughout the years that there is worry behind your eyes.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” you give her the same letter your mom has written you, so that she can read it over.

Robin rolls her eyes at your mom’s flakiness, and for the lack of letting you know where she’s gone off too. Your mom has become quite vague in her stories, so much so that it’s curious if any of them are true.

Despite her quirks, your mom is the only parent you have. If she’s really gone, would they ship you off to your dad that you’ve never met? Your mom has given you so many tall-tales, and so many excuses that you don’t bother asking anymore questions.

You’ve grown to like Hawkins- er- the people that are in the tiny town. That doesn’t mean you’ve cut off your adventurous side that begs you to break free of your chains and to follow your dreams of going to a huge university in the city, then traveling across the world. Your journals would be filled with pages among pages of your adventures. A true dream that can only be imagined.

You float back to earth when the door you just shut is tapped on again. This time your neighbor has stopped by with a gift wrapped in old newspaper.

“Good morning, Eddie,” you prop the door again. “My mom’s not here.”

The warning becomes tiresome. You’ve never met another person, who must apologize for their mom’s behavior. She’s just in a funk, you would excuse her. It’s a sorry sight to see the people she once knew daily, and they ask how she is with the same somber expression. She’s just in a funk.

Lately, Eddie hasn’t been coming by your house. He waits for you to get an opportunity to slip away to visit him. Your mom would spill harsh lies about the intentions he has with you. She will spit venom into his eye about a fantasy where you’ve become bare-footed and pregnant. Soon, Eddie will have no job and no prospects, so that you’re stuck in Hawkins. It’ll be Eddie’s fault that he ruins you.

Your friendship with Eddie has hit rocky waters in the past year. There’s a tension set there because Eddie can’t get past that you’re growing up beside him. You’re not a little girl that needs someone to hold your hand anymore. Whenever a boy shows the slightest interest in you, Eddie’s claws come out. According to Eddie’s standards, no one is good enough for you and you won’t be settling for anyone less than perfect. But, who is he to decide that for you?

It’s gotten to the point where you avoid Eddie at school sometimes. You have to sneak about in the long routes to your classes. Luckily for you, Eddie will graduate next year. It sounds harsh, but maybe without him there scaring all the boys off you’ll get a chance to meet somebody half decent. You know that Eddie means well, after all. He just doesn’t know when to quit firing at nothing.

“Happy birthday!” Eddie holds the gift out to you with a smile that could melt a dentist. That’s saying something because Eddie’s teeth are shockingly straight and white for never going to see a real dentist past his thirteenth year of life (because he can’t afford the dentist and it’s NOT because he’s is afraid of them).

Soon, you’ll be fifteen. It’s nothing different than fourteen. You can imagine few life changes this year. It’s just there to taunt you about your future. And for that, fifteen can eat rotten eggs.

Then again, as you tear the wrapping off of your gift and you reveal a shiny new black leather bound jornal, maybe fifteen won’t be so forgotten about. You wouldn’t have the money to afford such a thing, but Eddie could never see you put away your writing.

It’s silly to say, but Eddie adores the face you make while you journal your life away. You get real focused and you zone out, while talking to yourself. There’s no world around you, while you journal. It’s just you and that pen- pen!

Eddie puts his hand in his back pocket, and rummages around to feel for the second part of your gift. A brand new set of writing pens that are inscribed with your name. He had to get these in the city, but that two hour drive to get there and to get back is worth seeing your eyes light up with your dream becoming reality. Not to pat himself on the back or anything.

“Eddie!” You knock the wind out of him a bit when you rush to hug him around the chest. His large hands stroke your spine.

“Anything for you,” and he means it.

Robin waits for your embrace to finish, and for the both of you to return to earth to try to insert herself in the conversation. It’s all background noise because Eddie pulls out his car keys to his van.

“I figure,” he jangles the keys in front of your face, “you might want a lesson or two?”

The day that Eddie Munson offers to let you take control of his van you thought pigs would be flying all over this place. Yet, he’s is completely deadpan serious.

As much as you want to take up his offer, you tilt your head over to your friend, Robin.

“Actually, Robin and I are going shopping this morning. Can we reschedule for this afternoon?” You propose.

Eddie’s face falls, “I’ve got practice with the band, sweetheart.”

You click your teeth, “when are you free?”

“Maybe sometime this weekend?”

“Okay, yeah,” you bounce with joy. “I’ll see you!”

“It’s nice to see you, Robin,” Eddie knows when he’s overstayed his welcome between you two.

Still, Robin is polite enough to wave to him. They don’t hang out enough to really get to know each other. Again, your mother has been making your life a bit more complicated. You would love to have your friends over for a sleepover, but she would say that the Devil has you by His toe.

This is odd because she’s never terribly been religious in the years prior.

“Let me change, and we can go,” you tell Robin.

-> <-

You cannot wait to learn how to drive. Peddling your bike around town has earned you some calf muscles like an athlete, but you’ll still tire out before you even get to your destination. Not to mention that it is also very difficult to bring home groceries and other goodies you find, while you’re in town.

Since your birthday is coming up, Robin thought that a day of shopping would suit you. Both of you like to go to the stores just to try on clothes and to feel pretty for a couple of hours, before you put them all back on the rack. You’ll head down the street for a bite at the cafe, and then you’ll go home.

Today, Robin is really insistent that you buy a dress for your birthday party. You’re not so sure that the party will happen this year because your mom has made no mention of the day you were born all month. Traditionally, she begins the month of June by wishing you a “happy birthday month.” This year, however, has been quiet as a mouse.

When you do see your mother, she’s usually intoxicated by booze or by other means that you’ve suspected for a while now. She has a tendency to lock herself in her bedroom for hours at a time, and when she finally emerges, she will appear more exhausted than when she first went inside of her room. Her eyes have sunken. They’re redder than a ripened tomato. And, her skin is ghastly pale and she has gone gray in color. You miss the days she was young and she was full of bright life with a red lipstick smile. You’re lucky now if she even draws on her eyebrows evenly without smudges these days.

Enough thinking about her, you’ve decided. Robin and yourself have entered the first dress shop you see on the Main Street. It’s not so crowded, but it is still quite early - around ten thirty. A woman examines the stitching around the neckline of a shorter length dress. She blows air through her lips like a horse, before pointing her nose in a different direction. There is a man with broad shoulders in his thirties, hovering over a jewelry stand. Perhaps he is buying something for his wife. You do recall seeing a wedding band across his finger.

Robin links your arm with hers, which is something she usually will do. Together you will search through what feels like hundreds of fabrics. Some of them will be stretchy. Others will cling to your body.

You want something subtle in color, but you like the thought of a more modest appearance. Most of the options in front of you are far too dressy. Until, you come across the most beautiful dress with a skirt that would touch the middle of your calves. It’s pink. Your fingers melt at the touch of cotton.

“You have to try this dress on,” Robin watches your eyes sparkle.

Checking the price tag is a mistake because the cost is scary. You’ve never touched something with value over fifty bucks. This?!

You tuck the dress back into the rack, “No.”

“What?!” Robin exclaims. “Come on! It’s for your birthday!”

“That price?” You scoff. “Robin, I have to buy groceries.”

“You don’t have to buy it,” she coaxes and she nudges you to try on the dress. “Try it on!”

Robin hops up and down when you reach forward to land your hand on the dress in question. And, with her by your side, the two of you head to the dressing rooms. You want to ask her why she doesn’t join you today, but the words fall flat against the grain of your tongue.

When you get to the dressing rooms, you’re shocked to see Gareth Emerson amongst the skirts and the blouses hanging on the rack to be put back on the shelves. There’s a tiny waiting room where he sits. Another seat is empty for Robin to take her place, as she will wait impatiently for you to try on the dress.

You stop in your tracks feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. It’s as though someone has trapped you in the spot where you stand with the heaviest weights known to man. Gareth hasn’t seen you yet because he’s too busy brushing off some feathers that came from the dress hanging on his right. Sitting between his legs is a woman’s purse overflowing with all sorts of things. You wonder why he’s here today, rather than preparing for the boys to come over to practice in his mom’s garage. As you contemplate asking him that very question, your answer bursts through a door of the changing room.

“Gary!”

Gareth’s head whips at the sound of that terrible nickname being announced to the entire store. Heat rises to his face and settles in his cheeks. You’ve met his mom only in passing, but you’ve forgotten how enthusiastic she can be. It’s all in good fun . . . for her.

Alice Emerson is the type of mom to make sure everyone knows, who her kid is. To the other people in the room, she’s loving her son. While Gareth reeks of embarrassment.

You only wish your mom was more like her. But, that’s the luck of the draw.

As soon as Gareth looks up, he sees his mom trying on a bright blue blouse. This would be the third top she’s tried on. And, boy, do they all look the same. Gareth could never imagine getting this worked up over clothes. But, his mom really wanted that promotion from work. She’s got to look the part if she wants the job that bad.

“You look great, mom,” he tries to sound less bored.

The compliment falls flat.

“Just ‘great’?” She tugs at the loose fabric on the front of her blouse.

Robin pipes up behind you, before you shoot her that warning glare not too;

“I think you look beautiful,” she compliments, “you look like a flower.”

“A flower?” Gareth’s mom faces Robin with a thoughtful stare. She still picks at the loose fabric, then checks herself in the tall standing mirror that’s just beyond where Gareth sits.

Robin decides to follow her around.

Gareth’s gaze finally falls upon you, although it doesn’t last long because he stares curiously at the dress hooked between your fingers.

You answer, “it’s my birthday next week.”

“Oh, right,” like he would forget.

Even though he’s never invited, you throw a small get together each year. Your mom buys a cheap cake from the store with some candles and a lighter. Wayne, Eddie, Robin and your mom will all sing you happy birthday over the dining table after making you slap on a silly party hat.

Eddie would tell him why he couldn’t hang out the next day, and Gareth would be left with a recap. No, he’s not jealous by any means. It just sucks to not have Eddie around for practice.

Never mind.

“Big plans?” Gareth grinds his teeth. A dirty habit he must have picked up when he was younger. It’s just to distract him from the tight grip that someone has on his belly whenever he speaks to anyone.

You shrug, “actually, I’m not so sure. I’m waiting to see if my mom comes back from wherever she is.”

You don’t mean to dump your problems on Gareth, especially Gareth. Still, as you find yourself drawn away from Eddie - you find that Gareth has a place somewhere in your life. Even at school, he seems to find you more often than Eddie would.

Gareth’s face falls in the moment as if contemplating what you’ve said, and how to go about the next sentence. Your humor falls flat, but mostly because of the way your own face shakes when you joke about your mom ‘coming back.’

“Well,” he points to the dress in your hand. “Are you going to try it on?”

“Yes,” Robin answers for you, over her shoulder and while she’s busy with Gareth’s mom. As awkward as Robin could be sometimes, when she’s among the right crowd she could be very extroverted.

You don’t take a second look towards Gareth, but instead you find the first empty changing room and you shimmy inside. It’s quite small. There’s enough room for a hanger for the dress, and a bench for your clothes.

When you twist the handle to lock the door, the metal hook lays limp in your hand. It’s supposed to stiffen when locked, but someone has broken the handle.

“Hey, Robs?!” You call for back-up. “Robin?!”

Gareth clears his throat. “Robin went to get another shirt with my mom.”

“Oh,” you chew the side of your mouth. “The lock is broken in here. Er- could you hold it shut?”

There’s a bit of noise from the other side of the door. It sounds like shuffling. The door handle clinks, but it doesn’t twist.

“Okay, just tell me when you want out,” you can see Gareth’s shadow under the door.

Suddenly feeling a bit insecure, you have to tell yourself that Gareth can’t see through the closed door. That awkward shimmy out of your jeans would never catch his eye. Your ugly bra isn’t for him anyway. And, neither is the dress.

The way your curves are hugged like a babe wrapped in a blanket. There’s no hiding your growing figure in here. It’s soft as a blanket fresh from the wash. The color sits against your skin as to compliment you, and not to wash you out.

“Don’t laugh,” you love the dress, but you still imagine you do look a bit ridiculous in something as nice as this.

Gareth let’s go of the door handle, then takes a few steps back, “I won’t.”

After taking in a breath of bravery, you twist the door handle and you step out with your eyes on your socks. Time feels frozen. The air is thick. Your heart pumps blood through your body, yet all of your extremities have gone numb. You’re tortured in wait for Gareth to say anything, but he hardly has a response. Lifting your chin, you’re met with Gareth staring at you funny. You can’t read his expression, and so you race to the mirror behind him.

“Is it bad?” You run your hands across your hips. “Ugh, I told Robin this was a bad idea!”

Gareth comes into view behind you with that unreadable expression. Glossy eyes trail over your figure, then finally meet yours only in the middle. Maybe that’s why he could tell you;

“You’re beautiful.”

You turn ever so slightly, “really?”

Now, your heart works overtime. There’s a song and a dance inside your belly that you haven’t practiced yet. You don’t even know the words.

The dance ends abruptly with tears in your eyes as you wait for the encore that would never come. There isn’t enough time because Robin comes back with Gareth’s mother. She’s got another blouse to try on, and Robin’s swept you away in the process.

“You have got to buy this dress!” Robin insists.

You stare over your shoulder at what could have been, but Gareth must not have felt the earth rattle as you did. This places your heart back into your pocket in a safe tucked in space.

Wrestling yourself out of your daze, you blink a number of times at Robin until you catch a few words that spill from your lips like water.

“I- I can’t,” you fumble.

Robin misses the arrow in front of her nose, and insists once again, “oh, come on! You know your mom is going to throw you a party like she does every year. You deserve something special to wear!”

“I need groceries,” your decision is final. “Can you hold the door for me please? The lock is broken.”

Robin holds the lock on the changing room door this time, and you quickly change back into your day clothes. Without many words, you say goodbye to Gareth and his mother. You don’t see his gaze lingering as you leave.

A few doors down is an ice cream shop, and Robin offers to pay for you to get a treat. You’ve been a bit down since the dress shop, and perhaps she regrets insisting you try on the dress of your dreams when she knows you’re short for cash. If she could, she would buy the dress for you. It would be the best birthday gift.

Even your favorite ice cream couldn’t cheer you up. You swirl the chocolate around with your spoon until the ice cream becomes smooth like a milkshake. That’s the best way to eat ice cream. You take a scoop into your mouth, while Robin holds the door open for you to leave.

“It’s just a dress,” you mutter around the soft serve. “I’m sure I’ll find another someday.”

“Yeah,” Robin walks beside you. “In a few years, you’ll be the greatest journalist. You’ll be worth millions. You’re still buying me a mansion, right?”

You snort. “Let’s start by me getting discovered first, right?”

Robin laps around her vanilla cone as the ice cream drips onto her hand. You come in clutch with an extra napkin for her, just as your name is called from down the street.

Gareth catches up to you completely out of breath. In a moment, he holds out a dress box with a giant pink bow wrapped on top.

“Happy birthday,” he huffs.

Robin grabs hold of your ice cream before you drop the container to the floor. Your jaw would fall with it.

“Oh, my god,” Robin gawks.

You stumble over a few words, before you get too, “you did not.”

“I saved up some money from mowing my neighbors’ lawn,” he explains to you. “You really liked that dress.”

“Gareth-,”

“You’re welcome,” he stops you, before you dare tell him to take the dress back. Even if you told him too, he wouldn’t do it. You know that.

Tears well in your eyes. Maybe you’ve had a bad morning, or maybe the prospect of not getting a birthday at all has got you turning soft. You toss your arms over his shoulders.

“Hey!” his arms melt at your waist. “It’s okay.”

“Thank you,” your voice wobbles into his shoulder.

-> <-

[June 1983 . . . again]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol

[steviewashere]

Kisses to Make it Better

Rating: General CW: Vomiting (It's Kind of Gross, Sorry) Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Sick Fic, Sick Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Forehead Kisses, Lots of Kisses, Star Wars Reference, Steve Harrington is a Dork, Eddie Munson is a Dork, Teacher Steve Harrington (Briefly Mentioned), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is the kiss on my forehead."

💕—————💕

When Steve wakes up, it’s to the sharp, piercing sensation of a migraine attack. He immediately closes his eyes and groans. His senses are heightened miserably.

Soft bird song is like screeching. The gentle rustle of tree leaves like the scrapes of fingernails on a chalkboard. (And god does he know that from working with a bunch of butthead eighth graders.) Any sunlight is like a laser aiming to obliterate him onsite. He’s warm and boiling and the blanket sears where it touches. But when the removes it, he’s frozen to his core and shivering. The dull sounds of Eddie’s snores—Steve almost wants to suffocate him; he may not usually be a motorboat, but wow does he mimic one amazingly right now.

He can’t take it. The space in their bedroom is too much for his everything. So, he grabs his pillow from under his head, stands on unsteady legs, and ventures out into the hallway. Snatches a spare quilt—one made by Joyce Byers some short years ago for his and Eddie’s makeshift backyard wedding—a wash rag to put under cold water, and a towel. Just in case he has to lay on the bathroom floor. It’s humiliating knowing that the migraine could reach that point, what he wouldn’t give for his uninjured pre-1983 brain.

The couch is lumpy and distinctly firm and uncomfortable under his mutilated back. He’s sweaty, cold, too hot, nauseous, and dizzy. Really, he should’ve stopped by the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for his Imitrex. But the mere idea of standing longer than he needs to, the floor like ocean waves crashing at his feet, his entire body an uneasy cargo ship ready to crash into lighthouse rocks—it makes him shiver. Though, whether that be from his body’s inability to regulate his temperature, he isn’t sure.

But he manages to find a comfortable enough spot. Left arm squished and folded awkwardly by his head, the other tight at his side. Legs crossed at his ankles. The rest of him completely supine to the cushions. Head nestled and drowning in his practically flat, definitely overused bedroom pillow. He sighs, agitated.

This is his life.

Probably should’ve woken up Eddie. Probably should go to the landline and call in sick to work. Probably should get a puke bucket, too. But…nope, he’s somewhere between comfortable and dying on the couch. The perfect in-between. He closes his eyes against the next wave of dizzying nausea that overrides him. Breathing through his nose in sharp, hot exhales. Willing it, or at least attempting to, away. This is one of the worst attacks he’s had in a very long while. Beats out the infamous migraine attack of 1990, a story that ends in a bed at urgent care, accompanied by heaving puke, with Robin’s and Nancy’s cold hands to his sweaty forehead, and Eddie nervously chomping away at his fingertips. Should he go to urgent care? He grinds his teeth together at the thought.

Distantly, there’s some shuffling around the bedroom. Steve grimaces at the noise. Then, some light footfalls in the hallway. And all at once, God’s heavenly light is cast around him, though now it’s like the swallowing pits of Hell. He groans, tight and muffled in the back of his throat.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses. “Sorry, baby, sorry,” he whispers. Eddie’s not that great at whispering. Or, maybe he is. Maybe Steve is Dumbo level sensitive to every sound in the world. The light is flicked back off and Eddie comes closer to the couch.

Though, the aromatic scents of Eddie’s Axe musk body spray overpower every sensation Steve’s experienced in the short span he’s been awake. Did he fucking spray it before going to bed, Steve wonders, gagging. He puts out a weak hand, palm towards Eddie. “Don’t,” he strains. Even his voice is grating. “You—“ He gags again, throat clenching, stomach turning, bile rising. The palm draws back, flapping in the air, landing harsh around his mouth, squeezing his skin and lips. Steve rolls up onto his right elbow, pointing his face down at the floor, puking—into the kitchen garbage can that Eddie has, somehow, brought in super human speeds.

Eddie hushes above him. He must be crying if that’s how Eddie’s reacting. But he can’t care to notice. His head trapped in the kitchen bag. Coffee grounds and an empty container of baked beans, combining in a hideous concoction that could be compared to that of fresh, steaming dog shit. The sour stench of himself, his insides, the rest of the putrid garbage around his spewing mouth and snotty nose—it all makes him puke harder. A hand traces up and down his spine, the heavy touch barely noticeable unless he’s gasping for air.

When he’s done, he collapses back onto the couch with a resound thud. His breath exhausted and the blood vessels in his face probably bursted. Closes his eyes to block out everything, to try and ground himself again. Eddie shuffles as quietly as he can out of the room. The front door is open, cold morning breeze tickling Steve’s skin, the trash can placed on the porch for now. It’ll get changed out, Steve knows Eddie will do it. He’s getting the Imitrex, some Zofran. Water and a straw. Steve can only hope that Eddie will take a quick shower with some unscented soap, the cologne musk too infuriating to his nose.

He’s carefully sat up. Body loose-limbed and aching all over. Propped up into sitting on the middle cushion. Hair swiped away from his forehead, clipped back by a couple alligator clips. Eddie gently taps the underside of his chin. The nonverbal request, Please open your mouth for your medicine. Steve drops his jaw without hesitation. Pills set on his tongue and a straw placed between his lips. Eddie’s hand goes to his left arm, running up and down in slow stripes. Please take slow slurps, is what that hand motion means. And Steve does what he’s told. Careful to not upset his already agitated stomach.

“Eddie,” he croaks. A hum lightly vibrates from above him. Hands nestled on his skin, laying him back down on the couch. He doesn’t open his eyes, squeezes them tighter in fact. Sighing into the horizontal position of his body. “Eds, please take a shower.”

A light snort. “Saying I stink?” Eddie whispers, though there’s no offense drawn tight in his voice. Just amusement. Maybe some concern if Steve could only focus on the sound.

He shakes his head, but grimaces at the light-headed sensation it causes. Settles and whispers, “No, I can smell your cologne. Too strong.”

“Oh,” Eddie mutters. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me take care of that.” He sets something clunky on the floor. Another bucket, most likely. And stands, his shadow blocking the sunlight streaming in through their living room windows. He must take notice to the light because then, the curtains are all shut at once. Or, something quick like that. Steve isn’t really aware of reality right now. Floating somewhere between comfortable and dying, laying in that still, too.

In the blink of an eye, Eddie is back by his side. Though, when his right hand tangles with Steve’s, he’s noticeably damp. Either he took the quickest shower in existence. Or Steve’s time blindness is on another level today.

“Pain level?” Eddie murmurs.

Steve sighs through his nose. “Started as a nine,” he mutters, “down to a seven.”

“Poor baby,” Eddie sweetly coos. He gently squeezes Steve’s palm. I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re safe, he says. His other palm settles softly on Steve’s forehead, over the cold wash cloth he placed there. Thumb pressing between Steve’s eyebrows. “Want me to massage?”

“Yes, please,” Steve murmurs.

Another squeeze to his palm. Then, Eddie carefully maps his fingers over Steve’s scalp, pressing down minutely into the tendered areas. He sweeps his thumb down the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, pushing gently at the surrounding bone and sinus pockets.

But then, he does something he normally wouldn’t do. He peels the washcloth off. Which is fine with Steve, it’s already gone warm. He’ll need the ice pack in the freezer in a few. Eddie puts his hand back on the crest of Steve’s head. And leans down.

A warm, barely damp, sweet peck to the center of Steve’s forehead.

He opens his eyes. Steve—already sensitive, strung up beyond belief—tears up. Whimpering lowly, attempting to not be heard. Though, of course Eddie heard. He’s extra perceptive when Steve has migraine days. He immediately draws back, eyes wide and frowning. “Fuck,” he spits, muted. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Through his weeping, however quiet it is, Steve stutters, “It’s fine—it—You didn’t hurt me. Just—Sweet.” He preens up into the hand still on the back of his head. “Wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh,” Eddie whispers. He settles back down, having risen up on his knees from where he’s situated on the floor. Another little kiss to Steve’s nearest temple. Then between his eyebrows. Under his eyes. Tip of his nose. Back to the center of his forehead. “Just kissing the hurt away,” Eddie murmurs on Steve’s skin. Smacking one more on the crinkle Steve didn’t even know he was doing. “Is it working?” He lowly whispers.

Steve chuckles. “I don’t know,” he says. “Do it again?”

“Of course,” Eddie promises. A kiss here and there. But, the most prominent spot being his forehead. Eddie’s hand slides away from Steve’s, instead splaying over his heart. Pressing firm to his chest. Steve briefly wonders if Eddie can feel how his heart speeds up with each press of his lips.

Another to his forehead, drifting down his nose, one on his chin, and the last on his lips. “Ew, Eds,” Steve murmurs, “I got barf breath.”

“Don’t care,” Eddie mutters. Back at Steve’s forehead. “You aren’t contagious,” he says as if that immediately overrides how disgusting it is. “In fact, the only thing I’m catching from you is feelings,” he flirts, or at least Steve thinks he’s attempting to do that. If the stupidly endearing little wiggle to his eyebrows means anything.

Steve fondly rolls his eyes. “You’re such a dork,” he states.

“Your dork,” Eddie whispers. “And I love you.”

“I know,” Steve whispers in turn.

Eddie draws back from kissing again. To lock eyes with Steve, who is glowing with mirth. Probably paler than he’s ever been and tinted green. Yet, with fake annoyance in Eddie’s eyes, all that’s directed at Steve is unashamed love. “Did you just Han Solo me? Who’s the dork now?”

“Me,” Steve proudly murmurs. “Kiss?”

And Eddie obliges.

With the kisses as distraction, a hand over his heart, the nausea receding for now—Steve is filled with warm love. He believes that Eddie may truly heal him.

Migraines are always the worst days. But it’s a good day, if Eddie is there beside him.

💕—————💕

[seat-safety-switch]

So-called motorcylists love to shove their beloved bikes away whenever there's a little bit of snow on the road. That's because motorcyclists are famously concerned with their public perception. They don't want to drive around town with wood screws run through their tires, shrieking profanities at stopped traffic before ripping a perfect 12 'o' clocker and driving across the iced-over multi-use-pathway, comfortable in their knowledge that the police will not and can not follow. Or it's because they don't have heated grips, and their handsies get cold.

Heated steering wheels are the single greatest innovation in cars in the last two hundred years. Unfortunately for me, they hadn't been installed into cars of the age I own. In the late 1970s, the newest innovation in steering wheel comfort was "maybe make them a little smaller, for the ladies." Seems like I was cursed to a lifetime of wondering if my thermostat was seized, freezing to death even through many layers of mittens and work gloves while waiting for the tow truck to arrive and clean up the commuters in front of me.

Of course, Plymouth also didn't equip this car with a lot of other modern features. For instance, liquid-cooled active speed laser and radar jamming was not available. Active pursuit drones pre-programmed with a seek-and-destroy order for all speed cameras were not yet on the market, unless you worked for the CIA. And also the good people of China had not figured out how to make $35 45-millimetre ball-bearing turbochargers capable of adding nearly four hundred horsepower to any engine strong enough to keep its guts on the inside when presented with one medium-sized jet engine's worth of boost. I had to add all those things myself.

Easy, right? Run some wires to a heating element on the steering wheel. There's just one complication: steering wheels turn. If I keep spinning the car left and right, eventually the wire will get tangled up and rip itself out, causing an electrical fire. Admittedly, that will also keep my hands warm, but the walk home after is inconvenient.

The original "engineers" who took a whisky-soaked gander at this car before slapping their secretaries on the ass had a solution, though. In every steering wheel, the horn button has the same problem. Unfortunately for me, the horn hasn't worked in this car since 1983, which complicated my attempts to reuse the wiring.

Ultimately, I came up with what a rocket scientist would call "a compromise." A pair of bolt cutters and a map to the local truck-supply warehouse's storage yard soon provided me with a nifty diesel-fired interior heater, a roaring flame that consumes all and produces enough heat to make toast from three feet away. Ratchet-strapped to the place where the passenger seat used to be, it will keep my fingers warm, as well as my feet and every other part of my body. Sure, it's inconvenient having to continually refill it with stolen farm diesel, and I could have run the exhaust pipe out of the cabin a better way than through the rust hole in the floor. Once you get that heated seat feeling, though, you simply can't go back. If you'll excuse me, I need to get going: if I don't get to work in the next five minutes, my boots will melt again.

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 5

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: Everything is falling- leaves from the trees, rain from the sky, you for Eddie, and Eddie for you.

Word Count: 10.1 K

A/N: Big thanks to @the-unforgivenn (happy birthday❤️) for all of the help you gave me on this chapter, and honestly this whole fic in general. You've been an invaluable part of the writing process of this story, and the fact that you care so much about Eddie & Ace just makes me feel so loved... you don't even know. Ily wifey✨

Thank you @vintagehellfire for your priceless tattoo knowledge- I hope I did you proud!!

Also thanks to @blueywrites for helping me decide on what Eddie would tattoo on reader back in our Tumblr DMs in June😂 y'all that's how long I've had this scene in my brain. This part of the story has been a long time coming.

Divider was created by the lovely and talented @hellfire--cult❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 5

Fall, 1983

“Rick, are you serious, man?”

“Dead serious, I’ll sell it to you for twenty.”

You caught the tail end of their conversation as you approached the red plastic picnic table in Forest Hills trailer park. Today was the first day of fall, and while it may not have felt like biting cold and crunchy leaves yet, it did feel like flannels tied around waists and long-dead grass that broke beneath the soles of your shoes. You hopped up onto the surface of the table, swinging your feet around to rest beside Eddie where he sat on the bench. 

“Sell what?” you asked, producing three cans of Coke from your bag that you’d brought from home and handing one to each of the boys. Rick had grown accustomed to your presence since the spring, so he actually cracked a smile when he answered your question and nodded in thanks as he accepted the can.

“Munson wants to buy my old tattoo gun.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, seriously?” you asked Eddie.

He didn’t take his eyes off Rick. “And I’m wondering what the catch is if you’re selling it to me for so cheap.” 

You cracked open your can of soda with a hiss, joining Eddie in his Rick stare-down. “Hmm,” you mused, “I bet he forgot to clean it and it’s staph-infested.”

“Nope,” Rick popped the ‘p’ after taking a swig from his shiny red can. “Never been used, so I can guarantee it’s staph-free. Always meant to use it, but after that brush with the cops I had last month, I don’t want to risk having it.”

You narrowed your eyes at Eddie, trying to discern whether or not he’d thought about the fact that if he bought it, then he would be in possession of paraphernalia for illegal Indiana activities. 

Then again, you knew he smoked weed and that was most definitely against the law as well, and he hadn’t been caught yet. You trusted him not to be stupid enough to get arrested.

You turned your line of questioning on Eddie. “Why on earth do you need a tattoo gun anyway?”

“Well you see, Ace-” Eddie lifted one of your feet up from the bench, straightening your leg and presenting your right shoe- your white converse, half covered in mythical creatures and random doodles that Eddie had slowly been adding to with his fine-tipped Sharpie ever since you’d bought them in early August. “-it seems that I need a canvas for my art, and it won’t be long before I run out of shoe.” 

You quirked an eyebrow. “So now people are the canvas?” 

Eddie held up his arms, bare skin nearly translucent in the afternoon sun. His nearly-too-small Iron Maiden tee showcased just how much bare skin he had to spare along the contours of his limbs. “If by people you mean me, then yeah.” 

“You’re going to tattoo yourself?”

“Yep!”

“Without practicing on someone else first?”

Eddie smirked, “You volunteering?”

You rolled your eyes, but for some odd reason the idea stuck. You decided to play along. 

“Let’s say I am, what would the tattoo be?” 

Eddie hadn’t anticipated this answer. He was so surprised, in fact, that he choked on the soda that he’d just sipped into his mouth before your question. In a cacophony of coughs and wheezes, Eddie managed to regain his composure as you smiled wryly, feeling as though you’d bested him somehow in some small way. To fluster him with something as small as this, something he hadn’t expected. 

“You’re serious? You want a tattoo?” Eddie responded skeptically, before turning away from you to fiddle with his soda can still held in his hands. 

You shrugged, as if he were asking if you wanted a pizza, not a permanent brand inked on your skin. “Why not? I think I’d look pretty badass with a tattoo.” 

You weren’t sure what was making you feel so bold today, but you had a feeling it might be related to the thought of Eddie covered in ink that wound up and down his skin that was making you ache to touch it when it was still naked and peach-pale. You scooched a couple inches down the tabletop to the left, placing your seat directly behind Eddie’s neck. 

Then, in a stroke of something between bravery, stupidity, and need, you carefully slung your legs over Eddie’s shoulders so that they sat in the bends of your knees.

It was a simple gesture- familiar, even. You made a point to lean back a little, bracing your hands behind you on the tabletop so that the apex of your thighs stayed a good distance from the back of Eddie’s neck. You felt Eddie’s shoulders stiffen, each muscle under your jeans tensing for a moment before relaxing into the closeness. 

Then Eddie brought his hands to your ankles, his fingertips brushing the spare skin between your high tops and the cuffs of your jeans. The pads of his thumbs barely caressed the skin but they felt like a kiss- a thing coveted and then forbidden, then coveted even more. 

His touch drifted over your legs, warm hands coming to rest over your shins and squeeze, heating the denim that separated his skin from yours. You were holding your breath. You’d been so confident a second ago yet here he was, knocking the very air from your lungs. 

You waited anxiously for him to say something; if he didn’t you were sure you were going to do something stupid. Something that would involve more of his skin on your skin.

“Would you want this tattoo of yours to show?” Eddie asked at last, breaking the silence between the two of you- well, the three of you. Rick was still there, taking in the sight before him with a smirk on his face. 

“Not easily, my parents would kill me.” you said, ensuring that your tone of voice was nonchalant, casual. “But I don’t see the harm in something small that I could hide.” 

Eddie tilted his head back and up, earthen eyes flicking up to yours. “What happened to ‘looking badass’?”

You pursed your lips as you leaned forward, bringing your faces to hover parallel over each other. “You’re saying that taking my pants off to reveal a surprise tatty isn’t badass?”

You watched as Eddie’s eyes flashed darker for a split second- nearly imperceptibly so- before his lips stretched sinfully into a mischievous grin. “Oh, under the pants then, huh?” 

His hands traced higher, ghosting on your knees and burning his fingerprints through your jeans. 

“Easy to hide,” you said, struggling to keep your voice even. “It’s a practical placement.”

Eddie’s thumbs stroked absentminded circles into the flesh of your lower thighs, tight denim puckering with the motion. “Practical placement…” he murmured, low enough that it sounded like he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. 

“You could put it on your hip.”

Both of your heads whipped around to focus on Rick, who was grinning at both of you like he’d just discovered a fun new game to play. He shrugged, hopping up to sit beside you on the tabletop. “You want it to be hidden all of the time, right?” he leaned to shove you congenially with his shoulder. “When’s a good girl like you gonna be showing off some hip? I bet the only one who’ll see that will already be married to you when he lays eyes on-”

“Hey!” you interjected. “You act like I’m some prude, I’m not a nun.” Rolling your eyes, you looked back down at Eddie hoping to meet his gaze and laugh together over how ridiculous Rick was being. However, you looked down only to find Eddie’s chocolate browns trained on Rick with wide-eyed warning. A silent message was clearly being exchanged, but it wasn’t for you.

Rick was smiling smugly down at Eddie, unbeknownst to you, and Eddie was getting the message loud and clear:

It’s time to raise the stakes, kid. 

“Perfect!” Rick chirped, smug eyes still trained on Eddie’s. “So you wouldn’t mind letting Eddie use your hip as his, uh… canvas, then?”

If Eddie’s looks could kill, Rick would be a dead man. 

“Yeah.” you choked out, refusing to give yourself time to chicken out of what you’d gotten yourself into. “Yeah, why not?”

Rainy days in autumn just felt right.

Sure, you were in Latin class. Sure, you were supposed to be working on a packet the substitute teacher had just passed out. However, it was raining outside. The sub was easygoing enough that she hadn’t made a move to stop Eddie from doodling on your shoe that was perched comfortably on the crook of his hip. 

You sat behind him in every class you had together- there were four of them this year- and Eddie had gotten into the habit of reaching back to tap you on the leg whenever he knew he was losing focus. Every time he tapped, you would carefully stretch your leg forward until his hand caught on your ankle, lifting it up until it rested on his lap. His sharpie would go to work on whatever blank spots he could still find on your white converse, and the mindless activity of his drawing would keep his mind awake enough to listen as teachers droned on and on. 

The change in Eddie wasn’t lost on his teachers- they had all noticed the impact that your company seemed to have on him, and it was the only reason why they hadn’t had any issues with your constant companionship. When you were around, Eddie actually paid attention in his classes and turned in work- that was good enough for them.

The silence of the classroom and the soundtrack of rainfall beating against the roof and windows had created the perfect work zone for you, and your focus on your classwork was only interrupted when you noticed a folded piece of torn notebook paper on the edge of your desk. 

Smirking as you felt Eddie continue doodling on your shoe, you unfolded the paper and read the slanted scrawl that you’d come to recognize instantly as Eddie’s handwriting. 

Were you serious about the tattoo thing? It’s OK if you’re not.

Your cheeks heated, contemplating whether you were still serious about it or not. The only fears you had about it were completely logical- Eddie had literally no clue what he was doing. Yours would only be his second tattoo after his own. Worst case scenario, the tattoo would get infected and you go to the hospital. Eddie gets arrested for tattooing without a medical license. Best case scenario… you get to sit there while he grips your naked thigh for as long as it takes to leave a permanent reminder of him on your hip. 

You blinked a couple of times, letting that mental image wash over you, before confidently penning your answer beneath his message. 

I’m serious. 

Folding the scrap of paper and handing it back to him, you felt his Sharpie leave your shoe as he took the note and read it. You watched him register the two words, glance back at you through the loose strands of hair that hung over his shoulder, then smile softly into a shake of his head. A second later, he was handing the note back to you.

If you say so, Ace. What am I tattooing, and where?

You had to think about it for a moment before passing back your answer

Hip is fine. What are you gonna do? We could match.

Eddie’s reply came faster than you’d ever seen him write any of his notes in class, that’s for damn sure.

You want matching tattoos?? Are you sure?

Your heart began to race. Was that bad? Was he judging you for wanting to match him? Maybe you were being too clingy, trying too hard… you glanced down at his jacket, which was wrapped around you almost every day at this point- it was practically a second skin. His handwriting was all over your shoes. You stared at your fingers, scarlet polish chipping from the tips of your nails, and you remembered that you’d chosen red solely because he’d mentioned it was his favorite color. 

Were you coming across as desperate? Were you weirding him out? Maybe you needed to dial it back-

A new piece of paper slid across your desk, Eddie’s eyes glancing your way with nothing but warmth in his gaze before he returned his attention to your shoe on his lap. 

I’m fine with it if you are. 

Putting bats on my forearm. 

You released a breath that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, giving ways for butterflies to take flight inside your chest. You grinned, jotting down your reply beneath his writing. 

I’m more than fine with it. 

Could you do just one little bat on my hip?

Eddie took a little longer this time with his response, and you understood why once you saw the adorably small silhouette of a bat penned in black on the paper he’d passed back to you. 

You leaned forward, letting your chin nearly brush the fabric of his denim jacket as you whispered low enough that the substitute teacher wouldn’t hear. 

“It’s perfect.”

A snicker from the other side of the classroom caught your ear. Eddie and you both turned to see a cluster of letter-jacketed assholes staring at the two of you, whispering and laughing with each other. 

You knew deep down that you didn’t care what they thought. You knew that you should just keep your head down. Ignore them. 

But then you caught the tail end of one of their sentences.

“...fucking freaks.”

Two things happened simultaneously: your eyebrows jumped, and Eddie’s stomach dropped.

The ringing of the bell was all you needed to angrily shove your belongings into your backpack and march over to the other side of the classroom, stopping the jocks in their tracks. Eddie was right behind you, tugging you back by the crook of your elbow as you steadily ignored his pleas to sit down and ignore them, they aren’t worth it.

“You want to repeat what you were saying over there, Alan?” You stared up at the freckled boy, his harsh features sneering down at you from where he stood nearly half a foot taller than you. His height did nothing to deter you, however. Neither did Eddie’s death grip on your arm.

Alan snorted, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the two of you before him. His eyes flicked over you, appraising for about two seconds before directing his attention to Eddie behind you. “You letting your girl pick your fights for you now, Munson?” 

Eddie didn’t have a chance to respond; you didn’t give him one. “Don’t look at him.” you stepped forward, bringing you mere inches from the freckled football star. “I asked you a question.”

Alan and his cronies laughed, apparently amused by the show of dominance you were trying to make. You opened your mouth to berate him further, but the sharp tug on your arm from Eddie was strong enough this time to jerk you away from them and toward the door of the classroom. 

“Wh- Eddie, quit it!” you tried to shake off his grip but it wasn’t going to budge; Eddie marched you out the door and down the hallway like a man on a mission. 

“Yeah, Eddie, quit it!” You both could hear Alan’s patronizing whine from the classroom, his voice thrown into a reedy falsetto that made your blood boil. His voice trailed off, melting into the nasal snickers of his friends.

Eddie didn’t let go of your arm until the two of you reached his locker, at which point he finally looked you in the eye- and his stare embodied an intensity that you hadn’t seen from him ever before. You’d seen him intense, of course… just not like this. 

This looked like fear. 

“What the fuck was that for?” Eddie bit out, his teeth clenched and eyes wide. 

You crossed your arms, suddenly defensive. Had you messed up, somehow? “I… I mean, they were calling us names, I wasn’t going to just sit there.”

“Alan’s an illiterate asshole, you don’t need to explain yourself to him.”

“I know I don’t need to, but…” You chuckled humorlessly, that familiar vengeful feeling from moments ago beginning to bubble back up. “You know what, no. I do need to. I’m not the kind of person who can just sit there while jerks like him run around slandering good people, it’s wrong!”

Eddie huffed, his hands on his hips as he glanced around and shook his head. “Slandering, huh? That’s a big word, Ace. What’s that, the college word of the day?” You raised an eyebrow, watching him closely and curiously. 

He was fidgeting nonstop, repeatedly picking up his feet and replacing them on the floor only an inch or so away from where they’d been before. His eyes darted in every direction, as if scanning for potential threats so that he could run from them before they decided to pounce. 

“Eddie, why are you so afraid of those guys?” 

Big brown eyes widened to saucers, refocusing on you. “This isn’t fear, Ace, it’s just common sense.” Eddie checked over his shoulder to ensure the jocks were gone, then took a step closer. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, lifting his opposite arm to gently place his hand on your upper arm. You shivered, feeling his thumb trace small circles through his own black leather. Maybe that’s why he’s so scared all of a sudden, you pondered, leaning closer to Eddie. He’s given me his armor. 

You lowered your voice, sympathetic to Eddie’s plight. “You know I wouldn’t let them hurt you, Eds.” Looking up into his eyes, you expected to see them soften, gratitude coating his gaze. Instead, they widened and crinkled slightly at the edges. Eddie huffed out a gaudy laugh, incredulous at your admission.

“Hurt me?” he shook his head, stunned, and began to rifle through his locker for the books he needed for next class. “Ace, I just don’t want them to hurt you!”

You balked. “Me?” an eyebrow raised, you crossed your arms over your chest, defensive once again. “You really think they’d hit a girl? They’re jerks but I don’t think they’d go that far-”

“Nah, they’ll only sick their girlfriends on you.” Eddie punctuated his sentence with a slam of his locker door. “Purebred harpies with matching scrunchies who’ll make your life a living hell and then pretend that you’re the crazy one.”

It was a struggle to keep up with him at the rate he was walking, strides each a yard wide as he tugged you along by your hand. 

Your hand. Eddie Munson was holding your hand. 

“You, uh… you speaking from experience?” You stuttered over your words, cheeks heating at the sudden skin-to-skin contact. He had just admitted that he didn’t want to see you get hurt- his blatant protectiveness of you coupled with the way he was decisively dragging you by the hand to your locker right now was nearly too much for you to handle. 

“Trust me,” Eddie sighed, swinging you around as he reached your locker and (to your dismay) letting go of your hand. “You get asked out on a dare enough times, you figure out how their coven operates.” 

Eddie wasn’t meeting your eyes. You had to actually place your hand on his shoulder to capture his gaze. “Eddie,” you said, making a conscious effort to keep your voice steady and be something stable for him to feel at least a little grounded on. “Deep breath.”

Surprisingly, he did as you said. Eddie closed his eyes, inhaling deep and allowing his lungs to fill long enough that his chest expanded before his exhale blew softly on your cheeks. It smelled like the apple you’d brought for him at lunch.

 When you were once again treated to that warm hazelnut gaze, your hand acted without thinking and flew up to gently rest against his jawline. You were crossing some invisible line- you knew that- but the light in the hallway was causing shadows to take up residence in the dusting of whiskers that decorated the sharp incline that led to his chin. Your fingertips brushed his skin reverently, and he seemed frozen. Eddie didn’t dare move; you were like a butterfly that had deigned to land on him of all people, and damn it all if he was going to fuck it up and scare you off. 

“I’ve got you, you’ve got me… right?” Your voice was barely loud enough to be heard through the noise of bustling students. “We look out for each other, Eddie, we’re stronger together.” 

Eddie remained still under your caress, wishing he could focus on your touch. Wishing he could rip his eyes away from where they were trained behind you- held in terrified contact with a sadistic-looking Alan who stood with his cherry-lipsticked girlfriend across the hallway. Alan’s lips were curled into a sneer, watching as the thing that Eddie wanted most became his worst nightmare.

You were openly touching him, while wearing his clothes, standing in shoes covered with his drawings- and Eddie watched in horror as the harpy pushed up on her tiptoes to whisper something in Alan’s ear before both of them refocused not on Eddie, but on you. 

They laughed like fucking heyenas, eyeing their next meal. 

It took every ounce of self control Eddie had, but he gently took your hand in his and lowered it from his cheek. He ignored the way your eyes gazed up at him the same way a scorned puppy begged for some kind of affection, any confirmation that they are, indeed, loved. 

“It’s the together part I’m worried about, Ace.” Eddie whispered, keeping his voice low. 

You were quiet, which Eddie hated because it was his fault.

“Oh, and um-” Eddie raised his shoulders and shivered, rubbing his hands along his upper arms to warm himself with the friction. “-it’s a little chilly today… you mind if I wear the jacket?” His hand drifted down to the flannel that hung loosely tied around your waist, taking a corner of the material and feeling it between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

“This’ll keep you warm, yeah?” 

You stared blankly for a moment, stunned. You had nearly forgotten that the jacket was his to take. You’d assumed he liked that you always wore his jacket, but… perhaps you’d made that up. You were eager for him to want things like that, after all… ‘more than friends’ kinds of things. However, asking for a borrowed item to be returned was completely normal for friends. You chided yourself for reading too much into it and smiled warmly up at him.

“Yeah! Of course!” you sprung into action, setting your backpack down on the floor as you began to shrug off the jacket. “You’re right it’s frigid in here today.” 

You handed the jacket to Eddie, who donned it with a thin-lipped smile. Parting ways for your next class, you departed in opposite directions down the hallway. 

Upon arriving in your calculus class, you glanced out the window eager to zone out as you watched the rain, only to be greeted by a gray sky drained of its water. The rain’s reprieve left nothing in its wake but a tired sun, soft mist that obscured all surety, and packed Indiana dirt softened to mud too loose for one to find their footing. 

The sort of mud that, should you try to walk through it, you’d be destined to slip and fall. 

When Eddie thought of Halloween, he thought of blood and sugar. 

It was a strange contradiction, the way that Halloween’s association with horror and gore had balanced itself out with candy corn and fun-sized Snickers bars, and yet the juxtaposition of the two brought a smile to his face. The combination of sweet and terrifying embodied the holiday perfectly. On Halloween, there was no need for any kind of steely exterior that might protect him from judgment. No need to hide the way he really feels behind the scary metalhead armor he’d so carefully curated as a defense mechanism. 

On Halloween, he wasn’t just allowed to be a freak. He was celebrated for it. 

On Halloween, he could just be. 

It was the reason why Halloween just so happened to be the day he’d had enough courage to look through your bedroom window exactly four years ago. It’s the day when Hell meets Heaven to make something sweet, and anything can happen.

Anything- including matching tattoos on the floor of his trailer. 

Everything was ready- Eddie had laid out sheets of newspaper to cover what he’d deemed the tattoo zone, and broken down a cardboard box to act as a stable surface on the soft carpet of his bedroom floor. Eddie had scrutinized every instruction he’d been able to wrench from Rick for how to work the tattoo machine. Grips, needles, fucking rubber bands that were apparently very necessary… he’d made sure he had it all. He’d even practiced on an orange that he’d swiped from the kitchen counter.

A thick black cable now snaked across his carpeted floor, connecting the machine to a pedal, the pedal to a power supply, and the power supply to the yellowed plastic outlet on his wall. Beside the machine sat a stack of paper towels and all sorts of other shit Rick had advised him to make sure he used. He was lucky that Rick had bought a bottle of black ink- Eddie wouldn’t have known where to seek out medical-grade ink in a state where it was illegal to ink your skin without a license. 

Your knock at his door made Eddie jump; he wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It would be easy to write his nerves off as adrenaline before his first tattoo, but who was he kidding- it was you. You’d gone from someone who made him nervous to someone who made him nervous for different reasons, and all of this was very inconvenient for Eddie. 

“Trick or Treat,” You’d chirped when he opened the door, and it was at that moment Eddie realized that this night may very well be the death of him.

You wore your favorite baggy sweater over a tight black tank top, which you’d tucked into some high waisted acid washed jeans. Unsurprisingly, the chucks on which he’d scribbled his claim were fastened securely on your feet. In your hands was a variety pack of halloween candies and a shopping bag from the local drugstore. Everything about you radiated warmth, and Eddie had to fight the urge to change tonight’s itinerary to movies and a blanket fort and spend the whole evening on the couch with you, surrounded by candy wrappers and the light of his television set. 

“I brought antibacterial soap,” you said, bringing Eddie back to reality. You rifled through your shopping bag to show him your spoils as you stepped through the threshold and into his trailer. “-large bandages, and a little travel first aid kit just in case. Oh, and I did a little bit of reading at the library and I couldn’t find much on tattoos, but the one commonality between every book and article I could find said to make sure you wash the wound often and disinfect everything-”

“Ace,” Eddie interrupted, taking the bag from you and closing the front door. The corner of his mouth quirked up, keeping an amused chuckle at bay. “You went to the library to read about how to safely care for an illegal tattoo?” Your expression soured, shifting to a half-scowl, half-pout. 

“Well one of us has got to do it,” you huffed, grabbing the bag and marching towards Eddie’s room. “And I know you wouldn’t set foot in the library unless you were forced.” You continued to yell at him from his room, “You’ll thank me when your kitchen-scratched tattoo doesn’t get infected, and you get to grow old with all of your limbs intact!”

Eddie stayed glued to his spot as his smirk grew into a goofy grin. You were fucking adorable. 

You hadn’t argued when Eddie insisted that he start with his own tattoo- before he got started on permanently marking your skin, he wanted to be sure that he at least had gotten the hang of it first. He immediately started getting to work with his trusty fine-tipped Sharpie, sketching out a scattering of bats on his forearm and glancing every once in a while at his notebook for reference. You’d flipped through that notebook on several occasions when the two of you had sat idle during classes or study sessions. The drawings were always sprawling, sharp and gruesome in a way that wasn’t so much scary as it was fascinating to you. 

You laid stomach-down on his mattress, positioned behind where he sat on the floor, his back leaned up against the bed frame and close enough that you could probably reach down and play with his hair if you were bold enough. You didn’t- no matter how tempting it was, you didn’t want to risk anything that might mess up his focus. You settled for watching Eddie’s reflection in the mirror that sat leaned up against the wall in front of him. 

When the Sharpie stencil had dried and Eddie picked up the tattoo machine, you couldn’t deny the nervous uptake in your heart rate. You watched him gingerly begin the process of permanently inking his drawing into his skin, and before the needle touched skin, Eddie looked over his shoulder at you and winked, whispering a surprisingly shaky “Point of no return.” Before you could ask if he was having second thoughts, he was already outlining the first bat, his socked foot pressing decisively on the pedal that whirred his machine to life. 

Minutes ticked by before you uttered a soft “Does it hurt?” to break the awkward silence. Normally, Eddie had some sort of music playing, Metallica or WASP or something along those lines spinning on his cheap old turntable- but tonight there was nothing but the electric buzz that filled the small bedroom, and it was starting to make you antsy. 

Eddie huffed, and it was as much of a laugh as he could afford while holding still. “Well, Ace, it’s a needle sticking in and out of my arm repeatedly, so if I’m being honest it ain’t exactly sunshine and rainbows.” You watched him wince as he moved on from outlining the first bat and started on the second. 

“Does it at least make you feel a little badass?” You watched his reflection in the mirror glance up through the curtain of his hair and raise an eyebrow at you. 

“That depends,” He said, “do I look badass?” 

“A little.” You teased. “You’ll look more badass when the tattoo is finished.” 

That earned you a snort from him. “What, fifty percent of a tattoo doesn’t cut it?” His reflection flashed you a genuine smile, that lopsided grin affecting you the way it always does, spiking your body temp and rushing the thump of your heart. 

“Nope. Though, if your intention is to tell the world that you have commitment issues-”

“I do not have commitment issues-”

“Then what kind of issues do you have?” 

Eddie parted the needle from his skin, taking a moment to glance wryly over his shoulder in your direction. 

“You.” It was punctuated by a tongue that peeked out from between his lips. You followed suit, shoulders shaking as you chuckled.

Silence threatened to fall for a moment then, but Eddie put a stop to that. “Keep talking.”

“Huh?”

His voice was quiet, muttered like he was biting the inside of his cheek as he spoke. “Hurts less when we’re talking.”

You smiled, watching as he avoided your eye contact in the mirror, focusing on his arm as a subtle blush began to creep onto his cheeks. Tempting as it was to tease, you opted for a more neutral topic.

“Which is better, sour candy or chocolate?”

You could barely see his eyebrows furrow behind his curtain of curls as he considered your question. “Chocolate.”

“You’re crazy.”

He barked out a laugh. “After all the ridiculous shit I’ve said, that’s what crosses the line for you?”

You shook your head, amping up your reaction for his benefit; he was laughing, and it was music to your ears. You were greedy for more of it. 

“Sour candy is a whole experience, chocolate is just sweet! That’s all it has going for it!”

Eddie gawked but kept his eyes trained on his skin. “What do you have against sweets?”

You rolled your eyes, flopping from your stomach to your back and staring up at the water stain on Eddie’s ceiling. “I haven’t got anything against sweets… I just like a little tart to go with it. Oh hang on, that reminds me-”

You stuck your hand into the plastic bag you’d brought with you, producing a variety pack of cheap Halloween candies. “Do you normally get trick-or-treaters? I thought we could pour these into a bowl and set it out on the porch- you know, so we don’t have to keep answering the door.”

Eddie Shook his head. “Nah, not a lot of kids who live here. Those who do always high-tail it to the neighborhoods where the good shit is, like-”

“Loch Nora?” you finished, smirking. 

Nodding his approval, Eddie echoed, “Loch Nora.”

“Well in that case,” you yanked open the bag of candy so hard that a few individually wrapped pieces were flung onto the bedspread as well as the floor below. “I guess we’ll have to eat all of this ourselves.”

Eddie paused his tattooing to glance at a fun-sized packet of sour gummy worms that had landed on the carpet beside him. “Gummy worms?” he asked.

You flicked the back of his head while the needle was off his skin. “Uh, yeah, they’re delicious.”

“Did you at least get candy corn?”

You gagged. “Candy corn?!”

The two of you passed the next hour like that, debating about various arbitrary topics and inevitably disagreeing on almost all of them. There were only three things that you both agreed on without any debate whatsoever: Santa Claus was the superior holiday mascot, Joan Jett could easily beat Cyndi Lauper in a fight, and The Empire Strikes Back was way better than A New Hope.

When Eddie was finally finished with his tattoo, you were off the bed in an instant and already reaching for the antibacterial soap. 

“You should wash it under some warm water first before anything gross has a chance to get in there-”

“Hey hey hey, whoa hold on!” Eddie was laughing, eyes wide as he smiled at you. Your hand was already encircled around his wrist, tugging his arm (and the person attached to it) toward the bathroom. “Ace, you haven’t even looked at it yet, c’mon you’re bruising the artist’s ego here.” 

You sighed but couldn’t hide the rueful grin that danced on your pursed lips. Softening your vice like grip on his wrist, you shifted your hands to cradle his forearm and survey the last hour’s work.

“It looks good, Eddie… really good, actually.” You absently swiped a thumb over the soft skin of his wrist. “If you’d told me it was professionally done, I’d totally believe you.”

“Yeah?” He looked up from where your thumb stroked the base of his forearm, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” you smirked. “Of course, I’d tell you to try and get your money back, but-”

“Oh shove it up your ass, Sweet Tart.” The playful shoulder-check had you letting go of his arm, but both of your faces were painted with ear-to-ear smiles. 

Eddie washed his new tattoo in the bathroom sink, admiring the way the bats stretched and shifted with every flex of his forearm. Your mouth hurt, as did the muscles in your cheeks; you couldn’t stop smiling. He was so happy with his work, and you had to admit that he had actually done a really good job with that tattoo machine. 

“We’ve got to get you out of Indiana, Munson,” you murmured to the mirror where he continued to scrutinize his work from every angle. “I think you may have just found your calling.” 

His eyes were wide and shining with pride as they glanced your way. “You think?” 

You nodded, that saccharine smile stubbornly staying put on your lips. To be fair, you didn’t fight it.

“You’re coming with me, then.” Eddie replied, his own smile glowing in the dying light above the bathroom mirror.

There it was- that familiar fire beneath the skin of your cheeks.

“Oh I am, huh?” 

“Hell yeah.” Eddie braced his arm on the doorway, leaning over you until your faces were mere inches apart. “We’re stronger together, remember?”

Breathe. Breathe… Why can’t you breathe?

You’d barely managed a nod before Eddie was ducking around you through the doorway, grabbing your hand, and leading you back to his room. 

“Your turn, Ace.”

Oh yeah, you were also getting a tattoo today. You’d almost forgotten. Were you nervous? You weren’t sure. Actually, yes, you were very nervous- not so much about the tattoo as you were for where the tattoo would be. 

In minutes, you were both sitting on Eddie’s bedroom floor- Eddie readying everything he needed for your new ink, and you sitting eerily still as your soul started to feel like it might leave your body.

“Ace,”

Eyes refocusing, you blinked a few times. “Yeah?”

Eddie’s expression was calm, sympathetic to the inward freak-out he had a feeling you were on the verge of. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding a little more strained than you had intended. “Hah…you saying I have commitment issues?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but Eddie’s eyebrows stayed knitted together above his big brown eyes. “No,” he murmured. His voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a stray animal and trying not to spook it. “I guess I’m just… trying to give you an out, so you don’t feel pressured or anything.”

You shook your head, “I don’t want an out.”

Eddie blinked, “No?”

“No.”

There was a second of silence between the two of you before you both took in a collective breath, exhaling simultaneously and giggling when you both realized that you were breathing in sync. Perfect harmony; sour and sweet, nervous but willing. 

“You, uh…” Eddie stammered, his eyes flicking down to your lap and back up to your face. “...you still want it on your hip?”

Your heart rate doubled. 

“Um, yeah.” you awkwardly shifted your weight onto your knees, grabbing hold of your waistband and unbuttoning your shorts. You shimmied them over your hips, revealing the rest of your leotard- leotard, Eddie realized. Not a tank top. You were wearing a black leotard. It was almost like the kind that he’d seen ballerinas wear, except it cut so high on your hips that he was sure it wouldn’t be allowed in any of the dance studios he could think of, and….yep. YEP, it was practically a thong. Your ass was out. You were sitting on the floor of his bedroom with your ass out. 

Chill out, Munson! He screamed inwardly at himself, Chill the fuck out!

Of course, you couldn’t tell that there was a war going on between Eddie’s ability to function and the short-circuiting that threatened to render him unable to do anything but stare at you. All you could see was the way his jaw had gone slack and his eyes bugged out of their sockets.

You smiled shyly, a twinge of something between satisfaction and guilt nudging at your heartstrings. “I figured this thing would be less awkward than if I was sitting here in my underwear,” you laughed nervously as you gestured to your leotard.

Eddie gulped. He couldn’t see much of a difference. “Yeah, totally.” 

A beat passed. You grabbed a bag of gummy worms from the floor, tearing it open with a crinkle of the plastic that would not have been so loud if the two of you weren’t dead silent. You bit into the candy where the color changed from pink to blue, then finally muttered through your chewing, “Ready when you are.” 

Eddie blinked rapidly, taking his Sharpie in his hands. “Uh, yeah… yeah, okay.” 

With your free hand, you pointed to the part of your hip where your flesh naturally creased as your thigh met your pelvis. 

“Is here good?”

Eddie gulped. 

“Yeah, that’s good.” But Eddie was very much not good. He was the opposite of good, he felt like he was malfunctioning. When he placed his free hand on your upper thigh, he almost apologized. Why the hell did he feel like he had to apologize? He had no clue. His palms were sweating- did you feel how sweaty his palms were? Oh god. He forgot what a bat looked like- you were trusting his artistic skills enough for him to permanently ink his drawing into your skin and he couldn’t even remember what a goddamn bat looked li- oh, wait, he had them on his own forearm now. Eddie glanced at his arm, reminding himself what a goddamn bat looked like. 

He’s never felt like more of a nervous idiot than right now. 

Meanwhile, you felt like you were about to explode.

His hand was warm. So warm as he grasped your thigh. Whenever he’d touched you before, there was always a barrier, some form of separation between his skin and yours- jeans, a sweater, a flannel. 

A leather jacket.

That’s right- he had taken his jacket back. Maybe you were reading too deep into things, but you had this unshakable feeling that taking back that jacket had been a message. 

We’re just friends. Nothing more.

But if that was true, then why was he looking at your thighs the way he was? Why had he looked at you the way he did when he said you should go with him when he leaves Hawkins? 

He wasn’t your boyfriend… you knew that.

So why couldn’t you shake this undeniably girlfriendish ache in your chest?

“Okay.” Eddie’s voice jolted you out of your downward spiral into your very inconvenient feelings. “Check that out in the mirror, make sure you like it.”

You straightened up, walking on your knees until you faced the mirror leaning against the wall and inspected the tiny, perfect little bat that he’d drawn on the fullest part of your hip.

It matched the bats that now decorated his arm, now surrounded by an angry red halo that bloomed across his skin. Once that bat was inked, it would be something connecting you and Eddie forever- a shared experience, a secret that the two of you would always be in on. 

Suddenly, you realized that in this moment there wasn’t a single thing you wanted more than a matching tattoo with Eddie Munson.

Well, there was one thing. But you had a feeling that wasn’t happening tonight. The tattoo, however…

“I love it.” You looked over your shoulder at Eddie, but his eyes were a little too busy staring at your practically naked behind to meet your gaze. 

“Ahem.”

Breaking free of his trance, Eddie shook his head a tad, which drew a small chuckle from your smirking lips. Eddie couldn’t help but smile too, albeit more shyly than you.

“Distracted?” You teased, unable to hold back your glee at this kind of attention- any kind of attention- from Eddie. 

He sighed, blinking rapidly while he finally met your eyes. There was something new in the way he was looking at you- if you didn’t know better you might call it frustration, but it was an amused sort of frustration. Almost like his eyes were saying “what am I going to do with you?” but through sunglasses tinted with desire. 

You wanted to bottle that, stow it away for emergencies. Wanted to preserve the way that gaze made you feel so that you could experience it over and over again. 

“No.” Eddie murmured through a rueful grin. “Lie down, it’ll be easier to ink the skin while it’s flat.” You did as he instructed, feeling the crinkle of newspaper underneath the skin of your rear. Once again, you found yourself staring up at the water stain on Eddie’s ceiling until his face came into view, looking down at you as he readied the tattoo machine. 

“Are you?” You heard him ask. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

The pads of Eddie’s fingers poked and prodded at the skin around where your tattoo would soon have an indefinite spot on your hip, and you wondered if he could tell that your temperature shot up ten degrees each time you felt his hands on you.

“Are you distracted?” he clarified. “Because it hurts less when you’ve got something else to focus on.” 

“Oh.” Suddenly, your mind went blank. Of course, the moment you wanted something to distract you, all ideas turned tail and ran. “Um…”

Snap!

Your jaw dropped as the elastic of your leotard snapped back to your skin from where Eddie had pulled it away with his pointer finger. “Where’d you even get this thing?” 

Now it was your turn to short-circuit.

“Uh-” You stammered, interrupted by the machine beginning to buzz. 

Eddie didn’t wait for you to finish your thought before reminding you what he’d asked. “C’mon, Sweet Tart, where’d you get the leotard?”

You knew he was trying to distract you so you didn’t feel the pain, but you couldn’t help the tensing of your muscles as the needle pierced your skin. You winced, staring at the water stain with a newfound intensity. “Dance store.” you gritted through lips that formed a tight line. 

“Dance store, huh?” You could hear the smile through Eddie’s words. “And why were you in a dance store?”

You huffed out a short, breathy laugh, careful to keep your hip still as Eddie’s needle continued to do its work. “I was making a Flashdance costume. Heard about this Halloween party a few weeks ago, but then we made the tattoo plans… and I had already bought the leotard, so…”

It was disconcerting to speak with Eddie without looking at him; he was a very expressive person, always talking with his hands, always making sure that he looked you in the eyes when you spoke to him. But now he was focused on his work on your hip, leaving your eyes to shift between staring at his ceiling and fluttering closed.

“You were going to wear this thing to a party?” he asked, incredulous. 

Your eyebrows wrinkled over your closed eyes. “I would’ve worn tights under it…” 

He snorted. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

You winced, groaning as the needle hit a nerve that particularly stung. “What- ah, shit- what are you trying to say?” 

The buzzing stopped for a moment. “Fuck, you okay?” Eddie’s face leaned into your field of vision, his frizzy brown hair backlit into a halo by the light from the lamp behind him. “You want to take a break?”

You shook your head, taking a mental snapshot of how ethereal he looked like this. “No, you can keep going, I’m fine.” 

Cautiously, Eddie got back to work. A few wordless seconds ticked by before you spoke. 

“What did you mean, ‘that wouldn’t have made a difference’?”

Eddie’s reply was matter-of-fact, but you could have sworn that you heard a hint of protectiveness in his voice when he said, “Tights or no tights, the whole party would have been staring at your ass, Sweet Tart.”

The “T” sound in “Tart” was soft this time. So soft, it was barely there at all, and it almost sounded like he’d just called you sweetheart. If only. You’d give anything to be Eddie’s sweetheart.

Whether he’d meant to blend that consonant or not, it made you brave. “Is that a bad thing?”

A pause. Then, “Is this a trap?”

“Answer the question, would a bunch of people staring at my ass be a bad thing?”

Eddie sighed. “This is definitely a trap,” he muttered, before replying “No, Ace, objectively it would not be a bad thing. But sometimes people view girls differently when they walk around with their asses out.”

“Do you look at me differently when my ass is out?” You were being cheeky, you knew it. 

“No, I don’t look at you differently.” came his instant response, muttered through nearly-closed lips. “I just look at you.”

Nothing could stand against your smile, not even you. “Yeah, that much I could see in the mirror.”

“You don’t sound too upset about that.”

This was different from the flirting you were used to with Eddie. Your regular flavor of flirtation had always been surface-level banter; nothing past a jab here and there, a joke at his expense or a nickname thrown your way. 

Now? You were talking about the way he looked at your body, and the fact that he could tell that you liked when he looked. The two of you were in uncharted territory, and you buzzed under his touch in time with the inky needle at the beautiful unknown of it all. 

“Okay, the outline is done but I’m about to start filling it in.” Eddie warned. “This part hurts a little more. You wanna take a break?”

You nodded. While Eddie jumped up to get you both a glass of water, you sat up on your elbows and peered over at your hip to get a look at your new ink. When you saw it, you gasped so fervently that you startled yourself.

It was perfect. The perfect little bat. 

It wasn’t completely symmetrical. The outline was a tad thicker in certain places than others. But those imperfections made it his. And the fact that it was on your skin made it yours. 

You couldn’t wait to wake up and stare at it like this every single day. 

Eddie returned a moment later with two mismatched cups of tap water. Once you’d both rehydrated, he got to work replacing the needle at the end of the machine with a new one, as well as changing out various attachments and fiddling with a knobby-looking piece until he seemed satisfied with what he’d changed.

 You were impressed with how intensely focused Eddie was on this sort of work; it didn’t seem to be taking him long to get the hang of this. It also didn’t take him long to come up with another topic of conversation that teetered on the line between friendly and flirty.

“Ever played Fuck, Marry, Kill?”

You had not, but the title of the game brought an unexpected chuckle out of you. “Edward Munson, I am a lady! At least take me out to dinner first-”

“I’m going to take that as a no.” Eddie chuckled, and you could hear his deadpan in the tone of his voice. “I say three people’s names and you have to tell me which you’d fuck, which you’d marry, and which you’d kill. Comprende?”

“Uhh-” whatever you’d been about to say was cut short by a harsher buzz than before, accompanied by the aggressive sting of needles on your skin. “Mmh, shit, okay yeah sure let’s play.”

Eddie smiled to himself. He wasn’t sure why he loved the little noises and whispered curses that spilled from your mouth while he tattooed you, but he honestly thought they might be the cutest sounds he’d ever heard. You were taking the pain like a champ- he was actually pretty proud of you in this moment as you remained still through the sting.

“Lars Ulrich, James Hetfield, and Kirk Hammett”

You rolled your eyes. Eddie had ensured over your many rides in his van this summer that every Metallica song he’d played had been an educational experience. Eddie had picked up a cassette of their debut album in July, and ever since he’d become obsessed. Already, he was trying to persuade the other members of his band to figure out how to play The Four Horsemen by ear. 

Needless to say, you knew enough about the band to at least answer the question. 

“Well I’m killing Lars for sure.”

“Poor Lars never stood a chance.”

You grinned, willing the distraction into something great enough to numb the pain. “And I think I’m gonna have to fuck Hetfield.”

“‘Have to fuck Hetfield,’ such a sacrifice.” 

You carefully stretched your arms up to rest above your shoulders, cradling your head on your hands like a pillow. “Hey, if someone’s got to do it, I’ll take one for the team.”

You heard him snort, then after a moment’s quiet he added, “So you’re marrying Kirk Hammett, then?”

“I guess so.”

“What makes Kirk marriage material? Over the other two, I mean.”

You thought about Kirk Hammett’s wild, dark curls. His build. His brown button eyes. The way he looked holding a guitar.

“I don’t know, there’s just something about him.”

Eddie thought about the way he’d been trying to make himself look more like a rockstar ever since he’d first seen the tiny, grainy picture of the Metallica members in the corner of a page of Rolling Stone; he’d been bumming copies off Jeff’s subscription since the seventh grade. How he’d started growing out his hair after seeing Kirk’s long, black mane. He smiled. 

He must be doing something right.

“Alright, Mrs. Hammett,” He quipped, “My turn, hit me with bachelorettes one through three, please.”

You thought over your options, trying to think of women you’d heard him mention before. Wondering if he thought any of them had something in common with you, and praying to God he didn’t kill them.

“Olivia Newton-John,”

Already, Eddie was descending into a fit of giggles. 

“Why are you laughing? She’s pretty!”

Eddie launched into a falsetto rendition of the chorus from Grease’s Hopelessly Devoted to You, and you were instantly fighting the giggles too. 

“Shut up! I’m not done yet. Olivia Newton-John… have you seen Fast Times?”

His response came in a tone of voice that was the vocal equivalent of a side-eye. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t know if you know who Phoebe Cates is.”

“Oh,” Eddie sighed dreamily, “I know who Phoebe Cates is.” 

You rolled your eyes, but chuckled nonetheless. “Okay then- Olivia Newton-John, Phoebe Cates, and Carrie Fisher.”

Eddie barked out a joyous “Ah!” before answering, “Well this is easy, Ace, say goodbye to Newton-John!”

You mock-gasped. “You’re killing Sandy?”

“I’m killing Sandy.”

“That is brutal. She was so innocent, too.”

Eddie squinted at the half-filled tattoo, smirking into his explanation. “Okay, I see the appeal, Ace, I truly do. That outfit at the end is killer.” He paused. Should he say it? Would he be too obvious if he did? 

Ah, fuck it. 

“I’m a sucker for a woman in red shoes, let me tell ya. However-” Eddie quickly glazed over that last sentence, as well as any opening you might have gotten to think about how that might relate to you. “-I’ve gotta fuck Phoebe Cates. Because… y’know-”

“Boobies?” you beat him to the punch.

Eddie confirmed with a matter-of-fact “Boobies.” He glanced up at your face for a moment, curious to see if he could read what you thought of his answers, but you were staring pensively at his ceiling, expression unreadable. “And you have to have known I was marrying Leia the moment she was an option.” 

“You have a thing for Princess Leia?”

“Are you joking?” Eddie asked, incredulously. “How could I not? The woman’s the definition of a spitfire, she kicks ass and takes names. Not to mention, she’s got a thing for scoundrels.” 

You hummed. “Do you think you’re a scoundrel, Eddie?” 

“Well I’m certainly not a scruffy-looking nerf herder, I’ll tell you that much.”

You winced playfully, “A nerf herder you are not… but you are a bit scruffy.”

“You’ve got me there, princess.”

Eddie went silent. The nickname had just slipped out- all this talk of scoundrels and princesses and strong women who weren’t afraid of a fight and before he knew it, he was seeing more similarities between you and Leia than he’d realized were there before. 

Princess had just seemed right. It just slipped out. 

The line between friendship and dangerous territory had been so clearly drawn in Eddie’s mind before tonight. Where had he gone wrong? That once clear line was getting blurry.

Eddie was absolutely convinced that he would probably find a way to single handedly ruin your friendship before he was finished filling in your tattoo- which you would inevitably hate, because it would remind you of the asshole who you used to be friends with before he made things weird between you.

“My turn,” your voice cut through Eddie’s downward spiral, drawing a relieved sigh from him that tickled the skin of your thigh. “Let’s make this round more interesting. Only names of people from Hawkins.”

“Hm, that is interesting.” he mused, the needle inching its way toward the last remaining centimeter of bare skin left within the outline. “Let me think… Chief Hopper-”

You barked out a laugh, “Oh great start, Eds.”

“Chief’s a good looking guy! I don’t know why you’re laughing!” but Eddie was smiling ear to ear, delighted that his awkward apprehension had already begun to dissipate. “Principal Higgins-”

“Are you only going to give me old men as options?”

Eddie was going to do exactly that, because he didn’t want to picture you marrying or- God forbid- fucking any men in Hawkins that you might actually enjoy doing either of those things with. He wasn’t jealous, per se… but none of the shitheads in Hawkins were good enough for you. Eddie wasn’t even good enough for you; not yet, at least. He could picture a future version of himself one day taking his chances with you, once you’d both skipped town and found your way in some thriving city somewhere. 

You were both too good for this place- you were the first person to make him think that about himself.

“What was that security guard’s name at the mall? Average joe looking guy? Quentin? Quincey?”

“Oh, you mean Quinn?”

“Knew his name started with a Q.” Eddie softly bit his bottom lip as he finished the last bit of your bat’s wing. “Hopper, Higgins, and Quinn. Those are your options.”

You groaned. “These choices suck, can I just kill them all?”

“I kinda like it when you go all bloodthirsty, Ace.”

You rolled your eyes before letting them flutter closed. “Ugh, well I’m obviously killing Higgins… he’s never been nice to you and all he cares about are school sports. I guess… I mean if I have to, I’ll fuck Hopper.”

Eddie was beside himself with giggles, “I mean, that’s one way to get out of a speeding ticket.”

“You’re lucky I can’t smack you right now.” You ignored Eddie’s snickering and continued. “And I don’t think I’d mind being married to Quinn, he always smiles at me and asks how my day was. Plus he’s kind of cute, he’s got nice hair.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “I don’t see it.”

You laughed, and the jingling tone of your voice suddenly sounded too loud as the buzzing of Eddie’s machine stopped. 

“Alright, Ace,” Eddie announced, leaning back to survey his work. “Check out your new ink.”

You didn’t need to look at it again to know it would be perfect, but you looked anyway. You stood on your sleeping legs and gazed at the little black bat on your hip- it sat beautifully balanced on the skin framed by your high cut leotard, and you knew at once that you’d think of Eddie each time you saw it. This was exactly what you wanted- a daily reminder of exactly how he made you feel, of who he was to you. 

At this moment, it dawned on you exactly what it was that Eddie made you feel. The way you always wanted to be around him, and the way he had become a balloon that inflated your chest every time he made you laugh, and how you knew- just knew- that you’d follow him anywhere if he asked. 

You loved Eddie Munson. You were in love with him. 

And you couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot at that little asymmetrical bat.

Part 6

Taglist: @emma77645 , @rustboxstarr, @josephquinnsfreckles, @rozxartaki, @sheneedsrocknroll92

[lafiametta]

I had this thought after watching the movie (literally dragged my boyfriend to it the weekend it dropped at a theater near me), about what if Igor had awkwardly offered Anora his number after the end of the movie, after she had settled down and he helped her move her stuff back in, under the guise of "just in case, if you need something," and then he just spends the next two weeks like. Moping. Waiting for a text.

Anora finally DOES text 2 weeks later with like, a meme or something else equally inconsequential and more than a little snippy, but Igor is THRILLED, and they start having sporadic conversations over text. However, whenever Anora doesn't text him for "too long" (Igor does not ever start conversations lest he impose, he does not know this but this is beginning to drive Anora mildly insane a month or two into this new routine, because now SHE'S like "does HE not like me that much, what if HE never thinks of me and I am a FOOL ONCE AGAIN"), Igor just starts pining like "when will my wife return from the wars."

His grandma is baffled because Igor has always been such a sensible boy, feet firmly on the ground, and now he's doing all this sighing and gazing pensively out the window and playing angsty music in his room that he hasn't played since that brief phase when he was 16 with lyrics like "I love a girl as beautiful and cold as the winters in St Petersburg," and he's just CONSTANTLY checking his phone, or looking at it and laughing. Finally she asks Igor about what's wrong one night as he picks at his dinner yet again and Igor mumbles something about just not really having an appetite, for the first time in her life, Igor's grandma gets to say:

"THE REASON YOU HAVE NO APPETITE IS BECAUSE YOU ARE ALWAYS ON PHONE."

Amazing — I love it! Mutual pining via text + mopey emo Igor + sensible (if only slightly baffled) Russian grandmother = comedy gold.

I also want to know so much more about Igor's grandmother. Her taste in cars hasn't changed since 1983, so is she going to be like one of those older Russian ladies in Brighton Beach who sits on a bench at the boardwalk in big sunglasses, a fur coat, and a headscarf? She probably knows all the local shopkeepers and has firm opinions on the best cut of veal to get at the butcher. Seriously, does she make borscht?

[lovelyatomicpeace]

Beyond the masks, charapter two

Meeting under the rain

November 7, 1983

Bip

Bip

Bip

The sound of the alarm clock echoed throughout the room too loudly for those early hours, causing you to whimper under the mound of blankets where the high-pitched sound of the alarm clock made its way through the morning silence, like an annoying insect that insisted on disturbing your sleep: the room was shrouded in a halo of darkness, with the curtains barely up, allowing very little light in. With a sigh of resignation, you reached out an arm and grabbed the alarm clock, turning it off firmly. That sound boomed in your head like a drum, but at least it was over. You looked up to look at the time: 7:45. It wasn't bad.

You kicked off the covers and got up slowly to rest your feet on the marble-cold floor and yawning, you dragged yourself into the bathroom to look at your reflection in the mirror: two large dark circles under your eyes widened: you hadn't been able to sleep the previous night as you had so often since that night…

"Ew," you muttered, running your tongue over your white teeth: you needed coffee, but you knew you couldn't make it otherwise you would have wasted your time: slipping on a pair of jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt and sneakers with one last glance at your reflection you hurried down the stairs, grabbing your coat by the sleeve. You preferred to take your bike to school, finding a spot in that parking lot was impossible, better hell. You look again at the watch on your wrist

8:00

"Shit!" it was super early when you woke up and it didn't take you long to get ready, why are you always late? You pedaled as fast as you could is relatively on time you arrived at the building dropping your bike in the bike rack, under everyone's gaze. You couldn't afford to be late again Professor Williams, from geography class, would surely not spare you an afternoon in detention today.

The school was like an island in chaos. The voices of students and teachers mingled in a constant buzz, like the waves of a stormy ocean. You got lost in the crowd, trying not to attract too much attention, the bell rang like an alarm siren causing the crowd to dissolve, In an instant, in the direction of various classes. You ran to get to class on time and managed to slip inside the classroom just before the door closed. The professor gave you a stern look, but decided not to comment on your late arrival, reciprocated by your toothy smile.

The room was full of people talking to each other incessantly: some were scribbling in their books, some were noisily tapping their hubby on the desk in time to the music, and then there were Tommy, Carol and Steve Harrignton: their eyes fell on you the moment you crossed the threshold.

Why was there no mutual affection between you? Well this no one could know, least of all you but of one thing you were certain to throw the first stone was them.Luckily for you, not that you feared them, they could not say or do anything because williams began the class.

You sat at the desk and although you tried to concentrate there was something that distracted your attention like a persistent and annoying thought: The previous night you had been plagued by a nightmare, worse than the other times that made you wake up suddenly having the feeling that someone was watching you from afar, even now the sensation seemed persistent to you and became more and more incisive: almost by instinct you turned around, to see the eyes of the last person you expected pointed at you

Harrington

He had those silly striped shirts that only someone like him could wear (and that only Nancy could like so much) and that hair...well...worse than other days...

You returned his gaze, which was not interrupted at all, arching your eyebrow as if to ask him an intrigued question: why was he staring at you?

At some point, your thoughts were interrupted when the professor asked loudly, "Y/n, did you understand the question?" causing you to turn around in front of him under Tommy and Carol's giggles: all eyes turned to you, waiting for an answer you could not formulate

Great

The sudden knock on the door caused, fortunately, the guys in the classroom to change the direction of their gaze: the door opened allowing the police chief to enter: he was much bigger than you remembered him, with two thick mustaches framing his face and the big cowboy hat covering his head. He positioned himself quite wearily next to the teacher's desk; you were looking out the window many other times police officers from the station came to the school to organize, as they called them "friendly inspections," but today it was for a different reason…

"Y/s can you follow us outside?" Thundered the voice of Hopper deep making you turn sharply toward him with your eyes out of their sockets.

Now everyone was looking at you....

The lights outside the room were stronger making you close your eyes a little to adjust again: you had your eyebrows lowered so far downward that by dint of holding the position your head had begun to hurt in whirling thoughts. You didn't realize that you had exited the building and reached the middle school nearby

What? To the middle school!!!

Those four have been up to another one of their own, if they've done it big I swear to them...wait why call me?

You arrived outside the president's office, and to allow you in, Hopper threw the door wide open: sitting on the white couch in the large, brightly lit room were Mike, Lucas, and Dustin, and Will? Where was Will?. Standing by the studio curtains there is Joyce who continued to nibble her fingers anxiously

You could tell something was wrong

"Guys well..." the principal began, "Will...unfortunately didn't come home last night. Is mom thinks he's missing..." the principal continued in a calm voice.

What?

Will was missing? I took him home.

Thoughts of the previous night resurfaced in your head making the sudden sense of nausea grow even more. Hopper started asking the boys questions with a threatening attitude from which, however, he was able to glean little information, as usual they were all talking at once and nothing could be understood. Then the noises in the room ceased and the gazes turned to you.

You were seized with remorse

"What about you? What can you tell us?" Hop asked questioningly-you looked at Joyce with tears at the edge of your eyes, the whole situation seemed so surreal.

"I...I..." you stammered "I was the last one to see Will...well to walk him home like I always do" caught up in the agitation

"And..." he incited you.

"Nothing, he took his bike out of the trunk and went inside, I wouldn't have left if he hadn't" you said casting a glance at Joyce seeking her reassurance...silence fell in the room

Of course it wasn't the most a mother could expect from an investigation to find her son, but they knew you had no other information that's why they let you out of the room and in a hurry too.

Once outside you didn't know what to do: getting back to class was surely the least of the problems Williams could put all the notes he wanted on you as well; right now the problem was another Finding Will.

Dustin paced back and forth in the dimly lit hallway, and by his side Lucas rested his head in his hands

"and now what do we do” croaked Mike.

"Well here we have to find our friend" said Dustin as if it was something normal, of course you knew it was right but the idea did not appeal to you at all in fact it was synonymous with danger

"No, no, no wait guys, you, WE, are not going to do anything at all. I know Will is your friend , but the police are enough!" At that moment the adults left the room: you left the 3 alone so you could approach Joyce, stopped her by the arm and looking into her eyes you said:

"Will will return home, I swear I will do everything I can to find him..." as if to apologize and let her know you were not involved in this whole situation: Joyce leaned forward to exchange a hug with you that you were reluctant to give at first.

A weight had been lifted off you; at least her mom had faith in you, and that was already a big step forward.

She put her hand on your cheek and with a flickering smile walked away along with as Hopper, leaving you alone with the three little boys, again: they looked at you almost pleadingly, you understood that they would not easily get rid of their idea, and bringing your arms crossed over your chest you huffed resignedly

"Into Mr. Clarke "s office, now," Mike ordered.

Running behind them you reached the darkened study: locked inside the children began to confabulate and you watched them curiously, "Assuming Will was kidnapped or escaped, he must surely have lost something in the Mirkwood" explained Mike

"The what?" You asked seriously intrigued but squaring only 3 disapproving glances

"The forest of the lord of the rings" said Lucas as if it was a matter of course.

"Oh well sorry..." you admitted raising a hand.

With a snort Mike resumed speaking "if we really have to find him we have to start from there he can't be far away" indeed he had a point, you were sure you too could find him nearby

"We'll look for him tonight" said the leader of the group.

"Whoa, whoa tonight? How are we going to tell your moms that they surely won't let you out, huh?" They looked at you almost pleadingly knowing what they were getting at

"Oh no, absolutely not. You're not going to use me as an excuse, we understand..."

"We know you want to find him as much as we do, we heard you tell Joyce. I don't have the clavicles but the ears do," Dustin admitted, interrupting you.

And again looking at them you couldn't refuse

"Alright...." you hissed getting smiles from everyone

What a mess you got yourselves into....

After the encounter with the police you had returned to school only to pick up your bike and pedal home again: you couldn't go back inside under everyone's stares and say what had happened, you didn't even know if you could. You would spend hours in your room not even touching a morsel of food (although you had not eaten breakfast): the hole in your stomach was too big to allow you to consume anything. The more you thought that the night before you should have stayed with Will the more guilt plagued you and with it the bile rose in your throat

Why did you leave?

Perhaps also caught up in the excitement the hours passed quickly and darkness fell again on your cluttered room

A slight buzzing interrupted the tranquility and then a metallic voice recited:

"Gold boss, gold boss here do you receive me?…. I repeat gold boss here, do you receive me? Over" Dustin's voice hissed through the walkie talkie the 4 children had given you in Christmas 1981

"YES" shouted you, Lucas and Mike from the other end of the device in different parts of town.

"Well you should say step before closing communication others..."

"Stop it Dust," Lucas's voice: when I crack a smile, the first of the day.

"The operation Will can start" this was the signal you were waiting for from Mike, you jumped out of bed and running out you got on the saddle to reach his house, you had opted for the bicycle because otherwise the car would make too much noise outside their house. You arrived pedaling as fast as you could: you had to catch Mike and meet up with the other two toward the end of the road.

You arrived outside their house where the boy was already waiting for you and before you left you noticed the figure of a boy, younger, climbing, awkwardly, to the window of Nancy's room: you couldn't believe it.

If only you had brought your camera with you, you would have been able to capture this surely embarrassing moment: the king of Hawkins high hanging awkwardly from a window. You let go a laugh that had stuck in your chest causing him to turn sharply to notice your presence

"Seriously Harrington..." you said laughing and earning a grimace from him.

"Fuck y/s" you rolled your eyes and pedaled away.

The photo spot in your backpack was definitely a reminder....

Albeit slightly late you arrived at the two boys and got only scolding from Dustin, "Keep pedaling Henderson," you told him to get him to stop talking, under silent thanks from the others....

A short time later you arrived at the gates of the woods you left your bicycles on the asphalt: the rain had begun to beat hard on the ground making the smell of wet earth rise to your nose, which you didn't mind at all; what bothered you most was being soaked from head to toe, to follow those boys who didn't even have a trail. You had been walking nonstop for half an hour, and what's more, without finding that it belonged to Will

Suddenly, however, the sound of a broken branch made your ears perk up; you turned toward the boys, who had remained behind you, bringing your index finger straight to your nose and lips to let them know that they had to shut up at once

And so they did...

With your flashlights pointed forward you approached toward the area where I noise was intensifying and with it the beating of your heart against your chest…

From behind the leaves appeared a little girl: she might have been the same age as the 3, perhaps a year younger. She had very short hair that was almost shaved to nothing, only a long yellow T-shirt that barely covered her slender game and her eyes closed from the annoying light coming into her face

Do you think that site stood in a while observing her, weirded you is scared her....

"Guys I think the mission can end here," you said without an edge of emotion: fortunately this time the children shared your thought, earning you everyone's approval. As they walked away to return to their bicycles you extended a hand toward the strange little girl in front of you: surely you would not have left her in the rain…

She rested her little fingers in yours and together you returned to the bike

What a night that would present itself…

Guyss here there is the second part of the story i hope u can enjoy it😎

[jokenotfunny]

Revamped Rewrite of "Atychiphobia , 007" - previously :

Eddie / Steve x platonic!experiment!reader.

( i’m back freakazoids 😄😄😄)

You were born in Chicago, Illinois in 1971, living an ordinary life until strange things began to happen around you. Every time you were upset, objects would burst into flames or fly across the room. Your parents, overwhelmed and out of answers after countless calls, doctor’s appointments, (and even a few visits to your local church if you know what I mean,) you were finally referred to a man named Dr. Brenner. Promising to “help,” Brenner quickly took you in.

So now, at just three years old, you found yourself under Hawkins National Laboratory’s cold lights, meeting others like you—El, (008), a friendly orderly named Peter, and

By 1983, you’d been there a grating ten years. That was also the year you and Eleven made your escape. The outside world was chaotic and overwhelming after so long inside, and soon after fleeing together, you lost each other in the forest.

Days passed, and you were exhausted, hungry, and bruised from wandering through the unfamiliar terrain. Just when you were about to give up, a strange sound cut through the trees. It was unlike anything you’d ever heard. Hypnotized, you followed the sound until you stumbled upon the edge of a trailer park.

The noise grew louder, drawing you to a boy sitting alone on a picnic table, holding a strange object in his hands—a guitar. He couldn’t have been much older than you, but his hair was wild, and his fingers plucked at the guitar strings with a confidence that made the world feel brighter for a moment.

Eddie Munson, sixteen and ever the rebel, had no plans to play quietly. When he heard footsteps, he half-expected a neighbor (probably Mrs. Nolan) coming to yell at him. Instead, he looked up to find a kid in a hospital gown, bare feet covered in dirt and a wide-eyed stare.

“Uh… hi?” he managed.

You just blinked, eyeing the guitar with both fascination and fear.

As Eddie got off the table, you tensed. Eddie noticed your flinch, the dried blood under your nose, and the cuts on your legs, reminding him of the recent news about missing kids. This wasn’t some prank—something had happened to you.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, putting his hands up. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

You took a step back, every instinct urging you to run. But then something howled in the distance, freezing you in place. Eddie noticed your fear and softened his tone even more.

“Let’s get inside, alright? I don’t want anyone calling the cops on us. Trust me, they’re not as helpful as you’d think.”

Inside, Eddie gave you a Van Halen shirt and some sweatpants. When you tried changing right there, he quickly stopped you, face red. “Whoa—don’t do that! I mean, not in front of guys you don’t know, okay?” You nodded, a little confused, as he explained and left the room.

When you finally emerged, Eddie set a slice of cold pizza in front of you and tried to get you talking. “Ever had pizza before?”

You shook your head and took a cautious bite, which Eddie watched, amazed as you practically inhaled the slice. After a while, he asked, “So… my name’s Eddie. What’s yours?”

You pointed at your wrist, showing the number tattooed there. “007.”

“Like… James Bond?” He joked, but your blank stare told him you didn’t know what he was talking about. When you pointed at yourself and repeated, “Me,” Eddie got the hint and softened.

“Well, we can work with that. Maybe we call you ‘Seven’ or ‘Van’—you know, like Van Halen! Or maybe ‘Ozzy’?” You nodded, and Eddie laughed, feeling like he was finally getting somewhere.

The next morning, Eddie woke up to find you sitting on the floor, plucking at his guitar’s strings. Normally, he’d have a meltdown seeing anyone handle his guitar, but he could tell you didn’t know any better. When he asked if you liked it, you quickly dropped the guitar and apologized.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Eddie reassured, showing you how to hold it and strum without snapping the strings. You asked him to play “the one from last night,” so he played Black Sabbath’s *Children of the Grave*, the song that had drawn you to him.

Eddie spent the next few days teaching you guitar basics and introducing you to all his favorite bands. You especially liked Sabbath and Ozzy Osbourne’s wild stories, and you loved when he’d crank up the music and start dancing around. “This is *metal*,” he said, grinning as he showed you the classic devil horns hand gesture.

You copied him, saying, “Metal!” which made Eddie laugh, thrilled that you were opening up. He even took you to Main Street once, disguising you with a baseball cap and oversized sunglasses.

But things changed when his uncle, Wayne, came home early. He wasn’t thrilled to find Eddie skipping school, even less thrilled to find a strange girl in his clothes, sitting at the table and listening to him explain D&D.

“Hey, Ed, can we talk?”

Wayne pulled Eddie into the other room, leaving you nervously listening as their voices rose. Eddie tried to explain, but his uncle didn’t want to hear it.

“If something’s wrong, you call the police. What if they think you kidnapped her, Eddie?”

“No way! She’s a kid—she *needed* help!”

The argument kept escalating until Wayne threw his hands up in frustration. You reacted instinctively, raising your hand and sending him flying into the wall. When the dust settled, Eddie was staring at you, stunned, and Wayne was slumped against the wall, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t mean to—I thought he was going to hurt you! I’m sorry!” you shouted, panicking. Before either of them could say anything, you ran out of the trailer, vanishing into the night.

Days passed with no sign of you. Eddie searched everywhere after school, but it was like you’d disappeared. He would’ve thought he’d imagined the whole thing if not for the dent in the wall and the silence hanging over the house since you left.

Two weeks later, Eddie was in his room retuning his guitar when Wayne knocked on the door.

“Hey Ed, i’m about to head out , try not to stay up too late, alright?”

See, Wayne had been informed my Mrs. Nolan, one early afternoon when he arrived back home, that after he would leave for work at night, his nephew would leave the trailer before trailing into the woods for hours at a time. sometimes not until the early hours of the morning.

Which lead to another argument between the two munson men. Shouts of "she's a nosy bitch, who should worry about what her husband does at night instead of my shit!" and "Watch your mouth! If she wasn't watching, what would i do if you went missing too, one night, huh?!"

After that Eddie stopped going out at night, and he also didn't talk much, unless spoken to by Wayne first.

“Okay. Have a good night.” Eddie said monotonously, not looking up from his guitar.

“Oh! and uh, I ran into Garrett from the photo shop. Said these were yours.”

Wayne tossed him a manila envelope, before taking his leave. After a few minutes of back and forth glances at the thing, he finally picked it up out if curiosity.

Inside was a single photo: you and Eddie at the general store, doing the metal sign with your tongues out, smiling.

Eddie’s eyes widened in shock, his breath stuttering a bit. He had proof now—not to show anyone, but proof that you were real, that he hadn’t imagined his “coolest kid ever.” He quickly scribbled “Eddie & Van, Nov. 1983” on the back of the picture and pinned it next to his guitar.

He didn’t know if he’d ever see you again, but at least now he’d have a memory.

It would be three more years before you crossed paths again.

But that’s a story for another time.

[aloneinthehellfire]

Chapter Four: A Girl Who Cried Wolf

Gates Of Hell Masterlist

Word Count: 2816

Warnings: swearing, flashback, some parental issues (been there, done that, am i right?), mentions of death, bit of angst my dears

[A/N: my my my, if it isn't the chapter i wrote at 2 in the morning coming back to haunt me...]

A Girl Who Cried Wolf

November 8th, 1983

Your foot gently tapped as you lay on your bed, legs crossed over one another, head rested gently against your pillow.

The clock on your night-stand read 19:00, letting you know that you had been listening to your Walkman for over two hours now. You returned home as soon as school cleared, the promises of a photography session put on hold. You understood; the possibility of losing a younger sibling was as earth-shattering as it could get.

You hear the front door shut, rattling the walls of the trailer around you. Sighing, you slip out of bed and leave the Walkman behind to investigate the noise.

As you approach the living room, you rest yourself against the corner wall, watching as the man flicks the shoes off his feet and sinks into the couch with a cold beer.

“How was work?” You ask, the reply just a mere grunt.

You slowly pout, not expecting anything less.

“You leading the search tonight?” You try again.

This response was a simple nod of his head as the beer bottle hisses, cap flying across the floor. You’re trying your best to start an actual conversation and he’s giving you nothing.

“How long is this silent treatment gonna go on?” You finally question, crossing your arms.

Hopper tears his eyes away from the wall and looks at you, a look that always made you feel like you were shattering to tiny pieces on the floor. The look of disappointment. Of disgust.

Then, he’s returning to his original position, sipping his beer and ignoring your entire existence. He preferred looking at nothing than at his own daughter.

“Great.” You grit your teeth, shaking your head and leaving the room.

About an hour later, the door of your room opens and your concentration on a book report breaks to glance over at the intrusion.

Hopper stands there, sporting his hat and badge with a serious look on his face.

“The search is starting.” He states, nodding his head as he walks into the space, observing a few new posters on your wall. “I’ll be back in three hours tops.”

“Okay.” You mumble, scribbling down another sentence. You assumed the conversation was over, but he was still lingering. “Is there something else?”

Hopper sighs, perching on the end of your bed, springs creaking.

“This kid going missing…” He starts, staring down at his clasped hands. “Makes me… I don’t want you to-”

Hopper was never good with words. They always stuck in his throat, clawing at his tongue just trying to grasp onto something. He was lucky you knew him.

“I’ll be fine.” You assure, resting your arm on the back of the chair and facing him as you swivelled in your seat.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, playing with the blue band wrapped around his wrist. Just looking at it made your throat hitch. He tilts his head to meet your eyes. “And you’re gonna stay that way as long as you make good choices.”

“This again.” You scoff, turning away, moment ruined by his persistent lecturing.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking.” Hopper demands sternly, but you’re stubborn. “I can’t keep saving you from your horrible decisions.”

“Saving me?” You say in disbelief, spinning back around. “You dragged our trailer into the middle of nowhere! Because I was actually making friends!”

“No, you were doing drugs!” Hopper retorts, standing from the bed in one quick motion. “Do you know how embarrassing that is? To get a call from one of my men telling me you were caught out in the woods with that Munson boy, smoking?!”

“It was just marijuana.” You mutter bitterly and he looked like steam was about to pour out of his ears any second.

“I raised you better than that.”

“Did you?” You challenge, leaving your seat and facing him. “Raise me? No. No, you were stuck with me and way too busy with your job to even care.”

“That’s not true.” Hopper defends himself, searching your eyes.

“Mom didn’t want me anymore.” You remind him, a sob caught in your words. “She’s too busy with her new family. And I’m only here because she called your receptionist and you didn’t want to look like a shitty father.”

“I want you here, Y/n.” Hopper says, anger still lacing his voice. “You need to be more grateful for what you have.”

“Hm.” You nod, clicking your tongue. “You mean you? The guy that is so consumed in his work and alcohol that he barely takes three seconds a day to even eat let alone talk to me? No friends because my dad is the Chief of Hawkins Police and scares off any possibility of actually having someone to talk to! Yes, I smoked weed. Boo-hoo! For once in my life since Sara died, I actually felt happy!”

A wave of silence stretched across the trailer, your heart sinking. Just mentioning her name. That was the worst possible way you could hurt Hopper.

His head jerked when you said it, like inflicting the pain of her memory onto him. He doesn’t speak a word as he walks out, keys jangling in the distance as cold air rushes in.

��Try to stay out of trouble.” He orders before the door slams shut behind him and he’s getting into his jeep, driving off without even a second glance.

You stand there like that for a couple of minutes, the deafening silence making your thoughts blare like voices of the night. Ever since Sara… neither of you have been the same. Losing her should have united you both, sharing in grief. It only ever drew you further apart.

You angrily wipe away tears, fishing out a pair of boots from under your bed and tying them onto your feet.

Passing through the kitchen, you root through drawers until you find a flashlight, nodding. You were done trying to be something other than a screw up. If Hopper wanted to make you out to be a degenerate then so be it. You’re gonna give him a reason to be mad. With good company, of course.

As you step out into the harsh air nipping at your legs, you regret not changing your shorts into something with more coverage, but you didn’t care. The blunt you sought after would make you feel warmer.

The path was familiar to you, taking the route that passed by the county fairground. It wasn’t long until you found yourself stepping onto the trailer park, the stones comfortably echoing around you with each footstep.

Just a week ago, you lived there. In that very spot that was now barren compared to the trailers surrounding it. This community was either a hit or miss. Some folks around here want to throw tin cans at each other for merely walking by. Others were as neighbourly as it could get. One family in particular were nicer than anyone knew, and you missed them every single day.

You head to your designation to find the boy you wanted to talk to was sat outside on their old couch, talking to his uncle. They looked happy, laughing with mugs warming their hands. The bitter part of you hated them then. The sad part of you just longed to be them.

You didn’t want to ruin their moment, so you disappear behind another block of mobile homes. Another round of their laughter echoes out and you close your eyes. You shouldn’t be here, dragging him back into something that must have caused some issues with his own guardian. You were better than that.

Passing back through the woods felt stranger this time. You couldn’t quite pinpoint why. It could be the minute interval between arriving and leaving, changing your mind at the last possible second.

You were just going to head home. Maybe slip those headphones back onto your ears and let the music drift you far away from everything.

A snap of twigs made you jump, shining the light in the direction of the noise.

Nothing.

Cautiously, you continue your path, hoping it was just a squirrel.

The next snap you were quicker, pointing just in time to catch a glimpse of something fast and pale.

It looked big, making your heart race faster. The snapping twigs felt like they were creeping closer, and you made the fastest decision of your life.

You ran.

The flashlight swung wildly with your arm, leaves whipping at your face. It was following you. You could feel it.

“Help me!”

A scream echoes out and you stumble, foot catching on a root as you fly forward into the dirt. The flashlight bounces from you hand, shining the light directly onto you. You immediately scramble towards it, reaching out.

Before a grey claw beat you to it, pulling the light back into the darkness with a sickening crunch.

Gasping, you push yourself onto your feet and pick a direction, running. It was pitch black, the starry sky barely guiding you between the trees.

Wind whistled past your ears. Was it following you?

You kept running, a choked sob leaving your throat as you notice the familiar dim glow of your kitchen in the distance. You had left the light on, and you had never been more happy about it.

Before you even exited the treeline, something grabbed your jumper and you scream, feeling it pulling you back. You grab onto a branch, tugging yourself away until you were stumbling back into a sprint, throwing open the door and slamming it behind you. You fumbled with the locks, backing away from the door and switching off the light, afraid it would be attracted to the luminescence.

Nothing happened for hours.

When Hopper finally returns, he first notices the dark trailer, assuming you had gone to bed. Part of him hoped you would still be awake, available to talk. A few hours searching for a missing child in the woods gave him the clarity he needed.

Shoving in his keys, he pushes open the door for it to stop unexpectedly. He struggles against it, noticing the chain of metal blocking his entry.

His nerves are alight as he starts driving his shoulder against it, panic taking over. Why was it locked? Even after your worst fights, you never locked it.

He soon bursts through, ready to call out your name, gun in hand.

But he didn’t have to. As soon as the moonlight seeped through the open door, it cast a light onto your silhouette, making his heart plummet.

Hopper had found you curled up on the ground in the living room, head buried into your knees as you cried. Nothing could have prepared him for your words as he held you there, frowning in the darkness.

Present Day

“I told him everything. All of it. The scream I heard. The- the monster following me. I even had the marks on my sweater to prove it.”

You admit, eyes focused on the flecks of dirt covering your sneakers. If anyone had told you that your day would start with an apocalypse and end in a confession to Steve Harrington, you might have just spat in their face for even suggesting such a thing.

“What did he say?” Steve prompts, a soft frown displayed on his face.

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping away a tear. “You mean before or after he grounded me for leaving the trailer without his permission?”

Steve’s face drops. You could feel your guts twisting with every part of yourself you shared. You didn’t want him to know about your complicated relationship with Hopper, or anything about your life for that matter. It was just ammo for him to attack you with later, when you least expected it.

“I’m sorry.”

Your head lifted to meet his eyes, heart startled at the sorrow he bore. Was Steve Harrington actually upset for you?

“Whatever.” You dismiss, hugging your torso. “At least he believes me now, right? Even if he didn’t say it.”

“I remember when Nancy told me about seeing it.” He shares, much to your surprise. He moves back to lean against the wall, arms crossed. “I didn’t believe her, either. Was more afraid of what my dad would do if he knew I was drinking. I… I didn’t really listen.”

“What are you saying?” You ask, slumping your shoulders.

“I’m saying…” Steve begins, nodding slowly. “Some of us need to see it to believe it. I think Hopper-”

“No.” You interrupt, shaking your head at him. “Don’t give him any excuses.”

“I’m just saying-” He tries to defend, but you walk away from him.

“He made me think I was crazy.” You snap, keeping your voice low in fear of attracting the monster back. You take a quick glance to the windows, noticing the fading light. “Do you remember that week? When Will went missing?”

Steve scrunches his face. “Kinda.”

“Do you remember seeing me for any of it?”

He combs back through what memories he still had. The pool party, Nancy, school the next day.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But it’s not like I go out of my way to look for you. I only ever see you cause we run into eachother like everyday against all of my wishes.”

He slowly frowns when he realises you’re right; that week had its issues, but you weren’t one of them.

“Right.” You point, “And I wasn’t there that week. Because I was in therapy.”

Steve’s eyebrows raised through the roof. “Seriously?”

“Hopper finds me crying, ranting about a monster and a scream for help. And he throws away all his beliefs that ‘therapy is just a con’ because he thinks I’ve completely lost it.” You share, throwing your hands up. “I had to do a drug test. Then when it came back clear, I was sent to the school counsellor. Yeah, Ms Kelley also thought I made it up because I was dealing with my old trauma by imagining something scary or whatever bullshit. She said I needed professional help.”

“Sounds like her usual bullshit.” Steve sighs, head hitting the wall in a dramatic arch.

“You too?” You raise a brow and he laughs.

“Got it all from failing grades to rumoured fights.” He declares, smirking a little.

“Sounds like the Harrington I know and hate.” You smile.

Steve doesn’t scowl at your comment, however. There’s a part of him that feels very grateful for those words, for you. There was an apocalypse running amok outside, a sick feeling in his stomach over his loved ones, and standing in this room with you feels normal. He hated to admit it, as you also did, but you both needed eachother.

Maybe this hatred was the only thing that would ensure your survival.

“You and your dad really don’t get along, do you?” Steve asks sympathetically and you shrug.

“Sometimes. Well, not lately.” You say, being vague.

Steve hums, feeling like he understood you more than he should. “Why were you in the woods in the first place?”

You hadn’t told him everything. Just the part where you had seen the monster and mistakenly confided in Hopper. It was better that way; he didn’t need to know about the fight, about any of it. It wasn’t his business.

“Does that matter?” You ask, a little too defensively. He raises his hands.

“Sorry.” He rolls his eyes, clocking the lack of light bleeding through the curtains. “Shit.”

“What?”

“We hit nightfall.” He explains, pointing to the dark. The only light now was the soft yellow glow from the lamp in the corner, casting your shadow on the carpet. It must have been left on when they escaped from this place.

“Great.” You sigh, plopping yourself onto the armchair and reaching over, flicking off the light.

Once he was plunged into darkness, he straightens. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Uh, trying not to let every monster freak know where we are?” You say, just able to make out his features as your eyes adjusted.

“A little warning next time.” He huffs, sitting back down on the carpet. “Okay, we bunk out here for the night. As soon as day breaks we’re out of here.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” You mock, adjusting the pillow behind your back. “Should take turns being a look out. You know, just in case.”

“I’ll do it.” Steve says and you squint through the darkness. “I’m not gonna sleep anyway.”

“Okay.” You frown, bringing your legs closer to your chest so you’re curled up against the padded material.

“Okay.” He whispers back, so faint you almost missed it.

You were convinced sleep wasn’t in your future any time soon, too many horrors of the day to keep you wide awake.

But as soon as your eyes fluttered shut, your mind slipped into somewhere else, pulling you far, far away.

“wake up, y/n.”

Chapter Five: The Cabin ->

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[paperbackribs]

A Tarnished Copper Boy (9)

Previous | Next | Ao3 Last chapter, Steve found a domestic rhythm with Wayne and Eddie after Thanksgiving only to disappear before Christmas, but despite blipping away Steve managed to leave a gift behind for Eddie.

Chapter 9: The Second

Winter 1985

After Steve leaves, time moves unconscionably fast and yet syrupy slow. Christmas tumbles into New Year's and New Year's falls away in a quiet spectacular of fireworks and exuberant countdowns. Eddie returns to classes that pass in a blur of noisy rooms and corridors, while he continues to make muffled deals after school.

The dark of dead trees behind the school provided little shelter from the crisp white of the snow-clad ground, the heat from Eddie’s and his buyers’ chests escaping through mouths pressed against cupped hands: cold weather as an incentive for short but profitable interactions. The trailer’s furnace had decided it was time for an undignified burial and Eddie and Wayne had scrambled to get it replaced in the dead of winter, Eddie’s extra cash helping to keep the essentials going.

Then the commotion of life would suddenly give way to a crawl.

The clamour of the outside world drifting away as Eddie found calm in an easy conversation between his fingers and the strings. Cocooned in the refuge of a dark room lit by soft lamps, he would sit in the centre of his bed, amongst messy sheets that he had once shared with Steve, an acoustic guitar in his lap, and contemplative eyes resting on a faded stain.

Not because the shape strikes fear in his gut anymore, but because it reminds him that this all has been too real. Steve hadn’t been some domestic fever dream spurred by too many bowls one night. The stain reminds him of the truth of Steve’s absence even as the aggressive melody of The Sentinel tumbles over into a melancholy strumming from his fingertips.

Afterwards, winter flies by in one heavy blink, filled with campaigns, band practice, and begrudging motions towards his schoolwork. Half-hearted assignments handed in, but at least he’s attending exams this year.

Yet, as Eddie increasingly fails to give his best at school, the tension between his shoulders and neck tightens further. What had started as a rope of responsibility loosely circling his body at the beginning of the year has come to life, every moment of dodging his work creating a mirror movement that twists and cinches the knot, an incremental shift that has thickened and twined, squeezing Eddie’s chest and steadily moving higher, threatening his neck.

If he's lucky he’ll complete a chapter of this term’s text before a new interest will take over the greedy gremlin in his brain, fuelling a creative conflagration of new ideas, new stories, new songs. It does nothing to complete the essay burning on his desk, but it’s still a welcome distraction from the building feeling that he is fucking up again.

He wouldn’t have even attempted a repeat if it weren’t for Wayne. Confessing his sins last year, Eddie had offered the obvious solution to his uncle: he may fail the class of 1983, but instead he’ll get a real job and start contributing, properly, to the household.

Wayne had shaken his head and Eddie’s guts had fallen to his feet in the sudden understanding that his high school nightmare was still a long road in front of him.

“While a diploma is not a magic potion from one of your games, a… a cure-all,” Wayne had gently explained, palm on Eddie’s shoulder. He knows Wayne had meant the gesture in comfort, but it had felt like a boulder of responsibility instead.

“Panacea,” Eddie blurted out, unable to stop himself. “A cure-all is called a panacea.” Wayne only gave him a steady look in response and Eddie ducked his head, long hair hiding his face. Ashamed that his mind works in all the moments that it doesn’t need to.

“But it’ll help you get a leg up,” Wayne continued to say. “I don’t want you stuck under the type of people who’ll only hire a high school drop-out. You’ll end up working a factory at fifty with aching joints and a bum back, looking down the barrel of your body steadily failing you even while it’s the only thing bringing money into the household.”

Eddie had bit his lip against the low-hanging fruit of a use your body joke. Swallowed around it, savagely downing the humiliation of failing, and the mortification he knew was coming when he walked through the doors of Hawkins High as a repeating senior in the Fall of ‘84. Because Wayne had asked him to do this and there is very little the man asks of him. So, he would.

And he did.

Eddie had absorbed the failure and rolled on. But rather than meeting the challenge, he has avoided it. Ducked and twisted and ran like he is so very good at and has ended up closer to the gallows than ever. With little interest in success, Eddie is plummeting quickly after failure again and any little distraction comes with its own wash of guilty relief.

And so, time passes, quickly then slow and then back again in its own special loop, but always with a little niggling question of whether today is the day that Steve comes back. A little hum at the back of Eddie’s mind that strikes sparks at each moment he thinks to share with the absent boy travelling through time. Turning to the Steve-shaped hole next to him, only for his shoulders to drop as he remembers that he’s not there.

The spark flashes again at the beginning of spring, as the first of March comes with its own inevitable celebration in the Munson household. Eddie sits on the couch, palms firmly pressed to his eyes and fingers wiggling cheekily, “Whatever could be coming this way?” He calls out, mock curiosity teasing through his tone.

The scent of smoke reaches his nose before he hears Wayne say with amusement, “All right, all right, open them up.” Eddie can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

Three slim candy-coloured candles are stuck in a rich, thick layer of red frosting, the bare hint of a golden-hued cake at its base. The room isn’t very dark, with the new season’s sun pouring through the parted curtains, but the small flickering flame draws Eddie’s focus like he is a moth. The traditions of his birthday settling the ongoing unease in his gut along with the affection in Wayne’s eyes.

His uncle leans forward, nodding for Eddie to hurry and blow out the candles and Eddie closes his eyes to think of a sun-kissed boy with bronze locks; he exhales his wish into the air.

“Happy birthday, Eds,” Wayne passes over the traditional Happy 3rd Birthday, Big Boy! birthday card, this year with a child-like pirate stamped on the front, making Eddie grin in familiar delight.

Tearing his way through green Christmas wrapping reveals an orange plush material with two round eyes and a sardonic expression. Eddie barks out a laugh: Garfield slippers. He wiggles his feet into them immediately, they’re soft and comfortable and mocking all at the same time. “Thanks,” Eddie says, happily. “I love them.”

Wayne smiles, and hands over a thick wedge of cake. The thing about Wayne is that he may burn eggs, but he’s a great baker. Every year is some variation of dessert, be it lemon or vanilla or almond or funfetti, and always with a little decoration tailored just for Eddie. An outline of a guitar, a lumbering bigfoot or, this year, devil horns topping the head of the p’s in Happy.

Eddie shoves a large forkful into his mouth, speaking around the crumbs. “You know,” he says as casually as one can with frosting already on the side of his cheek. He quickly rubs it off, but a lingering stain of red remains. “Catherine always sends nice dishes our way, I bet she would love a cake or sweet to dig into too.”

Wayne’s salt and pepper moustache twitches as he thinks, “I can’t imagine she’d think it’s very manly of me, covered in flour and whipping up egg whites.”

Eddie shoots him a mild look of reproach, what feels like a lifetime of Wayne helping him unpack what is and isn’t acceptable flashing between them. A large part of that had been Wayne telling him not to listen to brain-dead idiots. To definitely not listen to his brain-dead idiot of a brother, and his ideas of what constitutes a real man.

Wayne grimaces a little. “Old habits die hard,” he simply says, taking a thoughtful bite as he thinks over Eddie’s suggestion.

Eddie nods: they do. Sometimes a particularly vile thought will rise unbidden in his head and it’ll take him a moment or two to realise that it’s his brain parroting his father. Wayne has never talked about it much, but Eddie has always gotten the sense that Pop’s attitudes about masculinity stemmed from similar attitudes held by their father.

“Is giving us Thanksgiving pie a girly thing or a generous thing?” Eddie muses, dragging his fork through the crumbs and dredges of buttercream, fondly thinking of a particular fruit cake long gone.

“You’re right,” Wayne gruffly concedes, “And the woman works herself half to death with all those shifts she takes at the hospital.”

“I bet it’d be nice to come home to pie she hasn’t made herself,” Eddie points out sensibly.

A gleam grows in Wayne’s eyes and Eddie is unsurprised to amble out of his bedroom one late morning to find Wayne about to exit the trailer, a Hummingbird Cake plated and in hand. “You go, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie crows and Wayne shoots him a mildly exasperated look before leaving.

Eddie doesn’t see him when he returns, but the edge of a smile plays at the old man’s mouth for the rest of the day.

Hawkins experiences an unexpected warm front with Eddie’s birthday, drying the air and bringing it with the chirps and melodies of awakening birds and the faint hum of industrious bees. The noon warmth of the sun on his exposed face is particularly rejuvenating as he sits reclined on the weathered couch outside his trailer.

Steppenwolf plays in the background, Eddie absently humming along to Magic Carpet Ride. Slouched on the opposite side, Randy takes a long drag of their joint. The cherry flaring before he lets loose a bellow of grey smoke, circling his head as if trying to recreate the fading clouds in the sky.

Eddie watches the trails dwindle away, sure that there are patterns to be found, but they keep sliding out of his head for the moment.

“It’d be a good item,” Randy says out of nowhere, his voice deep like a man’s where it had been breaking only six short months ago. He’s wrapped in a puffy jacket and blue jeans, long blonde hair tied low at the back of his neck.

Eddie languidly rolls his head to the side, allowing the sun to catch and warm his left cheek and ear. Maybe he’ll freckle and Eddie will match Steve’s constellation of beauty marks. Randy stares blankly out into the wood behind the trailers that give Forrest Hills its name until Eddie pokes him with his boot.

“A magic carpet,” Randy jolts up to explain, wrists moving expansively before handing Eddie the joint. It is their second, but the first one had been smoked out long ago and they were nearing the—gasp—heights of sobriety before Randy suggested another round.

He’s a good guy, Randy. A good D&D player, too, treading that line between thorough inspections of dungeon corners but also calling for the group to take action. It’s one of the reasons that Eddie allows him to come to the trailer for deals; he only allows friends to hit him up at home, liking to keep potential trouble with unknowns away from Wayne’s doorstep.

“You’re a mage…” Eddie starts to point out but is briefly distracted by a flicker at the trailer window. Mind slow and syrupy he thinks back: no, he’s pretty sure Wayne is with the guys this afternoon, playing poker.

Good luck to him, Eddie muses, eyes sliding back to the clouds again as he reminisces about the one time Wayne had allowed him to join. He had been immediately confused by the value of the printed cards and the order of winning combinations. And how come the joker, the best part of any pack, is defunct? Valueless, Eddie thinks sadly. He should have pocketed the bright jester, pin it on his mirror and give it a home that knows his worth.

Randy snorts out a laugh, “You are baked, man. Hello—” He snaps a finger in front of Eddie’s face and Eddie blinks. “Carpet of flying, I know they’re rare, but it’d be a fun item to play with in-game.”

Eddie’s grin is wide, the ideas of how his players can use the carpet immediately amusing. “It could hover along, serve snacks like those ladies at golf games.”

“Puffs itself up and acts as a bouncer at every open door,” Randy rejoins, giggling.

“Any time it comes across a mundane carpet it tries to challenge it to a dance off.”

“Mischievous thief and prankster!”

The two boys supply increasingly ridiculous ideas until they collapse against the couch, laughing. Eddie wipes a tear from his eye before sitting up, suddenly overwhelming hungry and needing to do something about it.

“Wait here — I know I’ve got some Lays in the cupboard,” Eddie stumbles up, but once he’s vertical the world seems a little sharper again. Honest mirth and fresh air somewhat clearing his mind of its tacky fog.

Randy moans loudly, “Yes! Please tell me you have Onion and Chives.”

“Gross. No,” Eddie exclaims as he swings open the screen door, his head hanging out of the door even as his body steps into the trailer, “You, my friend, are wrong and gross, and only Salt and Vinegar shall rule in this land.” Eddie grins as he hears Randy boo at him.

The good feeling sitting bright in his chest is only eclipsed at his delight and surprise at seeing Steve—his Steve!—sitting at the kitchen counter, poking desolately at a bowl of cereal.

He looks up as Eddie enters the room, eyes wary but Eddie doesn’t notice the shadowed expression as he runs forward, arms spread wide to fling himself at the other boy, wrapping them around Steve like long tentacles and hugging him upwards, nearly lifting him off of the stool.

“Steve!” Eddie exclaims, taking in the familiar smell of their shared shampoo and that special musky smell that’s just Steve, his Steve. Eddie rubs his cheek against his shoulder, the softness of the Dio shirt feeling exquisitely smooth to his weed-heightened senses.

Eddie leaves his cheek resting on Steve’s shoulders, eyes closed and nose in the crook of his neck. “Where were you?” He murmurs. “I’ve been here all winter and you left me.”

“Eddie, you okay?” Randy’s deep voice calls out and Steve stiffens in his embrace; his friend must have heard Eddie’s exuberant welcome, but he can’t come in, Steve is his secret.

“Yeah, one sec,” Eddie yells out, mouth nearly touching Steve’s neck and Steve flinches away at the explosion of Eddie’s voice next to his ears.

“I think your friend is waiting for you, Eddie,” Steve says from somewhere above. But he draws his upper body away too, pulling Eddie’s arms off from around him and Eddie pouts at the movement.

If Steve is absent for so long then the very least he can do is give cuddles in compensation. He had been right that first morning together: when Eddie forgets to keep to his side of the bed, Steve does give excellent first-wake-up, sleepy morning cuddles.

Tugged back so that he stands out of Steve’s immediate space, Eddie happily catalogues the minutiae of Steve’s face. He’s counting the fourth beauty mark when Steve calls his name questioningly. “I, uh, can smell you’re probably a little high right now, but I think your… friend is waiting for you out there.”

“What, no,” Eddie exclaims, but quickly quietens his voice at the memory of Randy calling for him. “I see Randy all the time.” Steve’s face tightens.

Eddie remembers again that Steve is a top-secret, time-travelling soldier. “Oh, but yeah, shit. We don’t want him seeing you, he’s my buddy from Hellfire so he’d definitely recognise King Steve.” Eddie giggles, the image of Randy’s mouth dropping as he drags Steve out of the trailer tickling his funny bone.

Steve slides off the stool, jaw working as he steps around Eddie, “Like I said before: I don’t want to cramp your style and I could do with a nap anyway. Later.” Steve walks away, his broad back disappearing into the bedroom. The door closes behind him with a firm and quiet snick.

Eddie stares down at the half-full bowl on the counter for a long minute; Steve doesn’t usually leave meals unfinished and he’s almost anal-retentive about cleaning up after himself once done.

“Eddie, oh my god, where are the chips, man?” Randy’s voice booms from outside again and Eddie startles, unsure at how long he had been staring at the amber reflecting in the afternoon light. He feels like he’s missed something important, but he’s finding it hard to get his slow thoughts to pinpoint anything from that short interaction with Steve.

Exiting the trailer he throws the bag at Randy’s head, who grabs it with a cackle and pulls it open with relish. Eddie shakes his head when Randy offers the bag, but his friend asks with a frown, “Are you okay? Was there something back in there? If it’s a massive spider, man, you’re on your own. My mom is the fighter class in our household.”

Eddie stares out at the distant trees, “You ever get the feeling you’ve fucked up, but you don’t know how?”

Randy hums around a mouthful, a scattering of salt and fat smeared across his upper lip. “Like all the time, isn’t that what school is for?”

Randy finishes off the bag even as Eddie falls into an introspective mood. Picking up on the general low vibe, Randy smacks his hands on his knees, thanking Eddie for a chill session and tells him to think about adding a carpet of flying to their loot one day.

Eddie nods, grateful for the fun of the afternoon and that he has a friend who doesn’t overstay his welcome when Eddie’s mind is all mixed up.

The sun is starting to set when Eddie decides to head back in, the bright orb hanging low and the shift of shadows edging the afternoon from cool into a shivering cold. He empties and cleans the abandoned cereal bowl left in the kitchen and curls up on the couch, pulling a blanket over his body and falling asleep to the canned laughter on the television.

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[fluentmoviequoter]

The Freak and The Princess (III)

Summary: Eddie lets you walk by during his rant in the cafeteria, stumped by your quietness and manners toward the town freak. He then decides to be the perfect gentlemen. [Part 3/5] 1.7k Words

Warnings: implications of parental neglect and talks of emancipation as a minor (this could also be changed to parents that work a lot and aren't around; if anyone wants another version, let me know!), a fight?, Steve Harrington is a warning just because of who he is. I think that's all!

A/N: Here's part 3! I edited this and proofread it, but please point out any errors or things that you like! And please send requests; all the characters I write for are under my tag #characters! Hope you enjoy! :) Also, the movie I'm talking about at the end came out in 1983 and is actually based on my favorite book, so if you know what it is, we are friends now.

Part I. Part II.

The Freak and The Princess

Part Three: Best Served Cold (Revenge and Ice Cream)

I walked into school Monday with a new-found vigor for being silent. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I didn’t want anyone to talk to me, and I wanted to be invisible. The night before, I had called Eddie and said I didn’t need a ride to school, avoiding subsequent questions when he asked why. I managed to go to my first four classes without seeing him. Walking toward the cafeteria after fourth period, I had to decide: go in and risk seeing Eddie and/or Jason or don’t go in and risk not seeing Jason and/or Eddie. I was at an impasse. Biting my lip and praying for courage, I pushed the door open, my eyes immediately finding the Hellfire table. Everyone seemed to be talking to Dustin and Lucas while Eddie wrote in his notebook.

“Oh, what the heck?” I thought and made my way toward the table. As I approached it, I saw Jason Carver walking toward them from the other direction.

“Oh no, what happened to you little freaks? Human sacrifice gone wrong?” he asked as he leaned over the empty seat by Eddie.

“Beat it, Carver,” Eddie said, sliding his notebook into his bag.

Jason looked back and forth between Eddie, Dustin, and Lucas. Realization struck, and he smiled wickedly.

“You didn’t tell him.” Jason smiled at Dustin and Lucas, who were suddenly very interested in the floor.

“No, but they told me,” I said, grabbing the back of Jason’s shirt and slamming him against the brick wall behind Eddie. I pushed my forearm against his throat – just hard enough to make it impossible to take a full breath - and leaned in. “Do you remember what I said I would do if you looked at or talked to them again?” He nodded. “And what did you do?” I growled, pushing against his throat. “What? Someone sell your tongue to the devil?” I asked, tilting my head as I released the pressure off his neck. “So? What did you do?”

“I talked to them,” he said, shrinking into the wall.

“That’s not true.”

“I hit them. Me and my buddies beat them up in the parking lot,” he said quickly.

“I’m going to be nice, and let me make this clear, all of this was very nice, and give you one more warning. Breathe in their direction again and you will find out just how mean I can be. Understand?”

He nodded and flinched when I slapped the brick beside him before raising my voice. “Understand?”

“Yes,” he said, tripping over his feet as he ran away.

The cafeteria was silent until Dustin started slow clapping. I walked out the same way I came in without looking at the Hellfire table. I scared Jason, that was the point, but if there was even a chance that I had scared Eddie, I would hate myself forever.

I walked straight through the school, across the field, and into the woods. I sat on one of the long-forgotten picnic benches and lay my head on my forearms. I laid there for a few minutes, enjoying the solitude. Someone was walking toward the table, and I groaned quietly, hoping they would see this table was taken and keep moving. The footsteps stopped by the table, and I debated lifting my head to see who it was. The bench shifted as they sat down on the other side, fingertips brushing my hair off my folded arms.

“How ya feelin’, princess?”

I jerked my head up, surprised to hear his voice. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

He smiled before answering. “I wanted to check on you. Besides, these tables were my turf long before you arrived.”

“Are Dustin and Lucas ok?” I asked, still whispering.

“Ok? They’re ecstatic! Pretty sure they’re reenacting the scene and arguing over who gets to be you.” He laughed as he finished, and it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever heard.

I smiled at the thought before looking down at my lap and playing with my fingers.

“When did they tell you?” he asked, more serious now.

“Thursday night in the parking lot. Steve went to see if we could get in the school, and they made me promise not to tell him.”

Eddie nodded, then stood up and stepped away. He’s probably mad I didn’t tell him and tried to handle it alone. The bench moved again, so I looked back up and saw Eddie sitting beside me, one of his hands sliding between mine, ceasing their fidgety actions.

“Let’s ditch. Go get ice cream or something.” He smiled, and I couldn’t say no.

I nodded, holding his hand as we walked back toward the school, turning into the parking lot and climbing into his van. He put a cassette in and twisted a dial, Metallica's newest album filling the van. I was mouthing the lyrics and looking out the window.

“You listen to Metallica?!” he asked, voice raised to speak over the music.

I nodded, smiling. Eddie smirked, turning it up as he pulled onto the main road. He parked in the small lot outside the homemade ice cream place, running around the front of the van to open my door. As usual, Eddie extended his hand and helped me out before walking beside me and opening the door. He refused to let me pay, turning away from me when I pouted. We sat at the back, eating our ice cream while I listened to Eddie’s one-sided conversation.

“So, Dustin tells me you agreed to come to Hellfire this week?” Eddie asked.

“I don’t know how to play, so I’ll just watch or something,” I responded quietly.

“Oh, we can certainly remedy that, Princess. I mean, you are talking to the dungeon master.”

He started explaining the basics of the game while I followed along, envisioning what he was saying in my head. He grabbed my hand, leading me back to the van and helping me in. After he climbed in and started the van, he turned to face me. “I say we go bother Harrington.”

I agreed, and Eddie backed out of the parking lot, pulling into Family Video a few minutes later. We walked in and started looking at movies since Steve wasn’t at the desk.

After a moment, we heard the back door open and Steve called, “Welcome to Family Video. Let me know if you need any help.”

“Got any good princess movies?” Eddie asked, making his voice deeper.

“Princess movies. Those would be in our children’s section on aisle-” He stopped talking as he rounded the corner and saw us trying not to laugh. “I should have known. Aren’t you two supposed to be at school?”

“We ditched for ice cream,” Eddie responded, placing an arm around my shoulders.

“You ditched?” Steve asked, obviously surprised as he looked at me.

I shrugged, failing to find the words to explain.

“What happened?” Steve asked, narrowing his eyes at us.

“She had a… conversation with Carver.”

“A conversation?”

“Of sorts, yeah.”

Steve looked at me with a hand on his hip, what I called his Steve Harrington Mom™ pose.

“Don’t do that look, man, she was standing up for Dustin and Lucas,” Eddie sighed. I dropped my jaw at his betrayal. “What?! He did the look, it makes people talk,” he defended quietly.

“It was him wasn’t it? I should’ve known. I’m going to kill that-”

Eddie cut him off. “Dude, it’s been handled. Trust me. And word to the wise? Stay on this one’s good side.”

I chuckled lightly, picking up my favorite movie and walking to the counter with Steve and Eddie as they bickered. Steve rented the tape under my name, and Eddie drove us to my house to watch it.

“This isn’t a chick flick is it?” Eddie asked as he collapsed on my couch with a bowl of popcorn.

“Nope,” I said, stealing a handful of the popcorn.

“Hey, make your own!”

“Technically it is mine, you just pulled it out of my pantry.”

“I have a question. It’s probably going to sound super rude, and I really don’t mean it to be.”

I nodded, urging him to continue.

“Is it voluntary? When you suddenly stop talking? Or is it a conscious decision? Because at first I thought you were really shy and would open up when I got to know you, but there are still days where you only say two words to me.”

“It’s not voluntary. Sometimes it just feels easier not to talk. I can’t explain why it happens but know that it’s never because I don’t want to talk to you, because I’ve wanted to talk to you since eighth grade, just could never get words out.”

“You’ve wanted to talk to me since eighth grade?”

“Yeah, that’s when I moved here and you were one of the first people I noticed, and the only one who made me want to talk. My parents just gave up on me, stopped trying to talk to me and didn’t listen even when I did. You and Steve are the only people who seem to make it worth talking.”

“I noticed you when you moved here, but thought a sweet, shy thing, like you would see me like everyone else here. There were kids in your grade who would talk about the ‘mute girl’, and I wanted to meet you, but didn’t know how.”

“Probably best we waited for it to happen on its own, there is no way I would’ve been able to talk to you back then.”

“Where are your parents now?”

“I got emancipated the summer between seventh and eighth grade. Then I found out that some second-cousin or someone left me this house and made the decision to move by myself.”

“You’ve been on your own since eight grade in a town where you knew no one and struggled to talk?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well now we have to add brave.”

“To what?”

“Your title. Beautiful, pretty, brave, kick-butt princess,” he smiled, pulling me into his side.

“This movie is based off my favorite book, and I love it, so if you don’t, keep it to yourself,” I said, attempting to shift his attention away from me.

“Yes, Princess,” he said with a goofy smile. I lay back against him and pressed play, perfectly content with my prince.

Taglist: @loonalockley @paleidiot @kimmi-kat

[fastcardotmp3]

The sound which comes out of Nancy is more like choking than sobbing, like she herself is cracking down the middle as she lays her eyes on Barb for the first time since 1983.  Because it is her.  It's her.  » Nancy & Barb // Rated M // S4 Missing Scene // 2.3k » Febuwhump #11: Unresponsive & "You weren't meant to be there" » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

She has to keep moving. Forward and towards. She has to just find out for herself if she’s been right this whole time, if this is where it happened, if Barb didn’t get to so much as try to leave the Harringtons’ backyard because…

Because if Barb stayed. If Barb stayed it was for her. It was to look out for Nancy. It was to make sure there was someone trustworthy nearby just in case Nancy changed her mind and wanted to leave and–and–and–

There’s a hand around her forearm just before she reaches the edge of the pool, a hand large and strong but a hand, still, which releases his grip with a half-hearted shove from Nancy. 

“Don’t,” she snaps, whirling around to look at him, avoiding the confused and concerned and baffled expressions of Robin and Eddie hovering feet away at the edge of the forest like they truly don’t know what to do with themselves. “Don’t.” 

Her voice is ragged, she knows. She can see the sound of it in the harsh shine of Steve’s eyes, but she can see something else there, too. 

She can see something like understanding, like the crossing of a great divide between them, where they’ve both changed irreparably in the journey, but changed into the kinds of people who can trust each other above all else. 

“I think this is a bad idea,” he tells her simply. It’s honest in ways he wasn’t when they were together. It’s lacking in that desperation for regularness because although he doesn’t want her to go digging in this long-cold grave, he’s not stopping her either. 

No one is stopping her. 

No one, Nancy doesn’t think, could. 

She lets her head tilt sideways slightly, lets herself look at him, Steve Harrington, the man that he's becoming, but she doesn't force herself to answer him. 

For so long she has forced herself to have answers for all of them, answers to save their lives and answers to create something akin to a watered down justice for the rest. Nancy has fabricated answers, has discovered them, has dug deep into endless dirt and mud and detritus and crawled out again victorious and still never felt it. 

But she doesn't have to answer Steve. She can see him, understand the ways he has grown, understand the ways she herself has, and know that neither of them expect that from her. 

Instead she nods, lips pressed together in a flat line, and instead she turns her back on him, and instead she takes that final step forward to gaze upon this empty divet in this broken world. 

The pool is dry, mostly empty and lined with cracked and mossy tiles. 

Mostly. 

[wrestlinghistorywithkay]

Happy Heavenly Birthday to the late , great , ‘ King of Harts ’ , Owen Hart. Owen would have been 59 years old today.

Owen Hart is the youngest brother of Bret ‘ The Hitman ’ Hart and son of Stampede Wrestling Promoters , Stu and Helen Hart. (Stampede Wrestling was a promotion in Canada founded by Stu Hart , the Patriarch of the Hart family in 1948. The wrestling school for the promotion was known as The Dungeon. It has many graduates such as Bret Hart , Owen Hart, Chris Jericho , Davy Boy Smith , and the only female graduate, Natalya. ) Owen started his wrestling career in high school in 1983. He placed 4th in wrestling in college at the University of Calgary in 1984. He worked for Stampede wrestling and earned title of Rookie of The Year for Pro Wrestling Illustrated ( PWI ) Magazine in 1987. However, he left Stampede to be a member of the New Japan Pro Wrestling ( NJPW) roster in 1988.

Owen was signed to Vince McMahon’s World Wrestling Federation ( WWF) in 1988 , with a superhero gimmick known as ‘ The Blue Blazer ’. Nevertheless , this gimmick would be the one to take his life eleven years later. He returned to Stampede and NJPW in 1989. Hart made his return to the WWF in 1991 , teaming alongside Brother In Law, Jim ‘ The Anvil ’ Neidhart ( father of current WWE Superstar, Natalya) and calling themselves , The New Foundation. Neidhart was teaming with Owen’s older brother , Bret, before Bret decided to try out a run as a Singles wrestler. Hart also teamed with Koko B Ware as High Energy. Owen followed in Bret’s footsteps as a Singles wrestler in 1993.

Owen was in a storyline with Bret from 1993 to 1995 to see who was the better wrestler in the family. After Survivor Series 1993 , Owen changed his gear from colorful to Bret’s signature pink and black to be like him. He also decided to use the Sharpshooter, Bret’s finisher, to add to this new Heel gimmick. He added , ‘ King Of Harts ’ , to the gear after winning King of The Ring in 1994. His original nickname was ‘ The Rocket ’. The Hart Brothers had a match at Wrestlemania X the same year. They also had a Steel Cage match at Summerslam of the same year. In 1995 , he teamed with Yokozuna and was managed by Jim Cornette as well as Mr.Fuji to form ‘ Camp Cornette ’ , winning the WWF Tag Team Championships.

In 1996-1997 , Owen teamed with Bret , Brother in Laws, Davey Boy Smith ( The British Bulldog) , Jim ‘ The Anvil ’ Neidhart , and family friend , ‘ Loose Cannon ’ Brian Pillman ( father of WWE NXT wrestler , Lexis King ) , to reform the Hart Foundation. Owen defeated Rocky Maivia ( The Rock ) , to win his first Intercontinental Championship for the first time in 1997. He also was tag team champions with The British Bulldog the same year, thus , they lost the titles to Stone Cold Steve Austin and Shawn Michaels. After the Montreal Screwjob , Owen returned with a new gimmick , The Black Hart. This gimmick meant he wanted to get justice for Bret and his family against Vince McMahon and D-Generation X ( DX) , mainly Shawn Michaels. He joined the Nation of Domination the same year and ended his run with the faction in 1998.

Owen soon formed a tag team with best friend , Jeff Jarrett , in 1998. He decided to use the Blue Blazer gimmick to develop the storyline. He kept denying that he was the superhero and he claimed to be ‘ retired ’. Whole doing this , Hart and Jarrett defeated Ken Shamrock and The Big Bossman in 1999 to win the tag team championships. Their manager at the time was Debra McMichael , also known as Debra.

On May 23,1999 at the WWF Over The Edge Pay Per View in Kansas City, Missouri, would be the last time Owen Hart would ever be the Blue Blazer . While being lowered into the ring for a match against The Godfather for the Intercontinental Championship, he fell almost 80 feet into the ring. This was thought to be a part of his dramatic and funny entrance for the character. However, it was not. He landed on his chest on the top rope before being thrown into the ring. Owen James Hart passed away at the hospital from Internal Bleeding due to his injuries at the age of 34. He left behind his wife Martha, and two children , Oje and Athena , as well as his huge family. The tribute episode of Monday Night Raw for Owen aired May 24, 1999. This episode of the show was called RAW is Owen, with wrestlers giving their memories of him and Steve Austin coming down to the ring and saluting him by holding a beer to his photo. Jeff Jarrett defeated The Godfather and became the new Intercontinental Champion. Jarrett soon screamed his name after getting the belt.

On an episode of WCW Monday Nitro , Bret Hart wanted to face Chris Benoit as a tribute to his fallen brother in the same arena where Owen died. This happened October 5th , 1999, five months after Owen passed away.

Martha Hart is currently keeping her husband’s legacy alive with All Elite Wrestling. In 2021 , she alongside AEW President , Tony Khan, announced the Owen Hart Cup Tournament. Winners of this tournament include Adam Cole and Britt Baker. Owen is also a character in AEW Fight Forever.

My Final Thoughts:

Owen Hart was a once in a lifetime wrestler. If he didn’t pass away so young and tragically, he would have went on to be a world champion. Owen , thank you for everything. Even though I didn’t get to watch you live and I was an infant when you passed away, you still made an impact on me as a fan. I watch your matches on the internet and streaming services. You’re one of the coolest people. You will always be to me. Happy Heavenly Birthday , I and many others will always love and miss you. This post is my tribute to you. - Kay

* TW: Falling , Death *