✮ WARNINGS/TAGS gay! reader, bi! Eddie, Eddie is a sweetheart, reader is an artist, Eddie has a crush on reader (slightly implied), mentions of homophobia, fluff, little bit of dnd, confessions
✮ SUMMARY Eddie wants to introduce you to DnD and invited you to his place. Curiosity gets better of him and that leads to something more
✮ WORDS 1.7k
✮ A/N A little birthday fic because I really wanted to write something to post on my birthday! Honestly, I don't know what to say, I'm so glad to be here and I'm happy to celebrate the fact that I have to this platform that so many people can enjoy. About the fic itself, it's a part two to one of previous Eddie fics and it will be the last one since I don't feel like making this into a series. Just two little fluffy parts. I hope y'all enjoy it!
[previous part]
ao3 masterlist requests
It has been a little while since your accidental coming out. And as quickly as everyone found out, they also quickly forgot about it. At least most of them.
You weren't free from the degrading comments about your sexuality that happened from time to time, or the fact that you had to clean up your locker every once in a while because of asshole writing stuff all over it. It hurt, it really did, even if you tried to act like you didn't care or that it wasn't bothering you. But you weren't alone anymore.
Eddie has taken you to his world with open arms. You weren't sure if you were going to fit when Eddie happily invited you to sit with Hellfire for the first time. You felt nervous, unsure what you should expect. You heard rumors before, even if you never believed them. How Hellfire was actually a satan worshiping cult, how it was best to avoid them at all cost. You were hesitant, but decided to trust Eddie.
You were glad you were proved wrong. As expected, the rumors were false and the club was nothing more than just a bunch of kids passionate about DnD. It was nice hearing them talk about their last campaign and how excited they were for the next one. You didn't understand much from what they were saying, but the excitement was practically contagious.
You were listening to Gareth talk about something that happened during the last campaign when you felt someone poke at your hand gently. Turning your head, your eyes immediately met with Eddie's.
“If you're so interested, you should join us.” He proposed with a small smile on his lips.
“I know nothing about this. I would probably be even more confused than I'm now.”
“Then you'll have me to help you. You don't think I would just leave you all confused and defenseless?”
“No. I think you would give me an axe and then throw me right in the middle of the fight.”
That got a small laugh out of him.
“That's really rude, man.” He rolled his eyes. “But, I insist you give it a try. I can help you make your character.” He watched you with a certain intensity in those brown eyes of his. He was practically begging you with them to agree. His leg was bouncing under the table impatiently.
“Fine.” You sighed, but the expression on your face told you that you were excited about giving it all a try. Eddie practically beamed at your answer, his smile widened right after he heard it.
“Great!” That word came out louder than he wanted it to be, getting a few glances from the other club members but it didn't discourage him one bit. “You should come over this evening. I'll get everything ready.”
You felt butterflies in your stomach when you made your way to Eddie's trailer. You weren't sure what exactly caused this. Maybe it was the DnD thing itself? Or the fact that you were going to Eddie's trailer for the first time? Or maybe it was Eddie himself? You guessed it were all those things combined.
As you approached, you heard the music coming from the trailer and then a familiar voice singing to it. You almost wanted to wait a little longer before knocking on the door, listening to him sighing a little longer, but decided against it and knocked.
The singing stopped, followed by footsteps before the door opened. Eddie smiled when he saw you.
“Come in, man.” He took a step to the side, letting you in.
“Thanks.” You came inside, taking in the living space. “You live here alone?”
“Nah. My uncle also lives here, but he has a night shift now.” He said before nodding towards his room. “I'll show you my room.” You followed after him.
His room was a little messy, but it felt lived in. Posters were all over the walls and he had trinkets everywhere. He watched you carefully, waiting for your reaction. Your eyes landed on his guitar.
“Holy– that's yours?” You took a few steps towards it, taking a closer look.
“Yeah. It's my pride and joy.” He came to stand by you, clearly happy to see your interest in it.
“How did you even get it? It must have been expensive.”
“You have no idea, man. Took me a long while, but she's finally mine.”
“She?” You turned to look at him, your expression quickly turned from one of awe to knowing. Eddie's cheeks turned a light pink color.
“Don't give me that look.” He gave you a gentle push on the shoulder, trying to hide his embarrassment while you let you a soft chuckle.
“Alright, fine. I'll leave it.” You said, putting your hands up in the air. “Sorry, I'll leave her.”
“Can we start making your character sheet?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Eddie grabbed a sheet of paper and pen from his desk, before sitting down on his bed, patting a space next to him. You felt a gentle flutter in your stomach as you sat next to him. He showed you the sheet right after, watching how your eyes widened. He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.
“I know. It looks a little complicated.”
“A little?”
“Okay, not just a little for a newbie, but hey, you got me. I'll explain everything.”
And he did. From the basics like your race and class through the more complex stuff, making sure to explain it thoroughly when you seem a little lost. Eventually, you got your whole character, thanks to Eddie's help.
It would be a lie to say you didn't enjoy making them, this whole thing already had you sketch them on the back of the page while Eddie quietly watched as the pen moved on the paper, bringing your vision to life. His chin rested on the palm on his hand, while the fingers on his other hand drummed against his thigh. You were too engrossed to even notice and Eddie hated the idea of pulling you out of trance, but he couldn't help himself.
“So, how did you, y'know, realize…?” He asked quietly, his tone lacking the excitement from earlier. You looked up at him, letting out a soft ‘hmm’ and Eddie felt the need to expand his question a little. “I meant, realized that you liked guys.”
“Oh.” You straightened your pose, unconsciously starting to play with your pen. “You know, nothing spectacular. A friend from childhood, we were practically inseparable. I always thought that what I felt for him was something along the lines of admiration, but… I guess it wasn't. I never confessed, it's probably for the best, who knows how he would react.”
Eddie listened carefully, taking your words in before asking. “Are you still friends or…?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sometimes we sent letters to each other. He moved to a different state right before high school started, so I guess I'm kinda glad he didn't have a chance to find out about this whole fuss and all.”
“You think he wouldn't stand up for you?”
“I don't know. We never talked about that kind of stuff.” You shrugged. “And you, how did you realize?”
Eddie licked his lips, thinking about it for a moment before he also shrugged.
“I suppose I always knew. Even if everyone always talked about girls, they weren't the only thing on my mind.” He then let out a soft, almost shy snort. “And our school has a few good looking guys.”
You noticed how his expression softened when he glanced at you, almost as if he had a specific person in mind. You weren't sure if you were reading him right, but the thought that he mentioned you made you feel unbelievably fluttered and also just as equally flustered. You tried to ignore how warm your cheeks suddenly were.
“I guess it does.” He let out a small, nervous laugh. “Sucks most of them are straight.”
“As far as I'm aware, not all of them are.” Those words made your heart skip a beat, or even two. Now you were sure who he meant.
“Oh, well–” You weren't sure what to say or how to react. You had girls confess their feelings to you before, but a guy? Never. Especially not the one that was actually nice, sweet and made your heart do flips like it was in gymnastics class.
“It's not like–” He let out a sigh, running his hands through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “I'm not saying we should or you have to, you know. I liked you for quite a while and… if you're not into me it's totally fine, no pressure, man. It's just…”
He was getting a little tongue tied, trying to say what was on his mind, but he had a hard time.
“I'm starting to like you.” You mumbled and Eddie stopped in his tracks, looking at you with wide eyes as if telling him the most unbelievable thing ever. “And would love to hang out with you more if you wanna, you know, to see if maybe there could be something more?”
“Hang out? Just two of us?”
“Yeah.” Your lips curled upwards gently. “I like spending time with you.”
Eddie's shoulders relaxed a little when he heard that, he also smiled.
“Yeah, I like spending time with you too.” He went quiet again before speaking up. “But maybe we could… Next time, try to go on something like a fun little date? I know a place with really good milkshakes.”
“I would love to, honestly.”
The rest of the evening two of you spent planning that date. You were buzzing with excitement at the thought of going out with him and having an actual date. And you could tell by Eddie's tone that he was just as excited about that.
After that he gave you a ride home and once you were at home, in your bedroom, you almost collapsed against your door, leaving out the most dreamy sigh ever.
Basically, Kas!Eddie Munson x male reader. I love being bi, angsty and unemployed. Because of the lack of Eddie MLM content (especially reader insert fanfics), I've decided to take matters into my own hands.
Cw: Depictions of depression & selective mute mc. Mentions of blood and the reader has been implied to have fainted due to getting his blood drank. More focused on Eddie being there for a depressed reader. Please check on your loved ones and take care of yourself.
Have you ever had your boyfriend die, grieve said death for months, and then see him come back “alive”?
You didn't, until you lost him for real.
But now? Now you had some strong, slightly cold arms wrapped around your torso like dead weight being draped around your body. A pair of doe eyes drilled into the TV right in front of you two, showing a rerun of The Lost Boys. You've seen that movie three times, two with Eddie, and that was a permanently drilled memory because that's when the first kiss happened.
Your hands ran through the head full of long, brown curls under your fingers. Eddie's head was pressed against your chest, listening to the slow heartbeat under the lining skin and cells over the organ. It felt foreign, almost as if he didn't have a beating heart months ago as well.
That was a small downside to being a vampire, yet Eddie didn't seem to miss it, other than hating not being able to go under the sun unless he had drunk enough blood to not get sunburnt.
On the other hand, you didn't mind the faint, inhumanly cold feeling under your hands. Eddie being alive was enough. To be honest, maybe it wasn't healthy, but having him back really made you feel like it was worth getting out of bed again. It made you feel... less miserable than before.
After Eddie's “death”, you didn't mutter a single word for a long, long time. It was like you were static and unable to think. Robin, your best friend, was worried. The the rest of the group too, and they opted to visit at least twice a week to check in without overwhelming you.
Even though the company was appreciated and kept you from rotting in your room, you still wouldn't say a thing, not even make a sound when moving around the house. You'd just sit on the couch with everyone in the living room and stare at nothing until they left you be, calling to check in on you every day after that. Sometimes, you'd even visit Wayne before he moved away from Hawkins. It was a complete bummer after that, because you genuinely felt like he was the only person tied to Eddie that didn't make you feel like you've lost him forever.
That would change a week later, of course. The moment you came back home and found the dirt stains, you stopped being afraid and dismissive of miracles. Your boots cracked against the floor as the pacing quickened when following the trail of wet, bloody dirt that was all over the carpet all the way to your kitchen.
...and there he was.
Dirty, bloody, and... Alive.
That night you realized you have zero survival skills, because if that wasn't actually Eddie, you would've been eaten for sure. Still, you were so sure about it, you would bet your life on the tall and broody creature being the man you loved so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eddie noticed you weren't alright the moment he came back from crawling through hell and caught up with small hints on what was going on. Maybe the fact that you didn't even scream or look terrified settled the whole thing, but yet again, Eddie would never hurt anyone in the first place. It was a well aware fact. There was, however, just a teeny tiny startled gasp that came out the moment you came back home and switched the light on, seeing Eddie standing there covered in dirt and dry blood. The sobs that came out of your shaking body when hugging Eddie's frame like he'd disappear were like whispers that disappeared in the air.
Robin found out days later when she passed by your place to drop off some groceries, and after a long hour of assimilation, she was pulled aside by Eddie.
“Robin, why's [y/n] not speaking?” Eddie was quick to ask that, having noticed that detail first.
Robin was quiet for a moment and then sighed.
“He um– okay look,” She started. “You, being gone, hit him harder than anyone else. He's much better now, trust me.”
“But he's so quiet, Robin.” Eddie remarked. “Too fucking quiet. I even have to put my head on his chest to make sure he's still breathing.”
“...we know.” Robin replied, “I'm… still off-put by how he hasn't even coughed.”
Eddie felt his heart drop.
“Eddie,” Robin continued, placing a hand on Eddie's shoulder. “Give him time–”
“...just how long has this been holding up for?”
She paused, and Eddie immediately knew that wasn't good at all.
“Listen, don't be harsh on [y/n]. He– he's been grieving.” Robin said. “Give him a moment to accommodate the fact that you're here and–”
“And a vampire, Robin.” Eddie added, arms corset around his chest. “One who [y/n] quietly offered blood to the other day.”
Eddie sometimes wished he hadn’t come back, because having known that his boyfriend was wasting away in heartbreak was the worst thing to witness. It was a cruel thing to think about, even during the moments where you regained the color on your face and walked out of the room often to check on him. Sometimes you'd also, as Eddie mentioned to Robin, offer something for him to nip and drink from.
He could still recall the first night he fed from your neck; the way your blood drilled into his taste buds, the jolts, and the nasty scar that faded way too soon. But something that stuck with Eddie was the way he was held by you; warm and caring like it was normal. He remembered how he brought several juice boxes right after, almost tripping from running. Then, Eddie watched you fall asleep in his lap while looking like it was the best sleep you'd gotten in ages.
“I love you.” A rough voice spoke, which made Eddie jerk back to reality and look at the man he was lying on top of. The look on your face was almost as if you'd regained a small spark of life in your soul, looking down at Eddie with such tenderness that it felt so familiar and warm. That warmth was something Eddie thought he lost the moment he woke up in the Upside Down.
“...oh my god–” Eddie muttered, hugging you close like it was that evening at Lover's Lake where he heard those three words for the first time. It sort of was, because Eddie had always initiated saying “I love you” before, so hearing it from you actually meant a whole lot– god, hearing your voice after so long was too much for his dead heart to handle. “Jesus fucking Christ–”
Eddie just embraced you, nuzzling his face into your shoulder as he felt being held tighter.
“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to startle you–” you whispered into the top of Eddie’s head.
“Sweetheart-” Eddie looked up at the man in front of him, his big eyes already teary as it contrasted with the sheepish grin on his face, showing a glint of fangs. “If anything, I'm so happy right now. I just missed your voice so much–”
You immediately cradled his face. Eddie attempted to speak, but tears were already welling up in his eyes.
The warm feeling of your hands against his cheeks, cleaning them from any tear tracks made Eddie feel like the softest being behind the spectral appearance. Eddie just– hugged you and pressed his face against your collarbone, crying and feeling his forehead get kissed and some fingers threading through his long curls. That warmth that was once his own was gone for sure, but you helped him feel less like the beast he was butchered to be and instead feel like himself again.
And in return, you knew a part of yourself never died when he did. It only grieved until it felt secure enough to assimilate that the same Eddie you loved was always there even at your lowest.
Summary ~ A set-out trip, much easier said than done. Though, there's no place you'd rather be than with your band.
CW ~ none
A/N ~ I am seriously so bad with saying I'll do something. My apologies, original gangsters. I think imma try to reopen my requests back up, either as soon as I finish the celebration list or the remaining reqs. Or both. Who knows
The school's famed 'Senior Getaway Trip'. Technically not actually a school activity, but well known enough that most kids counted it so. A stupid trip seniors took to 'see the sights'- at least, that's what usually was told to the parents. In most cases it was actually just an excuse to bang a ton in their beat up, handed down cars and drive aimlessly.
Though, for Eddie- after relentless promises to not die or get anyone else killed to his Uncle Wayne- this was seen as their moment of first freedom. One more week of fuckass highschool left until they all graduated, plus the school was basically dismissing them early? Hell yeah. So he and the band set up a sort of 'first tour', if you would. Setting up stops along the way of small bars you could sneak into or the always-searching venue, with the ultimate goal, just about 200 miles out; the grand destination of Lake Erie.
Okay. Maybe not so grand. But let's be a bit realistic here. A group of new 20-ish year olds, broke and beaten, setting out on a quest to spread the name of their 'satanic' metal band. They didn't exactly have the money to be making their way to Las Vegas.
Carpooling in Eddie's decorated van was the obvious and most fun solution to getting around. The four of you- Eddie on lead vocals and guitar, Gareth on drums, Jeff on guitar, and you on bass and backing vocals- made up for a pretty banged up team. Not a bad one, to say, but the amount of glances you've gotten from law enforcement in new towns from just how loud the bunch of you alone was something to consider.
The total flame to top it all off? People actually enjoyed your music. With all the slander spread to Corroded Coffin's name back in Hawkins was thought to smudge and smear wherever you went, but to everyone's much appreciated surprise, the right crowd didn't know or care. Granted, the 'right crowd' tended to be events or bars you had snuck into, but who cares! You four were the future of music, and already pumping off to a great start.
That's all not to say the trip was, in total honesty, tiring. Fun, yes. Hopeful for the future, of course. Nerve wracking at times, but as you all neared closer and closer to that grant peak of Lake Erie, there was a toned down twitch of the air. The crackled stab in the van as you all playfully fought and pointed out stupid sights had slogged just a nudge. Call it crazy, but you threw out the idea that just maybe four guys sleeping in a crowded van for a week was likely not good for... a handful of things. Your neck, for one. And everyone was at their wits end with Jeff's 'must've-been-the-owls' snore. Owls didn't even sound close to whatever noise he was producing while he slept.
So, maybe a splurge, the traveling musicians of Corroded Coffin treated themselves to the cheapest inn the group of you could find once you all reached the lake. Hopefully, at least. It was marked on the roadmap in bright red marker, but you could never be sure if a place had closed down or not.
Biggest issue, it seemed, was left to last minute. Who knew that after getting lost from the past eight missed turns, somewhere reaching two in the morning, and after getting discovered and kicked out from your last gig, would've been so nerve-breaking? Oh yeah. You all did. You just didn't wanna deal with it.
"Hi, welcome to the Sandy Inn, have you... sc- scheduled anything..?" The keys-keeper greeted you upon the rusted ring of the bell above the door, though hesitated just a second once seeing the strained and exhausted look on all four of your faces. It didn't occur to you in the moment, but the collective worn'n'torn style your band wore likely wasn't helping with first impressions, either.
Gareth pushed himself towards the desk first, all three of you silently deciding the road rage and argumentative drive here was still tolling away on Eddie.
"Yeah, uh, no," he spoke blankly, tone a bit too blunt to be nice but too tired to care. "How much are the rooms here?" The drummer rapped his fingers against the wooden counter between them, nodding to the racks of keys hung on the wall behind the lady.
"Oh, well, one-bedded rooms are $19, and two-bedded rooms are $21," the key-holder provided simply, choosing not the question the current state of potential customers.
Gareth nodded a few times more than necessary, a mumbled 'right...' escaping his breath before pulling the four of you together and quickly counting whatever cash he had on him. "'Kay, cough it up, idiots, before I fall asleep right here for the rest of my days."
Hands shoved up any bills or pocket change that could be found trying to remain some dignity though obviously looking lack of a pack of possible runaway boys to this poor worker. Hopefully she just wouldn't contact the police reporting some homeless kids.
"C'monnn," dragged Gareth, recounting the found money again and again as if repetition would generate more. "This only gets us three beds. Goddammit, maybe we should just-"
"Just go get the damn room keys," you snapped off, urging Gareth back towards the chipped counter. He jangled with the movement, an embarrassing clink of pocket change as you tried to remain however calm cricked necks and sleepless nights could get you. "Jeff's already falling asleep."
It was true. The drummer was leaning against an unsettlingly quiet Eddie, though raised his eyebrows and stirred in your direction at the sound of his name. "You say wh'nah?"
"Jeez, okay," Gareth returned your sass, redirecting his attention and attempt at politeness to the lady who had, awkwardly, seen the whole thing. "Hi. Uh. Two rooms-" he jerked the money her way in more of an accidental shove. "....please. One two-bedded and one single-bedded."
The key-keeper paused with a half look of debate on her face, before simply accepting the cash and grabbing two keys from behind her on the studded wall. The metal made a muffled clink against the attached keychain depicting the room number in bold blue text. Gareth mumbled a half-embarassed, half-grateful thanks, turning back to the group. Mainly just you, though, because Jeff was asleep on the lead's shoulder again, and Eddie was clearly not in the mood for talking.
"Right, so, that leaves one'a us to-" the drummer shrugged, showing the two room keys that did not match the style of the whole hotel. "-sleep on the floor, or something."
"Or something," you huffed quietly, snatching the one-room latch and rubbing the bridge of your nose. Whatever. You've slept in worse places. "You take Jeff. I'mma..." you gave a vague, lazy hand motion that conveyed literally nothing. But words evaded you, so you just gave up. Rolling a shoulder as a sort of 'c'mon' movement for Eddie to follow, the four of you split off.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🎸⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The silence cut between you was strange, but not uncomfortable. It's not like you haven't crashed over at Eddie's times before. Most of the band had. Maybe you moreso, but that was besides the point.
"You good?" You found yourself saying, shrugging off clunky accessories you had proudly [mostly] made yourself. The muffled jingle of metal falling on fabric as you changed was a nightly routine you barely registered.
The lead singer had flopped down unto the bed as soon as the room unlocked, and hadn't moved much besides that. You'd think he were asleep, if not having past bruising proof that Eddie slept like he was being transported across dimensions. No, this was him just being still.
"...yeah," the other boy finally grumbled, flipping on the bed so he wasn't speaking into the mattress. "Just- damn, man, that set sucked!"
You scoffed quietly, a tired smile teasing your lips as you shuffled on a spare tee to sleep in. "Mmmhm," you tongued, tilting your head in agreement. "Tell me about it."
Pausing, you took in consideration of the other boy's current state, not to mention the size of the bed. Maybe you'd better leave Eddie alone; he's already tired and bummed from the ban at the most recent play.
"Not gonna change?" Your voice hums. Eddie only opens one eye, taking a minute as if you just gave him long division instead of simply a question.
"Yeah," the lead singer decided. He shimmied just enough to take off his shirt and throw it at you.
Catching it with a mock offended look, you threw it on top of the pile of your own clothes. No need to make a huge mess for a one-night stay.
Still, you faltered. Should you really sleeping in the same bed considering the size, Eddie's shirtlessness, and your pantslessness? Well, you're wearing boxers, which are basically shorts, but- whatever. Fact still remains.
"Uh, are'ya sure you're good with me sleeping with-"
"Jeez, you ask a lotta questions for someone meant to be tired," Eddie yawned dramatically, rolling over on the bed and patting the empty space besides him. It was enticing, and your fogged mind didn't do too much to argue. Annoyingly. Maybe. "C'mon, lay down."
Your void of care for social norms easily outlasted your hesitance, sighing heavily before giving up and joining the other singer on the bed. The puff of cheap pillows and overly-tucked blankets enveloped your body like a child's overdue naptime crashing. Soon enough, Eddie and you had both blinked away consciousness, sinking into the questionably-stained sheets like it was the most normal thing.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🎸⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Awaking to an unfamiliar call of birds and crackled sunlight streaming through paper-thin blinds, your chest felt warmer than it typically did just waking up. Dismissing it as the hesitance of natural light, you rolled over on the stiff bed- only to find you couldn't. You blinked away sleep from your eyes, a barely coordinated hand rubbing at your face as your mind caught up with the fact of consciousness once more. What was blocking you? And why was your chest heavy- oh.
You'd call it cute if it weren't for the way your face burned at the realization. Freezing and looking at the other man, seemingly rolled over atop you and now resting, shirtless, on your chest. Eddie looked abnormally peaceful as he slept. It didn't help your case as the shimmer of morning light caught in the tangles of his curled hair, gently holding his face in a portrait of something right out of a romcom movie. It didn't help as he twitched in his sleep, panic sparking through you at the idea your bandmate would wake up to find you oggling at him. Though, he didn't wake, simply shifting and tilting his head somehow closer to to your chest.
It then [re]occurred to you that you were, infact, pantsless. And Eddie was sleeping on your chest. Shirtless. Ohmyfuck why was he... nay. You shan't say. Stars above, but it made you wonder, did he work out?? There was no way in hell that chest was natural. Or maybe you were just gay and overexaggerating the form of the other man.
Your twist of thoughts were stolen from you, in thanks to the quick rap-rap-rapping on the- thankfully, locked- door. In a startled instinct, you jolted up, ruining whatever strange, queer portrait your mind had painted as Eddie woke quickly to being rolled off of you. Horribly so, though, this only resulted in his head landing on your lap when you sat up. Large, brown eyes blinked up at yours, the only noise if the room being the slighty-muffled groan coming from Jeff behind the door.
"Let's gooooooo, get uppppp~!" Jeff droned from the chipped wood, Gareth's shushes being just barely heard as you find yourself stupidly frozen. Like a deer in headlights, if you're cliché.
"Uh..." your tongue supplied uselessly, granted more confused in emotions as Eddie only looked up at you with almost studying eyes. Then he sat up, rolling his shoulders back and stifling a yawn as if this were an everyday thing.
"Yeah, yeah, we're comin'," the lead vocalist said, sifting through your shared pile of clothes from last night and putting on the first shirt he found. Your shirt. 'Your shirt, your shirt, your shirt,' your mind repeated tauntingly so.
You were still partially reeling from the experience when Eddie swung open the door, having clearly been just woken up and half-heartedly grumbling at the wake-up call from the other two band members. Gareth and Jeff shoving their way in at the greeting was enough to spark you into real life motion your body had just remembered it could do. You scrambled off to the bathroom, snatching your clothes off the ground [minus your shirt, plus Eddie's shirt instead] on your way over.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🎸⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
"Hey, man, you good? You've been off since this morning."
Eddie's voice snapped you back to your current state of time- having finally made it to Lake Erie, mindlessly kicking your feet in the lake water and watching the rush of hued blue and whites dash by.
"What? Yeah, of course, just-" you clicked your tongue, no exact source of your pondering [heh get it] coming to mind. "I dunno. Strange morning."
The lead vocalist cocked his head not unlike a dog, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he picked ar the warming grass you two both sat upon. "Why? 'S not like we haven't slept together before," Eddie said.
You snorted, pushing the other boy's shoulder as you both grinned. "Well, don't say it like that." Pausing, your grin dimming as you continued. "No, I just- it felt different. Like, strange. Not bad, I guess. Just... weird."
The other boy lingered on your words, not sure where to take it or what to do with it.
"...it's not weird if you don't make it weird," Eddie offered, not unkindly.
You bit your tongue, returning your attention back to the cool water, reflecting the sunlight in a way cameras could never capture. Reminding you of the other singer's hair in the morning shine just hours before. Reminding you of what you had for just precious, wasted seconds. Why did you want that again?
Oh for fuck’s sake, people calling out racist writing in fanfic isn’t “censorship”. I say this as a fic writer but some of you need to get off your high fucking horse.
Truly some of the most irritating culture has sprung up around fanwork and fanfic in specific like… no, making something for free does not in fact make it sacrosanct or immune to criticism! Your right to “do whatever you want forever” or say “fandom is for fun” stops the second you’re being bigoted and making fan spaces unsafe for marginalized people!
"fandom is for fun" except for poc who have to deal with rampant racism and white people unable to acknowledge let alone take accountability for their racism
Steve has been going through the cemetery on his runs for years, has passed by this unkept grave for as long as he can remember, and well. He feels bad for this poor dead guy that no one visits.
He's the last party member left in Hawkins. He gets it.
So the next time he's on a run, he tears up some of the weeds. The time after that, he cleans away the trash. And so on and so forth until the grave looks nice, taken care of.
He chats to the guy sometimes - sometimes this is the only conversation Steve has that day. He tells the guy about his run time, about his students, about his friends and meeting up at Robin's weird uncle's house every couple months because, "Every month was a little excessive, you know? It's, yeah. Quarterly is better and-"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, shit," Steve startles. "Hi. I'm not trespassing or-"
The stranger that approaches doesn’t look like he works here. His leather jacket, long hair, and handfuls of rings doesn't exactly scream graveyard worker so, "Uhhhhh, oh! Do you know him?"
"Yeah," The guy says slightly amused. "He's my dad. Do you know him?"
"N-no," Steve winced, realizing how weird this is. "His grave was a little overgrown so I cleaned it up and, I don't know. He's a good listener. I’m Steve, by the way."
"Eddie," He says, gesturing to Al Munson's headstone. "That must've been a skill he developed beyond the grave."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Eddie nods. "Too busy hitting women and kids to listen to anyone."
"...Oh."
Steve frowns. He's been telling a total piece of shit about how lonely he is.
"But hey," Eddie perks up. "If you want a real good listen just step a few paces to your right."
Steve looks to his right at the next gravestone. He never really paid jt much mind because it was well kept and well loved. There were always fresh flowers for Elizabeth Munson.
"She got a lot of practice listening to me," Eddie adds. "I think she would like you."
Okay, so he's spent the last couple months talking to this woman's abuser and - "Oh, Jesus. Why am I still here? Let me get out of your hair and-"
"Nah," Eddie says. "Stay. I'm not in town a lot anymore to keep her company. Let me introduce you."
@morganbritton132 tag preservation squad: #and that's how Steve starts a long distance relationship with world famous rockstar Eddie Munson.#Steve's going to meet Eddie's mom and then they're going to get dinner together#And then he's going to call Robin later that name and she's going to be like: that was a ghost. you met a ghost and took it on a date#Robin: I think you're haunted. you need to burn sage
Summary: He shouldn't have let you go home alone, he should've sucked it up and went with you. Now he was blaming himself for the outcome.
CW: AU - Alcohol - Marijuana - Cigarettes - Mentions of injuries - Mentions of blood - Mentions of death - Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Established friendship - Steve pinning male reader - Friends to Lovers (if you squint) - Slow burn (also if you squint) - Reader has a description
Words: 9.9k
A/N: @magicstarbits convinced me to write this, and in all honesty it probably would've taken very little to convince me to write another Horror AU for Steve. It's based this on this post I made, and I just thought it would work with Steve since he's got the whole "I need to protect people" type of deal going on. Uh, also probably going to be two parts to this depending on how well it does and if you guys want to read it. I gave male reader a description so it's more impactful when things happen, but it's not over the top. Um, yeah I can't even say this turned out bad cause you will crucify me.....but-
(It didn't turn out how I wanted, much shorter and I kinda hate it. Took me a day and a half though-)
Halloween was just another night, another hollow excuse to get drunk and smoke until Steve couldn't remember his own name, let alone the weight of the expectations pressing against his chest. It was an excuse to pretend that life wasn’t eating him alive from the inside out—a chance to wear the ghost of his high school self like a costume that no longer fit. He wanted to feel normal again. But nothing had felt normal since you showed up in the middle of senior year and upended his entire gravity.
He drank to quiet the frantic thrumming of his heart whenever you were near. He drank to forget the specific, devastating way you smiled at him—the kind of smile that made him feel seen and exposed all at once. Over the months, he had unintentionally memorized the map of you: the way you looked when you swam in his pool, the slight dip in your mid-back, the freckles that competed with the moles for space on your skin. He knew the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of your jeans, and that one specific mole, perfectly mirrored on both sides of your neck just below the jawline, usually veiled by the dark sweep of your hair.
Steve wasn't supposed to look at another man this way. He was supposed to still want Nancy; he was supposed to be the guy who ended up with a girl like her in a house with a white picket fence. But there was something so profound about you—something that settled deep within the marrow of his bones—that he couldn't bring himself to cut it out.
It was you. It had always been you.
That was why he spent the first two hours of Nancy’s party hovering by the door, eyes darting through the crowd. He was terrified you’d disappear into the basement to play Dungeons & Dragons with the younger kids, lost to a world of dice and fantasy where he couldn't follow. He wanted you here, in the light. He wanted to see the way the cheap party strobes reflected off your face, to see if you were wearing those glasses you claimed you didn't need, even though you squinted at every street sign without them.
The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the bass vibrated through the floorboards the second you stepped into the Wheeler’s house. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, cheap beer, and too many bodies pressed together. Girls were dressed in spandex and lace; boys were squeezed into their old Hawkins High jerseys, chasing a glory that had already faded. And there was Steve—his eyes locking onto yours instantly, as if he’d been tuning out the rest of the world just to hear your heartbeat.
"Hey," he breathed, the word nearly lost in the music.
You were wearing the glasses. Your hair was pushed back just enough for him to see those twin moles on your neck. Steve felt a physical ache in his chest; you looked incredible, even in your no costume—faded blue jeans that hugged you in all the right places, a gray pullover with maroon sleeves, and those beat-up white sneakers that had seen better days.
"Hey," you replied, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over the sleeve of his beige knit sweater. "A sweater, huh? It looks good on you. Soft."
Steve felt his pulse skyrocket. He gripped his Solo cup tight enough to crinkle the plastic. "Beer?" he blurted out, desperate for something to do with his hands.
You nodded, that infectious warmth spreading across your face. "Beer sounds perfect."
As he led you through the throng of sweaty bodies, Steve kept his hand slightly outstretched behind him, a silent guide. You reached out, your pinky interlocking with his for just a moment—a fleeting, electric connection that grounded him as you navigated the chaos toward the kitchen.
The counters were a graveyard of open cans and mystery punch. You made a face at the carnage, a look of pure, cynical amusement that Steve adored. He grabbed an unopened bottle from the back of the ice bucket—the coldest one he could find—and pressed it against your arm to get your attention.
"Thanks," you said, twisting the cap off and tossing it onto the counter.
Steve watched you. He couldn't help it. He watched with that attentive, hungry look he saved only for you—like he was mapping every inch of your expression so he could replay it in the dark. He watched the way your throat moved as you took a long swig, your face twisting into a grimace at the bitter taste before you sighed and leaned against the fridge.
"What?" you asked, catching him staring.
Are you drinking to forget something, too? Steve wondered. Are you trying to drown out the same things I am?
Instead, he shook his head and offered a lopsided, vulnerable smile. "Nothing. Just...I'm really glad you came."
"Better than rotting in my room alone," you said, nudging his shoulder with yours. "Though a horror movie marathon would've been a lot quieter."
Steve wouldn't have let you be alone. He would have driven to your house and sat on the edge of your bed just to hear you breathe. He’d rather be there right now—kissing every freckle on your skin while you whispered his name like a prayer—but he was here, trapped in a house full of people, drowning in the "maybe."
The rest of the night dissolved into a neon-colored blur. Too much cheap vodka made the room vibrate; a few hits of a joint in the backyard made the music feel like it was coming from underwater. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much.
Somehow, the party drifted away. Steve had lost track of time talking to Robin and Nancy, his eyes constantly searching for a flash of maroon sleeves that never appeared.
When he finally headed downstairs to the quiet of the basement, the air was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and old wood. He saw you slumped against the far wall, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from your hand and a lit joint resting between your lips. The room was dark, save for a single lamp in the corner.
"Hey," Steve called out softly.
You took a slow, dragging hit, the cherry of the joint glowing bright in the shadows. You didn't move as he approached, your eyes glazed and distant. Steve didn't hesitate; he sat down right in front of you, his legs bracketing yours, his thighs pressing against your hips as he settled over you.
"Hey," you whispered, the smoke curling out of your mouth and ghosting over his cheeks.
Steve was tipsy—enough to lose his filter, but sober enough to feel the desperate ache of your proximity. "Thought you left," he mumbled. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he took the joint from you.
He took a long drag, his eyes never leaving yours. As he exhaled, he leaned down until the tip of his nose brushed against yours. The smoke seeped into your mouth, a shared breath in the dark.
The bottle slipped from your hand, thudding softly onto the carpet, but neither of you cared. "You're drunk, Steve," you whispered, your voice cracking. Your hands came up, resting tentatively on his hips, your thumbs sliding just an inch underneath the hem of his sweater.
"Mm," he hummed, his face so close he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. "So are you."
"Not drunk," you corrected him, your voice thick and honey-slow. "Somewhere else entirely."
Steve watched your hands. He felt your fingers find the bare skin of his waist, tracing the happy trail of hair with a feather-light touch that made his entire body go taut. He wondered if you knew what you were doing. He wondered if, in the morning, you’d blame the substances for the way you were looking at his mouth right now.
He let his own hand slide up your chest, his thumb ghosting over your jawline, hovering dangerously close to that mole on the left side of your neck.
"You look like you're trying to find a way to get inside me," you whispered. Your breath smelled of menthol, weed, and the sharp tang of beer. It was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever sensed.
Steve let out a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Maybe," he breathed, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "Maybe I am."
He let out a weak, breathless chuckle, but it died when you reached back for the joint, your eyes sharpening for a split second.
"It’s just the alcohol talking," you muttered, tilting your head away to take another drag. The rejection, however slight, felt like a physical blow to his ribs. "Tell me the truth, Harrington...do I just look like a pretty girl to you right now? Some substitute for Nancy?"
Steve pulled back, his heart shattering at the question. He looked at you—the sharp line of your jaw, the messy hair, the way your glasses had slipped down your nose. You weren't a substitute. You were the reason the substitute didn't work anymore.
"No," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, terrifying honesty. "I—"
But the moment snapped. You blew a plume of smoke between you and started to sit up, your movements clumsy and disjointed. "I should go," you whispered. "Everything's starting to spin, and I’m starting to think you’re even more fucked up than I am."
Steve scrambled to his feet as you stumbled toward the stairs. "Let me drive you," he blurted out. "It’s late. You can’t walk home like this."
You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively without looking back. "No. I need the cold. I need to clear my head."
Steve stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching your silhouette disappear into the light of the floor above. His chest felt hollow, the silence of the basement suddenly deafening. You'd said you'd see him tomorrow, but tomorrow felt like a lifetime away.
"Yeah," he muttered to the empty room, his hand coming up to touch the spot on his waist where your fingers had been. "Tomorrow.”
You pushed through the front door of the Wheeler house, the wood heavy and solid against your palms. The porch was a mess of discarded cups and lingering smokers, and you nearly collided with a tall, slender figure leaning against the railing.
"Whoa, easy there, Tiger," Robin’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears. She caught your shoulder to steady you, her brow furrowed with that familiar, frantic concern she usually reserved for Steve. "You look like you’ve been through a blender. You okay?"
You couldn't find the words, so you just offered her a lopsided, dreamy smile—the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes because they were too busy trying to focus on the porch light. You gave a clumsy wave and practically tumbled down the front steps, your sneakers hitting the concrete with a dull thud.
Standing on the sidewalk, you tilted your head back. You stayed like that for a long minute, letting the crisp, biting October wind wash over your skin and fill your lungs. It felt like drinking ice water after a desert trek. The sweat on your neck from the crowded party turned into a cold film, shivering through you, but you welcomed it. It made you feel real again.
You began to trek down the street, your legs feeling like leaden weights. In the distance, the flickering orange glow of jack-o'-lanterns lined the driveways. You noticed a few straggling groups of kids—little ghosts and plastic-masked monsters—sprinting toward the last few houses that still had their porch lights on, their plastic pails rattling with the weight of cheap chocolate.
Behind them, a man stood in the shadows of a large oak tree. In your intoxicated state, his face was a blur of gray and shadow, impossible to pin down. You watched him through half-lidded eyes as the children turned a corner, their high-pitched giggles fading into the night. The man didn't follow them. He just stopped. He stood perfectly still on the edge of the curb, looking left and then right with a mechanical, eerie precision, as if he were waiting for a phantom car to pass. When the street remained empty, he stepped back into the rhythm of the sidewalk, disappearing into the darkness of the next block.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced down your spine. You huffed, a puff of white vapor escaping your lips, and reached into your back pocket. Your fingers fumbled with the crinkle of the pack, finally snagging a menthol.
The clink-scuff of your Zippo was the loudest thing in the world. You sucked the flame into the tobacco, the first hit of menthol cooling your throat and grounding you. As you walked, the smoke swirled around your head like a shroud.
Your mind, traitorous and stubborn, flickered back to the basement. Back to the weight of Steve Harrington straddling your waist. You could still feel the phantom heat of his thighs pressing against yours, the way his beige sweater felt like a soft cloud under your fingertips. You remembered the way his breath—hot and smelling of hops—had mingled with yours when he leaned in.
What does he taste like? The thought hit you with the force of a physical punch. You imagined the salt of his skin, the bitterness of the beer, the sweetness of something uniquely Steve underneath it all.
What does he sound like when he isn't trying to be perfect? You wondered if his voice got even lower, even raspier, if he were pressed against your ear in the dark of a bedroom instead of a crowded party. You wondered if he made the same desperate, quiet noises you did when your head was spinning.
You blew out a long, thick plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the moonlight. You shook your head violently, trying to rattle the thoughts out of your skull, trying to forget the way his thumb had nearly brushed that mole on your neck—the one he’d clearly been staring at all night.
"Get it together," you muttered to the empty street, your voice sounding foreign and tiny in the vastness of the night.
But as you turned the corner toward home, the ghost of his hand stayed with you, resting aginst the chest of your shirt, burning hotter than the October wind could ever chill.
The further you walked, the more the festive glow of the neighborhood began to bleed out, the jack-o'-lanterns on the porches flickering into guttering, charred husks. The orange light that had felt warm an hour ago now felt sickly, casting long, skeletal shadows of oak branches across the cracked pavement.
The silence of Hawkins at 2:00 AM was usually a comfort—a blank slate—but tonight, it felt heavy. It felt like a physical weight pressing against the back of your neck. You weren’t the paranoid type; you’d done this walk a hundred times, and neither the cheap beer nor the weed had ever turned the world into a horror movie before. Yet, you couldn't shake the prickling sensation that the darkness between the streetlamps was reaching out for you.
It’s just the wind, you told yourself, taking a long, dragging pull of your menthol. It’s the comedown. You’re just coming down.
You focused on the rhythm of your own breathing, the way the smoke curled around your glasses, and the lingering, ghostly warmth of Steve’s body against yours. You tried to summon his face to drown out the dark—the way he looked when he was truly looking at you, stripped of the usual bravado. But the memory was slippery, sliding away every time you heard the rustle of dead leaves behind you.
You reached a desolate stretch of sidewalk, a little less than a mile from the safety of your front door. The streetlamps here were spaced too far apart, leaving yawning gaps of pitch-black territory in between.
Then, you heard it.
Scuff. Click.
It was the distinct sound of a boot hitting the pavement. Not your sneakers.
Your breath caught, a jagged shard of ice lodging itself in your throat. You didn't stop—stopping was for victims—but your body stuttered, your stride losing its fluid rhythm. You tightened your grip on the Zippo in your pocket, the cold metal biting into your palm.
It’s an echo, you reasoned, your heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat against your ribs. Old houses. Wind in the gutters. Just an echo.
To prove it, you sped up. Your heart rate surged, the adrenaline finally winning the war against the alcohol. You took three long, hurried strides.
Step. Step. Step.
From the darkness behind you, the response was immediate.
Step. Step. Step.
They matched you perfectly. The pace, the weight, the intent.
The cigarette dropped from your lips, sparks dancing briefly on the concrete before dying. You spun around, your heels skidding, eyes darting wildly through the gloom. You expected a silhouette, a monster, someone from the party—anything but the void that greeted you. There was nothing. Just the faint, sickly yellowish glow of a porch light you’d passed fifty yards back, looking like a dying star in the distance. The street was a vacuum of silence.
"Fuck," you wheezed, the word trembling as it left your lungs. "I'm losing it. I am actually losing my goddamn mind."
You let out a wet, breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob. You rubbed your face, pushing your glasses up your nose, trying to ground yourself. You were just high. You were just tired. You were just thinking too much about Steve Harrington and not enough about your own surroundings.
You shook your head, turning back around to finish the final stretch home—and slammed hard into a solid, unyielding surface.
The air left your lungs in a violent huff. It wasn't a wall. It was too warm for a wall. It was the broad, firm expanse of a chest clad in denim and the faint, metallic scent of something that didn't belong in a suburban neighborhood.
A hand, cold as the October frost, reached out and gripped your shoulder with a strength that felt like a vice.
"Going somewhere?" a voice rasped. It wasn't Steve’s. It was low, textured like sandpaper, and devoid of any warmth.
The air in your lungs turned to jagged glass. You were paralyzed, your nervous system misfiring as your brain screamed run, run, run, but your sneakers felt like they were fused to the cracked pavement. The man didn't move with the frantic energy of the partygoers you’d just left; he moved with a terrifying, rhythmic patience.
As his hand drifted toward your face—fingers splayed like a pale spider—the spell finally snapped. You lurched backward, your heels catching on a raised lip of concrete. You flailed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and turned to bolt.
You didn't even get two steps.
A hand like a steel shackle clamped onto your bicep, and with a sickeningly effortless jerk, you were yanked backward. Your spine collided with his chest—cold, hard, and smelling of old copper and rainwater. You thrashed, elbows swinging wildly, but he wrapped a heavy arm across your throat, pinning you against him.
"Shh," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. It wasn't the voice of a madman screaming in the dark; it was calm, almost academic. "Stop wasting that energy. You’re going to need it."
You tried to shout for help, but his palm clapped over your mouth, tasting of salt and grit. You let out a muffled, choked sob, your vision blurring behind your glasses.
"You're like the others, yet...not," he mused, his voice vibrating through your back. "The boy from the driveway, the girls in the lace...they were hollow. They broke before the first cut. But you? You have this burn in you. I watched you walk a mile in the dark just to feel the cold. What is it that keeps you upright? Is it the boy in the beige sweater? Or the little ones with their plastic swords and dice?"
The mention of the kids—of Steve—sent a surge of pure, primal adrenaline through you. With a guttural snarl of effort, you drove your elbow back, catching him square in the ribs.
He let out a sharp, wet hiss, his grip slackening just enough for you to wrench yourself free. You scrambled away, your foot catching on a crack in the sidewalk. You went down on one knee, skinning it bloody, but you didn't stop. You forced yourself up, your lungs burning, and sprinted toward the light of the next streetlamp.
He was faster.
You heard the heavy, rhythmic strike of his boots—thud, thud, thud—and then the world tilted. He tackled you from behind, the impact driving the wind out of your chest as you slammed face-first into the cold, unforgiving sidewalk. Before you could roll over, he was on top of you, his knees pinning your thighs, his weight crushing the life out of you.
He seized both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the concrete. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket.
The sound was unmistakable: the rhythmic snick of a folding blade locking into place.
The steel glinted under the distant, dying porch light. He didn't stab; he explored. He pressed the flat of the blade to the sensitive skin of your throat, dragging it slowly down the center of your chest, over the fabric of your pullover like it was nothing more than water. Finally, he came to a stop, pressing the cold sharp tip into your side.
"Please," you sobbed, the word breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. "Please, don't do this. Just let me go. I won't say anything, I swear—"
"Don't lie," he whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. His eyes were flat, twin voids that reflected nothing. "It doesn't have to be a tragedy. I have faith in you. I’ve spent so long looking for someone who wouldn't just...go out like a candle. I think you're the one who survives the dark."
Faith? The word felt like a mockery. You didn't know this man, but he talked as if he had authored your entire life.
As he continued to trail the tip of the knife in slow, agonizing circles over your ribs, you felt a flicker of stubbornness ignite in your gut. You waited for the exact moment his weight shifted, and then you drove your knee upward with every ounce of strength you had left.
It hit home. He groaned, a sound of genuine pain, but he didn't tumble away like before. Instead, his hand clenched.
A white-hot flash of pain bloomed in your side, so intense it turned your vision to sparks. It wasn't a sting; it was a deep, invasive heat that made your breath hitch in a silent, open-mouthed gasp. You felt a sudden, heavy wetness soak into your shirt, spreading rapidly across your skin.
He pulled the knife back, the blade now dark and slick in the moonlight. He looked down at the wound with a terrifying sort of reverence, while the world around you began to tilt and fade at the edges.
The metallic tang of blood was thick in your mouth, mixing with the fading mint of the cigarette. The world was tilting, the streetlamps stretching into long, distorted smears of light. He stepped back, his shadow looming over you as he tilted his head with a slow, predatory curiosity, watching you bleed out onto the concrete.
You tried to crawl. Your fingers scraped against the rough surface, nails catching in the cracks as you dragged your heavy, protesting body a few measly inches. Your glasses slid down the bridge of your nose, clicking softly as they hit the sidewalk. Without them, the world became a terrifying watercolor of grays and blacks.
"Get up," he growled. The calm, academic tone was gone, replaced by a low, jagged hunger.
You let out a pained, wet cry, your hand clamped over the wound in your side. Every breath felt like a serrated blade moving in your chest. You forced yourself up, your knees shaking so violently you thought they’d snap. You staggered to your feet, the cold wind biting into the open gash. This was a game—a sick, twisted marathon where he was the only one who knew the finish line.
You began to stumble away, one hand trailing along a picket fence for support. Behind you, the silence was punctuated by a sharp, crystalline crunch. He had stepped on your glasses, grinding the lenses into the pavement beneath his boot. The sound felt like it was happening inside your own skull.
"That’s it," he taunted, his voice drifting closer, rhythmic and steady. "Keep moving. Show me that fire. Show me why you're worth the effort."
He caught up to you with terrifying ease and shoved. It wasn't a strike; it was a dismissive push that sent you spiraling. Your knees hit the sidewalk with a sickening crack, the impact sending jolts of white-hot agony through your injured side. You gasped, face pressed against the cold stone, tasting dust and iron.
Steve. The name was a mantra now. You pictured him in that beige sweater, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he’d looked at you in the basement. You couldn't die here, not on this desolate strip of concrete, not while he was still waiting for tomorrow.
You forced yourself up again, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. He laughed—a dry, hollow sound. "You're doing so much better than the others. They usually stop screaming by now. They usually just...give up."
He shoved you again, and this time you tumbled into the grass bordering the sidewalk. Your hand brushed against something cold and heavy—a jagged landscaping rock, half-buried in the dirt. Your fingers curled around it, the grit pressing into your palm.
When you stood this time, you didn't try to run. You spun around with a guttural, primal scream of rage, swinging the rock with every ounce of fading strength. It connected with the side of his head with a dull thud.
He stumbled, his hand going to his temple, but then he began to chuckle. It was a low, terrifying sound that made your blood run colder than the October air. He looked at you, a trickle of dark fluid running down his cheek, and his eyes went pitch black.
"My turn," he whispered.
Before you could swing again, his hand was a vice around your throat. He lifted you nearly off the ground, pinning you against a nearby tree. You clawed at his wrist, your nails drawing lines of red, and kicked desperately at his shins, but you were fighting a ghost.
"I had such high hopes for you," he hissed.
The first strike to your shoulder was a shock—a cold, invasive pressure that numbed your arm instantly. The second, driven deep into your abdomen, was the one that broke you. The heat was gone now, replaced by a hollow, radiating cold.
Your legs gave out. You didn't feel yourself hit the ground this time. You only felt the sensation of being moved—the brutal, rhythmic jarring of your body being dragged. You felt the rough, skin-shredding scrape of concrete, then the damp, forgiving touch of soft grass. Then the smell of wet earth and mud rose up to meet you.
You tried to whisper his name one last time, but your lungs wouldn't cooperate. The last thing you saw was the swaying canopy of trees against a starless sky before the darkness finally rushed in to claim the rest.
Steve’s reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror was a roadmap of a night he wished he could erase. His skin was pale, eyes rimmed with the telltale redness of cheap weed and even cheaper beer. He let out a low, rattling groan, his fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the porcelain edge of the sink.
Cold water beaded on his hairline, dripping down his nose from where he’d splashed his face moments ago in a desperate attempt to shock his system into reality. The hangover was there—a dull, rhythmic thudding behind his temples—but it was tolerable. Honestly, he wished it was worse. He wished it was a localized hurricane in his skull, something violent enough to scrub the memory of the basement clean. He wanted to forget the way his thighs had felt bracketed over yours, the way he’d looked at you with a desperation that surely must have been written in neon across his face.
God, Harrington. Get a grip, he thought, his chest aching with a phantom weight.
He stayed there for a long beat, his head hanging low between his shoulders, before reaching for a frayed towel to pat his face dry. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that made the hum of the refrigerator sound like a scream.
He moved downstairs, his footsteps heavy on the carpeted stairs. Habits died hard; he flicked the television on to the morning news for background noise, though the bright colors of the broadcast made his eyes ache. He didn't look at the screen as he navigated the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. His movements were mechanical as he reached into the cabinet for the bottle of extra-strength painkillers he kept for mornings just like this.
As the water filled his glass, his mind drifted back to the top of the Wheeler’s basement stairs. He could still see the way you’d stumbled, the way the light had caught your glasses. He shouldn’t have let you leave. The cool guy persona—the one that told him to play it safe and let you have your space—felt like a death sentence now. He’d rather you spent the next month hating him for forcing a ride on you than have to sit here wondering if you made it home through the cold.
"Stupid," he muttered, swallowing the pills with a sharp gulp of water. "So damn stupid."
With a heavy sigh, he retreated to the living room, the glass cold in his hand. He stood directly in front of the television, planning to switch it off and call your house—to apologize, to check in, to hear your voice—but his thumb froze over the power button.
The news anchor’s voice, previously just a drone of static in his mind, suddenly sharpened. The "Breaking News" banner at the bottom of the screen was a jarring, violent red.
"...police have cordoned off a three-block radius in the leafier suburbs of Hawkins this morning," the reporter was saying, her voice strained against the wind. Behind her, blue and red lights strobed against the gray morning sky, reflecting off the very same sidewalk Steve had watched you walk toward last night. "Authorities are calling it a 'disturbing discovery' after a local resident found signs of a violent struggle on the pavement earlier today."
Steve’s heart didn't just race; it stopped. The glass of water slipped an inch in his grip. On the screen, the camera panned down to the concrete.
There, lying in the middle of a dark, dried smear that could only be blood, was a pair of glasses. The frames were twisted, one lens shattered into a web of crystalline shards.
Steve didn't breathe. He knew those glasses. He knew the way they sat on the bridge of your nose when you were squinting at the world.
The handheld camera on the screen jerked, the frame skipping as the cameraman zoomed in on a shallow, mud-slicked ditch just feet from the pavement.
A piece of Steve Harrington didn't just break; it died. It stayed back in that wood-paneled basement, trapped in the memory of a dingy basement and a half-smoked joint.
The camera caught it for less than a second—a flash of a maroon sleeve, the pale, waxen curve of a neck, and that unmistakable twin-set of moles.
The glass of water didn't fall; it slipped, shattering against the hardwood in a spray of diamonds that Steve didn't even hear. His lungs suddenly felt like they had been filled with concrete. He tried to draw a breath, but the air hitched in his throat, coming out in a high, thin whistle. His vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room fraying into static.
No. No, no, no.
His knees hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. He didn't feel the impact. He only felt the crushing weight of the oxygen refusing to enter his body. His hands flew to his chest, clawing at the fabric of his shirt as if he could tear a hole straight to his lungs. He was drowning on dry land. His heart wasn't beating anymore; it was a trapped bird slamming against his ribs, frantic and dying.
On the screen, the chaos continued. Officers moved in, their palms out to block the lens, but the camera snuck one last, shaky glimpse of a hand resting in the dirt—fingers curled as if reaching for something that wasn't there.
Steve thought of your mother. Would she even realize you were gone yet? Would she care, or would she just see another tragedy in a town full of them? The thought made a jagged, hysterical sob rip from his throat. He cared. He cared enough that the guilt was currently stripping the skin from his soul. He should have fought you. He should have thrown you over his shoulder and locked the car doors. You should be tangled in your sheets right now, safe and warm, not cooling in the dirt of a ditch.
The nausea hit him like a physical blow. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling toward the kitchen, his coordination gone. He barely reached the sink before his stomach revolted, throwing up the water and the pills in a violent, racking heave. He slumped against the counter, his forehead pressed to the cold stainless steel, sobbing so hard he thought his ribs might snap.
The keys were a cold weight in his hand. He didn't remember walking to the car. He didn't remember the drive. He only remembered the blur of autumn leaves and the screech of tires as he pulled up to the police line.
The strobe of the blue and red lights was blinding. The smell of damp earth and ozone hung heavy in the air. Steve shoved his way out of the car, his legs moving on instinct, his eyes fixed on the black body bag the coroners were beginning to zip shut.
"Hey! Kid! Back off!" a voice barked.
A heavy hand slammed into Steve’s chest, halting his momentum. It was Hopper. The Chief’s face was a mask of grim professionality, but his eyes softened for a fraction of a second when he saw the hollowed-out wreck of a man standing in front of him.
"Steve," Hopper said, his voice unusually quiet. "You can't be here. Get back behind the line."
Steve didn't look at him. He couldn't take his eyes off the shape under the heavy plastic. His hands were shaking so hard he had to tuck them into his armpits.
"I have to take him home, Hop," Steve whispered. His voice was a ruined thing, thin and trembling. "He...he said he'd see me tomorrow. It’s tomorrow now."
"Steve, listen to me—"
"Please," Steve broke, a fresh wave of tears blurring the world into a smear of emergency lights. He reached out, his fingers brushing the sleeve of Hopper’s uniform, his voice cracking into a raw, desperate plea. "Please, just let me take him home. He shouldn't be in a bag. He hates the dark. He’s gonna be so cold. Just let me...let me take him home. I'll fix it. I'll fix it."
He collapsed against the Chief's chest then, his fingers bunching into the fabric of the tan uniform as he wailed—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that silenced the hum of the police radios and the chatter of the onlookers.
The tomorrow he had promised was here, and it was a graveyard.
The days following the police tape and the sirens were a hollow, gray static. Time didn’t move in a straight line for Steve anymore; it looped and stuttered, a broken film reel of grief.
He didn't remember the drive to your house, or how he ended up in your kitchen, but he remembered the weight of your mother. She had collapsed into him the moment he stepped through the door, her fingers digging into the wool of his sweater as she wailed into his shoulder. Steve had stood there, a pillar of salt, trying to hold back the violent sobs racking his own chest so he could be the strength she didn't have. He remembered the smell of the house—stale coffee and the lingering, ghostly scent of your menthol cigarettes—and the way he’d eventually let it slip, mid-sob, that he was in love with you. He’d said it like a confession, like a prayer, and she had only gripped him tighter.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up in your bed. He was curled around your pillow, his face buried in the fabric that still smelled like your shampoo and that faint, sharp trace of mint. He stayed there for hours, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light, surrounded by your posters and your unwashed laundry, feeling like a trespasser in a sanctuary.
Then came the funeral. Steve wanted to forget the funeral with a desperation that bordered on physical pain.
He wanted to forget the afternoon spent sitting on your bedroom floor with your mother, sifting through shoeboxes of old photographs. He wanted to forget the way his heart had stuttered seeing a picture of you from eighth grade, grinning with a missing tooth, or the one of you at the pool where he’d first started counting your moles.
He wanted to forget the cold.
When he had gone to the funeral home to help your mother dress you, the air in the basement room had been clinical and freezing. He’d picked out your suit—the one you complained was too tight in the shoulders—and he had insisted on being the one to straighten the lapels. When the funeral director finally stepped away, Steve had leaned down, his eyes burning, and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your forehead. Your skin hadn't felt like skin; it felt like marble, a terrifying, unyielding cold that had seeped into his very bones and never truly left.
The service itself was a blur of black umbrellas and the wet thud of dirt against wood. Steve stood by the grave, flanked by your mother and the kids. Nancy was vibrating with silent sobs; Robin was holding Steve’s hand so hard her knuckles were white. Steve didn't care about anything anymore. He didn't care that half of Hawkins was watching him fall apart. He broke down, his knees hitting the grass, his voice a raw, jagged ruin as he gasped for air that you would never breathe again.
He tried to drink. He sat in his dark living room with a bottle of bourbon, begging for the blackout to take the memories away. But the alcohol didn't work like it used to. It didn't wash away the curve of your smile or the way you looked through your glasses. Every swallow only made the images sharper, the guilt heavier.
Deep down, in the quiet, dark corners of his soul, Steve realized he didn't want to forget. To forget the pain would be to forget you, and he couldn't do that. He would carry the weight of you, the cold of your forehead, and the scent of your pillow until it buried him, too. Because as long as he was hurting, you were still real. As long as he was crying, you weren't just a ghost in a ditch.
You were his. And he was never letting go.
Halloween of 1988 didn't arrive with a bang; it arrived with the same suffocating, gray silence that had defined every morning since the dirt first hit your casket. For Steve, the holiday had lost its teeth. The monsters were no longer under the bed or behind masks—they were the ghosts of the things he hadn't said and the steps he hadn't taken.
He sat on his couch, the fabric smelling of old upholstery and the faint, lingering scent of the cologne he wore because you once told him it was tolerable. The living room was a graveyard of its own, littered with empty beer bottles that caught the flickering, blue light of the television. Some low-budget slasher film was droning on, a scream piercing the air every few minutes, but Steve didn't blink. Real horror didn't have a soundtrack.
In his hand, he held the photograph your mother had pressed into his palm before she fled Hawkins. It was a candid shot—you were mid-laugh, your glasses slightly crooked, the sun catching those twin moles on your neck. “Too many bad memories,” she had whispered, her eyes hollowed out by a year of sleepless nights. Steve didn’t blame her. Your murder had gone from a front-page tragedy to a dusty file in a cabinet at the station—a cold case that the rest of the world was happy to forget. But Steve was the keeper of the flame. He was the only one left who remembered the exact shade of your eyes when you were high.
With a heavy, rattling breath, Steve pushed himself off the couch. The bottles clattered together like wind chimes as he gathered them in his arms, dumping them into the trash with a final, glass-on-glass ring. He grabbed his keys and the fresh bundle of carnations he’d bought that morning—bright, cheerful things that looked garish against the gloom of his house.
The drive to the cemetery was a path he could have navigated blindfolded. The graveyard was a sea of weathered stone and iron wrought-fences, most of the residents long forgotten by the living. But your plot was different. Your plot was tended to.
He stopped in front of the headstone, the granite cold even in the fading light. He set the new flowers down, brushing away the skeletal, brown remains of the last bundle. Then, as he did every single evening, Steve lowered himself onto the grass. He laid down on his side, his shoulder resting against the earth that separated him from you, and stared up at the darkening October sky.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking in the quiet. "Happy Halloween. Or whatever."
He took a breath, closing his eyes and imagining you were lying right there next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "Life’s...it’s weird, man. You’re never gonna believe this, but Robin? She finally did it. She’s got a girlfriend. And get this—it’s Nancy. Yeah, that Nancy. They’re actually happy. I think they’re good for each other, even if it makes the Saturday night hangs a little crowded."
He let out a small, hollowing chuckle. "I’m still at the radio station. My boss thinks I’m obsessed with the '84 charts, but I just...I keep slipping 'When Doves Cry' into the late-night slot. I tell them it’s a classic, but I really just want to hear it and pretend you’re sitting in the passenger seat of the Beamer, complaining about my taste in music. I hope you can hear it. I hope wherever you are, the reception is better than it is in Hawkins."
The humor faded then, replaced by the familiar, crushing weight in his chest. He reached out, his fingers tracing the carved letters of your name in the stone.
"I love you," he choked out, the words thick with a year's worth of unshed tears. "I love you more than I ever got to tell you when you could actually hear me. And I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry I let you walk away. I stay awake at night just...replaying those stairs. If I’d just grabbed your hand. If I’d just been a little more selfish and told you to stay. You’d be here. We’d be at some stupid party right now, and I’d be watching you squint through those glasses."
He curled his body closer to the grave, his forehead resting against the cool stone. "It’s my fault. It’ll always be my fault. I was supposed to be the one who looked out for people, and I failed the only person who actually mattered."
He stayed there until the moon was high and the grass was slick with frost, talking to the silence, waiting for a tomorrow that would never come.
Steve stood up from the damp grass, his joints popping with a stiff, hollow sound. He didn’t look back at the headstone; if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave. He walked back to the Beamer, the gravel crunching under his boots like breaking bone. He sat in the driver's seat for a long time, the engine cold, staring at the dashboard until the moonlight shifted. Eventually, he turned the key. The roar of the engine felt offensive in the silence of the dead. He drove aimlessly through the winding backroads of Hawkins, the heater blasting but doing nothing to thaw the ice in his chest, until he finally pulled into his own driveway.
Inside, the house was a tomb. He stripped off his clothes in the bathroom, leaving them in a heap on the tile, and stepped into the shower. He turned the handle until the water was scalding, the steam billowing up to choke the room. He sat on the floor of the tub, knees pulled to his chest, letting the near-boiling spray redden his skin. He wanted to feel something—anything—other than the phantom touch of cold marble.
Six miles away, beneath the frost-nipped earth, the silence broke.
A sharp, jagged intake of breath hissed through the coffin, a sound like tearing silk. Your body jerked, your spine arching so violently it hit the satin lining of the lid with a dull thud. Your lungs were screaming, a burning vacuum of agony as they tried to pull oxygen from a space that had none.
Panic, raw and animalistic, took over. You clawed at the wood above you, your fingernails splintering and tearing as you shrieked into the darkness. The wood groaned, weakened by a year of rot and the weight of the earth, and then it gave way.
It wasn't air that greeted you. It was a suffocating, heavy deluge of dirt.
It filled your mouth, gritting against your teeth, clogging your throat as you thrashed. You were being buried alive all over again. You dug, your fingers raw and bleeding, dirt shoving its way under your nails and staining the pristine suit Steve had picked out for you. Your movements were frantic, a desperate, swimming motion through the crushing weight of the soil.
Then, your hand broke the surface.
The air was cold, wet, and beautiful. You hauled yourself upward, your head breaking through the mud like a drowning man reaching the surface of the ocean. You gasped, a wet, rattling sound that was drowned out by a sudden, violent boom of thunder. Rain began to pour, washing the filth from your face in icy streaks.
With a final, guttural cry of effort, you dragged your body completely from the hole. Your hand clamped down on something soft—the fresh carnations Steve had left hours ago. You crushed them in your fist, the petals bruising as you collapsed onto the damp grass beside the open wound in the earth.
Your chest heaved, the oxygen burning like fire in your throat, but the relief was short-lived. A sudden, oily heat rose from your stomach. You rolled onto your hands and knees, your body convulsing.
You didn't vomit the beer or the food from a year ago. What came out was a thick, ink-black liquid—viscous and shimmering with an unnatural, iridescent sheen. It poured from you, staining the grass and the white carnations, a foul-smelling bile that felt like it was purging every ounce of death from your system.
You stayed there, trembling, the rain soaking through your suit and plastering your hair to your forehead. Your vision, once blurry and dark, snapped into a terrifying, sharp focus.
"Fuck," you gasped, the word scratching your throat like sandpaper.
Your eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowed by iris. You looked down at your hands—pale, scarred, but pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic heat. You weren't a ghost, and you weren't a corpse. You were something else entirely. And all you could think about, through the haze of the black bile and the rain, was the smell of the beige sweater that had been pressed against your face in a basement an eternity ago.
Every movement was an exercise in agony, a chorus of wet snaps and grinding porcelain as your joints, stiff from a year of stillness, forced themselves back into the rhythm of the living.
You stood over your own empty grave for a breathless second, your fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the knot of the tie Steve had picked out for you. The silk felt like a noose. You ripped it free, casting it into the mud alongside the heavy wool of the suit jacket. Your chest heaved, the buttons of your white dress shirt popping and pinging off into the darkness as you bared your skin to the moonlight.
You looked down, and your stomach turned.
There, stark and silver against your pale skin, were the jagged scars where the blade had found you. But worse was the straight, clinical line running from the base of your throat down toward your abdomen—the grim tally of an autopsy you weren't supposed to remember. Yet, beneath the trauma, the map of you remained. The same moles Steve had memorized, the same scatter of freckles, the same dark trail of hair. You looked like yourself, but you felt like a hollowed-out shell filled with woodsmoke and shadows.
You started to walk.
Your feet moved with a heavy, rhythmic autonomy, dragging you out of the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery and onto the asphalt. You didn't consciously choose a direction, but as the suburban houses of Hawkins began to thicken around you, the scenery became terrifyingly familiar.
You stopped. You were standing on the exact stretch of sidewalk where the world had gone dark. Under the harsh, buzzing glow of a streetlamp, you could still see it—a faint, brownish stain in the grain of the concrete that the rain hadn't been able to wash away. Your blood.
A phantom ache throbbed in your side. For a moment, you turned toward the direction of your mother’s house, your body seeking the comfort of your own bed. But a sharp, magnetic pull in your gut jerked you back. Your mind was a kaleidoscope of that final night: the heat of the Wheeler’s basement, the smell of Steve’s sweater, and the way his eyes had looked—blown wide and terrified—as you walked up those stairs and out of his life.
You didn't go home. You turned toward the woods, toward the sprawling, lonely estate where the Harrington house sat like a fortress.
As you walked, the reality of the date began to sink in. You passed houses draped in fake cobwebs and glowing orange lights. You saw a group of kids—a tiny Dracula and a cardboard robot—sprinting across a lawn, their laughter echoing in the damp air. They didn't see you; you were just a shadow among shadows, a man in a ruined dress shirt drenched in grave-dirt and rain.
"This isn't happening," you rasped, your voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "I'm dead. I’m supposed to stay dead."
The words felt wrong in the air, like a lie told to a ghost. You weren't supposed to be able to feel the wind. You weren't supposed to feel the desperate, localized heat in your chest that flared every time you thought of Steve.
You reached the edge of his property, the long driveway stretching out like a challenge. The house was mostly dark, save for a single light flickering in an upstairs window—the bathroom.
You didn't knock. You didn't ring the bell. You just stood at the edge of the woods, your hands trembling, staring at the house of the man who had spent a year loving a corpse. You looked down at your hands, still stained with the ink-black bile you’d retched up, and a single, terrifying thought clawed its way to the surface of your mind.
What is he going to see when he looks at me?
Steve stepped out of the shower, his skin scrubbed raw and red from the heat. He moved through his routine like a ghost haunting his own life—towel-drying his hair until it was a chaotic mess, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants and a thin, faded Hawkins High t-shirt that had seen better days. Every movement was heavy, burdened by the anniversary that sat like lead in his stomach.
He headed downstairs, his bare feet silent on the wood. He needed water. He needed to quench the dry, scratching thirst that always came after a night of drinking and a morning of mourning. But as he reached the bottom step, the air in the living room felt...different.
The house was cold. A draft he couldn’t account for drifted through the hallway, smelling of wet earth and the sharp, ozone tang of the storm. Steve froze. He stopped directly in front of the television, the same spot where he’d stood exactly a year ago, watching the news report that had ended his life. The screen was black now, reflecting nothing but his own hollowed-out expression, but the sense of wrongness was a physical weight against his chest.
Then, there was a sound.
It wasn't the heavy, authoritative knock of a police officer or the frantic pounding of a panicked teen. It was a soft, hesitant rap against the wood of the front door. Three distinct, quiet taps.
Steve didn't move for a heartbeat. He thought he was finally losing it. He thought the grief had finally cracked his skull open and let the hallucinations in. But his feet moved anyway, drawn by a magnetic pull he didn't understand. He reached the door, his hand trembling as it hovered over the brass knob. He twisted it, the hinges letting out a low, mournful groan.
The door swung inward.
You stood there on the porch, a specter framed by the thrashing rain and the jagged flashes of lightning. You were drenched, your white shirt translucent against your skin, dirt still caked in the creases of your elbows and under your broken fingernails.
Steve didn't scream. He didn't even breathe. He just stared, his mouth falling open, his eyes blown wide with a terror that was rapidly being overtaken by a frantic, starving hope. He began to map you—the same way he had mapped you at the party, only now he was searching for the impossible.
His gaze dropped to the jagged, silver scars on your chest, then to the dark, clinical line of the autopsy stitch that shouldn't be there. His breath hitched, a jagged, broken sound, as his eyes climbed back up to your throat. He looked for them—the twin moles, identical on both sides of your neck, just below the jawline.
There they were. Dark and familiar against the pale, rain-slicked skin.
"Steve," you rasped, the name sounding like it had been dragged through miles of gravel.
His hand reached out, hovering inches from your face, his fingers shaking so violently he looked like he might vibrate apart. He was terrified that if he touched you, you’d dissolve into smoke and mud. He was searching your eyes, looking for the boy who had smiled at him in the basement, trying to reconcile the warmth of his memories with the cold reality of the man standing on his porch in a ruined burial suit.
"You're dead," he whispered, the words more a sob than a statement. "I saw...I saw them put you in the ground. I kissed you goodbye. You were so cold."
You took a step forward, crossing the threshold into the warmth of the doorway. The smell of the grave followed you—wet dirt, decay, and that strange, metallic scent of the black ink.
"I know," you whispered back, your voice trembling. "I was. I think I still am.”
The silence in the hallway was thick, suffocating, and broken only by the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of rainwater onto Steve’s polished hardwood floors. The heat from the house rolled over you in waves, clashing with the tomb-deep chill of your skin, making you feel like you were beginning to thaw and break apart all at once.
Steve’s hand finally bridged the gap. His fingers were trembling so violently they looked blurred, but when they finally made contact with your cheek, the impact was earth-shattering.
He didn't pull away. He didn't scream. He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-chuckle—a broken, hysterical noise that vibrated in the small space between you. His palm was hot, searingly so, against your face. To him, you felt like a winter morning; to you, he felt like a sun he hadn't seen in a lifetime.
"You're cold," he whispered, his thumb catching a smear of graveyard mud on your cheekbone and wiping it away with a reverence that hurt more than the knife ever had. "You’re so cold, but you’re...you’re here. You’re actually here."
You leaned into his touch, your body trembling with a sudden, violent exhaustion that made your knees buckle. Steve caught you instantly, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling your rain-drenched frame flush against his warm chest. The contrast was staggering—the life in him fighting against the lingering shadow of the grave in you.
"Yeah," you rasped, your voice cracking as you finally let your eyes close. "Yeah, I'm here, Steve."
Steve let out a shaky breath, a ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He shifted his grip, one hand moving to the back of your head, holding you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. He didn't care about the mud staining his shirt or the water soaking into his skin. He only cared about the steady, impossible weight of you in his arms.
Gently, he tilted his head down. He lingered for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, before he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was the same spot he had kissed in that freezing funeral home, but this time, the skin moved beneath his lips. This time, there was a pulse—faint, slow, and strange—but it was there.
"I've got you," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life. "I've got you now.”
btw i want to say that the entire tumblr community banding together is what got these changes reversed so i hope u all realise the power of a reblog and start reblogging posts instead of just liking them this is the reblog website so hit that button right now
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
in honor of black history month 2025, i’ve put together a list of books written by black sapphic authors for you to read in the month of february
non-fiction essays/memoirs:
all about love: new visions by bell hooks
black lesbian in white america by anita cornwell
sister outsider: essays and speeches by audre lorde
mouths of rain: an anthology of black lesbian thought by briona simone jones
blues legacies and black feminism by angela davis
does your mama know?: an anthology of black lesbian coming out stories by lisa c. moore
fiction:
the color purple by alice walker
loving her by ann allen shockley
the gilda stories by jewelle gomez
in another place, not here by dionne brand
pomegranate by helen elaine lee
the summer we got free by mia mckenzie
these letters end in tears by musih tedji xaviere
dead in long beach, california by venita blackburn
girl, woman, other by bernadine evaristo
young adult:
escaping mr. rochester by l.l. mckinney
this ravenous fate by hayley dennings
faebound by saraa el-arifa
so let them burn by kamilah cole
where sleeping girls lie by faridah àbíké-íyímídé
adult:
honey girl by morgan rogers
the deep by rivers solomon
sweet vengeance by viano oniomoh
come back (love concealed) by terri ronald
house of hunger by alexis henderson
short stories:
the secret lives of church ladies by deesha philyaw
additional info:
-> “why wasn’t this book listed?” probably because it wasn’t black sapphic-centric, the author isn’t a black sapphic themself, or i just simply haven’t heard of it! so feel free to add on if it meets those two criteria
many of these books require trigger warnings, especially some of the older ones that are more likely to feature racial struggles of the time. please do your due diligence and search for tws if you want to read them!
please feel free to add onto this list in the rbs or comments! happy black history month
Summary: Hawkins was known for it's tall tales, but that's all they were. They were just stories, right?
CW: AU (if you squint) - Mentions of death - Blood - Injury - Brief mention of alcohol - Brief mention of cannabis - Mentions of a gun - Established relationship - Dog named Goose
Words: 11.5k
A/N: I'm in the mood for some horror, which if you knew me in real life, it wouldn't be surprising. I grew up in Appalachia/Country areas, experienced a lot of horrific shit and yet horror is my favorite. Anyway, I hope this goes well.
Stories—that was the lie Steve Harrington repeated until it felt like a prescription. They were just tall tales passed down by folks with too much time and too little light. He told himself that every time a floorboard groaned in the dark or the wind howled a little too much like a human scream. It was the only way to keep the rot of fear from settling in his bones.
But then there was you.
You’d drifted into Hawkins like woodsmoke, a country boy with calloused hands and a way of looking at the woods that made Steve realize he’d been blind his whole life. You were the polar opposite of the high-school royalty Steve used to be. Your parents didn't have the cold, manicured distance of his; they had the warmth of woodstoves and the weary eyes of people who knew exactly what lived in the shadows.
Steve had grown used to the stories you’d tell when the group gathered at your place. You’d sit there, nonchalantly nursing a beer, and spin yarns about the "neighbors" back home—the ones you weren't supposed to whistle at after dark. You talked about the house you grew up in, the one where the doors stayed locked not to keep out burglars, but to keep out the things that mimicked the voices of loved ones.
It terrified him. Steve was supposed to be the protector, the big macho jock with the muscles, but in the face of the ancient, hungry things you described, he felt like a child afraid of the closet.
Winter had slammed into Indiana with a vengeance. Ice crawled across the windows of your farmhouse like frozen lace, and the temperature had plummeted, turning the air into something that bit at the lungs.
The two of you were huddled on the back porch, buried under a mountain of wool blankets. A single blunt moved between you, the cherry glowing like a tiny, defiant star against the blue-grey twilight. The dog, a brindled hound with ears that caught every shift in the wind, lay like a heavy shadow at your feet.
“Still can’t get over it,” Steve mumbled, his breath hitching as he exhaled a plume of smoke. He shook his head, looking at the porch steps. “You really got pitched down those stairs as a kid? Just… pushed? Like, by a person you couldn't see?”
You took the blunt from him, your fingers lingering against his—yours were warm, his were like ice. You took a slow drag, the smoke curling around your face before you spoke in that low, rhythmic Appalachian drawl.
“I reckon ‘pushed’ is putting it polite, Steve,” you said, your voice carrying that thick, honeyed twang. “Somethin’ just decided I didn't belong on that top floor that evenin’. Caught me right ‘tween the shoulder blades. I felt the fingers, too—cold as creek water in January.”
You shrugged, the movement easy and fluid.
“Ain’t like I went lookin’ to pick a scrap with a haunt. It’s just how it is back home. Some places, the dirt’s got a memory, and it don’t much care for company. But hey,” you leaned in, a playful, lopsided grin tugging at your mouth, “I figured you liked me a lil’ bit rattled. Keeps things interestin’, don't it?”
Steve didn't laugh. He watched the way the woods at the edge of the property seemed to lean in, listening.
“It’s not ‘interesting,’ it’s insane,” Steve whispered, reaching under the blanket to find your hand. He gripped it like a lifeline. “You talk about this stuff like it’s just… chores. Like it’s normal. Out here? In Hawkins? Things are already weird enough without you adding ghosts to the mix. I don't want anything else coming for us.”
You squeezed back, your thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. “Honey, Hawkins ain’t special. It’s just got a leak in it. Back where I’m from, the whole damn bucket’s got no bottom. You just gotta know when to look, and more importantly, when to shut your eyes and keep 'em shut.”
A sudden, sharp crack rang out from the tree line—the sound of a heavy limb snapping under the weight of the frost. The dog’s head snapped up, a low, vibrating growl starting in its chest that made the porch boards hum.
Steve froze, his eyes wide, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Tell me that was just the snow," he breathed. "Please tell me that was just a branch.”
The wind picked up, swirling a fine mist of crystalline powder across the porch boards, making the wood grain vanish under a layer of white. Steve didn't move; he was still coiled tight, a spring ready to snap.
You knew Hawkins had a history—everyone did, though they played at being oblivious. People went missing here in the dead of winter, vanishing between the grocery store and their front porch without leaving a single footprint in the drifts. The police scanners would light up with calls about "prowlers" trying to jiggle door handles or scratching at window screens, but nothing was ever found. To you, it was a familiar song. Hawkins wasn't special; it was just stubborn. The town didn't want to acknowledge what was actually out there hunting, preferring the comfort of a lie over the cold teeth of the truth. And honestly? Maybe it was better that way. Some things got stronger the more you gave 'em a name.
You looked down at Goose. The brindled hound hadn't moved from your feet. His head was up, yeah, but his tail gave a lazy, thumping thud against the wood. If there was a threat—something truly foul—Goose wouldn't be sitting. He’d be a blur of teeth and muscle.
"You're frettin' over a whole lot of nothin', Steve," you said, your voice a low, comforting rumble that carried the thick, melodic weight of the mountains. You squeezed his hand, pulling his attention away from the treeline where the shadows were playing tricks on his eyes.
"Ain't nothin' out there but the wind havin' a row with an old oak tree. If the woods was fixin' to bite, Goose here would’ve told us long 'fore we heard a branch snap."
Steve swallowed hard, the bob of his Adam’s apple sharp in the dim light. "I don't know, man. The way the dog looked... and the way you talk about things 'mimicking' people... it just gets under my skin."
You let out a soft huff of a laugh, the smoke from the blunt trailing out of your nose. You reached up, brushing a stray flake of snow off his cheek with your thumb.
"I reckon I oughtta stop fillin' your head with them graveyard tales," you hummed, the twang in your voice softening. "I forget you ain't grown up with 'em like I did. Tell you what, let’s head on back inside. Get us out of this bite."
You stood up, the heavy wool blanket sliding down your legs, and nudged Goose with your boot to get him moving.
"We can go raid that VHS stash," you suggested, pulling the porch door open. The warmth from the house spilled out, smelling of cinnamon and old wood. "Find us a movie where the only thing dyin' is some poor fool in a slasher flick. Somethin' mindless. How’s that sound, sugar?"
Steve finally let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension leaving his shoulders just a fraction as he stood up to follow you. "Yeah. Something mindless. No ghosts, no woods, no... whatever the hell you call those things that hide in the snow."
"Deal," you grinned, ushering him into the kitchen. "I’ll get the popcorn goin', and you find us a tape that ain't gonna keep you twitchin' all night."
As you closed the door, you didn't look back at the woods. You didn't need to. You knew that as long as the hearth was warm and the dog was quiet, the things outside were just shadows—for now.
The hallway of your house felt a mile long in the dim light, the shadows stretching thin and spindly against the floral wallpaper. Goose trotted at Steve’s heels, his claws clicking a steady, rhythmic beat on the hardwood. He stayed close, his flank brushing against Steve’s calf every few steps. It was like the old hound could smell the sour tang of Steve’s anxiety and decided to play bodyguard—as much as a nine-year-old dog with a bit of a belly and a greying muzzle could, anyway.
When they reached the closet, Steve felt a chill that didn't have anything to do with the winter air outside. This was the "everything" closet. It smelled of cedar, gun oil, and old paper. As Steve pulled the door open, his eyes immediately drifted to the corner where a couple of metallic baseball bats leaned. They were dented, heavy things that looked like they’d seen more than a few games. Behind them, partially obscured by an old coat, was the gun cabinet.
Steve knew your dad didn't mess around with safety, and he knew you were a crack shot. You’d mentioned once, casual as anything, about how you’d been picking tin cans off fence posts since you were six. Steve found that terrifying and, if he were being honest, incredibly hot. There was something about the way you handled yourself—the competence of a man who knew how to survive—that made Steve feel like he could actually breathe easy when he was with you.
Goose gave a sharp, impatient nudge to Steve’s knee, letting out a soft wuff before sitting down and staring intently into the dark recesses of the closet. He looked like a feathered sentry, his eyes fixed on the boxes as if telling Steve to quit gawking at the hardware and pick a damn movie.
“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Steve muttered, dropping to his knees. He kept one hand buried in the thick fur of Goose’s neck for comfort, feeling the dog's solid warmth. With the other, he began to rummage through the crate of VHS tapes, his fingers brushing over handwritten labels and faded covers.
Back in the kitchen, the air was filled with the rhythmic clack-pop of kernels hitting the metal lid of the pot. You stood by the gas stove, your hand steady as you gave the pot a rhythmic shake over the blue flames. Despite your words to Steve, your eyes kept drifting.
Every few seconds, you’d glance toward the window above the sink. The glass was starting to fog from the heat of the stove, but you could still see the back porch. The two chairs you’d just vacated looked lonely in the dark, the snow already beginning to mound on the seats where you’d been sitting. It looked peaceful, but you knew better. You knew the silence of a Hawkins winter was usually just a held breath.
With a heavy sigh, you left the popcorn for a moment. You moved through the kitchen and dining room with practiced ease, performing the "lock-up" ritual your daddy had taught you back in the mountains. You didn't just check the locks; you felt the frames, ensuring the deadbolts sat deep and true. You pulled the heavy curtains shut, sealing out the black glass and whatever might be looking through it.
"Safe as a bug in a rug," you whispered to the empty room, the mountain lilt in your voice thick and comforting to your own ears.
You headed back to the stove just as the popping slowed, your ears tuning out the house's groans and focusing on the sound of Steve and Goose in the hallway. You wanted him to feel safe. You wanted this house to be a fortress for him, even if you knew that sometimes, the things that go bump in the night don't bother with doors.
"You find somethin' worth watchin' yet, Steve-o?" you called out, your voice echoing down the hall. "Popcorn's 'bout done, and I'm aimin' to get real cozy on that couch!”
Steve’s footsteps were a rhythmic thud-thud-thud coming back down the hallway, a sound that finally let the tension in your shoulders uncoil. Goose led the way, his tail swaying like a slow pendulum as he trotted past Steve and veered off into the living room. The old hound knew exactly where he belonged: the plush, overstuffed dog bed tucked right next to the stone hearth.
The fireplace was crackling a steady, orange rhythm, fueled by the oak logs your daddy had made Steve split before he and your mama headed out. Steve had complained about the blisters for an hour, but you’d just sat at that kitchen window, leaning against the frame and watching the way his muscles bunched under his shirt with every swing of the axe. You hadn’t complained one bit; watching a city boy like Steve Harrington learn the value of a sharp edge and a hard day’s work was a special kind of entertainment.
Steve stepped into the kitchen light, looking a little more like himself, and held up a VHS tape. The cardboard sleeve was frayed at the edges, the plastic well-worn from a hundred trips through the player.
You recognized that tape instantly. It was the movie that had continued your own obsession with the grit and grime of B-rated cinema: Sleepaway Camp. It had only been out a couple of years, but your dad had watched it so many times the tape was probably screaming for mercy.
You cocked an eyebrow at him, sliding the popcorn into two big ceramic bowls. You made sure to set a smaller one aside, tossing a few extra buttered kernels in there for Goose.
"Now, Steve," you chuckled, the honeyed gravel of your voice echoing off the kitchen tiles. "You sure you're up for that? After all that jumpin' and twitchin' out on the porch, you're gonna go and pick a slasher flick? You're a glutton for punishment, sugar, I swear."
Steve leaned against the doorframe, a lopsided, boyish grin finally breaking through his mask of worry. He flipped the tape over in his hand, then looked at you with a playful wink.
"Hey, it’s not so scary when I’ve got you here," he teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident register he usually reserved for when he was feeling particularly charming. "Besides, if I get too freaked out, you can just... protect me or whatever. Use some of that mountain magic."
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, picking up the bowls. "Mountain magic? Lord, Steve, it’s called a deadbolt and a heavy blanket. But if you’re lookin’ for an excuse to huddle up close, you just gotta ask. You ain't gotta go scarin' yourself half to death just for a cuddle."
You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his, and gestured toward the living room. "Go on then, get the fire-poker and stoke that flame up. I want it nice and bright in there if we're gonna be watchin' folks get chased through the woods. My heart can only take so much of you jumpin' every time the house groans."
As Steve headed for the fireplace, Goose let out a long, satisfied sigh from his bed, his chin resting on his paws. He looked perfectly content, but as you followed Steve into the room, your eyes caught the way the firelight danced on the heavy curtains. For a split second, the shadows cast by the flickering flames looked like long, thin fingers reaching across the fabric—but you just blinked, shook your head, and sat down on the sofa.
"Get that tape spinnin', honey," you hummed, settling into the cushions. "Let's see if we can't get your mind off the real world for a bit.”
The living room was bathed in the flickering, erratic glow of the television, the opening credits of the movie casting long, blue shadows that danced against the warm orange light of the dying fire. You were sunk deep into the cushions, the weight of the blankets and the heat from the hearth making the room feel like a safe little island in the middle of a frozen ocean. Goose was already out cold on his bed, his legs twitching occasionally as he chased dream-rabbits, his bowl licked clean of every buttery crumb.
But Steve wasn't interested in the screen. He was pressed against you, his body a solid, radiating line of heat. His hands were restless, moving with a sort of frantic, grounding energy, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to prove to himself that the world hadn't turned into a ghost story just yet.
"Stop your fussin'," you chuckled, the sound vibrating deep in your chest. Your Appalachian drawl was thick and lazy, slowed down by the warmth and the comfort of his weight. "You’re actin' like a starvin' man at a Sunday social. Let the movie get through the credits, at least."
Steve didn't listen. His hands, still a little cold from the porch, slid beneath the hem of your heavy hoodie, then ducked under your shirt, finding the bare skin of your waist. You let out a sharp, surprised huff, your breath hitching as his palms made contact.
"Pervert," you teased, though your hands were already moving to rest on his hips. "I thought you was all twisted up ‘bout them monsters in the snow. Now look at ya. Nothin' but trouble."
Steve didn't even look at the TV. He reached over, blindly setting the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table with a hollow clack before shifting his weight. In one smooth motion, he was hovering over you, pinning you into the soft cushions. He looked down at you, his hair a mess and his eyes dark with something that wasn't fear anymore.
"I can't help it," he murmured, his voice low and raspy, devoid of the bravado he usually wore like a shield. He leaned down, his breath coming in hot, shallow puffs against your lips. "The stories are scary, yeah. But you? You're real. You’re right here. And you're a hell of a lot more interesting.”
You looked up at him, the mountain lilt in your voice dropping to a soft, private murmur. "You got a silver tongue, Steve Harrington. Reckon that's how you got by so long without a lick of sense." You reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer. "Now, quit your yappin' and either watch the movie or do somethin' about that look in your eye."
Steve grinned, a genuine, crooked thing, and began to lean in—but just as his lips were about to brush yours, the fire in the hearth gave a violent, sudden pop, sending a spray of sparks against the iron screen.
In the silence that followed, the rhythmic clicking of Goose’s claws on the floor didn't start up. Instead, the dog had gone dead still in his sleep, his ears suddenly pricked toward the front door, though his eyes remained tightly shut.
The moment the fire popped, Steve went stiff as a board. His eyes didn't even look at you; they darted straight toward Goose, tracking the dog’s every twitch like his life depended on it. He stayed hovering over you, frozen in that half-crouch, his heart hammering so hard against your chest you could feel it through your ribs.
You watched Goose, too. The old hound’s ears were swivelled toward the front of the house, but his breathing stayed deep and rhythmic. He didn't growl, didn't huff, and sure as hell didn't scramble to his feet. To Goose, that sound was just the house settling into the frozen ground or the wind catchin' a loose shingle.
You let out a long, slow sigh, the sound warm and steady in the quiet room. Reaching up, you cupped Steve’s face, your thumbs smoothing over the sharp line of his jaw until he finally looked back down at you. You pulled him down the rest of the way, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—tasting the salt and the faint lingering sweetness of the beer.
"Hey now," you murmured, the mountain lilt in your voice thick and syrupy, meant to anchor him. "Look at me, sugar. You’re gonna turn yourself into a statue if you keep hair-triggerin' like that."
Steve blinked, his gaze softening just a fraction, though the tension was still humming under his skin. "I just... I thought I heard something. Not the fire. Something else."
"It’s just the wind havin' its way with the eaves," you reassured him, your hands sliding down to wrap around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of your hips. "I promise you, Goose would’ve let out a holler if there was a soul—dead or livin'—creepin' round this porch. That dog’s seen off coyotes bigger than you, and he’s stood his ground 'gainst things back home that’d make your hair turn white. If he’s sleepin', you oughtta be breathin'."
Steve let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders finally dropping as he gave in to the gravity of the moment. He slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his forehead resting heavy against your chest. "Yeah," he muttered into your skin, his voice muffled. "Yeah, you're right. I'm being a total head-case."
You hummed, a low vibration in your throat, and began peppering soft, lazy kisses against his temple and the curve of his cheek. Your hands traced the line of his spine, feeling the way the knots in his muscles started to give way.
"Talk to me, Steve," you questioned softly, your voice a gentle, rhythmic drawl. "Somethin' else got you spooked? It ain't just my stories, is it? You’ve been jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs all evenin'."
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your expression tender but searching. "You thinkin' 'bout what’s out there in them Hawkins woods? Or is there somethin' else weighin' on your mind that you ain't tellin' your country boy?”
Steve shifted his weight, moving with a slow, heavy deliberate-ness until he was tucked firmly against your side. He didn't say anything for a long minute, just pressed his ear flat against your chest, right over your heart. He listened to that steady, rhythmic thump-thump of your heartbeat, using it like a metronome to settle his own racing pulse. The blue flicker of the TV screen played across his face, making him look younger, paler, and more fragile than the "King Steve" persona he wore at the mall.
You ran your fingers through his hair, untangling the mess of it, waiting for him to find the words. You knew the weight of a secret when you felt it; it felt a lot like the heavy, ionized air before a mountain storm.
"It’s not just the stories," Steve finally whispered, his voice vibrating against your ribs. "It’s... it’s this place. Hawkins has this way of making you feel like the ground is going to open up and swallow you whole."
He took a jagged breath, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.
"A few years back," he started, "right before Nancy and I... before everything went to hell. This kid, Will Byers—little brother of Jonathan, the guy you see at the parties—he went missing. Just vanished on his way home from a D&D game. It was right around this time of year. Dead of winter. Cold enough to freeze the spit in your mouth."
You went still, your hand pausing in his hair. You’d heard the name, but the town talked about it like it was a tragic accident, a boy getting lost in the woods. But the way Steve was trembling told a different story.
"The police searched everywhere," Steve continued, his voice dropping to a haunted thrum. "Nothing. No footprints, no blood, no signs of a struggle. Just an empty bike in the middle of the road. But the part that messed everyone up? His mom, Joyce... she went half-mad. She told anyone who would listen that she could hear him. She’d be sitting in that house, middle of the night, and she’d hear Will’s voice calling for her from the treeline. Just outside the window, clear as a bell, crying out for his mom."
You felt a prickle of ice go down your spine that had nothing to do with the draft under the door. You’d heard that one before. Back home, you called 'em hollow-voices. Things that stole a name to lure you into the brush.
"She swore it was him," Steve breathed, looking up at you with wide, glassy eyes. "But he wasn't there. Every time she went to look, there was nothing but shadows and the wind. It’s like something... something took his voice and used it to try and get her to come outside."
You let out a low, breathy whistle, pulling him a little tighter against you. Your Appalachian lilt came out thick and protective, a low growl of a drawl.
"Now, you listen to me, Steve," you said, your voice firm. "I know that sound. Back home, we don't go lookin' when a dead man calls our name, and we sure as hell don't open the door for a voice that sounds too sweet to be true. If that boy’s mom heard him in the dark, and he wasn't there to be found... well, that’s a hungry kind of haunt. It’s a mimic. A skin-stealer."
You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his, your eyes locking onto his.
"But you gotta remember somethin', sugar. Them things? They hunt the lonesome. They hunt the folks who ain't got a light to hold onto. You ain't lonesome. You got me, you got a hearth full of oak, and you got a dog that knows the difference between a boy and a beast. Hawkins might have a long memory for misery, but it ain't gonna take you. Not while I’m drawin' breath."
Steve searched your face, looking for a lie, but he only found the hard, mountain-born certainty in your gaze. He let out a long sigh, his body finally melting into yours.
"I believe you," he whispered. "I just... God, I hate the winter."
"I know, honey," you hummed, kissing the tip of his nose. "I know. But the sun’s gotta come up eventually. It always does."
As you spoke, Goose’s eyes suddenly snapped open. He didn't move his head, but his pupils tracked something moving slowly across the ceiling directly above the couch.
The lights gave a sickly, rhythmic hum, yellowing and dimming until the room was plunged into near-darkness before snapping back to life with a violent pop. The storm was finally putting its weight against the power lines outside. You let out a frustrated huff, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet of the house.
"Lord have mercy, this line is hangin' by a thread," you grumbled, the mountain lilt in your voice thick with annoyance. You gave Steve a gentle nudge, motioning for him to shift his weight so you could untangle yourself from the blankets. "Gotta get up, sugar. I reckon we better find the lanterns and them heavy-duty flashlights 'fore we're left huddlin' in the dark like a pair of lost calves."
Steve didn't hesitate; he was on his feet before you even cleared the cushions. He followed so close behind you that his chest was practically brushing your back, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt. Goose was right there too, but his usual lazy trot had been replaced by a stiff-legged, weary gait. He wasn't sniffing the air or wagging his tail; he was just... waiting.
You led them past the VHS closet and deeper into the back of the house, where the air grew noticeably sharper. The mudroom was a small, cramped space that smelled of damp wool, cedar, and the metallic tang of the coming freeze. You reached up to a high shelf, fingers brushing over dusty crates until you clicked your nails against the cold casing of two heavy Maglites.
While you handed one to Steve, you felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the small, square window set into the back door. It was the only barrier between you and the woods. You reached out, your fingers trembling just a hair as you pinched the corner of the floral curtain and peeled it back an inch.
The world outside was a study in white and charcoal. The storm had reached a fever pitch of silence—the kind of stillness they warn you about back in the hollows. It was the "quiet-before," a hollowed-out peace that meant something was watching and waiting for the right moment to move. There wasn't a branch swaying, wasn't a flake of snow drifting sideways. Everything was frozen in a snapshot of pure, biting malice.
A lump formed in your throat, thick as clay. Your gut was screaming at you to drop the curtain and bolt the door, but you forced your face to stay level. You couldn't let Steve see the shadow of a doubt on you. Not now.
Beside your leg, Goose let out a sound you’d only heard once before—a low, wet vibration of his throat as he tilted his head, briefly baring his yellowed teeth at the door. He didn't bark. He didn't want whatever was out there to know he’d spotted it. After a second, he turned on a dime and trotted back toward the hallway, his nails clicking rapidly as if he were leading a retreat.
Steve’s hand clamped onto yours, his grip firm and desperate. His knuckles were white in the dim light of the mudroom. He didn't even look out the window; he just looked at you, his head jerking toward the safety of the living room.
"We got the lights," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Let's go. Back to the fire. Right now, okay?"
You nodded, letting the curtain fall back into place. "Yeah," you hummed, trying to keep the honey in your voice from curdling. "Yeah, let’s get on back. Ain't nothin' out there but the frost bitin' its own tail.”
The fire had burned down to a deep, pulsing crimson, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room that seemed to shiver every time the wind battered the siding. It was probably an hour later, the movie long since finished and replaced by the soft, rhythmic hiss of the VCR’s static. You and Steve were tangled together on the cushions, finishing off the blunt from earlier, the sweet, heavy smoke hanging in the air like a veil.
Steve was finally starting to go soft in your arms, his breathing leveling out, when the shift happened.
Goose didn't just wake up; he bolted upright. The old dog didn't make a sound, but the way he stood—shoulders bunched, hackles raised in a jagged line down his spine—sent a jolt of pure electricity through your veins. He wasn't looking at the fireplace or the hallway. He was staring, with a terrifying, singular intensity, at the front door.
You froze, your hand dropping to Steve’s knee. You gripped him hard, your fingers digging into his denim. The look on your face—the raw, ancestral caution that had been passed down through generations of mountain folk—gave it all away. You didn't even have to say a word for Steve to know that the "stories" had just walked onto the porch.
Steve followed your gaze, his eyes wide and glossy with a fear that made him look breathless. The house felt like it was shrinking, the air thinning out until all you could hear was the frantic thud-thud-thud of your own heart.
Then, a voice drifted through the heavy oak of the door.
"Hey... man? You guys in there? It's freezing... open up."
It was Eddie. It sounded exactly like him—the same frantic energy, the same high-pitched edge—but it was wrong. It was too smooth, like a recording played at the wrong speed, hitting notes that a human throat shouldn't be able to reach. It lacked the grit, the soul, the heat of the boy you knew.
"Steve? It's Munson. Trailer lost heat... the pipes burst and I... I can't feel my hands, man. Just let me in. Please."
The chill that swept up your spine was colder than the Indiana winter outside. Your stomach did a slow, sick flip. Eddie’s trailer was miles away, on the other side of town, and no one walked that far in a record-breaking blizzard without freezing solid halfway there.
Steve’s mouth opened, his chest heaving as he prepared to call out, to help his friend, but you were faster. You pressed a finger firmly against your lips, locking eyes with him. You shook your head slowly, your expression as hard as flint.
Don't you dare, your eyes pleaded. Don't give it a name. Don't give it a home.
Goose moved then, stepping between the couch and the door. He didn't bark—barking was for intruders you could fight. Instead, he let out a low, guttural snarl that vibrated through the floorboards, his lips pulled back to show every single tooth. He knew. The dog knew that whatever was standing on the other side of that wood wasn't wearing Eddie Munson’s skin for any good reason.
"Come on, guys... I know you're awake," the voice called again, but this time, the "Eddie" mask slipped. The pitch dropped an octave mid-sentence, turning into a wet, distorted rasp that sounded like gravel grinding against bone. "I'm so cold. Just... let... me... in."
Steve’s hand found yours under the blanket, and he was shaking so hard his teeth were practically chattering. He looked at the door, then back at you, the realization dawning on him that your stories weren't warnings—they were the truth.
"Don't make a sound, sugar," you breathed, the mountain lilt coming out in a ghost of a whisper, barely audible over the wind. "That ain't Eddie. That ain't even a man.”
The silence that followed the distorted rasp of "Eddie’s" voice was heavier than the snow piling up against the siding. Steve’s breathing was coming in shallow, jagged hitches, his eyes fixed on the door as if he expected the wood to melt away. He looked like he was vibrating, a wire pulled too tight, and you knew if he snapped, he’d scream.
You didn't let go of his hand. You leaned in, your shoulder pressed hard against his, trying to lend him some of that mountain iron.
Then, the air in the room seemed to curdling.
"Steve? Honey? Why won't you let me in? It’s gettin' real dark out here, sugar."
Steve’s head whipped toward the door, his jaw dropping. The voice coming from the porch wasn't Eddie anymore. It was yours. It was the exact cadence of your Appalachian lilt—the honeyed gravel, the way you drifted over your 'g's—but it was hollowed out, like a beautiful song being played through a broken radio.
"I'm just standin' here in the bite, Steve. Don't you love me no more?" the thing through the door pleaded. "My hands are so cold. Just open up a crack. Let me feel the fire."
"It's... it's you," Steve choked out, his voice a mere thread of sound. He looked at you, then back at the door, the sheer impossibility of it fracturing his mind. "It sounds just like you."
"No it don't," you hissed, your voice a sharp, jagged contrast to the melodic lie on the porch. "Listen to the edges of it, Steve. It’s too perfect. Ain't no soul in that sound. Keep your eyes on me and keep your mouth shut tight, you hear?"
As if sensing the psychological hook hadn't sunk deep enough, the thing gave up on the trickery. The voice died out, replaced by a sound that made Goose’s snarl turn into a high, terrified whine.
Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.
The rhythmic skritch-skritch of nails against the oak door stopped, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like the house had been plunged underwater. Steve was paralyzed, his face ghostly pale in the dying firelight. He looked like he was vibrating, his eyes fixed on the door as if he expected the wood to simply dissolve.
Then, the thing moved.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was a delicate sound, almost polite, coming from the windowpane just to the left of the door. You could see the heavy floral curtain shift as something on the other side pressed a single, long finger against the glass. The frost on the pane seemed to grow instantly, crystalline patterns blooming outward from wherever that thing was touching.
You didn't let yourself shake. You couldn't afford to. You reached out and caught Steve’s chin, forcing him to look away from the window and into your eyes. You didn't speak—you just gave a sharp, micro-nod toward the hallway.
You stood up, your movements slow and fluid, like a hunter stalking through brush. You didn't want to startle it; you didn't want to give it a reason to stop pretending it was a guest. You gestured for Steve to stay low, and he followed, crawling off the couch with his heart practically audible in the quiet room. Goose was right there at your heels, his head low, his lips curled back just enough to show the glint of his teeth.
You led them down the long, dark hallway, away from the flickering blue light of the TV. Every floorboard that groaned felt like a gunshot in the silence. You reached the mudroom, the air here smelling of cold iron and old wood.
You didn't bother with the lights. You knew the combination of the gun safe by touch, your fingers moving with a muscle memory born of a thousand Sunday afternoons at the range with your daddy. Left, right, left. The heavy silver handle gave a soft, metallic thunk as the internal bolts retracted.
You swung the heavy door open. Inside, the steel barrels of the rifles and shotguns gleamed like teeth in the dark.
"Steve," you whispered, the mountain lilt in your voice a low, jagged rasp. "Grab that box of shells on the bottom shelf. The green ones. Double-aught buck."
Steve’s hands were shaking so bad the cardboard box rattled as he grabbed it. He looked at you, his eyes wide and searching. "You're really gonna shoot it? What if... what if it's just some guy?"
You reached in and pulled out the 12-gauge pump-action, the weight of it familiar and grounding in your palms. You racked the slide—a sharp, mechanical clack-clack that sounded like an ultimatum.
"Sugar, a man don't mimic voices and tap on windows in a blizzard," you said, your voice hardening into something old and flinty. "Whatever's on that porch, it ain't 'some guy.' And it sure as hell didn't come here for a cup of sugar."
Just as you finished the sentence, a sound echoed from the front of the house. It wasn't a tap anymore. It was a slow, agonizing creak—the sound of the front door's heavy hinges being strained, as if something was leaning its entire, unnatural weight against the wood, testing the strength of the deadbolt you’d checked only an hour before.
Goose let out a sound then—not a bark, but a high, thin whistle of pure dread.
The heavy silence that followed the clack-clack of the shotgun was worse than the scratching. It was a thick, suffocating quiet that felt like the house had been buried under ten feet of dirt. You stood there in the dark of the mudroom, the weight of the 12-gauge solid in your hands, but your gut was telling you that lead might not be enough.
You knew how these things worked—the old stories didn't end with a clean kill. They ended with endurance, or they ended with blood.
"Everything’s gone quiet," Steve breathed, his voice barely a thrum of air against your ear. He was pressed against your shoulder, his fingers white-knuckled around the box of shells. "Maybe it left? Maybe it realized it couldn't get in?"
You shook your head, the movement slow and grim. You could feel the mountain-chill in your marrow. "Naw, sugar. It ain't gone. It’s just studyin' us. It’s waitin' for us to think we’re safe so we'll go and do somethin' foolish like open a window to peek out. It’s got all the time in the world, and we're just sittin' here like berries in a bucket."
You looked at the shadows in the hallway. You couldn't wait until dawn; the sun wouldn't be up for another six hours, and the way the wind was howling, the power was gonna stay dead and the house would be an icebox by three in the morning.
"Listen to me," you whispered, the Appalachian lilt in your voice dropping to a low, urgent vibration. "Daddy keeps one of them new-fangled Motorola Dynas in the bedside drawer. One of them 'brick' phones. It don't need the house lines to work. If we can get to their bedroom, maybe we can get a signal out to the sheriff. Even in this mess, if Hopper hears there’s a prowler at our place, he’ll come tearin' through the drifts."
Steve swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the dark mouth of the hallway. To get to your parents' room, you had to pass the living room—the room with all the windows. The room where the tapping had been.
"You want to go back out there?" Steve asked, his voice cracking.
"We ain't got much of a choice, Steve-o. We stay here, we're cornered. At least in the bedroom, there's only one door and a hell of a lot of wall between us and the bite." You reached out, squeezing his hand once, hard. "Stay behind me. Keep your eyes on the shadows, and if Goose so much as whimpers, you get ready to run. You hear me?"
Steve nodded, his jaw set in a hard, terrified line. He was trying to be the hero he thought you needed, but you could feel the tremor in his grip.
You stepped out into the hall, the shotgun leveled at chest height. Goose led the way, his belly low to the floorboards, his nose twitching with every inch. The air was getting colder by the second, and your breath was starting to plume in the dark.
As you crept past the opening to the living room, you didn't look at the windows. You didn't want to see what was pressed against the glass. But as you passed, the voice came again—not from the porch this time, but seemingly from the very air around you.
"It’s so dark in here," the mimic whispered, using Steve’s own voice this time. It was a perfect, sickening carbon copy of his terrified tone. "I can't see you... honey... where'd you go?"
Steve let out a soft, choked-off sob, and you felt him stumble. You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging in. "That ain't you, Steve! Don't you listen to it! Keep movin'!"
You reached the bedroom door and shoved it open, the hinges screaming. You scrambled for the nightstand, your hands frantic as you yanked the drawer open. There it was—the heavy, black plastic of the Motorola. You pulled it out, the weight of it feeling like a holy relic.
You flipped it on, the tiny red LED light glowing like a desperate eye in the dark.
"Come on," you hissed, the mountain drawl thick with a prayer. "Give me a signal. Just one damn bar..."
Outside the bedroom window, a slow, rhythmic scratching started against the brick. Skritch. Skritch. Skritch. It wasn't at the front door anymore. It had followed you.
You could feel the weight of the thing outside—it wasn't just a presence; it was a pressure, pushing against the very walls of the house. You turned to Steve, the red light of the Motorola casting a ghoulish glow over his tear-streaked face.
"Listen to me, and listen good," you whispered, your Appalachian lilt sharpening into something jagged and commanding. You took the heavy brick of a phone and pressed it into his shaking palms, then jerked your chin toward the small door of the en-suite bathroom. "That room there—it ain't got a lick of glass in it. No windows for it to peek through. The door’s solid oak and it’s got a deadbolt. You get in there, and you lock it behind you."
Steve’s head was shaking before you even finished. "No. No, I'm not leaving you out here in the dark, I'm not—"
"Steve Harrington, you hush up!" you hissed, stepping into his space. "You get ahold of the station. You tell Hopper exactly where we are. I’m gonna stand right here in front of this door with the 12-gauge, and I’m gonna make sure nothin' crosses that threshold. You and Goose are gettin' in that room."
Steve opened his mouth to protest again, his fingers white-knuckled around the phone, but the air was sliced open by a sound from the hallway.
"Help! Please, Steve! It’s got me! It’s bitin' me, Steve, it hurts so bad!"
The voice was yours. It was a perfect, agonizing scream, dripping with the exact cadence of your pain, sounding like you were being dragged down the hallway toward the kitchen. It was so visceral, so real, that Steve let out a strangled, broken sob, his free hand flying out to grip the hem of your hoodie. He looked toward the bedroom door, his instinct to protect you warring with the fact that you were standing right in front of him.
"That ain't me, sugar," you said, your voice low and steady, though your heart was hammering a rhythm of pure terror. "Look at me. I'm right here. That thing is just tryin' to get you to open the door and run into the dark. Don't you give it what it wants."
Steve’s eyes were glossy, darting between you and the door as your mimicked screams continued, turning into a wet, choking sound that made your own stomach turn. He looked like he was about to collapse under the weight of the horror.
You didn't waste another second. You reached out, grabbing his face with your free hand and pulling him into a hard, desperate kiss. It tasted like salt and woodsmoke, a brief, fierce anchor in the middle of a nightmare. It was a promise and a goodbye all at once.
Before he could respond, you shoved him backward toward the bathroom door. "Go! Get the law on the line!"
You whistled low, a sharp command that sent Goose scrambling into the bathroom at Steve’s heels. Steve reached out for you one last time, his fingers brushing your sleeve, but you stepped back and pointed at the lock.
"Lock it!" you commanded, the mountain-grit in your voice brook no argument.
The door slammed shut, and a second later, the heavy clack of the deadbolt echoed in the room. You stood alone in the dark bedroom, the 12-gauge leveled at the hallway door. The house went dead silent again. The screaming mimicry stopped instantly.
Then, from the other side of the bedroom door, came a slow, soft thud. Something heavy had just leaned against the wood.
"He can't hear you now," your own voice whispered through the door, but this time it was slow, a deep, honey-thick drawl that sounded like it was savoring every word. "Now it's just you and me, country boy. Let's see how much heat you got left in them bones.”
Inside the cramped, windowless sanctuary of the bathroom, the air was thick with the scent of pine-scented soap and the sharp, metallic tang of Steve’s terror. He sat on the edge of the porcelain tub, the Motorola brick clutched in both hands like a shield. His thumb hovered over the heavy keys, trembling so violently he missed the digits twice before finally punching in the number for the station.
The line hissed with the roar of the storm—a chaotic static that sounded like a thousand voices whispering at once. Then, a click.
"Hawkins Station, this is Officer Callahan, what's your—"
"Callahan? It’s Steve! Steve Harrington!" Steve’s voice broke, the words spilling out in a frantic, high-pitched jumble. "You gotta get out here! There’s something at the house—it’s outside, no, it’s inside, I don't know! It sounds like him, it sounds like everyone, and it’s trying to get in. It’s at the door, Callahan, please—"
"Steve? Slow down, kid. You sound like you’ve been hitting the punch. Is this a prank? Because the roads are—"
"It’s not a prank!" Steve screamed into the receiver, his eyes fixed on the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door. He could hear the heavy, wet thuds coming from the bedroom—the sound of you moving, or maybe the sound of the thing moving you. "It mimicked his voice! It’s tapping on the glass! We have a gun, but I don't think—I don't think it cares! Just get Hopper, get anyone, please, before it—"
He was spiraling, his breath coming in short, panicked gulps that threatened to choke him. The mask hadn't just cracked; it had disintegrated, leaving behind a boy who was utterly convinced he was about to die in the dark.
Then, he felt a heavy, warm weight against his chest.
Goose, who had been pacing the small tiles of the bathroom floor, stopped. The old hound looked up at Steve with eyes that seemed far too intelligent for a dog. He stepped forward, his paws clicking softly, and wedged his large, greying head firmly under Steve’s chin. He pushed upward, a solid, grounding force that forced Steve to tilt his head back.
The dog let out a low, soft huff—not a growl, but a steadying breath. The heat from the hound’s fur and the rhythmic thumping of his tail against the side of the tub acted like a tether.
Steve’s rambling died in his throat. He took a shaky breath, burying one hand in the thick scruff of Goose’s neck. The dog’s presence was a reminder of what you’d said: If he’s sleepin', you oughtta be breathin'. Goose wasn't panicking. Goose was on guard.
"Callahan," Steve said, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, crystalline clarity that he hadn't possessed seconds ago. "Listen to me. I am at the old farmhouse on the edge of the northern woods—the one with the red barn. We are being hunted by an intruder who is mimicking our voices to lure us out. My boyfriend is in the bedroom with a 12-gauge, and I am barricaded in the bathroom. The power is out and the perimeter is breached. If you don't send someone now, there isn't going to be anyone left to find."
The silence on the other end of the line was brief before Callahan’s voice came back, devoid of its previous mocking tone. "Stay put, Harrington. I’m patching through to Hopper’s radio now. Don't open that door for anyone. You hear me? No one."
Steve clicked the phone off, the silence of the bathroom returning, save for the muffled, terrifying sound of your voice from the other side of the wall, still begging for him to come out. He squeezed Goose tighter, his ear pressed against the wood of the door, waiting for the sound of a shotgun blast or a siren—whichever came first.
You stood in the center of the rug, the stock of the 12-gauge tucked tight against your shoulder, your finger resting light but ready against the trigger guard. You knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that this was the kind of nightmare your granddaddy used to whisper about over mason jars of shine. The thing had moved with a speed that defied every law of the holler; one second it was scratching at the brick outside, and the next, it was breathing on the other side of the oak door.
It had stopped screaming for help. Now, it was doing something much worse.
"Oh, Steve... right there... please..."
The voice that slid through the cracks in the door was yours—but it was a version of you that should have stayed behind closed doors. It was the low, breathless moan you’d made three months ago, the first time you’d let Steve see every inch of you. It was the sound of sheets rustling and hearts thumping in a rhythm of new, terrifying love.
Then, it shifted. The pitch dropped, smoothing out into Steve’s suburban rasp.
"I've got you... I'm not letting go... you're so beautiful, you know that?"
The thing was reciting the very words Steve had whispered into the crook of your neck that night, things he’d said when he thought the world was just the two of you and a set of tangled blankets. It was stripping your private moments bare, chewing on the memories and spitting them back at you like poisoned candy. It was trying to shame you, to shock you, to make your hands shake until you dropped the iron.
"You're a foul, hollow thing," you rasped, the Appalachian lilt in your voice coming out like a low growl of thunder. "You think you're clever, playin' back them tapes? You ain't nothin' but a shadow with a hungry gut."
But as you watched the door handle, you noticed something. The brass knob gave a slow, agonizing creak as it turned—just a fraction—before snapping back. Then it jiggled, frantic and clumsy, like a child trying to solve a puzzle they couldn't quite see.
A cold, sharp realization pierced through your fear. Back home, the old folks said the 'hollow-voices' needed an invitation, or at the very least, a clear path. This house was old; the wood was seasoned in salt and mountain prayers, and your daddy had blessed the thresholds with iron and cedar every spring since you moved in.
The mimic was taunting you because it couldn't just bust through. It was trying to get you to turn the lock yourself, to break the seal of the room with your own hand. It was a predator behind a cage of your own making, and it was getting desperate.
"Sugar? Why you bein' so mean?" the thing whispered, using your voice again, but this time it was distorted, the syllables stretching out like taffy. "Don't you want to... see me? Don't you want to see what I've done with your face?"
The scratching started again, but it was lower down now, right at the base of the door, accompanied by a wet, snuffling sound.
"You keep talkin', you shapeless bastard," you spat, taking a half-step forward, the bead of the shotgun sight fixed right on the center of the wood. "I got four rounds of buckshot waitin' to see if your insides look as ugly as your heart. You want in? You try and take it. But I reckon you’re just a coward in a stolen coat."
From the bathroom, you heard a faint, muffled sound—Steve’s voice, but the real one. He was still on the phone. He was still alive. That was all the fuel you needed.
The minutes had stretched into a thin, screaming wire. The air in the bedroom was foul, thick with the copper tang of your own blood and the stagnant, swampy stench of the thing on the other side of the wood. When the door finally gave, it didn't just open—it shattered under the weight of a thousand stolen voices.
The thing that stepped through the jagged remains of the frame was a sinewy, grey nightmare. It was tall and unnervingly thin, its skin looking like wet rawhide pulled taut over a skeleton of rusted iron. It didn't have a face; it had a shifting, roiling mass of tissue that tried to form eyes and a mouth, only to melt away into a featureless mask of muscle.
"Go back to the hell you crawled out of!" you screamed, though your voice felt thin and fragile.
The 12-gauge roared, the kickback jarring your shoulder, but the creature didn't even flinch. It just... absorbed it. The lead tore through its chest, spraying black, oily sludge across your mama’s quilt, but the holes began to knit back together instantly with a wet, slurping sound.
Before you could pump the slide, it was on you. It moved like a shadow, a blur of grey static that closed the distance in a heartbeat. A hot, white-hot agony erupted in your forearm as three obsidian talons sank deep, carving three jagged trenches from your wrist to your elbow. You let out a strangled cry, the shotgun nearly slipping from your slick, red fingers.
"Is that... all you... got, sugar?" it rasped. It wasn't just your voice; it was the exact, honeyed drawl you used when you were tired, distorted and hollowed out.
You swung the barrel blindly, trying to keep the distance, but the thing was relentless. It wasn't fighting like a man; it was hunting like a beast. It lashed out again, a claw catching you across the ribs. You felt the sickening pop of bone and a searing heat that told you the skin had been flayed open. You stumbled back, your breath coming in ragged, wet hitches, your vision beginning to spark and dim at the edges.
The room felt like it was spinning. You were losing too much blood, the warmth soaking into your hoodie and making it heavy. You tried to shove another shell into the chamber, but your hands were shaking so violently you dropped it. The small brass casing rolled across the floorboards, a mocking sound in the dark.
The mimic let out a layered, bubbling laugh—a sound made of your dad’s chuckle and your own soft giggle. It lunged again, pinning you against the bedpost. Its weight was cold, like a slab of mountain ice. You jammed the butt of the shotgun into what should have been its throat, but it just leaned into the blow, its long, spindly fingers wrapping around your neck. The talons began to prick the skin of your throat, and you could smell the rot on its breath—a smell like a cellar that hadn't been opened in a hundred years.
This is it, you thought, a dull, distant sense of peace settling over the terror. I’m gonna die in the dirt of Hawkins, and it’s gonna wear my skin to breakfast.
The creature’s face shifted one last time, settling into a perfect, glassy-eyed mirror of your own face, its mouth opening wide to reveal rows of needle-teeth. You closed your eyes, bracing for the end.
Then, the world exploded.
A blur of brindled fur launched itself through the dark, followed by a roar of pure, unadulterated human rage. Goose hit the creature’s flank like a cannonball, his jaws locking onto the grey, rubbery thigh. A split second later, the heavy CRACK of an aluminum bat hitting bone echoed through the room.
The pressure on your throat vanished. You slumped to the floor, clutching your shredded ribs, your eyes flickering open just enough to see Steve. He was a silhouette of fury, swinging that old metallic bat with everything he had. He looked like a god of the mountains, primal and protective, standing over you as the mimic let out a distorted, metallic shriek.
As Steve rained blows down on the thing’s back, a new sound began to drown out the creature’s screams.
Far off, then rapidly closer, the wail of sirens cut through the Indiana blizzard. Blue and red light began to pulse against the frozen windowpane, strobing over the blood-spattered walls. The creature scrambled back toward the shadows of the corner, hissing, as the lights of the law finally hit the driveway.
Steve dropped to his knees beside you, the bat still gripped in one hand, his other hand hovering over your bloody chest as he sobbed your name. You couldn't speak, but you felt his warmth, real and solid, as the sirens filled the house, finally chasing the hollow voices away.
The world had narrowed down to the sound of Steve’s frantic, broken breathing and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the sirens outside. Then, the front door didn't just open—it was kicked in with the weight of a dozen men. You heard the heavy, purposeful thud of boots on the hardwood and the sharp, authoritative bark of a voice that could only belong to Jim Hopper.
“Police! Nobody move!”
A few sharp, deafening cracks rang out from the hallway—the sound of service revolvers punching holes into the dark. The creature let out one last, haunting shriek—a sound that was your own voice screaming in agony—before you heard a heavy window pane shatter. It was gone, fleeing back into the white death of the blizzard.
Steve’s grip on you tightened, his tears hot as they fell onto your forehead. You felt Goose’s heavy, warm flank press against your legs, his low whine vibrating in your bones. You tried to reach up, to tell Steve you were still there, but your arm felt like it was made of lead and fire. The blue and red lights dancing on the ceiling began to blur, spinning faster and faster until the colors bled into a deep, silent black.
When the world finally came back, it didn't come back with a scream. It came back with the smell of bleach and the steady, artificial beep... beep... beep... of a heart monitor.
The air was sterile and dry, catching in the back of your throat. You tried to blink, but your eyelids felt like they’d been glued shut with sleep. Your body felt heavy, wrapped tight in bandages that smelled of antiseptic, and there was a dull, throbbing ache in your ribs that reminded you of the thing’s strength.
As your vision slowly cleared, the first thing you felt was a familiar, comforting weight pressing down on your shins. You shifted your legs just a fraction and heard a soft, huffy sigh. You looked down, your eyes finally focusing, and saw a patch of brindled fur. Goose was curled up right at the foot of your bed, his chin resting on your ankles. Only your daddy could have bullied a hospital staff into letting a nine-year-old hound stay in a surgical ward.
"Looky there... he’s wakin' up," a voice whispered.
It was a soft, melodic drawl—the real one. You turned your head slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in your shoulder.
Sitting in the plastic chair by the bed was your mama. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired, but the second she saw your eyes open, a tremulous smile broke across her face. She reached out, her hand warm and calloused, and tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
"Hey there, sugar," she murmured, her mountain lilt thick with relief. "You gave us a scare that'd turn a saint’s hair white. But you're alright. You’re safe."
Beside her stood your daddy, his shoulders slumped with a weariness you’d never seen before. He didn't say much—he never did—but he placed a heavy hand on your blanketed shin, right next to Goose, and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze. His eyes told you everything; he’d seen the state of the bedroom, and he knew exactly what kind of fight you’d put up.
You tried to speak, your voice coming out as a dry, jagged rasp. "Steve... where's... Steve?"
Your mama’s smile widened, and she gestured toward the other side of the bed. You turned your head, and there he was. Steve was slumped in a chair, fast asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the guardrail of your bed. He still had a smudge of dried blood on his cheek, and his knuckles were bruised and swollen from the weight of the bat, but he was breathing. He was whole.
He looked exhausted, his brow furrowed even in sleep, as if he were still guarding you. You realized then that he hadn't left your side since the sirens had found you.
"He wouldn't let 'em take you into the ambulance 'til he was sittin' right next to ya," your daddy grunted, his voice low and proud. "Kid’s got a lot of heart, even for a city boy."
You let out a long, shaky breath, the sterile scent of the hospital finally feeling less like a cage and more like a sanctuary. You reached out with your good hand, your fingers just barely brushing the sleeve of Steve’s hoodie.
You were home. The hollow voices were gone, and for the first time in a long time, the winter didn't feel so cold.
The sun was high and bright, reflecting off the melting slush of a late winter thaw, but it didn't feel warm. Not here. The farmhouse stood behind you like a hollowed-out skull, its windows boarded up with plywood that looked like bandages over old wounds. The moving truck was idling in the driveway, packed to the brim with the life you were leaving behind—the heavy oak furniture, your mama’s quilts, and the gun safe that had saved your lives.
Your daddy was already in the truck, and your mama was double-checking the locks on the back door, but you and Steve were still standing in the middle of the master bedroom. The space felt smaller now, stripped of its rugs and curtains, the floorboards showing the dark, scrubbed-out stains where your blood had pooled that night.
Goose was a constant shadow at your feet, his tail tucked low, his nose twitching toward the hallway. He wanted out. He knew this place didn't belong to your family anymore.
Steve’s hand was a vice around yours, his thumb tracing the jagged, raised scars that now patterned your forearm—a permanent map of the night the voices changed. He looked around the room, his eyes lingering on the splintered doorframe that had been hastily repaired.
"You think..." Steve started, his voice barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of the quiet. He cleared his throat and tried again, looking at you with eyes that still seemed to see shadows in every corner. "You think it’ll come back? Now that we’re leaving? Will it follow the scent or... or find us in town?"
You let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound echoing in the empty room. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the solid, grounding heat of him. Your Appalachian lilt was soft, weary, and honest.
"Naw, sugar," you murmured, squeezing his hand. "Them things... they're like the moss on the north side of a tree. They like to stay where the shadows are deep and the memories are old. That thing wasn't huntin' us so much as it was huntin' the lonesome. It wanted this house because this house is a long way from anyone who could hear a scream."
You looked at the broken window, now sealed tight with wood. "As long as we keep ourselves close to the light, and as long as we promise each other to stay far away from places that feel this hollow... we’re gonna be just fine. It’s got no power over a home that’s filled with folks who look out for one another."
Steve turned to face you fully, pulling your hand up to his chest so you could feel the steady, frantic-but-strong beat of his heart. The fear in his eyes didn't vanish, but it softened into something else—a fierce, protective devotion.
"I’m never letting you be lonesome again," he whispered, his voice thick with a promise that felt as old as the hills you came from. "I don't care if I have to sleep on your floor every night for the rest of my life. Nothing is getting near you."
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like a fresh start—no salt, no woodsmoke, just the sweetness of being alive. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he closed his eyes.
"I love you," he breathed, the words private and sacred. "So much."
"I love you too, Steve Harrington," you whispered back, a ghost of a smile finally touching your lips. "Now come on. Let’s get that dog to a yard that ain't got no ghosts in the bushes."
You turned together and walked out of the room, leaving the silence of the farmhouse behind. As you climbed into Steve’s car and pulled out of the driveway, you didn't look back at the treeline. You just watched the road ahead, where the lights of Hawkins were waiting to tuck you back into the world of the living.
I would very much rather see “bad” (ie not super convincing) photoshopped fan edits than ai generated, perfectly-convincing computerized shit. Fandom is for FANS.
jacobvanloon
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
2087
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
