Orange of Chaos

Im here to chaotically repost things 30+ year old lady 18+ only Minors just don't

[agentorange9595]

divider by @dividers-are-us

Sam (warfare 2025)

Guardian Angel

Emperor Geta

Angellus

Billy the Kid (2022)

Abandoned

Hayloft

[xreader1989]

Don’t Kiss My Sister - Chapter 9

Johnny Storm x fem!Grimm!reader

Masterlist Series Masterlist Previous Chapter

Word count: 2.5k

The ending is here! Thank you to everyone who read this story. I am so sorry it took me so long, but here is one finally chapter of our reader and Johnny’s fluffy little life!

You would say that the love growing beneath your ribs happened slowly, over time. During fleeting moments, soft touches, and stolen glances. But that would be a lie. The love came all at once. It wasn’t so much the feeling of love but the realization that you had been in love with Johnny for a while.

Your past trust issues made it hard to put into words, it made it hard to commit to the feeling that was sitting under your skin and taking over your senses. You had to keep it to yourself for now, let yourself come to an understanding with the immense emotion before letting those three simple words slip off your tongue.

Over the few months that followed Johnny asking you to be his girlfriend, you tried to hone in on the moments where you felt it bloom into something even bigger.

There was one late night in the kitchen.

You were perched on the counter, swinging your legs back and forth. His shirt hung off of you, and your sleep shorts were far too small to cover anything. The snack plate you had just put together was next to you. He had watched you carefully as you meticulously put it together. Chocolate covered pretzels, an assortment of fruit, crackers, and cheeses, the perfect midnight snack.

Johnny had himself slotted between your highs, his hands bracing your sides on the counter. Every stolen kiss he would take included him reaching onto your plate and helping himself.

“You’re the worst,” you’d mutter, trying not to let your lips twitch up in the corners.

“And yet,” he’d grin, mouth full, “you keep feeding me.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics. You reached your hands up to caress his cheeks, your thumbs swiping softly across his cheekbones.

Johnny went still, like time had stopped and he was paralyzed by his feelings at that moment. You kissed him slowly, tasting the chocolate he had just stolen from you.

When the plate was cleared he would pull you off the counter so that he was carrying you, your legs wrapped around his middle and his hands firmly on your ass for support, “back to bed!” You would laugh the entire way back to his room.

One of your favorite quiet moments.

The moments that were laced with electricity and something else you were both too scared to name. The moments when Johnny was soft in a way specifically reserved for you.

One night in the fall, there was a horrible storm. All the lights went out, and Reed couldn’t quite figure out why the generator wasn’t working. The building was cascaded in darkness. There were a few candles lit in the kitchen, but once night fell everyone made their way to their rooms.

You found him on the balcony, leaning against the railing, the covering above preventing the pouring rain from drenching him. The thunder clapped and the lightning lit up the entire skyline. His face was damp with the droplets that were coming past it. The storm raged across the city and the view from where you both stood was kind of beautiful.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Johnny didn’t turn right away. “Hey.”

You stepped beside him, close enough that your arms brushed.

“You okay?” you asked.

He huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He smiled faintly at that, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

There was a beat of silence, both of you staring at the rainclouds beyond.

“I used to hate nights like this.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Johnny shrugged, still looking out at the city, “too quiet. Too much space to think about things I didn’t want to think about.”

Your hand found his without thinking, and you laced your fingers with his. You leaned against him softly, your head resting on his shoulder. His fingers tightened instantly.

“And now?” you asked.

He turned his head slightly, sneaking a glance at you.

“Now I just…” he hesitated, like the words caught somewhere in his chest. “…look for you.”

Your heart stumbled. Like it did every time he decided to become a poet and sweep you off your feet.

“Now, I enjoy nights like this because it means we can be completely alone in the quiet and no one needs us or pulls us in a different direction.”

You hummed in agreement and leaned further into his side, enjoying the quiet fleeting moment and the way your heart felt like it might explode.

Then there was the day you were nowhere to be found.

You had a packed day, which was unfortunately completely normal. You had meetings, errands, and a million other things to get done.

When Johnny came back from his morning mission, he was quick to jump in the shower and change before he went to look for you. Hi adrenaline was still buzzing as he started his search.

And you weren’t in the kitchen.

Weren’t on the couch.

Weren’t at your desk.

Weren’t anywhere.

“Where is she?” he asked, too quickly, looking around the kitchen frantically as his sister stood their smirking as she pretended to read her book.

Sue raised a brow. “Out. She’ll be back.”

Johnny nodded, but he suddenly felt tense. He wanted to tell you all about his mission, wanted to lay his head in your lap as you played with his hair while the adrenaline seeped out of him and the exhaustion came over him.

And for the rest of the evening, he could not settle down.

It was stupid, really. At least that’s what you told yourself, until you started smiling at your phone. At his dumb, unnecessary updates:

ate your leftovers btw

Ben is threatening me again

our post mission routine is totally ruined…

No offense but is what you’re doing right now more important than my needs):

come back I’m bored

You were in the middle of the sidewalk, two full tote bags on your shoulders, gazing at your phone like a love sick puppy. You couldn't even imagine what the smile on your face looked like.

You took a deep breath, locking your phone and trying to bite back the smile you were maintaining.

“Oh god,” you whispered to yourself, adjusting the straps on your shoulders as you felt the heat bloom in your chest.

When you finally returned to the Baxter Building, Johnny was laying dramatically across the couch with his arm over his eyes. Sue sat perched next to him.

“He’s been like this all afternoon,” she said without looking up. He sighed dramatically.

When he finally uncovered his eyes, he hopped up and rounded the couch, grabbing the things in your hands that you were trying to balance.

“Thank you,” you said, trying to catch your breath from your journey.

“Next time, you’re bringing me, that was waaaaaaaay too much time apart.” he said with complete seriousness. He set everything down and pulled you to the couch. You sat down and he immediately laid his head in your lap, “now let’s make up for lost time, my love.”

You carded your fingers through his hair and he started to recount his morning to you. You laughed but the way he said “my love” made your knees feel weak.

There was also the moment Ben came around.

You were shamelessly making out on the couch. Too many glasses of wine on a dinner date, you thought everyone was asleep.

You were too tipsy and wrapped up in Johnny to hear your brother stomping down the hall towards you. The kisses were sloppy in a comfortable way, teeth hitting one another, small bites on one another's lips and laughs bubbling over and interrupting the process.

You didn’t notice his presence until he cleared his throat.

“On the couch we all share, seriously?” He threw his arms up, exhausted by the two of you.

“I would apologize, but we’re not even sorry,” you said jokingly, your hands still on Johnny, both of you laughing at your response.

Ben rolled his eyes before waving you off and stomping to the kitchen.

“Hey, he didn’t try to fight me or threaten to kill me,” Johnny said happily.

“Progress,” you said in a sing song voice before pulling him into another kiss.

The next morning, Ben walked in as you poured coffee into your favorite mug. He grumbled a greeting as he moved around you to make breakfast.

“You were surprisingly chill last night for someone who walked in on his little sister’s makeout session,” you said jokingly.

He groaned, but turned to look at you, “I’ve never seen either of you happier.”

He said it so simply, like it was obvious.

“What happened to big tough Ben, ‘I’ll kill you’, ‘don’t kiss my sister’, ‘prove it’, ‘I’ll seriously kill you’ and all that? Hm?” You said teasingly.

He grunted, “would you like me to go back to wanting to kill Johnny all the time? I personally like where we are right now much better than that.” He turned back around, continuing his breakfast.

You sipped your coffee, trying to hide the smile that was plastered on your face.

The true realization didn’t come during a big moment. No dramatic music. No perfect timing.

Just you and Johnny, back on the couch again. You were in your usual spot, with your legs tangled and his arm around you. Your head rested on his shoulder and you were consumed by the sense of safety you always felt when you were near him. Like nothing could touch you like this.

Johnny’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your arm.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmured.

“What thing?”

“Overthinking.”

You huffed softly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, tilting his head down to face you. “You get quiet. Your eyebrows do this—” he tapped lightly between them, “—little frown. And you breath a little more staggered than you do when you’re relaxed.”

You tilted your head up, narrowing your eyes. “You’ve been studying me?”

Johnny smirked. “Yeah. You’re my favorite subject.”

You knew he was being serious, despite the smirk on his face. He knew all of your quirks, all of your tells, you couldn’t lie to him if your life depended on it. He had learned to know exactly what you needed, before you even knew it. He anticipated your next moves like he had known you your entire life. You could barely even remember what life was like before him.

You sat up slightly, turning to face him.

Johnny’s smile faded just a little. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You shook your head quickly. “Nothing, I just—”

Your voice faltered. God, why was this so hard?

Johnny shifted, immediately attentive. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed. “I think…” you started, then stopped.

His hand found yours, steadying.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen this fast,” you admitted. “I wasn’t planning on—on feeling like this again, not after everything, and I just—”

Johnny went very still.

“And I know it’s only been a few months,” you rushed, nerves spilling over now, “and maybe this is crazy, and maybe I’m—”

“Hey,” his voice was firm this time, but still gentle. “Tell me,” he said quietly.

Your eyes met his and there it was again. The feeling of seeing only him, like your whole world stopped revolving and tilted off the axis as you fell fully into him. It was overwhelming and blissful, yet completely terrifying.

“I love you,” you said.

The words hung between you. Johnny blinked like he was making sure he heard you right. “…Yeah?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your grip tightening on his hand. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched, and then Johnny laughed. It wasn’t a mocking one, but a laugh of relief?

“God,” he breathed. “Okay. Okay.”

You frowned slightly. “Okay?”

Johnny looked back at you, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

“I’ve been in love with you for weeks,” he said.

Your breath caught, “what?”

“Yeah,” he huffed a quiet laugh. “I just didn’t say it because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“You thought this wouldn’t freak me out?” you gestured between you.

“Fair point.”

You stared at him. “Weeks?”

Johnny shrugged, softer now. “I think… it was that night on the balcony. When you took my hand.” He shook his head slightly. “Or maybe before that. I don’t know. It just—happened.”

Your chest ached in the best way. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m yours.”

And then he kissed you.

It was certain in a way that made your chest feel like it might burst. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he said.

Later that night, nothing had physically changed, yet it felt like everything had..

You were back on the couch again, tangled together like always, your fingers absentmindedly tracing circles over his wrist. You had joined everyone for dinner and found your way back here as you always did. Neither of you were paying attention to the show playing in the background on the TV.

Johnny broke the silence first.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

He shifted slightly so he could see your face better. There was something different in his expression now.

“I know it’s only been a couple months,” he said slowly. “And I know I’m supposed to, like, not say insane things too early—”

You smiled faintly. “You’re really bad at that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“But I mean it.”

Your heart started to race and Johnny held your gaze.

“I’m going to marry you one day.” He said it so sweetly you swore his voice was made of syrup, “you know, when you first came over for dinner… I told Sue you were the love of my life, and she called me crazy.

“…You are crazy,” you whispered.

Johnny smiled softly. “Yeah.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. “But I love you,” you added.

His smile broke into something brighter, “and I’m not going anywhere, you’re totally stuck with me.”

He kissed you again, and you could hear Ben groan from the other side of the room, but in that moment you knew he was right. He was going to marry you one day. Because Johnny Storm was the love of your life.

Tags: @agentorange9595 @gabrielchanel5 @shineydiana @mdurdenpitt @localpanicattack @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @vividbit @wondermelody @tsp00nz @littlemissholy @mayal0pez @moonz33 @captainlunaxmen @skyehuntress @storm-inside-a-teacup @fanatic-four @tpwkwrites @cumming4seb @lunatguard

[wheels-of-despair]

Double the Dates Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x Wife!Reader Summary: A hilarious offer in the mail leads to Sam and Mrs. Sam doing something different for Valentine's Day. Contains: An offer that Sam will definitely refuse, a better idea, and two Valentine's Day dates for these cheap and creative lovers. Words: 1k

"Thanks for the company, Miss Lady," you tell the collie who accompanied you on your walk to the mailbox, giving her a rub on the head before parting ways and going inside your respective houses.

"Anything good?" Sam asks from the recliner, where he's watching the football game you felt the need to escape from.

"Eh," you shrug, dropping onto the couch and flipping through the pile again and looking for the pink postcard that made you laugh on the way back. You find it and lean over to deposit it in his lap. "That's for you."

Sam picks it up and investigates, scoffing as he reads.

It's an ad for a local business's Valentine's Day special. One excessively long and ridiculous romantic date for the totally reasonable fee of $300. You thought he'd get a kick out of it.

"Are these bitches for real?"

You snort and reach for the postcard so you can toss it in the trash with the rest of the junk mail. He doesn't give it back, because he's reading it again.

"Two hours to eat a charcuterie board and a cake?"

"Not everyone eats as fast as you," you grin.

"A romantic photoshoot for two," he scoffs.

"Everybody's got a photography business now," you shrug. "It's The Thing."

"Additional wines available starting at $50 a bottle," he snorts.

"You better call that number and make our reservation before they get all booked up," you tease.

"What part of this bullshit sounds appealing to you?" Sam asks.

"The two hours with the cheap-ass husband who'd rather wash my car with a toothbrush than be there," you grin.

"Oh," he nods. "I thought it was the $300 Lunchable."

"I'm more interested in the $50 wine, actually," you wink. "Gotta be better than that boxed crap your mom used to guzzle."

"Oh, God," Sam laughs. "Think of how many boxes of wine I could buy with $300."

"Or how many cans of beer," you counter. An idea strikes you. "We should do it."

"Are you out of your fucking mind, woman?"

"No, not that," you shake your head, brain whirring. "We should put together two different Valentine's Day Dates with a price cap of… say $25? Half a bottle of wine? See whose is better?"

Sam frowns, a look a deep of concentration on his face. Date? Ugh. Competition? Good. Creativity? Good. Cheap? Great.

"Fuck it," he grins. "Let's do it."

The Requirements: One charcuterie board. (Well, an old wooden cutting board that Sam's grandma used for decoration rather than cutting.) Finger foods. Alcoholic beverages. Dessert. The Budget: $25 each. The Winner: Both of you, 'cause you get to have two Valentine's Day dates with the person you chose to spend your life with.

The week of Valentine's Day, you took turns shopping. You went to town together, but you walked to the library while Sam shopped in the grocery store, and he loitered in the hardware store while you grabbed your food essentials.

Sam's not a guy who gets excited about shopping, and you know he'd never admit it, but you could tell he was having fun with this little challenge.

You left your items wrapped in the shopping bags when you put them in the fridge at home, so the other wouldn't know what kind of surprise awaited them on Date Night. Very secretive. Very exciting.

Sam went first.

For his charcuterie board, on Friday night, he chose… the things any man would choose, you suppose. Ritz crackers and chips surrounding a mountain of meat and cheese. His garnish? A single pickle on top of Mount Meat. Most of his budget had clearly been spent on beer. But he did buy a little heart-shaped box of chocolates for dessert, and he lit a candle that did not come out of the bathroom, so you appreciated that.

On Saturday night, you put a little more effort into presenting your board; you assembled different kinds of crackers and cheeses and meat in neat rows. You had clusters of grapes and sliced apples and cucumbers and sticks of celery and carrots and peppers. There were several small cups of various dips placed throughout. For dessert, you had strawberry shortcake. For your alcoholic beverage, you chose a fruity wine… but definitely not a $50 bottle.

"This was a good idea," you sigh happily, nestled into Sam's side on the couch after two consecutive nights of demolishing $25 charcuterie boards. The candles you brought out to present with yours were still lit, but most of the food was gone.

"Better than $300 worth of bullshit," Sam mumbles.

"Better because it was just us," you add.

"Yeah, I guess you have a decent idea every once in a while," he grumbles.

You lean in to bite his earlobe, and he jumps in shock.

"Do I need to feed you more?" he asks. "'Cause I'm not on the menu."

"This was my night," you grin, snuggling into him. "I picked the menu. And you're my favorite dessert."

"No more wine for you," he chuckles.

"Only because we're out," you pout.

"Still got beer left from last night," he remembers.

"I'm already pretty buzzed," you smile. "You could probably take advantage of me if you wanted to."

"Oh yeah?" he whispers, trailing his fingers up and down your back.

"Better act fast," you whisper back. "Before I fall asleep."

"Thought you wanted romance?" he laughs. "And here you are, fallin' asleep on me. On Valentine's Day. For shaaame."

"This was a good Valentine's Day." You ignore his taunts, losing yourself in the warmth of him. "I got to spend it with you. We both got to be creative. Made something for each other."

"Didn't spend a stupid amount of money," Sam adds.

"Got to have two different dinners," you continue, ignoring him. "On two different nights."

"Guess we do have a few Valentine's Days to make up for," Sam sighs. "Wanna double up again next year?"

"Yeah," you smile. "I'd love that."

"I love you," Sam whispers, kissing the top of your head.

"Love you too, Sam."

[xreader1989]

✨2025 Recap!

I restarted this blog on 7/29/2025 and since then so much has happened!

Fics written: 92 (not including stories with multiple parts)

Words written: 150k+

Characters written for: 10

Friends made: 634 ❤️

Shoutouts to @agentorange9595 @cumming4seb @snoodletheduckster @storm-inside-a-teacup and @sad-and-dumb for always encouraging me to keep writing!

[enam3l]

i don’t even give it 12 hours before one of you sluts has a fic on here about fucking your son’s baseball coach big dick steve harrington

[xreader1989]

My Calm in the Storm

Steve Harrington x fem!Hopper!reader

Word count: 1.1k Masterlist

Summary: a glimpse into life in between season 4 and 5 for you and Stevie. Super fluffy fluff, enjoy!

Hawkins went quiet in a way it never had before. You had seen this place burst into flames more times than you could count, but the aftermath was never quite like this.

Not the eerie, wrong quiet that came with flickering lights and monsters in the woods, but a deliberate one. Roadblocks. Curfews. National Guard trucks idling at the edge of town. The official story was “environmental contamination,” which made Hopper snort every time he heard it, but he still made sure we all followed the rules, for the most part.

You were his oldest. Which meant you’d already seen too much to argue. You lost your sister, moved to Hawkins, got a new sister (kind of), your dad died, but now he’s back, but in secret. All while saving the world from the apocalypse multiple times. And you were barely 21.

The cabin had always been small, but with Hopper, El, and now the reality of being stuck inside it for weeks, potentially longer? It felt like the walls were inching closer every day. Steve had offered without hesitation, voice steady in that way that told you he’d already decided.

“Stay with me,” he said. “My parents are supposed to be back by now, but… they’re not. Which means, they’re not getting back in here, not with all the guards. And the house is empty. Too empty.”

So you packed a duffel bag, hugged your dad for a moment longer than usual, and moved into the Harrington house like it had always been yours.

Hopper had fought you at first, saying you were too young to live with a boy. But, the truth was you had lived there when Hopper left. Flipping between Robin’s and Steve’s houses as needed, not that his parents ever noticed that your belongings littered his room.

When Hopper came back you moved back into the cabin to help them adjust, but it had all gotten a bit overwhelming.

So you moved in with Steve, officially. And somehow, miraculously, it worked.

The world outside was on pause, but inside, life softened.

You weren’t too worried, considering you had stayed with him before. But to make it official, make it permanent, felt like something else entirely. And god, it worked.

Mornings started slow. You’d wake up tangled in Steve’s sheets, a mess of limbs, sometimes clothed, sometimes not, sunlight spilling through the blinds, his arm heavy and warm around your waist. Sometimes he’d already be awake, tracing absent-minded shapes into your back. Other times, you were the one watching him sleep, marveling at how peaceful he looked when the world wasn’t asking anything of him and his hair wasn’t defying gravity.

You made breakfast together. He burnt the toast and you made the coffee too strong. Steve insisted on cooking eggs every single morning like it was his new purpose in life, and you let him, even when he messed them up.

Every day, you went to the radio station.

It became your routine, and you loved every second of it.

The streets were mostly empty on the drive, storefronts dark, Hawkins frozen in time. Steve always reached for your hand at red lights, thumb brushing your knuckles like he needed to check you were still there.

You walked hand in hand into the station every morning, like touching each other kept you sane.

Robin was already inside most days, feet kicked up on the desk, headphones crooked around her neck.

“Well if it isn’t Hawkins’ least dramatic couple,” she’d say. “Seriously, you guys walk in here like you’re going on a picnic, not living in a government lockdown.”

The station smelled like dust and coffee, similar to how the cabin felt, maybe that’s why you enjoyed it so much. You helped organize records, logged broadcasts, filled the quiet hours with music and conversation. Sometimes Steve leaned back in his chair and watched you like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

And for a little while, it didn’t.

One afternoon, rain drummed softly against the windows. The radio hummed low between songs. You were curled up on the couch, legs over Steve’s lap, reading one of the old magazines Robin had dug up from storage. Steve absently played with your fingers.

Robin spun in her chair to look at you both, squinting.

“Okay,” she said. “I have to ask.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That sounds threatening.”

“How do you not get sick of each other?” she asked. “You live together. You work together. You’re together literally all the time. I love you both, but I would’ve snapped by now. God, I’ve almost snapped at both of you.”

You laughed softly, glancing up at Steve. He shrugged, thinking about it like it was the simplest question in the world.

“I dunno,” he said. “I hate when she’s not around.”

Your chest tightened.

Steve continued, eyes still on yours. “Everything’s been so loud for so long. Monsters, expectations, my parents being gone, the world ending like every other week… and then there’s her.”

You squeezed his hand.

“And Steve,” you added, “doesn’t ask me to be okay all the time. He just lets me exist.”

Robin blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Wow,” she said. “That was disgustingly healthy.”

Steve grinned. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “But also happy for you, you saps.”

That night, you drove home under a sky heavy with clouds, the road empty and calm. Inside the house, Steve locked the door, checked the windows out of habit, and then pulled you into his arms like the world couldn’t touch you there.

You curled up together on the couch, a blanket thrown over both of you, the TV playing something neither of you were really watching.

Hawkins was still broken. The future was still uncertain. Your dad was still fighting battles you wished he didn’t have to fight.

He kissed your forehead, pressing his lips there for a moment longer than he needed to.

But for now, you were safe. You were loved. And in the middle of a town on lockdown, with the boy who had chosen you again and again, you found a little bit of bliss.

Tags: @cumming4seb @agentorange9595

[vader-anakin]

the vegas mistake | steve harrington

Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol use

Word count: 9.7k

The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.

It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.

Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.

You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.

Steve Harrington is going.

Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.

Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.

Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.

You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.

Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.

Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.

He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.

“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”

You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.

You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.

Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.

Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.

Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.

“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”

“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.

Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”

You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.

“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”

He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.

You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you. 

The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.

“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.

You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.

The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.

Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.

“See? Not so difficult.”

You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”

He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.

Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.

Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.

Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

You look away first.

You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”

You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else. 

You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.

“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.

The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.

The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.

It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.

“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.

He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.

“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”

Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.

You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.

“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”

“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”

He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”

You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”

You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.

“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.

You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”

“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”

Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.

You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter. 

“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”

You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms. 

“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.

“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”

You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”

Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”

You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.

“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.

“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”

Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.

You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged. 

“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.

There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess. 

Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”

You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”

You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.

Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.

You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.

“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”

You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”

Eddie beams. “Sit.”

You do.

Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.

He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true. 

Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.

A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.

Then you lose a hand.

“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”

You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.

“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”

Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.

Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.

“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”

Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.” 

You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”

He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.

The table erupts.

Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.

“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”

“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”

Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”

Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.

“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.

You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.

There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.

Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.

Oh, no.

You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.

But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.

“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.

You swallow. “Fine.”

She hums, unconvinced.

Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.

Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you. 

“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”

“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.

“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”

Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”

“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.

“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.

Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly. 

Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”

Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”

Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.

By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks. 

“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.

“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”

You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”

It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.

“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.

You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.

“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.

You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.

The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”. 

Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.

“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”

“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.

Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined. 

Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”

Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”

They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”

Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil. 

“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”

“Me,” he agrees.

You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.

“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”

“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.

Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”

Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.

“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”

Robin gasps. “Romantic.”

“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”

You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real. 

The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”

“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.

Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.

“You may kiss–”

You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.

The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.

He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.

The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them. 

“Just married,” she basically yells. 

“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel. 

“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”

Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”

Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”

The flash goes off too early.

“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”

“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”

You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”

“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.

Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”

Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”

Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.

“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”

You look at her. “The hot dogs?”

“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”

Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke. 

Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”

“That’s a suggestion.”

Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”

“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”

Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”

Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”

Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.

“…I can’t believe you people.”

Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.

Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.

You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.

You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.

Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?

At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.

“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.

Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?

“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.

She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”

You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?

That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.

“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.

“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.

His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?

The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.

“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”

Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.

Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.

“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”

Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.

You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.

“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”

His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.

“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”

He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.

“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.

You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”

“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”

Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.

That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.

His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.

“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.

You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.

Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes. 

“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”

Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.

You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively. 

“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.

Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”

Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”

“There were no vows,” you say.

“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”

Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”

Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”

“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.

“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.

“Nope.”

“No.”

You both say it at once.

“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”

“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.

Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”

“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.

Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”

Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”

Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”

“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.

Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.

You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility. 

It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.

“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.

You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”

Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.

You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.

You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.

Because for half a second, you almost do.

And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.

You swallow.

“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.

Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.

“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.

The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.

You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact. 

And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.

So you leave.

You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.

You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.

The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up.

Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.

“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose.

“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”

Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”

You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”

He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.

“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.

“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”

He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.

During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.

Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?

You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.

You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.

You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn.  Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.

“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”

Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.

“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”

The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.

You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”

He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.

“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.

No.

“Yes.”

The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.

Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.

“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.

And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.

You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.

The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.

Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.

He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.

You feel bad.

Guilty.

And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.

He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.

Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.

You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.

He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.

Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.

And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.

You let him go every day.

And somehow, it hurts every time.

It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.

The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.

“It was never a mistake”

The words leave you before you can overthink them.

Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.

“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”

“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.

He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”

You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”

His brow furrows. “That’s not–”

“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”

He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck. 

He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered. 

“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”

Your throat tightens.

“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”

He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.

He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”

You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.

“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”

“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”

That’s when he breaks.

Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.

“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.

“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”

The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.

You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.

“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.

He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”

You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.

“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.

Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”

You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.

His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.

“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”

He cuts you off without warning.

Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.

He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.

Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.

“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.

You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.

And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.

[writing-the-stars]

Chapter 5: Light, Shadow, Light Again

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader, Nancy Wheeler x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: As the project with Billy unfolds, the quiet tension between you deepens, revealing sides of him that challenge your assumptions. What starts as quiet collaboration quickly unravels something deeper, ​​leaving you questioning if the person he’s shown you is real — or just another part of the game he’s been playing all along.

Warnings: Teen Angst, Slow Burn, Cliché, Emotional Tension, Daddy Issues (It's Billy. We knew this was coming). Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: It’s TIMEEEEE!!! The wait for Chapter 5 is over! This series is really blowing up and it has honestly been such a pleasant surprise. This is honestly something I didn't think would gain a lot of traction and I would just be writing mostly for myself, but you all shut that idea down with a quickness. And I'm so glad. I love all of the engagement I am seeing and I'm really grateful. Without further ado, thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day!

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Chapter 4: Not When It's You

The final bell rings — sharp and blessed, but just a little too loud.

Chairs scrape back in a messy chorus, sneakers squeak against the old tile, and the hallway erupts into the usual after-school stampede. Lockers slam and voices echo off the cinderblock walls. The PA speaker crackles overhead with an announcement no one bothers to hear. You sling your backpack over one shoulder and fall into step beside Nancy as the crowd funnels toward the parking lot, the late-day sunlight spilling in like an overexposed photograph.

“God, if I have to read one more of Suzanne’s articles about ‘feminine resilience in the face of suburban conformity,’ I’m going to toss her typewriter into Lover’s Lake,” Nancy mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with the precision of someone used to juggling a thousand micro-crises.

You snort. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Nancy says with a dramatic sigh. “It’s just her way of taking shots at me in print.”

You’re about to tell her she’s probably imagining it — that Suzanne’s just a chronic oversharer with a superiority complex — when the door swings open and sunlight hits you full in the face. Outside, the air smells like cut grass and the faint tang of exhaust, warm in that late-summer way. Students scatter across the parking lot in loose clusters — piling into cars, lingering on hoods, buzzing with after-school gossip.

And then you see him.

Billy Hargrove.

Leaning against his Camaro like it’s a throne — one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, the afternoon sun glinting off the rings on his hand. His hair catches the light, glowing that perfect California gold halo that has no business existing in Hawkins, Indiana. The smoke from his cigarette curls lazily around his mouth as he exhales, slow and practiced, like he’s rehearsing for some glossy magazine ad the rest of the town isn’t pretty enough to be in.

You tell yourself not to look too long — that he’ll notice, and you’ll read too much into it — but your eyes stay trained to him anyway.

Nancy follows the direction of your gaze instantly. “I still can’t believe you chose to work with him.”

You blink, heat already creeping up your neck. “I didn’t choose to work with him, he just—”

“—claimed you as his partner for the class project,” she finishes for you, giving a knowing little smirk. “I remember. But that doesn’t explain why you’re blushing right now.”

“I’m not,” you insist, even though your face feels like it’s radiating heat detectable from orbit. “It’s just — he’s Billy. He stands out.”

Nancy raises an eyebrow. “That’s one word for it.”

Across the lot, Billy takes a long drag from his cigarette and glances your way — not by accident, not even close. His lips curl into the faintest hint of a grin, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that he’s enjoying every second of your reaction.

Your stomach flips — annoyingly, predictably — and you force your eyes away before he can see the way the sight hits you. Great. Perfect. Exactly what you needed today.

Nancy opens her mouth to speak again, but you cut her off before she can get a single syllable out. “Please don’t.” 

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, hands lifted in mock surrender, “if he tries to pull any of that macho ‘bad boy’ crap during your project, I’m filing a formal complaint with the school board.”

You snort. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll scare him straight.”

Billy Hargrove and ‘scared’ don’t belong anywhere in the same sentence, but you keep that thought to yourself.

Billy flicks his cigarette to the pavement and crushes it under his boot, eyes still pinned to you as he pushes off the car. His saunter — loose, confident, unapologetic — rolls across the parking lot like heat. It makes the air seem thicker around him, like he owns every square inch of asphalt he steps on.

Don’t stare. Don’t feed the ego. 

Nancy lowers her voice, glancing between you and the Camaro. “You’re not seriously going to his house, are you?”

You blink. “What? No. Library.”

Nancy’s shoulders drop, but only a little. “Good. Because if you showed up at Billy Hargrove’s house, I’d have to stage an intervention.”

You roll your eyes, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder. “It’s just a project, Nance.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, thoroughly unconvinced. “A project with a guy whose idea of ‘research’ probably involves Playboy magazine.”

You snort, shaking your head, but before you can come up with a comeback, Billy stops in front of you. His smirk is lazy, but his eyes — too blue, too steady — lock onto yours like he’s checking for a reaction you don’t want to give him.

“Bambi,” he drawls. “You ready, or are we gonna stand around gossiping all day?”

Of course. That stupid nickname. You should come to expect it at this point.  

You can feel Nancy’s stare burning a hole into the side of your face.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, though her tone says everything.

You sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nancy crosses her arms, expression somewhere between concern and disbelief. “If you end up buried behind the library, I’m telling your mom it was your idea.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you mutter.

Billy chuckles under his breath, tossing his keys once in his hand. “See you around, Wheeler.”

She gives him a tight smile before heading toward her car, still glancing back like she’s waiting for you to come to your senses. Billy watches her go, mouth curving — not quite a smile. “She’s still got it out for me, huh?”

You shrug, adjusting your bag. “She’s cautious.”

He grins, slow and easy. “Smart girl.”

You head for his Camaro, and this time, he opens the passenger door with easy confidence. “Hop in, Bambi. Library’s not gonna wait forever.”

You climb into the Camaro, the vinyl seat hot from the sun. It smells like smoke, old leather, and something distinctly Billy — that sharp, clean cologne that lingers even after the door slams shut. 

Great. Now his smell is everywhere. Like you needed the distraction.

The heat wraps around you, humming quietly in the space between you and the dashboard. He slides into the driver’s seat, keys jingling against the ignition before the engine growls to life — low and throaty, filling the silence between you.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums low, half static, half music — something from The Cars drifting through the speakers. It blends into the warm rush of air through the cracked window, feeling summery in a way that makes your chest ache for no good reason.

Outside, Hawkins rolls by — one long reel of the familiar: the grocery store with the flickering “O” in its sign, the diner with its peeling awning, the rows of boxy houses painted in colors that all feel one shade too dull.

Sunlight cuts through the trees as you drive, slicing gold stripes across Billy’s face. You shouldn’t stare, but you can’t help it — the way his jaw flexes when he shifts gears, the faint scar near his temple you never noticed before. Details you have no business cataloguing.

It’s just curiosity. That’s all. Purely academic.

He catches you looking. “What?”

You blink, thrown. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

“Maybe you should keep your eyes on the road,” you mutter, turning toward the window as if the outside world suddenly became fascinating.

Of course he noticed. Because the universe hates you.

He snorts, the sound soft and amused, entirely too smug. “Maybe you should stop starin’ at me like I’m on display.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse skips anyway — one sharp little kick you pray he can’t hear.

The rest of the drive passes in a strange quiet — not awkward exactly, but heavy. Charged. The kind that says more than either of you will admit.

The drive is short, but your thoughts make it feel longer. Too much time to be aware of him beside you. Too much time to pretend you aren’t.

When he finally pulls into the library parking lot, gravel crunches beneath the tires. The engine cuts off, leaving only the sound of cicadas humming in the heat and the faint hiss of the radio dying out.

Billy glances toward the building, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Here we are. Bookworm central.”

You shoot him a look, but he only grins wider — infuriating, warm, a little victorious. You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you before you can stop it.

Get it together, you think, but it’s useless. He always notices the things you don’t want him to.

You grab your backpack from the floor of Billy’s car and step out into the late afternoon light. The air feels cooler now, the sun dipping behind the trees that line Main Street, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers across the pavement. Behind you, Billy’s door slams shut with a soft thud, echoing in the near-empty lot. The sound almost feels like a punctuation mark in the quiet of the world around you.

You flinch a little. It’s absolutely not because of the way your pulse stutters every time you’re reminded of how solid he is, how present.

Inside, the library smells like dust and paper — quiet and still in a way that feels almost sacred after the noise of school. The atmosphere presses down on you in a welcome, familiar way. This space doesn’t have any room for the chaos of high school, or Billy Hargrove’s grin, or the weight of things you can’t ignore anymore.

Billy pushes through the door ahead of you, earning a sharp look from the librarian when it creaks too loudly. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“Guess she missed me,” he tells you with that grin that borders on trouble.

You roll your eyes, but it’s too automatic, too fond for comfort. You follow him toward the same table you used last time — your table now, apparently. He drops his stuff down first, pulling out a folder that looks surprisingly full.

“You’ve been busy,” you tease — all lightness, until you realize he actually has.

The folder is thick, brimming with papers, and your breath catches a little when he flips it open. Inside are pages filled with handwritten notes, underlined headlines, and magazine clippings. He glances up at you, catching the surprise before you can hide it. 

“Don’t look so shocked, Bambi,” he says, mouth curling into a grin. “I can do more than look pretty and cause trouble.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head as you look down at the pages. “Guess I should’ve known you’d actually follow through.”

Billy’s grin turns softer, something quieter flickering there. “What, still deciding if you can trust me?”

That makes you look up — surprised he remembered. The words are casual, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your chest tighten. You quickly look back at the folder in front of you, as if it can somehow shield you from this moment.

He shrugs, his gaze now on the papers instead of you. “Figured I’d earn some points.”

Earn some points.

The words sit there, heavy and strange. It shouldn’t mean anything — just Billy being Billy, turning a half-joke into something that feels like more. But it sits heavy in your ribs anyway, the weight of him remembering.

You focus on the folder, eyes skimming over a list scrawled in blue ink. A mix of movie titles and song names: Taxi Driver, The Deer Hunter, Born to Run, Fortunate Son. There’s thought here — intention you hadn’t expected.

“This is… really good,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His smirk kicks up, the corners of his mouth pulling just a little wider. “Told you I wasn’t an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you counter, even though you’d absolutely thought that at first — the easy way he acted, the effortless swagger, the way he seemed more concerned with being noticed than actually doing anything.

But this Billy, the one who continuously surprises you with his thoughtfulness and effort, doesn’t line up with the Billy Hargrove you thought you had pinned down.

It makes you wonder if you ever really understood him at all. Because every time you think you’ve figured out the angle he’s working, he shifts — subverting every expectation you came in with.

Is this another trick? A part of his game — the “good student” act meant to catch you off guard?

A deeper part of you, a quiet, more unsettling part, thinks maybe this is the real Billy Hargrove. The version he doesn’t show people. The version he doesn’t let himself be.

And that possibility sits heavy in your chest, because if this is real…

You don’t know what that means for you.

Or for him.

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head like he owns the space. “So, what — these movies, they’re all about guys trying to figure their shit out, right? Coming home, not knowing who they’re supposed to be anymore. That’s the whole deal with our paper, isn’t it? Masculinity or whatever.”

You tilt your head, studying him. You don’t know whether to be impressed or unnerved by his insight. 

Maybe both. Definitely both.

Something warm fills your chest. “You’ve actually been paying attention.”

He shrugs again, his eyes flicking to yours for a half-second before darting away. “I listen sometimes.”

It’s a small thing, a simple sentence, but the way it feels — like it’s meant for you, specifically, in this moment — unsettles you more than you want to admit.

You trace your fingers across the page, the ink smudged in spots where he’s gone back and rewritten things. The notes aren’t neat, but they’re thoughtful — connections, questions, full sentences worked over until they fit. And that’s when it hits you.

This isn’t just effort. It’s intentional. Thoughtful. Almost personal.

He’s written about fractured identity, about the weight of being told what a man’s supposed to be — about how war doesn’t always happen on a battlefield. It reads like someone who knows what that feels like.

This is him.

You look up at him, but he’s not looking back. His jaw’s tight, like he’s afraid of what you might see if he meets your eyes.

Your eyes drift back down to one of his notes, your finger skimming the messy scrawl of his handwriting. “‘Men who come back home looking like strangers,’” you read aloud softly. “That’s… heavy.”

Billy doesn’t say anything. Just lifts one shoulder like it’s nothing.

He’s not going to talk about this, is he?

You wonder if that’s why his walls are so high, why his confidence comes with a bit of a cruel edge. It’s a defense mechanism, one that’s worked for him for a long time.

You point at another line. “‘The war didn’t just break the men who fought it — it broke the families waiting for them.’ You wrote this?

His jaw ticks, the tension in his face unmistakable. “Yeah. So?”

“So, it’s good,” you say, earnest. “Really good.”

He shrugs again, eyes fixed on the paper. “Just wrote down what made sense.”

But you can see it — the way his jaw tightens a little, how his thumb taps the edge of the paper like he’s bracing for something. Like praise is a language he doesn’t speak fluently.

“Did you pull all this from magazines?” you ask softly, voice gentler now. Careful.

“Some,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. “Some’s from the radio. Stuff my old man used to listen to.”

That catches your attention. “He was into this kind of music?”

Billy’s mouth twists in a way that’s almost a sneer, but there’s something softer about it, a bitterness that seeps through. “Yeah. Said real men played guitars and drank bourbon straight. Used to blast CCR until the windows shook.” He lets out a short laugh — dry, almost bitter. “Guess it stuck.”

There’s a weight in his tone that pulls at you — something sharp and personal hiding just under the surface. You tread carefully. “He sounds… intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

The sarcasm doesn’t quite mask the way his voice cracks slightly, the hint of a truth he isn’t ready to face.

You glance at a still from The Deer Hunter, one of his notes scrawled beneath it: ‘Men don’t come home the same. Some don’t come home at all.’

Jesus.

It feels like reading a secret, like you’re looking too deep into something Billy hasn’t wanted anyone to see.

 “You write like someone who—”

“Don’t,” his voice cuts through the air, quiet but sharp.

You blink. “Don’t what?”

He looks up then, eyes hard, colder than before. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, alright? It’s just a damn school project.”

You sit back, stung by the bite in his voice. 

Is that how he sees this? Just some assignment? 

You weren’t trying to dig, not really. You were just trying to understand him better.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were,” he cuts in. “You were gonna say I write like someone who knows what it’s like. But you don’t know shit about me, so don’t pretend you do.”

The words land hard. Not cruel, exactly — just raw. Defensive.

You want to argue — to tell him you do get it. But the way his fingers drum against the table says don’t.

Still, you can’t quite let it go. “I wasn’t pretending,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just thought maybe… it’s not all that different. My dad left when I was eight.”

Billy freezes.

The silence stretches. The air feels too tight, too heavy. He doesn’t look up — just stares at the notes like he can read his way out of this.

“Mom tried to make it sound better than it was,” you continue, softer now, unsure if you’re helping or just digging deeper. “Said he needed time to ‘figure things out.’ But really, he just didn’t want us anymore.”

Billy’s jaw works, the muscle in his cheek jumping. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even blink.

You wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

Then he exhales, slow and measured — but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it, something that makes the skin on your arms prickle.

“You think because Daddy bailed you suddenly get me?” His voice drops, soft but venomous.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like. You had someone who walked away. I had someone who stayed.”

He leans back, mouth curling into something cruel.

“Trust me, Bambi — you got the better deal.”

The words sting. Your chest tightens, a mix of shock and something sharper — humiliation, fear, maybe anger — all swirling together. You blink at him, trying to read any hint of softness behind those eyes. There isn’t any.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the table, nails pressing into your palms. The room feels smaller somehow, the library’s quiet suddenly loud. The air hangs between you, taut and charged, a line drawn in invisible ink.

You swallow hard, trying to find your footing. “Billy—”

“Don’t,” he says again, voice low. “Just… drop it.”

And that’s that.

He shuts the folder,  not hard but final, like the conversation — whatever it could’ve been — is over. The sound seems to echo in the quiet between you, louder than it has any right to be.

You nod, pulling your notes closer, pretending your chest doesn’t feel too tight. Pretending the burn behind your ribs isn’t the echo of everything he said.

Across from you, Billy starts writing again, his pen scratching the paper in that messy, deliberate way. You watch him for a moment — the tight set of his jaw, the restless tapping of his fingers — and you wonder if he even realizes how much of himself he’s already spilled onto the page.

You work in silence after that.

The kind that hums — stretched tight, alive with everything that’s gone unsaid. Pens scratch softly, pages turn, and the library clock ticks like it’s keeping score. Every few minutes, you glance at Billy, but his focus stays pinned to the paper in front of him, almost as if he’s unaware you’re there. His head’s bent, jaw set, shoulders drawn tight as he writes, but you can tell he’s not really seeing the words. There’s a muscle in his cheek that won’t stop twitching, and for a second you wonder what it would take to make it ease.

Outside, the light slips toward evening — a slow bleed of gold turning gray. The librarian gives her usual warning, fifteen minutes till close, and the spell breaks. You both start packing up, the quiet between you heavier now, more loaded. Billy moves quick, methodical, like he’s afraid to let the silence catch up to him.

When you step outside, the air is cooler — damp with the promise of rain. The parking lot’s empty now, save for Billy’s blue Camaro and the hum of a lone streetlight buzzing overhead. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. The town feels small again — Hawkins-small — like everything personal echoes louder at night.

Billy unlocks the Camaro with a flick of his wrist, and neither of you says a word until you’re halfway down Mason Creek Road.

“Look,” he mutters finally, eyes fixed on the road. “Sorry for earlier.”

You blink, caught off guard by how small his voice sounds — like it’s coming from somewhere behind all that armor. Someplace human. 

“I wasn’t—”

“I know,” he cuts in. “You were just trying to talk. I just…” He exhales, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Sometimes I say shit I don’t mean.”

You swallow, unsure if relief or suspicion hits first. Relief, because he’s softening, even just a fraction. Suspicion, because this is Billy Hargrove — volatile, unpredictable, dangerous in his own quiet way. Your chest is still tight, your thoughts still whirring from his earlier words, but somehow… it’s a little lighter, too.

The car hums around you, the low thrum of the engine filling the space where words should go. The radio crackles faintly — soft static woven through a half-played song — and the streetlights sweep across his face in intervals: light, shadow, light again. For a second, you think he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, you find your voice. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He huffs a soft, humorless laugh, his fingers tightening around the wheel. “Yeah, I do.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask him to.

The Camaro rolls to a stop outside your house. The porch light glows faint and yellow, haloed by mist that has settled over the street. Everything feels smaller now — the car, the distance between you, the words sitting heavy in the air.

You grab your bag, fingers hovering on the handle, but you don’t move just yet. “Billy—”

He looks over, and for once, there’s no mask — no smirk, no swagger, none of the armor he hides behind. Just a flash of something tired and raw you’re not sure you’re supposed to see. 

“You should get inside,” he says quietly.

You nod, though it takes you a second to move. There’s something about the way he said it — something in the quiet that makes you want to linger, to reach out. But you don’t.

“Thanks for the ride.”

He smiles, but it’s in the corners of his mouth, fleeting and fragile. Like it’s something he’s trying to hold onto but doesn’t know how. “Yeah. No problem, Bambi.”

You step out, closing the door with a soft click. The night air meets you sharp and cool, carrying the damp scent of rain. For a moment, it feels like the world outside has forgotten to breathe.

You start up the walkway, gravel crunching under your shoes. You glance back — just once — and in that brief moment, you catch him there, still sitting in the car. He doesn’t move right away, just staring at the steering wheel like he’s still deciding something. You wonder if he’s thinking about you — about what was said, what wasn’t. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure out how to leave.

Then, with a soft hum of the engine, he drives off.

The tail lights disappear into the dark, the sound of the Camaro fading until it’s swallowed by the quiet of your street. You’re left standing on the porch, heart heavy, the ghost of his voice still echoing somewhere in your chest — soft, sharp, and entirely impossible to shake.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

Taglist: @head-locked  @yawzzns @rizzraa @rowynbriarsalix@asillysimp @msmimiandrew @cailinsblog @malatuadimadre @shrektittymilk69@fanofgunsnroses @istilltastesaltwater @marvelgirlie-4 @uplup@elyntiasblog @mx-mekla @cardosojo @shesneverreallythere @m3i1sthest4r @midnightliv @magicalpactfang @agentorange9595 @maximofflove @uhnanix @decstar @diorrgrl @serapinaxx @underatedgentlemencollector-blog @not-jadzia-dax @renmothe @milkandpeaches02 @lastwandastan @sodavrr @mrsprinklesss @xspacewitchx666 @gnarlycore @heartsforseo @findingpeterpan @fandomlover8 @ropickle @tul1preads @capriplumbobs @emeliaxosblog @romantic-escapism @scovaha @spiersbluegreen @uplup @lxvegalxree @jannesyjane

[kassy-djomunson]

[dearwalker]

Merry Christmas, I miss you

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader Word Count: 3.9k

Description: Christmas hits harder since your best friend left town to chase his dreams, and hasn’t talked to you in months. As you reminisce what life was with Eddie by your side, all you can think about is calling, and telling him how much you miss him. You don’t expect him to say it back…but he ends up saying so much more.

Inspired on the song ‘Merry Christmas, I miss you’ by Alex Crichton <3

Tags/warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, feeling lonely on christmas eve, eddie made reader sad but it gets better, love confession.

Note: It’s missing Eddie hours and everybody knows it 😔 after reading Flight of Icarus all I want is for this sweet boy to be a successful rockstar <3. Everyone voted to read this before Christmas Eve so enjoy this lil bittersweet fic 🎄✨ Special dedication to @flowersforbucky, who inspired me to write for him again 🤍 lovely divider by @chrisssiren.

archive | masterlist

It’s been three months since you last spoke with Eddie. 

On the phone of course, not even in person, it’s been much longer since then. Since…he left Hawkins to chase his dreams. 

You never thought it would really happen. Not because he didn’t deserve it. God, no. If anyone deserved to be heard, to be seen, to matter, it was Eddie Munson.

But there was something about dreaming out loud in Hawkins that made it feel impossible. Like no matter how loud you said it, no one outside the small town’s perimeter would hear it. 

But someone did hear him.

Someone from a big city who’d ended up drunk in the Hideout one Friday night after visiting some family for the holidays, and got swept away by Corroded Coffin's performance. 

Crazy, right?…everything happened too quickly after that. 

First came the call. Then the tape. Then an audition. Then another one. And the next thing you knew, your best friend had a shot at making it big. 

You remember the way he looked at you when he told you, like a little kid who just found a golden ticket to get the hell out of that place like he’d always dreamed. He’d bounced on the balls of his feet, then crushed you in a hug so tight you couldn’t even breathe.

“I’m not saying it’s gonna happen,” he’d said, breathless from disbelief, then grinning from ear to ear, “but…it might.”

You’d celebrated with him like it already had. 

You were proud of him. God, you were so proud of him. It melted your heart to see him finally shine the way he was always supposed to. People in town had called him a freak for so long, always looking down at “the guy with no future”, that sometimes you felt like he believed it too. But you’d always pushed away those thoughts by admiring him loudly. So loud that any compliment you threw his way quieted every bad thing people ever had to say. 

Eddie was the coolest person you’d ever known. And if this was the universe finally siding with him? You weren’t going to stand in the way of that. You couldn’t. You were so supportive when he told you he was heading to LA for one more audition, the most important one, even if it broke your heart when he didn’t ask you to come with him.

Because of course. Why would Eddie–your Eddie (who wasn’t yours at all) ask you to come with him? 

For him you were just his best friend, his smoking buddy, his class projects partner, his neighbor, his…nothing. 

Unfortunately, to you, Eddie Munson was everything. And when you got excited about his future, you’d thought he’d at least want to include you. 

Whatever. 

It wasn’t even like you could back then, or at least that’s what you told yourself to make it sting less. Your mother had just started dating this man after years of being a single mother. He was a good man, and she was a good woman, but being in love after so long made it easier for her to get stuck in that haze that makes you forget about responsibilities or…the rest of the world. Which led to you having to look out for your little sister, Ember, when she couldn't. You were happy for her, as much as you were happy for Eddie, but it meant you couldn’t just drop it all and leave. And Eddie…well, he hadn’t thought the spell of whatever was working in his favor would last either. 

“Just a couple of weeks,” he’d said, packing his favorite shirts into a small duffel bag. “A month maybe. That’s all.”

You still remember the way his voice wavered when he said it. The way he tried not to look you in the eyes. Even if you didn’t know it, saying goodbye hurt him as much as it hurt you. 

But in the end…it did last longer than just a ‘couple of weeks.’ All those auditions, all those meetings, all those maybes eventually turned into an impossible record deal. Suddenly, Corroded Coffin wasn’t just the local joke anymore, they were a real band, with real potential, real fans, real money. 

And real distance.

It all changed so fast, but Eddie kept his promise of keeping contact even miles away. 

Late night phone calls where you sat on the floor for hours just to hear the cords he was working on, or the thousand crazy stories of his new life. He’d mail you postcards that smelled like smoke and expensive hotels, with lyrics written on the back; some for his songs, some he only meant for you. You’d send him letters telling him how proud you were and how Ember always asked about him. 

But as all things expire…so did his promises. 

You weren’t even sure when it stopped. Losing him was not as dramatic as you’d thought it’d be. There was no big fight. No ‘I don’t wanna be friends anymore’. Just…silence. A missed call here. An ‘I’m tired’ there. Letters that stopped coming and being sent. An awkward moment when you told him you’d missed him after not talking for weeks and he didn’t get to say it back because he had to leave. 

He always had to leave. 

And that built up slowly over time. It killed you slowly over time. You went from seeing him every day, to talking every day, to almost everyday, to once a week, to…three months with zero contact. Three months since you’d heard his voice. Since you’d gone from being someone’s best friend, partner in everything…to being a stranger again. 

It hurt like hell. Especially on days like these. 

Your mom had left that morning, face lit up with excitement, Ember bouncing beside her with her little backpack and a candy cane in hand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Your mom had asked, still trying to drag you into spending Christmas with her fiancé’s family. 

You’d just smiled, said you didn’t mind staying back, that you wanted them to have their fun. Ember hugged your leg tightly before climbing into the car and you waved until they disappeared from the trailer park, and then only the silence kept you company. 

But you weren’t alone just today. You’d been alone since the day you and Eddie stopped hearing each other’s voices.

The hollow in your chest had become something you tried to ignore with responsibilities, with taking care of Ember, with pretending you were okay with him finding the better things in life. But every time the house goes empty, there’s nothing left to distract you. 

So all you can do is curl up on the couch, knees to your chest as you stare at the half lit string of lights above your window. The same ones Eddie helped you put up last year. Some bulbs had been out for weeks, like they've been grieving him too, but you couldn’t bring yourself to fix them. 

The place is so quiet, that it makes you hear every echo of what life with him used to be. Every laughter that had long faded out. Living so close to each other meant you were always at each other’s places growing up, and every corner was embedded with memories of Eddie. 

So of course you think about him. You always think about him. 

You think back to the last Christmas you spent together, laughing over burnt cookies and cheap instant cocoa Wayne tried to fix with mini marshmallows and a dash of cinnamon. The way Eddie joked about kissing you when he found a plastic mistletoe gathering dust in one of the messy shelves of his trailer. 

Just a harmless joke that left you flustered the whole night. Because friends don’t kiss under mistletoes, even if they’re plastic. 

Now, as your sweater barely keeps you warm within the thin walls of your own trailer, you can’t help but think he’s probably in sunny Malibu, spending Christmas in some mansion with the band or…kissing some model under a real mistletoe. 

The thought makes your stomach twist. He’s not like that. 

But then again, you don’t really know him anymore.

He’s out there living his life, and it sucks not knowing how much of you he carries, when you still carry all of him inside you. It makes you wonder if he misses you too. If he feels lonely too. If he thinks about you all the time too. 

The clock keeps ticking toward midnight. 

You know you aren’t supposed to be spending Christmas eve like this. You aren’t supposed to be spending your life like this. But the thing about grief, about missing someone who’s still very much alive, is that it doesn’t warn you. It just crashes into you. The first tear slides down your cheek before you even know it. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, irritated. But then another comes. And another. Until suddenly you are crying. 

Because it’s not fair. 

It’s not fair that he gets to be a ghost in your trailer. In your head. In your lungs. 

And no matter how dumb it sounds, all you can think about is taking the phone and calling him. Because what if he picks up? And you get the chance to say “Merry Christmas Eddie, I miss you every fucking day.” 

Even if he doesn’t say it back. Even if you’re lonely and he’s not. Even if you’re just another person he forgot from his hometown. But you need to get it out of your chest before the weight crushes you completely. 

You press your hands to your face, wiping away the tears, and stand up before you can regret it. You walk slowly, fuzzy socks dragging against cold vinyl floors, toward the corner of the kitchen where the phone lives on the wall. The long spiral cord looks so outdated, so ordinary now, yet it used to be the only way you could feel close to Eddie. Maybe it can help you tonight too. 

Your fingers hover over the phone, taking a deep breath before dialing the number you still know by heart.

One ring. Two. Three. This is useless. Four.

You close your eyes, already bracing for the stupid voicemail and another tear in your heart–

“…Hello?”

Your breath hitches when you hear his voice. Not through a recording. Not through a demo he sent you. Just Eddie…your Eddie. Your mouth opens, but closes again. 

You didn’t really think this far ahead. Part of you thought he wouldn’t even pick up.

“Hey,” you manage to say.

You hear movement on the other end. A soft shuffle of fabric shifting. Maybe the sound of him sitting up. 

“It’s…is it really you?” He asks after a moment, voice full of disbelief like it surprised him to hear your voice as much as it surprised you to hear his. 

“Yeah,” you let out a nervous chuckle. “Still remember me?” You try to sound light, teasing, but maybe the chuckle comes out too shaky. 

Whatever. 

Eddie laughs back, and God, months have passed, but he still laughs the same. You hate the way that sound causes your stomach to do the stupid butterflies thing. 

“Always, sweetheart,” he says, sounding too suave for the way his heart was slamming against his chest too. “I uh…you caught me off guard. It’s just…shit–I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after everything...”

After everything…what? After everything you’d lived ended up in nothing? After you ghosted each other? 

“I’ll always want to talk to you, Eddie,” you say softly, leaning your head on the wall as you play with the cord of the phone. 

He doesn’t say anything to that, which feels weird because Eddie always finds a way to fill the silence. It makes you hesitate about calling in the first place, but you’re already there, so you better get it over with. 

“Listen, Eddie, I didn’t call to…make it weird. I know you’re probably busy tonight. But this–this has been sitting on my chest all these months and I need to get it out...” 

You lean your whole body against the wall for support, staring at the dead Christmas bulbs on the string of lights that start to look blurry from the fresh tears threatening to spill. 

“I miss you,” you finally say it, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t care if you don’t say it back. I don’t care if you’ve moved on. I just–I miss you, Eddie. And I didn’t want to go this Christmas without saying it.”

His breath hitches, you can hear it even through the phone…but that’s it. 

Well, you were right to not expect hearing it back. 

You let out a shaky exhale, “I–I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing before this. Have a good Christmas Eddie–”

“No–no,” he cuts you off before you can cut the call. It came out quickly, a bit desperate. “Please…don’t. I’m just…you keep making me forget how to breathe and I–I can’t say what you want me to say here.” 

Here? 

Before you can ask what that means, you hear shuffling again. You realize it’s surprisingly quiet on the other side of the line. Not the usual music you’d hear, not yelling, not an ‘Eddie come on’ or ‘Dude they’re waiting for us.’

It’s just you and him. 

“Where are you?” You ask quietly, like you don’t really want him to answer because it’s probably going to hurt more. 

The silence before he does is not comforting either. For a moment you think someone just found him on the quiet space he’d gone to answer to your call, to get him back to the party or whatever he was doing, and now he’ll say goodbye and then you won’t talk for God knows how long–

“I’m outside,” he breathes. 

The weight of the words doesn’t sink in until you hear him close a car door, and the sound travels all the way from the line to the outside of your trailer. 

The next sound is the crunch of gravel under his steps, getting closer and closer. 

Before you know it, the phone slides from your hands, coiled cord bouncing against the wall as you sprint toward the front door. Your shaking hand reaches for the doorknob, and when you finally open it, it’s not the cold winter breeze that knocks the air out of your chest. 

Eddie’s standing outside your trailer, cheeks pink, frizzy hair adorned by snow and his hopeful face lit up by the moon and the single string of colorful Christmas lights you hung around the door this year only because your sister insisted on it. His van–the van–now wrapped in black with Corroded Coffin’s white logo plastered on the side is parked behind him, and the sight of it feels like a deja vu, like he never said goodbye before leaving in it in the first place.

“Wh–“ 

What are you doing here? You try to ask, but you’re so breathless that the words just don’t make it out of your mouth. Your chest rises up and down quickly, as he steps closer to the trailer, going up the creaking steps until he’s standing right in front of you. 

Eddie, your Eddie, is here here. 

He’s a bit…different. Still wrapped in a leather jacket, but this one looks like it had a three digit tag on a fancy rack. Still in ripped jeans, but not because they’re old and Eddie can’t really afford another pair, but because they were a designer's intention. Still wearing white sneakers, but these ones are actually white, probably freshly bought.

But his face? His eyes? Always the same. Those impossible, huge brown eyes still hold so much tenderness for you it makes your knees weaken. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing he says, his apology cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’m sorry it’s been so long, sweetheart.” 

It hits you so unexpectedly, that you almost have to hold yourself up by leaning into the doorframe, but you’re frozen in place. 

“I’m here to tell you what I should have a long time ago,” he continues, stepping closer to grab your freezing hand into his warm one from being in the van all night, trying to gather the courage to knock on your door. “I want you to come with me, please.”

You blink in disbelief at his words, biting the inside of your cheek hard, to confirm this is indeed real life and not a cruel fantasy of your own head. He’d slipped out of your grasp so long ago that holding him again is like holding a ghost. You look down to where your hands meet, a touch you’ve craved for so long, yet it surprises you when your hand doesn’t go straight through his.

“Eddie,” you breathe, eyes still fixed on his hold on you, “it’s not that simple–”

“I know,” he cuts you off, softly, his voice wavers with hesitation but he pushes through. “I know it’s not. And I know I was an idiot to you. I should've asked you to come with me from the start–but you had your sister, and I didn’t want you to feel like I was pressuring you to follow me into what I thought was my dream. But it’s not. All this shit–” he points at himself with a bitter chuckle, his thousand dollar outfit he could’ve never even dreamed of touching a few months ago, “this is nothing without you. I’m nothing without you.” 

His voice starts to crack, he pauses for a second to breathe, and you realize you’ve stopped doing it too. Eddie came all the way here to tell you everything you’ve wished to hear for months–or years of being in love with him, actually–but all you can do is stand there in silence, completely still as his desperate gaze searches for yours.

“I’m sorry it took me this long to come here and say it. I’m a coward, I know that, I’ve been waiting all night inside the van because I didn’t think you’d care if I came back.” 

You blink. You’ve been crying on the couch and he’s been outside this whole time? 

“And then you called me,” he continues, laughing breathlessly like he still can’t believe it. “Fuck–you actually called me. Because you were brave enough to say you missed me even if you didn’t know you’d hear it back…and I got all quiet, I know, but it wasn't because I didn't want to say it, but because I didn’t want it to be over the phone–not if I’m here to look in your eyes when I say it.” And he really is, looking at you. Big, wide, chocolate brown eyes searing into yours, before he exhales, “I miss you every fucking day.” 

The pain behind that statement is no stranger to you. Especially not when you see it in the mirror every morning, but now that reflection is in front of you. 

“I’m sorry I let our friendship die. I’m sorry it took me leaving to realize it, but angel–“ he pauses, only to take a deep breath for what he’s about to confess. “What we had? Whatever thing we had going on in our own weird way never died for me. It’s here–you’re still here.” He pulls your hand toward his chest, pressing it right over his racing heart. “This has always been your home, since I have a memory. Since you looked at me like I was actually worth something instead of the crap the other kids said about me. You were there through my weird haircuts, my eyeliner phase, and you always heard my stupid stories,” he smiles sadly through it, pressing your hand tighter onto his chest. “You were always here–and you never left. I don’t think you can ever leave. Please…please tell me I never left yours.” 

A few excruciating seconds of silence pass before you can even think what to answer. 

Snow keeps falling, the world’s still turning, but the only one’s in it might as well just be you, Eddie and two broken hearts third wheeling. 

He keeps looking at you, waiting for you to say something, to say anything, but you don’t trust your voice right now. Or your judgement to be honest, because all you can do is step out into the cold and throw yourself into his arms. He stumbles back, barely catching you, but immediately wrapping his arms around your shaking figure as he hears small sobs vibrate against his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he mumbles, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of your head.

You let yourself crumble in the arms that pushed you away in the first place, but it’s the same arms that once made you feel like you weren't carrying the weight of the world alone. It’s bittersweet, it’s probably just the eye of the storm, but he feels like home. He always felt like home. Like breathing again. 

That’s what happens when you make Eddie Munson your oxygen. 

He doesn’t mind it, of course, he holds you through it. Muttering apologizes and sweet nothings, gently rocking you in his arms as you let all the weight from the last months finally drop. When the tears finally subside, and the shaking in your body is not from sobbing but from the cold, you begin to pull apart slightly, only as much as his grip allows you to. His ringed hand goes to your face, wiping away your wet cheeks so softly you almost start crying again. 

“You went away, Eddie, but you never really left. Not this town, not this trailer, not my soul,” you sniffle, hands playing with the collar of his leather jacket to hold yourself upright. “I know I wouldn’t have said yes, not then…but I never stopped wanting you to ask, even if we were nothing more than friends,” you confess, lashes heavy with tears lifting up to see Eddie’s own glassy eyes. 

He shakes his head. “It’s my fault we were only that. I…I always wanted more. And I know I’m so damn late–but I’m asking now,” he says, almost begging. “I want you to come with me. I want you to be with me. Every holiday. Every session. Every late night. Every concert or whatever the hell is next for us–I don’t care where I am, as long as I’m with you.” 

He pauses, gaze lowering to your lips, and it makes your heart skip. “If you’ll have me,” he looks up again, “...I promise I'll keep you for the rest of my life on this crazy ride.”

You find yourself speechless again, taking in every word he just said. You can’t help the soft smile curling the corners of your mouth, or the warm feeling on your chest against the unforgiving snow. His eyes drop again, and all you can do is pull him by the collar of his jacket so he looks at you again, then whisper:

“Just kiss me, Eddie.”

“Oh thank God,” he exhales, almost sobbing in relief, clinging to your body before crashing his lips against yours. 

They’re soft, eager, just like you've imagined them a hundred times alone in your room. Your hands fly to his frizzy hair, his travel to the low of your back, pulling you closer, breathing you in like he’d made you his oxygen too. It’s not enough though, because you both run out of air soon even if none of you want to stop. You pull apart after a moment, breathless, just enough to cradle his face in your hands, and see the huge grin that spreads across his blushed face. 

You smile too, whispering against his lips, finally feeling home. “Merry Christmas, Eddie.” 

“Merry Christmas, angel,” he grins, already lifting you in between giggles to get you inside the trailer. 

Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🎄🤍

[unforth]

Gentle reminder that very little fandom labor is automated, because I think people forget that a lot.

That blog with a tagging system you love? A person curates those tags by hand.

That rec blog with a great organization scheme and pretty graphics? Someone designed and implemented that organization scheme and made those graphics.

That network that posts a cool variety of stuff? People track down all that variety and queue it by hand, and other people made all the individual pieces.

That post with umpteen links to helpful resources, and information about them? Someone gathered those links, researched the sources, wrote up the information about them.

That graphic about fandom statistics? Someone compiled those statistics, analyzed them, organized them, figured out a useful way to convey the information to others, and made the post.

That event that you think looks neat? Someone wrote the rules, created the blogs and Discords, designed the graphics, did their best to promo the event so it'd succeed.

None of this was done automatically. None of it just appears whole out of the internet ether.

I think everyone realizes that fic writing and fanart creation are work, and at least some folks have got it through their heads that gif creation and graphics and moodboards take effort, and meta is usually respected for the effort that goes into it, at least as far as I've seen, but I feel like a lot of people don't really get how much labor goes into curation, too.

If people are creating resources, curating content, organizing the creations of others, gathering information, and doing other fandom activities that aren't necessarily the direct action of creation, they're doing a lot of fandom labor, and it's often largely unrecognized.

Celebrate fan work!

To folks doing this kind of labor: I see you, and I thank you. You are the backbones of our fandoms and I love you.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Steve Harrington x Henderson!fem!reader

Summary: You've liked Steve since forever, while he's only now just realizing you're exactly the girl he's been searching for.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: set in season 4, reader's appearance is NOT described in any way, Steve is an idiot, made up Steve's mom's backstory, no canon violence/upside-down mentioned, but it still exists in this universe, ig reader just isn't in the loop :/

~ NO SEASON 5 SPOILERS ~

STEVE HARRINGTON MASTERLIST

Eighteen-year-old Steve Harrington was the definition of an arrogant asshole, and yet he still had your seventeen-year-old self wanting to be one of the girls who were always hanging on his arm.

You wanted to be the one he would kiss behind the school buses, or the one he would let hold his hand in the halls. But King Steve didn't notice you back then. You were absolutely invisible to him.

So, when a few years later, your younger brother nonchalantly mentions that he's invited Steve Harrington to have dinner, your jaw drops. "Since when are you and Harrington close?" You turn to Dustin, raising an eyebrow suspiciously as you cross your arms and lean against the kitchen counter where your mom is preparing appetizers. You feel like you've missed a few chapters.

"Since he drove me to the Snow Ball because someone didn't have their license," Dustin retorts.

You chuck an olive at him, ignoring how anxious you suddenly feel. Is this a sign, some stupid sign you should talk to Steve? Ask him out, do something—anything— to make him look at you? After all, it's been years since your crush on him blossomed. And, he's no longer in high school and neither are you. Things have changed.

However, the more you think about it, the more you're positive Steve Harrington doesn't know you're Dustin's sister. He must not even remember that you exist. After all, there's no reason for him to remember you.

"You really should have told me sooner," your mom complains as she checks on the homemade chicken-pot-pie, "I don't think I made something someone like Mr. Harrington is used to." 

You look at your mom. From what you've heard from her, your mom and Steve's mom have a complex history. Apparently, the moment Steve's parents married, Steve's mom, who was your mom's best friend in high school, became incredibly snotty.

You wonder if Steve is like that as well.

"He's not like that," Dustin answers your internal question, whining. He jumps when he hears a clumsy thump on the door and then he grins. "I promise Steve isn't like that. You'll like him, Mom." Dustin pauses and turns around as he runs to the door. His grin widens and he sticks out his tongue at you. "I know you like him, y/n." 

Your cheeks burn up. "You little shit," you hiss angrily and follow behind him, "Just so you know, I don't—" your sentence dies as you see Dustin fling the door open. 

You pause as you stare in horror as Steve Harrington, dressed in his classic denim jacket, his hair looking wavy and smooth, is now standing in your doorway fist-bumping your fourteen-year-old brother with excitement. He's wearing a smile you have never seen on him. It's so genuine. 

The moment he sees you, it's his turn to pause.

"Hi," you sound a little squeaky, but you hope he doesn't notice. You think this is the first time you've spoken to him, which is ridiculous, and embarrassment washes over you. Dustin turns around and looks at you blankly. 

"Hello," Steve says. He's looking at you almost nervously. He's clearly embarrassed because he quickly runs his hand through his hair and clears his throat. You're pretty. He doesn't quite know how to process that Dustin has a sister, and that she's pretty. 

"This is my older sister, Y/n." Dustin says, pulling him inside and past you, "And Y/n, you already know Steve," your brother adds with a smirk, and you resist the urge to hit him over the head. As Steve's expression contorts into confusion, you frown. 

Of course, he wouldn't remember you.

Steve looks at you, his head tilting like a wounded puppy, and he can't help but think how stupid he is to have forgotten someone like you. He narrows his gaze, attempting to remember you. He snaps from his thoughts when he sees you glance at the roses in his hand. 

"Oh, they're for your mom," he says and holds them up. He hesitates and then takes a single one in his other hand. As smoothly as he can, he hands the lone rose to you. "And now one's for you." 

Your fingers touch, and you feel like you could puke. Steve Harrington is supposed to be an asshole. He's supposed to remind you he's not boyfriend material, that he sucks, that he's immature and shallow. However, all he's doing is making you like him again.

In fact, he's being so sweet that during dinner, he still compliments the slightly burnt pie, something that caused your mom to smile. 

"Since when are you friends with my fourteen-year-old brother?" You ask bluntly during dinner, picking at the chicken. You pause. You hadn't meant to sound too judgmental, but the room has gone silent.

"You wouldn't understand," Dustin hisses, sending you a sharp glare. 

Steve looks a little awkward, and he clears his throat. "It happened by accident, but Dustin's an amazing kid. He is the brother I never had. I like making sure he's doing okay." Steve smiles at Dustin, who looks a little scandalized by Steve calling him a kid. 

Your mom seems happy with the answer and says something about how Steve can be a good influence on her 'little Dusty,' and you laugh behind your napkin. The conversation continues naturally, and you notice that Steve is asking you a lot about yourself. You find yourself becoming shy under his gaze, and you hate it.

As soon as dinner is over, you hurry to put your dishes in the sink, and then, without even a proper goodbye, you sprint upstairs. 

You want to scream.

You fall onto your bed, wrapping your arms around your pillow and screaming into your pillow. You sigh and turn onto your back. Steve's smile is invading your mind and you feel seventeen all over again and the feeling is very unwelcome. You squeeze your eyes shut, cursing Dustin for being friends with Steve Harrington of all people. 

* * *

On Monday, it's your turn to pick up Dustin from school. You're a little early, so you take a detour from work to "Family Video".  The bell from the door rings as you pop the gum in your mouth. You look around. This place looks so empty.  

"Howdy there," A girl with short sandy hair asks, appearing from under the desk and forcing a smile as she leans her chin in her hand. She looks familiar, but you can't place her. "How may I assist you this afternoon?" 

You jump a little but smile. "Hi, I was wondering if you have Back To The Future?" 

The girl laughs, "The new one where Michael J. Fox almost fucks his mom?" She clasps her hand over her mouth comically, "Oopsies, spoilers." 

She then points to the back, her gaze flickering over you as if she also recognizes you somehow. "It should be over there in the Sci-Fi section, I think." 

You blink, deciding to ignore what she said about the movie. Dustin has been whining about how he missed the release in theaters, so you want to surprise him. As you turn, the girl calls out with amusement in her tone, "Oh, and if my idiot co-worker makes a move on you, ignore him: you're way too pretty for him." 

You laugh. "Okay, thanks," you say. You don't think about the girl's warning until you see her co-worker in question stocking the aisle beside the Sci-Fi section. Just great, you think as your palpitates in your chest. You seriously contemplate leaving, but you shake your head. That would be cowardly.

You only bite your cheek and pray Steve Harrington doesn't see you as you walk closer. 

"Y/n?" 

Shit.

You turn to him slowly, smiling a strained smile. "Oh, hi." It comes out louder than you wanted, and you want to die. Steve finishes up with the DVDs in his arms and then looks you up and down for a moment. 

"Cool converse," he compliments, his hand going behind his nape.

You stare at him. He's not wearing something particularly special, so you panic. "T-thanks, I like your hair."

"Thank you!" Steve beams at the compliment. He's smiling now, and you feel a sudden pull to smile too. "So, what are you lookin' for?" He asks nonchalantly, crossing his arms. 

"Oh, um, Back To The Future," you say and turn to look at the selection again. You narrow your gaze, concentrating as you skim through the various titles. Steve's eyes linger a little too long on your lips to be normal as you pull your lower one in between your teeth, and he clears his throat. 

"It's already a classic, isn't it?" he says, making some small talk. 

"Haven't seen it yet, Dustin and I missed the showings last year," you say, still reading the titles.  "I heard it's a little trippy," you chuckle, looking up at him for a moment. Steve sees your expression shift back to the same timid one he saw at dinner that evening, and he can't help but smile.

Something about you is different. It's special. 

Steve's heart pounds, and he thinks back to what Robin's been saying. It feels pathetically sentimental, but you seem to be exactly what he's looking for. No, in fact he knows it, he can feel it in his chest, like a low drumming he can't shake. 

"Have dinner with me?" He blurts out suddenly.

You snap your head up and look at him, "Excuse me?"

"Only if you want!" Steve adds, panicking now. Gosh, he's fumbling this already.  

"You want me to have dinner with you?" You repeat, unsure you heard him correctly.

"Yeah, if you'd like," he says, his eyes wide and confused. He looks so different from the King Steve you remember from high school. You crack a small smile, panicking inwardly. You need to play this cool. 

"Sure, I'd like that," you say and turn back to the DVDs, missing Steve's happy fist pump. "Ah, there it is." You pull out the Back To The Future DVD and look at Steve again. "Call me? I assume you have my home number?" 

"Yeah!" He nods, his cheeks flushed. He feels like a giddy schoolboy once more and you can't help the smile that graces your features.

Once you'd paid, and returned to your car to pick up Dustin, inside Robin smacked Steve over the head. "I said no flirting with the customers, dingus."  

"Ow," Steve sends Robin an annoyed look. "I haven't been! Her? She's different, okay?!"

Robin rolls her eyes as she watches you unlock your car. She crosses her arms and smiles to herself. You are different, she thinks, and looks back at her friend, you're exactly what Steve needs. 

[midniqhtt]

sky this is so good! think i got a cavity from how sweet it is <3

[wheels-of-despair]

Welcome to Fluffmas, where I did not get the memo that this was strictly fluff until it was a little too late, but that's okay! There may be a tear or two along the way, but every fic will get a happy ending. (Shut up, Eddie.) (You too, Tindle.) Grab some hot cocoa and a fuzzy blanket, 'cause it's gonna be a fluffy ride full of flashbacks, snowy vacations, holiday visitors, sweet treats, and one kick-ass concert!

December 1st: Christmas Tree Hunting - The Sting of Betrayal Sam and The Wife's trip to get a tree is not very Hallmark-y.

December 2nd: Christmas Gifts - The One With the Most Icing Eddie and EW venture out of the bedroom to spend their first Christmas morning together with the rest of the family.

December 3rd: Baking Cookies - Quality Control Your old man fell asleep watching football, so his friend Tommy gets to help you make cookies.

December 4th: Snow Angels - Halos and Horns What, did you think Eddie and Evil Woman were going to make regular run-of-the-mill snow angels?

December 5th: Letters to Santa - Santa Doesn't Visit Liars The Mrs. gives Sam a Christmas Eve surprise.

December 6th: Under the Mistletoe - Please Kiss Me Billy takes an alternate route with mistletoe, but still gets results.

December 7th: Christmas Lights - So Much Better Than Last Year Evil Woman and Mom drink hot chocolate and watch a holiday spectacle unfold outside.

December 8th: Sledding - Where We're Going, We Don't Need Sleds Eddie and EW and Baby Bro will be flyin' down that hill.

December 9th: Holiday Decorating - Four Is Better Mom's favorite child (and the other two) haul out the decorations and get ready for Christmas '86!

December 10th: Snowed In - Treacherous You're snowed in with Michael?! Oh no, what ever will you do?

December 11th: Hot Cocoa - All Warm and Tingly Inside Once upon a time, Mac found out Travis had never played in the snow before. Now it's time to fix that with a weekend getaway!

December 12th: Mulled Cider - The Smell of a Memory

December 13th: Ice Skating - Kiss Me In Case We Die

December 14th: Holiday Traditions - 37th Time's the Charm

December 15th: Secret Santa - Secret Satan

December 16th: By the Fire - The Eddie-sicle

December 17th: Cuddling - You Got Me

December 18th: Ugly Sweater - The Test

December 19th: Elf on a Shelf - The Snitch

December 20th: Candy Canes - No Baby-Making on the Premises

December 21st: Desserts - S'mores 101

December 22nd: Turtle Doves - Wasting School Resources

December 23rd: Christmas Songs - There's a Catch

December 24th: Snowflakes - Christmas Eve

December 25th: Nutcracker - I'll Give You A Damn Nutcracker

[wheels-of-despair]

Santa Doesn't Visit Liars Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x Wife!Reader Summary: The Mrs. gives Sam a Christmas Eve surprise. Contains: Memories, Grandma Dottie references, a tear or two. Words: 400ish | Prompt: Letters to Santa | Other Fluffmas Fics

"Merry Christmas Eve."

"Merry Christmas Eve," Sam repeats, climbing into his side of the bed with a yawn. He leans back against the headboard, still winding down from a Christmas party at the home of his childhood best friend. He'll probably read for a while before settling in for his long winter's nap. You've got just the thing.

"I've got a present for you," you whisper, reaching into the drawer on your bedside table. He's going to love this.

"Is it a slutty Mrs. Claus costume?" Sam smirks, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Yeah, that's it," you deadpan, pulling out the stack of faded papers you tied together with a red ribbon and dropping it in his lap.

"What's this?"

"Something I found pressed between the pages of one of Grandma Dottie's books," you smile. "Thought you might like them back."

It's letters to Santa that Sam wrote as a child. Grandma Dottie saved them all, from the crayons on construction paper with backwards E's to the practiced pencil on wide-ruled paper of an elementary school student and even the birth of the scrawl he uses now.

You felt a little guilty reading them when you found them, as you were not the intended recipient, but you couldn't help it. You had to know what kind of things Baby Sam wished for. He wasn't a very demanding kid. A pretty practical one, in the grand scheme of things... except for the year he asked for a pet dinosaur.

Sam removes the ribbon and begins to tear up almost immediately. This is not the reaction you were hoping for.

"I didn't know she kept these," he says, his voice wavering.

"Of course she did," you smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "They're adorable."

Sam reads each letter carefully, flipping the pages over to see Grandma Dottie's handwritten year on the back of each one. When he gets to the last one, he sniffles.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," you whisper back.

"I'm not crying," he scoffs.

"Santa doesn't visit liars," you tease, lifting your head from his shoulder to wink at him. "Love you."

"Love you, too," he says, leaning in for a Christmas Eve kiss.

[darkacademiaarchivist]

i'm not dying on this hill, I'm killing you on it actually.

[wheels-of-despair]

Treacherous Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x You Summary: You're snowed in with Michael?! Oh no, what will you do? Contains: Smooth talkin', sweet snugglin', stayin' home. Words: 500ish | Prompt: Snowed In | Other Fluffmas Fics

"I've got some terrible news, love," Michael whispers, letting his lips graze your ear before nuzzling his nose into the side of your neck. By the feel of things, he's on his knees and elbows and one good laugh away from losing his balance and coming down on top of you.

This does not seem like a way to break truly terrible news to a person.

"What's wrong, baby?" you ask, knowing he's messing with you.

"It snowed last night," he explains quietly. "The temperature is low. The roads are treacherous. It would be reckless and irresponsible for us to try going to work today. I fear we're snowed in."

"Snowed in?" you grin into the pillow. "Oh no, that's horrible."

"It'll be hard, but we'll find a way to get through this together," he says, slowly lowering his weight onto you.

"Will you kiss me and hold me tight?" you ask.

"Of course I will," he breathes, kissing the back of your shoulder.

"I bet it's going to be awfully cold today," you smile. "Perhaps we should just stay under the covers, where it's warm."

"That sounds like a wonderful solution," he admires.

"If it gets too cold, I suppose I could bake us something hot for lunch and warm up the flat with the heat from the oven," you propose.

"You're brilliant, you are," he rumbles, right next to your ear.

"Alright," you sigh. "I must step into the cold unforgiving loo for a moment, but I promise to return if you promise to warm me back up."

"I promise," he says, kissing your shoulder again and rolling off of you.

You crawl out from beneath the covers and into the cold morning air, rushing to take care of business so you can hurry back into bed with him and enjoy your snow day… but a curious sight out the window catches your eye on the way back from the bathroom.

"Michael, that's a damn dusting!"

There's a thin layer of white outside, but it's nowhere near enough to shut anything down. It'll melt as soon as the sun rises.

"Treacherous," he repeats seriously, smirking from bed with his hands laced behind his head. "I don't think I can bear the thought of you traveling those icy roads today. Please, love, let's stay home where it's warm and safe."

Fuck it.

"Alright," you shrug, lifting the covers and crawling back into bed. "Did you call in?"

"No," he laughs. "Didn't think you were actually going to let me get away with this."

"Do you want to stay home?"

"Every damn day," he answers quickly.

"Make the call," you instruct. "We'll sleep a bit, then I'll make one too."

"Really?" he asks, eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Really," you grin, leaning in for a kiss. "I think we've earned a snow day."

Michael kisses you one, two, three more times before dragging himself out of bed and rushing to the phone. He scurries back into the room two minutes later, and you pull back the covers so he can dive straight back into bed. Your limbs quickly intertwine, seeking warmth beneath the blankets in the cold morning on the beginning of a beautiful snow day.

[lucydixon]

Broken Skin and a Map home

Eddie Munson Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog 𐴱 Bestfriend!Reader AU A/N: This is part five of my Red String of Fate Series. You can find the series masterlist here

Summary: You and Eddie have a moment in the bathroom of Nancy Wheeler's Upside-downified home before the five of you come up with a game plan with the help of one Dustin Henderson.

“So, uh, this place is like Hawkins, but with monsters and nasty shit?” Eddie asked, guiding you along while you gnawed on your bottom lip, on edge and starting to feel the deep scratches on your shoulder.

“Pretty much.”

“Wait!” Nancy grabbed Eddie before he could step on one of the black vines running along the ground “Watch out for the vines. It’s all a hive mind.”

“It’s a what?” You frowned, taking note to avoid them.

“All the creepy crawlies around here.” Steve explained “They’re like one,or something. Step on a vine, you’re stepping on a bat, you’re stepping on Vecna.”

“Shit.” Eddie muttered, holding you a little tighter.

But everything from our world is here, right?” Robin paused “Except people?”

“As far as I understand it, yeah.” Nancy nodded.

“So, theoretically, we could go to the police station and steal guns and grenades and whatever we need to blow up those bat things that are guarding the gate.”

“I highly doubt the Hawkins PD has grenades, Robin.” Steve rolled his eyes. “But guns, yeah, sure.”

“Well, we don’t have to go all the way downtown for guns.” Nancy told you all “I have guns in my bedroom.”

You lips parted in surprise.

“You,” Eddie pointed at her, eyes wide in disbelief “Nancy Wheeler, have guns, plural, in your bedroom?”

“Full of surprises, isn’t she?”

“A Russian Makarov and a revolver.” Nancy explained

“Yeah, you almost shot me with that one.” Steve smirked.

“You almost deserved it.” She bit back a smile of her own.

Your eyes bounced in between the two of them.

If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought they were flirting.

Eddie shrugged off his vest and hurled it at a still-shirtless Steve.

“For your modesty, dude.”

You laughed, but were cut off by the ground shaking beneath your feet.

“Oh my god!” Robin shrieked, staggering towards the rocks while Eddie grabbed you and shielded your head with his arms.

all five of you were knocked right onto your assess before the rumbling stopped, panting and wide eyed.

“So, guns seem like a pretty good idea to me.” Robin laughed nervously.

“Yeah me too.” Eddie added.

“So, what are we waiting for?”

“Couldn’t we have tried a road, or something just slightly less creepy?” Robin huffed, stepping over a vine as the five of you weaved your way through the trees.

“I think we’re getting close. We’re almost out of here.” Nancy assured her “Don’t worry.”

“Eddie.” Steve hung back to fall into step with the two of you “Hey, man, uh- listen.”

He swallowed hard.

“I just, uh- I just want to say thanks. For saving my ass back there.”

“And you.” He turned to face you “For trying to pull me out of the water.”

“Shit,” Eddie scoffed “You saved your own ass back there.”

“I mean,” It almost sounded like it pained Eddie to pay him a compliment. “that was a real Ozzy move you pulled back there.”

“Ozzie?” Steve frowned, brows pulled together.

“When you took a bite out of that bat.” He explained “Ozzy Osborne? Black Sabbath?”

“He bit a bats head off on stage.” You tried.

“I don’t…” Steve looked at you both like you were nuts.

“Doesn’t matter.” Eddie waved him off “It’s very metal, what you did. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Thanks.” He cracked a little smile.

“Henderson told me you were a badass.” Your boyfriend kicked a rock and you had to stifle a laugh.

The amount of times you’d heard Eddie bitch about those kids never shutting up about the former ‘king’ of Hawkins high was ridiculous.

“Insisted on the matter, in fact.”

“Henderson said that?”

“Oh yeah, shit” Eddie scoffed “Kid worships you, dude.”

“Like, you have no idea. It’s kind of annoying, to be honest.”

“I don’t even know why I care what that little shrimp thinks, but, uh, guess I got a little jealous, Steve.” He shrugged “I guess I couldn’t accept the fact that Steve Harrington was actually a good dude.”

Your brows shot up in surprise.

Eddie was not one to admit to his insecurities like that. The week must’ve done an even bigger number on him than you’d thought.

“Rich parents, popular, chicks love him.” he rambled “And not a douche?”

“No way, man. No way. That, like, flies in the face if all the laws in the universe and my own personal Munson doctrine.”

“Still super jealous, by the way.” Eddie rubbed the back of his neck with the arm that wasn’t wrapped around you. “Which is why I never would have jumped in that lake to save your ass if my girl hadn’t gone in first.”

“Nope.” He sighed “Outside of D&D, I am no hero. I see danger and I just turn heel and run. Or at least, that’s what I’ve learned about myself this week.”

“Give yourself a break man.” Steve patted him on the back. “came after your girl, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.” You cooed teasingly, kissing the bottom of his jaw “My hero.”

Eddie gave you a little squeeze and bit back a smirk.

“You know, Wheeler was right behind me.” Eddie told Steve lowly, glancing up at the two girls walking ahead. “didn’t waste a second. Not one. She just dove right in after you.”

“Now, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but if I were you, I would get her back.” He shrugged “I’d follow my girl through the gates of hell, and from what I saw today, Wheeler would do the same for you. That’s as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen.”

Before anyone could say another word, the earth started to shake again, sending you all to the ground in a tangled pile of limbs.

“Goddamn it!” You hissed when the safety pins on the sleeve of Eddie’s leather jacket raked over the gash in your shoulder as he tried to catch you.

“Here we go again.”

“Second on my list of favourite things, earthquakes.” When it stopped, Robin was the first to shakily rise to her feat “Seriously, I’m unsteady enough as it is.”

Nancy suddenly took off running.

“Nancy!” Robin shouted “Where are you going?”

“Nancy!”

“Come on.” Nancy called over her shoulder, waving you all forward so you could see a house that you could only presume belonged to the wheelers, once you broke through the treeline.

“Might be time to get a maid, Wheeler.” Eddie muttered when the five of you stepped inside, eyeing the mess inside.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of grime and the whole house smelled of rot.

Nancy, Steve and Robin went upstairs to look for the guns while Eddie herded you into the downstairs bathroom to get your shoulder and cheek cleaned up finally.

“Hangin’ in there, Sweetheart?” He asked once he’d helped you sit on the counter top and found a first aid kit under the sink.

“I’m trying not to think about it too much.” You smiled weakly “Or else I’m gonna freak out, and now’s not the time.”

“You’ve got a minute to freak out right now if you need it.” he kissed the cheek that wasn’t bleeding, caging you in with an arm on either side of your legs.

“I’m gonna need a lot more than a minute.” A shaky laugh fell from your lips.

“Okay,” He frowned, clearly worried “Why don’t we just get you patched up for now?”

“Yeah.” You breathed “That’d be good, I think.”

Eddie got out some gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He soaked a few strips, but hesitated before starting on your cheek.

“Are you gonna be a wuss if it stings?” He asked, a teasing edge to his voice “Cause it’s gonna sting.”

“I’m not a wuss.” You huffed, swatting his chest “Just do it.”

“Okaaaaay” he drew out the word and offered you his free hand, unsurprised when you snatched it and held it to your chest.

You flinched when he dabbed at your cheek, clenching your teeth.

Eddie was a little worried about your shoulder, seeing as it was a lot worse. He wasn’t sure, but it might even need stitches.

You would know if you looked at it, but the last thing he needed was you fainting or something at the sight of the gnarly wound.

“Okay, I think we can leave this one.” He finished up with your cheek, glad it had stopped bleeding. “Your shoulder’s gonna suck, fair warning.”

“I know.” You sighed, repositioning yourself so he had better access, but kept a hold of his hand, taking comfort in the little squeeze he gave you before you started.

“I’m gonna pour it right on there.” He warned, not seeing any other way to clean it properly.

“Fuck, okay.” you squeezed your eyes shut and gripped his hand tightly

The first splash of alcohol elicited a sharp hiss and your entire body tensing up.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Eddie grimaced like he could feel it too, “Shit, I’m so sorry”

“Okay, okay.” He muttered under his breath, wrapping it up quickly “That’s it. All done. Great job, Sweetheart.”

“Christ.” You rolled your shoulder, wincing “Maybe I am a bit of a wuss.”

“Maybe?” Eddie raised a brow and ducked down to peck you on the forehead.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Munson.” You huffed, but were clearly fighting a smile.

He beamed, aiming for your lips this time.

Your hands came up to cradle his jaw, savoring the feeling of his mouth on yours. A little voice at the back of your head told you that you needed to get your fill in case something happened. That there was no way you’d all come out of this unscathed.

“I love you,” He muttered it right into your mouth, as if he couldn’t bear to pull away, hands grasping your waist like you’d float away of he let go.

“I love you.” Your fingers crept up the sides of his face, tangling in his hair so you could pull him closer.

Eddie was just as eager to feel close to you and clutched you to his chest, kissing you harder.

You were both breathing out the same three words, over and over as the kiss deepened and hands started clawing at clothes.

The two of you kissed like the world was ending and hell, it very well may have been from what you’d seen in the last twenty four hours.

The door opened abruptly and you both jumped, startled by the sound of Robin screaming.

“Oh my god!” Her hands flew up to cover her eyes in what had to be the most dramatic reaction to walking in on two people kissing you’d ever seen. “Eddie! You’re supposed to be patching her up, not trying to swallow her tongue!”

You and Eddie shared a look, blinking at one another before bursting out laughing.

“Dustin!” Steve’s shouting drew your attention. “Dustin! Can you hear me? Dustin!”

All three of you scrambled out to the living room, where Steve was running around like a crazy person.

“Dust- Hello? Hello?”

“Maybe he really does have rabies.” Robin muttered, looking to Nancy for some kind of explanation, but she looked equally puzzled by whatever the hell was happening.

“What are you doing?” You asked finally, after watching him run around for a full minute.

“He’s here.” Steve insisted “Henderson. That little shit, he’s like-”

He paused to flail his arms around wildly.

“He’s in the walls or something. Just listen.”

Sure enough, you could faintly hear the kids voice.

“What the fuck?” You breathed, looking around with a furrowed brow.

You all started shouting the boy’s name, trying to get his attention, but there was no reply no matter how loud you screamed.

“All right.” Steve panted “either this kid can’t hear us, or he’s being a total douche bag.”

“Will found a way.” Nancy muttered, looking thoughtful.

“What?” he frowned.

“Will.” She repeated “He found a way to speak to Joyce through the lights.”

“Do you know what the hell they’re talking about?” You whispered to Eddie.

“I don’t think we got to this part of the lore.” He shrugged “No idea.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re such a dork.”

“You love it.” He grinned, draping an arm over your shoulder.

“I do.” You hummed, leaning into him.

“Uh, guys?” Steve’s voice drew your attention “You seeing this?”

You all looked up at the glowing light in the dining room.

The five of you closed in on it, staring, mesmerized by the glimmering light.

It looked like something straight out of a movie. Like a cloud of golden fairy dust suspended in the air.

“Whoa.” You breathed, following the rest of them when they reached out to touch it.

“It…” Eddie muttered “Tickles.”

“It kinda feels good” Robin smiled softly.

“Does anyone know morse code?” Nancy asked once the initial shock had passed.

“No.” Steve and Robin spoke at the same time.

“Wait,” Eddie perked up “Does SOS count?”

“Is that… Is that good?”

It was, in fact good. Great, really.

Thanks to Eddie, you’d gotten through to the kids on the other side and found yourselves huddled on Nancy’s bedroom floor with a light bright and a shred of hope that you’d be able to get out of this damned hell-scape.

Nancy traced out a ‘Hi’ with her finger and you all watched in amazement as the toy lit up despite not being plugged in.

“whoa.” You breathed, eyes wide.

“Hi!” Dustin’s voice spilled over the the other side.

“That worked!” Robbin whooped, slumping over in relief.

“Yes! Yes!” Eddie bounced on the floor, “Hi!”

You chuckled.

You’d zoned out a little and missed the rest of what the kid had explained, until Steve groaned loudly.

“Jesus Christ,” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This kid’s gotta get his ego in check.”

“It’s his tone. Right?” Eddie agreed.

“I know!”

Your heart warmed a little.

Dustin was going to be insufferable when this was all over. His two favourite older friends were getting along and you could only imagine the amount of activities the two of them were going to be roped into together.

The kid really was smart though.

He had a theory that there was a gate at every murder site, so you all biked over to Forrest hills trailer park.

Banners and dividers made by me. For more graphics, check out my side blog @dividers-are-us Taglist: @justalotoffanfiction @s1mp-4-ga11y @farrowroyale @awkward00noodle @shokihomin @jjmaybankswifes-blog @mdurdenpitt @buckyswife108 @walleloveseve @zroberts13 @gxpsywitch19 @monkeylaura627 @iith1um @cheesesandwichsanto @thepinkpanther83 @meetmeatyourworst @catmomstyles3 @emxxblog @jjlevin @marylimlp @slvt4subchratt @dickchomper @ali-r3n @scoutyyy @miss-celestial-being @faeryluxe