Can't Wait To See What's Next! Loving Your Writing

Can't wait to see what's next! Loving your writing <3<3

BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART TWO) | PART ONE

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Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.

Contents: graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of injuries, angst, fluff, happy ending

A/N: i hope you like this chapter! Billy and his love starvation seem like they’d latch onto the first real love they get, and I tried to establish that here. Please let me know what you think! 💞

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

You don’t expect to see Billy again for a while. Even though he’d thanked you, sincerely, awestruck, you hadn’t suffered through the tense car ride for nothing. He clearly didn’t want to talk to you about it, and he assumes you’ll pry.

You don’t really blame him, either. Because you want to pry. You want to beg for information, plead with him to give you a rundown of what hurts and where, so that you can fix it all. And then you want to pry about any particular allergies of his father’s, so that you can serve him shellfish pasta and make his death look like an accident.

It turns out, though, that you see him the very next day.

You don’t have your own car, nor can you even drive. You’re scared of it, of the thought of that much mechanical power granted to a simple human being, and you’d much rather walk or take the bus anyways. Your bike has a flat tire, or you’d be using it to ride back from the store.

All you’d picked up was a bottle of coke and a pack of gum - juicy fruit. The coke sweats a stain through the pocket of your jeans, but it’s secure, and not grating callouses against your fingertips with its puckered cap. All you hear is the thundering roar of cars speeding down the street next to you, your feet slamming against the pavement as you power walk home.

You’re only ten minutes out, in the final stretch, when you hear a particularly loud engine. It’s gotta be from a muscle car, and you wait for it to pass so that you can look without being obvious. But it doesn’t pass, the engine revs and then chugs once more, slowing to a stop right beside you.

You’re not in the practice of looking over at cars that stop next to you on the road, something eerie about the situation. But when you hear a newly-familiar voice say your name, you stop in your tracks.

“Y/N,” Billy calls, leaning over the empty passenger’s seat to brace his hand on the open window, “Hey, you need a ride?”

His face is red. It’s subtle, and you think that maybe there’s- is that makeup over it? Either way, you know there’s a mark, and you know why there’s a mark.

“Uh,” You stammer, glancing ahead at the sidewalk, “I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Where are you going?” He raises an eyebrow, “Aren’t you hot?”

“A little,” You become hyper aware of the sweat sticking to your forehead, the stickiness of your socks against your feet, “It’s fine, though. It’s only, like, ten minutes home.”

“Just get in,” He squints up at you, the sun in his eyes, “I’m heading that way anyways.”

“Okay..” You comply, ducking down to step off of the curb and fit yourself into his camaro, “Are you sure it’s not a problem?”

“Not at all,” He straightens up from where he’d been leaning out the window so that you can sit down, but he braces his hand on the back of your headrest. He uses it as leverage to look behind him to make sure he’s not pulling out into traffic, and when it’s safe, he peels away from the curb in what you now know is typical Billy fashion. Tires squealing, engine revving, confidence in his eyes.

“So,” You hum, digging the coke bottle out of your pocket so that you don’t smash it, “Why are you gonna be over by my place?”

“Oh,” he laughs, shaking his head, “I’m not. I just lied, knew you wouldn’t get in unless I said that.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, “Billy! You lied!”

“And,” He grins, nodding and readjusting his hands on the wheel as he turns you around a corner, “It worked, didn’t it? And now you’ve got a ride.”

“Thank you, Billy,” At your words you remember his own from the night prior, stiffening slightly in your seat, “Um, are you.. okay? Last night was.. Intense.”

“Yeah,” He takes a moment to answer, but when he does his voice is stronger than it was last night. He keeps himself preoccupied with ducking slightly to check his blind spot, “It’s nothing. I’m, uh- I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay, though.” You mumble, “Does it hurt?”

“Seriously,” He shakes his head, his curls flying around his shoulders, “Doesn’t matter. Just.. forget about it, okay?”

“Billy,” You gush, wanting so badly to respect his wishes for the sake of not starting an argument. But how were you supposed to forget possibly the scariest experience of your life?

“I’m not going to go around town blabbing,” You swear, “But don’t you think we should tell someone?”

“No,” He insists, voice sharp, “Because if he doesn’t get hauled in, then I get my ass beat, maybe even killed. And if he does get hauled in, then I’m the man of the house. And my summer job barely pays for the gas money it takes to get there, and Max is too young to work, and Susan probably doesn’t even want me, so then I’d be out on my ass, and- just.. No. It wouldn’t work.”

He’s heated now, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. His chest heaves with the breaths he wasn’t taking when he was rambling, and you let him catch up before you talk again.

“Okay,” You take care to keep your voice calm and soothing, “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. I won’t tell anyone, Billy, not if you don’t want me to. But.. but something has to give, y’know? I meant what I said last night,” You fiddle with the ridges on the cap of your coke bottle, “Come over anytime.”

He meets your eye in the rear view mirror, and no words are needed. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that’s reflected in his own, and beneath the cockiness that he slathers over himself, you see sincerity peeking through. He nods and it’s grateful, hopeful, even.

“You want a burger?” He sniffs, scrunching his nose and changing the subject. His hands are prying at the wheel, turning the car down a road before you can respond, but you’ve got leftover cash from the convenience store, so you nod.

“Sure,” You nod, “Uh, I guess I don’t owe you pizza money anymore.”

“No,” You’re glad that he takes it as a joke, instead of a painful reminder of the night before, “Max should be the one paying me, Jesus, I mean she ate half the box.”

“She’s a growing girl,” You scold him, “She needs her nutrients.”

“Oh, yeah, melted cheese and greasy pepperoni, real nutritious.” He scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face, “What’s your order, Doctor Nutrient?”

You’re tempted to order a salad just to fuck with him. But you don’t, you let out a breathy laugh and recite your burger preference. He nods, pulling up to the window of the only drive-thru fast food restaurant in town.

Part of you is that glad that you don’t go inside, and part of you is crushed.

On one hand, you’re sweaty from walking, and you probably don’t look your best because of it. You don’t feel like being in the public eye right now, you feel like curling up on your couch and relaxing for the rest of the day. 

But on the other hand, what is Billy feeling? Part of you, deep inside, a horrid little piece that wants to make you sad, tells you that he’s not going to go into a burger place with you because he’s embarrassed to be seen with you. That you do look sweaty and gross, and that he’s not going to risk his reputation for some girl in his biology class. You thought you’d had a sort of breakthrough with him, unlocked some part of him that no one else had, because of those minutes stuck hiding in his closet. You’d thought you were maybe even friends, not just partners for class.

But he orders and pays for a meal to-go, and you’re silent as his wheels screech against the asphalt as he pulls into a parking space.

“Here,” He hands you the tray that they’d given you, spreading a meager, flimsy napkin over his lap in its absence, “You take that, and just keep my fries in there while I eat this.”

“We can share it,” You offer, scrambling to balance the tray on the divider between your seats, but he pushes it back into your lap with a shake of his head and a large, strong hand, “No, no, don’t worry about it. One of us should have an easy lunch.”

“Thanks,” You murmur, choosing to stuff your mouth with burger instead of voice any of your internal monologue out loud. You eat in silence for a few bites, blaming it on your mouthful of food instead of your awkward reservations. But he glances over to get a fry, and sees you staring out the windshield, lost in space.

“Is yours drugged or something?” He teases, elbowing you gently in the side, “You’re zoning out, hard.”

“Oh,” You take a deep breath, chewing the last of your burger and swallowing it, picking at your fries, “No, I think I’m just tired from walking.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s good I picked you up, then. Where were you even walking?”

“Corner store,” You mumble around a mouthful of burger, “I wanted a coke. Oh,” You remember, sticking a hopefully-clean hand into your pocket to retrieve your cash, “Here, for the burger.”

“‘S fine,” He waves you off, “It was, like, two bucks. Don’t sweat it.”

“Billy,” You huff, “Just let me pay you back!”

“No,” He drawls, sipping from his fountain drink, “Stop arguing, or I’ll kick you out of the car.”

You fall silent, neglecting to remind him that you weren’t in his car to begin with.

“So,” His eyes flash over the stereo, and he breaks the momentary lull in conversation, “What kind of music are you into?”

“Anything, really,” You shrug, “I like it all.”

“Even pop?” His nose wrinkles, and he stares accusatorily at you from his seat.

“Pop’s fine,” You nod, “Classical is only nice when I’m trying to study.”

“Classi- Like, piano and shit? Jesus,” He laughs incredulously, “Are you ninety?”

“Hey,” Your mouth falls open, and you fall easily into teasing banter with him, “Classical music is not for old people! It’s for people who need music on to study but get distracted by lyrics.”

“Metal’s good for that, too,” He reaches across the center divider to snatch a fry from the tray, “It’s, like, 90% guitar, and half the lyrics don’t even make sense, anyways. Nothing to pay attention to.”

“I’m not surprised you like metal,” You hum, “Did a Mötley Crüe tape come with this car?”

“No,” He insists, and you catch the flash of his grin from the side of your eye, “I bought it on the way back from the dealership.”

He doesn’t want to drown out your giggles with music, so he waits until you take another bite to pop a tape in. 

“That’s real music,” He boasts as the sound blares to life, “None of that violin shit.”

“I like metal,” You promise him, foot tempted to tap to the beat of the drums, “It’s just not all I listen to.”

“Yeah, well it’s gonna be all you listen to in here,” He assures you, “I’m gonna turn you into a diehard.”

“You have all of, what, twenty minutes?” You laugh, “Billy, how often do you think I’m gonna be in your car?”

“Whenever you want,” He shrugs, “You think I’m gonna let you haul your ass around town without a car?”

“Billy,” You frown, swallowing roughly to stare suspiciously at him, “What are you talking about? You barely even know me, why are you acting like my chauffeur all of a sudden?”

“Barely even know you-” He scoffs, jamming a fry into the ketchup that’s pooled on your tray, “We’re friends, dumbass. That’s how friendship works, right? We do shit for each other?”

Your heart thuds to your stomach. Friends? An hour ago you wouldn’t have even called Billy Hargrove your acquaintance. Sure, you knew each other. Hell, you probably knew more about him than anyone else in school. But not because he told you, because you found out. It was an accident, a fluke, a mistake. He didn’t tell you on purpose, so it didn’t mean you were close. But maybe you were, maybe his borderline kidnapping of you was because he cared, because he liked you.

“Yeah,” You decide, “Yeah, we’re friends. And that’s what friends do. I just.. I can’t offer you much, can I? I mean, shit, you won’t even let me give you a $5 for lunch.”

His eyes narrow, and you’re nervous you said something wrong. He huffs out a sigh, jaw tightening, “Jesus, Y/N, are you gonna make me spell it out?”

“What?”

“You offered me a place to stay,” He mumbles, glaring daggers at his keys in the ignition, “That’s.. A lot, okay? And I appreciate it.” He says it almost angrily, and if you weren’t so taken aback, you might have laughed.

“So I don’t mind dumping you where you need to be. Or spotting you for lunch.”

“Thank you,” You echo his sentiment from last night, hoping that even though they’re about a burger and not a home, they’re just as sincere, “Thanks, Billy.”

“Don’t mention it,” He grumbles, stuffing the rest of his burger into his mouth so that he doesn’t have to speak.

Being friends with Billy Hargrove is interesting. He’s brash, abrasive, but he cares in his own way, you find out, when he stops hard at a red light and throws his arm out over your chest.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, gruff and stiff, “You okay?”

“Fine,” You nod, a little breathless from how the seat belt had rubbed against your skin, “You can pull over here, if you want. I can run around the back, it’s unlocked already.”

“I’m not dropping you off at the curb,” He scoffs, “I think I can manage your driveway.”

“Fine,” You tease, “I was just trying to make it easier for you.”

A small smile curves over his lips at your tone, and you know he’s not upset. You’re starting to realize that being friends with Billy is easy, as soon as you accept that he can be harsh. He’s not the type of friend to gush about feelings, you don’t think, preferring to quip back and forth, and you can handle that.

He pulls into your driveway, and spots a familiar red car parked three houses down.

“You’re neighbors with Harrington?” His eyes shade over with something that can’t be good, considering his well-known feelings towards the other boy.

“No,” You shake your head, “No, that’s his friend’s house. He just drives him around sometimes, I think. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

You shoot him a grin as your head rests against the headrest of your seat, and he can’t argue with that. He rolls his eyes despite the growing grin on his lips, and he reaches over to shove you.

“Get out of my car,” He groans, “And- here,” He tears a shred of napkin off of the leftover stash from lunch, digging for a pen to scrawl his number, “Call me whenever you need a ride. Or good music to listen to.”

“I’m gonna go study to Chopin,” You leer at him from your front steps, and he lunges, reaching out the driver’s side window to reach for you. You shriek, jumping out of the way before he can grab you, and it pulls a long, hearty laugh from his chest.

“Take it,” He reaches into his glove compartment to pull out a tape, red-and-black designs etched over the front, “I’m not driving away until I hear it blasting from your window,”

“My parents are home,” You gush, fingers curling around the plastic case, “I can’t!”

“Headphones, then,” He insists, eyes alight with amusement, “I’m expecting you to know the words the next time I see you.”

It’s a hefty promise to make, but you do so with a smile on your face.

You don’t get much studying done amongst Metallica. It’s hard to focus on finishing your biology project when you recognize a song you’d heard earlier in Billy’s car, and you hum the familiar tune, thinking of the way he’d tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the drums.

You think you’ve figured him out. He’s vibrant when he knows he’s alone, when he knows he’s safe. He’d panicked hearing that car door, those voices outside. He’d been rough, jagged, hurtful. But in his element, flying down the road with music blaring from his speakers, he’d been happy. All he needs is a safe place, and you’re glad he has one, even if it isn’t his home.

Biology is easy to finish, because you only have to cover half of the slack from being sent home early last night. Billy knows which of the last two drawings to complete, and you tuck your finished ones away in your folder, pulling out a sheet of math work to tackle next. Unfortunately, it’s less simple.

Dinner comes and goes, and you’re still working by the time the sky bleeds black. You’d been using the light from the window to aid you in your homework, so when it finally covers you in enough shadow to make you squint, you give up and make for your light switch.

It flicks on with a click, and when you whirl around to settle back on your bed, there’s a face in your window. You scream, backing yourself up against the door in the split second before you recognize the features.

Billy is staring at you from the window, hand up to the glass. You hear commotion from downstairs, a quick shout of ‘Are you okay up there?’ and thundering feet towards the hallway.

“I’m fine!” You shout at the gap in the door, praying no one comes to investigate, “I’m fine, I thought I saw a spider.”

You stand there, petrified, staring at him as you wait for your parents to go away. The commotion dies down in seconds, but they feel like hours as they tick away, leaving Billy pressed to your window. When you hear the soft wheeze of a couch cushion, then the creak of bedsprings, accounting for them both, you relax, breathe out a sigh and step forwards.

Even through the glass, you can tell something is wrong. Billy’s right eye is starting to shut, and you don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It looks swollen, and there’s a purple hue blooming over it.

You work on unlatching the window, and in doing so you press your hand flat against the glass. It lays inches north of his own print, and he shifts his hand up to meet yours on the other side of the window. It’s touching, but you don't’ have time to evaluate it when your fingers snap the latch out of place.

“Billy,” You breathe, gripping his forearm to offer him leverage while he hauls himself up and over your windowsill, “Are you okay?”

He lands on the floor in a heap, and your heart sinks.

“No.” He groans, voice soft and wheezy. When he moves he rolls to clutch his stomach, and the only solace you find is that there’s no bloodstain on his t-shirt.

“I ran,” He groans, keeping his voice just quiet enough to be inaudible from another room, “I- I didn’t have time to get in my car, I just-”

“Okay,” You watch his chest heave with the effort of speaking, bracing a hand on it gently, to stop him, “Okay, save your energy. I’m going to go get you water, and an ice pack. Then I’ll fix your face.”

He manages a weak nod, then a raspy, ‘Okay.’

You slip into the kitchen with only a sheepish grin towards the couch at your spider cover-up. Luckily for you, you’re jumpy around bugs, so it doesn’t look out of the ordinary.

You tuck the ice-pack into your pocket, and you’re wearing such a baggy sweatshirt that it’s covered up. The glass of water isn’t suspicious on its own, and you make it back to your room without any problems.

Billy has hauled himself up to sit against your bed, head tipped against the mattress. There’s still no blood, but his face is tilted towards the light now, and you see copious amounts of bruising that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Jesus,” You breathe, reaching for his cheek. He tenses as your hand approaches, and you pull back before you can reach him. You stand there, arm outstretched, waiting. Your fingers are only inches from his face, a blotchy purple mark over his eye that spreads down his cheek like poison. You wait, for a sign, a sound, anything to let you know that it’s okay to touch him, and what you get is almost more shocking than the sight of him.

He tilts his head to the side, nudging his cheek into your hand.

“You can touch,” He croaks, breath short and hot against your palm, “I don’t bite.”

If you’ve learned anything about Billy in the past 24 hours, it’s that he doesn’t like the mushy stuff. So instead of gushing, instead of promising him that he’s safe now, that his father can’t hurt him, you say it with your touch, and shift your tone to teasing.

“Oh yeah?” You kneel beside him, brushing your thumb against the underside of his lip and smearing away wet blood there, “Melissa MacDonald says you do.”

He laughs, a short, wheezing sound, and his cheek presses further into your palm as it apples with his smile,  “Yeah? Well, she asked me to.”

”Freaky girl,” You hum, eyes glued to his lip. You use the towel that you’ve wrapped around the ice pack, bunching a corner of it up and wiping it over the split skin. It morphs into a grimace when you touch it and he hisses, hand reaching up to grip your side hard.

“Sorry,” You breathe, your exhale fanning over his face, “Sorry, just- give me a second.”

When you’ve managed to get the blood off of his lip you shift your focus to his abdomen, and suddenly realize what you’re about to ask is very suggestive.

“Okay, um.. What happened to your stomach?”

“He kicked me,” Billy groans, “Boots on and all.”

“Okay,” You see a dark purple bruise spreading over his stomach from where his shirt has ridden up, and you toy with the edge of the ice pack, “Can I-? I need to see it..”

“Strip me, baby,” He chuckles weakly, “You can take it off.”

It’s a button-up, once tucked in and now rumpled from the commotion. The top buttons are undone, so it’s not hard to slip the last two out, spreading each side apart to showcase a truly horrific amalgamation of cuts and bruises.

“Ok-ay,” You hum, eyes wide in terror, “Um, this is.. A lot. Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” His eyes flash with fear, and he grabs your wrist, “No hospitals.”

“”But-”

“But I can’t tell anyone,” He reminds you, gaze now sad and defeated, “No hospitals.”

All you can manage is a nod, tears gathering in your eyes as you stare down at his bare torso.

“Like what you see?” He drawls, and you glance up to see his lip bleeding again from how he’d smirked and torn the cut open.

“Not at all,” You admit sheepishly, reaching a hand up to press and hold the towel there, “Billy, this looks like you escaped a warzone.”

“I did,” He mumbles around the towel, “He’s the enemy.”

“What did you even do?” You ask, prodding gently at a patch of skin and apologizing profusely when his stomach tenses because of it.

“Someone.. One of our stupid neighbors,” He recalls, “Saw you last night. Said my old man must be proud I've got girls sneaking out of my window at night.”

“And… he wasn’t proud.” You grimace, pressing the ice pack to the largest bruise. It spans over most of his lower stomach, and it looks more painful than you can imagine.

“No,” Billy groans, writhing against your bed, “He was not. Didn’t even wait to get inside,” He squeezes his eyes shut, which you’re sure hurts his right one, “Just grabbed my arm and smacked me right there on the driveway. No one cared. The neighbor, he- he laughed. Thought it was all some big joke, I guess. When we got inside he pushed me over in the doorway and pummeled me. He kicked my stomach, and he-” Billy cuts himself off with a hiss of pain when you start dabbing at a scrape on his chest, “Stomped on my face. He used a fucking fireplace poker, that’s the gashes.”

“You can’t go back,” You cry, barely withholding yourself from a long, loud sob, “Please, Billy, you can’t go back there. He’ll kill you!”

“No, he won’t.” Billy heaves, shaking his head, “He wants to, I’m sure. But he knows he can’t hurt me too bad, or people’ll notice. This was a mistake, he’s gonna be more careful from now on. He might be a monster, but he’s smart.”

“But- but what if this happens again, Billy? He gets angry, real angry, and he lashes out, and he uses a fireplace poker-!” Your chest heaves with sobs that you’re barely able to withhold, tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto his chest.

“Hey,” He shushes you, a hand over your mouth, then uses the other to wipe your tears away, “Hey! Don’t think about that,” he scolds, but you’re sure it’s meant to sound reassuring, “He’s probably freaked right now. He thinks I’m ratting him out to the cops, or something. So when I come back, he’ll be more careful. He won’t be sorry, but I don’t care about sorry anymore, I know he won’t ever be. He won’t kill me,” Billy promises you, finally dropping the hand that’s covering your mouth, “He can’t afford a body on his hands.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, blink away the tears in your eyes, and nod. He seems satisfied at your silence, watching with droopy eyes as you clean off his chest.

“I’m gonna get bandages,” You murmur, leaving the ice pack on his stomach and padding to the door, “Move it if you need to, okay?”

He manages a weak nod in return, and you make sure to shut the door behind you when you leave.

Gathering adequate medical supplies isn’t the problem, concealing them is. You have to fumble your way through tucking bandages and gauze under your shirt, and the bottle of antiseptic doesn’t fit anywhere but in your hands. You keep it tucked against your side when you rush to your room, though, and you hope no one notices.

Billy doesn’t even ask what you’re doing when you press a wet cotton ball to his injuries, and you shudder to think of all the times he’s had to patch himself up. Does he sit in his room against his own bed, drink in hand? Does he stand in the shower, soap cleaning out his wounds? Does he sneak to the freezer, pressing frozen peas to his eyes?

You sniffle, and BIlly’s thumb rubs under your nose.

You frown, ‘Gross,’ And he chuckles weakly.

“I’m covered in blood, sweat, and-” He glances down at the droplets on his chest, “Tears. You think snot crosses a line?”

“My snot does,” You grumble, laying a bandage over a scrape on his chest and biting the inside of your cheek in concentration.

“Fine,” He huffs, smearing his thumb over your cheek, “Have it back.”

“Billy-!” You gasp, hand flying off of his chest and rubbing furiously at your cheek, “Gross!”

You’d be more upset but he laughs, really, truly, genuinely, and you think that maybe you can live with it.

“Snotface,” He cracks, and if you think for a second too long about the heartfelt lilt to his voice, it sounds like a term of endearment.

It’s hard to maneuver him in order to wrap his more serious injuries in gauze, but with a little cooperation, he’s wrapped like a mummy. It’s probably a sloppy nurse job, but you’re all he’s got, and you won’t give up on him because things are hard.

It’s his face that you have the real trouble with. You squint as you scan his features, looking at bumps and bruises and scrapes and trying to assess how deep they are. Your fingers turn his face this way and that, prodding, prying, pushing, pulling, until you decide that the light from above isn’t enough to see his smaller injuries.

“I need to move you,” You speak softly, “Up onto the bed. Can you do that?”

“Help me,” He bargains, and you’re happy to lift him to his feet.

He slumps against you while upright, but it’s not long before you can push him back onto your bed. He practically melts against the mattress, letting out a guttural sigh that’s almost too loud.

With a flick of your bedside lamp he’s bathed in a soft yellow glow, face now illuminated for all its abrasions to be seen.

His split lip is the least of it, you recognize with a sinking feeling.

Leaning over his face is awkward,and it hurts him when you turn his head. You suppose his neck is sore too, and it leaves you at a standstill.

“I can’t see that side of your face,” You huff, “Could you- I mean, it hurts really bad to turn your head?”

“Sorry,” He grimaces, testing the movement out again, “Yeah. Just- sit on the bed.”

“There’s no room,” You protest weakly, his broad form filling out your twin bed, “I’ll have to turn you around, we’ll put your feet at the headboard and your head down below, but that’ll take a lot of energy, so we should just-”

“Stop talking,” He pleads, eyes heavy, “Just- get on the bed, Y/N.”

“There’s no room!” You insist once more, and he groans, sitting himself upright despite your protests.

His arm slings around your waist, surprisingly strong for the state of the rest of his body. You scramble to fight his embrace but he hauls you up and onto the mattress, your knees digging into his thigh.

“Sit on my stomach,” He instructs you, then remembers it’s bandaged, “Or- or my waist. Just- sit down.”

It feels wrong. A boy in your bed, your legs over his waist, your hand on his chest as you lean over his face. You’re careful not to press anywhere that hurts, and you dab carefully at a cut near his eye.

“I think this earns you the title of best friend,” He mumbles, his breath hitting your face and warming your nose.

“Oh, yeah? Who was my competition?” You bite your lip to stop from grinning, shifting your waist against his own so that you can reach higher on his face.

“I dunno.” He’d shrug if he wasn’t lying down, “My car, maybe? There’s a cat that hangs out behind our house.”

“I’m not as cute as a cat,” You hum absentmindedly, picturing poor Billy with a car for a best friend, “I think it’s got me beat.”

“I dunno,” Billy murmurs, reaching up to thumb at the space between your brows. It knocks your concentrated frown loose, and he chuckles at your dazed expression as you peer down at him, “I’ll call it a tie to keep the peace.”

You busy yourself putting a bandaid over the bridge of his nose so that you don’t have to look into his eyes. You’re worried about what you’ll find there, if it’ll be the scared little boy you’d seen in them last night, or a charming young man. You’re not sure how to handle either, but you smooth the sticky patches of the bandaid out over his cheeks to try and aid the former.

“Done,” You whisper, and brace your hands on his face.

“Thank you,” He hums, sincere and sweet, “Really, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” You promise, “But for your sake I hope you don’t have to come over here like this again.”

“Me too,” He laughs, a short, breathy sound, “So.. uh, you got a car?”

“No,” You shake your head, “That’s why I was walking earlier.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” He cringes, hoisting himself up onto his elbows, “I’ll have to walk back.”

“Not now!” You push a hand against his chest, gently landing him on his back again, “You- you can’t! You need rest,” You reason with him, “Please, Billy, just stay here tonight.”

“Usually the girls kick me out when their parents get home,” He jokes, his tongue poking out to run over his lips, which you’re sure are sore from the cut. You giggle breathlessly, only then realizing that you’re still straddling him.

“Uh-” You rush to slide off of his hips, landing with a thump on the floor, “Sorry. I’ll go… um, do you need a change of clothes?”

“If you’ve got something,” He tilts his head up to watch as you fumble through your closet, “If nothing fits it’s fine.”

Luckily, you find a pair of sweatpants that are cinched with a tie, as well as a particularly average sweatshirt he’ll fit into. You step out of the room so that he can change, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to need any help. You use the time to change your own clothes, and when you emerge from the bathroom, you push your bedroom door open to find him on your mattress again.

“Bed’s comfy,” He marvels, turned onto his side. He’s pressed against the wall, staring at you where you’re frozen in the doorway.

“It is,” You nod, “Enjoy it.”

“You, too.” He prompts, patting the sheets, “Get up here, Y/N.”

“No, I-”

“You just stuck your fingers in my bloody cuts,” He groans, scooting even further back against the wall with a strangled groan, “I’m not making you sleep on the fucking floor.”

Logically, you know you should argue. He’s proclaimed you as his best friend but you’ve really only known him for a day. But he’s made up his mind, closing his eyes so that he can’t even see you disagreeing. His arms are crossed, and his face is set in a stubborn frown, brows tugged together beneath a bandage on his forehead.

Though his eyes are screwed shut, he pops them open when he feels the mattress dip beside him. His frown morphs quick and easy into a grin, his arm slinging around your waist to tug you closer from where you’re practically sliding off of the bed.

“I told you,” He drawls, “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about you biting, Billy.” You mumble, stiff where he’s holding you. He notices, grin dimming as he lifts his hand away.

He looks almost annoyed, “So? What is it? Are you an insomniac, or something?”

“No, Billy,” you frown, biting the inside of your cheek, “I’m not an insomniac, I’m worried. Are you okay? I’m not a nurse. And- and I’m not tired, either,” You spring out of bed, standing beside it instead of laying with him, “I’m not going to sleep.”

He lays there staring, eyes hardening over from where they’d cracked open to ooze happiness. You watch it happen, watch him change until he’s the boy you know from school, deep, cutting glares and harsh movements.

“Fine,” He huffs, fighting to keep his face straight as he presses himself up off of the mattress with his palms, “I’m gonna go. Clearly- just.. Bye.”

“No, Billy..” You rush to stop him from reaching the window but he sticks out an arm, shoving you away with the side of it. He keeps his hands off of you, and you’re grateful, but it still sends you stumbling slightly.

He hears the sound of your feet thumping clumsily. He tenses up for a moment, shoulders drawn closer to his ears and legs locking. But he feels your hand against his back, soft and slow and smooth, and with each brush of your fingers there a muscle in his body relaxes.

“Please don’t go,” You finally beg, your voice a sweet whisper. It seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because his limbs lock up again, back stiffening against your palm.

“I shouldn’t be here,” He grumbles, gruff and weak.

“Yes you should,” You assure him, “Because you got hurt, and I told you you were safe here. We’re friends, remember, Billy? That’s what friends do.”

“We’re not friends.” He scoffs, and you can feel him slipping away. Every second that you stand there, hand on his back, soothingly brushing over his tense muscles, he seems to drift away, until you’re not even sure he’s with you anymore, just a foggy silhouette on the horizon.

“You said we were friends,” You remind him, lips nearly brushing his back, “What changed? Why aren’t we friends now?”

“Because..” He starts, and you wait patiently for him to continue, rubbing lines into his back over and over again.

“Because I want.. Because- Because friends-”

“You can tell me, Billy,” You promise, testing the waters as you creep forward. Inch by inch you snake your hand around his waist, carefully avoiding the injuries you know are lurking beneath his unbuttoned shirt. When your palms meet over his stomach you lean your cheek against his back, hoping that if you can squeeze enough love into him, he’ll come back.

“This,” He hovers a hand over your own, glancing down at your touch on his skin, “This is what… friends do, right?”

“Friends hug,” You confirm, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” He chokes out, raising a hand to his face to smear away a tear that you’re sure has slid down his cheek, “Yeah I want that. But- but you got up, so I- I didn’t want to freak you out. You obviously didn’t want to, so-”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” You brush your thumb over his toned stomach, thinking about the way he’d stared at you from your bed, eyes sparkling and arms outstretched, “It’s just that… I want to do right by you, Billy. And I don’t think you get that a lot, do you?”

“No,” He rasps, and he starts to relax, back no longer tense as you practically whisper against it.

“Right, so..” You reason, biting your tongue before speaking out of nerves, “I think that you live like you drive, Billy. You blow past stop signs and you nearly run people over, you speed. You go so fast that you can’t slow down anymore, and you need someone to tell you to do that, or else you’ll crash.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want to make sure you’re not rushing things,” You can feel his heated skin beneath your cheek, only the fabric of his shirt separating you, “You just got beat up by your dad, because of me, and I’m glad that you came here, but don’t you think that sleeping together is going pretty fast? I know we’re not like- sleeping together,” You mumble, cheeks aflame, “I just don’t want you to get ahead of yourself. You can.. You can have a hug anytime you want, and… we can sleep next to each other, too, but I need to know that you want that. That you’re doing it because you want to, and not because you think this is the only chance you’ll ever get. I’m telling you to slow down, Billy, you don’t have to rush if you don’t want to. I won’t kick you out if you don’t sleep in my bed, you don’t owe me anything for helping you, and I want to make sure that’s really what you want, and not just something you think you have to do. I… I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow with a clear head and regret it.”

By now your lips have reached his back, brushing softly against the material of his shirt as he stands by your window. It’s shut now, no one can see you from the outside, but his face is turned towards it like he’s examining the neighborhood. He’s not tense anymore, but he’s not moving either, and for a moment you’re nervous about having said the wrong thing.

“I’m not going to regret anything.” He murmurs, fingers ghosting over your own as he sets his hand over yours, “I.. I’m doing it because I want to, not because you’re the only person that’s nice to me. I’m doing it because… because I want to be-”

“You want to be…?”

“I want to be… held.” He whispers it like a curse, like he thinks the roof will cave and the floor will crack open to hell if he admits it. Your heart aches for the lonely boy, the battered son, the scared child, and you squeeze him gently in a hug.

“Okay,” You nod, and you know he feels it against his back, “I’ll hold you, Billy. Get back in bed, I’ll hold you.”

This time he’s less confident; not as suave. He turns towards you with a trepidatious expression, eyes tracking your every move like he thinks you’re going to give up the joke, turn, point, and laugh at him. But you don’t, of course, instead you hoist a leg up onto your bed and lay down clumsily beside him.

The mattress isn’t big enough for the both of you, so it’s a good thing you’ve agreed to hold him. You’re not really sure how to initiate it, you just simply leave yourself open, uncovered, waiting.

“Where can I touch you?” He glances up at your face, expression clouded with nerves.

“Anywhere,” You say without thinking, then stammer to fix your mistake, “I mean- I mean not like anywhere, just- anywhere.. PG.”

“Okay,” He chuckles, eyes once more heavy with sleep, “I won’t feel you up, I promise.”

When he braces a hand at your waist, cautious, unsure, you wonder if he’s ever not felt anyone up. Has he ever laid beside anyone before, just for love? Not for sex, not for lust, but for calm?

He looks nervous to continue, so you lean into it. You roll yourself onto your side, slinging his arm that’s on your hip to lay over your back. He scoots forward to meet you in the middle, and with a hand on the back of his head, you guide his face to press against your neck. His chin bumps your shoulder, and he nestles it there snugly. It means that his eyelashes brush your neck, that his lips part to release a shaky breath against your collarbones, and his curls tickle your chin.

“Is this good?” You ask, your voice a murmur into the crown of his head. He nods, and the action knocks his head into your cheek. He mumbles out a hasty, ‘Sorry’, and you laugh it off.

“It’s okay,” You drag your hands up his back, fingertips barely grazing his skin that his shirt has twisted up to expose, “It’s okay, Billy. This is okay. You’re allowed to want this, you know? You’re allowed to like this. You deserve this.”

Billy thinks he deserves a lot of things. A kick in the teeth, a tight pair of handcuffs and a drab cell, maybe even the fireplace poker. But he doesn’t think he deserves kindness, which is why he’s so confused why you’re gushing it like a fountain. 

He’s the type of person to make himself unhappy so that no one else can do it for him. He shuts out love and light and life so that no one can steal it away, no one can send him reeling when they leave. But tonight - he’s not sure why, maybe it’s the stinging wounds on his torso or the tickle of your fingers against his back - he’ll love.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

unexpected - Steve Harrington one-shot

steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), smut, swearing, underage drinking, teasing, hair pulling.

summary: sometimes two opposites can make a whole

The day you walk into Family Video with your cousin is when Steve Harrington truly falls in love. He leaned against the counter, listening to Robin ramble about the newest French film they were showing in Kokomo and how Steve needed to broaden his horizons outside of teenage comedies and explosions.

She notices how Steve perks up when you walk in with your cousin. He knew your cousin, sure. Everyone knew everyone in Hawkins, but he sure as shit didn't know you.

He also knew you were her cousin because she'd been eagerly talking about you visiting for weeks.

"Ladies, ladies!" Steve says, perking up and ensuring his hair is flicked the right way. "Welcome to Family Video. The place for the finest entertainment needs in Hawkins. I am Steve Harrington, and I'll be your humble guide on this cinematic journey."

He watches, still flashing that Tom Cruise smile as you glance at your cousin before dissolving into giggles and leading her away.

"Smooth, so very smooth." Robin chuckles next to Steve who slumps back onto the counter.

But he notices how you glance over your shoulder to get another glance at him.

And yeah, a shoulder glance always meant he had a chance.

He watches you walk around the store, his eyes never leaving you as he watches you pick up a copy of Dirty Dancing. Examining it carefully before putting it back on the shelf.

"If you keep staring long enough, your eyes will fall out of your head, and you may have a restraining order," Robin says softly.

"Robin, pinch me," Steve says, groaning when she reaches out and pinches his arm roughly. "Metaphorically, Jesus!"

Rubbing the pinched skin as he glared at her.

"I think I'm in love, Robin."

And all Robin can do is roll her eyes.

"Weren't you in love with Belinda Carlisle last week?"

"This is different this time, I swear it. She's something special."

He's working a rare solo shift. He studied his neat stack on the counter but did not want to put them back. Really he only kept this job because of Robin and because his asshole dad was still threatening to cut him off if he didn't keep a job longer than a few weeks.

His chocolate eyes flicking up to the door as he hears the familiar, grating sound of the bell ringing.

His eyes widen when he sees you walking in. This time without your cousin, looking around before your eyes land on Steve, a small smile coming across your features.

"Gonna meet my entertainment needs?" You laugh softly as you approach the counter. Placing your hands on it gently as Steve stares at you with wide eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Any you may have. Any at all." He manages to get out as you smile at him.

"I'm looking for a fun movie. Something that isn't too serious, you know? The type that helps you switch off for an hour or two."

Steve nodded his head, trying to think of some of the movies that Robin had rambled about. Maybe something that would make him seem cultured and worldly.

Maybe he did need to extend his movie interests outside of boobies and explosions.

"Do you have a copy of Fast Times?" You finally ask.

Steve eagerly nodding his head, scrambling for one of the copies behind the counter and holding it out to you.

"Small problem though." You say.

Steve's brow crinkling in concern, wondering what could be wrong.

"I'm not actually a member here." You say, leaning across the counter. Steve gulps as he catches sight of your cleavage in the loose-fitting summer top. "So I was hoping we could make a deal."

"We can definitely make a deal, yeah. Of course, we can do that." And Steve is almost embarrassed at how quickly he agrees to something.

Smooth Harrington, smooth.

Robing wasn't here, so he needed to keep himself humble.

"Maybe you could maybe just rent the movie for me?" You ask in a soft voice. Steve felt his heart thunder at the big, bright smile. "And maybe kind of watch it with me?"

And were you asking him out? Before he got the chance to ask you out?

"You wanna watch it together?" Steve asks.

You laugh once more, him sucking in a breath as he watches your hair bounce around your shoulders as you giggle once more. "Sure, why else would I come in here? No offence, but it really isn't the entertainment hubbub in here. You only have one copy of The Outsiders."

Well, shit. He couldn't help but agree.

Steve is leaning on the counter with one arm, his hair flicking out of his eyes as he nods. "I can pick you up tonight, say 8? My parents have a country club event, so we'll have the place ourselves."

You smile brightly at him, holding out your hand to him and closing it. "Pen?"

Steve fumbling as he grabs one of the pens, quickly handing it to you.

Him watching, memorised as you grab his arm, carefully writing your cousin's address on his arm.

"No funny business tonight, Harrington. I'm a respectable young lady."

You were definitely something different.

And he kind of liked it.

He waits outside the house, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he watches you shut the front door carefully behind you. Steve feeling his breath get caught in his throat at the sight of you; a tiny little dress that showed off all those delectable curves but you still somehow made it look innocent.

You smile brightly as you practically skip down to his car. Happily opening the passenger door and falling in. "Sorry I kept you waiting a little." You say, sounding slightly out of breath.

"It's honestly fine."

"My cousin insisted on-" You clear your throat awkwardly and look away. "It doesn't matter." You giggle softly.

Steve sometimes hated bringing people to his house. The opulence of it all, how it was all so perfectly curated by his parents. Nothing out of place, the perfect family portrait hanging in the entryway. It alluded that they were a happy family when his mum went everywhere his dad did so he didn't end up in bed with some cocktail waitress. Steve being a typical latch-key child, once he was too old for nannies, he was simply left alone.

He hated these nights. When he was left alone without a second thought.

Just like tonight, except he had your flowery scent filling his nostrils and your body heat mingling with his as you stood awkwardly beside him, taking in the Harrington home.

"Your house is amazing." You finally breathe out, smoothing out the hem of your dress awkwardly.

"It's okay. Too big. I'd like something smaller."

He pictured raising his kids in something smaller. A lovely three-bedroom home where they were close together. Where they could have campouts in the backyard, the kitchen was big enough to cook a family meal, but it wasn't too big that it seemed cold. There'd be toys and family things scattered everywhere, things out of place.

It would look like a home, not a house.

You laugh gently beside him. "No, you don't. I grew up in a small house, and it sucks."

Steve reaching down and boldly taking your hand as he led you into the entertainment room. The newest television and basically unused couch staring back at him. The stark reminder that he had never watched a movie with his parents in this room. Even though his mother had insisted it was for family nights when she had it decorated.

Family nights, such bullshit.

"That television is huge." You laugh, shaking your head at Steve. "How rich are you folks?" You tease.

"Rich enough that they don't need to raise their son."

Your brows crinkled together slightly but said nothing, simply brushing your hand against his before bouncing to the white, leather couch and happily falling onto it. Stretching out and laughing. Your eyes glancing over to the lightly illuminated pool in the backyard.

"Even have a fancy pool." You giggle as Steve falls down next to you.

"Maybe we can swim later?" He teases and you waggle your eyebrows playfully at him.

"I don't have a swimsuit." You reply.

"Who says we need one."

Steve can't help but laugh and pretend to be wounded as you playfully swat at him.

You end up in the pool, but Steve chivalrously lends you a pair of shorts and a shirt. You giggle as you tug on the oversized shirt, noticing Steve staring intensely at you. "Don't laugh. I look ridiculous."

Steve shook his head, his brown locks bouncing upon his head. Someone had never looked so gorgeous wearing his clothes before. "You look great." He says honestly.

Steve also notices the way your eyes flick down to his bare chest. Taking in the firm, lean muscles of his stomach. How broad his chest and shoulders were, the freckles and moles littered his slightly tanned chest. You quickly blush and look away when you notice Steve still staring at you.

Smiling at him, your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you walk towards him. Steve stares at you curiously before letting out a yelp as you push his chest and watch as he topples into the water, the water splashing around him as you giggle.

You still hadn't told Steve that you had been slightly late because your cousin had been shoving condoms into your purse. "Harrington is a hound dog." She had said, rolling her eyes. "Better safe than sorry."

Your cousin wasting no time telling you about Steve's reputation in Hawkins. He had been the King before he fell due to being heartbroken, and he seemed intent on sharing a bed with every eligible female in Hawkins to make up for the aching heart. He had been a heartbreaker before and now seemed desperate for someone to pay attention to him.

"That wasn't fair," Steve gasps as he rises from the water, pushing the hair from his face. "I wasn't ready."

Standing over him as you continue to giggle, shrugging your shoulder innocently. "Always expect the unexpected, Harrington."

Such as Steve reaching up and grabbing your ankle, knocking you into the water. The chlorine and water fill your senses. Your eyes opening as you reach the bottom of the pool, staring around at the blurry masses and the chemical making your eyes sting before flicking your legs and swimming to the surface.

Steve grins at you as you reemerge. Wiping your face and shaking your head. "Unexpected?" He laughs as you grin back at him.

"Unexpected."

You didn't end up doing anything that night except share an awkward kiss when Steve drove you home. Him tapping the steering wheel nervously as you look at him. Your body soaking through your dry clothes, your hair sticking to your back as you stare intensely at him.

"I'll see you another time?" You say softly as you climb out of the car. Steve nodding at you.

He didn't expect you to run back to the car a few moments later, practically climbing through the window before roughly grabbing his face. Pressing your lips passionately against his. He could taste the chlorine and the faintest trace of strawberries as he kisses you back.

You seemingly disappearing just as quickly as you had appeared.

Definitely unexpected.

Steve spends every moment he can with you. He knows this romance has an expiry date; it's a summer fling. The type you tell your Grandchildren about, reminiscing about the youthful daze of the biggest worry is having somewhere private to make out.

Which you do, a lot.

In his car parked in a dimly lit street.

The guest bedroom of your cousin's bedroom when the rest of the family is asleep.

His pool when no one else is home.

The storage room of Family Video while a grossed-out Robin is on Keith and customer look out.

Steve doesn't pressure you, but he does push his boundaries slightly. His hand slides a little higher up your thigh, grazing your breasts as it travels down to rub your hip. He wonders if you're a virgin, it doesn't matter to him if you are.

"Have you ever had sex?" He finally dares himself to ask.

You sitting cross-legged next to him on the living room floor.

He sees your eyes widen slightly and the way you fiddle with the fraying denim of your shorts.

"Once." You finally mutter out.

"Didn't like it?"

"No, I liked it. The guy was just an asshole. I thought he liked me; he just wanted to tell everyone that he got my cherry." He can see the way your eyes are downcast at the painful memory. Giving something away to someone who didn't deserve it.

"He told everyone that I was easy." You added, shrugging your shoulders helplessly.

"That guy sounds like a grade-A asshole," Steve mutters.

Had he not once been the grade-A asshole himself? Calling girls sluts, publicly displaying it when he was hurt. Actively using girls and then tossing them away like they were nothing when they had given him so much?

Your story giving Steve the cool sting that he was probably the grade-A asshole in some girls sad story too.

You jumping slightly when Steve reaches out and squeezes your hand softly.

He wasn't that asshole anymore.

"I promise that I won't hurt you. You know that, right?"

You offer him a small smile. Though he can still see the sadness beneath it.

"I know, you're one of the good ones, Harrington."

The first time you finally have sex. Steve thinks he is more nervous than you are. HIs hands curl through yours as you stare at him with wide eyes. That captivating, intoxicating small little gasp as he pushes into you, the way your back arches off the bed and the small whimper of pleasure and pain filling his ears.

"Easy, easy." He coos out, his hand pushing the hair from your forehead and offering you a gentle smile.

And it's mind-blowing. The type that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. Steve is amazed at how your body feels made for him. Those delectable sounds he draws from your mouth as your eyes clench it, your nails digging into your shoulders as you come undone. How his name is the only thing that comes out of your mouth as you tighten around him.

Your sitting quietly next to him on the bed afterwards. Braiding your hair, your teeth nibbling on your bottom lip as Steve runs a hand through his hair.

"That was better than the first time." You finally say.

Steve glancing at you. "I mean, it usually is."

You shake your head, smiling softly at him as you wrap the hair tye around the end of your braid.

"I think it was because it was with someone I know cares about me."

And shit, Steve knew exactly what she meant.

That soul connection seemed to overpower the physical. That invisible tug between you, seemingly tethered together forever now. It may not been the first for either of you but Steve is pretty sure it's the first time in a long god damn time that he doesn't feel that bitter emptiness sinking in his belly.

"I only have two more weeks in Hawkins." You say.

Steve swallowing the lump in his throat as he nods his head.

"We always knew this had an expiry date, right?"

Your last night in Hawkins. Steve is actually thankful his parents are out of town for the night. He orders at Enzo's because it's the only place in town that does decent breadsticks and ensures he has a copy of Fast Time's ready.

You're wearing the dress from the first night you were together. It looks even better on you than before. Your skin more sun-kissed than the beginning, the way you walked with more confidence.

You don't even make it halfway through the film before Steve is on you.

Pinning you to the couch and peppering your neck with desperate kisses. He wastes no time in tugging the dress of you, happy to see you that you aren't wearing anything beneath it.

The perfect mixture of innocence and corruption.

The sex this time is something else entirely.

Steve swears he can feel it in his heart, all through his body, as he moves above you. Your strong legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you whimper and beg beneath him.

Your intoxicating eyes flicking open and staring intensely at him. A mixture of passion, longing, pleasure and sadness, Steve knows his eyes also mirror those emotions. Your delicate hand comes up and cupping his gently, still watching him intensely as you both fall apart simultaneously. Steve mumbles your name into your neck as he has the sick realisation that this will be the last time this happens.

Steve Harrington may have fought monsters from another dimension.

But the thought of not seeing you again is the scariest thing he's ever faced.

You sit next to him softly on the couch. Your legs tucked beneath you as your hand came up, playing with your lip nervously as Steve cleared his throat awkwardly.

The unspoken longing vibrated throughout the room.

Neither of you wanting to utter those words and make this harder.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?" Steve finally asks.

"Lunchtime." You answer back quietly and he nods.

"Need a ride to the airport?"

Glancing at him before shaking your head.

"My cousin is taking me. Thanks though."

Steve wished he could be the last thing you saw before boarding that plane.

"My cousin is a shitty driver, though." You say after a moment's silence.

Steve understood what you meant.

"I'll pick you up at ten?"

All you do is nod.

The ride to the airport is mostly silent. Only sharing a few light memories of the summer. What your plan was for your senior year and what Colleges you were applying to.

How you weren't sure if you wanted to go straight to college.

Steve spoke about wanting out of Family Video and maybe travel.

"Seeing the coastline would be pretty cool." You said in agreement.

Watching the way the sun reflects on your hair in the passenger seat. The way the shadows seem to create little shapes on your legs. The way you always nibbled your lip when nervous or lost in thought.

And he wonders if he actually dreamed you into his life.

Maybe all those stupid shooting stars Robin always insisted they wished on had been leading you to him.

The girl he had been searching for so long, even before Nancy.

You stand awkwardly at your gate. Steve standing beside you, hands stuffed into his jean pockets, rocking on his heels.

"Thanks for driving me to the airport." You say quietly.

Steve nods his head, you holding the boarding pass tightly in your hands.

"Okay, you can call me stupid," Steve finally says, facing you as you stare at him with wide eyes. "But I don't want this to end. What's another couple of months? We can write and talk- I'm a loser done with high school. I can visit you, and we can make this work."

"Steve.." You say quietly.

"Just let me finish, okay. We both feel it. I think you're the person I've been waiting for, and I'm yours. You're smart as hell, making me feel like I'm worth something. Shit, I think I'm in love with you, and if there is one thing my douchebag old man taught me, it's that you take the bull by the horns."

Your eyes flicked to the people boarding your plane as you stared helplessly at Steve. Shaking your head as you step away from him, clutching your boarding pass tightly in your hands as you approached the check-in gate.

Steve feels his shoulders slump and maybe this had just been him dreaming of something more again.

This was nothing more than a fun summer fling for you.

Steve had misread all the signals.

Like he did every single time.

Maybe this was his punishment for being such an asshole in the past.

He's shocked when he sees you running back towards him. Practically jumping into his arms as you kiss him passionately. Cupping his face like you had the night you shared your first kiss in his car.

You roll your eyes as you hear the final call for boarding. Smiling at Steve.

"I love you too, you doofus."

And maybe Steve Harrington had finally gotten it right.

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/comfort. minor spoilers for the show 'The Last of Us,' episode three.

first | chapter eleven : angel (14k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #35-#36. #36, the title song, doesn't appear in the text, so you can play it whenever it feels appropriate.

@e0509 @bexreadstoomuch @mimsthebannished @tlclick73 @courtneymaisy

I've been afraid all of my life

Crippled with anxiety, shame and doubt

And sometimes, sometimes I'd like to shout

At the top of my lungs and just let it out

What has that fear ever done for me

But hold me back?

What has jealousy and hate ever done for you

But remind you of what you think you lack?

So give me love and give me compassion

Self-forgiveness and give me some passion

I love you even if you don't love me

I love you even if you can't love me

Angel— First Aid Kit

There’s a moment upon waking on Saturday that you feel the same as you did twenty-four hours before. The moon is round and full; your earth is cold and numb. Its beams are peaceful, tranquil, sterile as they glint off your frosted leaves. You have not yet recalled the warm light that awakened your growth and left it just as quickly to the dark of twilight, the whisper of smoke that flowed into your lungs and left you breathless with poignant longing. You have not yet noticed the puffiness of your eyes, the rattle of your breath in your lungs, or the deep, rending ache at the bottom of you. 

You blink, and as the late sunlight falls across your eyes, you remember.

Penny had found you howling on the floor, puddled in your charcoal despair. Your sister’s arms clasped you tight as she sputtered her distressed confusion, begging you to tell her what was wrong. You’d worked it out in bits and pieces— explanations choked through trembling lips, halted by the gasps and sobs and whines of a wounded animal. You’d felt like a child when she rocked you, shushing you softly, petting your hair like your mother had when you’d come home from elementary school scraped raw from your friends’ rejection. In the moment, you hadn’t cared how childlike you’d become, more than eager to relinquish your twenty-four-year-old self to the comfort of your sister’s surety. She wiped your face clear of the tracks of your mascara, the color dark like charcoal to stain the sleeves of her sweater. It stained Penny, but in doing so, she took it from you— took it until your tears dried up, until your muscles trembled with relief and fatigue. Penny held you on the kitchen floor as you wrested back control of your body. You scrubbed your hands over your wet, flushed face, whimpering into your palms until you finally quieted. 

You picked yourself up then, moving through the steps of recovery: retreating to the bathroom to wash your cheeks, to run your wrists under warm water, to take deep breaths until they were no longer labored, the entire time avoiding the sight of your swollen face in the mirror. When you’d emerged, Penny was thumping the knife against the cutting board, holding firm as you offered in a small voice to take over again. Obstinate, your sister refused you, directing you to the couch with a firm hand and concern shining in her eyes. She finished your stir fry, serving you a bowl you thanked her for with a brief smile but ate listlessly before turning in for an early night. 

After the tease of Eddie’s presence, no longer can you feel pleasantly numb. Instead, now that the well of your tears has dried, you just feel empty. Bereft. Like the earth has been churned, disturbed; turned over and left wanting for what has been removed. But when you heave a deep sigh, breath stirring the motes floating like fairy dust in the shaft of light spilling from Penny’s beloved window, you reach tentatively down to find that your growth is still there, standing tall. When you run a finger lightly up its stalk, it trembles within, leaves quivering a response to your tentative touch. It hurts, like the soreness of a bruise, but it does not waver. You trace the green up to where it vines around your ribcage, tendrils peeking to greet your exploration with a gentle touch. And as you pull yourself out of bed, for the first time, you fully accept your growth. Yes, there is pain where it has been cut deep by the sharpness of flinty words and languished in the cold light of the moon, further wounded by the sudden reminder of what you have lost. But there is also strength. Your growth holds your bones, cradling them securely; its fruit has not fallen or begun to molder and rot. The realization that it cannot be uprooted— that it is a part of you— is not one of grief as it was last night. Instead, it is the acceptance that what Eddie tended inside you cannot be culled. No matter what happens now, you have what you need to thrive.

This recognition carries you through your morning routine completed many hours late, and you emerge from the shower with renewed vigor and a healthy flush to your cheeks. Where you might have clothed yourself in baggy comfort intending to spend the day on the couch wrapped in the television's mind-numbing noise, you instead dress to make yourself feel good in your skin: structured skinny jeans, a clingy long-sleeve, and fun earrings. The swelling around your eyes is soothed by cool eye cream, and the flush in your cheeks is accentuated by a fresh face of light makeup. Your hair isn’t left limp to dry slowly on its own. Instead, you style it, facing yourself head-on in the bathroom mirror as you run your fingers through soft strands. You’re pleasantly surprised to see bright eyes and the dimple of a smile that doesn’t feel forced, so far from the anguished girl you’d been the night before.

Penny is equally as surprised when you wander into the kitchen, stomach growling from the late waking hour, closer to evening than to morning. “Hey,” she greets you cautiously, jangling keys halting in her palm, eyes wide and locked on you as you duck to root in the refrigerator for sustenance.

“Hey!” You return her greeting warmly, your fond smile growing when you notice the worry furrowing her brow where she’s poised near the front door, coat half-on. “You heading out?”

“I— yeah.” She confirms even as she starts to reverse the motion, shedding her coat as she explains, “I didn’t think you’d be up for a while. I was gonna get the ingredients for your cake. I can wait and keep you company, though.” She hangs the coat on the rack, tacking on, “I’ll just go later.”

Your brows jump at the reminder. Before last night’s unexpected visitor, you'd told her about the cake you were planning to make this weekend for your coworker Sherry’s birthday on Monday. A box cake didn’t feel like enough to repay the years of kindness the motherly woman had bestowed on your office, so you’d resolved to make it from scratch: a decadent chocolate cake with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee as the secret ingredient. It’s not as difficult to bake as it might sound, but you do need to buy semi-sweet cocoa and powdered sugar for the buttercream frosting.

“Don’t you have Charlie’s awards thing tonight?” 

Penny exhales a long, weary sigh. “Y/n. I’m not going anymore.”

What ensues is a brief sisterly squabble in which Penny insists on staying home to take care of you, and you insist that you need nothing of the sort. “Look at me!” You exclaim, arms thrown wide in exasperation. “Do I look like I need you to baby me?” You soften. “I’m really okay, Pen. Charlie will be so disappointed if you miss his ceremony. It’s not every day your boyfriend receives the medal of valor in firefighting.”

Your sister huffs, grumbling, “It’s not the medal of valor; it’s a medal of valor. There’s more than one.” She runs her eyes over you, assessing, hedging, trying to penetrate through any facade you may be putting on. When she sighs again, this time in resignation, your smile widens to a beam. “Fine.” She concedes. “We can go to the store together, and then I’ll go to the ceremony.”

With a sharp huff, you cross your arms. “Pen—!”

Penny doesn’t win that argument either, begrudgingly acknowledging that you’re right; she wouldn’t have enough time to get ready if she accompanied you to the grocery store. You scarf down some food and make a list of your shopping for the week, and by the time you hear her clicking back to the front door, you've finished your list. You see her clasping her earring, now bedecked in high heels and a pretty dress. “I’ll be back tonight,” she promises you from the threshold. “Text me if you need me, okay?”

The tenderness in her voice is clear, and you look up from your list to flash her a soft, grateful smile. “I will, Pen. Love you.”

“Love you.”

–

The trip to the grocery store just down the street from Penny’s house is both mundane and soothing. It’s dated, but the aisles are always clean, and you slip into the anonymous sea of people doing their Saturday afternoon shopping, a small smile of contentment blooming on your face as your cart squeaks rhythmically with your easy steps. Methodically, you mosy down each aisle, reaching soft fingers toward fruits and vegetables, grains and rice. As you go, you scratch them from the handwritten list nestled in your purse, placed conveniently in the top basket of your cart. The routine of it all— the normalcy— brings comfort.

You reach the baking aisle near the tail end of your list, with only the dairy aisle left to be visited. The speakers are playing ‘Ain’t It Fun’ as you plop the floppy bag of powdered sugar absentmindedly into your cart, eyes scanning the shelves for the semi-sweet cocoa powder. You step back with a contemplative pooch to your lips, brows perking when you finally spot it on the top shelf. It’s pushed back from the edge, likely one of the last ones, not commonly restocked. You move in until your front is nearly pressed to the shelves, biting your lip as your wiggling fingers flop for the plastic tub. Futiley, you meet nothing but air and metallic shelving. You plant your hands on your hips, reassessing with squinted eyes and a more exaggerated pooch when you register a tall presence at your side.

“What’re you trying to get?” 

The unfamiliar man is middle-aged, donning a checkered shirt and kind crow's feet that crinkle in their practiced creases when he smiles encouragingly at you. You turn shy eyes back to the shelf. “The semi-sweet cocoa,” you say, motioning to the top shelf. “It’s too far back for me.”

Wordlessly, he reaches up, hand disappearing from your sight as it wedges between other containers of chocolate. It comes back quickly with your treasure, and the man drops it into your grateful hands.

“Thank you so much,” you say, and he meets you with an easy smile and a wave of his hand. 

“‘S nothing. Have a good one.” 

He’s turning away as you smile back. “You too—”

A familiar voice from behind interjects, feminine and light. “I can't believe I ever fell for that. Your innocent little sweet girl routine.”

Light but mocking. Feminine but laced with venom.

You freeze with dumbfounded shock, hand poised on the bar of your cart as your eyes flick and catch bright blue.

Chrissy.

Her appearance is startling, and not just because you never would have expected to see her here outside the city. She looks disheveled in a way only cool girls can pull off, but as your eyes dart over her, you realize that Chrissy isn’t artfully disheveled. She’s actually disheveled: hair a tangle of waves piled into a messy bun atop her head, face creased with old foundation, body wrapped in a puffy cardigan, its bulk on her tiny frame making her shoulders appear frail where they’re bunched by her ears. Her frame is tight with tension, arms crossed, dainty fingers digging tight into the fuzzy material, scrunching it in the crooks of her elbows. And on her face is an expression you’ve never seen: eyes big and glassy but sharp like steel, bow lips contorted in a sneer. There’s something beneath the surface of her powdery-soft skin, and it’s writhing like the coils of a lithe snake, poised to strike.

Chrissy’s hard stare doesn’t waver in the face of your wide-eyed surprise. Instead, she jolts out a hand, pink nails flashing to points at the end of her thin fingers. “Show me the texts, y/n. Eddie deleted them all.”

Your mouth goes dry at the demand, and your spread fingers twitch into a loose fist where your forearm rests on the cart’s handle, your wrist curling away from your purse. Your many late-night musical exchanges with Eddie flash in your mind, largely innocent aside from the occasional ‘sweet girl’ from Eddie and the daringness of your ‘Touch Tank’ send. Though, then there’s the last conversation from four months ago, arranging for you to come to see him at his show. Heat prickles down the back of your neck, discomfort tightening in your chest as you open your mouth to reply.

Not quickly enough, apparently, because Chrissy’s pressing on, that snake writhing with the twist of her lips. “Or,” she snaps, “maybe you’re too smart for that. Maybe you’ve deleted them all, too. Or maybe you’d stuck to calling him instead. Is that it, y/n? Have you been calling my boyfriend in the middle of the night, begging for his cock?”

You flush instantly hot with embarrassment as the crude word pops from Chrissy’s bow lips, eyes darting to the anonymous bodies in the aisle around you. Their eyes flash to the pair of you instantly with her exclamation. But the absurdity of the question, the utter wrongness of it, rouses you to action. Your voice is soft and edged with pleading as you turn to her fully. “Chrissy, what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She scoffs harshly, brows twisting up in incredulity. There’s so much venom in Chrissy’s voice that it’s hard to imagine it’s coming from her pretty mouth. “Don’t play dumb with me, y/n. I know you made up some excuse so he’d see you. ‘Oh,’” she whines mockingly, “‘my car is broken! Eddie, come save me!’” Her gaze goes flat. “And, of course, you convinced him to give you a ride home so you could fuck him in the back of his van.”

The weight of others’ silent gazes presses upon you from either side of the aisle. Deep mortification rises immediately and rushes down your spine, leaving you flushed and prickling hot with shame. It’s made worse by the knowledge that Chrissy’s accusations are on display for these anonymous others; their stares are oppressive as the viper strikes with dripping fangs. “Gonna deny it?” She spits.

There is the initial instinct to deny, to shrink away and hide. It would save face, rescue you from the judgment of those people pretending to shop, their ears honed to every word of juicy tension being exchanged in the baked goods aisle of the grocery store like a roadside spectacle. But it would be a lie. And there are firm roots at the bottom of you, anchoring you in the truth. 

So your green straightens your spine. White blooms tip up your chin. Your red fruit nourishes your tongue, unlocking your jaw as you gaze into the sharp blue eyes of your friend. “I won’t deny it,” you say, voice soft but not weak, gaze even. “Eddie did help me when my car broke down on the highway. He did give me a ride home. And we did sleep together.” 

Chrissy’s brow twitches minutely, eyes widening as you acknowledge it so plainly, making no attempt to evade the truth. She appears briefly to be at a loss for words, and it occurs to you that she must have expected you to argue, that you’d probably thrown her off by admitting the truth so readily. The remorse that leaks into your expression is sincere. “I know it was wrong. We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done that to you. You’re my friend.” A lump rises in your throat as her face flickers. “I know I can’t ever make up for it, but I’m sorry, Chrissy. I’m really sorry.”

Chrissy’s eyes are big and glassy, though they’re still hard, as if she’s refusing to let tears fall. Her face twitches— brow, lip, nose, jaw— and suddenly she looks so frail, like with just one small nudge, she’d shatter into dainty little pieces. 

Everyone knows butterflies are beautiful, bold and boastful in their colors and patterns. It does something to a person, that knowledge; they come to expect attention and praise. They come to think they’re entitled to it. So it’s unfathomable— impossible, really— to consider that a moth, with its thick body and more subtle colors, could possibly turn the head of one who’d long been allured by the butterfly’s charm. It defies all that the butterfly knows. 

This monarch— this queen— has suckled her whole life from milkweed flowers, storing toxins in her body. Bold, beautiful, and boastful; powdery-soft, yet unable to be anything but poisonous. Chrissy Cunningham, doomed from the moment she nibbled the leaves of the milkwood, the only sustenance the world provided.

Your sincerity is not enough, and it never could be.

A mocking scoff falls from bow lips, and Chrissy’s eyes narrow nearly to slits. “You're so full of shit, y/n. You’re actually trying to convince me you’re sorry when I know you’ve been trying to get Eddie to leave me for months. It’s sick.” She cocks a hip, and beyond her, a mother and her daughter amble by the aisle; the older woman cranes her head to keep looking as they pass.

Your eyes dart to them briefly, but you’re shaking your head before Chrissy even finishes speaking, quick and earnest with your reply. “No, Chrissy. When I broke up with Steve, I talked to Eddie a few days later, and I told him that we shouldn't see each other anymore. I haven’t seen him for four months. I hadn’t seen him,” you correct, “until he came by yesterday. To talk,” you tack on, not wanting to imply something unintentionally. Your eyes search hers, brow creasing but stable in your truth. “I am sorry for what I did to you, Chrissy. But I haven’t been talking to Eddie.”

She shakes her head before you’ve finished speaking, just like you had, but the motion is sharp and jerky as if to dislodge your words from between her ears. “What, did you two rehearse this or something?”

You’re about to point out that it’s not rehearsed, it’s just the truth, but Chrissy changes tack abruptly, dropping her arms to ball her fists at her sides. Her voice becomes shriller, more acerbic with each word. “What did you do to get him to finally do it, huh? What lies did you feed him, you homewrecker? You stupid slut!”

The words are like a verbal slap, but not in the way she intends. The unfairness of it— of calling you a homewrecker when you’d made the torturous decision to break things off with Eddie to try to do right by Chrissy— summons more heat beneath the collar of your shirt, but not from embarrassment. Your creased brow tightens to a frown. “Look, I know you’re upset, Chrissy, and you have every right to be. But I’m not a homewrecker.”

Gone are wide smiles made charming by crooked teeth. Cute giggles exchanged across restaurant tables are distant memories. Instead, Chrissy’s laughter is jagged, edged with mania— a rattle in her throat, like the tail of a venomous snake. “You’re right,” she says, blue eyes glittering as she sneers, “You’re not a homewrecker because you’re just a temporary fuck. Once Eddie gets you out of his system, he’ll come crawling right back to me.”

A smooth customer service voice interrupts the music above your heads, announcing a special on certain varieties of Halloween candy. It hits you again— the absurdity that this sensitive conversation is happening in the baking aisle of the grocery store. It’s more than absurd, really. It’s a violation. But Chrissy is still ranting, all pretense of softness stripped from her voice as it pierces over the announcement. “—asshole is lucky to be with me. Lucky I’ve put up with his dumb shit for all these years—”

More than anything, this is what makes your chest begin to buzz, indignation tightening in your limbs. You raise your voice for the first time, questioning heatedly, “How can you even say that? Eddie’s a good man, and he deserves—”

You’re cut off with a hiss. “What do you know about what he deserves?”

Your reply is firm, decisive. “He deserves respect.”

Part of you is satisfied to see how Chrissy’s porcelain face goes pink with utter rage as you imply that you respect Eddie more than she does, that you care for him more than she does. And it seems that perhaps that’s what does it— what shifts Chrissy’s motivation from wanting answers to wanting to strike you hard and deep, to sink her fangs into your flesh and inflict damage. 

Chrissy Cunningham’s beautiful face contorts into something ugly. “No self-respecting guy would ever really want to be with a girl like you, y/n.” Her eyes flick you up and down condescendingly. “That fat ass is only good for one thing—”

“That’s enough.”

You blink, almost taken aback at the sound of your own voice. There is no wobble; it is commanding, firm enough that Chrissy’s dainty jaw snaps shut as if compelled, closing her fangs away. 

The bite of her insult is the culmination of everything you’ve always feared. That you’re not pretty enough. Not good enough. Not enough to truly love. But where those words would once have sunk into the empty earth at the bottom of you, seeping through the soil to poison you slowly, you’ve since been tended, and your green is verdant and tall. 

Chrissy’s venom falls like rain onto your green. It sizzles as it slides along the soft plush of your vines and stems, but it does not reach your earth. Your leaves quiver, and they flick it away. 

You meet the eyes of your former friend directly, and you do not waver. “You can believe me or not because I know the truth, and nothing can change that. But I won’t stand here and have you insinuate that I’m less of a person because of how I look. I know what I’m worth.” You take firm hold of your cart, fists tightening around the handle, swinging it around to face her. Chrissy flinches, and you merely quirk a brow as you calmly maneuver the cart around her. As you come up even with her, close enough to reach out and touch the fuzz of her sweater or the tangle of the strawberry-blonde waves atop her head, you regard her with one last cool stare. “Eddie makes his own decisions, and something tells me he won’t regret this one.”

Chin up, head held high, you guide your squeaky cart with even steps from the aisle, ignoring the weight of the stares you gather as you pass. You haven’t hit the dairy aisle yet, but you veer toward the front of the store to pay, body on autopilot as your mind replays the last few minutes of your life.

Once you stop in front of the self-check-out kiosk, it starts to hit you— the wave of emotion that rises as your adrenaline wears off. You’d been utterly blindsided by the confrontation with Chrissy, and in the moment, all you could do was react. Now, you’re left reeling. What just happened? Your fingers tremble as you hastily swipe your items across the sensor, dropping them into paper bags as you try to conceal that rising feeling. Your cheeks puff as you exhale shakily, inserting your credit card, foot tapping against the tile until that mechanical voice reminds you not to forget your receipt. You snatch it from the machine and contain, contain, contain until you load your groceries in the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat of your old blue car. The vehicle is now a reminder of your shame, which was broadcasted by your former friend for all to hear.

In the safety of your car, the tide overtakes you. Bewilderment and humiliation crest, manifesting in a trembling bottom lip and the hot roll of silent tears down your cheeks. You sniffle but don’t wipe your cheeks; instead, you pull out your phone and call the only person who can clarify what the fuck is going on.

This time, you think he might not answer, but breathless smoke greets you at the last moment. “Hello?”

There’s a sense of deja vu as you hear Eddie’s voice on the other end, close but distorted slightly. The loud grind of something mechanical in the background disorients you further, and your breath hitches as you try to speak through the tears. “Hello?” Eddie repeats his greeting with an edge of urgency. “Y/n?”

The sound of your name on his lips forces the gasp through your lips, a shuddering exhale of desperation and relief. “Eddie,” you choke, and his urgency increases tenfold.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I—” you sniffle, fingers fisting on your thigh as you push through your trembling. You’re trying to tell him what happened, but the wave of your emotion has the thoughts swirling in your head, stuttering out through clumsy lips. “I was in the store, and— and Chrissy was— she said all this stuff, and I— I don’t know what’s going on,” you end with a helpless whine, a plea for clarity punctuated with another thick sniffle.

Eddie sounds nearly as helpless, though also confused. “Y/n, I can’t really understand you.” There’s a brief pause, and then a question asked as if he’s afraid of the answer. “Are you crying?”

“Mmm—” a choked little whimper is all you can manage, but it must be confirmation enough.

“Where are you?” Eddie’s voice is so gentle and concerned that the tears flow faster. “I’ll come, sweet girl. Just tell me where you are.”

You’re only five minutes from home; it makes no sense to have him meet you in the parking lot. You run your finger over the seam on the steering wheel, lips twisting as you ask, “C-can you just come to Penny’s? I n-need—”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence. “I’m clocking out right now,” Eddie says, and your finger halts in its path, stomach sinking.

“Oh—” Your dismay is clear in the smallness of your voice. “I forgot you work Saturdays.” You swipe beneath your eyes with your free hand, steadying yourself with a deep breath. “Nevermind, you can—”

You’re about to tell him he can just come over after work, but Eddie doesn’t let you. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he says, and then he’s gone without another word. 

As you stare at your phone screen, guilt prickles low within you, but it can’t overwhelm the sense of relief that Eddie’s insistence brings. You keep the promise of clarity at the forefront of your mind as you drive the short distance back to your sister’s house, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation that blooms low at the thought of seeing Eddie again. Still, the implications of Chrissy’s confrontation begin to seep through your defenses. By the time you’re unlocking Penny’s front door, paper bags loaded in your arms, you’re quivering for an entirely different reason.

You unload the bags onto the kitchen island and shuffle to the bathroom, somewhat reluctant to look in the mirror and assess the damage. When you finally do, you’re relieved to see you’re not as much of a mess as you’d feared, especially compared to last night. And it’s not like you’re trying to hide that you’d been crying— Eddie already knows you were. Thankfully, your mascara hasn’t really run aside from a small smudge beneath each eye, and though your cheeks and nose are blushed and hot, and your lashes are clumped and wet, a few tissues get you back into adequate shape. 

And good thing, too. Because, though it’s nearly incomprehensible since it’s only been ten minutes, someone is knocking on your door, and you know it isn’t Penny.

Deepening light spills across the paper bags on your kitchen island like the smoldering embers of the day have flared once more before fizzling out. Golden hour, you think absently, eyes locked on the mahogany door as if you can see through to the man you know is standing on the other side. Your heart thunders as you shuffle closer, the tide of your emotions rising again, prickling at your eyes. Relief, trepidation, anticipation, hope, fear. They all rush through you, thundering with each frantic pump of your heart as your toes nudge against the welcome mat. The metal of the doorknob is slippery in your palm. 

Slowly, almost shyly, you open the door.

Eddie is rocking on the balls of his feet, one knee jiggling, fist tapping his opposite thigh in a futile attempt to release the tension, but the motions ease as he sees you. All that’s left is the rapid rise of his chest beneath a grease-stained gray tank, visible thanks to the coveralls tied around his hips. 

The first thing you register is that he’s dirty. Impossibly dirty. His pale quartz neck is glistening and smudged with it, and the pits of his tank are darkened with the evidence of his labor. His curls are tied back but loosely now, a single head shake away from coming undone; the dark pieces falling around his jaw are frizzy, and his bangs cling to his forehead. His face is darkened by grime left behind by hasty swipes of those calloused fingers, which you imagine must have pinched his chin in thought, scrubbed over his face in consternation, and scratched at his jaw when the drying sweat itched him. 

Eddie is utterly filthy. But when he raises his hands, grubby and dark like charcoal, you want nothing more than to feel him stain every inch of you. Your face softens, the relief of his presence unable to be concealed.

“Baby—” The choked endearment seems pulled from involuntarily, and your breath hitches at the tenderness of it. Eddie’s brow pinches, brown eyes melting like honey as his fingers extend, seeking you as if by instinct. His eyes flick from your face to his hands as they reach for you, widening as if he’s just noticed the grease marring his skin. 

Those calloused fingers jerk back before they make contact with you, and the abruptness has you jolting back too. You only just now notice that you’d been leaning in, swaying toward him subconsciously.

For a moment, you and Eddie just stare at each other, the relief of your reunion ticking into awkwardness as you simultaneously flinch away. Quickly, Eddie blurts, “Sorry, it’s just— I’m a fuckin’ mess—”

Your brows flash up as you rush to reassure him, bumbling over yourself as you step back to make room for him to come in. “No, it’s okay, really—” You huff a little awkward chuckle in an attempt to dispel the tension, biting your lip as Eddie clomps inside and pauses on the welcome mat. As he makes a brusque attempt to wipe off his hands on his coveralls, which are surprisingly less dirty than his skin, you offer, “You can wash in the kitchen sink.”

Wide brown eyes blink at you, and you flush without knowing why. “There’s more room there than in the bathroom,” you explain before realizing that maybe Eddie thinks you’re telling him he needs to wash up to come in the house. You hasten to add, “I mean, i-if you want to.”

He answers after a beat. “Yeah, no, that’d be good.” He’s playing with his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, a nervous gesture that you need to look away from immediately. You can already feel your moths stirring, and you haven’t even gotten any answers yet. You can't afford to be distracted.

You lead Eddie to the kitchen and he trails after you, lanky limbs tucked close to his body like he’s afraid to brush against anything. The farmhouse sink is deep, concealing Eddie’s ink up to the elbows as he wets them and pumps dish soap into his hands, scrubbing over the length of his arms, almost up to his shoulders. Dirt swirls into white porcelain as he runs calloused fingers carefully, though somewhat sheepishly, over his cheeks, mouth, and chin, then down onto his neck and over his collarbone, dripping water to darken the gray of his tank. 

Brown flashes toward you, and it's then you realize you’re hovering.

You whirl away, snatching up the paper towels on the island and plopping them down beside him. You nudge them a little closer, eyes trailing over the hair that curls delicately at the edge of his ear. “Here,” you say, nodding your chin toward the paper towels when he glances over. 

“Thanks.” You nod, backing off and busying yourself by unpacking the groceries from your paper bags. A loud rip draws your eyes from a container of bright red strawberries back to the sink. You suppress a smile when you see the ridiculous amount of paper towels Eddie’s torn from the roll, though you can’t help the exasperated shake of your head as you pile the powdered sugar and cocoa together, fidgeting with them to occupy your fingers.

“Where’s— oh.” You hear Eddie cut himself off behind you, ears honed to the heaviness of his bootsteps and the creak of the garbage can as he lifts the lid to drop the paper in. You swallow, nerves rising as all goes silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him damp but notably cleaner than when he came in.

Hesitantly, you offer, “Do you wanna sit?” You motion toward one of the stools at the island. He accepts your invitation soundlessly, jerking over, awkward like a newborn colt as he folds himself onto the wood. Gingerly, Eddie places his elbows on the counter, moving slowly in your space as if overly aware he’s invading it. And, sure, you’d invited him here, but you can feel it too— that foreignness, same as you’d felt with his dark presence on the couch that first time in your and Steve’s apartment. After four months, it's conspicuous and unfamiliar in a way the shock of his presence yesterday hadn't allowed you to truly notice..

You’re unsure whether to sit down or stay standing, unsure what to do with your hands, unsure what to say. But when Eddie glances at you and away, back and forth again with little hesitant flits of his wide brown eyes, you call upon the green that grows sturdy through your center. It was you who asked him to come; it should be up to you to begin this conversation.

“Sorry I wasn’t making sense on the phone,” you start. “But thanks for coming.” You glance at Eddie, and he nods, expression open and waiting. “I guess I’ll just… start at the beginning. I was at the grocery store, grocery shopping—” your cheeks pink at the inanity of the statement, and you throw a little sheepish glance at Eddie. “As one does,” you poke fun at yourself, and a corner of his mouth quirks in amusement, though it doesn’t assuage the concern in his eyes. Your fingers begin to itch, so you grab one of the paper bags, folding it as you talk. You speak over the crinkles, musing, “I was getting ingredients for this cake I’m making for my coworker. I turned around, and Chrissy was just… there.” The folded bag gets placed on the counter, and you smooth it with your fingers, wondering how Chrissy found you, not even at your sister’s apartment, but out at the store. Your nose wrinkles in confusion. “How did she even know where I was? I haven’t talked to her in months. I don’t even know—”

It dawns on you suddenly.

“She must have used ‘find my friends,’” you say, eyes darting to Eddie in realization. “I forgot I had that on.” You suddenly register your fidgeting fingers and force them to still; shyness blooms, but you push through. “...Is that how you found me?”

Eddie licks along his bottom lip. “No,” he answers, holding your gaze. “I asked Steve.”

You aren’t sure which is more of a shock: Chrissy showing up out of the blue or Eddie asking your ex-boyfriend, who knows you broke up with him because of your feelings for the other man, to help him find you. You blink, dumbstruck, voice a little weak. Reeling from the implication of it. “And he actually—?”

Eddie’s brown eyes are soft with the knowledge you share, and he doesn’t speak. He just nods.

A welling of emotions rises in you then: a potent mixture of gratefulness and wistfulness, of poignant, bittersweet appreciation as you consider how, even though you’d hurt each other, it hasn’t changed who Steve is at his core. 

Despite his mistakes, Steve Harrington is a good man.

You manage a little smile, and Eddie does the same. You find yourself hoping that maybe the threads that tie Eddie and Steve together may not snap after all. 

“So what happened?”

Eddie’s smoke voice prompts you out of your reverie, and your smile turns wry. "She cornered me in the baking aisle, demanding to see the texts she thought you deleted."

Eddie huffs an incredulous chuckle, but there's no humor in it. "I'm so fucking sorry." He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and mussing his bangs in a move that makes your yearning bloom, though you know he didn’t intend it to. "I was gonna talk to you later this weekend. I spent all last night collecting my shit off the lawn and moving into Gareth's place—"

You interrupt, incredulous. “She threw your stuff outside?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie chuckles, and there is some humor in it this time. It’s dry but present as he tips his head, adding, “She was... not happy.”

“I gathered that,” you say, not unkindly.

Eddie sobers, leaning back on the stool as he gazes at you. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “What did she say to you?”

Chrissy’s shrill voice echoes in your mind, a haze of diluted venom that mists your green.

—you homewrecker, you stupid slut—

—asshole’s lucky I put up with his shit for years—

—he’ll come crawling back—

—a girl like you—

Leaves sizzle, and white flowers shake; you avert your eyes, voice a bit small. “A-a bunch of stuff, Eddie. You don't wanna hear it all.” He accepts your reticence with a reassuring nod, and gratefulness dilutes the poison. Your eyes catch on the powdered sugar and cocoa, a welcome distraction you latch to. “I need to start baking this cake,” you say. You’re surprised when Eddie perks.

“I can help you.”

You’re reminded of the other time Eddie helped you in the kitchen. How nervous you’d been watching him talk with Steve and Chrissy over on your couch. How his body nearly brushed yours when he reached up to take down the crackers; how you’d feared he was trying to make a move when you weren’t yet ready. 

Now you know he wasn’t. 

Now you know he never would have.

Before you can suppress it, a mischievous smile tugs at your lips. Eddie spots it, matching it with a bemused smile of his own. “What?” He snaps playfully.

Your amusement is clear. “Remember when you dumped the crackers on the tray the first time you came to the apartment?”

Eddie husks a chuckle, scrubbing a hand again over his face. When it drops, you’re surprised to see a tinge of pink. “I was nervous,” he admits. 

Shock and delight. “Nervous around little old me?” You tease, eyes sparkling. 

“Yes!” The word bursts out of him as he leans over the counter toward you, the tips of his ears still pink when he flops back again. “I dunno,” he says, a little bashful. “I just didn't wanna mess things up.” 

To know that beneath the bravado and his dark ink exterior, Eddie had felt just as you had... Warmth blooms as your moth wings flutter. You’re instantly more endeared to him. “You didn’t mess things up,” you say quietly, and you know he sees it, hears it— the evidence of your feeling. You take a quick breath, continuing on. “Okay. You can help me with the cake.”

Eddie scrambles up eagerly as you pull up the recipe on your phone, setting it between you on the counter. Together you prepare to bake, moving around each other carefully, feeling out the unpracticed rhythm of sharing a space. Eddie surveys the ingredients and retrieves the wet from the fridge as you gather the rest of the dry. You brew the cup of coffee and direct him towards the utensils— spatula to the right of the sink, electric beater in the deep drawer beneath it. As you grease and flour the pan, he asks you how to set the oven. And all throughout, you find the clarity you’d wanted, punctuating your discussion with little directions and adjustments as you bake together.

“So, yeah,” you say. “Chrissy wasn't quiet about it when she confronted me. She knew about the van, and she accused me of trying to, like, convince you to—” you stumble on the word, heart leaping, though you try to conceal it— “b-break up with her.”

Blessedly, it’s easier to talk about this as Eddie cracks eggs into the metal bowl, tongue tip sneaking between his lips. But at the waver in your voice, his brown eyes find yours.

“Shit,” he mutters, dropping his wrists to lean against the counter. “Fuck, y/n, I'm so sorry. If I had any idea she'd do that to you…” Eddie sighs, eyes heavy with regret. You find yourself wishing you could take it from him. “I didn't say anything like that, that you wanted me to break up with her or something. Probably shouldn't have told her anything at all, but she just—" 

Eddie breaks off, glancing away, jaw tight. The pain in his expression is clear, and you think of claws in his back, blood staining hotel sheets. Though it had been a shock that Chrissy knew about the van, and part of you wants to be indignant that you’d been blindsided, you can’t really be mad at Eddie. You’d seen it for too long— the hold she has over him.

Had, your mind whispers, and wings flutter.

"It's not your fault." Eddie shakes his head, curls coming loose, but you don’t let him dismiss your reassurance. You pause with the electric beater in the bowl, poised but off, ducking your head to catch his gaze. Once he looks at you, you continue earnestly, "You told her the truth, Eddie. I'm not mad at you for telling her the truth. You did nothing wrong."

Eddie quirks a half-hearted smile at you, though he does look relieved. Satisfied, you start the beater, and he talks a little louder over the whir. "She made all that up about you in her head because, well." He looks away, and you keep your gaze on the chocolate mixture in the bowl, hoping it’ll be easier for him to talk without your eyes on him. It seems to be, because he continues, "I did try at first. To pretend nothing had changed. But Chris, she could always tell when something was off with me. The more I tried to tell her everything was fine, the more she'd push. The more she'd need me to do to try to convince her." He rubs at his knuckles, and you know he's missing his rings. 

"She started, like..." When he pauses, you look up to see Eddie watching you. "Well, I dunno if you wanna hear this." 

You take a slow breath through your nose to resist the rise of your anxiety. You want Eddie to feel free to share, just as he makes you feel. And part of you also just wants to know. "You can tell me," you assure him. "If you want to."

Eddie runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dipping to his hands as he holds the bowl steady for you. "Couple months ago she started dropping all these hints, like, that she wanted me to buy her a ring. Came to a point that I started working overtime just to have more time away from home. Kind of delaying the inevitable, in a way, but... I dunno. I knew what I wanted to do long before I did it." 

You glance up again to see him looking at you, face so soft, and it makes your throat go thick. "I just knew it was gonna be rough," he continues. "That she wasn't gonna make it easy. But then yesterday, when I heard you—" 

He breaks off, and you turn off the beaters, resting them on the counter. Chocolate batter drips slowly back into the silver bowl, and you keep your eyes on it, trying not to let your lip wobble. Eddie's voice seems louder in the sudden silence. Hoarse, more labored when he continues. "When I heard you cry like that— God, y/n, I just... It just all clicked into place for me. Honestly, I didn't care anymore how ugly it was going to be." He looks at you mournfully, eyes glassy, and your green squeezes you until your sternum cracks.

You don’t hesitate to cup his cheek, wanting to convey the depth of your feeling. 

Compassion for his situation; heartache for the way he needed to rend his flesh to get free.

Understanding for why it took so long; forgiveness for what he did to you yesterday.

And a tinge of guilt. Guilt that you’d been the one to ask him to stay.

"Eddie—" His name falls from your lips in a tender whisper, and when he lists into your touch, you hitch a tiny whimper. 

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he whispers. "I never want you to cry like that again." 

Your growth reaches and strives for him, chest aching as your chin quivers. “I’m sorry, too,” you whisper. 

Eddie’s brow wrinkles in confusion but crumples when you clarify in a tiny, trembling voice, “I’m sorry I told you to stay.”

The understanding dawns between his eyes, and it’s the blooming ache of a bruise between you. You both sit in the moment until the emotional whiplash of the last two days begins to overwhelm you, stinging at the corners of your eyes. 

And Eddie can see it written on your face. He takes your wrist in his calloused fingers, pulling your hand gently from his face to press a brief, chaste kiss to your palm. The press of his lips soothes the mottling of your hurt, and as he holds your hand against his mouth, your thumb draws tenderly along his cheek. 

The understanding you and Eddie share is the blooming ache of a bruise, but now, it can start to heal. 

He released you gently, and when he speaks again, Eddie’s voice is hoarse and quiet, but the question he asks isn't what you expect. He motions to the batter between you, asking, "You want this in the pan?"

You chuckle, and it comes out a little watery. "I think I'll pour it," you say, smiling at the wry twist to his plush lips. "No offense."

“Wow.” Eddie throws up his calloused hands and huffs disbelievingly through his nose, but you know he’s not really offended. You pour as he scrapes down the leftover batter with the spatula per your instruction, and he opens the door to the oven for you so you can push the pan in carefully. As it snaps shut, the sound seems uncannily like the final punctuation at the end of something. Your clarity has been gained; all questions have been answered. The task has been completed. As you stare through the glass window to the baking pan beyond, the silence lingers between you, beckoning the question. What now?

You break it a bit lamely. "Thanks for helping with the cake," you say.

"Yeah, sure," Eddie replies, scratching the back of his loosely-tied curls. You wonder if this is it— if he'll leave now. You're chewing on your lip, eyes darting to him and away again as he does the same. 

And then his stomach growls loudly. 

"Shit," Eddie deadpans, and when you giggle, he husky a goofy chuckle back. As your humor subsides, it segues into a very clear choice. Eddie can leave and go on with his night, have dinner on his own. 

Or… 

As the offer occurs to you, you suddenly feel shy; self-consciousness squirms within at the thought of being rejected. Still, you glance at Eddie hopefully. "You wanna order some food?" 

"Yeah." The word escapes in an immediate woosh, and Eddie’s crooked grin is unreasonably charming. "Honestly, I could eat that whole goddamn cake right now. Just, like, raw." 

You hazard a guess. "You like Chinese?" 

Eddie’s grin transforms to a slow, spreading smile, fond as it dimples his cheek. You flush under his gaze, but it's not uncomfortable. It's nice. "I love Chinese," he says quietly, and you wonder what has made this moment what it seems to be for him. Before you can wonder too long, Eddie breaks it. "Just none of that healthy shit.” He eyes you shrewdly as if suspicious. “I want all the MSG." 

You snort, glancing up from your phone where you’ve started to Google the restaurants nearby. "You can have whatever you want, Ed," you throw over your shoulder. Your wings flutter pleasantly as he beams that goofy smile you’re so fond of, crinkling the corners of his eyes. What a dork, you think, and there’s nothing but affection in the roll of your eyes.

–

Eddie is, apparently, pickier about his Chinese food preferences than he initially let on. He adamantly insists on Chinese donuts, and the first three restaurants you find don’t have them. The timer for the cake ends up beeping before you’ve even placed your order, but you can’t be too exasperated. How could you resist that pout of his? Full lips pink and pooched, brown eyes so wide and warm and shiny as he tips his head and leans in, coming eye-level with you as his loose curls brush your shoulder. It’s downright criminal, is the thing.

Eddie beats you to the oven, pulling on Penny’s frilly oven mitts as you concede and call in your order. You’re only half-listening to the tinny voice on the other end of the phone, watching Eddie carry the hot pan over to the stove. He sets it down with caution before spinning to you with an air of triumph. You complete the order and head over, standing beside him to peer down at your cake. It smells wonderfully of rich chocolate that’s still succulently moist, wafting damp steam that kisses your cheeks. And as you both hover over it, heads close together, it hits you suddenly how domestic this feels— just you and Eddie, alone in the kitchen, admiring the fruits of your labor.

Your green quivers, yearning. Your wings flutter almost wildly, almost overwhelmingly so. You speak to distract yourself from the feeling welling up from the bottom of you. 

"So, um... you wanna watch something? I have Netflix."

Eddie quirks a mischievous brow, and you flush, smacking his stomach with your arm. It makes him beam instantly. "D'you have HBO?" he asks, and your brow crinkles. 

"No," you say, and you swear he lights up brighter than the sun. 

"Oh," he chuckles out the word, eyes nearly crinkled shut with joy. "You're in for a treat."

You get him set up with the remote so he can log in to his account on Penny’s television and ask if he wants a drink. You fill glasses, placing them on the coffee table as the screen prompts Eddie to choose a profile: a big E for Eddie, a big C for Chrissy. You brace for the blow, for the sting, but it doesn’t come. 

Eddie clicks into his profile, leaving Chrissy’s behind, and you don’t feel a thing.

Still, when you sit next to him on the couch, you leave a healthy gap between you, a few inches to avoid presumption. Eddie doesn’t close the gap, but he doesn’t seem bothered, either. His legs are spread comfortably as he navigates the menu, and his eyes don’t leave the screen as you ask, “So, what’s this treat called?”

“The Last of Us.” His broad hands dance with that familiar frenetic energy as he motions while he explains. “It’s based on a video game from 2013, but you don’t need to play the game to get it. Basically, the premise is that a fungus infects people and turns them into zombies. Well, not really zombies because they're not actually dead, just mind-controlled. But it’s close enough. It’s a post-apocalyptic setting; lots of nature overtaking the land, so the landscape shots are beautiful. And the reason for the outbreak isn’t as bogus as zombie shows usually are. It feels like it could actually happen, which I really like.”

You chuckle, tickled by his keenness, and Eddie flushes at the amusement in your expression, smiling bashfully. 

Subtly, you nudge in closer, shrinking the inches minutely. You don’t need to feign enthusiasm. “It sounds good. Let's do it.” 

Eddie seems pleased. “Cool.” He leans back before popping up straight again almost immediately. “Uh, just, fair warning, ‘cause I know you don’t like scary stuff. There are no real jumpscares in this, but some of it is kind of creepy.”

Despite the unease you would typically feel about that, you find yourself genuinely saying, “I think I’ll be okay. If it gets too creepy, I’ll let you know.”

Eddie’s free hand twitches in his lap like he wants to touch you, but he settles for a smile instead before pressing play.

Your food arrives a third of the way through the first episode. You'd been riveted and are now dismayed by the knock on the door despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach. You tap Eddie’s arm urgently, drawing his gaze. “Pause it!” You exclaim, clambering off the couch, intent on making the exchange as quickly as possible to return to the action. When the noise of chaos suddenly cuts as Eddie obliges you, it brings a sigh of relief.

Despite how engaging the show is, you find yourself looking at Eddie as he slurps his lo mein noodles, brown eyes wide. “Look, see how it throws itself around?” He talks through a mouthful, indicating the infected chasing Joel and his daughter. “That’s ‘cause when the fungus takes over a person’s brain, it isn’t trying to be careful with the body anymore.” He shakes his head in awe. “Fuckin’ metal.” 

You suppose it’s kind of gross, the way he’s talking with his mouth full, but the expression on his face is so boyishly charming that you can’t bring yourself to care. Between Eddie’s eagerness and your shock and dismay at the episode’s ending, you're hooked instantly. "Can we watch the next one?” You ask eagerly, not missing the brief smug twitch of his mouth, the one that means, ‘knew you’d like it.’ 

"Sure," Eddie replies, sounding casual. But when he brushes your hair back from your shoulder, lips twisting as if he's trying to contain the depth of his happiness, you can see it leaking through his bright eyes. 

As episode two eases into episode three and you begin to edge into binge-watching territory without complaint, you find yourself drifting closer to Eddie with tiny shifts of your body. First, your knees turn inward, then your shoulders tilt. Then you’re sinking back into the cushions on an angle, all the while seeking Eddie's light, half-subconscious and half-aware, though the aware part of you does nothing to stop it. And he's doing the same thing: spreading his legs, leaning back against the cushions, taking up space as he edges toward the center of the couch. Eddie inches ever closer until you finally feel his coveralls brush your hip and the heat of his armpit against your shoulder when he throws his arm around the back. 

When Frank climbs out of the hole in the ground and is greeted with Bill’s shotgun, your knee bumps against Eddie's thigh, and you keep it there. When Bill takes over for Frank at the piano, Eddie shifts until his side is pressing lightly to yours. And as Bill and Frank fall into bed together, you look at Eddie and feel your moth wings flutter, that rushing giddiness, that nervous anticipation like this is a first date. Because, for you, there's just something about eating in and watching television cuddled up on the couch, just you and a special person. 

There always has been. 

As episode three progresses through the years of the characters' lives, you press even closer to Eddie, relaxing as you feel him lean into you in kind. You relish the novelty of what you feel: the peace of being alone, the shared experience of doing something mundane with him, the emotional journey this television show is taking you on together. You focus on the physical sensations, too: the rise and fall of his warm chest, the tickle of his curls against your temple when he tugs you in with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, and your head falls to the crook of his neck. You even relish his scent, spicy and smoky but acridly tangy like motor oil and body odor, reminding you of the sweat and labor of his day. But you don't care. In fact, you tuck your nose against the gray of his tank, inhaling slow and steady as you let your eyes slip closed for just a moment, breathing in as much smoke as you can bear. You feel relaxed— not quite at the edge of sleepiness, but so utterly, wonderfully content.

When Eddie pulls your legs onto his lap, the arm wrapped around you tightening around your shoulders, you lift your head and smile up at him. But the hesitant concern on his face is unexpected. Your sleepy contentment fades at his expression. "What is it, Ed?" 

You reach tender fingertips to smooth the crease between his brow, and his face softens when you do. "This episode... it gets sad," he murmurs, brown eyes darting between yours to read your reaction. "Are you sure you wanna finish it right now? We can stop."

You glance at the men on your sister's television screen, how the sun shines behind them as they feast on red, succulent strawberries— the spoils of the months Frank spent tending the plants in secret. You look back at the man who has you wrapped up in his tender embrace, cradling you securely. "It's okay," you say, lips curving in a sweet smile. "I wanna finish it."

Eddie wasn't kidding.

Your breath stutters in your chest, chin trembling as you try to hold back your tears. You're tired of crying— you're cried out, really, from these last two days— but watching this might leave you no choice. Eddie's thumb rubs a soothing pattern along your arm, plush lips shushing against your temple as you crowd close to his side for comfort. You curl your knees up, almost in his lap as you clutch at his free hand. Sadness weighs in your chest, but you can't look away. The pain is just too bittersweet, and Eddie's closeness is just too precious. 

The third episode is nearly over when the door creaks open, drawing your heavy eyes. Penny freezes in the doorway, and you see yourself suddenly through her eyes: the room dark save for the glow of the television, empty Chinese food containers scattered messily on her coffee table, and her baby sister tangled up with an unfamiliar man on the couch, eyes big and glossy.

You tense slightly, pinned by her wide-eyed stare, but you don’t move away from Eddie. "Hey," you greet her cautiously. 

"Hey." Penny matches your inflection before her eyes flick over Eddie, a brow quirking as her eyes scan him— heavily inked arm thrown over your shoulders, your legs in his lap, his earrings glinting, his hair long and dishevelled. You’re at the edge of offense when she says, not quite critically, “Dirty coveralls on my couch?” 

Immediately, Eddie jerks, jostling you as he moves your legs off him and makes to get up, stuttering an apology. “Shit, sorry—” 

But Penny seems to be amused by his earnestness. “Nah, it's fine,” she says, and Eddie’s eyes dart between you and your sister as if he’s assessing whether to take her at her word. You roll your eyes toward her, not missing the smirk she tosses you before pulling off her coat and hanging it on the rack. You just know she’d taken pleasure from making Eddie jump. 

You gently guide Eddie back to sitting, and almost reluctantly, he resettles. When you put your legs back in his lap, he holds them there with a warm palm, touch tentative now with an audience. You blush with pleasure as his thumb traces lightly, so lightly, over your calf. You distract yourself by calling to Penny, "How was the award ceremony?" 

"It was good," she replies, closer than you thought she’d be as she passes by the back of the couch, heading toward her bedroom. Her tone is casual but edged with a sense of knowing implication that makes you want to squirm. You whip back around to face the television, noting that the episode has since finished. Eddie pauses it before the next one can start. 

Penny’s arrival hasn’t quite put you on edge, but it has changed the atmosphere in the condo. You and Eddie are no longer alone, no longer quite as peaceful as before. And it seems Penny's arrival has shaken Eddie out of that place, too, because he says, “It's getting late.” 

You glance at him to see his expression is largely neutral. You, on the other hand, can’t fully conceal your disappointment at the significance of his observation— that it’s time for him to go. You nod, hoping it doesn’t appear as reluctant as you feel.

Eddie is hesitant, quiet as he watches you, and you think maybe that neutral expression isn’t neutral at all. Maybe it’s just carefully guarding against his own disappointment. It could be just your hope talking, and you’re starting to think so, but then Eddie is leaning a little closer, and his lips are brushing your temple, and he’s murmuring, “Do you want me to go?” 

A low flutter. A rush of green. Your throat is dry, and you swallow to wet it. “No,” you whisper back. “Do you want to go?” 

You peek up at him, and light glows in honey brown. “No,” Eddie murmurs. 

You take a slow breath. “Okay,” you say, somewhat louder, but voice still tiny. You bite your lip. “My bed is small,” you tell him. Negotiating. Mitigating expectations. 

Eddie’s lips curl with a slight, fond smile. “That's okay.” 

You feel your own smile spreading. You keep the exchange going. “You'll need to shower first.” 

“So will you,” he counters, eyes alight with his tease. “I’m filthy, and you've been cuddling me all night.”

You feel heat rise, glowing in your cheeks. But it isn’t with embarrassment, and it isn’t with arousal either. “Yes, you are,” you say, sweet and tender. “And yes, I have.” 

Eddie’s calloused fingers squeeze warm around your leg.

–

The bathroom is right across the hall from Penny’s office, which is now your bedroom. The heat of the water is steaming up the mirror, but you can’t see it because you’re already concealed behind the curtain, standing under the warm stream that beats against your back, wetting the ends of your hair. You’re listening to the drops hit the basin and bounce off your shower curtain, and you’re not doing anything else. Though you stepped under the spray several minutes ago, you haven’t touched your soap yet.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie. He’s sitting on the floor in your bedroom, which you know because he’d clambered down cross-legged before you left the room. He’d chosen a spot on the hardwood, away from the area rug and the rumpled comforter of your twin bed. He’d told you he didn’t want to get any of your things dirty.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie, but your green knows how close he is.

Now that you’ve had a taste of closeness, you feel his absence keenly. Your wings are fluttering, frantic to find him. The heated spray is prickling the backs of your arms, running down your legs, reminding you of your nakedness. Reminding you that you’re currently bare and the man you yearn for is just a dozen steps away.

You and Penny never lock the bathroom door at home; if it’s closed, you both know not to enter. Tonight is no different, making what you’re considering an actual possibility. But Penny is home now, and fearing what she might think is the source of your indecision. Still, your green is reaching, trembling, striving for Eddie, and your sister already saw you cuddling with him on the couch. 

You just want to be close.

You decide that if Eddie can hear you through two doors and over the stream of the shower, great, and if not, so be it. You call his name.

“Eddie?” 

A pause yields nothing but the steady thrum of water on the curtain, and then you try one final time, projecting your voice a little louder. “Eddie?”

After a long moment, you hear a creak on the carpet just outside the bathroom and then his hoarse smoke voice, a little tentative and muffled through wood. “Yeah?” 

Nervousness surges, but you pluck up your courage, pushing through the pause. Your teeth scrape your bottom lip before you release it, but your voice still comes out softer and higher than you’d like. “...Do you wanna come in?” 

Your heart is thumping in your chest, eyes darting as you concentrate on listening. There’s no reply, but you hear the door creak open and close again. Your heart thumps harder at the sound of rustling fabric, and you know it’s Eddie’s clothing dropping to the floor; the curtain shifts, and you step aside, making room in preparation for him. Wings flutter and flap, and green tendrils reach until you see that face— white framed with black, tinged now with pink— peek tentatively beyond the curtain. 

Eddie’s eyes wander over your naked form only briefly before returning to your face. “Hi.” 

Your mouth curls. “Hi,” you echo him, pinching the curtain back so he can step in. He does so quickly so as not to let the water out, and the curtain pulls from between your fingers when he tugs it back into place, but you don’t notice because you’re just looking at him. 

The pale quartz of Eddie’s body is inches from yours where he stands under the spray, blocking it from reaching you. The water is already washing the grime away and soaking his hair, smoothing curls nearly straight. You follow the path of the water down the ink of his chest and arms to where it drips over ruddy knuckles and from calloused fingertips; you follow other trails down his soft stomach, over the plane of his hip, down the sparse hair on his legs and to his pink toes.

Eddie’s toes are a revelation. You’ve never noticed his toes before. 

You look up again into honey brown and sway closer to touch the wet hair now flattened to his collarbone. Eddie reaches for you when you reach for him, and his calloused fingers brush your waist. And slowly, by degrees, you close the gap until Eddie’s warm front is pressed to yours. 

Everything is pliant and slick, even the heat of his soft length where it presses between your bodies. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and his wrap around your waist; you embrace each other in the water, in the haze of steam and humidity. You sigh against him when he tangles his fingers in your wet hair, and you turn your head to press the side of your face to his chest. Eddie’s heartbeat is steady under your ear, and his arms are firm around you; he’s so solid within your grasp, so wonderfully and unbelievably here. 

You only pull back when water splashes you in the face; he smiles warmly when you blink and releases you to wipe it away. 

"C'mere," you say then. "I'll wash you." 

You take his arms, and he lets you switch your positions, so he's out of the spray. "Am I gonna smell like you?" He murmurs, not looking all that upset about it. 

"Yup." You grin, reaching around him to indicate the shampoo bottle on the shelf. "Shampoo is here." 

Eddie dispenses a pump while you squirt body wash into your hands; he lathers up his hair, giving you a chance to run your hands over his pecs and under his arms, washing out the hair there. You take more body wash and clean him gently, soft palms trailing over warm wet skin, washing away the grime and sweat as the dirt follows suds down the drain. You clean all of him— the ink on his arms, his pale sides, his hips, his groin, his legs. Even the backs of his knees, which you bend to reach. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve touched Eddie. You’ve touched probably ninety percent of his body in the five months you’ve spent together in your arrangement. But this time, it isn't sexual; it's just intimate. You know it, and he knows it. In fact, when you draw closer to reach around and start on his back, and between you, you feel him semi-hard and hot against your belly, he even looks sheepish. "Sorry," he mutters, but you reassure him quickly. 

"It's okay," you murmur, gazing up into his face. "Let me get your back." 

You swap places so that he's under the stream facing away from you, and you gather the length of his hair, draping it over his shoulder. You wash the rest of him, running your hands reverently over the muscles of his shoulders, down the slope of his back to the dimples at the base of his spine, and then over his butt. His hips twitch at the tickle of your touch, and you both chuckle. “Okay,” you say, and he turns around to face you again, cupping your neck with a thankful hand.

“Your turn,” he says, and you pass him the body wash. He washes you carefully, calloused hands smoothing over your wet skin. Never lingering for too long; still not sexual, but not clinical, either. Sensual and tender, like he wants to take care of you. You sigh as you wash your hair, enjoying every touch as Eddie’s hands smooth over your shoulders and arms, your breasts and your soft stomach, the wideness of your hips, and the pliant fat of your thighs. He washes your legs, and you lean against him with a hand on his shoulder to lift your feet at his insistence. He nudges your arm so you’ll turn, and you oblige him, letting him wash your back with just as much care as you wash your face. 

Finally, the water begins to run lukewarm, and you both rinse off and finish up quickly. You grab Eddie a towel from the nearby rack, passing it over before gathering one to wrap around your body. The shower curtain rings clatter against the bar as you open it and step out, eyes catching on the rumple of Eddie’s soiled clothing on the floor and the plaid red of his boxers peeking from the pile. You purse your lips as you realize he has nothing to change into.

You turn to see him toweling off his inked arms haphazardly. “So, uh—” Eddie glances at you from beneath the damp tangle of his long bangs, and the sight of those warm amber eyes makes you flutter. “I just realized you don’t have any clean clothes,” you say.

Eddie’s brows shoot up, and he nods slowly. “Right,” he says, mouth tightening to a wryly amused line. “Well, shit.”

You giggle at his baldness, and his grin spreads almost involuntarily as he sees your mirth. “I’ll see if Pen has any of Charlie’s you can borrow,” you offer, slipping out the door and closing it behind you, hiking your towel a little more securely around your body as you knock softly on your sister’s bedroom door.

It cracks enough for her to poke her head out, expression expectant. “Pen,” you say, coaxing like only siblings can be, “do you happen to have any of Charlie's clothes that Eddie can borrow? Like some shorts and a t-shirt, or some sweatpants?” After a second, you resist a blush and tack on, “...or some boxers?”

She quirks a brow. “Isn't this the guy you were hysterically crying over yesterday?” 

You huff. “It's different now,” you grumble, and she just shakes her head fondly. 

"Lemme look." She comes back with a white t-shirt breasted with the firehouse emblem and a pair of comfy sweatpants. “No boxers, sorry,” she tells you. You nod and hold up her offerings, noting that both will be far too big for Eddie’s lanky frame. He’s not a small guy; it’s just that Charlie is a big guy. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Thanks,” you say, turning from the door. 

Penny stops you before you can get too far, and you whip around at the salaciousness in her voice. “Wrap it before you tap it,” she says with a smirk. 

You blush furiously. “Pen!” you hiss, “It's not— We’re just—” You huff, stumbling in your embarrassment. “We're just gonna sleep,” you finally get out. 

“Uh-huh,” she says as if she doesn’t believe you, but her eyes are soft when she sing-songs, “Goodnight, y/n.” 

“Night.” You grumble, bidding a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. You slip back through the door with your procurements to find Eddie with the towel now slung around his waist. You hold out your offering, and as he takes it from you, you realize you have another problem. Regretfully, you tell him, “I don't have a spare toothbrush.” 

“It's okay,” Eddie assures you, dropping the bundle of clothing onto the counter. “I can use my finger.” 

You squirm a little with self-consciousness, unsure whether he’ll find what you’re about to offer strange. “...You can borrow mine,” you finally say.

He looks at you, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine. I don't care.”

And where you thought maybe Eddie wouldn’t want to use your toothbrush, you find instead that as you pass it to him, he looks at it for a moment, smiling softly. Subtle, as if he’s smiling to himself. 

There's intimacy in this, too: watching Eddie use your toothbrush and rinse it off carefully before passing it back to you. You've had his dick in your mouth, and you've swallowed his cum, but somehow this— standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with the same brush he just used while Eddie drops the towel and pulls on Charlie's too-big clothes, toweling off his hair by ruffling it like one would dry off a dog— feels more intimate than anything you’ve done before. 

You dart across the hallway in your towel, retrieving a pair of plain cotton underwear and a loose t-shirt from the folded pile of clothes in your closet. You hear Eddie enter behind you, but you don’t hesitate to remove your towel and hang it from the closet doorknob, pulling on your panties and shirt unhurriedly. You tie up your damp hair with a silk scrunchie, watching Eddie pile his soiled clothing into a bare corner of your room to be dealt with later. Together, wordlessly, you straighten your sheets and comforter, tidying your tiny bed in the warm, subtle lamplight of your bedroom. It casts shadows over Eddie’s face, deepening the sharpness of his jaw and the definition of his brow. When he glances up, noticing you watching him from the other side of the mattress, the amber of his eyes stirs your green and feels like home.

Finally, it’s time for bed.

You click out the lamp, and in the darkness, lit by cool moonbeams illuminating your headboard's contours, you and your light maneuver onto the tiny bed. There’s nothing quite like the slide of your fresh, clean limbs against the smooth sheets, the way it contrasts with the warmth of Eddie’s body, the way your damp hair kisses each others’ necks as you nuzzle together, shifting until you’re both comfortable. It takes a little while to find a position that satisfies you both, and with some humor, you say, “Told you it was cramped.”

You can’t really see him in the darkness, but you can hear when Eddie chuckles, and you can taste his minty breath when it puffs spicy against your lips. His voice is a rumble you feel more than hear. "You weren't kidding," he murmurs. "But I don't mind." 

Eddie can’t see the way your face softens, but it does. "Me neither," you whisper. 

You feel his arm shift, and your eyes flutter closed as you feel the tiniest brush against your forehead— a seeking fingertip. His touch is featherlight as he moves hair off your forehead and then drags that same hand back to lightly pinch the shell of your ear, dragging those calloused fingers down to the lobe. "Goodnight, sweet girl." 

You seek him blindly too, searching with your face until your lips are skimming his cheek. Now oriented, you move your head down to press a soft, tender kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. And when you feel him melt into the bed, muscles relaxing against you, your growth— that yearning, quivering green— finally settles into contentment. "Goodnight, Eddie."

–

When the morning light chases away the chill of twilight, you wake first. The first thing you notice, before you’ve even opened your eyes, is the uncomfortable dampness of your body. You're sweating with the heat trapped under the covers, your front overly warm where it's pressed along Eddie's, belly to collarbone. But you can't be bothered to move. You don't want to disturb him. 

When you open your eyes, it’s to a wholly charming sight: Eddie’s nose is whistling slightly as he breathes, his mouth is half-open, and he's drooling on your pillow. Your soft expression transforms when you notice, lips twisting into a delighted grin. He's gonna be so embarrassed that he drooled all over my bed. After a moment of amusement, you move your arm carefully, dipping your hand beneath the hem of his shirt to draw your fingers slowly, so slowly up his back. You feel him sigh and nuzzle closer to you, a tiny sleepy grunt escaping from his lips as he closes them. Your affection for him rushes so strongly through you that you're left almost dizzy. 

The room is lit with the pale light of early morning, and you stare at the freckle underneath Eddie’s eye, the long eyelashes dusting his cheek. He looks so peaceful, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes softened by sleep. You nestle your face closer until you can feel each exhale from his nose tickle your upper lip, and you close your eyes, basking in his nearness.

You don’t know how long you lay that way, tangled with Eddie, unable to tell where he ends, and you begin. Your lips are so close they almost touch when he shifts his face just slightly, and then they do— a tiny whisper of plush lips on yours, the slightest brush that has your moths fluttering to life. It almost seems incidental until you feel the arm slung around your waist tighten, bringing you closer. And Eddie might almost think you're still asleep if it wasn't for the fingers trailing absent patterns along his back.

Now that you know he’s awake, you return his kiss, pressing your lips to his with your eyes still closed. And in the light of morning that shines pink against your eyelids, before the world has fully awakened, the only sound that exists is the tiny smack of the kiss you give Eddie and the woosh of his contented sigh, a sigh you breathe in like gentle smoke.

When you move your head back, blinking your eyes open again to look into Eddie's face, the sight that greets you is new but so wholly, wonderfully welcome. 

Eddie's dark curls are splayed across your pillow, plush lips deep pink and puffy, eyes heavy with sleep but the color so deep and rich it nearly steals your breath.

Nine months ago, Eddie Munson was a stranger, sticking out like a dark mark in the pastel of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend Steve. He was foreign, unfamiliar; you didn't know him. 

Now, he smiles, and you know his gentleness; you know the light in his brown eyes. He who teased out the growth, who caressed the leaves between his calloused fingers, who shone tenderly upon it until it blossomed from the center of you. You're bearing fruit, the words of your soul, and you use them to nourish you both. 

When you break the silence, you don't exchange platitudes of good morning or question how he'd slept. Instead, you say, "I've never felt this way about anyone before." 

Eddie’s eyes search yours quietly until he husks a quiet question. "Not even Steve?" 

You don’t need to think about your answer. "No," you whisper. "Steve is a good man, but you see all of me in a way he never did." 

You watch Eddie’s throat bob in a thick swallow. "I think..." he whispers, wide-eyed and tentative. Like it’s a revelation; like it’s never happened before. "I think you see all of me, too." 

"I do." You brush the curls from his face, fingers like reverence incarnate. "I'm in love with you, Eddie."

And to see it— this man, who guards himself with ink and leather and chains— to see how you feed him with your words, how he swallows them up. To see how his expression becomes so vulnerable, pink on black and white; how he drops his armor and the gentleness of his eyes blooms over his whole face. You watch it, and you know it's something rare to behold. And then he speaks, plush lips spilling words that water your growth like rain.

"I love you, sweet girl. I love you." 

You’re blooming. You’re thriving. You’re rushing with the force of your joy until it stings the corners of your eyes. Eddie touches your face, wiping away the happy rain that has fallen and kissed your cheek. "Does this mean you're mine?" He asks, hushed and quiet, as if he’s afraid to hope for the answer. 

"Yes," you reply, fluttering toward the light that shines in beautiful brown eyes. "I'm yours, Eddie." 

A deep breath, a pinch of your brow. More than you ever thought you could ask for, but you do. You do. "And are you mine?" 

Eddie’s answer is immediate, husked like rich and heady smoke as he strokes your hair. "As long as you want me, sweetheart."

You want to say, Forever, Eddie. 

So you do.

"Forever, Eddie. I'll want you forever."

Eddie kisses your lips, and the taste of his mouth is sweet, sweet like ripe red strawberries, sweet with the promise of a thousand more kisses just like it.

"Then you'll have me, y/n. You'll have me forever." 

chapter twelve : epilogue (TBA)

ko-fi. ♡

heart shaped sunglasses - pt 1: harringrove x reader

au summercamp billy hargrove x steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), swearing, underage drinking, allusions to smut, sexual innuendos.

summary: this was going to be one summer to remember.

a/n: an eternity later and I finally post the Harringrove x reader fic I have been promising.

"This summer is going to blow so much." You groaned out, popping the cherry pink bubble gum as you watched the chaos unfold around you. The first day of camp was always utter chaos; the crying children, the lost counsellors and the dwindling hope that this summer would be magical.

This was your third year being a counsellor at Camp Nowhere. It had started as something to make a quick buck over the summer but had somehow turned into a regular thing despite your hate of the great outdoors and disdain for children in general. You kept coming back each year, hoping for something different.

"You say that every summer," Heather mutters. "And you end up banging the hottest guy here every summer."

You smirk to yourself, tilting your heart-shaped sunglasses as you survey the new counsellors. One toppling over the numerous bags that had been left at his disposal, and another nervously trying to wrangle a crying kid out of the bus.

"Slim pickings this year," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head sadly.

The faint sound of laughter echoes around you. Water splashed in the distance, indicating that the bolder kids had already discovered the lake. The scent of pine needles fills your nostrils as you hear the birds chirp in the background.

Taking a deep breath through your nostril as your eyes continue flitting around the arrivals before they land on a tuft of dark hair. Smirking at Heather as her eyes land on the brunette, you pop the gum once more.

"Target acquired." You giggle, tilting your sunglasses down and giving Heather a wink as you practically skip over to the male.

You approach him carefully, watching as he bends down to ruffle through his bags. There was no denying he had the preppy, rich-boy look about him- the expensive polo shirts, the perfectly pressed jeans and the neatly manicured hair.

You usually liked your boys to be a little bit more on the wilder side, but there was something- endearing about this one.

You make sure he has an ample view of your bare legs as you stand over him, popping the gum as you smile down at him. Watching his chocolate eyes trail up your bare legs before landing on your face.

"So, I have a favour to ask and you look like the strongest guy here," you coo out as the brunette quickly stands to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. "My bags are a little heavy and I was wondering if you could help me carry them to my cabin?"

Making sure your pink tongue comes out, swiping across your glossed lips before smiling at him. Tilting your sunglasses down your nose, making sure he sees how brightly your eyes sparkle in the sun. The oldest tricks in the book.

A bait and switch.

Give them a small taste, and they always come back for more.

"Yeah, uh- I can definitely help you carry your bags," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, and you notice his eyes lingering over your form once more.

Hook line and sinker.

"You're such a gem," you giggle out, your tiny hand coming out and touching his arm gently. You watch as he stiffens at the slight touch before standing more confidently. "What's your name."

"Steve Harrington."

You smile at him once more, pushing your sunglasses back up your nose, turning on your heel as you glance over your shoulder at him, that pink tongue running across your lips once more.

"Well, Steve Harrington. I think you might just be my hero this summer."

"So then my asshole dad told me I needed to get a summer job," Steve explained as he walked behind you. Your hips swayed as you led him towards Cabin 2A, the same cabin you had been in for the past three years, where you were haunted by both good and bad memories as a counsellor and a camper.

"Son, if you want to continue living under this roof, you must get some life experience." He mimicked as you giggled softly.

"So you applied to Camp Nowhere?" You asked curiously and Steve shrugged.

"Seemed like a pretty rad place, the idea of swimming all summer while getting paid. Sounds like a dream to me."

You can't help but laugh softly, shaking your head at Steve. "Yeah, we get to swim between cleaning up vomit and fixing bruised knees." You laugh, the steps creaking beneath you as you reach the empty cabin.

"This is me." You say brightly as Steve carefully places your bag down on the ground.

"My cabin's only two down." He says happily as you smile at him.

"Bully for me." You giggle.

You see the shift in his footing- the way he does that awkward shuffle like he doesn't quite know where or how to stand, and you see the question is coming- the question he had been building up the nerve to ask the moment he caught sight of your heart shaped glasses staring down at him. You lean casually against the screen door of the cabin, tilting your head and watching as Steve runs a hand through his locks nervously.

"So uh- there is that counsellor mixer thing tonight," he finally says and you tilt your head a little more. Your lips almost tugging up in a smile but making sure you remain stoic.

Never give them too much.

"And I was wondering if you wanted to hang out during it? Get to know each other a little better." He's running his hand through his hair once more as he tries to gage your reaction.

Watching as your hand deftly comes out, smoothing the collar on his expensive shirt. Feeling the soft, expensive cotton beneath your fingertips. The slight indentation of his collarbone as you carefully smooth out the collar and smile at Steve.

"Sounds like a plan to me, Steve Harrington." You coo out.

You watch as his stance relaxes, and the breath finally escapes his chest. You still lean against the screen door, feeling the slightly twisted wire on the door digging into your bare flesh but enjoying the slight sting of pain.

"It usually gets pretty wild once the owners go to bed. They're the biggest fucking squares." You explain. The counsellor mixer was always where hierarchies were established and alliances forged for the summer.

"Someone usually spikes the punch, and someone always has reefer." You add, twirling strands of your hair between your fingers as you grin at Steve. "If it's hot enough maybe we can go swimming?"

Steve happily nodded his head; you could tell that already he was picturing you in some tight little bikini.

He watches carefully as you lean forward, your lips brushing against his ear softly, your lips forming the words carefully.

"And don't wear any swimmers either."

The mixer was as dull as you imagined. The punch had already been spiked, but you figured with some sort of cheap vodka because you could barely taste the burn as you took small sips beside Steve. Who seemed to be enjoying the lax atmosphere more than you were.

"Do they have this every year?" He asks curiously as you glance at him.

"Every single year on the first day," you replied, fluffing your hair gently. "And it's always boring."

You'd spent the past few hours preening. Make sure a hair wasn't out of place, that you wore your favourite cherry-flavoured lip gloss and that your cheeks were rosy and flushed. Your counsellor shirt is tight enough to show off skin, tied in a delicate knot just above your denim cut-offs. It had paid off. You noticed the way Steve's eyes kept lingering on your body.

The only thing that needed to be added was your trademark heart-shaped sunglasses.

"I'm sure it'll be more fun once the lights are out," Steve says with a slight shrug as you loop your arms through his.

"Wanna go for a walk?" You asked sweetly.

Steve staring at you for a moment before nodding his head. "Yeah- a walk sounds good. To the lake?"

You wink at him as you begin leading him out of the dining hall. "You read my mind, Harrington."

You heard the faint roar of the car pulling up when you stepped outside. Your brow furrowing together, you were sure that everyone had already arrived. There had been no mention of late arrivals, but at least one always showed up a day or two late.

You watch as the car pulls up, tugging on Steve's arm, wanting to see who was making their grand entrance and if it was anyone exciting.

You smell the cigarette smoke first. Taking in a breath as it fills your nostrils. Steve stiffens slightly next to you as you see the male emerge from the car, slamming the door behind him. The lights illuminating him, you can make faint curls and a strong upper body as he walks towards you, his boots kicking up the dust around him.

"No one said anything about someone arriving late." You say in a low voice as the male approaches you.

Up close, he was even more beautiful. Bright eyes shielded by long, dusky lashes, full cheeks and a strong jaw hidden by some teenage stubble. Though the scowl on his face made you think he was less than impressed by being here.

"Hargrove?" You glance at Steve, shocked to see the two males glowering at each other.

Did they know each other? Did they like each other?

"The fuck you doing here, Harrington?" The other boys' growl as Steve pulls you closer to him.

"Got a summer job here as a counsellor, teaching sports."

You watch as the other boy chuckles. "Gonna teach them how to lose, are we? We both got a job here 'cept I'm a swimming coach."

You could practically feel the competitive testosterone filling the air. The combative nature between the two indicated that they knew each other from whatever Podunk town they were from. You figured they were both the Alpha dogs, constantly tugging at one another for the title.

You watch with a slightly bored expression as the male looks you up and down, his lips curling into a smirk. "And since when did you have sweet little things like this with you?"

Quirking a brow. "I have a name."

He smirks at you, looking you over again. "And so do I. Billy, Billy Hargrove."

"Well, Billy Hargrove. You're late."

Billy lit up a cigarette, nodding his head. "Some things came up." shrugging his shoulders too casually for his liking. "Didn't realise I had to let people know I would be late."

You nod your head, glancing over at Steve, tugging his arm slightly. It wasn't your job to fill-in the late arrivals. That could be left to someone who actually enjoyed the job.

"If you head inside," you drawl out, smirking at him. "I'm sure someone will help you out. Steve and I have a prior engagement."

Tugging Steve away from Billy as you began leading him towards the lake. Though you couldn't stop yourself from glancing over your shoulder, catching one last glance at Billy, who was staring intensely back at you.

"Are you sure we won't get caught?" Steve asks as you giggle, kicking off your shorts, watching as they fly to the middle of the lake's boardwalk.

Taking a step towards him and curling a fist in his polo shirt and waggling a finger playfully at him. "Scared you'll get in trouble, Harrington?" You giggled softly.

Steve straightened himself up and shook his head. "No, hell no. I'm not scared. I just don't want you getting in trouble."

Stepping away from him and watching as he hurriedly shed his shirt. Revealing the toned, slightly lean torso beneath it. Nodding your head in approval as you click your tongue at him.

"You don't have to worry about me, Stevie-boy."

Quickly stripping off your shirt, revealing the lack of undergarments beneath it. Hearing Steve suck in a breath behind you, looking over your shoulder at him.

"Last one in is a rotten egg." You say in a low voice before diving into the water.

The initial coolness almost took your breath away as you dove deep into the water, letting it wash over you. Raising your head and not shocked to see Steve had joined you in the water.

This had always been your favourite part; you loved swimming. There was something so purifying about being in the water, and like nothing else mattered while you allowed the water to engulf you. Though you never got the lifeguard duty like you wanted, always placed in arts and crafts; every fucking year.

"The water is really nice," Steve says as you swim towards him, kicking your legs as you run a hand through your damp hair.

Splashing Steve gently as you giggle at him, watching as the lights from the shore illuminate the water around you. Almost making Steve seem like he has a bright halo around him, the way the water seemed to shine off his wet skin.

"Oh no, you don't-" Steve laughs, feeling his strong arms wrap around your body beneath the water. Pulling you closer to him as you smirk at him, his warm body pressing against yours as you tried your best to pull away from him.

"You ain't going anywhere." He said in a low voice, his grip on you tightening as you stared intensely at him. Not quite noticing just how dark his eyes were until you saw them this close-up.

"You know I was hoping that I would meet someone rad during this summer," he says lowly, his nose brushing against yours as you take in a shuddering breath. "And here you are."

"And here I am." You replied back.

His lips press against yours hungrily as you whimper into the kiss. Your lithe body pushes against his beneath the water. His strong hands tangling in your hair as you feel his hardness brushing against your thigh.

You knew where this was leading. It was leading where it always went.

Though the bright light on your faces momentarily breaks you away.

"Fuck." You mutter under your breath as Steve looks at you withy wide eyes.

The camp Director, Mrs Click standing there, shining the torch on you both. "And why I am not surprised." She hisses out as you glance at Steve.

"Busted by the PC Parade." You mutter as you indicate for Steve to follow you back to the boardwalk.

You climb up with ease, hearing Click groan as she sees your bare form. "Every single year." She snaps as she kicks your towel towards you and Steve sheepishly stands behind you as you hand him his towel.

You huffed as you wrapped the towel around your body. The woman staring at you expectantly as you gather your clothes. Steve quickly doing the same.

"Every year you say it'll be different, but it's always the same." The Director berates as you both begin trailing behind her. "Can't wait to relay this information, they're going to love this."

"Do you know the owners or something?" Steve asks in a low voice.

You roll your eyes as you glance at Steve.

"Yeah, they're my parents."

Chapter 7: Devotion

Fortress Of Memories

Word Count: 3943 words

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death, wounds, bruised neck

[A/N: i posted this much later than i was planning but i promise you all that you're gonna like this one :)]

Devotion

August 1985. Byers house.

“Your mom’s right.”

Eddie’s soft voice brought your eyes to his, silent tears threatening your eyes.

After the Battle of Starcourt or, as every unknowing person in this town called it, the ‘mall fire’, your mom had decided it was time to move for good. You knew she had been thinking about it for a while. She hadn’t been as secretive as she thought she was. You had heard her conversations with Hopper as you helped out in the store. You had even noticed the letters addressed from different realtors when searching for your pay slips. So, you had known it was coming.

It didn’t make it any less harder to say goodbye to the people you loved.

“I don’t wanna leave.” You say, your best friend’s grip on your hand tightening as a tear finally slips down your cheek. “I don’t wanna leave you.”

“I don’t want you to leave either.” Eddie admits with a sad smile, wiping away the tear with a feather-light brush of his thumb against your cheek. “But at least one of us has got to get out of this shit hole, huh?”

“The plan was always both of us.” You remind him with a shaky voice and he lowers his head.

You and Eddie became friends in ‘83, situated in the same classes. It wasn’t hard for you both to like eachother; similar styles, similar music tastes. In fact, it was almost like it was meant to be. But you were only friends. Even after your break up with Steve, that didn’t change. But, since then, you and Eddie promised eachother that you’d go through it all together.

Neither of you felt like you belonged in Hawkins. You had friends here, sure. Robin was a close friend, but neither of you really saw eachother outside of school, not until the summer she took a job at Scoops and forced you to visit on your lunch breaks.

Nancy was a friend, too, but you felt like she only tolerated you because of your brothers. Neither of you seemed to have much in common.

Steve… the two of you had reconnected over the summer. It wasn’t the same, but you had been willing to give him a second chance as your friend. You knew he had changed, and for that he deserved to try again.

And then there were the kids. All six of them, including your brother, that you loved to death. You had all been through so much together. But they would be fine without you.

It just left Eddie. You and Eddie. A dynamic duo that held the promise of escaping their suffocating town together after graduation. But he didn’t graduate. So you stayed. You took a job at the mall, helping him study on the weekends, and patiently waited for him.

Not that any of that amounted to anything anymore.

“It’s okay.” Eddie nods, suddenly striking a grin at you despite the dread he was feeling, trying to offer a joke. “I mean, I’d much rather call you in Cali than hear you almost died in a mall fire on the news.”

Your stomach dropped, guilt churning. He didn’t know the truth. In fact, you had somehow managed to keep the Upside Down a secret from him this entire time. And he was none the wiser, trusting your lies and never asking any more questions. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, every time you lied.

“Right.” You sigh, gaze drawn to the sheets of the mattress you currently sat atop. You’d have to pack these soon, along with every memory that made this home.

You could almost feel his smile faltering when your face fell, his body shuffling closer so you were both sat cross-legged, knees touching.

“When do you…” He gulps down something, an unreadable expression on his face.

“October.” You reply quietly, eyes searching his as he nods slowly. “Hey?”

His doe eyes find yours, tightening his lips.

“What’s wrong?” You ask.

Without a word, he gently cups your cheek with his hand, resting his forehead against yours and you take a breath, inhaling the familiar scent of green apples.

“We’ll call.” You assure, bringing your spare hand to rest against his neck, tenderly. “Just like you said. I’ll visit whenever I can.”

“Really?” He questions a little shyly and you furrow your brows. This wasn’t a side to him you had seen very often. And it usually meant he was hiding something.

“Of course.” You insist, pulling back to look at him. “You’re my best friend, Eddie.”

Eddie thinks about this for a moment before raising his head. “I love you.”

You blink.

Of course you had both said it before, especially considering it was true. You loved eachother. But it was the way friends would say it to one another, usually prompted by a tease or a joke. But this time felt very different. Honest, pure. Romantic.

“I had to say it.” Eddie continues when you continue to stare at him, mouth slightly open in shock. “Because you’re leaving soon and- and I know it won’t change anything but I never… I never had the guts just to tell you that I’ve been in love with you for two years now. And I’m sorry if that ruins anything between us, but I would never forgive myself if-”

His confession was broken by the soft feeling of something pressing against his lips. Your lips. As soon as the surprise faded, he lifted your face gently with his hands, deepening the embrace as you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

When you finally break away, much to Eddie’s dismay from the lack of electric on his mouth, there’s a sweet smile etched onto your reddened lips, a glint in your eyes.

“I love you too.” You gently rub your thumb against the back of his neck as he breaks into his infamous grin, dimples in his cheeks.

“Yeah?” Eddie can’t help the laugh escaping his lips at the sight of his dream coming true.

“Yeah.” You nod, biting your bottom lip, yet it was impossible not to laugh giddily.

Even if you were leaving, even if you wouldn’t get to hold him every single day, you knew it was forever. Because you were soulmates. And no matter where you were, or how far apart you had been driven, you’d always feel that strong connection, pulling you towards eachother.

That’s just what love felt like.

Present Day. Randolph Road. Upside Down.

-Nancy, Y/n

You both stare down at Eddie, his eyes closed, a steady breath lifting his chest.

It had been a surprise attack on all accounts, from the sudden need to fight and the boy that had jumped out in front of you. Not to mention his persistent efforts to try and kill Nancy. You both knew Vecna had something to do with it.

“We can’t carry him.” Nancy says softly and your face falls.

The longing in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed to her. In reality, she would have felt the same if it had been Jonathan possessed by the monster. But neither of you were in the state to bring him with you. It wasn’t like he would willingly join you if he were conscious.

“I can’t just leave him here, Nance.” You sigh, rubbing your neck slightly. It was sore to the touch, bruises left from his firm grip. He wouldn’t have killed you, that’s for sure. But the Eddie you knew wouldn’t have ever laid his hands on you like that.

“I don’t want to either, believe me.” Nancy assures, glancing down at the boy, peacefully asleep. Well, as peaceful as you can be with a demon in your head. “He’s okay. When he wakes up he’ll probably chase after us again, right? And hopefully by then we’ll be with the others and we can all try to get him back. But it’s too dangerous right now, Y/n.”

“I know.” You crouch beside him, tenderly brushing your fingers across his cheek. “It just sucks.”

She places a comforting arm around you when you stand again, resting her head against yours as you take a breath. You quickly wipe a tear from your cheek, cool metal pressing into your skin. You stare at it.

As Nancy points to his spear on the ground, you nod and she picks it up, testing the weight. Eddie wouldn’t be defenceless. Not with his strength and speed. Not since Vecna’s control kept the creatures away.

Nancy was right. Your best option was to continue to the Creel House and find your friends, regardless of your feelings. You had thought you could reach him, pull him out of the swarming darkness caused in Vecna’s reign. But the pain prickling your neck told you otherwise.

While your friend tries to slip the spear into a safe hold of her backpack, you place your hand in Eddie’s, closing your eyes.

“Please remember me.” You beg quietly, before folding his fingers into his palm and continuing the path down.

Present day. The trailer park. Upside Down.

- Will, Mike, El, Dustin, Lucas, Jonathan, Robin, Steve, Argyle

The trailer park was hauntingly familiar to everyone, memories of last year flashing before their very eyes as they did their best to avoid the centre of the trauma.

Whilst they had taken to the woods towards the Creel House, they had heard something lurking in the thick expanse of trees, the snaps of twigs shuddering their bones. Rather than continue, they decided to take the long way around, approach the house from a point they could see. It added time onto their venture, but it seemed to be worth it when everyone was in desperate need of a rest.

The first sign was Mike’s wobbling legs, his grip on Lucas’ shoulder tight as he attempted to bite the pain away. But the medicine was wearing off, and it wouldn’t be too soon until his wounds reacted.

“We should rest.” Lucas suggests with a frown, eyes on Mike.

Everyone turned to look, watching as he hooked his arm under Mike to keep him balanced.

“Why would we-” Steve started, breath hitching when he sees Mike’s ghostly pale face, “Shit, yeah. Uh… Rob?”

“Yeah?” Her eyes were wide as she turned to him.

“We need to find a shelter.” He says knowingly and Robin quickly nods, gesturing for Jonathan to follow her.

The moments it took for Robin and Jonathan to return consisted of a tense silence and a fearful anxiety. No one was sure what about exactly. Whether it was the Upside Down, the plan to kill Vecna, the tension of keeping secrets, the fact Nancy was still missing, or Mike’s battle with a gnarly wound… their mission had fallen off the rails completely.

They ended up in a familiar old trailer, the inside mostly free from vines that could alert their presence at any moment. Lucas tries not to focus on the fact that it all felt wrong. Because the Upside Down was frozen in time, and Max hadn’t even existed in his life yet.

Steve stood guard at the front entrance, Jonathan taking the back after a quick exchange of nods. Robin, Dustin, Argyle, and El sat against a wall, El’s head resting gently on Dustin’s shoulder as she closed her eyes.

Meanwhile, Will was struggling to open the paracetamol bottle, his hands shaking with every moment, eyes flickering to Mike’s pained expression. He could tell his friend was trying his best not to make a commotion, hiding his winces with the raise of an arm, burying his face into his jacket.

He hated it. Mike was never meant to get hurt. None of them were meant to get hurt. And the worst part, the excruciatingly terrifying stress of it, was the fear of losing Mike. Will honestly had no idea if he would make it, and that hurt.

There’s a gentle tug on the bottle and Will raises his head, eyes glittering with tears as Lucas offers a smile.

With a quick and sniffled nod, Will shuffles away and drifts over to Jonathan, resting against the wall and peering out of the back door with his older brother. Jonathan didn’t speak a word. Instead, he put an arm around his shoulder and held him.

“Here.” Lucas holds out the painkillers and a bottle of water. He shook the container a little to tempt his friend.

The fading volume of water was becoming more and more startling by the day. They had packed just enough to get to Vecna, kill him, then be out of the Upside Down in two days, tops. But with all the extra running, side-tracking, and countdowns on their lives, the water supply was starting to run short.

But Lucas didn’t need to care about that right now. Mike needed it.

“Thanks.” Mike says groggily after swallowing the pills, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Lucas watches as Mike tenderly brushes against the bandage on his right eye, fingertips travelling from where the white met his nose, all the way back to the tip of his ear. Judging by Mike’s saddened frown, Lucas knew he was worrying about what it meant. Would he still be able to see? What about his hearing? How would the scar change his face?

“I’m so sorry.” Lucas whispers, earning a confused stare.

“Huh?”

“For everything.” Lucas sighs, slipping down the wall to sit beside his friend, pulling off the sweat band around his head. “For what I said. I just want you to know that I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know-”

“No,” Lucas shakes his head. He needed to say this. “It- it wasn’t cool. At all. No one asked you to come down here and risk your life. And I don’t care why you’re here because it should just be enough that you’re here. I can’t imagine doing this without you, Mike. I… I just hate that… you almost…”

“I want to be here.” Mike says, much more confidence in his voice that he’s had for a while. “The party sticks together. Especially when one of their members needs our help.”

Lucas contemplates this for a while, a small smile on his lips. Rules they had made long ago, confirming and validating their friendship group. It had all seemed too important long ago, somehow losing sight of it the older they got. Now, it was the most valuable thing for them.

Mike didn’t expect Lucas to hold his hand out to him, staring at his palm with uncertainty.

“I drew first blood.” Lucas says simply and Mike softens to a smile.

He shakes his hand before pulling him in to a hug.

Dustin smiles at his friends. After all they had been through, everything seemed to come back to the start.

The movement beside him, lifting a small weight from his shoulder, caught his attention. He watched as El offered a quick smile before standing and walking away, leaving him sat with Argyle against the wall.

“That’s beautiful, man.” Argyle speaks up and Dustin turns to him with an amused brow, the guy’s gaze set on Mike and Lucas making up. “Friendship always wins.”

“Yeah.” Dustin breathes out, nodding. He notices Argyle frowning at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Argyle shrugs, fiddling with the rock in his hand. “Just thinking about how I would feel if me and Rocky fell out over something silly.”

Dustin stares at him. “Rocky is a rock.”

“My rock.” He grins, before sending a knowing glance over to where Steve stood at the door with a solemn look on his face. “Don’t lose your rock, brochacho.”

“What? No. No, he lied. I have nothing to say to him.” Dustin folded his arms in defence, trying not to look at Steve.

“Alright.” Argyle seems unbothered, fishing out what Dustin assumed to be a joint from his pocket, “Just don’t wanna be fighting with anyone when we’re taking down the real villain.”

And with that, Argyle sits back and pretends like everything is fine. Truthfully, Argyle was just as afraid as everyone else. The hits of weed had calmed his nerves, but it didn’t rid him of the constant fear in the back of his mind. He was here for his friends, for Jonathan. And he didn’t want to admit it, but he was here because he had no where else to go.

Further into the trailer, El had wondered into a room she would assume Max would occupy in a few years time, imagining the magazines and skateboards scattered around. She had loved their first sleepover in Max’s old room, the feeling of security despite the unnerving nature of Billy and Heather’s behaviour. Max had showed her how to be herself. Much like you had.

Her eyes are closed, silently breathing in steady breaths. This wasn’t the first time she had done this.

The soft ripples of water beneath her feet reminded her of the first time she tried searching for you after you were claimed dead. She had found nothing, of course, shattering her heart all over again. But she never stopped trying.

She takes another step before lowering her head, shoulders slumping. Maybe the others were wrong. Maybe One was messing with their heads.

i’m fine, nance

El’s head whips up, searching the space. That was your voice.

seriously, it doesn’t even hurt

Her eyes finally land on an object in the distance, too far for her to be sure. She set off in a run, getting closer and closer to the figure, her breath hitching.

She sees you, walking with your head hung low, a tight grip on the weapon in your hand. She can tell you’re with someone, but they don’t show. Nance, you had said. Did that mean Nancy was with you?

Then, she notices the bruises on your neck, her eyes widening. You had been attacked.

She tries to expand the scenery, searching for clues of your location. But then there’s an ear-piercing sound, cutting her off.

A flash of One’s burned face.

She gasps, eyes flying open, trying to control her breathing.

“What happened to the nosebleeds?”

She turns to her left to see that Will had found her at some point, patiently waiting for her to return. His face bore worry, a hand reaching to brush her arm.

“They disappeared.” El replies simply. She couldn’t help automatically wiping her top lip, despite the lack of a wet substance.

Truthfully, she didn’t know why. Over time, her nosebleeds had just faded. She no longer felt the warm trickle of red after using her power. And she hoped it was because she was stronger now.

“What did you see?” Will asks after a while with a soft frown.

“I think I saw Y/n.” She sighs, feeling his hand tense up below her shoulder.

“And?” He prompts, moving to face her with widened eyes. He tried not to be too eager, but it was his older sister she was talking about.

“One blocked me.” El practically whispers, watching his face contort into fear.

“What does that mean?”

“He wants her to himself.” She explains with a pained expression.

Of all the people he could have controlled, he had to pick you. You had looked after her, much like you did with everyone else, but it was different. Because you didn’t treat her different.

When everyone was afraid of her powers, you had stood by her and shown her how to control her anger, to assess situations before acting. When she had accidentally hurt Lucas, you were the first to ensure it wasn’t her fault, that she was confused.

And when El lost Hopper, you made sure to fill that void and be the best big sister imaginable.

December 1985. New Byers house.

“Hey, mom’s making dinner.” You poke your head around El’s door, widening the three inch gap the girl had left every night since arriving.

“Okay.” El replies quietly. After a moment of silence, she glances up to see you were in her room now with a small smile.

“You okay?” You ask, sitting on the edge of her bed as she colours something on her desk.

“Yes.” She says, but her voice wasn’t obeying her attempt at faking it.

“I miss him too.” You say after a while and she finally turns to meet your eyes. “He was amazing. And I know he’d be so proud of you right now.”

“Do you think so?” El’s voice wobbled and she moved from her chair to sit beside you, allowing you to grasp her hand.

“I know it.” You smile, “And I know he wanted you to have a normal life, too. And I am really glad you’re here.”

“Why?” She questions, resting her head on your shoulder and you gently stroke her hair with your other hand.

“Because there are too many boys in this house.” You sigh and she giggles. “And I always wanted a sister.”

“Me too.” El smiled, bringing her head up before glancing to the door. “What are we eating?”

“Well,” You purse your lips, “Mom’s cooking so… we’ll probably order pizza soon.”

She can’t help the grin on her face as you grimaced just before Joyce shouts up the stairs.

“Hey, kids, how do we feel about pizza?”

You both go silent, slowly turning to eachother before erupting into a fit of laughter, falling back onto the bed while clutching your stomachs.

Present day. Randolph Lane. Upside Down.

- Eddie

Once he groans awake, breathing out into the spotted air, he realises he had failed.

And you were nowhere to be found.

Eddie sits up, moving his hand to grab his shield that lay not far from him, noticing his spear had disappeared. You must have taken it for the other girl.

Then he feels it, something cold and defined in his hand.

Slowly opening his palm, he frowns at the object, glinting blue in his hand.

Why was he holding a ring?

It was a little muddy, the shine on the silver coated with dust. It wasn’t one he had worn, nothing like the rings on his left hand. But the small blue in the centre stared back at him.

It was definitely familiar.

But why did he have it?

It was impossible, for one. Considering the rings on his left hand were the only ones he had worn since giving you the other-

You had taken the ring, slipping it onto your right hand and admiring it with a small smile, a laugh on your lips as he just stared in awe.

It was just a favour, you fiddling around with his rings as you led with your back to his chest before asking to try the blue silver on. He couldn’t say no to you, chuckling as you try it on every finger before settling on mirroring his own preferred way, holding it up to admire.

But he was too busy admiring you, his best friend. The girl he was madly in love with. He insisted you keep the ring after that.

Stumbling back, Eddie breaks out of the memory with a harsh gasp, hand over his heart as he clutched onto the ring tightly. During all of his commands and obedience, there had always been one thing holding him back from submitting to the darkness completely, one thing that was trying to trigger his memory. One person that he thought he’d never see again.

“Y/n.” He breathes out into the dark, a rush of emotions striking his chest.

He remembered.

He remembered it all.

[i'm trying to fix the taglist so if it isn't working then i apologise so much, idk what's happening but it won't let me tag certain people - i'll highlight in red the ones that dont tag]

taglist: @h-ness1944 . @ali-in-w0nderland . @dylanmunson . @silky-luxe . @mothmanatemycat . @sattlersquarry . @sadbitchfangirl . @fangirling-4-ever . @averagestudent03 . @gnnnne . @munsonology . @vintagehellfire . @bokuto-kinnie . @crissicat13 . @katie-tibo . @harrys-tittie . @the-world-is-a-mess-and-so-am-i . @lxvesickreality . @fracturedarkness . @frogers . @we-out-here-simping . @h0peless-r0m4ntic888

This has been a long time coming but I’ve been wanting to do some character study/cheat sheets for some time now!

Up first is Steve! He’s a little harder bc his features are so prominent that if you don’t draw them right, it doesn’t really look like him :,)