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divider by @dividers-are-us
Sam (warfare 2025)
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Angellus
Billy the Kid (2022)
Abandoned
Hayloft
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.
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.
✨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!
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
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.
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.”
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.
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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.
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.
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.
sky this is so good! think i got a cavity from how sweet it is <3
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
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.
i'm not dying on this hill, I'm killing you on it actually.
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."
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.