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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this.

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart.

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will.

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really.

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north.

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap.

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water.

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to…

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night.

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet?

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived.

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine.

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady.

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?”

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.”

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’.

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor.

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door…

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning.

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night.

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia.

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror.

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one.

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this.

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner.

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile.

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?”

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you.

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop.

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring.

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music.

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot.

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter.

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude.

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason.

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease.

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking,

“Is that mine?”

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate.

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris.

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen.

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.”

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache?

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

taglist: @emma77645 @ashlynnkennedy @luna-munson83 @micheledawn1975 @gaysludge @hazydespair @ebaylee422 @thebrookemunson @a-time-for-wolvess @lightmelikeamatch @live-love-be-unique @daleyeahson @bexreadstoomuch @devilinthepalemoonlite @screaming-blue-bagel @mcueveryday @ethereal27cereal @vintagehellfire @razzeith @josephquinncore

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storiesbyrhi · 2 years

Text

Angel of the First Degree - Chapter 10: Royalty

Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader 8055 words Series Masterlist

Warnings: Anxiety; fatphobia including internalised; drug use; bullying; body issues; discussion of body function and fluids; period shame/stigma; disclosure of sexual assault (chapter 2); disordered eating and thoughts of food; shitty/abusive/critical parents; porn magazines; smut; reference to suicide (specifically Virginia Woolf’s); no beta; grief/mourning; warnings updated each chapter

Synopsis: When Eddie Munson finds you in the midst of a panic attack, it is the beginning of something. A fic featuring body and sex positivity, Eddie in a dress, soft small moments, scary big truths, and all the usual special feelings you’d expect from one of my stories.

Chapter Summary: The dream keeps on getting better, but really… how long can this last?

Author’s Note: Sorry that this chapter came a bit late but I promise it's a good one. The next chapter may be delayed too; I have a bit going on IRL. I'm typing out my soft romance as fast as I can though =^.^= I think I missed a lot of typos in editing too, so forgive pls.

With Halloween gone, Hawkins High turned its attention to the next event on the social calendar – the end of year dance. The biggest night of a Senior’s year. The last blowout before exams and graduation. The kind of ceremony that people planned all through high school, hoping for dreams to come true. However, not really the usual talking point of the Hellfire table. For this reason, you were surprised when the conversation turned to the dance.

“We’re going,” Jeff said, speaking for him and Esther. “Might be dumb, but we don’t want to look back and regret not going,”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re really living the all-American high school dream otherwise?” Dustin joked.

“Excuse you, Dustybun, but to deprive the world of me in a flowing powder blue dress and a matching corsage would be criminal,” Esther said, pointing her fork at Dustin menacingly.

“What about you guys? You gonna go since it’s like, your actual final Senior year?” Gareth asked.

Your head had been down the entire conversation, buried in your Classics notes. Although the question had been posed to you both, Eddie didn’t look to you for an answer and you didn’t look up from your notebook.

“You fucking serious? There’s a reason why I’ve never gone to something as mind-numbing as the dance,” Eddie started, voice full of disdain. Everyone at the table felt a Munson rant coming on. “Have you heard the music they play at those things? And the fucking… costumes those conformists wear. No offense, Esther, but everyone looks the same. It’s always blue and pink. King and fucking queen. I would rather have a prostate exam from a bear,”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” Jeff said, looking at his girlfriend to see if she was hurt.

Esther was kind of immune to shit like that. She scoffed. “Edward, you honestly couldn’t offend me if you tried. And for real, it kind of just sounds like the excuse of someone that has never been asked to the dance.”

The boys all oooooohhhhh’ed. Eddie grinned at Esther, she smiled back. “I like her. Glad you kept her,” he said to Jeff.

“For fuck’s sake. Nobody keeps me,” Esther proclaimed. “Come on. Let’s go shopping for a costume for you to wear to the conformist parade,” she said to Jeff. Everyone watched them leave.

“I don’t know, man. I just thought you’d wanna go now,” Dustin said, chewing on what he hoped was meatloaf. “Because-”

“I have to go to the library,” you said loudly and suddenly, leaving before anyone, including Eddie, could reply.

It had hurt. A lot. You were heartbroken, bypassing the library and speed walking out the building, across the field, and into the forest you’d hid in at the start of the year.

Back at the Hellfire table, Eddie was unnerved by the sudden silence. “What?” he demanded of his peers. They looked around anxiously, trying to figure out who would tell him. Gareth cleared his throat. “Uh… Dude, I think what… Henderson is sayin’ that, you know, you have a girlfriend… Girls like dances?”

Eddie froze, a million and one thoughts all smashing into each other, nothing coherent. “Yeah, but she’s not… like that,”

“Like what? Just because she’s not a cheerleader anymore, and not all… Plastic or whatever, doesn’t mean that she’s as anti-the man as you,”

“Are you telling me how to be a boyfriend now?” Eddie said, too much venom in his voice, entirely on the defense. He’d messed up. As Gareth rolled his eyes and looked over at Dustin, Eddie narrowed his at the Thinking Cap kid. “Something to add?”

“You dressed as a cat for her, but you won’t take her to the most important part of the Senior year experience?”

“You’re a Freshman, what do you know about the Senior year experience?”

“I know that girls in my classes are already talking about their dance,” Dustin offered in kindness, not trying to make Eddie feel guilty. None of them were, they just loved you and thought it would be your thing.

“Whatever, you don’t know her like I do,”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, Eddie. We don’t. Sorry.”

Lunch continued, finding its normal rhythm quickly, but Eddie stayed quiet, sorting through his thoughts and trying to work out how he could possibly unfuck what he had royally fucked up.

After school that day, Eddie felt like a weight had been lifted off him when you were waiting at the van like usual.

“Angel,” he greeted, hugging you tightly. “I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t- I should’ve- I-”

“What are you talking about?” you asked straight-faced. You’d practiced the expression all afternoon.

Eddie could see through it, obviously. He could also see that you’d cried off the makeup you had put on that morning. Fresh mascara coated your lashes but the eyeshadow was gone.

“If you want to go to the dance, I do too. You know that I want whatever you want, and-”

“Eddie,” you interrupted again. “I don’t want to go. It’s just before exams. I don’t wanna get all fucked up, then not be able to focus. Or like, drink all my revision out my head, you know? And also, it’s totally going to be the Hayley show. And Chrissy and Jason will be King and Queen. Super predictable. Honestly. I don’t want to go.”

Eddie frowned and tried to figure out what you were thinking. Everything you said was technically true, but he couldn’t find it within himself to believe you entirely. He didn’t have any way to make it up to you though, so he dropped it. Eddie nodded and kissed you gently.

“Do you promise? You’re not just saying that?” he asked. You nodded into him, giving him no verbal confirmation, which he knew meant you weren’t promising at all.

When your general mood that week didn’t change, didn’t dip into sadness and exhaustion, Eddie thought maybe he had overthought it all. Maybe the guys were wrong. Maybe you really didn’t want to go.

He went round in circles trying to figure it out. Eddie’s best theory was that you thought you wanted to go, because you had wanted to once upon a time, but since Eddie and your new life, something had changed. But you didn’t figure it out until Eddie said what he did. In a way, he woke you up to your own truth.

Bullshit, he called on himself.

Another week went by with nobody mentioning the dance. Eddie was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. That, it did. It was a school night, the coldness of winter setting in early. You and Eddie had been cuddled up on the couch when he watched you shiver.

“You want the fuzzy cardigan or Fangoria hoodie?” he asked.

“Hoodie!” you yelled as he went into the bedroom.

Eddie was definitely not the type to go through your things. He’d been so careful about making space for you when you’d moved in. Letting you have what privacy you could, given how small the room and trailer were. However, you were the last to wear the hoodie. He opened the wardrobe but it wasn’t hanging there.

He started to dig through a pile of clothes on the wardrobe floor when the sparkles caught his eye. A voice in his head screamed DANGER DANGER, but he couldn’t help himself. The pile of clothes was hiding a bag from the fanciest store in Starcourt. He knew what it was as soon as he pulled the dress from the bag.

Fuck.

Eddie sat on the bed and held the dress in his hands. It was so glittery, so you. You would look so fucking cute in it. If he were alone in the trailer, Eddie probably would have cried.

You were wondering what was taking him so long when Eddie finally emerged from your room, not with a cardigan or hoodie, but wearing the gown you had planned to wear to the dance. It hung from his shoulders with a grace you’d never have predicted.

“I think this is what I’ll wear. What about you?” Eddie said casually, swirling the hem of the dress left then right then back again.

You didn’t want to have the conversation; once you knew Eddie’s opinion on school dances, that was it. Call it embarrassment or enlightenment or whatever you wanted, you didn’t care anymore. At least, that’s what you’d been telling yourself.

“Angel?” he asked when you didn’t laugh or give him any response at all. He moved to kneel in front of the couch, which you had laid down on, belly to the sofa and arms crossed under your head like a pillow.

You mumbled out a, “Mmm?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I said all that shit. I should have known you’d want to go. Should’ve talked to you first,” he told you.

“Should have known because I’m a conformist?”

“No. Hey,” he said, holding your chin and making you look at him. “I want to do whatever you want to do. I thought you knew that,”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go anymore anyway,”

“You do. You got this,” he argued, motioning to the dress.

“That was before everything happened. I’ve had that forever,” you lied.

Eddie knew you hadn’t moved in with the dress. He knew it was new. But he knew you lied when you felt backed into a corner. “Okay,” he agreed, nodding and feeling like absolute shit. “For the record – you would look beautiful in this. And I do want to take you to the dance, you know, if you change your mind.”

You said nothing, so he got up and returned to the bedroom. As neatly as he’d ever folded anything, he put the dress back where he found it and sat on the edge of the bed for a bit. He was going to take you to the dance. He was going to make it good. He just needed to figure out how to make you believe that’s what he really wanted too.

…

In the depths of November, your mood began to change for the worse. It was a combination of too many things. The fear of the future. Exams. The fact that you saw your mother in town and she turned around to avoid you. The goddamn fucking dance.

It seemed like every conversation you overheard was about tulle and silk, about pastels and limos and afterparties. With only three weeks until the event, all of Hawkins High was in an absolute tizzy about it. Gratefully, the Hellfire table knew better than to bring it up. Although, nothing would deter Esther.

“I don’t believe you, you know,” she said when you were fixing your hair in the school toilet mirrors.

“About what?”

“The dance. You do want to go,”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the P and trying to be as casual as she was.

“And,” she continued. “I think Eddie knows you want to go too,”

“Can you just drop it? It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Esther turned and looked at you. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but if I can tell something’s up, you can bet your ass he can. I’m just saying… It’s not too late. You just have to not be so stubborn.”

Stubborn? You didn’t think that’s what you were being. Then again, you weren’t sure what you were being. After a couple days of thought, you realised Esther was right. You were being stubborn despite what you really wanted and entirely in spite of yourself. Ultimately, it was because it was scary to admit that Eddie had done something wrong. That, even by accident, he had hurt you.

Having time and space between the toxic friendships you had in previous years, and the relationship between you and your parents, it was easy to cast them as villains. For all intents and purposes, they were. However, that meant casting Eddie as your hero. Faultless. Invulnerable. Just. If you admitted to yourself that he’d fucked up, even in that small way, it could threaten to tear down the safety you pinned so dangerously to the idea of perfect Eddie. So, you carried on as you had been.

When the countdown hit the two-week mark, Eddie decided to try to get you to talk. He knew you always felt better when you stopped bottling it all up.

You had put yourself to bed early, it was somewhere between 9:00 and 10:00 pm. Wayne was at work, and Eddie was cleaning up after dinner. When he walked into the bedroom, the door ajar, he watched the way your body moved under the blankets. He’d never tell you, because he was sure it was creepy, but he could tell the difference between the way you breathed in your sleep versus awake and just lying in bed.

Eddie pulled his clothes off and got into the bed. As he reached out and ran the knuckle of his index finger down your spine, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

If you wanted space, you would have not answered. Instead, you shook your head no.

Eddie moved closer to you, wrapped one arm around your waist, and felt a surge of happiness when you took his hand in yours. “Do you want to… kiss about it?” he alternated, pressing a kiss to your neck.

It made you smile, then you felt annoyed he’d pierced your grumpy mood. Then you felt guilty for trying to keep yourself grumpy. What the hell was wrong with you?

“Do you want something from my secret stash of presents for you?”

It was an admission you couldn’t ignore. Turning to lay on your other side, facing Eddie, you made a face at him. “You do have a stash. I knew it,”

“Thought you might have gone looking for it,”

“I don’t go through your stuff,”

“Yeah, but, I don’t know. The curiosity would’ve killed me… Anyway. Something to cheer you up?”

Eddie jumped from the bed when you nodded and started rifling through a drawer. With the bedroom light back on, he handed you a frame about the size of one of your notepads.

“Figured it was the end of the collection,” he explained. Inside the frame was a white piece of paper with the pressed flowers you’d been storing in your History book taped to it. “I saw you take them all out a while back. Thought you might do something with them, but you didn’t,”

“I didn’t know what to do with them. I just put them-”

“Yeah. In The Hobbit. I found the frame when I was going through shit in the hall cupboard.”

You remembered the first time Eddie handed you a little wildflower. It felt like years prior when really it wasn’t all that long ago. Things had moved slowly at first, then quickly by anyone’s standards. Living with Eddie made everything before that seem ancient.

“I love it,” you told him, eyes glassy with happy tears. You could see where Eddie had struggled with the tape, it folding and creasing in places, his fingerprints visible in a few spots. It made it more special.

Eddie watched you put it on the bedside table, leaning against the wall so you could see it from any point in the room.

“I know I can’t make you feel better about everything,” Eddie said then, suddenly serious.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you replied.

“Yeah, but… I just need you to know that when I can, I will,”

“Okay.” You didn’t know exactly what he was talking about, if it was a reference to your parents and taking you in, or the valium slipped before class presentations, or if he was still thinking about the dance. It didn’t really matter. You believed him. “I love you,”

“I love you too, angel. So fucking much.”

The two of you stayed in bed, melted into each other. You touched each other slowly, with more intensity than any of the previous encounters. For hours, you messed around in the dark, practicing ‘everything but,’ until you fell asleep naked, fulfilled, and in love.

…

Two weeks later, there was a car outside the trailer you didn’t recognise. It was the type of car that made it onto the bedroom walls of teenagers, so cool and sleek, a deep red colour. Wayne almost never had visitors and you knew for a fact Eddie didn’t know anyone who could afford a car like that. You were still staring at it as you climbed the steps and entered the trailer.

A started gasp. Your eyes went wide. There were stars made of silver paper hanging from the ceiling; you looked up at how they were stuck there with fishing line and duct tape. Eddie stood next to the kitchen counter, where he had been waiting for you to get home.

He was in a suit. Like, for real. He had black tailored pants and a suit jacket. A white button-up sat underneath, fitted, and tucked. Eddie still looked like himself. His Chuck Taylors ‘for special occasions’ had been selected, rather than dress shoes. His hair was still curly and free and beautiful. Eddie picked up a red pocket square, tucked into his suit’s pocket like Wayne had taught him in preparation for this moment.

He held out a floral corsage.

“Angel, will you go to the dance with me?”

You were nodding before the doubt or the fear or anything bad even had a chance to spark alive at all. When you threw yourself into Eddie’s arms, he spun you around the room.

“Is that what the car’s for?!” you squealed, looking back out the door.

“Of course. Only the best for my baby. You’ve got about an hour to get ready. Go,” he ordered, smacking you on the ass as you squealed again and ran off to do your makeup.

Eddie lit a joint and stood in the doorway of the trailer, proud of himself for fixing the fuck up and genuinely buzzing to spend the night finding all the ways to make you happy.

…

Eddie made you laugh so hard that you got lightheaded. He kept saying stupid shit about the fancy car he’d rented, “She purrs like a kitten,” and honking the horn for no reason. By the time you got to the school, you felt high on love.

While you gathered the skirt of the sparkly pink dress in your hands, Eddie parked and came around to open your door.

“Angel,” he said, offering a hand for you to take.

The school gym had been transformed into an entirely over-the-top and very cliché winter wonderland. Eddie held in the urge to roll his eyes and gag; it was easy once he looked over at you and the ear-to-ear smile on your face.

“We should get photos first, before my makeup wears off,” you suggested.

“Anything you want.”

Although Eddie felt self-conscious in front of the camera, classmates watching from the line, he could feel how excited you were. You stood spooned together and smiled as the photographer tried to make you say ‘cheese.’

“Alright, one for me now,” Eddie said, turning you around and picking you up in a big bear hug. The camera flashed and you laughed.

After photos, you found your way to the table Jeff and Esther were seated at.

“You look so good!” Esther yelled, standing to hug you.

Jeff and Eddie quickly got lost in their own conversation, no doubt judging the sorry excuse for a band playing on stage.

“You can say ‘I told you so.’ You look like you’re gonna burst,” you offered Esther, an olive branch for brushing her off so coldly whenever she had tried to talk to you about the dance.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied. “I will, however, take my payment in the form of a dance?”

The guys watched as you and Esther slow danced together, all giggles and glitter.

“Dude,” Jeff mused.

“I know,”

“This is not how I thought my Senior year would end.”

Eddie snorted. “Which part? The girlfriend? School dance? The miracle that is your predicted exam grades.”

Jeff looked at him. “How’d you know about that?”

“Those girls tell each other everything. Congrats, man. On it all. Couldn’t think of a more deserving man,”

“You getting soft on me, Munson?”

Eddie grinned, and put his arm around Jeff’s shoulders. “I’ve always been soft on you,”

“Fuck off,” Jeff replied with a laugh.

“Love youuuuu,”

“Yeah. Yeah. Love you too. Now gimme back my personal space.”

Eddie held his hands up in surrender, then kicked back in his chair. “They’re happy,” he noted, going back to watching you and Esther.

“Yeah… And, uh, you? You’re happy?” Jeff asked, not sure of the words coming from his mouth.

“Yeah, man. She’s…” My moon. My stars. My sun. My everything. “Cool. I’m happy.”

There was mediocre punch, then there was spiked punch. Swinging across the dancefloor to songs neither of you really liked. There was party food and bored parent chaperones.

When the band stopped playing and Principal Higgins took centre stage, everyone knew what time it was. From your table, you looked around the room. Hayley was clearly pissed that she wouldn't be queen. People might be nice to her face, but most of the cohort feared her. An anonymous voting system ensured she’d never reign. Besides, nobody stood a chance against Chrissy and Jason, already deemed royalty by most people.

“We’re just having some technical issues. Hold on a moment,” Higgins said into the microphone. You and everybody else watched as people ran on and off the stage, whispering.

“I’m gonna get food,” Eddie whispered to you.

“Wait. Something’s wrong?”

“What?” He looked you up and down, and when you turned and saw the concern on his face, you almost laughed.

“Not with me. I think… they’ve lost the crowns?”

Chrissy and Jason were still crowed, albeit without actual crowns. Jason held a plastic scepter, and Chrissy a bouquet of white roses. Some people cheered, but most half-heartedly clapped.

Eddie was entirely uninterested. “I think they’ve got chicken nuggets. I’ll be back.”

The rest of the dance you watched your ex-friends monopolise most of the dance floor and attempt to make everyone else feel like shit. It wouldn’t work on you. Not then. Not that night. Not with Eddie.

Eddie, who kept asking you to dance, pretending to be some nervous kid. “I can’t believe you danced with me,” he said, funny voice. “I’ve like, had a big ol’ crush on you and thought – tonight’s the night. I’m gonna ask her tonight.”

It was stupid but it made you laugh. It made you blush and bury your face in the crook of his neck while he held you close, slow danced with you like he was born for it.

“Babe, you’re the hottest girl in this room. A walking piece of art,”

“Stop,”

“Never,” he replied immediately. “You’re pretty and smart and kind and beautiful and funny and sweet and you always smell good and are just… I fucking love you,”

“I love you too. I love you so much. Thank you. For tonight. And every night. And knowing how to…” You didn’t want to say ‘look after me’ because it made you feel childish and broken, and Eddie was teaching you that you weren’t either of those things. “Knowing what I need, before I do sometimes.”

Eddie smiled softly, let go of your hips, and held your face in his hands. He kissed your forehead, then nose, then checked on you for a second before kissing you, deeply, letting you kiss back and decide when you wanted to part your lips, let him in.

Later, as the gym was beginning to empty and students found afterparties to attend, you were waiting for Eddie to come back from the bathroom. You spotted him as he re-entered the gym, getting stopped by one of the techy Seniors that bought weed off him sometimes.

They whispered, something exchanged hands, and Eddie was back before you knew it. He looked at you, smirked, and you thought he might say something about it. Normally, Eddie would use his weirdly amazing intuition to see straight through you, see your mind filling with doubt.

Did he change his mind about the dance just so he could come and sell?

That was the old you, though, right? The old you would fixate on the thought. Sabotage happiness.

“You ready to go, angel?”

“Yeah. My feet are killing me,” you replied, looking down and twinkling the toes sticking out of the heels you wore. You should have donned matching Chucks.

After bidding Jeff and Esther a good night – they were off to Esther’s parent-free house – Eddie wrapped his jacket around you before disappearing into the cold night to get the car; he wouldn’t let you walk the short distance across the parking lot. You lost track of him in the crowd though, couldn’t see him until the red car came roaring around the corner.

“Angel,” he greeted, leaning across to open the passenger door. As you climbed in, quickly pulling your shoes off, Eddie continued. “So, I have two more surprises for you. First one is in the back seat.”

He was pulling out from the lot, following other car loads of students until they turned down other streets and went loudly into the bitter Hawkins evening.

“Oh my god! EDDIE!” you screamed, getting on your knees and balancing precariously to pick up the crowns. You bounced back into your seat, put your seatbelt on, and looked at the cheap plastic things. “You stole the king and queen crowns?!”

“No. I’m not sneaky enough for that. I paid someone else to steal them,” he clarified. Oh. That’s what that was. “Figured we deserved them more. You deserved it.”

Having a boyfriend who would do something so audacious for you was way better than winning a popularity contest. Being crowned a queen by Eddie was infinitely more rewarding than walking that stage ever could have been.

You put your crown on and Eddie’s too. He wore it well, lighting a cigarette with one hand and holding it out the open window.

“Can you drive faster?”

“Anxious to get home?” he asked with a grin. You nodded. “Well, first thing’s first: we aren’t going home. And secondly: no. I have a long list of things I wanna do to you, my queen, but putting you in the hospital sure as fuck isn’t one of them,”

“We’re not going home?” That’s what you had locked onto. Surely Eddie wasn’t going to gatecrash an afterparty. You didn’t want to be around anyone but him.

“No, we’re not. But don’t worry. You’re gonna like this.”

He was right, because Eddie was always right about you.

“Now, it’s not the penthouse suite at The Ritz, but it is very literally the best money can buy in Hawkins,” he introduced as he pulled up to the one nice hotel in town. It had valet parking, which was a novelty to both you and Eddie.

A man, wearing the hat and everything, collected the bags from the car’s trunk. Eddie had packed them in secret. Inside everything was classy, all gold Art Deco and Gatsby. Eddie checked in, and you listened to the interaction. The person at reception spoke to Eddie as if he was any other hotel guest, respectful and helpful. Part of you was expecting to be kicked out on sight.

“Technically, it’s the honeymoon suite,” Eddie said as soon as the door had been closed behind you both, welcome champagne and strawberries pointed out upon arrival.

“Do they think we just got married?” you asked him, your speech a little slow, distracted and in awe at the size of the room. The bed alone was probably bigger than the whole bedroom you and Eddie shared. The suite itself could rival the trailer.

“Nah. We’re pretty obviously dressed. The crowns and all.”

You gasped, grabbing the plastic on your head. “What if they hear about what happened? What if they tell someone?”

Eddie had dropped the bags on the floor near the built-in wardrobes. “Don’t think people outside of high school give a shit about that kind of thing. Besides, I think discretion is part of their job.” He turned around just in time to watch you launch yourself face-first onto the bed.

“So soft,” mumbled into the fresh, crisp linen.

Eddie laughed, then turned his attention to the radio. Once an acceptable station had been found, he poured two glasses of champagne. “Are the strawberries, like, for the champagne?”

“What do you mean?” you asked from your position on the bed. You’d pushed back the top sheet and quilt and perched yourself against the plush velvet headboard.

Eddie thought you almost looked like a fairy. Pink organza and sparkles sitting in a field of white. A fairy queen.

“Like, does it go on the glass, like a slice of lemon?”

“No. You just eat them with it. Like how cookies and hot cocoa go together.”

Eddie made an oh, okay face, and brought the glasses over, placing the bowl of juicy strawberries on the bedside table. He kicked off his shoes and carefully hung the suit jacket on a coat hanger. When he climbed next to you, you handed him his glass.

“Cheers,”

“Cheers,” he repeated.

A soft clink of crystal and you downed your glass. It took Eddie longer; the bubbles fizzed in the back of his throat and it burned in a different way than cheap beer or whisky.

He let his head roll back and rest on the velvet, eyes following your hands as they picked up a strawberry and brought it to your mouth. As your lips wrapped around it and you bit into the fruit, juice ran down your chin. Eddie shot his hand out and caught it before it could fall to ruin your dress or the linen. He sucked the juice off his hand, happy to taste anything that came from you.

“You don’t like the champagne,” you observed, breaking the moment’s spell.

“Never had it before,”

“I don’t normally like it, but this is good,”

“Guess it’s one of those things that’s only good when it’s good, you know? Like, when it’s quality,”

“Makes sense,” you agreed. “What are you going to drink?”

“Don’t worry about me, angel.” Eddie was on his side, pulling you closer and kissing your neck. “I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve,”

“Are you gonna raid the minibar?”

“I’m gonna raid the minibar.” And he was up and kneeling in front of the small fridge, rifling through it.

You got up and poured more champagne, popped another strawberry in your mouth, and watched Eddie move on to searching through all cupboards and drawers in the suite. He took all the teeny tiny shampoo and conditioners, and anything else that wasn’t glued down.

Eddie finished his quiet rampage, turning his attention back to you. He started to blush, and it hurt when he started to justify his actions. “For Wayne. Like, a souvenir. ‘Cause he helped pay for-”

“Eddie,” you interrupted softly. It’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself. “I love you.”

His posture visibly relaxed. “I love you too,”

“Can you do me a favour then?”

“Anything,”

“See those big fluffy bathrobes?”

Following your request, Eddie got undressed carefully, hanging the rest of his clothes with the jacket. He pulled one of the robes around himself and jumped onto the bed.

“I think Cuddly Eddie is my favourite,” you told him, smiling up at him.

“Come ‘ere and tell me that again,” he replied, holding out grabby hands.

“Let me just cha-”

Eddie hopped from the bed to land in front of you, stopping your path to the other bathrobe and eliciting a small yelp from you.

“Sorry, but, ah, I’m gonna need you to stay in this for just a little bit longer.”

Goosebumps broke out along your arms, and you sucked in your bottom lip. “Okay,” you whispered.

Eddie nodded at the bed, and you climbed back in. He turned the lights off, leaving only moody lamp light to see through. He returned to you, and you both got comfortable laying on your sides facing each other.

“So… did I do good?” Eddie asked, his voice gentle, his hands taking yours so he could cover them in kisses. He looked at you with those big brown eyes.

“Yep, you did the absolute best,” you praised, turning your arm so it would be wrist-up, letting him kiss along your veins.

“Can you… tell me?” There was a rare tone of nervousness in Eddie’s voice. If he was even a little bit nervous, it meant he was vulnerable. It meant he trusted you.

“You want me to tell you that you did good?”

You just wanted to be sure, wanted to give him precisely what he was asking for, and judging by the way his pupils blew out and the barely-there nod, you were. You knew what he wanted.

“You did so well, baby. Everything’s been perfect. You’re perfect,” you started, voice low but not a whisper.

Eddie wriggled closer to you, held you close, rested his head on your chest. You began to play with his hair, aimless and tender.

“And, all the other girls I know had to basically tell their boyfriends or whoever to ask them. But you had a whole plan, because you’re… ridiculous like that. You make everything special. Even the car ride and taking photos and just everything.”

Eddie was glad you couldn’t see his face. His eyes were welling up with tears. He thought hearing the praise would be good foreplay. Instead of the words going straight into his pants, they were settling in his heart.

“And you looked so hot in your suit. Kind of strange to see you all dressed up like that. But I guess you have to get used to it because that’s what you gotta wear to music award shows and stuff, right?”

He chuckled at that.

“Oh! I don’t know if you planned it or not, like maybe you just couldn’t get pink so close to the date, but the red corsage matched-”

“Your ring,” he cut in. He’d wondered if you had noticed.

“You did it on purpose?”

Eddie nodded into you. “Always thought pink and red go good together,”

“They do,” you agreed, holding your hand up and watching the ruby catch the light at different angles. For a second you forgot you were on a mission. “And the crowns! I thought I saw you selling, but you were being a different kind of bad.” Eddie liked how you said bad. “It’s so… you. It’s like, this super romantic thing but it’s a big fuck you to the whole idea of school dances, and you know Jason is probably gonna be bitching about it for the rest of the year. He’ll probably bring it up at the ten-year reunion,”

“We coming back for that?” Eddie asked bravely.

“No. We’ll be too busy,”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know… Being in love,”

“Sounds good,” Eddie thought out loud. “Sounds really fucking good to me, angel.” Your red-coated nails scratched against his scalp, making Eddie’s whole body tingle.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Please,” he whispered on a breath out.

“Then, after all that, you bring me here. This must have cost you so much…”

It didn’t start so emotional; you’d honestly just tried to call him a good boy and get him all worked out, the same way he could do to you. But then you started to think about it, started to ramble, and you were reminded of how goddamn special Eddie was. How the night was perfect, ripped from the pages of your Eddie-coded love stories.

“All the kind and thoughtful and weird things you’ve done for me, not just tonight but all year… It’s like, made up for everything else that’s happened to me, you know?”

There was something in that. Did Eddie treat you like a queen because the world owed you and he was doing his part? Or would he be the same doting boyfriend even if the rest of your life had been peachy? Did one mean more love than the other? A different kind of love?

Eddie’s brain was going around in circles and he decided to shelf the thoughts, and come back to them another time.

Giving yourself a couple beats of breath, you reigned yourself in from the emotional cliff of love, setting yourself back on the path you had intended to take.

“On top of all of that, you make me feel so warm… and tingly… and like, I get this weird heavy drunk feeling sometimes when you do stuff to me.”

Eddie smooshed his face into your chest, dramatically groaning. “Tingly?”

“Tingly,”

“Where?” he asked, untangling himself from you and sitting up against the velvet headboard.

You followed him, obeying his commands as he held his hands out for you to take, and he brought you over him to straddle his lap.

“Um, well, it starts in my nose,” you explained, watching Eddie’s amused expression. “It goes down and I can feel it all across my neck and chest.” You used your hands to show him, open palm mapping out the hot spots. “It’s like butterflies in my tummy.” A year ago, you never would have willingly drawn attention to your stomach, but you hadn’t even given it a second thought. “Down my spine, and it doesn’t matter how much I arch or bend, it’s always just… I don’t know, running up and down.”

Eddie hadn’t blinked, mesmerised by the very cute and very hot show you were putting on.

“Then I feel it in my thighs, but like, just on insides, where I’m soft,”

“So soft,” Eddie involuntarily repeated. His breathing was getting heavier by the second.

“Yeah. And, uh, where it’s most like that, most tingly, is in my underwear, where only you’re allowed to be,”

“Where exactly is that?” Eddie asked, desperate to hear you say any word that could be deemed even half dirty.

None of the words felt right, either too obscene, too clinical, or too childish. But Eddie was hanging on your every goddamn syllable, and you wanted to see what happened when you said something… like that.

Leaning forward, you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought yourself close to him. It would be easier if you didn’t have to watch him watch you. You kissed the side of his face, then behind his ear, letting your hot breath do some of the work for you.

“Eddie-” He shuddered under you. “You make me… You make my pussy tingly, and warm, and I want you so bad,”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” was all you heard before he had you flipped onto your back, legs spread, and underwear coming off. You were giggling when you felt his lips come into contact with you.

“See… Just… like that,” you praised. “Jus’ like…”

Eddie made you cum once, then afraid to ruin your dress, he helped you up and lifted the dress over your head, putting it on a hanger next to his suit. You watched him, heart all aflutter.

“Again,” he ordered, manhandling you back onto the bed.

“‘Kay,” you agreed happily.

The second time, Eddie had lost himself in the taste of you and how your feet curled and the sounds you made. He watched you more carefully, lifting his head from your body to watch you as he slipped a third finger into you. You grabbed the sheets and pulled, whining and panting and then, pressing down onto Eddie’s hand, doing the work for him.

“Ah, fuck, good girl,” he murmured not loud enough for you to hear. Eddie was grinding himself against the bathrobe and bed, the fabric of the robe creating perfect friction. As you got yourself closer and closer to orgasm, fucking yourself on Eddie’s fingers, he quickly caught up.

You were saying his name over and over, voice getting higher and back lifting from the bed. He took over from you, pumping hard and fast, pulling not just the orgasm from you, but a wave of warm, clear liquid that Eddie immediately started to lap up, making you writhe against his mouth as he wrapped his arms around your thighs to stop you from crawling away from him.

Senses coming back, you could hear first. Eddie swapping between your name, angel, various praises about doing such a good job, and something about the word ‘gush’ which would have made you embarrassed under any other circumstance.

Rich strawberries and fresh clean linen. That dominated the scents of the room. Distantly, Eddie’s shampoo and your perfume.

Your vision was a little fuzzy, so you focused on the ceiling until you had enough energy to sit up on your elbows and look down at Eddie, who had rested his head on one of your thighs, closed his eyes, and wore the sweetest smile. It was completely at odds with what he was doing only seconds before.

Everything felt soft, lavish under your fingertips. And, your mouth tasted of nothing, instead your tongue pressed against your teeth, begging you to find Eddie’s lips and kiss.

“Eddie,”

“Mmm,”

“Come,”

“Already did.”

It was stupid but it made you laugh. “Okay, good, but come here, to me, please.”

Eddie stood, taking off the robe he’d made a mess of, then came to where your arms were held out in wait. He pulled the covers down and brought them back over both of you, finally cuddling up with you. He kissed the top of your head, more content than he’d been in… He couldn’t remember.

“I want to have sex,” your small but sure voice came from under the covers.

Eddie couldn’t help but laugh at the finality of your statement. All business.

“Why are you laughing at me?” you squeaked, looking up at him with the cutest angry face.

Eddie leaned down and kissed you. “Mm’not laughing at you. Promise. You just sounded… I don’t know. I’m not laughing. I swear.” Pulling another cute, angry, and suspicious expression, Eddie kissed you again. “We-we can, yeah, do… that,”

“Only if you want,” you said then, a little thrown by his reaction.

“I want!” he almost yelled. “Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” He lowered his voice. “I want. And I like… No, wait, I’m proud of you… you know, for asking… None of that came out right,”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

Eddie meant ‘for you to get to the point where you can verbalise what you want is so fucking massive, and I am infinitely in awe of your progress and entirely in love with you’ and you knew that.

“Um, I might have, planned… for this… just in case, you know?” he told you, trying very hard not to sound like he did all of it to earn sex, like you’d ever think that.

“Yeah?”

Eddie paused to look at your face. You were glowing, happy, excited. Eddie nodded, “Yeah.” He retrieved a packet of condoms and bottle of lube.

You’d never really seen either, so were curious, took them both from him and read the packaging. “Strawberry flavour? To match the champagne?” you joked.

“No. Not even I’m that cheesy. It’s all they had. Hawkins, you know?”

“What could you get out of Hawkins?” you wondered out loud.

“Any other flavour. No flavour. Glow in the dark. Some that feel real cold. Some that feel hot. Sky’s the fucking limit,” Eddie answered, no comedy all education.

“Oh… Where… from?”

You’d trapped him. Eddie grinned and scrunched his nose up at you. “There’s, ah, a sex store… in Lafyette,”

“Can you take me?”

Eddie’s eyebrows rose and his grin got wider. “Yeah? Absolutely… Jesus, you’re killing me in all sorts of ways tonight, angel.” Eddie pounced, tickling you and making you kick the air and squeal. When tears were running down your cheeks, he stopped to watch you catch your breath. “You good?” he asked, brushing hair from your face.

“I’m good,” you whispered back, looking at him like he was your whole entire world.

“Good. Come ‘ere.”

Eddie devoted a lot of time to making sure you were ready; mind, body, and soul. He wanted jelly legs and dripping wetness. Heart beating fast. Clammy hands. He wanted you begging, which you did. You whined his name, pushed at his face with your nose.

“I got you,” he said, getting himself between your legs. Everything about your body was screaming please and ready. You were so warm and open, and his mind was going to short circuit if he didn’t pull himself together.

You wriggled under him, getting comfy, then wrapped your legs around his waist. Eddie hissed at the feeling, making you smile.

“Here, put this under your butt.” Eddie placed a pillow there, and two under your head. He was fussing over you, then the condom, and it was adorable.

“Eddie, hey, hey,” you almost clicked at him like a puppy. “I’m good.”

He nodded, suddenly nervous. You, on the other hand, were somehow the opposite. No nerves. No anxiety. You just really, really wanted to feel him.

The kissing started off slow, then needy and messy. You felt caged in by his arms, pressed into the mattress by his hips; you loved it. Safe in a bubble.

“Ready?”

“Uh-huh, yes,”

“‘Kay, just, ah, tell me… if… anything,”

“I know. I will.”

Eddie nuzzled into your neck, kissed your skin lazily. He was painfully hard and just a little terrified that he’d cum within seconds. You felt him glide himself over your clit, and down, lining the tip up. Eddie looked at you as he slowly pushed in.

Your eyes were closed and your mouth opened, a happy gasp escaping. He couldn’t read what it meant when your eyebrows pulled together, but he knew the look of pleasure on your face. Eddie stopped himself from asking you if you were okay; he didn’t want to ruin the moment for you.

The arch in your back. How hard your fingers were gripping his arms. The smile forming on your face.

Then, he had bottomed out, whimpered, and the sound cut through you. You needed him to do it again, so you bucked your hips. It worked, a string of chaotic noises coming from him.

“Are you gonna move?” you whispered.

“Um… No… I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” he admitted, a bark of laughter ending his sentence.

“It’s okay if you do. Honest. This feels really good,”

“Doesn’t hurt?” he asked. You shook your head. “At all?”

“No. I read in a magazine that it’s a myth that it’s normal to hurt. Like, it can. But not like how people always say,”

“Oh… okay,” was all he could say. How the fuck were you forming full sentences? “Jus’ tell me… if, ah, faster… or whatever.”

You nodded at him, let go of his arms to reach up and fold his hair behind his ears. When you ran your hand along his face, he rubbed his cheek in your palm.

“Kiss,” you ordered.

Obeying, Eddie shifted his weight onto his elbows, let his hands find your hair, then kissed you. Slowly, he started to move, careful, deep movements. He was able to find a rhythm that made you bite back a stupid grin.

“Faster,” you asked, breathy.

“If I do… I won’t… last,”

“S’okay. Please.”

Faster felt deeply right. Like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Your mind went blank, and you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled Eddie down against you hard. He was panting, swearing, and just over a minute later, he came harder than he ever had before.

Almost all of Eddie’s weight was on you, but it was comfortable. Before he could speak or check on you, or even pull out, you’d sighed happily and then, much to Eddie’s amazement, passed out.

When he got up, respectfully cleaned you best he could, and tucked you in, Eddie kissed your forehead and whispered, “I love you, lightweight.”

Next Chapter: 11- Afterglow

Fic Taglist: @ajeff855 @b-barnes04 @eddie-munson-is-a-sweetheart @nerd-squad-headquarters @word-wytch@harrys-tittie @munsonsmel0dy @sidthedollface2 @eddiethesexy @bardicfrustration @orpheusredux @munsonsgirl71 @a-time-for-wolvess @rosaline-black @thegirlwhohides @emotionaldreamer @e0509 A@briasnow-blog @kiyastrf94 @erinsingalong @rainylana

Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @munsonlives @sweetpeapod @depressooo---expressooo @thorfemmes @hawkins-high @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @mymoonisalways-in-scorpio @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair

#Mine #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson/You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader #Chubby!Reader #Stranger Things #Eddie Munson Fanfic

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life-in-the-garden · 5 months

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A Spell for the Honey Eaters

Introduction

In a lot of Slavic languages we see the word for “bear” (the animal) being formed from epithets. In Russian, the modern word for “bear” is transliterated as “medved.” That, along with the Polish “niedzwiedz” both translate roughly to “honey eater.” This same use of epithets is demonstrated in a lot of Germanic and Scandinavian languages—the Old Norse “bjorn,” the less-common English word “bruin,” and even the German “baer” all ultimately refer to the animal’s color: brown. Indeed, this use of epithets for the animal was so widespread in the ancient north that, according to The Linguistics Encyclopedia (2002) we now have no record of what the actual name for the winter sleeper was in any northern Indo-European dialect.

But why did this taboo exist against saying the name of the honey eater? Until effective post-mortem communication is established everything is speculation, of course, but the most common consensus on this issue among paleo-linguists is that the people of the ancient north were very… let us say respectful of honey eaters. Nobody wanted the winter sleepers to steal their kills, raid their camps, or—worst of all—actively hunt them. Bears (let us be brave with this name) have power; they are massive, strong, and deadly apex predators.

Who are also very cute!

photo by Mark Basarab on Unsplash

Bears also get very fat every autumn and then sleep through the winter in order to avoid the problem of otherwise not having enough food available through the lean months of the year. Smart! But also fat. Very, very fat. So fat, in fact, that the United States National Park Service hosts an annual contest called Fat Bear Week where people can vote on their favorite bear every autumn. The linked website says it best:

“For bears, fat equals survival. Each winter, bears enter the den where they will not eat or drink until they emerge in spring. During this time, they may lose up to 1/3 of their body weight as they rely solely on their fat reserves. Survival depends on eating a year's worth of food in six months.”

So what does this mean for us humans? It means… stop hating yourself and/or others for being fat. This spell uses the spirit of the bear as an animal ally (if you are white like I am, please do not use the term “totem” or “spirit animal” due to those terms being cultural appropriation) to inspire yourself towards a better sense of self-love when it comes to your weight. And if you really struggle with internalized fatphobia, then you can at least use this spell to see yourself in a more neutral way that doesn’t reflect negatively on your self-worth.

Method

When pondering the nature of the primordial winter sleeper, I was initially drawn to food-focused witchery—because is it really a spell channeling the power of bears if you don’t eat at least one salmon? (this is a joke)—but this isn’t always an accessible option for people who struggle to cook and/or have a history with eating disorders. Therefore, the goal with the honey eaters’ spell is to nourish your body—but not necessarily with food if that doesn’t work for you. Therefore, more specifically for this spell you need to give your body what it needs to not just survive, but thrive.

And you know your own body infinitely better than I (a rando on the Internet) certainly do, so you get to decide what exactly your body needs to thrive. It could be 8+ hours of sleep, a solid meal, and/or an extra bottle’s worth of of water throughout the day… but these are just the basics. Maybe you need something more complex than that. Maybe you need a lot more than that. That’s okay. It’s okay to need things, and also okay to want things that aren’t necessities. It’s okay to pursue the things you want and/or need, like a bear tearing through a blackberry patch in search of the ripe, tart fruit. If you feel like you need permission to go after what you want, this is your sign to give chase with all of your power.

Please keep in mind that this spell lasts 24 hours once begun.

You will need:

Writing supplies OR a method by which to digitally store an image and quickly/frequently refer back to it

Accouterments for self care (your choice & discretion)

Instructions, such as they are:

First, draw a picture of a bear with your writing supplies. It doesn’t need to be fancy! Arguably one of the most famous pictures of a bear ever made was created more than 30,000 years ago in a cave called Chauvet in France. It looks like this:

photo by Jean Clottes, retrieved from Smithsonian Magazine

(If you want to learn more about the cave paintings of Chauvet, you can do so here).

If you don’t have the spoons to draw, lack confidence as an artist, or otherwise just don’t want to draw a picture, you can find a picture of a bear online and save it to your phone or another device for quick/frequent reference. Remember the power of the honey eater as you do so, and know that you are keeping that power close to you throughout the day that this spell will last. The attention of the winter sleeper is upon you, and though not cruel the honey eater will ask that you be kind to yourself; winter is never too far away, and you need your strength to survive the cold.

Once your image of a bear has been created or saved, the spell is begun. For the next 24 hours, your mission as a magical practitioner is to ensure that your body thrives. Take care of yourself as much as you are able; live lavishly, indulgently, and without regret. If you ever find yourself caught in a sudden trap of shame or doubt, think of the honey eater—refer back to your image if necessary—and say an epithet or name for "bear" that feels comforting to you (some examples: Arktos, Ursus, Medved). You can say the name aloud or just think it really hard; the point of doing this is to interrupt the shame/doubt and not allow it to take root and fester in your mind and heart. Keep doing this until the 24 hours are finished. Repeat as you see fit.

The purpose of this spell is to help your body and mind escape negative patterns of behavior and thought through the power of the winter sleeper. Remember that bears are fat, and that bears were some of the most awe-inspiring and terrifying animals ever encountered by ancient humans. There is nothing wrong with being fat, and fat is often necessary for survival through the long, hard months of winter. Unlike bears, we can’t sleep away months of darkness and cold—whether that darkness and cold be mental illness, abuse, or something else entirely—but we can bring the strength of the honey eater into ourselves for the eternal quest to continue living until the next spring.

If you liked this spell or even just found it intriguing, please consider checking out my ko-fi where I share spells and witchcraft-focused zines. As a struggling college student in an abusive home, it means a lot when someone is able to toss some spare change my way!

#witchcraft #witchblr #witches of tumblr #magic #haven's original spells #spellcraft #animal magic #fat acceptance #fat liberation #body positivity

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mx-werebat · 1 month

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Laura's Boundaries!

// pt: Laura's boundaries! //

Askbox - No emoji games unless you specify what you mean, also don't send nsfw things, I try to keep this blog sfw and also struggle with hypersexuality. Also please don't ask me about nonhuman related things here, that is strictly for @/batsbolts-andfangs. If you have an inquiry related to nonhumanity and you're a mutual, please send it to my DMs.

Tagging - Tagging is fine! Just don't tag me in things I may find triggering. No ask games please

Interactions - Please don't try to touch me, even virtually, if we aren't mutuals. Don't reblog my posts with playful tags if it's a ventpost. Also don't involve me in things like omegaverse, that makes me highly uncomfortable.

Discord - Please don't ask me for my discord or try to get me to join servers! I only use discord to talk to friends and it's not something I want to talk to Tumblr mutuals on unless it's necessary.

I don't want to be followed by individuals who constantly post yandere things. The "trope" makes me uncomfortable and I find it a romanticization of REAL mental health issues that I, myself, go through. This applies for my nonhuman blog as well, batsbolts-andfangs.

If you want to refer to me by a nickname or a pet name, please run it by me first. Those are usually reserved for close mutuals.

Please do not bring up my eating habits.

Tag filters: I have two filters for my mutuals to tag for me! #batty please ignore this and #tagging for vamp. I would appreciate if mutuals use these tags for posts that contain: fatphobia, anything that can cause body dysmorphia, reblog bait, vampire hate, trolls / anon hate, omegaverse content, things alluding to wanting romance with vampires

This will be updated!

#txt #boundaries post #boundaries #info

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obstinatecondolement · 6 months

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Update from the GI bullshit mines (cw weight loss, illness, fatphobia, non-graphic discussion of bowel issues)

So I haven't been weighing myself, but my family has said that it looks like I am losing weight, which is kind of worrying as it might mean that food is just going straight through me without my body being able to wring much out of it. I do have a long way to go before I'd be in any danger of becoming underweight, which is good, but it's still not a great sign to be losing weight from illness for fat people even if it doesn't have all the same risks that people who don't have any kind of a buffer who get sick and lose weight face.

It also has the potential risk of not being taken seriously because people providing my medical care might think it's fine, nay good, for fat people to lose weight for any reason, of course, but I don't think my usual GP is like that. He's never done the "well, you're fat" thing about any health problems I've had and has always been good about referring me for tests and stuff proactively to rule things out without me having to be up on all this stuff and hold him to ransom to give me adequate healthcare, and has never told me to lose weight, or even brought my weight up if I didn't first. So, from that point of view, I don't think that's something I have to worry about at least from my primary care provider and that is reassuring.

I am still not sure if I have a viral or bacterial gastic infection, or if this is a worsening of the ongoing gut issues I've been having for most of this year that might be IBS or some other underlying undiagnosed issue that I need to have investigated, but I have been so sick for so long now. It is really impacting my quality of life and ability to like... do anything. Including leave the house, because there are multiple several hour periods a day where I have to urgently get to a bathroom every five minutes right now.

I need to go back to the doctor, because I do have an appointment in two weeks to follow up about the acid reflux, but I don't think that I can go on that long like this without any kind of medical intervention. The idea last time was that if I hadn't improved enough on the medication I was on I might need a diagnostic endoscope, but I think I may also need to be referred for a colonoscopy at this point. I don't know if this is a holistic problem that's causing issues on both ends, or if I have stomach problems that are separate from issues with my intestines and/or colon, but... this is so unsustainable. At the very least a doctor needs to be Aware of what's going on with me right now.

I didn't mention the IBS(?) stuff much last time I saw the GP, because I was mostly seeing him about respiratory symptoms and I only just remembered to mention the reflux and then that became the main focus of the appointment. But like... yeah. If I have fucking Crohn's or something I need to know that.

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genderqueerdykes · 1 year

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hey uhhh do you think it's fatphobic to want to lose weight? i promise you i'm asking this in good faith, and i will NEVER see fat people as inherently ugly/unhealthy and i would not comment on a fat person's body or even suggesting them to go on a diet, but if i want to lose weight for myself, is it fatphobic or am i having internalized fatphobia? i know @/bigfatscience said that it's impossible to lose weight in a healthy manner and i completely agree, however there are material consequences that i fear if i gain weight any more than i already have, e.g. the available feminine and sexy clothes in the stores, online or offline, are only go up to size L especially in my country, other clothes literally don't fit in my size, something like that, so if this is the case, what should i do? or maybe i am too paranoid at this point? for reference i'm a size 8 - 10 US and my height is 4'11"

i personally do not think it is inherently fatphobic to want to lose weight, however, it depends on the reason why you want to lose weight, you know?

i've been plus size my whole life, always hovering around the 300 lbs mark and i've dealt with a lot of internalized fatphobia my whole life. when i was younger, i wanted to lose weight specifically because i thought that fat on my body was ugly, that fat = unattractive. if you want to lose weight because you're finding the fat on your body unattractive, that's more to do with unresolved internalized fatphobia

if you want to lose weight because you're at a weight that's hard on your body, like for example, i got up to 360 lbs at one point in my life and it was in fact increasing my chronic pain issues and causing issues with breathing and whatnot. being fat does not inherently cause pain, but it can exacerbate existing chronic pain if you have a lot of weight on your joints, pressing on certain areas of your body, and so on. if you are concerned for your health in that manner, that is a very healthy and valid concern. i've dropped back down to my normal 300 range and my pain has gone down significantly

thinking "i should lose weight because fat = unhealthy" is internalized fatphobia, thinking "i'm unattractive/unappealing because i'm chubby/fat/plus size, i should lose weight" is internalized fatphobia, that sort of thing. i will say i have lost weight also specifically to be able to more easily fit into cuter clothing without having to special order it, and i don't think that's fatphobia on our behalf, but rather society's.

so what i'm getting at is it's not always bad to want to lose weight. you can have very valid reasons for wanting to change your appearance, as long as you aren't feeling bad about yourself or feeling like you're ugly or that your problems stem from being chubby, fat, having rolls, a big belly, etc. it's okay if you do have those feelings though because society is so aggressively hateful toward fat people, so it's alright if it takes some time for you to unwind any thoughts like that

i hope that helps, i don't think it makes someone a bad person for having these thoughts or anything like that. society is just very aggressive and it takes time to love your self image, it really does. it comes in steps and weight is a really hard one to come to grips with, especially if you are trans, because it can make chest binding, obscuring hips, etc. harder. i hope that helps! take care of yourself, it's okay to love yourself at whatever weight you are now, but it's also okay to want to strive for a different look, too, as long as your motivation is rooted in self hatred, but in self care. take care!

#asks #answers #fatphobia

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cozy-comfy-cuteness · 1 year

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So... I fucked up

I went to the doctors and he said i likely had lupus. i got blood work done and he was sure about it. i asked to be referred out to a rheumologist, for a second opinion before doctor #1 didn't think I needed medication.

she... didnt think i had lupus. she ran her own tests and came back and said it wasnt lupus. that it would probably never be lupus. to stop worrying about it, when people have lupus, they will know.

it doesnt matter that damn near every afab and some amab people on my mom's side has lupus. she said i had a positive ana because of the autoimmune diseaes that run in the family and losing weight would help the inflammation and cardiac risk (which was very very high).

so... i started tracking again. it lasted a week and a half. it only took that long before i was panicking about what to eat, crying in the car while eating lunch. it made me feel fucking terrible. i let the fatphobia in the medical field almost cause me to relapse. hell, it might even be considered a relapse. i dunno. but i know better.

and when i was looking up the causes of inflammation in the body, weight can have some relation to it, but you know else does? depression, anxiety, trauma, ptsd, and other shit like that. things that i have had since i was 8 years old. and tracking my calories is going to cause me way more stress and mental health issues than it would help with whatever i wanted to change.

so i will focus on health promoting habits, which i already knew is better. eating more fruit and veggies, is good. getting more movement, is good. getting more and better sleep, is good. managing my stress, is good. tracking my calories and freaking out and rocking back and forth because i ate something i "shouldnt have" is NOT going to help my wellbeing. at all.

I am happy i have a good therapist and an amazing husband that i can talk about all this stuff with. i was sending him the food log at the end of the day to prevent myself from restricting. i just wanted to track where i was at and what changed i could make. 2 days ago i told him that i had cake and i felt horrible. we got cake because at work we won an award and they got cake for everyone. my husband asked if it was that the cake didnt make me feel good, or if eddy was trying to fuck shit up lol. i told him i didnt know but i didnt think tracking was helping. he was understanding but also was worried it was my ed trying to be lke "oh dont track, just dont eat." next day i told him now i was feeling during lunch and he agreed it isnt best for me and i needed all the snuggles and cuddles and wanted to make me feel better.

he is amazing. he doesnt know anything about tracking and it was me who wanted to share it with him to make sure that i wasnt relapsing. it honeslty helped. part of the ed is hiding and lying about shit, so when my ed wants me to hide stuff, i tend to tell my husband because i know its the first step to a relapse.

i am not back at square one, but i am working on getting back to feeling more like myself.

fuck medical fatphobia.

#fatphobia #medical fatphobia #health at every size #intuitive eating #fat acceptance #body positive #spoonie

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theatremp3 · 10 months

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wait what has actually happened with the fob/mcr feud stuff my whole dash is just vague references to something happening

i’m putting this below a read more bc it’s going to get long and i don’t really want to recap all this but i’d rather do it myself than have more people totally misrepresent the situation, so.

okay so mcrblr has been for some reason passing around a bunch of polls about how comparatively good the members of mcr are at different kinds of sex.

aside number one: my personal stance on this is that i think it’s weird to speculate about the guys’ sex lives, even as a joke, but given that none of them will see it, it’s whatever. i’ll scroll past it and move on. if pressed i do think that kind of joking should probably be kept to a closed discord server where everyone is in on the joke, because doing it on here means it will inevitably break containment, but again. not my circus, not my monkeys.

anyways. a mcr blogger is like “this sex discussion is so funny, what if it was expanded to include more of bandom” and then used patrick stump as an example. from what i can tell they were trying to satirize the way mcr fans were talking about the guys’ sex lives. they said some stuff in a now deleted post that included things like “patrick would light candles and play marvin gaye during sex [subtext: in a lame way]” and “he looks like a mouse” (note that this is something mcr fans very commonly say about gerard)

that post broke containment and fob fans interpreted it as suggesting that patrick is bad at sex and thus is fatphobic, based on the fatphobic idea that fat people are sexually unappealing

aside number two: fatphobia in bandom is a real issue and nothing i have said has meant to trivialize that. it is absolutely something that has contributed to the way people have treated and talked about both patrick and gerard. but it is not what i see to be the true crux of the situation i’ve been observing here.

okay now let’s go back in time a bit. last year mcr toured again for the first time in a decade. mcr fans understandably went crazy. at some point along the way, i started seeing posts from fob bloggers complaining about specifically mcr fans talking shit about fob and praising mcr at fob’s expense

aside number three: i am a fan of both fob and mcr. i was a fan of fob first. i saw them last week and cried. i do not think either band is better than the other, but if pressed, i would say i personally like mcr more, because i identify more heavily with them/their storytelling. i follow people who like both, people who like mcr and not fob, and people who like fob and not mcr. i myself have never actually seen a mcr fan hating on fob specifically. from my perspective, most mcr fans either like fob or don’t really talk about them. i did see a few posts claiming that mcr was doing things no other band had done or could do (objectively untrue, but understandable hyperbole from big fans) but as far as i could tell fob was never namedropped.

so yeah every now and then i would see some vagueposts about mcr fans from fob bloggers. once polls became a thing the “feud” would come up whenever a bandom poll would get passed around, people would complain about the results, etc

back to the present. op of the post doubles down. a mcr blogger says something like “patrick is a normal size for a 40 something man” which they clearly meant to mean “being fat is within the range of normal bodies” but was interpreted as “i can’t be fatphobic bc patrick isn’t fat. he’s normal and fat people aren’t normal”

i’m too tired to keep typing and it’s 1 am and in 7 hours i am getting on a plane for a one day round trip to see my grandfather before he dies so i’m logging off now. sorry i didn’t finish explaining but i feel like this is probably enough that you can bridge the gap to where we are now. if you have more questions you can dm me or send another ask. i do have more analysis of the situation i just really can’t deal with trying to distill it right now. most of my posts about the issue have been meant to encompass the entire months in the making feud that i believe has lead us to this point, not the specific post

if you’re going to be like why are you involving yourself in bandom drama when your family member is dying it’s because i can’t do anything about it and i was TRYING to use tumblr as a distraction. also like i said the feud has been months in the making and as someone who likes both bands i was really sick of ppl acting like we were enemies

#answered #oh yeah also someone who i literally talked to yesterday broke mutuals with me after 6 years bc of this #shrug emoji i guess

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heartshapedcreaturefromcriptoon · 5 months

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Sarah Stiles as Mimzy ...

...Now where do I know that-

Oh FUCK NO!

Worst possible thing that could've ever happened. Least favorite character in Hazbin Hotel officially clocked just for- No wait.... Okay . I think I just changed my mind in real time ...

Because I'm listening to "Drift away" off screen right now and without the association of this stupid cringe arse character that I never wanted to see or think about or have big name weebs in this fandumb who have no life or frame of reference outside of their next cartoon craze and harry potter try to associate with me again... (Spinel). Sarah's voice actually very pussy cunt cunt slay and I can see her voice actually working for Mimz.

I am also closing my eyes and re-imagining the song to be Mimzy singing about her and Alastor's failing sex life and it's hilarious.

"Here in the garden, let's play a game..."

"Come here Darling... And let Daddy show you how it's done!"

"Happily wondering, night after night, is this how it works? Am I doing it right?"

Girl, no. He's a self loathing, chubby chasing beanpole of a man who just used you to experiment with a latent stuffing fetish that he doesn't want admit that he has and although there are other controversial reasons why you should've probably been retired as a character the second Al was confirmed ace, and maybe that just happened because someone realized that it was controversial to have you as a coupling in the first place, so they chickened out and claimed he loved no one instead of fully committing to having him fuck a fat flapper chick like they should have ... You deserve so much better, girl.

Another good thing about having a Steven Universe cast member join the Hazbin Hotel cast I guess, is that the overlap in casting officially proves that ~"Criticals~ calling Hazbin things like shitbin, trashbin, and Hazmat are officially as unhinged, if not terminally more so, then the ~"Criticals"~ calling Steven Universe "Shitvin". 💀

I guess this means that petitprincess1 can officially kiss my body rolls now and I want all the gray faces who can't reach me to know that I am stuffing cheese fries into my mouth as I said that. Bitch. 💀

Oh... and specific to this casting news this also means that aside from making this one post about it, I will also be blocking getting overly excited about Sarah in the tags and cross posting for her previous work on a now long finished kids show just like I'm doing with all the posts in the tags about Jeremy Jordon because you all need to calm the absolute fuck down. 💀

Also, in the spirit of killing everyone's joy and being as unlikeable as Mimzy herself is in this fandom, this is my official announcement that I personally will not be fully accepting of having the word of god say that Alastor is ace or aroace until his sexuality is explicitly mentioned, shown,or explored within the canon text. Why? Because controversial or not I've always felt as though going from having Alastor being in love with the only fat character in the narrative back then to just loving no one at all as having this strange undercurrent of fatphobia to it to begin with even if it might've been someones well meaning attempt at fixing a problem and I love Mimzy, and since she's gonna be voiced by Sarah now and people are probably gonna make the inevitable angsty association between the song "Drift Away" and Almimzy as a pairing like I just the fucking did, the whole undertone of "I'm Ace because I didn't like fucking this fat chick" is just gonna become an even more glaring issue for as time goes on, even if it isn't there, unless we get a canonical explanation as to why Alastor is ace that doesn't have anything to do with their relationship. And even then, we still don't know how Mimzy will be treated by the narrative, let alone by Alastor, and there's still no guarantee that Al's aceness WILL be explicitly explored or if it's just gonna be another "Princess Marco Turdina" Situation, even if it's word of god this time round or not, and I can still respectfully disagree with some aspects of the way this is handled and interpret word of god in my own way. And some of you are like, militantly overprotective of a fictional serial killer to the point where you're past being obnoxious and it's become concerning and you're probably gonna throw a tantrum for being dissatisfied with what you get anyway and end up dropping the show, so...

I'm not sorry that for Al and all his boys and his girls and his Mimzy, I just choose love ... Bye! 🤭🌹 X.O

#Hazbin Hotel #hazbin hypocritical #Alastor #Mimzy #Almimzy #media comprehension #media literacy #fatphobia #petitprincess1 #(mentioned)#hazbin hotel cast #undescribed #Notice how I'm NOT tagging any children's shows in this cause it's that easy...#Oh... And again... How seriously some of you choose to take my silly posts is on *YOU*! <3

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blueywrites · 1 year

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chapter one of new skin

will be released on Thursday, March 16th @ 6:00pm EST.

I'm very excited to finally share this with you! It has been a work of emotional labor and love, and I hope you enjoy it! 🥰️ Please mind the tags below for chapter one, and check the finalized tags on release day in case more have been added.

18+ for mature themes. fem!reader, plussized!reader, Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia, mentions of blood.

🍑 masterlist | 🎵 playlist

#blueynews #new skin #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #linecook!eddie #waitress!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #stranger things fanfiction

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storiesbyrhi · 1 year

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Angel of the First Degree - Chapter 17: Glory

Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader 5617 words Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: 1987.

Author’s Note: Reminder that in this fic the new school/college year would begin at the end of January/start of February (because I’m Australian and applied our system to the U.S. accidentally).

This is the final chapter of Angel of the First Degree! Chapter 1 was published at the beginning of August 2022, so it’s been a couple of months riding this very emotional and hopefully healing ride. The story started as one of those little bedtime fantasies. You know the ones where you pretend your pillow is Eddie and you’re totally somewhere else? When I started to write it, I decided that I wanted to put a whole lot self-love, self-acceptance, and self-reconciliation into it. To have so many people read this and get something genuine and positive from it is beyond cool and into the land of super fucking special. Thank you to everyone on the taglist, and to everyone who commented and reblogged. This fic is dedicated to every chubby girl that thinks they’ll never be loved; you will be, and it will be glorious. xo Rhi

You had always hated sleepovers. When you were a kid, your parents put immense pressure on you to be good and polite. Be the perfect guest or else. You stayed rigid, having no fun and remaining quiet. Most of the time you weren’t invited over again purely because you freaked the other kids out. Assuming you had done something wrong to warrant the cold shoulder, your parents would punish you.

In your teenage years you hated them because you were terrified of having to get changed in front of other people. It wasn’t just about the weight you were killing yourself to keep off. Hair. Scars. Moles. Dips. Bumps. Acne. There was a never-ending list of things Hayley could pick on. At school you could duck behind lockers or sneak into toilet stalls. Sleepovers were exposing.

Sleep would never come. Partly, the anxiety was keeping your heart rate too high to settle. The room would be too hot then too cold then back again. Every sound was amplified. Partly, you purposefully kept yourself awake long after everyone else was asleep. You had no idea if you snored or if your tummy gurgled or what other noises your body would make when you weren’t in control. It was a horrifying thought.

Then, 1986.

Then, Eddie.

Then, beautiful healing and glorious acceptance that a body is just a body; it means as much or as little as you wanted.

When Esther invited you to a sleepover in the first week of January, you were genuinely excited. It was just you and her living the slumber party dream. Snacks and movies with cute boys. Sneaking booze and giggling. It was proof that friendship between two girls absolutely could and did work. You needed to learn that after high school.

Esther drove you home mid-morning, hugging you tightly before watching you wave from the trailer door. As you waited for her to drive away, you glanced at Eddie’s van. In a brief and passing thought, you noted that it looked like it was full of boxes or something. Maybe Corroded Coffin got a gig and he was sorting equipment out.

As you entered the trailer, Eddie was closing the bedroom door and turning to walk down the hall.

“Hey, angel,” he greeted, meeting you half way to hug you. He walked you backward until you were in the living room. “Have fun?”

“Mmmhmmm,”

“Break into Esther’s dad’s good stuff again?”

“Yep,” you replied, popping the P.

Eddie grinned. “That’s my girl.”

You nudged your head into his chest, like a cat asking for a pat. He obliged.

“What did you get up to while I was gone?”

“Sex, drugs, rock and roll,”

“You listened to Reign in Blood again while writing that dungeon master guide for Gareth?”

“Yep,” Eddie said, mimicking your tone and popping the P.

You smiled at each other, then Eddie let you go. When you stepped around him, intending on throwing your backpack down in the bedroom, he grabbed your wrist.

“Ah, actually, could you sit in here for a second? I have some… news.”

Anxiety’s greatest hit Flight or Fight started playing in your head. The moment he saw your eyes go wide and body freeze, Eddie tried to smile, taking you to the couch. You let him take your bag off and hold your hands.

“I don’t like this,” you blurted out.

“It’s nothing bad! It’s good. I promise. I mean… I think it’s good. It’s good.” He was reassuring himself as much as you.

This was the moment.

Eddie had been orchestrating your future for weeks. In the process, he had broken the law, forced all your friends to keep secrets from you, invaded your privacy, and made sweeping guesses about decisions you should have been the one to make all along. But it was all for you. It was to make it up to you. It was to give you what you deserved. It was to show you that he loved you. That he would be by your side no matter what you were doing or where you were doing it.

All you had to do was accept it. Eddie was terrified that you still hadn’t learnt how to do that.

“I’m gonna say some shit, and you��re gonna want to tell me to shut up. And, uh, I’m bringing up some stuff that we said we wouldn’t talk about anymore. But you’ve got to promise you’ll hear me out. Like, just let me finish this whole thing before you… lose it or whatever. It’s the only way you’re going to understand. You have to promise.”

Your eyes were already welled up with tears and there was nothing Eddie could do about it. As he held your hands, he kept looking from your matching red rings back up to your scared face.

“But it’s good?” you whispered. The single guess your brain would allow was that he was going to break up with you because of something that had already happened, something you had no power over anymore. You needed him to tell you it was good, that it was going to be okay.

Eddie nodded. “Yes. Yes, I promise. Nobody’s dying,”

“You’re not br-”

“No! No. Sorry. Sorry, I should have started with that. Fuck. I’m fucking this up. Planned every goddamn detail but it’s all coming apart now… Ah, no. No. We’re good. We’re… great… I’m sorry. I’m… nervous. That’s why I need you to just hang in there and let me get it all out,”

“Okay,” you promised, your expression no less sad but slightly less scared.

Eddie took a breath and forced himself to look at you as he spoke. “We… were stupid to never talk about this year. Like, after high school. We never talked about it but I knew you’d applied to colleges. It was kind of in the back of my mind. You know? I just kept ignoring it because I’d just got you, like, really properly had you and if I thought about you disappearing on me… It, ah, worse than sucked? Freaked me out. Then the letters came and I… I don’t even know what I did. Turned into my dad. I was just… scared-

Then you said you didn’t want to go and we could pretend nothing happened and it was fine for like, a second, but it wasn’t really… I felt like shit for making you have to pretend you never wanted to go. Because you did. And I don’t know if you really believe everything you said, about it just being a way to get away from your parents. But, um, I didn’t believe it… I still don’t… So… Yeah… I had fucked up in this huge way that meant pushing your life onto a path it shouldn’t’ve been on… So… So, I’ve… fixed it…”

It sounded like one long sentence, void of punctuation and pause. You had rebuttals for many points but were focused on waiting until the end.

Eddie read your face, the way your lips were slightly parted and your eyes had cleared. He continued.

“I’ve been tryna find the right way to tell you everything. You know, in a way that explains it all properly. So you don’t have a million questions. Dustin said to start at the end and work my way back, but I think that will just confuse you. Kid thinks it will be romantic that way, but I think this is beyond… all that… Esther said to start at the start, which sounds dumb now I say it out loud. But, you know, my head was tellin’ me not all good stories start at the start, you know?”

“Eddie.” He was rambling, getting off topic.

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. Yeah… I’m starting at the start. And, um, the start is that I called The University of Chicago and got them to re-send your acceptance letter and all the other stuff. We did all the paperwork and shit. Enrolled you. We had to pick some classes, but you can change them once you're there, if you want to, and-”

You let go of his hands and stood up. “Eddie. I’m not going-”

He yelled your name, startling you into silence. “You are. You are going, but I’m going with you. Please just fucking sit down and let me finish.”

Slowly you moved back towards him. Eddie reached out and held you by the hips, pulled you back down onto the couch gently.

“You’re going. You’re enrolled. The only thing I couldn’t do was apply to get your scholarship conditions changed. The letter is ready to go, all you have to do is sign it and hand it in, in person. You can petition to change the ‘cost of living’ from a dorm to rental cheques. It’s not a dollar-for-dollar swap, but it’s something to help with rent, you know?”

No. No, you didn’t know. Eddie was using words and phrases you had never heard before. You didn’t know what a ‘cost of living’ condition was, and you didn’t know what he meant by ‘help with the rent.’

“I got an apartment. It’s tiny. Like, smaller than the trailer, but it will be enough for us. You’ll catch a train to class. And, um, I got a job. You know John?”

“Wayne’s John?”

“Yeah. Cath’s sister owns a bar. She’s giving me a trial shift, but I won’t fuck it up. Know my around the bottles so that’s pretty much a sure thing.”

You still didn’t know what was happening, not really, but it was nice to hear Eddie back himself. He paused, searching his mind for any other important details.

“I think… think that’s it. Your scholarship pays for most things you need. I’ve got enough saved to cover us for a few months. That’s why I’ve been selling so much. For this. And that’s what I was doing in Chicago… Uh, yeah. Alright. That’s… it.”

Eddie had his concentration face on. Eyes to the ceiling and tongue poking out, he was thinking. When the expression softened into neutral warmth, he looked at you expectedly.

Your body felt weightless, like it was floating. When you stood and walked down the hallway, you were just as surprised as Eddie. One foot in front of the other, you let your body take you to the bedroom, open the door, and turn the light on.

The room was packed up. There were three boxes neatly stacked in the corner, labelled ‘Eddie – childhood shit,’ ‘Wayne,’ and ‘donate/trash.’ The furniture remained, but even the mattress had been stripped of linen. Eddie’s posters weren’t on the walls. Angel and Hellfire were nowhere to be seen. Everything was gone.

“It’s all in the van,” Eddie explained from behind you. “Landlord said there’s no parking spaces for the building, but there’s an empty lot across the road everyone uses.”

When you stepped into the bedroom, it felt surreal.

“We’ll be there by late afternoon. Got a couple stops on the way.”

You spun around to face him. “Wait. What? What do you mean?”

Eddie frowned, looked around the room he had grown up in. “We’re leaving today,” he said, spelling it out.

“No…” You shook your head. “I… I can’t just… We…” Shock? Were you in a state of pure shock. Reaching out for something to ground you, Eddie was there before you could take another step. He clasped his hands to yours.

“You can. We can. Everythin’ is ready. All we gotta do is go. All you’ve gotta do is trust me… And you do. You trust me, right?”

Blinking hard, you stopped looking around the room and focused on Eddie. His baby cow eyes that inspired Hellfire. His soft lips that sang Tupelo Honey. Slowly, you nodded.

“Yeah? I’ve got you… I know this is scary. It’s terrifying for me too. I’ve never really done more than sit around here and sell weed. Never had actual responsibilities or whatever. But we can do this,”

“We can do this,” you repeated in a whisper.

Period blood and fat rolls and food. Pressed flowers and red gems and vinyl records. Anxiety attacks and displaced fear and shame. Fangoria hoodies and fairy lights and kitten ears. You could do this.

A tear rolled down your cheek, just another for Eddie to wipe away. He leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose. When you leaned up into him, he kissed your lips and pulled you into him hard.

“Wayne will be home soon. Let’s eat something and wait,”

“Does he know?”

“Yeah. Everyone does. They’re all waiting for us to come see ‘em before we go.”

Homesick. You felt homesick and you hadn’t even left the trailer.

Eddie had only just covered the Honeycomb with milk when the rumble of Wayne’s truck made you jump up off your seat like a dog waiting for their owner. As soon as he was in the door, you ran to him and clung.

“Guess it’s happening then,” he said, a sorrow to his tone you didn’t quite catch.

The sobbing was out of your control. Eddie came to hug you into a Munson sandwich. Both he and Wayne were doing their best manly man thing in a shitty attempt to not cry too. Wayne’s jaw was clenched tight and Eddie’s eyes glistened with tears.

When you took a nearly-normal breath, Eddie wrapped his arms around you from behind and hoisted you up, carrying back to the kitchen. You stood at the bench and looked into the bowl of cereal, your stomach in knots.

“You gonna eat that?” Wayne asked, taking the bar stool seat opposite you.

Shaking your head, you slid it across to him.

“What are you gonna do with all the quiet?” Eddie asked his uncle.

“Sleep. In a bed. Regularly,” Wayne answered. He was playing it cool but you knew he’d be lonely without Eddie. “Proud of you both. Gonna go make something of yourselves,”

“I mean, let’s not get carried away. She’s the genius. I’m just bartending,”

“You’re leaving Hawkins, Ed. S’not nothing.”

Eddie looked at Wayne, then quickly turned his head away, wiping the tears before they could fall.

“Nobody’s died, kid. Chin up,” he said to you then.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

Eddie stepped closer to you, pressing his side into yours.

“Being an adult is scary. And trusting someone else with all your shit is scary. But after last year, somethin’ tells me it’s gonna be alright.” It was less optimism and more sage wisdom.

The three of you stayed together for a round of instant coffee, then Wayne presented a parting gift. It was a brand new toolbox fully stocked with essentials. “Never know when a screwdriver comes in handy,” he’d said.

Wayne hugged you tight and watched you get into Eddie’s van, crying again. You couldn’t hear the words exchanged between the two, but you watched them through the windshield and felt guilty for separating them.

Eddie climbed into the driver’s seat and took an audible breath out. “Okay,” he said mostly to himself. He looked over at you and nodded. “Okay?”

You couldn’t muster words, but you affirmed him with a nod.

As the van pulled out of Forest Hills Trailer Park for the last time in a long time, you didn’t bother asking where the next step was. The resignation hit you hard and it felt like exhaustion. You were too tired to think about what was happening to you. The emotions were all so intense and so conflicting that it had begun to feel like the absence of emotion. You just stared out the window and disassociated.

Reality crept back into your mind when the route to Esther’s house became apparent. As Eddie turned onto her street, you burst into tears again. They were all waiting.

Esther’s garage door was opened, shielding the group from the January cold. Once Gene spotted the van, everyone came running down the drive waving.

Esther and Gene. Gareth and Jeff. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will Byers, who had yet to return to California. Max and El. Even Jonathan and Argyle stood against the house, sharing a joint.

Your door was ripped open and Esther pulled you from the van. Although tears were streaming down her face, she was grinning ear to ear.

“This is good. This is good!” she kept repeating, knowing you needed to hear it as much as possible.

The group presented you and Eddie with a large box, wrapped in a comically big bow. It only just fitted into the van, Eddie and Jeff pulling stuff out to play Tetris with boxes and bags.

“Open it when you get there,” Esther instructed.

“We all helped,” Dustin added.

Everyone wanted to tell you what role they had played in this grand gesture of love and faith. Dustin and Suzie, and the hacking of The University of Chicago’s system. Gareth keeping you busy while the others filled in college paperwork and agonised over what elective classes to enroll you in.

When you had spoken to everyone and there was nothing to do but leave, you felt like you were going to puke. You had genuine and kind and weird and wonderful friends that truly knew you and loved you. And you were about to leave them.

“Chicago is only a couple hours away,” Jeff reminded you.

“And if Notre Dame doesn’t work out, maybe we’ll transfer and come crash your party,” Esther added. She had told everyone about how Notre Dame only began to accept women students as of 1972. Esther was already ready for fight, so you knew she’d burn it down before letting it give her anything other than a world class education. She and Jeff had both been accepted and would live in dorms on campus.

Gene was off to The University of Illinois, leaving Gareth in charge of the now-sophomores and Hellfire Club. “Look after the children,” Eddie said to him, ruffling his fluffy hair.

Eddie had resolved himself, helping you and your shaky knees back into the van after hugging everyone again. You cried and watched everyone run after the van for as long as they could, which, for a bunch of nerds and freaks, wasn’t long.

The van pulled over once Eddie had driven around the corner and down the block a little. He pulled the hand break on and got out. When he opened your door, you launched yourself at him, letting him hold you while you sobbed.

Eddie moved you until you were pressed into the little space between the van and open door, keeping some of the cool air from getting to you. Three bittersweet minutes passed before you could collect yourself, sniffling and wiping your nose on your sleeve.

You looked up at Eddie and his beautiful face.

“Next stop is optional,” he said softly.

Nodding, you hugged him again.

“They don’t deserve it, but, I don’t know, it might be good for you?”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I want to.”

Driving through your old neighbourhood was strange. People’s yards had changed. Plants had grown. Shutters repainted.

Your parents’ Ford Escort was parked in the driveway of the house you’d never really called home. Looking at it, you remembered what it was all like before Eddie found you behind the woodwork shed. Before Of Mice and Men. Before ‘basketball’ safe words and sticker charts.

“Ready?” Eddie asked. When you nodded, you both got out of the van.

Like she had done when Eddie last was there, your mother opened the front door before he could knock. You stopped walking when she did, suddenly afraid of her. She said your name like you’d returned from the dead. Eddie felt your hand squeeze his tighter.

“Do- Do you want to come in?”

You and Eddie followed her through the living room and into the formal dining space. Your father was at the table, newspaper in hand and a cup of coffee sitting on a coaster. He folded the paper in half and set it aside as the three of you entered the room.

“Please, sit. Do you want tea? Coffee?” your mother asked, a picture of a perfect host. She seemed more fragile than you remembered. You’d grown for nine months in her womb. She had birthed you, bloody, raw, and screaming. And there she was, offering tea.

“No. We’re not staying,” you answered.

The house was quiet and clean. Sanitised. Lobotomised.

“Then, to what do we owe this pleasure?” The cruelty had not shifted from your father’s voice.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mother looked to your father for the right reaction. He looked genuinely shocked, and you saw it in the few seconds he took to hide it.

“I’m taking her to Chicago. She’s going to college. Guess we owe you a thanks for bringing the letters ‘round,” Eddie said in the same voice that always guaranteed detention.

Before he could speak again, and he was just about to, you pre-emptively cut your father off. You knew what he was going to say. “Eddie’s got a job there. We have an apartment. If anything else comes for me in the mail, forward it to the trailer park.” You could have said ‘forward it to Forest Hills’ or even ‘to Wayne Munson,’ but you very specifically wanted to say ‘trailer park.’

“Well, what’s your new phone number if-” your mother started, grabbing a pen and notepad from the dining room’s buffet drawer.

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “If someone dies, call Wayne at the park. Otherwise, that’s it.”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Eddie was committing the expression on your parents’ faces to memory. He was delighted at their floundering. And you, you were surprised at how easy it was to do it – to say goodbye on your own terms. They suddenly stopped being so terrifying, instead, they were just… pathetic.

“What did you want then?” your father asked.

It was a fair question and you gave it a moment’s thought. “I want… I want you to know that I’m happy. That I’ve been happy. Happy living in a one-bedroom trailer. Happy being in love with the big bad drug dealer. Happy eating bad food and getting fat. Happy drinking underage. Happy having sex. And like, weird sex too. I’ve been happy being me. Because I’m good. I’m good and smart and beautiful and strong, and it has nothing to do with you. That’s… that’s what I want. I want you to know that everything good about me is not because of you. And I hardly think about you… So, if someone dies, you can call Wayne. Maybe I’ll come. It really fucking depends on what I’m doing that day.”

Eddie had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from laughing or cheering. His eyes went wide and he stared straight at the ground because he knew if he kept looking at the dumbfounded and horrified looks on your parents’ faces, he’d lose it entirely.

You finished your speech, feeling beyond exhilarated. “Fuck,” you said to yourself.

“Fuck,” Eddie agreed.

You looked at him and his ten billion megawatt smile. “I love you,”

“Oh, no, I love you,” he replied, a small chuckle following his words.

You and Eddie collided in a kiss, then left the room without so much as a final glance or one single word more.

…

Maybe it wouldn’t be the last time you and Eddie jumped the fence and walked to the secret spot behind Hawkins’ drive-in, but it probably would be. You sat side-by-side on the ripped out backseat and got lost in your minds.

Eddie thought about when he asked Ms. Kelly and Mr. Barnes for help. He thought about the day you handed him a list of words. About the softness of your thighs and the smell of burnt paper and the trust you’d placed in him.

You thought about smashing pumpkins with Esther and Jeff, and the school dance and hotel room. About Build-a-Bear and gingerbread armies and how Eddie’s fuzzy hair was lit light a halo on sunny days.

“Are you gonna miss it?” you asked Eddie.

“No… You?”

“No. I don’t so.”

…

Two months later.

“Nobody will know. I’ll be super sneaky,”

“Eddie… There is nothing about you that flies under the radar.”

Eddie sat on the edge of the fold-up bed. It was the one Wayne used to sleep on, and it was on the ‘to do’ list. The list was as follows:

get permission to repaint ceiling

repaint ceiling

need: T.V.

need: VHS player

need: some houseplants

send Wayne dumb postcard

replace bed

pizza coupons

get quotes to Eve

BUY 1987 CALENDAR ASAP why? – to put down my due dates and your shift times – that’s cute

need: bedside table?

call everyone to give number/address

need: bookshelf

put extra lock on door and windows

try Niko again – who’s Niko – from The Hideout - ?? – not the Hawkins one

“Please? I wanna know what it’s like to be one of the special smart people.”

You pulled your jumper over your head and looked over at him. He grinned and winked. It was ridiculous.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes,” you warned, giving in.

As you packed your college notebook and texts, and put a layer of mascara on, Eddie hurried around. Jeans and boots – his Reeboks were the first casualty of Chicago weather – and a heavy jacket.

The apartment was easy to keep warm. It was small, barely more than a room. A kitchen nook and space for a circular two-seater table. A thrifted television set sitting on a coffee table, and a bookcase. The fold out bed was pushed up against the far wall. And, the bathroom could only hold one of you at a time. Still, it was perfect.

On the train to college, you rested your head on Eddie’s shoulder and closed your eyes. It was nice to have him there.

“So fancy,” Eddie whispered as you made your way into one of the buildings and through to the lecture hall.

You took your usual seat to the left, near the back but not too far. “You have to be quiet,” you said to Eddie.

He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. You were smiling at him when Kamala threw herself into the seat on your other side.

“I swear to fucking god, the guy who makes my coffee spits in it,”

“What?”

“Here. Taste this. Does it taste like spit?” She shoved a cup of takeaway coffee in your hand. “Seriously. Does that taste weird?”

From behind you, Eddie’s arm reached around and he took the cup. You and Kamala watched as he took a fearless mouthful, then handed it back to her.

“Yep. That’s spit alright,”

“I fucking knew it,”

“Eddie, don’t encourage her,” you warned.

“Holy shit. This is Eddie?” She dramatically leaned forward to peer around you at him. He gave her a little wave; she gave him nothing. Sitting back up she gave you a face you absolutely couldn’t read.

“What?”

“He’s like… Super hot,”

“Yeah,”

“Even though he looks like he listened to bands that use more hairspray than me,”

“He does,”

“No, I’m fucking serious. He’s like… Super babe material,” Kamala said like it was going to be on the test. She looked around the room. When you followed her gaze, you realised she wasn’t the only one that had spied Eddie and his hotness. “Seriously, like, what the fuck. I can’t get a guy to shower once a day, and you have this motherfucking rockstar wrapped around your finger.”

You liked Kamala because she swore a lot and could not be told a single thing. People tried. Debates in class were frequent and lively. But she annihilated them each and every time.

Kamala looked at Eddie and narrowed her eyes. “Hi,”

“Hi?”

“Do you have any hot friends?”

You snorted. Dustin called Eddie every other day. If it wasn’t him, it was Gareth with DM questions or Jeff bitching about frat parties.

“I’m one of a kind,” Eddie replied, full charm. You rolled your eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kamala sighed, falling back into her seat, finishing her spit coffee.

After the lecture, Eddie hung around for a couple of hours while you worked in the library. He had his own notebook with him, still writing songs and poems, and wrestling with the idea of starting a new band. “Feels like cheating, you know?” is what he’d say whenever you talked about it. Corroded Coffin were hours apart but still so alive in all four of their hearts.

Eddie kissed you goodbye and caught the train back to the city for his shift at Eve’s bar. He had proven to be an adequate bartender, but that isn’t where he showed his worth. Eddie convinced one random guy he met in a music store to play at Eve’s. The band brought in a few extra people, a few more beers sold. He did it again. And again. After only a month there, Eve paid Eddie extra to double as the bar’s booking agent. By the end of the second month, she agreed to renovating the stage and clearing out one of the hardly used storeroom to turn into a greenroom.

You cleared your week’s reading requirements and had a basic skeleton for your next essay. By 4:00 pm, you felt on top of everything and wandered back through the library and headed out to find coffee. The air outside was bitter, the days averaging only 36°F (2°C), as you hurried along.

“Hey, honey. The usual?” Kasey asked, your favourite barista in your favourite on campus café. You liked that her name was Kasey; it made you think about the one you’d left behind in Starcourt 2.0. Build-a-Bear Kasey. Her nimble hands stitching together your beloved teddies. Maybe you’d always have a Kasey, somewhere in the periphery of your life.

“Yes, please,”

“Kam was in here before. Said she met the Eddie,”

“She did,”

“She said he was really hot,”

“Yeah. She asked if he had any friends.”

Kasey laughed. “Of course, she did.”

Kasey was easy to talk to, and even once she handed you your matcha latte, you hung around a little while longer.

On the train back to the city, you savoured the grassiness of the latte. Nobody in Hawkins was drinking matcha. Well, Esther’s parents might have been. They’d always been trendy, like their daughter. You missed Esther, but she was due to visit at the end of the term. She’d promised to show you all the secret spots in the city that you could only know by growing up there.

You swapped trains, catching the L to get to Eve’s bar. It was between knock off and dinner time, so it was busy. When you walked in, Eve sauntered by with a tray of beers.

“Hey, babe. He’s just gone on break,”

“Thanks, Eve.”

Rounding the bar and smiling at the new guy, you went through to the back and announced your arrival with a knock on the break room door. Eddie was inside the room, stretched out on the couch that had decades of questionable stains.

“Angel,” he greeted, opening his arms wide.

You dumped your bag on the table and flopped down onto him. He kissed your face all over.

“How’s work?” you asked him.

“The usual. Managed to get a hold of Neko over at The Hideout. Says he’ll throw me some scraps,”

“That’s good right? Even their rejects are better than other places’ headliners?” You were just parroting back what Eddie had told you about the place, but it showed Eddie you were listening and you understood.

“Yep. See how it goes. Eve seems impressed that he took my call, so there’s that. What about you?”

“Finished my readings early,”

“Cool. Maybe we can do something this weekend then?”

“Do you mean like, go out or like, order pizza and paint the roof?” you asked.

“I don’t know what it says about me, but honestly both sound kind of fun,” Eddie admitted, happy boyish smile. You stayed cuddled together for a minute more, then he asked, “So… I like Kamala.”

You laughed. “She told Kasey about you,”

“Kasey is… coffee friend?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie laughed. “If only the Hawkins High basketball team could see me now,”

“Fighting babes off,”

“Should we write to Jason Carver?”

“I think we have to,” you replied, looking up at him grinning. “Anyway. You hungry? I brought dinner.” Eddie let you up so you could go to your bag and pull out two frozen microwave meals. “Stopped at the place on the corner. You want the chicken or the beef?”

It was incredibly unglamorous, sitting in a dingy room eating two dollar microwave meals. It wasn’t what happened in the romance novels you sometimes read for escapism. It didn’t feel cool or grunge or metal. It just felt like life.

When you were in Senior year, you had thought to yourself that the weekends were where the glory was. You remembered that exact phrasing. Playing footsy under the table, you looked over at Eddie. It was this, this average weeknight of your new normal life, that’s where the glory really was.

Glory in the healing. In the trust and future plans and to do lists. Glory in the quiet. In the fresh paint and fire escape joints and having a warm cup of tea waiting for Eddie when he got home. Glory in the love. In the sex as snow fell and phone calls home to Wayne and in semi-precious stones. Glory in every single day you spent with Eddie Munson.

Fic Taglist: @ajeff855 @b-barnes04 @nerd-squad-headquarters @word-wytch @harrys-tittie @munsonsmel0dy @sidthedollface2 @eddiethesexy @bardicfrustration @orpheusredux @munsonsgirl71 @a-time-for-wolvess @eddieswifu @rosaline-black @thegirlwhohides @emotionaldreamer @e0509 @briasnow-blog @kiyastrf94 @erinsingalong @rainylana @mrsdollardog @tayhar811 @chickennug90 @b-irock @nana90azevedo @eddiemunson95 @akiratoro420

Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @munsonlives @sweetpeapod @depressooo-expressooo-blog @thorfemmes @hawkins-high @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @mymoonisalways-in-scorpio @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @lacrymosa-24 @mel-the-fangirl

#Mine #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader

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