insert clever title here

Hey there! Name's Kyra, or Kyrii if you'd like :) This is just a simple blog. I post what I like, so if you like it too, feel free to follow me! :)

[bulkhummus]

Hiii if you're still taking phm requests I think it would be very cool for Grace to get some Eridian celebration jewelry from Rocky + Adrian :') or something along those lines

take the ring ryland. im not asking 💢💢💢

anyways i kind of smushed your request and a silly idea i had - hope you like!

bonus below

[anicomicsicons]

Love through a prism

Like/reblog if you save or use

© @batgirlbarbg

[moonflys]

Oii! Tudo bem? Conheci sua galeria há pouco tempo, mas já me apaixonei pelos seus icons 🥹💕 se me permite sugerir, poderia fazer iconzitos de "pelo prisma do amor"? Desde já, agradeço. Beijos! ✨️

oláa! aah, muito obrigadaa 😭😭😭 obrigada pela mensagem e claroo 💖 posso fazer sim!!

hii, curta ou reblogue caso salve um icon and psd/action by @colour-source

[richyjerimovich]

HIGH POTENTIAL 2.09 "Under the Rug"

[asystolle]

HIGH POTENTIAL 2.10 | Grounded

[earth2starkey]

₊˚⊹ more than the damage | steve harrington x reader

summary: steve hands her his keys like it’s nothing. after a red light and a drunk driver, she learns the hard way that the thing he values most was never parked in the driveway

warnings/tags: car accident, drunk driver, hospitalization, concussion, cuts and bruises, panic response, crying, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, steve harrington in love, reassurance, trauma response, no use of y/n

wc: ~3k

───୨ৎ───

The keys are cold when Steve drops them into your palm.

They make a solid, unmistakable sound as they land there, heavier than you expect, the metal biting lightly into your skin. You look down at them immediately, brows knitting together, your fingers curling instinctively like you might drop them if you don’t hold on tight enough.

You don’t look up right away and Steve can’t help but notice.

He’s leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, already watching you with that familiar half-smile that means he knows exactly what you’re thinking. The late afternoon sun spills in through the window behind him, catching in his hair, turning it softer somehow. The house smells faintly like coffee and whatever Jonathan burned earlier trying to make breakfast.

“Don’t look at them like that,” he says, amused. “They’re not gonna bite.”

You finally glance up at him, eyes wide. “Steve. These are your keys.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “That’s kinda the point.”

Your grip tightens. “Your car.”

“My car,” he repeats, nodding, like he’s agreeing with a completely reasonable statement.

“You love your car.”

He scoffs softly. “I like my car.”

“You wax it.”

“Because I respect craftsmanship.”

“You talk to it,” you add.

That earns you a grin. “She listens better than most people.”

You shake your head, lips pressing together as you look back down at the keys. The maroon BMW sits visible through the front window, parked neatly in the driveway like it knows it’s being discussed. It looks expensive and pristine. It looks like something you absolutely should not be trusted with.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur.

Steve pushes off the counter and steps closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his feet. He stops just in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne.

“You’re just running errands,” he says gently. “Grocery store. Pharmacy. Maybe that little place with the good bread if you’re feeling real crazy.”

“I could walk.”

“It’s thirty minutes away.”

“I could bike.”

“It’s winter.”

“I could—”

He reaches out and tips your chin up with one finger, forcing you to look at him. His expression softens immediately, teasing giving way to something warmer and more sincere.

“I can come with you,” he offers. “If that makes you feel better.”

Your chest tightens just a little.

“But you already have plans,” you say quietly. “You’re hanging out with Robin and Nancy and Jonathan. You’ve been talking about it all week.”

Steve shrugs. “They won’t care.”

“I will,” you say, quick and instinctive. “You should go.”

He studies your face for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push or not. His thumb brushes absently over your jaw, light and grounding.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

A beat.

Then his grin comes back, brighter this time, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay. But.”

You groan softly. “There’s a ‘but.’”

“There’s always a ‘but.’” He reaches past you, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and slips it on. “Rule number one: no scratches.”

“I’ve never scratched a car.”

“You scratched my arm that one time.”

“That was different.”

“Rule number two,” he continues, ignoring you, “no mysterious dents.”

“I don’t mysteriously dent things.”

“You ran into a door last month.”

“The door ran into me.”

Steve laughs, the sound warm and easy, and leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “And rule number three,” he adds softly, lips lingering there. “If anyone gives you trouble, you don’t play nice. You leave.”

You nod, swallowing.

He steps back and jingles the spare set of keys in his hand. “And bring her back in one piece.”

You lift your eyes to his. “Her?”

“My Beamer,” he says seriously. “Try not to hurt her feelings.”

You can’t help it. You laugh, shaking your head as you slide the keys into your pocket like they’re something precious. “You’re ridiculous, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you love me.”

You playfully roll your eyes, but still can’t keep the small smile off your face as you look at your boyfriend. “Mhm, I do.”

With that, Steve grabs his wallet, slings his arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the door together. Outside, Jonathan’s car honks once, impatient but familiar. Robin leans out the window, yelling something unintelligible.

Steve squeezes you once more before letting go. “Be careful,” he says, quieter now, this time you know he’s talking you and not his car.

“I will,” you promise.

He watches you walk toward his car, eyes lingering just a second longer than usual, before turning back toward your friends.

───୨ৎ───

Your favorite Tiffany song plays through the car’s speakers as you hum along, your thumbs tapping rhythmically on the steaming wheel as you wait for the light to turn green. You’ve been nothing but careful this entire trip, taking extra long to run the errands you’ve been putting off for ages, making sure not a single thing happens to Steve’s precious Beamer.

But then the light turns green.

You ease your foot off the brake, smooth and careful, the way you’ve been driving this whole time. The intersection opens up in front of you, wide and familiar. You’re already thinking about what you still need to grab for dinner, about how Steve will probably tease you for taking longer than you said you would, considering the sun is already setting, about how you’ll hand him his keys back like a small offering and wait for his grin.

You don’t hear the other car at first.

The engine is loud, too loud, revving in a way that doesn’t match the flow of traffic. There’s a split second where something feels off, a prickle at the back of your neck, and then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast. Coming from the side.

“No—”

The impact is explosive.

Metal collides with metal in a violent, teeth-rattling crash that feels like it tears the world open. The sound is deafening, a sharp, screaming crunch that vibrates through your bones. The BMW jerks violently to the right, momentum throwing your body sideways as the seatbelt snaps tight across your chest, knocking the breath clean out of you.

Your head slams against the window.

Pain blooms instantly, white and blinding, radiating through your skull. Glass shatters outward with a sharp, crystalline sound, fragments spraying across your arms, your lap, your hair. The steering wheel wrenches hard beneath your hands as the car spins, tires screeching against asphalt, the world outside the windshield blurring into color and motion and noise.

Someone is honking. Someone is yelling.

You scream without realizing it was even coming from you.

The car skids, fishtails, then slams to a stop with a final, sickening jolt that leaves everything eerily still.

For a moment, there is nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of the crash ringing in your ears and the pounding of your own heart, loud and frantic, like it’s trying to outrun what just happened.

Your vision swims and the edges of it darken. You blink hard, sucking in a shaky breath that burns your lungs.

“Oh god,” you whisper, barely audible. “Oh god.”

Your hands are shaking when you lift them from the steering wheel. Tiny cuts line your fingers, glass glittering against your skin. Blood wells slowly, red and shocking against the pale interior. Your head throbs dully now, pain settling in behind your eyes like pressure.

You look up and notice the windshield is shattered completely, spiderwebbed and caved in. The hood is crumpled, maroon paint warped and torn, steam hissing faintly from beneath it.

Steve’s car.

The thought lands heavy and crushing in your chest, stealing your breath all over again.

“No,” you choke. “No, no, no.”

The tears come fast and hot, blurring everything in your vision. Your whole body starts to shake, adrenaline crashing into panic. You don’t even notice the ache in your ribs or the blood on your temple. All you can see is the damage. All you can think about is Steve’s face when he sees it.

You fumble for the door handle, hands clumsy and numb.

Voices rush in suddenly, overlapping and loud. Someone is shouting angrily from the other car. A man’s voice, slurred and unsteady, words tumbling over each other. You catch the sharp, unmistakable smell of alcohol when he staggers closer, yelling about lights and blame and not seeing you.

A woman pushes past him, her face pale as she crouches by your window.

“Don’t move,” she says firmly, eyes scanning you. “He ran the red light. Someone already called it in. An ambulance is on the way.”

You barely hear her.

“I ruined it,” you sob, chest hitching painfully. “I ruined his car. He trusted me.”

She stares at you, stunned. “Honey,” she says gently, “that man was drunk. This wasn’t your fault.”

You shake your head over and over, tears dripping down your chin. “You don’t understand. He loves that car.”

───୨ৎ───

Time loses its shape after that.

You remember hands reaching in carefully, voices asking you questions you answer on autopilot. Your name. The date. Where you are. Someone slips a neck brace around you, cool plastic against your skin. The world feels distant, like you’re underwater, everything muted and slow.

The ambulance smells like antiseptic and rubber. The siren wails as they pull away, sharp and relentless, vibrating through your skull. Every bump in the road sends a dull jolt through your body.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking back tears that won’t stop.

Steve’s face keeps flashing in your mind. His teasing smile. The way he pressed the keys into your hand. I trust you.

Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.

At the hospital, the lights are too bright, too white. They wheel you through hallways that all look the same, the gurney rattling beneath you. A nurse presses gauze to your head, apologizing softly as she cleans the blood away. Another checks your pupils, her voice calm and practiced.

“You’ve got a concussion,” she tells you gently. “Some cuts and bruising. We’re going to keep you for observation.”

You nod weakly.

“Your emergency contact?” she asks.

The words stick in your throat. “Steve Harrington.”

She smiles reassuringly. “We’ll call him right now.”

Panic spikes instantly, sharp and overwhelming.

“No,” you whisper, grabbing weakly at her sleeve. “Please.”

She pauses, concern creasing her brow. “Sweetheart, he needs to know you’re okay.”

“He’s going to be so mad,” you say, tears slipping down into your hair. “Please. I just need a minute.”

She squeezes your hand, her touch warm and steady. “I promise you,” she says softly, “he’s not going to care about the car.”

You turn your face toward the pillow, shoulders shaking as you cry. You don’t believe her.

───୨ৎ───

Steve is mid-laugh when the phone rings, sitting down on the worn couch as he waits for you to return home.

The four of them had just gotten home less than an hour prior and Robin has just said something ridiculous, Nancy is smirking and rolling her eyes playfully, Jonathan is half-listening while fishing his keys out of his pocket. Steve stands up and walks over to the phone and answers without thinking, still smiling.

That smile disappears from his face almost instantly.

His face goes slack as the nurse speaks. The color drains from his skin so fast Robin reaches for him automatically, fingers digging into his arm.

Car accident.

Hospital.

For a second, the words don’t make sense. They slide off him, unreal. Then they sink in all at once, heavy and brutal.

“What?” he says hoarsely. “Is she— is she awake?”

He doesn’t remember hanging up. Doesn’t remember telling the others where he’s going, doesn’t remember Jonathan tossing him his own set of car keys. Just the way his hands shake as he grabs his jacket, the way his chest feels tight and wrong, like it’s collapsing inward.

The drive is a blur.

He speeds without realizing it, knuckles white around the steering wheel, heart hammering so hard it makes him dizzy. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every second stretches unbearably long.

His thoughts spiral wildly. Blood. Sirens. Hospital beds. The worst possibilities crowding in, relentless and cruel.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

By the time he reaches the hospital, he’s barely breathing.

He pushes through the doors, breathless, voice breaking as he gives your name to the front desk. They point him down a hallway.

When he finally sees you, lying small and still in the bed, tears streaming your pale cheeks, bandages stark white against your skin, something in him cracks wide open.

“Oh god,” he whispers.

Your eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice.

The relief lasts exactly half a second before raw fear rushes in immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, words tumbling over each other. “Steve, I swear I didn’t do anything wrong, he ran the light and I tried to stop and—”

He’s at your side instantly, hands gentle but shaking as he cups your face. “Hey. No, no, no. Baby.”

You flinch, bracing yourself.

The sight alone guts him.

“Oh no,” he breathes, tears spilling freely now. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”

You do, eyes glassy and terrified.

“I don’t care about the car,” he says, voice breaking completely. “I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s totaled. I don’t care if it’s gone forever.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re.. you’re not mad at me?”

He lets out a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. He leans forward carefully, resting his forehead against yours, hands still cradling your face like you might shatter.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits quietly. “That’s all I could think about.”

He gathers you into his arms slowly, mindful of every injury, pulling you against his chest. You cling to him immediately, fingers fisting in his shirt as sobs tear out of you, your whole body trembling.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs over and over, rocking you gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His hands move in slow, grounding circles over your back, his cheek pressed to your hair. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t pull away. He lets you cry until your breathing evens out, until the shaking starts to fade.

He doesn’t even let go of you when the nurse steps back.

He loosens his hold just enough for her to check the bandage on your forehead, for someone to murmur about concussion protocol and observation and lights being dimmed, but the moment she’s done, his arms come back around you like he’s afraid the space might swallow you if he leaves it open for too long.

You’re curled against his chest now, knees drawn in carefully, his jacket draped over you even though the room is warm. His hand rests flat between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding, moving just enough to remind you that he’s still here. That he hasn’t gone anywhere.

Your breathing finally starts to slow.

It surprises you, the way your body listens to him so easily. Like it’s been waiting for permission to stop shaking.

“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, the words slipping out quieter this time, less frantic but still heavy. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, just at his side. “About the car.”

Steve exhales, a long, careful breath, and tips his head back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are red now. Not just watery. Red in a way that tells you he’s been holding something back too.

“Hey,” he says softly, but there’s an edge to it, a gentle firmness. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

You nod once, small and obedient.

He brings one hand up, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with reverent care, like he’s afraid even that might hurt you. “That car?” he says quietly. “It’s metal. It’s paint. It’s replaceable.”

You swallow.

“You?” His voice cracks on the word. He presses his forehead to yours again, eyes closing briefly. “You’re not.”

Something in your chest gives way at that, the last tight knot finally loosening. Tears spill over again, but they’re quieter now, slower. You don’t fight them. Steve doesn’t either.

He just holds you.

He lets you cry into his shoulder, lets the weight of it all sink out of you in small, shuddering breaths. His fingers trace slow, soothing patterns against your back, grounding you in the present. His other hand stays curled protectively around your arm, thumb brushing over your skin like a promise.

“You scared me,” he admits again, softer this time. “When they called, I—” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even hear the rest of what she was saying. I just heard your name and hospital and that was it.”

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” you whisper.

Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Hate you?” he repeats, like the idea doesn’t even make sense. “Baby.”

The way he says it is full of ache and tenderness and something dangerously close to breaking.

“I don’t love you for how careful you are with my things,” he says. “I love you because you’re you. And because you were scared and still got behind the wheel anyway. Because you were thinking about dinner and errands and getting back to me.”

Your throat tightens.

“And because,” he adds quietly, “even after everything, you were more worried about my stupid car than about yourself.”

He shakes his head, a small, helpless smile pulling at his mouth. “You don’t ever have to earn your place with me. You’re it for me. Not that car.”

You just nod briefly and then press your face back into his chest, breathing him in. He smells like the soap you picked out for him and the faint trace of outside air, something clean and familiar, something that settles deep in your lungs and tells your body it’s safe to unclench. Home, even here in this hospital room.

[underoospeterparker]

his love

Steve Harrington x shy!fem!reader, 2.2k words

Summary: Steve will never tolerate anyone making you feel small. So when Billy Hargrove lays a hand on you? Steve makes it clear what exactly happens to people who hurt his girl.

It happens on a Tuesday, which feels wrong.

Bad things shouldn’t happen on Tuesdays. They should happen on Mondays, when everyone’s already grumpy, or Fridays, when you can escape into the weekend.

But it’s a Tuesday, after school, in the Hawkins High parking lot, which is maybe the worst place of all.

You’re walking towards Steve’s BMW, your bag slung over your shoulder. You’d promised to meet him there, not later than five minutes after the last bell rang, he insisted, because the lot would become a zoo after that.

You’re smiling to yourself, thinking about the way he’d looped his finger through one of your belt loops that morning to pull you in for a goodbye kiss, murmuring “See you at the car, angel” against your lips.

You don’t see Billy Hargrove until he steps out from behind a column of seniors loitering by the bike racks. He’s got a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes lock onto you with a predatory focus that makes your blood run cold.

“Well, look who it is,” he says, his voice a low, oily drawl that cuts through the parking lot noise. “The quiet little shadow. Off to find your keeper?”

Your stomach clenches. You drop your gaze and pick up your pace, focusing on the familiar lines of Steve’s car. You can see him now, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, scanning the crowd. For you. Always for you.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or does King Steve prefer you seen and not heard? Guess it’s easier to keep up the perfect couple act if one of you doesn’t talk.” He lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re his perfect little accessory. Quiet, pretty, doesn’t make a fuss. Must be nice, living such a simple life.”

The heat of humiliation crawls up your neck. You swallow hard, your voice a quiet but firm whisper. “Just leave me alone, Billy.”

“Just leave me alone, Billy,” he mimics in a high, whiny falsetto, his friends by the bikes snickering.

“Or what? You gonna cry? You gonna go tattle to Harrington so he can come over and puff out his chest? That’s all he’s good for these days, you know. Playing hero. Pathetic.” He steps directly into your path, forcing you to stop just a few yards from the safety of Steve’s car. “At least when he was with Nancy Wheeler, she had a spine. Had a brain. What’ve you got?”

Your head snaps up, a spark of defiance in your eyes. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Billy’s smirk widens, thrilled to have gotten a reaction. He leans in, his voice dropping. “I know you’re a timid little mouse who latched onto the first guy who showed you any attention. I know you’re boring. I know you’re nothing.”

Before you can react, his hand shoots out. His fingers clamp around your wrist, his grip iron-tight. You feel the blunt pressure of his fingernails digging into your skin, a sharp, possessive bite of pain meant to brand you.

"Let go of me," you breathe, the words stronger than you feel. You don't try to yank away. You stand your ground, meeting his cruel gaze even as your heart hammers against your ribs. "Right now."

Billy's eyes flash with surprise, then darker amusement. "Or what, princess? You'll give me a stern talking to?" His thumbnail grinds down on the delicate bones of your wrist, a clear, vicious promise of more pain. You feel yourself bleed.

"You're not gonna do a damn thing. That's who you are. All bark, no bite. Just a scared little—"

A shadow falls across you both. Billy’s taunt dies in his throat as he looks up. You turn your head.

Steve's there. His face is eerily calm, but his eyes are dark, focused solely on Billy’s hand wrapped around your wrist like a manacle.

“Take your hand off her,” Steve says. His voice is quiet, flat. It’s the most terrifying sound you’ve ever heard.

Billy’s smirk falters, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, a final act of defiance. “We’re just talking, Harrington. No law against talking.”

Steve takes one step closer. The air crackles. “I won’t ask again.”

With a derisive scoff, Billy releases your wrist with a hard, final shove that sends you stumbling back a step. The sudden absence of pressure makes the throbbing, nail-marked skin burn.

Billy shakes out his hand as if he’d been contaminated. “She’s not even worth the drama, man. Too fragile. Boring.”

Steve doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are on you, scanning you with laser focus. He sees the way you’re cradling your wrist, the red, angry imprints already darkening. He sees the tears of pain and anger you’re desperately blinking back.

“Get in the car, sweetheart,” he says to you, his tone shifting into something unbearably gentle, a stark contrast to the ice in his voice a second before. “Lock the passenger door."

“Steve, don't—"

"Please, angel." He reaches out and with the very tips of his fingers, gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “For me. Get in the car.”

You nod, a jerky movement as you do as he asks. Steve watches until you’re inside, until you pull the door shut with a solid thunk and the locks engage. Only then does he turn his full attention back to Billy, and the last of the softness evaporates.

He grabs Billy by the shoulder, spins him around, and punches him square in the face. The sound is sickening. A sharp, wet crack that silences the immediate crowd.

Billy staggers, spitting blood, shock wiping his smirk clean off. He swings back, but Steve is stronger, more focused. He blocks the punch and drives his fist into Billy’s stomach, doubling him over.

Then, he grabs him by the collar and hits him again, a solid, brutal crack to the jaw.

Billy goes down hard.

Steve stands over him, breathing hard, his knuckles split and bleeding. Billy looks up, dazed, fear finally cutting through the arrogance.

He crouches down so he’s at Billy’s level, and his voice is low, cold, and absolutely dripping with venom when he talks. “You listen to me, you piece of shit. You put your hands on her.” He says it like it’s the most unspeakable sin in the world.

“You don’t ever look at her again,” Steve says slowly, fingers curling around the collar of Billy's shirt. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t go near her. You pretend she doesn’t exist.”

He swallows, his throat working. “You think you’re tough? You think this,” he gestures vaguely at Billy on the ground, “makes you something? You hurt her. You scared her. And if it happens again, Billy, I swear to God, I won’t stop. Do you understand?”

Billy, clutching his stomach, just stares, mute.

Steve doesn't wait for a response. He’s already pushing himself back to his feet, turning away. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He doesn’t look back at Billy.

He looks at you.

He walks to the car, opens the driver’s side door, and slides in. The door closes, and the noise of the parking lot is reduced to a dull murmur. Inside the BMW, it’s suddenly, startlingly quiet.

He doesn't start the car, or reach for the keys. Not yet.

He just turns to you, his body angling fully in the seat. His eyes are wide, dark pools of worry that search your face.

“Hey,” he breathes, his voice scraped raw and impossibly soft. “Hi.”

You’re holding yourself stiffly, your hurting wrist tucked close to your body, hidden in the folds of your sweater. The tears are drying on your cheeks, leaving tight, salty tracks.

Slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away, he reaches out. He doesn’t touch your arm. Instead, he cups your cheek, his thumb stroking so gently over your skin it’s like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Okay,” he whispers, his voice a fragile thing. “Okay. We’re going home now. Just you and me.”

He leans forward, just a little, and presses his forehead against yours. His eyes are closed, his breathing a little unsteady. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, the words a warm promise against your skin. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you, and I’m taking you home.”

Steve pulls back, finally starting the car. He drives with one hand on the wheel. His other hand rests, palm up, on the center console. An open, silent invitation.

Waiting. Just in case you want it.

After a moment, you place your hand in his. His fingers close around yours instantly, but with a breathtaking gentleness. He doesn’t squeeze. He just holds, fingertips gentle on yours.

At his house, he leads you inside. He guides you to the couch by the dim, grey light from the windows.

“Sit right here, sweetheart,” he says, his voice still that same, hushed tone. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the faucet run, the soft clink of a bowl. He returns carrying a small basin of warm water, a soft cloth draped over the edge, and a clean, fluffy towel.

He sets it all on the coffee table and then kneels on the floor in front of you, just like he had that one morning when he’d helped you with your shoe buckle. I know you can do it yourself, he'd said, but I want to do it for you.

The same can be said for now.

He looks up at you, his expression open and patient. “Can I see now, angel?” he asks softly. “Please? I just want to make it better.”

Slowly, you pull your arm from the shelter of your sweater and hold out your wrist. The bruise is a violent, dark bloom against your skin, the fingermarks clear, the nail indents standing out like cruel punctuation.

Steve’s breath catches. A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, he just stares, and you see his eyes grow wet. He blinks rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

The first fat drops of rain begin to tap a gentle, hesitant rhythm against the living room window, a soft grey curtain descending outside. It feels safe in here, with him.

He dips the cloth in the warm water, wrings it out, and begins, with a touch so careful it’s barely there, to clean the back of your hand, as if washing away every lingering trace of Billy.

“He’s full of it,” Steve murmurs, his voice a low, steady murmur under the sound of the rain. He glances up at you, his brow furrowed with a familiar, earnest intensity. “You know that, right? Everything he said. Total bull. You’re the least boring person I know. You're perfect, sweetheart. You notice stuff no one else does. And you’re brave. God, you’re so brave.”

He shakes his head, a little in awe. “Standing up to him like that? With that look on your face? That was… that was really cool.”

“It didn’t feel cool,” you admit, your own voice small. “It just hurt.”

The admission makes his face crumple with empathy. “I know, baby. I know it did.” He finishes drying your hand with the towel, patting it gently. Then, from his pocket, he pulls out the familiar tube of arnica gel. “Robin swears by this stuff. For, you know, bruises."

“This might be a little cold,” he warns softly. Only then does he touch your bruise. “But it’s gonna help. Promise.” He works in silence for a moment, but then he looks up again, his expression open and worried. “Did he say anything else? Before I got there?”

You shake your head. “Just… the same stuff. About me. About you.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, but his touch remains gentle. “He doesn’t know me either,” he says quietly. “Not really. He thinks he does, but he doesn’t. And he definitely doesn't know you."

The rain picks up outside, a steady, soothing patter on the roof and the windowpanes.

“I’m so sorry he scared you. I’m so sorry he made you feel small. You’re the biggest part of my life, you know that?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. Nod, just once. You do know that. Steve's the kind of guy who makes that clear, every day you're with him. He doesn't leave you wondering.

Once he’s finished, he doesn’t move. He stays kneeling, carefully taking both your hands in his. He looks up at you, his expression so full of earnest, doting love it makes your heart ache.

“There,” he whispers. “All better.” He knows it’s not, not really, but he means the care, the attention. He means him.

Steve shifts then, sitting on the couch beside you and pulling you into his lap. He arranges you so you’re sideways, your legs over his, your sore arm resting safely on his chest, your head tucked under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, and lets out a long, deep sigh.

“My brave baby,” he murmurs into your hair, rocking you gently. “You're okay. You just rest for now. Let me hold you. That’s all I want to do forever.”

The outside world, with all its cruelty and Billy Hargroves, ceases to exist. There is only this: the quiet house, the steady beat of his heart, the soft rain pattering outside the window, and you—his girl, safe and held together by just his love.

[djo]

The bard, craving knowledge, makes his way to the Mage’s Guild of Enclave, where he spends his days in their vast libraries. Though deeply devoted to his studies, he still makes time for the occasional adventure. 

STRANGER THINGS 5.08: The Rightside Up

[shitonshitonthatshit]

Makes my heart flutter

[buckywiththegoodhair86]

And we’ll enjoy it every single time.

[livviedaltonvintagedoll]

Percabeth and Gwynriel!!!!!!

[flodaya]

#biblically accurate percabeth

[spencersmopbucket]

the storm (1) | eddie munson

pairing: eddie munson x reader summary: your car breaks down in a storm -- conveniently (not so conveniently) right down the road from your ex boyfriend's trailer. you're forced to wait the night out with him. a series!!themes & warnings: TENSION, ANGST, arguing, eddie being eddie, youre obv still in love w each other so its yearny

You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.

You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.

Obviously, that hadn't worked.

"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.

Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.

The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.

You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.

Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.

The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.

You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.

Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.

“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.

You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.

You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.

Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.

You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.

You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.

The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.

This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.

You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.

The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.

You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.

This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.

But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.

You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--

A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.

No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.

It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.

You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.

“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”

The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.

Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.

“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”

“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.

“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.

He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”

“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.

“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”

The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.

Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.

With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”

You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”

“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.

He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.

"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"

The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.

“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”

The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.

“I’m cold.”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.

You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.

The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.

You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.

“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.

The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."

The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.

“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.

The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.

Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.

A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.

You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.

You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”

You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”

The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”

He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”

“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”

“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.

“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”

You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.

"Don't talk shit about Daphne."

He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.

"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."

The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.

“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.

Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”

Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.

You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”

The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.

“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”

“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”

You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.

“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.

“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”

The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.

From me.

In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”

He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.

You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.

The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.

You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.

"You cut your hair."

The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.

Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."

He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."

Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.

A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.

"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."

He hummed.

"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"

You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."

He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.

"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.

"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.

He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.

He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.

You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."

He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.

"You're not."

His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.

You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.

The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.

A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."

The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.

"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."

The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.

Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."

It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.

Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.

A/N: there IS a part 2 to this if you guys liked it. PLEASE lmk :)) i wanted some heartbreaking eddie angst bc i love hurting myself

[spencersmopbucket]

monsters under the bed | eddie munson

pairing: eddie munson x reader summary: eddie's girlfriend still has nightmares about her time in the upside down -- the fear, anxiety, and dread has its own medicine, though. eddie. themes & warnings: fluff, angst if you squint, eddie being an amazing boyfriend, ugh EDDIE i miss him sm </3, comforting, descriptions of gore and the upside down, protective eddie, eddie NEVER DIES in this okay idc if its not plot accurate. ITS SELF INDULGENT guys like all my writing typically is lmao

You could still smell it.

It had its own unique smell. Something you knew you'd never smelled before you were thrust into it, but a smell that permanently imprinted itself into your mind and couldn't be scrubbed out. It liked to show up at random times, making you feel like you were still trapped.

Raw meat, as if a slaughtered pig was flopped down into every corner of the vast terrain. A distinct stink of rot, a sweet aroma that caused its own wave of panic to rush through you. When you remembered the smell, or when you smelled anything similar, tremors quickly evolved beneath your skin and shivered through your muscles.

It had been two months since you were there. But realistically speaking, two months wasn't much recovery for something so violently traumatic.

The world on the other side was a wound.

You hadn’t fallen through a rift, you’d stupidly walked -- a cruel, confusing abduction from the familiar softness of your own bedsheets into a freezing, breathing darkness. Hawkins was there, but it was a corpse of Hawkins. The trees weren't trees; they were petrified veins, throbbing with a sick, purple-black sap. The air wasn't air; it was a sludge you had to push through, thick with floating spores that glimmered with a malevolent life of their own. And the sounds… God, the sounds. A low, tectonic groaning from deep within the earth, punctuated by wet, skittering clicks and distant, inhuman shrieks that echoed not in your ears, but in the hollow of your ribs.

Your time there was measured not in hours, but in heartbeats; each one a frantic, painful hammer against your sternum. You’d hidden, a mouse in the ruins of your own home, while things with too many joints and peeling, grey skin shuffled past. You’d seen the vines, not as plants, but as living, pulsating intestines carpeting the ground, constricting buildings, tasting the air with their thorny, questing tips. You’d pressed your back into the crumbling wallpaper of your upside-down bedroom, your own choked sobs the most dangerous sound in the universe, as something heavy and wet dragged itself across the ceiling above you.

You were rescued. Pulled back through a glowing, fleshy gate by Steve Harrington’s strong arms, Dustin’s frantic voice guiding you, Robin’s hands patting you down as if checking you were all there. The physical wounds were minor: scratches from thorns, a deep bruise on your shoulder from where you’d slammed into a demodog-haunted countertop, a pervasive chill that took days to leave your bones.

Then, you were immediately ripped from Robin's arms back into Eddie's, who crushed you into his chest with the heaving sobs of someone who thought they'd never see you again.

He held you like you were the only solid thing in a universe that had just dissolved into static and panic. His arms, usually so expressive and flailing, were now iron bands around you, trembling with a force that had nothing to do with weakness. He was shaking, great, heaving shudders that wracked his entire frame, and the sound he made against your shoulder was a raw, broken thing -- a sob torn from a place deeper than his lungs.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” he chanted into the grimy fabric of your shirt, his voice a wrecked, wet whisper against your skin. His fingers clutched at your back, fisting the material as if he could physically stitch you back into this dimension through sheer will. The familiar scents of his leather jacket and cigarettes were overwhelmed by the sharp, coppery tang of Upside Down grime. His tears were hot against your neck.

You could feel his heart slamming against your own bruised chest, a wild, frantic drum solo of terror and relief. In that moment, Eddie Munson, the loudest person in any room, was utterly silent except for those ragged breaths and choked cries. The performance was over. The mask of the fearless freak, the chaotic Dungeon Master, was gone. What was left was a twenty-year-old boy who had just spent the worst hours of his life believing the girl he loved had been erased from the world by the same unspeakable evil that had been hunting him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t bombard you with questions. He just held on, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his entire being focused on the simple, miraculous fact of your existence: the beat of your pulse under his lips, the rise and fall of your breath, the solid, real weight of you in his arms.

Over his shaking shoulder, you saw Steve and Robin exchange a look -- not of annoyance, but of profound understanding. They gave you space, turning their attention to Dustin and the others, creating a small, protective buffer around the two of you in the chaotic aftermath of the gate room.

Finally, his grip loosened, just enough for him to pull back and look at you. His eyes, usually so bright with mischief, were red-rimmed and swimming, his face pale beneath the grime and tear tracks. He cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs sweeping over your cheeks, wiping away dirt and his own tears with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

“Don’t you ever,” he started, his voice hoarse and cracking. He swallowed hard, trying to wrestle it under control. “Don’t you ever do that again. You hear me? I swear to god, if you get taken by some… some inter-dimensional fuckery again, I’m coming in after you. I don’t care about the bats, or the demo-whatevers, or the fucking… Vecna. I’m coming. I’ll be the most metal goddamn rescue party you’ve ever seen.”

It was a threat, a promise, and a prayer all in one. It was so quintessentially Eddie -- melodramatic, loyal to a fault, and underpinned by a terrifying sincerity. He was pledging himself as your knight in shredded denim, your paladin in a battle jacket.

He didn’t let go of your face. His gaze searched yours, looking for injuries, for signs that you were more than just physically present. “Are you… are you in there? All of you?”

You managed a nod, your own tears starting to fall now in response to the sheer, unguarded worry in his eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m all here.”

A fresh wave of emotion crossed his face. He pulled you back into his chest, this time his embrace less frantic, more anchoring. He rested his chin on top of your head, his breath slowly beginning to even out as he just held you. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair. “Okay. That’s… that’s my girl. That’s my brave, stupid, perfect girl.”

In the days that followed, that moment in the gate room became the unspoken bedrock of everything. Eddie’s near-catatonic fear for you had stripped him bare in front of everyone, and he made no attempt to rebuild the walls when it came to you. He was attuned. He watched you with a hyper-vigilance that was both touching and, at times, overwhelming. He’d notice the slight pause in your step before entering a dark room, the way your eyes would dart to the ceiling when a pipe clanged. He’d see you absently rub your shoulder where the bruise was fading to a sickly yellow-green.

And he didn’t just notice. He acted.

He started leaving every light on in the trailer when you were over, claiming he “hated the gloom.” He swapped his black-out curtains for thinner ones, letting in as much daylight as possible. He’d “randomly” start playing a tape -- usually something fast and thrashy, like Metallica’s Kill ‘Em All -- the moment the house fell into a silence he deemed too heavy. He’d cook ridiculous feasts, filling the trailer with the smells of frying oil and spices, loudly declaring he was “starving” even when he wasn’t.

It was his own version of sensory overwrite. He was building a new world for you inside his world, one of light, noise, and pungent, human smells, desperately trying to drown out the silent, rotting, breathing darkness he knew still lived in your head.

It worked.. except when it didn't. You couldn't blame Eddie, he was trying his best. But some things just couldn't be erased so soon. \

The storm tonight wracked your house. The wind caused the walls to creak, branches thumped against the siding as they were cracked off from trees. The sky was gloomy and dark, just like it always was in that awful place. But you'd offered Eddie a day of rest. A day to go hang out with the kids, a day to go play D&D and pretend that nothing had even happened.

He needed these days too. He couldn't always be a protector. He was still Eddie and still had his own passions.

You were home alone, your parents had opted to go stay in a cabin for the weekend. "Alone time," they called it. It was really just an alcohol fueled party session, one that they refused to let you see, no matter how old you got.

A warm mug of tea sat in your hand as you studied for a test on Monday. You inhaled, the smell of your vanilla bean candle reminding you that you were in your room, where the light was warm, the door was locked, and the Upside Down was far from you.

Except that it wasn't. No matter how much you tried to delude yourself, it really wasn't. It was right on the other side of your wall whenever it chose to be.

The dread began to seep into your chest, but you pushed it back, rerouting yourself into your physics book and copying down the essential things you read.

A jagged fork of lightning lit up your room in a sudden, stark, blue-white flash. For a fraction of a second, the friendly shadows behind your desk and dresser became deep, cavernous voids. Your pen stilled.

The thunder that followed wasn't a grumble. It was a crack so loud it seemed to split the sky directly above your roof. The house shuddered. The light on your desk flickered -- once, twice -- and died with a soft pop, plunging you into a grey, storm-lit gloom.

Your heart gave a single, hard thump against your ribs.

It's just a storm. Hawkins has storms. This is normal.

But in the Upside Down, the sky had been a perpetual, churning storm. The lightning there hadn't been white, but a sickly, pulsating red, like an exposed nerve in the sky. The thunder had been the groaning of the earth itself. You sat frozen in your chair, the mug of tea cooling forgotten in your hand. The vanilla candle, now the only source of light, cast frantic, leaping shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.

Another flash. Another world-ending crack of thunder. The wind howled like a dying thing, and the thumping of the branch against the siding wasn't random anymore. It was a rhythm. A slow, deliberate thump… thump… thump… like the footfall of something massive and patient.

Your breath started coming in short, sharp gasps. The physics book in front of you blurred. The equations swam, the numbers twisting into the strange, spiraling patterns of the vines that had covered the floors. The smell of the candle wax turned cloying, too sweet. It mixed with the damp, earthy smell wafting in through the window you’d cracked earlier, and the combination -- sweet decay, wet soil -- was horrifyingly familiar.

No. No, no, no.

You pushed back from the desk, the chair legs screeching against the floor. You needed light. Real light. You stumbled to the wall, fumbling for the light switch. You flicked it up. Down. Up again. Nothing. The power was out.

Panic, cold and slick, poured down your spine. The darkness in the hallway outside your bedroom door was absolute. It was a living darkness, the kind that pulsed. You could hear the house settling, every creak a footstep, every moan of the wind a whisper. The thump-thump-thump of the branch was right outside your window now. It wasn't a branch. It was a hand. A claw. Tapping. Testing.

Your legs gave out. You sank to the floor, your back against your bedroom door, knees pulled to your chest. The rational part of your brain was screaming -- It's a storm, you idiot, just a storm! -- but it was a tiny, distant voice, drowned out by the primal terror roaring in your blood. You were back in the upside-down bedroom, hiding, making yourself small, praying not to be seen. The air grew thick, harder to pull into your lungs. You were breathing the spore-filled sludge again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, but that was worse. Behind your eyelids, you saw the pulsing red light, the veined walls, the shadow of the thing on the ceiling. A whimper escaped you, and you slapped a hand over your mouth, just like you had there. Silence was survival.

But you weren't there. You were here. And here, you had a lifeline.

With trembling hands that felt numb and alien, you crawled across the carpet, away from the terrifying dark of the hallway door, toward your bedside table. You pulled the cord of your bedside lamp. Nothing. The phone. The old, corded landline. You fumbled the receiver to your ear.

Silence. Dead air. The storm must have taken the lines out, too.

The sob that broke from you this time was one of pure despair. You were alone. Truly, utterly alone with it. The monster wasn't under the bed. It was in the storm. It was in the dark. It was in the very air, and it had found you again.

Curled into a tight ball on the floor, you did the only thing left to do. You wrapped your arms around yourself and screamed. Guttural, fearful, making your throat ache. Everywhere your panicked eyes settled was grey, upside down and crooked, just like the hole you'd walked into two months ago.

The sound tore through the storm-hum, raw and ragged, and it seemed to startle even the house into a moment of stillness. In the echo of your own scream, the panic crystallized into a cold, sharp dread. You were adrift. No light. No voice on the line. No anchor.

You don't know how long you stayed there, a shivering knot on the floor, listening to the storm and the frantic, rabbit-pulse in your ears. Time in the dark stretched and warped. It could have been minutes. It could have been an hour.

Then, a new sound cut through the din.

Not thunder. Not creaking wood.

A voice, a real human voice, outside of your bedroom door. You weren't sure how you'd missed the sound of the front opening or the footsteps coming up the stairs. But you were paralyzed, the fear swallowing you whole, almost equal to when you'd first stepped foot into that awful place. It wouldn't let you move. It wouldn't let you open up.

"Y/n! Sweetheart, I need you to open this damn door so I can help you." Eddie shouted, his voice full of concern.

The hallucinations, though, overcame any sort of comfort. In your eyes, you were still surrounded by twinkling spores, the demogorgon outside of your window hungry and fierce.

That voice. Eddie’s voice. It was a lifeline thrown into the churning black sea of your terror. But the current was too strong. The part of your brain screaming REAL, HE’S REAL was a tiny, guttering candle in a hurricane of sensory memory. The hallucination wasn't just visual; it was a full-body possession.

The carpet under your knees wasn't your soft, beige bedroom carpet. It was the coarse, fibrous give of the Upside Down’s vine-matted ground, damp and sticky. The air you gasped tasted of spores, sweet and cloying, coating your tongue. The shape looming beyond your door wasn't Eddie; it was a distortion, a shadow that mimicked a human form, a trick of that place to lure you out into the open. The demogorgon’s shriek outside your window wasn't the wind -- it was a hunting cry, close, so close.

"Open the fucking door before I come through it! And I will, you know I'm dumb enough, so don't make me!"

Still silence. At that point, Eddie knew you probably weren't even listening. He knew you were curled into the corner of your room, whispering to yourself, seeing things that weren't real. It made his chest ache.

Breaking down the door was his only option, unfortunately. He had to get to you.

"Alright!" He shouted. "You've got three seconds, babycakes!"

He braced himself, backing up a few feet.

"Three!"

"Two! Fucking christ."

"One!"

The word was a battle cry, a promise, and the last shred of his patience snapping all at once.

He charged the door, shoulder-first. It wasn't a movie-perfect splintering of wood. It was a brutal, ugly, shuddering THUD that shook the frame and sent a jarring pain lancing through his collarbone. The door partially held. Of course it did. It was a solid, middle-class-Hawkins door. But he'd dented it.

You flinched at the impact, a sharp, animal sound escaping you. The demogorgon at the window was forgotten; this was a new, immediate, terrifying violence. The shadow at the door wasn't mimicking Eddie anymore -- it was breaking in.

"Goddammit!" he snarled from the other side, more at the door than at you. You heard him back up again, his boots scuffing on the hallway runner. He was going to do it again.

The second charge was fiercer, more desperate. The impact was a sickening crack of wood and a metallic groan from the latch. The door didn't fly open, but it buckled inward, the frame splintering around the deadbolt.

From your corner, through the haze of terror, you saw it: the solid, dark line of the door was now broken by a sliver of deeper black. He’d created a crack. And through that crack, a beam of light from his flashlight sliced into your dark room, cutting through the illusory spores like a scalpel.

In that beam, you saw real dust motes dancing. Not spores. Dust.

And then, an eye. One wide, frantic, familiar brown eye, peering through the shattered gap in the door.

"See?" his voice came, ragged with pain and effort, but softer now. "It's just me. All the way through, sweetheart. It's just your idiot boyfriend who's probably gonna need Wayne to fix this door."

The eye in the light. The voice attached to it. The realness of the destruction -- the splintered wood, the broken lock, a physical, human-made chaos that was nothing like the organic, creeping horror of the Upside Down. It was the final, undeniable proof.

The hallucination didn't fade gently. It shattered.

The taste of spores vanished from your tongue, replaced by the dry, stale taste of fear. The vine-textured carpet resolved into its normal, flat pile. The shrieking outside was just the wind, the thumping just the branch. The shadow at the door was just a broken door, with Eddie Munson on the other side of it.

A sob, deep and cleansing, tore from your chest. "Eddie."

He didn't charge again. He worked at the broken door with his hands, grunting, pulling at the fractured wood around the latch until, with a final screech of protesting metal, it gave way. The door swung open, broken and hanging crooked on its hinges.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the flashlight beam from the hall, panting slightly. He was a mess. His hair was wild, his face pale, his left shoulder visibly favoring. But his eyes were only for you, scanning you, checking for injuries the hallucination might have hidden.

He didn't rush to you. He knew better now. He took a slow, deliberate step into the room, then another, giving you time to see him, to process.

"It's over," he said, his voice a low, steady vow. "The trip's over. You're back. I'm here."

That was all it took. You stumbled forward, your legs barely holding you, and collapsed into him. He caught you, his arms wrapping around you with a careful strength, mindful of his own aching shoulder. He was cold and wet, and he smelled of rain, sweat, and the faint, sharp scent of pine from the broken doorframe.

He sank down to the floor, pulling you with him, cradling you in his lap against the wall, well away from the broken door and the storm-dark window. He rocked you gently, his lips against your hair, whispering nothings that weren't words, just sounds of comfort.

"You broke my door," you finally mumbled into his soaked shirt, the absurdity of it hitting you.

He barked a laugh, a short, relieved sound. "Yeah, well. You were in here with a monster. Seemed like a fair trade." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. "A real one or not, doesn't matter. No monster gets to have you. Not on my watch."

He’d broken the door. He’d literally broken through the barrier between your nightmare and his reality. And as you sat there in the wreckage, wrapped in the safety of his arms, the storm outside finally began to sound like just a storm. Because the loudest, most chaotic, most real thing in your world was holding you, and he had just proved, beyond any doubt, that there was no door he wouldn't break down to get to you.

"I love you." You whispered, shuddery but certain.

The words, soft and raw against the damp fabric of his shirt, hit him like a physical force.

All the frantic energy, the desperate, charging-the-door bravado, the sharp worry -- it all drained out of him in a single, quiet rush. His arms, which had been holding you with a protective firmness, loosened their grip just enough to become something else entirely: a shelter, a haven.

For a moment, he didn't move. He just breathed, his cheek resting against the top of your head, listening to the echo of your words in the quiet space the storm had finally left in its wake. They weren't just words. They were a key turning in a lock he hadn't even fully admitted was there. After everything, the running, the hiding, the fear of being the town freak, the terror of almost losing you -- to hear that, here, in the middle of the wreckage he'd made… it unmoored him.

He pulled back slowly, his hands coming up to cradle your face again. His thumbs traced the paths of your tears, his own eyes shining with an emotion too vast and complicated for any of his usual theatrics. There was no witty retort, no metal lyric, no D&D metaphor. For once, Eddie Munson was completely, utterly sincere.

"I love you."

He said it like he was discovering the words for the first time, his voice a rough, awed whisper. It wasn't a echo. It was an answer, a vow, a foundation.

"I love you so much it feels like my heart's gonna fucking explode out of my chest." A shaky grin touched his lips, the Eddie-flair trying to reassert itself through the profound emotion.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a second. "You're my sanctuary," he murmured, the words just for you. "You know that, right? When the world's upside down and fucking crazy, you're the right-side-up. I could've died right there thinking you were gone forever."

He didn't open his eyes. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, as if the contact was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to the reality that you were here, alive, in his arms.

"It wasn't the bats," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It wasn't the fucked-up sky or the lake of fire. It was that. The silence where you were supposed to be. That's what would've killed me."

A single, hot tear escaped from beneath his closed lid, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. You felt it against your skin. The sight of it, this vulnerability from the boy who wore his loudness like armor, undid you completely.

"Eddie," you breathed, your own tears starting again.

He finally opened his eyes. They were dark pools, full of a haunted love. "When I saw you, when Steve pulled you through and you were just... there... it was like my heart started beating again. And I swore, right then, I swore I would never let that silence happen again. If there was a- a monster, I'd fight it. If you had a bad dream, I'd be there. If you needed a goddamn nightlight, I'd learn how to wire one myself."

He let out a shaky breath, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "This... this thing, it's not just love. It's... it's a vow, okay? It's the most important goddamn thing I'll ever do. Keeping you in the light. Keeping you here. With me. There's no fucked up, nuclear-waste, made-from-a-lab shit that could ever take you from me again."

He was baring his soul, not with poetry, but with the gritty, unvarnished truth of his fear and his devotion. The Dungeon Master was gone. The metalhead was gone. This was just Eddie. Your Eddie. Terrified, tender, and utterly, unshakably yours.

"You don't have to fight my monsters," you whispered, lifting a hand to cover his where it cupped your face.

"The hell I don't," he said, but there was no anger in it, only fierce, unbreakable certainty. "That's the deal, sweetheart. You're my right-side-up. So I'm your... your fucked-up, noisy, door-breaking shield. Package deal."

He kissed you again, softer this time, a seal on the promise. When he pulled back, he managed a wobbly, real smile. "Now, about that door... we're gonna tell your parents a demodog did it. I'll draw up some fake claw marks. I'm an artist, they'll buy it."

And just like that, with a joke and a plan, he began to rebuild the normal world around you both, brick by silly brick. Because that was his magic. He couldn't erase the darkness, but he could always, always build a brighter, louder, more beautiful world right beside it, with you safe at its center.

[moonlightsmusee-blog]

this was actually incredible🫶🏻

[munsonify]

up in arms

pairing. eddie munson x fem!reader

summary. eddie thought he was doing the right thing separating from you, for your own sake and image. he quickly realizes how wrong he was.

content warnings. angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending (cause of course it is), unestablished relationship, friends to lovers, eds calling you ‘sweetheart’, kiss and make up :)

word count. 2944

a/n. yes this is my take on the foo fighters song, sue me

———

you sitting in eddie's passenger seat was always an unusual sight. the softness in your face, the delicate sound of your voice somehow breaking through the loud metal music he had on, your laugh that he somehow always managed to pull from you was unbelievably out of place here, with him. he marveled often over how this was his reality, how you decided to stick around for as long as you had. he found himself thanking gods he didn't even believe in that he was given the opportunity to live this life with you by his side, as his friend. today was no different.

the soft smile on your face as you sat beside him was all thanks to him. he'd cracked some joke about pedestrians, who seemed to leave their heads behind them as they cross the road blindly. his mumbled complaints didn't go unheard from you, they hardly did. you were thankful they didn't, too, it always made your mood a little better. you smile distracted him, just long enough for him to miss what was unfolding outside his car, engine rumbling as it idles at a red light. four large, raw eggs crash against your window, breaking upon impact. both of your heads whipped around to see the sight beside you, catching eye of a few basketball players as the light turns green.

"freaks!" you heard one of them yell as you drive off.

"dickheads," you mumble back, eyes rolling as you shake your head. you turn slightly to eddie as you speak some more. "they did that to my car a few days ago while i was driving home from work."

you hardly caught the way eddie's jaw clenched at your words. his eyes, rather than trailing back over to you, stayed glued on the road. sure, he could make it out to seem like he was pulling his focus there, watching out for other mindless pedestrians that seemed rampant in this town. but the real reason? he couldn't bear looking at you, not now. not when guilt was burning in the back of his throat, restricting in anger. self loathing, really, for even getting you in this situation to begin with.

he knew from the start that your reputation would crumble the moment your peers caught onto your friendship. he was convinced everything he touched was destined to fall into a pile of nothing with him. it started with his father, always degrading him, putting the blame on such a young boy for his own wrongdoings. maybe it wouldn't have stuck around for so long if everyone didn't continue to prove al's point. if eddie didn't keep proving his point. for whatever reason, that didn't stop him from befriending you, from letting you drag him around happily by your side to rather public plans. from selfishly falling in love with you.

he was uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the drive back home. it wasn't peculiar for him to be so deep in thought around you. the only difference was the lack of translating, the loud music down at a quiet decibel. his jaw stayed clenched, his breathing stayed shallow. light brown eyes turned dark, and if the light were to catch them right, you could almost describe them as misty.

"it's no biggie," you whisper, eyes searching his face worriedly. you could feel him overthinking the eggs. "easy clean, really! my car needed a good wash anyways."

"that doesn't make it any better," he grumbles. "what a joke."

"would calling it a yolk make you feel any better?" you ask with a growing grin. it dropped the moment you noticed he wasn't amused. he always entertained your corniness. he must've really taken this to heart. when he pulled up to your house, he gave you a small goodbye and a weak attempt of a hug, before you slid out his passenger seat. this gave him the time to think things through, truly this time.

eddie couldn't bear the idea of letting you go through this. he could take it, the degradation and the embarrassment, even if he claimed to be thick skinned. it was still shameful occasionally living up to peoples low expectations of him, despite being used to it. despite knowing his own growth. he didn't want to drag you down on the perpetual decline he seemed to be on, endless and torturous. no amount of rough exteriors and venomous words could shield you both from the judgement of everyone else.

that's how you found yourself hopelessly waiting for eddie the next morning, coat wrapped tight around your body, listening expectantly to the rumbling of his van. you realized, ten minutes after he promised he'd be there, that he wasn't showing up. you went inside, grabbed your keys, and made your way to work all by yourself. you didn't need him to take you to work, you were more than capable of driving yourself. what you couldn't do was shove away the disappointment of being stood up out of the blue.

you worked your shift with a sour taste in your mouth. it wasn't like eddie to do this to you. if there wasn't a call informing you of his absence beforehand, there was always an apology halfway through your day. while that hardly happened, he always provided an explanation. going an entire day without any word from him was odd. your coworkers even noticed the frown that didn't seem to leave your face all day. after clocking out, you were on a mission to head home and call him, hoping it was simply just a mix-up. you shoved away the worry that something had happened to him, or something had happened between you two. had you said something wrong the day before?

"hello?" a deep, gravely voice answered eddie's landline. you recognized quickly who it was.

"hey wayne," you greeted, announcing who you were right afterwards.

"hey, kiddo, good to hear from you," wayne says. "if you're looking for eddie, he's not home. something about needing some air. i'll let him know you called."

"thank you," you tell him, carrying on a short conversation with him, before hanging up the phone.

it took two days before you heard anything from him, and it was because of your doing. after another, more worried, call, you came to the decision to corner eddie. going awol was not something he did, not without a reason. it was after your morning shift, 2 pm, and he was surely home. saturdays before band practice, he normally tucked himself inside his room, focusing on planning out new campaign ideas. he hardly changed that routine of his. only on the rare occasion you could coax him out for lunch would he be found elsewhere. you jogged from your car to the door of his trailer in the pouring rain before knocking a little frantically.

he wearily peeked out the door a minute later, glaring down at you and your wet form. his jaw clenched the moment his eyes met yours. you gave him a small, worried smile, before you spoke to him. his silence was deafening through the sound of water hitting metal.

“hey, eds,” you start cautiously, peering inside the warm, dry trailer you loved visiting. “can i come in?”

“shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled, body mostly hidden behind the door. you could feel heat rise through your neck, prickling up to your ears in embarrassment you never felt around him.

“is it not a good time?” you question. your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “i would’ve called but i’ve already tried twice, i couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“it’s for a good reason, sweetheart,” he said bitterly. a nickname he once gave you endearingly now made you feel small. your clenched at the sound of him using it so coldly. “better get out of here. wouldn’t want you to get into anymore trouble.”

“don’t be like that,” you bite, face twisting into frustration. “i signed up for whatever bullshit those idiots decide to do to me the moment i became friends with you.”

“yeah, well, you’re better off not dealing with it at all,” he bit back.

with that, he shut the door right in your face, leaving you out in the cold rain. you turned on your heels and quickly stomped back to your car. you fought the tears prickling in your eyes and the tightness gripping at your chest. you would do anything if it meant staying by eddie’s side. that, however, wasn’t plausible if he didn’t want you to stay. you weren’t going to linger where you weren’t wanted. especially not if it would prolong this gut-wrenching feeling deep inside of you.

you didn’t try to call. you didn’t show back up at his house or any of the shows his band had at the hideout. you didn’t even run into him at work, and he frequented the record store. you figured he came in on your days off in attempts to avoid you. and, as much as it broke your heart not seeing him, you weren’t going to push. if telling you to stay away wasn’t enough, slamming the door in your face made everything clear.

"i'm pretty sure he, like, hates me now," you tell steve one night, the scent of alcohol clinging to you.

it'd been nearly a month after your falling out with eddie, and it was evident to everyone something had happened. he was inquiring about eddie's whereabouts, his lack of presence rather alarming. he was always tagging along with you to these parties. you missed the way steve shared a glance with robin, who seemed just as perplexed as he was.

"I'm sure he doesn't hate you," robin speaks up, speech slurred just a little.

"how else would you explain it?"

"the dudes an idiot," steve insisted. "i'm sure it's something stupid, he'll get over himself."

you found yourself wallowing one late night at the diner you two always frequented. even three months after your friendship ended, you still couldn’t help but think about him. how could you not when things ended so abruptly? it didn’t quite help you were still in love with him, though you figured it would hurt regardless. maybe it was worse now that you were mourning the distant hope that things would bloom into romance. that was farther gone than your friendship will ever be.

the bell attached to the door rang through the diner, thouggh you didn’t bother to look up from your plate. you stayed tucked inside the corner of the booth, picking at the fries the you ordered extra of. you never ate them all, though you always made sure you got more, anyways. eddie always liked to pick some off your plate, even if he had his own to nibble. you lifted your head only when you heard his familiar voice ring through the diner.

your eyes drifted over to him as he sat at the stools, hardly hearing as he ordered a coffee. he only ever ordered coffee when he was tired. you wondered what had him so busy. the idea that it could be someone else made you sick. you didn’t get to sit in your overwhelming jealousy for long. the server pointed over right at you as he said something to eddie. your eyes fell back down to your plate, wide and panicked as you thought of what to do. you could sit and let him stare, allowing the tension to rise inside the restaurant for everyone to feel, or you could pay and storm out, saving yourself the misery of being here. after the long week you had, the last thing you wanted was confrontation. especially confrontation with him. his heavy boots echoed against the floor before you could make your decision.

“hey,” eddie greets awkwardly, standing a foot away from your table.

“hi,” you say plainly. you didn’t bother to look up at him. you heard him take a deep breath in, his leather jacket rustling slightly as he crosses his arms.

“it’s okay if you want me to leave you alone.”

“i think you’re better off if you do.”

he cringes at your words - almost a flinch -, remembering back to the last conversation he had with you. his teeth clench down on his cheek as he thought, eyes not leaving you as you fumble with a fry. he still thought you looked beautiful, even with a slight scowl on your face.

“i just want to talk,” he says, despite his previous statement. a complete contradiction, like most other things he does.

you scoffed as you finally look up at him. he looked so small standing there, despite being feet above you. his large brown eyes seemed bigger than usual. you found yourself pitying him, though you promised yourself you wouldn’t. it was his doing that put you in the position you were in. still, he had ahold of your heart, and there wasn’t much you could do about it, even now. you blinked up at him a few times, just enough to collect your thoughts. pushing away your plate, you get up with your wallet, making your way towards the server.

“you had your chance to talk months ago and you shut me out,” you tell him, giving the server a soft smile as you hand her cash for your meal. “thank you, keep the change.”

you walked right passed eddie as you made your way towards the door, shoulder just brushing his. you folded your arms against your chest as you pushed out the diner. his footsteps followed behind you quickly, trailing after you desperately. just your luck, just moments after you stepped out, rain started to sprinkle down onto you. of course the day you see him again. of course the day you walked. you started your way towards your house with a slight shiver.

“i’m ready to talk now,” he says as he continues to follow you. “are you walking out of spite?”

“no, i didn’t bring my car,” you tell him, looking over you shoulder just briefly. his eyes were still wide and doe-like. “trust me, i wish i did. easy escape from whatever the hell this is.”

“can you just hold on a minute? please?” he begged as you continued on.

when you kept walking, he called your name out once, before gripping your elbow. you whipped around to look at him, feet stopping in its tracks. he moved to stand right in front of you. you noticed then how tired he looked. you wondered if he was just as torn up as you were about this whole thing. you stared at him expectantly, and he soon caught on that you were waiting. the rain began to fall down a bit harder, dampening your skin and your clothes.

“i messed up, bad.”

“yeah,” you scoffed, eyes boring into him. his shoulders slumped under your gaze.

“i can’t stand seeing you be made fun of. it’s my fault, and you know it is. we both know i was dragging you down. i couldn’t take the guilt anymore,” he rambled, hand not leaving you elbow. you didn’t bother to move it. “but the guilt of pushing you away like that is worse. i hurt you, i know that, and you deserve better than to be disregarded. you deserve better than me.”

“that doesn’t matter,” you croak out, eyes welling up with tears again, just like the night at his trailer. “none of it does. i don’t want anyone else, eddie, just you. i would go through anything if it meant i could keep you around.”

you didn’t care about the implications of your words. you just cared about making sure he heard and understood you. you couldn’t bear being away from him for another second. eddie tugged you into a hug without a word. his arms wrapped around you torso and kept you secured to his, face finding comfort in your shoulder. the breath of relief you let out could be heard from miles away as your arms wrapped around his shoulders. you gripped onto him tight, like he’d slip away from you again. the wet leather against your skin grounded you, almost as much as his hand that soothed your back, trailing up and down slowly. you let a few tears slip from your eyes, sniffling against his warmth.

when you pulled away, eyes watering and your lower lip trembling, he didn’t dare to move his hands away. not now that he had you secured against him. there were tears in his eyes you’ve hardly seen. you brought a soft knuckle up to his cheek to wipe them away, though rain still clung to your skin. you pushed away his hair to get a proper look at him.

“that was the worst three month of my life, sweetheart,” he shook his head as he spoke softly.

not only had he kept track, your nickname was back in the same soft tone as before. you brought your other hand down to his chest, poking a finger at it as you look up at him. your eyes softened up, and he noticed, his face visibly relieved.

“that’s on you, mister,” you tell him, that pretty smile on your back on your face.

“it won’t happen again. promise.”

your hand gripped his shirt just slightly, enough to pull him a little closer to you. with faces just inches apart, your lips hovered, waiting for a sign to keep going. the sign stumbled right where you wanted it most. his lips met yours in a careful kiss, capturing this moment for all of eternity. his guilt wasn’t so overwhelming now.

[moonlightsmusee-blog]

Crash Dummy

pairings: best friend! Eddie Munson X fem! reader

summary: Eddie comes to your aid; always

cw: (small) car accident, mentions of blood. use of some slightly cringe but cute nicknames. some hurt, a lot of comfort.

word count: 8.3k (i tried to stop myself)

———

There weren't many redeeming qualities when it came to Hawkins. Not in your opinion anyways. But the one thing that always made the bleak small town just a bit better, was autumn. A warm orange hue lingering in the sky that always seemed to glow around this time of year. A gentle wind sending unkempt brown and red leaves swirling lightly through the air. If you drove out past the farms, you'd see rows and rows of pumpkins ripening to perfection. Like they were all just waiting to be gutted for carving.

You always appreciated the small town a bit more when autumn rolled through. A certain calmness blanketed over like a cozy hug. All warm sweaters and hot spiced drinks that left a sweet aroma sticking to the air.

The atmosphere made the near twenty minute drive towards Forest Hills trailer park all the worthwhile. Windows down while one of your cassettes played a themed witchy mix of songs. Courtesy of Eddie's handiwork, since he had helped you put it together.

Of course he had grimaced and rolled his eyes with each Stevie Nicks or Bowie song you'd requested be added. Griping on about you having "dated" tastes. You'd argued that music from the couple prior decades was hardly dated, while he continually reminded you to listen to his "best of" metal mix he had made you. He knew, of course, that his endless crusade to turn you into a leather wearing, headbanging, metalhead was a losing battle. Mainly because he knew that wasn't you.

You with your giant comfy sweaters and glasses that were too big for your face. You who in the nearly ten years of friendship, still only spoke when spoken to. Not because you were necessarily shy, but you had always been under the impression that you should only ever speak when there's something worthy of saying. That not every single thought was worth a breath unless it meant something to you or anyone hearing it. You were calculated and well thought out. Never cold or off putting, or even mean. Just quiet.

And to someone like Eddie, who was the polar opposite, each soft spoken sentence you uttered was scripture. He'd ramble on about a few dozen things at a time, bouncing from story to story all within a single breath. You'd sit there, usually occupying yourself by re-sewing the patches onto his vest for him, or even patching up holes in his pants. Every now and then he'd slow down, thinking maybe he'd lost you in his ever chugging train of thought. But you'd push your glasses up your nose bridge and give a small hum of understanding, letting him know you were in fact still listening. When he finally found an end to his babbling, you would always spout out an all too wise statement of advice. Leaving him wondering how full your brain actually was.

"About time you decided to show up, mouse." Eddie breathed out a puff of smoke as he sat on the porch of the trailer. He tried his best to seem like he hadn't been waiting on your arrival, but the look of relief on his face said otherwise.

"I took the back roads." You answered softly as you walked up the couple steps to meet him where he sat. Plucking the lit cigarette from his fingers and extinguishing it under your boot.

"I wasn't done with that, you know?" He huffed out a laugh, not resisting as you stubbed it out.

"They're terrible for you, and you know it." You smoothly rebuttal, swinging open the screen door and gesturing him inside.

"Whatever you say, mousetrap." He knew better than to argue, not wanting to be on the receiving end of one of your scolding glares.

Eddie had come to understand the fundamentals of who you were. Quietness being the biggest one. When he had first met you, you would hardly meet his eye. You'd sat at the other end of the Hellfire table at lunch one day at the beginning of your freshman year of high school. By then he was a junior and all the alarm bells in his mind were blaring the second he took a look at you. Sitting alone, nose deep in some gothic romance book, while you snacked on a bag of banana chips. A lost sheep. That's exactly what he had assumed.

"Hi, my name's Eddie." He had stopped you after school by your locker, extending his hand for you to shake.

You didn't say anything back as you gave him a once over and gently shook his hand. Your gaze wasn't judgmental, which surprised him, but more so inquisitive. Your handshake was soft enough that he feared he may break your hand if he shook it too hard.

"Don't you have a name?" He offered a soft smile down to you once you slid your hand out of his.

He could barely make out the syllables of your name as you whispered them, needing to ask you to repeat yourself for him to make sure he heard you correctly.

"Well, you're as quiet as a mouse, aren't you?" He had joked, earning a small puff of laughter from your nose. The corners of your mouth ticking up in a barely noticeable smile.

"Listen, I saw you today at lunch, and I wanted to formally invite you to join me and my friends tomorrow after school. We're in this club, Hellfire. It's a D&D club." He handed over a handmade, sort of, flyer. All hand drawn sketches that said where they'd be meeting and what time.

"Uh, that's Dungeons and Dragons." He explained further when you didn't respond.

"I'm sort of like the club leader. Always looking out for new recruits. So if you're interested, or even just want to check out a session…" He trailed off, furrowing he eyebrows just a bit when you still remained silent. Thinking, maybe you'd rather be left alone.

"… Thanks." You mumbled, fixing the strap to your bag on your shoulder and nodding before stepping around him towards the exit. Leaving Eddie standing there a bit confused and not very hopeful on your attendance.

So when the doors of the cramped theatre room opened the next day, with you walking through them, he grinned like madman.

"Hey there mouse. Didn't think you'd show."

"Was I uninvited?" Your voice only sounded louder now because of the silence in the room. Still so soft but a firmness of confidence in it.

"No, of course not. Come on, I saved you a seat right next to me." He patted the chair next to his makeshift throne where his divider had already been set up and ready for the session.

It didn't take Eddie long to figure out that even though getting you to speak sometimes felt like pulling teeth, you weren't lost at all. You were smart, smarter than he believed he would ever be. Sure, maybe you had been a little sheltered, but even back then at only 14, you seemed to be one of the only people he knew that actually had a chance of getting the hell out of this town.

Now that you both were in your early twenties (with him nearing his mid twenties, but don't remind him of that) he had really grown to understand you. Settling into an easy and comfortable friendship. Him all fast and loud, overly dramatic and crass at the worst of times, but still utterly hilarious and kind. You, observant and still, with a quick and smart wit that only could be challenged by him. An unlikely pair from the outside looking in, but a deep sense of understanding and care, built strong like a tether between the both of you. Never needing to be spoken, but still tectonic and important to you both.

"I can't stay too late, I've got an 8 a.m. tomorrow." You let out a sigh of relief as you settle into the worn cushions of the couch.

"What? It's movie night. I thought that was sacred." He feigns offense as he hands over a can of soda, plopping down next to you.

"I've got a psychology exam tomorrow." You roll your eyes as you pop the tab on the can.

"My bed's always open." He playfully squeezes your knee.

"Ugh, quit." You cringe as you push his hand away, a slight buzz left behind by his fingers. A feeling you choose not to acknowledge as it sits in your chest.

"Where are the guys?"

"They should be on their way, Gareth said him and Jeff would pick up Dustin and Mike."

"hmm." You hum and nod in understanding, noticing a book on the coffee table that you'd never seen before. Some sort of photo album, the edges look somewhat charred, like they'd been slightly burned. Carefully picking it up and putting it on your lap, you notice the name Edward printed on the cover of it.

"Where have you been hiding this?" You ask while cautiously peeling open the book, being met by a picture of a baby, mid yawn, in a hospital bassinet.

"Shit, I forgot to put that away…" Eddie tries to gently pull the picture album off your lap, but you're already looking through it.

"I don't think I've ever seen you as a baby before. Actually, I don't think I've seen you before the age of sixteen." You lightly laugh as you mindfully turn each page. Each page is filled with a scarce number of photos of him as a baby.

"Mouse, c'mon." He huffs slightly, a light blush setting over his features as you scan through the pictures.

"Shut up, you were adorable, look." You point to a picture of toddler Eddie, wearing a pair of blue denim overalls with an embroidered Winnie the Pooh on the front, clutching a blue blanket in his small fists. The short, dark curls on his head still unruly just like they are to this day.

"I look like a square." He scoffs lightly.

"You can't be more than three, Eds."

"Doesn't mean I need to look like I belong in the Brady Bunch."

"I assume the outfits were your mom's doing." You speak softer when you bring up his mom. It wasn't that Eddie never wanted to talk about his mom, but he hated the ache it left in his chest every time he did. The older he got the more he had worried he would slowly lose the limited memories he had with her, hence the trip down memory lane with the photo album.

"She liked when I wore blue. A little on the nose for a boy, but it's not like I could fight her on it." He shrugs his shoulders, settling down a bit beside you as you flip the page.

The next two photos are of him and his mom. One where they're both looking into the camera, side by side, cheek to cheek and grinning. The more you stare at the both of them, the more you realize just how similar they look. Sure, Eddie inherited his handsome looks from his father, but the way him and his mother's eyes both pull as they grin wide enough, and how one side of each of their mouths ticks up just a bit higher, it's easy to see exactly where Eddie's smile comes from.

"You two look almost identical…" You say, almost in awe of the realization.

"Wayne always said I got lucky that I look more like her than my dad." He mutters quietly, staring down at the photos along with you.

"I think that is very lucky." You agree looking over at him, a soft, melancholic look slowly taking over his face. He does his best to avoid your gaze, hating the way he always weakens under your stare. The way his chest opens up and he can't help but want to bare his soul and leave it at your feet. A feeling, he's come to realize, only happens with you.

"Have you heard from him? Your dad, I mean." The question is cautiously asked, not wanting to offend Eddie or upset him.

"Nope. And I don't ever want to again." He shakes his head.

"And you have no idea where he is?" You push a bit.

You knew what happened, about the big "job" his dad had come back to offer him. It was what got Eddie arrested back in high school, while his dad ran off and never even bothered to worry about what happened to his only son. It caused Eddie to lose out on his shot at a record deal in Los Angeles and what led him to working with Refer Rick. It had happened the same year you two met. Eddie found it shocking when you stuck around, but it wasn't like you had a gaggle of friends other than him and the rest of Hellfire.

Nowadays he makes his money by working at the auto shop in town. Wayne was friends with the owner and luckily was able to nail down the job for him. It wasn't making him millions, but it was enough for the bills and for him to be able to go out with you and your friends on his days off.

"I don't know, and I don't care." He answers, his voice carries just a bit of firmness.

"That's what you always say." You reply, closing the album and handing it over to him.

"I don't want to talk about it, mouse." He doesn't mean to sound hostile, especially not to you, but he hates thinking or even acknowledging the man's existence. After all the waiting around, day after day, for him to come back home, having to move in with Wayne, it had all been so emotionally draining on him. When he decided, once more, to trust his father and take him at his word, he was ultimately let down again.

It wasn't like Eddie expected the world from Alan, hell he barely expected the man to remember he even had a son, but his entire future had been riding on that one last chance. Everything he had only ever dared to dream about slipped right through his guitar-calloused fingertips. And to top it all off, he was the one that took the fall for all of it. He hated that man, and no matter what, he always would.

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry I asked." You held up your hands in defeat.

"It's just," He sighs, his shoulders slumping some as he releases the tension. "I can't stand him and I hope he never shows his face around here again, because if he does I swear to God I'll…"

"Eds, I get it. I know he's a pathetic excuse for a human, you don't have to convince me of that. I only ask because I worry about you, that's all."

"You worry about me?" Eddie lightens up a bit, smirking over at you and leaning over towards you more.

"Not like that-"

"Aww, my mousey girl." He playfully coos, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. "I knew you had a heart somewhere in there."

"Get off me, you giant oaf." You struggle and squirm to try and get out of his grasp, but the more you wriggle the tighter his grip gets

Eddie was always the more affectionate type. Always hugging and squeezing and hand holding. You did your best to try and act as if none of it bothered you. As if the touch of his slightly rough skin against yours didn't immediately send a swarm of goose bumps prickling your body. Each too long hug or arm around your shoulder creating a warm feeling in the hollow of your chest, which sends the blood pumping to your ears, and raising a steady thump thump of your heart. It wasn't easy, avoiding all of the overwhelming feelings that he brought out, but the longer time went on the better you got at hiding it all.

In the beginning, you had thought he was a little all over the place. An amalgamation of D&D facts, cheap beer, and loud guitar playing. It had never seemed like something that would wrap around you and lasso you in. He never seemed like the type. But it was almost all of a sudden when all these feelings began to choke you. That rope was just pulling and pulling almost like it was trying to suffocate you. Maybe there would be a day where it all would come to light, a day where emotions finally were too much that you literally choked on them on their way out of your mouth. But you'd be damned, because today was not that day.

"My little mousetrap, you just love me so much, don't you?" He continues to tease, his hold on you only getting tighter and more restrictive by the second.

"God, Eddie, get off me. You're crushing my lungs." You do your best to try and push him off.

He couldn't help himself, really. Every time he got you in his arms, there was always something inside him screaming to keep you there. Like some magnetic pull, or some cheesy string-tied fate scenario. He never knew what to call it. He didn't even know if there were any words that had enough meaning to convey it all. Love, maybe? But even that didn't seem right. But then again, it did. All he knew was that if he had to only choose one person to be by him forever, and even for whatever came after that, it would be you. If everything came crashing down around you both at this very second, he'd be perfectly fine with ending it all like this, with you right there with him.

Of course, Eddie would never say that all out loud. No, he's too afraid of scaring you off. Fearing that there will be a time where you get one real good look at him. A look where you saw everything from the scared, abandoned little boy who just wanted his mother back, to the man that still had wild dreams and fantasies of picking up everything and getting as far away from this town as possible. That all of it, all of him would be too much for you.

"Oh, I'm sorry are we interrupting something?" Gareth's teasing tone comes along with him and Jeff walking into the trailer. Mike and Dustin both following behind.

"No."

"Yes."

Your denial and Eddie's agreement overlap as they all walk in, making themselves comfortable in Eddie's living room. You already feel warm just from the playful tight-armed hug, but now with your friends watchful eyes, you can feel that heat creeping its way up your neck and onto your face. Eddie eases up his embrace, letting go, only to throw an arm around your shoulders and pull you into his side. Deciding that it's better not to fight him on it, you allow him to do so as you settle back against the couch.

"Please continue, don't let us ruin your fun." Dustin joins in on the teasing, earning a laugh from Mike.

"Up yours Henderson, don't be jealous." Eddie subconsciously tightens his arm that's around you, almost protectively.

"Oh please, it's about time you two stop beating around the bush anyways." Gareth scoffs out a laugh as he all but throws himself into the La-Z-Boy.

"Beating around what bush?" You ask him, your voice much more pointed.

"The bush where the two of you hide how in denial you are." Gareth quips back, earning an unimpressed scoff from you now.

"Don't you boys get tired of always using your imagination?"

"No imagination needed to see what's in front of our eyes." Mike adds in.

"Alright, that's enough. All of you." Eddie tries to shut them all up, feeling the way your frame gets more tense by the second. "Did you assholes bring the movies with you, or are you just here to talk shit all night?"

Pretty quickly the topic of conversation moves off the two of you and onto which movie they should put on first, after having rented several horror movies. Your mind stuck onto the idea that most of your friends seem to think that there's something more between you and Eddie. The idea that Eddie might actually know about all these harboured emotions makes your stomach churn with nausea. Making it difficult to focus on anything going on on the TV screen as each movie plays.

Eddie's arm remains around you for the remainder of the night. He notices you flinch just slightly each time his thumb strokes your shoulder, the movement was unconsciously done, and the slight jolt from you makes him freeze each time he does it. He hopes that the teasing from your friends doesn't cause you to retreat from him. After being friends for so long, losing you to something as silly as a crush would devastate him.

By the time the clock above the TV reads 11:30, Eddie's arm around you feels like an anchor. Pulling you down, keeping you in place beside him, and entirely too heavy.

"I should really get going." You whisper over to him, not wanting to draw too much attention to yourself.

"But it's just starting to get good." Eddie turns his head down to you almost too quickly, immediately wanting to fight for you to stay.

"I know, but my exam, remember?" You softly remind him, trying your best not to get distracted by the soft glow of his features in the light of the TV.

"Yeah, alright. I'll walk you out." He sighs, softly squeezing your upper arm before removing it.

The two of you slip out the front door of the trailer, the other four boys too engrossed by what's playing on the screen to even bother to look back. The night air has dropped significantly compared to the soft wind from the earlier afternoon. A crisp feeling arrived that brings a soft reddening to the tip of your nose.

"You're sure you don't want to stay? My offer about my bed still stands. Sans me, of course." Eddie does his best to try and convince you not to leave. The way he always does.

"I will not banish you to the couch just so I can stay a bit longer." You chuckle softly at the idea.

"It's no problem, really."

"Eds, I'm going home, to sleep in my own bed. I'll call you tomorrow after my exam. Are you going to be at the shop?" You ask as you both stop in front of your car.

"Yeah, I have a shift in the morning."

"Okay, then I'll call the shop around one, I can bring you lunch." You offer.

"You'll look for any excuse to see me." He smirks teasingly, poking your side gently.

"Says the man that's begging me to sleep in his bed." You swat his hand away, not being able to fight the small smile off your face.

"Hey I'm just trying to be a gentleman. Gotta make sure my mouse is well taken care of." He chuckles, putting his hands up in defeat.

His mouse. The implications aren't lost on you as the words come out of his mouth. They almost make you feel weak in the knees just from the thought of being his. That small sense of nausea slowly makes itself known again, a feeling like something is crawling its way up into your throat and trying to escape.

"Yeah, whatever." You scoff out a small laugh and roll your eyes. Hoping to whatever higher power out there that he can't read your mind.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Eds."

"Goodnight mouse. Get home safe, alright?" He says gently pulling you towards him into a soft hug.

He couldn't stop himself from doing it. Gently slipping your hand into his and pulling you forward into his chest. Making sure every movement was soft enough not to frighten you, when all he actually wanted to do was bury himself against you. Burrow his way into your neck with his face and deeply inhale until all he could breathe was you.

"I'll be fine, you worry too much." You answer, the sound muffled a bit against his chest, your own arms wrapping around him for a moment.

"Can't help it." He murmurs against the top of your head, holding you there for a few moments more until you both reluctantly pull away.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be counting the minutes." He jokes as you get settled into the drivers seat and begin to back out onto the road. He watches as you laugh and wave once more before all he can see is your tail lights receding in the distance.

"So… did you lay one on her?" Mike jokes the moment Eddie walks back into the trailer.

"Shut up, Wheeler." Eddie groans as he throws himself back onto the couch, almost sulkingly so, now that you've left.

"You know she won't stick around forever? She's going places. Got things going for her." Jeff points out.

"Of course I know that." Eddie grumbles. "Why do you think I've never done anything about it? Tie her down to this place that she's clearly way too good for."

"Yeah, but are you only avoiding it because you're scared she knows she's way too good for you?" Dustin counters.

Eddie doesn't feel the need to answer aloud, it's obvious that yes, he's afraid the moment you figure him all out you'll think he's too much. Too broken or flawed or some other entirely sad and pathetic thing. That you'll pity him for the rest of your life. He huffs out a soft grunt at the thought, standing from the couch to go find a beer in the fridge.

The drive back towards the town center seems longer now. Trying your best to focus on the road instead of how much you would've rather stayed at Eddie's tonight. There weren't too many times that you'd slept over, you could count each instance on one hand. Long nights. involving either too much cheap wine on your part, or getting stoned past your limit. Leaving you with no excuse but to crash on his couch, waking up to one of Wayne's old hangover cures and a breakfast Eddie tried his best not to burn.

The most recent incident had been one that nearly killed you from embarrassment alone. Eddie had brought you back to the trailer after a party at Steve's house. Having to practically drag you up the front steps, caused by the full bottle of wine you had drank. You had needed the unwinding. The new semester had just begun and trying to get through school and work at the same time was no easy feat for anyone. So what was so wrong with a few glasses?

"Quit pullin' me." Eddie noticed your voice was slurring even more than when he had finally convinced you to leave the party.

"I'm not pulling, mouse. M'trying to get you inside." He huffed out a chuckle at your attitude, doing his best to guide you up the couple steps and onto the porch of the trailer.

"You are pullin'." You grumble back, nearly tripping over one of the lifted wooden boards as you get to the door.

"Jesus H Christ, stay still for one second." He swiftly catches you, hands reaching out to steady you so you don't completely lose your balance.

"M'trying." You softly huff back, leaning yourself against the cool metal of the trailer while he unlocks the door.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed."

"No, not yet. It's not even late yet."

"It's three in the morning."

"Who are you? Father time?" Your words sound even slower now as you lean your head back, closing your eyes to try and steady yourself.

"Mouse, c'mon let's just go inside…" Eddie does his best to try and coax you along, sounding a little more concerned as he watches you try and get your bearings.

"Just… hold on… I don't… feel…." Your words get cut off as your body betrays you, nearly jumping as you push yourself forward to lean over the wooden railing of the porch, your body expelling everything that was previously in your stomach.

"Shit!" Eddie cursed, and just as quick he was grabbing your hair from in front of your face and holding it up for you.

"…christ." He huffed out a sigh, gently rubbing your back with one hand as he stood behind you.

"M'sorry… m'sorry, Eds." You managed an apology between heaving.

"It's alright… don't worry… it's okay…" He did his best to calm you as he rubbed your back.

The memory makes you cringe with embarrassment, remembering just how sick you had gotten. So much so that you cried when Eddie dragged you to his bed moments after it happened. That night he did take pity on you and gave you his bed while he braved the couch in the living room.

Without warning there's a loud pop sound from right outside your car. The near deafening noise immediately makes your chest tighten in fear. The back tire literally imploding on itself, making the entire car swerve sideways. You take your foot off the gas, trying to keep your mind right as you quickly turn the wheel away from the direction of any oncoming cars. Doing your best to hit the brake as hard as you can, but the car is accelerating too fast for you to even be in control. As you're straightening out the wheel, there's no way of avoiding veering off the road and into a ditch. Your front bumper hits the ridge, causing your entire body to be thrown forward and your head to bounce off the steering wheel.

"Eddie! You're out of beer!" Gareth shouts over his shoulder as he digs through the refridgerator.

"Yeah because you drank it all." Eddie grumbles back to him, still sitting in a self-pitying mood since you left nearly thirty minutes ago.

"Jeff! Let's go for a beer run."

"No, I'll go… I'm out of cigs anyways." Eddie groans as he stands from the couch to slip his leather jacket on.

"Bring me back a 3 Musketeers! And a better attitude for you!" Dustin chimes in. Eddie just waves him off as he slinks his way out of the trailer and into the brisk night air.

The air is cold as he drives down the back road towards the convenient store, his last cigarette between his lips as his music blares through the vans speakers. He thinks maybe if the music is loud enough the lingering thoughts of you will quiet down. It isn't until he sees not only Hopper's sheriff truck pulled off on the side of the road, but he's being met with officer Callahan standing in the middle of the road stopping any oncoming cars. Once he slows to stop, officer Powell is walking up to his window.

"Hope you're not out here looking to cause any trouble, Munson." Powell firmly speaks, a tone Eddie was used to coming from any type of authoritive figure.

"Well you know me, Powell, trouble just seems to follow me wherever I go." Eddie chuckles, blowing a stream of smoke out in the mans direction.

"That why you're out here on the back roads past midnight?" The man begins to question him.

"Look, I'm just trying to get another pack of cigs and a drink. I've got company waiting at home." Eddie huffs, his eyes looking towards where the two police cars are.

"What happened here?" He asks curiously, wondering why they're stopped here anyways.

"Girl had a blowout on her back tire, lost control and swerved into the ditch. Got a pretty nasty cut on her head from the impact." Powell explains.

"Girl?" Eddie's stomach instantly churns at the explanation, his eyes immediately trying to focus on the back half of the car that's sticking out of the ditch as his heart begins to race. Before he can even focus enough to half recognize it as your car, he's putting the van in park there in the middle of the road and jumping out, not bothering to even turn it off.

"Hey! Munson! Get back in the van!" Powell tries to hold him off, but it just falls on deaf ears as Eddie pushes past him towards the crashed car.

"Mouse?!" Eddie calls out for you without even needing to see you, a determined look set on his face even as the officer attempts to tug him away.

"MOUSE?!" His voice gets louder but more shaky as he gets close enough to see it is in fact your car, with no one inside it. He shouts out your name this time, ignoring the way he feels a firmer pull on his jacket from officer Powell. He's beginning to panic the longer he can't see you, his mind reeling towards the worst case scenario.

"Let him go, Powell." Hopper chimes in now, walking out from around the back of his truck. Powell reluctantly backs off once ordered to do so.

"Where is she?" Eddie stomps over to Hopper, a scowl already set onto his face as he walks around the taller man towards the back of his truck. He can see officer Callahan now standing there at the bed of the truck, speaking to someone who is sitting on the edge of the truckbed.

"Mouse?" Eddie's voice gets softer as he approaches, coming in-between you and the lanky officer now that he's close enough.

"Eddie?" You shakily ask as you look up at him, not sure if its actually him or a hallucination brought on by how hard you've hit your head.

"Jesus christ… what happened?" Eddie's cold hands gently reach forward to cradle your face, his thumb reaching up to your eyebrow to wipe off some of the stray droplets of blood there. He finally lets out a sound of relief now that he's got you in his sight, looking you over to make sure you're completely in one piece.

"I dunno… my tire just… exploded." You do your best to explain what's happened, the sound of your voice coming out so soft it reminds Eddie of a time when the two of you had just met.

You feel shaky, your chest feeling like it's vibrating with each deep breath you take. Eyes glistening with unshed tears from the way that you were jostled around. You can feel an ache in your head that's just growing by the second, no doubt from the impact of hitting it against the steering wheel. A small gash present now as the blood slowly trickles down the side of your face.

Without a second thought, Eddie's taking a step closer to pull you into his chest, tucking you under his chin, wanting to shield you from the pain of it all. He reminds himself not to tighten his grip too much, not wanting to add to the stress or discomfort. With both arms wrapped around you, he lets one hand slowly crawl its way up to the back of your head, gently carding his fingers through your hair.

You let out a shaky sigh as he tucks you into his chest. The steady sound of his heart rate helping guide your own back down. You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, grateful for the air of solace you're always able to find in him.

"Are you okay? Nothing feels broken or anything like that?" Eddie's voice is uncharacteristically soft as he pulls back just enough to look down at your face.

"No, nothing like that. Just got a bit freaked out, that's all." You weakly answer, shaky hands clinging to his white shirt now that you're close enough.

"I… I don't know what to do. Hospital? Should I take you to the hospital? You could have a concussion. Do you feel dizzy? O-or sick? Like do you feel like you're gonna puke?" Eddie begins to ramble as he tries to figure out what the first thing to do is. His mind feeling like one of those crime boards with all the criss-crossed red string. Wanting nothing more than to comfort and care for you.

"Slow down, you're making it hurt more." You half joke with him. Hoping it will ease him a bit, his frantic need to help making your head pound slightly.

"I don't feel sick or nauseous or anything like that. My head just really fuckin' hurts."

"Alright… how about I drive you home then? That's something I could do." He fumbles a bit as he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the bandana that is always there. Tentatively, he reaches up to gently wipe the slow trickle of blood on your forehead.

"Yeah… I'd really appreciate it." You wince slightly at the soft sting of the fabric, feeling a sense of relief as Eddie offers you the ride home.

Once he's gotten you settled into the passenger seat of the van, Eddie manages to convince Hopper to tow your car to the auto shop he works at; promising to take a look at the damages himself for you. He practically yells down the pay phone that he stopped at to call the guys back at the trailer with. Threatening Dustin when he teases him about being your knight in shining armor. And managing to follow every street law humanly possible as he drives the rest of the way to your apartment that's just north of Main Street.

"You know, I never knew you were capable of driving the speed limit, let alone going nearly 15 under." You joke slightly, noting the way the van is moving at a snails pace.

"I just don't want you to get all shook up… any more than you already are." He says, slowing even more as he goes over a speed bump and narrowly avoiding the curb as he turns into the lot of your apartment.

Without too much convincing, he guides you out of the van and up to your apartment, wanting to get you inside. He can't remember if he's ever seen you hurt like this before. Maybe a scraped knee or a bruise, but nothing that would ever bring on as much distress as this. Even if you weren't outwardly showing it, he knew you were shaken by the small accident. The way your hands trembled a bit as you unlocked the door, and how you let out a huge breath of relief as you entered. There was a glossy look in your eye that he had never seen before, one he could only assume was caused by the sudden fear and anxiety. What he did know is that he would do absolutely anything possible to get you to feel at ease again. He hated the way his chest ached as he watched you, or how badly he wanted to pull you towards his chest and keep you there until you felt better.

"Do you, uhh… how are you feeling?" He was never really good at the comforting part.

"Better now that I'm home. I'm glad you got there when you did. Thanks for bringing me." You thank him, the both of you moving into the small living area to sit on the couch.

"You don't need to thank me, I'm just… you know… glad that you're okay." He reaches out to gently rub your hand with his.

For a few moments that's all there is, you and him sat there together while he offers up a quiet comfort. You feel less shaky now that you're in your own space, grateful that he's here with you and you aren't alone and dwelling.

"Why don't we get you cleaned up a bit? That way you can get to bed and rest." He suggests, watching the far off look you have, like you're lost in your own thoughts.

"Yeah… yeah I definitely need to." You sigh softly as you peel yourself off the couch and away from his side towards the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink.

"Here, let me do it." Eddie's already taking the anti-septic and bandaids from your hands before you can even argue, following you into the space and looking for a wash cloth to run under warm water.

You rest your back against the counter while he wets the cloth, watching the way his face sets in determination. A soft frowline between his brows as he wrings out the wet cloth and begins to gently dab away the now dried blood from your forehead. It's a form of care you're not used to from him. The undivided attention and gentleness creating a warm almost sticky-sweet feeling in the pit of your stomach. His touch is so light, almost like he's afraid you'll shatter beneath it if he's not cautious enough. You allow yourself the moment to soak it in. Letting your mind focus on the way he cleans the wound and bandages it for you, without even needing to be asked. Like it was second nature for him to do all of it just for you.

If you weren't thoughtful enough, it was easy to get lost in those delusions. The ones where you let yourself think about more than just a friendship with him. How moments where this sacharrine feeling in your chest were constant and yours to keep between each other. Because in those moments you would be allowed to not only relish in this feeling, but to ask for more of it. To be able to reach out for him and beg for any ounce more of affection, not even needing to use words as you clung to him however you wanted. Those were the delusions you could never allow yourself to give into, because the hope would end up crushing you; more than any harboured emotions already were.

"Alright… that should be good for now. You'll need to clean and re-bandage it in the morning, that way it can heal up, alright?" Eddie's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into reality once he's got the ati-septic and bandage on you.

"Yeah, okay… thanks." You give him a nod of understanding while he cleans up the first aid supplies. You watch for a few moments of silence, attempting to get a grasp on your own emotions before that suffocating feeling finds itself in the back of your throat once more.

"I think I'm gonna make some tea… do you want some?" Really you were trying to find any excuse to get him to stay longer, not wanting to have to say that aloud.

"I dunno, it's already gonna be one. I should get out of your way; let you get some sleep." Eddie does his best to try and find a way out.

The longer he stays, the more he can't fight back the feeling of protection. Sure there's no current danger, but that didn't stop the way all he could think about was how visibly shaken you had looked when he first got to you. He was afraid of slipping up, saying something he definitely meant, but rather not have you hear. Like how all he was thinking about was holding you until you fell asleep in his arms. Maybe he'd force himself awake all night just to watch each rise and fall of your chest, so he knew you were safe and out of harm's way.

"Well… I was gonna ask…" You take a soft, shuddering, breath. Willing the words out of your mouth.

"Do you think… if it's not too much to ask… maybe you could stay tonight? Here. With me."

The words sound like a bomb going off in his ears. Leaving a high pitched ringing sound behind. He swallows softly as he tries to piece words together in his mind, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as his palms begin to sweat slightly from nerves.

"Uh… yeah, sure. I mean, of course I can. If that's what you want." He does his best not to stumble over all his words as he answers. Hoping to whatever higher power there was that this wasn't a dream.

"I just, don't really wanna be alone tonight." You shrug your shoulders a bit to try and seem somewhat casual. Even though the admission makes you feel practically transparent.

"Don't worry mouse, I understand." Eddie nods, taking a breath to prepare himself for the rest of the night with you.

You rummage through just about every single one of your drawers in order to find something for Eddie to change into for the night. Settling on an old pair of sweat pants you hardly remember buying, and a plain black shirt. Changing yourself out of your clothes and into a pair of your own pajamas, deciding to trash the shirt you were wearing instead of fighting out the few blood stains on it. The both of you set up camp on the sofa for the time being. Making a whole pot of tea for the both of you to share while quietly watching the Twilight Zone marathon you found when flipping through channels.

This part was always the easiest. Being able to just sit together and forget about everything else around you both. Laughing at the way Eddie jokes about the show actually being a documentary and not just science fiction. More than a few times he'll say how he needs to be taking notes for his new campaigns he creates.

When it was only the two of you together like this, it always seemed like the most natural state for the both of you. His arm draped lazily on the back of the couch, just barely around your shoulders, as heavy eyelids watch whatever episode plays next. Your head falling to the side, right under his chin. He tenses slightly, not from discomfort, but from the way he holds his breath after his body betrays him and he lets out a sigh of pleasure as you rest against him. The small noise gives you a small boost of confidence as you tuck yourself into his side more, reaching one arm over his torso in a soft cuddle. The muscles in his abdomen slightly tighten from the touch as you ease yourself against him more. The action mirroring the feeling of your heart in your own chest. It's less than ten minutes more when your eyes begin to flutter as you fight to stay awake a little while longer, wanting to stay just like this.

"Why don't we get you to bed, hm?" Eddie's soft voice whispers against the top of your head, sending a warm tingle down your spine.

"Will you lay with me?" Your voice is nearly inaudible as you whisper the request, any filter in your brain now gone from becoming overwhelmed with tiredness.

"Sure thing, sweetheart." He can't fight back the grin off his face as he hears you ask for more affection.

His own heart skips a beat as he guides you towards your bedroom and under the covers. He'd only slept next to you a handful of times. Most of them are unremembered from being so drunk or high on his part. This was completely different, and the closest thing to domestic he had ever come to. That idea alone makes him feel entirely too giddy for his own good. The way you're practically asleep as you reach over to turn out the last of the light, flipping onto your stomach and moving over towards him. It all feels like a dream he's had before. He gets a moment of deja vu when your head comes to rest against his chest, his own arms wrapping you in a gentle embrace, while one of his hands buries itself in your hair and slowly begins carding through each tendril.

"Thank you, you know… for everything." Your voice is so soft and weak that Eddie barely hears you, making him want to laugh as he remembers how often he used to have to strain just to hear you in the earlier days of your friendship.

"Quit, you don't need to thank me. It's what I'm here for." He quietly replies, a soft smile playing at your mouth as you rest against him. The steady sound of his heart beat lulling you further and further towards sleep.

"I just don't want you to feel like you need to take care of me or anything."

"I told you, I always gotta make sure my mouse is well taken care of." He softly teases, pulling a light, sleepy, chuckle from your throat.

"Love you, Eds." The words are out barely in time to beat your sleep. They're meant to be platonic and thankful, but maybe the way you sound so certain, even in sleep, makes them all the more real and intense.

"Love you too, sweetheart." He whispers, his entire body feeling like it's floating just from the three words alone.

He's not sure if you mean more than you say, and he may never know just exactly how full your brain is, but he doesn't care when he gets moments like these. Times where he gets to hold you as close as he wants and lay awake all night watching you breathe. That's what makes it all worthwhile to him. Because no matter how much he loved you, or how terrified he was to even think that, he knew what the two of you shared transcended any unsaid thoughts and emotions. And he'd fight his way through it all to end up in this bliss as many times as need be. No matter what it took.

———

love the idea of a lovesick Eddie <3 thanks so much for reading. this is my first public fic so sorry if its a hard read for anyone. i would love it if you could like or reblog.

[shiiro-arts]

This is all on you

[unseenacademic]

Midnight Mass + Text Posts (10/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

[letheanlake81]

Don't care if the whole world is burning. I just love happy endings.