INTERSEX IS NOT A GENDER. A lot of people are confused by this. A lot of people also don't know the difference between Gender and Sex. Your Sex is what's in your pants... y'know what privates you were born with? Biologically you cannot change your sex. Yes you can have a sex change but you will never be able to change your sex completely. Now gender on the other hand is NOT what you were born with. Gender is what YOU identify as. So let's say I'm a trans gender man (I am) my biological sex is female yes but the gender I assign myself and identify myself with is male. I've seen so many Cis guys say "I don't identify as anything but what's in my pants!" Or "I'm just a man I don't need that pronoun stuff!" Well don't I have some news for you....Yes your biological sex is Male and choosing to accept this fact that you're "just a man" you're CHOOSING to align and assign yourself with your biological sex which ultimately means yes you're saying that your sex is male and your gender is male as well. It's so funny when a Cis guy thinks saying that his sex is male, his gender is male and that his pronouns are he/him automatically makes him apart of the lgbtq community or that makes him gay. Sorry bud pronouns, gender identity, and biological sex have been around for centuries, and will always be around for centuries nothing's gonna change that. With this being said you really only ever find out your intersex by looking at your chromosomes. Being intersex can also affect the genitalia making it look more male but having female features or looking more female and having slightly male features or looking like both. Yes you can identify as a male and a female if you are intersex but that is your biological sex. Not your gender. So yes being intersex you can identify as non-binary or as male or as female or as male and female it really doesn't matter. But I've seen a lot of people on here think that you can just choose to be intersex and that is just not true.
I will revive this fandom one unhinged post after another like delivering a feast of soft pretzels 🥨 to starving metal musicians on the run in protest of capitalist agricultural exploitation of small businesses in rural municipalities.
I was looking for the Author who wrote a Story that was called 'Death in Family' or something. Reader could breathe on Pandora she was the first Daughter of Jake and Neytiri (not related to blood) and is during the time of 'Way of Water' stayed at the Omaticaya Clan. She had a side Love Story with Tarsem. My Problem now is i can't find the Author, not even the Story. Please help me and or if you have any Information about what happened to the Story/Author, please let me know. Thank you for your Time and Help 💕🩵💙🦋
Update!
Her Account got deleted and she has a new. Check it out she is really one of the best Authors on Tumblr! She's back!!!
@jsooly
AND IT'S BEEN GONE AGAIN TUMBLR WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM??
A musician with a heart that sings and an admirer who wishes to see his songbird thrive. Two beings in different worlds get caught up in each other when someone threatens to steal his songbird's spotlight. Loving Lestat isn't simple, and your life will never be the same again. What is eternity without chaos?
{Masterlist}
{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}
Chapter Fourteen - A promise made
It’s midnight in the park. You're sitting on a bench with Lestat. His arm is draped around the back, hovering next to you. You're both watching a couple argue across the square.
“Do you think we'll ever argue like that?” You ask.
“Non.”
You look at him. He was confident in his answer. It made you smile. He sounded so sure of how things will play out for you both. Though you have to wonder, you have all of eternity with this man, surely you'll fall out at some point.
Lestat brushes your arm with his fingers and you smile, turning back to the couple. The young woman hits her partner with her purse and storms off. You watch the man look around, though he doesn't notice you both across the way, and then hurry after her.
“Let's go.”
You rise with Lestat and take off in the direction they both went off to. You hold his hand, seemingly just another couple out late at night.
You're wearing an outfit Lestat bought for you. From the hat to the shoes, he had gifted you everything. You felt happy.
The couple are still storming off down the road. The man is shouting for his lover.
“Chrissy! Come back!”
The woman does not come back. The man picks up his face and chases after her. You let go of Lestat's hand as you both also pick up the pace.
Lestat goes on ahead, leaving you to deal with the gentleman. The young man loses sight of his lover as he turns the corner, a sign that Lestat is already doing his thing. You put your hands in your coat pockets and walk quickly past the gentleman, looking at him through your lashes as you pass him.
He stumbles in his tracks as he meets your eyes. You offer him a smile and continue walking. Just like that he has forgotten about his angry lover.
The young man follows you around the next corner. You guide him off the main road and down the footpath that leads toward the river. He watches you come to a stop under the bridge. You turn on your heel and look at him. He continues to come closer, taking slow steps toward you.
“Hello…”
You smile. “Hello.”
“I was, uh… I don't remember.”
“No. I don't suppose you do.”
He swallows nervously and adjusts his tie. You chuckle softly. You reach out and take his ties into your own hands, undoing the knot carefully. He watches you undo it without saying a word. You let the tie fall to the ground by your polished shoes. You don't spare it a glance. Your fingers work on the first button of his shirt, and then the next.
He doesn't stop you.
You gently guide him till his back makes contact with the wall. His hands reach out to nervously hold your waist.
You give him a smile.
With your hand, you guide his head closer to yours and inhale sharply. “You smell divine.”
All he does is chuckle.
Lestat is walking along the riverside with a body in his arms. Blood drips from her neck, but it absorbs into the collar of her clothes. She was dead for only a few minutes, and her body was still a little warm.
As he reaches the bridge he comes to a stop. He grins as he watches you. You're working your charm on the man. Luring the sheep to his slaughter. He loved watching you do it.
Just like that you sink your teeth into the man's neck and take your fill. His hands go limp and fall to his sides. You're quick to drain him, not even giving him a chance to realise he's dying.
Lestat continues his way over to you.
“That was marvellous, Chéri.”
You pull away from the man's neck and wipe your chin with the back of your hand. Lestat grins with delight.
“How was she?”
“Anger really gets the blood flowing. I feel almost alive,” he laughs.
You chuckle and let the body fall to the ground as you reach out and bring Lestat closer. You kiss him with need. He desires your lips just as much and nips at them. You chuckle and pull away. That would have to wait till later.
You turn on your heel and prepare to grab the man, about to drag him along so you could dispose of him. However, something catches your eye. You crouch down and reach for the little box that had fallen out of his pocket. You stand back up and lift the top, exposing the little diamond ring inside.
Lestat drops the girl with a thud and comes up beside you. He eyes the sparkly ring.
He would have chosen something a little more flashy for you, but he can't deny this makes him feel something. Slowly, he reaches out and takes the ring from the box. He holds it up to inspect it some more. You watch him do so.
“Worth anything?” You ask.
Lestat turns his gaze back to you. “A little. I'm sure he worked very hard to get it. Not that he has much use for it now.”
“Can I keep it?”
You know you have a lot of jewellery at home. Lestat was constantly bringing you gifts and souvenirs from kills. You just found the ring rather cute.
A smile appears on his lips. “You can have it on one condition.”
You raise a brow at his remark. “And that is?”
“Marry me.”
You stare at the vampire in shock. Did he actually say that? No, he couldn't have. Lestat cared little for such commitments when he knew he was already devoted to you enough.
“Well?” He asks.
“Sorry, could you say that again?”
“Marry me.”
So you heard correctly. You move your lips as if to say something, but not a sound comes out.
Lestat chuckles. “I had hoped this would be an easy term to accept. I could just throw this ring into the river.” He moves to stand closer to the water but you reach out and grasp his wrist before he can.
“No!”
“No?”
“No, as in don't do that. I want it. I want you.”
Lestat grins. “You do?”
“Of course I do.”
Leatat turns his body back toward you and reaches for your hand. He lifts it up and gently sets the ring on your finger. You watch him do it, admiring the way it sparkles.
“Well?”
“Better set a date.”
“You're what?!” Amelie shouts, standing from her stool. She is in complete shock.
“Lestat asked me to marry him.” You hold out your hand. Amelie grabs it gently and looks at the diamond. In the next second she is wrapping her arms around you and hugging you tight.
“I can't believe it!”
You chuckle softly. “Me either, to be honest. It seemed sudden, but… I want it.”
“I didn't realise how close you two were getting. I mean, I knew you were close, but…”
“Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about me and him. There was so much going on and there were things I was focused on. You're still my friend through and through.” You give her another hug.
Ameilie smiles. “You're forgiven. I'm happy for you, really. When are you getting married?”
“Friday.”
“That's 3 days away…?”
“I know. Lestst doesn't see any point in waiting, so he's organised it all.”
“Are you sure you're ready?” She asks. You know she's making out of concern as a friend.
You smile. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Jack gives you flowers after you tell him the news. He insists on a party at the theatre to celebrate. You try to dissuade him, but he's a stubborn man.
The party was only for those at the theatre. Lestat was in a slight huff about it, but he let you go off to celebrate.
It was about one in the morning when you got back home. Lestat was sitting at the piano playing a gentle tune. A half empty glass of wine sat atop the piano.
“You're home.”
“I am.”
He continues to play as you walk over and drape yourself around him. Lestat leans into your embrace and smiles. He won't pretend to hate the fact he couldn't have come with you, but stay the same time, you seemed to have had a good time.
“I am glad you are home.”
“Me too.”
Lestat stops playing the piano and pulls you into his lap. You chuckle as you settle in his arms. He nuzzles your cheek gently with his nose as he inhales your scent. You're wearing the perfume he bought you. You smell delicious.
“Soon you shall be my bride.”
You smile. “Yes, I will.”
“No other shall ever claim you the way I shall. Mind, body, and soul.” He nips at your earlobe.
“You're so possessive,” you chuckle.
“I can't help it. I'm addicted to you, Chéri.”
You place a hand against his cheek and look him in the eyes. “I don't blame you. If you have any idea just how I feel about you.”
He steals a kiss. “Oh, but I do.” He pulls you even closer as he lets his desires take over.
You wake up early the next night. You're alone in your coffin. It's not too unusual for Lestat to be up already when you wake. He only stays about 50% the time. The rest of the time he's off doing something to amuse himself.
You dress and make your way downstairs. His hat and coat were gone. He's gone out.
You shrug and greet your piano with a gentle caress along the keys. You're about to let yourself be embraced by music before a knock sounds at the door. You go and answer it.
The door opens and a police officer is standing on your doorstep.
“Good evening, ma'am. Do you have a moment?”
You nod and let him in. He comes inside and turns to face you. He looks a little sad. You could see it in his eyes. It dawns on you that this is one of the officers that questioned you that night in the theatre.
“Is something wrong?” You ask. Has something happened to Lestat?
“It's about Miss Eleanor.”
You feel a chill go down your spine. What about her? The police can't possibly have anything on the account that Lestat took care of her.
“Yes?”
“It appears she has gone missing. Well, more like left. Her apartment was empty.”
“And that… needs the police? She had stated she was staying long term.”
“Yes, well, an inquiry was made, so we took a look into it. It would seem she left in haste. I came to ask if you may know where she has gone to, or how to contact her?”
“No. Why would I know that?”
“It appeared you were somewhat friendly. At least, that is what we were led to believe.”
“By who?” You ask.
“Miss Amelie from the theatre.”
You freeze. Amelie had made the inquiry? But why?
“Amelie told you that?”
“Yes. You had dinner with Miss Eleanor, didn't you not?”
“Well, yes. She invited us out.”
“Us?” He asks.
“Me, Amelie, Jack… my partner, Lestat.” You tell him.
“Where is your partner now?”
“Out.”
“This time of night?”
You give him a look. After all, he had come calling at this time. He seems to understand your look.
“I apologise. I did call earlier this afternoon, but no one answered.”
“Ah, we were both out.”
The officer nods his head slowly and takes a step toward your door. “Very well. That was all. Thank you for your time, and sorry for disturbing your evening.”
You nod and let him out again. Once you close the door behind him you lean against the bannister of the stairs.
fate, up against your will (unwillingly mine) | chapter 5
eddie munson x goth!reader.
summary: eddie picks you up to embark on your first date. 9.7k words.
warnings: very vague allusions to sa/rape (it happens in the movie, but is not talked about outright), frank discussion of parental death (both eddie and reader), police harassment (fuck 12), and like. implied masturbation. i guess.
a/n: this chapter is sooooooo silly goofy and ridiculous pretty much all throughout 😭 just relentlessly comically butting heads from start 2 finish. one absolute angel on ao3 called this one of the most well written dates they've ever read and i've been riding the high of that compliment ever since.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6
─── ⋆⋅🔮⋅⋆ ────
Eddie’s been late to about a thousand different things in his short life—up to and including his own birth, or so he’s been told—but when he parks his van across the street from your place on Sunday afternoon, his watch reads three twenty-six. As soon as it hits three-thirty, he lays on the horn to announce his arrival.
It isn’t nerves that have him bouncing in his seat and tapping erratic rhythms onto the steering wheel—at least, not primarily. He isn’t nervous to take you on this certifiable monster of a first date; he’s excited, impatient, and, in spite of the incurable fidgeting, considerably more relaxed than he has been in, well… Maybe since all of this began.
Because today, all he has to worry about is you. Everything else—shady dealings and schoolyard extortion, work and school and graduation, the nebulous future and whether he even has one—is mercifully shoved into a tight box and kicked down the stairs to concern himself with later. Despite his poor sleep quality as of late, this morning, Eddie woke up bright and early at eleven a.m. flat and rolled out of bed with an unheard of degree of enthusiasm. He was caught red-handed practically the moment he stepped out of his room, Wayne’s razor-sharp eyes honing in on his failed nonchalance within seconds, watching him slam down a bowl of instant oatmeal with a perceptive squint that made his ears burn.
After spending twice as long as usual wrangling his hair, slipping one of his good shirts over his head (a Thin Lizzy tee that is neither worn and faded nor hacked to pieces—a verifiable unicorn as far as his wardrobe is concerned), mildly over-accessorizing, lacing up his boots, and applying a few indulgent spritzes of a nice cologne he’d nicked from his dad the last time they’d been troubled with his presence, Wayne finally addressed the elephant. A gruff and amused “what’s her name, son?” followed by a very pointed “watch yourself,” and Eddie made his red-faced escape.
Out of what he assumes to be pure spitefulness, it isn’t until three thirty-five that you emerge from the front door of the psychic’s parlor.
Eddie watches you cross the street with a beaming smile that only grows wider as you hesitate briefly outside the passenger side door, the probable glare on your face hidden behind a pair of circle frame sunglasses.
“Aw, look at us,” Eddie says when you finally summon the will to open the door, bouncing his own aviator glasses on his nose a couple times for emphasis. “Aren’t we adorable?”
“You look stupid,” is your lovely and generous greeting.
“Exactly how you like me, right?” he jokes. “...You look even prettier than the last time I saw you.”
In contrast to the higher-than-usual effort that Eddie put into getting ready, you seem a little dressed down by your own standards—not that he’s remotely complaining. He’s seen you in some pretty fancy blouses, skirts, and dresses, (at least by his penniless metric,) often with plenty of layering and accessorizing, but today, you’re in a fairly simple black t-shirt with the words “Alien Sex Fiend” stenciled across the chest, tucked into a flowy black skirt, with a studded leather belt across your middle. You’re wearing less jewelry than he’s used to and less makeup as well, your typical eyeliner atypically light with nothing but maybe chapstick on your lips. You’re dressed for comfort; to actually enjoy a trip that’ll eat up an entire day, and honestly, Eddie finds that more flattering than if you had, for whatever improbable reason, pulled out all the stops and tried to impress him.
In your arms are your typical patchwork bag and a black knit sweater, both of which you hug sullenly to your chest as you slump into the passenger seat and kick your feet up onto the dashboard, clad in all-black hightop Converse. It makes your skirt fall higher on your legs, almost above your knees, which really shouldn’t catch his attention as wholly as it does, but, shit, he can’t even remember seeing your bare ankles before. Moreover, there’s a tattoo of a skeletal hand on your left ankle and something else he can’t quite make out on the inside of your right, but he figures you probably aren’t in the mood for show and tell at the moment. Hopefully his sunglasses do a decent job at obscuring the stare he was a little too sluggish in diverting.
His compliment goes completely unacknowledged. “Are we going, or what?” you drone with impatience.
Eddie clicks his tongue at you. “C’mon, no feet on the dash. Have a little respect.”
You turn to him and raise your sunglasses to the top of your head, probably just to show him how much you do not care at all.
Eddie pushes his own glasses further down his nose, giving you a look over the top of them. “You wanna hit the road, or you wanna sit here in a stalemate all day? ‘Cause I can do either.”
With an exaggerated huff, you curl your legs back into yourself, and as soon as you do, Eddie hits the ignition. The music that starts playing—about a minute into For Whom The Bell Tolls—makes your face scrunch up with distaste, and you instantly start rifling through your bag, digging out a cassette of your own. As soon as he realizes what you’re trying to do, Eddie’s hand whips out to cover the eject button, about a half-second before your attempt to smash it in. Your face snaps towards him in annoyance.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Eddie says. “Driver picks the music, everyone knows that.”
“I’m not listening to four hours of this shit, Munson.”
Eddie just shrugs, like there’s no helping it. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. You probably shoulda thought of that before asking me out.”
Your brow furrows heavily. “I did not ask you out.”
“Yeah, you did, and don’t you forget it,” he tells you with a grin. The outlandish claim seems to distract you enough to forget about usurping the stereo, so he takes the opportunity to pull out of his parking spot and start driving. “Every glorious minute of this outing was one-hundred percent your idea.”
That gets a scoff out of you. “I was going either way.”
“Seriously?” He shoots you an alarmed look. “...You were gonna drive all the way to the city by yourself?”
“I’ve done it before,” you grumble.
“Well, shit,” he says, flaring his eyes to himself. “Then it’s a good thing I chased you down when I did.”
All you do is sit there with your arms crossed. He doesn’t let the conversation end for very long.
“...So, what’s this movie we’re seeing?” he tries asking.
Your sigh is almost theatrical. “Ms. 45.”
“What’s it about?”
“You’ll find out when you watch it.”
“Fine, we’ll keep it a surprise,” he relents. “…What’d you do yesterday?”
In the corner of his eye, he sees your head fall into your hands.
“Are you gonna keep talking the entire drive?” you ask, gravely.
Eddie grins and throws you a glance, amused to have you this tortured already. “Duh. How else are we gonna get to know each other?”
“I changed my mind,” you mutter. “Turn the car around.”
He hits a turn with a little too much enthusiasm, and you make an adorable little noise in complaint. “Nope. No way. Too little, too late. You’re stuck with me, pretty girl.”
“Stop that,” you groan.
“Stop what?”
“Calling me that.”
“What, pretty girl?” Your scowl looks like it could burn a hole through the windshield. “I’m just laying out the facts. What do you want me to call you?”
“Is it the ‘girl’ that’s the problem, then? How about pretty woman?”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, shit, I picked up some snacks, by the way,” Eddie remembers suddenly, making you jump in your seat. He reaches wildly behind him until his hand catches on the plastic bag, and drops it haphazardly in your lap. “In case we get hungry on the ride.”
Somehow, the snacks seem to placate you. You take your time looking through the options, and eventually pop open a bag of nacho cheese Bugles. Eddie discreetly watches, endeared, as you line four of them up on each fingertip and start biting them off, one at a time. This time, it’s you who rekindles the chatting.
“...How’s it feel, Munson?”
He gives you a curious glance. “What’s that?”
“Being on the first date of your life.”
Eddie gives you a longer look and puffs out something between a scoff and a laugh, unsure if you’re serious or not. “...This is not my first date ever.”
Your face twists into a ridiculous, incredulous frown. “Who the hell went out with you?”
Eddie just shakes his head. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” he drawls. “...Are you sure this isn’t yours? You’re not actually supposed to pelt insults at the guy you’re on a date with, y’know. That’s like, the kindergarten approach to flirting.”
You don’t say anything—dissatisfied, probably, by your failed first attempt to get under his skin. Good thing he’s kind enough to offer a consolation prize.
“...Cassie Finnigan,” Eddie deigns to reveal.
“What?”
“Cassie Finnigan went out with me,” he says. “Last year.”
She was in the grade above you, the class Eddie should’ve graduated with. A sense of vague recognition passes over your face, but mostly, you just gawk at him.
“...Why?”
This time, he really does laugh. “...Yeah, I kinda wondered that too. I mean, she asked me out. In broad fucking daylight and everything. She had to kiss me on the cheek to convince me that it wasn’t a prank, and even then, I still ran back to my van afterwards to make sure she hadn’t stamped a dick on my face with her mouth, or something.”
Eddie doesn’t continue at first, but he can feel you staring at him in the corner of his eye. Waiting for the end of the story but too stubborn to prompt it outright—God forbid he mistakes you as interested. Pausing at an empty intersection, he stares right back at you for a moment, basking in the petulant look on your face. Like, get on with it. The best part is, you probably think your dark makeup and general gloomy aura make it not stupidly adorable, rather than infinitely more so.
Eddie sighs and keeps on driving. “...Turns out, all she really wanted was to find out what ‘the freak’ was like in the sack. We only went out the one time.”
When your silence only continues, he tries to flash a grin at you, but you’re staring straight ahead again. “...What, no rib? No…derisive scoff, nothing?”
You can hear him, obviously, but you act like you don’t.
“...What’s a matter?” he teases, more amused by the second. “Feel bad for me?”
You slump even further down in your seat. “...I’m trying to listen to your shitty music.”
Yeah, right. Eddie burns his stare into you long enough to make it obvious, and then shrugs and decides to let you win. In less than a minute, your curiosity must get the better of you.
“...Did you sleep with her?”
The impulse to waggle his eyebrows at you and ask why you wanna know perks up fiercely inside of him, but it’s quickly shoved back down by how oddly quiet the mumbled question comes out of your mouth, only barely audible above the music—that, and the castigating voice of Val booming in his mind. Don’t be a fucking creep.
“Do I seem that desperate to you?” he asks lightly instead. The look you snap onto his face, firm and inscrutable, kind of makes his stomach gurgle. He suppresses most of his grimace. “...On second thought, don’t answer that.”
Eventually, the siren song of nacho cheese powder starts to become a distraction. Eddie glances over at you twice, and then holds his hand out between you, flicking his fingers in demand.
“Gimme one,” he asks.
“No way.”
He tries to get one himself, but you hold the bag out of reach. “C’mon, I’m starving over here. You’re making them look so tasty.”
“You get the music, I get the snacks,” you declare.
Eddie scoffs at you theatrically. “...Goddamnit, fine. On the way back, we can listen to your music. How’s that?”
Crunching on another bugle, you think it over for a while and then tentatively hold the bag out to him. As soon as he goes for it, you snatch it back out of reach, smiling to yourself as you bite another one off your finger.
“You’re a child,” Eddie accuses, unable to suppress his own smile. “I’m on a date with a badly-behaved toddler.”
“Careful what you wish for,” you jeer, looking quite proud of yourself as you do so.
“Well, I never said I wasn’t enjoying it.”
You shoot him a displeased side-eye. Eddie responds with a wink.
It isn’t long before you’re cruising on the highway, but your snack embargo is still firmly in place. When the Metallica tape closes out, it gives Eddie an idea—an olive branch to extend that may alleviate his growling stomach.
“Why don’t you pick the next one?” he offers with a glance.
You jolt in your seat and instantly bend forward, reaching for your bag under the dashboard. Eddie tuts at you.
“Not one of yours,” he corrects, and you lean back in your seat with a groan that makes him smile. “I meant from my collection.”
He pats the center console a couple times before opening it up for you, and, while clearly bitter about it, you do at least take the opportunity to inspect it.
“...Ugh.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “You can’t hate all of it. There’s gotta be something you kinda like in there.”
It takes a good few minutes for you to choose one, throughout which he shoots you plenty of glances to check on your progress and make sure you’re still on task. Every time he looks, you’re holding a different tape in your hands, taking a closer look with varying amounts of reluctance. Eventually, you change the tape yourself (with Eddie relieved to observe that you have enough baseline respect for the hardware to secure Ride the Lightning back in its proper case) and as soon as the low, chugging intro to Barracuda starts playing, Eddie snaps his face towards you, blown wide open in joy.
“Yes!” he nearly shouts, almost giddy, patting along to the rhythm on the steering wheel. It sort of makes you flinch. “Fuck yes. Excellent choice.”
You click your tongue at him. “It’s the only thing I could find that won’t make my ears bleed,” you try to goad, but Eddie processes none of it.
As soon as the vocals come in, he’s fiercely concentrated, singing along and performing his own miniature choreographies in his seat as if you aren’t even there—partially to see if he can get a reaction out of you, and partially because the song fucking rules.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter to yourself, but he can tell you’re watching him anyway.
He gets loud. He has no choice but to get loud if he wants to hit all the proper notes, flipping up into an obnoxious falsetto that has you grumbling some other complaint he genuinely cannot hear under his own voice, but when he swings his arm over to snap his hand in your face a couple times like the titular fish—now, wouldn’t you, barracuda?—he catches an eyeful of an irrefutable smile that you fail to wrestle down fast enough.
“Keep your eyes on the road, moron,” you spit at him as you smack his hand away, harsher now for having been caught enjoying yourself. “Cut it out.”
Well, now that he’s eked out a smile, he can’t cut it out until he gets a laugh out of you. “Uh, do you mind?” Eddie jokes flatly, forcing his face straight. “I’m trying to hear the song.”
He glances for your reaction, and finds an incensed glare. “Are you fucking ki—?”
He cuts you off by bursting right back into song, and you instantly throw your head back in misery, pressing your hands over your face. While you’re distracted, Eddie snatches the bag of bugles off of your lap and cuts himself off to cackle about it. Whipping your hands down, you flare your eyes at him in rage, instantly trying to grab it back, but Eddie stuffs it on the other side of his seat, firmly beyond your wingspan.
“Stop it, stop it,” he scolds with a grin, squirming, lightly batting at your hands as you try to lean over the console and reach around him to get it back. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me crash!”
That only seems to make you more determined to retrieve your stolen goods, and when you lean even further and your hand lands smack dab in the middle of his thigh for stability, his whole body jolts so hard that he accidentally taps the break and jerks you both in your seats.
“Alright, alright, alright!” he surrenders, letting out a relieved exhale as you retreat back into your own space. “I’ll give them back, okay?”
You wait. Eddie smiles.
“...But first, I’m gonna restart the song. And you’re gonna let me sing it through—the whole thing, beginning to end—and when I’m done, you’re gonna clap. Then you’ll get your bugles back.”
“And which one of us is the toddler here, Munson?” you ask, gawking at him.
“Both of us, I think. That’s why we’re so compatible.”
He glimpses the tail end of your eye-roll, and then clears his throat dramatically.
“Okay, now quiet,” he instructs, skipping back to the start of the song. “I’m trying to channel the essence of Ann Wilson.”
“You’re a fucking dork.”
“Shh!”
Surprisingly, you actually do as he asked you to, watching him in silent judgment as he restarts his performance, laying it on even heavier than the first time. Throughout most of it, you wear a vague impression of a smirk, his very own gothic Mona Lisa, occasionally snorting or making some other mildly amused noise when he hits a high note with the force of a nuclear missile, but finally, at the last chorus, when he holds an imaginary microphone in your face to try and get you to finish the song with him, a real, honest-to-God giggle bursts out of you as you smack his hand away, and Eddie pumps his fist in victory.
“There you go, finally!” he says, shaking his head. “Shit. You really know how to make a guy work for it, don’t you?” He returns the promised bugles to you, and you snatch them out of his hand about halfway there. “Go ahead. Eat ‘em all, if you want. You’ve earned it.”
“I didn’t clap,” you point out, already crunching again.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” he assures you with a sigh. “...We’re not at that stage yet. That’s like, second base, and we’ve barely even made it to first.”
He can feel you staring at him weird, so he flashes you a smile. “First base is laughing at my jokes,” he explains.
“I was laughing at you, not your jokes.”
Eddie feels a tap on the side of his head—you threw one at him, and he didn’t hear it land, so it must be caught in his hair. He fishes it out and happily tosses it into his mouth.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says. “Same thing.”
…
From then on, Eddie, quite benevolently, continues to allow you to choose the soundtrack from his van’s scattered collection, Little Queen turning into The Cramps’ Songs The Lord Taught Us, which you actually seem impressed to find, and later Blue Öyster Cult’s Fire of Unknown Origin. The rest of the drive is packed with just as much childish bickering, snack-bag warfare, impromptu performances, and reluctant conversation that seems, as time goes on, to become less and less reluctant on your part, albeit only marginally. By the time you make it to the limits of Indianapolis, your deliberate, frowny annoyance has receded entirely into quiet boredom, gradually more attentive as you enter the city properly.
“Alright, now, help me out here,” Eddie asks once you’ve made it into the vicinity of downtown. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” you say, like it’s ridiculous to assume that you would.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve never been there.” You’re not only clueless but thoroughly unconcerned about it, watching the city go by through the window. “It’s in north-east downtown. …St. Clair Street, I think.”
“You think,” Eddie repeats, nodding to himself. “Awesome. Okay.”
Given the state of traffic, Eddie figures your best bet is to search on foot. He locates a parking garage that is broadly in the area you described, and you can hardly wait for him to cut the engine before throwing yourself out of the vehicle. He clicks his tongue, scrambling to follow in fear of being left behind entirely, but realizes pretty soon that you are, in fact, waiting up for him at the back of the van.
As he emerges beside you, stretching his back, you’re already staring at him. He pops a smile compulsively.
“Ready to—?”
Turning towards him, you pitch forward and take a distinct, passionless inhale in the realm of his collar. Eddie tenses up mildly in alarm, and when he interprets the sudden gesture, his jaw falls open.
“...Did you just sniff me?”
“You smell different,” you explain, a simple matter of fact, not even looking at him anymore.
Well, there’s no way you didn’t already notice that during the two-hour drive. “...Okay,” he says with a grin. Eddie has no idea if you’re trying to flirt with him or you’re really just this weird, and he can’t decide which option he likes better. “Good-different or bad-different?”
Flicking your sunglasses back down to your nose, you give a noncommittal grunt and start walking. He takes it to mean, at the very least, fine-different. He’ll have to add thanking his father to his list of things he might consider doing one day, in the event that he takes a hit to the dome and forgets everything about his entire life.
The bustle and liveliness of the most populated district in a major city is, after months stuck in Hawkins, about as refreshing as diving headfirst into a cold shower in the midst of a relentless heat wave. Everywhere you look is practically gleaming with signs of life, from the litter on the sidewalk to the soaring heights of buildings that dare to have more than three stories, flanked on all sides by noisy intersections and the purposeful strides of locals. Next to the drowsy, soul-sucking purgatory that is your hometown, you might as well be on an alien planet. No one even spares the two of you a second glance, and that alone is both uncanny and oddly liberating.
Pretty soon, it becomes clear that neither of you have any idea where you’re going. Eddie stops the least irritable-seeming local he can find for directions, and soon, you’re on your way with intention.
“Wanna hold hands?” Eddie inclines himself towards you to ask.
“No.”
Figured as much. He puts on a balmy grin, cocking his head at you. “Wanna do it anyway?”
You only glance at him for long enough to reach up and give his cheek a shove, pushing his face straight ahead. He snickers and whips it right back towards you.
“Scared everyone’s gonna know we’re on a date?” Eddie draws out the last word with pearl-clutching drama that doesn’t provoke you in the slightest.
“You’re the one that’s scared,” you accuse with boredom. “Why would I wanna hold your sweaty hand?”
“Am not,” he argues, wiping his hands on his jeans just in case. “You’re probably scared we’re gonna have way too much fun today, and it’ll blow your mind, and you’re gonna end up totally, disgustingly obsessed with me.”
“As if you aren’t already ‘disgustingly obsessed’ with me,” you snark right back. You both turn a corner, and the Miranda’s flashy marquee greets you from about halfway down the block. “...If you talk during this movie, you’re dead, Munson.”
“You think I’m a barn animal, and it’s fucking outrageous,” Eddie laments, shaking his head. “Christ. I do have some home-training, for your information.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Alright, you.”
He tries to steal your hand as punishment, but you’re soft and wiggly and very determined to evade his searching grasp, delivering your own punitive backhand to his arm instead.
“Damnit,” he curses. He leans into your space again just to wag a nefarious finger at you. “...I’ll get you eventually, my pretty.”
“Shut up and buy the tickets,” you instruct, deliberately bumping your shoulder into him as you come to a stop outside the box office.
Eddie rolls his eyes, and wishes his annoyance was even slightly real.
You made it to the theater with about fifteen minutes to spare. Eddie purchases the tickets as requested, and then drags you into the concession line for an extra-large popcorn and some Raisinets, because he really is goddamn starving, and he didn’t quite have the heart to strong-arm his way through your monopoly on the road snacks, given where exactly he sourced the funds used to purchase them.
In the dim lighting of the theater, you open up more than Eddie’s even seen. Despite his earlier protestation, he does, in fact, lean over to whisper a well-meaning question or two that makes you snap at him with your standard narrow-eyed acidity, but once he learns his lesson and busies his mouth with hoggish snacking, every covert glance he throws your way finds you lighter and brighter than the last. Eyes wide and fully engrossed, catching on every detail; your posture slackens, your hands fidget constantly and mindlessly, your tongue worries over the ring in your lip; you rock now and then, front and back or side to side. It’s nothing at all like the reserved, guarded manner you usually keep up—or at least around him, you do. You’re utterly carefree. Spellbound and contagious with it. Eddie can’t look away.
…
The film was everything you hoped for.
An aggrieved woman on a beautiful rampage, sawing rapists to bits and giving practically every other man with the misfortune of crossing her path a simple, satisfying, blood-soaked death. Part of you feared that Munson would find some way to ruin it for you, but luckily for him, after the first ten minutes or so, he found the decency to keep his mouth shut and watch. At least, it seemed like he was watching, the one or two times you remembered he existed for long enough to throw him a glance.
The diner you’re in now is just across the street from the theater, its marquee lighting up the street through the window. You look up from your menu and find Munson already staring at you.
“...How’d you like it?” you ask.
He gives you a smile. “I…thought it was pretty cool.”
“Pretty cool,” you echo blandly.
“Yeah,” he says. “...Pretty fuckin’ brutal, but cool. I kinda expected more, though.”
“More what?” you snap, insulted on the film’s behalf.
He gives a shrug. “I dunno, I just thought she’d go…further with it. Do a little more than just…blam blam, over and done with.” He shoots one finger gun a couple times in emphasis.
“It’s called Ms. 45.”
“I know that, I’m just saying,” he says with a laugh. “I mean, innocent or not, you sure as shit couldn’t blame her. …Twice in one day. Jesus. Poor fuckin’ girl.”
“No such thing,” you say, eyes falling back down to the menu.
“Huh?”
“No men are ‘innocent,’” you elaborate pointedly.
Eddie scoffs, but it sounds more amused than offended. “Shit. You should talk to Val.”
You glance back up at him, and he blinks at you.
“...Valerie Wong? She’s a senior, too. She was at our show, actually.”
“I know who she is.”
“You might like her, that's all,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Your, uh…life philosophies seem pretty aligned. …She’s cool.”
When you fail to respond, he sighs, perusing his own menu again for all of twenty seconds before his head snaps back up.
“...Wait, did she kill the dog or not, though?” he adds on, face pinching in confusion. “I didn’t get that.”
“Was it alive at the end?”
“...Well, yeah, but—”
“Then no.”
He’s glaring at you, probably, but you don’t look up to make sure. “You’re kinda hard to talk to, you know that?”
He should know damn well by now that it’s intentional. You’re trying to decide between all-day breakfast and a simple cheeseburger.
“...Hey,” he calls a moment later, apparently dying from lack of attention.
You flick your eyes up as sharply as you can.
“That wasn’t, uh…supposed to be a warning or something, right?” he asks, conversationally light, amused by his own question. “Like, ‘try anything smart and here’s what’ll happen to ya.’”
You roll your eyes. “Because everything’s about you, right?”
Eddie smiles till his eyes crinkle, and then tries to tone it down. “...Point taken.”
But that may have been a strategic bait-and-switch, because now that your eyes are on him, his real question is:
“Wanna share a milkshake?”
…You wouldn’t hate it, probably. “No.”
“What’s your flavor pick?” he asks, ignoring you completely. He rests his chin on his palm, his other hand fiddling aimlessly with a pack of sweet‘n low he swiped from the sugar holder, trying to roll it through his fingers like a guitar pick.
You don’t reply, so he gives you a long, contemplative squint.
“...My guess is chocolate,” he decides. “...Now, I’m more of a strawberry guy myself, but I can make an exception for you.”
“Yeah, I bet you are,” you mutter.
Eddie blinks, cartoonishly startled. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
You shrug.
“Are you saying I come off as a strawberry guy?”
You curl your lips steadily into a smile and Eddie’s face contracts in even more exaggerated disbelief, but his next words are cut short by the waitress stepping up to take your order. She’s a stout, freckled woman probably in her forties with flaming, synthetic red hair. Her nametag says Debbie.
“Good evenin’,” she says, smiling ear to ear. “...You two make quite the pair. What can I get y’all started with?”
“We’re on our first date,” Eddie provides needlessly with a gushing smile. For some horrific reason, it makes your face hot. You kick him in the shin beneath the table, but he suppresses a reaction.
“Well that’s just adorable,” Debbie gushes right back, then shifts her gaze to you. “How’s it goin’?”
“Really great, actually,” he answers in your stead. “I think we’re—”
“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” you nearly shout to stop him short, fists almost painfully tight in your lap. “...No toppings, just…mustard.”
As if cut from the same horrible, shameless cloth, Eddie and Debbie share a brief, knowing look at your expense.
“...Alright,” she says. “And for you?”
“I’ll have a double cheeseburger with all the fixings, and…a chocolate milkshake to share, please.”
“Sounds good. We’ll have that out for ya real soon.”
“Thanks a ton, Debbie.”
Debbie walks off, but you still haven’t come up with anything strong enough to lacerate him with after what he just attempted to put you through. His smile is utterly unashamed. Just as you’re considering kicking him again, he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“So,” he begins. “...Is your mom really psychic?”
You slump down into your seat, averse from head to toe. Of all the things he could ask you about on a goddamn date, it has to be that. It must be cosmic payback for making him think you fucked his dad.
“What do you think?” you offer blandly.
Eddie pops a grin. “Well, if you’re still in business, she must be doing something right,” he decides with a shrug. “...Maybe I should come on down and get my fortune told, see what’s in store for the rest of ‘85.”
All you do is grunt, displeased by the topic, which he seems to be more than aware of.
“What about you?” he asks.
You frown at him.
“Are you psychic, too?” he elaborates. “Can you read my future?”
“I don’t need to be psychic to read your future, Munson,” you assure him, picking at your fingernails. “It’s a total shitshow.”
“Damnit,” he pretends to curse, drooping his head and then snapping it right back up with a smile. “...Well, I coulda told you that much. How about…my love life?”
There’s a little twinkle in his eyes as he asks, and the eye-roll it triggers in you seems to give him too much pleasure. You’ll have to start suppressing the instinct.
“Even worse,” you tell him. “You’re gonna crash and burn, and probably die alone.”
Your dark omen doesn’t faze him. “I dunno, are you sure? ‘Cause I’ve been seeing this girl—”
“No, you have not.”
“—and I think it’s going pretty well. She even laughs at my jokes, sometimes. I mean, shit, who knows? We might even get married.”
“What’s her name?” you ask in your best monotone. “Cassie Finnigan?”
Eddie’s eyebrows pop up, and he only smiles wider. “...Y’know, I would’ve told you that story way sooner if I knew it’d make you jealous.”
You know he’s just saying it to piss you off, so you smother a reaction. He keeps on staring at you, expectant.
“...Not even gonna deny it? Wow. You’re going easy on me today, aren’t you?”
“I’m really not. You’re just a masochist.”
The food arrives a little faster than you expected, and you’re happy to see it largely for its potential to busy his mouth and give you a few minutes of peace. Your own appetite has been… sort of wonky. You should be starving, given that the majority of what you’ve eaten today has been Eddie’s road snacks and a couple pinches of raisinets, but the longer this date drags on, the more your stomach seems to wander. Turning this way and that, squeezing its way around other organs. It’s not sickness so much as tension; like your body is waiting for something to happen, and suppressing your hunger signals to give you focus when it does.
So, you nibble on some fries, take a few unhurried bites of your burger, and watch with mild distaste as Eddie attacks his own plate like he hasn’t eaten in days. He notices you watching him and smiles as he chokes down a bite.
“What?” he complains, licking some mustard off of his top lip. “I’m starving.”
“I thought you weren’t a barn animal.”
“Yeah, and what are you, a humming bird?”
You lean forward, aiming for the bendy straw on your side of the milkshake, and Eddie drops everything to do the same. You pause. He does, too. Then, he pretends to retreat, disarming you enough to lean a little further, only to surge back forward just as your lips are about to close around it, and he giggles at you when your frustration boils over and you yank the glass out of his reach to take a risk-free sip.
Eddie stuffs his face back into his burger with a satisfied grunt. “...I told ya, I’ll get you eventually,” he reminds you, and you cringe at the eyeful of half-chewed food it gives you.
“Ugh. Didn’t your mommy ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”
He gives you a weird look as he finishes chewing and swallows. At first, you interpret it as shamefaced or awkward, but really, it looks like half of his attention split off and started pointing inwards.
“...Probably tried to, yeah,” he says with a smile that takes effort to keep up, still partially caught up in some other place. “...I don’t really remember.”
Unperturbed by the shift in tone, you give him an open look, unblinking and passively curious. He puts down his food and stares at it for a while, and he must find it comfortable enough to relax his tongue a little further.
“She’s, um— She died,” he explains, and instantly scrunches his face up in regret, almost laughing at himself. “...Sorry, this really isn’t—”
“My dad is dead,” you drop even lighter.
Eddie blinks at you in alarm. “...Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Why?” You can feel yourself smiling, just barely. “We’re even.”
His mouth drops open, but all he does is scoff, baffled and amused all at once.
“How’d your mom die?” you ask.
“...Cancer,” he says. It takes him a little longer to mirror the question. “...How’d your dad die?”
“Killed himself,” you say with a shrug, tossing a fry in your mouth. Eddie gapes at you, horror-struck, until your face finally breaks and you snicker at his expression. “...Kidding, loser. Car accident.”
Even more aghast, he drops his face into his hands. “...What is wrong with you?”
“For starters, my dad died.”
His shoulders shake with a laugh, and he drops his hands to reveal a bright, dimpled smile. “I guess that’ll do it, huh?”
You hum in agreement. “...Why do you think I had to borrow yours?”
His face plummets into a glare so fast that it makes you giggle in delight, cheeks pulling tight from ear to ear.
“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” he says, using one of his own french fries to point sternly at your plate. “Eat your food.”
“Or what?”
Eddie gives you a squint. You glance down to pick out the largest fry on your plate.
“...What’re you gonna do if I don’t?” you repeat, sucking the salt off of it.
Eddie’s face twitches a few times before he averts his eyes and breaks out in a smile, the apples of his cheeks turning satisfyingly pink.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “...Okay, you win. Cut it out.”
“Cut what out? I’m eating my food.”
Jaw clenched in stress, Eddie reaches over to snatch the milkshake to his side of the table and takes a long, indulgent sip.
“...Take some proper bites, and I’ll think about giving this back to you,” he declares.
With a scowl, you pick up your burger and take a bite excessive enough for him to respect. It puts a ridiculously wide smile on his face.
“Perfect,” he praises, watching you swallow. “Now, we’re talking. Here, let’s—”
He picks up and raises a fry with a deliberate stare, waiting until you do the same, and then slowly guides it to his own mouth, like he’s trying to show a baby how to feed itself. When you bite down on your own, he fucking claps, basking all the while in your glare. It should legitimately piss you off, maybe even enough to launch the contents of your plate into his stupid, condescending face, but all it really does is make your face uncomfortably warm.
He lays off of you for the most part after that, quickly finishing his own food and then watching contentedly as you inch towards the conclusion of yours, doling out sips of the milkshake like rewards when you make a satisfactory dent in it and still trying and failing to trick you into drinking from it at the same time as him. But without any food to keep himself busy, his mind starts wandering again.
“...I’ve got a question for you,” he says.
“You can ask it,” you offer without commitment.
He seems to be trying to stifle a smirk. “What’s your issue with heavy metal?”
You sigh, chewing on a french fry. “...It’s gratuitous.”
“Okay,” Eddie says, intrigued. “...Go on.”
What else is there to say? “...Hyper-masculine, hyper-sexual, hyper-violent, and fucking soulless.”
He snorts. “You sound like the 6 o’clock news. What’s wrong with sex and violence?”
“Nothing,” you say with a shrug, “but there’s no…self-awareness, or…sensitivity. It feels…completely insincere, and just…”
“Schlocky?” Eddie provides, smiling even wider.
You nod.
“Well, that movie we just watched was pretty damn schlocky, and you seemed to be fine with that,” he argues, raising his eyebrows at you.
“It’s different,” you insist.
“How?”
You purse your lips as you think about it, and Eddie shifts forwards, resting his elbows on the table as he waits.
“There’s…fragility,” you decide. “Metal is all…power fantasies and self-glorification, just for its own sake. For spectacle. It’s shallow. The only substance is in…technical skill, sometimes. Even the pop radio sellouts aren’t afraid of emotional vulnerability.”
“I…see where you’re coming from, sort of,” he says with a couple nods, rubbing his chin in thought. “I mean, you aren’t completely wrong, but it…isn’t all like that, not by a long shot. I think you just haven’t heard enough.”
You’re heard more than enough just since he started bothering you. “What’s it like, then?” you drone, unconvinced.
“It’s…fucking cool,” he says with a laugh. “I mean, there’s….epic storytelling about dark fantasy worlds and sci-fi futures. It’ll take you on a fucking journey. And shit, there is…plenty of goddamn emotion in metal. Just because it can be…big, and loud, and in your face doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Why do you think the church is so goddamn convinced that Black Sabbath is turning kids into suicidal depressives? ‘Cause they’re writing songs about the deep, dark, messed up shit that people deal with. Plus, y’know—fuck war, fuck society, fuck the government and all the slimy goddamn bastards that run it. There’re a lotta things out there worth being spectacularly angry about. Nothing gratuitous about it.”
His eyes light up as he talks about it, bouncing back and forth between you and some glorious vision playing out behind them, burning passionately enough that you very nearly forget to actually listen to what he’s saying. You process probably half of it, and have to take a minute to catch up on the rest.
“...Fine,” is all you can think to say. The only other word swirling around in your mind at the sight of him is a little too frustrating to admit.
Eddie eyes squint at you, amused. “...I mean, I could just as easily call your music a bunch of moody Brits whining…pretentious, overly poetic gibberish over gloomy dance beats.”
“That’s—”
“Reductive, huh?” His self-satisfied grin makes your nose twitch.
Your instinct is to spit out some acidic retort, but that’s probably what he wants from you, so instead, you throw one of your dwindling fries at his face. Eddie watches your hand and sees it coming, but when he tries to catch it in his mouth, it bounces off his cheek and falls into his lap.
“Fuck,” he says. “...Try again, I wasn’t ready.”
“I wasn’t trying to feed you.”
“I can catch it, just throw another one.”
With only minor hesitation, you sacrifice another french fry. This one, he catches between his teeth perfectly, then straightens his back in victory, smiling wide and pointing at it with pride, clearly waiting to be commended.
“Eh? Ehhh?”
“That isn’t remotely as impressive as you think it is,” you say, failing to entirely suppress a laugh.
“Don’t lie,” Eddie scolds before swallowing. “...I can see it in your eyes. This is totally doing it for you.”
“You’re so stupid.”
“Yeah, I know, c’mon,” he says, gesturing impatiently, smacking one hand on the counter repeatedly. “Hit me again.”
…
After dinner, your mind is elsewhere. The way that the city shines at nighttime makes your heart ache, and you try to take in as much as you can of all of it, savoring vivid snapshots in your mind to fuel your daydreams and tide you over until every other day in your life gets to look like this, too.
You’re hardly even paying attention to your direct surroundings, trusting subconsciously that Eddie will maneuver the both of you around any obstacles and stop you when you need to stop, and that’s exactly how he manages to take what he’s been trying to steal from you all day. You’re still zoning out as his fingers lace through yours, so by the time you crash back down on earth and try to tug your hand away, it’s too late.
“Gotcha,” he teases, smiling down at you. His pinched eyes are too warm to look at for very long. “This isn’t so awful, now, is it?”
He gives your entwined hands a swing, and you just grunt at him in displeasure. The weight of his scorching hand in yours is impossible to ignore, holding you hostage in the present moment, an entire corner of your brain dedicated to screeching imprecisely at the feeling.
“...Don’t worry, we’re not technically holding hands,” he goes on. “I’m just warming up your corpse-like fingers for you.” He brings his other hand around to cup the back of yours, and makes a show out of shuddering at the feeling. “…Jesus Christ, are you sure you’re alive?”
“You’re just burning up,” you bite back. “How are your palms still sweaty?”
“I dunno,” he says with a chuckle. “...I guess you must make me nervous, pretty girl.”
The ride back to Hawkins feels only half as long as the drive away from it did. Partially because it is faster. There are much fewer cars sharing the road, allowing for a smooth, endless glide that would probably be enough to lull you to sleep if you were a little less aware of whose company you’re keeping. The soundtrack you provide only makes it worse—Cocteau Twins’ Treasure, Strawberry Switchblade’s self titled LP, and Xmal Deutschland’s Tocsin creating a distant, dreamy, almost hypnotic atmosphere. Eddie must feel it too, because he hardly finds any reasons at all to break the silence.
You’re comfortable, and that’s what might be the hardest thing to accept about today. Although you waited for it, ached for it all day, there wasn’t even a moment where you could wholeheartedly say that you wished he hadn’t been there. That you would’ve had a better time without him. Part of the reason you agreed to this date in the first place was because you thought it would vindicate you—that, at some point, you would be miserable, and the tolerance you’ve built up for him would drain itself dry, and you’d end the day blissfully assured that the ridiculous proposition that you might actually like this annoying, relentless geek was nothing more than a delusion, easily shattered by more than ten minutes in each others’ company. You didn’t remotely plan for any other option.
At one point, Eddie takes one hand off of the wheel to dig in his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He pops one in his mouth, and throws you a wink as he goes digging somewhere else for a lighter. Once the end of it burns cherry red, he cranks his window down partway, noisy wind whipping into the cabin immediately, blowing his wispy hair all over the place. You turn the music up a little louder.
After a couple drags, without a word, he holds it out to you. You hesitate for no real reason; only because, in the quiet ride with your music playing, in this pleasant, shared silence that you would never have guessed Eddie was even capable of, it feels more intimate than you know how to handle.
“...Dont be shy,” he mutters in encouragement, dimples popping out in a gentle smile.
Nearly pouting, you take the cigarette from him and force yourself not to think about how you’re wrapping your lips around paper slightly darkened by the moisture from his own as you take a drag.
…
Within minutes of re-entering Hawkins, on a long, empty road flanked by trees on either side, you’re startled out of a daydream by the shrill blip of a police siren. It must’ve been hidden part way down a side road into the forest, because Eddie didn’t notice it either.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters under his breath—not the way he’d normally say it. There’s no humor or exaggeration. It’s sharp, and frustrated so acutely that the sound of it ruffles your stomach.
He kills the music with a harsh finger and pulls grudgingly onto the shoulder of the road, putting on the brakes and leaning back in his seat with a look on his face that must be twice as severe as the one and only time you managed to sincerely piss him off. When you try to say something, he speaks over you.
“It’s fine,” he says, but he won't meet your eyes. “Just…don’t say anything.”
The officer steps in front of his window, and Eddie gives him a look you can’t see before rolling it down.
“Well, well,” he says as he peers in, taking a good look at both of you. “...I knew I recognized this van. What decent business could you possibly have out here at this time of night?”
“Can we just get this shit over with?” Eddie spits at him, venomous enough to make your eyes widen. Not even you would speak that rude to a man with a loaded gun and practical impunity.
The officer just scoffs, and then shifts his eyes to you. “Who’s the girl?”
Eddie says nothing, and you grit your teeth in stress.
“...She legal?” the officer asks with a smirk that makes your skin crawl. “...Cause, shit, if I’m the lucky bastard who gets to bust the Munson kid, and for goddamn statutory, of all things—”
“I’m just trying to take her home, man,” Eddie grits out.
“I’m not your ‘man’, kid. License and registration.”
Your heart pounds in your chest as Eddie wrestles his license out of his wallet and leans over to yank open the glove compartment, rifling around wildly until he finds his registration card. The officer examines them, and, despite likely having seen them before, he looks back and forth between Eddie and his picture with fabricated doubt.
“...I dunno,” he says, humming in uncertainty. He turns the license around like he’s showing it to you. “Doesn’t quite look right, does it?”
Whenever the picture was taken, it looks identical to how he looks right now. Eddie’s hands are wrapped so tight around the steering wheel, it looks like the skin over his knuckles could burst open.
The officer smiles. “Step out of the vehicle.”
He curses under his breath, but does as requested.
“Hands on the side of the van.”
It’s mostly outside of your view, but you know what’s happening. The cop, by the sound of it, is making a very excessive show of patting him down head to toe, possibly more than once. It goes quiet for a moment.
“...Now, where the hell did you get this much cash, kid?”
“What, is that illegal now?”
The officer tuts at him. “Smart mouth. …Come to think of it, is that liquor I smell on your breath? Why don’t you walk in a straight line for me?” There’s a sound like shoes scuffing on pavement, and Eddie grunts. “Nope, other way. Give your lady a good show, maybe she’ll reward you for it.”
You watch in horror as Eddie walks a slow, straight line past the window, his face dim and pulled taut in stress, dark eyes far away. The officer chuckles.
“Alright, now come back.”
He does. There’s a pause, the officer hums in thought.
“Mmm… Inconclusive, I’d say. Let’s go again.”
None of this makes any sense at all, your hands tremble terribly in your lap, and as he passes by again, the sight of that awful fucking look on his face pushes you over the edge.
“He didn’t do anything wrong!” It bursts out of your aching throat like buckshot, abrupt and irrepressible as your confusion erupts into outrage. “He’s not—!”
Eddie shouts your name, louder and coarser than you’ve ever heard it, and your blood freezes in your veins, stilling you down to your bones. His stare pierces through you, but only for a moment. “...Not helping.”
Your head dips in a stilted nod, your best apology. The officer laughs again.
It goes on for a little longer after that, but none of it penetrates the static of your mind—disoriented, furious, lost, ashamed. When Eddie gets back in the car, he sits there in silence for a while, his hands wrapping tighter and tighter around the steering wheel. Trying to mask their shaking.
“...Sorry,” he breathes through the quiet. All you do is nod.
Eddie doesn’t turn the music back on as he drives you the rest of the way home. The purple light from the neon sign glows strong enough to light up both of you, making his grim expression seem a little lighter.
He presses the eject and hands you your tape. You take it from him with clumsy hands, struggling just slightly to stuff it back in its case.
You don’t know what to say, so you just stare at him. A few hesitant flicks in your direction, and then he stares right back at you. His face is still strained, brown eyes pressed unusually hard, but you can tell he’s trying to let it go, to soften himself as he looks at you.
“...Are you okay?” you ask in a small voice.
A little smile breaks through the tension on his face. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Does that…happen a lot?”
He sticks his tongue in his cheek and nods. It makes your hands twitch; packed tight with more resentment than they know what to do with. You take a breath.
“...Thanks for taking me.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” he says. “...See you at school?”
“Yeah.”
Securing your bag on your shoulder, you shift around to open the door, and then hesitate. This is just…wrong. It shouldn’t end like this, not after…all of that.
You turn back around to look at him again and find him quietly expectant, like he thinks you’re going to ask him something else.
…Just do it, you remind yourself, or it won’t get done.
Before you can think better of it, or listen to the hissing, nauseous snakes of your intestines, you shift yourself in the seat, plant one hand on the console, and lean over it to press your lips to his cheek. A split second of slack-jawed, almost childlike wonder on his face is all that you can tolerate. You throw yourself out of his van with blazing urgency and slam the door closed behind you, bursting into your mother’s shop like you’re being pursued, and stomping your way up the stairs with hot-faced embarrassment.
…
It’s almost two in the morning, and Eddie can’t sleep.
His brain is still sort of hot and bothered from the run-in with Officer Shitbag—the overt humiliation that was made twice as egregious as usual by virtue of your presence, no doubt—but in all honesty, that ordeal probably wouldn’t even make the top five reasons for his current insomnia.
All he’s really thinking about is you.
Eddie likes you. He knew that already, of course, but he’s starting to think (that is, accept) that he likes you a lot, in a way that he’s never really liked anyone else before, and it’s kind of scaring the shit out of him. Because that wasn’t supposed to happen, yes, but also because you really, really weren’t supposed to like him too, and now he’s pretty certain that you do. Meaning, probably, that you aren’t going to want to end things with him after a mere date or two like he figured, and he sure as shit won’t be ending things with you for anything less than a gun to his head. …Metaphorically speaking.
This means that his options are either to come clean with you and hope you possess the infinite mercy and compassion of a nun, or to take the unfortunate reason he started chasing you in the first place to his grave, and hope for the best outside of that. One of these options is much, much less terrifying than the other, and it just so happens to be the one that also makes him feel like the scum of the earth.
But this dilemma, although he’s thinking about it, isn’t really the problem at hand, either. What’s actually keeping him awake is a very simple predicament that is very, very hard to ignore.
It’s a bad idea. It’s too soon. It may very well be his own personal point of no return, and if there’s any line he shouldn’t cross in this situation, it’s this one. He knows that.
But what little blood is typically reserved for the good-decision-making part of his brain flew south for the winter about twenty minutes ago, and seems pretty goddamn determined not to come back.
Eddie groans, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging at the roots, screwing his eyes shut, trying to will his brain to move in the direction of literally anything other than you, and your legs, and your soft hand in his; your plump, pretty lips lifting into a smirk, curling around his cigarette, pressed warm and wet against his rattled cheek, wrapped tight around a french fry like an actual demon from Hell.
…It’s no use. It’s not like it’s his fault, right? The heart wants what the heart wants, and so does every other part of him, and if he doesn’t get to sleep soon, he’ll be shambling through the halls like a useless zombie tomorrow.
And if it makes him a creep, or a scumbag, or a freak, then, well… What’s another scrap in the dumpster fire? His conscience has taken much worse blows than this.
With a deep, resigned breath, Eddie tugs loose the knot in the drawstring of his pants.
-
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Batfamily x Neglected! Moon Knight's Sidekick! Reader
Summary: After a group of students kill you due to hate, you get resurrected by a godly and somewhat childish entity that wishes to use you as a host due to your impressive abilities. Moon Knight, following the orders of Khonshu decides to train you but develops an attachment towards you. Unbeknownst to your family who you begin to slowly ignore due to their neglect and your nighttime activities. THIS IS A CROSSOVER FIC
Warnings: Major character death, Major harm, Neglect, bullying, hateful themes, Reader coming to terms with being neglected, violence, jumping from high buildings, reader is in a lot of pain.
Season 5 was....not the greatest....but there might be an explanation for this, apparently a girl was working on the scripts with the duffer brothers (This information is not factual just something I've heard or assuming) and apparently she got fired?? Which is why inherently it was kinda ass and didn't have any flavor. Once again this is not factual (at least not to my knowledge) and the script part is a guess I'm not sure if she was or was not
Also apparently the cast members had to "Beg" the Duffer brothers for any type of coming out or addressing Will's obvious gay agenda which like .....You're gonna make a gay character yet you had to have people "Beg" for you to address he was gay? That's crazyyy
