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#a7x
the-unforgivenn · 9 months
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CW: depictions of grief, strong language
Word count: 2.6K
Summary: *cue that one song by The Beatles about help and… friends.
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You need help.
It's glaringly obvious, even to the casual observer. The events over the last year changed you, and how could they not? You’d seen death. You’d felt it. You’d smelled it, for Christ’s sake. The acrid stench of decay crept in through your mouth and nostrils just like a poor-man’s version of the Mind Flayer. It seeped into your system and transformed you into the shell of a human, a shitty mirror image that you didn’t even recognize.
You need help, and not just for you, but for your little sister, Max.
You're forced to be present for her because your drunken excuse for a mother can't be bothered. Ever since your asshole brother died in the fire, and that even bigger asshole Neil abandoned your family, your mother had spiraled into a dark abyss of self-pity sponsored by whiskey and broken promises.
It doesn't matter what you’re feeling (or, more accurately, what you’re not feeling) because you're still applying that suffocating mask of so-called strength as you awaken to a world that doesn’t give two shits about you, Max, or your situation. You put it on because you have to. You fake the bravery and the composure in favor of a routine and stability for the most important person in your life. At some point, you thought you’d start to feel, too. It just hasn’t happened yet.
Hence, the help.
You watch your potential help spit gravel behind his van as he enthusiastically maneuvers it into the tight turn that leads into the trailer park. If you could feel, you’d feel amused. Eddie Munson is a force of nature in your eyes—the man is unapologetically himself, a town-proclaimed and self-promoted freak with enough personality to share with everyone. He revels in his madness and it makes you feel jealous as much as it amuses you. If you could feel at the moment, anyway.
You knew him from your senior year at Hawkins High a year before, that year being his (first) repeat year. Your paths didn’t cross much—you were athletic and involved in various sports, and he was decidedly not and involved in making sure it was well-known he was vehemently against all of the conformity of organized anything. Well, except Hellfire. Could you consider that organized, when the man that personified ADHD was at the helm? Probably not. So, it worked.
He knew you only because you’d become his neighbor two months ago, after the events at Starcourt altered your reality and your life indefinitely. He didn’t know you before. He didn’t know you even as your life began to change the year before, when the pumpkins rotted in the fields and Dustin befriended a fucking monster and Will was a fucking monster.
He didn’t know you before, when you were running circles around the girls in track practice, confidence growing in tandem with your acceptance of the less-than-ideal move from sunny California to dull-ass Indiana.
But was growing on you. Your teammates were growing on you. Your step-brother, for all of his moody, broody bullshit, was growing on you. You also felt like Max was easing in and finding a place to grow (and maybe people to grow with?), too. It’s not like your life as the Mayfield-Hargroves was fancy by any means, but it was certainly offered better quality than a musty, moth-eaten, mold-infested existence across from the Munsons in the shittiest trailer park that central Indiana had to offer.
Just like those blackened, decaying pumpkins in Merrill’s fields, your growth is halted, and you're decaying just the same from the inside out.
Max had noticed, and it was starting to affect her.
This is why you find yourself sitting atop the covered picnic table, watching Eddie spin his A-Team knockoff into his makeshift parking spot in front of his trailer, whipping gravel behind him as the van rocked on its axel, dust settling around like a sigh of relief as it comes to an abrupt stop. Your palms are tacky with sweat as you clutch your composition notebook, resolve threatening to waver as you watch the bushy-haired metalhead exit the driver’s side door. He's like a fucking cat, moving with such strange quickness and grace that doesn't quite fit the mold of his gangly body; and he's almost up the steps to his trailer before you have a chance to react and bark out a greeting to your future savior. Hopefully.
“Munson!”
He jolts in shock, both from the harshness of the address and the identity of the addressee. His hand hovers over the latch to the storm door as he warily turns his head toward you, as you continue to stomp towards his trailer.
Your tone is unintentionally brash, but here we are. You don't really care what your voice sounds like, or how you're perceived these days.
His large, espresso eyes meet yours in surprise, eyebrows reflecting the notion as he regards you with a soft pull of one corner of his full lips. He stands tall, and turns to you.
“Elder Mayfield, I presume.”
You huff a soft, sardonic breath through your nose. “Yeah, okay. Can I borrow you?”
It may not have been possible for Eddie’s eyebrows to elevate higher after your initial harsh exchange with him, but at this request, they're completely enveloped by the shaggy curtain of his bangs. Doe-eyes widen in further surprise, and you watch as he fights to find a response, mouth silently opening and closing. He keeps his eyes on you as you jump from the ground to the stair beneath him, and without giving him a chance to recoil or retort, you grab his leather-jacket clad arm and tug gently.
“C’mon. Five minutes. I need your. . .opinion.”
Your hand remains on his arm as you pull him away from his door. He follows you hesitantly as you walk back to the covered picnic table. You climb back up to sit and note with curiosity how he lags behind you, his typical air of confidence and self-assurance replaced with—well, he was clueless as to what the fuck-all was happening—and it shows.
If you could have, you would have tipped a lazy smile to ease his mind. But, you can't. Instead, you wait with a stony expression as he shuffles under the shelter and plops down on the worn wood with a noticeable distance between the two of you.
“I think this is the longest I’ve ever heard you not speak, ever.”
A shitty attempt at a humorous ice-breaker. Nicely done.
“I think this is the most you’ve spoken to me, ever.” His retort wastes no time tumbling from his lips.
It could have come across as rude, but the soft smile that plays at his mouth tells you otherwise. Still, your eyes flick to the ground to avoid his gaze.
He’s right, you know.
You inhale a shaky breath and try to summon the courage for this conversation that you had rehearsed in your mind for days.
“That’s fair. I’ll be brief, I promise.” You try inserting some inflection in the sentence to make it sound softer, but it just comes out flat.
The perceived danger passes for Eddie Munson. The cocky smile returns, full force. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart,” he coyly remarks as he reaches a hand in his jacket. He pulls out a tattered pack of cigarettes and taps it softly to retrieve one. He crooks an eyebrow at you, silently inquiring, and you accept the offer, allowing him to light it as you deeply inhale.
“I, uh, I guess I don’t really know where to start,” you begin softly, exhaling a narrow stream of smoke through pursed lips. You can feel his gaze on your face, watching and waiting. His patience is both comforting and unnerving. “I’ve been told that I have issues with dealing with the—things—that have happened over the last few months. The last year, really.”
He continues to watch you, unmoving. He’s almost afraid to react, fearing you’d startle like a deer, or worse: lash out and bite like a caged dog. Maybe it’s a little bit of both, and the uncertainty has him on edge again. This is truly the most you’ve ever spoken to the man, and the weight of that piles heavily on Eddie’s broad shoulders. Try as he might to shrug it off, he truly wants to know why the older Mayfield sister has asked to—in her words—borrow him. So, shuts up and listens.
You inhale another long drag on your cigarette as your eyes flick over to Eddie’s face and then back to the ground. Your right knee bounces in time with nothing, and everything that turbulently swirls around in your mind. In an instant, you change tactics.
You startled him again by addressing him directly. “You’re in a band, right, Munson?”
“Uh, y-yeah, I am. Corroded Coffin. I play—”
“Guitar. Right. Okay. So, I need your help. Your band’s help. I have all of these,” you pause for the right word, and it doesn’t come. “These thoughts. A lot of them. I’ve been writing them down. I’ve been writing them down a lot,” you explain, the cobwebs of doubt slowly start to clear, making your words seem less like rambling and more like a coherent train of thought.
“It’s just not enough to see them on paper, though. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s not that I want other people to see it or read it; I’ll be honest, some of it is dark.” You sneak a look at your table mate, who is still watching you speak with rapt attention. “It’s really fucking dark,” you whisper, afraid of the judgement you’ll soon see in his eyes.
It never comes.
He nods once, an invitation to keep going. Your knee continues to bounce rhythmically as you hit him broadside with your request for help.
What a dirty word that is. Help.
“On paper, they’re just words. I need—Eddie, I need to hear them. I need someone to make them to come to life because maybe, if they do, then all of what I say I’m feeling on paper can actually—fuck, I don’t know, maybe it’ll help me to feel again—you know, in real life,” your voice comes to a notable, but soft, crescendo as they spill out, filling the air around you with the weight of the truth.
He stares.
Fuck. This was a mistake. “Yeah, um, forget it.”
“Show me.”
He scoots closer to where you’re sitting, and the light afternoon breeze flutters past, bringing with it Essence of Eddie: cigarette smoke, a hint of leather mixed with cheap cologne and a sickly sweet smell that is foreign (but not?) to you. You inhale again, and it grounds you.
Strange.
Your large, dark eyes meet his as your hands tighten protectively over your notebook. “Munson, I want to show you. I mean, I’ve spent the last week or so convincing myself of that, anyway, and—"
“You’ve been thinking about me for the past week, Elder Mayfield?” His dark eyes snap into mischief, a slow smile stretches across his face, and it nearly pulls you along for one of your own. Nearly.
You don’t miss a beat. “I have, actually.” His features light up, and you hold up a finger. “Only to use you for your musical talents.”
You would have missed it had you blinked. The light in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, but he recovers, chuffing a laugh as a leather clad shoulder bumps yours.
“Huh. Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m not one to really flirt right now, Munson.”
“So, in the future then?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.
He cackles, throwing his head back, so seemingly carefree. Another white-hot flame of jealousy licks at your insides. How can delight and joy come so easily to this guy?
Where can you get some of that?
“All right, Elder Mayfield is all business. What exactly is it that you want from me, hmm?” his question is like a song, each word emphasized with the melodic rasp of his rock-star voice.
You perk up, just slightly. He just proved he’s perfect for what you’re needing, after all. You turn to him, and lay it all out. “I want you to be my Elton.”
His face falls. He stares. Actually, you could argue that this time, it’s more of a gawk.
Oh, my god, was that an insult? “You know,” you begin slowly. “Elton John? I can be your Bernie Taupin.”
His eyes are as large as saucers.
“I want you to put my words to music. Like Elton did for Bernie,” you explain gently. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “No? This isn’t ringing a bell?”
Silence.
Oh, no. What if he thinks…?
“N-not that I think you need help with that. I’m sure you have a lot of great songs. Your band, I mean. I’m sure you write amazing shit. This is for me. T-to help me, um—deal. With this. With what, um—"
“Starcourt?” Eddie suggests softly.
So he has been paying attention.
You take another long pull on your cigarette. “That and other things.”
“There were other things?” Eddie asks incredulously.
Oh, were there.
It’s almost automatic, the way you glance around the park quickly, surveying your surroundings. Checking, rechecking. Someone is always listening, it seems. It’s pretty sad that those assholes are the ones that frighten you more, given you lived with the devil himself for several torturous years.
Your voice drops low. “You’ve been around Hawkins long enough to realize that this place isn’t right.”
Eddie considers this as he flicks the butt of his cigarette to ash it. “Yeah, I mean, I guess some people say it’s cursed.”
“And what do you say?” You’re almost whispering.
“I don’t know,” he replies, waving his hands to gesture indiscriminately to your surroundings. “I think it’s a shit little town full of mostly shit little people that think way too much of themselves.”
You hum softly, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “But you don’t think it’s cursed?”
He leans in close to your face without regard for your personal bubble. “Isn’t that enough of a curse?” he asks sardonically, voice deep with dramatic flair.
Your eyes fix on a focal point in the distance and you stare at it, unblinking and unfocused.
“Sure.”
Eddie may be repeating his senior year for the second time, but when it comes to people, he is damn perceptive. “You think there’s more to it.” It’s a statement, not a question. Your cheeks grow hot with the flush that comes from the unintended truth of his words.
His head tilts to the side as he tries to catch your gaze. He takes your silence seriously, and drops his voice to match yours. “You know there’s more to it.”
“No. It’s just—I’ve been through more than most in the last year,” your rehearsed reply falls at his feet, and there isn’t a drop of care in your voice as to whether he believes it or not. You heave yourself forward off of the table. “Here, take it, and just—let me know if you can do this.” You shove the composition notebook into his hands, and turn to walk back to your trailer. He scrambles to stand, stumbling a bit as he propels himself off the picnic table.
“Mayfield, I, um—I can read it all? I mean, uh—is there any of it you don’t want me to read?” His words are careful, respectful. It seems to Eddie like you’re trusting him with sometime deep without too much of an explanation, and he’d be damned if he ruined a chance at getting to know (Y/N) Mayfield because he wasn’t aware of your boundaries.
“All of it, Elton!” you call from over your shoulder.
“Wait! Which one? All of it, or none?”
“Both,” you yell without turning back.
You reach your trailer and with a half-wave, half-salute, acknowledging him one last time before letting yourself into your home.
House. Trailer. Shitbox. Whatever.
Your reply stuns Eddie still, and the hand that grasps the notebook falls to his side. He takes a moment to contemplate the last ten minutes of his life, shakes his head and mutters a few explicatives before heading back to the friendly confines of his trailer across from yours.
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Next chapter ➡️
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gifsbysimplysonia · 6 months
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Avenged Sevenfold performs during Aftershock Festival at Discovery Park in Sacramento on Oct. 5, 2023.
Photos by Steve Thrasher & Priscilla Rodriguez
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robuttsyeah · 8 months
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listened to a7x and thought of this
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tombofmemories · 1 year
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Avenged Sevenfold - Life Is But a Dream…
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izel-scribbles · 2 months
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song is requiem by the avenged sevenfold, highly recommend since it’s literally About the mandela catalogue!!!!!
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poolboyservice · 5 months
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xcranium · 9 months
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Synyster Gates (Burn Halo - Dirty Little Girl)
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heehawkins · 9 months
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Matt “this thing’s fucked uUuUuUuUp, wHaT tHe fUcK iS tHe mAtTeR WiTh tHiS tHiNg?? who gives a fUuUuUuUucK” Shadows, everyone
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evvyza7x · 2 months
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Little Simon drawing for the soul
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rgatesme · 10 months
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bbreakingbenjamin · 1 year
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" I'm a God, I'm awake, I'm the one in everything I'm alive, I'm the dead, I'm a man without a head "
AVENGED SEVENFOLD - NOBODY [Official Music Video] (2023)
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the-unforgivenn · 10 months
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Here’s a link to my AO3 multi-chapter Eddie and fem!OC/Reader fic And I Need You to Know - now complete
Summary: There are many ways to cope with grief, and OC/Reader Mayfield is not sure where to start. She finds some solace in writing it all down, but it’s not enough.
Enter The Metalhead of Forest Hills Trailer Park to provide her with exactly what she needs to transform her tumultuous (and scary dark) emotions from paper into something real.
It works. The Elder Mayfield is on her way to healing, and perhaps, feeling something she wasn’t sure she was capable of feeling…
It’s too bad that high school hormones, jealous emotions, and Season Four gets in the fucking way.
Based on the discography of Avenged Sevenfold, because I’m convinced they wrote songs about this show in 2005/2010. And I need you to know — all of the songs depicted are not my own. They’re solely the property of Matt, Brian, Jimmy, Zach, Johnny and Brooks. I figured you all knew that, but it’s worth saying again.
MATURE/EXPLICIT CONTENT AND LANGUAGE; MDNI PLEASE N THANKS
Word count: 566,348 🫠
Relationships: Eddie Munson/You, Eddie Munson & Reader, Eddie Munson/Original Female Character, Gareth (Stranger Things)/You, Gareth (Stranger Things)/Reader, Gareth (Stranger Things)/Original Female Character
Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Protective Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has ADHD, Canon-Typical Violence, Oral Sex/Rough Sex/Vaginal Sex, Eddie Munson is a Rock God, Eddie Munson is Soft for Chrissy Cunningham, Inspired by Music, Songwriting, Idiots in Love, Jealous Eddie Munson, Eddie’s Voice is Just Like M. Shadows’ and No One Can Tell Me Otherwise, Avenged Sevenfold Wrote This Fic, My First Fanfic, Minimal use of Y/N, Kas!Eddie Munson, Vampire Eddie Munson, Fluff and Angst, Loss of Parent(s), Semi-Public Sex, Reference to Medically-Assisted Suicide (in song only), Accidental Voyeurism, Breeding Kink, hanky code, Daddy Kink, Spit kink if you squint, Spanking, Characters Age in Real Time with the Fic (a/n: absolutely no Gareth x Reader content occurs until it’s made very clear all parties are 18+)
Chapter Count: 53/53 - completed
Chapter List:
• one • two • three • four • five • six • seven • eight • nine • ten • eleven • twelve • thirteen • fourteen • fifteen • sixteen • seventeen • eighteen • nineteen • twenty • twenty-one • twenty-two • twenty-three • twenty-four • twenty-five • twenty-six • twenty-seven • twenty-eight • twenty-nine • thirty • thirty-one • thirty-two •thirty-three • thirty-four • thirty-five • thirty-six • thirty-seven • thirty-eight • thirty-nine • forty • forty-one pt 1 • forty-one pt 2 • forty-two • forty-three • forty-four • forty-five • forty-six • forty-seven • forty-eight • forty-nine • fifty • fifty-one • fifty-two • fifty-three •
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fuckyeahbrianehaner · 4 months
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New photo of Avenged Sevenfold 😎
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xx-key-xx · 6 months
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unholyc0nfessionz · 10 months
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MATT WITH CURLY HAIR.
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livingdeadgirlxxx · 4 months
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𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡
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