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stinknoodle · 1 year
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𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 
summary eddie munson is super weird. he holds your hand too tight, he has a fascination with your neck, and he can’t give a hickey to save his life. good thing you’re super weird, too. [20k]
warnings two losers falling in love!! vampire!eddie munson, ditzy!reader (kind of), fem!reader, smut mdni (p in v, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, general heavy petting and kissing, praise), fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (eddie struggling with guilt and grief). canon divergent (the events of volume 2 take place but there’s a mostly happy ending i.e. everyone good lives and everyone bad dies) TW eddie doesn't have suicidal thoughts, but he does think about it briefly. not with intent or anything like that though. requested here for my halloween party <3
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
Eddie Munson never wanted to be a vampire, and he wants that on the record. 
It's a ridiculous existence. It's embarrassing. It's nothing like all the movies and books promised him. 
He's looking at you, Bram Stoker. 
In Eddie's mind, Stoker’s nothing less than a liar and a sycophant. 
"Who's dick were you bouncing on, Stoker?" he demands to know, kicking fallen leaf mulch under his feet angrily. "Need'ta fucking impress some vampire lover with your over-exaggerated, over-powered, ridiculous descriptions? Great. Hope it was worth it. Meanwhile I'm here, self-esteem half the size of a grain of rice because I can't scale a building with my bare hands." 
Eddie would know. He's tried. 
He's not genuinely angry with Bram Stoker, but he'd rather take his frustrations out on a guy who's been dead for a hundred years than take them out on the demobats, because he doesn't want to even think about the demobats. They're all dead too. Not before they'd had (see: devoured) their pound of flesh and changed his life for the worse, though.
He shakes his head to drive out the memory like water in his ears. It's easier to pretend none of that shit in the upside down ever happened. (Impossible to pretend. He begs himself to try anyway.) 
He’s pissed because science fiction has promised him a lot of things and reality has delivered on none of them. No super strength, no impermeable skin. He is faster, but that's more a reflexive thing than anything else. And being faster doesn't make running fun. That’s impossible.
Sunlight breaks through the treeline and his skin crawls. Science fiction didn't get that right, either. The sun doesn't hurt. It's just really, really annoying.
He covers his eyes, winces at his itchy hand, pulls his sleeve over his fingers and covers his eyes again. "This blows," he says, and means it. 
In Dracula, the sun nulls Dracula’s supernatural abilities. Eddie doesn’t have any abilities worth nulling, unless you count echolocation.
He doesn’t. 
He walks another five minutes up the road toward Forest Hills when he realises you're behind him. His senses are enhanced now as a bat’s might be, hearing fine-tuned and dialled up every second of the day — which makes living in a trailer park where everyone thinks he's a murderer an acute misery — but he's as prone to distraction as anyone else. Especially when he gets stuck in a memory.
Eddie throws his gaze over his shoulder and finds you thirty or forty feet away, talking to yourself under your breath. He knows you more for your sounds than your appearance. To be able to put a face to your mindless babbling is a mystery solved. Of course you look like that. A skirt made of soft looking fabric bounces over two cute thighs, a pretty lacy corset type of thing that isn't too tight outfits your top half. You look more like a vampire than he does. 
"Hi, Eddie," you call.
His eyes widen, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. If you notice how he's frozen you don't show it, continuing to push your bike toward him. The tick of the wheels grows louder as you get closer, two hands on the handlebars with wrists draped in bracelets, both silver and fabric. 
Besides your jewellery, your arms are bare. You must be freezing. 
"Hey," he says. 
He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know how you know his, and he’s too awkward to ask. 
Your sounds peak as you close the gap. The wet scrape of your dirty black canvas shoes over shining asphalt, the soft puff of your breath, the clinking sounds of whatever trinkets you have in your bag. If he focuses, he can make out the tiniest pinches of fabric. Your short sleeves rubbing against your arms, your bra straps stretching over your shoulders. 
Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to diminish his senses. 
"Where's your van?" you ask curiously. 
"Piece of shit kicked it in the middle of town. Just my luck." 
You pause at his side, looking him up and down obviously but without the judgement or irreverent disgust he's come to expect from near about everybody in Hawkins. 
"That's not good," you say succinctly. 
It's such a genuine response that Eddie can't find it in himself to be sarcastic. 
"God awful," he agrees sullenly. 
You nod and start to walk again. Eddie falls naturally into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. 
"You should get a bike." 
He laughs. Coughs to cover it up. "Yeah?" 
"They're way more reliable than a car, and it doesn't hurt the zone." 
Eddie squints. "The o-zone?" 
"Is there another one?" 
You're still so serious that he spares you the ridicule he might dole out to anyone else. If Dustin had said something like that he would've ripped the kid a new one, but you're rather sweet in an odd way. You have a soft manner of talking — each word sounds like you've thought its pronunciation through meticulously beforehand. 
He ignores your question and points at your bike, ring catching the sun. "Why aren't you riding it?" 
"My chain slipped." 
"So much for reliable." 
That makes you smile. Eddie feels it like a punch, a flat palm slapped into his chest. 
"You can't put the chain on yourself?" 
A brisk breeze whips your hair, your earrings. The left kisses your cheek, a silver heart-shaped hoop with pink beads that click together. You lean into it, face tilted to one side as a perplexed smile plays on your sticky lips. "You can do that?" 
"Sure, you pull it back around the gear. It's easy." He hesitates for a moment, and then feels guilty about hesitating. "I'll do it for you, if you want." 
"The guy in no. 62 has been charging me ten dollars." You don't sound as angry as you should, in Eddie's opinion. 
"I'll do it for nothing." 
You beam at him. His chest feels like a bruise. 
Pretty girls don't like Eddie. Not before Chrissy, not after. He's trying to work out your angle, what it is that you want. 
Or maybe you don't know. 
As soon as you find out who he is, you'll turn your pretty nose up at him and walk the other way. He shouldn't smile at you, he definitely shouldn't fix your bike. 
He can't help it. He's so starved for positive attention that he follows you all the way through the park, westside to east. 
He checks the driveway of his own home and smiles mildly when he spots Wayne's new car. It's new in the sense that it's different. It's actually way older than the one he'd had before, the one he'd pawned to pay for Eddie's — well, Eddie's everything. His check-ups, his court dates, his goddamn bail. In the same way that this trailer isn't the trailer, but an older, smaller one as far away from their first as possible. 
Kid, if I had the money…
Wayne hadn't needed to finish. If he had the money, they'd leave. Leave Hawkins, leave Indiana. Settle down in some other mediocre Midwestern state with all the same creature comforts and none of the "You were acquitted but literally none of us believe you didn't kill someone," motif. 
All they have now is debt, each other, and the Great Munson mug collection. 
Eddie keeps his head down as they pass the old trailer. Nobody lives inside now. Only termites. 
He can taste blood by the time they reach your home. Far from the metallicity of his human blood, Eddie's blood now harbours a bitter taste. Not quite like coffee but with that same overwhelming earthiness. He pulls his teeth from the bitten flesh of his bottom lip and quickly raises a hand to his teeth, alarmed. 
No knife-like points. Normal teeth. 
"Are you thirsty?" you ask him. 
Eddie flinches and drops his hand. You've parked your bike against the wooden lifts of your porch and are halfway up the steps to your front door, hand clasped loosely on the railing. 
His heart fucking pounds. 
"I have grape juice?" 
"Right," he says hurriedly, "right. Yeah, that would be awesome." 
Duh, you meant juice. 
You send him another endearing smile and pop up the last of your steps and into the front door. It's not locked. He doesn't follow, thinking you must live with somebody (who's gonna know exactly who he is and tell him to get lost).
He turns his attention to your bike instead. It's easy enough to fix. He rolls the bike so its handlebars are resting against your concrete driveway and covers the top bar of the metal body with his sneaker to stop it from toppling. He rolls up his sleeves and bares his arms, but pulls them back down immediately when he remembers the white-purple whorls of scar tissue lurking underneath. 
"Fuck," he mutters. Everything is a reminder, all of the time. He can't escape what happened. 
It's everywhere. 
He's getting his fingers under the chain when you reappear. You've layered up, bracelets and naked arms hidden by a black hoodie. 
The wind blows and your skirt shifts. From his position he can see a ladder hiding in your tights where your inner thighs are pressed together. He whips his gaze up like a high-school perv caught sneaking peeks in the girls locker room and notices the stitching on your chest for the first time.
"You like Dio?" he asks excitedly. 
"Who?" 
He wilts. "Uh, your hoodie. Dio." 
"I got it for three dollars in the bargain bins," you supply helpfully, all pep as you climb down the stairs and offer him a glass cup adorned in dainty enamel flowers. "Is Dio good?" 
He waves his hand at the glass apologetically. "Two seconds…" Lifting the chain with the second hand, Eddie tugs and then feeds until the links are lined up with the bumps on the big chainring. The skin on his fingertips get pinched and his eyebrows pull together in pain, but it's a mild irritant at worst and after a moment the chain is back in place. 
He pulls his hand away and wipes dark grease down the front of his jacket. "I think I did it." 
You're glowing, earrings like a metronome as you ask, "That fast? You're awesome."
He turns the pedal and your back wheel spins in time with his heart. You're awesome. When was the last time somebody who wasn't Wayne said anything like that? 
Although Dustin had told him he thought Eddie was a much cooler, more fucked up version of the guy from Van Halen the other day. 
You're just saying that 'cos we're both called Eddie, Eddie had said morosely. 
Learn to take a compliment, dude. 
When they aren't pity compliments, he might. 
Eddie lifts your bike back onto the wheels to show you that it's working perfectly. You giggle your evident pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" you say, super sweet even as grape juice sloshes over the rims of your flowered glasses and drips down your fingers. 
"Here, let me," he says, taking the glasses from your purple-stained hands. 
You kiss your hands clean which is a thing, a lot to watch. Eddie admits to himself that he thinks you're really pretty, recognises that that is a bad thing to think considering the likely very short life span of your acquaintance. God knows you won't be saying anything as friendly when you find out who he is. 
"You're so nice," you say. It feels like you're talking more to yourself than him. "Thank you. It's slipped off three times this month, and ten dollars is ten dollars. Wait, do you want ten dollars?" 
"My services were administered charitably.”
Your smile grows. You accept your glass and take a small sip, eyes lit up as Eddie steers your bike one-handed to rest against the porch. 
"Do you wanna come inside? I don't have any of the Dio, but I have Blondie." 
He holds in a throwaway comment about real rock and roll, astounded that you’d ask him. "Your folks aren't home?" 
"I'm twenty-two." 
Eddie squints at you. "Seriously?" 
"You didn't think so?" 
He shrugs. It's not that you don't look twenty two. Or even that you don't act twenty two. But it's been a long time since he met somebody living alone in the park. Forest Hills is where poverty comes to settle. 
"A boyfriend?" 
"Just me and mister Porterson." 
"That your grandpa?" 
"That's my pet fish."
He smiles. It's his first real, authentic smile in days. He's genuinely elated by your offer and your attitude, but he doesn't know how to handle it, struck with a sudden nightmare of you, afterward, telling somebody you'd invited him in and he'd tried to hurt you. It isn't fair of him to assume you'd do anything like that. You've been nothing but sweet and sincere this whole time. 
Eddie hasn't let his guard down in a long time. 
You're giving him this wide-eyed, imploring look that promptly suffocates any fear. 
And in a week, when she finds out who you are and feels betrayed, feels tricked? What then, Munson?
"You know what happened?" he asks.
"What happened?" 
"Two years ago. Chrissy… Chrissy Cunningham?" 
Don't say her fucking name. 
Your expression clears as clarity blooms. You take a step. He needs a second to realise you've come forward rather than away, fingers twitching toward his hand. 
"I know about it. I'm sorry that happened to you." 
He stares. 
This is a trick. Two years and he can count the amount of people who believe him on his two hands, and only because they'd all gone through it with him. Sometimes there are outliers, logical people who seem to realise Eddie couldn't have killed all those people, couldn't have been in all those different places without leaving any evidence behind. And sometimes there are people who agree he didn't kill Chrissy, but he's a coward for leaving her to die. (She’d already been dead.)
Eddie doesn't know what he thinks. Wayne sets the record straight every now and then with a clap on the shoulder. You did what every parent wants their kid to do. You lived. I can't ask for more than that. 
"You don't believe it?" 
"That you hurt her?" You hold his gaze, face practically impassive. "No, I don't believe it." 
He pulls in a breath that fills every inch of his chest. "I could learn to like Blondie," he says. 
— 
You're standing in the driveway of Eddie's trailer with a heavy bag over your shoulder, face to face with a man who kind of looks like him but not really. You assume it's his uncle because who else could he be? If you hadn't seen him here you'd never guess. 
"Eddie's mom must've had strong genes," you say. You bring your shoulder up toward your cheek thoughtfully. "He didn't get any of your face. Was she pretty? Eddie's really pretty." 
"She was," he says, peering down his nose at you. 
"I got sandwiches. Do you want one?" 
"What kind?" 
"I have ham and cheese, or ham and lettuce and tomato, or I have pumpernickel cookies. Is Eddie a vegetarian?" 
"Why?" 
"'Cause I only brought one cheese and cucumber, and I have dibs." 
He climbs down the last couple of steps and is still taller but definitely less imposing, face covered in scratchy salt and pepper stubble and crows feet deeply embedded into the corners of his eyes. He looks like a man who has been tired for a very long time. You make a mental note to bring him some lavender for his pillow on your next visit. 
"You're Eddie's new friend?"
You nod your head briskly. "Yes, sir. I'm Y/N." 
He opens his box of camels like a pro, bottom pressed to his chest. He tucks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter out. He doesn't light it. 
"It's nice to meet you," he says eventually, voice warming. 
You search through the mess of your skirt for the zipper on your bag and peel it open, pulling out your tupperware of cookies and cracking them open to release the fragrant smell of cinnamon and almonds. It's a heady scent, fitting for the holiday season approaching. 
You offer Eddie’s uncle a cookie.
"Thought pumpernickel was bread," he says gruffly, taking one. 
"It is, but there's this little town in France that makes these every year at Christmas and they call them pumpernickel biscuits," — he takes a bite and winces at the hard snap — "you're s'posed to dip them in hot chocolate." 
"You don't say." 
You nod happily and he moves aside to let you pass. 
"Thanks, kid." 
You turn back to him with your fingers curled around the door handle. "Of course! It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Munson, sir." 
"Wayne is fine." 
You laugh and repeat his name in a similarly rough voice, letting yourself in as Eddie had told you to do. You find him immediately in a man-made corner of the living room, pale and in his pyjamas. The trailer is open planned, a living room they’ve divided by propping a couch against the kitchen counter, a slim hallway leading to a cramped bathroom and the single bedroom. It's exactly like in your home. 
You're somewhat surprised to see him in pyjamas. Eddie doesn't wear comfy looking clothes out of the house — you've only ever seen him in jeans and jackets like a real rockstar. 
"Are you ready?" you ask.
You've invited him to come and search for bugs with you. Catching any kind of bug, whether beetle or butterfly or spider, is really scary, but you need to be able to catch them to draw them. 
You'd expressed this to him over the phone and he'd said, "I can come and help. I have good reflexes." 
He rubs his hands over his knees. There's a blanket pooled around his feet, a quilt he must sleep with, and the room is decorated with not a whole lot of stuff but enough to make you take a step back. 
"Is this your room?" you ask, enchanted. 
"Kind of." He pulls his hair from behind his ear, obscuring a pale cheek. "I don't think I can come with you today, I'm sorry. I meant to call you." 
You toy with a dark thigh high sock as you ease out of your shoes, height drastically decreasing. "That's okay, we can stay here. I brought you a sandwich. I brought you two sandwiches," you correct. 
He nods. Rather sadly, in your opinion. "Alright. Thanks." 
You step over a tented paperback and hand off the cookies before sitting down beside him on the couch he's occupying. It's smaller than the one against the wall and round like a clam, lots of room for your legs to stretch out. 
"I feel like a pearl," you say. 
You and Eddie have been friends for a little while now. Long enough for you to realise he's either depressed or mentally unwell in some way. You hardly mind keeping him company on his bad days if he needs somebody, so drawing bugs will have to wait. 
His hair is limp, not totally greasy but not super clean either. His face looks fresh enough, though the bags under his eyes make you frown. 
You pull your purse into your lap, thighs covered by the thin layers of your midi skirt. "I have just the thing for you," you murmur. 
"Yeah? Bring me another bracelet?" 
You like that he sounds eager. Making his bracelet had been a challenge, lots of knotting and double knotting, three restarts and one small under the breath tantrum. It's not anything special, black and white hearts seven strands wide, but he'd been very appreciative. 
"No, but I can make you another one if you want. I mastered the inverse chevron last night." 
He hums. You pull a saran wrapped sandwich from the depths of your crowded bag, glad to see it's mostly intact. When you open it up you find that it's the ham and lettuce and tomato one, so you drop it into his lap haphazardly and move onto the next. 
"Aha! Here," you pull a cucumber from your sandwich. "For you." 
He takes it between two tentative fingers. "Thank you?" 
"For your eyes." 
"There's cheese on it." 
"I'll still work," you assure him. 
"M'not putting cheese on my eyes." 
You laugh because he probably shouldn't put cheese on his eyes, cucumber adjacent or otherwise. "Okay, don't. I'll make you a hot towel." 
He drops his hand on your arm as you go to stand. You like how he touches you, soft but not scared. "You just got here. Stay here." He pats you nicely. "Tell me about work last night." 
You settle heavily into the seat beside him, your thigh to his thigh, your hip squished against his hip, doughy flesh separated by nothing more than a strappy tank top and a cotton long-sleeve t-shirt. His heat quickly becomes yours, a sinking transference of warmth. 
"Well," you begin, cheek turning into the couch to face him. "It was mostly okay. I dropped another plate, but this time it didn't have a stack of waffles on it." 
He smiles ruefully and sinks back as you had. Neither of you eat your sandwiches. "Progress. Taking it out of your pay?" 
"Yes, definitely." 
"Discrimination." 
"That's what I said! I said, Sarah, I was born with butterfingers and you know that." 
"She didn't budge?" 
"Dishwashing all week next week. Whatever, though, 'cause it's Saturday." 
He laughs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to your neck. He does that sometimes. You can't blame him; you wear a varying assortment of necklaces because you think they're pretty, and you're glad he likes them too. 
"See my new one?" 
"What?" 
"New necklace." You look down at your chest and pull the newest addition from between the cups of your bra. "It's real silver." 
"It's nice." 
"It's surprisingly heavy. Wanna feel?" 
"That's okay," he says, slightly strained. 
Right, you think. I'm talking a lot. 
You press your lips together in a mild pout and look at him through appreciative eyes. He's a very pretty boy, all soft and pale and sweet dark curls.
"Do you want me to put your hair up?" 
His lips part before he talks. "I don't know if you should." 
"Sure I should. It's getting in your eyes, right?" You take his hand where it's laid unsuspectingly in his lap and slip the hair tie from around his wrist, his fingertips tickling the inside of your palm. "Sit forward, Eddie." 
He takes a deep breath, holds it, and sits up. You twist and then realise you need some more height, pushing a leg under yourself to kneel next to his lap. 
You weave our fingers softly into the hair at the front of his face and rake away in lieu of a brush. After it's mostly tamed you pull it all into one hand and wrap the tie at the base of his head. You hum to yourself as you go, pleased when his lovely curls behave. 
"Voilà," you announce, moving back on your haunches. 
He breathes out. "Thank you." 
You reach for a curl you'd missed at the very front and encourage it behind his ear. He has subtle indents in his cheeks today like he's in need of a good meal, and his skin is colder than it should be when you flatten your palm. 
"You need something to eat," you fret. Your fingertips stroke under his eye, your thumb his smile lines. 
He moves away slowly. 
You pull your hand back into your lap. "Maybe we can go out and get something, if you don't like the sandwich?" 
"What?" he asks, pale lips taut as he simpers at you. "Are you kidding? This is about to fix everything that's wrong with me." 
His enthusiasm emboldens you. "It so will! There's ham and cheese too, if you prefer that one." 
"Get it! I'm gonna eat both of them." S
Eddie eats both of his sandwiches and you eat your own, the two of you with your heads dropped back against the couch as you watch TV. There's a guy you've never seen before running around the streets of Chicago city centre looking for people to be in his play. Eddie's seen it before. He repeats dialogue in time with the characters, performing each line. Impressive, what with how tired he looks. 
"What did he just say?" you ask, mouth full of cucumber.
"He said he's gonna throw himself off a bridge," Eddie informs. "Poor guy. I know the feeling." 
You swallow harshly.
"Seriously?" 
Your sad tone surprises him. 
"I- No, I'm kidding," he says, scratching the base of his throat, friendship bracelet his only adornment.
His nervous itching makes you even more worried. 
"If you did wanna do that, you can talk to me-" 
He baulks, tongue poking out past his lips as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, pet name like a kiss. It sounds silly but it really feels like one, right in the centre of your chest. "But I'm fine. Promise. It was a bad joke." 
"Okay," you say, letting your suspicion shine through. You hold his eyes. 
You haven't known Eddie long. It feels like you met yesterday, though really it's been two or three weeks. You fit together in a way you hadn't expected and adore more than you can articulate, two funny puzzle pieces.  
"Well, I just wanted you to know. I like being your friend, I don't want you to disappear."
He laughs and licks his lips, a rough, chesty sound. "I don't want you to disappear either." 
Tires crunch outside, a shushing sound and then the sharp shriek of a jeep being put into park. Eddie perks up considerably, his shoulders straightening. 
"Hey, Chief," Wayne calls. 
Trailer walls. Basically made of cardboard. 
"Hey, Wayne. Where's the kid?" 
You can't hear what Wayne says after that, words stolen by the TV. 
"Is that Chief Hopper?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the mostly shuttered blinds. 
"Yeah, he- He's friends with Wayne." 
"Why's he wanna know where you are?" 
"'Cause I got into so much trouble." 
You bite your tongue. His tone is hard, not stern but almost, and you realise you've overstepped as you usually do. You want to apologise but you don't want to pick the wound, eager to gloss over and make him smile again. 
"It's pretty cool, isn't it?" you ask him.
"What?" 
You spread your legs wider to slide onto your thighs and make him the taller one again, legs bent in a 'W' shape. "Coming back from the dead! First Will Byers, then Hopper." 
Something surfaces in his expression. An irony. 
"The undead," you croon, aiming for a smile, a laugh. 
He cracks. "The undead," he agrees, smiling in bemusement. His eyes are a funny shade of brown. 
Eddie shoo’s you home early that night but tries to do it kindly. He feigns exhaustion, a facade that's difficult to uphold when his entire body is thrumming with want. If there's one thing Eddie hates about being a vampire (there are literally hundreds of things he hates, but this one's special) it's that he wants to hurt the people he likes a thousand times more than the people he doesn't. 
He can't explain it. Your blood is more appealing than any lonesome stranger's. Your pulse is practically music to his ears when you sit beside him. He'd kill himself before he ever hurt you, though. Or that's what he likes to think. Whether he has that amount of control is debatable. 
No. He would kill himself before he hurt you, or Wayne, or any of his friends. 
Steve can see the way that he's feeling on his face. 
Hopper's delivery set to one side, a tall glass with blood congealed in a sticky ring at the bottom, Eddie curls under his huge quilt and tries not to pass out. Blood sate feels the same as a thanksgiving food coma. It's awesome. 
He hates how good it feels. 
"Stop feeling guilty," Steve says. 
"He doesn't look guilty to me," Dustin says beside him, taller than the last time Eddie had seen him but still miles off of Steve's tall stature. He's changed his hat again, this one a garish green. It's not a good look. 
"He looks like he's napping," Robin says, delighted. 
"Can you guys go home?" Eddie asks. 
"Shithead." 
"What Steve means to say," Robin corrects, grinning her huge, catching smile, "is that no, we aren't going home. We brought games." 
"I don't wanna play games." He does. Eddie needs the distraction, because eventually the blood sate will fade and all that will remain will be self-revulsion and a cruel desire to do something awful. 
"I do not care even slightly," Steve says, deadpan, as he sits right there next to Eddie where you'd been sitting before. Steve's nowhere near as soft and he doesn't smell as nice, but Eddie's honestly glad someone is willing to sit next to him at all. 
"Ouch, what the fuck?" 
Dustin looks up from where he's sat himself on the floor. Robin giggles in her seat on the coffee table. 
"Munson, are you fucking shedding? I just got stabbed." 
"They don't work like that. They retract." 
Eddie feels at his broken gums with his tongue. There's a clean incision where his fangs come out and then snap back inside after a time. They're remarkably thin, fitting in front of his natural incisors neatly. 
Steve grumbles, hips lifted and hand searching under his butt for whatever it is that jabbed him. He retrieves exactly what Eddie had been expecting but hadn't had the forethought to prepare a lie about with a shocked gasp.
"Is this an earring? You don't have your ears pierced." 
He swallows, knowing it's a very guilty gesture, and meets Steve's eyes straight on. 
Funny how Steve's hair speaks as much as his expression, bobbing as he nods his head to emphasise each word, "Munson, do you have a girlfriend?" 
Silence. 
"...Not really." 
"Holy shit," Dustin says, sounding extremely pleased. "No way." 
Robin tucks her short hair behind her ears, hands paused in disbelief at her neck. "Actually?" 
"I have a friend," Eddie admits. 
"Thank god," Steve says, dropping your heart earring onto Eddie's thigh. The silver feels extremely hot over his pyjamas, like it's been held in the centre of a blistering hearth. 
"I really thought Steve was gonna have to take one for the team and give you a pity handie," Robin says agreeably, scratchy voice coloured by genuine awe. 
Eddie groans, "Harrington, get this shit off of me. You know I can't touch that." 
"I forgot," Steve lies. "Can you wait? My hands are busy." 
He has Steve put your earring between two pieces of kitchen towel and holds onto it. He doesn't see you for a week, and he keeps your damn earring in his pocket that entire time worried it's gonna slip out and brand him at any second. 
Finally, you call him. He pretends he wasn't waiting. 
"Hello," you say, like you're announcing something. 
"Hey. How are you?" 
"Eddie, I need your help. Badly." 
He flinches up where he'd been leaning casually, hard enough to make Wayne jump. Eddie smiles at him placatingly and mouths a poor sorry, turning away to pretend there's a semblance of privacy to be found in such close quarters. 
"Are you okay?"
"I gotta find a rainbow leaf beetle. Do you have a torch?" 
"...What?" 
"They only come out at night, so I'm gonna go look but I don't have a torch that works." 
He relaxes, the lilting cadence of your voice enough to make his whole night. You sound so pretty even through the phone. He suspects you could hold any pitch, deep or high, and you'd still sound nice. 
It's all in the way you — he says this with love — perform the words. You speak like each word you're saying has equal importance, and it's calming.
Even when you say stuff that's nonsense to him.
Right now, you don't sound upset or even worried about not having a torch, simply curious to know if he has one. If he focuses hard (and he's been trying not to, as you deserve your privacy) he can hear you all the way across the park, shifting from foot to foot in your bedroom, carpet crushed under your heels. 
The action makes him think this might be more urgent to you than you'd first admitted. 
"I have a torch." He also has amazing night vision. Like, impeccable. "Can I come help?" 
"You want to?" 
"I'd love to. Are you going out tonight?" He leans back to glance out the window. "The rain is finally stopping." 
"Yeah, tonight! Is that okay for you? We could go tomorrow if you can't." 
You're willing to change your plans now that he's asked to go with you. It's a gesture as lovely as you are. Eddie doesn't think you'd ever think it of yourself; your kindness is so intrinsic you don't notice it, like the fine stitching of a leather bound book. Integral and widely unappreciated.
"That's perfect."
Wayne raises an eyebrow when Eddie relays the conversation. "You're going out in the middle of the night with this girl to… look for bugs." 
Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. "I swear." 
"Be honest with me, kid." 
"I am!" 
Wayne swirls his coke can around in his hand as he thinks, a reluctance evident in his scowl. Eddie knows he's way too old for a guardian's oversight like this but he lets Wayne have a say because Wayne loves him, and Eddie doesn't ever want to put his old man through the turmoil he went through when he ran away. If that means a curfew in his twenties, Eddie's okay with that. 
"If you're going to have sex with this girl, I'd prefer you did it here. You have to treat women with respect."  
Eddie shivers, full body. "Wayne," he groans, covering his face. He can feel his cheeks pink under his palms, that's how quickly his embarrassment rises. 
"I know you're more responsible these days, and you're a grown up. If you want a girlfriend and you want to do adult things with her-" 
"Jesus Christ." 
"- then that's alright. You don't have to fool around outside." 
He drags his hands down on his face, pained. "It's not like that. You met her, you know she's…" 
"Strange?" 
"Alternative." 
"No, you're alternative. She's cooky." 
"Don't," he says. He knows his uncle isn't actually being cruel, so he lets it lie and fights for his own cause. "We aren't messing around. She genuinely wants me to go find these bugs with her. And…" He hates himself. "She has her own place, you know? If we were going to-" 
Wayne seems stricken by the same mortified embarrassment as Eddie, raising a calloused hand in surrender. "Spare me." 
"Thank you," Eddie says, spinning on his heel to hide in the bathroom for a while. It's only when he's sitting on the closed toilet does he realise Wayne hadn't mentioned his more dangerous ailment. For a time, he'd been a normal (debatable) person having a normal (horrifying) conversation with his dad. Not a vampire. Not somebody who ruins everything he touches. 
"It's so quiet," you whisper. 
For you, Eddie thinks. 
You're in the forest surrounding the aptly named Forest Hills trailer park, wielding your borrowed torch carefully into the dark. Eddie's following in your footsteps, trying not to smell everything that's on you today and failing. 
You smell like a person as everybody does. Over that is your soap, a faint hint of milk and honey that sticks to your skin even after you've washed it away. Over that is your deodorant, 'unscented', and over that is your perfume, which he likes most. It's a mix of smells, some Eddie doesn't know and some he does. There's lavender, though that might be down to the bunch you'd brought for his uncle wrapped in newspaper, and there's something fruity he can't quite put his finger on, all of it wrapped up in a cloying pairing of vanilla and coconut. 
"Eddie?" 
"What?" 
"Are you okay? You're almost as quiet as the trees." 
If only you knew the trees aren't quiet. 
"I'm alright," he says quickly, catching up to you where you stand a few feet ahead. "What are we looking for?" 
Best change the subject. How to explain he'd been smelling the notes of your perfume? 
"They rest on tree trunks. You have to be careful, any sudden sound or light will scare them away. But if you flash the torch on them, they shine like oil stains." 
He loves when you talk. "Where'd they come from?" 
"Place called Snowdon. They're so rare, they think there's only about a thousand alive there." 
"Well, how did they get here?" 
You laugh under your breath, so quiet he would've missed it if he wasn't enhanced. "I don't know. How do beetles get to different places?" 
"They fly?" 
A twig crunches under your shoe. 
Eddie tips his head to the side, thinking. "If there's only a thousand, how-" He stops, your circle of torch light growing further and further away. "Are you sure that they live here?" 
"No, but if they do we'll be the first to find them." 
"So they've never found any out here? In- In the midwest?" 
"Not yet. Where'd you go?" 
He shakes his head in an affectionate disbelief. "Right behind you." 
You search in silence for a while. Eddie wishes he could say he was mad, or even mildly annoyed, wishes he had even the slightest regard for his own time, but really he thinks any time with you is time well spent. Especially if it's helping you do something you want to do. Whether you find your rainbow leaf beetle or not, he feels better knowing he's out here with you to keep you safe and in company. 
Conversation is sparing. He doesn't mind. Your footsteps fill the sound and he finds even that stupid detail charming, the crunch, the pick up. His own are silent, a rare advantage to his terrible affliction. 
"Any other beetles you want me to keep an eye out for?" he whispers. 
"I'm not sure…" You turn to face him, torch pointed at your shoes. Rubber toes touched together, you lean in until you're all he can smell. Perfume. Blood. "If you see any cool spiders, too." 
"You have the mason jar?"
"You know I do." 
More than you realise, he thinks. The glass clicks in your bag. 
There's enough light reflected to see the most minute details of your face. Your nose, the circle of your irises but not their colour. He suspects Eddie from early '86 wouldn't have been able to see hide nor hair, and it wouldn't shock him if you were technically blind right now.
"Thanks for coming out with me. I was gonna ask you." 
"Yeah?" 
"Yeah, but I didn't want to come on too strong." He can sense your smile even though he can't see it. It's in the way your breathing deepens. "I know I can be a lot to deal with." 
"Who told you that?" 
"What?" 
Eddie doubles down.. "Who told you that?" he sounds heartbroken. 
He kind of is. Yeah, you're weird — Who cares? Who isn't? — but you're not a lot to deal with. He doesn't 'deal' with you.
"Everybody tells me that. All the time." 
"Everybody's stupid." To say it so loudly, scathingly, is sweet. It's therapeutic. "They are. This whole town is stupid." 
Your fingertips touch his thigh. He's willing you to turn the torch up and see his face, because he has a lot of feelings on display that he isn't brave enough to say out loud. 
"You never make me feel stupid," you say softly. 
"You're not." 
You giggle breathily at his vehemence, fingertips pressing in with a touch more pressure before you pull away and shine the torch deep into the trees. 
"This whole town is stupid," you mumble. "But not you." 
He thinks of his friends who are definitely stupid, but he loves anyways. He's about to add them to the not-stupid (subjectively) list when he remembers Steve's discovery: your earring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd been carrying it for long enough now to forget all about it. 
"Hey, I have something for you." 
"You do?" 
"Don't get too excited. It's not a gift." 
He digs in his pocket for the tissue paper wrapping and hisses in shock as the silver plating of your hoop graces his index finger. You shine the torch at him. His eyes ache like he's been stabbed and he slams them closed, hand pulled to his chest. 
How embarrassing. 
"Eddie, what happened?" you question loudly.
He winces at the sudden overstimulation. Slowly, he blinks, and finds you staring at him in a worry that softens every feature, even your nose. He doesn't know the logistics. 
"It's okay. Stabbed a paper cut on the back. Your earring's in my pocket, the heart?" 
"The hoop? I thought I lost it." Your worry turns to confusion and then melds into joy. You step forward and fish in his jacket pocket for your earring. 
"Steve found it." 
"'The hair'?" 
"Yeah, the hair." 
You both laugh and yours heightens when you find the earring, pulling it out like a knife to be brandished. "Yes." 
"I meant to tell you a dozen times that I had it." 
"You're the best." 
There's a crunch of wood somewhere to the left like something heavy falling over.
The forest sprawls in every direction and the trees tower, their presence looming as skyscrapers. The wind ruffles the topmost branches and their trunks groan with pressure. It's enough to freak Eddie out super sense or not, feeling suddenly like he couldn't protect you. He could hear the individual droplets of drool dripping from a lynx's bloody maw, and he can sense each twig underfoot before he takes his next step, but none of that is going to keep you safe in the face of real danger. 
"Maybe we should head back," he says tentatively.
"Okay. Do you want to come over?" 
His breath catches. "You want me to?" 
"Yeah, we can watch movies, I have leftover pasta." 
That sounds more like what he should've been thinking. "I don't wanna keep you up." 
"What kind of pasta?" he asks. 
The torch flickers. "With the tiny tomatoes. You'll like it, super creamy." 
"How do you know?" 
"You like Alfredo," you say astutely, hitting the torch into the palm of your hand. It flashes weakly, the shadow of the trees flickering and so dark they're violet. 
"Try tightening the handle." 
You turn the barrel of the torch and the light switches off completely. You try to undo what you've done to no success, the sound of plastic rubbing plastic almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your pulse falters and then grows to racing when the light fails to come back on. 
"Eddie," you say, sounding unsure. It's a new sound on you. "I don't know where we are. How are we gonna get home?" 
Your admission is like a dousing of ice water over his head. "You don't know what direction we came from?" 
"No, do you?" 
Eddie wouldn't know if he couldn't hear the sound of the electricity pylon buzzing somewhere to the right. But how can he explain that? "Uh, we were turned around."
You creep to his side and grab his arm with both hands. "Are you sure?" 
"Hey," he says gently. "Hey, it's okay. I know where we are. We'll be fine." 
"Are you sure?" you ask again. 
"I'm positive." 
You take a deep breath that doesn't erase your shakiness, a failed attempt at self-soothing. "I really don't know where we are." 
"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" 
"Not really… I don't wanna get lost out here." 
"You won't. I know how to get back. C'mon," he prompts, pulling his arm to encourage you forward. 
You let go of him and navigate a few steps by yourself. He weaves through the trees, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. 
It doesn't. He opens his mouth to reassure you again when you gasp, kicking your foot against a root and tripping. You barely fall, catching yourself on the trunk of a tree, and Eddie remembers himself. You can't see the trees. That's why you're worried. You can't see anything. 
Then the smell of blood hits him like a freight train. 
Your hand stings where you caught yourself, palm scraped down against harsh bark. 
"Shit," you mumble. 
You're panicking badly, and you're confused as to why Eddie isn't. Not only was it fucking stupid of you to come out here with only one torch, it was stupid of you to assume you'd remember what way was home. It was stupid of you to come here tonight for that stupid beetle, and stupid of you to drag Eddie along. You're an idiot, and now you're bleeding. 
Your eyes sting with tears, pain like a popped seal. I'm so stupid. 
"Hey," Eddie says, his tone silky soft, "you're okay. Let me help you up." 
You hold your hands out. 
"Eddie, this is weird." Hopefully he understands that weird means scary.
He takes your hands, fingers closing slowly over your bloody palm. His breath is loud as he pulls you up toward him like he's panicked but his grip stays kind, and you abandon the notion when he rubs over your knuckles with his thumb. "It's alright." 
He doesn't sound the same. 
"Eddie, we can't see." 
"We'll go slowly, okay? I'll put my hand out and we'll walk around anything that gets in the way." 
"Yeah," you say hurriedly, heart bump-bump-bumping against your ribcage. 
He keeps one hand, the injured one, and starts to drag you slowly through the trees. His grip tightens as you go until it starts to ache, until it feels like it might bruise. 
"Ouch, Eds. You're hurting me," you say, going for a lightly teasing tone and missing the mark. 
Instantly, he eases off. "Sorry, sweetheart. You hold onto me, alright?" 
You do as he'd asked, hand clinging to him as he leads. He doesn't squeeze you again, walking slowly as he'd promised, and the closer you get to the edge of the forest the clearer it becomes. Light pollution from the centre of town leaches through the trees like water trickling from an overflowing basin. 
His second hand is in his pocket. 
"Here," he says after you've traversed to the very edge of the forest. "There's the park. We're bona fide explorers." 
He looks out toward the park and you look at the side of his face. Something isn't right. Something uncanny. 
You drop your gaze from his face to your joined hands. They come apart, blood smeared in both your palms like two halves of a dripping heart. 
— 
There is something weird about Eddie. As a residential freak of Hawkins you think you're an authority in this, and you don't feel guilty for judging him. Your brain can't stop going over your night in the forest. For days you play the scenes back and for days you lose the details. You forget how the wind had tousled his hair, how he'd smelled, what he'd said. 
You remember the way he'd squeezed your bloody hand. You remember the way he'd spoken, strained. 
Not strained like he didn't want to comfort you, he had, but strained. 
Restrained. 
You're poking at the shallow cut half-healed now in your palm at work when a dude walks in, very tall, handsome, and gunning straight for you. 
You straighten your badge and hide your bracelet heavy wrists behind your back, receding slightly as he approaches. He slows in front of you. 
You have a light bulb moment. 
"The hair," you say.
He scowls. "He told you that, huh. Typical." 
"You're Steve?" 
"That's me." Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his back to a booth, your back to the diner bar. "You're Eddie's new friend." 
"What counts as new?" A month and a half doesn't feel so new to you. 
"Trust me, you're new." 
He has the strangest patch covering the outside of his left wrist, the same peculiar scarring that you can see on Eddie's waist when he reaches for a glass out of the kitchen cabinet. You don't ask because you're not a dick no matter how curious you find yourself, but it makes your heart skip. What is that? You'd assumed Eddie's was road rash. Now you're not so sure. 
He tucks it under his arm. 
You meet his suspicious gaze. 
"You want coffee?" 
"No." 
You kick your foot, shoe sliding over the shiny waxed floor with a squeal. "Is Eddie okay?"
"Did you want to come to a party next Friday?" 
"No," you say honestly. "Like a cult?" 
"What?" 
"Are you initiating me into your cult?" 
He finally smiles, eyes creased with amusement. "I'm inviting you to our club." 
"Club where you chew on each other?" 
You look pointedly at Steve's wrist. 
"No. Club where we play board games and drink jiffy pop. Come or don't, doesn't matter." 
"If it doesn't matter, why are you asking me?" 
It's a strangely intense conversation to have this early in the morning. Patrons chatter about work, coffee gets poured. The diner smells of syrup and sugar and bitter cold-press. You're both in work apparel, both refusing to move back. If this is some kind of shovel talk then that's fine, and if it's a test you're determined to pass, even if Eddie's been super weird lately. 
"I'll come if you promise not to eat me," you say. 
"It's really not that kind of club." 
"I had the weirdest visit in the entire world today," you declare, stopping in front of Eddie's porch with a smile. 
"Yeah?" he asks without looking up, guitar in his lap and pen scribbling over a lined notebook.
You wait for him to stop before you continue, leaning forward with both arms braced on the porch by his feet. "Steve Harrington came to see me, and he was super mean. You said he was nice." 
He frowns at you. "I told you he was a dick." 
"You like him when you tell me stories." 
"How mean?" Eddie asks, patting the seat beside him. 
You climb up onto the porch and plop down onto the couch, worn leather cold with the weather and damp in the seams. 
You take a strand of his hair and curl it around your finger. "Not really super mean, but he was, like, acting like I killed a baby." 
"He's like that." 
You sigh and lean your cheek against the couch cushion, watching Eddie's stubble move as he tamps down a teasing smile. "He invited me to a party next weekr." 
"It's not a party- Sweetheart, what are you doing?" 
You tickle his cheek with the end of his hair. "Nothing." 
"M'gonna sneeze." 
You tickle him again, fine dark strands brushing over his pale cheek. He's a very ashen guy, you've found. Likely because he barely goes out in the sun and he doesn't eat enough. You draw circles around the apple of his cheek and grin softly at his growing smile, a sweet, silly thing. 
"I'll tickle you back," he warns. 
"Promise?" 
He steals the curl back and tucks it behind his ear. 
"You're not a cannibal, are you?" 
Eddie chokes on air. You startle at his coughing and move to pat his back, palm slapping a steady rhythm into his shoulder. When he calms down you run your hand down the length of his arm, long sleeve t-shirt soft beneath your touch. You linger at his wrist and decide to hold it. 
He drops his pen and your hand travels until he's caught your thumb. He kneads it in his fingers.
"I'm not a cannibal. Why would you think that?" 
"I don't, but you and Steve are in your club, right?" 
"Hellfire wasn't like that," he says heatedly.
"No, not- Not that one." 
He doesn't say anything. 
"You have… He has this scar, on his wrist. Like something bit him, or-" He turns to you and he looks formidable and upset and himself, not mad at you but raw emotion in his expression anyhow. It's gone as quick as it came. 
"When all that… stuff happened," he begins quietly, "we got hurt. A couple of us." 
You drop your head, ashamed at having pried.  "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else."
"Don't be sorry…" He squeezes your hand and lets it go. "Don't worry about it." 
"Okay." 
"We usually call ourselves a party, these days. Not a club." 
"Do you really play board games and drink jiffy pop?" 
"Sometimes we get really crazy and order a pizza. You should come." 
You realise as he says it how much his wanting you to go had mattered to you. Eddie's your friend, and you don't think that you're going to stay friends much longer.
"You think your friends will like me?" you ask, voice descending to a new kind of gentle. 
He puts down his guitar and his notebook. His full attention is something you've come to really enjoy, not because of the hunger you often see flitting across his face — though that's neat —, but because of the inklings of adoration clinging to his smile when he looks at you. His blinking lashes. He smiles at you and just slows. A usually frenetic boy calmed. 
"Maybe not Mike. Mike doesn't like anybody. Except for Will," he muses.
"What about you?" 
"What about me?" 
"Who do you like?" 
"I like all of them." He juts his cheek toward his shoulder, conceding, " I think Dustin's my favourite. He's funny. He's funnier than I am, and he's the smartest kid I've ever met. And he knows it." 
Your eyes focus on the pink outline of his upper lip as he speaks. It's a pleasure to be this close, and see him in this kind of crazy detail. When you go home tonight you might try to draw him. You'll probably forget.
It's the kind of smile that deserves to be immortalised. 
"I really like your smile," you tell him, hoping it'll last a little longer. 
It stretches. The pink outline turns white. "Shut up." 
"I do. I've seen a thousand different smiles but I've never met someone who smiles like you do." 
"How's that?" he asks, edging toward you, face a mirror in which you can see your own charmed expression. 
"Like you," — you shake your head with your lips parted — "know a secret. Something you won't tell anybody." 
His smile abruptly ends. 
You've nothing if not a talent for saying the wrong thing. 
"A good secret," you amend. 
He picks up his acoustic and gives it an experimental strum. "Maybe one or two," he agrees. 
Relief catches you. You nibble at the inside of your lip and watch his fingers work over the neck of his guitar, tipping your head so you can read the words he's markered over the body. 
"This machine slays dragons," you murmur to yourself. "Yeah? How many?" 
"Just the one." 
"Save any princesses?" 
"Not yet." He plucks at the strings, lost in thought, before turning to you with eyebrows raised. "Can you play?" 
You exhale out of the corner of your mouth as he pushes the guitar into your lap, an arm coming around your shoulder, the other reaching to guide your curled forefinger to the strings. You turn to face him, watching him talk with a growing fondness. 
"It's easy, I swear. We'll do Call Me. Blondie's basic, even a baby could play it." 
He realises you aren't listening and raises his gaze, shiny brown irises stuck on your lips. This close, it would be worse if he didn't look at them. 
You glance at his, an obvious thing, half a wish. If he only lifted his chin. 
Your breath mingles. 
"It's easy," he says again, a murmur of his usual volume as his gaze pulls back up to yours. "I'll show you." 
You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding; it's deafening. You wait, and you wait, and you turn your eyes back to his guitar and clamp your fingers down against the struts so he can't see them shaking with adrenaline. 
Eddie sits beside Steve and tries not to admit to himself that Steve Harrington is, horrifyingly, his best friend (along with the rest of the party, obviously). Steve is the closest in age and Eddie can't make excuses (though he tries and tries and tries), Steve understands how much Eddie doesn't ever want to talk about anything that's happened to them, so he talks about literally everything else instead. 
"It was the weirdest pawn shop I've ever been in. They had, like, a wall of combi's playing the same video at the same time but all slightly delayed." 
Eddie blinks. 
Steve turns his head from the TV, having expected a response. "Did you say something?" 
"No." Then, because he's not a dick. "Sorry, Harrington. Want me to sit on your other side?" 
"What for?" Steve says. Not because he denies how he's hard of hearing, but because he denies having conversations with Eddie. 
He does end up moving to Steve's other side with a pathetic excuse. "I can't see the TV." 
Steve doesn't say a word until he's sat down again. "Sorry I was mean to your girlfriend." 
"Yeah, what was that about?" 
"I was cranky because it was early and I don't want her to damage the integrity of the party." He gives equal weight to both reasons. 
Eddie snorts at him. "Since when do you care about the integrity of the party?" Steve barely acknowledges that they are a party. He thinks that's a very nerdy way to say friends. 
"Since always, dipshit." 
"And inviting her to join the party was the solution because…?" 
Steve drinks the rest of his coke and pretends to really care about what's on TV. "If," he begins after a minute, refusing to look at Eddie, "something happens with her, and something happens to you, that damages the integrity of the party." 
"Steve," Eddie says, jaw dropped down to his chest, "do you have a crush on me?" 
"Oh my god," Steve mutters. "Oh my god," he says louder. "I can't stand you." 
To prove his point, he gets up from the couch with a wrinkled nose, stops to tap his shoe gently against Max's where she's sitting in the armchair across from the coffee table, and disappears into his kitchen. 
Steve Harrington cares about me enough to give Y/N the shovel talk. 
He feels kind of great about it. 
But he's not sure your the one who needs warning. 
That night in the forest, Eddie had almost snapped. There are rules to follow if he wants to keep people safe, self-imposed, Hopper-imposed, and he's broken too many with you already, the most important being no close proximity when he's hungry. Eddie doesn't even realise he is hungry half the time. He'll be standing by you and he'll want to touch you, and suddenly it's like he's three weeks in to the month without sating. 
He thinks about kissing you and suddenly he's thinking about biting you, and hurting you, and it's literally tearing him up from the inside out. 
How can he want to do that to you? 
"You look so depressed and pathetic," Dustin says out of the blue. 
Eddie pouts and falls back into the couch, Steve's fancy throw falling onto his shoulder. "I used to like you," he says, taking in Dustin's outfit with a kind of parental approval. He's getting older and it shows, slightly more handsome than he had been — he's kept all his baby weight and it suits him, his full cheeks surrounded by the softest brown curls Eddie has ever seen. The outfit stays immature, a funny t-shirt and ill-fitting pants. 
"Sad. You have a sad face," Dustin says. 
"Go play with your nerd squad, please." 
He doesn't listen, collapsing in Steve's still-warm seat like a cheap tent and crossing longer, thicker arms over his chest. He smiles at Eddie genuinely. "Where's your girlfriend?" 
"No." 
"Where's Y/N?" 
Eddie tips his head so he can see past the coffee table and points to where you're almost hidden, sitting with Robin on the floor by Steve's sideboard. You have a basket of tapes in front of you, the two of you trying to choose what's going in the stereo. Eddie prays for anything but Blondie. 
You will most likely choose Blondie. 
"What does she like?" Dustin asks curiously. 
"Everything, kind of. Why?" 
"I wanna know what to say when I talk to her." 
Eddie smiles at his friend's face, a soft, surprised thing. "I don't know if she knows anything about the radio but if you're happy about it she'll be happy too. She's a good listener."
Dustin picks at a piece of lint on his t-shirt bearing a white and black print of a dog wearing sunglasses. "So you talk to her?" he asks without looking up. 
"I mean, yeah. What else do you do?" 
"With a girl that likes you? Huh, let me think." Dustin laughs and ruins his own sarcasm, pointer finger laid against his chin in a show of thoughtfulness. 
"It's not like that," Eddie says lightly. 
"It could be." 
"Could it? I mean… I don't even know if she'll stick around. And I feel bad 'cos I can't be honest with her." 
"Why not?" 
"Hopper said he would literally put me in the hole if I even thought about it." There's no need to expand. Dustin would know better than anyone what he's talking about. 
He cringes at the thought, self hatred a hot poker down his throat. He must've said it to Dustin a hundred times when he finally came around from his coma (that wasn't a coma, but a death, and then a rebirth). I can't believe I put you through that. I can't believe I put you through that. I'm so sorry. 
I'm just glad you're alive, Eddie. 
And for a while, Eddie hadn't felt the same. The world he'd woken up to was hard. There had been lawyers and grief and guilt and becoming. He doesn't have the words to describe how it feels to become something new, something that needs to hurt people to live, something that will hurt people to live, whether Eddie wants to or not. 
The loss of choice is suffocating. 
Though moments like this with his friends– they don't make it 'worth it', they're just how it had to happen. There isn't a scenario where Eddie could give up. He can't leave Wayne, and he can't leave Dustin. He can live with the grief of what he is if it means other people don't have to live with grief of what he isn't. 
"Eddie, are you okay?" 
He's missed something. Dustin isn't the only one looking at him. 
He curls a hand around his forearm subconsciously. "I'm fine. I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom, actually. Gotta piss real bad." 
"Eddie-" 
"I'm fine, Henderson." He puts on a good show, patting Dustin's arm. His heart, usually so slow these days, has enough life in it to ache. 
He can't have been in the bathroom for five minutes when somebody knocks on the door aggressively. He's expecting Steve, pissed at his disappearance and likely preparing a speech on attention seeking behaviours and how they're hurting the youth of America, so he opens the door with a tired glare. 
He finds you, beaming and pretty, dressed ridiculously nicely for his idiot friends. 
"Hi," you say. He can hear something from Blondie's Parallel Lines playing from the living room, familiar because it's your favourite album. "Any room for me?" 
Eddie moves back. You close the door behind you. The bathroom becomes a vacuum of your sounds and smells. 
"They didn't have any Dio," you say with a smile. 
"I honestly wouldn't expect any different." 
"You could've brought some tapes, your mix from the van," you suggest. "I love that one." 
"Which one?" he asks, and he can't help it, whenever he's with you his voice crops to a dulcet murmur. The urge to speak to you as you speak to him is unconquerable. 
"One with the winking smile on the slipcase. I really like it." 
"You can have it." 
You lean against the sink. "I can?" 
"Mm. Whatever you want." Especially when you look like this. 
You smile at him, your 'thank you' smile, all sticky fondness and mischievousness. He has no idea what you're thinking. 
"'S a small bathroom in a huge house," you marvel. Your voice echoes "Where does he shower?" 
"There's an upstairs bathroom." 
"Two bathrooms? That's-" 
"Audacious?" 
"I was gonna say overkill." 
Your candidness has him shaking with laughter. He clutches at his sides, arms crossed and leaning forward. You visibly take in his appearance, eyes panning slowly over his clean hair. He'd taken care to look like somebody you might want to look at tonight. 
"Why don't you sit down, Eds?" you ask, eyes creased with an unreadable emotion. 
Eddie feels blindly for the toilet lid and pushes it down so he can do as you ask, wondering why you're asking.
"You look very handsome today." 
He hugs himself. "As opposed to every other day, when I don't?" 
You take a step forward, a second, hands playing with the hem of your shirt. Your outfit today is delightfully simple, a pressed black t-shirt long enough to cover the waistband of your pleated skirt. There's an expanse of thigh that makes his heart beat spin out, one longer than the other where your thigh-high is falling down.
He wants to pull it up. 
"C'mere," he says. 
You take that last step between his shoes and he reaches out, getting his fingertips under the elastic of your sock and tugging it upward over the soft fat of your leg. Your hands come up to his shoulders for balance, and you say, "No, you look handsome every day. Today you look very handsome. I made the distinction." 
He covers your thigh with both hands, looking up into your face as you look down. "You look really pretty today," he says boldly, fingers spreading behind your knee. 
"Thank you. Do you like my t-shirt?" 
It's a screen print of Debbie Harry. Eddie tries not to roll his eyes. "I love it, but your dedication to Blondie is seriously worrying, sweetheart." He gives your leg a short squeeze and pulls the most giggly smile out of you yet. 
"Like Madonna." 
"No!" he bemoans. 
You laugh and grow closer, arms on his shoulder, a hand threaded into his hair. "Cyndi Lauper?" you suggest. 
He puts a hand on your waist as you move in for a hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and the tops of his shoulders, cheek crushed to the top of his head. 
He'd ask if you were okay if he thought you weren't. You're not upset or seeking comfort. You're affectionate. You've been getting more and more touchy for weeks, as he has. Stolen touches, your almost-kiss on the porch last week. 
"No, not Cyndi Lauper," he says, his hand skirting around your back to pull you in properly. 
"R.E.M?" 
"God, no. Where are you hearing all this junk?" 
"The radio." 
"Tuned into the wrong station." 
You pet the back of his head. "Yeah," you say softly, "I think I was." 
The hug is shorter than Eddie wants it to be. You make one of your happy sounds and pull away to get your hands on his face, stroking curls from his cheeks with a protective touch. "Handsome," you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek with your knuckles. "Pretty. You have really big eyes, Eddie, so brown, and so…" You tilt your head to one side, face inching forward. 
He turns his face to suit, to fit, breath held as you close the gap. 
"So pretty," you murmur, and kiss him. 
His hands are limp and then alive, one clutching your hip, one splaying against your chest. He can hear the thud of your heart clear as day — you're bumping with excitement as you kiss him. It's a delicate, tender thing, the party suddenly far away, the music drowned by the sounds of your breathing. You kiss as you talk, as you move, gentle but with bursts of ardency. Your lips are a blissful heat, the tip of your nose smushing into his as you part your lips over his. 
He lifts his chin higher, his neck craned to receive you. He's savouring every movement. Each pause for breath that you take. The feeling of your inhales over his quick-bruising lips. 
Your hands play in his hair so sweetly it makes his eyes burn with an embarrassing amount of emotion. He screws them closed and squeezes up your waist, steadying himself as you feel along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. 
You don't get much further than that, seemingly pleased with your own brazeness or perhaps his touch, eyes glowing with mirth as you pull away. 
"Sorry," you breathe, not sorry at all. "You just really looked like someone should be kissing you."
You're flushed. Eddie can practically see the heat emanating off of your cheeks. He can feel it. 
He stands up, your pulse a ringing in his ears. The wet valves of your heart opening and closing. 
"Eddie?" you ask quietly, lifting your head to meet his eyes as he walks you back into the door. 
His gums sting. A click. 
It's a compulsion. 
His hands curl around your elbows, holding you in place. Your eyes are wide with confusion, your lightly swollen lips parted. He can see the tiniest slip of your pink tongue. 
He holds your gaze as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter closed. You wrap your arms around him as he descends, totally trusting. 
He's a meaner kiss than you are. He starts slow but swiftly loses a handle on it, kisses short but insistent, hot presses like little crescent moons against your barely open mouth. 
His hands move up your arms, a near vice-like grip until he finds your sleeves. His fingers slip underneath, hands hungry for your warmth. 
You make the worst sound anyone has ever made as he moves back, like something has been ripped from you. A gutted gasp, near silent. 
He placates as he wades back in. Thumbs rubbing your arms, lips mouthing damp kisses down your face. The corner of your pout, the hill of your chin, the skin under your jaw. Your head tips back against the door with an audible thud. You exhale hard. 
Eddie can't feel his hands. 
Your pulse hammers under his lips. He kisses it once. He can't think. He can't breathe. 
"You're always cold," you whisper, your hands drifting lazily under the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingertips trail up his spine. "But your lips are warm." 
He kisses your neck, his lips parting slowly, a hair's width a second as he sucks your skin into his mouth gently. It's barely a kiss. He does it a second time. A third. You start to laugh, a golden sound. 
The point of his fangs touch your skin and you stop. 
Eddie closes his mouth abruptly. His hand leaps to your neck and he feels your heart skip as he holds you still. "I'm sorry," he says, nose rubbing over the damp spot he's left behind, your teased skin. 
Your heart hikes again. 
"I'm sorry," he repeats. He pulls away, an agony. 
"It's okay," you say. Your breathlessness says otherwise.
Eddie takes as many deep breaths as he can stand, wanting to clear his head and filling it with you instead. Your everything; your smell, your skin. Your limp hands against his back. 
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks when he gets a look at you, your unreadable expression. He takes care to keep his head angled down so you can't see the lower half of his face. 
"I don't think you could." 
You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, his weight against yours.
"I wanted to tell you something," you confess. 
"What-" He licks his lips, wincing when his fangs slide into his tongue and scrape grooves across his taste buds. "What was that?" 
"I know you…" You pause, fingertips rubbing at his cheek.
Does she know? Eddie thinks, horrified. He hadn't realised how scary waiting could be. A thousand worries condensed into a handful of seconds. Does she know?
How could she not?
You press your palm to his cheek with more insistence. "I don't want you to think you have to hide anything from me. I know you have scars," you say, fingers sliding into the soft baby hair at the back of his neck. "You don't have to cover up. You don't have to cover any of it." 
"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to convince himself. 
"I know." 
-
You stay a while longer. Eddie's friends pretend that you hadn't been alone in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time together. You thank them all silently and less so, trying to talk to as many of them as you can. 
There's Lucas, who's really, really nice, and his girlfriend Max, who's less so. She gives you an unimpressed look through her thick-lensed glasses, but you compliment her crutches and she comes around. 
There's Mike, who actually isn't anywhere as bad as Eddie had described him. He's not frosty or standoffish, he's sweet and he asks questions. There's a girl with him that you don't catch the name of, and a boy on her other side. 
There's Dustin, who you adore immediately, Robin, who you adore more, and then there's Steve. 
Steve offers you a pretzel like you're more than familiar. He strolls right up to you with a bowl of them in hand and doesn't leave until you've eaten half of them. 
There's a couple of people you don't manage to talk to at all, and you feel guilty about it all the way home. 
"What if they think I'm rude?" you ask, tired eyes locking onto the stereo system. The time blinks analog in the dark, 12:59AM. 
"They don't, don't worry about it. You have lots of time to get to know them, anyway." 
You hum and turn to his face, indulgent because you know he can't look back. "You're not too tired to drive, are you?" He's spent. Yesterday had been one of his bad days. 
"I'm fine." 
"You say that all the time," you observe, dropping your cheek into the passenger seat's headrest. 
"I'm fine all the time." 
"Liar." 
"Nuisance." 
You huff a laugh through your nose. The strands of his friendship bracelet, the small beads at the ends, swing like pendulums in the gap between his arm and the steering wheel. You can see the rough skin of a scar creeping out from under his sleeve. 
"Mike was really nice," you say. 
"He has a bleeding heart." 
That feels accurate. "He reminds me of you." 
Eddie rolls his eyes. You feel for every detail, the strange tension between you like a gaussian filter over everything. He's gorgeous in a horrific way, heartbreakingly pale, eyes dark as pitch, hands restless. They squeeze alone the wheel, thick fingers curling tight until his knuckles are stark white. Running down the back of his hands are veins like rivers. They're more purple than green. 
"Eddie," you say, playful, a tiny bit insecure. 
"What?" 
"Wanna stay the night?" 
His hand moves forward on the wheel like he's revving a motorcycle, the tendon in his wrist rising to the surface. He clenches. "Not sure it's a good idea." 
"Just to sleep. It's late." 
"I don't know if I can sleep next to you." 
You don't wanna say please. You don't want to ask Eddie to do anything he can't or doesn't wanna do. 
He pulls up outside of your house with his mind already made up. He gets out of the car and you follow his lead. He locks it, shoves the keys in his pocket as you join him on the path up to your porch. 
He's been in here enough times to know what it looks like, but for some reason you find yourself checking his face, worried about what it is he thinks of your things, all your mismatched trinkets, your stained glass lamps, your life as you let yourselves in. He ducks through the beeded curtain into your bedroom wary that they'll get tangled in his hair like they sometimes do. 
"Do you wanna call Wayne?" you ask, gesturing to your telephone on the right hand side, nestled between a stack of books and a cup full of coloured pencils. 
You pull your knee up to your chest and unlace your shoes one at a time. Eddie punches the number into the phone and holds the receiver to his shoulder to do as you're doing. It takes him less time to pop his sneakers off than for you to get out of yours. He's just taken the phone back into his hand when Wayne picks up. 
"Wayne?" he asks softly. "Didn't wake you up, did I?" 
You can't hear his response. 
"I'm gonna stay with Y/N tonight. Yeah, we had a good time. Yeah…" His eyes drift to you as you peel out of your thigh highs.
"Yeah, I'm still here. What?" He meets your eyes and it feels accidental, because he throws his eyes to your bedsheets and turns his face to the wall. "No," he says firmly. 
You scrape together something to wear for bed and some fresh underwear and leave for the bathroom, telling yourself that nothing is gonna happen so don't get your hopes up but not wanting to get caught out if it does. You freshen up, brushing your teeth and washing your face.
You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you should've left your face-powder and your mascara on. Maybe even the skirt. You'd looked nice and pretty for the party. Now you look like yourself, still pretty but without those extra touches. Will he care? Does it matter? 
You debate your pyjama pants considerably. 
There's a lot happening. 
Eddie is… Eddie is something else. He's different, you'd known that for a long time, and his kiss had confirmed it. 
He's something out of a science fiction book. 
Well, nobody's perfect. 
Whatever he is, he'd kissed you. You'd kissed him and he'd responded, he'd come back for more, and now he's sitting in your bed when he could've gone home. You bring your hand to your neck and crane to one side, fingertips poking at your unbroken skin. His hickey's haven't even bruised. 
You screw the pants up and drop them into your laundry basket. You take off every piece of jewellery on your person. 
"Do you wanna use the bathroom?" you ask from behind the beaded curtain. "I left a new toothbrush for you on the sink." 
"Yeah, desperately, I…" He takes you in as you emerge. Fresh-faced, bare-legged. As naked as you've ever been in front of him, physically and otherwise. 
Eddie meets you where you're standing. He's ditched his jacket, and for the first time since you met him you can see the full length of his arms.
"You're not wearing your bracelets," he says, looking between your bodies. His hand twitches toward yours. 
"You have tattoos," you say. 
"They were better, before." 
There's a misshapen mess of black splodges near the crook of his elbow broken up by scar tissue. One arm is less scarred than the other, an almost perfect flank of white skin. 
"Is that a puppet? He's super spooky." 
"Mh-hm." 
You bring your hand to his tattoo and feel over the skin. It doesn't feel like it's there. Eddie holds your wrist and the two of you move together, your fingertips stroking up until you're wrapped around his bicep. 
Eddie brings his free hand to your collar. His index finger straightens, encouraging your chin up so he can ease forward and kiss you. He's firm, eager, and your lips curl up into a smile underneath it. He turns his head to the right and you fall left, smile worsened when you feel his own start to form. 
He nudges your nose. You take it for a telling off and laugh. "Sorry," you apologise, kissing his top lip. 
"You're making this difficult," he chides. 
Despite any sternness, Eddie loosens his grip on your wrists to slide his fingers between yours, pressing your joined hands to your chest. He leans back down and he's careful, almost methodical in the way he kisses. Chaste pecks, hot and precious as tiny stars. 
You reach for his waist. 
Eddie kisses you a final time and steps back. "I'll be back," he promises. 
You lower your chin, flustered and perplexed by his sudden departure.
Walking around to the right side of the bed, you click on your bedside lamp — a beautiful glass and foiled contraption that throws dainty stripes of stars and hearts over everything close in the dark — before climbing in. You sniff one of your pillows experimentally, trying to remember when you last changed the bed. You decide they're acceptable even if they really smell like your hair oil and flip them around to be safe, plumping them up with your hands.
You've curled up on your side and almost succumb to your fatigue when Eddie returns, bringing with him the smell of spearmint and a fuzzy feeling in your stomach as he shuts off the light and sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing you. The hair around his face is damp with water, baby hair's limp. 
"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you to wear, I-" Youre cut off by your own gasp as Eddie kisses you, his hand on your neck, his nose bridge sliding into your own. You hadn't been expecting it, and it's no less dizzying than any other kiss he's given you today. 
"It's okay," he murmurs lowly, lips pressed to your lips, "have to wear you, is all."  
You huff a laugh into his mouth. "I swear I'm always laughing when I'm with you," you muse as Eddie dedicates himself to your bottom lip. You cup the back of his head. "You're amazing." 
Eddie groans and eases back. "I'm not good with words, sweetheart. To tell you how I feel about you." 
You push one of your legs toward his knee. "...You can show me." 
He shifts in the bed until he can lean over the entirety of your chest, hands cupping your face and lips poised hovering over your own, a millimetre of space between your mouth and his. "Okay," he says quietly.
He dips down. You can feel his bottom lip tremble, and then he's kissing you too hard to feel it anymore. You wrap loose arms around his back. 
"Are you sure?" you whisper to him. 
He rests his nose against your cheek, eyes closed, drawing the tiniest left to right. "I want you," he reassures. 
"And you're okay?" 
"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm okay. Do you want to?" 
"Yeah. More than anything." 
Another loving kiss against your cheek, Eddie moves down, down, down. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he murmurs, top lip dragging and leaving a line of dampness to the base of your throat. 
He adorns the canvas of your neck in half-moon contusions, big hands caressing your shoulders, your chest. You hold your breath as his fingers pass over your nipple, fighting to keep in any embarrassing sounds. 
Eddie disagrees with his plan of action. You shiver as he brings his lips to a close and his bottom teeth scrape upward, as he pulls his head up and says, "C'mon, angel, breathe." 
He follows his command with a manipulative touch, a circle over your nipple that makes you shudder. He kisses you and it feels like a thank you, pressure, a heat as his palm smooths over the bump of your tummy to your thighs. He squeezes the outside of one and for a while you can kiss him back, and then he pulls your thighs apart and you break away. Eddie follows, kisses you even when your reciprocation is weak. 
He pushes your thigh flat to the bed. 
You feel the heat of your excitement start to grow. Your stomach aches with the want to be touched. 
"You're like a space heater, you're that warm," Eddie says, hand coasting down the inside of your thigh. He squeezes until fat melds under his fingers. "Are you scared?" 
His whispering in your ear, his hand as close as it is to where you want it, it winds you up like a coil. You sigh as his thumb strokes the edge of your panties, sound coloured by an awful, devouring desire. 
His face presses further into yours in reaction. 
His touch is like the tide. He wades in, away. His thumb strokes inward over something soft and then his whole hand moves back to your thigh. 
"Teasing," you utter. 
"A little… Why, is there something you want me to do?" 
His clueless whispering is infuriating and exciting at the same time. Your heart races and you can't discern if it's more lust or love.
"Touch me," you plead, pouting, knowing he's a pushover.
Anticipation stabs like a needle in your tummy as he slides his palm over your cunt completely. He rubs a careful, almost casual rhythm into your panties with the breadth of his fingers, lips kissing a lazy stripe up to your forehead, where he rests his face. You both watch his hand move past the valley of your rising chest. 
"M'gonna pull these off, yeah?" He sits up, fingers pushing under the sides. "Lift your- yeah, thank you, sweetheart." 
You buzz with his pet names, his soft voice, the feeling of your panties sliding up to your knees and his gentle exhale. You swear you can feel it fan over your slit. "Shit…" he moan, pulling at your spread cunt. 
He looks like he's in pain, eyebrows pinched together and murmuring curses as he circles the wetness gathered at your entrance. You turn your head searchingly as he starts to ease his index finger inside your heat, a gentle probing. 
One becomes two. He muffles your sighing with firm kisses, amorous praises, "That's it, baby, relax," as he works you open, fingers wet with slickness but not enough. He changes his position, pushing his middle and marriage finger inside and curving as his thumb slides up your slit looking for the bead of your clit. 
Slow, slow circles. "There, huh?" 
You shiver as he pushes in deeper, fingers as far as they can go. He spreads them wide, drops reassuring kisses all over your face when you keen. It's so new to have him kiss you at all, and to have him touching you — you're melting into nothing right there in his hold. 
"I got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay?" 
"Want you to- I want you to fuck me," you murmur, arms wrapping around him so you can hide your face in his neck. 
"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you just as soon as I can fit," he murmurs back, sinking three of his thick fingers into your snug cunt. He pulls wetness out with every thrust, a line of slick dribbling down onto the sheets underneath. He wipes it upward and pushes it back inside, his chest heaving. "Y'so tight, gotta take my time. Take our time." He rubs his nose against your head until he can kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Make sure you can take it." 
"I can." 
It doesn't bear repeating how quietly you're speaking, a mouthing inaudible under the wet, rhythmic thud of Eddie's pinky finger slapping your sticky cunt as he ups the pace of his finger-fucking. 
"I don't think so," he coos, pulling his fingers from your cunt and making a show of spreading them wide. Your slick ribbons between them, almost invisible in the dark. "Ruin your sheets before any of that, maybe." 
Eddie sits up and gets his hands under your armpits. You laugh as he tugs you up so your shoulders are on top of the pillows, but you don't have time to be confused. He quickly moves to kneel at your feet and pulls your leg over his shoulder, your back lifting unevenly from the sheets. 
He starts with a sweet kiss pressed to the skin closest to his mouth, your lower thigh, and then works his way up, open mouthed, barely kisses at all until his hair whispers against your sensitive cunt and he's nipping at the stripe of skin between your thigh and the place where you most want his attention. 
"Pretty," he says into your damp skin, lips shining. You reach down to stroke his hair behind his ears, worried he's gonna get it dirty. 
He looks at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark in the dim light, their lashes long and soft where the outermost flutter into your skin. He's lovely. 
He holds your gaze as he pulls back to your inner thigh. "Pretty everywhere," he says salaciously. 
His lips part over your skin and you think he might bite you, a bruising hickey, but he pushes you down flat to the bed by your hips and kisses your clit, a simple kiss. Your fingers weave deeper into his hair. Your fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp, every tiny lick or kiss reflected in the minute tightening of your hands. 
He goes slow, mouths down, kisses wetter and wetter as he reaches your entrance. "Poor girl," he murmurs, hands pulled down to further scandalise. He sinks two fingers inside and laughs into your cunt. You squirm. 
"What happened? You're dripping on my fingers." Your thighs draw closed around his head as he curls his fingers against a soft spot.
"Eddie, can you-" You swallow. "Please. Please." 
He pries your thighs open and rubs them soothingly, lapping at the heat of your cunt in face of your pleading. His tongue appears broad and flat up the centre of you until he's kissing on your clit, fingers pumping in rhythm. Your fingers work into his hair and he groans, the vibration enough to make you whimper under his mouth. 
He laps at your clit messily and you tip your head back, breath coming in tight pants. You don't know what you say, only how you say it, desperate "please,"s and keening "Eddie,"s. 
His thrusts grow in enthusiasm, fingers rubbing eagerly against something sweet. You pull your legs up and nudge his face to your cunt insistently, thigh shaking as you hold it up. Eddie doesn't need any more encouragement, his pretty pink lips suckling at your clit until you see stars. You make a pained little sound and try to move away from his kissing, startled at the intensity of your high. 
Eddie lets your clit pop out of his mouth with a lewd, slick sound, his hands moving under your thighs and pulling you closer. "Good girl," he says, rubbing his wet face against the inside of your thigh. He inhales hard as you are, though he pauses to kiss your kneecap and pat your leg. "Good girl, sweetheart." 
"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, hands pulling his hair from his face. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves. 
"For what?" 
"Tugging on your hair," you explain, shoulder pulled up to your cheek.  
Eddie kisses your tummy lovingly and climbs on top of you to do the same just under your chin. "It’s okay, sweetheart, I like that shit. That was good, huh?" he asks, lips dropping down to yours all wet and warm. 
He's not bragging, he's genuinely asking. 
You nod into his kiss, your hands coming up to his sides. You swear your ears perk up as he unzips his jeans and eases them down, a hand disappearing into the mess of fabric. He moans quietly at the first touch. 
You move his hair out of the way to watch. Eddie tugs at the length of his cock with a cruel hand, a short dribble of pearly precum sobbing down the tip and under his fingers. He spreads it as it goes, the slickness emphasising the ridges and veins of his cock. You can see it throb, if you look close enough. 
He sits back and eases his jeans and boxers down enough to reveal a thatch of curls that brush his hand with every pump downward. 
"You okay?" he asks, smirking. 
You pull your shirt over your head and your chest warms at his adoring smile. "Will you take off yours?"
He doesn't hesitate like you worried he might. He sheds his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over the back of his head and dumping it off the side of the bed. 
You take in his chest and it's abundance of ragged scarring still purpled with newness. He has a tattoo over his heart, a black whorl of legs and eyes. Fine dark hair crawls from the middle of his chest down his navel, joining with the thatch of coiled hair surrounding his aching cock. You shuffle forward and wait with two tentative hands held aloft until he says, "It's okay," before you touch him. You run your hands down the soft slopes of his waist. 
"Does it hurt?" 
"Not anymore." 
"Can I kiss it?" 
He snorts. "Prefer you kiss something else." 
That really makes you laugh. You dot a kiss against his jaw and can't make yourself stop, dropping them all the way to the skin behind his ear. Your hand creeps lower as you go, held to the curve of his tummy. His skin is hot to touch the lower you go, and his stomach feels solid, a heaviness you know all too well. 
"Can I touch you?" you whisper into his ear. 
"Please." 
You drop your forehead against his chest and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head. His cock pulses as you wrap your hand around it, skin smooth and slick as you palm slowly up and down. You watch in awe as a bead of precum wells at the tip, Eddie's rough breathing loud overhead. 
"Lie down, Y/N," he says, hand moving behind your naked shoulders. 
"What way?" 
"How do you want it, sweetheart? We'll do it whatever way you want." 
You think about it. Whatever way you want. No matter how indulgent, you know he means it.
"Will you spoon me?" 
He pushes you gently and follows behind, dragging your body into his front and angling your hips, cock hot and prodding your back. He gets his hand under your knee and pulls it up, splaying your cunt. You jump in surprise as he pushes his cock through your folds, tip rubbing against the still sensitive bead of your clit. 
Eddie wraps his arms around you, hugging you from behind. "You wanna put it in for me, baby?" 
You reach between your bodies and take his sticky cock into your hand, shifting until the head nudges against your hole. He sinks in inch by inch, arms tightening around your waist and grinding you down onto his cock until you're whimpering. 
You grab at his arms with your hands and tether yourself to him as he starts to rock his hips, his thrusting tender and his face turned into your neck. 
He presses his hand flat to your abdomen, an anchoring point as he moulds your weepy cunt around his length, each slovenly movement into your heat spreading you that little bit wider. 
"Fuck," he says finally, sounding seconds from a black out. "Oh, fuck- You're tight. Gonna fuck you open slow, okay?" 
You're pretty sure you'd let him do just about anything. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss every white knuckle, every freckle you can see on the back, and when he bottoms out your cover your lips with his stolen hand to smother a tearful gasp.
Eddie's thrusts are spearing in their steady rhythm, a dirty slap ringing with every punching thrust forward. You curl in on yourself and hide your mouth in the sheets, wet pants smothered by fabric. Eddie's grip falls to your hip, where he pulls your body back and forces your cunt open even deeper. 
His cock pushes into your sweet spot sudden and emphatic. You moan and he stills, rutting into that same space without pulling out until you're babbling his name, body knocked forward with every thrust. 
Eddie turns your face toward him as much as he can without hurting your neck, your moans echoing in time with each thrust. "There you go," he says, "wanna hear how good it feels." 
If he cares that you can't answer him he doesn't show it, arm coming up under you arm to grasp at your chest, your breaststroke soft and aching under his hand as he squeezes tenderly. His cock kisses at the sweet spot inside you intermittently; you're dizzy with it. 
Eddie can't keep quiet either, his moans breathy, his breath hissing between his teeth when you clamp down around him. "Fuck," he begs, dragging his cock out of your heat, "fuck, Y/N." 
He says your name like the syllables alone are appraising. 
You can tell when it gets too much for him. He slows. His face drops into your shoulder, and he matches his pace to the wet kisses he leaves behind. Your wetness feels stickying, each of his thrusts snug. 
His breath hitches, ragged pants accompanying every slow push of his hips. "Where's my girl?" he asks, eyes still closed as his hand abandons where it'd been squeezing the bump of your tummy to search further downward, fingers disappearing into your folds, short curls wet with slick. He can't find any purchase. You roll your hips, chase his touch and the pleasure that comes with it. 
He groans into your shoulder. It sounds more pain than pleasure. 
"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to turn in his arms. He holds you in place. "Eddie?" 
"Yeah, fuck, I'm okay." He grinds up into your cunt. "Fuck, you're perfect." 
"Will you kiss me?" 
He does. It's nowhere near the bruising press you'd wanted. It's too careful. 
"Listen," he murmurs, "I'm gonna get you on your front, okay? Gonna make you feel so good," he promises, waiting for you to nod before he pushes your shoulder away from him and climbs up behind you. You lay flat on your stomach and Eddie settles on your thighs, a heavy weight. 
He pushes into your cunt with two fingers first, the new position allowing for a new pleasure. He pumps in and out and swaps his fingers for his cock quickly after, bearing the full weight of his body into your back as sinks to the hilt. 
You both moan in time, hands fisted in the sheets. 
He kisses your neck, lips parted, and his teeth feel so sharp that your heart sinks as it had in the bathroom. 
"Eddie-" you start. 
He pulls away, stops every movement. 
"Eddie," you say again. What are you supposed to say? You both know what he is. 
There's a lull where neither of you knows what to do filled by your too-fast breathing.
"I won't hurt you," he says, hands rubbing up the length of your back and then under. He holds a hand over your heart. He drops his lips to your back. "Do you want me to stop?" 
He must feel your pulse calm under his touch, but he still asks again when you don't answer. "Do you want me to stop? It's okay if you do. You're okay, baby, I promise." 
You steal a pillow from against the headboard and rise up on elbows. Your admission comes weak but completely honest. "Fuck me, Eddie, please... I want you. I want you-" Your murmuring's interrupted by a sharp breath as Eddie starts to move again, the head of his cock pushing into your cunt, a slick, perfect feeling. 
He moans from the back of his throat as his cock pushes into you again and again, hips smacking the dough of your ass as his pace quickens. You hug your pillow tightly, tears popping up in the corners as he ruts deep. 
"Being so good for me," he groans, clamped down on your hip with a vice-like grip. "Fuck, you feel so good. Fucking clinging to me every time I pull out, baby, Christ." His blasphemy is punctuated by a thrust that has you sliding up the bed, sheets wrinkling under your arms. You spread your thighs and wetness pools at your clit as his pelvis thrusts into you, driving pleasure so deeply it aches in your hips.
You moan pathetically and reach back to hold his hand, wiggling your fingers. He takes it in one and presses your arm against your lower back with the other, struggling to maintain a steady pace as he gets close to cumming. You're a babbling stream of sounds as he fucks in deep, swollen sweet spot tapped against mercilessly.
He throws himself back on his haunches, cock dragged out of your heat. 
You pull your legs out from underneath him and curl onto your side to watch, eyes wide as white spurts of pearlescence jump out of the head of his reddened cock and drip down the bumps of his fingers. He leans back, his stomach and thighs tensed with every pump. 
He groans through a smile, moan's coloured by a happy, relieved laughter. "F-uck," he drags, fisting his cock dry. 
He meets your eyes as the last of it slides down onto his stomach. 
You smile softly. "Fuck," you mumble. 
Eddie wipes his hand in his jeans like a fucking hooligan and tucks his cock back into his boxers with a wince, and then he collapses on top of you. He's sort of nice about it, his arm over your shoulder and his face behind your ear. 
"Fucking beautiful," he praises, dropping his head back on the bed so you're face to face. "You're so fucking pretty. So perfect." He kisses you. "You're perfect," he repeats, staring intently into your eyes. 
You pull a hand from between your legs, smelling of sex. Eddie literally couldn't care less if he tried, and he lets you take his face into your hand without complaint. 
He gets his arm under your arm and starts to rub your back. "You want me to take care of you again?" he asks, eyebrows raised gently. "Yeah?" 
And you would let him, you would, but you need to see them for yourself. 
You touch your index fingertip to his lip. 
"Can I see?" you ask. 
He loses his boisterous joy, tamps it down. He realises that he can't lie, that he hasn't been lying, and he nods. You tremble as you pull his lip up over his canine tooth, excited and scared.
A sharp, exceptionally white tooth pokes out of Eddie's gums. You're taken aback, though you'd known exactly what you'd find.
A fang. 
Blood oozes at the gums. 
"You're bleeding," you worry aloud, touching your finger to the dark beading at the base of his tooth. 
Eddie's eyes rove over your face thoughtfully. He pulls your hand away from his lip and sets it on his neck instead. "They always do that. The gum heals, breaks when they wanna come out." 
"How often do they come out?" 
"A lot more since I met you. Whenever my adrenaline spikes, they seem to think it's… feeding time." 
That is a dizzying thing to learn. 
You're not sure how you feel, but you know one thing: he's Eddie. "It's too bad," you say, forcing a lightness that turns real more easily than you expect. "I really want to kiss you right now." 
He strokes your cheek with his thumb. "I really wanna kiss you too. Maybe a small one?" 
You find yourself leaning forward, unafraid. 
He kisses you once, twice, three times, the two of you holding each other's faces and covered in mess. Slick and sweat and blood. The hearts and stars from your lamp spray over his hip and paint him with pinks, greens, oranges, a rainbow cutting over his trim waist. You rest your hand overtop, feel his keloid scars like hills under your fingers. 
"My boyfriend's a vampire," you mutter, bemused at fate.
Eddie blinks at you. "I'm your boyfriend?" 
"Yeah, I think so. Don't you?" 
Eddie pulls you into his chest and doesn't let you go for a long, long time.
-
Your first time watching a blood sate is weird. 
For one, Chief Hopper is firmly against it. He's got his kid with him, the boy from the party that Mike had been so heavily doting on, and if he didn't you might think he was a pretty scary guy. 
"I think this is stupid," the chief says plainly. "I think this is stupid, I think you're stupid," — he points at Eddie where he's sitting sickly in the round couch — "and I think you're plain crazy, kid." He points at you last. 
You beam at him. "People have said that about me." 
His kid laughs. 
"Will," Hopper says tiredly, "go sit in the car." 
"Look, Chief, I know I messed up, okay, but she kind of stuck her hand in my mouth and I didn't really have a choice." 
Wayne looks at you with new eyes. "You did?" 
You nod at him faux-seriously. 
"And what gave her the inkling that you might have had something in your mouth worth looking at?" Hopper says, which is hilarious. You laugh behind your hand. 
He gives you a disapproving look that you completely ignore. If you'd taken notice of disapproval you would've stopped having this much fun years ago. 
"Uh, well, she might have… felt them?" His pitch rises. 
Hopper looks like he's about to blow a gasket when Will says, "What was he supposed to do? Never talk to anyone new ever again?" 
"He did a lot more than just talk to me," you say. There'd been a fixed bike, phone calls, lots of sandwiches, bug hunts, an entire sketchbook full of drawings. 
"I told you to wait in the car," Hopper says.
Will grins and raises his hands in surrender. "Bye," he mouths. You wave. 
Hopper waits for the door to close before he continues. "I get it, when you're a teenager you think your hormones are the end of the world-" 
"I'm almost twenty three." 
Hopper pinches his hand closed. "But you do not understand the danger that you are creating here."
"Like a stake-ing," you whisper, very very quietly. Eddie's the only one who can hear you, and he laughs so hard he snorts. 
"I'm glad you find this funny." Hopper's tone could not imply the opposite any more. 
He hands Wayne a paper bag that audibly sloshes and stalks out, his anger a palpable cloud of steam rising off of his shoulders. Eddie seizes up beside you at the sound, lips parting as his fangs come through. You don't touch him because you value your blood inside your body, only slide away from him and smile. "You okay, handsome?" 
"Kid, maybe the chief is right. We don't know how Eds is gonna act with you here," Wayne says. 
You nod respectfully. You like Wayne, and he knows about all of this stuff more than you ever could. 
"No," Eddie mumbles, putting his hand out for you across the couch. 
You take it without thinking. 
Wayne sighs. You can hear him grumbling as he disappears from view into the kitchen and puts a pot on the stove. There's the sound of a bag being punctured with a knife, a wet slosh. Eddie's grip on your hand tightens. 
You're still fascinated that he even drinks blood in the first place. That's wickedly sickening. Wicked, because it's cool that he's a vampire, with his impressive hearing, senses and smell. But sickening, because if you had to drink a pint of blood every couple of weeks you'd throw up. 
"I read about a new blood-sucker." 
Eddie raises his heavy head. "Another bug?" 
"No, a finch! A vampire finch. They're really pretty, Teddy. They're small and brown with long beaks and they drink blood because there's barely any water on their island." You give him a loving smile. "They aren't parasites. S'just how they had to change to survive." 
He squeezes your hand, this time on purpose. 
"Are you gonna come and have it in here, Eddie?" Wayne asks, one last shot at separating the two of you.
"I'm okay," he says loudly. His eyes trace your smile. "Really." 
It can't be fun to have two people watch you drink a warm mug of blood, but Eddie finds it funny. He keeps laughing every time he brings the rim of the glass to his mouth. 
"I can't do it if you're looking at me," he says. 
Wayne rolls his eyes and looks away. You cover your face with both hands and part your fingers to spy on him through the gaps. He makes it look easy, draining the mug basically in one long pull, though his hunger turns violent as the cup empties. He chokes. Blood trickles down from one corner of his mouth. 
You automatically want to reach over and wipe it away. Wayne grabs your arm before you can and gives you a fatherly look that says, I wouldn't do that if I were you. 
"Shit," Eddie says, slamming his now empty mug down on the coffee table. It makes a grating sound like a ground mortar and pestle. He sits as far back on the couch cushions as he can, nausea clear on his face. 
"Deep breath," Wayne says. 
"Fuck, Wayne." 
"You're aces. Deep breaths." 
Your heart hurts watching Eddie like this. He covers his mouth with eyes closed tightly and breathes hard through his nose. Already there's colour coming back into his face, not a lot but anything is an improvement. He'd been practically grey. 
When Eddie pulls his hand from his mouth blood has spread over his lips and jaw. Your eyes widen.
"I'll get the shower running," Wayne says, slapping his knees as he stands. He stops before the hallway. "Good job, Eddie." 
The boy in question slouches into a ball on the sofa and nods into a cushion. You wait for the sound of Wayne pulling the shower cord that turns on the hot water before you stand up, head tipped to one side. 
"You okay, handsome?".
"Tired." 
"You want a hug from me?" 
"Is anyone else offering?" He opens one eye to peek at you and grins at your distraught expression. "I'm joking, I'm kidding. C'mere, before I start bawling." You sit and then flop onto your side, pulling your legs up next to his. "Such a frowny face." His voice is adorably tired.
"Better than yours. You look like someone from Night of the Living Dead, baby." 
Eddie's arm lies limp like a dead fish over your waist. "Lemme nibble on your brains," he says, words thick as dark honey, eyes closed. "Just a snack." 
You're waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under your feet. No way your boyfriend, your cries at the end of every movie, brings you flowers because he felt like it, won't step on cracks in the sidewalk boyfriend just skulled a glass of O-negative like it was a milkshake. 
You feel guilty as soon as you think about it. He's not confined to all his softest parts and he never will be. He's snarky and angry and loud. He plays guitar like a real rockstar and he doesn't take anyone's shit. He's a survivor. A glass of blood every now and then was never gonna stop him. 
You keep wondering if you should let him suck your blood. It could be hot. It could also probably be the worst idea ever, a relationship faux pas up there with proposing after a month or saying I love you on the first date. 
"What are you thinking about?" he asks. 
You brush the hair out of his eyes with your ring finger. "Embarrassing relationship fumbles." 
"Oh yeah? Like letting your girlfriend watch you drink human blood from a mug shaped like Woodstock?" 
"Least it wasn't Snoopy." 
"God forbid." 
"Is it always like this?" You stroke your hand down his face and rub along his jaw with your thumb. "D'you always get sleepy?" 
"Yeah." He turns his face so your hand covers his mouth. 
You've stopped wearing silver jewellery, your wrists bare besides the endearingly awful friendship bracelet he's constructed for you. Not a friendship bracelet, he'd corrected. You're not kissing other friends, are you? Because that's really gonna put a downer on this whole thing.  
You dip your forehead to his chin and the two of you lay there in silence. You can smell blood, a thick, metallic stick permeating every corner of the room. It's especially strong between the both of you. 
"Do you wanna bite me right now?" you inquire without opening your eyes. 
"Not really. Blood sate kicks in quickly. It's the worst for, like, the first ten seconds after. Now I wanna sleep, but Wayne's gonna make me shower." 
"Maybe I can shower with you." 
"I'm sure he'd jump for joy if you suggest it." 
"Really?"
Eddie kisses your hand. "No," he says with a giddy laugh. 
"I'll pretend I'm gonna sit on the toilet. Keep watch." 
"How will you stop your hair from getting wet?" 
"I'll lean out." 
Eddie laughs even more than he had been, peeling laughter that warms you from the inside out as he kisses your hand again. "That'll definitely work." 
Wayne clears his throat. 
"Shower's hot. I'm going out. For an hour." Eddie perks up. His uncle looks him dead in the eye. "Don't make me regret this." 
And while Wayne had been under the impression you and Eddie were gonna have some grown up fun together in the shower, what you really do is an innocent act of affection: you wash Eddie's hair. 
"You have to lean your head back," you chide. 
"I am." 
"More than that." 
"There's no room." 
You're lucky you both fit. You're freezing standing behind Eddie, the only relief the warm water that trickles down from your hands to your elbows as you draw circles in his scalp, working the shampoo into a fine lather. 
"How did you get blood here?" you ask, scratching rusty flakes from the hair behind his ear. 
"I don't know. It gets everywhere. Like eyeshadow." 
You push your chin over his shoulder. "You wear eyeshadow?" 
"For shows." 
"Really?"
"Is it hard to believe?" 
You encourage his head under the water and rake your hands through his curls, encouraging the soapy water down to the ends with patient hands. "Lip gloss too? Hey, can I do your makeup?" 
"Maybe tomorrow," he bargains. While the shower has helped to wake him up, lethargy remains thick and unshakeable as adamant. 
You kiss the wet ridge of his shoulder blade, picturing his pretty face decked out in dark liners and sticky balm. "Thank you." 
"I haven't worn any in a long time. Haven't played a show in a really long time." 
You wring the water out of his hair and search in the steam for his conditioner. It's mostly empty. "You could put on a show for me. I never got to see you play," you say, shaking it really hard. A dollop collects in your hand and you work the dregs through the ends of his long hair. 
"You want that?" 
"I think you're the best guitar player in the world." 
You're not joking. He's the best, and he plays guitar. And he's pretty good, semantics aside. You love sitting out on the porch with him and listening to him play old rock songs off the top of his head. You could watch his hands move over the strings for hours. 
"If that's the case, I can definitely put on a show. Make-up, costume, stage dives. The whole nine yards. Anything for my girl." 
You roll the ends of his hair between two coated palms and step back. "There. You have to let it soak in for a couple of minutes." 
Eddie turns with a grin, angling his chest and hair forward, away from the stream. 
"Whatever will we do?"
You wipe an escaped streak of blood off of his bottom lip and smile. "I have no idea." 
You kiss. Eddie leans down and you move up, damp noses glancing off of each other. You're used to short kisses, never enough to make his heart race in case it prompts an unnecessary appearance of his fangs, so when Eddie encourages your lips apart to wade in deeper you pull back questioningly. 
"Blood sate. I'm 'sated'. They won't come out." 
Your jaw drops. "For real?" 
He shakes his head with a pleased smile. "For real. Kiss me sick, sweetheart." 
You throw your arm around his neck and drag his face to yours, kissing with an ardency that both surprises and amuses him. He laughs into your open mouth until suddenly he's not laughing at all, only breathing, pushing against you with the same urgent force and the same adoring smile. 
"Does this mean you can give me a hickey?" you ask enthusiastically. Eddie has yet to give you a proper love bite.
He leans back under the show spray and pulls you in with him, laughing when you dissolve like rice paper in his arms, finally warm. There's never been a sweeter sound. 
/\^._.^/\
thank you for reading! | my masterlist | my halloween party
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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What if, after Vecna is defeated, Eddie lives and is recovering in the hospital and one day he's just gone. Like, Steve and the kids come to visit and his hospital room doesn't even exist anymore. It's just a blank stretch of wall. The nurses, nurses they know worked with Eddie, say they've never heard of Eddie Munson and there's never been a room where the kids insist there was the day before. Anyone else they ask says they've never heard the name, even though it was only weeks ago that the entire town formed a mob to hunt him down. Hopper and Murray look into it and there's no record of an Edward Munson in any database anywhere. His previous arrests are gone, his fingerprints, record of Wayne becoming his legal guardian, his social security number, his birth certificate. Even his Uncle Wayne, gone without a trace. Like neither man ever existed.
They search for years, always hoping for word, or a return, or anything. But Eddie was there one day and gone the next. Apparently forever.
They mourn, all of them. He was part of the group, part of the family, and then he was gone with no fanfare or goodbye. Then he was gone and every force in the world pretended like he'd never been there in the first place.
Steve, quietly, takes it hard. He spends weeks crying himself to sleep, clutching the ruined battle vest to his chest. It's just unfair, is all, Steve thinks. '86 was supposed to be Eddie's year.
Time passes and they all grow up, all move away from Hawkins. Steve and Robin move to Indy; she starts college and Steve gets a job at a little bakery because he's a regular already and they're hiring.
He loves baking, finds it calming in a way very few things are for him anymore. After a few good years, the store becomes his, and he didn't know he could be this happy or satisfied with his life, after everything.
He never stops thinking of Eddie.
Close to Steve's 30th birthday, a little bookstore opens up in the vacant building across the way. Steve sees the owner sometimes, dark hair pulled into a sloppy bun, pale skin, the occasional hint of black ink under his dark clothes. Beautiful. They wave at each other almost every morning and Steve ignores the reminders of Eddie. They're commonplace now. Any man with long dark hair, tattoos, and black clothing stirs a spark of recognition in Steve's gut, and the disappointment still hurts even after a decade.
Weeks pass and Steve notices a new display in the window of the bookstore; those dnd guides all the boys have, the dice with too many sides, the little plastic figures and pots of paints and delicate brushes. He vows, the next time the kids are in town, they'll go over and he'll finally introduce himself to that probably nice man whose only sin was a slight resemblance to a boy from Steve's past.
The kids come for a visit only a few weeks later, and are just as enthusiastic about going to the bookstore as he is to take them. He has them help bake his secret-recipe sugar cookies, decorate them in a dnd theme (Erica and Max say they're dorky, and he agrees, despite being pleased with the results).
Steve heads to the bookstore first, to warn the guy about the veritable horde of feral young adults about to descend on his quiet store.
He walks in to the sound of a gently ringing bell and Metallica playing at low volume on the store's speakers. Steve has to ignore it or he'll walk out.
"Be right with you," a muffled voice calls out.
"Take your time," he responds. He browses with the container of cookies in his arms, taking in all the dnd stuff, the signs about dnd club meetings, the stacks of new release books and a couple cds.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," a soft, husky voice says back at the front of the store. It breaks Steve out in goosebumps.
"Don't worry about it. I'm from the bakery across the street, wanted to finally introduce myself. I brought goodies," he adds, sort of blushing.
He steps back up to the cash register, eyes finally settling on the owner he's only seen from afar and all the breath leaves his body. It leaves him lightheaded, dizzy.
Eddie Munson. Eddie. Munson. Stands behind the counter, hair in a bun with messy tendrils around his face. He looks the exact same. Maybe a few more lines around his mouth and eyes. But the same.
"Ed--Eddie?" Steve's voice croaks out. He barely manages to drop the cookies onto the counter and not the floor.
Eddie's deep brown eyes flood with tears, a hand--every finger with a ring--covers his mouth. "Steve," the other man sobs.
There's no hesitation as Steve flings himself into Eddie's arms, the other man catching him and holding him tight.
Eddie squeezes him, crying against Steve's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeats.
"I can't believe you're real," Steve murmurs between soft sobs, pressing his face against Eddie's neck.
"I'm real. I'm here," Eddie agrees. "I'm right here, sweetheart."
Steve pulls out of the embrace a little, just to look at Eddie's face. To see after all these years. He presses trembling fingers against the line of Eddie's jaw, and the other man leans into the touch, lets Steve trace the contours of his cheeks, his mouth.
"You're here," Steve agrees.
Their eyes lock, drink each other in, ten years of longing dancing at the knobs of Steve's spine.
"They took me away," Eddie says, deep brown of his eyes serious and pleading. "The government. They snuck me out in the middle of the night and forced me and Wayne to adopt new identities, sent us to New Mexico. Monitored us so I couldn't contact any of you. It killed me, Stevie. To be away from you. From Robin. The kids."
That snaps Steve out of his daze. "Oh, shit. The kids."
It's too late, though. The bell at the door jingles, the usual cacophony that accompanies the seven of them filling the little store in an instant.
Dustin's voice rings out, above the others, "this store is so fucking cool."
"Language," Eddie scolds on auto-pilot. When he realizes what he said and why, his eyes wash with new tears.
The kids turn, as one, to the man they never thought they'd see again.
Steve's fingers dance down Eddie's arm, finding his hand, twining their fingers together. Eddie tightens his grip. Steve's never letting go of this man ever again, and he knows with some deep, element certainty that Eddie feels the same.
"Eddie?" Dustin exclaims.
"Hiya, kid." Eddie smiles a little, ducks his head.
"What the fuck," Max says.
"Anyone have time for a story?" Eddie asks. He dashes away the few tears that track down his cheeks.
"We have all the time in the world," Steve agrees. Doesn't think before he lifts Eddie's hand and presses a kiss just below his knuckles.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
Text
Thinking about Steve who has not a single idea about how social media works, but he downloads a few things like Instagram and Twitter only to check in on the kids. Other than that, he has zero knowledge of pop culture and kind of lives in that blissful bubble. Every once in a while, the kids will get a bit exasperated with him, but he enjoys listening to them explain things - and he knows they secretly love being able to rehash all the gossip.
And honestly, being out of the loop has it’s perks. Especially when he’s on a plane to Los Angeles, California to visit the Byers while they’re there for a concert and to do some sightseeing in the meantime. He’s sat next to someone who sits by the window seat but wears a baseball cap and sunglasses, curly hair tied back in a ponytail. He seems strangely on edge - maybe suffering from a hangover or scared of flying.
Steve can’t help but tap him on the arm. When the stranger turns, he has his mouth in a flat line looking strangely done with the conversation before it’s even begun. “Sorry, I was just going to ask if you’re okay,” Steve says.
The man frowns and tilts his head. He hesitates to reply, “Yes, I’m just… a bit on edge.”
“Tell me about it. This is my first time on a plane.”
The stranger’s mouth twitches. “Is it really?”
“Yeah. What about you?” Steve asks.
“I’ve been on hundreds of planes - would rather be on the road though,” the stranger says reaching up to grab at the end of his ponytail and twirl it around his finger.
Steve smiles and replies, “I get that. I’m Steve by the way.” He holds his hand out to the stranger who eyes it wearily.
“Eddie,” he replies quietly and shakes his hand.
Steve gets distracted by the rings on his hands and finds himself asking about them. The stranger looks at him for a moment, and, even with the sunglasses on, Steve can tell Eddie is strangely taken aback. Steve is about to take it back and apologize for… mentioning the rings? But Eddie points to the first one and explains.
The rest of the plane ride goes well, amazingly well even. Steve finds himself chatting away with Eddie and throughly enjoying his company - especially when he holds his hand while the plane takes off. He especially enjoys the moment when Eddie briefly takes his sunglasses out to look at the clouds, and Steve gets to see his beautiful brown eyes.
A range of emotions pass through those eyes before Eddie puts the sunglasses back on. Steve almost asks him to keep them off - entranced by the way they express everything he’s thinking. But that can be a dangerous thing, so he doesn’t press him about it.
When the captain announces that they’re about to land, Steve is truly upset to think about not getting the chance to see Eddie again. Maybe it’s the fact that Steve has taken a risk and finally left Indiana for once or maybe Eddie’s just one of the first people he’s hit it off with in a long time, but Steve asks, “Do you want to get coffee? After we land.”
Eddie’s tongue rests on his top lip, tracing it back and forth as he considers it. He finally responds, “I would love to, but I have an appointment as soon as we land.”
Steve lets the disappointment settle in him but tries his best not to let it show. “It’s alright.”
But Eddie fidgets with his rings, tongue still resting on his top lip as he debates something. “Do you have an Instagram?” He asks.
Steve laughs bashfully. “I do, but I never use it. Well, I do sometimes just to keep track of some kids I used to babysit honestly, like Dustin who I told you about.”
Eddie’s smile turns into a full blown grin. “Of course. Well, do you mind if I get your Instagram so I can message you with when I’m free? I would give you my number but… I’m afraid of it getting out. Not that you would do that but… people listening and whatnot…” Eddie spins his rings so anxiously fast that it makes Steve nearly laugh.
“Yes, I hope I remember it correctly because I didn’t come up with it,” Steve confesses. Eddie passes him his phone with the notes app open. He types in steve.the.hair.harrington and hands the phone back.
Eddie takes it back and laughs as he reads it. “It’s fitting,” he explains and reaches out to mess with a few strands.
“I try my best,” Steve replies with a shrug, wondering how he can get Eddie to touch his hair again.
“My hair stylist would love you,” Eddie says then freezes.
Steve smiles. “You have a hair stylist?”
Eddie struggles to respond but is given an out as the plane finally lands. He’s immediately reaching out to grab Steve’s hand, and he forgets all about the question.
Eddie doesn’t let go until people start making their way off the plane, using his hand to tilt his baseball cap a little lower and tuck in on himself. It’s as if he’s trying to avoid having someone see him, but Steve doesn’t want to pry so he doesn’t ask.
Eddie follows Steve off the plane and glances around once they get to the terminal. Then, he quickly pulls him into a hug and whispers, “Thank you for a normal flight.”
Steve has no idea what he means by that, but he just squeezes him back tighter. Eddie pulls away and lingers in his arms. Steve wants more than anything to take off his sunglasses and look into his eyes again.
There’s a sound of a camera going off that has Eddie jumping away and putting his hands in his pockets. “Think we’re near someone famous?” Steve jokes.
“Oh, I know we are,” Eddie says with a small smile that makes it seem like he knows something that Steve doesn’t. Before he can ask, Eddie is saying, “I hope I’ll see you again. Goodbye, Steve.” And with that he’s rushing off, pulling his baseball cap a little lower and directing his gaze towards the ground.
He’s strange, but Steve likes him.
The rest of his day, he has a spring in his step. And by the time he gets to his hotel, he collapses on his bed with a sigh of relief. He pulls out his phone and checks for any notifications before he realizes his phone has been on airplane mode. He turns it off and waits for a message from Robin or Dustin to appear on his screen.
Instead, he’s bombarded with notification after notification - including 27 missed calls from Dustin. He calls him immediately.
The phone rings for not even a second before Dustin is answering with a scream of, “Steve Harrington, why have you not answered your phone?!”
“I’ve been sightseeing. Is everything okay?”
“Check the photos I sent you!”
Steve rushes to his messages, finding them filled with people he hasn’t heard from in years. He ignores that and goes to his pinned messages with Dustin. He clicks on the first picture he sees.
It’s a poor quality photo of him and Eddie hugging in the terminal. He swipes to find a photo of him and Eddie holding hands on the plane. Then another one of him lingering in Eddie’s arm looking… very smitten. “Dustin where did you get these?” Steve asks swiping and even coming across a video of them talking on the plane, with Steve laughing as Eddie dramatically tells some sort of tale.
“Better question, how did this even happen Steve? Why didn’t you tell me?!”
Steve is thoroughly confused. “Dustin, I just met Eddie today. But seriously, how did you get these?”
There’s a pause on the other line and a breathed out, “Oh my god.” He can hear Dustin take a deep breath before he asks, “Steve, please tell me that you know who Eddie Munson is.”
“His last name is Munson?”
There’s a muffled scream on the other line before Dustin is launching into a speech about how Eddie is one of the most famous up and coming artists right now. And yeah Corroded Coffins does sound familiar, but it doesn’t click until Dustin explains that’s who Steve and the Byers are going to see in concert.
Oh.
Steve thinks back and everything clicks - especially the number of people who were staring at him and trying to sneak photos while he was out. He scrolls to a screenshot of a Twitter post with the caption, “did anyone else know that eddie munson has a boyfriend???”
Steve’s eyes widen. “Dustin, how many people think we’re dating?”
“The entire internet so basically the whole world,” Dustin says, and Steve doesn’t have time to even process that statement before Dustin is yelling, “Oh my god!”
“What?”
“Eddie Munson just liked a photo I was tagged in! Holy shit, he’s seen my face!”
“Yeah, dude, I told him all about you on the plane,” Steve says. And boy, that probably will not help with the kid’s ego.
Steve opens his Instagram, ignoring Dustin’s little screams on the other line, and takes in the sheer number of notifications. He quickly goes to his requests in his messages and finds one from therealeddiemunson. “Hey, Dustin, what does a blue checkmark mean?”
Dustin groans on the other line asking why it was Steve who got to meet him before finally explaining it. Steve accepts the request and stares at the message hey, you still on for that coffee?
Steve clicks on Eddie’s profile and his heart thuds. He’s pretty sure people aren’t supposed to have a “K” in their follower count. He looks at the recent photos and feels himself turn a bit red. He almost has no clue how the Eddie he met on the plane and Eddie Munson are the same guy.
“Dustin, if I turned down Eddie Munson for coffee would you ever be able to forgive me?”
“Don’t you fucking dare, or I swear to god I will never let my mom bake anything for you again.”
Steve laughs and with that he goes back to the messages and sends Absolutely :)
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stinknoodle · 1 year
Text
The point is, Steve can’t hear.
A person can get hit in the head only so many times before it takes effect and does permanent damage. Steve’s incessant claims that being in the front row when the fight breaks down does nothing to him, that he’s safe and alright as long as everyone else is, mean very little in the face of cold, evident facts.
His hearing isn’t intact. It takes him a while to adjust to this reality, but with the help of his friends, he eventually does. Thanks to Nancy’s fierce bullying of the government guys who come to Hawkins to assess the situation and cook up some half-assed excuse for everything that’s happened, Steve now has a small army of well-paid doctors that really seem to be eager to help. He also gets state-of-the-art hearing aids that, well—they work, but Steve’s range of possibilities is still quite narrow. Let a few people into the room, let them speak simultaneously and all he can hear is static, rustles and crackling.
But he’s pliant. He listens when Robin tells him they have to get in the car and hit the road to get to his appointment on time. He lets her help with inserting the aids properly on the days he’s just too impatient and too bugged about how they feel and look to even care if they help him hear. He’s not dismissing her enthusiasm when she starts learning sign language before he even gets a chance to discuss it as his option.
He’s doing a lot of things for her, even if they’re supposed to be important to him first. To be honest, these days it’s mostly doing things for Robin that keeps him going. He would have gone completely numb ages ago if it weren’t for her and her unique ways of picking up the severed pieces whenever he crumbles.
He’s also doing it for Dustin. If Robin is his twin sister, Dustin is the little brother he’s never had. And Dustin… It’s just been too rough on him. It’s been rough on everyone; how could it not be if the only thing they seem to be able to do is wait? Wait for the lab guys to figure out a way to end this. Wait for the panic to cease. Wait for Max to wake up.
Wait for the grief to pass.
They wait and wait, but it never stops—on the contrary, it brings fresh, equally unwanted feelings. They’re always there, lurking behind the corner like a kitten that wants to launch itself at an unsuspecting owner – only with them, there won’t be any playtime involved. Steve recognizes this feeling. It’s the same feeling he’d had in that Winnebago when he was dropping off Max, Lucas and Erica at Creel’s doorstep. An awful anticipation of doom waiting to happen.
He doesn’t like it. He’d like to find a way to do something about it, but he can’t seem to get to the core of it.
Maybe that’s why he thinks he’s hearing things when he really can’t be hearing them.
At first, Steve writes it off as him being paranoid. It happens only when he’s home by himself, so it’s the only logical explanation – he takes off his aids, he gets too attentive about his surroundings, right? He thinks he hears something, but it’s only his tired mind playing tricks on him.
Especially because what he hears are mostly usual, non threatening things. The sound of water running in the bathroom (he goes inside, everything is dry and quiet). The sound of kitchen drawers being opened (he goes to the kitchen, the cabinets are exactly the way he left them). The sound of cutlery being dropped on the floor (but he hasn’t even taken anything out in the first place).
He even gets used to it. Things happen, his brain is weird. It’s confusing, sure, but hasn’t he seen worse things? He definitely has.
But it doesn’t keep him away from sleeping with his bat perched on the side of the bed. If he sleeps at all, if a sudden sound of breaking glass doesn’t keep him awake until his morning shift with Robin, when he can finally leave this goddamn house and take his mind off of things.
Steve tries to ignore it. He really tries, but the point is—Steve can’t hear things like running water in the bathroom when his aids are off. Hell, he only makes it out if he focuses on it when they’re in, so why the heck can he hear it so well? Why are the sounds multiplying?
It goes on for weeks. He avoids the topic for as long as possible, trying to shoo away the obvious similarities between his house and the house that made him hate spiders and cringe at fireplaces not too long ago.
It gets a little too real on just some random Tuesday, when his kitchen positively explodes with sounds the second he gets the hearing aids off. Cabinet doors slam left and right, mugs fall to the floor and shatter, forks and spoons seem to be getting thrown around like ragdolls—but Steve sees nothing. He hears it, he hears it so loudly it hurts, the cacophony of noises he’s never even heard before, but his eyes register no proof of it. He curls down on the floor, expecting sharp glass pieces to cut his skin, but nothing happens. Nothing’s here.
He still covers his head, tucked away in the furthest corner of the kitchen, waiting for it to just stop, to leave him alone—
Steve doesn’t know how long it takes, but when it’s finally done, his knees are shaky and his breathing is ragged. He snatches his aids and takes off, straight to Robin’s house. He doesn’t even lock the door, a thing his parents would kill him for if they knew.
It’s the first time he explains everything to her. It would be hard not to, because she sees right through him. His panicked, restless eyes are enough indication of things not being right.
“Maybe, uh—I think I’ve read something about hearing loss and auditory hallucinations? That they happen, sometimes, especially if the loss of hearing is sudden?” she says, already flipping through her notebook where she keeps all Steve-related stuff and pacing around the room with enough force to make a hole in the carpet.
Steve’s not convinced. “It seems pretty real to me,” he mumbles and frowns. “But that’s the point of it, right?”
Robin shrugs. He notices that she has a small set of wrinkles around her eyes. Steve looks at them for a second in total disbelief. They already have some worry wrinkles, and they’re not even well into their twenties.
He’s gonna lose all his precious hair in a span of months if this doesn’t stop.
*
They decide to bring it up during his next appointment, still hoping that it’ll maybe go away on its own. Robin tries to make him get a consult straight away (what if it is rabies after all, Steve, like a really really really weird, belated presentation of rabies?), but he waves it off. The option of hallucinations doesn’t soothe his nerves, but as long as it’s not a chiming clock, he can avoid confronting it for a while longer.
It doesn’t go away, though. Steve can’t quite pinpoint it, but it almost feels like—well, it obviously doesn’t feel like it’s real enough to be real. But there’s something that accompanies the sounds, the lack of evidence, the missing of this ominous feeling that Creel’s house inflicted on him.
The sounds—it feels like they bear a presence. Steve’s still scared and gets spooked by them whenever they happen, but he’s no longer truly afraid of them.
Some of them are even comforting. The sound of his pillow being fluffed up before he gets to bed, the sound of pen scratching on paper whenever he leaves his journal open on the desk, the whooshing sound of a lighter being opened and closed – they all make this eerie place his parents have left him a little less empty.
He rarely lets himself think about it that way. He may be a little kooky, but admitting that he’s lonely enough to find hallucinations comforting would be way too much to handle at the moment.
So Steve can’t hear, but he learns to accept the fact that, apparently, sometimes he can. He doesn’t know how it works—to be quite honest he doesn’t know a lot about experiencing hearing loss at all, despite now being hard of hearing himself—but it just makes its place in his life.
He thinks about it a lot, but he tries not to overthink it too hard. It just happens. Things fall to the floor in his house, curtains get torn, the fridge gets opened frequently. He just can’t see it. His mind hears it, but his eyes don’t get the memo. He lives for longer than a week. It’s probably a good sign; nothing’s going to make his bones snap in two now, probably. Hopefully.
Things change suddenly.
Steve tries to spend as much time with Dustin as possible. Between work, his appointments and Robin, Dustin, Max and the kids are his top priority. He doesn’t think he would be able to function if he let himself take a breath and step down from his piled up responsibilities that he chose to take on himself. They keep him together. They keep him going.
Besides, Mrs. Henderson gets really worried. Sometimes it’s just better for Dustin to stay with Steve, and Steve is more than happy to be with him, even though it seems that Dustin doesn’t really like his cold house either.
It’s one of Dustin’s quiet days. He gets them, sometimes—Steve knows that trying to get him to talk on one of those days is a lost cause, and his ears are killing him. He was in such a hurry this morning he didn’t take the time to put the aids in properly. Work was overflowing with people, too, so now his temples are throbbing from trying to pick up the chatter from the static. Seriously, how is it possible that people still spend so much time watching movies in the face of almost-apocalypse, Steve doesn’t know.
“Would you mind if I took my aids off for a while?”
“Go ahead,” Dustin mumbles, bending over his new book.
Something flips inside Steve’s chest. He knows it’s not supposed to be like that, it’s unlike Dustin to be so… not himself. But what can Steve do? He can’t make him talk. He can just wait, nothing else.
He gets up to leave his aids on the counter and pour himself some coffee. He should probably start making dinner soon, but he decides to take a few peaceful sips first.
It’s weird. To sit with Dustin Henderson, of all people, without a single word. Steve glances at him every once and again, but Dustin either ignores him or genuinely forgets that he’s there.
Steve’s so deep in his thoughts about Dustin, he doesn’t even look to the side when a sudden sound of kitchen chair toppling over cuts through the silence. His eyes are trained on the kid.
Who flinches. And frowns. Steve can swear that he fights the urge to look around.
Each and every chair Steve keeps in the kitchen is standing where he placed them in the morning after breakfast. Nothing real has happened. But Steve heard it. And, apparently, Dustin did too.
Steve’s brain is working overtime for the rest of the evening, and he desperately tries not to show any of it. He’s jumping into conclusions. It was an accident; dumb luck. It’s nothing. He’s working himself up, nonsensically.
But it doesn’t feel like it’s nothing. It was only one chair, one sound, but the feeling that accompanied it was strong. Too strong to be nothing.
He waits to drop Dustin off at home like he’s on pins and needles, fumbling with his fingers and keys and pacing around. Maybe it’s better that it’s one of Dustin’s quiet days, he mostly gets away with it, getting only a few side glances.
When gets back home, it’s late, but he’s buzzing with anticipation nonetheless. He can finally do something. He discards his aids haphazardly, not nearly as carefully as he should, and starts running around the house. The house his parents built is huge—but the kitchen turns out to be quite small when he’s finally done with arraying at least a dozen lamps there. He has to raid three of his father's garages to get enough extension cords.
When he turns them on all at once, he has to take a step back and shut his eyes, because it’s too much light.
Just the right thing he needs.
His heart is beating so fast he can almost feel it ramming against his ribs. That’s about how far he’d thought this plan through.
“Come on,” he says and clears his throat, trying to gauge how his voice may really sound now. He repeats himself, hoping that it’s louder this time.
Nothing happens for a while, but he knows he’s close. The feeling is here. The presence that hasn’t left him in months. It’s here.
Steve walks around the kitchen, moves the lamps a little, shakes some of them. His hands are clammy and it feels like he’s chewed through his cheek at this point, but he can wait. He’s waited for a long time. He can wait a while longer.
When the microwave beeps, he stops breathing for a second.
Until it beeps again. And again.
“Oh god,” he breathes. He doesn’t know if he speaks clearly or not, he doesn’t even care. “Come on, show me that it’s you. Come on, come on—”
The lamp furthest to the left starts blinking, slowly at first. Then the one next to it, then another one, and another one, like someone’s walking around and making them flicker one by one.
They’re blinking so much one of the bulbs goes out. Steve doesn’t hear it hiss, so he knows it went out here, now. He knows it’s real.
“Oh god,” his hand goes to his mouth. His eyes are weirdly itchy. “Oh god, is it really you, Eddie?”
The lamp directly in front of Steve goes wild. When he reaches out, it’s almost like he can touch the presence that’s here with him.
And it’s Eddie. Eddie’s here with him.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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It physically hurts me to block so many beautiful women but they are lying to me.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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The general public spent 30 years thinking nothing of Steve’s presence in pictures beyond him being ‘that one hot dude in the background’ because whatever, he was just another part of Corroded Coffin’s entourage.
Imagine the scramble on the band’s subreddit to reexamine every picture he’s ever been in when, the day gay marriage gets legalised in Indiana, Eddie posts a picture on Instagram of the two of them with the caption “Finally. We’ve been engaged since 1989.”
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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I need more mechanic Steve in overalls with his hair kept back with a backwards cap, his face and hands are always smeared with grease and he wears glasses while doing paperwork in his tiny office. A love for cars was the only thing him and his dad had in common but that didn't stop his dad from disapproving of Steve opening his own shop, a shop where people can come and know that they are going to be taken care of and not be ripped off. The only person Steve has ever overcharged is his dad.
Steve puts an ad in the paper for a receptionist because he's finding it hard to juggle phone calls and working on cars. He hires Eddie and instantly regrets it because he is very fucking distracting with his tight jeans, cropped tank top and lazy smile when he answers the phone. "Steve's Garage, how can I help- Oh! Mrs. Harvey, nice to hear from you again." Eddie pretends to choke himself with the phone cord when Steve looks over. "Your car is making a weird noise again? Oh no, better bring it in."
Steve rolls his eyes and closes the hood of the car he's working on so he can wait for Mrs. Harvey. He doesn't understand how one person can have so many car troubles. "Is she coming now?"
Eddie jumps, which causes the swivel chair to squeak loudly. Steve finds it strange how Eddie always seems so startled whenever Steve speaks directly to him. "Uh, yep! She says her car is making a 'ka-clunk' noise."
Steve runs a hand, his clean hand that is, down his face and groans. "She said that last week as well."
Eddie taps his fingers anxiously against the desk and, without looking at Steve, asks, "Can I help? We could get it done faster."
Steve narrows his eyes, he's not angry, just thinking and probably trying to see because he doesn't have his glasses on.
"You know cars?"
"Uh, yeah. That's what I originally came here to apply for, but I was too scared to say no when you asked if I was here for the receptionist job." Eddie twists a piece of hair in front of his face and avoids the shocked look Steve is giving him. "At least I can add 'receptionist for a month' onto my resume."
Steve scoffs and throws the dirty, grease covered rag from his overalls pocket at Eddie. "You're a shit receptionist. You better be better with cars than you are at answering the damn phone."
Eddie beams up at him and shoves the rag in the pocket of his jeans, right next to his bandana. "If I'm so shit, why didn't you fire me?" He teases while walking in step with Steve.
Steve glances at him briefly, a faint blush creeping up his neck to stain his ears and cheeks. "You're cute." This is said with a shrug and a small smile.
Eddie blushes and trips over a tire.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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Steve is always the first to fall asleep.
The first time Eddie had insisted Steve stay the night, he and Eddie had stayed up late watching a movie and Steve had looked like he was about to pass out. Eddie wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if Steve had fallen asleep at the wheel on his way home, so he’d told Steve to just stay. Then he’d gotten up to brush his teeth and had come back to find Steve already zonked out on the couch. From that very first time, Steve has always fallen asleep before Eddie.
When their movie nights run long, Steve starts nodding off against the back of the couch, and then later against Eddie’s shoulder. On nights when being alone just doesn’t feel like an option, when occupying the same bed just seems like the most practical solution, it’s always Steve whose eyes slip closed first, who starts up that whistling little snore that he vehemently denies when he’s awake. Later, Eddie finds out that Steve will fall asleep even faster with Eddie all wrapped up around him, arm tight around Steve’s waist.
Once, when they head out to the lake to smoke in the back of Eddie’s van, doors thrown open to let in the clear night, Steve falls asleep half on the mess of blankets Eddie had thrown down as cushioning, and half on top of Eddie. Eddie himself doesn’t really sleep that night; it isn’t safe for them to both fall asleep – not out here, not like this, but Steve looks so fucking exhausted that Eddie doesn’t really want to wake him. Steve drives them home in the morning, and Eddie catches a nap then.
The only exception, really, is on the nights when Eddie has nightmares, when Eddie is feeling jumpy, when Eddie can’t help but look at every fluttering shadow as a threat. Then, Steve will sit up against the pillows and pull Eddie back against him and promise to keep watch; and with Steve solid and steadfast at his back, Eddie can’t help but fall asleep.
At least, Eddie had assumed that was the only exception.
Keep reading
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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Punk!Steve who's music taste doesn't change in the slightest.
Eddie gives him shit for it once and only once because he's met with a "The most punk rock thing you can do is like whatever you like regardless of any group trying to tell you you can't be that way. Awfully conformist of you to try to tell me I can't dress like this and like Abba."
Its to date one of the most devastating arguments anyone has ever made to him. He doesn't say shit about it from then on.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
Text
Such a gorgeous choice of words! These are words best read aloud, be it to others or to yourself. Truly wonderful :)
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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Just One Dance
Summary: Steve bumps into you after dropping Dustin off at the Snowball and decides to stop and catch up, unintentionally uprooting long forgotten feelings within the both of you.
Fic Flavor: Childhood friends to lovers(kinda), mutual pinning, mild angst
Word Count: 5,316
As Steve pulled away from the gym entrance, jaw clenched, he spotted a familiar form in the distance, one he hadn't taken in for a while. You were perched on the edge of the sidewalk, your leather jacket pulled tight around your body and a cigarette in hand. He frowned, this was an odd hour to be sitting alone outside. With recent events weighing heavily in his mind, he pulled up to park about a yard away. He'd just check up on you, maybe offer to give you a ride home, just in case. He only harbored fond memories of you and the thought of something bad happening to another person he knew made his stomach turn.
As he approached, you didn’t take notice. A skateboard, your skateboard, sat upside-down on the road, pushed against the sidewalk. The bottom was decorated and seemingly hand painted, your name in an edgy font surrounded by haphazard doodles of skulls and flowers and all sorts of other clashing designs. Your shoulders jumped slightly when you finally became aware of his presence.
"Uh- hey." He greeted awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Much to his relief, a wide grin split across your face. "Well, well, well, if it isn't King Steve, in the flesh."
He scoffed lightly at the faux title, choosing pointedly to not comment on it; the only thing he'd felt like "the king" of lately was the losers. "Glad to see you haven't changed too much, (Y/N)."
Which isn't to say you hadn't changed at all, you held yourself very differently than the last time you had really talked. You sported some new piercings and dark eye makeup that made the color of your eyes pop. A couple chains hung loosely at your belt loops and a few wrapped about your neck. The alternative style you'd taken to was starkly different to the softer, preppier one you had worn the last time he had checked, but then again that was, what, eighth grade? He tried to not be too surprised. You seemed much more comfortable in your skin now anyways; it was pleasant to see.
"What's Mr. Harrington doing out here all alone on this fine night, hm?" You tilted your head with a smirk.
He scratched the back of his neck. "Just dropping off a, uh, friend at the Snowball." It felt a little weird to call Dustin a friend, but at this point it would be weirder to call him anything but.
"Ah," You grimaced slightly, "s'that why you look like a kicked puppy?"
"What?" He snapped, a little more irritably than he had meant to, immediately regretting the tone.
Thankfully, you held your hands up in mock surrender and chuckled. "Sorry, I just saw Nancy in there and assumed. Teach me to make assumptions."
"No it's-" He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, "it's fine, I'm sorry."
You shifted a bit and leaned back on your free hand. "You are forgiven, your highness. Care to take a seat with a lowly peasant, have a smoke?" You offered up the cigarette with a friendly grin. 
He sat next to you gratefully, hesitating a moment before taking the cigarette from you and taking a long drag. The quiet between you was filled with the distant thrum of music wafting from the gym. Your shoes tapped the pavement, but there was no anxiety to the movement; it was more like you were bursting with energy that your body was hardly containing. It had always been like that with you, though you had tamped it down more in your younger years.
"Do you remember our Snowball?" You suddenly spoke up, a fond smile on your lips. You weren't looking at him, but at the hole in the thigh of your black jeans, which you were picking at with bored hands.
"Uh, kind of." He shrugged, the memory felt so distant now.
Suddenly your gaze shot up, your grin widening impossibly. "Wait, do you not remember?"
He blinked at you, brows slowly knitting together as he tried to scrounge for what you could be talking about.
You laughed easily, catching yourself on his shoulder as you leaned back from the intensity of the movement. "Holy shit, you really don't! That's fucking wild!"
"What are you talking about?" He finally relented, cheeks flushing lightly with embarrassment. You gently plucked the cigarette from his hand, taking a short pull from it before pushing the smoke through your teeth.
"Way back when, I asked you to go to the Snowball with me. You said yes." You snickered as you watched recognition slowly leak back into his face. "Then, when we got there, you completely ignored me. Didn't even dance with me once."
Guilt boiled through his stomach and up his chest, remembering vaguely with horror. "Oh, God, right. I- I'm so sorry-"
"Don't be!" You laughed again. He didn't understand, especially as you propped a warm arm up on his shoulder, looking up into the sky with a fond expression on your face. "It's kinda funny now. I mean, obviously it was absolutely devastating at the time, but now I look back at it and laugh. I mean, what did I think would happen?"
His frown deepened, confusion marking up his face. "How is that funny?"
Your smile didn't falter as you turned your gaze to him. "Just- what did I expect? You're Steve Harrington and I'm- well, I'm me." You shook your head and chuckled, lowering your gaze to your lap. You sucked in another breath of smoke and blew it out of the corner of your mouth. He didn’t miss how you used the present tense in your statement, implying that this was still a current dilemma.
Quiet fell over you once more, but this time there was a mild tension to it. Steve floundered for a way to express the thoughts in his head as he recalled that night.
"I'm sorry I did that to you, it was really shitty of me to ditch you." He spoke genuinely, picking at the sidewalk.
You glanced at him with a funny look and you shook your head. "Nah, there's no hard feelings, really. I just get it now, y'know?" You shrugged. "It's probably for the best you crushed that when you did, we would've never ended up suiting each other."
"What does that mean?" It stressed him out how casually you sold yourself short. You tapped the ashes off of the tip of the cigarette on the thick sole of your shoe and placed it into his hand in favor of toying with a safety pin on your jacket.
“I really liked you, Steve. Like, a lot.” You smiled. Before he could respond, you continued on. “But, if you had indulged me even a little, I’m certain things would have turned out much worse. You let me down arguably easily, I never would’ve survived the popularity you garnered.”
He let the words settle in for a bit before he shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let anyone give you shit.”
You smiled appreciatively, but still mirrored him with the shake of your head. “Nah, look at us. You would have been a social outcast just from being around me. It’s better like this. I’d rather us be distant than ruining everything over some stupid, shitty eighth grade break-up anyways.” You laughed.
“I guess… I just feel bad for screwing you over, even just as a friend.”
"Don't worry, Stevie. You'll find a nice girl to settle down with, make a little family, and I'll- I don't know, find someone more my speed. Things will work out one day."
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers in thought, swallowing hard. Why did that sting so badly? He hadn't thought about you like that in years and yet it hurt to be written as completely incompatible, for you to paint your respective futures without the other in them. He knew you hadn’t really talked in years, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t start again, especially with how well things were going tonight. He took one more drag before putting out the stump of the cigarette, discarding it in the street. The two of you listened to the music, a light hum starting in your throat.
"I actually did want to dance with you." He suddenly confessed. You gave him a confused look and his cheeks burned under your gaze, a hand scratching at his neck. "At the Snowball. I remember thinking that you looked really pretty and uh, I wanted to dance with you. Really badly. But I-" he coughed into his fist anxiously. "I let my friends talk me out of it. Which fucking sucks and was really rude, and even though you say it's fine I'm still sorry."
Your lips parted slightly, something unknown sparkling in your eyes. As he finished speaking, you smiled warmly and let your cheek press to his shoulder, almost like you were hiding.
"Thanks, Steve…" Your voice was softer than before.
"Yeah…" He replied, tentatively wrapping his arm around your back to softly grip your forearm on your far side. The silence rolled back in, but it was softer this time, and lasted much longer.
"I'm sorry about Nancy, by the way." You spoke quietly, hands fiddling in your lap. "I was- uh, I saw you guys kind of get into it at that dumb Halloween party. And then I saw you leave without her and Jonathan and-" you sucked in a breath, like you'd said too much. "Yeah, I'm just sorry."
He squeezed your arm lightly, swallowing the lump in his throat before replying simply with, "S'fine."
You chewed your lip for a long pause, but when the distant song changed to something slower, you suddenly sat up straight; Steve quickly missed your warmth.
"Well, I believe you owe me a dance." You grinned brightly at him and held out a hand.
He stared into your scraped up palm, bewildered at the sudden change in mood. "What?"
"Hey, it's the night of the Snowball, I'm dressed in my best,” you gestured to yourself almost sarcastically, “and you always look good,” you gestured to him, sounding a hair more sincere, “and you owe me at least one dance." You snickered and pushed yourself to your feet, offering up your hand again. "Unless, of course, you've suddenly decided you don't want to associate with undesirables."
He rolled his eyes and took your hand, albeit gently to accommodate for the scuffs there. "Stop talking like that, I'm not really that much of anything anymore, and you’re not," he scrunched his face up and shook his head, “undesirable.”
You tugged him to his feet with surprising strength, and he was mildly grateful for your thick-soled shoes; it put you at the perfect height difference, which made it easier to dance. You guided one of his hands to your waist and trailed your fingers lightly up his arm to rest on his shoulder. The two of you slowly began swaying awkwardly, a little stilted and bodies just a little too far away from each other.
You laughed sweetly, head thrown back in a way that exposed the pretty skin of your throat. "Harrington, I don't think any teachers are gonna come tell us off if we get a little closer. I didn't take you for being shy." That smirk pulled back onto your face.
He rolled his eyes, cheeks burning hot as you stepped into his space without hesitation. He released your waist and brought your joined hands above your head to give you a quick spin.
"How's that for shy, huh?" He said as his hands returned to their previous placement.
You only laughed again in response.
As you both relaxed, you slowly drifted closer and closer, as if being drawn together by an invisible string. Soon, your head was pressed to his chest, his hand released in favor of joining your other hand behind his neck. Both of his hands stayed respectfully on your waist, his chin lightly pressed to the top of your head. While you swayed, he was suddenly very glad he had decided to stop and talk to you. That reminded him, however, of the reason he'd stopped in the first place.
"(Y/N)?"
"Yeah?" Your voice was like a fluffy blanket, soft and warm.
"Why were you sitting out here alone?"
You laughed shortly, leaning up to his ear. "To be honest?" You hesitated, voice shaking with hardly contained humor, with an ever widening smile. "I ate shit while riding my skateboard around and was trying to pick the gravel out of my body, but it made me nauseous so I stopped."
"Oh my God." Steve laughed through the words, delighting in the way you hung off of him as you lost it. You hid your face in his shirt, muffling the high, hysterical sounds of your giggles.
"Do you want a ride home after this, then?"
You looked up with tears of laughter in your eyes. "I thought you'd never ask.”
Despite your protests of being okay to walk on your own, he helped you into the passenger seat of his car, giving your hands a light squeeze before drawing back to shut the door and head over to the driver's side.
"So, how's about we head over to my place to patch you up first, hm?" He spoke as he pulled onto the road. "It's pretty late, though." He added, more to himself than to you.
You chuckled, "Sure, Steve. My parents aren't home anyways, they won't even notice."
He nodded knowingly. Some things never change, and that had been one of the reasons you two had originally gotten so close in eighth grade. Neither of your parents were ever home, so you'd just walk to each other's houses after school. Sometimes just to hang out, but mostly to spend the night. It made you both feel just a bit safer, to have another body in the house with you. He realized how much he had sorely missed that feeling of security as he pulled up to his house.
"Do you… do you wanna stay the night?" He cleared his throat and tried to sound more confident than he actually was. You winced and opened your mouth to reply when he suddenly realized how charged with implications that question now was.
"Not to like- not like that, just, y'know," His voice died as he concentrated on parking the car and finally turned to look at your hesitant face, "like we used to. Obviously I have the guest room and you can say no of course you can always say no but-"
"Steve," You pressed a reassuring hand to his shoulder, "I'd love to stay the night."
He sent back a small, apologetic, and grateful smile. To be truthful, he hadn't been sleeping very well, if at all. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was those things. He heard them between every baited breath, and when his eyes slipped closed, he felt them watching. The rational part of him knew it was all over, that he was probably safe in the confines of his room, that the only creatures he had to worry about in the tender hours of the night were wild animals typical to the area, but he just couldn't shake that feeling. The feeling that he was being watched, that the worst was only yet to come, that something was waiting just beyond their sight, watching, waiting.
"Steve?" Your voice pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, hand clenched around the cold bathroom doorknob.
"Sorry," He mumbled before twisting the handle and stepping in.
"It's fine," you stated gently, closing the toilet seat and sitting atop it while he dug through cabinets to locate the first-aid kit. "Where were you?"
"What?" He glanced up at you without turning his head.
You waved a hand, lips pursed. "You looked like you were… somewhere else. Somewhere bad."
It took a moment for him to get what you were saying, but once he did a lump formed at the back of his throat. He knelt at your feet, trying to roll up your pant legs with careful consideration for your knees.
"Nowhere, it's fine. I'm just kind of… tired." Not a lie, he felt like his limbs were made of lead.
You hummed, leaning forward to rest an elbow just above your knee and perching your chin on your hand. "This'd be easier if I was wearing shorts. You got anything I could borrow?"
He stood up, relenting and letting your pant leg drop back down to your ankle. "Yeah, I'll be back in a sec."
It was only when he had started digging through his dresser that he realized how readily he agreed to lend you his stuff, how easy you had found it to ask him to. There had been no hesitation, it almost felt natural, like it hadn’t been nearly four years since you’d even spoken a word to each other. He felt something warm in his chest, and he decided to be grateful for the comfortability that still remained between you two.
When he got back, you were picking at the open wounds on your palms, wearing a bored expression. "Stop that, you're gonna make it worse."
You looked up and gave him an award-winning smile of innocence. "Doing what? I've got no clue what you're talking about."
He tossed you the shorts and t-shirt in his hands and headed for the door. "Let me know when you're done changing."
You tilted your head curiously. "Why's there a shirt? Something wrong with mine?"
"Just figured you'd want to sleep in something other than your street clothes, you're free to just give it back." He called over his shoulder before pulling the door shut behind him.
The bathroom was nearly silent behind Steve as he leaned against the wall beside the door. He was almost nodding off when your voice suddenly sounded.
"You can come back in, pretty boy."
The pet name made his cheeks glow with blush, taking a calming breath before opening the door with indifference forced onto his face. It got even harder to keep the expression when he saw you, in his clothes, in his bathroom, staring up at him. Your street clothes were folded neatly on the edge of the sink, your socked feet lightly tapping at the tile. A smirk tugged at your lips, and you were opening your mouth to say something when he quickly ducked the statement to kneel at your feet once more.
"Christ, how were you even standing?" He lightly ghosted his fingers over the bloody gashes at your knees. He pressed his palm just above your knee and stroked the skin there with his thumb. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"
As he looked back up at you, he found your mouth still hanging open, cheeks flushed. You coughed into a fist and cast your gaze to the side. "Looks a lot worse than it actually is."
He scowled lightly. "Really?"
"Yeah, I've experienced worse." You chuckled. "Nothing will compare to when I broke my leg sophomore year." You grinned down at him, an attempt to reassure him gone wrong. "The bone was sticking out, it was pretty sick."
He looked horrified and you laughed, loud and hearty and so very you. "That's terrible."
"It's fine, really. I've recovered, obviously." You chuckled. He finally withdrew to start digging through the first-aid kit, shaking his head in disbelief as he did so. That definitely explained the massive scar on your left knee.
"Okay, here, this'll probably sting a bit, but it's important that we get them as clean as possible." He narrated as he pulled out some hydrogen peroxide. He dug around for a small hand towel and dumped some of the liquid on it.
"I'm a big kid, I'm sure I can handle it."
He shook his head again. "You can squeeze my shoulder if it hurts too bad, and we can always take breaks if you want."
Your grin turned mischievous, "Oh, yeah? You gonna take care of me?" Your flirtatious tone made his face light up like a Christmas light. He quickly pressed the cloth to your right knee.
You gasped loudly, hands flying down to squeeze at his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, Steve! A little warning would've been nice!"
He didn't respond, opting to rub your left thigh apologetically. He would've apologized out loud if he had trusted his voice to not shake. By the time he was done wiping down your knees, you had two fistfulls of his red shirt in each hand. Your makeup was running down your cheeks and neck, forcing yourself to swallow back a pained sound.
"You did such a good job, we're almost done, alright?" He spoke softly, setting down the cloth in favor of antibiotic ointment and bandages. To give you some credit, they did in fact, look a lot worse than they actually were. Still, he hadn't been expecting any reaction less than the one you’d had. 
"Give me your hands?" He asked lightly as he finished up bandaging your knees.
You gave him a hesitant look, paired with a sniffle, but extended your hands at his patient expression. He felt you relax in his grip as you realized those didn't hurt nearly as bad as your knees.
"There," He practically breathed the word out, having to clear his throat to continue, "all better."
"Gonna kiss 'em better?" He looked up into your watery grin, and he found himself having to scramble to regain his footing in the situation. He looked back down, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to each knee.
"St-Steve-" you stammered, but you choked on your words as he took your hands into his, looking into your eyes as he pressed light kisses to your palms.
Satisfied with your silence, bright red cheeks, and gaping mouth, he stood. "Better?"
"Y-yeah." Your voice trailed off, quickly glancing into your palms to trace the kisses with your eyes.
"Good, you had anything for dinner yet?"
You shook your head wordlessly, jumping a bit when his hand reached into your view.
"C'mon, I think I can whip something up for us." He didn't actually expect you to take his hand, you would probably just push it away with another hearty laugh. That's what would have made sense with what knowledge he’d gathered on you. You did no such thing, however, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. He felt your hand squeeze at his lightly, lingering just a little longer than what was probably acceptable, and let go.
What was happening? Why were you both acting like this? Steve was absolutely puzzled as you started talking his ear off, it was almost as if none of that had just happened. He was only half listening as you rambled, but you didn't seem to mind his distant expression; you must have just wanted someone to talk to. The entire time all he could think about was how bizarre tonight had turned. He felt almost bad at the fluttering in his chest, but it was kind of soothing and certainly preferential to the ache that had been there earlier in the night.
After dinner, you had cleaned your makeup-smudged face off and gone your separate ways. You had patted Steve's shoulder with a splitting yawn and mumbled out a "G'night." The knowledge that you were in the house with him did less to soothe his nerves than he thought it would, less than it had when you were little. Then again, he had had less things to worry about at that time, As he laid in his bed, his eyes kept drawing back open to stare at the window. Every little sound was some nightmarish creature, every shadow was hunting him. He dragged a tired hand down his face, stretching out the heavy bags under his eyes. Suddenly, he ripped the blankets back from his body and stood, a hand quickly being pressed to his desk to steady himself. He couldn’t help but look out of the window at the pool. His stomach lurched and he forced himself to turn away, a sad attempt at shutting out the millions of thoughts spinning through his head. It’s bullshit, we killed Barb, we killed Barb, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. He tried to be quiet as he stumbled to the bathroom and splashed his face with palm-fulls of water; it took at least 30 minutes to stop himself from retching.
With any chances of sleeping officially ruined, he made his way to the kitchen. He got himself a glass of water and sipped at it morosely, trying to convince himself that he was safe. The creak of the stairs set him on edge, hand gripping at the cup. His heart pounded in his ears as the sound of something moving through the house got closer and closer until-
“Steve?” Your groggy voice immediately shattered the tension. You gave him a tired smile, your tone teasing as you continued. “You too cool for sleep, huh?”
A heavy sigh of relief tore through his chest, the inhale proceeding it shaky. “Yeah, something like that.”
“You okay? You look…” You sleepily searched for an adjective as you made your way over to him.
“Like shit?” He provided.
“Scared.” Oh. “Terrified, actually. Did something happen?” Oh.
It was humiliating how that simple question nearly brought him to tears. He liked to blame the lack of sleep for how vulnerable his body was trying to be. It took a massive amount of effort to dam up the flood of tears and the selfish explanation that came rushing in. The less of the truth you knew, the safer you would be, and he refused to be the one who put you in that kind of danger just because he couldn’t keep his shit together.
“Bad dream?” Your fingers lightly brushed the back of his bicep as you unknowingly provided a helpful excuse for him to escape with.
He nodded, teeth clenched tightly. He averted his gaze quickly to stare into the wall and attempt to blink back the tears.
You were quiet for a long beat, fingers drawing soothing patterns into his skin. You took the glass from his hand and took a sip from it. “D’you wanna build a blanket fort in the living room?” When he looked back at your face, you were grinning childishly.
“Okay, that should do it,” You groaned with a stretch as you gave one last tuck to the corner of the blanket draped over the top of your soft structure.
“You’re still really good at that; you been practicing without me?” He teased with a tired smile.
You laughed and shook your head. “Build a fort? With another man? What do you take me for?”
He let out a responding laugh, combing a hand through his hair to push it out of his face.
You grinned up at him, clearly pleased with that response. “Well, what are we waiting for?” And with that, you were crawling in through the entrance.
Steve waited for you to settle inside before heading in out of fear that he would tear the whole thing down. You were snuggled into the corner, surrounded by pillows and trying to set the flashlight up in a way that it didn't need to be held to still shine light into the makeshift cove. The fort was not as spacious as it had appeared to be, or rather, the two of you were a lot bigger than the last time you'd built a fort together, and you hadn’t accommodated for this factor. His legs ended up snug against yours as he laid next to you, your shoulder pressing into his chest.
"There." You finally let out a quiet, excited woop as you succeeded in putting up the flashlight. "Now," you turned your gaze to Steve, suddenly holding a faux air of severity, "you gonna come here or what?"
“What?” He laughed the word out, feeling the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears heat up at your opened, welcoming arms.
“Well,” you wiggled a bit to get more comfortable, “this is a pretty small fort, and you look pretty cold, and I’m pretty sure you’d benefit from a good snuggle.”
“You look pretty,” He grumbled out, the words a failed knee-jerk attempt at sass. Your cheeks leaked rouge and you beamed back at him.
“C’mon, I won’t make you do anything if you genuinely don’t want to, but you seriously look like you need a hug.” He was grateful that you hadn’t brought up his comment.
You were right, of course, he definitely needed a hug. The longer he stared at you in contemplation, the harder it was to resist giving in. Finally, he slid closer to you, careful to not press his entire weight into your body. Your arms wrapped around him and your hands came up to hold his head, all to pull him closer into you.
“There we go, c’mere big cat,” Your smile was evident in your voice as you gave him a tight squeeze. “Isn’t that so much better?”
He grumbled a half-hearted complaint about your fingers being cold, but his body language spoke very clearly that he was in pure bliss. His arm slid up to hold across your waist, grip a little stronger than you had expected. His other arm was pulled up against his chest, fist tucked up under his chin. Your breath ghosted over the top of his head, one hand stroking gently through his hair, picking softly and splitting apart hairsprayed strands. The other hand rubbed a line up and down his back with a firm tenderness; every careful touch pulled him into a state of calm that he hadn’t known for quite some time. A soft, embarrassing sound came from his throat as you pulled your hand away from his back and you chuckled.
“Just grabbing a blanket, s’that okay?” Your voice was somewhere between speaking and whispering.
He nodded against your chest, letting you lean up slightly to grab a blanket and he helped you pull it over your bodies. You tucked it gently up to his chin, sending a small smile down at him when he met your gaze. Your fingers were warmer than before as they slid down from his hair to gently cup his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.
“You comfy?” You smiled brilliantly when he nodded again. “Good. Try to get some sleep, yeah? You look like shit.”
He huffed out a half-laugh and pressed his cheek back down to your chest. “Easier said than done.”
“Yeah, I get that…” You continued to stroke his hair, apologizing when one of your rings caught and tugged a strand.
Despite his snarky comment, he found himself slipping into the clutches of sleep in your arms. He could hear the rhythm of your heartbeat through your ribs underneath his ear, and he felt the rumble in your chest when you started to quietly hum. His tight grip around you slowly eased as he drifted away from the conscious world, finally letting his tired body rest.
You could feel the moment he fell asleep, could see it in the way his expression relaxed. His eyebrows finally drew up and apart, his lips parting just slightly and the softest snores started to leave through the gap. He looked very pretty like this, all relaxed and peaceful. You leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to his forehead, and eased your head back into the pillow. You squeezed him one more time, his arms unconsciously tightening around you a hair, and you let yourself finally be taken from the world by sleep as well.
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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Gareth notices first and as soon as Gareth has a thought he has to share it.
They’re at Hellfire (now hosted in Mike Wheeler’s armpit of a basement) having just finished a long combat when Eddie declares it time for a break and without any further preamble dashes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and calling dibs on the main bathroom. 
The others are taking a bit longer to get to their break. They all stand like they’re in some kind of synchronised swimming competition and all reach up in unison to crack the various bones that need to, heaving out groans and mumbles about shitty chairs. 
“So,” Gareth says as he rubs his fingers in his eyes. “Eddie has a crush.” 
Jeff collapses back in his chair to burry his face in folded arms with a groan. “I can’t do this again, Gare-Bear.”
Gareth wrinkles his nose at the nickname, and mentally curses his mom for using it around his friends. They’ve never been able to let it go. 
“Wait, what?” Dustin asks. His head is bouncing between Gareth, Jeff, and Grant, eyes tracking over their faces to see if they’re just trying to fuck with him. As if Eddie’s love life wasn’t already tragic enough without the added fun of trying to bother some kids with it.
Keep reading
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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"that ship isn't canon! that character isn't gay!" well thats not what the voices told me
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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Eddie is angry.
He can feel Gareth watching him from the sofa as he puts away dishes and cutlery, slamming cabinets closed and throwing a fork into a drawer. It’s noisy, and obnoxious, but he doesn’t fucking care.
Gareth waits patiently, his eyes following Eddie through the kitchen. Sometimes he gets like this. When a teacher is especially mean, when a show doesn’t go well. When he just happens to feel particularly like shit.
Eddie stops when all the dishes are put away, his hands gripping the sink. He looks over at Gareth, their eyes meeting.
“Sorry.”
“‘S cool. You wanna talk about it?”
Eddie looks away, his fingertips tapping the sink anxiously.
“I’m into guys.”
“…Okay. Is that what you’re pissed about?”
Eddie’s too angry to even be grateful for how nonchalant Gareth is about it.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I’m pissed, because— because the universe is a cruel bitch that gives me the finger every chance she gets.” He steps out of the kitchen, pacing and gesturing wildly with his hands. “Because I’m fucking gay, fine, whatever, but my type isn’t fucking metalheads from the Hideout who might, maybe, could be down to fuck around backstage, my type is— is fucking polo-shirt wearing normies that look like they go to church every weekend.”
He’s out of breath, his eyes burning, his whole body aching, and Gareth is staring at him.
“Shit,” he says, and it’s so concise and accurate that Eddie laughs wetly.
“Yeah. Shit.”
“You, uh. You wanna give me a name?”
Eddie stops pacing, looking at the wall, his eyes trailing along Wayne’s collection of mugs. He wipes a tear away harshly, avoiding Gareth’s eyes, before saying in a weak, trembling voice, “Steve Harrington.”
It’s quiet. For too long.
He nervously turns to look at Gareth, his vision swimming, to find him staring at the floor, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
“…Shit.”
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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crying over that speech in the school for will in s1. about his death leaving a hole in their community. "an unimaginable tragedy" yet he's constantly made fun of for being assumed gay and they expected him to fail. it's all such bullshit; everyone knows it because everyone made fun of him. people his age, people steve's age, the adults... it's all lies and he was constantly shamed along with the rest of his family and it's so frustrating because that's one of the reasons no one believes joyce. if it was a well-respected family, there'd be more sympathy. there'd be more urgency to find him. there'd be more search parties and more coverage but they all were okay with the supposed hole he left in the community (according to the principal's words) because it was another queer person gone and another family they looked down upon suffering which never really affects them. GODDDD it's the fucking worst because without the people closest to will, no one would bother looking. love kept him alive and love is what found him and it's only love. there's no strength in the community or in numbers. hawkins was bound to fail because of how torn apart it already was and love is the only thing that can save that. like what the fuck!!!!!!!
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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These appeared on my Pinterest feed next to each other… what are the odds man
the resemblance is uncanny
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stinknoodle · 1 year
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hey.. dont cry .. 8 million people on earth , ok ?
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