A/N: Welcome to my den of debauchery. I mostly write for myself and to free the ideas I have after I have a hyperfixation. I decided to start sharing because I figured maybe some other people might enjoy! Here's hoping!
--Assume my fics don't use "y/n". I find it good practice to figure creative ways around using it, and personally it's always taken me out of a story, so I've chosen not to use it in my work if I can avoid it.--
Key:
❤︎ - smut
✦ - angst
❀ - fluff
𖦹 -drabble/flash fic/short fic
➤ - in a collection/series
Stranger Things || Gladiator ii || Spider-Man || Fantastic Four ||
Stranger Things
At the Thought of You (28.9k)- ✦❀➤
Eddie Munson x Cunningham!Reader x Jason Carver
Summary: After the mysterious death of your sister, Chrissy, you just want to know what happened. Unfortunately the only person who can maybe clue you in is missing. Oh and he also just so happens to be the the number one suspected killer. You don't think Eddie Munson did it, but unfortunately for you, Chrissy's ex boyfriend Jason doesn't seem to agree. And he wants revenge. Now you're in a rush. You need to find Eddie and get some answers, and maybe prove his innocence, before Jason does something really reckless. (AKA a metal head, a goth, and a jock walk into the Upside Down)
Emperor Geta
꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬꒷꒦
Such Sweet Sorrow (1.2K) - ✦𖦹
Emperor Geta x fem!consort!unhinged!reader
Summary: Once the ever doting lover of Emperor Geta, you have now been cast aside and betrayed. Marked for public execution, you make one final attempt to cement yourself into the memory of the man you love.
Bound to You (4.4K) - ❤︎✦𖦹
Emperor Geta x fem!reader
Summary: Emperor Geta has taken an interest in you. As quickly and strangely as you arrived, he offered you salvation and damnation all in the same breath. You agreed to his terms. Now you are his to do with as he wishes. And tonight, he wishes to eat you out.
Jealous Type (2.7K) - ❤︎𖦹
Emperor Geta x fem!consort!unhinged!reader
Summary: Geta enjoys taunting you by accepting the affections of another woman. You decide to show her the consequences of such impertinence.
Spider-Man
Treating Me Like You're Supposed To (6k) - ❀✦
Childhood Friend Reader x Peter Parker
Summary: You come to understand first hand what it's like to be saved by Spider-Man.
Fantastic Four
That Which Makes Me Smile and Sad (3.8k) - ✦𖦹
Reed's Assistant Reader x Johnny Storm
Summary: You reminisce about how Johnny was there for you during your mothers death, as you tries to comfort Franklin following the “death” of his Uncle.
Summary: You reminisce about how Johnny was there for you during your mothers death, as you tries to comfort Franklin following the “death” of his Uncle.
Warnings/Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, funeral, major character death, sadfic, reader is Reed's assistant, reader and Johnny were together
Work Count: 3.8k
A/N: I'm FINALLY getting back into my writing after literally succumbing to a really brutal hockey hyperfixation. Anyways hockey season is almost over so I can finally focus some of my attention on writing fanfiction again lmao. I have more ideas to expand upon this particular reader dynamic (That aren't as sad as this lol), but whether or not I'll write them all I'm not totally sure.
AO3 || Masterlist
Franklin didn’t want to be here. Franklin wanted to be anywhere else but here. It was true. But not the whole truth. No. If it was the only truth, then his powers would have taken him far far away from here already. His parents might believe that he was simply more in control of his powers but that wasn’t the whole truth either. He was always learning just how far things could go inside of him. Learning the limits. Or lack thereof. It wasn’t so scary to him, but it was to the people around him. Those he cared about.
Franklin didn’t want to be here. But he couldn’t leave without his uncle.
Uncle Johnny. Where was he? Because Franklin knew he wasn’t in that box at the front. Franklin would feel him. Everyone was here for Uncle Johnny but he wasn’t even here. And that was a problem, because Franklin couldn’t fix this if he wasn’t here.
Franklin’s mom was crying. She couldn’t stop and that was making him upset. Even his dad was shedding a few tears and Franklin couldn’t fix it because Uncle Johnny wasn’t even in the box. There was just some dumb photo of Uncle Johnny smiling. The only real signifier that all of this was for him. No one really wanted to tell him why all of this was happening. Why they were at a “funeral” for Uncle Johnny even though he wasn’t even present. If he was, Franklin could fix it and there’d be no use for a “funeral” so where was he and why was no one telling Franklin what the heck was going on.
His mom took a step forward, hand held in Franklin’s, intent on walking towards the front, on sitting near that empty box for show. But Franklin held fast. He didn’t want to go up to it. He didn’t want to sit and hold a service and talk about how Uncle Johnny will be missed. That’s dumb. His mom tugged at him but he put up a fight. He planted his feet and refused to budge. He didn’t mean to cause a scene, to embarrass her, but he would not go near that cold, empty thing up there. He could see the look of frustration, intermingled with the sadness that hadn’t left his mother’s face for days. He knew she might yell at him, it might make things worse. He knew all of this, and yet his feet would not move.
On the other side of him, a soft, warm hand slid carefully into his, and a voice spoke in gentle lilt to his mother. She stopped tugging so hard and eventually, though hesitantly, she let go of his hand and walked to the front of the room and towards his father. He turned to the other person, who had so succinctly got his mother to leave him where he still stood, and he turned to face you.
You smiled down so sweetly to him, though your eyes were all read and puffy, and fresh tear marks streaked down your face. Like everyone else you were crying about an empty box.
“Hey, Franklin, it’s kind of loud, do you wanna go sit over here?” You tilted your head to a door off to the side. Away from the casket and the farce and his missing Uncle. Franklin didn’t nod, but his feet unstuck themselves from the ground and he began walking before you even began to tug. You were right, it immediately got quieter as the two of you left the main room. You didn’t rush him as you led him to take a seat in one of two wingbacked chairs on the opposite side of the room. You didn’t speak until the two of you were comfy. Or as comfortable as you could be on such an occasion. In the next room over, voices flitted in and out of focus, but no one’s words were very clear. Franklin closed his eyes and imagined a bubble surrounding the room and just as quickly the noise cut off.
“Franklin…” Your voice held a slightly scolding lilt to it, but there was a chuckle there as well. Franklin opened his eyes to see you shaking your head at him, but you looked down on him with a soft smile. So he didn’t bother lowering it.
The two of you sat in the artificial silence, shoulders slumping as a tension eased from your body. It was a strange sort of silence between you both. Something was missing. Worse yet, someone. And just like that the careful peace was no more. Franklin began to feel the telltale itch to flee. He began to swing his legs too and fro, neither long enough yet to meet the floor. He was nervous now that if he didn’t keep constant vigilance he would blip himself somewhere far away. Then again, maybe if he thought about it hard enough he could-
“Franklin?” Your voice cut through his thoughts and he snapped to attention, his legs stopped swinging and his back went ramrod straight. It wasn’t a subtle display. Very much one of having been caught, though you couldn’t know what he was thinking.
“Yeah?” His voice seemed quiet and caught somewhat in his throat. He hadn’t spoken in a while, and he gave a small yet powerful cough to try and clear the phlegm.
“Do you… do you understand what’s going on today?” Your own voice was quiet but in a different way. It was hesitant in nature. Franklin would have given a resounding “of course,” were it anyone else asking. But you were all too good at picking out his little lies. You didn’t even call him out on them. You would just give him this disappointed look, and he hated that look so much because he loathed to disappoint you or Uncle Johnny. So after a second, he shook his head.
“Where’s Uncle Johnny?” Franklin approached the question slowly. For weeks now no one would tell him. His parents kept saying, “he’s gone,” and “He’s no longer with us.” But neither of those really answered the question! Neither of those told him where his Uncle was so he could fix this. He knew about death. He’d stopped it before. But no one would say it, and Franklin couldn’t very well fix everything if they wouldn’t just say it.
For a second, you looked taken aback, perhaps not expecting such a direct question. But then your face fell ever so slightly and your eyes looked shiny once more and he wondered if you’d cry again. But the tears refused to fall as you blinked them back.
“A few weeks ago Franklin, there was an accident. You’re uncle and I were working on a sort of teleportation machine, but instead of traveling through large amounts of space, we were attempting to see if we could travel to other dimensions.” You spoke slowly, trying to be careful with your words. You were sometimes still reminding yourself how smart the little boy actually was.
Franklin nodded his head. He knew all about the experiment. Uncle Johnny had been ranting and raving, telling Franklin all about the possible worlds they might visit. But… an accident didn’t make sense.
“What kind of accident?” Confusion and even doubt dripped from Franklin’s tone of voice.
“An explosion.” You were quick in your response but your explanation was cut short by an even more worked up Franklin.
“That doesn’t make any sense! Uncle Johnny is fire proof!” Franklin yelled out, frustrated and defensive.
“You’re right, but it wasn’t a normal kind of explosion.” Your voice caught in your throat and you had to take a second to clear it. “You’re Uncle Johnny was a hero to the end, he threw himself into the brunt of the flames to absorb them. But, you remember what I said about what the machine was for right? The explosion caused the atomic structures in the general vicinity to become unstable…”
You trailed off. It was hard to know how much detail you should give. Though simultaneously the actual cause of Johnny’s death was unknown. You could all only hypothesize as the what had happened. As Johnny had, along with the bulk of the machine, essentially vanished. The prevailing idea as of current, that the machine had ripped apart everything in its immediate vicinity, likely all the way down to an atomic level. It was likely immediate and painless. It didn’t comfort you very much. But how to tell a child this. Especially one as brilliant as Franklin. You didn’t want those words to haunt him in the same way they haunted you.
“.....Is that why I can’t feel him?” Franklin’s words were quiet. You simply nodded your head. “But- but couldn’t that also mean he’s just in another dimension!”
Franklin’s little voice sounded so hopeful, it reminded you of how you felt every time you asked yourself that very same question. And yet, just as fast as the other times you’d thought of it, a different sadness took over you.
“I-it is possible,” You tried not to sound despondent over it, to keep that hope alive in young Franklin.
“Then all we have to do is build another machine to bring him back!” Franklin looked up at you with wide eyes, and you saw that childhood innocence of believing anything was possible. And why shouldn’t Franklin feel that way. He did have cosmic powers that up until perhaps this very moment, had shown an alarming amount of impossible capabilities. And even in this, if Franklin knew what he was doing, maybe he could in fact find Johnny. But not now, not at the risk of Franklin himself. Reed and Ben wouldn’t allow it. Sue wouldn’t allow it. You definitely wouldn’t allow it. And Johnny… he wouldn’t have allowed it either were he here to have a say.
You smiled at Franklin. The kind of soft, sad smile of a person tasked with disappointing a child, and shook your head. You watched as the look in Franklin’s wide eyes turned from hope to despair. The reality of Uncle Johnny being well and truly gone was finally setting in.
“No.” Franklin was so quiet you almost didn’t hear.
“It’s a lovely idea Franklin, it’s just that right now the variables are too specific to calibrate anything in order to-” You jumped to explain, unable to leave it be. Torn between trying to make things better without giving him false hope. But he cut you off.
“NO!” He yelled and jumped up and out of the chair and you expected him to run off. Already your legs were making the motion of standing, preparing for a chase. It never came. Franklin surprised you by running up and wrapping his arms tight around you, like you too might vanish in the blink of an eye.
“No! No, no no no no!” Franklin was screaming, you felt the dampness of tears as he cried into you, and you felt your own eyes let loose. You slid off the chair and squatted down in front of him, wrapping your own arms around his tiny body and holding him close. His hinds fisted into the back of your shirt.
“I’m so sorry Franklin,” You whispered, unsure if he could hear you over his wailing. You stood carefully, Franklin wasn’t as small as he used to be, but you sat him carefully on your lap and simply let him cry. You wished you could comfort him like normal. But this wasn’t a scraped knee or broken toy. No amount of sweet shushing or back pats would make the hurt go away.
After a few minutes, when the yelling had stopped and tears now just fell silently, you spoke.
“.....You know, a few years ago, I was where you are now.”
“Missing Uncle Johnny?” Franklin’s voice muffled in the crook of your neck.
“Close. My mother passed away a few years before you were born. I thought my world had ended. That I had no one else left in the whole wide world… but do you know who made sure I knew otherwise?”
Franklin sniffled and pulled back slightly, haphazardly wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Who?” Franklin asked, perhaps just to be sweet, perhaps because he didn’t have the energy to think too hard.
“It was your Uncle Johnny.” You smiled, still sad, but more genuine than you’d felt in days. You remembered it so well, even now.
:::
Your mother had been sick for a year. You’d only known for a few months. She hid it from you well. Though perhaps it was easy considering how busy you were with the newly appointed Fantastic Four. Or so the news had just taken to calling them. She called you when she knew it was terminal. You only got to spend six months with her. It was better than nothing. Or, so you tried to tell yourself, but it was hard to believe. It was hard to convince yourself that you shouldn’t have known sooner.
You dropped everything to spend those final few months taking care of her. Something she hadn’t wanted. She always put your success over everything. She fought for you to advance in your education as fast as you had. She made sure time after time, that there were no obstacles in your way. She had dropped everything for you, always. And you would return the favor whether she wanted you too or not.
Her final six months were hard. But the time was something you knew you’d never get back. It had been your hope, up until the day she died, that she might get better. It was a delusional hope. The kind one could only have about someone they love. When imagining life without them was too hard. But you watched as she wasted away day by day, until the end, when death finally took her in her sleep.
And then the day of the funeral arrived.
Most people never thought about what the lowest point in their life would one day be. That’s why when it finally came, it hit you so hard. Half a year wasn’t enough to actually prepare you for the loss of your mother. But it was enough to make you realize you’d maybe never be ready for her to go. And it was enough to isolate you from the life you had been living. You’d been in contact with Reed briefly during the first month, though he’d stopped asking for your attention on projects when he realized how much energy it was taking away from taking care of your mom. Sue had dropped in when she could for the first few months, but her rise to becoming the mediary between Subterranea and the upper world became more important and kept her busy. Ben brought food when he could, but he was still navigating the fact that he was no longer just Ben Grimm anymore. He didn’t love all the attention that being “the Thing” brought him. And Johnny was… busy.
It’s what you told yourself whenever you wanted to call him. He was out there doing brand deals and going on dates with models and living his life. And you couldn’t find it in yourself to ask him to take out time from that busy schedule to give some measly attention to you and your sick mom. And maybe it just became easier and easier to stop reaching out to them as they got busier with the superhero-ism and you got busier with your mom.
Either way, on the day of the funeral, it suddenly hit you, after 6 months of impending doom, you were officially alone in the world.
There were endless flocks of people at the funeral. So many who came to give their respects, who told you stories of how much of an impact she had made on them and on the community. You recognized many of them from the past 6 months. So many of them had dropped in to offer time and food and help, anything to make your mom’s last 6 months easier. It had been so meaningful at the time, but it hit you now how little you actually knew any of them.
Now that your mom wasn’t here to know their names and their stories, you were recognizing how little you’d ever been a part of this place. Your mom, in all her ambition and how proud she was of you, had accidentally deprived you of a life outside of your academics. You hated realizing this after she was gone. You hated that you had anything even remotely negative to think about her. But you couldn’t avoid it. You couldn’t ignore the fact that in a room full of people… you were the loneliest you’d ever been in your life.
Person after person came up to you, each with a new story to tell, each the first time you had ever heard them. They went on and on about how proud she had been of you. You didn’t even know most of their names. And as more and more people arrived, you found yourself shutting down, closing off, preparing for the nothingness that would come after this was all over.
These people would go home to houses and apartments with loved ones. They would hold their families and friends and maybe cry together, or laugh together, or just be together in a silence they would share. And what would you do? You would probably stand over your mother’s grave long after everyone else had left and then you would return back to the quiet, empty house she’d left behind. And you had no idea what even came after that.
Reed hadn’t needed your help in months, and the Fantastic Four were doing just fine without you. You hadn’t seen or spoken to any of them in forever and they probably only thought about you in that passing way that people thought about acquaintances going through tragedy. “Oh that’s so sad,” and “Oh I hope she’s doing alright,” and that was it, right? You would always just be a passing thought to people from now on. Someone that someone used to know, but not really someone anyone knew anymore. You were alone now. You were-
You were pulled from your thoughts as a warm hand slipped into yours. You stared down at the ground, your eyes stinging as you blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. You came back to yourself as the warmth of the hand now in yours slowly spread. You turned in confusion to the body standing next to yours.
“Sorry we’re late.” Johnny Storm whispered down to you, as he gave a pleasing smile and a brief ‘thank you’ to someone else walking in. You just stared up at him, bewildered, wondering if you had perhaps actually lost it. Maybe you were already spiraling so bad that you had created an imaginary Johnny to comfort you in your lonesome days.
But the heat he exuded was too real. The grip on your hand was firm and comforting and so so safe and he was definitely here, standing right next to you.
From the other side, another hand trailed gently across you back and settled comfortingly on your shoulder. You turned to look at Sue and Reed, who looked down at you softly. Behind you, the soft rumbling of Ben Grimm’s footsteps let you know he too had come to stand behind you.
What a strange sight it must have been. THE Fantasic Four, settled around you like… family.
“You guys came.” Your voice was almost a whisper, like somehow speaking them outloud would make them untrue.
But Sue smiled down at you and tilted her head like their presence was the most obvious given in the universe. She reached down and pushed a bit of hair behind your ear.
“Of course we came.” She spoke and the sound of her voice was so comforting it almost brought you to tears. Johnny squeezed your hand and you turned back to him. He was looking down at you now, his bright blue eyes burning into your heart and melting all the icy walls you had been prepared to build to protect yourself.
“You needed us.” Johnny said. And that warmth that he exuded spread throughout you.
:::
“Afterwards they took me back home to Baxter Tower, and I’ve been with you guys ever since.” You looked down at Franklin fondly. He looked a lot like his Uncle Johnny.
“Is that when you and Uncle Johnny fell in love?” Franklin gave a sniffle and wiped his nose along the sleeve of his tiny suit.
“Not quite. That’s a whole other story.” You smiled, and gave a little laugh that was actually real. And it felt good to think about Johnny in such a good way given how much sadness surrounded your thoughts of him.
“Won’t you tell it to me?” Franklin asked innocently.
You thought about it for a second. You could probably distract him the rest of the service and Franklin could avoid having to deal with the complicated emotions of losing his uncle so young. But it wouldn’t help him in the long run. It wouldn’t suddenly make Johnny not gone. So you shook your head.
“How about this. We can go join your mom and dad up at the front,” Franklin's eyes widened and he shook his head and you had expected this. “I know it’s hard, and I know uncle Johnny’s not really up in that box, but a lot of people are gonna get up and they're gonna tell funny stories and we’re gonna think about all the good times. And later, when we get home, I’ll tell you all about how your Uncle Johnny and I fell in love.”
Franklin didn’t look like he loved the idea, and you were preparing for him to say no. And it would be okay if he did. You wouldn’t force him to the front of that room. You’d go find Sue and you’d tell her that you were taking Franklin out to ice cream or something similarly sweet, and you’d meet them all back at the Baxter Building. And maybe a few days from now you’d bring him to Johnny’s grave and you’d let him process this however he needed to process it.
But he surprised you. After a good minute of silence, Franklin finally nodded his head and carefully got down from where he sat on your lap. When you stood up after him, he reached up and grabbed hold of your hand.
“And you’ll stay with me the whole time?” He looked up at you with scared, pleading eyes and your heart ached for him.
“Of course honey. I’m right here while you need me.”
Treating Me Like You're Supposed to || Peter Parker (MCU)
Childhood Friend Reader x Peter Parker
Summary: You come to understand first hand what it's like to be saved by Spider Man.
Warnings/Tags: hurt/comfort, canon compliant (sort of), friends to lovers, mostly in the background, but the implications of feelings are there, a little bit of angst, but mostly fluff, this takes place during the Washington Monument Scene in Homecoming
Word count: 6k
A/N: I'm gonna be honest, this was a Gwen Stacy AU fic that I turned into an xReader fic, so there might still be some mistakes here and there from when I was changing the perspective.
AO3 || Masterlist
“Is that Peter?” You whispered into Ned’s other ear. You were situated in the security line of the Washington Monument, unfortunately being pushed through faster than you would like, now that Ned had Peter on the phone. Ned pulled the phone away slightly and nodded.
He put the phone back to his ear. “Peter where are you? You missed the decathlon.”
Ned started putting his stuff on the conveyor belt of the security check but stepped aside to keep talking. You kept walking as you were practically pushed through the metal detector, but you wished she had stepped aside to stay with Ned. You had a few choice words for Peter at the moment, given how fucking worried you were.
“That’s Peter you said?” You glanced up from grabbing your things and watched as Liz snatched the phone out of Ned’s hand. You couldn’t contain her eye roll. It’s not like Peter would tell Liz the truth, given she wasn’t privy to the whole Spider-Man thing. The security guard made a hand motion to make Ned finally walk through the security check. Ned shot a distressed look over his shoulder at Liz and his phone, but did as commanded.
“I’ve been really worried about you recently Peter, your behavior has been really weird. I’m not even angry, just concerned.” Liz stood off only slightly to the side, and the line behind her was already trying to move forward. The security guard continued to make the same motion he had at Ned, forcing Liz to place Ned’s phone on the conveyor belt so she could walk through. When it finally came out the other side, you practically ran over to Ned, ready to snatch the phone out of his hand yourself. But the line had disconnected somewhere inside the x-ray.
“Great.” You whispered under her breath, as you watched Ned pocket the device. You dragged yourself to stand with the rest of your class at the elevator. A security guard slash tour guide stood in the corner, and as the elevator started going up, she began to regale historical facts about the monument. You weren’t paying attention as you leaned down to whisper to Ned.
“Did he even get a chance to say anything to you?” You asked, but Ned just shook his head in response. You let out a huff, clearly annoyed. Why did Liz even have to do that, Peter and she weren’t that close. Or maybe they were and you just kept blinding yourself to the truth that they liked each other mutually. The thought left you feeling more deflated than anything. You wished you had stayed on the ground, suddenly feeling claustrophobic and overstimulated. You pushed yourself as far back into the corner as you could go, just wanting to be anywhere but here right now.
The elevator was maybe 30 seconds from reaching the top when the explosion happened. From your spot in the corner, you saw the glow from Ned’s bag. Your eyes barely registered it at first, before it shot up and out, almost blindingly so. You shielded your eyes as the elevator jostled around you and suddenly came to an unsteady halt. People screamed around you, someone bumped back into where your hand had slapped into the wall to steady you. You shrieked out at the hot, searing pain that was suddenly there. It was Ned, who quickly scrambled away and quickly pulled his smoking bag off. The alien crystal, your mind supplied absently, but you didn’t spend much time thinking about it.
You pulled your hand back, cradling it to your chest. It hurt. Bad. When you finally managed to pull it away ever so slightly to inspect it, a gnarly looking burn had already begun to form. Your fingers felt stiff with the pain, and you struggled to flex your fingers.
“Holy shit.” Ned hissed, as he finally caught sight of the wound. But everyone else was looking up at the ceiling, and when you finally turned your gaze up too, you understood why. Above you, the ceiling looked in odd shape, with a glowing line cut irregularly but completely in a circular shape. Like the metal had been supper heated in one fell swoop.
Your mind flipped through what might’ve happened, what would have caused the crystal to react in such an aggravated manner. Then it hit you. The crystal was a power source, clearly a volatile one, and Ned had it in his bag when it went through the x-ray machine. Stupid. They never should have brought it with them without knowing its chemical properties. Hell, for all they knew it could be radioactive. Your eyes shot back down to where Ned had discarded his bag. The smoking had stopped and when you reached down to pick it up you realized why. There on the floor was a small hole where the crystal had clearly burned through the back and then melted through the floor. Horrific.
You glanced back down at your hand. You’d been lucky it was still in the back when it had grazed you or else the appendage would certainly be worse off. Though it certainly wasn’t pretty looking. The skin was red and raw, and slightly shiny, and small blisters had begun to form. If you had to guess, it was likely second degree. Not great, but could be so much worse.
“Okay everyone, just remain calm.” Liz’s voice cut through the tension and everyone turned down to face her. She didn’t look calm herself, per se, but she was keeping it together much better than the others.
“We’re all going to die!” Abe suddenly shouted, as if he couldn’t keep the words in. You felt your heart jump into your throat and took a small step closer to Ned. You reached your right hand out to grab hold of his, but flinched hard when his fingers grazed the burn. He felt it, and looked down with worry. But there was nothing to be done about it at the moment.
When he looked back up into your eyes you shared a moment of silent conversation. Wherever Peter had called from, you hoped it was close, because things were not looking good.
“We are NOT going to die.” Mr. Harrington said resolutely, and the security guard in the corner took a tentative step forward while nodding her head.
“Yes, we are in the safest possible position right now. There are safety measures in place for accidents like this.” The woman continued to reassure everyone, and you sucked a shaky breath in and tried your very best to believe the words, but you still found yourself holding back tears that threatened to fall. You were gonna be okay, you forced yourself to believe. Around everyone, the elevator creaked and groaned.
The security woman carefully pulled her stool to an area near the center of the space, and stepped up onto it before pushing open a latch in the ceiling. Up above, a faintish, are you okay down there, could be heard. The woman carefully crawled her way onto the roof of the elevator.
“Common, we’ll start pulling you all out.” She reached back inside.
You looked over at her shaking classmates. They all looked horrified, but your eyes caught on Cindy, who looked almost paralyzed with fear. Cindy stood near a while, armed clutched to her chest, eyes staring off blankly as she mindlessly rocked in place. She would do worse the longer she was in here you realized. You took a step closer to her, reaching your good hand out to rest on her shoulder.
“ Cindy, how about you go first?” You pulled Cindy to the center of the small space as you spoke, leading her through her classmates. Some of them shot you looks, but you ignored them as you helped her up onto the stool. Cindy looked unsure, a part of her clearly wanted to protest being the first, but another part of her clearly wanted to get the hell out of here. You nodded your head encouragingly and finally a few other members of the class helped to boost her up.
One by one everyone made their way to the roof, before being pulled the rest of the way onto solid ground. Charles, Seymour, and Sally went after Cindy, they were slow and careful with their movements, but the creaks were getting louder and everyone was feeling the anxiety build. Flash suddenly made a move to be next. He pushed his way through everyone else and the resounding sounds nearly made your heart stop.
“Flash slow down, just leave the trophy!” Liz yelled.
The elevator lurched, and made a clear movement about an inch down from where it had been. Your breathing stuttered for a second, and you gripped onto the railing on the wall, as if it would somehow settle things. But the elevator was clearly more unstable than it had been before.
Fight or flight seemed to kick in and Flash began to scramble more despite the movement, and you knew it was too late. You looked up and watched with dread as Flash grabbed ahold of the security guard above, and without thinking his legs pushed off the top of the elevator. You knew it was your doom. Where the ceiling had once been glowing, it shifted and a huge chunk ripped itself free from the rest of the elevator.
In one sudden, horrific moment the elevator began to make a rapid descent towards the ground. Screaming filled your ears as your legs gave out from under you. The sensation of your stomach dropping as gravity fought to pull the elevator down faster than your own body would have fallen.
The feeling felt never ending, but in reality you only fell for a number of seconds, before once again, the cart suddenly slowed to an unsteady stop. Around you, Ned, Liz, and Mr. Harrington stumbled and fell to the floor. You breathed heavily for a second, before crawling slowly on shaky limbs towards the gaping hole in the ceiling. Your eye caught webbing and a breath of relief found its way from your throat. Peter was here.
You watched as the elevator was unsteadily pulled up. Unfortunately, your relief only lasted for a second. You heard the sounds of bending metal before you saw it, before glass shattered down around you from above and the elevator was falling again. You pulled an arm over your head and somehow managed to push your body away just in time to feel the shards rain down on your back. More glass shattered in the windows of the elevator as it hit a stop gap and its own weight crushed down around it. Something heavy slammed into the floor of the elevator, pushing it even further and you were falling again. With your eyes faced downward, you were suddenly looking directly into the whites of Spider-Man’s mask and your own eyes widened. Before you could even react however, his arm shot up and his body flew past yours toward the ceiling, bracing against what remained of the metal roof and resisting the weight of the elevator. Once again everything jerked to a sudden stop.
The constant, horrible starting and stopping was making you queasy and you had to take a second to catch your breath so you didn’t throw up.
“Don’t worry, I got you guys now. How you guys doin’?” Peter spoke, but it was with a fake heavy accent and a horribly forced deepness. Were the situation maybe a little less life or death, you might have even laughed at it.
“Yeah Spider-Man!” Ned gave a celebratory jump from the middle of the floor and the elevator shook ominously. Everyone in the room called out in protest. Some level of “Ned!” or “Don’t do that!” or “Woah!” overlapped loudly. Ned quietly apologized.
You finally felt the air in your lungs move again, as you took in a calming breath. Ned slowly walked over and carefully helped pull you back to your feet. The moment you were standing, you grabbed hold once more of the railing and gripped on for dear life. You tried not to, but you couldn’t help as you looked up and watched each pull of Peter’s as the elevator finally ascended once more.
Painstakingly slow, the elevator reached closer to the exit. Peter kept a secure grip on the webbing in his hand as the security guards outside struggled with the doors. The many falls had dented and bent the frame and it took them longer than anyone would have liked for them to finally wedge it open far enough for a person to fit through.
Mr. Harrington, closest to the door, went first, immediately turning back to help pull everyone else out. You stood by the far wall and watched Ned, then Liz climb out. You stared helpless for a second, unable to make your limbs move, despite everyone making motions for you to come. Your ears were ringing and from around everything sounded slow and muddled.
“Um, miss, Imma need you to get a move on.” Peter suddenly spoke from above you. The other students at the entrance were calling your name, telling you to come on. You nodded your head but struggled on shaky limbs, You couldn’t seem to get yourself to move. You were taking too long. You knew this and yet it was still another minute before you could even get yourself to take a step forward. “MISS!”
Your eyes shot to Spider-Man. Peter’s voice was suddenly much more strained, and you watched as the elevator roof dented under his feet. Everything suddenly felt like it was happening in slow motion. Like your body understood the stakes before they even registered in your mind, you made one final move for the door. But the floor fell out from beneath your feet faster than you could blink. You could see the moment everyone’s face shifted from worry to a hopeless terror at what they realized what would likely be your demise.
Peter’s hand shot out and grabbed hold of yours and you screamed as the fabric rubbed roughly against the burn on the back of your hand. It was shockingly quiet, like everyone was holding their breath. Or maybe it was just you couldn’t hear anything anymore, like the world around you was drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. You tried to grip back in return, but the searing pain in the back of your hand just got worse and worse and you barely could flex your fingers. It was agonizing as your hand slipped slowly from his.
You stared up at Peter with terrified eyes. It shocked you, in the moment, that your life didn’t flash before your eyes. You didn’t think of your mom, or even your dad at that moment. You thought of Peter and of Peter alone. Of him having to see you like this, to hold you like this, in such a precarious position. You could feel his grip tighten as he tried to get a better hold on your hand, but your fingers were fast slipping. Below you, the elevator smashed against the ground, and you imagined that you weren't too far behind.
The fear you felt in that moment was indescribable. And yet, you felt an uncharacteristic moment of peace wash over you. Your gaze softened as you looked at Peter, not Spider-Man, but beyond the mask, beyond the persona, and at Peter. A look that said, it’s going to be okay. You don’t know where the feeling came from, or how you managed to pass it along to Peter, when in reality it was probably him who should be reassuring you. And yet, you felt like he needed to know that no matter what happened next….
Your hand slipped from his grasp and you went plummeting towards the elevator debris. You saw Peter’s hand fly out in that strange sort of way it does whenever he’s shooting web fluid, but nothing happens. All too quickly the world speeds up once more and the sound of your screaming friends fades just as quickly as you hear it.
You wondered if you’d imagined it, but you swore you heard Peter screaming too, his voice clearer than anyone else’s as you fell. He launched himself from his perch on the ceiling, diving straight for you. He grabbed hold of your arm first, and then somehow managed to maneuver you, midair, until his arm was wrapped around your waist. His other arm shot up and another web attached itself back to the top of the elevator shaft. You stopped so suddenly that for a second you worried that it had hurt Peter. Your arms hung down by your side and your body felt so heavy, but Peter held onto you like you weighed nothing.
“Wrap yourself around me, so I can pull us up.” His voice was soft, but a little raw.
You hesitated for a second, trying to comprehend what he was telling you to do. You blinked up at him a few more times before finally, understanding passed through you. Still, you did as he ordered and wrapped your arms around his neck first and then wrapped your legs around his waist. You hugged yourself closer to his body, when his arm left its position around your waist. Finally, as you felt Peter pull you both up to safety, you felt tears leave your eyes.
You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and cried uncontrollably. With a mixture of fear and happiness, stuck between the fact that you had almost died and that you were, in fact, going to be okay. Even when Peter finally stood on solid ground, you didn’t let him go. You couldn’t bring yourself to drop your legs to the ground and move away. So you remained latched onto him. He had no trouble holding you up of course, so he let you stay locked around him. When your classmates swarmed to surround you to check if you were okay, you could feel as Peter took a step back.
“Please,” he cleared his throat. “Please give her some space.” He said with a deepened voice. You could only imagine that they did as he said, as you couldn’t bring yourself to lift your head and look.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay now.” Peter’s voice was back to normal, but it was quiet, only for your ears to hear. He rubbed his hand gently up and down your back as he slowly coaxed you down, until you finally unhooked your feet from around his waist and placed them on the ground. Slowly your arms loosened from around his neck. You tried to step away from him, but your knees were still weak from the ordeal and they gave out from under you. But Peter was quick, and he grabbed you around the waist again. He looked over at Ned, who easily got the message and made his way over. When he was close enough, Peter whispered low, for only the three of you to hear.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” He said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got her.” Ned said in turn. He picked up your arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, before wrapping another secure arm around your waist.
“Are you okay?” Peter said one final time, hesitating himself, before he finally let you go. You gave him a watery smile followed by a less than convincing nod. But you knew he’d have no choice than to pretend he believed you. You finally stepped away, doing your best to not put all your weight onto Ned, but your legs shook weakly as they tried to support your weight. You watched as Peter jumped back into the elevator shaft and disappeared from everyone’s sight.
At least the hesitant thank you, yelled down after him by Mr. Harrington made you laugh.
:::
Ned called Peter to “Inform him of what had occurred” and also to tell him that their trip was ending early. You were still pretty shaken up about the day, having never been so close to death, but you answered that you were fine when everyone finally crowded around you. It was the first moment anyone else finally noticed the nasty burn on the back of your hand. You made up some lie about hot sparks and nobody really questioned its validity given you were technically in there the longest. All too soon, security guards were leading people to the safety exit, telling everyone to make their way down the 896 steps to the bottom. You kept yourself in the back, the thought of moving at all feeling unbelievably awful, with your legs already as shaky as they were. So you rounded the back of the group.
You didn't let go of Ned’s hand the entire way down the stairs, and even though you walked noticeably slower than everyone else, nobody commented on it. All in all, you were left feeling pretty numb. Your mind kept going back to thoughts about Peter. About the fact that this is what Peter went through regularly. You knew that most days he was probably just saving cats from trees, but the city was a dangerous place and you’d seen the original video that got everyone excited about Spider-Man in the first place.
Outside ambulances waited to check over anyone who had been inside at the time of the accident, as a precaution. Luckily no one else was really hurt. Liz got a cut on her cheek from the breaking glass, and Flash had twisted his ankle walking down the stairs. It was a small karma you supposed, thought in reality you didn’t actually blame him for anything that had happened. The burn on the back of your hand was cleaned and wrapped and you were handed a cold compress for the ride back to the hotel, but otherwise, they cleared you all from going to the hospital.
You were thankful for that at least. More than anything, you just wanted to go home. The tears in your eyes had finally dried, and now exhaustion crept in. Your eyes and limbs felt heavy, and when you sat down in the bus you weren’t exactly certain how the hell you were gonna get yourself up again. Ned put himself right next to you, and you leaned into his comforting warmth.
“We lived.” Your voice was soft, a little weak sounding, but there was a lilt of humor there and you managed to crack a smile.
“Ha! Yeah, we did.” Ned responded, sounding just as tired himself now.
The drive back to the hotel was too short. You had thought about shutting your eyes in the dead silence of the bus. Everybody was lost in their own world, nobody it seemed knew how to lighten the mood. They all just wanted to go home, like you. Without sleep though you kept thinking about Peter. You were trying to prepare yourself for Peter to be all over Liz when you finally returned back to the hotel.
He’d saved you himself, so he knew you were okay. But in dealing with you, he hadn’t had any time to check her over. And of course he cared. Of course he’d want to know that his crush was doing alright. Jealousy simmered low in your gut, and it was a selfish, ugly feeling. At least it felt like one. Which really wasn’t helping you feel any better. By the time you were back to the hotel you were feeling horrible.
What you did not expect was to see Peter come running out of the building as you exited the bus and what you expected even less was him coming straight to you and immediately wrapping you in his arms. You had so convinced yourself that he would go to Liz that it took you a second to even react. But only for a second, as the warmth and comfort and safety that came with being in Peter’s embrace washed over you, and you pulled your arms from in between you and wrapped them around him in return.
“How are you? Are you okay?” He pulled back just slightly, and looked you over. You wondered if his spider sense included some kind of super sight as well. Though you didn’t want to cry again, you felt a few tears well up in your eyes. You didn’t really want him to see you cry and so you pulled yourself back in, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.
“I was really scared,” you whispered in response, tightening your arms around him just slightly. He made no move to pull away. He held you so tightly, as if he had no intentions of letting you go any time soon.
“Don’t worry I’m okay too.” Ned spoke calmly from behind you. You jerked slightly, your ears suddenly feeling a bit hot. You’d almost forgotten about everyone else. So you pulled away just slightly. Though, for a second, Peter did not do the same. His arms noticeably did not budge for a seemingly endless handful of seconds, before he finally came back to himself. You took a step back, fully allowing Peter’s arms to fall from your body so he could turn his attention to Ned.
“I was worried about you too.” Peter said, pulling Ned in for a hug of his own.
“No, it’s okay. I know. I didn’t have nearly as scary of an experience.” When his arms were finally free, he reached out and rubbed a comforting circular motion on your back.
“It’s okay. I’m okay, I promise. It was just really scary. I might be afraid of heights from now on… and into forever, but I mean who isn’t these days.”
Your statement brought a small chuckle out of Ned and Peter, but there was a clear tiredness behind each of their eyes. You understood it well. You felt it too. So you turned towards the hotel and felt your heart lurch as you noticed Liz standingjust inside the lobby door.
“Come on, we need to go pack.” You said through a somewhat forced smile.
As Peter and Ned turned around, Liz stepped forward towards Peter. You and Ned kept walking to the elevators. And when the two of you stepped inside, Ned gave you a comforting pat on the back as the door shut on the image of Liz smiling down at Peter.
You got back to your room with Cindy, who stood up, seemingly anxious when you walked in. She started rambling about things like, you should have gone first and some misplaced guilt that it was somehow her fault you had almost fallen to your death. You quickly assuaged Cindy’s fears. The timing of the elevator was finicky, and you knew if you’d been on her feet and scrambled to the exit when everyone else had, you probably wouldn’t have gotten trapped inside. Cindy finished her packing quickly and made her way down to the lobby, in preparation to wait for the bus. You weren’t intending to take your time, but as you found yourself alone for the first time in the past hour you suddenly couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
Your knees shook and you found yourself sinking down to the floor as the weight of your fear and the adrenaline wearing off hit you once again. You’d already cried so much. You didn’t even know you still had any tears left to cry. But your body shook uncontrollably and against your will a sob tore from your throat, which you attempted to muffle in your arms as you leaned over your bed and cried. You knew you needed to get up, to finish packing and meet everyone downstairs so you could all go home. But you couldn’t get yourself to get up. You couldn’t seem to make yourself move from where you were curled into the mattress.
But eventually there was a knock at the door. You jerked up, wiping as your face, trying to clear the tears. Though your eyes must have been bloodshot, and there was nothing you could do about that. You walked over, under the assumption that Cindy must have forgotten something. But it wasn’t Cindy who stood on the other side.
“Peter? What are you doing here?” You sniffled in what was another obvious sign that you’d been crying. He stared at you wide eyed.
“I came here to see if you were done packing.” He responded slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. A myriad of emotions crossed over his face. Worry, then sadness, then frustration. You turned away from him, trying to pretend that everything was fine, and walked back to your suitcase.
“Not quite, but you could’ve just waited for me downstairs.”
“Yeah, well I came here instead.” He shrugged it off, and stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him.
You shoved a shirt into her bag, trying to just finish quickly. Even with your back to him you could feel the way he looked at you. You didn’t want to know what expression he had on his face. You didn’t think you were quite capable of not bursting into tears just yet.
“I’m fine Peter. Really. You didn’t need to come up here to check on me.”
“I believe you.” He said, though you knew he didn’t buy it for a second.
“Peter, I’m fine, I mean it. You are the one who literally saved my life. I’m okay and I’m still here.” Your voice dropped a little lower, just to be sure no one could hear. But your shoulders still shook ever so slightly.
“And I believe you, I just…” He went quiet and you waited. When he didn’t speak for a good while, you finally found the strength to turn to face him. As his eyes met yours he huffed, as though resigned to whatever he was about to say next. “Can you just let me dote on you a bit. You weren’t the only one who was scared, you know.”
The words hung between you both for a few seconds, as they slowly processed in your mind.
“You were scared?” You whispered the words, as if you couldn’t quite believe them. Maybe because then it made it all too real. Because if Peter was scared then he wasn’t this invincible superhero and he couldn’t do anything and… and he could get hurt doing this whole Spiderman thing.
“Are you kidding me?” He smiled, but it wasn’t a happy look, more of a disbelieving expression. “Your hand slipping out of mine was one of the scariest moments of my life.”
You sucked in a sharp breath. It made sense; you’d been friends forever. He would have felt the same way if it had been Ned instead, surely. But that didn’t stop the words from sending your heart into overdrive. It was ridiculous. Just a second ago you had been on the verge of crying your eyes out and now you were probably blushing given how hot your face suddenly felt. You just hoped the fluorescent lighting was terrible enough for him to not notice. You couldn’t even manage to say anything intelligible in response. All that came out was a soft “Oh.”
Peter looked at you with eyes that spoke of something deeper than just a friend worrying about another friend. It was heavy and so deep and you couldn’t make heads or tails about what it all meant. Then he spoke again.
“So, can you just like, let me take care of you until we get back to New York? For my own peace of mind?” He offered her a soft, genuine half smile as if that would soften the blow of those words on your heart. Unsure that you could speak in an intelligent way, you simply nodded in response. He smiled at you fully now and you practically melted on the spot. Damn, this boy and the effect he had on you. “Was that the last of your clothes?”
He pointed behind you, at the overnight bag on your bed. You nodded again and he walked towards it. He finally zipped it up and hiked the bag over his shoulder. You opened your mouth to protest, but the words never left your mouth. One glance down at the bandage on your hand and all the argument left you. So you grabbed your room key from the nightstand and followed him out of the room. You were embarrassed when you both finally walked into the lobby, and everyone turned to look at you. You were friends, it wasn’t that crazy that Peter was here, holding your bag, and yet you found yourself feeling shy about the attention. But nobody made any noises, in fact nobody looked very surprised at all. Everyone just looked tired and ready to go. They were all probably pretty traumatized about today’s events. There was a ping in your heart. Everyone had been crowded around you, asking if you were alright, but they all had lived through something they weren’t supposed to as well. So, when you looked back at Peter holding your bag, standing next to Ned, you realized how lucky you were to have someone willing to take care of you for the time being. Ned was cracking jokes that managed to pull a chuckle from everyone in his vicinity. You were amazed at how he could keep that smile on his face, despite it all. You smiled at the duo, thankful for them both, and made your way over to them. You walked straight to Ned and gave him the biggest hug you could.
“What’s that for?” He asked.
“Just because I can. Because we’re alive.” You smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Can I join in on the kumbiya or is it just a party of two?” Peter said as he placed your bag on the ground next to his.
“Get in here!” Ned called and you made room for Peter to Join.
“Oh! Group hug!” Abe Brown called out and you felt as another body joined the hug. Then another and another until you were pretty sure the whole decathlon team had piled themselves into a frankly ridiculous looking group hug. Somewhere in the fray, Peter’s arm had moved protectively over yours, keeping anyone from accidentally pressing into your injured hand.
“Come on Flash!” Somebody called out.
“I mean, whatever, like-” Flash mumbled in response as he clearly approached the group to join in. From somewhere in the middle of the pile of people, you laughed. It was like a balloon had deflated as some of the tension finally released and everyone seemed to relax a little more.
You all waited around for about an hour for the air bus that would take you home to arrive. Everyone waited patiently, quietly even. Not a rambunctious teen in sight. And it was a surprisingly sad scene. But as the time passed and the nerves began to go, and everyone began to feel more grounded and present, little bits of conversation broke through the silence, and life and energy began to return to everyone.
Peter kept to his word and doted on you. When you mentioned you were hungry, he ran to the vending machine and bought you food. When you yawned, he pulled you closer and told you to lean on him. You didn’t want to sleep, but the way he fit you into the curve of his body was comfortable and you couldn’t help how heavy your eyes began to feel. When the bus finally pulled up, you were blearily led to a window seat.
Peter made sure that he sat securely next to you, and when the bus finally hit the road, he pulled you back into his body and told you to go back to sleep. Any protest was immediately stifled by a yawn that informed you he was probably right. You were out cold before you even hit the highway.
What if- and hear me out on this, I just make my self insert an 'OC' that way its completly acceptable to write extensive lore and details about them x cannon!
the best part of writing fanfic is when you get past the "this is so self indulgent im so cringe" mentality and enter a flow state of making your two favorite characters crack each other
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: eddie munson x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Eddie Munson's crush on you was manageable from a distance. But now that he's friends with your brother Dustin, you're suddenly, terrifyingly close. His mission: be cool. The result: a spectacular failure that just might be the key to your heart.
𝐚/𝐧: split this up into multiple parts cause it was getting wayyyy too long
It wasn’t a secret, not really. Secrets were for things you actively hid, things that festered in the dark with the bitter taste of shame or fear. What existed between you and Dustin was something else entirely: a quiet, mutual understanding, a natural consequence of orbiting different suns in the chaotic, small-town galaxy of Hawkins High.
He was Dustin Henderson, a supernova of unapologetic weirdness, proudly branded by the Hellfire Club. His world smelled of old paper and the electric tang of a soldering iron. It was a universe mapped in the clatter of twenty-sided dice on a wooden table, in the frantic crackle of a walkie-talkie cutting through static with life-or-death urgency. His language was built on theories so wild they could unravel the very laws of physics, a future pioneer in some scientific field nobody else in these hallways could even pronounce.
You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.
Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of support—a raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers.
You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice.
It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.
The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared genetics—a similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unison—were subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.
It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgon’s tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleader’s opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.
Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years ago—their DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepovers—they were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.
To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.
To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkins—a faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respected—one of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.
And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.
You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.
The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigated—you in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogs—your relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.
But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizon—one that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, too—a low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.
As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.
And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace you’d built together—the delicate equilibrium of your separate orbits—began to tremble on its very foundations.
Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact he’d readily—and theatrically—lament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable cliché in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, and—most bafflingly of all—seemingly, genuinely nice.
You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing he’d ever witnessed.
Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.
There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your location—it was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.
There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear—his beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violent—while you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.
Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.
And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddie’s new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"
Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You.
He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.
"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh… hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."
Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just deny—he'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.
Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.
Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle.
"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.
Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.
The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough—a single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress walls—Dustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.
The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.
The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuary—a rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.
Right now, his guard is in tatters.
He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. It’s the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?
He’s so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thing—not a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.
"I heard you've been asking about me."
Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; it’s performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.
And there you are.
It was as if you’ve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought: Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.
A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, you’re moving.
Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a king’s hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.
His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. “Who, me? Asking about—? Pfft. No, I was just… conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,” he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.
The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, he’s sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. It’s not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.
His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred table—the worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific it’s almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that he’d brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but it’s there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.
“How much?” you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.
His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. “For you? First one’s on the house,” he says, his voice cracking on the word ‘house,’ pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his arm—static-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere: He’d hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffin’s demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.
Then, you shift the entire universe.
Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. It’s a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.
You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. It’s not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.
A soft, content sigh leaves you, and it’s the most relaxed, unguarded sound he’s ever heard you make. It’s a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.
“You’re staring again, Munson.”
Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and they’re clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat he’s desperately grateful you can’t feel.
“Just didn’t know you smoked,” he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows it’s a pathetic excuse, knows it’s about so much more than tobacco or weed. It’s about the fact that he’s been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.
A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me yet.”
Yet.
The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. It’s an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilities—shared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. It’s the most terrifying and beautiful word he’s ever heard.
Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, he’s rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. “I’ve, uh—I’ve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that… unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.” He’s babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. “If you’d ever be… interested.”
The invitation hangs in the air between them, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed her a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, ‘Please Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.’
You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel it—a full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.
You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. He’s already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.
Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.
“Sure. Why not.”
It’s so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words don’t compute. They’re a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears you’re giving him psychological whiplash; he can’t keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. It’s like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.
“Wait… really?” The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.
A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. “Don’t have any plans tonight,” you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different story—they glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. “Unless you don’t actually want me to come over?”
The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. It’s a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, he’s completely disarmed. He’s a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.
You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. It’s a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.
“Well? You gonna give me a ride, or what?”
The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. “Right. Yeah. The van. It’s, uh… this way,” he manages, his voice still rough with shock.
I love having like four in progress fanfiction ideas and working on them at times in which I’m inspired. at this rate I’m never finishing any of them any time soon but I like gaslighting myself to think I will one day.
