If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.

It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.

The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.

Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.

His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.

He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it. 

The bus depot.

Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.

Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same. 

This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.

The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.

In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.

The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.

Twenty long hours pass. 

Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.

By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.

Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.

He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal. 

Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.

Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.

Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.

Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.

Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.

Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.

Fuck, what a face.

He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.

What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.

He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.

The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.

“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.

Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”

But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.

One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.

He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.

“Hermès.”

“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.

“The scarf.”

Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.

“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”

“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true. 

Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.

“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.

“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now. 

Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.

A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.

He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.

“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”

“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”

Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.

“Quite the deduction skills.”

“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.

In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.

The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.

“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.

“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”

He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.

“Show me your room.”

You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.

“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space. 

His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.

“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.

He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.

“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”

You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.

With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.

When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.

“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.

“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”

Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.

They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).

“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”

You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.

“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”

Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.

“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”

Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.

“That was a date?”

You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”

The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.

“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.

A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.

The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.

Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.

“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.

Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.

“Do you think this Herbert person—”

“Hermès,” you chime.

“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”

And then he kisses you. 

He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.

The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers. 

It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.

One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.

The New York dating scene bores you. 

Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.

The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.

Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known. 

“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.

The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.

Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.

That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.

You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.

The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.

In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.

As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.

“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”

Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”

“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”

“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.

“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”

He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.

All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.

A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?

Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.

“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner. 

“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.

Matthew places a hand over his heart. 

“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”

A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.

“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”

“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.

Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.

Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”

Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.

After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.

You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up. 

Thinking — hoping —  he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…

Huh.

The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.

Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.

“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.

The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.

“Thanks.” 

His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.

Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him. 

Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.

You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.

i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content: - set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe - although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties - i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here) - for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts) - imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive' - i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find

some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck

a/n: the following are some songs that inspired this story / keep inspiring this story. i'll probably be adding as i write along, but feel free to also share some that remind you of eddie + the starlet.

prologue (a blurb)

chapter one | aka the little mess you made

chapter two | aka nice to each other

chapter three | aka what did i miss?

chapter four | aka something has to change

chapter five | aka never felt better

chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you

chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye

chapter eight | aka times like these

chapter nine | aka divine feelings

chapter ten | aka restless little heart

epilogue

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

a/n: the following are some songs that inspired this story / keep inspiring this story. i'll probably be adding as i write along, but feel free to also share some that remind you of eddie + the starlet.

prologue (a blurb)

chapter one | aka the little mess you made

chapter two | aka nice to each other

chapter three | aka what did i miss?

chapter four | aka something has to change

chapter five | aka never felt better

chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you

chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye

chapter eight | aka times like these

chapter nine | aka divine feelings

chapter ten | aka restless little heart

epilogue

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

The rockstar chose normalcy. He chose Wayne and Messer. He chose you. Home. Nothing resembling a crisis here, in your eyes. But you’re understanding because this is a big fucking deal. 

Following his quick rise to fame, Eddie never ventured out on his own. Smithie and the entire bag of turds were in the rockstar’s corner for years. Even if, at the end of the day, they lied, cheated, and burned him to the bone, they were a circle of protection that now he doesn’t have. And considering his current lifestyle change, that’s scary.

So you hold his hand here and there, let him squeeze yours for a minute longer than necessary. Let him trail his fingers along the small of your back as he passes by, still when his chin rests on top of your head during moments he needs to think. Light, delicate touches. Reassuring touches that say more than words ever could.

Until he gets you alone.

The night he flew in to surprise you, break the news, the two of you barely make it through the front door before the rockstar has you pinned against the wall. Mouth hot and heavy, hands rough. He nips at your skin with his teeth, lifts you off the floor. Moments later, you’re in the privacy of your bedroom, both equally giddy with anticipation.

He takes his t-shirt off in that way you like, reaches behind and pulls it over his head, all the right muscles flexing in the process. And a grin spreads across his features because you’re staring at him like you could eat him — which is coincidentally, what he does to you mere minutes later.

Afterwards, you lay on top of your bed, just hugging for touching sake. Taking in time lost, the years that passed before Eddie showed up at his uncle’s door, and the last few weeks when he returned to stage — both equally painful, for different reasons.

“Tell me about that ex-boyfriend of yours.”

The request catches you off guard. “You really want to talk about him after we just did… that?”

Eddie huffs out a charming laugh, pulls your body closer to his, kisses the top of your head, and says that he does. 

“No better time,” he jokes, but you can tell he’s nervous. This is the man currently (allegedly) in some sort of cahoots with the rockstar’s team.

Swallowing, you sit, angling your body so that you and Eddie are facing one another, and hug your knees to your chest.

“We went to Dalton together.”

The rockstar cocks a brow. “Isn’t that like a fancy, rich kid school?”

“Yeah,” you exhale.

Eddie knows a good bit about your upbringing already, majority of which you told him that very first night, before you completely tore each other’s clothes off. He knows how you were raised in the city, by your aunt, Agnes. Knows that you never met your parents, don’t know who they are and never really cared to find out. Your aunt kept that shit locked down. At first out of kindness, because no child wants to grow up knowing their parents didn’t really want them, then, as you got older, she simply obliged your request. 

Until she passed, she was the only parent you ever needed.

“I didn’t question it at the time ‘cause to me, it was just a school.” You shrug. “But then I started dating RJ and he had all these things I didn’t, so Agnes told me my parents left her money, specifically for my education.”

He takes this in, nodding slowly, and decides quickly this particular topic doesn’t need to be pressed further because he understands better than anyone what it’s like, the whole parents abandoning their kid thing. He had a similar upbringing. Same coin.

“So you met him at Dalton?”

“We were friends at first,” you say, as if that makes this story any easier to swallow. “Everyone knew who he was and I think that freaked him out a little because it’s one thing to choose fame yourself, and it’s completely different when you’re born into certain responsibilities. I think we gravitated towards each other because I didn’t care who his parents were and he didn’t care that I didn’t have any.”

“That’s… fucked.” Eddie says, then apologises quickly, just in case he’s hurt your feelings.

He hasn’t. You know it’s fucked.

“The friendship developed over time and by the time we were Sophomore's, we were dating. In love, actually.” You tell him, then add, “RJ is… Well, he’s kind of my first, everything.”

You gauge the rockstar’s reaction to that last admission. He doesn’t have one, not really. He reaches for your hand, then gently traces along your index finger with his own, eyes focused on his minute action, before intertwining your fingers together, squeezing. His gaze settles on your face once more and he urges you to continue.

“His parents didn’t like me very much.”

He scoffs because as if. In his eyes, you’re literally impossible not to like.

“Primarily because I didn’t come from money and they thought RJ should be with someone from the same social circle.” You offer the rockstar a lopsided smile. “Anyway, they got involved, started meddling, and the whole thing blew apart.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers, but you shrug.

“It was a long time ago.”

“I’m grateful you called him. That probably wasn’t easy.”

Eyes locked on his browns, you shuffle a little closer. “There isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do for you, Eddie Munson.”

He smiles. “Right back at you, sugar.”

Days, weeks, continue to pass like they usually do. Wake up, have breakfast, complete some school work with Messer or go to the studio, get groceries, dinner, bedtime. Except they’re also different because Eddie is there, by your side. Tangled in the sheets, pulling you back into bed for just a few more minutes in his arms. He’ll make breakfast, while you get Messer ready for the day. He’s salvaging his career at the same kitchen table you help your toddler colour within the lines of his ABC’s, or he’s driving you to work, distracting you during classes. 

He’ll pack the grocery cart full of shit that’s not needed, recite the ingredients at the back of a box of cereal and make you guess exactly how much sugar it contains. He cooks dinner since apparently he’s a world class chef, then he’ll help with bedtime, sing Messer a song while the toddler watches him all starry-eyed. Then a movie together or a beer with Wayne, before you do it all again the next sunrise.

Ever the picture of domestic bliss, the two of you. Wayne jokes about moving out, but you’re not impressed because this is his home, so Eddie takes matters into his own hands and hires a contractor (through Steve).

As the dust of his career-shift settles, and the legal time he’s recently hired confirms there’s never been any charges against him in the first place, a new house is built on the land, a little way in from where Wayne’s four walls currently stand. Same style, similar view, but a completely different energy. A new beginning. You watch it rise from nothing with a fluttering feeling inside your chest and Eddie watches you, watches all these different dreams come true. Dreams he didn’t even know you shared.

The morning he carries you through the threshold of the completed build, you’re both a puddle of all these feelings you don’t really know how to address. He built a goddamn house for you, yet saying a certain entanglement of three words feels like an undoing you’re equally not ready to address. So, instead, you kiss each other silly.

By the front door, bumping into the brand new mirror, metal coatrack. In the kitchen, against the SMEG fridge and the new (expensive) dining table. Along the wooden staircase, down the hall that still smells like fresh paint, and by the marble sink in the guest bathroom.

“What do you think?” Eddie asks, mouth at your ear, hand under your shirt, as he continues the erratic house tour and leads you into the living room.

You look around, although you can’t focus on all of the details because his thumb grazes over your hardening nipple, and his erection presses into the curve of your ass. Impossible to ignore the physical reactions you elicit from one another, you turn in his embrace, catch his smile, catch the way he bites down on his bottom lip.

“I think we’ll be very happy here, B-lister.”

Eddie dips his head in response, capturing your lips between his, and fuck, does he feel like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. Happy? With you? That’s been the goal. Happy in this house he's built for you and Messer? That’s out of this world.

The kiss starts tentative and sweet, different from the heat you’ve so far exchanged in every other room of your new home, and you’re softening under the rockstar’s touch, melting like chocolate left out in the sun, because that’s what he is: sunshine. 

When Eddie can no longer contain himself, because he’s just a man and he’s never been fond of slow, metal tugs at your nipple, the other hand lands on your neck, and he’s pulling you flush against him. Close is not close enough. That’s when a moan escapes you and he smirks, whispers against your mouth how he can’t wait to fuck you so hard you’ll never forget about him — as if you ever could.

He continues to trail rushed, sloppy kisses along your jawline, down your neck, as his cock twitches in a prison made of expensive fabric. You feel it against you, eager to be touched, and without a word of warning, you push off the rockstar and drop to your knees.

You undo his belt, zipper, and Eddie doesn’t really have time to react with how eager you’re going about this task. Hastily pulling his pants, and boxers, down, you look up briefly, with those not-so-innocent eyes, a smirk playing at your lips, before settling your gaze on his fully erect cock.

Fingers around his base, he groans, all throaty and deep, and his hands fly to the back of your head, steadying himself as you lean forward. Slowly, teasing slightly, you run your tongue around the rim of his throbbing dick before wrapping your lips around it completely.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, already breathless, when your cheeks hollow and you begin to bop your head.

You take him deeper, deeper, and deeper, until his entire length is at home, in your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You place your hands on his thighs to steady yourself, and when his grip on your crown tightens, cock twitching on your tongue, you quicken your pace and suck harder, wanting nothing more than to devour him completely.

“Shit. Sugar, I—”

Eddie feels like he’s floating. Huffing, puffing, and whispering your name like a song he will never get out of his mind. He starts to thrust, hips meeting your puffy lips a little too eagerly. He makes you gag, your eyes water as he hits the back of your throat several times over, reveling in the control he has so easily acquired while you’re completely breathless, soaked between the thighs because you love the dominance he emits in these moments.

His groans are getting louder, the sound music to your ears. They fuel your resolve, continuously sending shockwaves of electricity down, between your legs. He’s got a good voice, Eddie. Singing, speaking, take your pick. The noises he makes in the bedroom, however… Well, they might just be your favourite.

He pumps into you forcefully and it’s a struggle to keep up, but just when you swear you can’t take anymore, he pulls out without warning. A ring-clad hand lands on your throat, tight though not too tight. He’s urging you to get back on your feet, which you do without question.

“I wanna come inside of you,” he grunts, free hand pulling down your pants, then tugging at your panties until they both fall to the ground beneath. 

Then his lips are on yours in a flash. Eddie tumbles backwards, eagerly pulling you along as his tongue further explores your mouth. When his calves hit the edge of the sofa, you push him ever so slightly and the rockstar drops with a slight bounce. But he doesn’t bother making himself comfortable. Instead, he’s reaching for you again, fingers around your wrist as you straddle him, your aching cunt hovering over his throbbing cock.

For a split-second, you contemplate teasing him a little, rubbing your sleek slit along his tip until he’s the begging mess, but Eddie doesn’t give you a chance. He holds you down, shoving himself inside your impressively wet pussy so that all you can do is exhale in pleasure, matching in tone his visceral groan.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, he lifts you by the waist, slides his dick out, then pushes back in, nice and slow. He’d been starving for years, he thinks. Lost and chasing the high he realises he can only achieve with you.

“God, sugar, you take me so well.” Eddie grumbles, continuing to insert and remove the full length of his shaft from your glistening cunt. “You’re made for me.”

Of course you are, you’re sure of it. Have been since that first night in New York. No one has ever made you feel the way this man does, and no one ever will. The feeling between your thighs, where his cock meets your wetness, is proof enough. An oasis.

Placing your hands on his outstretched legs, you rock backwards, arching your spine.

“Oh… shit, sugar.” Eddie breathes as you start rocking your hips, feeling the tip of his head hit that spot deep within. “God, that feels so fucking good. Don’t stop.”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you increase your speed, rotating on his member, forward, backward, forward and backward, faster with every thundering heartbeat. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Boom, thud, crash. Whatever the description, you feel his and he feels yours, and it’s more intimate than anything, really. 

Panting underneath you, Eddie’s hands make home underneath your shirt once again. He squeezes, kneads your tits like they’re made of Play-Doh, and you whine, hips rocking. 

“Mhm, Eddie…” Moaning rather pathetically, you grind against his pelvis, until you reach a speed you can no longer sustain without getting completely winded.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunts, fingers pinching your nipples and watches you hop on his girth with nothing but an awestruck lust in his eyes as euphoric waves of pleasure contract inside of him, a pre-orgasmic ecstasy.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Of course I’m yours. Only yours.”

“Fucking— Christ.” Eddie grunts, sitting straighter and resting his forehead against yours. 

His gaze is wild, hungry, waiting to undo you completely, like you are him. Moans turn to cries of pleasure. You feel his hard cock scrape along every wall, every curve and nook. When your eyes threaten to close, Eddie grips your chin before they get a chance, forcing you to look at him. Forcing you to focus on the feeling of your cunt clenching around his dick, again, and again, and again.

"Eddie, fuck!” You’re practically screaming now, insides starting to burn and ache for that sweet release you’re chasing. “I’m so fucking close— Shit…”

Continuing to ride the man you’re absolutely in love with, you bury his length entirely in your tight hole and grind against his pelvis as your orgasm builds in your chest, moving downward to where the two of you are connected. His name sputters from your lips as the dopamine hits, and while you ride that high, body jerking against him, Eddie forces you to collapse on his chest. His arms hold you steady as he picks up where you left off, thrusting deep into your aching cunt, chasing his own orgasm.

“You’re fucking hot, sugar.” He breathes, moves relentlessly, and you feel like a ragdoll in the confines of his embrace. 

His cock, completely covered in your juices, is dipping in and out of you with such force, you swear he’s going to break through that wall he’s hitting at each thrust.

“I’m gonna come deep inside of you, shit. Gonna make you have more of my babies, yeah?” Eddie’s practically growling, throaty and breathless, quite unlike him. But then again, you drive him absolutely wild.

“Please…”

“You want to carry around another one of my kids, sugar?”

“Yes. Please, Eddie, please.”

The not-so-quiet begging is all he needs to hear because, mere seconds later, he’s spurting hot cum inside your dripping cunt and you can’t help but shudder at the feeling, an excited tingle down your spine.

“Fuck… You’re so… I-I—” 

Chest heaving, heart beating in tandem with yours, Eddie empties himself completely while you find comfort in the crook of his neck. Mind completely numb from reality, you lay in his embrace for a moment longer, counting the stars that circle beneath your closed eyelids. 

The rockstar’s fingers gently trace along your spine as you both try to catch your breaths. It’s serene, considering the nastiness of what the two of you just did, and you find yourself wishing you could stay like this forever. Lost in the wonderland that Eddie makes you experience simply by his proximity.

Quite doable these days, you think, smiling against his shoulder blade.

“Can I tell you something?” Mouth to your ear, he breaks the content silence.

“Mhmm.”

He pats your arm, nudging you to sit up. Then he holds your face, gently, and searches your eyes for a split-second before smiling too. It’s tiny, barely even a smile, but it’s loaded with emotions and your heart glows inside your chest.

“I love you. I’m in love with you, sugar.”

A shaky, breathless noise escapes your parted lips. It sounds a little like a laugh, or a barely-there gasp. Either way, it’s thick with a sob you want to fight back, so you pull his face down to yours in a sudden, desperate movement, and kiss him in a way that says finally, and me too.

“I was so scared to say it first,” you confess, breath catching in your throat. “I'm in love with you too, Eddie.”

Grinning from ear to ear, his head falls backwards and he exhales in relief. Sweet, sweet relief. The girl he’s been chasing, mother of his child. The girl of his dreams loves him too and fuck, he could die happy. What a life.

“This calls for a celebration,” the rockstar says and you giggle, eyes shining.

And you celebrate on the staircase, which frankly is not a comfortable spot, then in the bedroom you’ll share together, on the four poster bed and a little next to it, on the floor. The en suite also welcomes your celebration, first against the cabinet and later under the rainforest shower. Eddie contemplates continuing on the balcony that overlooks an expansive garden, but he stops himself — a little too risque, even for him.

After the entire house is christened, you wander back towards Wayne’s, hand in hand. The eldest Munson is in the kitchen, a paper in hand, as Messer sits next to him and draws. They both look up when you enter with Eddie, and smile. Wayne because he’s finally seeing his nephew happy, finally seeing you happy. And Messer because…

“Hi, dad.”

“Hey, bud.” Eddie greets his kid, ruffles his hair a little, before making himself comfortable across the table.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t I get a hello?”

Messer nods, stretches his arms and waits for a hug, one that you give with no hesitation as Eddie watches. You, his son. His entire life. A warm feeling beneath his ribcage. He briefly glances at Wayne, who is already looking at his nephew with a knowing smirk beneath the mustache.

“All good at the new house?” His uncle asks.

Eddie nods. “Couldn’t be better.”

And the sentiment rings true for the rest of your lives, actually. 

Messer returns to school not long after, beyond excited to see his friends, as little kids usually are. He decides he wants to be a rockstar, just like his dad, so Eddie teaches him the piano, and a few years later, guitar.

You put together all of the photographs you took during Eddie’s time in Hawkins, over those first few weeks when he was navigating the news of being someone’s dad. With Julie’s help, and the rockstars too, you pick a select few and organise a small show at the local gallery. It’s quite the hit and you decide to start freelancing, taking odd photography jobs here and there, while still helping Julie with the yoga studio. Although, your favourite muse is still the man you love.

Eddie says the same about you. Every song he’s written since seeing you again has been about finding love, falling in love. The band comes down to visit. They record a few of the tracks, just for fun, at the home Eddie’s built (there’s a recording studio in the basement). Eventually, about a year later, Eddie hires a new manager, new agent. They help with the album release and when the topic of touring is brought up, he goes.

This time however, he brings Wayne, brings you, and Messer, makes it a family affair. And in New York, when he glances down below at the photographers, you’re there — smiling at him through the lens of your 35mm.

Click. A flash. Hearts soaring.

i cry as i write: THE END. this fic has meant so much to me, and the love y'all have shown it makes my heart all warm and fuzzy. ily forever <3

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know:

@tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @ratsematary @alyisdead @kravitzwhore @aestheticsunflower19 @s1mp-4-ga11y @monstermunsonswife-blog @xingyuluvr @ari-joe @dearestro @spider-starry @vodkapetalz-blog @ilovetaquitosmmmm @angelbabyivy @cupidbloaterz @fishinsuits @thedoubleexposurephotography @thrashcam @kravitzwhore @maskofmirrors @taylorswiftsloverr @djodirt @reidsgubbler @wendyxox @obsessed-midwest-princess @mdurdenpitt @talknerdytome5391 @stitchlover324 @tigolebittiez @helsa3942 @lovehadlovelost @ggjhgg @scarlet-prey @nativity-in-black @am0iur @micheledawn1975 @hazydespair @renaeant

prologue (a blurb)

chapter one | aka the little mess you made

chapter two | aka nice to each other

chapter three | aka what did i miss?

chapter four | aka something has to change

chapter five | aka never felt better

chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you

chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye

chapter eight | aka times like these

chapter nine | aka divine feelings

chapter ten | aka restless little heart

epilogue

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | robbie williams - better man | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace | elbow - one day like this

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.

It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.

The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.

Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.

His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.

He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it. 

The bus depot.

Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.

Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same. 

This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.

The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.

In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.

The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.

Twenty long hours pass. 

Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.

By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.

Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.

He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal. 

Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.

Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.

Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.

Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.

Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.

Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.

Fuck, what a face.

He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.

What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.

He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.

The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.

“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.

Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”

But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.

One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.

He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.

“Hermès.”

“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.

“The scarf.”

Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.

“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”

“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true. 

Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.

“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.

“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now. 

Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.

A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.

He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.

“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”

“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”

Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.

“Quite the deduction skills.”

“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.

In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.

The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.

“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.

“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”

He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.

“Show me your room.”

You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.

“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space. 

His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.

“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.

He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.

“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”

You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.

With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.

When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.

“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.

“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”

Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.

They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).

“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”

You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.

“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”

Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.

“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”

Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.

“That was a date?”

You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”

The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.

“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.

A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.

The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.

Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.

“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.

Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.

“Do you think this Herbert person—”

“Hermès,” you chime.

“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”

And then he kisses you. 

He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.

The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers. 

It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.

One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.

The New York dating scene bores you. 

Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.

The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.

Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known. 

“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.

The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.

Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.

That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.

You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.

The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.

In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.

As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.

“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”

Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”

“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”

“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.

“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”

He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.

All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.

A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?

Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.

“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner. 

“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.

Matthew places a hand over his heart. 

“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”

A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.

“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”

“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.

Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.

Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”

Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.

After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.

You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up. 

Thinking — hoping —  he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…

Huh.

The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.

Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.

“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.

The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.

“Thanks.” 

His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.

Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him. 

Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.

You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.

i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content: - set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe - although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties - i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here) - for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts) - imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive' - i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find

some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck

A stranger in the house he bought for Wayne; a brick-faced thank you for everything the rockstar's uncle did for him over the years. Expecting nothing in return, only thinking this could become the place Eddie could possibly return to when in need aka now more than ever. Instead, he doesn’t feel welcome. He feels like he’s intruding somehow.

Wayne has replaced him.

While Eddie was off touring and galavanting around the world, building himself the career of his wildest dreams, it seems Wayne has been busy too. His uncle created himself a family. Somehow got himself a grandson.

“So, whose kid is that?” Eddie asks, nudging his head in the direction of the toddler.

The little boy is kneeling on one of the chairs, the top half of his body is bent over a currently blank piece of paper. He’s gripping a red crayon in his left hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he doodles on the page.

Wayne places a mug of tea in front of Eddie then makes himself comfortable in the chair next to his grandson, across from his nephew. For a few minutes, as the two older Munson men stare at the toddler, it’s quiet. Only the scratching sound of crayon on paper. Wayne’s gaze is filled with adoration, while Eddie’s is laced with uncertainty. There’s something oddly familiar about the tiny head of dusty-brown curls.

Clearing his throat, Wayne gently nudges his grandson.

“Messer, what do we say when we invite someone inside?”

The boy lifts his eyes from the doodles. First, he looks at Wayne, who nods, encouraging. Turning his attention to Eddie, the toddler squeezes his mouth together and offers a timid smile.

“Hello,” he utters simply.

Eddie chokes back a scoff at the absolute insanity of this moment. He wants to ask Wayne what’s the reason for this charade. Why can’t his uncle just tell him what the fuck is going on.

“Hey,” the rockstar replies, forcing a smile.

“My name is Messer,” he introduces himself, not able to pronounce the r so instead, it sounds like he’s saying Messel.

Lifting a hand to his chest, the rockstar says, “I’m Eddie.”

Seemingly satisfied with doing a good job, Messer looks to Wayne for the same type of approval, once only reserved for Eddie and the sentiment makes the brunette rockstar shift uncomfortably in his seat. The eldest Munson ruffles the toddler’s hair and asks him to go play in the living room.

“I’ll join you in a minute, okay?”.

Once they’re left alone, Wayne faces his nephew completely and Eddie now notices the difference a five years can make. A few extra frown lines, wrinkles. His hair is a shade of grey that glistens under the light and the bags under his eyes are a little deeper than before. Overall however, Wayne looks happy. There’s no stress visible across his features and Eddie’s heart clenches inside his chest because maybe coming back to Hawkins was a bad idea.

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Wayne asks.

“When I called for your birthday, you said the tour wasn’t supposed to be over for a few more months and then you had obligations to be back in the studio.”

Ignoring his uncle’s question, the rockstar fires back with his own. The same one from minutes ago.

“Whose kid is that, Wayne?”

Placing the mug down in front of him, after taking a sip, Wayne relents. He tells his nephew he loves him. Really. The highs, the lows. The crazy antics. Eddie’s dreams and passions, his intense drive for a better life, far away from Hawkins. 

“I know all that,” Eddie says.

Wayne sighs. “Your friend, Steve, introduced me to this girl. Twenty-something. Pretty as a sunset.”

“So, you’re playing grandpa to Harrington’s child?”

“No,” Wayne answers. “I am a grandpa to yours.”

The roll of Eddie’s eyes is almost instant. He huffs in disbelief, lips twisting into a smirk at the ridiculousness of the information his uncle is after putting forward because there’s a plethora of reasons why Messer being his kid is near impossible. Top of the list: Eddie Munson uses protection. That’s rule number one and no matter how wasted he finds himself to be, it’s a rule he never forgets.

For crying out loud, he even did a months-long ad campaign for Durex.

Seeing the disbelief spread across his nephew’s features, Wayne continues.

“Following one of your gigs, she found herself in a certain situation and with nowhere else to go, I took her in. There’s plenty of space in this big house you bought me and I won’t lie kid, since you never visit, an old man gets lonely.”

“So she says,” Eddie grumbles, reaching for his own mug of tea.

“Don’t make stupid comments like that, son. I for sure raised you better.” Wayne chastasies. “With your reputation, I had no reason to doubt her.”

That the rockstar can’t deny. 

Ever since his fast rise to fame, he's on the front page of every gossip site almost daily — usually with a different girl on his arm. He’s a constant topic of conversation on various pop culture podcasts and social media accounts, primarily Deuxmoi (a pain in Eddie’s backside). Everybody has something to say and it’s not always kind, or true.

Over the years, he’s been labelled a womaniser, an asshole, the lost cause. Satanist. He’s been called reckless, heartless, and brainless. People that have never met him pretend they know him best. The internet mafia. They write how he’s incompetent, a nightmare to work with, and worse of all, void of any real talent.

Yes, the rockstar is known by many names yet, despite his public list of conquests, Eddie never thought he’d add this one to the list: someone’s dad.

“There’s no way…” Eddie begins, but the words get tangled at the back of his throat. There’s no way I have a kid and no one told me. There’s no way I missed three years of his life. There’s no way I’m fit to be a dad.

Almost as if he can feel his nephew's mind spiral out of control, Wayne reaches across the table to grab Eddie’s shaking hand.

“When Messer was born, I knew.” Wayne states, full of emotion. “My heart expanded when I held him for the first time and in that moment, I knew. He’s half you, Eddie.”

They finish their tea in silence.

When the cups are empty, Wayne stands then asks his nephew whether he’s hungry. Eddie shakes his head no, even though he is, and tells his uncle to go be with the kid, that he’ll join them soon. He washes up the ceramics, heart still hammering inside his chest, and after wiping his ring-clad fingers on a kitchen towel, Eddie ventures deeper inside this foreign house.

The living room makes the rockstar feel even more uneasy, but he doesn’t digest every piece of decor upon entry. Instead, Eddie’s focus lands on the little boy.

Messer is playing with a collection of plastic farm animals and makes the different noises with his mouth as he moves the pieces around the carpeted floor.

“You be a cow, granpa,” he instructs, once again soft on the letter r, and passes Wayne the black-and-white animal.

Then his doe-eyes turn to Eddie. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the hand holding a plastic horse in the rockstar's direction, patiently waiting for Eddie to take it from his grasp.

Hesitantly, Eddie steps towards the toddler and crouching down in front of him, grabs the toy. Messer averts his gaze and continues playing, just like he was seconds ago, while Eddie remains frozen because, in a single second, this kid has shown him more kindness than Eddie’s experienced in his life.

Then, a small smile breaks through Eddie’s features.

The three Munson’s sit on the carpet and knock the animals around. Using a colourful Lego Duplo set, they build what is supposed to be a farmhouse along with a red tractor (and some obscenely large fruit and vegetables). Eddie realises he can’t remember the last time he’s been this naturally relaxed. 

Afterwards, when Messer falls asleep in Wayne’s lap, Eddie watches his uncle gently scratch down the toddler’s back. Melancholy washes over him. A wish to be a child again, resting in his uncle's lap without a care in the world. No responsibilities, just afternoons full of play and laughter. Suddenly, he’s met with a new sensation. 

“Why did no one tell me?”

The question is almost a whisper, an undertone of sadness flows through it and it’s true, Eddie is holding back tears. Although, he’s not fully sure why. Perhaps it’s longing for the memories he has missed during his kids' life.

“Not you, not Steve, not his mom.” The rockstar lists, pointing to Messer. “I bet half this stupid town knows he’s mine and no one cared enough to fill me in.”

“You’ve been kinda hard to track down,” Wayne tries to reason, which only makes Eddie roll his eyes further into his skull.

“We talk nearly every damn day, Wayne. I’m not that hard to track down.”

Wayne sighs. “This is not a conversation someone wants to have over the phone, son.”

Eddie scoffs. Leg shaking, hand covering his mouth. He’s pondering the waves of different emotions circling through his veins. He’s sad, he’s angry. He’s confused. Sure, Eddie may not have been always available to Wayne over the last few years, and he may also have dodged hanging out with his high school friends on more than one occasion, but keeping this secret from him… That seems below the belt.

Especially because Wayne knows exactly what Eddie felt his entire life, growing up not being wanted by your dad. Surely his uncle wouldn’t want this kid to experience the same hardships.

“He didn’t recognise me,” Eddie says.

Slowly, Wayne nods. He can sense the question at the end of that sentence.

“Messer’s mom thought it best to not tell him yet.”

“Of course she did,” the rockstar mutters and sinks deeper into the large armchair. “So, who does he think his dad is? Fucking Santa Claus or some soldier that went off to fight in a war.”

This makes Wayne laugh. A quiet chortle, as not to disturb the sleeping toddler. He shakes his head at his nephew's dramatic sense of humour, something he has definitely missed quite dearly.

“A musician,” he answers honestly, “Off touring the world.”

Eddie blinks a couple of times, taking this information in.

“She told him the truth, son.” Wayne affirms. “She just didn’t use your name or show him what you look like. She didn’t want him pointing to your photos around the place and asking when you’re going to come home, only to be wildly disappointed.”

Guilt trickles in, another cold unwelcome visitor to the persistent emotions currently overflooding Eddie’s mind and soul. He tries to ignore it. Focus instead on the confusion from moments ago, or the anger, the sense of betrayal, but guilt’s icy current wins.

Eddie clears his throat and says, “That must’ve been hard.”

“What must’ve been hard, kid?”

“Seeing me everywhere while you lived… this life.”

Wayne presses his lips together. He nods again, once, slowly, then looks down at Messer. The curve of his earlobe, the tilt of his button nose. The brown locks and the miniscule freckles, reminiscent of Eddie’s dotted Milky Way.

“That’s not for me to answer, son.”

He wants to tell his nephew just how hard it’s been. The sleepless nights, the colic, the constant anxiety, the eventual weaning, the big emotions. And before all of that, the pregnancy and associated judgement. Wayne wants to tell his nephew he’s got years of making this right, but that’s not up to him. There’s only one person who speaks for how hard this has really been and that person — as he can see from the corner of his eye — is currently making her way up the front path.

The front door opens with a click.

Eddie snaps his head in the direction of the sound, palms of his hands now clammy against his dark denim jeans. There’s a few seconds of quiet shuffling. A bag being dropped and shoes kicked to the side, and then the rockstar hears it. A voice that could calm a storm. A voice imbued with inherent peace.

A voice he’s heard before.

One he thought he’d never hear again.

A LITTLE BEFORE

“Have a great show!” Felix, his tour manager, shouts over the drumroll and Eddie shoots him a quick thumbs-up, before jogging onto the stage with the usual bravado.

Effortlessly, the rockstar spins on his heel, facing the crowd, then throws his arms up in the air as they cheer from below. The screams get louder with each city, tickling Eddie’s second favourite spot: his ego. Tonight is no exception. Thousands of fans squeal and shout up at the stage. They jump in anticipation as Eddie looks to his band. Start.

New York, New York.

The most populous city in the United States and Eddie’s preferred choice, in terms of crowds. They know all of the words to his catalogue of songs, including all of the live chants. They move when he moves, get louder if he encourages. They boo him only when he steps off the stage because they always want more and Eddie’s fucking happy to oblige.

He lives for this. Yes, the fame and the money, but in reality, it’s the shows that keep him going. The control he has over the people that come watch him perform. Up on that stage, night after night, Eddie Munson can do no wrong.

As the third song draws to an end, the rockstar casts his eyes downwards, and for the first time in his to date relatively short career, he freezes.

The tight space between the barrier and the front of the stage is filled with photographers, most of whom Eddie recognises since, night after night, they travel with the band. There’s always the couple of strays, invited from local news outlets, but usually Felix will do quick introductions before the show so they can get a couple of quotes for the releases. 

Staring down, Eddie spots the familiar faces and in the midst, he notices a girl.

She’s looking at him through a lens, but even with the camera blocking half of her face, the rockstar sees a glint of pearly whites. Click. A flash. Then, slowly, the girl lowers the 35mm and Eddie’s throat dries — not to sound overly simplistic, she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever fucking seen.

The next song's opening guitar riff snaps the brunette rockstar out of his sudden daze, albeit briefly. He does a hectic double take, eyes landing on the girl once more as the lights change colour and her smile grows wider. She lifts the camera back up. Click. Another flash. Now, Eddie’s smiling too, forcing himself to focus back on the crowd and the task at hand.

He can feel her eyes on him, however. During the entirety of two full tracks: Won’t Get Fooled Again and Broken Mirror. She’s chasing him around the stage spellbound, as if she was physically dancing next to him, and the feeling Eddie derives from this interaction is other-wordly. He’s floating through space and time. Through galaxies, like a comet streaking across the cosmos. Actually, he’s not just floating. He’s soaring. Powered by this girl’s absolutely insane aura and her fucking gorgeous smile.

Getting lost in the moment, Eddie doesn’t realise she’s gone until the following song wraps and his gaze searches below the stage. He tries to regain focus. A drum roll fills the silence he’s created while wondering who she is and where she went. Eventually, he snaps out of his daze, turning to the crowd once more. “How are we doing tonight, New York!”

They’re doing fucking amazing, is the answer.

“That girl,” Eddie says to Felix after the show, “One of the photographers, what’s her name?”

Felix claps him on the back of the neck, pulling him into a half-hug. “Great show, man. For a minute there I thought you were going to jump through the time-space continuum.”

“The girl?” Eddie repeats; so what if he sounds desperate.

Dropping his arm, Felix laughs. “Always about the ladies with you,” he teases, then adds, “Don’t know her name. Think she’s with the venue.”

Wiping the sweat drops off his forehead with a trusty grey towel, Eddie nods, taking this information in. He glances around his surroundings, wondering if he can spot the venue promoter he met earlier and ask them the same question, but he can’t spot any other faces, aside from the band's own crew.

Felix is still talking about the show. Going over the highs, the aspects that could be improved upon, and what to never fucking do again: which in this instant, is freeze.

“It’s that girl, man.” Eddie tells his tour manager. “I saw her in the crowd and my brain just short-circuited.”

“There’s always going to be another girl,” Felix says plainly, “Chances aren’t as high for another good fucking show.”

Fingers in a fist, he playfully bumps the rockstar on the arm and walks away to chat with the other band mates. Eddie’s in half a mind to yell after Felix, scream at the top of his lungs that somehow this girl is different, but would that be true? All she did was smile. And yeah, maybe it’s the most perfect smile the rockstar has ever seen. Doesn’t mean she’s anything special…

But God, does he wanna find out.

A LITTLE AFTER

“You’ll not believe the day I’ve had, Wayne.” The voice calls out. Close. For the first time in years, it’s within Eddie’s reach.

However, he remains fixed to his current spot.

He can feel his uncle's gaze burn into the side of his skull, waiting just as eagerly to see how this will play out, but all Eddie can think is: what an embarrassment.  Seemingly, he’s lost all control of his movements. Can’t even stand to greet the fucking girl. The mother of his child.

“And all before you texted me about the certain visitor.”

That wakes Eddie up. 

His brown-eyes lock with Wayne’s, wide. There was a time, not overly long ago, when the two Munsons would present a united front against everyone in this shitty town. A team. Nothing and no one could come between them. So, not only has Wayne gotten himself a new family that apparently doesn't include Eddie, he’s also got himself a new team. The betrayal Eddie’s sensed all afternoon deepens.

“You told her?” The rockstar whispers.

Wayne nods as if it’s the simplest answer in the world. And to the eldest Munson, it is. Because yes, Eddie has been a priority ever since he arrived into this world, screaming his little head off. Eddie’s now in his mid-twenties, with a life on his own. Far away from Hawkins, by design. The toddler sleeping in Wayne’s lap being, at times, the only remaining common thread. A new priority.

“Jesus,” Eddie exhales.

He runs a hand through his already disheveled locks, then down his face. His gaze jumps between the doorway and the window. He could run away and pretend this afternoon never fucking happened, but that would only prove the point they’re all thinking. That he’s a fuck-up, unworthy of being someone’s dad.

A mobile sounds in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of an iPhone ringtone. It’s picked up almost instantly, as if the call was expected.

Then Eddie hears her voice again and his attention settles back on the doorway. Despite his feet being fiercely planted to the carpet below, mainly out of fear, he’s unmistakably drawn to the raw sound. Like he’s a pirate and she’s a siren, calling him to sea.

“Are you on your way?”

Eddie hears and his brows string together. How many people in this godforsaken town have to bear witness to the rockstar facing this colossal mess he’s made for himself — and all because he borrowed a condom from Brick, the drummer from his band. Eddie remembers now. He’s placed the voice in his memory palace along with the night this all happened. 

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

“Okay, ‘cause I can’t face him without you here.”

A moment of shuffling. Pacing, Eddie’s deducted. She’s nervous, he thinks.

“Ugh. Steve—”

The rockstar blocks out the remainder of that sentence because of fucking course. Harrington to the rescue. His gut twists in envy. Always the same old story: Eddie the screw-up and Steve the hero. They’ve circled this scenario since high school. The alibis provided to Hopper, the countless stacks of copied homework, the train of hearts Harrington mended. Even though — one could argue — Harrington is the bigger asshole in their unlikely friendship, his best friend always comes out on top because he has something Eddie thought he himself lacked. Charm.

Although, charm is not exactly an explanation for how Steve has landed himself in the middle of this particular situation. 

Casting his memory back, the rockstar doesn’t remember Harrington at the concert in question. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, Eddie’s sure the two of them weren’t even speaking at the time.

Wayne made it quite clear that it was indeed Harrington who introduced the girl, but when the fuck did he meet her? More importantly, why did she reach out to Steve and not Eddie directly? The questions continue to pile in his head, nauseating.

Eventually, there’s quiet. The conversation has ended and after a beat of utterly anguished silence, light footsteps make their way down the hall. Towards the living room.

Then, for precisely thirty-three seconds, Eddie’s heart stops.

“Hi.”

There’s no smile behind the word. A blank expression greets him, but regardless the rockstar feels elated — if only for a moment.

You.

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

You.

“Hi,” he says back, throat coarse.

Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek. Eddie knows what it means, he’s seen it before. An anxious tick. Despite Wayne’s warning, you weren’t expecting him, the same way he wasn’t expecting you.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, I guess.”

Eddie nods, slowly. His anger subsides with every spoken word that surrounds the living room because he may not have known there’s a kid walking around this world that is half him, but you…

Seeing you after all this time, knowing Messer is also half of you, well, the rockstar thinks to himself: what a fucking twisted little jackpot he’s just hit.

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.

It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.

The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.

Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.

His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.

He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it. 

The bus depot.

Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.

Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same. 

This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.

The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.

In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.

The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.

Twenty long hours pass. 

Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.

By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.

Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.

He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal. 

Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.

Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.

Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.

Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.

Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.

Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.

Fuck, what a face.

He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.

What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.

He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.

The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.

“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.

Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”

But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.

One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.

He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.

“Hermès.”

“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.

“The scarf.”

Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.

“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”

“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true. 

Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.

“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.

“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now. 

Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.

A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.

He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.

“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”

“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”

Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.

“Quite the deduction skills.”

“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.

In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.

The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.

“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.

“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”

He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.

“Show me your room.”

You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.

“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space. 

His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.

“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.

He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.

“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”

You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.

With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.

When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.

“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.

“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”

Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.

They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).

“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”

You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.

“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”

Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.

“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”

Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.

“That was a date?”

You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”

The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.

“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.

A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.

The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.

Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.

“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.

Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.

“Do you think this Herbert person—”

“Hermès,” you chime.

“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”

And then he kisses you. 

He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.

The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers. 

It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.

One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.

The New York dating scene bores you. 

Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.

The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.

Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known. 

“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.

The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.

Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.

That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.

You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.

The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.

In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.

As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.

“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”

Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”

“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”

“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.

“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”

He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.

All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.

A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?

Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.

“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner. 

“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.

Matthew places a hand over his heart. 

“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”

A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.

“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”

“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.

Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.

Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”

Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.

After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.

You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up. 

Thinking — hoping —  he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…

Huh.

The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.

Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.

“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.

The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.

“Thanks.” 

His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.

Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him. 

Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.

You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.

i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content: - set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe - although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties - i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here) - for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts) - imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive' - i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find

some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck

If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.

It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.

The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.

Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.

His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.

He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it. 

The bus depot.

Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.

Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same. 

This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.

The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.

In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.

The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.

Twenty long hours pass. 

Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.

By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.

Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.

He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal. 

Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.

Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.

Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.

Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.

Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.

Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.

Fuck, what a face.

He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.

What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.

He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.

The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.

“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.

Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”

But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.

One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.

He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.

“Hermès.”

“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.

“The scarf.”

Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.

“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”

“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true. 

Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.

“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.

“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now. 

Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.

A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.

He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.

“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”

“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”

Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.

“Quite the deduction skills.”

“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.

In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.

The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.

“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.

“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”

He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.

“Show me your room.”

You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.

“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space. 

His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.

“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.

He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.

“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”

You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.

With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.

When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.

“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.

“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”

Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.

They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).

“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”

You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.

“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”

Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.

“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”

Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.

“That was a date?”

You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”

The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.

“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.

A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.

The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.

Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.

“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.

Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.

“Do you think this Herbert person—”

“Hermès,” you chime.

“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”

And then he kisses you. 

He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.

The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers. 

It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.

One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.

The New York dating scene bores you. 

Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.

The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.

Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known. 

“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.

The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.

Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.

That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.

You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.

The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.

In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.

As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.

“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”

Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”

“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”

“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.

“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”

He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.

All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.

A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?

Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.

“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner. 

“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.

Matthew places a hand over his heart. 

“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”

A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.

“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”

“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.

Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.

Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”

Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.

After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.

You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up. 

Thinking — hoping —  he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…

Huh.

The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.

Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.

“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.

The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.

“Thanks.” 

His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.

Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him. 

Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.

You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.

i do NOT consent for my works to be fed to ai agents. i also do NOT consent to them being copied or reposted in any way, here or on any other site. this tumblr account is the only place i post my works.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content: - set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe - although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties - i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here) - for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts) - imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive' - i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find

some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck

If the truth is to be considered, the trajectory of Eddie’s future changes earlier. At his uncle's trailer. During an altercation between him and that fuckface, Carver.

It’s a fight that ends in casualties larger than just the brunette’s fractured ego. Hence the panicked packing, the scribbled goodbye letter to Wayne (left in a spot only the older man will find), the hot wiring of Mrs Hubert’s car that aids in his quick getaway — all of which occurs as hot tears burn into his bruised skin.

The drive from Hawkins to Indianapolis is a blur. Dead silent too. Nothing but gushes of wind blowing through the parted window, the sound of tires on gravel, and his messy, laboured breathing. He keeps to the speed limit, since the last thing he needs is getting pulled over while he’s attempting to go on the run, and doesn’t make any stops until he reaches his destination.

Parking the car on some random, rather dodgy, street, Eddie exhales. Closed fists land at his eyes, rubbing the tiredness away, then he keeps moving. Keys remain in the ignition as his feet hit the tarmac. There’s also an apology note to Mrs Hubert in the glovebox — because he’s not a complete fucking asshole.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, head hanging low, Eddie walks aimlessly through the city crowd. This is as far as he thought to go. Honestly, he had no clear plan of action aside from get the fuck out of Hawkins, fast. He should probably find a motel, at least until he figures out what he’s going to do next because staying in Indianapolis isn’t a good idea in the long run. No doubt this will be the first place they’ll come looking.

His legs weave with the wind, down various blocks. He’s unsure how long it’s been since he’s abandoned the car, but when his stomach rumbles, he scans the surroundings he’s found himself in and he decides to take a break, at a diner he can see down the street.

He doesn’t make it two steps when a cop car pulls up outside and Eddie freezes. They don’t look in his direction as they scramble out of their vehicle, they probably don’t even know who he is yet, but the sight of them alone is enough to redirect the brunette’s movements, make him turn on his heel. And that’s when he sees it. 

The bus depot.

Boston, Atlanta, Houston, Toronto, New York. He scans the list of departures. Since he doesn’t have a passport, escaping to Canada is definitely out of the question. For a minute, he thinks about Boston, but ultimately it’s the city that never sleeps he picks in the end. Millions of people. Plenty of opportunity to become invisible, anonymous.

Later, when he retells this part of the story, your eyes glisten mischievously, as they usually do, and you say it’s your wishes that put him there, at the same time as the police, so he’d abandon the notion of hiding out in Indianapolis, venture further. New York, perhaps. Where you’re living, completely oblivious to his existence and somehow knowing all the same. 

This voodoo shit is not for him, but the sentiment of someone out there — especially a smokeshow like you — willing him in a different direction, well, he can’t help the fucking cocky grin on his face.

The lady at the desk informs him there’s an overnight to New York City in four hours. He buys a ticket on the spot, leaving him with a lowly sum of three-hundred bucks for whatever plan he comes up with once in the city. He’ll have to get a job somewhere. A no-questions-asked, cash-under-the-table type of employment. Shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Hopes, actually. In reality, he’s got no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe he should have stayed in Hawkins? What if he got in his head too fast? What if they (being the general public along with the cops) considered his side of the story? But he shakes the questions away as fast as they arise. He can’t second guess himself, not now.

In the time Eddie’s waiting for his bus, he buys a bottle of water and a sandwich. He finds an empty bench in the corner of a depot and eats his food, scanning the surroundings for anyone looking in his direction suspiciously. Nobody does. His face makes the news only after he’s met you, but by then he feels pretty much invincible.

The journey is restless. He knows he should sleep. Wishes for the sweet release of dreams as lights zoom past the bus window, however the drowsiness never comes. Too anxious, scared. He’s also missing his uncle. The one family member that’s always been in the brunette’s corner and now he may never see the old man again. Not like Wayne would want to see his nephew, not after what he’s done. Disappointed him in the process. Fuck, that hurts to think about.

Twenty long hours pass. 

Two stops on the way for bathroom breaks and fuel. Eddie stays on the bus both of those times, hiding towards the back so no one can place him later. His aim is to remain a shadow without a face because when the police are eventually going to try and find his whereabouts, no one can step up and say: “Oh, that boy you’re looking for took the same night bus as me. To New York City.”.

By the time Eddie steps off the metal machine, a new day is already coming to a slow end. The surrounding crowd is a mix of office folk, heading home after presumably long, exhausting hours at their unfulfilling jobs, and rowdy college kids, whose next agenda item is getting plastered drunk. A few families, some tourists. Homeless, street vendors, all groups mixing together in a way that mere hours ago, would have seemed unnatural to the lost brunette.

Despite the heavy tiredness, Eddie’s struck by how alive he suddenly feels.

He ventures further between the concrete blocks and busy lights, momentarily unafraid to keep his head up and takes in every last detail of the expansive jungle — until he’s rudely reminded it’s been hours since he’s had a warm meal. 

Stomach rumbling louder than necessary, Eddie stops at the first diner he comes across. He sits at the far end, eyes on the door since he shouldn't be too careless, and orders a burger from the grey-haired waitress. A couple of people venture in and out as he waits. No one of particular importance stands out, so once he gets his food, the brunette feels secure enough to drop his gaze and eat.

Although, he’s still listening. Actively. To the bell above the door, the various chatter of everyone else here, the orders being placed and delivered. He listens to the radio that’s playing in the background, just in case it switches to the news and his name is being broadcasted across the nation. And as he’s listening, he hears something quite unexpected.

Laughter. Which frankly, isn’t all that strange, but the sound vibrates through him, causing a tingle to run down his spine and his heart to skip a beat — odd.

Eddie looks up, around. Can’t place the person, thinks he may have imagined the whole thing, so it’s back to eating the most average burger in America.

Thank god his ears stay alert while he’s chewing on the unseasoned patty because there it is again, and this time, as his head snaps up from the plate in front of him, he sees a girl two tables up. You.

Facing his general direction, although your focus is entirely on the person you’re with. There’s a wave of heads blocking his view, but every time they shift, Eddie catches a glimpse and for a moment that borders on stalkery, his burger is frozen mid-air.

Fuck, what a face.

He shakes his head, gaze dropping along with the burger, and blinks a few times at nothing in particular. When you laugh again, Eddie closes his eyes tight, because this is perhaps the darkest time in his life and for some reason, when your giggles reach his ears, his entire being feels sort of warm, fuzzy — and if anyone is paying attention to his inner monologue from the last thirty-odd hours, this isn’t the time for either of those inklings.

What else is a guy to do but run? It’s already been established that Eddie’s quite good at that.

He flags down the waitress, pays with a tip that he cannot afford but whatever, he also can’t afford to fall in a trap otherwise known as another pretty girl, so he bolts. Doesn’t spare you another glance as he rushes past, just straight out the door and onto the busy New York street.

The universe — as you’d later tell him — has other plans because there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder while he figures out which way to go. He doesn’t think when he turns back around, facing the entrance of the diner he just ran out of. Facing you.

“You dropped this,” you say and he blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand and his stupid fucking bandana, tucked carefully between your fingers.

Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks.”

But he doesn’t move. Stupid, really. Mere seconds ago he was aching to get away from the possibility of something like this happening, and now he’s standing a fool, staring at the piece of cloth you’re holding. Only when you retrieve your hand, the bandana still in your grasp, does his gaze trail upwards, meeting yours.

One brow up, arched, you’re studying him with a level of scrutiny he’d rather not experience from a complete stranger. Especially one as pretty as you. Fuck. This is a nightmare.

He sighs, then reaches for the item between your fingers. He shouldn’t have turned around. Once his photo is plastered across the news outlets, you’ll definitely be able to place him here.

“Hermès.”

“What?” He asks, brows furrowed. Heart in his fucking throat from the nerves.

“The scarf.”

Eddie once again looks at the piece of cloth, now in his grasp, then frowns because he’s still not sure what you mean. You must notice the weird look he is undoubtedly sporting because you keep talking.

“I recognise the pattern and the classic Hermès orange.”

“I don’t know. I found it,” he says mindlessly, although that’s not entirely true. 

Honesty doesn’t come easy to him. In reality, Eddie stole what he believed to be a bandana working at McKinney's party a couple of weeks back. Business was slower than usual, so he wandered through the house, rifled through some cupboards, closets. The scarf — as you call it — was just waiting to be rescued.

“Well, it’s quite the find,” you say, and there’s something in your tone that has the brunette meeting your gaze once more.

“This uh… Hermès…” He cocks a brow. “Sounds expensive?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. He tries not to let his eyes wander, really, but he’s only a man. The slip is brief and only happens once… okay, twice. You must notice and decidedly like that sort of attention from him because you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

And if Eddie wasn’t done for before, he is now. 

Not to sound overly cocky, but he knows the look written across your face, has seen it many times before, so his list of never ending troubles is longer by one more: you. For sure the type of girl that can ruin his life — more than it already is — and now that he’s thinking about it, looking at you up close, not the kind of girl that willingly eats at a dingy diner.

A thought very much confirmed when a taxi you hail, without giving a second thought to the friend he believes is still inside the locale, drops you and Eddie outside a building with a doorman. The elderly gentleman calls you by your surname, tipping his hat and opening one side of the glass to allow passage. You smile sweetly, motioning for Eddie to follow.

He really should be careful not to show his face to too many people that could timestamp him in different spots around the city he escaped to. But the sway of your hips and the glimmer in your eyes is, quite frankly, hypnotic. A friendly reminder: he’s only a man.

“So, what brings you to New York?” You ask once the elevator closes.

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted somethin’ new.”

“Ahh,” you muse, tilting your head slightly. “So you’re running from something.”

Not a question and Eddie wonders how you can tell. You answer his thought with a slight glance at the bag over his shoulder, and he presses his lips together.

“Quite the deduction skills.”

“Runs in the family,” you say with a shrug.

In retrospect, he should have asked straight away what you meant. Earlier, in the taxi, you made a comment that also dinged a bell in his mind, tickling his fight or flight, but Eddie ignored the obvious because your hand was down his pants. He’s never met a girl this forward and one could colour him intrigued — even if this sudden fascination came at a really, really terrible time.

The elevator opens with a swoosh and as he follows you through the foyer, large staircase to one side, chandelier up above, he’s thinking again about what a girl like you was doing at a diner. Surely there’s fancier places to eat in the city. Restaurants suited to your poise, your outfit.

“Nice place,” he says, taking a look around.

“It could be better,” you tell him, and when Eddie’s brow shoots upwards, wanting just slightly to check your privilege, you add, “Less suffocating, for starters.”

He frowns. A twinge of guilt settles in his core for judging you based on surface level. Clearly, he doesn’t know you. Strangers still. And he absolutely hates when people jump to conclusions about him, his upbringing. The notion has caused many fights back home, yet here he is, doing the same to a girl that’s done nothing but shown him interest, kindness too.

“Show me your room.”

You huff a gentle laugh, briefly glancing at your heels, then ask, “Are you always this forward?”, with a slight tease to the tone of your voice. Eyes settled on him once more.

“I’m not the one who pushed a stranger into a taxi and touched ‘em in a very forward way.” Eddie counters, sauntering towards you. He stops when his sneaker touches the tip of your heeled toes, both of you looking down between the barely-there space. 

His mind is spiraling slightly, since this is a pitstop he really cannot afford right now. Although, his worries are quickly fusing with the intoxicating scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume and the recent memory of your delicate fingers wrapped around his girth. Whatever. He can spend the night and fuck off in the morning, before you wake up. If the police place him here and question the doorman, question you, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to another city? It’s already been established how he’s good at that: running.

“What if I’m simply trying to rob you?” You ask, pulling the Hermès scarf from his back pocket and lifting it into view.

He smirks as his gaze briefly darts between the designer cloth and yours.

“Pretty sure you can afford one all on your own, Krystle Carrington.”

You scrunch your nose. Not a fan of the nickname, he notes while wetting his lips to hide an affectionate smile. He’ll definitely use it again, like a schoolboy endlessly teasing a girl he’s got a crush on. Which, of course, this isn’t. Eddie just needs a certain type of relief and you’ve already indicated how you’re more than eager to oblige.

With the orange scarf still in your grasp, you turn away from him and start to walk up the stairs.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t compare me to Alexis,” you say over your shoulder, the sound of your heels clacking against the marble staircase almost muffling your voice.

When you stop right at the top, Eddie is still a few steps behind, meaning when you turn to face him again, you’re ever so slightly taller. Seemingly the one in control.

“And it’s not nice to make assumptions about people,” you continue.

“Well,” Eddie begins, glancing around the space with his arms outstretched slightly, as if to prove a point. “Look at this place. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing okay for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, if I told you otherwise.”

Despite the sudden solemn tone, there’s a proud look on your face. The sort Eddie loves to wipe off with his mouth because nothing is more humbling to girls like you than messing around with a guy like him, only to be left behind since this sort of shit doesn’t matter to him, not the way it historically matters to chicks.

They’ll screw around with him, follow him around for free weed, some other shit too, and a big fuck you to their stiff parents. Eddie knows his role in the Hawkins social hierarchy and it has never bothered him. He sticks by the rules, even wears his title as a badge of honour. Yet, even though they’re just using him, they get attached anyway and he ends up having to break hearts — which he kind of enjoys.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be just another girl and he won’t think of your laughter, won’t spare a second reminiscing the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, or the way your hand felt down his boxers (like it belonged there).

“Kick me out, let me crash. It’s honestly whatever to me, sweetheart.” Eddie says with a shrug. “But I don’t think you want me to leave.”

You raise a brow in that challenging way you do, and he should be worried how he’s noticing these things already, after barely knowing you an hour. He doesn’t dwell on that thought though. Instead, Eddie slides a hand up your side, slow and steady, until his fingers are at your waist. He pulls you closer and you weave your arms around his neck, trying to find balance.

“I think you’re trying to prove something to the people that own this place and you need a guy like me to help you out.”

Admittedly, a line he’s used plenty of times in the past, so colour him surprised when you scoff. Your eyes roll — brat — as you push off him and keep walking along the upstairs hallway. There’s a split-second during which Eddie is muttering to himself, “What the fuck?”, because that line always works, before a smirk replaces the momentary confusion and he continues to follow you.

“If all I’m looking for is - and I quote - a guy like you,” you begin in rebuttal, pushing a large, white door open with your hip. “I would have simply stayed at the diner to wrap up my date and brought that loser home instead.”

Eddie can’t help the short laugh that escapes.

“That was a date?”

You nod, then say, “Clearly not a very successful one.”

The inside of your bedroom is unsurprisingly devoid of any real character. All the furniture matches in woodtones, clearly custom made to fit the dimensions of space. There’s a white duvet on top of the large bed and some fashion magazines scattered around the place, half-hidden behind piles of colourful clothes. No posters, no photos. If you’re lying, and the two of you are breaking and entering, he’d be none the wiser.

“Is this actually your place?” He can’t help himself. He’s already on the run, so it would be great to avoid any additional charges.

A dangerous, knowing smile tugs at your lips at the question, and when you decide not to answer, Eddie seriously begins to consider calling quits on this whole thing. He’d rather face a case of blue balls than get arrested for having sex in someone else’s bed. Not an ideal scenario to get caught here, especially after travelling this far to escape his fate.

The universe — or in this case, you — glues his feet to the ground by a simple act of undoing the collection of buttons currently holding your blouse together. You leave the last few before moving onto the zipper of your skirt, which you slide down your legs, all while holding his gaze and the orange Hermès scarf.

Clearing his throat, Eddie drops the rucksack to the carpeted floor and crosses the room. It only takes a few, slow strides until he’s towering over you once more, hastily latching onto your blouse and pulling you flush against his chest. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and blink up at him, a picture of false innocence.

“Any last words?” You ask, voice all sultry, sending a zap straight to his groin.

Fingers cross your frame, a ghost of a touch, as Eddie reaches for the scarf you’re still holding. He lifts it slightly into view, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, one brow raised.

“Do you think this Herbert person—”

“Hermès,” you chime.

“—will forgive me if I use this to tie you up?”

And then he kisses you. 

He doesn't wait for you to answer the question, and doesn't ask permission either. Eddie simply takes what’s right in front of him and revels in the way you melt, equally wicked. It’s fierce and demanding, tasting of tension that’s been simmering between the two of you all evening. Boil, bubble, pop.

The abstract floral scent of your undoubtedly expensive perfume fills his senses. Intoxicating, he thinks, like throwing gasoline on a burning fire. He wants — needs — more. So his fingers work to remove the blouse completely, fabric soft against his calloused fingers. 

It’s pure, animalistic instinct. At least that’s what Eddie tells himself when he bites your lower lip, tongue catching your gasp. Or when he slides his hands down the curve of your ass and lifts you off the floor, guiding your legs around his waist.

One could also call it expanding his portfolio. He’s been with a fair share of upper-class chicks, but no one compares to your stature. Plus, yours is the first of many beds he’ll land in while hiding out in the city. Nothing special. By tomorrow’s sunrise, the feeling of your skin against his will be nothing but a memory.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself beneath the sheets, arms around your frame, holding on for dear life.

The New York dating scene bores you. 

Honestly, there is a lousy selection of candidates to begin with. If they’re employed, established — and tick the criteria set by your parents, in terms of wallet size — they are really unattractive. And if the potential date is somewhat good looking, handsome even, they’ve seemingly got no prospects, and any potential romance is over before it even begins because your parents would never allow their only daughter to enter a relationship with a bum.

The whole thing has become quite the chore, and everyone in your inner circle knows you’re not one to ruin a good manicure for housework.

Now, that’s not to say you spend your days and nights alone. Quite the opposite, actually. Finding a boyfriend that satisfies your family by meeting their ridiculous expectations may be a tedious task, but you persevere. After all, there’s the trust fund stipulation to consider, the bonus you don’t receive unless you find a potential husband before your twenty-fifth birthday. The feminist inside of you screams to let it go, try a hand at true happiness (whatever that looks like), but the materialistic side always wins. Money is all you’ve ever known. 

“A life that’s incredibly comfortable is hard to give up.” That’s what your grandfather always says. Your mother’s father. He’s the only one in your family who thinks the ‘marriage’ clause is ridiculous. Then again, Bernard Senior is also the only one who got lucky in that department. The love of his life — your fabulous grandmother, Judith Cecil — happened to be beautiful, successful, and came from old-money. Tick, tick, and tick.

The Cecil family are British-American financiers and real estate investors. Your grandfather’s side of the tree is also very wealthy (what is these days known as Big Pharma, they had a small part in that), but still not quite Cecil stature, which is why grandmother Judith never changed her surname. Smart woman.

Money makes your world go around, so you go on unsuccessful dates with unattractive, rich assholes, only to end up in bed with someone a lot more… fun. Not a foolproof plan by any means, but the game’s the game. You’ve got a few years left until you need to be sauntering down the aisle and there is a long list of suitors who will marry you in the blink of an eye — even if you don’t want to marry them.

That’s how you find yourself at La Bonbonierre.

You like this diner. Primarily for its convenient location: far enough from the Upper East Side, so no one from your real life will ever spot you here, yet still close enough to home, making for a short-ish car ride.

The guy you’re with didn’t even bat an eye at the suggested locale, which tells you all you need to know about how much further this night will go; i.e. not very far. Sure, you’ll make out a little before bidding him goodnight, but chances are you will never see him again. Sorry to Matthew from the Bronx. He’s charming as hell and in another life, maybe the two of you would go on a second date… Not a third though. Never a third.

In the span of thirty-two minutes, you’ve learned all about Matthew’s shattered dreams of becoming a professional athlete due to a badly torn ACL, his pivot into getting a journalism degree from a local community college, and his desire to travel outside of the great state of New York. You tell him next to nothing, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind. Easy on the eye, bad at a two-way conversation.

As he talks, polishing a burger faster than you can blink, you nibble on the french fries, dipping them in your vanilla milkshake and nodding along to words you most definitely will not remember tomorrow. Tonight’s goal is simple: satisfy an urge that needs satisfying. Nothing he’ll say will change your mind about what this date actually is.

“The Bulls are dominating this year,” Matthew says. “If the Knicks had half the squad they do down in Chicago, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m more of a Yankees fan myself.”

Matthew snorts and shakes his head. “Yankees are a baseball team.”

“A ball is a ball, Matthew.” You deadpan, unbothered by the correction and the amused look he’s shooting you from across the table. “Besides, I prefer to watch the players than the game, and the Yankees have Don Mattingly.”

“Jerrod Mustaf, Charles Oakley…” Matthew lists off.

“Yes, the New York Knicks team is full of knockouts,” you say honestly, smiling because there’s nothing you enjoy more than a lighthearted sparring match. “But Matthew… Don Mattingly has a mustache.”

He laughs at that and you join in instantly. Short and sweet. Nothing to write home about, except when your date tilts his head to flag down the waitress, still laughing to himself, you notice someone behind him, sitting all alone just a few booths down. Someone quite striking.

All you get is a glimpse, but it’s enough to pique your interest.

A wave of chocolate-brown locks and a big, wide gaze to match. The mystery man is wearing a faded denim jacket — vintage, if you were to take a guess — over a plain tee, and there’s something silver around his neck that glistens slightly under the fluorescent light. His head hangs low, just as quickly as he lifted it seconds prior, as if he’s avoiding eye contact with whoever glances his way, and the tension in his shoulders is visible even from the space between you. An out-of-towner, for sure. Running from something perhaps?

Stealing one last look in the mystery man’s direction, you force yourself to focus on your date. In the seconds you just lost, too distracted by the lonesome brunette, Matthew seemingly has moved on from talking about sports, choosing instead to ramble about the public transport in this city. Poorly designed routes, overcrowded carts, expensive for a college student. All facts you can agree with, so you nod.

“Don’t you have a car?” Matthew asks, then adds, “And a driver?”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“You literally picked me up. Or should I say, your driver picked me up,” he teases and you roll your eyes in a playful manner. 

“My generosity is always overlooked,” you dramatise, the corners of your lips twitching upwards because boys always think you’re flirting if you say shit with a soft smile.

Matthew places a hand over his heart. 

“I thank your generosity,” he says with a smirk. “Just be sure to pass along my gratitude to your driver too. Do you even have a licence?”

A shocked scoff escapes you, followed by a giggle as you throw a french fry at him. He dodges with ease, then returns the attack, which only makes you laugh louder.

“Well, Frank won’t be giving you a lift home,” you say between chuckles. “He’s got the rest of the night off.”

“Fuck. Not a night off.” Matthew replies sarcastically.

Surprisingly, you feel good with him, which doesn’t happen often. Sure, you’re good at making people comfortable, you’re good at flirting, but you don’t usually let your own guard down. Knowing that dates with guys like Matthew — guys who you could never bring home to your parents — won’t make it past the night, well, it’s just easier to keep true feelings out of these interactions.

Matthew must notice the sudden change in your demeanor because his smile turns softer, wistful even, as he looks at you from across the table.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

You do your best to keep the smile on your face, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes, as you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“You’ll make one hell of a journalist some day,” you say earnestly. “And who knows, maybe you’ll interview me in the future, for a piece about the most generous women in the world.”

Matthew snorts and squeezes your fingers back. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” And then he says goodbye.

After your date leaves, you take all of two seconds to sigh, compose yourself, before glancing in the direction of the mystery man you spotted earlier. To your disappointment, he’s gone too. Great. Looks like you’re going home alone.

You place some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and push to stand. That’s when you notice something orange on the floor, close to where the brunette was sitting. On closer inspection, the piece of cloth is a scarf. A Hermés scarf, at that. Odd. You wouldn’t say the person sitting here moments prior could afford something this expensive, but assumptions can be wrong, so you pick the scarf up. 

Thinking — hoping —  he didn’t get very far, you rush out of the diner. Maybe you’d be able to spot his head of hair and give this back to him. Maybe…

Huh.

The universe is on your side because there he is, just standing outside, looking around as if he’s unsure which way to turn. His hesitancy tugs at something inside of your body and you instantly want to become someone he can count on, at least for tonight, so you tap his shoulder.

Facing you completely, the mystery man is even more handsome than you first noticed. A sea of light freckles coat his face, complimenting his deep-brown eyes perfectly. There’s tiny dents in his cheeks where you can tell dimples will appear if he smiles, and gentle frown lines that somehow make him feel more real. And his mouth, so plump and… kissable.

“You dropped this,” you say, trying to appear nonchalant.

The guy blinks, glancing down at your outstretched hand, before clearing his throat.

“Thanks.” 

His tone is all gravely and deep, and it sends a shockwave through your system. God, you want him to keep talking. You need him to keep talking. You need him to do a lot more actually, but you’ll settle for hearing his voice again.

Naturally, you get what you want and in the process you find out a few things about him. 

Hermés is not a brand he’s familiar with, meaning your assumption about the item being out of his league was correct. The fact is further proven when he says he found the scarf, which you actually think is a lie, but you let it slide (for now). Then he asks if it’s expensive and his curiosity seems slightly desperate, as if all of a sudden he’s contemplating where to pawn the item off for some extra cash.

You nod at his last question, smiling softly and his eyes snap to your lips. They don’t linger, but they do drop down again for a second time and you know you have him right where you want him — which will soon prove quite detrimental.

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🌟 mal's rambling corner aka extra context / content: - set in the early 90s (in case anyone is wondering), + an au cause no monsters etc in Hawkins; eddie is running from something else hehe - although not directly specified, eddie and reader are around the same age: i.e. in their early twenties - i may also become a late 80s/ early 90s fashion guru while working on this series lol .. took me forever to research which designer brand was big in that time + sold scarves/ bandanas (the Hermès scarf mentioned linked here) - for those that don't know, krystle carrington is a character from dynasty, and here i'm thinking of the og that eddie maybe watched with wayne (a guilty pleasure, of sorts) - imagine what you please, but i think reader wears Chanel N°5; hence the vague description of an abstract floral scent.. my mom uses this perfume and it's the only way i could think to describe it, aside from using the word 'expensive' - i also researched diners operational in the 90s, then i google mapped how far they'd be from the port authority bus depot to see if it's walkable for eddie jskkskks + la bonbonniere is about 34-41 mins by foot (these days) and a pretty straight road so for someone just arriving to the city — eddie — it would be quite easy to find

some super cool people who expressed interest in this story (pls let me know if you wanna be added / removed): @scarlet-prey @msmetallicareeves @probablyin-bed @kellsck