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greetings! i’d like to ask for a drabble with (married with kids) + (snowed in) with (Steve Harrington) and a (fem)reader!
hope you enjoy it!!!
warnings: mentions of pregnancy
Your little girl dive bombed her father come Christmas morning. A blessing, considering your swollen belly.
“H-ohhhh-kay!” All breath left him. “Good morning, Clara. Great wake up call.”
“Daddy!” she squealed. “It’s Christmas!”
“No, really?” he asked, hands going to her stomach to tickle her into hysterics. You rolled out of bed, yawning as you reached for your robe on the ground. It wasn’t the easiest. You pinched it with your toes to bring it to your hand instead.
“C’mon, let’s go see if Santa came,” you hummed, pulling on your new layer and holding out your hands. Clara escaped from Steve, wiggling from his large hands and into yours. You happily lifted her up and up onto your hip, smattering her face with kisses.
“Don’t carry her down the stairs!” Steve called after you.
“Steve Harrington, I am a capable woman!” you replied, giggling with your toddler as you gripped the railing and carefully began the trek down. The thundering behind you had you laughing as Steve rushed by, stealing a kiss from your cheek before taking your daughter from you. Three years into this marriage and he still had such kid energy. He got along well with his baby girl, just as he would with the next.
You held your tummy as you entered the living room, smiling as Steve pointed to the plate of eaten cookies and a foggy glass that once held milk. Clara was having the time of her life as you found your place on the couch.
“Wanna help me make Mama some coffee before we open presents?” Steve asked her.
She nodded wholeheartedly, waving over his shoulder as they sauntered off. You grinned after her.
They not only brought you back a warm drink. Steve had the polaroid of which he happily handed over as he went to start the fire.
“Mama sit next to me!” Clara begged, antsy on the carpet by the tree. You joined her, careful as you lowered to the floor.
The two of you took turns sounding out the names on each gift. You showed her which boxes came from Santa and which from you and her father. Her pile soon turned into a mountain, the same you expected of Steve’s parents when you later visited their house. They spoiled her rotten, just like her father.
“Ready, squirt?” Steve hummed, groaning as he joined the both of you on the floor. He settled behind you, his legs on either side of you as he pulled you back into his embrace.
You happily leaned into him as Clara ripped into her gifts, squealing and shouting each new toy and bauble.
Polaroids scattered over the table, developing as the morning went. Your hair was littered with bows, ears adorned with shiny new jewelry though you much preferred the new book series stacked off to the side.
You rubbed your tummy as you watched your husband play with his daughter by the fire, galloping on of her new toy ponies after her barbie doll as she giggled.
You couldn’t wait to see him with another child, all golden grins and cartoony voices. He wanted a big family and soon he’d have it.
“You have one more gift,” you called to Steve, pulling out a small box from your robe.
He gasped dramatically with his little girl before making his way over to kiss you on the cheek.
“I don’t need anything else,” he chuckled, “but thank you.”
“Trust me. You needed this,” you hummed watching him intently as he pulled the top off. His eyes watered as he recognized an ultrasound, pulling it out for Clara to see.
“Here’s your baby sister,” he said before his brow furrowed. You tried not to laugh as he stared closer. “Wait…”
“What?” Clara asked, pulling at his arm.
“He’s counting,” you told her, laughing as his jaw dropped.
“Twins?!” he asked and you nodded.
“What’s that mean?” Clara asked.
“It means you’re getting a little brother, too,” you said, gasping as Steve pulled you into an embrace. You held him as he kissed up your neck, teary eyed as he thanked you.
“Merry Christmas,” you whispered, pushing his hair back as kissing away the tears.
“You’re right,” he sighed. “It was everything I needed and more. I love you.”
“And I love you!” came Clara as she joined you both in the embrace.
“And I love you both,” you laughed.
do you guys read all those stranger things graphic novel short stories??
I’m worried there’s lore I don’t know and I want to know which ones are worth my time. I’ve listened to rebel robin and I’m totally down for more content but which ones do we accept as canon??
there’s so many I’m overwhelmed
It’s been almost a year since Stranger Things season 2 was released and I’m already at the point where I’d seriously would give one of my kidneys for new content.
y’all I just finished stranger things and I need some blogs to follow ;)
if you post stranger things stuff, original or just reblog the good stuff then please reblog this or tag people you know have this content!
thank you so much have a nice day
greetings! i’d like to ask for a drabble with (married with kids) + (Christmas morning) with (Eddie Munson) and a (fem)reader!
You were watching the coffee maker at work when a pair of inked up arms slithered around your waist. You leaned back into a sturdy chest, smiling as he went straight for your neck. Eddie practically lived there when you were cuddling.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, kissing under your ear. His voice was rough, still half asleep.
“Want some coffee?” you hummed, holding his arms. He grumbled something into your shoulder. You took it for a yes.
He stayed like that as you fixed the two mugs, sugar and creamer to taste. He finally came up for air when you brush your hand over his jaw, holding the steaming liquid up.
“Thank you.” He stepped next to you, clinking his cup against yours before taking a sip and eyeing the doorway behind you “How much longer before the stampede?”
“I’m sure we’ll hear Derek waking Page up,” you chuckled.
It was a few more sips of coffee before the thundering of footsteps and a door opening echoed. Eddie smiled into his mug as your little boy yelled for his older sister to get up.
“Like clockwork,” you said, pushing off the counter to head to the living room. Eddie trailed behind you.
He was the first on the couch, letting you sit your drink on the table before he pulled you down next to him.
“Mama, Dad!” came Derek from what sounded like your bedroom.
“Down here!” Eddie shouted, smiling at his sleepy-eyed daughter as she eased down the steps. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
She mumbled back, groggy but there was still a glimmer of excitement as she noticed the presents under the tree. She was getting into her teen years now, but she still had some Christmas spirit. Enough to tease her brother that Santa was watching when he did something bad throughout the year.
Derek flew down the stairs with all the speed of a bullet to check the cookie plate. It was nothing but crumbs thanks to your husband.
“There’s soot on the fireplace!” Derek yelled, pointing to the bootprints on the brick.
“Looks like we need to clean that chimney,” you said, nodding to your girl as she pointed towards the gifts. She liked to hand everyone’s out.
“Grab the stockings, D,” Eddie asked.
“It’s heavy!” he gasped, pulling his down first.
“You get coal?” Page snickered.
“No!” he whined, holding the opening up for her to see. “It’s full of stuff, see?”
“Pass me mine and Daddy’s?” you hummed, twiddling your fingers at your boy. He nodded, only struggling a bit with his height to unhook them.
Once Page had the gifts in neat piles, she joined you on the couch to empty her stocking with her brother. Candy and trinkets, some you’d grabbed over the course of the year to help the dent in your wallet Christmas left behind.
You watched them empty the socks, heart full as they oohed and ahed. It wasn’t until lights were flashing that you realized Eddie had pulled out the camera. You smiled for the pictures, gathering the trash as wrapping ripped. Eddie took over to give you the camera, but not before you snapped some of him.
It wasn’t until the kids were done with their gifts that either of you started on yours.
“How did you…?” Eddie flipped the record over, mouth open. “These sold out!”
“I have my ways,” you hummed, smiling at the look he gave you.
“God, I love you,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss you.
You laughed into him as your kids gagged in the background.
“Get a room,” your daughter complained.
“This house is our room!” Eddie teased, smothering your face with more kisses.
Your kids fell over the both of you to get him off, all of you laughing.
It was another beautiful Christmas at the Munson household.
august, 1985
eddie munson x fem!mayfield!reader
warnings: some mature language, hints of unhealthy family dynamics
part one | part two
By the third twist, the dry cranking noise coursing through the car gets the best of you.
Crumbling leather crumbles further as you bang your palms against the steering wheel, hard enough to send pain racing up your forearms as you yell. A blaring horn has nothing on your voice, breaking off into wet gasps—ghosts of sobs on the horizon, but you won’t let them out. Not even now when you’re alone on the side of the road with no one around for a mile or two.
You press your forehead into the top of the wheel. Deep breaths, then a few more for good measure. The stress breaches a bit; tears blur the sight of your old jeans below you.
You don’t want to be here.
You don’t really want to be anywhere, but that’s nothing new. Two years too late.
Thank God you’d gone ahead and told Max to ride the bus home earlier that morning. You knew you’d be late after your shift at The Hideout. You just hadn’t been aware your car would break down on the way back.
Sniffing, you wipe the early remnants of crying from the edge of your eyelashes and throw your door open, stepping out into the humid, backend of summer air. The sweaty season has yet to fade and it won’t be for some time.
Trauma of months’ past follows in its footsteps, clinging to you like a second skin. Some days it pinches, the wrong texture rubbing up against sore spots. Other days you scratch too hard and it all comes undone.
Today is threatening to be one of those days.
You trail around the hood of the car not even bothering to lift it. Vehicles, technology, they aren’t your forte and they never will be. If Johnathan was still around he could probably help you out. Tell you this and that and how that one noise probably shouldn’t be occurring.
He was smart in those quiet ways, in the kinda of jobs that go overlooked but keep a town running.
You two hadn’t been all that close, but you’d enjoyed getting know him on those rare social days where everyone wanted to be in the same place. Nancy liked you. Seemed to be enough for him.
I’ll ring him up if I can’t find someone else to fix it.
You could follow directions. You’re no mechanic, but if needs must you’d get the job done.
Wrenching the back door open, you grab your messenger bag. Double checking you have everything, you slam the door shut and lock everything up.
It’s only a couple of miles to the trailer park. You could make it. Calling a tow truck and warning mom you’re one car down would be less than ideal. At least you can somewhat afford it, take the load off her burdened shoulders and spoil Max when you can.
Fuck, my feet hurt.
Groaning, you roll your neck and let out a sigh as tension pops free. This was going to be one hell of a walk.
A loud beep sounds from behind, the sound of tires over asphalt quickly approaching.
Or not.
You pray it isn’t some creep, craning your neck to look over your shoulder before letting your body follow.
The striped dodge that comes to a screeching halt next to you has your eyes ticking wider. So does the beaming face grinning at you through the window.
Not a creep, you resolve. It’s only the ill-famed Eddie “the freak” Munson.
You lean on your hip, watching with the slightest amusement as he stretches over the center console. A painful moment goes by of him rolling down the window.
You both stare at each other as he crosses his arms over the rim, chin lowering to rest atop them.
“Marooned, Mayfield?” he croons, eyelashes fluttering. They’re long and dark. You find yourself almost jealous.
“Not exactly Treasure Island, Munson,” you murmur, rolling your eyes as you turn your head, “but yeah. Sure. We’ll go with that.”
“Mm-mm,” he hums, shaking his head and sending those dark waves dancing.
It had been a while since you’d seen him outside of work or at work for that matter. You hadn’t gone in on a Tuesday in, what, a month? Patricia had broken a leg so you were picking up her shifts while your manager looked for another fill in.
Tuesdays were your slowest night so he took it upon himself to take that spot on the timetables.
Seeing as Munson’s band played those nights, that was your only time you saw one another unless there was a chance of both of you getting home at the same time. Neighbors and all—a friendly wave here and a “good morning” there.
His band mates seemed to tolerate you, probably due to the free drinks. If they caught you in a good enough mood and your manager was off taking his two hour long “ten minute cigarette break” you’d sneak them a beer, maybe a shot or cocktail every blue moon.
Besides that and your two years at Hawkins, you barely knew the guys or their leader.
Munson was as close to “knowing a stranger” as you could get.
When you focus on him again his cheek is against one of his hands, the middle three fingers adorned in silver. The pig stands out to you first, then the skull.
“Rough day?”
Colors erupt behind your eyes, screams popping through the muffled ringing in your ears. You can still feel Max struggling against your arms, sobbing so hard you can feel it through her back.
“I’ve had worse.” It slips before you even realize you’re talking.
Blinking back to standing on the side of the road, you meet Munson’s stare again. He’s smiling still but softer, eyes screaming pity. Your mouth floods sour.
“Need a ride?”
You grimace, looking towards the long journey ahead. Yes, your feet still hurt from your shift but you could make it. Then again, while Munson may not be the best company to keep, he is your neighbor. It’s a straight shot.
“What?” he calls softly. “Scared of the big bad freak, Mayfield?”
“More like what you have hiding in your car,” you say, staring through him. “Can't exactly afford bail right now.”
“No need to worry about that.”
Your eyes go to half mast, scanning the man from chin up.
“I swear,” he says slowly, teeth showing as he smiles big again. “C’mon. Lemme take you home. I can tell my uncle about your car problems before he leaves for work.”
“He fixes cars?”
Munson shrugs, sniffing as he turns away.
“Ehh, he’s a man of many talents. I’m sure whatever’s killed your car he can probably find a solution to.”
You hum derisively and his eyes go wide as he chuckles.
“What? Is it that shocking?”
“I just feel like there’s a catch here.”
He scoffs, moving back over into the driver’s seat.
For a moment you think that’s it. You’ve pissed him off enough and he’ll go driving off leaving you to walk the rest of the way home.
Maybe that would’ve been easier.
Instead, he stares at you out of the corner of his eye and smirks before shaking his head and stretching over the steering wheel.
“Maybe I’m just feeling nice today.” He waves a hand, his left that only has one ring to speak of. “Hop in, Miss California Dreamin’.”
You huff. California is a world away from you now.
His car has a heavy scent as you strap in. Surprisingly, it’s not rank as most of the cars you’ve been in that belonged to teenage boys. Sure, you can pick up on the weed—that dank stench sticks and after repeated use, you doubt nothing less than bleach can get rid of it—but there’s something else that mingles with it. Something on the cusp of stink but still somehow pulling through to keep the space pleasant enough to breathe in.
You figure it’s fading cologne, maybe an air freshener.
Either way, you keep the window down for the remainder of the drive home. It’s still warm out, but the wind on your face keeps you grounded, so much so that you’re almost disappointed when you turn off onto the gravel road leading into the trailer park.
“Home sweet home,” Munson says, more so to himself than you.
You’re surprised he hadn’t tried to make conversation throughout the trip. He’s always running his mouth at work.
As he pulls into his trailer’s driveway, you unbuckle and push the door open. You remember finding a grip for your shoe on the step-down for the van, but suddenly your knees are burning through your jeans, palms scratched as you push yourself up from scattered gravel. It’s shifting somewhere else. Footsteps.
“Shit, shit, shit, are you okay?”
Something touches your shoulder and you flinch, looking up into molasses eyes. You’d never seen Munson look so real before. Worry never passed over his face in the two years you’d spotted him at school or the nights at work. Smugness, arrogance, a flash of anger sometimes. But never concern.
“Y-yeah,” you muttered, heat working into your neck. “Just slipped, I think.”
He gawks at you for a moment, head tilting. His hair moves with him faultlessly, trailing in a warm breeze.
“What—you think?”
Your lips tighten as you push yourself back to your feet. A grunt slips free at the sting. You turn your palms towards you to find them bleeding, small fragments of gravel stuck here and there. Nothing a little water and soap can’t fix, and a bandaid if you have any left.
You go to wipe them off on your jeans, freezing as Munson snags your wrist and pulls one up to observe.
“I have some peroxide inside, c’mon,” he says, delivering it so casually like you two have been friends for years.
You pull away.
“S’fine.”
“I have to talk to my uncle about the car anyway. He’s gonna need some details to get an idea, so.” He whips his hands out, making a show of weighing them before blowing out a loud breath.
You glance over your shoulder at your trailer. Max was probably home and you needed to get started on dinner. She might not eat by herself.
“Fine, just make it quick,” you breathe, following him around the car.
He shuts his door on the way, likely too busy running around to check on you.
There’s vulnerability in that, in being worried about.
You wipe the thought away and follow him up the front steps.
“You should be honored.” You give him another unimpressed stare as he opens the door for you, gesturing you inside with an all too cheerful grin. “I don’t just let anyone over, so consider yourself lucky, Mayfield.”
That’s a shitload of mugs, is your first thought as you walk in.
The meet and greet of the uncle borders on agonizing. He’s short and to the point, the exact opposite of his nephew. You describe the sound your car was making when attempting to drive it home before it sputtered to death. From the nod he gives, you suppose he’s got an idea of what’s wrong with it.
“I’ll give it a look tomorrow morning after work. Should be passing it by on the way back.”
“What if it gets towed?”
“Should be fine by tomorrow. I’ll get to it.”
“Thanks, then. I can, uh, pay you for the trouble—”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he finalizes, gruff but not exactly mean.
You give him your keys with some hesitancy. After that he wishes you a good evening before heading out. You pray he doesn’t ask for too much if he does decide to fix your car.
When the door shuts, it takes you a few seconds to realize Munson is no longer next to you.
“A-ha!”
You turn towards his voice, just catching him as he pops up behind the kitchen counter with a bottle of peroxide in his grasp.
“The doctor will see you now,” he announces as he rips some paper towels from a metal ring.
When he approaches you reach for the offerings and quickly realize he’s not handing you the supplies. Before you can muster up the courage to tell him you can do it yourself, he’s already managed to drag you to the couch.
You’re not sure how he does it, but soon you’re there with your palms upright as he dabs them gently with soaked paper towel tips.
You hold back the hisses that threaten to break through from the sanitizing. The burning sensation has you leaning further into the couch cushions on your left. You let your hands lower to rest on your knees but Munson grabs one of your wrists to keep it elevated. His hand is warm where it meets your skin.
You watch him carefully as he picks pieces of gravel from the cuts, the tweezers somewhat silly-looking in hands like his. You’re not sure when he’d grabbed them, and he’s being so precise about it, you find yourself tucking your head into the couch for a moment.
Just to let him finish, you tell yourself. One more minute and he’ll be done and you can get back home to Max.
Just one more minute.
You wake up with the world weighing you down. It turns out to be a wool blanket, though, not one you recognize. The trailer around you and the amount of coffee mugs has you sitting upright.
It’s quiet.
“What the fuck,” you whisper.
“Tell me about it.”
You jerk up, whipping around on the couch to find Munson on the ground below you. There’s some sort of textbook situated in his lap, outlined with detailed art and papers scattered around with messy notes.
“You should really take a break,” he says, tilting his head back into the bottom couch cushion to look back at you. “Fall asleep at any other stranger’s house and you might not receive such five-star service.”
“What time is it?” you choke out, ripping your arm out from under the blanket over you.
Shock sends your stomach plummeting. It’s past seven. You’d been asleep for almost three hours. Your mom was likely already home and livid that you weren’t. Max was likely even more so.
“Fuck. Shit!” you screech, throwing yourself off the couch and towards the door. In your haste, you manage to grab your bag waiting on the floor on your way out.
“You're welcome!” Munson bellows. You don’t waste a minute and let the door slam shut behind you.
As predicted, Max is livid. Your mom, thankfully, had passed out in her room as soon as she’d gotten home a half hour ago with only a vague excuse from your little sister as to where you were. Max resolved it was better to wait than tell her you’d gone missing for a few hours.
“I called the movie rental place to figure out if you were with Robin or some shit,” she growls. “Fucking Steve picked up. You’re calling him back to tell him you’re fine before he calls the police.”
“Okay, I will, I’m sorry,” you tell her again. “Have you eaten?”
“I ate some leftovers from last night.” She scowls and crosses her arms. “I’m not some stupid five year old, I can take care of myself.”
Taking a deep breath, you nod and start for your shared room. Max had been staking out on the couch, waiting to pounce as soon as you got home. “If you even made it home,” she’d snapped in her explanation.
“Uh, hello?” she calls after you, the reverberations through the floor revealing she was hot on your heels. “You gonna tell me where you were?”
“My car broke down, okay?” You wipe a hand over your face, shouldering the cracked door open. “And keep your voice down. Let mom sleep.”
“So it took you three hours to get home? What happened to your hands?”
You just now realize the colorful bandages wrapped around a few of your fingers. You recognize the cartoon—something Max watches on the weekend.
She calls your name again when you don’t say anything.
You contemplate telling her the truth. That you were so dead on your feet you had passed out on Munson’s couch. That you were so exhausted you had fainted getting out of his car for a split second.
He was nice enough to wrap your hands up, to ask his uncle to check over your car.
You’re not sure why that bothers you so much.
“Broke a glass at work,” you decide on, throat tight.
Max pops her brows up at you and you nearly blow your top, nearly let that stress claim you again. You turn before it bubbles out of your face and causes more problems.
She doesn’t know what she’s pushing at. She doesn’t know and that isn’t her fault.
“Jesus, I worked late and it was a long walk back and I’m tired, Max, so can you just give me a fucking break?”
The silence isn’t all that reassuring.
You turn to find her glaring at you and to anyone else, she would look pissed off, possibly on the brink of tearing you a new one.
But you know your sister and, more especially, you know her anger. This was nothing like it with the way her shoulders dip forward and her cheek moves from constantly chewing on the inside of it. Her nose flares and you know she’s fighting back tears. Yours does the exact same thing when you’re holding everything in.
Sighing, you take the few steps towards her and yank her into a hug. She resists before she melts into you, wrapping her arms around you so tightly you wince.
She’s grown, you think, mystified. She’s stronger. But you know it’s been hard for her, too. Mayfields never catch a break. You’re starting to think no one in Hawkins does.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you murmur into her hair; it’s so much like your mother’s it makes you ache for the younger version you recall when your real dad was around and Max’s chubby hands were yanking at your hair. “I’m going to get the car fixed so it won’t happen again. I promise.”
“Just try to call next time, okay? Like, I can't save your ass from mom all the time.”
“Touché,” you snort.
“Whatever.”
Her voice is somewhat muffled by your shirt but you still make out the deep sniff before she pulls away, trying to wipe her eyes before you’ll notice. You don’t tell her you do.
“You smell like BO.”
You choke out a laugh, having not expected that in the slightest.
“Wow, thanks.” You swivel towards your small dresser. “Good to know.”
“I’m just saying. Take a shower or something,” she scoffs, heading out of the room. “I’ll heat up the leftovers. In case you want any.”
“Thanks,” you call after her. She just waves, shutting the door behind her.
A shower helps. The haziness of the day drains with the water, revving up your mind for exactly what the hell happened with Munson.
Why didn’t he wake you up? Was he really just fine with some girl he barely knew falling asleep on his couch?
You think back to the blanket wrapped snugly around your figure. Creepy, if not somewhat endearing. He’d been on the ground when you came to. How long had he stayed there?
Shaking your wet hair out in a towel, you waltz into the living room to find Max waiting by the microwave. When it beeps she takes the plate of food out, setting it on the counter.
You thank her again as it cools, grabbing the telephone to see if Steve is still at work.
“Did you find her?!” is your greeting, loud and cracking through the line.
He’s still at work.
“I’m fine, Steve,” you breathe, smiling into the receiver. “Just had some car trouble after a late shift. Had to walk home.”
“Okay, yeah, well you gave me and Robin a heart attack.”
“I wasn’t worried!” Robin bleeds through from a distance.
“She was worried. She called your work,” Steve says.
“Only after the two hour mark!”
You hum, watching Max collapse into the couch.
“Well, thanks for worrying. I’m home safe and sound.”
“Me and Robin are doing another movie night Friday if you wanna come.”
“I can’t, I’m working.”
“You’re always working. Do you ever rest?”
You feel like you’d been hearing that a lot today.
“Night, Steve.”
“Night,” he grumbles.
Hanging up, you walk around to get some silverware for your dinner. As you’re grabbing a fork from the designated drawer, you notice a bag left out on the counter. Chocolate chips already ripped open.
Still has the sweet tooth.
Max would always find any Halloween candy you’d hide in your early years. Hell, no high shelf could keep sugary snacks out of her reach. Thank God you’d caught her that one time she’d stacked not two, but three chairs atop one another.
You read over the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag and think back to your grocery run last week.
Max glances up from the couch when you shake the bag in her direction.
“I only had a handful,” she defends, brow furrowing. You smile. She’s always on the defense.
“You wanna make some?”
Her eyes light up even when she tries to mask her excitement. She shrugs, turning back towards the TV.
“Sure, whatever.”
After a quick dinner, you round up the baking ingredients while Max gets the bowls. You take care of the wet fixings while she does the dry, stealing a glance at you when some flour puffs over the rim of her bowl. You just laugh.
You both take turns stirring everything together. It’s hard work without an electric mixer but you make do, stealing fingertips of dough throughout the process. Whoever isn’t mixing works on the clean up process. You preheat the oven.
“Do I smell cookies?” The two of you smile as your mom ambles in, pulling you two into a hug. “God, that smells good. Save me a few.”
“I think we overdid it a bit,” you say, motioning to the rest of the uncooked dough in a bowl.
“Oh, you think?” Max retorts.
You shoulder her on the way to the sink to finish the dishes.
“Get the other pan out and some more parchment. I’ll get these done.”
The both of you wince as you hear the fridge pop open. Neither of you look towards your mom as the hiss of a beer can fills the room.
She goes to the couch to lounge and you pat Max gingerly on the back.
The pair of you continue your work in the kitchen.
Max heads to bed around half past eleven. Your mom is out on the couch before that, the scent of cigarette smoke ruining the lingering sweetness from the cookies.
You package them up for later, planning to pack a few for yourself and Max for lunch. In another tub, you round up a dozen or so, glancing back behind you at your mom and your closed bedroom door.
It won’t take me long, you tell yourself.
You stand on Munson’s doorstep in an old sweatshirt and your pajama pants, wondering if this really is the best way to go about things.
A few seconds go by where you imagine yourself turning around and heading back home. Instead, you knock and wait, listening to the gentle wind of the summer night.
He smiles at you from behind the screen door but that doesn’t hide the surprise in his eyes.
“Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” he asks, opening the door and welcoming you in.
You shake your head, staying put.
“Just wanted to say thanks for today,” you explain, sneaker-clad feet shifting under you.
A few bugs plink off the buzzing porch light to your left.
“I don’t know if you like them but I brought some cookies. They’re fresh.”
“Ooh!” he sings, immediately accepting the tub and popping the lid open to steal one. He eats an entire one whole, eyes rolling back as he groans. “Oh my god, they’re still warm!”
You bite back a smile at the theatrics and turn. That’s enough Munson for one day.
“Have a nice night.”
“I didn’t think you baked.”
You pause, meeting his eyes and shaking your head.
“No, it’s off the bag. I don’t.”
“Well, I know you cook. Henderson went off about how good Max’s lunches were. He misses your, uh… Shit, what were they called?” He scratches his head with one of his rings as he chews another bite of dessert. “Pepper sticks or something?”
Heat envelopes your entire face as you mutter, “Pep in your step sticks.”
Munson snaps, smiling ruefully as he nods.
“Pep in your step sticks,” he says rhythmically. “Love the name, Mayfield.”
“T-that wasn’t my idea, he named them and it just…stuck.”
Munson continues to grin at you. You just roll your eyes.
“Whatever, see ya.”
“You don’t work Tuesday nights anymore.”
You're one step down when you stop again. Sighing, you glance back at him and decide you can tease him after the shit he’d just given you.
“What? You miss the free drinks?”
“More so the company,” he answers in a serious tone he isn’t known for.
You stare, caught off guard as he smirks. He leans against the doorway, the creaking of the material loud as he waves a free hand.
“But, yeah, the drinks were nice.” His nose scrunches up as he talks. “You make a mean cocktail, Mayfield. No wonder those four drunks are there every week.”
“I’ve been filling in for a sick employee for other shifts. I should be back soon.”
“Well,” he dips his head, “I will see you then. Corroded Coffins awaits you.”
“Don’t make yourself sick on those.” You motion to the third cookie making its way towards his mouth. He freezes and you grin. “Night, Munson.”
“Sweet dreams, Mayfield,” he calls after you.
In the distance as you walk back home, you could have sworn a clock chimed, but as you stop to listen only the whisper of the trees dancing in the wind graces your ears.
december, 1985
eddie munson x fem!mayfield!reader
part one | part two | part three
warnings: mentions of weed, cursing, rated m for mature
Between work, Max, and the everyday going-ons of life, you don’t make much time for your friends-turning-aquaintences.
Steve and Robin have yet to give up, inviting you to movie marathons and home games. Nancy yielded after the first few tries, likely too busy with her own life and her job with the newspaper. You don’t hold it against her—you two weren’t the closest to begin with. Trauma just does that to people. Brings them closer to those who probably wouldn’t have even noticed you all that much to begin with.
You rarely feel up to socializing these days and that’s your problem, no one else’s. Regardless, you always thank Steve and Robin for keeping at it, but they’re likely on the verge of figuring you out. There’s only so many excuses you can use before they realize it’s a losing game—the bad habit of distancing yourself from the people you care about most.
Max gets it from you. You know she does and God do you hate it. It’s one of the last things you wanted her mirroring.
Space was natural and well deserved after the mall incident. You don’t push her to leave her room or go out with her band of nerds when they call. You’re both still mourning when summer break comes to an end, and it only makes sense to want to wallow, to stay shriveled up in your depressed little cocoon until you have the strength to re-emerge as something new. Someone better.
But that’s usually not the case for most people.
The first month after the mall incident—when your mother is in the throes of divorce with your stepfather—you remain by Max’s side. She doesn’t have to tell you what she needs and neither do you. There’s comfort in just existing next to each other.
By the third month, you all are moved into the trailer. Mom is struggling and you have to get off your ass and help because you care more about protecting your family than dwindling away in what ifs.
Max resumes her disconsolate headspace. She barely eats, sleeps in until noon. There’s no solace in skating empty parking lots or kicking it with friends.
You’re there to hold her when the nightmares begin to drag her up from the depths of sleep.
“We were right there,” she sobs quietly into your chest one night. “I was right there when I could’ve done something.”
“I wouldn’t have let you,” you tell her, cheek against her head. “I wasn’t losing you, too, Max.”
As much as you feel the guilt eating away at you in your moments of solitude, you know there isn’t anything you two could have done. Billy was too far gone. Even within those few minutes of control, he was still sick. There was no way of knowing if all of it would have vanished with the Mindflayer’s demise.
Still, you find yourself often wondering if you really could have changed things. The only difference is the timeline. The words you wanted to say one day and the ones that you let replace them the next.
Slowly, you’re accepting that the past is just that, and if you want to move forward, you have to stop looking back.
Now you’re here—four months since your car broke down on the way home from work. Winter break is around the corner for Max. She has yet to leave her cycle of detachment from her pals, but she’s seeking therapy soon with the school counselor. They’ll meet after winter break and hopefully Max can realize something by talking to her.
You know it’s a long shot. She barely talks to you about how she’s feeling these days. It’s better than doing nothing. If you just sat and watched any longer, the stress was going to eat away at you.
She’s fighting against whatever is weighing her down, you know she is. You’d even thought she was getting better at one point. She was still talking to her boys every once in a while, though she and Lucas remained separated.
Those little kids you’d remembered carting around were all growing up. Freshmen in high school along with your baby sis. Crazy how you had only graduated two years ago.
Even crazier how Munson has yet to graduate himself.
You don’t hold it against him. Schooling is hell no matter if you’re a senior in high school or college. Everyone learns at their own pace—has other things to focus on besides calculus or why an author chose to include a bird in one scene.
It’s not like you were a straight A student throughout your school career. No valedictorian with letters sent off for some fancy college.
You have responsibilities in Hawkins, cursed or not. There’s no room for college in that. It’s not like you were aching to go. Maybe you used to, when you wanted to escape this small town and never look back. When you had something to run towards.
Worries then are a far cry of your worries now. Newly deemed of legal drinking age, you’re only just now allowed to be a real bartender but thank God your boss didn’t give a rat’s ass about the little details.
As long as you could make him a damn good old fashioned, he was happy. Therefore you’ve been illegally serving spirits since the summer began to fade. But now that your birthday has passed, you’re being pushed to get a license. No timeframe as of yet, but it’s sneaking up on you, you’re sure if that.
For now, you’re still serving your mixed drinks and neat shots without any problem. You’re back to the usual schedule every week—Tuesdays being a part of it.
The first shift back, you had to hold in a laugh when he walked through the doors. It was like a deer in the headlights when he found you across the room. All too quickly it switched to that troublesome smirk he was known for.
Dumbass, you’d thought, fond enough to nod to him in greeting before taking another order from the local alcoholic at the end of the bar.
“Well, well, well,” he’d said, saddling over to you once you were free and wiping down glasses.
With an elbow perched on the dark wood, there he went batting those dark eyelashes again.
“Look who’s returned from her heroic quest. At last we meet again, California.”
“Heroic quest?”
He shrugs, thanking you as you toss him a chilled bottle of water.
“Filling in for a sick employee? Sounds pretty heroic to me.”
“I’m the only other bartender, Munson,” you scoffed. “It’s called logic.”
He sticks to his prime socializing after that. He gets so into it some nights your manager barks at him to get back on stage. He always winks in farewell, carrying himself back to his band of misfits.
It’s likely due to the whole distancing yourself from your only friends, but you grow soft on Munson in the passing months. He has a penchant of making you feel normal again. The days stop blurring together with his company, and you have more to look forward to than Max’s good days.
Under the strange comfort he brings, there’s a ticking reverberating through your skin.
Every once in a while you get a feeling in the back of your head, a whisper that you aren’t alone. PTSD probably. Just a new thing to get over.
The discomfort has been building steadily. You take to listening to your walkman frequently instead of the echoing silence. Max eyes it more often and you make a promise to yourself that by Christmas she’ll wake up to her favorite candy and a new walkman in her stocking—a better version than yours.
“I’ll give you a ride today,” you say when she’s brushing her teeth in the cramped bathroom.
She glances up at you in the mirror, seemingly caught off guard.
“The bus is about to be here,” she counters, thumb raising.
“I’m off today. I don’t mind.”
Since it’s so early you can grab her something to eat on the way. There’s a little cafe you and her used to frequent before money became tight. You have enough tips saved up from the last week to get her what she wants.
She sighs and spits the froth of toothpaste from her mouth but doesn’t reject the offer.
You can tell a bad mental day is looming as she mutters, “Sure, whatever.”
“Hey,” you keep your voice soft but not overly affectionate lest you scare her further into herself, “you wanna borrow my walkman today?”
Her shoulders scrunch up around her shoulders, hand curling over the sink counter as she stares down.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, “thanks.”
“I’ll go put your favorite tape in.”
After her favorite drink and a breakfast sandwich, she’s brighter that morning, Kate Bush on repeat in her ears as you drive with the windows down; it’s warmer out today. The AC is still busted, so no heat on chillier mornings, but your baby is driving like a dream after her hardships.
Munson’s uncle had refused any payment after rummaging around the engine, but he gladly accepted half of a dinner casserole later that evening.
He’s a kind man, just like his nephew.
Watching Max head into hellhole high for a day full of education and teen angst, you shift in your seat as someone calls your name.
Turning your head further back, you find Dustin waving feverishly from the sidewalk, Mike hoisting up a hand shortly beside him. The boy’s a beanstalk now and Dustin’s baby cheeks are almost kaput.
“Hey guys,” you call through the open window. “Have a good day at school!”
“Yeah, thanks, mom!” teases Dustin, him and Mike laughing as you smile and toss them a bird.
The duo goes off after that, falling into line with the throng of students filing inside. You’re glad to see them. They look happy enough.
Hovering your hand over your gear stick as the doors close behind the students, you nearly shit yourself as something bangs against the roof of the car.
Whipping your head left, you find a familiar sickening smile staring you in the face.
“Fucking hell, Munson!” you say sourly.
His hands fall from your roof to curling over the window sill, silver rings clinking against the material as he chuckles and apologizes.
“Are you trying to break my car again?”
He gives a dramatic back-of-the-throat scoff, expression offended.
“You ask like I broke it the first time.”
“Maybe you did.” You raise a brow at him, feigning suspicion. “You sabotaging my girl, neighbor?”
“Me?” he says all high-pitched and wide-eyed and laying a hand over his chest—another band t-shirt you’ve barely heard of. “Never. What do you take me for?”
“Trouble.”
You both grin at one another as the first bell of the day rattles in the background.
“Don’t you have class?” you ask when he has yet to move. He tosses his head back at the question, drumming against your car.
“Technically, yeah. But it’s almost winter break.”
“True, but you’re not quite there yet,” you detail. “Still a week out.”
He points at you, leaning down closer. The smell of aftershave and the slightest hint of cigarette wafts.
“Still close nonetheless.”
“Get to class, Munson,” you say, smiling as you put your car into drive. “I know you’re gunning to finally ditch this place once and for all so go earn that diploma. Maybe I’ll make you something special at the Hideout after graduation.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” His lips pull together, puckering as his head slowly sways to the right. He scratches idly at his nose as he stares somewhere off to the side. “You should…come by later.”
You pause your foot before it leaves the break, glancing up at him unimpressed.
“C’mon,” he says, cheeks wrinkling with how big his smile is. “You’re miss California—I know you’ve smoked before.”
A cool breeze whips through your windows. You shiver as it slips down the back of your neck.
“I have a sister to take care of, you know.”
“It’ll be later later. I have Hellfire today. Midnight at the earliest.”
Hellfire. His club rumored cult. It’s bound to be fun since Dustin and Mike are a part of it. Max will never admit it, but she’s peeked through the window a few times. Just to tell you how stupid it is, of course.
You bite the inside of your cheek, ruminating the proposal.
It had been a good while since you’d smoked, and if you’re being honest with yourself you did miss the high that comes with good company and weird subject matter. Eddie is all that and more. It’d be an interesting session for sure.
You’ll admit you’re scared of what his underlying offer is. If you’re willing to take that next step in this sort of blossoming friendship. Something that could easily turn into something else if you let it.
If you want it.
“What’s a little fun, huh?” A deep, knowing voice whispers in your ear.
Your gut wrenches as you grip the steering wheel. You look at your passenger seat, hopeful.
It’s empty.
A clock bellows once in the distance as you stare at the seat. You could have sworn the bell already rang, but this is too distorted. Too twisted.
“I mean, like, call it an early Christmas gift or whatever,” Eddie rattles on, staring over the car roof and completely missing the full body wince that blows through you as an eerie presence shifts through your head. “Just think it’d be better than getting glared at by your manager when I talk too long between song breaks. What’s up his ass anyway?”
He laughs and looks back at you. The smile wipes clean off his face as you stare blankly at the seat next to you.
“Hey, Mayfield, you good?”
“Huh?” you ask, head moving towards him. Your eyes don’t follow, staying put on the empty space. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you scared or something a few levels below that. It’s bordering on distressed, at least.
“Listen,” he starts, losing all the bravado as he takes his hands off the car. “I’m not forcing you or whatever. Just a friendly invite. No strings attached, but, like, I get it. Okay?”
Maybe he was looking too far into this. With you talking to him more and the increasing encounters…
He shakes his head, blowing lip bubbles as he waves a hand at you and starts off. He tries to be carefree, unbothered.
“Forget it. Don’t worry about it.”
Stupid, fuck! Of course she wouldn’t—
“Eddie.”
His heart stumbles, breath quivers.
Munson he’s used to—freak even more so. But not Eddie, especially from you.
He turns back, attempting to keep the hope off his face as he shoves his hands into his back pockets.
“Yeah?”
“As long as Max is asleep—and my mom—I’ll drop by,” you say, and that, yeah, that’s reasonable. He agrees with that. Better than the alternative.
“Sure. Cool, yeah. See you then,” he says, rounding the hood. He trips over a rock or some shit and he swears he hears you laugh, but when he glances over his shoulder your car is already going by. You wave.
He returns it, blowing out a long breath as he watches your car turn out of the school lot.
When you’re out of reach, he fist pumps and jumps clear of the ground.
He bounces with every step as he drags himself to class with what’s likely the biggest smile he’s ever worn when walking into English.
“What’re you grinning about, freak?”
He doesn’t pay the guy any attention, staring up at the stained ceiling panels with a racing heart as he leans back in his desk.
God, no one would ever believe him if he said he had a date with you. Not now and definitely not two years ago when you came rolling down the halls hot off the California dream.
He’s pretty sure the first thing that ran through his mind when you strutted into his first period is the exact same thing going through his head now.
I’m so fucked.
And he was. He still is. You’re the most beautiful thing to come to Hawkins (his guitar is obviously the second).
Maybe if he hadn’t been so much of a coward he would have tried to hang out with you sooner. He knew a good few who had tried in your school days, but once word spread of you being asked out the guy always showed up the next day with a black eye or a bruised lip. They never looked twice at you after that.
He knows it wasn’t you. For all your wildness and tough girl act, you’re not someone to beat down on a guy for asking for your number. He’s seen the softer sides—moments when you fed a stray kitten during a free period or stood up for a peer when shit started going down behind the teacher’s back.
Hell, you fed him and his uncle just to give something back for their good deeds. You still do every once in a while.
“Made too much” is your biggest excuse.
You’re one of the good ones. He’s always known that.
And, yeah, he’ll admit your looks drew him in first as well as your origins. But now that he’s really gotten the chance to share some time with you, he just can’t get enough. He wants to know more.
He wants to know you.
Hopefully, tonight, he’ll get the chance.
Mom went straight to bed after eating leftovers from dinner. Max keeps you company in the living room, headphones on and eyes skirting over homework. She’s already dressed for bed after a shower, a massive t-shirt swallowing her whole.
You’re nursing a particularly bad headache, the TV on low as you lay back with a bag of frozen peas over your forehead. You’d taken some medicine for it, but the pills have yet to kick in.
Sighing, you glance down at your wristwatch. It’s getting close to midnight.
Max shuffles her papers into a binder and back into her bag on her left. As she gets to her feet, she throws the headphones down around her neck and looks at you.
“I’m heading to bed. You coming?”
“Nah. I’m gonna stay up a bit longer.” You stretch your legs and pull the defrosted peas from your head, rolling over onto your feet. “Sweet dreams.”
“Night.”
You make your way to the kitchen, shoving the vegetables back into the freezer. The sound of your bedroom door shutting echoes over the mumble and jumble of the current show on. Nerves start to claim you as the minutes tick down.
Grabbing a glass, you feel it with tap water and take a long sip, leaning against the kitchen counter. It groans at your weight and you stare down at the lousy flooring. Your sleep shorts come into view, leaving you iffy if it’s appropriate to show up in them and an old t-shirt. You’re not trying to impress anyone, fishing for comfort more than anything.
You’re beginning to wonder if it’s still a good idea getting closer to Eddie. He’s a good guy, bad business dealings aside, but do you have it in you to deal with that? You can’t afford to mess around. Max and your mom are under enough duress as is.
If he somehow drags you into a shitshow, you’re the one who’s going to have to suffer the consequences.
Don’t you deserve to live a little, though? You work almost everyday, never resting. Hell, you took the day off today because you didn’t feel all that well. Migraines have been a pain recently and Patricia was dying to take any of your shifts as you'd done for her.
It’s fine, you grip the glass in your hand, I’m allowed to have fun.
Finishing your water, you turn off all the lights save for one lamp and make for the door, grabbing your jacket off the wall hook.
Hesitating, you glance back at your closed bedroom door and sigh heading back to the kitchen to grab a paper and pen.
Scribbling down a note to Max or your mom, whoever finds it first, you give a bullshit excuse about going to Robin’s for a late night marathon. She’d bring you back before Max left for school.
With those footsteps covered, you open the front door quietly and close it with just as much caution.
You make yourself comfortable on the steps, staring across the lot where Eddie’s trailer lies alone in the dark. Crossing your arms, you watch your breath come out in white clouds.
You recall Munson’s uncle working night shifts somewhere, leaving your neighbor with no curfew and no supervision. You don’t have either—you’re a little too old for them—but parents still get worried. And uncles, you suppose.
It has you wondering if he knows about the whole drug dealing aspect of his nephew.
The rove of tires has you lifting your head from where it’d drifted into your hands. Spotting that chaotic van, it shreds down the driveway of the trailer park and into its usual parking space. You can hear the metal head music from where you’re sitting, unapologetically loud and bringing a smile to your lips.
The headlights turn off, engine going silent as Eddie kicks open his door and steps out with grace. Slamming it, you watch him expel his breath into the air and turn in your direction. You wave a hand. He spots you even in the dark.
A chuckle pops up your throat as he comes skipping over, stopping at the dirt road to exaggerate looking both directions before continuing on his merry way.
“Free from responsibility, Mayfield?” he teeters at the end of your small porch. You rise to meet him, catching his eyes as they drop to your legs. “Jesus, aren’t you cold?”
“You have me for an hour or two, Munson,” you tell him, ignoring the latter question. “I still work tomorrow.”
He nods, raising his hands in a yielding gesture before waving to his abode.
“Shall we?”
You haven’t laughed like this in almost a year. It hurts to laugh this hard for this long but it feels good, freeing.
You about your piss yourself within all that freedom when Eddie flicks the lighter so hard it goes flying out of his hand.
“My hands are too sweaty for this shit,” he giggles, pushing off the couch he’s leaning against on the floor.
Setting his joint down on the nearby table where he’d rolled it fresh for the two of you, he twists to face the couch. You move a bit to give him room since you’re next to him on the floor, watching as he stoops lower to the carpet to find the tool. You do your best not to eye the red briefs peeking out of the back of his pants, a wave of heat hitting you.
That shouldn’t be attractive.
“The fuck? Did this little shit just mosey on into the ethereal plain?”
“Munson. Stop talking or I will die,” you huff, eyes burning from so many hits and so many tears. Wherever he’d gotten the stash, it was a hell of a strain. “What the fuck is an ethereal plain?”
“You want me to be quiet or answer your question—ah HA.”
He comes up from his crouched position next to you, lighter in hand and grin triumphant. His hair is an absolute mess around his face.
“Is it part of your club game?” you ask, only partly teasing as he gets comfortable again. He doesn’t lean against the couch this time, fine with just sitting there with one leg propped up and facing you.
He flicks the lighter up again, flame flickering as he grabs the half-burnt joint.
“That ‘club game’ is called Dungeons and Dragons, sweetheart.”
You smooth a hand over your stomach when it flutters, curl your fingers in the aftermath—a stinging tracing down the seams of your heart. The term of endearment is a familiar one as well as the sight of nice lips blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. You watch as he tugs another into his lungs.
“DnD for the real ones,” he breathes, white spiraling away into wisps.
“Are you a real one?” you hum, deflecting the jittery feeling climbing up your spine.
“Baby, I’m the DM,” he flaunts, wagging his hand like the old gossiping girls at fourth period lunch. “You don’t get as real as me.”
“Wow,” you shake your head, “where does all that ego go? Is it the hair? Is that why it’s so long?”
“Oh, the ladies dig the hair.”
“Do they?”
He wrinkles his nose at you, a thin smile as he whispers, “Kills ‘em.”
“Choking hazard for sure.”
It sounds like he pops a lung with his next laugh and you groan at the cramps in your abdomen as you chuckle along with him.
“I’m gonna have abs by the end of this. Jesus Christ.”
“Ooh, that’s a nice image.”
You eye him from the side, terribly interested.
“You like a woman with abs, Munson?”
Eyes wide and lips quirked up, he falls to his back with his bent knees facing you. Wild, dark strands of hair spread behind him as his arms come up to give his head some cushioning. His eyes close and yours are more open than ever.
You're just now realizing he’s taken off his signature jacket. His arms are bare, sleeves short on his t-shirt, it’s even riding up a bit, showcasing a small trail of hair leading up to his belly button. He has a few freckles here and there, some on his arms, one on his lower waist.
“Badass women are a weakness, I must admit.”
You blink out of whatever observation tunnel you’re going down, looking away and trying to get back on the subject.
“Shit, better stay away from Wheeler then,” you say, nearly stuttering in your haste to respond.
“You mean Nancy Wheeler?” he cackles, tilting his head down a bit to look up at you. “In what world is the head writer of the school newspaper a badass?”
You roll your eyes, secrets bubbling in your cheeks as you smile through the ache.
“Oh, if only you knew.”
“Did she—what—like, save you from a stick up?” You snort as he flings himself up, hands holding onto his covered calves. His rings flash in the light. “Come on, I’ve gotta hear this.”
“She just knows how to handle herself. And she looked after my sister a few times.”
“Oh, yes.” He nods, those brown eyes swallowing you in. “The baddest of all asses.”
Both of you take all of a second looking at each other before erupting into another fit of laughter.
“That was completely—I didn’t think it’d sound like that when I said it.”
“I’m gonna hyperventilate, oh my god,” you wheeze, combing your hair back as heat works up your neck. The distraction presents itself and you take to pulling it out of your face, using a stray hairband on your wrist to put it up.
When silence breathes into the room, you eye Munson. From what it looks like, he’s been eying you, too, chin on his knees as his gaze flits from your neck to your face.
“Too stuffy for you, California?” he murmurs. “I can open a vent.”
“Aren’t you hot? You have more hair than I do.”
“Ehh, I handle my hotness quite well, actually.”
Your scoff enters the air as Munson takes another hit. When he offers, your fingers rub over his as you accept.
“So how is it?”
You twiddle the joint, leaning back against the couch as you take a few puffs.
“How’s what?” you sigh, white clouding your vision. “The weed?”
“Yeah.”
“Smooth,” you hum, “very strong. Probably one of the best highs I’ve had since California.”
“Good because my guy got another guy to get this special little stash from there.”
Your jaw drops as you look at him.
“No shit?”
“I shit you not,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Only the best for the oh so marvelous Mayfield.” He waves an open palm at you, half bowing.
“You trying to rope me into being your next client?”
His brow furrows, a wry little smile tugging at the corner of his lips like the strings do on his inked arm puppet. It’s a dangerous look.
“Who says I’m wanting you as a client?”
The way he says it, the way he words it, you know this is where things change or things end.
You’re not blind—you know Eddie is attracted to you, though, you can’t know for sure how far that goes. If he’s just wanting a fling, a fuck buddy, or more.
You don’t even know what you want half the time.
But as he’s sitting there, elbow propped over one knee as the other falls open to reveal more of those skinny ripped jeans and waist chains, dark bracelets adorning his wrist and those damn rings.
Maybe you don’t really know where you’re aiming to go with him, but you can just want him and figure out the rest later. Something tells you he’ll be patient, that he’ll take what you give for now.
After all, what guy waits four months chatting you up without leveling you with the big, bad question?
You take the bait he’s giving—decide what the hell, you can play along for tonight and from the few reactions you get out of teasing him, he makes it too fun not too.
Honestly, you don’t think you mind seeing where this goes. Your life has been stagnant the last few months since the latest and greatest Upside Down shit. For all of it you’ve felt like some coma patient, listening, existing but not being.
Maybe he’ll change that. He already has in some ways.
“You know what you’re getting into, right?” you warn, pressing your palm into the ground to support you as you lean closer towards him.
You watch his lips part to suck in a quiet breath, eyes zeroing in on your lips.
“This might not end the way you want it to,” you whisper. “I have more on my plate than you know.”
“Then hand me a slice,” he mutters, gaze meeting yours. You never knew how pretty brown could be, having always been caught up in blue. “I’m willing to risk it, Mayfield.”
He leans in.
“You just gotta let me in.”
Your head lowers, gaze roving to your wrist watch. It’s halfway to three in the morning, you have work at one. You have to be back before Max wakes up, if she hasn’t already.
Stop being responsible for two seconds. This is about you and what you want.
You blink as a finger tip nudges between your eyes and smile at Munson’s crinkle-eyed grin.
“What’re you thinking about?”
“Trying to not think, for once,” you huff.
“Oh,” he hums, all sultry-like as his brows bounce. “Anything I can do to help with that?”
“Alright,” you say, focus lowering to his mouth. “Just remember you asked for it, Munson.”
He goes to give a no doubt smart ass remark, but your hand is quick to wrap around the back of his neck and yank him the inch or to forward to bring his lips against yours.
It’s been so long, too long since you’ve had a mouth to laugh against and warm hands to roam.
All of it being during the best high of your life keeps things elevated, heightened. One of his hands digs into your hair, leaving your spine quivering. The other grabs your waist, grip strong and steady.
He drags you closer, straightening his legs until you're climbing into his lap. You groan as the hand on your waist slips under your shirt. A giggle slips between the kiss when he grabs a bit too tightly and from there he’s pulling back to give you an open mouth smile.
“Are you ticklish?”
“I will kill you,” you growl, still smiling. You wince in his lap when he goes to grab you again.
“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, going for your lips. You’ve barely brushed his when he begins the assault, breaking you into a screeching fit as you twist and try to escape his wiggling fingers.
“Stop-stop!” you laugh, one of his arms wrapping around you as you turn to go. He tosses you back onto him without any trouble, flexing your weak sides as he laughs into your ear.
“You’re just too fucking perfect,” he murmurs, attack ceasing.
You’re catching your breath as he kisses your cheek, hands holding onto the arm resting over your stomach. You’d already been burning up before, but now you’re on fire with him behind you—under you.
“Now I’m really gonna have to kill you,” you sigh, looking over your shoulder. He hums, resting his cheek against it. You almost hate how much you like feeling him breathe against your back.
“Make it quick?” he asks softly.
“Slow and painful.”
“God, don’t tease me like this,” he groans dramatically, toppling back onto the ground and nearly bringing you with him.
You take the newly gained freedom to twist around and straddle him, sitting right above his waist. He rests his hand over your hips while you dip a finger into his shirt collar, trailing against the flushed skin beneath it.
A shaky exhale has you leaning over Munson, smiling down at him as he grins toothily up at you.
“Listen, I know it’s a long shot,” he starts, voice edging into a rough territory near the back of his throat. It has your thighs clenching on either side of him. “But depending on how far we go or don’t go, stay the night? Please?”
You shake your head, sighing.
“I’ll set an alarm,” he bargains, sitting up onto his elbows, enough to get his face close, tempting you. “They’ll never know you were gone.”
“Eddie,” you sigh, screwing your eyes shut. You only open them when his hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb wiping under the softest part of your eye.
“You know,” he chuckles, mirthless, “every time I hear you say my name, it—”
He shakes his head like he can’t find the words.
“Use it,” he says, blinking up at you. “Use it as much as you want. I love hearing it.”
The expression he wears looks yearnful, begging. You move in, barely a centimeter and he inhales, wets his bottom lip as he glances off to the side.
You feel like strangling him because the longer you stare at him, the more he’s dragging you under.
You want him, you know that.
Now you’re scared of how much you do.
“Can I tell you something?” he whispers, the hand cupping your face having moved to trail down your arm.
You swallow and nod.
“It’s gonna sound generic as hell, but I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to you before you even graduated.”
Your eyes widen. You whisper, “Really?”
“Yeah,” he smiles, leaning closer as if to tell you another secret, “you know the whole school was crushing on you, right?”
You roll your eyes and scoff but he interrupts you.
“No, seriously. Every guy, I swear to God or whatever the hell is up there, but, like”—he shrugs, almost breathless as he continues—“you just walked into that school and pierced every heart then and there.”
“Even yours?”
A puff of air escapes him.
“Especially mine. I thought I was hallucinating when I woke up one morning and saw you across the street, getting into your car for work or something. My uncle l thought I was having a stroke.”
You laugh full heartedly at that, tugging at his collar because you have no idea what to do with your hands right now.
“Not sure what you’re wanting from me,” he murmurs, “but I’ll try to give you whatever you want. If you wanna be kiss buddies—”
“Kiss buddies?” you chuff.
“If you’re just looking for company, I’ll be that,” he finishes. “I like you, Mayfield. Don’t let that change your mind about whatever this,” he gestured between the two of you, “is. Hell, I’m just stoked you let me help you out when old Bessy died.”
“Please, do not call her Bessy,” you snort. “She's old, but she isn’t a cow.”
He lets out something weaker than a giggle, nudges his forehead against yours.
“Stay,” he pleads. “I like having you around. You’re like this piece of the world I don’t get to see in Hawkins.”
He hums, his nose grazing yours.
“My own little California.”
You feel like you just swallowed your heart whole, as if it’s sliding down, trying to get back to its cavity and choking you with its rampant pulse.
“Okay.” The word manages to squirm out of your lodged throat.
“Okay?” he breathes, more than hopeful.
You nod.
“I’ll stay, but I need to get up at five. Mom gets up at six.”
“Whatever you want.”
You take a deep breath, moving your head to bury it into his neck.
“Tired?”
You’re not sure why, but the question has your eyes watering. You shut them as tightly as you can, “mm-hmm”ing against him.
“C’mon, I have a pillow with your name on it.”
The sheets smell fresh when you climb into his bed, the pillow, too. Since it’s your first time in his room, you take all the decorations in, the warm light of his lamp lighting the space while he changes in the background. You do your best not to stare at his bare back, but you only really look away when you hear his fly unzip.
Turning onto your back, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
“Munson, are those handcuffs?”
There’s some shuffling for a moment before he jumps onto the mattress next to you, making your body hop up with his weight. You squeak at the surprise, letting that laugh escape as he beams down at you. The new t-shirt is a band you recognize—KISS. Jeans replaced for soft plaid.
“Why?” he asks mischievously. “You wanna test drive them?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, they’re unused?”
He winks, settling into the bed beside you and turning to fiddle with the alarm clock next to his bed.
“Believe it or not, a cop managed to drop them during this huge scene in the school parking lot. I snagged ‘em.”
“What happened in the parking lot?”
“Just another stupid fight over a girl. You know how it is.”
When the lamp light goes off, you just barely make out his face in the weak light of the moon peeking in through the curtains as he faces you.
“Comfy?” he questions.
You shimmy closer and grab his arm to wrap around your side.
“Now I am.”
You hum happily as he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck.
“Munson,” you warn.
“Just kissing you goodnight, Mayfield,” he returns. You’re too tired to argue. It feels nice anyway.
“Night,” he murmurs, pulling back.
You move your head up and under his chin, taking in his heavy scent before you whisper, “Sweet dreams.”
Waking up is total and utter hell. Your head feels stuffed full of cotton, eyes stinging when you open them. You almost think you’re sick before you recognize the exhaustion drowning you.
Yeah, only a couple hours of sleep will do that to a person.
The alarm blaring in the back of your head doesn’t sound right, but when you focus everything floods back when you find a pile of dark strands scattered across your chest.
Attached to them is a dozing Eddie, who snores lightly through the alarm.
Grinning, you scoot over a bit, struggling to reach the button and end the horrific screeches.
Eddie mumbles, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you in place. Luckily, your finger grazes the right button and silence settles over the space once more.
“Eddie I have to go,” you groan, trying to sit up. All of his weight keeps you pinned and his grumbling has you laughing. “Munson! Get your hands off me so I can leave.”
He lifts his head from your chest, eyes hazy with sleep as he opens them.
“No,” he says, dropping himself back down.
Scoffing, you get your legs out from under him and find some good footing before rolling him onto his back. He groans quietly, chuckling as you kneel over him. The sheets and blankets are tangled around the both of you.
“Damn. You’re stronger than I thought,” he puffs.
“I’m going,” you say, kissing his forehead and pushing off the mattress. You don’t get far because his hands come up to hold your face.
You growl his surname again before he covers your lips with his. It’s sweet, all lips and warm.
When he pulls away he stares up at you, still bleary-eyed but he looks so painfully happy it has your chest aching.
“Be seeing you, Miss California.”
God, he makes it hard to want to leave.
Wiping his hair out of his eyes, you give him one last forehead kiss before you untangle yourself from the covers and make for the door.
Closing it quietly behind you, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of his uncle’s door closed. You’re not sure if he’s home or not, yet, but it’s a better sight than none.
Running a hand through your hair, you step past the kitchen towards the front door. The smell of coffee has you pausing before you turn to find Mr. Munson leaning against the counter and staring at you over the rim of his mug.
You just watch, stock-still as he swallows and lowers the cup. Everything in your body grows tense.
“Glad it’s you,” he rumbles, nodding. “Any other girl and I’d be worried.”
Your shoulders relax as he offers you a cup of coffee. You decline but thank him. Maybe next time.
“Have a good day now,” he farewells, turning to the sink as you open the door and head out.
Awkward as hell, you’ll admit, but at least he seems to like you.
Back home, you find your letter in the same spot you left it. You take it as a good sign and crumble it up before tossing it in the trash.
Max is still asleep when you step into the room and just as you’re settling down into your own, cold bed, your mom’s alarm clock sounds off across the short hall.
You let yourself breathe easy and turn on your side to get some more sleep.
