yo!! i'm jinx, 21, uni student in the uk. write sometimes, talk about writing a lot more. otherwise, i love loud music, making stuff, and the colours black, red, and white. hmu!
find me on ao3!
SONG OF THE DAY // beneath the surface - defences
WRITING FOR // eddie munson; travis 'teacake' meacham, dr ryland grace
masterlists tba when i get the time to actually write something
MESSAGES // open!!
send me fic ideas, headcanons, tell me something funny, ask me for a song rec,,, literally anything, i don't bite but i DO love to chat
CURRENTLY WRITING // dr ryland grace dyspraxia headcanons
for fics, check back when i've finished my degree because omfg
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one is based on canon, and one is a sort of 'what-if' wherein he never ended up on the hail mary.
in canon...
...i don't think he would've had a type specialty, or even very many pokémon before he was sent up. i imagine his focus was always more on research than actually training pokémon himself... until the petrova taskforce and the hail mary, where suddenly he would've encountered pokémon he would've otherwise only ever read about.
thievul i like to think he would've grown up with--we've all collectively decided foxes are grace's thing, after all. not a lot of lore here; i just like the idea of his first partner being a nickit, and it growing up with him. i think it would've been a late bloomer, only evolving into thievul around the time he asks to be part of the petrova taskforce.
reuniclus he would've met in undergrad as a solosis, and they've been together ever since. i like to imagine it evolved into reuniclus around the time he finished his phd, as if they were growing and learning together. it just fits so perfectly.
solrock is pretty self-explanatory; it's an extraterrestrial pokémon that looks like the sun. however, i did find in it's pokédex entries that "on sunny days, groups of solrock line up facing the sun and absorb its light" and that they release intense light and heat, which felt thematically perfect regarding the petrova line and astrophage... and since we're talking about the petrova line here, i imagine this one to be shiny.
metang was the closest thing i could find to armando/the nannybot, and i thought it was fitting; grace felt intimidated by armando at first, which suits metang being a little dangerous and alien-looking, but soon grew accustomed to and almost companionable with it. i think it's probably quite a stern, mission-focused pokémon, having been assigned there by dr. lamai and focused solely on caring for the comatose hail mary crew, but that it loosens up as it grows closer to grace. after moving into the biodome on erid, it finally evolves into metagross--the eridians LOVE this.
beheeyem he has a complicated relationship with, because it was originally stratt's--she sent it up on the hail mary to mess with grace's memories so he didn't sabotage the mission (as per its pokédex entries). on the one hand, he resents it for the distress the memory loss caused him, and because it reminds him of stratt and that's a can of worms in and of itself... but at the same time, he sympathises with it; both of them were sent up without any say in the matter, after all, and stratt being willing to send her own partner to space shows her commitment to solving the astrophage crisis, no matter the cost. it also fit the space theme perfectly as the literal 'alien' pokémon; i like to think it came to earth during roswell (as suggested in elgyem's pokédex entries), and was hidden away in area 51 until the petrova taskforce came together.
and last, but by no means least... we have boldore as our beloved rocky. i like to imagine erid as a planet of almost exclusively rock-types; many (like rocky) are from the roggenrola line, but i can also imagine nosepass, regirock, naclstack, stakataka... you get the idea. i'd imagine they're more advanced than earth's pokémon, and have their own societies etc—so he'd still be grace's equal, and they wouldn't have a typical 'trainer-pokémon' relationship. i think he'd evolve into a gigalith once he and grace return to erid, as if he's 'traded' decades away from home in exchange for all his new knowledge and experiences while in space.
but in another life, if he'd never ended up on the hail mary...
...i think he'd have been a normal-type specialist, seeing how he's just a normal guy. lots of cute and cuddly, first-stage pokémon; they're great with kids (i think he'd get them involved in class a lot), and we know he's a bit of a 'head in the clouds' dreamer himself. pokémon that aren't quite grown up would suit him, i think.
nickit shares much of its reasoning with thievul from the other team; i like to think that in this universe, since grace never went up and never experienced all he did (while also staying as a teacher, necessitating 'kid-friendly' pokémon), nickit likewise chose not to evolve.
helioptile is a cute first-stage pokémon, and it fit his astronomy vibe while keeping with the normal-type theme. can definitely see him bringing it to class when he's teaching about renewable energy.
cyclizar is more utilitarian than anything else; we know he cycles to work (in the movie, anyway--though i didn't read otherwise in the book), and it's a normal-type. not much else to say, though i think as a scientist he'd have a lot of thoughts on its evolution and the possibility of it being a 'missing link' between koraidon and miraidon.
teddiursa, like helioptile, checks the boxes for being cute, first-stage normal types with an astronomy theme.
porygon is more a relic of his academia days, which i deliberately steered away given how in this universe, he made a point of stepping away from that life and never went back. nevertheless, porygon's been his buddy since his university days; it helped him with research and experiments, and now with marking and classroom practicals. also, i think, symbolic of how he never totally left research behind; he just made teaching a priority.
finally, i was torn between whismur and castform. whismur is representative of his tearfulness (and, i'd argue, cowardice), and the soundwave practical we see at the start of the movie--it's also cute and cuddly, so would fit right in. castform, however, i think he'd be fascinated by from a science perspective given how it responds on a cellular level to weather and climate; i also found the pokédex entries about its molecules 'recently being found to be just like water' absolutely hysterical, given that we're talking about dr ryland 'the goldilocks zone is for idiots' grace here. i'm a castform hater though, which is largely why i was torn.
a collection of dyspraxic/DCD grace headcanons from yours truly!
dr ryland grace has a learning difficulty. this changes very little, because you can still have a doctorate, be the world's foremost expert on astrophage biology, and save two planets from dimming suns with a learning difficulty.
haven't read the book (yet, it is on the way!!!), but i couldn't help myself LMAO i'll make a part 2 once i do because i KNOW it'll give me more ideas.
i think his fine motor skills are stronger than his gross ones, generally. his handwriting's decent, if only because of how often he uses it in the classroom. gross motor skills, though? diabolically bad. he'll trip over everything and nothing, bump into doors, counters, other people.
on the petrova taskforce, and later the hail mary, he struggles a lot in the hazmat suits and his spacesuit because he's just so much bulkier than he's used to.
he's forever bumping his head on rocky's xenonite tunnels, no matter how long they've been there for.
he can tie his shoelaces; it just takes him a minute. if he's only going to be moving around a little bit, he doesn't usually bother.
he's a VERY visual thinker; he finds drawing things out works best, but anything goes as long as it's physically in front of him. super creative to boot, and loves classroom crafts.
it works great for his kids too, and later rocky and the eridians. he LOVES showing things in action and getting them involved in experiments and crafts, versus just talking at them and expecting them to understand it.
on the hail mary, he's DELIGHTED to find the puppet shows work for rocky, because they work SO well for him as well. they'll do them for each other whenever something's getting lost in translation.
his working memory and organisation isn't great; he loses things like his keys often anyway, but if something's not in its designated spot? gone forever.
on earth, he lived by calendars, post-it notes and notes app lists to keep him on time and on track. everything from parent-teacher conferences to shopping lists had to be written down. it helped significantly, but he'd still forget something or other most days.
on the hail mary he prefers keeping the centrifugal gravity going as often as possible when he and rocky are doing 'big science', because as soon as they move into zero gravity everything floats around and he cannot find anything.
i do think this becomes slightly more of an issue after he hits his head jettisoning the fuel tanks near adrian.
i think he would've been diagnosed later in life, maybe as an undergrad student; he was always pretty academic despite how much he would've struggled, so nobody took much notice growing up. i think he would've pursued it partly out of curiosity, just to know why he is the way he is.
some of his low self-esteem stems from growing up feeling like there was something wrong with him, because he couldn't do the things other kids could. he struggled badly with sports, and would find ways to get out of doing them (took up science extracurriculars, etc).
on the hail mary, this shows up when he's doing his pilot training with rocky. he's usually endlessly patient, but struggling to control the ship hits a sore spot, especially with rocky teasing him (not that he knows any better, of course). they have a talk, and once he understands, rocky lays off a bit.
he's always covered in bruises, and can rarely tell where they've come from. armando frets over him endlessly.
it's not something he's ashamed of (anymore), nor something he advertises; it's just part of him. if he needs accommodations, he'll ask for them.
as a teacher, he had slightly longer to tidy and set up his classroom between lessons.
on the petrova taskforce, it helped to have someone (usually carl) to bounce ideas off and help him with his experiments. if there was a lot going on, stratt would sometimes come to him for meetings or quick chats, rather than asking him to remember to come to her.
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rocky's crew dying from radiation exposure, something humans go to great lengths to prevent and are very scared of and grace's crew dying in their "sleep" with nobody watching, something eridians go to great lengths to prevent and are very scared of. cool book that is easy to read through your tears.
been watching the pitt because im dying of a cold and ITS SO AMAZING,,, dr king especially hits me RIGHT in the heart, being a very emotional person is HARD and partly why i actually decided against going into a career as a paramedic.
she's literally the best depiction of someone like me i've ever seen and i LOVE IT.
also i know dr langdon has his own issues (NO SPOILERS i'm only at s1 3pm), but i love their relationship specifically,,, not in a romantic way, but like to be seen and implicitly understood in the way he did when he gave her the road rash case,,, being told "its a hard place to be sensitive, but you're doing great" vs "stop being so sensitive"??? as someone who's BEEN told to stop being so sensitive all my life??? 🥹🥹🥹
red string soulmate au! just a litttle fluffy drabble i thought up last night
wc: 1.5k
warnings: none, i think
You tried to follow the red string tied to your left ring finger to the hand on the other end. You felt silly the entire time, following the string is something that you did in high school with your friends before it inevitably took you too far and you had to make it back before curfew, not something you did in your twenties and alone. But you’d never tried before, and the new town was killing you. You’d just moved for a new job, and the loneliness of a new place in adulthood was slowly chipping away at you. The silence was deafening. So, what better way to fill that than by trying to find the one person who’s meant to fix all that?
You quickly realized why it seemed like the distance between you and your soulmate was not ever decreasing when you followed the string straight to the doors of the prison about 20 minutes out of town.
You wanted to believe it was because they were a guard, or someone just working inside, but growing up, you’d always been able to tell when your soulmate went new distances, and that significant lack of movement in the string over the last year or so told you that it was because he was stuck inside the building before you.
It had to be some sick joke. You already feel stupid for doing a silly activity that teenagers usually giggle about with their friends, then at the end of that embarrassing activity, you're met with the fact that your soulmate is in jail.
Obviously, there are worse things to happen, and it wasn’t like this automatically meant that he was a bad guy, but it did make the chances of him being… peculiar much higher. Something you weren’t exactly hoping for in the man you were meant to spend your life with.
After a long twenty minutes of sitting in your car outside the county prison, you made your way back to your new apartment. It didn’t seem much like home yet; the floors were still cold against your feet, and the TV still echoed if you turned up your favorite TV show too loud. You let out a loud sigh and cozied up on your couch with your laptop. A long night was nothing four glasses of wine and getting ahead on work couldn’t fix.
Embarrassingly, in the next year in your new town, not much had changed in your life regarding your relationships. You’d been out occasionally with your coworkers, but wouldn’t really consider them good friends. On top of that, more often than not, you find yourself choosing to work over going out to meet people; thus, you often spend nights alone and quietly.
Tonight was meant to be no different. You’d quickly gotten yourself comfortable after work into some soft pants and a sweatshirt, and just as you’d sat yourself on the couch after cleaning up dinner, you received a text from your boss.
“Hey, need you to run over to the company’s storage and get out the files for the project we're meeting about tomorrow, sorry forgot to have the intern do it. It’s Atchison 206. The door guy will let you into the unit. Thanks.”
You let a long sigh draw out of you before your eyes flicked up to the top of your screen, the time reading 10:17 pm. Not exactly how you wanted to spend the evening, but you guess you didn’t mind so much. After all, being available for work is what's gotten you so high up in just the year or so that you've been in town.
With that, you dramatically rose from your couch, not bothering to change as you slipped on some shoes and made your way to the storage unit. About halfway into the drive, heavy water droplets hit the windshield of your car, then more, then all of a sudden it is properly pouring down as you make your way into the shady parking lot.
After making your way to the seemingly empty entrance, hair soaked and clinging to your face, you're left knocking on the glass, hoping for an employee to see you and open the door. After what seems like a cold, wet eternity, the door is finally buzzed open, and a rather sleazy looking man approaches to walk straight past you and go behind the desk.
“Good evening, I just need to get to unit 206? My boss sent me.” You murmur to the man through a shiver. Maybe it's the goosebumps along your skin from the cold, the uncomfortable feeling of your sweatshirt and hair clinging to your neck because of the moisture, or the frustration you were feeling for the man in front of you for not letting you in sooner, but the red string on your finger that was now pulled rather taut was the last thing on your radar.
“Just take the elevator to floor two. Teacake is sweeping. He can let you in.” The man waves his hand dismissively to the elevator, as if he can't be bothered to just show you there himself.
Choosing to save yourself the headache of calling out his poor seervice, you choose to just make your way down instead. Hopefully this “Teacake” would at least be a bit more friendly. You scoff a bit at the thought and mindlessly step onto the floor once the elevator doors open.
It takes you all of three seconds to identify who you must believe to be Teacake. He was in the middle of the aisle, headphones on, nodding like he was listening to something real important. If he wasn’t right in front of you, you're still sure you’d have been able to notice him because of the bright orange jumpsuit, or maybe the bleached blond hair.
It definitely wouldn’t have been because the little red string tied neatly around your ring finger was so very clearly attached at the other end to him.
Before you could even feel the excitement of finding your soulmate, you were painfully reminded of the fact that your hair was damp and sticking to you, you were in essentially your pjs, and you definitely didn’t have a friendly face when you walked out of the elevator.
It didn’t matter, though. As soon as the blond man looked up and saw you, his eyes flicked between the string and you a couple of times, then his neutral expression was quickly replaced by the biggest grin you’d ever seen, and you’d instantly forgotten about your state of appearance.
“Teacake?” You spoke up softly, feeling silly having to use what you so desperately hoped was a nickname at a time like this.
“Y-yeah, that’s me. Oh my god. This is so crazy. I was just supposed to be working. Thought I’d never find you. What’s your name?” He spoke so quickly that it made you feel breathless just listening.
You cant help the dramatic sigh of relief that you let out along with your name. He was cute. He didn’t look violent. You weren’t stuck with a scary looking evil man, thank goodness.
He laughed a bit in confusion at your reaction, and your cheeks immediately flushed. “I’m so sorry it’s just, I knew that you were in prison before, I kinda followed the string to the facility and I was just really worried that you’d be this big scary violent man and I’m just really, really, glad that you aren’t.” Now it’s your turn to ramble as you approach his cleaning cart fully this time.
“You were at the prison? Oh god… I thought I’d have some time before I had to tell you about that, look I’m not crazy or anything I didn’t hurt anyone I just-” you shake your head softly, cutting him off.
“Tell me later. It’s okay.” You say, your voice smoother this time. “Can I give you my number?” You gesture to the phone sitting on the cart connected to his earbuds, then watch as he fumbles to hand it to you, opening a new contact for you to enter information in.
“My name is Travis. By the way. Not Teacake. Figured you should know that, since youre, y’know.” He murmured, rocking on his heels as you typed in your information into his phone.
You smile, handing the phone back to him, “I like that. Travis.” You smile, turning back to the other end of the hallway. “Text me, Travis!” You call with a smile as you get back inside the dinging elevator.
You were overfloying with excitement the entire way back to your apartment. You’d finally found someone to fill the silence of this lonely town, and he was even rather cute. You didn’t even make it into your apartment before you received a string of texts from him.
You giggled to yourself as you opened the door to your apartment, looking down at your phone to read the first of them as you stepped into the door.
mannnnn fuck travis “teacake” meacham with his stupid slutty fucking blond hair and his stupid hazel eyes and his stupid tattoos and his large stupid hands i don’t careeeeeee
i love stranger things s1-4, but season 5 really didn't hit for me. it had moments, don't get me wrong (the buildup to dustin and steve's blowout argument was good), but i just really didn't like it.
notwithstanding some of the AGONISING writing and pacing at times (case in point: my entire family groaning at max and holly standing twiddling their thumbs in the upside down AGAIN, having their big heart-to-heart like max hasn't been trapped there before by the portal closing),,, it just felt Different, and i think this video does a great job of explaining why.
the tone definitely changed from s1-4, in part due to a lot of stuff covered in the video, but it was at least good and enjoyable. s5 was just... bad, at least in my opinion. i was sat watching it like "fuck me, there's STILL another half hour???"
ANYWAY, thought any film/cinematography people might enjoy,,, most of what i know about colour, composition etc is illustration based vs film based, but this guy does a great job of illustrating and explaining what he's talking about. 10/10!
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the middle one,,, the way he looks away at the end of the last one,,,, that's the look of a guy who's never been told he's interesting or listened to before now,,, theyre so CUTE man
some domestic thoughts for steve harrington, kurt kunkle, gator tillman, travis 'teacake' meacham, & walter 'keys' mckey
after graduation, steve harrington needed a routine to help keep himself from spiraling. both of you were now full-time employees, he's at the radio, and you're pursuing your dream. he has to be at the station by eight am, so you both decided early on in your relationship to maximize your time together before work. it's clockwork, and it's love. steve sets his alarm two hours early to rouse himself enough to tug you against his chest to secure his morning cuddles. you're at each others hip on each step of your morning routine, until its time for steve to get the coffee going. its quiet, its domestic, but its just what you both need amidst the craziness.
kurt kunkle is not a morning guy. he stays up late streaming, recording content, or giving rides for spree. at the first sign of you stirring, his arm immediately clings around your waist. each morning is the same; sleepy whines in your ear asking you not to leave so early. he rambles about how once his content takes off, you'll never have to work a day in your life again. his hands grab and cling to anything he can when you finally begin to climb out of bed, only for him to pout and eventually fall back asleep.
gator tillman is used to the revolving door of coming in and crashing straight into his bed. when you first started dating, he followed the same routine, except he opted to crash at your apartment rather than the tillman ranch. he quickly discovers how much he hates waking up or falling asleep without saying hello or goodbye to you. one day, he just started posting a printed copy of his patrol shift schedule on your fridge, something small that speaks what he can't quite say. you started overlaying your own work schedule in pink highlighter for gator to notice when you both have a free night.
when you first started seeing travis meacham, he was permanently fixed to the night shift at the storage facility. it meant having morning cuddles to wake up to, yet his absence from your bed at night frustrated both of you. he helps you get ready for bed, and whispers gentle assurances about how this job is only temporary. he fills your water, cleans the dishes, anything he can do to show you how much he loves you and is grateful to have you before pressing a kiss to your head and slipping out the front door.
while you and your boyfriend had an established morning routine, walter 'keys' mckey was notoriously bad at bringing work home with him. during college, he was always up late playing video games, but playing video games had evolved into coding, which was now work. he tries to keep an eye on the clock, set alarms, anything to remind him that it is time to relax. but he had never been the best at disciplining himself, which is where you step in. each night, once you're ready to go to bed, you come over to his work desk and just rest your hand on his shoulder. keys immediately start to save and shut down his computer, ready to take your hand and head to bed.
my unpopular opinion no one asked for: i prefer reading angsty hurt/comfort with happy endings fics then ones of just pure smut. it gets tiring seeing all the smutty fics. i said what i said.
summary: when you and the cute guy at the storage unit go out to discuss getting your new bookstore set up, things escalate to a little bit more than just handiwork and literature
wc: 5.3k
tw: explicit smut, p in v protected, oral (f recieving, talsk of sobriety, travis does not shut tf up
a/n: hey babes! as a heads up, cold storage also happens to be one of my favorite books. so a lot of the characterization, and the fact that its canon teacake has never been with a woman sober, are taken from the book. but this can absolutely be read without book knowledge, just keep that in mind.
masterlist
Teacake has memorized your schedule by now.
You came into Atchison Storage twice a week, Wednesdays and Sundays, with a stack of books for your unit. Through a couple conversations, mostly led by him, he learned you were opening a used-bookstore-slash-coffee-shop in town. You needed a place to store some of the inventory you were collecting, and he was more than grateful for that.
Wednesday nights were slow. He was sitting at the security desk, trying to focus on his book as his eyes drafted to the door every so often.
The sensor above the door chimed. He looked up and saw you walking in with a box of books, looking exhausted but content.
“Hey there, stranger,” he said, a little too bright for the sleepy hour. “You know the routine. Unit 247, down on your right. You need a hand with those?”
You give him a soft smile, happy for the familiar face. Truthfully, you liked seeing him here. He was always willing to. chat about anything and everything. And it didn't hurt that he was attractive, despite his shitty prison tattoos.
"Theres another couple boxes in the trunk if you don't mind grabbing a dolly for me. I can grab them once I get these inside."
He's already on his feet. "Nonsense, lady. You look like you could use a break. I'll grab 'em all for ya. One trip."
He grabs the dolly from the corner of the office and heads for the door, taking your keys from you.
You watch as he loads up the three boxes and heads back inside with them.
He buzzes you both in with his badge and he walks with you to your unit, chatting away. You both reach your unit and he lifts the heavy rolling door, revealing a space packed to the brim with boxes of books.
"You weren't kidding about stocking up, lady, jeez. You ever think of a name for your shop yet?"
He sets the boxes down with a soft thud and turns to you, wiping sweat from his brow.
You couldn't help but stare. He had a certain... scrappy charm. A well-worn white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest under his orange work button up, black work pants clinging to muscular thighs.
"Yeah, it's called The Book Nook. I'm hoping to open by fall."
"The Book Nook," he repeats. "Cute. I like it. Very... you." He gives a little grin that makes your stomach flip. "So what's in these new boxes? Any good stuff? Find any old treasures today?"
He leans against the doorframe, making no move to leave as you begin to finagle the new boxes in.
"Went to the flea market a town iver, met up with a seller who had a ton of old sci-fi stuff. Got a decent deal on them."
"Last week it was horror, you're gonna have quite the selection, aren't ya?"
You laugh. "Yeah, my goal is to have something for everyone." You pause, looking at him. "So, what do you like to read, Teacake?"
He's quiet for a second, like he wasn't expecting that question. "Uh... I've been reading some self improvement type books lately? Really trying to stop my 'people pleasing mentality' or somethin'? Court appointed psychiatrist said I have that. I'm, uh, impressionable? Can't remember the words she used. But you probably don't wanna hear about all that."
You caught on to his rambling habit early on in meeting him, but it made you smile nonetheless. You loved hearing him talk.
"Hey, nothing wrong with that. I think it's great you're working on yourself."
He just shrugs, a bit embarrassed now. "Yeah, well. Someone's gotta do it, right? No one's gonna do it for me. Couldn't really. Self work an' all."
He rocks a little on his heels. "Well, I should probably get back to the desk before my boss realizes I'm slacking off. Or, you know, that I even exist."
He gives you a little half smile and turns to leave, but stops.
"Hey, you know, if you ever need an extra set of hands for the shop? I'm... I'm pretty good with a hammer. And I lift heavy things. That's my whole job, basically. Besides, buzzin' people in."
You give him a soft smile that he mistakes as sympathetic.
"I mean..." he clears his throat. "I know you probably wouldn't want to hire an ex-con for your pretty little shop, but I figured I'd offer an'all--"
You cut him off immediately as he misunderstood you. "You're not some violent criminal, Teacake. I've known you long enough to know that. I would love the help. The landlord is dragging their feet on some repairs at the storefront and I could use a strong pair of arms."
You watch a real, genuine smile spread across his face. "Yeah? You'd... you'd really let me help? After... well, after me telling you all that?"
"You've told me what got you in prison plenty of times." You gift a gentle laugh, as he did tend to overshare. "Just don't, sit passenger for anyone who plans to rob my books. We're good."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, a little breathless. "So... when do you want me? I mean, when do you need me? At the shop. Not need me, need me. Unless you did, which would be—"
"Are you doing the overnight tonight?" You cut him off again after looking at your watch.
8 PM.
"Uh, no actually. Not tonight. On till 10, then home. Why?" He replies, a little sheepish.
"If you're up for it, we could meet for a drink, discuss my plan of attack? I'm buying. To thank you for the help, both now and later."
His face lights up like you'd just offered him the world. "Yeah? You'd— You'd wanna go for a drink? With me?" He seems genuinely surprised, and it makes your heart ache a little.
"Is that weird?" It was your turn to feel nervous, wondering if you crossed some weird boundary. You were, technically, still a customer.
"No! Not at all! I just... I'm not used to people wanting to, you know. Hang out with me. I'd love to." He's nodding enthusiastically now. "Love to. Yeah. Where at? There's that new place down on Church? Heard they've got some good craft beer stuff. Not that I drink beer much anymore. But I could try it. If you liked it. Or we could go somewhere else. I don't care where we go, as long as—"
You put a gentle hand on his arm, and he stops mid-ramble. The contact sends a jolt through both of you. "Church Street is perfect. 10:30 work for you?"
He fidgets in the booth, picking at the peeling vinyl. The bar is dim, lit mostly by neon beer signs and the glow of a jukebox in the corner. He ordered a water. He wanted to be clear-headed for this. For you.
You show up right at 10:30, sliding into the booth across from him.
"Interesting drink of choice." You smile at him softly.
He shrugs, a little self-conscious. "Yeah, well. Figured I should probably, you know. Keep a clear head. For... shop talk." He gives you a lopsided grin.
It was only a half truth. Part of him hoped that maybe this wasn't just a work call. He was gullible sometimes, but he wasn't stupid. He caught you looking at him a little longer every so often, even if he didn't see why you would.
And a guy can hope for a kiss at the end of the night. Even on the cheek. And he wanted to be sober for that.
"So, shop talk," he says, leaning forward on his elbows. "What's the plan, boss?"
The conversation flows easier than he expected. You lay out your vision for The Book Nook: mismatched armchairs, shelves that go all the way to the ceiling, a little nook in the back with an old record player.
You both talk about anything and everything, his side tangents leading to very interesting, albeit random, conversations about things he saw in jail, or a story about his childhood. You hung onto every word.
He doesn't even notice the bartender clearing his throat at the end of the bar.
"Last call, folks."
The words jolt Teacake back to reality.
"We didn't even get actual drinks." You whisper, a little smile on your face. "Think he really wants us out."
Once outside, you take out your phone to get an Uber.
"What, you didn't drive here?" Teacake raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't want to rush it if we had a couple drinks. Figured I'd be responsible."
"I can drive you home. Car's right over there." He points to a beat-up car in the lot. "Safer than she looks, promise.
"Alright."
He pulls up to your place, the engine of his car rumbling in the quiet street. The silence that's fallen between you is different now.
"Well," he starts, his voice a little too loud in the small space. "That was... That was good. The plan. It's a good plan. Very... architectural. And stuff. I can definitely do the things. The hammering. And the lifting. I'm good at that."
"Do you want to come inside?"
You blurt it out like you've been waiting to the whole ride. Teacake freezes, his hand still on the gear shift.
"You... You mean... Right now? Inside your... house?" He glances from your face to the darkened window of your building and back again, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Yes. In my house." You glance over at the small house you rent, dark except for one lamp in the window. "For some coffee. Or water. Or nothing at all. Just to come inside."
His brain feels like it's buffering. He's so used to things being one way, and this feels like a glitch in the matrix. You, with your bookstore dreams and your kind eyes, asking him inside.
"I uh... don't drink coffee. Makes me all... jumpy. But water's good. Water is... hydrating." He shuts the car off. "Yeah. Okay. I'll come in. For water."
He follows you up the path to your front door, a respectful distance behind you, like he's afraid to touch you by accident. Inside, your house is cozy, filled with books in precarious stacks and the scent of old paper and something warm, like vanilla.
You take him into the kitchen and he leans against the counter, watching you grab two glasses from the cupboard. His eyes follow your every move, taking in the small details of your life: the used novelty mug by the sink, the reminder note on the fridge, the way your hair falls over your shoulder.
When you turn, you catch him looking at you.
You put the two glasses down with a sigh.
"I didn't ask you in here for... water." You whisper, your gaze never leaving his. The unspoken truth of the night hangs heavy in the air.
"Oh." He breathes, a shaky, vulnerable sound.
"It's okay if you aren't—" you begin, but he cuts you off.
"No," he says, taking a step closer. "No, I... I am. I am. I was just... I didn't think... You'd want to... I mean, you know about... and you still...?"
You laugh and he smiles sheepishly.
"Those were like... half sentences. See? That's what I'm talking about. I'm a mess." He's still coming closer, like he's being pulled by an invisible string. "I'm just... I'm not very smooth."
"I like that you're not smooth." You say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Well, shit, lady. That's good to know."
He's right in front of you now, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him. You reach up and cup his jaw in your hand, your thumb stroking the stubble there.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, leaning into your touch. "I've never... I don't know what to do here. Not with someone like you. You're so... put together. And I'm just..."
He let's out a deep sigh before continuing.
"I've never done this... sober. I don't know how to be with someone like this when I'm not all... fuzzed up."
"Like sex?"
He laughs at that.
"I've never even kissed a girl sober." He admits. "Sober me is awkward. It's the me that got my ass kicked in the schoolyard and the me that didn't know how to say the right thing to a girl and the me that—" You cut him off by pulling him down by his collar and pressing your lips to his.
He's still for a moment, like a startled animal, then he responds with a soft, almost desperate groan. It's not a kiss of practiced finesse; it's all clumsy eagerness and raw honesty. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping it like a lifeline, while the other cups the back of your head, tangling in your hair.
"You're damn soft," he mumbles against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "And you smell good. Like... books and vanilla. And I'm probably gonna say a whole bunch of dumb stuff. 'Cause my brain is... it's not working right now."
"Good." You murmur, pulling him back in. "I like when you talk."
You're kissing him again and he's already getting more confident, his tongue tracing your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You grant it, and the kiss deepens, becomes wetter, hungrier.
"Okay," he says, breaking away, his breathing ragged. "Okay. So... this is happening. This is... yeah." He looks down at your body, then back up to your eyes. "Jesus christ. I can't believe this is happening."
He lifts you onto the counter effortlessly, your thighs bracketing his hips. The position puts you eye-to-eye, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much.
"God, your eyes," he whispers, mesmerized. "It's like... looking at something I'm not supposed to. Something holy. Which is a weird thing to say to someone you're about to, you know... but it's true."
You run an hand along his jaw and smile.
"What's your real name?" You ask softly. It was a sudden question, but it felt right.
He blinks, surprised by the question.
"My real name?" He repeats, as if you've spoken in another language. "It's... uh... it's Travis. Everyone just calls me Teacake. On account of... well, it's a stupid story."
"Travis..." You say, lips hovering over his. "I like it."
"Shit," he breathes, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like your acceptance of his real name was the final key to unlock him. His hands roam from your hips up your back, pulling you flush against him.
You quickly shimmy off his orange button up work shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in just the white tee. You can feel the heat of him through your clothes, the solid muscle of his chest.
"I've thought about this," he confesses, his hands slipping under your shirt to splay across your back. "So many times. Since I met you. I'd see you come in all tired with your books and I'd just... think about what it would be like to... to touch you. I felt like such a creep. But I couldn't help it. You're just... you're nice. You're the nicest person I've met in... ever."
He's kissing down your neck, his lips and tongue exploring the sensitive skin there, making you gasp.
"And you're smart," he continues, his words muffled against your skin. "Way smarter than me, not like thats hard... But you've got plans, you know? You're doing something. You're not just... existing. You're building a life. And I think that's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
He pulls back, his hands still on you, his eyes dark with desire and something else, something deeper.
"I'm gonna say all the wrong things," he warns you.
You take his hand and travel it under your skirt, between your legs to feel how damp your panties are.
"I told you I like when you talk." You whisper in his ear.
"Okay," he breathes, a shudder running through him as he feels the heat of you through the thin fabric. "Okay. Right. So... okay."
He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're so wet already. God. That's for me? That's... wow. I did that."
You go to lift your shirt off exposing a black lace bra, nipples already hard against the lace. He just stares, transfixed.
"Those are... Jesus, lady." He sounds genuinely awestruck, like he's looking at a masterpiece in a museum. "They're perfect. They're like... like something out of a magazine. A really... really classy magazine. Not one of the ones they had in the joint."
He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as they trace the edge of the lace. "Can I...? I just wanna... feel."
You nod, and his thumb brushes over your hardened nipple through the fabric, making you arch into him.
"You liked that," he murmurs, a smidgeon of confidence creeping into his voice. "Okay. Good. That's... that's good to know."
He hooks a finger in the cup of your bra, pulling it down to bare you to his gaze. "Oh," he says again, a reverent whisper. "Oh, wow."
And then he's leaning down, taking the sensitive peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it in a way that makes your toes curl. He's not practiced, but he's enthusiastic, and the raw, honest pleasure he's taking in this is intoxicating.
"Your mouth is the sexiest thing about you..." you gsap at the feeling, hands running through his messy bleached waves. He moans around your nipple, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your core.
"Fuck," he pulls back, looking up at you. "I love it when you talk dirty to me. I really, really do. I just... I've gotta tell you, I'm so hard right now it's almost painful. And I'm gonna... I'm gonna probably bust in my pants if we keep going like this. And that's embarrassing. I'm too old for that. But you're just... you're doing things to me."
He's panting, his chest heaving. "But I want to make you feel good. I want to... I want to make you cum. Can I? Please? Let me make you cum."
He doesn't wait for an answer, sliding off the counter onto his knees before you. His hands are on your thighs, pushing your skirt up to your hips.
"You're killing me with these panties," he says, hooking a finger in the black lace. "They're... they're evil. But in the best way."
He pulls them down slowly, his eyes fixed on the place he's uncovering.
"God," he breathes, looking up at you from the floor. "You're perfect. All of you. Just... perfect."
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher up.
"Tell me what to do," he says, his voice husky. "Tell me how you like it. I'm a fast learner, I swear. I just... I wanna do this right. For you."
"If it's anything like how you kiss I'm sure you'll do it right." You tell him breathlessly.
"Yeah? Okay. Yeah, I can do that."
He takes a deep breath and dives in, his tongue exploring your folds with a curious, hungry intensity. He's not trying to mimic anything he's seen in porn; he's just exploring, listening to the sounds you make, the way your body shifts under his touch.
His nose bumps against your clit, and you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him to you.
"Tastes even better than you smell," he mumbles against you, the words muffled but clear. "Like... heaven. Or something."
He's getting bolder now, his movements more confident. He's found your clit and is focusing on it, his tongue working in circles, then flicking, then sucking gently. You're writhing on the counter, the cool tile a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.
"Travis," you moan, your hips bucking against his face.
He groans when you use his real name like that, the sound vibrating through you. He doubles his efforts, one of his hands coming up to slide a finger inside you, then another.
"I'm gonna cum," you pant, your head thrown back.
"Yeah," he encourages, his voice rough with desire. "Come on. Cum for me. Let me taste it. S'gonna taste so good."
His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You cry out as your orgasm crashes over you, waves of pleasure washing through you.
He doesn't stop, working you through it, lapping up your release like a man dying of thirst.
When you finally come back to earth, he's looking up at you, his face slick with you, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face.
"Good news is I didn't cum in my pants yet." He says with a half grin. "But if you keep looking at me like that I might still."
He climbs to his feet, a smug, boyish grin on his face.
"So..." he says, a little out of breath as he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did you still wanna... do the rest? The, uh, the main event?" He gestures vaguely at his crotch.
You can't help but laugh.
"Yes, Travis. I still want to. Very much so."
"Good," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Like I said though, I might not last. I've thought about... you know... being inside you. A lot. More than is probably healthy. I've got it all worked out--"
You cut him off by hopping off the counter and hooking a finger through his belt loop.
"Bedroom. Now."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you down the hall, his eyes glued to the sway of your hips.
Your room is just as cozy as the rest of your house, with a big, unmade bed piled high with pillows and a duvet.
You strip your clothes off fully and he stands there, a little wide eyes and slack jawed, before rushing to take off his t-shirt and unbuckling his belt.
"Jesus H. Christ," he whispers when you're naked before him.
He walks towards you, grabbing your face in both his hands, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue. He's pushing you gently towards the bed, and you fall back on it, him following you down, hovering over you.
Your hands waste no time getting his work pants off, pushing them and his boxers down with a little difficulty. He kicks them the rest of the way off.
"Shit," he breathes. "I'm naked. In your bed. This is actually happening."
You can't help but trails your eyes from his dark chest hair tapering down to one of the prettiest cocks you've ever seen.
"Holy shit." You say in the softest whisper.
He immediately seems nervous, never having had a woman look at him this way, in such a sober setting.
"What? What is it?" He asks, a knot in his stomach, assuming the worst.
"Nothing... I just... Travis, you're beautiful."
The word beautiful seems to short-circuit him. His jaw goes a little slack. No one's ever called him beautiful before.
"Can dicks be beautiful?" He manages to huff out with a laugh. "Is that a thing? 'Cause if they can, you must be looking at someone else's. I think this is pretty standard issue."
He pushes himself up on his elbows, a frown creasing his brow.
"I'm serious," he insists, misreading your awe for something else. "If you don't want to do this, it's okay. You don't have to... lie to make me feel better. I'm a big boy. I can take it."
"Yeah... definitely big boy." You mumble, licking your lips.
The corners of his lips twitch, fighting a smile before he catches it.
"Lady, you just talking about it like that is gonna..." He trails off as you reach down and wrap your hands around him, feeling the velvety weight of him. He lets out a strangled moan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Okay. Okay. That's... yeah. Good. Very good."
You begin to stroke him and he thrusts gently into your fist.
"I have... a condom in my wallet. In my pants. I... fuck... didn't assume or anythin'... I just like to be prepared. You know, for... for... yeah." He's stammering, lost in the pleasure of your touch. "And I was hoping. God, I was hoping so much."
You let go of him reluctantly and he scrambles off the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to his discarded pants. He fumbles for his wallet, pulling out the small foil packet with a triumphant, slightly shaky "Aha!"
He's back on the bed in a second, tearing it open with his teeth. He starts to roll it on, his movements a little clumsy.
"I can do it," you offer, sitting up and taking it from him. Your touch is sure and confident, and he watches, mesmerized, as you smooth the latex down his length.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes closed. "Okay. Okay, I'm ready. I think. No, I know I'm ready. But I'm still probably gonna... you know... be quick. It's not you, it's me. I swear. It's the... you. And the... sober thing. And the--"
"Please just shut up and fuck me, Travis."
Your words hit him like a physical jolt. He opens his eyes, and the raw, unadulterated hunger in them takes your breath away.
"Yeah," he says, his voice a low growl. "Yeah. I can do that."
He settles between your legs, the head of him nudging at your entrance. He pauses, looking down at you, a question in his eyes.
"I've never... I've never done this without... like, a bunch of noise, you know?" he confesses, his voice soft.
"I'm sure you're about to hear plenty of it." You say with a smirk.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear. "Yeah. Probably."
He pushes into you, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. You both gasp at the sensation, the perfect, aching stretch of it.
"Jesus," he chokes out, his head dropping to your shoulder again. "You feel... so good. So fucking good. And I'm not even all the way in yet."
He's taking his time, savoring it, committing every sensation to memory.
"Okay," he says, after what feels like an eternity. "Okay. I think... I think I can move now."
He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, then a little faster as he finds a rhythm. It's not the practiced, athletic sex you've had before; it's something else, something more earnest, more vulnerable.
And God, it feels amazing. His hands are everywhere, his lips are on yours, and he's whispering a constant stream of praises and observations against your skin as you cry out with each roll of him inside you.
"You're so tight," he's murmuring, his hips pistoning into you. "And so wet. And you're making these little noises. God, those noises. They're gonna... yeah... they're gonna do it."
"Travis... you're so fucking good at this." You whine, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The praise seems to unlock something in him. He growls, grabbing your hips and pulling you onto him with each thrust, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
"I'm think," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic. "Think I'm just really... motivated."
He's close, you can feel it in the tension coiling in his body, in the way his breath hitches. "I'm trying to hold on. I really am. I want to... I want to feel you come again. But... around my... fuck... around my cock. But you... you're just..."
You feel the tension in you snap, your second orgasm washing over you, even more intense than the first. You cry out his name, your body clenching around him as you pulse with pleasure.
"Shit, yeah," he growls, his rhythm faltering as he follows you over the edge, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a loud whimper of your name. "Oh, fuck... fuck...fuck. "
He collapses on top of you and you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction.
After a long moment, he pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a dazed, happy expression.
"Wow," he says, that slow boyish grin spreading across his face again. "Just... wow."
He's still inside you, and you can feel him start to soften. He carefully pulls out, disposing of the condom in the small trash can by your bed before flopping down beside you.
"I didn't know it could be like that," he says, turning onto his side to face you, propping his head up on his hand. "I mean. It's never been... like that."
"What was it like before?" you ask, tracing the lines of one of his tattoos, a poorly-done snake that looks blown out on the edges.
"Uh..." he thinks about how to phrase it, his eyebrows creasing together. "It's always been... transactional, I guess? Even when it wasn't... you know... a transaction. It was always about getting off. A means to an end. There was never any... this. The talking. And the... looking." He gestures to your face.
"I like looking at you," you say simply.
"Yeah, well," he flushes, looking away for a second. "Nobody's ever said that to me before. And meant it. People look at me, but it's not... it's not like that. It's usually a 'what's this guy up to' kind of look. Not a 'I wanna take him home and have my way with him' look."
You giggle a little and he does too, just happy he can make you smile.
"It's weird, though, right?" he says, suddenly serious. "That we... that I'm your storage guy. And now I'm... naked in your bed." He shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize I'm just... a guy with a record and has some questionable ink and can't stop talking."
"Mmm, you're also a guy who's sweet and considerate and always willing to help. You listen to my ramblings about books and have a great plan for The Book Nook. You also made me see stars twice in one night." You say, moving closer to him.
You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering kiss that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with affection.
"So you wanna... continue doing this? Like on the regular?" He asks, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.
He doesn't know what he'll do if you say no.
"Yes. And not just doing... this." You gesture to the bed. "All of it. If that's something you want."
The relief that washes over him is so profound it's almost painful.
"Are you kidding me? Lady, I... I'd be an idiot to say no to that. I'd be the biggest idiot in the history of idiots." He's practically vibrating with excitement. He kisses you again, still smiling through it. When he pulls back, he's just... looking at you. He's looking at your face and your hair and your body. He's memorizing you.
"You know," he says, his voice a soft murmur. "I've been thinking about what you'd look like in my bed too. Not just... in general, but... in my actual bed. The one at my place. It's got this ugly green comforter my cousin gave me. But the mattress is pretty new. And it's... quiet. You can hear the trains at night, if it's not raining. And I was just... thinking about what it would be like to have you there. To wake up with you."
You're quiet for a moment, just looking at him, at the vulnerable hope in his eyes.
"Well, I guess that's the plan for after our next date." You say, a little smirk playing on your lips.
His face lights up, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
Summary: Abandoned outside a movie theater, Hawkins High’s academic overachiever makes an impulsive choice.
Offering her extra ticket to Eddie Munson.
What happens when the Brain and the Criminal realize they might not be as different as Hawkins High insists they are.
Themes/ Warnings: Swearing/ strong language, No use of y/n, Reader is female, Lengthy talks laced with self-deprecation, a compilation of my teenage struggles as a retired quote unquote academic overachiever
Words: 11,4k words (im sorry)
“Are you kidding me right now?”
You're livid. Absolutely, undeniably livid.
It's bad enough you had to stomp through the freezing dark just to get here, wind slapping you in the face, your fingers basically turning to ice cubes, with a side of sketchy dudes yelling from their cars, making you wish you could disappear. And now, on top of all of that, Jenna, the only one in your grade you have enough of a connection to call your friend, is bailing. After a week of three long quizzes and two group presentations where you basically carried half the members, the one thing you were actually looking forward to is now ruined.
With a popcorn bucket in one hand and the payphone receiver in the other, you barely hear Jenna's voice over the ringing in your ears. Her excuses blur together.
“I lost track of time,” Jenna says, her voice strained and distant across the crackling line.
“My car broke down,”
“I wasn't sure you were actually gonna' go,”
That last excuse pissed you off the most. You've been planning this the entire week. Agreed on the time, discussed the expenses, and now she’s going to tell you that she wasn't sure if the plan was on.
Unbelievable.
You’re about to hang up, maybe mutter a resigned “fine, see you tomorrow,” and just deal with it, when a distant voice drifts through the phone.
“Babe, come back here,” someone calls, muffled but unmistakable.
And then it clicks. Lost track of time, my ass. You’ve been ditched. Ditched for her asshole of a boyfriend, who you’re pretty sure doesn’t even know your name.
You suck in a shaky breath, but it does nothing to quell the frustration you're feeling. Your hand is trembling as you slam the receiver down so hard it rattles the phone, the sound echoing sharp and final. You don't say goodbye. You doubt she even noticed, and if she did, you couldn't care less at the moment.
You trudge to a nearby bench, sit with a huff, and stare at the popcorn in your hands. You fish your pockets for the tickets, tickets you've already paid for, and were about to rip them into pieces when you overhear a commotion.
It was coming from the ticket booth.
“Come on, man,” said the guy who seemed to be the one causing the ruckus. “I'm two cents off!”
You vaguely see the clerk shrugging and shaking their head no, and the guy backs away. He starts to walk towards where you're sitting, and stops short just a little bit to your right.
“Fucking prick,” you hear him mumble under his breath while he lights a cigarette, and as the subtle flicker of the fire comes to life, you finally get a better look at the man's face. You instantly realise who it is.
Munson.
You couldn't recognise him from the distance. His long, wild hair was haphazardly tied into a bun, a couple of strands falling and framing his face. He’s still wearing his leather-vest combo, sleeves pushed up to reveal arms scattered with tattoos, but has decided to forgo the club shirt he wears all the time and is now wearing a band shirt you don't recognise.
You do some soul-searching.
You're pissed, you have a warm bucket of popcorn on your lap, and two unused tickets in your hands.
And now there was a boy standing right next to you, albeit a boy you don't really know, who seems to have a predicament that you can remedy.
Fuck it, you think. It's not like the night could get any worse.
“Hey,” you call out from where you're sitting. He turns his head towards you, eyebrows raised in confusion, but doesn’t say anything right away.
“Hi?” he finally calls back, sounding unsure, like he's trying to figure out where he knows you from. Maybe gym class last year, or that group project where he never spoke– not for the lack of willingness to help, but more so the lack of an audience. Eddie doesn’t think you know each other, which also means you’re not hostile. For the most part, you just floated in each other’s background, orbiting the same halls, but never really crossing paths.
You nod toward the ticket booth. “Freddy’s Revenge?”
He looks back at the booth, still not catching your drift. “Uh, what?”
“The movie you wanna’ see,” you clarify, trying your best to hide the remnants of frustration from your earlier conversation.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says with eyes wide, recognition finally dawning on the boy as he glances between you and the booth. “That one. Yes.”
He’s still visibly confused, which, to your surprise, you find oddly...
Adorable?
The thought catches you off guard, and you quickly shove it away.
You’ve got your answer. Standing up, you walk over and, without a word, thrust the popcorn and extra ticket in his arms—A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge written in fine print. He fumbles at the suddenness of your actions, nearly dropping both in surprise, causing his cigarette to slip from his lips.
As you're dusting off some suspicious patches of dirt on your pants from the rickety bench, Eddie finally catches up to your offer.
He's immediately wary, shoulders stiffening as if bracing himself for the punchline of some joke at his expense. There's a flicker in his eyes that says he's used to people offering things just to snatch them away, or worse, to laugh when he reaches out.
He begins to wonder if there's a catch. If there's an ambush waiting for him behind the theater doors, if you're going to demand free weed at the end of the night for being nice, anything. What could you want from him? Who are you?
Eddie knows your face. He knows he's seen it before, but everyone in Hawkins who wasn't his friends or his uncle has all blended together in his mind. He doesn't remember your name, but he does remember that he can't just keep staring at you for long.
“Are you sure?” Was the question that eventually made its way out of his mouth. He looks at you with this mix of suspicion and hope, the kind of look that comes from having too many good things turn out to be tricks.
You just look at him for a moment, thinking of any reason why you shouldn't be sure.
You're not friends. Barely acquaintances. If anything, you know him more by reputation—rumors of dealing weed in a secret spot in the woods, tagging random buildings with obscure logos, and stealing faculty car keys for a joyride, following his name wherever he goes.
But there's something about the way he's standing in front of you at that very moment. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn in, like he's trying to appear smaller than he is. His eyes were wide and earnest, and his voice deep but impossibly gentle. The contrast between his rough look and the way he acts is almost disarming.
Every reason to say no is quickly overcome by the curiosity to say yes.
“Hog the popcorn, and I'm shaving you,” was the answer you gave him as you made your way to the theater entrance.
You reach the doors. As you’re halfway through opening it, you look back, only to find him still standing by the bench, dumbfounded and looking at you like you might as well have spoken Latin. He couldn’t make sense of you, and now there's something in his eyes, something in the way he was looking at you, but you couldn’t decipher what it was.
“Dude,” you say, beckoning him with a nod to follow you inside, deciding to let your observations go for now.
Only then does he snap out of whatever trance he's in, cheeks tainted pink as he mutters a soft “Shit, sorry,” and jogs to you as fast as he can without spilling the snack in his arms.
The two of you walk side by side upon entering the theater, and Eddie immediately notices the stares, feels them creeping up his neck. His blazing into places isn't anything new. Most people in town have already grown accustomed to his presence, despite it being unwanted. He's learned how to stomach the nasty looks and the harsh whispers. For years now, Eddie had developed the skills to shut them all out. Walk proudly, look straight ahead, and scream as loud as possible on the inside to drown out all the noise from outside.
He doesn't seem to need any of it tonight.
Because tonight, every look of judgment and hurried whisper wasn't for him. They were aimed at you.
The guys by the popcorn line are gawking at you like you’re some carnival attraction, while the girls waiting for their boyfriends shoot you pitying glances, as if you’re trapped in a bad joke.
Somehow, out of the two of you, you’re the freak, just for being seen with him.
As you finally reach the hallway heading to the screening rooms, Eddie urges you to stop.
“Hey, listen. Uh- I don't want to sound unappreciative, but-
“You don't think this is a good idea,” you interrupt, already aware of what the boy in front of you is thinking.
“Not really, no,” says Eddie. He looked so solemn, framed by the theater's dim lights, a soft halo glowing around his curls. His eyes remain downcast, staring at the popcorn bucket still in his arms, flicking up just long enough to meet yours and then darting away, too shy to hold your gaze. For all his wild reputation, the tattoos, the loud music, and the leather, he looked more like someone who’d apologize to a chair after tripping on it, rather than a no-good, criminal in the making.
You think to yourself, there's no way this is the guy parents tell their children about.
You start to speak, your voice low but steady.
“If you wanna' go, that's fine. I won't hold it against you,” you start, angling your head to catch his eyes. He doesn't look up, but you continue. “But if you wanna' go because of me—because you think every half-witted normie back there is bothering me—they aren’t. Right now, I truly don’t have it in me to give a rat's ass. You're not here as a charity case or whatever narrative you’ve got in your head. A friend bailed on me, and you needed a ticket. That’s it. I just didn’t want to be alone tonight,” you finish, your voice growing softer at the admission.
There's a small stretch of silence after that.
At first, you thought this was the part where he apologizes, hands you your things, and turns around to leave you. He doesn't.
Instead, Eddie surprises you.
He moves past you towards the door, grabs the handle, and opens it for you. He gestures with his head as he says,
“After you.”
For the first time that night, you see him smile. It was shaky, hesitant, but authentic. You take it as a victory.
You give him a smile of your own, but it's more playful.
“Good choice,” you say, slipping past him toward the seats.
You both settle near the back, not so close your neck aches, but not so far you feel exiled. The sweet spot.
Or so you thought.
For a while, things between you were a little stiff, which was understandable, seeing as you were two strangers forced into small talk in the dark. The two of you filled that darkness with comments here and there about the previews. He called one of the romcoms “cheesy.” You said something about “cheesy’s not always bad,” and he left it at that with a smile.
You notice, after a bit, that he only grabs popcorn after you do, and never more than two kernels at a time. You counted.
You start grabbing a couple more pieces on purpose just to see if he’ll take it as permission to stop eating like British royalty. He doesn’t.
Finally, you prod him.
“You know, I wouldn’t actually shave your head, right?”
His laugh is nervous and quick. “Y-yeah, yeah, I knew. Totally knew you were joking.”
He’s taking three kernels at a time now, which was progress, but he’s still watching how often you grab some and match your pace.
And then, it was the Battle of the Armrest.
At first, it was the two of you retracting your elbows each time you’d accidentally graze each other, but then, as if he's testing the waters, Eddie bumps you on purpose, a sly little push. You retaliate with a not-so-subtle elbow nudge of your own. It escalates until both of you just start snickering and nudging the other off.
“I got you in here for free with popcorn,” you whisper, faux-offended, as he claims the armrest.
“You mean the popcorn I’ve been holding for the last 20 minutes?” He grins, and you swear you see a dimple.
“It’s been 10.”
“And my arm’s getting numb from it. This is how I lose my rockstar career.”
You smile as you shake your head at his behavior. You surrender, but only for a few seconds. You let him have the armrest, then, once he's comfortable, you move to casually place your elbow over his. He gives you a look, you give him one back as a challenge. He says nothing as he grabs more popcorn to shove in his mouth.
You look away first, but Eddie catches your smile.
And that's when it hits you. You’re actually having fun.
Eventually, the lights went out, signalling the start of the movie, and that's when you saw it.
A few rows ahead, you spot two familiar faces from school, a couple who treat every public space like their own personal stage.
“Can't catch a fucking break in this town,” you mutter to no one in particular, used to voicing out reactions that get drowned in the sea of overly sweet giggles and macho antics of the crowd you run with.
“Jesus H. Christ,” you hear Eddie say beside you, admittedly startling you a bit. You see him looking at the same couple you saw. “Is that not a health hazard?”
This makes you snort. He's funny.
“Might as well call it a threat to national security,” you reply, and both of you snicker, tucked away in your own private bubble.
“We're trying to watch a movie here,” the bubble bursts.
You whip around to find none other than Tommy fucking H, flanked by who you assume as a pack of assholes you never bothered to meet when they were still at school. When did this prick slither back into town?
“Oh, so two people sucking each other's face off is fine, but god forbid two people whisper a bit,” Eddie retaliates before you could fully process what Tommy said.
“Fuck, Munson, is that you?” Tommy says with a condescending laugh, and then, as he notices Eddie's not by himself, “With little Miss Valedictorian, too. How'd you bag that, Munson?
Eddie’s eyes snap to the back of your head, your face turned away from him while you're looking at Tommy. It was as if he was suddenly seeing you in a different light. Of course, you looked familiar. Your name, your face, hell, your entire reputation is plastered everywhere at Hawkins High. Debate trophies, quiz bee ribbons, banners shouting your victories, all branded with your name, flood through Eddie’s mind.
It took Eddie a minute to recognise you because you don't have classes together. He thinks you're probably taking every AP class known to man, while he's stuck wrestling with senior-level algebra for the third time. You're on your way to a bright future filled with college applications, honor rolls, and six-figure jobs, and yet here you are.
With him.
Sharing popcorn and an armrest with the drug-dealing, super-senior, like it's nothing.
Should he have just said no to you from the start?
His internal conflict is disrupted by your speaking up.
“Definitely not by having his daddy do it for him,” you answer back, not appreciating the way Tommy's talking about you, instead of to you. “How's the job search going?”
Tommy pauses just long enough to reload, then sneers, tossing out a half-baked insult meant to drag you both down.
"You know, you should really watch what you say," he begins to say. “Or all you're gonna’ get are junkie dropouts desperate for attention for the rest of your life.”
By now, your back-and-forth has stirred up a commotion, drawing curious stares from the rest of the theater.
Soon enough, one of the workers marched their way to your seats to address you and Eddie, completely ignoring the fact that the gaggle of pricks behind you played a part in the disturbance, too.
“Excuse me, we're going to have to escort you out. Both of you,” said the attendant who approached you.
“Don't bother. We're leaving,” you say, already on your feet and heading for the exit. Sparring with someone operating at Tommy’s IQ level is not on your agenda tonight.
You glance back to see Eddie right behind you, Tommy still snickering with his crew. Before you can stop yourself, words spill out.
“Junkie dropout,” you say vaguely, tossing his words back at him. “Takes one to know one, right?”
You catch his jaw tighten, but you turn away before he can spit out a comeback.
Eddie trails after you as you slip out into the night, finding your way back to the same rickety bench where it all started. This time, Eddie takes the seat beside you.
You lean back, eyes closed, head tipped over the backrest with a sigh. Eddie, perched at the edge, misreads your mood as frustration with him instead of the whole mess. You sense him fidgeting beside you.
“I'm sorry about that,” you hear him say.
“Why?” you ask, opening your eyes to look at him fully, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
“I don't know, I–” he stutters, his hands gesturing as if he's physically trying to coax the words out of his chest. “It probably wouldn't have been that bad if I weren't there,”
“That's stupid,” you reply without hesitation. “I don't know how you saw that situation, but you were not the problem.”
Eddie goes silent again. You keep surprising him.
“What did you mean?” he asks, remembering your words before leaving the cinema. “Takes one to know one?”
“Oh,” you say as you sit back up, giving Eddie your undivided attention. “Tommy didn’t get his diploma, not the right way at least.”
No fuckin’ way.
“No, he walked the stage,” he argues, emotions of envy disguised as indifference resurfacing in his mind. He pushes them back down. “I was dealing that day.”
“Oh, he walked, alright,” you say, subconsciously placing your arm on the backrest. You don’t notice that it would only take Eddie to lean back a couple of inches for your arm to be basically wrapped around his shoulder, but he does—and now he’s acutely, painfully aware of it. He freezes, heart hammering so loud he’s sure you’ll hear it. You go on to speak, unaware of Eddie's silent battle. “But that was only because his dad paid off Higgins and half the faculty to save face. Tommy didn’t meet the grade requirements. He tried to, but he didn’t make it.”
Eddie takes this in with a deep, steadying breath, grateful for the distraction of your arm behind him. His whole perspective is skewing off-kilter in real time by your words, and he can still feel the echo of his racing pulse, every muscle in his body slow to unclench from your actions.
“So, it was...”
“Fake,” you finish for him. “Tommy Hagan was a casualty of Hawkins High.”
“Saved by his daddy’s money,” he mutters to himself.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Eddie feels the heavy knot of self-blame loosen just a little. Maybe, sometimes things really are just unfair, and he's not the only one suffering from it. For a moment, the world feels a little less cruel, and he clings to that fragile sense of belonging as if it might vanish any second.
You look over Eddie and take in his features. He seems miles away, dead silent, and lost in thought. You think back on your parting words, and realization dawns.
Takes one to know one. Shit.
“I didn’t mean that I thought you were a–”
“No, I know,” he jumps in, voice soft but eager to reassure you. Guilt keeps your words tumbling out.
“I just– I don’t want you to think that I–”
“I don’t,” he interrupts again without a hint of hesitation in his voice, because he actually does believe you. For the very brief time he’s known you, he’s surprisingly certain that you truly didn’t mean any harm. To hell with cliches, he thinks to himself. You’re different.
Right then, you choose to trust Eddie. You meet his eyes, nod, and lean back, withdrawing your hand. The wind shivers through you, but something else makes you flinch.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
“What's wrong?” Eddie asks, instantly alert. For the first time tonight, it’s you who’s finding it difficult to meet his eyes.
“I–” you falter. Three-time state debate champ, and now you're stuttering through a single sentence. “I just kinda’ wish you didn't leave the popcorn in there,” you finally admit sheepishly.
Eddie stares at you, unblinking, until a slow, irrepressible grin spreads across his face.
Then he bursts out laughing, doubling over with his elbows on his knees and his hand pressed to his forehead, barely holding himself together.
You try to be mad, annoyed that he’s laughing at you during a moment of weakness, but a smile sneaks onto your face anyway. You shove his shoulder with a muttered “fuck off,” nearly sending him off the bench. He only laughs harder, and your grin only grows.
“God forbid a girl is hungry,” you finally manage to say, between his bellows.
The asshole, an endearing one, sure, but an asshole nonetheless, had the audacity to wipe tears from his eyes as he calmed down. Once put together enough, he turns to you and says,
“Well, I know this place just down the street. It's probably still open.”
“I don't know,” you begin, pretending to hesitate, but then you ask, “Do they have good onion rings?”
“No,” Eddie says, voice serious, before breaking into a grin. “Only the absolute fucking best.”
And so the two of you set off on your journey. Eddie stood up first, not bothering to dust his jeans off as you did earlier. He's sat on more questionable surfaces in his 19 years of existence, he thinks to himself. He steps forward, causing you to look up at him, confused. And then, he offers his hand with a flourish, every bit the gentleman.
“I am capable of standing on my own, you know,” you say, but not rudely, an easy smile still on your face.
“Just take my damn hand, Smarty,” he insists, wiggling his fingers at you.
“Smarty?” you ask with a snort of laughter, but to Eddie’s surprise, you take his hand anyway, letting it linger as you stand. For a moment, he freezes, caught completely off guard and confused about what he should do now. He hadn’t expected you to accept, not really, and now he seems genuinely at a loss for what to do next. Then, almost bashfully, he breaks into an easy grin.
“As in smarty pants. It was either that or ‘Einstein’,” he recovers.
“Groundbreaking,” you deadpan.
“I know, right? Absolutely outdid myself with that one.”
He guides you toward his van, parked only a few feet away, your hands still tangled together.
“I can also walk on my own,” you comment, in absolutely no hurry to let go.
“I'm not risking it,” he replies, making a show of intertwining your fingers and placing your still clasped hands inside his jacket pocket, drawing you closer to him.
“Risking what?”
“You. You’re precious cargo,” Eddie tries to say casually, though not quite able to keep the tremor in his voice, knowing he has your hand in his, and you were letting him. “The future of Hawkins, Indiana. First president of the planet ten years from now. I’m not risking you.”
You roll your eyes, but the flutter in your chest betrays you.
“Well, in that case, I think you should be carrying me,” you challenge.
“I would, but tossing you into my van in the dead of night might look a little suspicious.”
When you reach his van, he leads you to the passenger side. You’re halfway to grabbing the door handle with your free hand when his hand darts out to swat yours away with a playful tut and a warning, “Don’t you dare.”
Eddie opens the door for you and helps you up, using your joined hands as leverage. Once you’re settled, he finally lets go, and the absence of his warm, calloused hand is so jarring that you can’t help the involuntary flex of your hand— a subconscious attempt to replicate the feeling, hoping to keep the memory of it a little longer. You look back at Eddie, expecting him to shut the door and circle around, but he lingers.
In the next second, Eddie’s in your space, his arm reaching next to your head for the seatbelt in a single smooth motion. The world narrows to the warm scent of his jacket, the gentle clink of metal as he pulls the belt across your chest and snaps it into place. And then he’s gone again, back where he was standing by the open door with a crooked grin.
“Okay, now this is just excessive,” you say with a huff, after the initial shock has worn off.
“What do you think ‘Eddie’ is short for?” he quips, finally shutting the door and circling the van. You think Eddie sounds nothing like excessive, but you let it slide. Same first letter, close enough.
Once he's settled behind the wheel, he takes the keys out of his pocket and starts the ignition. The van sputters to life, a low tumble echoing out into the empty street. He takes a deep breath and clutches the wheel tight.
“You good?” You ask after a while.
“Yeah,” he starts to say, noticeably breathless. “I just– it's not every day I have royalty to drive around in my humble chariot.”
You stare at him for a beat. You take note of his eyes, a gaze that comes and goes. One moment, you swear you're being hypnotized by its intensity, only to be gone, looking everywhere but you in the next. You notice his slightly trembling hands, which have been unsteady and uncoordinated the moment you placed the popcorn in his arms, and clammy for the short time you had it in yours.
“You've been like this all night,” you say out loud, stating your observation.
“Like what?” he replies.
He keeps his eyes set straight ahead.
“Jittery. Nervous,” you say, ticking off the symptoms. Then, on a hunch, you say, “Do I make you nervous?”
Eddie stills. He slowly turns to you with an expression you’ve never seen on his face all night. One of his eyebrows is quirked up so high it disappeared under his dishevelled bangs, nose scrunched, and mouth left slightly agape. All the nerves and manic energy vanish, replaced by a look of such unfiltered incredulousness. For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, at a complete loss for what to say. When he finally speaks, it’s in a tone so squeaky, you would have been pretty sure only the dogs could hear it.
“You only figured that out now?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, unable to ignore the hilarity of his admission.
“Why would I make you nervous?” you blurt, genuinely stunned. The idea that Eddie Munson could be unsettled by you feels absurd. You’re just another senior, maybe with a few extra ribbons, but still just another face in the crowd. Yet the way Eddie looks at you now, it’s clear he sees something else entirely.
“Because you're…” Eddie starts, then falters, searching your face as if hoping the right words will appear there. He looks away, voice tight. “You're unorthodox.”
“Unorthodox,” you repeat slowly.
“Yeah, like—look, I have a system in place, okay? I have to if I want to survive,” Eddie continues. “If you’re one of us, you’re a friend– an ally. When push comes to shove, even if you don’t like me, I’m there for you. Always. If you’re a jock, you’re a threat. A fight waiting to happen. If you’re in cheer, you’re off-limits. Not even in a romantic sense, you just are. Not as a friend, as a lab partner, nothing. And if you’re Higgins, well, that’s just evil incarnate territory,” his laugh is brittle, forced. You smile tight-lipped, but you don’t laugh, realizing the depth of where his rant is heading.
He swallows hard.
“But you,” he says, head turning in your direction, but his eyes are downcast again, the moment resembling his hesitance to enter the theater with you earlier. He goes on, voice growing softer the more he reveals.
“You don’t fit anywhere. You blow the whole thing up. You’re… valedictorian. Future Nobel Prize winner. The kind of person who has their name uttered in reverence by everyone, the kind of person who always knows the answer. You shouldn’t even be looking my way. I shouldn’t be worth your time, and I would’ve been completely fine with that. Because I believe that. Our worlds should be light-years apart. I can’t even picture your world, let alone imagine you’d ever look twice at mine.”
You stay quiet, letting him fill the silence.
“But here you are, you’re… there,”
He pauses again, drawing in a deep breath before finally meeting your eyes.
“You’re real. You let me hold your hand for Christ’s sake. Me. I keep waiting for the punchline, but it’s not coming, and I have no idea what to do with that,” he says.
Eddie’s voice drops to a near whisper, as if he’s scared that speaking any louder might break whatever fragile connection exists between you. “All night, I kept thinking you’d finally see it. You’d realize you’re here slumming it with the town screw-up, and you’d just get up and leave. And I wouldn’t blame you.”
He keeps his gaze on you, eyes wide and vulnerable. “But you didn’t.”
He rubs the back of his neck, laughter breaking through the nerves, but it’s soaked in disbelief. “So, yeah, I’m nervous. Because how the fuck am I supposed to handle any of this?”
Your heart breaks at his words, every word stealing the breath out of your lungs. You never considered the optics, never needed to. Yes, it was you that the people were gawking at earlier, talking about you like some sideshow act, but at the end of the day, none of it is going to stick anyway. People are just going to brush it off and forget about it. Call it a fluke. A one-time thing. A mistake.
But Eddie, the guy that’s been branded as the town’s own personal bad luck, he’s going to carry this weight long after tonight. He already is. For Eddie, this is permanent. To you, this is a passing storm, and you—you put him right in its path, chasing what you wanted and leaving him to shoulder the fallout.
You swallow, voice fragmented. “I’m sorry.” It’s not enough, but it’s all you have.
Eddie blinks, startled. “Sorry? For what?”
An apology was the last thing he expected to hear as a response.
“For all of it,” you tell him, looking him straight in his eyes, conviction clear in your voice. “For spurring all of this on you tonight. None of what happened, none of what was said back there bothered me, but I didn’t consider whether it bothered you. You said I was the type of person who always knew the answer, but, evidently, it’s not all good either. When you feel like you know everything, you forget to ask.”
He’s quiet for a beat, the silence stretching, but his gaze softens—some old hurt flickering in his eyes, like he’s remembering every time he’s been on the outside looking in.
“And for everything before tonight,” you continued, feeling as if what you just said was inadequate. Eddie responds with a subtle tilt of his head, not catching up on what you were saying.
“The people I hang out with,” you clarify softly. “For what they do, what they say. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, you see him start to close up, shrinking back into a hollow caricature of who he is—old defenses triggered by the mere mention of those people. It’s a habit, you realize, he must have adapted over the years of being scrutinized before being known. No one else would take the time to get to know him, so might as well just give them what they want to see. You assume it’s easier that way. Efficient.
But Eddie immediately realizes that there’s no need to hide who he is. Not with you.
“It's not your fault,” he responds, his voice so quiet, you almost missed it.
“No, but—” You falter, searching for the right words as your chest tightens. “But I didn’t do anything to stop it. I just stood by, every time, and kept silent. I let it happen because it wasn’t about me. But that’s just it. Not choosing is a choice. And I’m sorry for every time I picked the easy one.” You look down at your hands, wishing you could take every moment back, wishing you’d been braver when it counted.
Eddie leans back, his eyes never leaving you. Silence stretches between you until, finally, he smiles.
“I forgive you.”
You shoot him a look meant to say, “This is serious, not the time for adorable smiles and distracting dimples,” channeling your best glare.
“You really shouldn’t,” you say, shaking your head, pushing away the stray thoughts. “Not that easily.”
“Easily?” He asks with a grin, and for a second, you glimpse the version of him that comes alive around people he trusts—lively, teasing, warm. “You offered me a movie, buttery popcorn, stood your ground for me against Tommy H, and, just to bring it up again because I'm still not over it, you let me hold your hand,” he says, humor dancing in his voice, and then, when he notices that you remain unconvinced, he sobers up a bit. “Seriously. We're good,”
All you could do was sigh. He was a persistent guy, and you're done assuming for him. If he says you're good, then you're going to respect that and carry on.
“You won’t get far if you keep being that easy, Munson,” you tease, matching his smile.
“Only for the pretty ones,” he fires back, winking in a way that’s more dorky than smooth.
It fucking worked on you anyway.
“And cheesy as hell.”
“I thought cheesy’s not always bad?”
You give him an audible groan as he lets loose a gleeful laugh.
“Listen,” you say after a pause. “To answer your question about how we handle this, maybe we start small. Baby steps.”
“Okay. Baby steps,” he nods, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as you watch him think. “But, like what, though?”
You pretend to ponder, masking the chaos in your stomach that’s been churning for the last five minutes.
“Maybe you could start by taking this very cool person to this very cool place with the very best onion rings in town.”
“That I can do.”
And off Eddie goes, breaking traffic laws and the sound barrier, while you cling to the seat for dear life. You try to distract yourself by trying to decipher the cassettes poking out of his open glovebox. It was tape after tape of metal bands you didn't recognize, but you tried to file them in your mind, making a mental note to find some of them at the record store the next time you visited.
Metallica, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, and–
Hang on.
You nudge a few tapes aside, squinting to see if you really read that name right.
Eddie spots you from the corner of his eye, rifling through his collection. There’s a question in his raised brow as he speaks up.
“I mean this in the most respectful way ever, but I don't think there's something in there for you.”
You ignore him, stubbornness kicking in. With a little triumphant noise, you manage to free the cassette from the pile, holding it up to the light for confirmation.
The Sisters of Mercy. First and Last and Always.
“And I also mean this in the most respectful way, Munson, but you are sooo about to eat your words,” you respond, flipping the cassette his way so he can see the front.
Eddie glances over, easing off the gas in the process, and looks at you. His eyes go to the battered cassette in your hands, then to your face, and this motion cycles two more times before he finally speaks.
“No fucking way,” he says under his breath. You smile with mischief.
You clear your throat, summoning the deepest voice your vocal cords would allow.
“In a sea of faces,” you begin to sing, messy and off-key, but it’s enough to send Eddie into another spiral.
“NO FUCKING WAY,” he shouts through a laugh that blends into a scream, ecstatic.
“In a sea of doubt,” you continue, your voice getting bolder with every word, until Eddie clamps his hand over your mouth, grinning like an idiot. You dissolve into a fit of laughter, unable to fight it.
“Nope. Absolutely not. You've fucked my perception of reality over enough for one night,” he says through a gleeful smile.
You wriggle free from his hand so you can speak.
“Fine, no more singing. But I'm borrowing this because my mom “misplaced” the one I bought last year.”
“Deal,” he says, still in disbelief, “Fuckin’ Sisters of Mercy.”
You chuckle to yourself as you pocket the cassette in your hands. You’re both silent for the rest of the drive, stealing glances at each other every now and then, before looking away with a snicker when your eyes meet.
By the time you finally arrived at the quaint diner, you were practically vibrating with hunger, more than ready to jump out of the van and march straight to the counter to demand everything they could serve hot within 10 minutes. As soon as the van rolled to a stop, you fumbled with your seatbelt, then tried to reach for the handle– Lord knows you really tried– but Eddie let out a screech that stopped you cold, your fingers barely grazing the metal.
You think he meant to say, “Don’t do it,” but what actually erupts from him is a sound that you can only describe as a prehistoric, reptilian war cry.
Eddie leaps from the van, nearly tripping over his own feet three times before finally making it to your side to open the door for you.
“Seriously, Marian. It’s like everything we’ve been through meant nothing to you,” he declares with a huff, scandalized by your act of treason that was opening a door on your own. What you latched onto, however, was the new nickname.
“Marian?” You ask as you exit the van, amused at the reference.
“Would you prefer we go back to ‘Smarty’?” he asks, closing the door behind you.
“I’d prefer we get inside and inhale as much greasy food as possible, pronto,” you shoot back.
You start to walk towards the diner, its bright neon lights attracting you like a moth to a flame. As you approach, you notice the slightly chipped paint, well-loved outdoor benches, and unevenly lit signage. While taking in the facade, your eyes land on the familiar face framed by the dusty windows, making you abruptly freeze mid-step.
You stop dead in your tracks, halting suddenly enough that Eddie, walking right behind you, nearly bumps into your back.
“Whoa–” he reacts, hands bracing himself on your shoulders to regain his balance. “Why are we stopping?”
You inhale sharply, feeling the earlier frustration surge back through you.
“Remember when I said I got ditched tonight?” you answer, your voice overly calm and neutral.
He answered, "Yes?" his tone careful, sensing the tension radiating from you.
Words fail you. Instead, you reach up, grab Eddie by the chin, and swivel his head toward the scene. He squints, trying to make out the faces of the guilty parties.
“Which one’s the ditcher?” He asks.
“The blonde one,” you answer through gritted teeth. “The ape in a letterman jacket’s her boyfriend.”
You let your hand fall from Eddie’s face and slip it back into your jacket pocket, releasing a tired sigh. The anger from earlier fades, replaced by exhaustion. Sensing your shift, Eddie moves to stand between you and the window, shielding you from the scene inside.
“Do you want to go?” he asks you, concern written all over his expression.
A part of you does. You steal a glance past Eddie’s shoulder, gaze locked on Jenna and her boyfriend. The old voice in your head is urging you to go. To walk away and slip back into the comfort of pretending none of it bothers you. The option is familiar, an action you've done more times than you care to count. But as you turn to face Eddie, hand fidgeting with the Sisters of Mercy cassette in your pocket, your resolve crumbles.
You don't want your night with him to end.
You want the laughter to keep going, the easy jokes, and the freedom to be yourself. In just a few hours, Eddie has given you more joy than your revolving door of friends have in years.
You glance back at the diner, watching Jenna laugh with her boyfriend, her world spinning on without you. That’s when you decide.
You raise your hand parallel to your elbow, palm facing up.
You offer Eddie your hand.
“Are you sure?” Eddie asks for the second time tonight.
“I am. You?” Was all you say.
“Let's get you those onion rings, Marian,” he says, placing his hand in yours with the conviction of a soldier marching into battle, lacing each finger firmly.
Hand in hand, you step into the diner and claim a booth tucked away in the corner. Heads turn as you pass, Jenna and her boyfriend’s too, you assume. You feel Eddie’s shoulders tense, his grip on your hand tightening with every curious glance.
You both reach the corner booth, mostly unscathed. As you settle in across from each other, an elderly woman shuffles over, her attention fixed on Eddie.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” she says, a warm smile curling at the corners of her lips while her eyes glint with mischief. “My eyesight ain't what it was, but I'm quite sure this pretty thing ain't your uncle,” You see Eddie shrink in front of you, bracing for whatever she’ll say next.
Then, in a whisper that’s not really a whisper at all, Joni leans in conspiratorially, “She your girl?”
Your eyebrows leap in surprise at her boldness, heat rushing to your cheeks. When you risk a glance at Eddie, his eyes are wide, ears burning red, panic written all over his face.
“Christ, Joni,” Eddie manages, his voice strangled by a nervous laugh. He scrubs a hand over his face, as if that could hide his blush. “Ever heard of subtlety?” He gives you an apologetic look.
“Tried it in '62. Worst year of my life,” Joni quips, not missing a beat. She fixes you with a keen gaze, a teasing lilt to her words as she says, “So, you’re not Wayne.”
"Last I checked, no, ma'am." You answer politely.
“You dating this tomato?” she asks you, making Eddie, now red-faced, lean back as if trying to melt into the seat.
“Sorry to disappoint,” you answer with a laugh and a blush of your own. “But we just met tonight.”
She regards you with a quiet hum, looking at you for a second longer before speaking to Eddie again.
“She called me ‘ma’am’,” she says with a satisfied smirk. “I like her.”
“Splendid, Joni,” Eddie groans, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. Even with half his face hidden, you can see the crimson creeping up his neck. “Can we order now?” he mutters, clearly desperate to change the subject.
Joni finally relents, jotting down your orders: two chocolate milkshakes, a burger with a side of fries for Eddie, chicken tenders for you, and the very much anticipated basket of deep-fried onion rings.
As Joni retreats to the counter, you drum your fingers on the table, letting the silence stretch before finally addressing the bright red elephant in the room.
“Your girl, huh?” you tease, voice low, a smile twitching at your lips as you study Eddie’s expression.
“Quit it,” he shoots back, bristling, but you can see the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“D’you bring ‘your girls’ here often?”
“Do I look like I have girls to bring anywhere?” Eddie retorts, gesturing at himself, voice half-defensive, half-amused.
“You brought me,” you point out, perching your elbow on the table and resting the side of your head on your knuckles.
“Yeah, and you’re the first,” Eddie admits, his voice softer now, almost shy. This makes you smile wildly.
“I'm honored,”
“I’m gonna’ puke,” Eddie groans.
“Comin’ in hot,” Joni pipes back, bringing your orders to your table. Your mouth waters at the sight, and the aroma of the food seizes your senses. For a split second, you’re so distracted by the food that it takes a moment to register how impossibly quick it all arrived. How did it get here so fast?
Eddie, already on the same wavelength, narrows his eyes at Joni.
“This is someone else’s order, isn’t it?” he says, his tone dry and familiar, suggesting this has happened before. Joni shoots Eddie a knowing smirk as she serves the food, leaving both of you with a sly, “I don’t know what you mean,” and nothing more.
As soon as Joni walks away, both of you dig in, fully realizing that half a bucket of popcorn wasn’t enough to sustain two growing teens for a night. Eddie offers the fries that came with his burger toward you, nudging the plate closer. You return the gesture, sliding a couple of chicken tenders his way. Your next target is the tall glass of chocolate milkshake, topped with, in your opinion, a little more whipped cream than usual. You weren’t about to complain. After taking one sip, you were more than ready to worship the ground Eddie Munson walks on for bringing you to Joni’s diner.
“Holy shit,” you say, setting the glass down with reverence. “Did she steal this from Willy Wonka?”
Eddie’s face lights up, hands tapping the table twice, delighted to finally have someone to share his sentiments with. “I fuckin’ know, right?” he exclaims, leaning in, eyes wide with genuine excitement. “It’s the perfect consistency and everything.”
Soon enough, resisting the onion rings becomes impossible. You nudge Eddie with your foot under the table, drawing his attention away from the ketchup packet he's fiddling with for his fries. When he looks up, you tilt your head toward the steaming basket of golden onion rings between you, your eyes shining with anticipation.
“Together?” he asks, taking a guess at what you’re hinting at.
“Together,” you respond.
You and Eddie each grab an onion ring at the same time. You raise your rings, tap them together in a playful toast, then take a bite.
Your head hits the table.
With your eyes closed, savoring every bite, you have to admit Eddie was right. These are the absolute fucking best onion rings you’ve ever tasted. Maybe it’s hunger, maybe it’s the company, or maybe Joni really is magic. Whatever the reason, you’ve never felt so happy to be ditched.
“If you told me you had friends in high places like this, I would’ve offered you a ticket five years ago,” you mutter after chewing, immediately taking another bite.
Eddie shoots back, “Wait ‘til you find out I got a records guy,” his eyes sparkling with mischief. He’s leaning in, elbows on the table, clearly at ease now.
“He’s single, by the way,” Joni chimes in with a wicked grin, her gaze flitting between the two of you.
Eddie almost dies from choking on an onion ring, his coughing loud and desperate. His face flushes deep red, eyes wide. You double over with laughter, heat rising in your chest, a chaotic mix of concern, delight, and shared embarrassment. The words slip out before you can catch them.
“Good to know.”
Eddie clams up quickly after that, his entire body going completely still, as if his brain has forgotten how to take control of his limbs. He stares at you with the exact same look he had when you first asked him to join you earlier that night.
Flustered, you clear your throat, glance away, caught by the sudden awkwardness. Unsure, you focus on the milkshake, letting its cold sweetness distract from the tension in your chest.
Eddie slowly moves, hand gingerly taking a fry to bite, but what you fail to notice is the faint twitch of his lips—a smile threatening to break free out of giddiness, the tips of his ears flushed as he glances at you from beneath his lashes.
“Hey,”
You both turn towards the sudden intrusion, the noise slicing through the tension like a knife. What greets you is an uncomfortable-looking blonde, hair teased to hell and back, looking everywhere but at who she's supposed to be.
You hold your gaze on Jenna, silent and unblinking. Eddie, restless in the thickening tension, shifts in his seat and finally breaks the silence.
“Can we help you?” he asks, unamused.
Jenna ignores him with an eye roll, her lips pursed in a way that tells you she’s holding back more than she’s saying, and finally turns to you.
“Can we talk?” she snaps, arms folded and a single eyebrow raised. “Alone,”
You settle back in your seat, locking eyes with Jenna and letting the silence stretch, making her wait for your answer.
“No, I'm good,” you state simply.
Jenna’s face pinches, and she lets out a frustrated whine. “Come on, don’t make this harder,” she pleads, but there’s no real remorse in her tone. “I know you’re mad. I’m sorry, okay? Now, can you please leave the freak show?”
“You know, if I squint really, really hard, I think I could almost see a real apology somewhere in there,” you say, your tone light but edged with sarcasm.
Jenna throws her hands up, exasperated. “Oh my–” she grumbles, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t pull a muscle. “What is your problem? Are you really this mad over one movie, you’re willing to shack it up with him?”
Eddie takes the insult in stride, letting it wash over him like water on a duck’s back. Chin up, let the noise drown everything out, he reminds himself.
You weren’t as forgiving.
“How did I never notice how blatantly conceited you are until now?” you say with a shake of your head, completely in disbelief with how much you’ve chosen to ignore for the sake of company. “Has it ever crossed your mind the entire time we’ve been here that I'm not doing this to get back at you. That I’m here with him because I wanted to be?”
Jenna doesn’t hesitate. “No, because you wouldn’t,” she answers back. Her conviction makes you laugh.
You lean forward, voice low, not bothering to hide the bitterness that seeps into your words or the despondency you’ve pushed to the farthest depths of your mind. “How would you know, Jenna?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jenna challenges, daring you to admit defeat. That the two of you were never friends. That you clung on to her fabricated kindness because you were more than willing to accept whatever scrap the rulers of Hawkins High’s social hierarchy were willing to give you.
Because you didn’t want to be alone.
But you don't take the bait—not this time.
You sit back, crossing your arms with finality. “You know damn well what it means,” you reply. For the first time, clarity washes over your thoughts—the realization that you don’t owe her anything.
Jenna’s bravado falters, her voice softer now, almost pleading as she tries to salvage the situation. “I’m trying to help you out, okay,” she stammers, eyes darting to the others in the diner, “Leave with us, right now, before the entire town figures out who you are and who you’ve been with,”
You hold your ground. Your eyes find Eddie—still there, unwavering—a stranger just hours ago, yet here he is, determined to keep you company, to coax a smile out of you when no one else bothered. In a town that’s given him every reason to be wary, he’s chosen to trust you even when walking away would have been as simple as leaving you on that cold, dusty bench.
“I’m right where I want to be.”
Jenna’s lips press into a hard, thin line. “Don’t bother talking to me tomorrow,” she spits out, the words brittle and laced with wounded pride. She turns sharply on her heel, shoulders rigid, and you hear the echo of her retreating footsteps. Her voice calls out to her boyfriend, but you don’t look. Even when the bell chimes as they go through the diner’s double doors, you keep your gaze fixed ahead—jaw clenched, hands clasped together, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you stumble.
Once you’re certain she’s gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your whole body seems to collapse in on itself, your head drooping until it finds a resting place in your hands. Between you and Eddie, the abandoned scraps of food lay cold and forgotten.
“Shit,” you hear him whisper under his breath.
“Yeah,” you laugh, your voice devoid of humor. “Shit.”
Noticing how defeated you look, Eddie rises from the booth. He leans over the table, gathering the basket of untouched food, then makes his way to the counter near the register. You barely register his quiet request to Joni to wrap things up, your thoughts still scattered and far away. When he returns, he doesn’t take his previous seat across from you. Instead, he steps around the table and slides into the booth right beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
Gently, his hands find your wrists and coax them free from your defensive posture. You let him guide your arms down, following his lead until your head settles on his shoulder, catching the uneven texture of his denim vest. His hand comes to rest at your temple, soothing your turbulent thoughts.
You hear him speak.
“I don’t get it,” he admits.
You turn, shifting to face him more directly, your voice soft but tinged with curiosity. “Get what?”
Eddie exhales, gesturing toward the swinging diner doors where Jenna disappeared. “That,” he says, the word heavy with meaning. “I mean, I admit, I never really paid attention to you before tonight,”
“You have a way with words,” you interrupt.
“But,” he cuts in, meeting your eyes with an earnestness that makes you falter. “These cynical eyes of mine have seen enough to know that people should adore you. Perfect grades, perfect attitude, and all that. The way the food chain goes, you should be right at the top with them, maybe even a tier above. Everyone who wants to be someone should be hanging on to every word you say. Not driving you away the moment you don’t fit perfectly into their meticulously manufactured life,” he shakes his head, voice dropping, “She barely tried to get you back on their side.”
His words sting, not because they’re wrong, but because they land so close to the truth. Jenna barely put in the effort with you, but what hurt more was witnessing firsthand how easily people can dispose of you—the moment you’re no longer useful, you’re gone. The realization sits heavily in your chest, leading you to your confession.
“I don’t have friends, Eddie,” you say, in a voice so small and vulnerable, you had a hard time believing it was yours. “I’m a convenience.”
You hesitate, fingers twisting together in your lap. “Jenna, she—” You pause, steadying yourself with a sharp breath, and look up at Eddie, searching his face for judgment but finding only patience. “I just started hanging out with her earlier this year. She was nice enough, you know? Sat next to me during class, invited me to parties…”
You force a faint smile, “And then came the favors. First it was homework, then a couple of reviewers, and after that, it just… escalated.”
Your confession shifts something in both you and Eddie. For the first time, you see the truth of it laid bare—how much you’ve pretended this was normal, how lonely you’ve felt all along.
You swallow, voice thick. “And I ignored it. I kept telling myself that’s just how it is between friends. That maybe I was lucky anyone wanted me around at all.”
Beside you, Eddie’s hand curls into a fist. His jaw tightens, and you can see the frustration flicker across his face.
“Jenna, and everyone that came before her… they only ever listened to me because they had to. Not because they actually wanted to.” You say it quietly, the realization settling over you like a cold shadow.
Eddie sits with your words, chewing his cheek thoughtfully. After a moment, he finally asks, “Then why do you stay?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just honest confusion.
You stare at the table, searching for the right words. “Because if I don’t, then all I’m left with is what’s in here.” You tap your temple, giving a weak, humorless smile. “And it’s not always pretty.”
Eddie’s expression softens, and you realize he understands in a way most people never could. He knows those voices—the ones that take center stage in his mind, whispering self-sabotage, self-doubt, relentless criticism. He’s battled them too.
Eddie recalls his words just a few hours ago.
If you're one of us, you're a friend.
When push comes to shove, I'm there for you.
Always.
So he makes it a vow.
“I'd stay,” he tells you. Not as a suggestion, but as a promise.
You blink, not sure you heard him right. “Hm?”
Eddie mirrors your gesture, tapping your temple. “When it gets ugly in there,” he says softly, “I’d stay.”
You search his face, voice barely audible. “Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re one of us,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You act before you can think, your body moving on instinct.
In a heartbeat, you wrap your arms around Eddie, holding him tight—needing the comfort more than you ever realized.
It was awkward, given your position, but Eddie hugs you back, his hand gently rubbing your back, offering you the comfort you've denied yourself for so long.
You might have stayed in that embrace forever, if not for the sound of someone clearing their throat awkwardly nearby.
“I-uh, don’t mean to interrupt—” Joni’s voice breaks through the haze, hesitant but kind. She’s standing just off to the side of the booth, a plastic bag of takeout dangling from her hand. “But we’re closing up soon.”
You blink, disoriented, the world rushing back in. “Closing?” you mumble, suddenly aware of the emptying diner around you.
You realize it’s just you, Eddie, Joni, and a few lingering staff left in the diner.
You slip your hand from Eddie’s back and glance at your watch.
“Shit.”
Eddie frowns, confused by your sudden urgency. “What’s up?”
“Curfew,” you reply, already on your feet.
“Where do you live?” Eddie asks, sliding out of the booth to let you pass. He grabs the bag from Joni as he moves.
You catch your reflection in the dark window, fixing your hair absently. “Maple Street,” you say, glancing at Eddie. “You know it?”
Eddie, who’s driven Mike Wheeler home a few times, nods. “Like the back of my hand.”
You nod back, already moving for the doors when something tugs at your memory, making you pause mid-step.
“Oh!” you blurt, spinning around to face Joni, who’s still standing nearby with a gentle, knowing smile. “How much do I owe you for the—?”
Joni waves you off with a laugh. “On the house, honey. But only if you promise to come back for a second date.”
Eddie starts to protest, “It’s not a—” but you cut him off, grinning. “Easy,” you say, matching her playful tone.
You share a glance, grinning in sync, before heading out together.
“I’m usually not one for reckless driving, but–”
Eddie twirls his van keys around his finger, grinning at you. “Say less.”
You’re not sure if the van wheels touched the ground once after Eddie stepped on the gas at full throttle, but you can’t say you’re not grateful for Eddie’s complete disregard for traffic laws. You make it home only a couple of minutes past your curfew, giving you plausible grounds to use a delayed screening and an impromptu dinner as an excuse.
Technically, the second one wasn’t a lie.
You barely register the van’s engine dying before Eddie is already out of his seat. He rushes around the front, opening your door for the third time tonight. The gesture is so familiar now that it makes you smile.
You step out onto the curb, stretching your legs. The cool night air hits your face as you fall into step beside Eddie on the walk to your porch. With a grin, you nudge him playfully. “Ever consider NASCAR?”
Eddie shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, trying—and failing—to hide his pride. He glances at you with that crooked grin you’ve grown to adore. “You think I got a shot?”
“I think there’s already a trophy with your name on it.”
You and Eddie reach your front door in a few quick steps. His footsteps echo on the porch, each one slower than the last, as if he’s trying to delay the inevitable goodbye. The final thud of his shoes feels heavy—final, somehow.
You turn to face him, lowering your voice so it won’t carry through the front door. “I’ve reached my verdict,” you say, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “You’re not terrible company.”
You catch Eddie’s fingers fidgeting nervously in his pockets. He lets out a soft chuckle, eyes darting away.
“Neither are you,” he whispers back.
You hesitate, searching his face for something—maybe a reason to stay out here just a little longer, but you know it’s time. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, forcing yourself to step back, even though you wish the night could last forever.
Eddie’s smile wavers just a bit, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
Tomorrow. At school. In front of every student, every clique, and walking stereotype. You’ll see him.
But then what?
“Will you?” Eddie blurts out, unable to hide the doubt in his voice.
You didn’t understand the question, not immediately. You don’t pick up on Eddie’s doubts. How he questions if you’re truly willing enough, brave enough, to continue standing by his side. It wasn’t fair on your part to assume what you’re capable of, but unfairness has followed Eddie like a shadow his entire life. He doesn’t just expect it, he welcomes it.
What if you pass each other in the hallway tomorrow? The thought prickles at the back of his mind, sharp and sudden.
When you walk on by, surrounded by dozens of probing eyes and chattering lips.
Will you smile at him the way you did tonight, with no shame or hesitation?
Will you call his name?
Or will you walk away, pretending this night meant nothing?
Before you can form a response, Eddie steps back, his shoulders tense. He keeps his gaze averted as he heads down your porch, retreating toward his van, each step quicker than the last.
“Nevermind. That’s—never mind.” His voice is quiet, almost lost in the night air. He doesn’t wait for your answer.
But you give it to him the very next day.
The fluorescent lights of Hawkins High cast dark shadows as he leaned against his locker, only half-listening to his friends drone on about some math test. He kept glancing up, nerves on fire, until he finally saw you walking down the crowded hallway. Two different girls from the cheer squad to your right– none of whom is Jenna– and a jock on your left. For a moment, Eddie’s heart sank. Was last night actually just a fluke? Had you slipped effortlessly back into your old role, leaving everything that transpired the night before behind?
But then he really looked at you. The girl approaching him looked different—your eyes distant, your expression flat. Gone was the girl who smiled too widely, laughed too loudly, and sang off-key last night. Eddie’s chest tightened. It felt wrong to see you like this, like watching someone else wear your skin. With his hands into fists at his sides, Eddie fights the urge to make it right. He stayed rooted to the spot, letting that feeling remain as it is.
A feeling.
As you drew closer, the noise of the hallway faded into a low hum. Your head lifted, eyes scanning the crowd, then finding him. Eddie felt his breath catch, the seconds stretching impossibly long. For a split second, he wondered if you’d look away, pretend he wasn’t there. But instead, something in your gaze flickered with recognition. Slowly, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile, softening the mask you’d worn moments before.
“Hey, Eddie.”
a/n: This took a lot out of me, so I'm not really sure if I'll revisit this anytime soon. For the meantime, please assume that they lived happily ever after.
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i love u loser!reader i love u weird girl!reader i love you hellfire club!reader i love u woc!reader i love you nerdy!reader i love you mean!reader i love you perv!reader
fanfiction is made by weird bitches for weird bitches about weird bitches and i love that <333333
hellfire club gave my mates and i the kick up the ass to finally play dnd after talking about it for ages, and we're STILL PLAYING to this day.
distinctly remember thinking they were the coolest mfs alive, and that eddie in particular was so cool and brave for being so unapologetically himself at a time where i was what,, 16?? and cared a LOT about hiding parts of myself i thought were embarrassing.
always resonate with a weird, nerdy, hellfire club, what the fuck ever reader
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