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magnoliabutters · 1 year ago

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• THE SPIDER QUEEN •

pairing: kas!vamp eddie munson x (she/her) reader

summary: munson and henderson have a good o’talk...

warning: 18+ content, mdni, adult language; enemies to lovers trope, canon divergence, fluffy-wuff, season 4 spoliers, switching povs, moody boy kas, grief, y/n count: 1, moody boy dusty buns, violence, death/killing, character death, etc.

word count: 11.6k

reblogs & thoughtsy-watsies are appreciated!

• stories of eddie munson • season two • previous part •

note: potential need for tissues, not to toot my own horn or anything hehe, also highly highly encourage noting the dates & time to stay on track (i be bouncing)

grazi grazi grazi to my sweet ladies, ziggy (@trashmouth-richie, one of my fav authors) & miss nack (@nackrosor, loml) for spending the time to beta read & share your incredible thoughts and wisdom! also, doubly credit to nacky-nack because some of these words came straight from her extravagant brain & i love her so much.

i have never been so proud of the stories i’ve been creating and that’s cause of these two extraordinary writers. thank you, thank you for helping me grow! now, on to my longest post yet…

April 7th, 1986. 10:46pm.

Kas never thought he would respect a man in an open white blazer with a bright blue undershirt and yet, here he is - ready to follow him into battle if necessary. He is invested in this “Miami Vice” show. God, even the name sounds stupid, but he finds himself thankful that you had found a channel dedicated to it. A blissful escape from this shitty old thing called life.

There he sits with feet kicked up on the coffee table. A fresh stove-top cooked popcorn on his lap. The beautiful girl he loves sleeping soundly against his shoulder. He could die right here and be absolutely fulfilled. A twisted little smile sprawls on his lips as you curl your arm across his waist. The way your soft hair rests upon his shoulder and down to his bicep makes his heart explode and rebuild in a million puzzle-like pieces.

Who needs a working heart anyway?

Kas’ eyes are glued to the TV screen, desperately trying to erase the presence of the curly haired betrayal of a boy in his peripherals. He may have had trouble accepting the idea of Dustin at first, but now he’s just a nuisance at the bottom right of his eyeline. He will happily admit that he likes it better when the boy’s unconscious.

Although, he refuses to share how the curls of Dustin’s hair bring him back to each and every time Eddie ruffled them up with the palm of his hand. He is reminded of the happiness he felt in seeing the boy every day in school. The nostalgia floods his brain anytime Dustin’s yawning catches his attention.

Relief, another feeling that explodes within his chest. Relief in knowing that Hellfire would have yet another fearless leader once Eddie finally graduated - class of ‘86.

The excitement, unbridled and innocent excitement that followed their party’s adventures flying off the table and becoming a tangible reality. Right before everything got way too real...

The cracks of Crockett’s pistol blasts through the air. A shoot out. Miami’s finest detectives dive behind a brick wall as the fugitive sprays ricocheting bullets.

Kas jumps, startled by the noise, before rushing to find the remote. In his attempts, everything goes beautifully wrong. “Fuck, shit!” The popcorn flies and spills all over your beautiful sleeping body. An accidental kick of his feet and the unfinished beer bottles fall, spilling all over the table and onto the orange tinged carpet below.

In reaching for the remote, he about falls onto his stomach, spread across the floor, before finally hitting mute. With a deep exhale pumped full of exhaustion, he turns over onto his back, spreading his arms out across the carpet. He reluctantly raises his eyes to yours, only to catch you baring holes into his face. A tight lipped smile curls upon his lips as he mouths, “sorry” with nervous bouncing brows.

Another thing he didn’t expect was that the loud noise blaring from the TV would cause Dustin to begin rolling around with fluttering eyelids. The boy mumbles behind him, causing Kas’ eyes to open to extreme widths. He straightens his spine and turns before crawling his way back towards you. His torso flush against the hardened bottom frame of the couch. He bumps your right leg with his elbow, desperate to get your attention.

Thoughts begin to spiral in his mind, his lip quivers - terrified of what may happen once Dustin utters a word. Mortified by the thought of what he will say. It intensifies the frequency of his bumps on your leg.

Kas may not remember the whole story, but he can physically feel how his heart reaches for the boy. He recognizes that Dustin is the closest Eddie ever got to being a big brother. He feels the remnants of pride that regularly overcame him whenever he looked down on the boy. The thought of what he had and who he could become.

Eddie only knew him for less than the school year, but Dustin was so much more than some random freshie who barely learned the true art of Dungeons and Dragons. No, this boy was a pro - just like he was at that age. The only difference being that Dustin had friends, a party to play with before high school.

Henderson was his heir, the fucking prodigy. And fuck, does it hurt when the prodigy betrays the teacher!

Kas watches as your body perks up once realizing Dustin was slowly returning to the land of the living. You quickly stand and crash land upon your knees beside him. He really wished you hadn’t. He selfishly wanted you by his side, to help him not lose his marbles and destroy everything in his sight.

His teeth begin to grind as he watches you care for the boy. Your hands are delicate and soft as you try to help him wake. You care for him despite knowing that he left Eddie behind, the one person you claim to love the most in this world. Some loyalty.

He struggles to pull his eyes away, to keep himself from turning into a red hot ball of rage. Deep breaths have helped keep his mind at a leveled state, but hearing your comforting words crushes him to his core.

Kas returns his gaze upon you two when hearing your voice. “Dustin,” you say as you lightly push a curl behind his ear. He rolls his eyes with a scoff and comically stuffs another fistful of popcorn in his mouth from the thin layer that still rests inside the container. Apparently, you do that move with everyone - brushing hair behind one’s ear. The loving action he cherished so dearly. It feels wrong, undeniably wrong, to see you do that with someone else - let alone with him.

Dustin mumbles something, something that leads you to ask, “what?” so softly. Kas hums a growl at the thought of having to even process the words from his mouth, but he swore to you that he would try. Little did he know it would be this fucking hard.

The fire in his belly is difficult to describe and truly painful. He wishes he could be supportive, to be fully invested in the responsibility you have decided for yourself - to care for this boy. He just doesn't know how to look at you and your serene actions without feeling a sliver of treachery.

This boy is the reason Eddie died and turned into the monster that Kas is: a heinous demon that destroys everything in his wake while wearing the face of an angel.

Why couldn't he just have a few more minutes of paradise with you? To hold you in his arms, to feel you sink deeper into his chest. The sleep he craved beside your supple body was divine. All he wanted to do was grab your hand and rush you back up to that bed. To jump onto it and float the waves with you by his side. To forget there ever was an Eddie, a y/n, a Kas, a darlin’. To forget it all and start again. A new life filled with your sweet smile and endless laughter.

Alas, no. You were reminded of who Kas truly is before any extraordinary, amnesic life could begin. All because of him. Dustin Henderson did this, and he needs to pay.

Abruptly, Dustin staggers with fearful eyes as he pulls from you. Kas could tell that you were startled by the way your chin went several inches back into your throat. He knows that expression of yours very well. He revisits the sight on the backs of his eyelids any time he tries to fall asleep. How much horror he must have caused you while he was figuring it all out. The very same horror he forces you to relive each day. He will regret it all his life.

As an instinctual response to your worry, Kas stands with tightening fists, ready to pummel anything and anyone who troubles you. Your eyes fall upon him in such a way that he immediately disarms. Your gentle hand reaches towards him with a slightly cocked head. “It’s okay, Kas,” you say in a whisper. He sucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he shifts his eyes between you and the boy. He lets out a sharp breath from his nostrils before crashing back onto the couch carelessly.

Dustin looks his way with that same annoying terror on his face. It screams, “I’m about to pee my pants.” He had no reason to worry, as long as he listened to you. However, the terror persisting any time they make eye contact is becoming more and more difficult for Kas to bear. He’s positive Dustin never looked at Eddie this way. He’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sadness that envelopes his chest at the thought.

"W-What is this?" Dustin asks while turning back to face you. His movements are hesitant and slow. Kas scoffs, kicking his feet back onto the table as he lazily reaches for a fallen kernel resting on a nearby cushion. He is almost offended that the boy couldn’t sustain the gaze in spite of his tangible fear.

"You're safe," you comfort, placing a hand on his shoulder but he pulls away harshly, making Kas sit straight up once again. It’s never too late to learn manners.

"No," he states. "What the hell happened?" You turn back to look at Kas, almost for support, but he gives you nothing. Why would he? You messed the bed, make it yourself.

"Maybe I should introduce you two?" you suggest, nodding back to Kas. Dustin's lip pulls up in a mixture of confusion and disgust. It’s clear he isn’t very fond of you. Kas loves the idea of being an outcast alongside you.

Dustin peers back at him with caution, yet eager and watering eyes before clearing his throat and returning to you. That look - jesus fuck, Kas hated that look. An inspirited gaze with raising brows before crashing down into a furrow and welling eyes. It has been some time since you have looked at him with such hope. The ogling stare that searches for something, or more accurately someone behind his muddy eyes. It is usually followed by a depressing combination of shock and hurt once the individual realizes what they were searching for no longer exists.

Dustin searches for Eddie, just like you used to. Apologies to the traitor. Eddie no longer exists.

"This is Kas," you introduce with softness to your voice. Your intonation comes off as though you were entertaining the name. Kas tries his best to remind himself that you had understood. You know that Eddie was gone, but the undeniable anger filling him is indisputable. It leads to the clenching of his teeth, the straightening of his back, and the flaring of his nostrils.

Dustin attempts to say the name, stuttering and stumbling like a child at the unfamiliar word. He continues, desperately trying to understand. “Kas, like - like Kas, the Bloody Handed? Kas, the Destroyer? Kas, Vecna’s most trusted lieutenant?”

Kas could see you wince at the words. You are desperate to keep the conversation calm and avoid all his triggers. But the boy clearly has his own annoying way of processing the information, blurting the sound of his immediate enemy as a result.

He growls as his jaw slightly shakes with how hard his teeth grind against each other. “How about Kas, the man whose aboutta break your nose if you keep yapping?” he spits out. Dustin quickly turns his way at the sound. He shudders in his seat, preparing for another altercation.

In an attempt to deescalate the situation, you slowly answer Dustin’s inquiries. “I’m not sure about all that,” you start, speaking directly to the boy. “But Kas, he’s - he’s different.” He looks at you with one raising brow and forward leaning chin, egging you on to continue.

“He may look like Eddie, talk like him, walk like him, even hug like him - if you’re lucky,” you quickly correct. “But he’s not Eddie.” You pause, dropping your eyes to the hands intertwined upon your lap. “I really need you to understand this, Dustin. Kas is not Eddie. They are two different people.”

As you spoke, Kas slowly moved his attention onto your chapped, pouty lips. Your inflection changed as your words continued. His ears are perked as he struggles to understand how you were feeling. How to help. Your solemn expression sets off a multitude of alarm systems in his mind.

His first thought is to scoop you off your feet, carefully supporting your neck and the back of your knees with his arms. He wishes to take you away from this place, to any reminder of the past and what you have lost.

His second thought, however, fuels the anger and resentment within him. The thought that your sadness, that your pain, is caused by Dustin and his aggravating need to know the truth. Finally, you take a breath as those tears you’ve been holding finally dive off your lashes.

“Eddie is dead…”

“… So please. If we can move on from this - if you can accept that Eddie is g-gone,” your voice hitches, leading you to take a slow breath before continuing. “Then we won’t have to worry about what happened earlier.”

Kas’ head tilts curiously as he observes your behavior. The words are falling easier and easier for your pretty lips, but the heartbreak resonating throughout your body is crystal clear and constant.

He wishes he could revel in the excitement, to celebrate the happiness that followed your understanding that Eddie is gone. The acceptance that has allowed Kas to live without being under his shadow. But how could he ever be happy when you were so sad?

Upon hearing your words, he is reminded of the detrimental actions that ripped the perfect morning with you from his hands. The precious morning and slumber that you both deserved. He wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through your freshly washed hair and watch as you fell asleep in his arms.

Kas fiercely avoids acknowledging the thought that he, too, is responsible for taking that away from you. That maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all Dustin’s fault.

April 7th, 1986. 8:12am.

Kas had an uneasy feeling as he took slow and hesitant steps down the stairs. Who could possibly be here? The knock seemed hurried, yet forceful. His first guess would be the cops, that maybe Rick got out of jail again and they’ve come to bring him back. Or what if it was a neighbor? One that saw some movement in the desolate house and called 9-1-1? Either way, a conversation between the police and Kas, Hawkin’s latest serial killer, is not going to end well.

He considers calling you down. A fresh, pretty face that can woo the police away. One that can lie and pretend that she has every right to be in Reefer Rick’s abandoned lake house.

No, he could never do that to you. He wouldn’t dare ruin the incredible image in his head of you resting, naked beneath the warm sheets waiting for his return. He couldn’t wait to drop these sweatpants and curl up next to you.

Nah, man. There’s no way he’s dragging you out of that bed. Plus, he knew, without a doubt, that you would be too busy dry heaving at the thought of lying to the cops to even try. A smile rips across his face. Shit, how he loves you with every fiber of his being.

As he finally hits that last step, Kas dramatically slumps his entire body upon realizing Reefer Dicky Dick Rick doesn’t have a god damned peephole. He’s convinced that peering through the windows like an idiot would be way worse than just opening the door.

With a sharp inhale and roll of his eyes, Kas flings the door open. The wind wafts in, flying his curls back with the intensity of his speed. All to begrudgingly land his eyes on …

“Eddie?”

Kas’ entire body runs cold as his breath is stalled in his chest. The eyes, the hazel innocent eyes before him. Irises bight and clear as day when flush against the pink of his tearing eye. A reddish plump to his nose and cheeks. The trembling lip that slowly whispers a second “Eddie” that Kas is too astonished to notice.

Dustin Henderson. The two comrades, friends of war, partners, brothers were left stunned at the sight of each other.

Several minutes pass and the boy is the first to break the silence. “Ed-,” he starts, but Kas is quick to stop him in his tracks.

“Don’t call me that,” Kas spits out with a deadpan expression. He could feel his entire body shutting down, one muscle at a time. His breath is completely ripped from his lungs as he desperately seeks dissociation, any method of escape from who he must face.

Pain strikes Dustin’s whole, causing the slightest twinge of his brow. He takes a step back with fluttering eyelids as he struggles to comprehend the situation.

Kas, however, is too busy wishing he could disappear to notice. Wishing that he could turn back time, tell you to hide so that you both could giggle under the fresh sheets until the knocking dissipated.

Lost in his thoughts, Kas didn’t see the boy’s extending hand before it was gently placed against his forearm. “Don’t!” he yells, raising his tainted arm as he stumbles back into the living room.

Dustin follows him inside with worried floating hands, prepared to catch if needed. He kicks the door closed with helpful intentions. But the slamming door causes Kas to stop dead in his tracks, which in turn causes Dustin to crash against his torso.

Without a second passing, Kas slams his hands against the mop head’s shoulders. He digs the weak boy into the wall beside the door. Dustin yelps in pain as his hips thrash forcefully back onto a side table. A sharp sound snaps through the air as a glass bowl shatters and keys scatter across the carpet.

“Don’t touch me,” Kas demands sternly. “And don’t call me that,” he adds with a heavy exhale, as though the words have become routine. “I - I won’t,” Dustin blurts out with a fast sucking breath.

Kas slowly nods with fluttering lashes as he stumbles back. Tears well in his eyes as he struggles to discern reality and memory. Dustin Henderson, Dustin. Dustin. The name floods his body with a volatile mixture of Eddie's and his own emotions.

Is he ecstatic? Is he worried for his friend? Why was he crying? Why did he push him against the wall? That must have really been scary. Maybe he should apologize? Apologize?! For what? Dustin left him to die, rotting away in front of his family’s trailer.

“They wished you death …. They watched as you were torn apart.”

Vecna’s chilling voice plays on repeat in his head. It’s all - It’s too much. His head spins despite the debilitating feeling of his skull being crushed. Tears roll down his cheeks like cinder blocks. He cannot control them, cannot stop them even if he tried.

He has never felt pain such as this. A pain so shocking that all bodily systems are stalled. His chest begins to heave just as his sight becomes blurry. Any memories tied to you and your anxiety attacks have rapidly been erased. He has nothing, nothing to help him. No one to support him in this unbearable situation. His heart pulses like the clacking of a horse’s hooves, while also freezing every five beats.

Kas instinctually bends over, falling into a kneel. His chest struggles to rise and fall with each breath taken. His brain is overloaded, cutting all ties with consciousness.

Dustin rushes to his side with a light and comforting touch upon his best friend’s back. He is very careful not to touch the pink scars ripping across his waist and ribs when catching him. “Eddie,” he calls out softly.

“Eddie…”

“…Eddie”

“Eddie?”

“EDDIE!”

“Oh god! Oh god, Eddie,” Dustin cries as he lands his knees harshly against the cold floor. He pulls his idol’s body onto his lap. Tears stream down his face, dropping onto Eddie’s cheeks below.

Eddie’s entire body was on fire. So much pain but all he cared about was that he finally proved to himself that he was no coward. By the look of Dustin’s blubbering crying face and the fact that he couldn’t feel his toes, he knew that this was it. Time to go out like a rockstar.

“Bad huh?” Eddie coughs up. He could taste the familiar metal on his tongue. It wasn’t the first time blood was in his mouth.

“No, no,” Dustin starts. “You’re going to be fine. Just gotta get you to the hospital, okay?” His voice keeps hitching. The boy brushes hair from his cheek with a cold breath on his face.

Eddie nods his head in a desperate attempt to make his little brother feel better, but the blood keeps coming up. He gags on it before muttering, “I think …” The pain shoots up his body in pulsating electrical bursts. “Common,” he utters, trying to hype himself up. He had only a few more words to say before he was done, before he could rest.

“I think I just … I think I just need a second, okay?” He whispers. He struggles to keep his eyes open, slowly becoming more tired as the minutes pass.

He gets flashes of your smile burning bright. Your laugh, how you cock back your head with each giggle. Your fingers intertwined with his, always such warm hands. A loving smile spreads across his devilish cheeks. “Okay,” Dustin whimpers out in between sobs.

“I didn’t run away this time, right?” Eddie blurts out with a bit of a chuckle. “No, no, no, no,” Dustin weakly smiles, letting out a bundle of spit with a stifled cry. “You didn’t run.” A cough rips from his throat again. The blood drains from the side of his mouth.

Happiness fills his aching chest as the thought of Dustin as President of Hellfire plays in his head once again. A thought he fantasizes about often. His eyes close as he sees the light behind the boy’s curly head. “You’re going to have to take care of those sheep for me, okay?”

Dustin lets out a soft whale as he struggles to speak. “No, you’re going to do that yourself,” he whispers stubbornly. Eddie’s brows furrow at the words. He uses all of his might to crash his palm against Dustin’s forearm.

“Nah, man,” Eddie grumbles. He hated when the boy second guessed himself. Dustin never saw his potential, never felt the confidence he could easily have. Hey, that was the same shit you would say about Eddie all the time. Funny, full circle.

“Say, ‘I’m gonna look after them,” he demands. “Say it.” He wanted the words to come out harsh and strict, bringing the good old dungeon master voice back out for one last ride. He didn’t expect the coughing fit that would erupt from his attempt.

“I’m… I’m gonna look after…” Dustin starts as the words fall into a jumble of sobs. “Good,” Eddie answers with another harsh cough.

A smile spreads across his face, the smirk that is clearly copyrighted by the Munson family. “Good, cause I’m actually gonna graduate,” Eddie starts. His smile grows deeper and deeper as he remembers those pretty little eyes of yours. “And I’m gonna marry my Lolly. I think it’s my year, Henderson.” His heart warms - he likes to think it’s because of his incredible future with you, instead of the blood pooling in his lungs. “I think it’s finally my year…”

“...I love you man.”

“I love you too.”

“… Eddie”

“Eddie …”

“Eddie!”

Kas moves with a body strictly set on autopilot. His mind is screaming, screaming his name. His heart races, beating thickly in his ears. He could still feel Dustin’s tears falling onto his cheeks. He feels the boy leaving. How his pillow, his knees, quickly fall from beneath him. Dustin’s weeping voice as he is pulled away and Eddie is left behind in the Upside Down.

Before he could stop himself, Kas grabs Dustin’s hands off of his body. He wraps his calloused fingers around his wrists, slamming them harshly against the wall. “What the hell are you doing here?!” He screams into the adversary’s pathetically whimpering face.

“I-It’s me,” Dustin stutters out, but each word that leaves his lips peaks his anger. Kas yells out a grunt as he digs his fist thick into his collar. He lifts the small boy up and throws him against the floor. Henderson went flying across the living room, sliding upon the carpet.

Everything became red. A smashing of his knuckles across Dustin’s cheekbones. It hurt, but not as much as when his supposed friend left him behind. This makes Kas feel a whole lot better.

April 7th, 1986. 11:12pm.

Looking back, Kas definitely needed that 14-hour cool down period. He scans over your crushed frame, but your eyes are fixed upon Dustin’s face. His nostrils flare as fluttering lashes drop a tear. He roughly brushes it away with a single finger against his red cheeks.

With a sniffle, Dustin whispers, “O-Okay, hi Kas. I’m Dustin.” His hand shakes awkwardly as he tries to stand. Your arms reach for him, careful not to let him fall. Despite your unfortunate patient, Kas has always adored your caring soul. The dutiful World War Two nurse tending to his eternal wounds. He loves you, not only due to your very beautiful body, but everything within its gorgeous shell - not that you’d ever believe him.

Dustin looks down at his wavering hands and ripped shirt. His fingertips press against his cheeks. He winces in anticipation of a pain that never comes. “How did I,” he stutters, a gulp thick in his throat. “W-what is this?” Kas finally stands - it was his time to shine. He peers down at Dustin through his cheeks with a lifted chin. The boy stumbles back at his movement, afraid of what may come next.

Just how Kas likes it: seeing his prey shaking with barely contained fear before him. At least they know the truth - that he’s a monster in sheep’s clothing.

“I healed you,” Kas starts with a scoff. “Me, I did that,” he points to Dustin’s weak body. His smirk and bouncing brow shoots your way, making sure you acknowledge his selfless act. That annoyed, deadpanned face of yours returned, it’s one of his favorites.

Dustin looks to you for clarification, some sort of understanding of what the hell happened to his fallen friend. Kas hated it, hated that he looked at you instead of him. Like every word falling from his mouth needed to be fact checked by you.

“Hey, Henderson,” Kas calls out, a whistle to follow. “Eyes over here. Daddy’s telling a story.”

Kas stalls when he sees both your eyes pop out of their sockets. Dustin’s nostrils are flared as he takes a slow inhale. You quickly drop your gaze to your feet, while stifling a cry. What the hell? Why did the world come to a grinding halt?

“Vecna saved me,” he continues hesitantly. The words slowly drop from his mouth, each elongated word. “You know, after you left me to rot.”

The boy’s neck extends as shock fills him to his very core. Fire burns true in his little hazel eyes. Something Kas, nor Eddie, has seen outside of the D&D table.

Oh hello Nog, the Artificer - it’s been a while.

“Who left you?” Dustin challenges with a finger addressed to the man before him. It makes Kas laugh, enjoying the fire burning within him just like the good arsonist that he is. “‘Cause it sure as shit wasn’t me.”

He steps forward in a way that, involuntarily, spreads shivers down Kas’ spine. A shiver not formed due to fear, shock, nor worry. A shiver that inadvertently fills his body with admiration and respect. “Steve had to pull me away from you,” he says sternly, dangerously entering the other's space.

Kas’ left brow raises as a smile sprawls across his face. A slow chuckle erupts from within that could scare away Vecna himself. He is callous and cold. His eyes reddening as each word is spoken. “You’re a fucking liar, Henderson,” a cold stern tone to his voice. Kas takes a step towards Dustin, egging him on. “You don’t want to know what I do to liars.”

Dustin scoffs, suddenly taking the interaction lightly. “Why don’t you start off by telling me exactly who said that I left you?” he asks with rigid eyes. Kas scoffs too, rolling his own, as his lip pulls up on his left side. “Oh,” the boy snickers, making Kas’ entire care-free persona develop into fuel lit fire. “Let me guess, Vecna told you that? Just like how he told you he saved you?”

“Watch your fucking tongue,” Kas spits through gritted teeth. He could barely see your hands or hear your voice as you attempt to calm the situation. All he could see was red. The resilient, fascinatingly familiar color flushing across his sight. He just needed one good reason to wreck that pretty little face of his.

“I watched you die and I was there until the very end,” Dustin yells, completely matching his opponent’s energy. “I would have never left you behind.”

“But you did!” Kas screams into his face. His shoulders raise as he puffs his chest, entirely prepared to destroy the small being. But, fortunately for the boy, you are a sneaky one. A slow palm to his chest, resting with just the right amount of pressure on his sternum. He could feel another hand pressing into his lower back. And somehow he could breathe again. The red slowly dissipating from his mind. All his senses return with lightning speed. It all hit a bit too hard as he struggles to process the next words from his mouth.

“No, I fucking didn’t!” Dustin spit outs with disdain. Your hand still glued to Kas’ hot skin, the only thing keeping the other alive. “Steve ripped me from you, I hated him for weeks…” He loses track of his words as though the memories shot through his precious thinking cap.

“No, no,” Kas mumbles but the flashes ring true. Dustin cried onto his dying body. He screamed, pleading for Eddie as he was dragged away by Harrington. He didn’t want to go, but Steve was following through on his promise - to protect Henderson. They loved Eddie. His friends would never have left him behind.

“No!” Kas shouts, pushing the boy back, but he persists, taking a step forward to show his older brother that he meant every single world.

“It took me so long to see that he was saving my life,” Dustin utters before powerfully pushing two hands against his chest. “I was ready to die with you in front of that trailer!”

Kas bounces back, rocking on his heels with minimal physical damage but holy shit did that fuck over his brain and everything he’s come to know as true so far.

“I should have!” the boy shrieks. Tears stream down his cheeks in a way that breaks Kas’ unbeating heart, in a way he’ll never admit - maybe not even to you. Kas coughs, clearing his throat before plopping back onto the couch. The room is silent until Tobbs calls out to his fellow detective.

Kas clings onto the TV as a tool for his dissociation. A small voice in his head begins to beg for forgiveness. Regret encapsulates his chest cavity as he acknowledges the pain he caused to not only his prodigy, but to you. The betrayal was his own.

He should have remembered, should have corrected Vecna, but he had nothing. Not a single clue as to what was happening. He was lost, alone. He knew his memories were not his own, but he didn’t care. Anger is easier than loneliness. It wasn’t until he saw you and the graceful flash of your smile that he second guessed those thoughts.

All he has now is Eddie’s memories from before. He would only need one hand to count how many he’s got, but that’s no excuse. He should’ve remembered. He had an inkling, some part deep deep within him that immediately rejected the idea of Henderson leaving him behind but he didn’t listen.

Why didn’t he listen? How could the idea that everyone would leave him behind be so believable? That he wasn’t worthy of true friendship? What could he have done to deserve that?

Kas squints before applying pressure from his thumb between his brows. He could feel the beginning of a headache scraping against his forehead. Muffled voices wrack through the air as he struggles to recollect what is true and what he was told.

You and Dustin begin talking about Eddie and his last moments. He now finds distraction from his own thoughts in your conversation.

He, barely, tries to not eavesdrop as you nervously ask, “Did - did he have any message or - or, um, did he say something about me?” His ears perk for an answer that never came. He looks up to see Dustin shaking his head, which forces his heart to sink in his chest.

Kas instinctually seeks your gaze, knowing without a doubt that this answer would completely destroy you. He watches as your face pales and your body stills. He struggles to deny every fiber in his being that screams for him to hold you. As much as they pleaded and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t manage to move from his seat. His own body betrays him in the midst of all this new found information.

“Tell us the story.” Your mouth barely moves despite the power of the words that fall from your lips. Kas cannot deny the excitement he feels upon being reminded of your undeniable strength. You were easily the strongest woman he has ever met, even if he did remember all the women in his life. He turns towards Dustin, awaiting the story that even he is curious to hear.

The boy, however, tucks his hands beneath his pits and crosses his arms over his torso. “What’s going to keep him from punching my face in again?” he spits out. Again, he looks right at you as though you were the handler to the rabid dog that Kas was.

“He won’t hurt you,” you say through grinding teeth. It was enough to make Kas smile and tilt his chin back and forth, like a giddy girl. He sits back, completely relaxed, knowing that you have his back.

Dustin takes a breath, lowering his eyes before him, but not before cracking his neck to the side. “Eddie was dealing with Chrissy,” he starts.

You quickly interject, “Yeah, he had a date set with her.” Your eyes fall as you think further. “It - It was a Friday, right?”

The boy nods his head as he tightens his arms upon his chest. “Vecna killed Chrissy right in front of Eddie.”

The veins in your neck tighten as you clench your teeth. Eyelashes flutter back tears. Kas cannot help but want to protect you. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asks in a low tone. The act surprises Dustin. His eyes flash between you two as he realizes the connection you have.

You take a deep sigh before walking over to the couch beside him. You crash down, hooking your arm around his bicep. You lean into the meat of his arm as your eyes close. “Keep going, Dustin.”

Kas pulls you in, holding you closer than he thought possible. He would do anything to spare you from this hurt, but he also knows whole heartedly that you needed to hear it - just as he does. “After that, Eddie went into hiding. Cops obviously pinned it on him… and Max, well, she saw him leave the trailer in a hurry-”

Your head raises upon hearing the name. Kas turns to you for guidance as it remains unfamiliar. “Wait, Max was a part of this?” you ask in disbelief.

Dustin stalls before answering. He swallows a huge gulp as he squeezes his hands into a fist. “Yes.” Your brain wracks with ideas, struggling to understand exactly who else was involved in this dangerous ruse. “We went searching for Eddie and it led us back to here,” he mutters as he takes a quick glance around.

“We found out Vecna’s past and how to fight him, and we were ready,” he slows down his words. “We had a plan and we were going to stop him.” His bottom lip begins to quiver. A hand catches his balance upon the back of the recliner. “Something went wrong, and we needed more time.”

His eyes suddenly bare holes into yours. You could see the tears welling within them as he struggles to let out the next few words. “He went back,” he swallows, “We would’ve lost so many people if not for him, but by the time I could get back…” He drops his head, shaking it as those fists crash against the tops of his thighs.

Kas observes every inch of Dustin’s face, of his body language. He understood his words to be true, his feelings to be true. He is distraught. Dustin may have made it out of there alive, but a piece of him still rests on that road right beside Eddie. Dead and hollow. A piece he may never recover.

He rallies the courage from within to finish their interwoven story from his blurred recollection. “I-” he starts. The pronoun explodes a combination of familiarity and disorientation. “I died in his arms.”

Kas could see your head immediately shooting his way. It made a small smile burst from his lips and shortly take it away. “But after you left, I heard someone. I thought it was you,” he turns your way with a weak grin. Tears flow from the ducts of your eyes, a steady current. “I don’t think it was.”

His voice hitches before he clears it and attempts to continue. “I died a fucking hero,” his eyes raise forward as he is flooded by the reminiscent feeling of bravery and pride. “I wasn’t a coward - no, not anymore.”

You bite your lip as your arms wrap around his neck. His own tears begin to fall as you pull him into your chest. “You were always a hero, baby,” you whisper into his red, hot ears. "You saved me before any of this happened."

His sobs destroy the very fabric of your being. A sound that will forever haunt your dreams. You take it in waves, all of his pain without regret. Your face slowly becoming stone cold, tears ceasing to exist as you tighten your hold of him.

Kas clears his throat, slowly pulling away from your soaked shirt. Your hands slowly float to his knees. He looks back at Dustin, his close friend, without anger or resentment. “Vecna brought me back. He told me to kill you,” he mutters while shaking his head. “I came back different.” Another frog is stuck in his throat as he struggles to take in breaths without falling into another sobbing fit. His eyes drop to the hands in his lap. “I wasn’t a killer before, but I am now.”

Dustin looks your way in a panic, desperately wanting to know more. “He didn’t make me, you know? He taught me how and I just kept it up.” Kas calmly nods as he feels the blood drain from his face. “Eleven people,” his voice hitches as he meets the boy’s innocent eyes.

“Tammy Thompson, Ryan Trent, Andy Johnson, Carol Carver, Dave McKinney, Paul Richardson, Justine Hutch, Dick Newman, Kristie Peterson, Olivia Wilson, and Vickie McNulty.”

Kas keeps his head down. Not a single part of him wants to see the terror on either one of your faces. The silence floods the air like a stuffy smoke. It’s almost palpable, almost as though you could feel it weighing down on your defenseless body.

“Vickie.” Dustin slices through the smoke, a wavering tone to his voice. “Vickie from marching band?”

Kas nods his head ever so slightly while struggling to swallow the biggest gulp stuck in his throat.

He didn’t want to raise his eyes, no not at first. He could remember her screams, particularly hers as they sounded like they were perfectly extracted from Jason Voorhees’ machete. The red of her hair mixed beautifully with the crimson that drenched her clothes.

He would be lying if he said he had any remorse in the kill. He just saw someone he knew. A poor girl smudged with dirt and muck as she struggled to get out from under the library’s debris. He scared her, just a little, to get that blood pumping quickly into his mouth.

“Yes,” Kas finally answers. “Vickie from marching band.”

Dustin almost collapses backwards, but swiftly rushes to land onto the chair before him. A completely new pain strikes Kas’ heart as he realizes that Vickie meant something to him. Your hand squeezes at the sides of his thigh as you, too, hesitantly land your head against his shoulder. Comforting him, even though you are shocked by his doings.

“I think I need a break,” Dustin mutters. Kas raises his eyes to see that the boy had turned a shade of green. He runs out the front door and vomits off the side of Rick’s porch. A solid tear runs down Kas’ cheek. What has he done?

While the two are inside, Dustin struggles to keep himself upright. His entire torso is flush against the wooden porch. His eyes almost bulging with each retch.

Robin has been searching for weeks to find Vickie. She’s grown so close to the McNulty family, determined to find her across the Upside Down. She refuses to acknowledge the possibility of her death, the possibility of not being able to save her through all the party's efforts and losses.

How is he going to tell her about this?

But amongst the sadness, he cannot deny the feeling of relief in his belly. Eddie is back. Even if it’s some weird, murderous version of him, he can still see him - talk to him. He doesn’t have to pretend to speak to the mist over Lover’s Lake anymore. He doesn’t have to think of a world that Eddie Munson isn’t a part of.

Sure, his mentor looks different. Much more shirtless than usual. Dustin never thought he would see him in anything but ripped jeans. His hair is longer, smooth and less matted. The contrast between his dark locks and skin reveals how much paler he’s become. Red eyes are a nice touch that he can appreciate when they aren’t paired with a beating.

When Kas speaks, the boy swears he could see sharpened canines. Were those the very knives that dug into his skin before he passed out?

Regardless, Dustin has his brother back and the happiness that consumes him is undeniable. He would accept him with open arms in any condition.

A tenacious brotherhood built on fantasy, triumphs, and defeats. A deep connection between a Master Inventor and his Dungeon Master. He wishes he could go back, back to when the worst thing that happened was that D&D got canceled because Corroded Coffin finally got a gig.

All he can do is wish.

September 16th, 1985. 8:43pm.

“Yeah, well Mike’s got a girlfriend cross country,” Lucas shares, desperately running away from the attention placed on his and Max’s relationship.

“What the hell,” Mike gripes as Gareth places a firm hand at the back of his neck. He shakes it while releasing a hellish laughter. “Alright Mike, where’d you meet her? I only slightly think she’s made up.”

The group laughs as Eddie watches them from his Dungeon Master’s throne. His foot hangs off the edge with a knee to his chest, hands playing with a small ripped paper.

He is known for his transparency. Whatever he feels is perfectly displayed upon his face. The mood for today is an abundance of annoyance, clear in how he lifts the side of his lips and his eyes roll with each passing second.

“I met her here actually, she just moved away,” Mike shares. “Her name’s-”

Eddie slams his hand down onto the table with a force that shakes the auditorium floor. “Why are we talking about maidens?” he asks with a booming voice as he stands from his seat. “We should be talking about how the party’s going to fight Lolth tomorrow,” he hints.

Dustin’s eyes widen as he slowly asks, “What are you talking about?” He peers around the room, seeing the entire party with mixed expressions of shock and gaping mouths.

Eddie huffs in response, rolling his eyes in annoyance, as he grabs his books and map. “No jerking off tonight, boys. You’re gonna need your throwing hand.”

The party begins to pack up after a rather rough section of the campaign. Only Lucas, Jeff, and Dustin survived, while the rest await their rebirth. Dustin’s brows pull as he watches his fearless leader. The man who is always moving is now perfectly still. He takes heavy breaths as he grips tightly against the top of his chair.

“You coming?” Lucas calls out as he and Mike begin to walk down the stage’s stairs.

“I’ll just meet you there,” Dustin says, waving his hand for the two to leave. He has been trying to find an opportunity to buddy up with the President of Hellfire, maybe this was his chance. “So, Eddie, do you have a sec?” he asks sheepishly.

Eddie now had his forehead plastered upon the chair as his fingers nervously tap on its sides. He groans as his way of replying to the youngling. Dustin lets out a soft chuckle as he nervously asks, “You okay?”

Eddie slowly raises his head as a smile lifts to the right of his cheek. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says with squinting eyes. “Hangovers don’t feel like they used to.” He raises his arms to stretch them before rolling his neck.

“I was wondering if, uh, I could get your advice on something?”

Eddie’s eyes perk as he drops his arms and slides into his chair like a snake. “Why yes, the doctor’s in,” he beams with his smile.

Dustin laughs while pulling a chair out and plopping into the seat. “It’s about girls - uh, maidens,” he starts.

Eddie nods furiously, gesturing with his hands for him to continue. “What is her name?” he inquires. Dustin drops his head nervously, “Susie.”

Eddie’s eyes close as he smiles. “Ah, Susie,” he whispers in acknowledgement. He leans back into his seat, taking a big whiff of the young love in the air.

“Yeah, she, uh, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I met her back in camp about a year ago and she lives in Utah, but I, uh, I think I love her and I’ve never said that to someone before,” Dustin rambles.

Humming, Eddie sinks back into his chair. His expression is happy and proud of his little freshman. “Well, little man, it sounds like we’re in the exact same situation. If you figure it out, you let me know,” he dismisses with a chuckle.

Dustin is taken aback. A king like Eddie having trouble with girls, uh - maidens? He’s a rockstar for christ’s sake, what kind of problems could he have? “What’s her name?” he asks, just as plainly as Eddie did before. He snickers beneath his grin as he rests a chin upon his fist.

“Let’s just call her Lolly,” Eddie lets out with a breathless chuckle. A coy smile sprawls across his lips.

Dustin’s brow raises with curiosity as he dives in more information. “Lolly, like … Lolth?” he asks, tucking his chin into his neck in excitement. His eyes widen as he lovingly awaits his DM’s answer.

Eddie blows out a raspberry before sinking even further into the throne. He shakes his head while creasing his eyebrows. “Did you nickname her after our next boss?” Dustin laughs out incredulously.

“Maybe,” Eddie retorts in a sing-songy voice. He scoffs, throwing his head back. “Go ahead, honestly, tell me that Lolth isn’t a smokin’ hot babe.”

Henderson smiles, enjoying his mentor’s flustered face. He shrugs, nodding his head - knowing it isn’t wrong. “She must be a badass,” he utters.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Eddie adds, running his tongue over the front of his teeth. “She’s my spider queen,” he hisses with excitement.

Dustin giggles alongside Eddie. Their smiles fill the room with a rose tinted ambience flooded with nostalgia and happiness between old souled friends. The connection between them was palpable, undeniable. Eddie noticed it the second he laid eyes on the small fella. He knew there was something special about him, and he has yet to be proven wrong.

“In all seriousness, Henderson,” Eddie says lightly, coming down from his laughing fest. “You should tell her. It’s a risk, yeah, but love isn’t really something you can hold onto. Trust me, it eats away at you more than you can imagine. It physically hurts not to say it,” he takes a deep breath. “You’re lucky you don’t have to see her every day.”

His words peak Dustin’s interest. Who is this maiden? Has he seen her before? Does she go to Hawkins High? He’s never seen his DM so vulnerable, and he revels within the precious moment.

“You can tell her too, Eddie,” he whispers, careful not to upset him. The President raises his eyes and stares behind his curly chocolate bangs. “What if she loves you too?”

Eddie’s keen smile pulls to one side as he shakes his head. “She doesn’t even know me,” he mutters, leaning back into his chair.

“Then let her get to know you, man,” Dustin encourages. With a smile, he starts, “A wise man once told me that love was risky but it’s not something you can hold onto-”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Screw you, Henderson,” he mutters with a low hummed chuckle. His head cocks to the side as an idea forms in his mind. He leans his elbows onto the table as he locks eyes with the boy. “Let’s make a pact, right here and right now.” Dustin encouragingly nods. “You tell Susie and I - I’ll tell Lolly,” the words start to lose their muster as he continues.

“You got yourself a deal, Munson,” Dustin slams his hand against Eddie’s, giving him a good shake. A contract that would build the very foundation of their friendship.

April 7th, 1986. 12:11am.

Your mind feels like a dead plane about to crash into the ocean. A slow spiral as you fall from the heavens and dive into the horror show below. First row, VIP ticket. Guess that’s what happens when you fall in love with a true killer.

Without noticing, your hand slowly slips from his arm. Fingers hook onto your chin as you struggle hard to process the information. To make sense of something that just shouldn’t make sense.

“You didn’t know who she was,” you start. Your closed eyes tickle lashes against your cheek. “You - you didn’t.”

Kas’ soft, calm voice breaks through the mist, bringing you back down to that ocean floor. “I did,” he murmurs. “I killed her, and I did it because I knew her.”

You turn to him with tears flooding your vision. The breath is sucked from your lungs, unable to take in more. You finally hit the water - it’s time to sink. “Tell me, just,” you gulp, shaking your head out as your mind screams for you to run. “Make me understand, please.” You turn to him, heaving sobs as you do. “Why did you do this?”

He drops his gaze, not wanting another second of your crying face to be burned into his mind. He hurt you, again. Regret, again. All for an unneeded kill he made so carelessly.

Vickie’s red hair bobbed so effortlessly in the mucky mist of the New World. He immediately recognized her from that unfortunate junior year that he had to take band for his elective. Despite the tragedy, she still was perky and determined to get out.

And that’s why. She had hope, and all he wanted to do was crush it.

Kas hesitantly reaches for you, wanting to comfort you and distance himself from the situation. The very act shakes you to your core, causing you to cower to the other side of the couch. “Don’t,” you say plainly. He drops his eyes while clenching his jaw in pain.

Who did he have to blame this time? It’s not like Henderson was the one who brought up their names. It certainly wasn’t you. You knew he had a list, a list of people who died the way you should have, but he knew you would never want to know who.

And yet, he gave you just that. It breaks any perception that you had of him. The person who took care of you upstairs, who loves you - yeah, that’s a serial killer. Vecna took everything from you. He could care less about how his kills affect other people.

Chrissy died and Eddie became a “serial killer.” Eddie died and … Kas became the serial killer.

“I don’t,” you start but quickly take in a shaky breath. You pinch your brows together, trying so hard to see any future with him beyond this but everything comes up blank.

“I killed because I didn’t know any better,” Kas whispers. His gaze stuck on his hands as they rested between his legs. “I was taught to torture, told that every person in Hawkins would rather see me dead than alive.”

He abruptly stands, practically jumping off the couch. “I had doubts. I - I tested it, you know?” He begins his pacing, desperately trying to stop his heart from exploding his chest with each beat.

“With Kristie and Dick, I saw them. They were under struggling to get out of town hall. I helped them get out,” he slows his movements. “They were so happy to see me. And that made me happy, a-and I thought - ‘yes, he was wrong!’ But they were just happy until I got them out,” he says softly.

“They ran from me, called me an ‘asshole’ and a ‘killer,’” Kas mutters as he stands still before you. “I showed them they were right.”

A wave crashes over you. Weak electricity shoots through your body, tingles that make you feel light headed. Your face falls into your hands as you ponder the thought.

“But then I met you, darlin’,” he says as he crashes onto his knees before you. His big, warm hands pull your palms from your cheeks. “You showed me that there was another way. And - and I don’t want to go back to that.”

Kas takes a sharp breath before clearing his throat. His quivering voice continues, “I still hear their screams.” You slowly raise your eyes to his. His face contorted and solemn as he struggles to hold back heaving sobs.

“I wish you were there,” he drops his head onto your lap. The tears curl around your face. You cannot help the gentle hand that brushes through his hair. “I wish I died in your arms,” he cries. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be in fucking Valhalla or some shit, but I wouldn’t be back here as this monster!”

He sobs into your bare thighs. Your chin quivers as you try to be strong but fail every other second. You feel empty. No worry or remorse toward him or yourself. Just a body floating slowly into the ocean’s depth.

After some time, you whisper coldly, “You are not a monster.” He raises his swollen eyes to you, the innocent chocolate button eyes bow beneath all this façade. “A monster wouldn’t have regrets. Wouldn’t be crying with the person he tried to kill.”

After one last swoop of his soft curly hair, your hand rests at his cheek. Kas leans in as he always does. Those innocent eyes flick up to your hardened gaze. “You are not a monster. Not anymore.” He takes in a shaky inhale through his nose.

“You are going to work hard, harder than you ever have, to make up for what you did.” You gently place your fingers to the side of his chin, squeezing as you guide him to your eyes. Ensuring you are both locked in before finishing your thought.

“But you will never make up for those eleven lives. You will carry them in your heart until you die. And that does not mean you stop fighting to make it right. Do you hear me, Kas?”

His lashes flutter as he unsuccessfully attempts to hold back his tears. He could see the strength within you. The power you hold that has barely scratched the surface. He couldn’t be more in love with you despite the horror of the words that fell from your supple lips.

Kas knows, in this moment, that he will happily die for you a million times. He is crazy about you, completely unhinged and dedicated to your smile. He may never make up for what he’s done, but he will put all his power into trying until the day he dies - not just for you, but him as well. It’s not easy living with a guilty conscience, maybe this will make it a bit lighter.

Regardless his determination is set, your broken heart is more than enough to fuel his intentions.

“I hear you, darlin’,” Kas utters. His hands delicately reach for yours, intertwining your fingers as they should have been from the very start. “I promise you I will try my absolute hardest to make up for what I’ve done.” He pulls your interlocked hands to his lips. A sweet peck with eyes fixed onto you. “I promise you I will work my damned best to be the man you deserve.”

His words pull you right out of your spell. Those worried wrinkled lines between your brow completely smooth out. Eyes fall straight down to your hands. A promise you would never expect from Kas, and one you could count on from Eddie. But one and two are not the same, and fear still encapsulates you.

You want to trust him. To know that he’s that beautiful man who held you in the shower earlier that day. The man who carried you away from danger. The man who saved you from the dangerous, psychotic being he is scared of most in this world.

But he is also the man who took Vickie and all those people from their families. The man who left you in a ocean of your own tears, naked and afraid in that fucked up version of Hawkins. The man who stalked you, hunted you. The man who almost drank you dry to please his own murderer.

“Please don’t break it.” The words fall from your lips involuntarily. You aren’t even sure if “it” is referring to his promise, or your heart. “Please,” you finally raise your eyes to him.

Dustin opens the door, walking into a quiet room. He closes it behind him, locking the deadbolt before landing his back against the wood. It pulls both your attentions, causing Kas to stand and let go of your hand. Your body aches for him, wishing the boy stayed outside just a little bit longer.

“I lied,” he starts. His hands crash at his hips, letting go of a huge breath of relief. “He said something about you when he was …”

It was your turn to release a breath of relief. You are confident, fully confident in the love that you and Eddie shared. Doubt wracked your brain when Dustin told you that he didn’t say anything about you in his last words. For whatever reason, the boy held the information from you. The only way you would get it is if you wait, painfully and patiently. “What did he say?”

Dustin takes a quick look at Kas before returning to you. “He wanted to marry you, after graduation.” You smile with a trembling lip, both taken aback and not surprised at all. The thought of you across from Eddie in a cheesy tux at city hall. It may not be Chicago, or Paris, but being Mrs. Eddie Munson would be an absolute dream that you would choose over the world.

He laughs as he finishes his thought. “I didn’t know who he was talking about before, but, yeah, it’s pretty clear he was talking about you.” The tears hit him again, a tickle at the back of his throat. He tenses his face to hold it all in. “He nicknamed you Lolth, or Lolly,” another breathy chuckle drops. “Pretty badass D&D character, honestly pretty comparable to Kas.”

Your heart warms in a way that turns your body into cotton candy. A sensation you haven’t felt since you last laid your eyes on Eddie. It is almost like he is here. You place your hand upon your chest as you sink into the feeling. “Thank you,” you say with a feverish nod.

Kas watches the woman he loves turn into a rare aurora of orange twinged happiness. He is thankful for the boy, grateful for his honesty. He seeks his eyes to mouth “thank you” himself.

Dustin nods, but quickly looks away as he is too worried to hold the gaze. He brushes a hand through his hair while uttering, “I don’t know what I’m going to tell the others.” Your ears perk up, causing you to jump up and rush towards him. Your hands firmly grabbing onto his. He pulls away, but hones in on your intensity.

“You can’t tell anyone.” Your gaze locked on his hazel brown. Your body becomes a mixture of hot white and cold. You just got him back. No one will take you away from him. No one will hurt him. No. No. No! “They don’t need to know.”

Dustin steps back from you with disgust. His hands are harsh as they rip from yours. It is enough to make Kas take a step forward and let out a thick, heated breath. “They need to know,” he starts pointing to Kas. “He is the last person to see Vecna alive. We need to know everything so we can put that asshole into the ground.”

You turn back to Kas, a slow glance over your left shoulder. His attention is pulled upon seeing your movement. Your brows raise at their tips, trying to discern what he is thinking. A slow smile gradually pulls across his lips. An encouraging nod shoots your way.

The relief filling your chest finally allows you to take a deep breath. You extend your arm backwards with a hopeful expression. He happily reaches for your hand, resting his warm palm against you.

Kas stands beside you, in front of Dustin. In this moment, you realize that he and you are forever. It may not be perfect, it may not be Eddie, but you are in it - for the long haul. Protecting each other against any potential harm. His fight is your fight, just as it should have been with Eddie. There’s no way you’re backing down.

You shake out your hair, taking in a slow breath for confidence and neutrality. “Who are ‘we?’” you ask. One simple question to determine the safety of the journey forward. Dustin looks to Kas, seeking the answer within him. How did this boy not get it yet? He shakes his head. He doesn’t know every thing.

Dustin turns to you, clenching his jaw. “Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Lucas, Erica, Mike, El, and Will.” The names float in the air, almost each one recognizable to you. These are the people you see in the hallways. The people in the cafeteria. The people who run the school newspaper. The people in the band. The popular kids. God, how the hell are they all mixed up in this? The only name missing being …

“Max,” you call out. “You said Max knew what was going on. What - Why isn’t she going to be there?” You rake his face, desperate for an answer, only to see him grow solemn. Kas knew that Henderson’s face undoubtedly meant bad news. He squeezes your hand, letting you know that he is here for you.

The silence feels unbearable. Your skin is on fire and about to implode. “J-Just tell me,” you start before taking a deep inhale. “Is she dead?”

“No,” Dustin states. Your heart skips a beat as you gasp in happiness. Max is far too young, far too young to be gone… “But she’s hurt and it’s bad.”

Your body stills as your breath escapes you once again. “What do you mean?” you utter quickly. Another squeeze to your hand.

“She’s in the hospital,” the boy utters under his breath.

You push past him, reaching for the door knob. You don’t even know where you’re going but you are going.

Kas is the one who’s calm hand rests on your forearm, causing you to pause. He models a breath with you before flicking his eyes to Henderson. “Tell the party we’re meeting at Harrington’s at 8. You pick us up at 6 and bring us to Max, then to the party,” he states without a second of hesitancy. Your eyes light up before turning to see Dustin’s reaction.

“Done,” the boy promises.

“Dustin!”

All three of you drop, closer to the ground. The voice comes from outside. You can hear heavy boots onto the steps of the porch before crashing his knuckles against the wood. “Dustin, your mom called.” He groans before knocking again. “Common, I know you’re in there - I can see the light on.”

Steve Harrintgon’s timbre is incredibly clear. He is here, a simple door away to finding out the truth.

Your heart races faster than it ever has, faster than when you thought you were going to die. You panic, thinking what would happen if Kas and Steve come face to face in such an abrupt manner.

When you whip your head to Kas, his face is calm and unbothered. It gives you strength - a chance to take a breath.

“Henderson, please. It’s already midnight and Robin’s in the car. If you don’t come out soon, she’s gonna start holding down on the horn,” Steve says with an exhausted tone. A huge yawn follows his words.

Dustin shoots his eyes towards Kas. He gestures for you both to move, to make your way to the kitchen. Kas nods, and guides you over with your intertwined hands.

“Just wait a damn second, Harrington,” Dustin spits out. “I’m getting my shit.” Kas leads you behind the fridge, squeezing your hand in repetitive pulses until you both are safely hidden.

Dustin swings the door open and steps outside, pushing his way through Steve’s burgundy sweater. “Dude, you gotta stop coming here,” he scolds as the boy closes the door behind him. “How did you even get in?” The voices trail off, but you remain silent, still, and pressed against the fridge.

Upon hearing Steve’s car pull away, you let out a breath of relief. You instinctually let go of Kas’ hand, stretching your arms and cracking your knuckles to release the tensing pressure. “That was close,” you whisper under your breath.

Kas slowly wraps his arms around your waist, digging your hips against his. “It was,” he says as his eyes rake over your features. One hand releases to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. It is almost as though he is lovingly adoring everything but your eyes, leaving them for last.

“Should we finally get that rest now?” he suggests with a smirk.

Your eyes fall on him as though this was your first time ever truly seeing him. The way his lips part when he looks at you. Those eyes that stop your heart every time they land on you. The way his curled locks land right on his collar bones. His alabaster skin, soft and sensual. The spider tattoo on his peck that you love so much.

Before you knew it, your hand was trailing across his torso. Peck to peck, before sliding down his sternum and onto his belly. Your eyes were locked, as though they were in a trance, completely intoxicated by his incredible body. Almost as though an alarm went off, your head perks and returns back to hold his gaze. “I would like that.”

Kas smiles as he leads you back into the living room, back up the stairs, and back into the room that will forever, now, be deemed as yours. He lands back onto the mattress, floating upon its waves, as he guides you down beside him.

Your head rests where it belongs, on your favorite spider tattoo and just above his heart. His arm wraps around the small of your back. A hand lightly tracing dancing fingers against your upper arm as you pull closer into his chest.

A sleep you have been waiting for. A sleep you deserve - you both deserve.

“Good night, Kas,” you whisper against his skin. “Good night, darlin’,” he whispers back.

“I love you.”

note: people really need to stop bothering lolly and kas during their vacation stay at reefer rick's! also, i am physically cringing at the thought of kas meeting the party. I oh so very scared and idk what's gonna happen. get ready y'all.

season two finale • coming soon •

comment or reblog to join the taglist! [join our kas cult]

taglist: @babeyglo, @dotslabyrinth, @wheaty-melon, @mattymurdocksbitch, @sammararaven, @onlyfengs22, @ms1oftheboys, @ghosttownwherenoonegoes, @tayhar811, @hiscrimsonangel, @ali-r3n, @secretdryrose, @stranger-messenger, @ohmeg, @username7430, @seatnights, @bit-of-a-timelord, @nefelibata-dreams (🥰), & @squigglebottom (welcome😘)

• nav • no-no plagiarism • series • requests open •

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imnotusingthisblogagain · 2 years ago

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if you hear unearthly screaming

don’t worry about it-

#taylor swift #byler #st #edits #no stranger to these things #crazy together right <3 #edits from my fyp #edits that make me feel abnormal #richie and his stupid little posts

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notsafeforvought · 2 months ago

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Teach Him a Lesson [Oneshot]

“Your face drops. At first in disbelief that he would even dare to ask that, and then in horror as you realize you want to go back.”

RATING: 18+ MDNI

CONTENT WARNINGS: KNIFE-PLAY, BLOOD KINK, GUN, TALK OF MURDER

SUMMARY: You show Richie how to properly kill.

EXTRA INFO: MASOCHIST!RICHIE X SADIST!READER | PARTNERS IN CRIME | NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN | GENDER NEUTRAL READER AUTHOR’S NOTE: hi i wrote this at like. 1 in the morning. don’t expect anything good. i also don’t usually write for slashers. i just think richie is neat ,, ermmmm…,,, wah enjoy i guess maybe WAUGFHSDHKH i also posted this to ao3!!!!!!!!!! if anyone cares!!!!!!!!!!!! also ummm not very canon compliant just because. i dont care. i do not care. i am cronge but i am free. :heart: WORD COUNT : 2.4k

“Really? That’s how you plan to do it?”

You look at Richie, whose proud grin is melting into something of an ashamed grimace. He scoffs and gestures with the .45 in his grip, carelessly flailing it about like it wasn’t loaded. It took everything in you to not tell him to put it down before he shot himself, but you decided you’d be better entertained if he just so happened to lodge a bullet in his foot.

“Well, if you’ve got something better, then by all means,” he mutters, handing you the pistol. You look at the gun and shake your head, taking it from his grip and placing it on the table. Walking to the counter across the kitchen, you pull a chef’s knife from the butcher block. It was the biggest one nested in the wood. It was heavy in your hand, a nice weight to it. It must’ve been expensive, with little designs engraved into the blade.

“For one,” you begin, turning to face a very confused Richie, “gun’s too easy. Too loud. Frankly, it’s lazy.”

Richie’s face reddens as you shame him for his weapon choice, although he tries to brush it off. “And a knife wouldn’t be too loud? Y’know, the screaming?”

You shrug. “Not if you get them in the right position,” you simply state, the spine of the blade tracing along your palm. Richie huffs and you swear you see him roll his eyes in your peripheral vision.

“Which is…?” he questions, crossing his arms. The look on his face pisses you off a little bit, all smug. It takes everything in you to not just slap that stupid fucking grin off his face.

“You need a demonstration,” you say. It was intended to come out as a question rather than an observation. It was too late to correct your tone now, you had a job to do and a student to teach standing in front of you.

He looks you up and down, brows furrowed as he processes your words. “Demonstration? Like, what, a drawing?” he asks, tilting his head. Your lips twitch their way up into a little grin that you don’t try very hard to fight. Your eyes dance between him and the blade, and you think of a better way to demonstrate to him how exactly this murder plan would work.

“No, no,” you correct him, inching closer to him. He backs away slightly, a little intimidated by the visual of you holding a large and (seemingly) sharp knife. “You’re a hands-on learner, yeah?”

“I, uh… In what way?” he apprehensively asks. You fight the often occurring urge to strangle him. He was just so clueless. It was endearing, in a way. But goddamn, it made it super easy for him to piss you off.

“Let me show you how to do it. You’re tall, you’d be a good test subject,” you comment, emphasizing that point by tilting your head up to directly look at him. He breaks eye contact and lets out a breathless chuckle.

“Why would that make me a good… test subject?” he practically shudders out the last words, not sure how to feel about himself being described in such a way.

You shrug. “Well, if you get good at getting the tall ones, average people are easy as shit.” Richie can’t find any argument against that logic, although he seems hesitant to be the subject of this… demonstration.

He waits anxiously before letting out a breath he had been holding for a couple moments. “You’re not going to hurt me for real, are you?”

You shrug again. “No promises.”

His face drops slightly and you expect it to go pale. But you can’t help the way your eyebrows raise when his face noticeably darkens with blush. You take note of the reaction and don’t say anything.

You instruct him to turn around to practice an example from behind and he reluctantly follows the order. Slowly stepping up to him, you start by wrapping your arm around his upper body and putting the spine of the knife to his neck. “Don’t want screaming to be an issue? Here’s where you start,” you murmur into his ear from behind his head. He lets out a strained breath as you speak, your breath hot against his face.

Richie nods, swallowing hard. His forehead becomes visibly sweaty, which you find strange considering it wasn’t all that hot in the kitchen. For now, at least. You continue to ignore the observations, trying to give him the lesson. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

“Alright, and then they struggle, and that’s when you let them down,” you continue, slowly motioning him to fall to the ground. He slumps onto his knees, feigning to struggle as he does it. It almost makes you giggle when he plays along with it.

“And then…” you murmur, quickly getting up and turning around to straddle him, “you pin them down.”

Richie refuses to make eye contact with you as you do this, and it doesn’t take you long to feel exactly why he was suddenly so nervous. Ignoring it isn’t working anymore. You need to make it known. Was it a little mean when you pretended to shift your legs a little as an excuse to grind against him for just a second? Probably. Did that make it all the hotter? Absolutely.

You take the knife and tilt his head up using the tip of the blade. “Now, since I’d be there, I’d help hold them down. You wouldn’t have to worry your pretty little head about restraining them.”

He exhales sharply through his nose as he tries his best to ignore the tightness in his jeans and the way your warmth and weight on him just felt so good–

“Are you listening?”

Richie snaps out of his little daydream at the sound of your voice and he hesitates before nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Yeah. You’ll restrain them.”

You purse your lips and shake your head, trying to fight the urge to make fun of the raging boner poking into your own crotch but hold your silence. It’ll be a better time later, you decide.

“And then, you’d think to aim for the heart or chest or whatever, but I would actually go for somewhere a little softer,” you tell him, the knife trailing almost teasingly down his torso. He can’t help the little whimper that escapes from his lungs as you shift against him again, sounding like a little dog.

You take the hem of his shirt and lift it up enough to expose his stomach. He shivers as the blade gently presses against the flesh. His stomach caves in instinctively and you smile at how sensitive he is right now.

“Go for the stomach before you go anywhere else. All else fails, they’ll probably bleed out before any help gets there,” you tell him, tracing the spine of the knife across his stomach. You silently admire how it shifts the way his body hair lays.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. Despite just laying there, he sounds out of breath, like he’d just worked out for hours. You can’t take it anymore.

“You fucking freak,” you finally scoff, backing off of him with an amused laugh. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a confused whine.

“Wh–What are you–”

“Richie, come on, man. Really? Go take care of that,” you gesture for his crotch, the outline of his cock incredibly visible. He blushes furiously and shakes his head.

“No, just… just come back,” he begs, his voice dropping, “please?”

Your face drops. At first in disbelief that he would even dare to ask that, and then in horror as you realize you want to go back. You hesitate, gripping the knife’s handle in your palm tighter.

“Richie…”

“Please, it doesn’t have to mean anything,” he continues to pathetically beg, sitting up and scooting closer to you. How did it even get to this point? Weren’t you just demonstrating how to kill? He utters your name softly, looking up at you through his lashes. “Please?”

Oh, goddammit.

You feign reluctance as you lower yourself back down onto his lap. In reality, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. “You better remember every word I tell you. I’ll rat you out to the cops if you fuck this kill up tonight.”

“I will, I promise,” he immediately responds with a nod, although you’re not entirely convinced. You sigh and set the knife off to the side, expecting him to just want a quickie here on the floor. But he opens his mouth.

“Keep it,” he breathes. You look at him confused. Certainly he doesn’t mean…?

“The knife?” you question, not believing it for a second. But he nods, and he seems damn serious as he does.

“Wh–Dude, why would I even–?”

“Just… I need a demonstration on the cuts,” he cuts you off, propping himself up on his elbows. “Aren’t you teaching me a lesson here?”

You fumble over your words and shut yourself up before you say something you regret.

“Alright. Fine.”

The spine of the blade traces over his stomach again, just above his belly button. He breathes hard through his nose and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“How hard should I press?” he asks suddenly, making you look him in the eyes. You glance away and look back at him, not sure how to take the question.

“Until it hurts? Until it kills them?” you bluntly respond. You are not stooping to this level of degenerate “flirting”, unlike whatever the hell Richie was doing.

“Show me.”

Oh, what the hell? You press the knife into his flesh, although it doesn’t pierce anything. It was still turned over so that the spine was touching his skin. He shakes his head. “Turn it over.”

You decided a few moments ago to just go along with Richie. In a weird way, you kind of liked it. The knife flawlessly rotates in your hand, the blade now pressed against his skin. You’re almost scared of the amount of power you hold over him at this moment. You go between reveling in it and fearing it. What if you went too far? You’ll cross that bridge if you get there.

The knife slices through his skin like butter. It must’ve been recently sharpened; he didn’t register the sting immediately. He inhales through his teeth sharply as you slowly glide it across the length of his stomach. You debate stopping, but you can just tell he’s been aching for this. You’d never admit it, but you had been, too.

Crimson beads start emerging from the slice. It was a thin incision, mostly out of fear of what would happen if you went too far. Going and getting stitches with the state of healthcare? It’d probably be cheaper to just kill him at the scene and turn yourself in.

“Mmf… Like that?” he asks, biting his lip to suppress little whimpers of pain as the stinging continues to crescendo.

“Yeah. Like that,” you affirm, still holding the knife. Part of you wants to stop. This is insane, isn’t it? Was it more insane to be in this situation than it was to be this horny about it?

“Do it again,” he breathes out, making your eyebrows raise. “Deeper.”

“Richie, I can’t…”

“Deeper,” he repeats, his voice more urgent.

You close your eyes and position your knife a couple inches above the previous incision. You can’t believe you’re doing this. The knife presses in a little deeper than last time and you grimace at the way it doesn’t slice through as easily. “Slower,” he gasps, throwing his head back. He slumps down a bit from being propped up on his elbows. You oblige and cut a bit slower. The groans and sharp hisses coming from him turn you on an embarrassing amount.

An idea pops in your head and you give an experimental roll of your hips against his as you cut. His eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, his hands inching their way up your hips. You hate the way his large hands fit around your body, the way you can feel his fingertips digging into your skin. You hate the way it captivates you, reels you in. He moves you against him, letting out a guttural moan as he pushes his hips up into yours.

You finish the second cut, watching as the little drops of blood clot up at the slit. You’re both panting hard despite not actually doing much of anything. At this point, sex wouldn’t even satisfy this fucked up hunger the both of you had.

You need to taste him. Sliding down his body, he groans at the sudden lack of pressure on his aching cock, his hips pointlessly shifting in an attempt to get any sort of friction. Your face rests just above the waistband of his jeans, your tongue sliding out and pushing against the fresh wounds. He shudders and lets out a quiet, ecstatic cry.

“Please,” he gasps, his hand moving down to grasp desperately onto your head. His fingers are relentless in the way they hold onto you, like he’d die if he let go.

Richie tastes delightfully salty and metallic and so, so delicious. You lap at the cuts, desperately getting anything you could in your mouth. Like a vampire, you practically suck at the slits, your spit and his blood mixing in a disgusting and beautiful mess. He whines and lets out quiet cries, covering his mouth with his free hand to try and stifle the louder noises he involuntarily lets out.

He gasps out your name, his body tensing up and writhing under you. It doesn’t take you long to realize that he definitely just came in his pants. You look up at him, giving one final teasing lick as you clean the rest of the blood off of him. He looks dazed as he gasps for air, his hips still shifting in blissful agony.

The two of you pant at each other for a couple moments before you sit upright and decide to break the silence. “That’s what you, uh, not do when you kill someone,” you joke, looking back down at the bright red lines across his stomach. Jesus, you did all that? You admire your work, even if it’s not much. It made him come, and sometimes that’s all you really need.

“Got it,” he nods, throwing his head back onto the floor, “got it.”

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ashlingiswriting · 1 year ago

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do i know you? chapter seven

[ 5.4k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six ] you figure you can be good and still take it a little easier. that’s all you’ve done today, take it a little easier, and it feels really fucking good. richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

after an eleven-hour stretch of sleep, a three-egg breakfast, and cautious self-reflection, you come to the conclusion that something has to change. and fast. yesterday, richie fucking jerimovich—constant leather jacket tracksuit combo, stab wound, aggravated assault charge, and anxiety and depression diagnoses, that richie—asked you if you were okay. it was a reasonable question for him to ask, and giving him the truthful answer felt like peeling off your own skin.

usually you’d cut and run—you’re not big on torture—but richie’s become as much a fixture in your life as cigarettes themselves. whatever you go through with him, you have a feeling that things would be worse without. so you do the reasonable thing.

you go to the library and google ‘how to stay mentally healthy.’

sure, it makes you feel like an idiot, but it’s not like you have other options. your health and benefits package consists of stolen medications, a grizzled retired doctor named beth, and weirdly extravagant christmas presents in years when the carusos are doing well. none of these qualify as conducive to mental health.

thus, doctor google. most of the listed mental health tips seem either impossible—you’re not about to make new social connections, you’re not that self destructive—or plain old stupid, as in a stress ball. like a little rubber ball to squeeze. great stuff.

there’s a few things that you think you can tolerate, though. you end up working out every day in your apartment, volunteer stocking the shelves of a food pantry every tuesday morning right before bed, and tackle the miserably unorganized state of your post-michael finances. occasionally you’ll eat a salad, but you’ll curse richie as you do it.

cultivating mental health for its own sake is not something you’d usually engage in, but mental health as a one-sided competition that you are determined not to lose? it’s a tolerable game.

as for richie, he seems to be holding steady. the new and horrifyingly fancy specter of the bear does seem to freak him out, but at least the bear’s got a future. the beef, as far as you remember, only ever had a past.

though this winter’s turned bitter cold, you never invite him inside, not even past the double doors into the pathetic excuse of a lobby with its single fake potted plant. you had your one little breakdown and that’s fine. but the rules stay strong, and you get a little stronger. he tells you that eva liked the girl who loved horses the best, and you tell him she’s got good taste. there’s still bad nights, but there’s less fear. you haven’t fucked it up, that’s the point. you’re being good.

and then one day he doesn’t come back.

you’re not a fool. you wait for three days before letting yourself go.

on the third day, you have to wake up to administer alessandera’s iud at the stupidly early hour of eleven in the morning. afterwards, too caffeinated to rest, you decide that you might as well head to the library to check his instagram.

the most recent picture is from eight days ago, so that’s no help. his two pinned posts catch your attention anyway. in the first picture, eva’s got two blonde ponytails sticking out of opposite sides of her head, and her ponytail holders have huge round sky blue plastic beads on them. the smears of chocolate on her fingers match the ones on richie’s cheek, and they’re both giving the camera a goofy thumbs up.

in the second picture, it’s him and michael. they’re both grinning, squinting against the evening sun, and staring at something or someone just out of frame. lake michigan spreads out glorious behind their shoulders. it was probably a fishing trip. it’s got to be an old ass photo, cause they’re both wearing shirts that say the original berf of chicago and you stole michael’s in the summer of 2020. you needed to have something of his during quarantine, and you kept it even after quarantine ended. it’s still folded away in your dresser, protected by mothballs.

michael disappeared on you too. after you broke up, you kept texting him about meeting to give him back some of his things, but he wouldn’t answer. to be fair, all you had to do was ride the elevator up a couple floors and drop off a box by his door. but you kept texting him anyways, texting on into the silence, until finally it occurred to you: he was punishing you. two could play at that game. you stopped texting altogether, and that’s when it happened.

this is no number of push-ups or good deeds or leafy greens in the world that can defend against an experience like that. the silence was supposed to only last a week, a month at most, and then it became forever.

so yeah, you go to the beef. the bear. whatever.

so much for being good.

the restaurant is closed for renovations, so you go around to the back and find an unusual pair sitting, eating sandwiches off paper plates, and arguing about greta gerwig’s little women. you recognize both of them from richie’s instagram.

fak breaks off mid-rant and peers up at you from under his baseball hat, as bright-eyed as a squirrel spotting a potential nut. syd, on the other hand, looks neat and cool in an apron, kerchief, and cautious expression. she’s by far the more intimidating of the two to you, though maybe that’s just richie’s influence coming through. she’s on another level and you know it.

can i help you? syd says.

yeah, you say. where’s richie?

he’s out sick.

out sick, that makes sense. relief warms you like the first sip of hot coffee on an icy morning, and then you clock the expression on syd’s face. she’s shifted from suspicious to outright dubious.

why, she adds, does he owe you money?

ah, fuck. you were so worried that you forgot that when you’re wearing your big coat and your stoic face, you look like trouble.

nah, you say. he doesn’t owe me anything. is he okay?

from the way she stares, syd must think you bizarre, but she humors you. i mean, two days ago he texted me a video of three chimpanzees attacking a gorilla. is that okay? she shrugs. you tell me.

he’s such a fucking weirdo. why?

i don’t know, i told him that one of the restaurants i used worked at was a vegan place and he’s been sending me shit like that ever since. am i vegan? no, i’m not, but why should that make any difference, you know? who knows why richie does what he does.

who knows, you say. it’s fun to grumble about richie, but you don’t actually find him mysterious. one or two scares aside, he’s the easiest person to understand in the whole city.

i should probably call him, you say. can i borrow your phone?

sydney looks even more weirded out than before for a second, and then she seems to have a lightbulb moment, just as you see the back door opening.

he does owe you money, doesn’t he? syd says, exasperated, but not surprised.

quién le debe dinero a quién? says somebody in an undertone, and then tina appears, her curly hair a little shorter than the last time you saw her, but otherwise unchanged. when she sees you, her expression breaks into a smile of welcome while her eyes get complicated.

hey, julie, she says. how you doing?

usually, you hate it when people ask you that. but with her, you just don’t.

doing okay, tina. you?

oh, we’re doing good, right, chef? she says, with a fond glance at syd that seems to invite her in.

still fighting for our lives with an auditor, but yeah, syd says. we’re on track.

you want to walk with me? tina says to you, and you nod, grateful that she seems to have instinctively guessed what you need.

while you’re strolling out of earshot of the others, syd heads inside, which puts you on a ticking clock. the chances of carmy knowing your actual name are slim, but the chances of him coming out into the alley to investigate? those are dangerously high.

tina interrupts your train of thought, stopping by the chain link fence and turning to face you.

so what’s wrong? she says, and though she’s as warm and genuine as before, you are reminded by the glint in her eyes that she’s perceptive and tough and not to be fucked with. no wonder michael loved her so much. she was one of the few people who knew how to love him back without drowning.

does there have to be something wrong? you say.

not necessarily. but historically speaking? she says it almost apologetically.

yeah.

you only ever met her two times, both in his apartment, once in the dead of night and once in the middle of the day. you remember meeting her, but that’s all. in your mind, each emergency blends into the nexxt, and you don’t probe them for details. all you remember is that one time she was there, you called for an ambulance even though he ordered you not to, and he hated that. tina stood firm and carried on amidst all the shouting, even when you lost it.

it’s a wonder she’s being kind to you now, actually.

i still carry the narcan in my purse, tina says.

the nasal spray? you say. the stuff that you gave her after the scare in october ‘21. that’s good. gonna find somebody savable eventually, right? and that comes out way more bitter than you meant it to, but you can’t figure out a way to take it back fast enough.

there’s a hint of steel to tina’s voice, a reminder that she’s deliberately granting you her patience and could revoke it at any time, when she repeats, so what’s wrong?

you take out your burner phone, your sad little nokia, and show it to her.

i busted my old phone, lost all my contacts, and i don’t have the money for a new one right now, so this artifact is all i got. do you have richie’s number? you say meekly.

sure, she says, pulling it up and handing it over so easy that you’re startled. you’re not used to being given something that you need simply because you asked for it.

you take her phone with a quiet thanks and start typing his number and address into your own.

i looked for you at the funeral, she says. it stings, whether she meant it to or not.

well, you say, still typing and glad of the excuse to not look up at tina’s face, i figured i’d spare his mom the fun of having multiple women show up.

that’s not a fair hit, not the full story, but you don’t bother to clarify.

to your surprise, she doesn’t give you what you deserve. instead, she says, you still mad at him?

why even ask. aren’t you?

i was never mad at him.

you have to look up, and not just because you’ve run out of stuff to type.

never? that’s impossible.

not after, tina says, her brown honest. he was just a kid, you know?

he was a thief and an addict and older than you. but yeah, you know. you really do. he was just a kid.

you want to tell tina that she’s a better woman than you are, that to love and forgive at the same time is a trick that you can only envy. but you don’t know how to say that.

there’s another version, too, a simpler one, one that doesn’t compare the two of you. she’s sunlight and she’s concrete, the type of kindness that defies the laws of physics, and you can’t figure out how to say that to her either.

how are you doing? you say instead. you already asked her, but you didn’t really ask her in the way she had asked you. this time you try to do it right.

from the way she smiles, you know you got close.

i’m good, she says. really. all the stuff they’ve got us up to out here? herbs and shit, fucking french. i don’t know, it’s working. and they’re gonna send me to the cia.

delight looks good on her, and it’s infectious. you say, why not the fbi?

the culinary institute of america, dummy.

oh shit, the level up machine. you’ve heard of it before, of course, because it seems to have turned carmy into a rock star, so that’s gotta be a good thing, right? you gonna come back, kick his ass, and take over?

she grins. girl, you know i could already do that if i felt like it.

true, true. you’re grinning too, and god, it feels good.

and then, glancing over her shoulder at the sudden sound, you can see the back door open.

thank you, tina. you hand her the phone back, quick. if she notices the sudden change in you, she doesn’t let on.

anytime, she says, and presses her wrapped sandwich in your hand. here.

i can’t take your lunch.

she waves you off. nah, there’s more where that came from.

hey tina, a voice calls. it’s carmy’s, so you keep your eyes trained on tina and hope he doesn't recognize you at that distance.

thanks again, you say, and then you flee, clutching your sandwich.

richie doesn’t pick up and your first call goes to voicemail. you’re wound too tight to enjoy the bill murray of it all, so you just hang up and call again.

he picks up after the third ring.

what? he growls.

hey asshole, where are you, you say, just as abruptly, but so pleased to hear his voice.

richie barely skips a beat. you dont have to kill me, i’m already fucking dying, he says, which is his idea of reassurance.

yeah?

i mean, i’m alive, he says, like it’s a great concession. but for how long?

not much longer. where are you.

dead silence. this, you did not expect and have no idea what to do with. you snap, richie, where the fuck are you? in a voice that makes a passing woman give you a wide berth on the sidewalk.

calm your tits, secret agent. i’m on my fucking deathbed with saltines and espn, jesus christ. everything’s fine.

you’d really like to strangle him, but you don’t miss his hint. that’s his way of letting you out of this, secret agent, everything’s fine, so don’t cross a line and then regret it. thoughtful of him, but you’re already a world expert in regret. you’ve weighed your odds, you’ll take your chances.

i’ll be there in twenty, you say, unless you tell me to fuck off.

there’s a split second of hesitation before he says, will you bring me a popsicle?

no.

you hang up. then you go and buy some popsicles.

you dig out the ring of keys from your pocket, another inheritance. the gold key is for michael’s old place, the silver is for the beef, and the square-headed one is for richie’s. when you turn it in the lock, the door to his apartment swings open, easy as pie.

his apartment is a mess. worse, it’s dead dull, with only a few old movie posters hung up over the off-white walls for decoration. at least it doesn’t smell. there’s a kitchenette to your left, one huge and incongruously new ikea wardrobe to your right, and across from you, his bed. it’s shoved up right next to the far window, so the deep windowsill serves as a side table to a tiny succulent and a laptop streaming espn.

richie’s sprawled out sans blanket and sheets, which are all huddled in a lump at the foot of the bed. he’s not bothering to watch espn and he doesn’t bother to get up at the sound the door opening, either. just looks over and watches you.

you lock the door behind you and take your shoes off out of habit, even though you know you might have to get out fast. as you walk over to him, you encounter some dirty laundry along the way and kick it into the corner. then you’re at hit bedside, looking down at richie.

he’s lying there in a worn out grey t-shirt, looking up at you muzzy-eyed, sweating, and unsurprised.

come to finish me off? he says.

after a second, you say, open your mouth.

he gives you a look that says, i could argue if i fucking felt like it, but then he does open wide with a little aah like a kid getting his tonsils checked.

you take a quick glance inside, then close your hand to imitate a mouth closing, fingers meeting thumb.

he does as instructed, but you can tell by the glint in his eye that he’s got a joke locked and loaded, so you lean over and put the back of your hand to his forehead before he can say a thing.

as you expected, he goes quiet. his skin is hot and damp with sweat.

after a second, you withdraw and straighten up, touch still echoing on the on the back of your hand.

yeah, you’re fine, you say. dehydrated, low fever, but you’re fine.

and here i thought i was dying, richie says. he’s not usually subtle, but for once you can’t tell if he’s mocking you or not. is that for me?

he reaches for the plastic bag hanging from your shoulder, and you yank it back out of reach just in time.

business first. when did you take your last tylenol?

richie slumps sulkily back onto his pillow with a petulant look. you’re no fun when you’re in doctor mode.

then don’t get sick, asshole. tylenol?

this morning, he says, and then before you can volley a follow-up, he skips ahead. bathroom, behind the mirror.

as a reward, you sling the plastic grocery bag onto his bed before you go investigate.

sure enough, there’s a miniature pharmacy on the two small shelves behind the foldable mirror. at first glance, the only prescription stuff is xanax and pravastatin. you grab the tylenol and you’re just about to go when you notice, down at the bottom left corner, a small familiar white box edged in magenta. four milligrams of narcan, nasal spray, your old friend. you gave tina way more of it than she needed and told her to pass it on to anyone at the beef that she trusted, just in case. narcan’s not a cure, it just buys you a little time. that’s all you were doing by then, buying yourselves a little time.

looking at the box now, you suddenly feel sorry for richie. it’s been bad enough for you, and you’ve been living like a fucking vampire, no daylight, barely leaving your lair. richie’s had to go into the outside world, and the outside world fucking sucks. michael’s everywhere out there.

when you get back with the tylenol, richie has a grape popsicle already stuck in his mouth, the extra package of saltines on the windowsill by his side, and your sandwich in his hands. he’s trying to unwrap it when you snatch it away and deposit a tylenol in his palm instead.

with a shrug, he takes the popsicle out of his mouth and swallows the tylenol dry.

trying not to think too hard about that, you turn away and head to the kitchen.

cups? you say.

upper left. he’s watching you make your way through his space, you can feel it. so you went to the beef, huh.

yup. in the upper cabinet, there’s an assortment of cups, none of them matching. you pick the plastic one with dora the explorer on it, then go fill that with water.

richie says, you talk to carmy?

no, you say, with just enough edge on it to warn him off the subject. on your way back to his bedside, you pause to peek in his fridge and freezer. fuck me, did nobody ever teach you that man cannot live on microwave burritos alone?

news to me. what are you, some kind of fuckin gourmet?

you complete your circuit, come perch on the edge of his bed with the cup in your hand, and wait for him to sit up.

woman can live on frozen pizzas alone, that’s a whole different thing, you say.

uh huh. he slumps back against the headboard, then accepts the cup from you and drinks. in the silence, you watch him. the small movements of his throat, the glint of gold slipping out over the nape of his neck. he wears that cross even in his sleep. hopefully it protects him. something should.

you could sit here for a long time.

but the cup runs out of water fast, and there goes your excuse. you take it back from him and say, just for the sake of saying something, your interior design is severely lacking.

he scrunches up his nose when he smiles, a wry little smile interrupted by a sniff. thanks.

go back to sleep.

but he doesn’t. instead, he reaches for the remaining half of his grape popsicle, so you go for your sandwich, unwrap, and take a bite. this is as good as the middle of the night to your body clock, so you’re not one bit hungry. but food works just as well as a cigarette, permission for silence.

you get a sando and i get saltines? he says. talk about a raw deal, man.

mouth full, you say, these are actually pretty good, you know?

what, you didn’t think they would be? he scoffs. c’mon, i know you were never a regular, but the thing with the gun, that wasn’t your first time in.

so he remembered you. even before he knew you had any kind of connection to the beef, he remembered you.

you pretend not to notice.

i’ve just never had it with the peppers before, you say.

you’ve never had it with the peppers? his voice rises with each word.

i’m not normally a huge peppers girl, you say nonchalantly.

you’re a fucking heathen is what you are.

for that, you take an extra big bite and chew as loudly and disgustingly as you can.

it backfires immediately. he gags and presses his fist to his mouth, and you bolt to the sink to grab the trash can from under it, nearly tripping and hoping like hell he doesn’t throw up all over himself because you do not have it in you to do that kind of laundry. trash can in hand, you turn around to find that he’s giving you the thumbs up and grinning. not gagging at all, perfectly fine.

oh, fuck you. you put the trash can back, stalk over, and drop down onto the bed beside him again, petulantly this time, making the bedsprings squeak.

he’s still chuckling. you should’ve seen your face.

you know what my problem is? you say.

you think you have only one problem, j? i got news for you.

that’s not the first time anyone’s used that nickname for you, but you still like it.

my problem is that you’re not scared of me, you say. i need to make you more scared of me, and then you’ll treat me with the respect i deserve.

okay, well, fyi: you are already the third scariest person in the world to me, richie says.

the third? you echo with mock offense.

third is good, man. there’s stiff competition. like, you realize isis is still out there? his eyebrows raise and he gestures emphatically. and there’s a lot of them?

you snort. isis is not still out there.

i think they are. he tries to tick them off on his fingers. isis, al qaeda. and the other one. what’s the other one?

i think you need to stay well away from middle eastern politics when you’re running a fever, you say, getting up to go.

you said my fever was low!

and yet you’re fuckin addled. go back to sleep. with that, you head back towards the kitchenette to see what you can do.

his pantry turns out to be not quite as empty as his fridge, so you pick up a couple things and get to cooking him something basic and nourishing. no sense in trying anything impressive. you’ll be lucky if the result is passably tasty.

sunlight comes in through the window, throwing a rectangle of warmth on your shoulder. you retrieve a pot, a cutting board, a large knife.

eva’s his number one scariest person in the world, obviously. number two’s probably tiff? donna’s scary, but you get the sense that she’d be worse to her kids, or at least that it’d feel worse to be her kids. richie’s never directly talked about her, though he did made a couple bitter remarks early on about what he did for ‘the family’, and given that sugar hates his ass and carmy wasn’t around, it has to be donna he was trying to take care of. wait, maybe carmy’s number two. no, it’s tiff. it’s definitely tiff.

yo, richie says, what the fuck are you doing? stop.

you look up, bewildered. what?

he’s sitting at the edge of the bed with his feet flat on the floor, like he’s prepared to stand up and stop you. with the light coming in through the window at his back and the hanging lamp of the kitchenette throwing gold on his front, he really does look like he’s coated in sweat.

put the knife down, he says. commands from his mouth are usually fruitless protests issued for comedic effect, but not this time. you put the knife down.

you okay? you say it like a gentle person would, only to have your gesture immediately spoiled.

who taught you to cut onions like that? he says, like you’re physically hurting him. you do not cut onions like that!

oh my god, fucking stop me. you roll your eyes and pick up the knife again, only to hear a tell-tale grunt from richie. no, that was a joke. don’t—you throw down the knife with an annoyed clatter. i’ll be fine. just watch your baseball or something, okay? sorry i’m not fucking carmy and i can’t go all human food processor on it, but let me do my thing.

after a second, richie says, ‘s gonna taste like shit, isn’t it.

you want me to go? you say, stung.

no, richie says immediately. i just want to know what you’re gonna do with those onions.

you shrug, a touch defensively. i was gonna brown it, add a couple cans of campbell’s beef and barley. something like that. it’s really sad when you say it out loud, just two ingredients: onions and canned soup.

i don’t hate that, richie says.

you look at him warily, unsure of whether that’s meant as an insult or the world’s most pathetic compliment.

just curl your fingers when you cut, right? fuckin—he imitates, to show you how your left hand is supposed to be positioned, while he mimes chopping with his right. it really should not be charming. unfortunately, it kinda is.

yeah, yeah, you mutter, and then you go back to your cutting board and try to practice what he just taught you.

usually, you have protein bars for snacks, frozen pizzas for meals, takeaway for variety, and pre-bagged salads for your recent attempts at health, so it really has been ages since you cooked like this.

kind of feels like you’ve been missing out. there’s a peaceful feeling to this simple concentration, a bit like your work but without any of the stress. you take little breaks every now and again to prevent the onion from making you cry. with each break, you take a look at something new: the drawings from eva that he has pinned to the fridge, the poster for the movie white squall, the stack of books that look like somebody’s actually read them.

when you start shoveling slices of onion into the pot, richie calls over, don’t turn the heat up too high.

i won’t, you say, unbothered.

you get about thirty seconds of peace, stirring your onions as you add some oil, and then richie pipes up again.

seriously, he says, if it doesn’t brown fast enough, don’t turn the heat up, just—

the heat’s at four out of ten, fuck’s sake. your swearing is just for show, because you’re feeling nearly mellow. there’s something so soothing about the crackling sound of the onions in the hot oil. are you drinking your water?

i already drank it all!

not believing him, you walk over, only to find that the cup is indeed empty. you refill it, then linger for a second, trying to make sense of the baseball he’s streaming on his laptop.

look at this guy, richie says, referring to some player that you’ve never seen before in your life and probably never will again. the guy’s winding up to take a swing. you both watch. the guy hits a foul, and richie shakes his head in disgust. you grunt, noncommittal and happy, and return to your caramelizing onions.

by the time you’re done cooking, he’s asleep.

you pour out two bowls of soup and put the rest of it in the fridge. that plus the saltines are enough to get him through the night and another day. you doubt the fever will last much longer than that.

as you do the washing up, you make sure to scrub off every last bit of onion from the bottom of the pot, and then you leave all the clean dishes on the rack to dry.

between soup and saltines, richie should have enough for tonight and tomorrow, and you doubt the fever will last much longer than that. with the cooking and washing up is done, you walk over, sit on the bed beside him, and set down two bowls of soup on the deep windowsill that serves as his side table. his laptop has gone to sleep, and the silence in the absence of baseball is pretty much perfect. so is the sunlight.

you take off your hoodie, finally—you were starting to sweat yourself near the end there, thank goodness he was too sick to notice—and tug down your original berf shirt. it’s safe enough. richie’s out cold, snoring a little. with the tylenol doing its work, he’s not as sweaty as before, so you drag the sheets up from the foot of the bed and make sure they’re tucked over his shoulders.

taking out a sharpie from your coat pocket, you root around in the pile of assorted mail by his bedside until you come up with a pizza flier you can write on. you leave him the phone number of the burner you kept for michael. reason being, it’s the only number you know by heart, and you’re too tired to deal with any more unexplained absences.

after all, you figure, you can be good and still take it a little easier. that’s all you’ve done today, take it a little easier, and it feels really fucking good.

settling down, you reach over richie again to get your bowl and your spoon. the bowl is warm in your lap, and even though you weren’t hungry before, the act of cooking has worked up your appetite. the soup smells good to you: sweet, savory, a bit like childhood.

your father used to say grace at the table, and though you never do that anymore, there’s something still left to be said.

you know, you say, you’re the number three scariest person in the world to me too. you sit with that for a moment, and then you add, number two once told me he would shoot me in the face, so. there’s that.

richie looks completely harmless like this, slumped on his side under the sheets, turned a little towards you with his eyes closed. he’s way easier to talk to when he’s unconscious, go figure. you can't touch him, though.

drink your fucking water, you say quietly.

and then, still looking at him like he’s a photo to remember, you begin to eat your soup.

[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109 — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #do i know you?#the bear imagine #diky #fluffy h/c in MY readerfic? it's more likely than you think!

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watchoutforthefanfics · 6 months ago

Text

achievement unlocked 🔓 (part three) || Streamer AU! Reddie (IT)

Part 1, 2

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration: this prompt

Summary: Richie liked to play video games, and by some stroke of luck, it became his job. Being primarily known as Trashmouth on stream, he found his own little group of streamer friends and they became intertwined: The Losers Club. It never did feel quite complete, though. Well, until, he got his very own backseat gamer in chat.

TWs: internet stalking, innuendos, lots of talk of sex (it's Richie), vague mention of one night stands, low self-worth, a little angst, loneliness, imposter syndrome, cursing, and shameless flirting.

[[A/N: Enjoy :))]]

Richie was not delusional. Stupid, yeah. But delusional? If anything, he was oblivious.

If someone was into him, he knew fuck all about it.

That being said, what he was doing now was not delusional. It was stupid. And Richie knew that just to clarify.

He was up too late again, and he'd say he was bored. But he was mostly kind of curious.

Sometimes he stayed up scrolling through his Instagram feed, usually sort of wistfully. He scrolled through a lot of the couples tags, mostly because he hated himself. And then he had a thought, a spare thought.

of course you are fuckface

Right. That happened.

He shouldn't be as affected by it as he is, but he guesses he can't control that. And so maybe he had the thought: are you handsome, Eds?

You know, it feels better when it's from someone fucking hot, right? So, he got curious. And Richie did stupid shit when he got curious.

With unsteady hands he went to his page, a public one (although, if he dug, he was pretty sure he'd find an old one), and simply clicked on his followers. That was the thing about Instagram, you could search through your followers. Which in retrospect, felt a little creepy.

And conveniently, he had his username. Or well, he wasn't so sure of the last name but he remembers the 'ka'. Or maybe that wasn't his last name-

"Beep, beep, Richie," he muttered to himself, before clicking the bar and typing.

'Eddie'

Naturally, there were a lot of Eddies that followed him. He wasn't exactly unpopular on Instagram, although, he was a lot more popular on Twitch.

Social media kind of went hand-in-hand, Richie learned. If somebody followed you on Twitch, they might want to follow you on Instagram, if they follow you on Instagram, they might want to subscribe to you on Youtube-

Focus, Richie, he cleared his mind and started typing again.

'Eddie Ka'

eddie.bellie || ✨️fairy dust✨️ Bell

eddie.kal || Kalee is here

e.kaspbrak || Eddie Kaspbrak

Richie blinked, That one. I recognize that name. Before he could think about it too much, he clicked through to the profile.

Eddie Kaspbrak (he/him)

I like cars 🚘 and know what I'm talking about so you better fucking listen NY 21

Follow back || Message || +👤

Richie's eyes moved ahead of his judgment, as he spotted a photo of him. Or what he could guess to be, it was kind of small but Richie could see it was a guy.

Before he could overthink it, he pressed the post.

His heart halted in his chest.

What the fuck, his brain chanted, he's beautiful what the fuck-

Eddie (or what he assumed to be Eddie) was grinning, the kind that crinkled at his eyes and shriveled up his nose. Richie wondered if he always smiled like that, or if this was special. His eyes slid across the bridge of his nose, spotting fucking freckles of all things, freckles-

He felt a little like he might spontaneously combust. Maybe in a fiery flame.

He thought I was handsome? Him? Holy shit-

Richie paused, flickering through the comments, and eyes landing on one in particular. Two, actually.

mike.me.up✔️: so good to see you happy man ❤️

benny.boy.official✔️: just remember you deserve everything good !!!

What the fuck? He thought to himself, How old is this post?

Checking the date, he recognized it to be about a year ago. In doing so, though, his eyes caught on the caption and he faltered slightly.

"To all those people who said I couldn't do it," he read, carefully, "-fuck you. Look at me now."

Richie bit at his lip, his finger swiped to the next one on the post. It was him again, carefully holding what looked to be a milkshake; if Richie looked closely enough, he thought he might be at a diner. He wasn't smiling as big this time, but more preoccupied with something else -entranced. Richie felt a little like he was floating then. Had he ever seen someone so beautiful in his entire life?

Speaking of, when had he ever called someone fucking beautiful? God, he was so fucked.

Before he could stop it, he was scrolling through his entire feed. He'd gotten off mostly without a hitch, just until he was looking at the most recent one.

It was Eddie again, but he was working on a car. Smudges of oil slipped across his face (he really looked like he hated it), and in those cute jumpsuits that mechanics wore, Richie felt a little confused about whether it was hot or cute. He was thinking maybe both.

He's not entirely sure how it happened, but he thinks he thought the newest post might be a carousel. (Where there is more than one picture.) Well, it decidedly was not. And when he tried to flick through them, his phone decided to register it as a double tap.

Richie blinked, once and then twice. Pink heart filling his thoughts while the entirety of his brain flatlined.

"Shit," he suddenly chimed, pushing himself off the bed slightly in panic, "-shit, shit, shit. I just have to-"

He clicked the heart again, and the like promptly disappeared. Richie let out a heavy sigh of relief and threw himself back on the bed. Fucking stupid.

It was probably quick enough Eddie wouldn't even notice it. There's nothing to worry about, yeah. (At least that's what he'll tell himself.)

It was, what, 6 am in New York right now? What self-respecting human being would be up at 6 am-

One message request from e.kaspbrak

Shit.

Richie stared at it for a few seconds.

Maybe like he'd blink and it would go away. He could totally be hallucinating, absolutely. Doesn't lack of sleep do that to you? Or maybe he could just be a dick and not look? There's a lot of message requests that he has, half from bots and half from fans (some weirder than others, let's be honest). He could just say he missed it? Maybe? He didn't owe it to Eddie to respond.

Something was crawling up his throat though, that picture running through his mind. And that message. God, he was just a subscriber, why the fuck was he like this? He'd definitely have to tell this to Steve (his therapist)-

Fluidly, Richie went to his messages. He skimmed some new ones in his primary (mostly friends sending him memes or his mods checking in). And then, with a breath, he clicked on requests.

e.kaspbrak

What the fuck

He laughed, mostly because it seemed really in character for what he knew of Eddie. Which, in retrospect, was not much. Enough to apparently make him curious though. Something swirled in him that the man messaging him was the same in the picture -fucking beautiful. Of all ways to describe someone, that's what his brain settled on. God, he really was gay-

Richie debated a few answers for a moment. His mind spiraling, anxiety twisting his stomach so violently that he might throw up. Will probably throw up, actually, he did that a lot when he was nervous-

e.kaspbrak

Aren't you in California?

What are you doing up at 3 am?

Okay, that was not the thing he expected him to comment on first. But, turns out, Eddie was full of surprises.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

what are u doing up at 6 am spaghetti

no one wakes up that early

e.kaspbrak

All types of people get up at 6 am dipshit.

You ever heard of a job?

He laughed again and realized he was really fucked up for thinking someone berating him was funny. But then, he got kind of curious. Eddie knew stuff about him. And he kinda... wanted to know things about Eddie. Pathetically.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

u have a job eds ??? r u a chef?

bc spaghetti, u get it?

e.kaspbrak

Are you seriously sticking to that one? Fucking spaghetti?

You're a dumbass.

And yeah of course I pay to watch your dumbass, don't I?

He pursed his lips a second, did he not want to tell him? Even still, he waited a second, watching the bubble for a moment.

e.kaspbrak

I'm a barista.

I fucking hate it.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

awe eds in a cute lil apron

i used to work customer service it was hell

And then he paused, thinking. Richie carefully added to the message something more genuine like he was testing the waters. Seeing what he could get away with, without seeming like a creep.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

what do u wanna be ?

if u could choose

There was a pause, and suddenly Richie felt incredibly stupid. What the fuck was he doing? Texting someone in chat? Because they called him handsome? Well, he was funny. So, he probably added that to the motivation too.

He had no idea why he was even here, doing this. It just felt... He felt fucking pulled in, and he got curious. But maybe he really was just being stupid-

e.kaspbrak

A mechanic.

And the apron isn't cute, it's nasty as shit after every shift.

His fingers moved before he could stop them. He really was never good at controlling himself, ever.

trashmouth.tozier✔️

who said it was the apron spaghetti ? 😉

Richie stared at the sent message for too long. Maybe hating himself a little bit more, because he was too much. And he couldn't always reel himself back-

e.kaspbrak

You did dipshit. Do you have the memory of a fucking goldfish?

That would actually explain a lot in your streams.

Richie paused -waiting for the other shoe to drop.

e.kaspbrak

And thanks.

You would make a good Eric. Even if you think you wouldn't, fuckwad.

Okay, he thought to himself -maybe grinning a little, not too much. Something unfurling in his chest that felt put away a long fucking time ago. (Maybe a few years, but that was nearly as dramatic enough for Richie Tozier.)

He smiled, maybe a little cheesily bright but that was between him and his apartment walls.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

thanks eds

and i do

it's called adhd

And then he paused.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

and i think you would make a good mechanic

e.kaspbrak

How? You probably don't even know shit about cars.

Do you even remember to change your oil?

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

u are supposed to change that ?

Richie watched as the bubble started up, almost immediately. It made him laugh a little.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

just kidding spaghetti

relax

e.kaspbrak

You're such a shithead.

And don't call me that.

trashmouth.tozier✔️

yeah uh no

that's sticking sorry eds

e.kaspbrak

Fuck you dickweed.

And Richie laughed again. Alone, in his apartment, at 3 am. He laughed at a guy in his Instagram DMs.

God, he was so fucked.

e.kaspbrak

It's almost 4 am in California right now.

You need to go to fucking sleep.

Do you know how much not sleeping fucks you up?

It can literally fuck up your brain function and you can't fucking afford that. Yours barely functions as is.

Richie laughed again, and he was kind of thankful nobody lived with him for once. How was he supposed to explain himself? He had no fucking clue.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

awe spaghetti cares about me 🥺

and my brain 🥺

e.kaspbrak

Fuck you.

Go to sleep.

There was a pause, and he thought for a second he might leave it there.

e.kaspbrak

See you at your stream when you wake up.

Something in him softened, and maybe for once he was excited to sleep. His brain felt a little quieter, more manageable.

He wasn't too much for Eddie. At least for now.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

yeah okay eds

see ya then

And if he slept the best he had in awhile that night, that was only for him to know.

They kept texting for about a week, and just like he said, Eddie was a substantial (he should note) part of his next few streams. Today was his break day though, and he would be lying if he wasn't staring at his phone on the charger. Waiting for it to ding.

Which was a little pathetic, but Richie was okay with it somehow.

And then, it dinged.

Richie almost tripped himself to grab his phone off the charger. And he was glad in that moment that no one was there to see it.

e.kaspbrak

I'm working with my least favorite coworker. I wish I was fucking dead.

I hate her more than I hate you, and that's saying something.

Richie laughed a little, and let himself ruminate. Or maybe he just didn't want to look desperate. It was all kind of the same, anyway.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

u want me to come and tell her she makes shit coffee ?

pull my famous card ???

and what did she do ?

e.kaspbrak

You're such a dick.

Richie hoped he was laughing. Sometimes he thought he might be.

e.kaspbrak

She just won't leave me the fuck alone.

If she puts her hands on my arm one more time, I'm going to bite her head off.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

pretty sure that's called workplace harassment eds

u should go to ur manager

And something in Richie made him type more, even though, he really could have left it there. And he probably should have. But he was fucking curious.

Fuck his brain.

trashmouth.tozier✔️

and just call up ur gf

tell her that u need saving

eds the damsel in distress ✨️🧚‍♀️

He gnawed at his lip, fingers dancing along his sheet. He almost threw his phone back onto his chest, or maybe against the wall-

e.kaspbrak

boyfriend*

And I'm single dipshit. Why would I be texting you if I wasn't?

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

Richie felt something in his chest flutter. Like a fucking schoolgirl watching her crush play in a football game. If he had a little less dignity (and it wasn't fucking insane in the mornings), he would twirl his hair and kick his feet.

Fucking focus, trashmouth.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

welcome to the club eds

e.kaspbrak

You're single?

Richie pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

yeah ?

have u ever seen a bf on my streams ?

e.kaspbrak

I just thought you had one off camera.

Or something.

He paused a second. That text somehow read as embarrassed or maybe... awkward. Richie wasn't sure how to read it.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

well i don't

e.kaspbrak

Well, me neither.

Richie's heart halted in his chest for a second.

e.kaspbrak

Obviously, because she won't stop bothering me.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

just tell her u do

or tell her ur gay

e.kaspbrak

How is that her business?

And I can't just lie dipshit.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

it's not fair point

and why not ?

e.kaspbrak

She'll ask me questions.

And I'm shit at lying.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

let me do it for u

i did it for 18 years baby it's foolproof

e.kaspbrak

How the fuck are you going to do that?

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

just spit out a person for u

i will give u all the details and u can just recite them

no thoughts needed spaghetti

e.kaspbrak

You can just make up a person?

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

uh yeah

i used to do skits when i was like 12

by myself

e.kaspbrak

I would pay fucking good money to see some of those.

But okay. Give me your weird fake person.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

jamie porter

in tech school for IT shit

only child

really introverted bc constantly studying

likes jazz and the color blue

u go on classical concert dates sometimes

e.kaspbrak

What the fuck

That's not my type at all.

He honestly debated asking exactly what that was but he held back. Because, technically, Eddie knew his type. Which was exactly him. That... shit, he never thought about that.

He cleared his throat.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

why would it be ?

he's not real eds

it's just for a lie

e.kaspbrak

Can I just tell you my type fuckface?

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

why

e.kaspbrak

Because I want to dipshit.

And I already know yours, it's only fair.

Richie felt a little stupid. And a little confused.

trashmouth.tozier ✔️

okay spaghetti whatever u say

e.kaspbrak

Tall idiots. Very tall, and very fucking stupid.

#reddie #watchoutwriting #reddie fanfiction #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it chapter 2 #it chapter one #reddie fluff #the losers club #streamer au #achievement unlocked 🔓

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nerdyvocals · 1 year ago

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Final round of episode quotes as @look-at-those-niceass-rocks and I finished our final watch party. Once again, the cast and crew are in the house, so @saveourpinks, please enjoy. (You can find previous posts with more unhinged quotes here and here)

Honorable mention from before we actually started, them waking their husband up with: wake up, it's time for me to see gay shit

Second honorable mention, a conversation had while I struggled with my audio: Them: I tried to show [Husband] Merely Players last night but he was too tired Me: I can't believe your husband is homophobic Them: I AGREE Husband, distantly: I don't deserve this!

(about Buddy) God his shoulders, he's built like a Dorito

(this is specifically in reference to episode 8 but honestly, this was said multiple times throughout our watching) Me: WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH COMMUNISM??? Them: It's the 50s! If it ain't American, it's communist!

Me: I love that Buddy's dad's name is Dick Them: It was a choice

(In reference to Blandiels) He makes me SO uncomfortable. Like I know that that's the point but he's so slimy-NO NO STOP, STOP KISSING HER, FUCK-!

(roughly three minutes of us screaming over Lydia's Woman Scorned (tm) dress, followed by another three minutes of us laughing at the faces everyone was making when I pause the video)

(about Susan's mom) Me: Heinous fucking bitch Them: What. A raging. CUNT.

(after we both spent a Hot Minute thirsting over Cynthia dancing on the car) Them: I talk a big game but if I was within five feet of this person, I would be just staring and stammering Husband, distantly: We know honey Them: SHUT UP

(both of us wheezing over CGI!Richie)

Cops: *show up* Us: *John Mulaney voice* SCATTER

Them: NOT THE LINE I'VE LOST THE ONE I LOVE THE MOST AS SHE PICKS UP OLIVIA'S JACKET Me: They are simply In Love

Them: He's gonna do something stupid, I can feel it. Me: You don't know the half of it! Them: He's gonna propose to a teenager! (okay maybe they do know the half of it, fuckin' prophet)

Me: *reading off episode titles as it starts storming where I am* And this one is called You're Dropping Out of Rydell- thank you dramatic thunder???

(honorable mention, me being unable to tell what was real thunder and what was from the episode)

Them: I'm not emotionally ready for this Me: Me neither and I've seen it like eight times already

Nancy: *dramatic exit* Them: She's so dramatic and I respect her and only her

Me: I love you singing along to a theme song with no lyrics Them: Sometimes I just gotta make funky little noises!

(About Nicholson) I am going to break that man's ball sack with a driver.

Them: It's giving pouty little bitch Me: Which one? (referring to Buddy and his dad) Them: Yes

Cynthia: *walks in in Richie's Jacket* Me: Hello my name is Single and Gay Them: I am not single but I am gay and I think... I don't think, I have no thoughts, head empty

(About McGee, then the scene transitions to Daniels) Them: The only adult in this school I respect- I AM GOING TO KILL HIM WITH MY BARE HANDS! Me, wheezing: What about your human hands? Them: THOSE TOO

(said in the most disgusted voice I've ever heard) Of course he likes Walt Whitman

Them: [Husband], I'm killing the pedophile, wanna help? Husband: Let's be honest, do you really need my help? Them: Someone's gotta drive the car.

Them: "Feelings central?" I bet you were feeling sensual when you were making out with Olivia-LYDIA on your couch earlier Me: ...You good there? Them: The names are too close

(Face to Face begins) Ah, dramatic acapella is my gender

Me: Once again, love how much you hate Buddy Them: He's had so many chances to earn my respect and he has done nothing!

Guardian Demon: *appears* Them: What. The fuck. Is happening? Me: BEAUTY SCHOOL DROPOUT BABEY

(@ Buddy) Them: He's not a total ding-dong. Just like 80% Me: He did just thank her (Susan) for having sex with him Them: ...85%

(About the Red Sox analogy) Cynthia giving me Gender Euphoria with one sentence

Nancy: *talking about love stories, mentions Shy Guy* Both of us: *Cackling at the full-body never mind Cynthia does*

Nancy: Tell anyone of my vulnerable nature and I will deny it until the day I die! Them: FUCKING MOOD like I know I was literally also just crying but we're gonna move past that, I'm a bad bitch again

Me: Finale time! Any thought or predictions before we get started? Them: Leonard gets arrested and as he's being taken away, he gets hit by a semi truck- Me: What is this, Mean Girls??? Them: Yes! McGee punches the principal in the face and defeats him in blood combat and cements her place as principal- Me: *slowly dissolving into horrified laughter* Them: Cynthia gets to kiss Lydia again, which is all I really need to be happy, and terrifying CGI Richie comes back and does the Macarena! Me: *can't start the episode for five minutes because I'm laughing too hard*

(Ten seconds in) PAUSE THIS I HAVE BEEF THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY OF GETTING MARRIED THAT QUICKLY IN A CATHOLIC CHURCH

(after rant) Me: Yeah but the tensions wouldn't be as high if they had six months to stop the wedding! Them: ...there are two wolves inside of me, one says valid, and one is formerly Catholic and Upsetti

Me: I want a shirt that says "I have two wolves inside of me, one of them is Catholic" and nothing else Them: *WHEEZE*

Cynthia: He's just. Some guy. Both of us, in sync: HIT HIM WITH YOUR CAR

"Old Soul" is groomer for "Fuckable"

(@ Gil climbing in through the window) Me: On the one hand, I'd fold, on the other? Terrifying! Them: YES! Me: Although I guess if I had the rapport with someone that they have?? Maybe?? Like good in media, bad in real life. Them: Gil? Yes, absolutely. Edward Cullen? Fuck no! The two genres of climbing through my window

(after the drag race) YET ANOTHER THING BUDDY DID NOT EARN

Me: Hey, do you have tissues? Them (afraid): ...should I get some??? Me: Maybe Them: I don't think I have any in the house??? Me: Ah! You're fucked!

*ten minute interlude of us crying over the Coming Out Scene, discussing what it means to both of us, and how furious we are of future generations not getting to see the best queer rep of our lifetimes if this show doesn't get saved. On that note, sign the petition if you haven't already.*

THEY STARTED BY STEALING A CAR THEY WILL SAVE THE FRIENDSHIP BY STEALING A CAR

Oh someone please hit hi- YESSSSS!!!

(at the start of All In) Me: She (Cynthia) is going to cry Them: I'm going to cry Me: I'm already crying

Me: Lydia is stronger than I am I would already be on my knees. (note I use a cane and sometimes a wheelchair, if I am on my knees I Will Not be Getting Up)

Me: Hopelessly Devoted walked so this song could fucking run Them: I WAS ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME THING

Pink Ladies: *Offer Hazel a jacket* Them: *aggressively close to the mic* That sounds very gay I'm in

Them: I cannot take my eyes off Jane. Like they are all very beautiful right now but there's something about her- Me: It's the bisexual energy Them: ...Dammit, you're right

Rizzo: We'll start our own gang! Them: With blackjack and hookers!

(Introduction of Frankie Zuko) Them: I'm sorry, HUH???

(As credits roll) Me: So, how we feelin'? Them: Normal, I am so normal, I am feeling so fucking normal about this. Me: Thoughts? Them: *incoherent screaming*

We had some much fun doing these, we decided to keep a quotes list for more movie nights. Next up, Julie and the Phantoms!

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beep-beep-sunny · 1 year ago

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Reddie Week Day 4 Soulmates!!

This is my longest Reddie week post so far! I'll put it below the little squiggly line and see what that does. Please let me know what you think if you decide to check it out! Thank you!

Soulmates were real. Right? Eddie Kaspbrak was always told they were. That there were auras that were visible to just you and that special person. That being around them made things smell different… taste different. They made you look at the world with fresh eyes. He had no proof of that.

He had no proof of it because he wasn't able to see anything. He never could. It would be one thing if only that "special" person was supposed to have an aura. No. People said they could see their own auras. Eddie never saw anything. He didn't even know what it was supposed to look like. It's like how no one how's how well they can visualize things because they'll never know what other people are seeing. How clear is the apple? What the fuck does that even mean.

He used to try to see it. He'd convince himself he was a late bloomer. It was coming. His colors would come in and he'd see the world in a new vibrancy.

His mother was pushy from the start. "Describe it sweetie? What are your colors?" She wouldn't drop it. Wouldn't let it go. "Why won't you just tell me, sweetie?? What are you hiding from mommy?"

She pushed it and pushed it until Eddie popped. He started crying and screamed out. "I don't have any colors! I'm blank! I'm broken!"

He regretted it immediately. He feared what might happen after speaking to her like that, but she just pulled him close in an oppressive stranglehold. "Oh baby, it's okay!! Maybe you don't have colors because you don't need a soulmate because you have me. I'm all you need, Eddie bear." Eddie, overwhelmed, only cried harder.

When his friends asked, he lied through his teeth. He was silent as he listened to his friends describing their colors. Bill was sad because his colors didn't end up matching with Beverly Marsh, the girl he had a crush on ever since they kissed in the school play. His were purple. Stanley mostly just said his were green. He didn't give much away about his stance on "soulmates". Just green. Then, Richie. For some reason, Eddie has been dreading Richie's explanation the most. He and Richie had been "Eddie and Richie" for so long. Always together, always fighting, always tangled up limbs forming the infinity sign. It was selfish for Eddie to wish Richie was like him, but he did. He told himself he just didn't want to be the only one.

Richie has colors. From the sounds of it, the most beautiful and obnoxious colors that ever existed. He painted a picture with a rainbow of colors. Eddie watched him with wide eyes, stunned, in awe, as Richie kept going, kept describing the most beautiful colors in the world. "What about you, Eds?" Richie asked. Eddie searched Richie's face. Did he know? Could he tell? They made eye contact, Eddie swallowed, though his throat was dry. Richie's eyes were so, "Blue." Eddie said, before he even realized his lips were moving. The eye contact held for a moment longer, the air sticky thick, before Richie smiled wide, carefree as if Eddie's world wasn't falling apart. "Cool!"

Not long after, Beverly Marsh joined their little group as well as Mike Hanlon and Ben Hanscom. As it turned out, Beverly Marsh's soulmate was the new kid, Ben. Bill tried to hide the heartbreak on his face when they told everyone, hand in hand. Eddie's mouth turned up in disgust. Why should something so stupid control love? What If they don't feel it? What if they love someone else? Who decided that's what the colors meant anyway? Bill cried on Eddie's shoulder for a week while they ate goldfish and gushers and watched the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

The rest of them didn't see the person with their colors throughout their highschool years. It didn't matter much, as Eddie saw it, with what they'd been through together? They were all soulmates in the ways that mattered.

They all lost touch after graduation.

He met Myra on a Sunday. He got off work early Sundays, so he likes to spend his nights sipping fruity cocktails at The Lucky Turtle. The old dusty sign under the name read "your destiny awaits". Her voice had a familiar shrillness, even though they'd never met. She was wailing to the bartender about her boyfriend loud enough for the entire bar to hear, and the bartender looked overwhelmed. "He's a bum!" She blubbered. "I can't believe I got saddled with such a gross loser for a soulmate! I was really going places before he came along ya know! All A's in school and cute as a button. Now we're broke and all my potential is wasted. Stupid freaking," she paused, "Pardon my language, but stupid colors shouldn't trap a cute teen girl into a life of suffering with a total loser. I need a man that can take care of me!" Myra wasn't pleasant, but Eddie couldn't help but be intrigued by her disdain for the colors. He moved closer to her. "W..what??" She sniffled. "Come to take advantage of my fragile position?" She looked at him through her eyelashes and puffed out her lower lip.

Eddie almost just left, but he didn't. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins"I don't think the colors know everything." He said coolly. "It's all a huge scam." She lit up at that.

They went home together. It wasn't like Eddie to mess around with a married woman, but it wasn't like him to mess around with anyone and he was so fucking lonely. When Eddie blurted out his defect. I have no colors. I'm blank. I don't have a soulmate. He thought that would be it. Why would anyone want someone that was deficient? It wasn't. She was delighted.

By the fifth meetup, Myra announced she was leaving her "dead beat" husband for him. She loved that Eddie was dependable with a good paying job and benefits. She also loved that he was broken. It was like having two soulmates, she'd say. She never had to worry about him leaving her for his real soulmate because he didn't have one, and she thought that was great.

Their relationship wasn't anything special. Things didn't smell different or taste different, but at least he wouldn't live his life alone, and that was better than nothing, right? They were married on a Sunday, just like the day they met. His mother cried. Seeing them in one space was unnerving. It made it impossible to ignore their similarities. Two women that used his deficiency to claim him.

He was married. That's what he wanted, right? To not be alone forever like he feared he would be? It seemed as though he should have been happy. He had everything normal people had, and yet, maybe the colors really meant more than just "soulmates", maybe it was the soul itself. Maybe Eddie was soulless. Maybe God forgot to give him a soul. Maybe he'd never be happy because he was hardly a real person.

One afternoon, he was doing the dishes and Myra was watching TV in the sitting room. The rooms were connected, so they could still look over at each other. Myra was laughing, until she wasn't. She'd been watching her favorite late night talk show. "This guy sucks." She whined as she sunk deeper into her chair. "Eddie bear, come here! Look at this guy!! He really thinks he's funny, but he's awful. I can't believe Johnny Daily would have a hack like this guy on the show. What is the future of TV coming to?" She just droned on into an unpleasant white noise.

"Okay okay, just for a minute. I'm doing the dishes." He took a few steps over so he could see the TV, absentmindedly drying a plate.

"Richie Tozier, ladies and gentlemen." The TV came into crystal clear focus. There he was Richie. All grown up, scruff, laugh lines, and all. Same shitty jokes. The plate slipped from his fingers and shattered on the ground.

After that, Eddie secretly sat in the bathroom to look up Richie, watch his standup, he'd only watch him on TV if he knew Myra wouldn't be home as if he were having an affair and not just embarrassed to be obsessed with a guy that his wife thought was "offensively unfunny".

Myra was out with friends one night. "Girls night, don't wait up!" She said, going out the door in low-cut cheetah-print. Eddie had recorded Richie's recent TV appearances on a secret account and had been itching to watch them. Just waiting for an opportunity.

The first was very typical of Richie's TV appearances, promoting his upcoming Netflix special that Eddie was already ready to sign up for a free trial to watch as soon as it came out. The second recording was different. It wasn't like his usual appearances. The vibe was more serious. At first, Eddie worried something was wrong.

"So, you've come out! Tell us more about that." The host probed with a sympathetic smile that felt artificial.

Richie's smile felt genuine, but nervous. "Sort of, I guess. If you want to put it like that. It's true. I don't have colors. I never have." Eddie felt himself immediately become cold and clammy. His mouth grew dry.

"Never?" She asked.

"Nope!" Richie replied, almost jovial. "I'm tired of lying. I figured I couldn't be alone. I thought, maybe I should finally be at least a little brave if that means it would help some other confused kid. It would have meant a lot to me to know I wasn't alone."

Eddie stared at the screen, much closer to it than his mother would have been okay with. She always said sitting right in front of the TV was like staring at the sun. That hardly felt like it mattered at that moment. Eddie got up from.in front of the TV while earnest Richie and the fake interviewer continued the interview in the background. Eddie desperately pawed through the medicine cabinet. He'd thrown out his inhalers years ago, but suddenly felt desperate for a puff. Seeing Richie made him feel strange and small and scared.

No. He thought. Nononono. Richie had colors. He said so. He had the most beautiful colors of all. Swirling blues and green and orange and yellow like the sun. He told them. He. He lied. Just like Eddie. Eddie always assumed, before he saw him again on TV, that Richie was living a happy white-picket-fence life with a beautiful wife. Someone special. Someone that also had the most beautiful colors and together they were raising two boys with a cat and a dog and a chameleon that could turn all kinds of different colors. Richie always wanted a chameleon, but no. Richie didn't have those things. He was just as confused and scared and lonely as Eddie had always been.

Before he realized what he was doing, his body moving almost automatically, he was in the car and driving. Where am I going? The broadcast wasn't live. I recorded it a week ago. At a red light, Eddie skillfully typed out, "Where does Richie Tozier live" like a stalker. He got a vague area in LA from a sketchy tabloid site, and that was good enough for him.

He didn't say a word to anyone, not to his work, not to Myra. Maybe he should have attempted to message Richie, but it's not like he'd see it. He was famous now and Eddie hadn't talked to him since highschool. He just got on a plane, looking unkempt and jittery. He didn't think the random screening he was pulled for was very random.

He'd never been to California. He used to want to go. He used to want to see all kinds of places. Road trips in fast cars, wind running through his hair from open windows, even though it's terrible for your ears.

He opened Twitter and navigated to Richie's page. Eddie didn't use Twitter, and using it now just made him feel even creepier. What am I even doing? This is crazy! He thought, but he looked anyway. Richie had a bad habit of posting everything. Eddie went on a wild goose chase, following his Twitter breadcrumbs to no avail. He almost gave up. It was getting dark, and Eddie had retreated back into his hotel room. He relaxed in the provided hotel robe after a long scolding shower. Eddie heard once that lonely people take the hottest showers.

His phone buzzed. Probably Myra. He told her something came up for work. He hated lying like this, but how could he possibly explain the truth? Sorry darling. I'm in LA stalking your least favorite comedian. He's actually my childhood friend and it turns out we're both broken in the same way. It was stupid. It was so stupid.

It wasn't Myra. It was an alert from Richie's Twitter. He posted a picture of himself on a stage in front of an empty stadium. It said, "I'll see you all at my show tonight!" It included a link to more information as well as a kissy winking face that flipped Eddie's stomach.

He was performing a show at a place nearby the hotel at 9pm which was only an hour away. This was his only chance. He got dressed quickly. He didn't pack much. He looked unpolished and ridiculous, but he headed out anyway.

He thought he could buy tickets at the door, but no such luck. He ended up crossing his fingers and buying a ticket from scalpers for five times the price. He had no idea Richie was so famous. He wasn't even funny.

He got in with his scalped ticket. He watched from the nosebleeds. Okay, maybe he was a little funnier than he'd been as a kid. He was in his element up on the stage. He'd really grown up. Eddie heard sounds coming out of himself that he hadn't in a long time. Fond little laughs that were embarrassed to bubble out. Okay, maybe he always found Richie a little funny.

By the end of the show, Eddie was a bit more relaxed. He was here. Richie Tozier. In the flesh. Richie Tozier who didn't see the colors. Just like Eddie.

When Richie finished wishing the crowd goodnight, Eddie was already out of his seat. He was fighting through the legs of slow patrons with a flurry of "Sorry, excuse me sorry." He could lose Richie. Not again. He didn't have a plan beyond "get to Richie".

There was a crowd around the front and a bodyguard that was on the short side, but still muscular and stocky. I probably could put run this guy. Eddie thought, seemingly embracing his fate as a creepy stalker. "Back up!" The guy yelled, spitting as he talked.

Richie was walking down the side stairs. They were so close now. Eddie took a deep breath. "Trashmouth!" The yell came out more squeaky and desperate than he would have preferred, but he had to do it. What else was he going to do?

Their eyes met. Richie looked scared. Eddie realized this was a mistake immediately. Richie was scared. Of course he was scared because Eddie was a total fucking stalker. Richie would probably get a restraining order and he'd never see him again.

"Alright, get out of here." The bodyguard walked over to shoo him, and Eddie was ready to let him, but Richie wasn't. He reached out and stopped his bodyguard from moving forward.

His eyes bore into Eddie. Eddie shivered under the intensity of his icy blue eyes. "Eds?" Richie said. The nickname gripped Eddie's heart and wouldn't let go. Richie and his bodyguard shared a look that must have communicated "let him through" because that's just what he did. Eddie walked past the bodyguard and was suddenly feet from Richie for the first time in two decades.

They stared for a while. "Hi." Richie said, his voice suddenly raw and vulnerable.

"Hi." Eddie replied, shyly.

"What are you, I mean, how did you, I um," Richie struggled to form a coherent thought. Some things never changed, though he never used to seem so careful about word choice. "You're here." He settled with.

"I can't see the colors either!" Eddie blurted, almost like he couldn't hold it in anymore. Like the words have been pounding on his throat for a long time.

Richie looked lost. He searched Eddie's face as if he thought this was all some kind of mean joke. "But," his throat sounded dry. He probably wasn't hydrating properly. "But you're blue." He said, not needing to search his mind for the color. It was as though he'd thought about it many times before, but why. Why would he remember that little lie after all these years? The answer to that was simple, but Eddie couldn't let himself believe the simple answer. Because if Richie remembered Eddie was blue the same way Eddie remembered the picture Richie had painted of the most beautiful colors in the world then maybe that meant he felt it too.

But, what the hell? "I lied." Eddie said.

"Why?" Richie sounded desperate, hanging on Eddie's every word.

"I didn't want you to think I was broken. I-" Almost as soon as the words were out of Eddie's mouth, Richie caught his cheeks in his hands, pulling him impossibly close and linking their lips. Eddie didn't shut his eyes. He couldn't, because suddenly he was filled with such clarity. He could see the green grass, the dark night sky, the yellow dandelions of spring, the blue of Richie's eyes. The colors were all there. They were always there. They were everywhere. Who's to say he's missing anything? The colors were here the whole time. Blue wasn't a lie, because it was there, in Richie's eyes. Eddie wanted to live in the blue of his eyes forever.

It didn't take long for the kissing to deepen and for Eddie to notice the cameras flashing. Eddie held up both his middle fingers. He heard that makes it so the magazines can't use paparazzi photos. He wanted this moment just for them.

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #it 2017 #reddie week 2023 #reddieweek #reddie week #day 4 soulmates #sunnywrites #fanfiction #long post

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