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radicalbilly · 3 months

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Steve Harrington x fem!reader [3.4K] request from anon: what about Steve teaching reader how to really kiss? Like she’s only ever had bad ones before?

“Sloppy?” Steve grimaced, smiling through your word choice despite the disappointment he felt for you.

You shrugged, nose crinkled as you remembered. “Yeah. Wet, y’know? And not like— it was just too much…tongue.”

There was a silence, a sad kind that filled the room. Steve wasn’t sure what to say. You kind of regretted telling the boy. So you sighed and shrugged it off again, biting the head off of red Sour Patch Kid.

“Maybe I just don’t like making out,” you sounded defeated and Steve hated it, frowning as he watched you chew your candy mournfully, your back pressed to the side of his unmade bed. “That’s normal, right? Like, some people just don’t like things like that and—”

“Hey, hey,” Steve knocked his foot against yours, legs stretched out across his bedroom floor. The pack of playing cards had been abandoned beside some unopened twizzlers and Steve’s can of cherry soda. “Look, of course that’s normal. And— and if that’s how you feel, that’s totally okay, alright?”

The boy hesitated, worried his bottom lip between his teeth and wondered if he should keep talking. You watched him, brows raised expectantly.

“I just think—” Steve cleared his throat, his pointer finger dragging patterned across his carpet. He shrugged, all faux nonchalance. He didn’t want to sound like a creep, not to his best friend. Not to you. “I just think that maybe you’ve not had a good kiss, y’know?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. And Steve didn’t try and backtrack, or explain himself, he just waited, watching you think. His bedroom window was open, the sounds of the early evening slipping through. Someone’s backyard pool filter, their sprinklers out the front, the quiet spin of a kids bike going down the sidewalk.

You didn’t look at Steve when you finally asked, “well, what is a good kiss?”

You felt stupid, asking such a thing at your age but maybe you’d grown up picking all the wrong kinds of guys. Impatient boys, greedy boys, selfish boys. Boys who turned into men who didn’t have the time of day to take it slow with a girl like you. Boys who thought they were men, who used too much teeth and tongue and pressure and tasted like cheap party beer and the leftover smoke of their cigarette.

Guys who got too handsy too quick, guys who didn’t care that when they pulled away from your lips, you swiped the back of your hand over your mouth and tried not to frown.

Steve shifted a little, cheeks turning pink as his eyes found yours. “Well,” he gestured at you, awkward. His gaze settled on your lips before he blinked and looked away. “I mean, it helps when you really like the person, y’know? The uh, the chemistry of it all.”

You swallowed, throat feeling tight, chest feeling too warm. You remember Nancy talking about those kinds of feelings when she first kissed Jonathan, a dopey, soft smile on her lips as she recounted it, telling you of the buzz under her skin, the flips that her stomach did when he leaned in to meet her, eyes closing.

“Sure,” you agreed. You don’t think you’d ever felt that way about the boys you had kissed. “Right.”

“But I guess you’re supposed to take your time with it? I mean, at first, when you’re getting to know someone.” Steve smiled, soft, reassuring. His knee knocked yours. “You find out what they like.”

“What they like?” You asked, voice cracking a little. You didn’t know where to look, what to do with your hands. You picked up a green sour patch and bit its leg. “What does that mean?”

Steve looked bashful, miles apart from the boy you’d know in high school, with a girl on his arm in the hallways, a different one in his lap at a party that weekend.

“I’d, uh, I mean— person A would go slow with person B, right? They’d start soft. Gentle, I guess? You gotta— they’d have to figure out how the other person likes to be kissed. Not everyone shoves their tongue down your throat, y’know.”

You huffed out a laugh but it sounded weak, too breathy. You wanted the boy to keep talking, you wanted to watch his pink cheeks and his pretty eyes dart across your face, like he was searching for something.

You wondered if he’d find it.

“Not everyone?” You whispered.

“No,” Steve shook his head, his smile wry. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and he was closer now, closer than before and you could smell his cologne, the cherry soda fizz that hung in the air along with Mr Jackson’s freshly mown grass. “No, no, not everyone. I’d give the girl a peck at first, yeah? Just something PG-13. Then, when she relaxes and you know, she moves closer, kisses me back, I’d—”

Steve broke off, blinking like he was getting rid of something hazy. He’d been looking at you as he spoke, words coming too easy, the air between you both warm despite the setting sun. He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, awkward again, a bashful thing that made him suddenly even more endearing than you thought he ever could be.

“You’d what, Steve?” You blinked, feeling warm, wondering if the boy could tell. You didn’t know what to do so you moved, leaning forward until you could fold your legs underneath yourself and your thigh bumped Steve’s shin. “You’d what?”

Steve’s eyes searched yours, his gaze falling to your lips and back again. You thought he found it then, that thing he seemed to be looking for. Because he cleared his throat and let one hand fall to the carpet between you, his fingers brushing over your socked toes and you almost jumped at the contact.

The silence was too loud now.

“I could show you, if you wanted.”

Someone’s lawn mower started up a few yards over, white noise buzzing in the distance as you tried to take in what Steve had just said. He was watching you, head tilted to the side, cheeks still rosy and when you looked at him carefully, you could see the barely concealed panic in his brown eyes.

He pressed his lips together and tried to smile, tight and nervous and he was picking at the carpet, fingers fidgeting as you sat there dumbly. You heard the shake in his voice when he tried to say, “I am—,” he choked on his words, panicked. “—so, so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you stopped the boy with a hand on his shin, your warm palm against the denim. “We’re friends, right?”

The word seemed to burn on your tongue, like it tasted like a lie, like it was as dangerous as one. You waited, breath held, wondering if you wanted Steve to agree or not.

“Yeah,” he nodded, suddenly so serious. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course we are.” He worried at his bottom lip again, looking at your own. “Best friends.”

You nodded, tongue feeling too big for your mouth to speak. Words felt clumsy, your skin too warm. Buzzing. Fizzing. You weren’t sure if it was you or the air.

“Show me.”

You thought Steve would maybe hesitate, maybe he’d back out or shout, ‘got you!’ like those prank shows Dustin liked to watch. You thought he’d maybe lay down some rules, maybe he’d tell you how this didn’t mean anything and really, he was only doing his sad friend a favour.

He didn’t do any of that. In fact he didn’t say anything else at all. Steve just let out a breath and nodded once, almost to himself before he let his hand curl around the back of your calf and he tugged, gentle.

He lifted his chin, a casual ‘c’mere’ that had your heart thundering and you wondered if this confidence, this way of acting so sure of himself, was how he got all the girls.

A quiet sort of assertiveness that made your stomach flip inside out.

You unfurled yourself from your sitting position, shuffling to your knees as you moved across Steve’s bedroom floor, bare shins burning against the carpet. You leaned back on your heels, brought yourself down to Steve’s level where he sat against his wall, legs stretched out before him.

He didn’t warn you when he brought his hand to your face, fingers cupping your cheek and his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth and you were suddenly left wondering when Steve’s hands had gotten so big. You’d watched him grow, from a middle school kid to king Steve the senior. You’d seen the new muscles, the height, the hair. You’d never noticed his hands before but now they were on you, it’s all you could think about.

Dizzy. You felt dizzy.

“Okay?” Was all he asked, voice softer and quieter now he was so much closer.

You nodded, face too warm and licking across your bottom lip like a reflex. You weren’t sure where to look. Or where to put your hands. Most kisses you’d shared had happened in the crowds at parties or in the front seat of a boy’s car after a date. You usually lay your palms on their shoulders, holding on and wondering if every boy took these opportunities to grope your ass like a pile of dough.

“We can stop,” Steve told you. He looked nervous and if anything, it made you feel more anxious than ever. “Whenever you want, ‘kay?”

You nodded again, unable to really speak, too scared that your voice would crack or something equally stupid would happen. And maybe Steve knew this, maybe he knew you so much better than you ever thought he would, because he smiled and nodded too.

“Okay,” he announced, quiet and soft and he was moving closer, noses bumping, his eyes fluttering shut. “Here goes.”

“Wait.”

Steve paused, gaze back on your own and he looked concerned, he looked worried and before he could ask you what was wrong you were sucking in a panicked breath and asking: “what if I’m the bad kisser?”

“What?” Steve let out a laugh, breathy and disbelieving and he was still so close, his hand on your jaw and his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the apple of your cheek. He was shaking his head, smiling, looking too pretty and suddenly this seemed like a monumental thing, something gargantuan. “No, there’s no way.”

You squirmed on the floor, shifting further and then closer and Steve loosened his hold on you but you didn’t go anywhere. You just blinked at him, pained with worry. “How could you know?”

Steve paused as he thought and you wondered if he had an answer, if he was going to say something truthful or he was simply thinking of something sweet to say to placate you. Instead, he looked into your eyes and seemed to search for that… thing, again.

I— I just—” Steve didn’t say anything, he didn’t give you an explanation or a reason.

He simply pressed his lips to yours.

It was chaste and sweet and entirely innocent, lips closed and nothing close to scandalous. But then he parted from you just a breath, looking at you from heavy lidded eyes, watching you from beneath his lashes. And when you didn’t move, you didn’t panic, Steve leaned in again, kissing you the same way until he nudged your chin up with his hand and his lips slotted between your own.

He moved slowly, carefully, with a practised ease that made your toes curl and it was still sweet, it made your tummy warm and your head spin and Steve’s lips were soft, tasting like cherry soda and sugar.

You caught up after a beat or two, your hand that wasn’t braced on the floor reaching up to cling to where you could reach. Your fingers found the collar of Steve’s t-shirt, fisting the soft material and doing everything to make sure he didn’t move away. You moved with him, lips meeting and parting over and over until Steve sucked in a breath and tilted his head to the other side, pressing closer, a little deeper.

After another soft peck, he pulled away, eyes still closed and his thumb on your chin as he whispered, voice hoarse. “See? Nothin’ to worry about.” He brushed your hair behind your ear, pressed his fingers under your jaw. “And now, a guy should be testing the waters, right?”

“They should?” You whispered back. Your eyes were still closed too, your fingers sneaking up past Steve’s collar to stroke at the skin at the base of his throat, experimental, adventurous. “How’d they do that?”

You were sure you felt the boy smile, sensed it. A warm breath across your lips as he moved closer again. “Like this—”

Another kiss, the same as before, once, twice and then Steve was parting his mouth over your own and letting the tip of his tongue lick over your bottom lip. It was a fleeting touch, a zap, a buzz, a tingle down your spine and you gasped without thinking about it, lips parting for the boy and you followed suit, tongue moving past Steve’s lips to meet his own.

He groaned then, a vibration against you, his hand skating back from your cheek to thread into your hair and he let his tongue move over your own, lips clicking every time they parted. It was slower than you’d been kissed before, something sensual about it despite being sat on your best friend’s bedroom floor and it made your insides somersault, the skin where Steve slouched burning.

“Told you,” he murmured, breath heavy as he spoke. “Nothing to worry about,” he repeated and when you finally opened your eyes to look at him, face blazing with heat, Steve was looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Mhmm,” you agreed, barely listening, eyes still on the boy’s mouth, fingering the collar of his shirt, not ready to let go yet. “You must be a good teacher, or something.”

Steve looked distracted, Adam’s apple bobbing, gaze on your lips too. You weren’t sure he had stopped looking at them. “Yeah, yeah. Or something.” He swallowed, throat tight. “Do you wanna stop? Or—?”

“No,” you said, maybe too quickly. “Do you?”

“God, no,” Steve agreed just as fast. “You can keep going— just— what do you want…?”

Steve’s words died on his lips as you moved suddenly, rising to your knees only to push Steve back to the wall. His hands fell to his sides, hovering in mid air as he stared, watching as you swung a leg over his knees and sat carefully on his lap. You were cautious, more on his thighs that closer to anything else but you tried to breathe evenly as you took in the position.

“Okay?” You asked him, voice caught sticky in your throat with nerves but Steve nodded, head bobbing hurriedly. You sucked in a breath, smoothing your hands over Steve’s shoulders before you did as he had, smoothing them up the sides of his neck and holding his jaw carefully. “What do I do now?”

‘Whatever you want,’ Steve wanted to beg. But apparently this was a lesson of sorts and he had something to teach you. So he cleared his throat to make sure his voice wouldn’t crack and held your hips, hands gentle and polite. “You, uh, you find out what I like.”

You nails scratched at the back of his neck, unconsciously. You licked your lips. “How do I do that?”

Steve’s hands flexed on your hips, climbing to your waist, holding you a little tighter. Something seemed to shift then, his eyes lighting up. He looked like he was ready to fight, like you’d asked him if he were up for a challenge. It made you grin.

“Kiss me.”

So you did.

You did as Steve had at the start, kissing him soft and slow and chaste, pulling away before he could catch you, teasing, nose bumping his and breaths mixing, cherry soda to fizzy candy. And just before Steve was about to groan, frustrated, you shifted closer, chest pressed to his and you parted your lips, catching his bottom lip between your own.

It was a greedier kiss and Steve let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk, opening his mouth for you, nails digging into your sides when you licked over his tongue, exploratory, gentle. You felt him nod, the tip of his nose smushed to your cheek and you smiled, amused at his praise.

“Like that?” You asked, breathless, barley parting from him to speak.

“Yeah, like that,” Steve agreed, sounding just as wrecked. “Keep going, please.”

He didn’t have to ask again. Fuck, he didn’t even have to ask as nicely as he did because you were back on him in a heartbeat, kissing your best friend like you didn’t want him to remember anyone else.

“Slower,” he whispered, muttering instructions against your mouth and you didn’t feel scolded, you didn’t feel embarrassed you just followed Steve’s instructions, pulling back slightly to kiss him softer, lips moving with his slower, slower, slower.

You heard him groan, felt his chest rumble and his hands squeeze at you in silent praise and you knew then he liked it like that, liked to be teased. You nosed at his cheek, did as he had done and pushed your thumb under his jaw to bring his mouth up to yours, his head tipping back, back, back. You pecked over his cheeks then, over the bridge of his nose and at the corner of his lips until he was panting, waiting for you.

“Yeah?” Was all you asked.

“Yeah,” he hummed, feeling like he was vibrating. He let his eyes shutter closed, waiting for your next touch. “Yeah.”

You felt bolder, brazen, pushing your lips back to Steve’s and when you pulled away this time, you nipped at the boy’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently with your teeth and until it popped softly back into place and Steve swore, he cursed, he grunted and his hips shifted under yours.

“You like that,” you noted with a smile and it wasn’t a question.

Steve didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Instead he stared up at you and nodded, dazed, throat bobbing as he swallowed tightly and tried to get himself under control.

You moved into each other again without discussion, an unconscious need that didn’t need a conversation. Your hands went to his hair, holding onto the messy ends at the nape of his neck as his travelled the expanse of your back, fingertips lifting the hem of your shirt every downstroke, his skin on yours. It was enough for you to make soft noises against him, nudging closer and Steve helped, his hands pulling at your waist until your chest pressed against his and were seated over his crotch.

You felt him then, hard and pressed underneath his jeans and it made you kiss him like you had something to prove, mouths moving together, open and panting, tongues touching teasingly, teeth grazing against lips to try and make the other moan louder.

And when Steve’s garage door opened, a groaning, grating sound below his window, it was an interruption that told you both his father had arrived home.

You slid from his lap, chest heaving and eyes heavy on Steve’s pink cheeks. His lips were shiny from your work, his hands leaving your waist at the very last second, your butt hitting his carpet rather ungracefully as you backed away, suddenly so aware of the line that had been crossed.

You were burning still, an ache between your legs that hadn’t quite been satisfied and your lips buzzed from Steve’s kisses, the slow, careful way he’d pressed his to your own. He’d paid attention, you realised, picked up on every noise you made, every shift against him, the way you kissed him back eagerly when he did something you liked. And you’d done the same, taking in his gasps and sighs, stomach flipping when his hips bucked and his chest moved a little quicker than before.

Your fingers touched your bottom lip before you pressed the back of your hand to it, as if to hide the evidence. Steve was still staring at you, panting, doing nothing to hide the obvious bulge in his jeans.

And when his front door opened and closed and you could hear his fathers footsteps lead into his office, Steve stayed quiet. Only when the sound of the door clicking shut filled the silent house did he smile, boyish and all charm.

“See?” He reminded you, cheeks still burning. His hair was a mess from where you’d pulled on it. He looked rumpled, undone at the seams. “Told you, you weren’t a bad kisser.”

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radicalbilly · 4 months

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𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈

going feral for virgin eddie, who has absolutely no idea how to fuck you. He needs to be talked through everything the first time. You’re both making out on his bed as ‘I was made for lovin you’ by kiss spins on the record player, volume on low to set the mood. His hands stay folded in his lap because he’s afraid if he begins touching any part of you, he’ll instantaneously combust in his pants. He would die of humiliation so he keeps his hands to himself, but eventually you get tired of being the only one whose being overly handsy, grasping at his hair and rubbing your fingertips down his clothed chest. So finally, you grab his hand setting it on your upper thigh before placing the other just under your short, pink skirt that now sits raked up around your hips. He stiffens immediately, Adam’s apple bobbing from a harsh swallow. “Y-you sure?” He asks, like he couldn’t believe you wanted him to touch you, as if you hadn’t been the one to make the first move.

When he gets the confidence to climb on top of you and kiss you with fiery passion— you both begin removing each others clothes; garments flying every which way with voracity, a game of who can get the other naked the quickest. Of course in Eddie’s eager fashion and the fact that you were wearing very little clothing to begin with, he had you completely naked in a matter of seconds; his heavily ringed hands shaking all the while.

When he finally sinks into your wet, warm walls; his eyes instantly snap shut. He takes a couple deep breaths because if he doesn’t get his wits about him he will come before he even gets the chance to make his first thrust and you’re just clenching and gripping around his hard cock so perfectly that Eddie’s eyes begin to water, but he immediately blinks them away; he’d rather die than mess up this moment. He starts a rhythm and his cock is moving in and out of you with a speed that scrambles your brain, creating the most beautiful slapping noises. Your knees are spread out wide on the mattress but you need him deeper, so you begin to take charge, talking him through exactly how you like it.

“Here, push my legs back, mhm up to my chest…there you go.” Once your legs are hiked up towards your body, his thrusts slow as if he’s too afraid to hurt you by going deeper, or faster.

“Don’t be scared baby, fuck me harder.” You order sweetly, and he does just that, fucking into you like his life depends on it “Oh! Yes, just like that!” You cry out as he begins pounding directly into your sweet spot.

“Mmm, you feel that? That’s my g spot…if you keep hitting it, I’m gonna come.” You whine, making his eyes snap up to meet your gaze. “Fuck yes!” He loudly huffs as his thrusts get rougher.

“Oh, that’s what you want? Want me to come all over your cock?” You ask teasingly before giving his jaw sloppy kisses while he eagerly nods, his frizzy waves tickling the side of your face “I know you do, you’re such a good boy.” You whisper into his ear, making him groan from the pet name. Just a few more thrusts have you both finishing together, falling into each other’s arms as you pant and kiss while coming down from the most intense high you’ve equally ever had.

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radicalbilly · 4 months

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"we’re arguing when the ball drops on new year’s eve, and decide to kiss and shit i don’t think i hate you anymore"

with eddie and grumpy!r pls

ty for requesting! :D — your new years kiss ends up being the loudmouth, metalhead, wild-haired boy you can't stand (enemies to lovers, grumpy!reader, 1.5k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Another year passes in a blink, and suddenly everyone around you is chanting “new year, new me” like it’s not just some overdone mantra destined to be forgotten by mid-February.

It’s not surprising that you and Eddie are the only two not participating in the holiday theatrics. It’s also not surprising that the two of you are spending the entirety Steve’s New Years party bickering like a married couple on the couch.

You both got dragged here — you by Robin, and him by Dustin — and the two of you are acting like total grumps about it accordingly. And even though you can’t stand being in the same room as each other, you’ve been shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room all night.

You’re sitting pretty in a black dress beside him, scowling like a storm cloud while Eddie scoops a handful of pretzels in his mouth. Seemingly noticing your side-eyed glare, he starts to chew more audibly because he knows how much you hate it. The slow and rhythmic smack smack smack makes the chatter around you sound more distant as your skin begins to crawl.

Eddie smiles when you tense — wider when you glare at him.

“Sometimes I wonder why I hate you, and then you do stuff like that, and I think to myself, “oh yeah, that’s why.”

He grins with all his teeth, pretzels crumbs and all. “The feeling’s mutual, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you grumble with a roll of your eyes.

You shake your crossed leg to the music playing softly overhead and try to focus on the television in front of you. The staticky film of Times Square isn’t quite as distracting as the boy beside you — and not just because he’s purposefully trying to annoy you.

He has no right to be this pretty, with his wild hair and black button-up and smudged eyeliner. It’s hardly fair.

“Don’t act like one, and I won’t,” he retorts, muffled through the food in his cheek.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful. It’s disgusting.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you the widest smile he’s ever looked at you with. The bits of chewed-up pretzel in his teeth make you grimace.

“You’re a child,” you deadpan.

Eddie laughs — a pretty little sound in a scoffed-out breath.

He sits the half-empty bowl on the coffee table, then pushes his sleeves to his elbows. His arms are pale, lanky, and tattooed. Some of the ink is faded and messy, obviously not done by professionals. You think those intrigue you the most. You’d ask about the stories behind them if you even cared.

Eddie rests his elbows on his knees and looks at you over his shoulder. His smile is pink and made of honey — his eyes dark and made of fire.

“You can act like you hate me all you want, but everyone here knows you’re obsessed with me,” he teases with a scrunched nose, motioning to the room with his pointer finger.

No one’s paying either of you any mind. They’re too focused on their own conversations to care about the ones you and Eddie have had a thousand times over. You try to act as disinterested as they do. You think you’re playing the part pretty well, honestly, but Eddie’s looking at you with a twinkle in his eye like he can see right through it.

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Munson.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” he huffs and leans back again, spreading his arms across the back of the couch.

The sudden proximity isn’t lost in you. Neither is the smell of nicotine and sandalwood radiating off of him. It stirs a velvety feeling in the pit of your stomach that you try hopelessly to shove down.

“You must be completely and utterly blind, then.”

“Uh-uh,” he hums with a shake of his wild head. “Twenty-twenty vision, baby.” He leans in close to croon the words in your ear, and your heart lurches into your throat. You shove him off with a half-hearted hand anyway.

“Get off me!” you groan, face scrunched in a childlike annoyance. “And don’t call me baby.”

Eddie settles back beside you with a subtle pout between his brows. “If I can’t call you princess and I can’t call you baby, then what am I supposed to call you?”

“Nothing!” you shout, like being called baby hadn’t stirred something foreignly pleasant behind your ribcage. “Don’t call me anything! Don’t call me at all—”

“Guys! Come here! The ball’s about to drop!” Dustin shouts over the chatter to get everyone’s attention, a bit too loudly. He stands in front of the television along with the rest of the small crowd, ogling at the bad reception of the Times Square Ball and a flashing countdown.

“Sounds like me in middle school,” Eddie jokes, making Steve snort out a laugh when he walks in from the kitchen. You shoot the wild-haired boy a squinted look of disgust and he chuckles. “Oh, c’mon! That was funny, and you know it.”

“Ten!” the crowd begins to chorus.

“You’re an idiot,” you grumble.

“And you’re the one who’s obsessed with the idiot, so… Who’s the real weirdo?”

“Nine!”

“Still you.”

“Ooh,” Eddie lilts, plush lips softly pouted. “So you are obsessed with me?”

“Eight!”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “You love putting words in my mouth, don’t you?”

“Like I said,” the boy hums with a smug smile. “Just calling it like I see it, honey.”

“Seven!”

The dumb name shouldn’t make you melt like it does. You turn into a puddle before you can come up with another comeback. You forget how to form words and get lost in how soft his lips look, pink and delicate like a flower. God, he’s so pretty, you hate him.

“Six!” your friends continue to chant, the only sound in the expansive living room. “Five!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, honestly,” the boy assures with an absentminded shrug, tilting his flushed cheek to his shoulder and flashing you an unkissed grin.

“Four!”

“You’re not the first girl to fall head over heels for me, and you won’t be the last.”

The corner of your lip curls into a quiet smirk. You squint at him, eyes twinkling with mischief and a sudden longing for him to eat his words. “Is that so?” you croon lowly.

“Three!”

He leans in like he’s about to tell you a secret. The nicotine-whiskey concoction on his breath brushes your cheek. Screw the alcohol in your abandoned cup — you’d sooner get drunk on him.

“I’ll make sure to let you down easy, alright? I promise,” Eddie hums with a feigned seriousness.

“Yeah?”

“Two!”

He nods, bushy brows pinching softly together and petaled mouth gently pouting. “Yeah. I’m not in the heartbreaking business, you know? I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, princess, but you should there’s no way in hell that I’m ever gonna—”

“One!” the house chants together, louder this time as they shout, “Happy New Year!”

You blink, and suddenly everyone’s grabbing onto somebody.

Robin and Vickie share a quiet peck you don’t miss in the corner of the room. Mike and El smack a more obvious kiss in the very center of it. A newly grown-up Dustin tries his chances with Nancy, glancing at her with a silent smile she shakes her head at — “Not a chance, kiddo,” she says with a soft pink grin. Even Max leans over to brush a kiss to Lucas’ cheek, right before scowling at him, “This doesn’t mean we’re back together, Sinclair.”

So you feel it’s only right, that in a room of kissed mouths, you get kissed, too.

Eddie is the perfect victim. Mostly because he hasn’t stopped yapping since he sat down beside you, some hours ago now. You reach for him, splaying your hand across his warm jaw (that grows somehow hotter beneath your touch), and pressing a kiss to his blabbering mouth.

You swallow all the half-hearted insults he spews at you because he thinks you really hate him. In Eddie’s mind, if being mean is how he gets closer to you, then when you go low, he’ll go all the way to hell.

You don’t kiss him like you hate him, though. You kiss him like you can taste stars in his mouth. Like the rest of your whole life is sitting on his tongue.

Your mouth locks with his for a moment, kissing the breath from his lungs, only to pull away a second later.

Eddie’s totally frozen when you’re gone. The loudmouth boy — who you decided to hate if you couldn’t love — is left so suddenly speechless. He blinks at you with heavy, velvet eyes and grieves a thing he didn’t even know he could have.

A grin pulls at your freshly kissed mouth. It feels good to have the upper hand again.

“You’re never gonna what?” you tease, tilting your head like you’re innocent.

His mouth parts for an answer. Nothing comes out.

Your smile widens. “That’s what I thought. Honey.”

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radicalbilly · 8 months

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i love him! i love him 😭

thinking about eddie fucking you from behind fresh out the shower. thinking about how his hair is wet and clings to his skin, damp strands catching onto his slick parted lips when he tips his head back and moans, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. thinking about how cold droplets of water drip onto your back when he leans over you and kisses your neck and pants, “fuck, baby. keep squeezing me like that. just like that. oh fuck, i’m gonna fuckin’ blow.”

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n

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radicalbilly · 10 months

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Eddie Munson lounging

Eddie Munson cosplay

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radicalbilly · 10 months

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On the Outside

inmate!Eddie Munson x teacher!Reader

Summary: At the beginning of the school year, your class at Hawkins Middle had been picked to take part in a new program called the “Prison Project” where each student is assigned an anonymous inmate “pen pal.” When you find out there is an unassigned inmate who will get left behind, you decide to participate, for the sake of the kids.

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, takes place in ‘94/’95 so Eddie and R are implied to be ~28, reader is cheated on (not by eddie), past tense domestic abuse, mentions of drugs and drug use, mentions of pregnancy loss, mentions of prison dynamics, imagined male masturbation, implications of an alcohol addiction (reader). I'll add more tags to the second part as needed. wc: 11k

a/n: is this vignette? anyway, so I know two felons and my brother is a prison guard, and yet i'm sure some shit i put in here is inaccurate but oh well. Life made it seem like I was never going to finish it but here’s part 1.

playlist for setting the mood

1994 | 1995 | masterlist

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams opened her mouth. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best. But despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a newer teacher was dismissed. Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr.Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you saying that there was an inmate who didn’t get assigned a student. “We had a student move, so I’m short one student in my morning class,” you explain, keeping your voice monotone, hoping that would be enough of an answer for him.

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought before perking up. “Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” he proposed, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye. The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His brows furrow as his focus lands to the floor, “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.”

After he assured you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

October 7th, 1994

The first writing session took place on a Friday. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids. You grabbed the letters from your desk, handing them to each student as they got out their writing supplies. “Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters.”

Once the kids were settled, you grabbed your own letter. The letter before you had “Teach,” the pen name you chose to go by, written in a chicken scratch kind of handwriting. Just legible enough, but still had a roughness, an edge to it. As you opened your letter, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper. Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…”

Pushing past the lame opener, you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment seriously. His letter was casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. Your pal says that went to prison in 1989 for drugs but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior. A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town.

Your pal also informs you that his favorite genre of music is metal, that he plays guitar, and that he used to be in a band before he got deep into drugs. The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the end of the letter, your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” Fitting for an inmate.

After taking a moment to check in on your class, you start pulling your own pen and paper to start your response. You were not completely sure if your pal knew they would be talking with a teacher rather than a student, but you were confident that your handwriting would be the first thing to give away.

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctually you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.”

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal but were more into radio rock at the moment, though you’d really listen to anything. It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

October 24th,1994

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend wasn't helping either.

So, when your students seemed preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk rather than your lesson for the day, you decided to call it and give all of you a break.

As each student began to read their newest letters, you settled at your desk and looked at the envelope meant for you, the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that you desperately needed to finish. For a moment you deliberated on what to do. On one hand, you had to admit you were curious about the letter, part of you wondered if you’d even get a letter back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher. On the other hand, you really needed to get grades in the grade book as report card deadlines were approaching.

You could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year. Your friends had an influence on your decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself out again.

With a sigh, you decided to save the letter for later.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!”

Slamming drawers and stomping around, you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills.

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you began haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never returned by one of your students. The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with the envelope you tucked away earlier. A burst of excitement ran through you at the sight for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid? Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It gave you a feeling of nostalgia, of writing letters to your mom when you were at camp, writing to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary if your diary could write back. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You grab the letter and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and a bottle of wine before plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was. This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.

Getting the artwork out of the way, take a large gulp of wine as you begin reading.

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach, and no seventh grader I know can write like that. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with a teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.”

He goes on to ask you things like what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asked if you liked working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out.

“I was never good in school. It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…”

A small giggle escaped. You weren’t sure if he was funny or if it was just the effects of the wine as you poured another glass. This letter felt much more personal to you, too. The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon. You could feel yourself smiling as you read his sketchy handwriting.

He asked you what your favorite band was since you “like rock so much more than metal.” You genuinely laughed out loud at the way he worded his disagreement. He says prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. He typically listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quick that I have my ways to get things back and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with...

You ponder this as you rip a piece of paper out of your notebook. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen, or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as the wine really starts to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I teach English, have been teaching since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued. “As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s schoolteacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.”

You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust.

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such hard judgement. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or ridged most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. Partly because being a new teacher is freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.”

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping on your kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right?

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic.

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.”

You can feel yourself getting tired as you go on, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow. Cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt that heaved with you as you caught your breath. He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex. Most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side. The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt. You were sure he had to be a regular at the dentist with how white his teeth were.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through the stack of letters he sat on your desk. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the best time of the year after all. We try and keep busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.” He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front.

“These are for the students to give the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and whatnot. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!” Before you could protest, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared.

You decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards. Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach jump to your throat; your pen name is not written on the letter. Instead, you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body.

“U-uh, get-get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the classroom. Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. Before you could look much further into the writing, your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later.

You’d felt nauseas the rest of your morning classes thinking about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading.

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your new letter! It’s a cute name, by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. My name is Eddie.”

Eddie.

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still made you a little uncomfortable. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Knowing his name made you feel a little better, made him feel a tad more human, more personal than using silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter? The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

Your smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you said to yourself with an airy chuckle.

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, my jeans had holes in them, and I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.

I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.”

Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period.

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed.

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted.

It had gone okay at first. His parents bought your house, he had a good paying job. You clung to his arm, well manicured, appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties. Whispers of the girls talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man.

Waking up early in the morning to iron his white button ups and khaki slacks gave you purpose until the well timed retirement of your predecessor gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. He said he was so proud of you. Until you forgot to iron his clothes as you were trying to get ready for your first day.

Then you were behind on chores during the week, grading papers taking up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face.

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were shifting. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mit” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh that was ONE TIME!”

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else.

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin.

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?”

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too.

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.”

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.”

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles.

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school.

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face.

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts.

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin.

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed, “What is it?”

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you.

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?”

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.”

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest.

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon.

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end.

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise.

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar.

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing.

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you.

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it.

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself.

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it.

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-"

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page.

“What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get.

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do...that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely.

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in.

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground.

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not.

“I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too intrusive to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.”

You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped.

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what.

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother.

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone.

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash.

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab.

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face.

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips.

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

.....

....

...

thank you so much for making it to the end! please like and reblog to show support to your fic writers <3

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #radicalbilly recs

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radicalbilly · 11 months

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Hi! I love your writing. Fell in love with Boyfriend Material first and then read your other Billy stories and loved them too! I was wondering if you take requests? Or if you don’t currently, if you think you might in the future?

hey! thank you so much, you can’t believe how much i love and appreciate that you like my works. i do take requests, albeit slowly sometimes due to my work and personal schedules.

#radicalbilly asks

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radicalbilly · 11 months

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this will be my Joker !

As Above, So Below - Series Masterlist

Van Helsing - Kas!Eddie/Fem!Reader - Soulmates

Minors DNI - This fic is for 18+ readers only.

Summary: In order to undo a centuries-long curse, you travel to Hawkins to defeat a great evil and close the gates to Hell once and for all. Unfortunately, you uncover many unsettling secrets including some about your lost love, Eddie Munson.

Warnings (in no particular order): Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut (Specifics Tagged in Chapters), Major and Minor Character Deaths, Violence, Gore, Body Horror, Blood, Manipulation, Transformation, Corruption, Religious Elements, Criticism of Religion, Biblical and Other Literary and Pop Culture References

Note: You do not need to have seen Van Helsing (2004) to understand the premise of this fic. You should, however, read the prequels.

Prequels: Heaven - Hell - Purgatory

Related Blurbs: Hymns of Heaven

Prequel Playlist

Chapters (Coming Soon): Prologue - Annunciation 1 - Illumination 2 - Descendió a los Infiernos 3 - Crucible 4 - Malum Malus 5 - Via Domus 6 - Revelation 7 - Exodus 8 - Miserere Mei 9 - Deus in Absentia 10 - Atonement 11 - Ab Aeterno

Series Playlist

This fic will not be for the faint of heart. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

Tag List: There will be no tag list for As Above, So Below.

#radicalbilly recs #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n

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radicalbilly · 11 months

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10 Things I Hate About You - Masterlist

@ghostlykeyes thank you for giving me your eyes on this monster!! Summary - Jim Hopper places a new rule against dating for both his adopted daughters - Eleven can't date if you don't - and Mike hires Eddie Munson to get around it. Unfortunately for Eddie, you are renowned by peers for being a horrid shrew.

Chapter One - Two of Hearts •2.2K words / Summary - Mike Wheeler first hires Eddie to ask you out, and he accidentally winds up in a sapphic bar.

Chapter Two - The Stacey Bennett House Party •4.3K words / Summary - The fated house party arc of a high school drama.

Chapter Three - Hungry Howie's Big Date •2.6K words / Summar - You and Eddie finally go on a date.

Chapter 3.5 - The Detention Breakout •1.3words / Summary - You get Eddie out of detention!! Yayyy

Chapter Four - Eat Shit, Eddie Munson! •4.8K words / Summary - "The shit hath hiteth the fan."

Chapter Five - Two of Hearts (Reprise) •3.7K words / Summary - Eddie and you make up! Or do you?

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #radicalbilly recs

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radicalbilly · 11 months

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fake!marriage to ceo steve!! i’m so excited to read this!!

Beyond - s.h. x f!reader

Chapter One: She Might be It

a/n: here’s chapter one of my purely self-indulgent fun, which shouldn’t be taken very seriously, if at all. haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader.

warnings/tags: hugely unedited; mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.

masterlist

The rooftop is crowded, bodies brushing against your shoulders and hips as you try to blend in, ignoring the creeping insecurity that you’re merely an imposter trying to fit into a world you were never meant to. It’s a foreign land you’ve found yourself in. A stranger in unknown territory as you listen to the sounds of lively conversation and clinking glasses.

The air is thick with the smell of expensive colognes and perfumes, bringing to your attention the soft spray of vanilla you’d spritzed on earlier, bought off some discount rack at the mall. Yet another reminder of the chasm separating you from them. From the elites of society you can’t help but compare yourself to.

All around are women garbed in designer dresses, men decked to the nines in finely tailored suits. Beneath, when you look out to the cityscape, is an electric hub of activity below. Cars spill in and out of busy streets, headlights illuminating the night sky.

You’ve found yourself at some rooftop lounge situated in the heart of the city, which you know for certain is well outside of Robin’s and your budget, but Eddie insists. And when Eddie insists, neither of you argues. You merely humor him, milling about bodies around the bar illuminated in glowing neon lavender, fingers curled around a flute of champagne that you’re sure likely cost at least half of your monthly rent.

You didn’t buy it. No—the man who did has long since disappeared into the throng of bodies, seeking out conversation with close companions, leaving you to wander aimlessly about the space, did. And you find it hard to focus on anything but when you’re constantly reminded of your own humble beginnings everywhere you turn.

Robin and Eddie have drifted toward the rest of Corroded Coffin, likely catching up after months of him being on tour, leaving you to people watch in silence, very much a tiny fish in a sea of wealth. And there, in the center of the sea of swirling bodies, stands none other than the man who bought you your drink himself, decked head to toe in a suit, freshly from the office, one hand in his pocket, the other elbow leaning on the bar as someone regales him with a story he seems uninterested in. His head bobs as they speak, mouth drawn tight, light catching on the thin wires of his glasses.

He glances your way and suddenly the room feels like it shrinks. As if it hones in on where you stand. You’re a girl in a spotlight you never yearned for, drawing the attention of Steve and the man he’s presently talking to, your hand coming to rub along your bicep as he waves you over into the fold. Heart hammering in your ribcage, you make your way over, heels clacking against the rooftop, stomach fluttering when Steve’s hand brushes your shoulder as he pulls you nearer to him, asking if his companion will excuse the two of you.

You dip your head to the man standing beside Steve. Definitely older than the two of you—likely in his forties, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth, the beginnings of salt and pepper throughout his hair. And when they’re gone, muttering they’ll see Steve come tomorrow at the office, you shift so you can stand as he is with one elbow against the bar, skin basked in neon lavender light. Your other hand holding your glass raises your glass to his, earning a huff of laughter from his full lips.

“Using me as a distraction, are we?” You tease, taking a few sips of your bubbly drink. “Didn’t think we were on that level yet, Harrington. This is—oh, I don’t know, the third time we’ve hung out, is it?”

“The fourth, actually.” When you’ve finished off your drink, he waves the bartender over for another, even despite your multiple protests. “It’s on me. We’re meant to be celebrating. You’ve finished…year three of veterinary school, Eddie told me. Impressive.”

“Yes, I just finished my last final the other day. And I am definitely looking forward to some down time.” Another champagne flute is pushed across the bar toward you, your fingers curling around the stem. You gently tip the glass in Steve’s direction, watching those eyes of his trail along your face, taking in your features. Curiosity piqued, you continue, “Keeping tabs on me, Harrington?”

“Always Harrington to you, huh?” He chuckles, extending an arm to lead you away from the bar. “You looked a little out of place. Figured you’d like a little company, even if you don’t consider me a friend just yet.”

“In case you couldn’t exactly tell, this isn’t my usual crowd.” Nose wrinkling humorously, your elbow loops with his as he walks you over to one of the many smaller barstools situated along the roof. “Well, we can always fix that. Tell me, Steve, what brings you here tonight other than Eddie’s demanding? You seemed a little off kilter when we first got here.”

“I’ll need another drink for that,” he laughs, the light of the moon catching on his wire frame glasses. “There is a quieter area inside. We could play a game of pool. Catch up.”

You’d like that, so you tell him as much. There’s a boldness you feel as he leads you into the mouth of the building, the gazes of those around you shifting your way, likely because no one can imagine Steve Harrington entertaining Cinderella in a room full of royalty.

He’s not wrong that the inside of the building is quieter. There’s a second bar in here, various bodies lining couches as the two of you steal away toward the pool table. Your throat tightens at the couple sitting across the way, the man’s nose running along the side of his partner’s. Intimate. A closeness that has heat thrumming in your gut as your eyes dart up to find Steve looking at you. Inside, you’re really given a chance to see him. He’s draped his jacket over the side of the pool table, revealing a black tie and thin gray button up. The corded muscles in his arms ripple and jolt as he unfastens the buttons around his wrists and rolls the sleeves up to the elbow, revealing golden tan skin lined with dark hair that matches the fullness of his wild mane atop his head.

Steve, though a mere acquaintance, is handsome. Highly so. To deny that would be choosing to ignore what’s so plainly there. You’ve only seen him after work. Always dressed to the nines in suits and slacks, professional at all times. But now he’s carding his fingers through his voluminous hair and sidling up beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours, ordering another bottle of champagne for the two of you, murmuring, “As we were saying, I think it’s about time you call me something other than Harrington or Mr. Harrington.” And you’re struck with his charm. The little smirk that crawls along his lips making something foreign flutter in your chest.

Your lip pinches between your teeth at the notion—at the roiling heat in your gut at the purr in his voice. Hip pressing into the corner of the table, you shift to face him, head tilting to the right slightly. “Okay, Harrington. You start. Tell me about yourself.”

“That’s so very broad,” he teases, moving to set the pool table. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What does a normal day like this look like for you? Was always curious. Is it always flowing drinks and sneaking women off to quiet rooms to chit-chat? Or am I special?”

“You know, I forget who you’ve been best friends with since kids sometimes, and then you go and remind me.” He snorts, lining up the balls on the table. “It’s actually not all that exciting. Since my dad passed, I’ve been preoccupied with…all of the details of that. His will, stakeholders, lawyers—you know, all very exciting.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie told me and I meant to go to the funeral—”

“Don’t even worry about that.” He waves a hand in the air. “And no, I don’t sneak off women to quiet rooms for chit-chat. I don’t usually have time for stuff like this.”

“Late night rendezvous with your best friend’s best friend?”

He lets out a guffaw at that, shaking his head. “And sleep. Apparently it’s a hot commodity for someone who newly inherited a business. Who knew?”

“I think it’s a hot commodity for most,” you joke, sliding back up beside him. Your elbow brushes the bare skin on his forearm, palms pressing against the edge of the table. “I work at a restaurant after classes. I’m sure it’s…not the same as running a company, but the no sleeping thing…”

He grips one of the poles and tosses you one. “Know how to play?”

“Are the rules different here?” You smirk, lip quirking upward.

“No, guess they’re not. You can be stripes.” He pauses, like he’s contemplating something, and bumps your elbow back. “You’re different than I remember.”

“This is the first time we’ve really spoken alone,” you remind him, grasping your champagne glass and taking a sip. He does the same, eyes trailing yours over the lip as you lean forward over the table for the break. You manage to sink one of his, grinning wryly. “So you know I’m in veterinary school and that Eddie is my best friend. You’ve also known Robin for a bit. I grew up in Hawkins, which is basically bumble fuck. You’ve lived in the city your whole life, haven’t you?”

He takes his turn next, hips angling a bit as he gets into position, those broad forearms shifting with every movement. You turn a bit to take another gulp of your drink, the familiar heat of your buzz starting to settle in. “Grew up here. I’m an only child to Elise and Rowland Harrington. And now I’m the inherited CEO of the company for the time being.”

“For the time being?” You muse, shoving him jokingly out of the way as he sinks one of your balls and it’s your turn once more. “How can one be a CEO for the time being?”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation,” he laughs, eyes lingering on the side of your face as you attempt to sink another ball but it bounces against the exterior with a hollow thump.

You take turns around the table, talking about surface level topics. Laughter ebbs and flows in the spaces between you, an endless banter that flows easily between two friends. And it’s in that moment the knowledge of such solidifies for you. Steve’s company is pleasant, the two of you feeding off of the other’s energy as the drinks continue to flow between the two of you.

He wins the first game and you poke him squarely in the chest, watching those dark eyes of his grow darker as they linger on your face. “Mr. Harrington, we’re going for round two. And you’re going to tell me something no one else knows. I think it’ll truly solidify our friendship.”

“Oh will it?” He smirks, turning to set the table once more. He pours the two of you another glass as soon as you’re ready for the next game, glass clinking against his. “You’ll tell me one?”

At your nod, he moves to line up for the break, and with the clash of his cue stick against the cue ball, he blurts out, “There’s a condition in my father’s will that I need to marry, otherwise it goes to my shit head of a cousin, Theobald Cletus. And don’t you dare call him anything but, because he’ll never let you live it down if you do.”

“Theobald Cletus?” You snicker, leaning in to take your turn. “People don’t really have ritzy names like that, do they? I thought that was just a celebrity thing. Like naming your kids after inanimate objects”

“He sure does,” he clears his throat and gets into position, knocking one of your halls into a pocket. “Anyway, I’m coming up on the date I’m supposed to be married. People are already giving me a hard time because I’m young, and then I have this over my head on top of it all.”

“Haven't you thought about dating?” At his narrowed eyes, you splutter out, “Right. You already said you don’t really have a lot of free time. I’m sure dating is the furthest thing from your mind. Uhm—if it makes you feel any better, I’m drowning in student debt because most of my money is used for rent and helping my dad take care of my little sister.”

He stops in his movements and rubs a thumb along his jaw, thoughtful. “I just had a funny idea. But I’m pretty sure it’s because you’ve coerced me into drinking two bottles of champagne—”

“I did nothing of the sort!” You gasp, thumping the back of your hand into his stomach. He laughs jovially, one of his hands coming up to steady you when you nearly trip over your heels. “What was this funny idea, anyway?”

“We could…get married. Would solve all problems.”

You laugh.

And then laugh again.

Because there’s no way Steve Harrington just suggested what he had.

“I’m serious,” he continues, hand carding through those messy strands of hair. “We would be helping each other.”

You laugh again, palm pressing against your forehead. “I think we’re a little drunk. But what you’re insinuating…”

“I’d help you pay for college, and you’d help me secure the company from Theobald.”

“By becoming your wife,” you tell him slowly, uneasiness creeping up slowly. “You do realize what you’re suggesting.”

“It sounds crazy, I know.”

“Actually insane.” Your head nods up and down rapidly, watching the man swallow thickly before you.

He palms the back of his neck. “It would solve all our problems, though.”

“You’re just casually offering to pay for my college. It’s veterinary school,” you explain, as if he’s not fully understanding.

“Between my inheritance and my salary, I think I’ll be fine,” he says plainly, like it’s some minor inconvenience, when it feels like a daily cloud over your head.

“Your wife.” You emphasize the word, hoping it breaks through his skull the severity of what he’s proposing.

“Yeah,” he exhales deeply.

“And you think it would work?” Your words are quiet and shaky, a hoarse edge filling the tone of them.

Not that you’re considering.

You’re just curious. That’s all.

Right?

He shrugs. “I mean, people fall in love fast all the time.”

Your hand waves wildly in the air. “Just a whirlwind romance. No big deal.”

“Again, just a funny idea.”

You laugh. “Yeah, very funny.”

The two of you continue as if everything is normal. As if he’s not just thrown out into the open the suggestion of a fake marriage. That ease that flows between the two of you continues, even despite it, bodies shifting about one another as you finish your second game and Eddie and Robin finally find you, commenting that it’s probably a good time for the girls to head back to their apartment.

You walk alongside Steve with the rest of the group as you all walk out onto the busy city streets. Eddie lights a cigarette just as Steve asks for a moment alone with you. With a hesitant wave to your friends, you walk a short distance away with him, heart thundering away at what he might ask you now.

Surely, you can’t. Surely he hadn’t meant those words back inside the building. And yet, now that you’re both a little more sober in the chilly summer air, he repeats the suggestion.

“Just…I know it sounds crazy. But think about it.” He holds out a hand and you pass him your phone, watching as he puts his number inside and presses it back into your awaiting palm.

“Sounds like the plot of some book. Definitely not real life.”

He chuckles brightly and nods in agreement. “Just—just think about it.”

And as you walk back toward your awaiting Uber and glance out the window, capturing the gaze of the man standing with his hand in his pockets on the sidewalk, you find that you actually do.

The days that follow pass as they normally would.

It’s almost like you’ve forgotten Steve’s proposal of marriage. If one could even call it that. You’re not sure standing on a side street in the middle of the night, still humming with the remainder of your drinks in your bloodstream, staring up into the face of someone who was still very much a stranger, despite the way you’d exposed yourselves to one another that night counts as one. Had shared the deepest insecurities plaguing the both of you at the present time. Him, with his need for a wife to satisfy the wishes of his father’s will and the safety of the Harrington business. And you, with the endless swirl of debt that dangles like an ax over your head, awaiting your judgment day.

Every day thereafter on your summer break you wake up and prepare for the day as normal. Carry on your routine as it was before. Waltz through your apartment and greet Robin on your way to the coffee pot that’s nearing the end of its life, make yourself a fresh brew, and scroll through social media as you await the silence that follows endless percolating, signaling the coffee is ready. You’re about two cups in by the time you are ready for the day, tossing on what little makeup you wear, and slipping into your work attire. During your summer sessions, it’s generally a pair of dark slacks and a black top. Something simple and sophisticated for the restaurant you work as a waitress at.

You greet your normal customers for the evening, tend to their needs, and slip into the break room to scarf down whatever food the cook’s had on reserve. That evening it happened to be a salad someone had returned to the wait staff. You’ve made good tips for the evening—nothing to write home about, but enough that you’ll be able to cover a good bit for what your father will need to care for Caroline. Mostly food or clothes, now that she’s at the stage in life where she grows out of things way too quickly for either of you to keep track of. Last week it had been new shoes, and last you’d spoken to her, she had muttered breathlessly over the phone in her excitement to get to her play date, that she happened to need new jeans. So you split your tips into two and mentally made a note to pull up the website she had sent you and place an order later that evening to have it shipped home for the upcoming school week.

Only that day in particular is different from the ones before it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s only going to get worse once your father calls you gruffly explaining how he’s been let go of a job he’s had for twenty some-odd years. Your heart aches at the way his voice breaks off at the end, the hurt evident in his voice, the anguish over not knowing how he’s going to pay for everything. You offer to give him extra that week, uncertain of how you’ll also manage to then pay rent for your apartment, but before he can even protest you’re routing him some money over to his bank account—throwing in a little extra for Caroline.

It gets worse later that evening when you’re late to work because you’d missed your usual subway. Your boss is less than thrilled; merely offers you a huff and threatens a write up then next time you’re late. One more of which—for similar reasons—would lead to an eventual firing. And you need your position to stay afloat; especially those vital summer hours, where more tourists fill your section, eager to tip a little extra.

But the icing on the cake. The moment that really drives the knife into your already aching chest is the way Robin looks at you when she enters your shared apartment. Drapes her jean jacket over the coat rack at the door and huffs out a great sigh, glancing down at something on her phone. Always effervescent, Robin’s quiet roils the nerves already rolling in your belly. Your suspicions of the day going from bad to worse are proven correct when she sits down on the coffee table in front of you and claps her hands in front of her, chewing on her bottom lip.

“What’s going on, Rob?” Tiredness oozes from your voice, legs and brain already aching from your long day. You’d ended your shift with a table full to the brim with business men who had barely looked up from their phones to acknowledge your presence. One of them looked so similar to Steve it nearly struck you quiet. Steve, who you still have a text sitting unanswered in your inbox from.

“So, you know how Nancy and I have been dating for a few months now…”

“Well, yeah.” You laugh uneasily. “I’m the one who set the two of you up, remember? She’d been working part time at the restaurant and I noticed her looking at you and all of that—asked her if she’d be interested and the rest was history.” You’re not quite understanding the morose expression on her face, the downturn of her lips, the overall downtrodden demeanor.

“We’re thinking about taking the next steps, babe.” Her hands fold in front of her, nervous energy making them shake in her lap. At the upward arch of your brows, she proceeds, “We’re moving in together at the end of the summer. And before you freak out and panic, I’ll be covering my portion of the rent until then! Don’t even worry about it. And I’ll definitely help you figure out other living arrangements, I’ll screenshot listings and—”

“Robin, it’s fine—”

She shakes her head vehemently, hands carving broad slices in the air. “I feel so bad, and I told Nance, maybe we should wait until your winter session with school. But I just figure we’ll be saving money, I’ll be closer to her job and my job and I—”

“Robin,” you interject, palm coming to curl around her forearm. Your voice wavers, but you swallow your tears. It’s likely only a result of all the issues cropping up out of the blue, you remind yourself. None of which are her doing. And you’re happy. All you’d ever hoped for when introducing them was for them to find deep, lasting love in one another. “I’m happy for you.”

It doesn’t lessen the sting of the news. The timing of it all, the knowledge that in a few weeks you’ll either have to move back to Hawkins with your family, or try and foot the bill on rent all on your own. With year four of school coming upon, you know you’ll be working less. Spending hours upon hours studying when you’re not in class, and starting up clinicals in the midst of it all. You’ll be barely scraping by as is, simply trying to keep a roof over your head.

But you don’t give her insight to any of that. They’re not her burdens to carry, nor were they ever meant to be.

Robin heads off to shower after you hug her for a long while in your living room, murmuring your reassurances in her ear until her smile slides back into place and the tension eases from her form. It’s then and only then, when you hear the water running in the bathroom, you pull out your cell phone and dial Eddie’s number.

He answers on the second ring, groaning, “Are you okay? It’s one in the morning, and you’re usually sleeping like the dead by now.”

“Can I ask you a question?” You ask, biting your bottom lip nervously.

“Always.” There’s a rustle on the other end, like the shifting of bedsheets in his hotel room.

“Would you love me even if I did something stupid?” Your heart clenches. You can’t believe you’re even considering the thoughts running wild in your mind. The prospect of opening that message from Steve Harrington where he’d sent you a simple, “Here’s my number, think about it.”

“You’ve done a lot of stupid shit. I mean, look back on high school. Like that time you planted that whoopee cushion under the principal’s chair, so when they sat down and started the morning announcements, everyone thought Higgins ripped ass.”

You groan at his choice of memory. “That was your idea, asshole; you were just too chicken-shit to do it—”

“I was trying to graduate.” He did that year, and you’d been so happy for him, knowing how hard he’d worked to get there against all the odds stacked against him.

“Moving on. You would?” A frown stretches along your lips, heart hammering away behind your sternum.

There’s a deep huff on the other end. In your mind, you can picture the deep set lines around the corners of Eddie’s mouth, concern evident in those umber eyes. “You’re worrying me now. What are we talking about?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you mutter breathlessly, already swiping up into your text threads. “I just needed your blessing.”

“Wait, wait—wait! What am I giving my blessing for?! Don’t you dare hang up the phone—”

The line clicks as you hit the end call button and pull open the message from Steve. There’s a small image of his face pulled from social media for his icon, his face obscured by sunglasses, jeans snug against muscular thighs. Fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, mind churning, before you begin typing away.

You: So if I were to marry you. BIG IF. What would that entail?

Husband?: Meet me at Caldwell’s tomorrow? I have meetings until 2pm, we can grab coffee there at 3pm and talk business.

You: Stop. He’s trying to seduce me. Oh no.

Husband?: HAHA — you’re hilarious. I’ll send you the address.

Husband?: (Address Link)

You: Didn’t know they sold coffee this expensive.

Husband?: It’s on me.

You: So it’s a real date.

Husband?: Something like that.

Husband?: Talk to you tomorrow.

Caldwell’s is gorgeous. An array of pinks, beiges and creams. Like something out of a Pinterest daydream. Endless sprawling plants line the ceilings. Plush couches and eclectic wooden decor outline the walls and interior seating section. You’re amused by the fact Steve chose here of all places for your meeting. So opposite of where you imagined he might choose.

Almost even more amusing is that your prospective husband-to-be looks out of place in the brightly illuminated space in his dark outfit. In the few times you’ve seen him, you’ve noticed a pattern: gray, black, the occasional pop of maroon, and navy blue make up most of Steve’s wardrobe. And sure, it's no detriment to him, because he looks handsome as ever, but it brings a smile to your face as you capture his gaze from across the coffee shop. Your lips quirk upward as you wave. His answering smile makes something unfamiliar quiver in your chest, though you pay it no attention and clutch your bag tighter to your chest, phone in the other, and make your way over.

He’s already placed an order for you. Texted you a few minutes prior so it was ready at the table he’d situated himself at. You settle down on the chair across from him, catching the laptop in the center of the table, a leather satchel on the plush bench beside him. He’d foregone his glasses today, you notice, eyes meeting the constellations of birth marks along his face and neck, drifting down into the collar of his shirt.

“You look nice,” he mutters, glancing down at your workout clothes. Nothing more than a cross body bag, pair of leggings, tee shirt and running shoes. You know he’s only being kind, a snort falling from your lips, eyes rolling. “I’m not kidding.”

“I meant to change. But, uh, something came up and I sort of needed to rush here.”

No, you had no intention of telling him you’d fallen asleep after you’d gone for a run around the neighborhood. You’d been reading a book on your couch and woke to the pages folded across your face. It had taken a bit to rub out the crease in one of your cheeks, evidence of one too many sleepless nights at the restaurant you worked at.

“I got your iced coffee…thing. Although, I don’t know how you consider that coffee. The barista threw in so much sugar,” he says, pointing to your drink. Your fingers open the straw wrapper before you hastily, giving him a thumbs up with the first splendidly perfect sip. “Good?”

“It’s actually perfect. And it’s meant to taste like a cinnamon roll, if you must know. But in all honesty, ‘Happy wife happy life’ starts with getting your wife’s coffee order right,” you laugh, not missing the way his cheeks flush. He clears his throat, fingers tapping along the spacebar on his laptop. “Sorry. Just trying to get used to the fact this…might actually happen. I figure if I repeat I’ll be your wife about, oh I don’t know, a thousand more times I should be okay.”

He folds his hands in front of him, and you wonder briefly if this is how it’s like sitting in a conference room with him. Stern demeanor, an edge of severity that has your feet curling inside your shoes, that tension in his jaw which highlights the perfectly sculpted features sitting mere inches across from you.

“I guess we should probably talk out the details,” he says, shifting his laptop to show you the document he’s typed up. At the top he’s written the title of your ‘marriage contract’ and you also don’t miss the NDA agreement tab just beside it. “So my father said as long as I was married a year after the reading of the document, I would satisfy the will and the company wouldn’t be transferred over to my shitty cousin, Theobald. Which would mean we need to marry soon. I’d like the sooner the better…since you go back to school in a few months. And I’d like to maintain the appearance that we’re spending time together. So we’ll need to go on a honeymoon as well. But we’ll get to the details of that later.”

You know Steve has a pretty substantial social media following. It’s natural for someone who is not only the son of the late Mr. Harrington, but someone who has also modeled for his mother’s clothing brand, and thus other companies. And you suppose it’s also natural for someone who is friends with other socialites and people like Eddie Munson, who is part of one of the biggest up and coming bands.

You’ve been on the receiving end of comments on Eddie’s photos long enough to understand people are interested in everything going on in their favorite celebrities' lives. You can’t even count on two hands the amount of times people have asked ‘is she dating Eddie?’ To which you’ve always laughed and scrolled out of the photo. But for someone like Steve, someone who has been notoriously private and maintained an air of mystery for so long, to post a photo with his new bride-to-be? You’re not sure about that one. All you can assume is it’ll be explosive.

“Okay, I’m listening,” you tell him, glancing about the room.

No one is looking; not really, at least. But you can’t help the fear that wells over anyone overhearing what you’re planning on doing. Negotiating a marriage contract, talking through the terms of said marriage, actually planning to marry.

“We will marry in a month.” He coughs, like he can’t believe he’s speaking that sentence out loud. Neither can you, but you’re certain if it’s baffling to you, it must be to him as well. “If you agree to it. My mother knows enough wedding planners and has enough connections in the city that we won’t have to worry about scheduling or anything like that. It shouldn’t be too hard to make it happen.”

“A month.” Thirty days. June seventeenth of this year will be your anniversary. A thought in itself that has your stomach clenching. “We will get married in a month.”

“A month,” he repeats, nodding patiently at your thoughtful expression, brows drawn high on your forehead, lines etching into creases between your brows. “In front of all our closest family and friends.”

“In typical holy matrimonial fashion, yeah.” Only there’s nothing holy about this union.

This ruse, if done properly, will set you both up to achieve everything the other lacks.

“Okay, uhm…what else is in this contract?” you ask, giving him permission to continue through the remainder of the document.

You’ll stay married for three years, giving you enough time to sustain the image needed to set forth. Steve agrees to pay for your tuition on a per semester basis throughout. Sorrow creeps into your heart at the thought desperation has brought you to this moment, and you briefly wonder if Steve senses it when he stops mid-sentence and brushes a thumb along the back of your hand.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks softly, your eyes lingering where your skin meets. Your head shakes, and he continues, “Are we going to be faithful to each other?”

“Oh—I hadn’t really thought about that.” Your eyes lift to meet his dark ones, shoulders shrugging. “I mean, I don’t really think I’d enjoy people gossiping if they caught either of us with someone else. But this is a fake marriage, so…uh, I mean, if you need to uh…take care of business elsewhere I suppose I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t really date much these days,” he laughs, easing your seemingly silly fears. You find that one very hard to believe, but he proceeds before you can think much further on it, “Or at all, really.”

“Right. So, uh, you’re going to be good for three years with just your ha—”

“I’ll manage just fine.”

You whistle. “Brave, Harrington.” He snorts, eyes rolling. “I don’t date much either these days. Always too busy. When I’m not in school, I’m working. So you’ll have yourself a faithful wife.”

You’ll attend as many social gatherings as you can given your schedule. Be it family gatherings, galas, charity events, and the like. It’s all meant to uphold the image of a supportive wife, though you don’t really find issue in it. At the base level, Steve is an easy person to get along with, so you suppose it’ll be like spending an evening with a friend.

And there, at the bottom of the contract, after he’s walked you through the remaining details of your nuptials, is a line for both yours and his names.

“Do we really need a contract, though?” Your finger taps his screen, pointing to the NDA next. “And the NDA? Are you really thinking I’m going to admit to people how absolutely insane this whole idea is? We’re like one of those cliché romance novels as it is. Two people who are practically strangers choose to fake their marriage, minus the falling in love bit.”

“It would make me feel better, yes.” He folds the laptop shut. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, but—”

“I want to do it,” you blurt out. The hard line of his mouth softens, cheek jolting. “I want to marry you. I, ah, want to be your wife.”

It’s impulsive, you know. But if you allow yourself to think too long about it, you’ll talk yourself out of it.

“Are you sure?” And suddenly it’s like the whole room shifts, eyes locking on the couple that’s not really a couple sitting in the corner of the coffee shop. “You…agree to it. Really?”

“Looks like we’re getting hitched June seventeenth, Harrington.”

If there’s one thing Steve is, it’s a gentleman. He opens the door for you as you waltz into the jewelry shop, hand lingering on your back as he leads you toward one of the many display cases revealing different engagement and wedding rings, as well as earrings, necklaces, and other pieces.

It suddenly dawns on you what you’re here for. An engagement ring, and your wedding rings. Plural, for both you and Steve when you solidify your marriage in only a month’s time in front of your closest family and companions. The weight of his palm guides you toward one of the many illuminated displays, eyes peering in on a selection of halo engagement rings.

“The Mrs. Harrington-to-be. Have those caught your eye?” The gentleman behind the counter admonishes, sliding out the set of glittering rings. “Gorgeous, truly. Also new. She has good taste, Mr. Harrington. Would you like to try it on?”

“Isn’t that bad luck?” You glance over your shoulder to Steve, who merely shrugs at the suggestion. You suppose it can’t be too much poor luck when you’re already lying to everyone around you as it is and allow the jeweler to slide the ring onto your ring finger for size. It’s a gorgeous piece, you can’t deny. A giant central diamond with a sparkling halo and glittering band. But it’s not quite you. Too fantastical and bright—well outside of your comfort zone and liking. Instead, your eyes gravitate around the many display cases for something simplistic. Something timeless.

If you’re going to be married to Steve Harrington for three years, you want something understated and more in line with your preferences. “Do you have anything a little less…bold? I—well, I want to wear this every day proudly. But I don’t know if it’s impractical for my job.”

“My fiancée is going to be a veterinarian,” Steve explains, drawing you tighter to his side.

“You’re thinking of something smaller?” The attendant looks to Steve worriedly, mouth downturned at your words. Steve only waves a hand and they dip their head. “What about these?”

You walk around the counter, looking into the cases imploringly. Steve is there at your back, glancing over your shoulder as you shop about, stumbling on a round engagement ring with diamonds set lovingly into the band. They’re simple—albeit still extravagant—but they’re better suited to your tastes. Understated and classic.

“How about Mr. Harrington puts this one on?” The man grins, eyes bright as Steve takes the ring and lowers it to your presently bare finger.

“Still want to marry me, honey?” Steve asks, wry grin in place as he rests the ring on your first knuckle. He doesn’t slide it up. Not right away.

The nickname is new. Sends a flood of liquid heat to roll in your gut, heart fluttering rapidly behind your ribcage as you nod and he pushes the ring up into place. You glance down and marvel at it as his fingers wriggle it into place near the base of your knuckle, his thumb brushing overtop before swiping across your skin. It’s perfect. As perfect as fake engagement rings go.

You both tell the worker as much, before proceeding to find a matching wedding band for your new ring, and then search for Steve’s. Steve settles on a metal and you’re presented with a few options of styles. Steve’s preferences are more simplistic, his wedding ring a simple shiny silver. Your breath skitters when you teasingly ask him to marry you, before sliding the ring up his finger. Inhaling sharply, your eyes dart upward to your future husband’s, softening when he glances down at his finger and smiles to himself. That smile falters only for him to ask to purchase the ring, and it’s soon thereafter you leave the shop and ready yourselves for your dinner with Eddie and Robin, where you’ll deliver your engagement news.

Images of their reactions already preconceived dance in your mind. You’re prepared for Eddie to have a fit over the whole thing. Can already hear Robin’s frantic rant wherein she tells you all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

So you suppose it should come to no surprise when you sit down, now beside Steve to present yourselves as a couple, and are met with the unamused the looks on their faces when you exclaim, “We’re engaged!”

Robin glances at Nancy. Laughs nervously to herself, chokes on her water. Her girlfriend places a hand on her arm, mouth opening to speak, just as Robin cries out, “Babe. I’m gonna be really honest with you. Steve’s great, I love him, but are you really thinking this one through. You two have hung out a collective…four times. What do you really know about each other? I mean, we left you two alone because we wanted you to maybe date, but holy shit Eddie, if we knew they were going to do this—”

“You told me you wanted my blessing for whatever stupid thing you were about to do,” Eddie interjects, swiping a hand down his face. “I didn’t think that you meant marrying my best friend. And hey, asshole—I didn’t say you could ask her to marry you.”

“I haven’t technically asked her,” he says, holding up your hand to show off your still bare ring finger. “Well unless you count the party the other day.”

Eddie’s eye twitches. “He asked you at the par—”

“You haven’t even asked her to marry you with the ring, you dingus?!” Robin’s vein in her forehead throbs, her head leaning into Nancy’s as the girl beside her shifts to run a hand along her arm.

“I wanted to make it special,” he admits, wincing at the sight of Eddie practically turning red before you. “In front of our closest friends.”

“You’re going to ask her properly.” It’s Eddie who speaks next, his eyes drifting to lock onto yours. “If you two idiots are going to actually get married, he’s asking you properly.”

Maybe now is the right time to tell them it’s fake. Nothing more than an equally beneficial agreement between two consenting parties. Your mouth opens to tell them as much, to try and assuage their fears, when a waiter walks out with a champagne bottle on ice and a dessert plate with Marry Me? written out in decorative chocolate. Head already reeling from that, you fail to notice Steve dropping down onto one knee in his perfectly tailored suit, despite the fact he’ll likely wrinkle, with that velvet ring box open and your sparkling ring set into the center.

All eyes in the restaurant take you in. Some with phones held aloft, because naturally they’ve noticed Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington. Your hands tremble as you finally look into his eyes, knowing this agreement is very much fake, but the nervousness that wells in your belly isn’t. Ever the gentleman, Steve reaches across your lap and grasps your left hand, staring you squarely in the eyes.

It’s grounding, even despite catching Eddie, Robin and Nancy watching with bated breath on the other side of the booth, to have him there to offer support. In one month, your future husband.

“Honey, I know it hasn’t been very long, but people have always said ‘when you know, you know.’ And I know there’s no one I would want to spend the rest of my life with other than you.” There’s a collective inhale all around the room, or maybe that’s your own breath hitching in your lungs as he pulls the ring free and Eddie’s hand reaches across the table to retrieve the empty box. Steve breathes your full name into the open space, and it sounds like a gentle caress down your spine. “Will you make me the happiest man alive and be my wife?”

This part—this part, you haven’t thought out. Haven’t really allowed your mind to wander down the path of public displays of affection with your very fake husband. At the wedding, when the officiant declares he may now kiss his bride, sure. Maybe a little hand holding at a social gathering or family event. But this part? The engagement itself, the portrayal of a happy couple in front of prying eyes? No.

And still, you nod your head all the same, letting out an excited “Yes,” that you hope isn’t too over the top, and cover your mouth delicately with one hand as he slides the ring into place on your left one. Cheers erupt into the room, mixing together with the clinking of utensils against glasses, prompting the two of you to lean forward in an embrace.

His arms circle your waist and his lips brush your ear, chills dancing along skin.

“Kiss me,” he whispers into your skin.

Your head dips and you lean back just enough to capture his gaze before he’s leaning forward and pressing the chastest of kisses to your lips.

After that it’s endless congratulations as people pass in leaving, the looks of pure unadulterated happiness from coupled up spectators around the room, as if recalling their own proposals or simply reminiscing on the love they share. Across from you, Eddie, Nancy and Robin start pouring champagne.

Eddie downs his first drink swiftly, before reaching across the table to grab your hand. “Speak up, both of you. Why the rush to the altar?”

“It’s uh…” you start, shoulder brushing with Steve’s. “It’s—well, it’s a long story.”

“We have nothing but time,” Robin points out, leaning back comfortably against the plush booth.

They remain quiet as you both explain the whole situation. The events that have brought you both to this moment, the reminders that you’re both capable of making your own decisions (albeit silly ones), and that it’s only for the required amount of time. It’s a positive business decision for the both of you, Steve expresses, though you wish he’d maybe avoided that one because Eddie’s face is nearly purple by the end of it. Nancy remains quiet at Robin’s side, while Robin nods here and there throughout, awaiting the perfect moment to explode over the whole ordeal.

“I hope this isn’t because I’m moving out—”

She speaks, just as Eddie lets out, “When you asked if I’d love you for making a stupid decision, I didn’t mean this one! I thought you two would go on one date after we saw you walking together. Not get married!”

“But it’s…” your voice drops to a whisper, “not a real marriage.”

“Babe, when you say it like that, it doesn’t really make it better,” Robin murmurs, placing a comforting hand on Eddie’s forearm.

“I think it actually makes it worse,” Nancy adds, wincing slightly.

All in all, Eddie, Robin and Nancy eventually come around to the idea. There’s multiple drinks passed around the table before they do start to understand, but once the idea has settled a bit in their minds, they start to question the event itself. Robin and Nancy will be in the bridal party, naturally, and Eddie’s the decided best man. Luckily, this aids in dissipating a lot of his anger—either that or he’s trying to appease you both—and the group is excited by the end of the night for the ordeal. A big party, you remind them, think of it like a big party.

Full of hundreds of strangers.

But there are important matters to be taken care of before then.

Your heart throbs as the driver pulls up in front of the Mrs. Harrington’s home. It sits outside of the city in an eastern county. A large cream house, grandiose in comparison to anything you’ve ever known, with sprawling property and modern decor sits atop a sprawling driveway. It looks like you’ve stepped out of a Pinterest catalog. What with the endless black and gray detailing, floor to ceiling windows, and a porch that overlooks a small body of water.

Though you’ve told your friends the arrangement is purely an arrangement and nothing more, both Steve and you have decided in order to prevent any doubt over the situation, your families need to be kept in the dark. The thought supplies you with hefty guilt, but you tip your head up all the same and clink your glass of wine with both Elise Harrington and her son’s.

“To a bright and happy future and hopefully grand babies,” she toasts, and your chest burns at the idea. Quietly, she adds, “If you two should want them, that is.”

You’re surprised by how easy going she is with the whole thing. Upon arriving she immediately commented on how pretty you were, kissing you on both sides of the cheek before ruffling her son’s hair. He’s told you enough that for most of his life, their relationship has been strained, but that with the death of his father she’s been trying. It warms your heart seeing them now, caught in a moment as she cups his cheek fondly and waves you both into the kitchen.

You recount how you met. A wonderful evening at a rooftop bar. Conversation flowing simply between the two of you, a few months of quiet relationship kept from the public eye, and a pure desire to not wait to spend forever together. It’s simple and it’s partially true, and she latches onto it without hesitation, hand immediately reaching out to look at your ring.

Bringing Steve to Hawkins takes place the next day after an early morning flight. You call your father the day before and tell him there’s something very important you need to tell him. Steve steps out of the rental car and opens your door on the other side, drawing you as close as possible as he tucks a wine bottle under his other arm.

“Are you nervous?” You tease him, catching the way his knuckles pause mid-air over the door. “They’re both harmless. Caroline probably will scroll through TikTok the whole time we’re here.”

Only you’re wrong.

Instead, you’re immediately met with the screech of a younger tween when your father opens the door and Steve introduces himself, the girl practically throwing herself into your arms as you reach out to grasp her. From above your shoulder, where you struggle to hold her up, she shoves at Steve with a wild glint in her eye.

“Did you bring home a boyfriend?!”

“Nice to meet you, Caroline. Your sister has told me all about you,” Steve says, rubbing at the place she’s dug her fingers into playfully.

Your father leads you both into the living room, your eyes catching on all the papers and bills strewn about the kitchen table as you pass by. Steve’s ignorant to it all, his hand still clutching yours tightly as the two of you settle down onto the couches there. Fondness brims in your chest when your father reaches across and shakes Steve’s hand again, his kind grin settling into the wrinkles surrounding his mouth.

“Holy shit, is that a rock?” Carole gasps, breaking up the moment. Your eyes drop down to where your hand rests over Steve’s, sunlight catching on the sparkling stones. “That is a rock! Wait, you’re Eddie’s friend. You’re that Steve. Your dad was the owner of that company, and you model and…don’t you own a football team? Your mom is also that big designer in the city! You’re, like, really rich, I bet.”

“Care,” you warn, shooting her a glare to calm down. “I, ah, have known Steve for a little while now and I know it’s crazy but…I’m in love with him.” The words taste wrong on your lips, throat tightening as you continue, “When you know, you know, right?”

The words leave you with a wince, and you’re not sure if you imagine Steve’s fingers tightening around your own, but it brings you a semblance of comfort. Thankfully, your father speaks next, “I knew your mother for two weeks before I asked her to marry me. We were married for twenty three years, you see, Steve. So if my daughter says she loves you, I trust wholeheartedly and believe you’re the one for her.”

And in a way, those words are both soothing and a knife in your heart, what with the ease he accepts your feelings as truth.

The remainder of the evening is spent talking about the wedding details—what little you know, at least—and your offer for Caroline to be in the bridal party. She’s over the moon, naturally, and grows bored immediately after, pulling out her iPhone and scrolling through social media so she can show your father the engagement photo plastered across your page, Steve’s and Eddie’s now.

“Congratulations, you two. I wish I had something fancy to toast with, so the wine you brought will have to do,” he apologizes, moving into the kitchen to pour you all glasses.

“It’s not a problem at all,” you reassure him, thanking him softly when he returns and places a glass in both your hands.

“To your love.” He turns to Steve next, grinning in a way that has your heart sinking. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Steve drops you off at your apartment at the end of your evening spent together apprising your family of your news. Neither of you speaks for a moment. He merely rests his palm on the car steering wheel and brushes a thumb over your ring, making sure the stone is in place. It seems like such a silly thing—the slightest of brushes to make sure your fake engagement ring is properly on your finger. But your skin still ignites at the small contact. It’s paired with the crushing knowledge that in a month, in only thirty days, you’ll be standing across from this man and reciting your vows to him, binding yourselves together in marriage.

“Your rent is up at the end of the month with Robin,” he reminds you, eyes shifting your way. You watch his long fingers glide through his hair, ruffling bits of it in his face. A part of you feels intent on fixing it despite yourself, but you remain seated in place, one ankle crossed over your knee. “But I think for those following on social media, it likely looks better if you move in as soon as possible.”

That reminds you of the thousands of new followers you’d received once Eddie and Steve had posted your congratulatory photos from your engagement—as well as once other news sources got a hold of it. The young CEO, friend to one of the hottest up and coming musicians, a girl who has always been in the background of their photos now suddenly took center stage. You’ve propelled into a world you’d never prepared for.

Becoming Steve’s wife was one thing, gaining a spotlight another, wholly untouched territory.

“I think you should move in on Friday.” You know he’s saying you think, but a part of you recognizes it’s what he knows is best for optics. It’s what he wants without forcing you to do so. “There’s more than enough room. I have the penthouse, we’ll have privacy. And it’ll, uh, sell the illusion.”

It’s then and only then that the reality of your situation finally creeps up on you. The understanding of the weight that settles on your ring finger as you glance down at the ring he’d bought you. A ring that should be meant for someone he loves—truly loves, at least—and not someone who is little more than a mere stranger. Your thumb moves to run along the diamond band, hand cupping over the sparkling stones that cost a small fortune.

His palm reaches over and slides over the back of yours, stilling you in your movements. “I’ll help you. And your room is nice. Spacious. Far away from mine.”

Because, you remind yourself, you’ve agreed upon not falling in love—and definitely no consummation of marriage. Even still, there’s a sting to his words. The understanding of a loveless marriage, forged in mere convenience. Two ships passing in the night, nestled on opposite sides of Steve’s spacious lodgings.

“Okay,” you agree, dipping your head and moving to push the passenger side door open. “I’ll move in on Friday. I’ll tell Robin tonight. I should get going; I have to meet with your mother and the wedding planner first thing tomorrow, you know?”

“I’ll see you,” he says, leaning down to look at you on the sidewalk. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Your chest tightens as you watch him peel away from the sidewalk. As he drives down your road, and disappears from view. Your heart throbs at the recollection of your father’s weathered face, smiling as he’d welcomed Steve into the fold of your family like he was already a part of it with a firm shake of the hand and a blessing. Chest aches at the vision of Caroline nearly slamming into your soon-to-be husband’s legs when he’d reached for the door and wished your family well for the rest of the evening. Because you feel like a fraud—are a fraud, really. Your impending nuptials are not refined by fire and forged in love. They’re unlike that of your own parents' relationship—the depth of your father’s love toward his wife had been limitless. Untouchable from anything the world might have thrown at it. No, instead your upcoming sentiments you’ll share with Steve are a mockery of the vows people wait to speak over the altar in front of loved ones their whole lives. They’re a lie told to secure an inheritance and cover a debt. That’s all. And it dawns on you then as you slip into your bedroom, waving to Robin as you pass, and settle down on your bed.

Your mind wanders to that moment back at the restaurant with your friends. How all the eyes turned your way in the room to watch your face drop in shock. It’s the only genuine reaction you’ve had thus far, you realize. Because you hadn’t expected a proposal. Not really. When you’d picked out your ring at the store your mind had been a bleary haze. You remembered hearing the voices of Steve and the jeweler, running over various options that were befitting for someone of Steve’s status, and thus his wife-to-be by default. But they’d slipped into conversation about karats, quality, and cuts. And all you could think about was the fact the rings Steve were looking at cost a few months worth of your rent. All of a sudden you were Cinderella long after the clock struck midnight, your carriage turned back into a pumpkin, your tattered dress the pair of thrifted jeans that sat a little too-big on your frame.

But you once more think of your father’s aging face, the brightness of Caroline’s eyes. You think of the knowledge he’s looking for a new job with little luck because of layoffs in his workplace, the mortgage on his home, the endless list of things Caroline needs. The constant stream of bills you’re footing, the need to try and save them, because if you can’t save them, who can you save? And on top of it all, your college debt, for a program you’re only halfway finished with. With a resounding sigh, you roll over onto your side, snapping a photo of your ring to send to Steve. It looks silly and garish in the dying afternoon light, though you suppose fitting for a wife to a young CEO of a prolific real estate company.

You: I don’t even know if my first name goes well with Harrington.

HubsToBe: It does. It’s a perfect fit. Don’t worry. I can practically hear you worrying from here.

You: Guess we’re really doing this.

HubsToBe: One month until we say ‘I do.’

The second text message rushes in.

HubsToBe: Remember you can back out at any time.

You: I’m not changing my mind, don’t worry. Time to plan a wedding, fiancé. ;)

comment/reblog if you can. 🩷

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #radicalbilly recs

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radicalbilly · 1 year

Text

Best Friends Too

pairing: Billy Hargrove x reader

summary: Lines have already been crossed in your friendship, but what happens when you add a new proposition? pt.1

words: 3,058

a/n: nsfw content! i have been a monster for not updating but i’m trying. really i am. please enjoy

warnings: 18+ nsfw content, fingering f!receiving, p in v intercourse, unprotected (sorry, pls wrap it), minors do not enter

Now Billy Hargrove was definitely the type to whip through the empty Indiana backroads, California had taken its toll on him. He just had never been the type to speed because a girl had called his house after his late shift at work claiming that she needed him. But this wasn’t just any girl. It was you.

So, now here he was, speeding down some hick backroad, blaring Def Leppard loud enough to piss off the Hawkins nightlife, and praying that his locker room shower had been enough to rid him of the sickly chlorine smell from the pool.

And Billy had been so antsy recently. He’d kissed you, in retrospect that wasn’t really the worst thing that he had done to you, but he couldn’t think of that either. Not when he was driving forty over the speed limit and this town was known for kids going on late night bike rides.

It’d been weeks since then and he could still hear the sounds you made and taste you on his tongue. You acted none the wiser, you stayed exactly as you were with him. “Best friends” you’d like to remind him. Max had a field day when she heard you call him that, asking briskly if you’d be braiding his hair at your next sleepover.

He remembered scowling at your mischievous grin and the way you waggled your eyebrows at her comment. He also remembered having to excuse himself to his room at the thought of your hands tugging at his hair again.

His hands tensed against the steering wheel as he turned onto your street.

Billy’s frustration had been manifesting itself in the worst possible way recently, he was almost constantly hard. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to hang out at your house. Especially when you’d wear less and less with the warming weather, last weekend, you had only worn his shirt to bed and panties that he hadn’t secretly stolen yet.

He parked down the street, not so far that he couldn’t see your house, but far enough that he could sneak through your backyard without catching any attention to himself. His fingers were cold when he ran them over his face and he tugged down the front of his jeans to relieve some of the pressure before swinging open the car door.

Billy stalked through your yard, trying to be hasty and cussing at himself when he tripped over his own feet.

It was dark and he followed the light from your bedroom window. He could see you through the window, looking at your own reflection in your mirror and mouthing the words to what he thinks might be a Blondie song.

He knocked against the glass, snorting to himself when you jump and turn to look at him. He sees your eyes roll and a heartless attempt at fighting off the grin that catches your cheek.

You’re already reprimanding him before you even finish pulling the window open.

“I told you to come in through the front door, Hargrove.”

He’s quick to the punch when he replies, “You also told me that it was an emergency.”

Your jaw drops in a scoff and you turn as he pulls himself into your room.

“It was an emergency,” Billy’s eyes look over you quizzically and he quirks his eyebrow at you. “Really,” you offer, your arms push out in front of you and you twiddle your thumbs, “I’m home alone and I am in need of emergency company so I don’t freak myself out.”

His expression doesn’t change, “You’re such a princess.”

“How dare you!” Your hand lightly swatted at him and despite the glare that you shoot at him, you both end up laughing at each other.

A new dance had occurred in your friendship, one that made the line between friends and more than friends muddy. One that made the hand that you swatted him with squeeze his bicep before running down the length of his arm and grabbing his hand. Your fingers laced with his and you tugged him towards you a bit.

“Are you gonna stay tonight?”

Billy looked over your face, smirking to himself. “I always stay with you. You made me promise that we were friends.”

“I didn’t make you, you just did because it’s true and you can’t live without me.”

His dimple began to show, but he didn’t say anymore. He instead lead you to your bed and had you sit while he turned on the television. He flicked through the vhs tapes that sat beside it, picking a movie and starting it before coming to set beside you.

His boots thudded as he kicked them off onto the floor. And he lifted himself a bit so that he could flip the light switch.

You liked how comfortable he was able to get with you now, how you hoped that he felt more at home with you than with anyone else. In the new darkness, you felt him cuddle in beside you.

The movie started slowly and unfortunately wasn’t doing its job at catching your attention. From your laying position, your eyes trailed around the room. Nothing took interest until you saw Billy’s hand. His fingers were lazily thrumming against the wooden foot of your bed and every now and again his middle and pointer finger would draw a circle before thrumming again.

Your mind drifted back to his mouth and fingers working in tandem against you and you felt your face grow hot. Warmth had begun to fill your stomach and you gave an experimental squeeze of your thighs.

Billy noticed the movement and moved his free hand to rest on one of the ankles that you had unceremoniously thrown into his lap once you both got comfortable. His thumb grazed over the skin there and you felt goosebumps prickle your skin.

The inner turmoil began to reach its head.

“Billy.”

His head turned to you before his eyes did, trying to catch just a few more seconds of what was on the screen. When he caught your gaze, you felt your breath stutter and your words fail.

“Have you-,” you stopped, contemplating the next few words that were looming in your mind, “Have you thought about that night?”

He pretended not to know, tilting his head despite the fact that his hands had gone entirely still. “Which night?”

“The night that you dug through my bedside drawer.” He continued to play coy, “The night that you fucked me with your mouth, William.”

Billy’s hand tensed on your ankle, he didn’t look at your face but he nodded in response. You took that as a good enough answer.

“Have you ever thought about doing more?”

His snapped over to your face and his eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean?”

You tried to calm your racing thoughts, you wanted to sound more composed than you felt.

“You’re my best friend,” that was a start, he squinted at you, “you’re my best friend and I trust you more than anyone. And, I don’t know, Billy. I’ve been thinking about that night and how it made me feel.”

Billy only nodded in response, you could tell that he was in his thoughts. Debating on what he’d say when you finished your little speech.

You wanted to deflect, you knew Billy really wasn’t going to spill his guts in some over the top “chick-flick” gesture. You’d already caught acknowledgment of his fondness for you, and it usually didn’t come easily.

“It’d be a lot easier to get off without all the extra strings, and you were right about the toy,” Billy grinned in spite of himself, he’d never give up the opportunity to be right. “It’s also easier than getting a boyfriend or you being at risk of getting cooties,” he pinched your skin at that.

“I won’t get cooties and you won’t get a boyfriend if you keep hanging around me.”

“I know,” you agreed gently, “You’d get too jealous over me.”

Billy didn’t bother disagreeing with you, but his hand teased closer to your kneecap. He opened his mouth to speak, but ran his tongue over his teeth instead. His free hand swiped over his hair, “What exactly are you suggesting, Princess?”

You sat up, your hands moving to fiddle with his fingers that rested on your knee, “A mutually beneficial part two, I guess.”

“You want us to fuck each other,” Billy deadpanned.

“But I don’t want to ruin our friendship!”

It looked like he was mulling it over and you could feel his hips shift from beneath your legs. His smirk was primal, when he moved his face closer to yours, “You coulda told me that you wanted me to fuck you.”

You let go of his hand in favor of reaching up to his jaw, your thumb teased his lower lip. “I did, and you chose to use this pretty mouth on me.”

His pupils were blown and you could feel a new pressure against the back of your legs, but he still felt the need to stick his tongue out and lick your finger that rested on him.

Your thumb slipped higher, the pad of it pressing against his lower teeth, you could feel his light panting when he nipped at the skin. He was already glancing down to your lips by the time you asked if he was going to kiss you again.

“Do you want me to?” Billy wanted to hear it, for real this time. He wanted to know that you wanted to kiss him, that you wanted him pressed against you in every way.

“Please kiss me, Billy.”

He maneuvered himself so quickly that it made you breathless. Your thighs hooked over his hips and his arm under your lower back held you in an arch while he rolled against you.

Billy’s lips met yours in a bruising press and he waited for you to gasp to sweep his tongue into your mouth. Your hands tucked into his hair, earning a pleased groan from him.

You could feel the heat growing in your belly again, more so when Billy kissed down the side of your throat, stopping to nibble and suck at the skin there. He knew you’d be pissed at all the dark marks, but he never left them on anyone else regardless of how much he loved to see them.

“Lemme strip,” you huffed as he furthered his trail downward. He nodded, helping to pull you upwards into his lap so that you could take your shirt off. His eyes locked down on your chest and his hands raised to swipe and grope you over the cups.

“You too, Bill. It’s not mutual if I’m the only one without clothes.”

Billy grumbled out what sounded like an apology to your chest before he pecked one of your newly pebbled nipples and laid you back down onto the bed. You rested on your elbows so that you could watch him take his clothes off.

His fingers fumbled with his belt before he looked at you through his lashes, “Are you sure about this?”

You wanted to snip at him, something that would fit your playful banter with him, but you couldn’t. You were serious, you didn’t want him to question how you viewed him.

You sat up and replaced his hands with yours over his belt, you couldn’t look into his eyes when you said this. “Billy, I’m really sure. I know you’re gonna take care of me better than anyone in this stupid town. And I’m going to take care of you, right? It’s better than toys and better than fucking around with randoms.” Your fingers worked deftly with the belt, “We’re better for each other than anyone, really.” The sentence was punctuated with the snap of the belt being pulled from the loops.

Billy grinned like a cheshire cat as he kicked free of his pants and boxers. You held his eye contact, instead of looking down at him. He could tell that you were trying to maintain your composed air, he knew that he’d break you out it.

“Lean back,” he instructed while his fingers pressed against the top of your shoulder. When your back was laid flat, he rubbed his hands up over your thighs and gave testing squeezes to your hips and to the sides of your belly before undoing the button of your jeans and tugging them down your legs.

Billy stared down at you, lightly smacking the outside of your thigh so that you’d spread open more for him.

“Those are my favorites of yours,” he praised, his index finger pressing into your core over the black lace of your panties. He could feel how wet you were through the fabric and he felt his cock jump at the thought of what he’d get to do to you.

You whined as he applied more pressure. “I know they are,” your hips shifted so that he pull your panties down your legs, “I had to steal them back from your house.”

Your legs fell back open and Billy stood to admire the view. His fingers swiped through your folds and you hissed when his middle and ring fingers dipped into you. He curled and thrusted his fingers into you just until you started to rut your hips into his palm.

You nearly growled at him when he pulled his fingers from you, opting to pop them into his mouth and suck them clean. “I knew you were a fucking tease.”

He glared down at you, before grabbing your thighs and pulling you to him. “Quit bitching,” he huffed as he rubbed the tip of himself against you, “I gotta make nice with her before I fuck her.”

Billy’s shallow thrust into you knocked the words out of your throat, replacing it with a pitiful whimper. He gently shushed at you, rubbing his hands over your thighs and trying to steady his breathing. He leaned into you as he bottomed out, pressing your chests together and nuzzling his nose against the side of your cheek while he breathed hard through his nose.

You could feel the slight burn of how he stretched you in such a satisfying way, he was right, your toy had nothing on him. Your hips shifted and he let out a low pitched hum, “Billy, please.”

“Please what, baby?” He managed to tease.

His gaze lifted to yours and he watched your brows pinch together when he gave a slow roll of his hips.

You pouted up at him, clenching yourself on him to spur him to move. “Fuck me, Billy, please.”

“Awe,” he cooed at you mockingly, before rutting into you and placing a deep kiss onto your mouth, “You’re such a pretty thing, with such pretty manners.”

You glared up at him, “Fuck y-,” you were cut off by a sharp yelp when he set his brutal pace. He pulled a pillow from the head of your bed and slid it under your hips while he pulled almost completely out before slamming his hips to yours.

You were nearly babbling in response to the filth that was dripping from Billy’s tongue in between his heady grunts and panting. He had drug your arms over your head to hold with his hand and was praising your pussy like it had been made for him.

“Such a perfect cunt,” Billy whined into the side of your neck, while moving his thumb to draw lazy patterns over your clit.

You loudly whined out when he asked you how you felt, “So good.” Billy’s ego inflated at how worn your voice sounded, “Billy, I feel so full.”

“Baby,” he purred easily, you keened at the petname, “tell me wear you want me to cum or else you’re gonna feel way more full.”

You whined loudly at that, imagining Billy pressed against you, fucking his cum deeper into you and growling out his praises.

“Inside,” it sounded breathless, you could feel your walls fluttering around him and Billy had started pressing into the part of you that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “Cum inside me.”

“Thank god, Princess.”

He followed the same pattern, angling his his hips and earning high pitched moans from your pouted and opened lips. He leaned to kiss you and released your hands which you used to rake down his back. You nearly sobbed into his mouth as you felt yourself tense at the peak of release.

The stutter of his hips against yours had you both panting into each other’s mouths, riding out your highs together and desperately clinging onto one another as Billy seated his hips against yours to rub his pelvic bone against your clit while he pressed his cum into you.

You both hissed at the over sensitivity when he finally pulled out of you. He stared down in adoration as he watched his cum slip from where he’d pumped it so deeply into you. Your leg twitched to kick at him when his finger wiped up the lost cum and pushed it back into you.

Billy knelt down to pick up the scattered clothes and he pressed a kiss to the outside of your knee. “Do you wanna get a shower?” he asked, already heading towards your bedroom door. You lazily nodded at him and he slipped out of the door.

You could hear his footfalls in the nearly silent house and when the spray of water hit the tiles on the floor of the shower. You’d nearly dozed off by the time he came to bring you to the bathroom.

It was so intimate, already crossing the borders of your new agreement when he loosely pulled your hair up with a clip and helped you step into the shower. He stood in front of the spray so that you wouldn’t have to worry about being pelted and he used your shampoo on his hair and placed your favorite body wash into your opened hand.

Billy knew that he didn’t have to wipe his sudsy hands against your back and rub the muscles there, he knew that it was more than friendly but he also didn’t care about that. He’d take whatever you were willing to give him, even if it was only best friends with added benefits.

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radicalbilly · 1 year

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please i’m so obsessed! i binged all of this at work today and im so excited for the update!! i kept trying to guess what was going to happen next and i’ve been on the edge of my seat all day !!

Freaky Friday - A Stranger Things Story (Part 1)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - 5

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader, Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader, Eddie and Steve (Enemies to Friends)

Summary: Eddie thinks that Steve has everything in life handed to him on a silver platter (including his new girlfriend who Eddie has a crush on). And Steve just can't believe that the kids look up to Eddie the Freak, or that he lives his life without giving a single fuck.

Must be nice. But you know what they say, the grass is always greener.

Warnings/Themes: AU with no Upside Down. Body swapping, dark magic/alchemy, unrequited love--some crushes at least, Babysitter Steve, No Upside Down means slightly still King Steve, unresolved feelings, manipulation/deception, Reader gets a nickname (Honey), no Y/N if I can help it, no smut in Part 1 but liable to be in other chapters

Note: After a very hot and fast suggestion by @shiftingtherain, this mini-series was born. And instead of working on Store Manager Verse like I wanted to, here we are. This part is a little shorter...it's the intro, sue me. Next few parts will be a tad longer.

Credit for the header partially goes to me for the design and the logistics but I was tired, so I may have borrowed gifs from @emziess and Netflix itself as a jumping off point (with permission from Emzies and Netflix is a corporation so they can rot). I can only do so much guys, I also had to write this thing too.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

If Eddie never saw Steve Harrington again in his life, it would still be too soon.

He didn't always indulge in rentals from Family Video—if it was too cold and wet to have band practice in Gareth's garage, or if he was having an especially bad week at school, or if he needed something a little more realistic than the illustrations of Heavy Metal magazine to help him satisfy his needs—but today just had that special feel to it.

He'd gotten a B on his math test, Rick had been feeling a little under the weather and let Eddie make the rounds to his usuals for a sweet little cut, and he had found a dusty old book about alchemy and occultism at the library that was going to help him put the finishing touches on tomorrow night's Hellfire session.

For all of that, Eddie thought a little reward was in order.

A little Dark Crystal, a little pizza from Lou's, a little weed...he'd be having the best Thursday night.

Except...

For the past twenty minutes, he'd pretended to hem and haw over the selection of movies just so he could glare across the store at the counter, where Steve stood, flirting and making grandiose promises, with you.

He burned with jealousy, and God, it took almost everything in him not to gag as Steve reached across the counter to slyly hold your hand. And everything else for his heart not to break as you just let it happen.

Eddie didn't know how or when or why this started—when Harrington had gotten his claws into you and how he had managed to charm his way into your heart—when it should have been Eddie instead.

Eddie'd had a crush on you for years but had always been too nervous to do anything about it.

You were a year younger than him, and friends with his pal Mickey's younger sister, so he'd seen you around quite a bit. Smart and funny and pretty; maybe not as unpopular as Eddie was, but certainly not in the running for homecoming court or whatever other social hierarchies were in place at Hawkins High either. He figured...you know, maybe once he got to senior year he'd get the courage. Maybe take you to prom or something; who wouldn't want to go out with a senior?

But he'd gotten the notice from Higgins that he wouldn't be graduating with the rest of the Class of '84 and it really put a damper on his plans.

He had been hopeful again the following year, actually had a few classes with you and sat with you for partner work when no one else wanted to work with him, when they laughed at him. You weren't even afraid to go up to him in the cafeteria to ask a question, or walk with him in the hall if you had to go in the same direction for your next class. You'd talk about assignments mostly, but he savored every little fact he could learn about you. What books you'd been reading, the fact that you watched Svengoolie on Saturday nights—just like he did—or that you'd had some squabble with Mickey's sister over a scrunchie of all things and were no longer speaking.

But Eddie knew how bad his grades were—somehow even worse than the year before—and aside from the work you did with him, he knew it wasn't gonna be enough for him to graduate. So he wasn't gonna put himself in the position for you to laugh in his face—not that you would but...just in case you did—by asking you out.

He thought you would disappear from his life after you graduated. Get the hell out of Hawkins the way everyone else wanted to. But no. You took a few classes at the community college and worked the dinner shift at Benny's a few nights a week. You'd been there every Tuesday night, when he and the guys grabbed food after their gig at the Hideout. The usual booth reserved, drinks already poured by the time they sat down, and their usual orders already written in your little order pad.

You usually gave him extra whipped cream on his slice of cherry pie too.

The guys always urged him to ask for your number...but he never did. How could he? Even if you were stuck in this town the same way he was...he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

And now...here you were, listening to Harrington talk about some great surprise he had planned for your third date the next day.

Eddie wondered why you hadn't screamed in outrage when Steve mentioned how much Nancy Wheeler had liked it when he took her to this mystery place. He would have definitely expected you to at least flinch at the mention of his ex-girlfriend's name.

"It sounds really great," you said instead, smiling and nodding. "I get out of class at 3 on Fridays...should I be here around 4?"

"4 is perfect, honey," Steve grinned.

Eddie couldn't stand to hear whatever sickeningly sweet goodbye you both would come up with so he just grabbed whatever tape was in front of him and approached the counter. You and Steve both flinched when Eddie slammed his selections down on the counter to be checked out.

“Uh…I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bye Steve,” you muttered, eyeing Eddie with a half-smile that felt a bit sad. “Bye Eddie.”

"Bye honey."

“Bye honey,” Eddie mocked once you were out the door, then turned back to Steve. “You gonna try and make goo goo eyes at me next Harrington? I don’t have all day.”

“Jesus Munson. What’s up your ass?” Steve scoffed, grabbing the tapes.

“I’m just trying to get my videos and go.” Eddie rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Not really interested in the kind of customer service you're trying to provide."

Steve wondered what the likelihood of getting fired would be, if he just punched that smug look right off of Munson's face.

Keith hated the guy too, he always left the Adult section looking like a mess. Maybe Steve would get a promotion instead.

For years Eddie roamed around Hawkins being a general menace with his gaggle of friends. Causing trouble, shouting at people, making faces at old ladies. He’d gotten “taken in” to the police station one too many times but always seemed to make it out without actually being arrested. Which baffled Steve; Eddie was a drug dealer for crying out loud.

And yeah, Steve had even asked him to come and deal at a party or two but…people like that were bad. Simple as that.

Even after all of that, after you got past the “bad boy” persona….he was a fucking nerd. He wasn’t even cool like the bad boys in movies were. Steve felt like someone was tricking him the first time he had walked past the Hellfire Club’s table in the cafeteria. For all the leather and chains and band tees—all the talk of satanic rituals and blood sacrifices—there was sure a lot of talk about elves and…and bards and Star Wars.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to Steve that the kids would flock to Eddie by the time they made it to Hawkins High.

But it had been. A huge shock.

His unexpected little gaggle of morons…weren’t really his anymore.

Steve had dropped Dustin off on the first day of school and said “don’t get into any trouble.” Even made Robin promise to keep an eye out for him. He expected the kid to…join the mathletes or something. Get roped in with the science nerds.

But by the end of the week, the kids were all clamoring about how they would need to reschedule movie nights with Steve so they could go to Hellfire club with Eddie.

Steve couldn’t understand it. Eddie was a freak, a punk, some good for nothing…and now the kids were suddenly following him like he was some sort of prophet. Spreading the word of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

See? Steve could do the nerd talk too when he wanted...thanks to Dustin.

Who, much to Steve's annoyance, was apparently Eddie's biggest fan. The guy could do no wrong in Dustin's eyes, and it really irked Steve.

Will and Lucas were spending Saturdays at the library—not for homework, but for research because apparently Eddie really liked incorporating mythology into his campaigns. (Whatever that meant.) Mike was growing his hair out because "Eddie's hair was cool.” What about Steve, whose literal nickname was The Hair? Shit, he'd even seen Eddie give Max a ride to school on a few occasions when he was late dropping Robin off. And he knew Max and her mom had been having a hard time since her step-dad skipped town and Billy...

Steve knew some of the town gossip about Eddie was just a bunch of bullshit...but if Max Mayfield was cool with him?

Yeah, he just couldn't help but be suspicious of the guy.

Regardless, the sooner Steve could get him out of the store, the better his night was gonna get.

...actually...

"That's gonna be $10." Steve announced dryly.

"Woah, $10?!" Eddie scoffed. "I have a membership."

"Since when?" Steve asked, hands immediately landing on his hips.

"I use one every time I'm in here."

"Yeah you use Reefer Rick's."

"So?"

"New policy," Steve lied, hoping it would get Eddie out of his hair for a good while. "No sharing memberships outside of your family. Last I checked, your last name isn't Lipton. So you either cough up the $25 for a new membership Munson, or the $10 for your rental. What's it gonna be?"

Eddie grumbled and dug his wallet out of his pocket, slamming the money on the counter.

"Any candy?" Steve asked mockingly before grabbing the cash.

Eddie grabbed the tape and grumbled under his breath as he exited the store.

Yeah, Steve wasn't gonna be dealing with him any time soon.

For a second though, as he went to start processing returns, he wondered...

If Eddie was in some ritualistic cult...what kind of curse could he possibly put on me?

But that was a dumb thought to have.

Eddie's night just went down hill from the minute he left Family Video.

He didn't notice that they'd given him the wrong pizza at Lou's so now he was stuck with some specialty veggie pie with broccoli on it, the tape he had grabbed indiscriminately had been some artsy foreign romance crap, and just now he'd just spilled Dr. Pepper all over his Hellfire notebook.

"Fuck," he shouted as it spilled over the side of the coffee table and onto his sock-clad feet. He couldn't give a shit about the carpet, he could even ignore his wet socks, but his notebook. Weeks of work, planning and toiling over the most sadistic campaign.

He liked to keep all of the notes of Hellfire's completed campaigns, a sort of...record for future kids to look back on and reference. And now this specific masterpiece would be lost to memory.

He cleaned everything up as best he could before making a quick trip back to his room for an extra notebook or something he could use to salvage his plans for tomorrow's session. He had always been really bad at...keeping spare notebooks on hand. Even the ones he'd used for class always ended up covered in his drawings or notes, little bits and ideas of dialogue he could use for speeches or NPCs.

The best he could find was his math notebook from last year which, surprisingly, sat relatively untouched.

Eddie knew why: that was a class he shared with you. And as he opened to some random mostly-empty page, he saw his little scribbles in the margins surrounding half-faded, penciled-in algebraic equations. Daggers and hearts and his and your initials intertwined together.

It was the one class where he would never encounter partner work with you, so he felt compelled to fill the pages with his daydreams instead of fantasies and lore. You would never see it.

"Well," he huffed as he dropped back down onto the floor and slapped the notebook onto the coffee table. He grabbed his pen and scribbled over the drawings on the page. "Now that she's with Harrington, no use living in this fantasy. Fuck, I was stupid, so stupid to ever think she would want anything to do with me."

He grabbed the dusty old alchemical book from the library and found his place, staring at old sigils and runes and text indiscriminately until he came upon one that looked too perfect for the campaign. Concentric circles, arcane lettering, angular lines...

While Eddie would usually use a clean page for something like this—something he would hand off to his players—he drew a copy of the sigil onto the page and planned to rip the edges off, maybe singe them with his lighter to make it look more authentic.

He kept staring at the still-noticeable doodles beneath the pen scribbles and his heart ached a little in his chest.

Yeah, he would definitely want to burn those too.

By the time he was done copying the sigil, a wave of exhaustion overtook him and he glanced down at his watch.

It wasn't much later than he usually went to bed on a weeknight...

He stared at the half-ruined notes for tomorrow's session that he still needed to rewrite and sighed.

"Fuck it, I'll just redo them in the morning." He got up and stretched his arms over his head. "I can just sleep in tomorrow. Skip class. Show up for Hellfire. Who cares anymore.”

He put the rest of the pizza in the fridge for Wayne and then headed to bed, only to be plagued with dreams of scribbled out love hearts, movie theater candy, guitar solos, and big red gum.

When Eddie woke up the next morning, he felt...honestly felt like he was floating on a cloud. Every muscle in his body felt looser, yet somehow tighter at the same time. His skin felt tighter, like it wasn't right, like it didn't fit somehow, it was suffocating him.

He must have died but he wasn't quite sure if this was heaven or hell.

His eyes burned and blurred slightly as he opened them and what he saw was...unexpected.

Gone were the off-white walls, his posters, the piles of his crap, and that concerning patch of probably-mold in the corner of the ceiling. Instead there was a sturdy ceiling, plaid-papered walls, and matching curtains?

Eddie groaned and rolled over.

What the fuck was this place?

There was a slam of a door somewhere that practically shook the walls surrounding Eddie and as he sat up, he found himself only wearing...briefs? He didn't wear briefs.

This wasn’t his bed, wasn’t his room…wasn’t his… body?

He looked down at his chest, his arms, his hands…his fingers weren’t right, he didn’t have this many freckles and moles, he didn’t have…abs, if that’s what you could call the slight definition on his torso. Still it was more than his body had ever had. His skin…was itchy and mostly hairless.

Eddie reached up and touches his hair—shorter than he was used to, not curly…at all—then his face, as if that was any indicator to what he—

“A mirror!” He exclaimed. His voice…sounded familiar, but different. Fuck what kind of dream was this?

Because it had to be a dream right? It had to be. How else did he wake up in someone else’s body?

He pushed himself out of the bed, walking slightly off-cadence, which…yeah probably came with the territory of your brain needing to get used to a new body. Fuck…was his brain even his brain or did his mind just get transported what was happening?

Ugh it was too early to think about that.

Eddie slowly cracked the bedroom door open and peaked into the rest of the house. He spotted a bathroom just across the way, otherwise…shit, this place actually looked a little familiar. Where the fuck was he? Who the fuck was he?

He quickly crossed the landing into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He heaved a breath and leaned back against the door for a moment to calm himself; his hands were shaking and felt cold. Could he even feel his fingers? Nice to know the occasional nervousness that snuck up on him at his lowest moments hadn’t been left behind in his old body, that they’d followed him to this one.

His body…would it still be in his bed? What if he really had died and…had jumped into his new body? Was this reincarnation?

Fuck, if he was dead…Wayne would find him. Could he even…see his uncle again? How could he ever explain who he was?

Eddie felt the tears prick his eyes and his throat tighten and he slapped his face a few times.

“Come on man, come on,” he muttered. “It’s not that bad. It’s only…mildly awful. Fuck, ok. Just go, just look, just…rip it off like a bandaid.”

Eddie took a deep breath and nodded, then crossed the short distance to stand in front of the sink. He stared at his new feet, wiggled his new toes. You never…appreciated the toes you had until you have new ones.

That was awful and you’re an idiot. Just look.

Eddie closed his eyes again and turned his face up towards the mirror. He could do it. He would do it.

He opened his eyes.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

Steve woke up feeling like absolute shit. Everything ached—like he had pulled a muscle or something by sleeping crookedly—he had awful cottonmouth, and he had inhaled…some yarn or something because he woke up coughing and gagging until he got the intrusive strands out of his mouth.

“Gahh, shit, shit,” he said and scratched at his throat. He sounded hoarse. Ugh was he getting sick? He’d have to ask his mom to bring home some soup or something.

Could he call out of work? Shit he had to take Robin to school. She could walk today, he felt awful.

Steve blinked his eyes open and took in the unfamiliar popcorn ceiling with growing concern.

He looked around at the…piles of garbage and the cracks in the plaster walls partially covered by band posters...and felt the rise of panic grow within him. He tried to recall the night before.

He’d wrapped up his shift at Family Video, gone home and had a rare dinner with both of his parents, then…felt extremely tired and went to bed.

So how did he end up here…wherever here was?

This was a kidnapping; it had to be. He was…drugged—explained the cottonmouth—and kidnapped. And now someone was holding him for ransom or something to…blackmail his father? Thomas Harrington was kind of a dick sometimes, sure, but still…he was a pretty decent guy. Who would want to blackmail him?

“H-hello?” Steve called out. “Anyone there? C-can anyone hear me?”

There was some shuffling outside of the door of the room.

Thankfully Steve wasn’t tied up or anything. God, what kind of kidnappers were these? He quickly glanced around the room for a weapon of some sort and he immediately spotted...

A guitar? A few guitars actually. Man these kidnappers really liked music huh?

One was a weird shape--he'd seen some hair metal bands use guitars like that in magazines, but he'd never seen one in person--and was a mottled red color. One was just what you'd expect when someone said "electric guitar." And one was acoustic and looked like it could pack a real wallop.

Bingo.

Steve pushed himself out of the bed and immediately jumped because whatever had been in his mouth was on his shoulders now. He reached up to grab it: hair. Long, wavy, messy...knotty and frizzy. Like it hadn't been brushed for days, maybe weeks?

And his arm, sticking out from whatever t-shirt he'd been put in...was lithe and weak and there were tattoos. On both arms. A creepy claw hand and a bunch of bats.

What was this? How long had they held him hostage for? No wonder they didn't feel the need to tie him up! He'd been knocked out cold.

He needed to get out of here. Now. He needed to get home.

Steve crossed the room to grab the guitar when he noticed it. At first he thought it was another person. But no, it was just a mirror...and in the mirror...his reflection.

Only it wasn't...his reflection.

It had startled him and he had jumped. Then he moved his arms a little and watched the figure in the mirror mimic him. Over and over.

A wave, a turn, a funny face.

He couldn’t believe it. This had to be a joke. A dream. A nightmare.

Because it was him, his reflection. But it was not his—Steve Harrington’s—reflection.

It was Eddie Munson's.

#eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #radicalbilly recs

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