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leaentries · 5 months

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Red | jack hughes

backstory - next

summary: when jack meets a bombshell of a girl, his life is bound to change.

warnings: swearing, lil bit of arrogant jack

wc: 2k+

a/n: welcome to my new series! this will follow jack and red as they navigate through the ins and outs of new love. if you have any requests or thoughts regarding jack and red, please send them in!

His world was flipped the second he met her. His Red.

Live chattering filled the dimly lit bar, as a certain chill settled in the cracks of the wooden walls. Winter did not come to play this time of year. The howling wind could still be heard over the loud voices in the room. With every creak of the front door, more frigid air rushed in, gripping whoever was near.

Bright noses and ears scattered about the patrons, who eagerly down their alcohol in an attempt to warm up the frosted bones beneath. The old dinky clock on the back wall lamely rang as the time hit the hour. It was officially the next day, yet Jack and his team still swarmed the back left corner of the room.

Joy was very evident to whoever gazed upon the mass of hockey players, or anyone who paid any attention to the TVs in the room. The New Jersey Devils had just won their best game thus far, winning by a complete shutout against their rivals. To say they were pumped would be an understatement.

Strong bodies and their accompanied ladies made their way to the dance floor, leaving behind the select bachelors of the bunch. Although adrenaline still coursed through his veins and he was still riding the high of winning, Jack couldn’t help but watch as his teammates celebrated with their partners.

The lowly sound of Nico and Dawson’s conversation echoed in and out of Jack’s ears. Now, Jack knew, regardless of how shallow it seemed, that he could easily have his choice of bunny to dance with. Truth be told, he had begun to grow tired of hooking up with random girls every weekend.

Jack craved something deeper. He craved something real. So, there he sat, in the back booth with a beer in his hand, secretly wishing he had his own girl by his side.

❥.

Another hour or so had passed, the clock now reading 1:15 a.m., yet the team seemed to have every intention of shutting the place down. Another round of shots was brought to the table, courtesy of Erik, causing a new rise of cheers to be heard. Jack jumped slightly, as Dawson shoved a small glass of brown liquid into his hand.

“C’mon, man! What’s up with you?” Dawson questioned as he noticed Jack staring into the glass. Jack was quick to plaster a small, but convincing smile on his face.

“Nothing. I’m all good, just a bit tired after the game, that’s all.” Dawson looked skeptical and opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly cut off as Jack swiftly drank the potent liquid.

“Atta boy, JackJack!” Dawson’s attention moved away from Jack as Luke showed him something on his phone.

A deep sigh left Jack’s throat, easing the burning sensation. His eyes traveled around the bar, this time noting that they seemed to be the last ones left. He wanted to go home, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave as he saw how happy his team looked.

Jack excused himself from the table, opting to go recoup in the bathroom for a few peaceful moments. Making his way towards the other side of the bar proved to be more difficult when he had drunk hockey players flinging themselves as he passed. Jack continued his way through, ignoring all of the concerned looks he got as he pushed his friends off.

He picked up his pace, practically slamming the bathroom door closed once he was inside. He let his hands rest on the sink as he attempted to even out his breathing. Jack wasn’t even completely sure why he was freaking out in the first place. It’s not like he has to be single, he has lines of women at his beck and call.

But, there is something different about the emptiness in his chest that he just can’t seem to shake tonight. Jack turned on the faucet, gently patting his face with some cool water to help dissipate the redness covering his cheeks and neck.

He reached over to grab a paper towel when the door slammed open. Jack turned around abruptly, clearly startled by the sudden intrusion. But what caught him off guard the most was, not the interruption, but the fact that it was a girl. In the men's bathroom.

“Excuse me?” Jack exclaimed, visibly irritated by the girl. The girl's eyes widened, before stepping back to look at the sign on the door.

“Oh shit!” She met Jack’s eyes with an awkward laugh, “Apparently this isn’t the women's bathroom.”

Jack rolled his eyes, “Great observation there, genius.”

The girl raised her eyebrows in surprise at his snappy tone. She understood her mistake, but that did not give him a reason to be rude. Before saying anything, she took into account who he was. Not that it mattered, but she did not want to start beef with Jack Hughes.

She remained silent, her lack of response egging Jack on.

“Look, I get it. You’re a fan, but I’m trying to have some privacy. The least you could do is respect that. You didn’t have to barge into the bathroom just to see me.”

Oh hell no.

It occurred in that moment, that she no longer cared who he was. The arrogance melted in waves off of him and she needed to snuff that out real fast.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to, but it sure ain’t me.”

Jack was taken aback by her rebuttal, not failing to note the southern twang in her voice. He then realized how insanely attractive the fuming girl was. Her flaming ginger hair fell in waves down her back, which provided a stark contrast to her bright green eyes. They were big and round, yet held so much fire. Her nose was small, yet curved up slightly, creating a slope. Jack found himself wanting to trace his fingers down it.

He was snapped back into reality as her vibrant red lips opened once more.

“Don’t get me wrong, I know who you are, Jack Hughes,” She mimicked, “But If I wanted to see your dick that bad, I’d have no problem getting you in my bed.”

Jack scoffed, “Oh is that so?”

She took a few steps forward.

“It’s no secret you get around Jack,” She brought her hands around his shoulders, “Your dick is more famous than you at this point.”

Jack would be lying if he denied the jolt that his cock made at her comment.

“You know, Red, you shouldn’t talk about my dick if you don’t plan on giving it attention.” Jack wasn’t sure what changed his mood, possibly the most sexy woman he had ever seen talking about his cock. Maybe a hookup wouldn’t be the worst thing to come of the night.

A wicked grin found its way to her full lips as she brought them to his right ear. Her body pressed against his deliciously. With a low whisper, she replied, “Like hell.”

She pulled away quickly stepping back. Jack frowned at the loss of her warm body. His eyes gleamed longingly at the door as she made her way out without a second glance at him.

Jack was left by himself once more, this time with a painful hard-on and thoughts of his mystery girl.

❥.

Once he calmed himself down, Jack left the bathroom and began to make his way back to his team. He was about halfway through the building when a streak of red hair caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see her sitting at a bartop, engrossed in her laptop that sat in front of her.

Jack acted on a whim and decided he wanted, no needed, to figure this girl out. He walked up to the bartop, sliding into the seat beside her.

She didn’t even bother to look up, “Look Bubba, go find somewhere else to sit. I am very clearly busy.” She barked. Jack chuckled at her response.

“Wow, Red, you’re very feisty this evening.” The girl snapped her head up, meeting Jack’s icy blue ones. She let out a huff, shaking her head slightly.

“What? You decided to grace the common folk with your godly presence, Jacky?” She gave him a pointed look before continuing, “Also, don’t call me Red. I have a name, you know.”

“You haven’t given it.”

“You haven’t asked.”

Jack smiled. The way she manages to challenge everything he says is addicting and he wants more.

“Alright then, what’s your name?” Jack questioned, quirking his head to the side. Boy, was he more than happy to play her game.

“Y/n.”

“Nah, I still prefer Red.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, opting to turn her focus back to her computer. Jack’s eyebrows furrowed at the lack of attention she gave.

“Am I not entertaining enough for you, Red?”

She looked back up from her project, turning to him. “Look, Jacky, I already told you in the bathroom, I’m not looking to hook up with you. Nor do I want to,” She sucked in a breath, “Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to focus on my article.”

Jack did not like the idea of giving up, so he let his curiosity get the better of him. He turned her laptop towards him, provoking protest from the red-haired girl. He was taken by surprise at the title:

A backtrack on the Devil's season: Did Jack Hughes save the team?

Jack couldn’t help but smirk, his ego rising a few notches.

“Writing articles about me, huh? I gotta be honest with ya, Red. With the way you’ve been arguing all night, I never would have guessed you were my biggest fan.”

Y/n scoffed, a bewildered look on her face. “Ha! That’s rich.” She tugged her laptop back, “I was given this assignment, I would never write about you willingly. You’re a good player Jacky, but some of your other teammates deserve the hype too. All the major networks are too busy fawning over you, that they miss what contributions are being made by the other players. Last time I checked, it’s not just Jack Hughes on the ice.”

Even though she was complaining about him, he couldn’t help but cling to her every word. It was captivating, how passionate she got. Especially over something that Jack’s life revolved around.

She continued, but was cut off by Jack, “I agree with you.”

Y/n cocked her head, “You…agree with me?” Baffled would be an understatement. She assumed Jack would be flying, boasting about being the number one topic in the NHL right now.

“Yes, I agree. My team is just as important, we wouldn’t be winning with just me. It’s a team effort and I think more people should be writing about that. Everyone on that ice is crucial to the game, so I appreciate you seeing that.”

Everything he said was true. He truly did believe that he would be nowhere without his team, they were his family. Y/n could see the tenderness in his eyes. Against her better wishes, she found it attractive how he cared for his team.

She shook away those thoughts, “Anyways, Jacky, I am super busy finishing this article, so…” She trailed off, hoping he would get the subtle hint. She would never let on that she was enjoying their conversation.

Jack wasn’t blind to her attempts to get him to leave but refused to go without assuring him he’d see her again.

“I could help you,” He offered. She gave him a questioning look.

“I mean, you seem to be struggling to come up with what to write about me. So, I can help you. You can ask me any questions you want…”

She raised an eyebrow, sensing his wanting tone, “What’s the catch?”

“Go on a date with me.”

She almost immediately said no, but considered what this article could do for her career. Everyone in her network wanted to write about Jack Hughes, yet somehow she was the one who managed to get stuck with the assignment. Was she willing to put up with an entire date just for the chance to get new intel no one else had?

Y/n had hoped not, but alas, she knew what she needed to do.

“Fine,” Jack’s eyes lit up at her compliance, “Only one date, after that we split and never talk again.”

“You got it, Red.”

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x red #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes headcanons #jack hughes imagine #nj devils #new jersey devils #njd x reader #njd #nico hischier #dawson mercer #luke hughes #erik haula #leawrites💋

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bunnyreaper · 4 months

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johnny maintains his yearly christmas tradition with you, this time with a twist.

(18+/MNDI, f!reader, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, established relationship, brief mention of reader having a specific hair type. Originally written for @soapsgf as part of the secret santa I hosted, but adapted for tumblr!)

Johnny's enthusiasm for Christmas truly knows no bounds. Coming from a large family, he was surrounded by siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles who all loved the festive season, and it created an impression that lasted a lifetime. By the time he was old enough to get weary of the holiday, deployments reminded him of how special that time of year was.

When deployments became old hat, little nieces and nephews were there to remind him of what it was all about. But now there was an itch inside him.

Last Christmas saw Johnny proposing to you under the sparkling lights of your flat's dinky little Christmas tree—and this year he needed to match the excitement that last year had given both of you.

Luckily, up in a snow-topped cabin in the Highlands, with a real fir tree and private hot tub—John MacTavish has a plan.

The sound of the radio and your gentle humming carry through from the kitchenette, filling Johnny with a warmth inside that not even the roaring fireplace can provide.

Johnny rushes around the living room of the cabin, grabbing the supplies he'd snuck in earlier from his truck—extra candles, blankets, and the red ribbon he has tucked in the back of his jeans.

Even the mere thought of his impending gift has him half-hard as he kneels on the fluffy rug, ready to go as he unzips his jeans, pulls down his boxers, and gets to work tying the ribbon around his rapidly hardening cock.

Johnny calls out for you, hoping his voice carries enough to be heard over the noise. When he doesn't hear you coming, he calls out louder, his voice booming and cheery as it so often is. "Bonnie!"

Finally, he hears you pause the music and set down the dishes in the sink—moments later, you appear around the door, bright-eyed and content with a dish towel still drying off your hands.

"Yes?" You call out, before you finally take in all of Johnny and his state of undress.

Johnny's smile is infectious, just as it always is—but under the sparkling lights it shines extra bright with a swirl of mischief, Christmas spirit, and arousal. "One last gift."

"Johnny..." You laugh, blushing ever so slightly as your hungry stare settles on where Johnny starts to stroke his leaking cock.

"Yearly tradition, c'mon." He smirks, thrusting his hips into the air slightly as if to tempt his love.

"Fuck. Hard already, Johnny." You tease him with ease, having done this sweet song and dance with him before. After all, it was a yearly tradition Johnny all but insisted upon keeping, even the year you'd spent at his parents where he'd fucked you oh so quietly and oh so dirtily in his childhood bedroom.

"Extra excited to give you this gift, doll." He growls, eyes clouding over with lust. "Get over here."

You quickly find your way to your knees, your hand falling to Johnny's velvety, hard dick in an instant as you begins to stroke him lovingly.

Johnny's hand strokes across your curves, embracing your figure before his fingers find their way lower—across silky thighs, with teasing touches as he goes. Each inch he edges up the hem of your dress, the more shivers wrack your body, and arousal flows through your veins.

When Johnny's fingers dip below the waistband of your lacy panties, the thick pads are greeted with your dripping slick. "Wet already?" Johnny teases back.

"Fuck off." You whisper, just before your lips capture his.

Both of your eyes flutter shut as you fall into each other's embrace, hands caressing each other's most intimate parts as your lips intertwine sweetly.

The kiss between you two escalates, lips and teeth growing hungry as your hands move over each other with enthusiasm.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," you mumble against your fiance's lips, the hand not on his dick coming up to stroke across his stubbled cheek.

Johnny returns the favour, rough palm settling on your soft skin and caressing. "Haven't even given ye the gift yet."

"The gift wasn't your dick?"

"Not quite, lass." He smirks, fingers curling expertly inside you, against your most sensitive spot inside. His lips fall to your neck as he continues to stroke, nibbling at the one point he knows drives you wildest. "Lay back and find out."

The two of you part slowly, exchanging a few more pecks before Johnny helps lay you down. Your locks cascade around your head like a halo as Johnny settles you into the shaggy rug. His hands take the time to rove over your figure, appreciating every inch of your body under the twinkle of the fairy lights and the flicker of the candlelight.

He pushes the skirt of your dress down your thighs delicately, kissing at the sensitive inner flesh before peeling off your panties. His eyes hold yours the entire time in an intense gaze, but especially so when he pauses with his mouth latched onto your skin, sucking a mark into your flesh. Blue eyes burn into yours, bearing his hunger to you.

"I don't think eating me out counts as a Christmas gift either when you do it every time we fuck." You sigh, overcome with the anticipation and pleasure of Johnny's mouth hovering just inches from your exposed folds.

"Tha's no' the gift, doll." He purrs, quickly dipping down to press a kiss to your swollen clit—he smirks when the action draws a wanton moan from you. "Just getting you ready for the real deal."

Johnny spurs into action, pulling away and scrambling to push off his jeans and boxers. He pulls the ribbon from where it's tied at the root of his dick and tosses it at you, delighting when he draws out your giggles. You brush the ribbon off your face, curling it in your fist as Johnny spreads open your legs, setting your feet on his shoulders.

He's quick to line himself up with your wet cunt, swiping the head of his dick through your folds with a hungry grin and delighting in the way your legs quiver.

As he's about to push himself into the tight heat of your pussy, a weakly protesting hand comes to press against his muscled chest—one that speaks to a rationality neither of you really wants to listen to.

"No condom, Johnny."

"Not this time, bonnie." Johnny circles his cock around your entrance, waiting for permission for you both to give in to your more carnal urges. "Tha's your gift, if you want it."

"Johnny... are you serious?" You gasp, a smile spreading across your face, completely unrestrained. You'd talked about it before, yet you were just waiting for Johnny to come around to the idea.

"Dead serious, gonna make ye a ma..." He growls, before sinking into you fully in one thrust, making sure his cock is snug inside and filling you so completely.

"Fuck, Johnny!" You gasp, struggling to catch your breath as Johnny's hips start moving at a brutal pace inside you. All you can do is lie back and take it, watching as the gorgeous wall of muscle that is your fiance hammers his dick deep inside you.

Still, you need to get out your next words.

"Have something... to tell you." Johnny's eyes flicker to yours, yet he remains quiet and focused. "I'm... already pregnant."

For a moment, Johnny stills, eyes going wide before they're overtaken with an even wilder hunger in his gaze. His hips snap harder and deeper than they did before, as he practically turns into a feral beast on top of his you.

"All the more reason to fuck ye full of my cum, eh?" He growls, his voice desperate and strained as he strokes across your stomach where his seed has already taken hold. "Gonna fill you again, make sure it really takes."

Your eyes roll back in your skull, overwhelmed at the idea of being bred all over again by Johnny, this time with purpose.

You two cling to each other desperately, animal instincts driving you together, as you both desperately seek to make sure you're knocked up good and proper.

It isn't long before your cunt is being flooded with rope after rope of Johnny's potent cum—the man himself not pulling out, instead peppering your face with kisses as he keeps your hole plugged up and his load deep inside.

"Merry Christmas, bonnie."

#john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #soap cod #john soap mactavish #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfiction #bunny writes #secret santa

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 4 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 54

Part 1 Part 53

Months pass, slow and stretched out, like the bubblegum El’s taken to chewing. Sometimes, she’ll wrap it around her pointer finger and pull it, teeth clamped around the other side until it’s elongated – all air, stretched past recognition until it snaps.

That’s how the summer passes, foisted from adult to adult to adult. If Mom’s busy, then it’s Jonathan. If Jonathan’s busy, then it’s Uncle Wayne. If Uncle Wayne is busy, then it’s hopper. Never any of the parents who don’t know. It’s a lot of time being cooped up inside, going crazy.

For the first time, school being back in session is a relief. He’ll take the monotony of schoolwork and the stress of being zombie boy over staring at his ceiling for a second more. The party grumbles about their precious free time being sucked away, and Will echoes along, complaining about the homework and tests and boring hours, but his heart’s not in it.

When he’s home, it’s like the walls are closing in. With that in mind, he slips out his window, unnoticed. The party had talked about going to the arcade. Will hadn’t been invited. They all knew he wouldn’t be able to go; Tuesday’s were the day when no one was free. Jonathan had photography club after school, and everyone else worked. He’d be stuck at Melvald’s sitting quietly in the corner as his Mom worked.

But not today. Today, he gets on his bike and starts riding. He makes it to Mirkwood before things go wrong. He hears it: that static, horrific clicking. He falls off his bike, and it’s like he’s back in last November, scraped knees and all. He gets up and runs, bike abandoned at the side of the road.

His breathing is ragged by the time he’s back in front of his house. He whirls around, pulse in his throat, and sees nothing at all. There’s no sound, no Demogorgon stalking toward him, petal mouth opening. And it’s the middle of the day. There’s nothing at all. Will swallows, throat clicking with how dry it suddenly is.

He climbs back in through the window, disheveled and sweaty, hands shaking. He changes his dirty pants, dunks his face and hands in the abandoned water glass at his bedside. Good as new. Will closes the blinds, and sits down on his bed.

They’re probably there already, crowded around Pac Man or Dig Dug, the shape of Will’s absence a hole they always seem to leave open for him. He clenches his fingers around his knees, staring at his closed window.

What would Steve do?

Steve wouldn’t hesitate; he would’ve already been at the arcade, laughing at the center of everything like always. He wouldn’t be falling off his bike and seeing things that weren’t there.

With that thought, Will stands, walks purposefully out his bedroom door. Mom’s packing bologna sandwiches into her reusable lunch box, one for her and one from Will. He freezes at the entryway to the kitchen and watches her work.

“Are you ready to go, sweetie?” she asks, pouring coffee into her dinky little thermos, not turning around.

Will takes a deep breath. “I want to go to the arcade with my friends.” He tries to say it confidently, but it comes out wobbling all over the place.

Mom pauses, still holding the coffee pot in one hand, tilted at an angle that would have it pouring all over the countertop if it wasn’t almost empty. She stays like that for an endless moment before putting the coffee pot on the counter with a quiet click. Will wonders if it’ll burn.

She turns around, biting her lip. “Sweetie, Hop and Wayne are both at work, and you know Jonathan is–”

“Why can’t I go by myself?” he interrupts, trying not to think of how much of a disaster that’d been a few minutes ago.

Mom’s shoulders slump. She crosses her arms, hunching into herself, mouth scrunched up just like that time she’d tried a lemonhead for the first time at Jonathan’s wheedling. She’d spit it into her hand within seconds, staring down at the thing with horror.

That’s how she’s looking at Will now. Like she’s spit him out and couldn’t imagine having ever had him at all. But then it passes, and it’s just his Mom, looking worried.

“Do you think Steve and Eddie could take you?” she asks.

It’s a compromise he’s happy to grab with both hands. “I’ll call them.”

He picks up the phone, dialing the number by rote. He’s dialed it enough that he could do it blindfolded.

“Munson residence.” Steve’s voice sounds gruff, like he’s been sleeping. Or crying. Or like whatever had happened in the Upside-Down to make his voice gravely and rough in the hospital all those months ago. “Hello?”

“Will you take me to the arcade?” Will asks.

There’s a long enough pause that Will starts blushing, especially when he hears his Mom huff about phone etiquette behind him. But then Steve says, “sure, want me to come get you?”

Will glances at the clock hanging in the living room, squinting to make out the numbers. “Can you be here in ten minutes? Mom has to go to work.”

“Sure kid,” Steve says, pausing long enough that Will almost hangs up, before saying quietly. “She still not letting you stay home alone?”

“No,” Will says, just as quietly, pointedly not looking over to where his Mom is hovering by his shoulder.

Steve sighs, tinny over the distance between their houses. “Okay, see you soon kid.”

“Bye,” Will says, but Steve’s already hung up.

He puts the phone into the cradle, feeling excitement and dread burble up within him in equal measures.

“Are they coming?” Mom asks.

Will nods, walking into the entryway to slip on his shoes. “Steve is. I’m not sure about Eddie.”

His Mom hums. “What a lovely boy.” She digs around in her purse, depositing a handful of quarters into his waiting palm. “Do you need anything else, sweetie?”

Will shakes his head, tucking the loose quarters deep into his pocket. He waits by the door, like a dog waiting for his owner to come home, metaphorical tail wagging while his Mom putters around trying to find her work smock.

Will doesn’t recognize the sound of the car that pulls up; its engine quiet enough that he mostly hears it by the sound of the tires rolling over the loose debris that always covers their driveway. He does recognize the knock a few seconds later. Three light knocks, barely loud enough to reach Will where he’s standing by the door. Like Steve knows exactly where he’s waiting. Because he does.

Will wrenches the door open, already smiling. Steve’s standing there in his customary blue jeans, and a blue polo, hair perfectly coiffed, jean jacket thrown over the whole thing. “Hi,” Will says.

“Baby Byers,” Steve replies, nodding down at him, before looking behind Will to where his Mom’s now hovering. “Ms. Byers.”

“Oh, honey. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Joyce?”

Steve smiles, that crooked one he does where just one side of his mouth turns up. “At least one more time, huh?”

Mom laughs, stepping around Will to pull Steve into a hug. She hands over a few bills that Steve stuffs into his wallet with instructions to get them both something to eat.

Steve’s Bimmer is sitting in the driveway behind their own junker. It’s nice enough that it should contrast, but it’s been rotting in front of the Munson’s trailer without being washed for long enough that he can’t tell the difference. It smells musty when he climbs in. Steve stares at him pointedly until he buckles his seatbelt, and then they’re off.

They leave in a line, Steve backing up with his Mom only seconds behind. Will’s almost surprised when his Mom doesn’t follow Steve’s car the whole way. She turns off, and their cars part ways.

Will grabs the opportunity with both hands. “Can we go get my bike?”

Steve glances over at him with a raised brow, but keeps both hands at ten and two. “Where is it?”

“Mirkwood.”

Steve sighs, but turns around, and notably doesn’t ask. He finds it without prompting, the white of its body stands out in the dirt. He’s just glad no one has picked it up and ridden away. Steve grumbles as he struggles to stuff it into his trunk, before stuffing it into his backseat, muddy tires and all.

They’re back on their way, and Steve still hasn’t asked. That’s what makes Will open his mouth. “I tried to ride it to the arcade,” he says, picking at the small hole in the knee of his pants. “But I heard it.”

He can see Steve’ fingers tighten around the steering wheel from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“It was like before,” Will mumbles. “Like when the Demogorgon got me.”

Steve’s knuckles are white, but his voice comes out even when he asks, “do you think it was there?”

Will thinks back, past the panic and the running and the breathlessness. “No,” he whispers, watching color bleed back into Steve’s hands. “It was probably a squirrel, or my tires on the leaves. I just panicked.”

Steve sighs, lets the R.E.M song live fill up the silences all one its own – Did we miss anything? Did we miss anything? Did we miss anything? Did we miss anything? – He pulls in smoothly into an empty spot at The Palace.

Steve doesn’t turn off the car, so Will makes no move to get out.

Steve sighs again, reaching over to switch off his tape deck. The silence is deafening, but Steve doesn’t let it linger. “You know,” he says, not looking at Will at all. “Uncle Wayne told me it’s called shellshock.” He takes a shuddering breath before letting it out smoothly. “It’s like when something bad happens and sometimes your brain can get like, stuck there? I guess?”

He’s staring out the windshield, like he’s somewhere else. “Are you okay?” Will asks.

It takes a second for him to blink back into life, but when he does, Steve turns his head to smile down at Will. It still looks sad. “It’s hard sometimes, bud,” he says, reaching over to squeeze Will’s shoulder. “But we’re getting through it, aren’t we?”

Will’s not sure why he thought Steve and Eddie would bounce back so much better, had already bounced back, even. But Steve’s shoulders were always so squared, and even in the hospital when he’d been wan and tired, he’d seemed so strong. Unbreakable.

“Yeah,” Will exhales. “We will be.”

They get out of the car in sync, Steve slowing his pace so Will can keep up with his shorter legs. Steve reaches over his head to pull the door open, waiting for Will to walk under his arm and into the sanctuary that is the arcade.

Just like he imagined, all three are crowded around the pac man machine, Lucas maneuvering the joystick with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. Will sneaks up beside them, Steve just behind, and the machine is in sight just in time to watch pac man blip out of sight, eaten by a ghost for the last time.

“It thought you nerds were supposed to be good at this kind of thing,” Steve says, plopping his arm onto Mike’s shoulder to peer over at the screen. “Doesn’t that mean you buttheads are dead?”

They all turn in unison, Lucus’s brow already furrowing before it smoothes out when he sets his eyes on Will.

“Will!” Lucas shouts, as all three tackle him noisily, the steadying hand Steve puts on his hand the only thing keeping him up. He’s surrounded on all sides, safe and warm.

“Wow, thanks for making me an afterthought,” Steve says, rolling his eyes bitchily until Dustin runs at him, tackling him in a hug of his own that has Steve’s eyes widening before his smile softens and he ruffles Dustin’s hair.

“Hey, Steve,” Dustin says, lisping over the T as he smiles goofily up at Steve.

Will watches the interaction, fondness filling him up entirely.

“I thought you couldn’t come!” Mike says, dropping his arms from around Will and taking a step back. The broad grin on his face takes the sting out of it.

“Mom said Steve could take me,” WIll mumbles.

Lucas looks up at Steve, that same starstruck look on his face that they’d all started to have as Will shared more and more about Steve’s heroics on the other side. “Cool,” he whispers.

Steve’s ears turn red and he coughs before immediately diverting attention away from himself. “What’ve you twerps been up to?”

WIll listens happily to his friends complain about the new player on the scoreboard, MADMAX, and how even Dustin couldn’t seem to catch up to him.

It’s been a while since they’ve had a mystery that wasn’t life or death. Will wonders who this Mad Max is and if he’d let them watch him play.

Part 55

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect

#steddie upsidedown au #my fic #steddie #steve harrington #will byers

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solarmorrigan · 1 month

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🧡 kissing in bed / lazy kiss / cuddling

Hi there! I'm sorry this took a bit to get out, but thank you for the prompt!

🧡 kissing in bed / lazy kiss / cuddling

Prompt from this post

Eddie doesn’t have the energy or brain capacity to give enough fucks to do much more than toe his shoes off at the door and jam his jacket onto their overburdened coat rack before stumping into the living room and flopping down to sprawl in the armchair with a groan.

“Long day?”

Lifting his head, Eddie looks over to find Steve stretched out on the couch, covered by the throw that Wayne had given them when they’d moved into this dinky little apartment, his glasses shoved up on top of his head, a book that Eddie had recommended to him still held open in one hand.

While Eddie had had to work, it had been Steve’s day off, and it looks like he’s made the most of it. He’s unfairly inviting, warm and soft and laid out like that – unfair, because he’s all the way across the living room.

“Long, long day,” Eddie agrees, letting his head drop back with a groan. “Why are you so far away?”

“I’m, like, five feet from you, Eddie,” Steve snorts.

“Too faaaar,” Eddie whines, raising one hand to grope at the air in Steve’s direction, grinning a little when he hears Steve laugh.

“It’s not my fault you picked the chair over the couch when you came in,” Steve says, and Eddie groans again.

He’s just considering gathering his strength to make one last stand and stumble over to the couch when he hears the flap of paper and the rustle of fabric against fabric and the shuffle of feet, and then–

“Move your legs, or I’m going to crush them.”

Eddie opens his eyes to see Steve standing over him, one knee poised on the edge of the chair and eyebrows raised expectantly. Slowly, Eddie drops one leg off the side of the cushion, making a space for Steve, who shakes his head but somehow manages to crunch himself up into the vacancy created in a way Eddie swears that someone as big as Steve shouldn’t be able to do.

He’s brought he blanket with him, and as soon as he’s got his ass and both feet planted on the chair, he unfurls it and drapes it over the both of them, trying to cover as many of Eddie’s starfished limbs as possible. Then he snuggles a little further into Eddie’s space, leaning up against his chest and resting his cheek against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Better?” he asks, and Eddie can feel his breath tickle the side of his neck.

It’s a stupid way to sit when the sofa really is just a few feet away. Eddie could get off his ass and they could both stretch out on the couch, and then the arm of Steve’s glasses wouldn’t be digging into Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie won’t end up sore from sitting all splayed out for so long, and Steve’s back won’t cramp up from being scrunched into such an awkward position.

Instead, Eddie brings a hand up and fits it under Steve’s chin, lifting his head so he can duck down and press his lips to Steve’s in a slow, soft kiss. He drops his other arm from the back of the chair and wraps it around Steve’s shoulders, cuddling him closer as he settles back into his sprawl.

“Better,” Eddie says.

#puppy-steve #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddiesteve #they're both going to regret this decision later <3 #solar wrote #answers from solar #long post

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sygol · 5 months

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you and your friends are out for a night on the town when unexpectedly an exceptionally tiny car roars down the street and skids out right in front of you, before you know whats happening the passenger car door is kicked open and several dozen clowns pour out one after another, the car stereo is blasting circus music, and they start beating and wailing you with little clubs and squeaky hammers until you collapse, relentlessly pie after pie is winged at you, quickly coated in a thick creamy mess, a cloying sweetness on your tongue, blind and afraid you scream out while repeatedly slammed from all sides, your friends are writhing on the ground, gasping for air, getting kicked by bobo and mimi and squeeble and dinky and chocho and fanny and gusto and sunshine and bongo and jubbins and cleetus and lala and sparky and skiddles and ziggy and grock and cheeky and bonbon and doofy and pogo and dimple and heckles and bubbles and

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powderblueblood · 5 months

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER TWO — VIOLENT DELIGHTS at HARRINGTON’S HOUSE

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: it's a rager at the harrington household! you attempt to reconnect with carol, tommy and the gang (it goes horribly, but they started it), accidentally connect with robin buckley and inadvertently have your life saved by eddie munson and his stupid van. you swear, this guy is following you. content warnings: NSFW / MINORS DNI swearing boots the house down, underage drinking, good old fashioned 80s homophobia and slut shaming, mean mom moment, implied attempted sexual assault, billy hargrove haters club (sorry) word count: 4.7k

Dear reader, I know you think of yourself as a harsh person.

Cold and exacting, surgical in the way you deal with people. You put on a good show, though, masking it all up with quiet confidence and pretty smiles. The prettiest smiles. And you’re never too mean. At least, not out loud.

It’s different when it comes to him, though. With him, you’ve got all the reason in the world to be mean. Vicious, even.

His dad is the reason your dad is in prison. That simple fact makes you want to grab his ridiculous hair and slam his head against the lockers so his ears ring.

Al Munson probably has no bearing on the way Eddie Munson lives his life, because he’s a deadbeat the way his son is destined to be a deadbeat. But the mere genetic suggestion of that piece of shit is enough for you to want to cut the brake lines in his little boy’s van.

You’re trying not to think about it too much, but it’s harder and harder when he’s right across the fucking lot, playing the same pedantic guitar riff over and over and over and–

Ssskrrrp.

The pressure you’ve been putting on your poor fountain pen tears through the lined paper, interrupting your line of thinking.

What doesn’t interrupt, what has no sign of stopping, is Munson’s incessant fretboard shredding coupled with–Christ almighty–an ear piercing harmonica. And look, you’re not one to ignore technique– he’s fine, you suppose, as much as anyone who can adequately handle an instrument can be fine, but it’s the fact that he keeps going. He’s relentless.

Doesn’t this place get noise complaints?

You almost yank up your window and aim the nearest heavy thing in reach–a commemorative Indianapolis Christmapolis snowglobe from 1981–toward Munson’s window in the hope that it sails clean in and puts a hole right through his amp, but you stop yourself short.

You do not exist to me and I better not exist to you.

You’re a woman of your word.

And you’ve got a party to get ready for.

You’ll admit, the trepidation factor of showing up to Steve Harrington’s house after your trailer trash makeunder is major. This is why every element of your look has to be just meticulously so, from your hot roller curls to the angle your off-the-shoulder dress sits at.

“Are you going somewhere?” your mom mumbles from the doorway.

It almost make you draw a jagged edge in your lip liner– you’d forgot you left the door ajar and she moves like a ninja nowadays. Silent and deadly, or not at all. At the very least she’s not slurring her words; she’d heavily upped the intake of Beaujolais since she had to appear on the witness stand. You wonder what she’ll do when the contents of her old wine cellar that’s now living in the trailer’s living room runs out.

You wonder what number glass is the one she’s currently clutching.

“It’s Friday night,” you say, like that’s a sufficient response.

“Whatever happened to keeping a low profile, hon?” she says, perching on your dinky twin bed. She pokes around the measly few pieces of jewelry you’ve scattered there, the only ones you have left. The rest went to the pawn shop, then that went to the legal fund.

Fat lot of good that did us, you think.

“I get that you’re probably… upset by all this change, but,” she continues, sighing deep, “Going out and making a fool of us isn’t going to help anything.”

You cap your lip liner and wonder just who the fuck your mother thinks she’s talking to.

“And drinking yourself into a stupor in front of cable TV is?” you bite, “--scratch that. We can’t afford cable anymore, can we, Mommy?”

Your mother’s purple-tinged lips peel over her teeth in a sickened smile. “Don’t be a bitch, Lacy. No one likes a bitch.”

“I’m not,” you assure, unrolling the first of your hot rollers, “I’m being pragmatic. Game face, right? That’s what Daddy said. We’re not going to let this town of gossip mongering wannabes tell us who we are,” you say, rendering a pitch-perfect impression of your dad that makes your mom shudder. “I’m going out. I’m going to a party. I’m going to act like nothing has changed because it hasn’t–”

It’s eerie how easily you can lie to yourself.

“--you’re the one who’s not being a team player.” You don’t exactly say that your mother is the one that’s bringing extracurricular shame to the family name, but that’s what the reality is. If there’s not whispers flying about your incarcerated father, there’s mumblings about your mother showing up blotto in Melvald’s with more than one run in her stockings.

Getting up from your makeshift dressing table to pick your jewelry from the bed, you turn– and run chest-first into your mother’s wine glass. She lets the wine spill down the front of your dress–your white dress–with just enough manufactured shock to let you know it wasn’t an accident. You gasp– is she serious?! The stain spreads just like her smile does; slow and languid and completely immovable.

“Oh, baby, look at that mess,” she pouts mirthlessly, “Do you know how difficult it is to get red wine stains out?”

You just about keep your composure as she leaves your bedroom, slamming the door behind her. It might appear that your mother has nothing left in this world, but she still has the ability to make you feel two feet tall.

Blinking away the hornet’s sting of tears in your freshly mascara’d eyes, you glance to the clock radio– no! You had planned on a bus route that included a fifteen minute walk from the park to get you to Steve’s on time (and to avoid another car ride full of ribbing with Carol, Tommy et al) and there’s no way you’re going to make it now. Plus, you now need a full outfit revamp and you still weren’t organized enough for that.

Panic runs a trail of hot spikes up the back of your neck as you rifle through the nearest suitcase for anything remotely appropriate and you come up with– something.

Something slightly risque, that you weren’t counting on debuting at a party where you needed to convince people that I’m normal and nothing’s different and everything is fine.

Your new outfit requires you to be practically hermetically sealed into it, it’s so tight, but it matches your shoes at least– you’re a stickler for details. You’re also a stickler for multitasking, so you drum up a last ditch attempt at hitching a ride to Harrington’s house and barrel out the trailer door without so much as a Don’t wait up, Mom!

A sharp left is your first move, and you nearly swear you see Munson drop a note in his hard rock symphony as you dash past his window. Good. Hope you can’t nail that intro for the rest of the night, just like you can’t nail anything else.

You’re sure, no, you’re positive that you’ve seen that car around here somewhere… and just like a very dangerous North Star, the Chevy Camaro sits askew in front of a nearby trailer home. The front door pops open, there’s some incoherent yelling, and a shadowy figure identifiable only by a trail of cigarette smoke and an ever-present cloud of too-strong drugstore cologne swaggers towards the vehicle.

Someone up there’s looking out for me.

“Billy!” you call, teetering his way on your heels, “Hey.”

Or wants me dead.

Billy Hargrove pauses in his tracks, tossing the dying ember of his cigarette into some nearby, extremely dead and extremely flammable, shrubbery. He drinks you in, top of the lid to the bottom of the label, and you want to fidget with your outfit. A black waistcoat with nothing but a bra underneath hitches your breasts to your clavicle. The matching skirt feels suddenly illicitly short. He’s regarding you with a newfound if sleazy appreciation– then again, you daresay Billy Hargrove eyes up froyo with the same lascivious look. Guy has a chronic case of eyeball nymphomania.

“Lacy, right?” he drawls, like you haven’t been in the same social sphere at least a dozen different times. You nod, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear in an effort to out-cute yourself. This is very not you behavior, but– needs must. “Fresh meat.”

Again, like you haven’t met a billion times before, but trailer park politics change everything.

“Yeah,” you say, skipping over that particular prelude to a come-on, “Um, no way you’re going to Harrington’s party, are you?”

Billy heel-toes his way toward you, slow like molasses (or slurry, or tar), giving you his best half-lidded come-hither shit. Look, you get what Tina and Carol and the rest of the girls see in him– it’s the whole greased up dirtbag, fuelled by chauvinism, sponsored by Pall Mall thing that is designed to piss off their parents and give them bacterial vaginosis. It’s their first taste of adulthood. You, on the other hand, have tastes in the opposite sex that are as-yet unmet by this half-assed corn maze of a town.

“I was thinkin’ about it,” he smirks, barely a breath away from you. And you play right up into it, even if you want to recoil from his ratty moustache.

“Well, think I could ride shotgun?” you ask, and tack on, “With you?”

“What’s in it for me?”

Oh, Jesus Christ, does it ever end. You have to swallow in order not to roll your eyes and ask him if he ever thinks about changing that broken flirting record.

“The most impeccable company in Hawkins, of course,” you simper, amping up the princess angle. Though you were pretty sure that dynamic played better when you weren’t living on the edge of civilization.

Billy folds easily, but doesn’t go so far as to open the passenger door for you. He jams the radio on as soon as the key’s in ignition, speed metal rattling through the car’s interior. Another cigarette lit and he’s revving up and out, while you’re still struggling to find the non-existent seatbelt. You give up and reach for a smoke from the open soft pack on the dash– it’s not a regular habit outside of parties and stealing your mom’s every once in a while, but again, needs must.

Billy flicks a Zippo dangerously close to your face. “What’s your deal.”

Despite the monotone delivery, you’re sure it’s the closest thing to an honest-to-god question Billy’s ever asked you– or any girl, for that matter.

“That’s a vague line of questioning, Billy,” you say, cracking a window so the smoke can escape.

“You’re like, bad now or something?” he scoffs, “Shunned from the suburbs so you’re acting all edgy?”

By hitching a ride with you, you mean. God, how pathetic to uphold yourself as the standard of bad behavior– as far as bad goes, I could do a lot better.

“Thaaat’s it,” you nod animatedly, half-yelling over the din of 'The Four Horsemen', “I figured with my father in the big house, I might as well commit to the bit. I might even get a tattoo. How’s that make you feel?”

Billy barely emotes an answer, his himbot expression set on seduce mode. He’s just smirking, lashes low. “If you wanna let loose, I know someplace we could do that.”

His free hand, the one that isn’t oh-so-casually resting on the wheel, reaches over to brush a lock of hair from your cheek. The knuckle trails down to your jawline, skips to your shoulder, your forearm, until his palm comes to cup your knee. Your skin feels like it hardens under his touch.

You’ve seen this movie before. Rebel Without a Condom: Skull Rock Edition.

Your hand closes over Billy’s, holding it firmly in place. He has a hair-trigger temper. You know that. You're attempting to handle it delicately.

“So do I. Harrington’s party.”

His tongue runs along the edge of his bottom lip, and you wonder what’s fundamentally missing in you that this shit doesn’t have you trembling. He grips tighter, fingers edging up your thigh under your vice. Your stomach seizes. “I mean really loosen up, Lacy. You wanna be bad, let’s go be bad.”

And suddenly, as his foot edges the gas to push you down the dirt road faster, you are trembling. But for all the wrong reasons.

Then– an ungodly rumble from behind, headlights blaring through the rear window as a vehicle zooms almost bumper-to-bumper with Billy’s. The horn honks and each car’s sound system wages a war to be heard– Metallica versus Black Sabbath.

Your neck snaps around. You don’t even need to see past the blinding light into the driver’s seat to know who the hell that is.

The van hits a dangerous swerve in order to come neck and neck with Billy’s car, spooking him enough that he snaps his hand off of your leg. The van boisterously overtakes you and Billy slams on the horn, revving the engine from his position behind. The sign of relief you breathe is barely contained, but can’t be heard over metal-on-metal drums.

“What the fuck is this freak’s problem?!”

“At least he’s bringing party favors.”

–

While Billy Hargrove’s admittedly sick Camaro sure can burn rubber, she’s no match for Eddie’s old lady in the arena of sheer bull-in-a-china-shop obnoxiousness. She hauls a lotta ass and takes up a lotta road, which is perfect for raising the blood pressure of an asshole like this.

And before you think it, before you even imagine it– he’s not fucking up Billy’s cruising hours because of you.

Not entirely, anyway.

Truth is, his uncle’s hours have been cut at the plant, as have Eddie’s shifts at the Hideout so he’s seizing opportunity wherever he can. Keep the lights on, right? And if that means palming off dimebags and powder to some drunk kids who are overzealous with their unpetty cash, then fine. He’d got the word from a couple of meatheads that his services might be useful, so it’s not as if he’s planning on gatecrashing Harrington’s. Gatecrashing a Quaker meeting would be more entertaining, if you ask Eddie.

But, gun to his head? Alarm bells started ringing when he saw you bowl out of your trailer in that ho–... that outfit and head towards Hargrove’s. Well, Mayfield’s, technically– the only time Hargrove shows up there is to cool off when his dad kicks him out. Hargrove’s dad and the redhead kid’s mom have split, and she is not taking it well, so add in the macho madness of Billy and you’ve got a maelstrom of disaster.

Sometimes he sees Little Red sneak out in the middle of the night and he’s gotten in the habit of keeping an eye on her.

From a safe distance, of course. That kid’s like a rabid dog, jumpy and paranoid. He’s positive she bites.

Anyway, that’s how come he came to spot you. Activity in the Hargrove enclosure. And again, if he’s to believe any kind of insidious gossip, girls that slide into the passenger seat of Hargrove’s ride are not necessarily safe.

So, he figures, it’s time to peel out and get to work.

Eddie manages to keep Billy entertained on his tail right until the turn to Harrington’s, so you don’t swerve off onto an unlit dirt road with him. What can he say, he loves the chase!

Billy’s car almost blocks him in when he pulls up, you clambering out of the passenger side unassisted. Douchebag. The minute Eddie’s sneakers hit the pavement, Billy is just about nose to nose with him, frothing at the mouth. Rabid dog must run in the family.

“Fuck was that about, huh?”

“Jeez, Hargrove, a little early to be scamming on your date already,” Eddie teases, drawing up to his full height– he’s got a couple of inches on Hargrove, which he knows is a sore spot. “But I’m flattered.”

On instinct, not insistence, Eddie’s eyes snap to you– but you don’t give him so much as a glance, just huff, “Thanks for the ride, Hargrove,” and head into the party. His eyes follow you, watching you stalk inside with your shoulders all hunched and your ankles about ready to give out in those dumb shoes.

Billy shoves him, hard, as if to draw his attention back. “Fucking wanna go, huh?”

But Eddie, at this point, is beyond over it. He’s done all the dick measuring he wants to do tonight. He digs a joint out of his pocket and slaps it into Billy’s hand.

“Christ, Scrappy Doo, hit the brakes already. Have one on me.”

–

The one time in your life you’ll be thankful for the bottomless pit of the male ego is tonight. Billy completely rerouted his fucking pea brain to dog Munson all the way to Steve’s house, and all you had to endure was motion sickness.

Could have been a lot worse.

You’re still regaining your land legs by the time you cross the Harringtons’ porch and are instantly cornered by Tina and Nicole.

“Lacy,” they say, in unison and almost gravely. Very the twins from The Shining. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Wait, did you come here with–”

“--Billy Hargrove,” you supply before anyone can make any stupid assumptions. “Almost died in a game of chicken in the process, but that’s that Forest Hills life for ya.”

Tina looks past you, distracted and distant. “I always forget he lives there,” Nicole shrugs. You don’t bother to correct her, because you don’t think he does. Whatever.

“Wish I could forget I live there!” you chirp, “In fact, that’s exactly what I’d like to do– forget. What are we drinking, ladies?”

You push past the hovering bodies and make your way to the kitchen, the girls bringing up the rear but real slowly. Something’s wrong– something’s off with them. But then again, maybe something’s just off with you. You choose to forget about it, forcing your party mode switch to on.

“Jesus, what is Robin Dykely doing here?” Nicole scoffs over your shoulder as you search the kitchen island for anything you can free pour, and fast. You purse your lips– Nicole’s obviously started early, because when she’s tipsy, she’s got no volume control nor spatial awareness. The Robin Buckley in question is lingering by a punch bowl and definitely in ear shot.

“Looks like she’s drinking punch at a party, Nic,” you say flatly, pulling a bottle of vodka from the gaggle of glassware. That’ll do fine.

“Probably hoping Tam Thompson will finally join the softball team.”

“Doesn’t Steve work with her?”

“Yeah, they’re like, buddy-buddy right?” you non-committally muse, grabbing a shot glass; in fact, you had seen the mousy girl mousing around Family Video with Steve. He’d even given her a ride to school a couple of times, whatever the hell that dynamic was. You didn’t know much about Robin, other than she was in band so you matriculated in the same gym space what with due to your spot on the cheerleading squad. Well, that, and the obvious rumors.

But largely and absolutely, you didn’t care. She’s a relative nobody.

You knock back a searing shot of vodka.

“That’s proof Harrington’s exhibiting early signs of dementia, I’m sure,” Tina grimaces. “Like, doesn’t he know she’s a carpet muncher?”

“Like Harrington can’t have a girl within three feet of him without wanting to bang her?” you say, matching Tina’s grimace with a strained voice after the shot. “Yet here you are, Tina.”

It’s a little meaner than Tina is used to from you– and it shows. She blinks, once, twice, three times, visibly hurt because she knows that you know that she’s had a thing for Steve Harrington since the dawn of forever.

Well, fucking get in line.

Then she scoffs, recovering herself. “Have another drink, Lace. ‘bout time you loosened up.”

Tina slinks by you toward the patio and you almost call after her, but don’t. Nicole, starting after her with a roll of her eyes, tells you, “We’ll be by the pool. See you out there, maybe?”

Your mouth curls into a sarcastic smile and you wave the bottle of vodka. “Soon as I catch up, girl!”

The vodka lands with a clunk on the counter after you line up another shooter. You look up, and catch Robin Buckley staring at you, right before she has the chance to avert her eyes. She’s gripping onto that solo cup for dear life. You can see the cracking dents in the plastic.

“You want a shot?” you yell over the music and the people and the claustrophobia of it all.

“Uh,” she says– too damn slow. You grab another glass and fill it, passing it her way.

“I’ve, um, I’ve never really done this before. What’s, like, the custom, should we cheers?” Robin half-yells over the kitchen island.

You shrug. Fuck it. “Sure– here’s to being in places we think we belong with people we secretly hate!”

“Oh, I for sure don’t belong here!”

Robin sinks the vodka and chokes on it, spluttering up the shot. You gulp yours like a fish gulping water and dash around the island to slap her on the back. She recovers pretty quickly, wiping the dribbled booze off her face with the back of her hand. She wheezes gratefully when you pass her a sticky dishcloth. “Gross.”

“I know, right? Party.”

“I get it, though, by the way,” Robin says, husk in her voice more pronounced after she’s coughed a lung up. She dabs awkwardly at her argyle printed shirt, doing nothing. “The secretly hating people thing.”

Fuck, had you really said that? That’s way too personal. That’s way too revealing, especially to someone like her. Reverse, reverse, abort abort abort! “Well, it’s not that, y’know how it gets with your friends sometimes–”

“Because I know Steve. Like, I really know Steve– but not, not in like a sexual way because that’s not– more in like a paternal, fraternal, we were worms together in another lifetime sort of way– I just, I know Steve,” Robin steamrolls you, nodding. From the glassy look in her eye, that punch is finally hitting her. And she really does mean what she says, from the timbre of her voice. She gives a real fuck about Harrington, which is more than you can say for ninety percent of the people in this house. “He, y’know, he’s not exactly made for this crowd either.”

You unscrew the bottle of vodka and take a cursory swig, then another, which makes Robin’s eyes widen and makes you feel a little bit like a pirate. “Then why are we all here, band girl? At his house? Why am I drinking his father’s Stoli?”

She casts her eyes down and shrugs, looking back up with a sour smile. “Party?”

Your shoulders drop and your head lolls back. Maybe you shouldn’t have come here after all. “Ffffffuck.”

“I totally hate drinking. I hate that wobbly out-of-control thing,” Robin says, scooping more punch into her half-crushed cup. It occurs to you that she might not realize the punch is alcoholic.

“You said it, sister.”

“I like your outfit, by the way. It’s like if a librarian was… a slut.”

God, if this is the way she flirts, I hope Sarah Lawrence is kind to her.

“You said it, sister,” you repeat, hitting the bottle again.

When you perform a quick scan of the room, you spot Billy advancing through the crowd, lighting a cigarette with another cigarette like he’s about to just smoke both cigarettes because that would be double badass.

And then, veering in from the right just like he did on the way here, is Eddie Munson. He looks as if he’s looking… for you.

Well, not the fuck anymore!

“Pleasure doing business with you, band girl,” you mutter, grabbing the solo cup from her hand and chugging the rest of the contents, “Don’t drink any more of that shit, it’s three quarters peach schnapps.”

You maneuver yourself (just barely) to the patio, where the gang, your gang, are all holding court on the pool loungers. There’s Carol, Tommy Hagan, Tina, Nicole, Cass, even Tammy Thompson if Robin’s still looking, but no Harrington in sight. Maybe it’s because of what Robin just told you, but you feel like this would feel less bad if he was here.

A hush falls over the group as you approach– you know, the kind where you know people have just been talking about you? That lead feeling in your gut makes you take another sip of vodka.

“Well, hello there,” you say, and it comes out as one slurred-up noise. Wellyellothur. Not ideal.

Tina gestures to the bottle. “Washing something down, Lacy?”

“A shot of Hargrove spunk?” Carol drawls.

“With a Buckley bush chaser,” Hagan sniggers. Fucking Statler and Waldorf over here.

“You guys, c’mon,” Nicole starts– and it sounds like a defense, but she’s the meanest motherfucker of them all when you give her some leash. “Lacy’s way too frigid for that.”

“Guess that tracks,” Hagan shrugs, leaning forward to flick his cigarette into the pool. He looks at you in a way that drills a hole, only the way ugly, empty-eyed bastards know how to do. “I mean, if it’s true that your dad was pimping you out to Al Munson, it makes sense he’s in the slammer. No one got their fuckin’ money’s worth in that deal.”

“Shit, that is so true, Tommy,” you start, before you even know where it’s going. All you know? It’s going to be bad. Real bad. So bad that you set the bottle on the ground next to you and clasp your hands behind your back. Debate team stance is what you used to call this. “About me being frigid, I mean. Because I sure remember turning you down a lot– like, a lot.”

Hagan scoffs and lights another cigarette. Something electric in you makes you lean over and grab it, “Lemme have this one. –but like, you don’t remember that? Because I remember you begging–like hands and knees begging–me to fuck you the night of junior prom.”

“Bullshit,” he scoffs again, like ‘scoff’ and ‘chauvinist insult’ are the only retorts he’s wired for.

“And on the last lake trip,” you go on, taking a drag of the cigarette. “Oh! And on the night of Carol’s eighteenth birthday! Which was like, what? Two months ago? And every time, I said no. Do you remember why I said no, Tommy?”

This Greek chorus of Brat Pack wannabes, they just sit there and stare at you. And you don’t even notice the hush that’s crawled over the crowd assembled on the patio. The party rages on indoors, but those who are out here are rapt.

Tina emits a nervous snort, which makes you bend at the waist and cup your ear, like you’re in the goddamn elementary school production of Horton Hears a What the Fuck Have You Got to Say.

“Bet you could tell me why, Tins,” you grin, big and houndlike. “I drove you to the clinic, remember? I fronted you the money for the lice cream– which you never paid me back for, by the way! Not even when I got all poo–oor!”

Tina reacts in a scramble, gasping unto herself and darting her eyes away from everyone. She doesn’t know where to look– no one knows where to look! No one but Carol, dear awful honeybun Carol, who has gone so pale it looks like her blush was painted on by Bozo the Clown. She stares you right down and you stare back. One of you is the barrel of the gun, and one of you is the poor loser looking right down it.

“You’re a fucking dirty liar, Lacy!” The sound of her voice feels like it’s ricocheting off every stony surface on Steve Harrington’s patio, that’s how deadly silent it’s gotten.

In a flourish, you throw the cigarette on the ground and stamp on it, hard and heavy!

“Only one way to know for sure, Caroline!” you holler, flinging your arms out, “Feelin’ itchy lately?!”

All you know is you’re cackling louder than the thundering crowd rush that erupts when Carol fucking lunges for you.

author's notes: CLIFFHANGER ALERT! everyone fucking dies. jk but thank you so much for reading this chapter that i had so much fucking fun writing. and thank you for showing love for chapter one! i'm posting this one a little sooner than i planned because i want to get this show on the road for y'all. so, a few bits: - the song eddie is playing is the wizard by black sabbath which goes so incredibly hard. he also definitely learned how to shred on harmonica from wayne which is a piece of fanon i think i picked up from chrissy and eddie’s infinite mixtape, the preeminent hellcheer fic by @little-scribblers-heart (i don’t even go in for hellcheer like that but Now That’s What I Call Characterization) - never heard of Indianapolis Christmapolis before? check out the history here! - there is nothing i love more on this planet than making fun of a swaggerlicious shitbag character like billy hargrove. anyway he was blasting the four horsemen by metallica in the car which he canonically listens to in the show! you know, the scene where he puts cologne on his balls. i like to think billy only knows one song and this is it - rebel without a condom: skull rock edition is a reference to rebel without a cause and goes out to all the failed threesomes that have happened at skull rock - scrappy doo found dead in miami after one hit of eddie munson's ditch weed - i also have to say, i feel like more people knew robin was a lesbian than robin realizes, which is truly The Gay Experience. absolutely no one will be surprised that she's fucking crushing puss at a liberal arts college once stranger things 5 comes out in 2038 - anyway, crabs are a real threat, be safe and get tested! thanks so much for reading, pls reblog, like and comment to show support and i will throw things around my enclosure with the wild abandon of a dopamine rush. ur everything to me

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #hellfire & ice #in progress #published by powder #e. munson by powder

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