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the situation with harry potter is kind of unprecedented in some ways imo because it is maybe the largest media franchise in history to be created & owned by a single person who still has direct creative control over it. who is also a billionaire with significant cultural/political influence. like the usual "no ethical consumption under capitalism" type excuses shatter on impact when the bigoted author in question is logging onto twitter every day saying explicitly that when you buy the tim hortons ravenclaw donut she is using your donut money to fund the genocide of trans people. like with big franchises usually there's at least a little more diffusion of responsibility than this
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Kas!Eddie He thinks he’s too monstrous to be loved. Steve disagrees and kisses the bat bites, calls his wings “pretty,” lets Eddie drink from his wrist. “You’re not a monster to me, Eds. You’re all mine.”
eddie didn’t do soft. his whole existence ran around heavy metal and a fantasy game— so when he found himself smitten with a girl who religiously listened to madonna and squealed at baby bunnies, he figured the universe was playing a joke on him.
you’d show up to hellfire sessions with a pink scrunchie and a container of homemade cookies, cheering the loudest when his campaign took a particularly creative twist. you chose to sit cross-legged on an amp while he practiced, humming along even when the riffs were too heavy for your taste.
he’d never admit it, but he always let you play with his hair behind closed doors whether it was just twirling the strands or braiding it. pampering him was your guilty pleasure; you’d put eyeliner on him before gigs at the hideout once or twice.
turns out the freak and the girl who liked glittery pens fit together just fine.
Summary: You had no idea how hot Eddie would be on stage, and when someone throws her bra at the band, you teach your rival a lesson.
Warnings: catfight, explicit smut, protected car sex, Eddie is delighted with your possessiveness
Word count: 2800
A/N: A post by @hamilhansen inspired me to write the fight part!
A/N 2: No plot connection, but this belongs to the Curse of the City Brat and Side Quest (though tonight we go to Eddie’s show, not to play).
The Hideout is a dive bar that gave up on health codes long ago. It crouches at the edge of the industrial district: ugly and not even trying. Corrugated metal siding, a flickering neon sign, and a parking lot that is mostly potholes—but hey, that is where Corroded Coffin is allowed on stage.
You sit in your car for fifteen minutes.
You’ve changed four times. The first outfit is too try-hard. The second is too "I’m slumming it." The third makes you look like you’re going to a PTA meeting. The fourth: a black leather skirt that hits mid-thigh, a vintage Black Sabbath tee you bought at a thrift store on a shameful solo mission Wednesday afternoon, and your killer heels. It feels like a costume. But then again, everything you wear these days is a costume. At least this one is honest about who you’re trying to impress.
You told the clique you had a migraine. Tiffany offered to bring over magazines and ice cream. You declined with the appropriate amount of pathetic gratitude and then spent twenty minutes on your eyeliner.
The Hideout is packed by Hawkins standards, which means maybe sixty people crammed into a space designed for forty. It smells like cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and a hint of weed. You slip in through the side door, find a spot near the back wall, and try to become invisible.
The stage is barely a stage: a raised platform in the corner, amps stacked on top of each other, and cables taped down with duct tape. A hand-painted banner reads CORRODED COFFIN in dripping red letters that look like a horror movie title card.
Then Eddie walks out and everything else stops existing.
He’s gone full war paint. Eyeliner is smudged dark around those ridiculous doe eyes, turning them feral. The black shirt is ripped—sleeves torn off, collar cut into a deep V that shows the ink on his chest. His hair is wilder than you’ve ever seen it, and he’s grinning with that manic, unhinged grin you’ve seen across the D&D table, the one that says I am the Dungeon Master and tonight you are all at my mercy.
He grabs the mic.
"Hawkins!" His voice cracks through the room like a whip. "Are you ready to have your souls devoured? Because Corroded Coffin didn’t come here to play nice. We came here to raise the dead!"
The crowd roars. Eddie slings his beloved BC Rich Warlock low and strikes the first chord.
It isn’t just loud; it’s alive. Eddie doesn’t just play guitar—he wages war with it. His fingers fly up and down the neck, the body slung low against his hips , and his hair whips as he headbangs. He rules the stage like he rules the D&D table - fully immersed.
You press your back against the wall and feel your pulse sync to the bass drum.
They play metal covers. Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Metallica make the crowd lose its collective mind. Eddie commands the room between songs, prowling the stage edge, pointing at people, and calling out hecklers with the same theatrical menace he uses on reluctant D&D players.
"You in the back! Yeah, you with the Bon Jovi patch—this is a metal show, brother. We don’t do ballads here."
The crowd eats it out of his hands.
And then, mid-song during a blistering cover of "Hallowed Be Thy Name", his eyes sweep the crowd and find you.
You see the exact moment recognition hits. His fingers don’t falter, but something shifts in his face. The stage persona cracks for a fraction of a second. Underneath it, it's just Eddie, staring at you through a wall of sound, looking stunned and raw and so nakedly happy that it makes your chest ache.
Then the grin comes back: wider, wilder, and aimed directly at you like a spotlight.
He launches into the solo like a man possessed. He plays the rest of the song right at you. Not obviously, but you feel it. Every shredding run, every howl into the mic, every time he drops to his knees on the stage and arches back with the guitar across his lap—it’s for you.
By the time Corroded Coffin starts their last song, you are wrecked.
Not emotionally—well, yes, emotionally, but that’s secondary to the more immediate problem: watching Eddie Munson perform has turned you on so much it’s embarrassing to admit. The way he moves, the way he snarls into the mic, the way sweat runs down his throat while his chest heaves, and those ringed fingers moving with obscene dexterity... the same fingers that were inside you two days ago, curling against that spot while he whispered come for your Dungeon Master...
You are soaked. Standing in a dive bar full of strangers, thighs pressed together under your leather skirt, breathing through your mouth, absolutely drenched. The skirt is short enough that you’re viscerally, constantly aware of how little is between you and disaster. Every time you shift your weight, the leather slides against your thighs, and the lace underneath reminds you just how wet you are.
This is a problem.
You aren't the only one dripping deep down, though. While you’re still leaning on the wall, a braver girl in the front row unhooks her bra and throws it on stage.
Grave mistake. You start to make your way through the crowd.
Eddie doesn’t notice at first, but the other guys do. Following their stares, Eddie lifts the lacy thing and dangles it in the air.
"Looks like Cinderella dropped something. How could we find the owner and return this pretty thing?"
A few girls start to scream and wave their hands. Your eyes x-ray them for the absence of a bra. Suspicion lands on a steamy redhead, and you launch yourself at her.
"You bitch! He’s mine."
The girl pushes you away and your heels betray you. Someone catches your fall and shoves you back onto the redhead. You go straight for her hair.
"I will stuff that bra down your throat, you slut!"
Eddie should stop this, but he just stares, mesmerized by the fact that two girls are fighting for him. Or maybe that you're crazy enough to attack the other girl.
Her nails go for your face, but you turn away just in time, grip the chain around her neck, and pull. Her fist catches the side of your cheek. You return the favor.
It’s a fight between two feral cats: clawing, cursing, and pulling hair. For a minute you get on top of her, straddle her hips, and pin her hands down.
"Pick up your fucking bra and get out before I claw your eyes out!"
A few pairs of hands land on you and drag you away. You keep kicking and cursing until you’re in the back room with Eddie, who is clutching your hands.
"Hey, princess, it’s over. The rival is gone."
Your head is still spinning.
"Here, drink." He gives you a glass of cold water and wraps some ice in a towel to press to your cheek where you took a blow.
"Why did you pick it up?" you ask angrily.
"Sorry baby, I thought it would be funny for the show."
"Did I give you a show?" You snarl at him, still high from the fight.
"You sure did, and it was hot as hell. I’ll know better than to pick up underwear in the future. I'll let the guys have it. Honestly, that’s never happened before."
"Eddie, I don't know what got into me." You finally start to realize that you were fighting another girl over Eddie, and it could have been way worse than a few scratches.
"Oh, princess... I’ve never been this flattered in my entire life. But I can’t risk you getting hurt. You’re lucky that girl didn’t expect it. You scared her; Gareth is taking care of her."
"Wait, she’s not gone?"
"Take a breath, champ. I’m right here with you. Drink." His voice brings you back to the present moment, rough and wrecked from singing. "Let's get some air."
He helps you back into the shoes you lost mid-fight and guides you to the car, supporting your elbow.
Eddie leans against the building’s corner and lights a cigarette between his fingers. He’s damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged, and grinning like you gave him the best gift in the world.
"You came," he says. It isn't a question.
"Turns out I need to watch you," your voice comes out shaky. "I was in the area."
"In the area." He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between you. "Of a dive bar. On a Friday night. In a band tee you definitely didn’t own a week ago." His gaze feels like he’s undressing you. "And a leather skirt that’s doing things to me."
"It’s vintage."
"The shirt is vintage. The skirt is a cold weapon and we both know it." He stops in front of you, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin. He braces one hand on the car roof above your head, caging you the way he did in the school hallway. His voice drops. "So tell me—how was the show?"
Your back is against the car door. Your heart is trying to escape through your ribs.
"It was fine."
"Fine." He leans closer, lips almost brushing your ear. He smells like smoke, sweat, and that cheap cologne he wears that has no right smelling as good as it does on him. "Is that why you launched at that girl like a wild cat?"
"I’m possessive."
"Yes you are, and you’re certainly very jealous." His free hand finds the hem of your skirt, fingertips resting on bare thigh just below the leather edge. "I’m so horny from watching you fight for me."
"Eddie..."
"Can’t help it. It’s like trying not to stare at a car crash." He pauses. "A really, really hot car crash." His fingers inch higher under the skirt, tracing the edge of lace. "And unless I’m mistaken... you feel the same."
You grab his wrist, but not to stop him.
"Get in the car," you say, before the reasonable part of your brain can stop you.
Eddie’s eyebrows rise. "What?"
"Get in the car, Munson. Now. Back seat."
His grin splits slow and wicked. "Bossy. I like it."
You yank the back door open. Eddie tosses his cigarette, folds to get inside, and you climb in after him, pulling the door shut. The light dies behind the tinted windows. The back parking lot is mostly empty now.
The back seat of your car wasn't designed for this. It’s tight, the leather seats creaking as Eddie settles in the middle with his legs spread to make room for you. You don't hesitate.
You climb into his lap.
The leather skirt rides up your thighs the second you straddle him, bunching at your hips and leaving nothing but the lace of your panties between you. Eddie’s hands go to your bare thighs immediately, and his breath hatches when you settle your weight right against him, already hardening against his jeans.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Okay. This is happening. In your fancy car. In a dive bar parking lot."
"Shut up." You grab fistfuls of his ruined shirt and kiss him, tasting his last cigarette. The adrenaline of the fight still lingers and you want to claim him, prove he’s entirely yours. He groans into your mouth and pulls you tighter, grinding you down against him. You catch his lower lip and bite hard, then soothe with your tongue.
"You were so hot there..." You bite his neck. "On stage. The way you..." Another bite. "I couldn’t allow her..."
"Use your words, little feral." He’s grinning against your mouth, hands palming your breasts and pulling the shirt up. "What specifically about watching me play guitar made you so crazy that you attacked a fangirl and dragged me into your car?" The denim seam rubs against your clit through soaked lace, making you whimper.
"Everything." You grind down, and you both moan. "Your hands. Your voice. The way you..." He reaches for his belt, both of you panting in the dark. "The way you played for me. Like nothing else in the world existed."
Eddie’s expression softens for one second.
"Nothing else did exist," he says quietly. "You were there." Eddie frees his large cock, teasing your clit with it through the lace.
Your breath catches. "That was smooth, Munson."
"I have my moments." He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the spot below your ear that makes you shudder. "Now, are we doing this properly, or are you going to keep humping me?"
"I’m going to ride you," you say, watching his beautiful eyes, "and you’re going to tell me you’ll never pick up whatever garbage they throw on stage."
"Yes ma’am." Eddie whispers. "Yes.”
He lifts his hips, shoving jeans and boxers down just enough. You reach under your skirt, hook your thumbs in the lace, and drag your underwear down your thighs and off one heel. The other dangles from your ankle, and neither of you cares. The skirt stays on, bunched at your waist, with your heels still on your feet.
Eddie produces a condom from his wallet and rolls it on with shaking hands. Then you sink onto him.
Eddie’s head falls back against the seat. His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise. His mouth falls open with no words—just a raw, guttural sound that vibrates through your whole body.
"Fuck," his voice cracks. "You feel so good."
You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift, then drop. Lift again. You find a rhythm, slow at first, rolling your hips, adjusting the angle until... there, that spot. You gasp, and Eddie’s eyes snap to yours, wide and wild in the dark.
"That’s it," he rasps. "Right there? Show me."
You show him.
The car rocks slightly, the windows fog with your heavy breathing. Somewhere distant, a motorcycle starts but you’re too gone to care. You ride him with the leather skirt shoved up around your waist and your heels digging into the back of leather seats. Hips rolling, grinding, thighs burning, sweat sliding between your shoulder blades. Eddie keeps one hand on your hip to guide you, while his other hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit without even looking.
"My crazy girl..." Eddie pants against your ear. He grabs the back of your neck and kisses you, sloppy and desperate, hips snapping up to meet yours. The car bounces harder. His thumb circles faster on your clit. You fuck him harder, bouncing now, one hand on his shoulder and the other fisted in his hair. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting deep where you need it. You can feel your high building like a coil tightening low in your belly.
"You watched me the whole time?" he growls against your throat. "Got wet just watching me play?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Couldn’t stop. Wanted to climb on stage and..."
He cuts you off with a hard thrust that makes you cry out.
"Next time," he promises, his voice wrecked. "Next time I’ll pull you up there. Fuck you right on the amp stack while the crowd watches."
The idea pushes you over the edge. You come whispering his name with your broken voice, shaking and clenching around him so tight he can’t hold back a small moan.
Eddie follows right after. His hips snap up, burying deep with a guttural groan, his face pressed into your neck.
You stay like that: sweaty, panting, tangled in the back seat. His arms are wrapped around you, your forehead drops on his shoulder. Eddie kisses your temple soft and tender.
"You really came."
"Couldn’t stay away," you whisper back.
He smiles real: not the stage grin, not the DM smirk, something he keeps just for you.
"Good."
"Your set was good," you mumble into his neck.
"My set was legendary, and you know it." He wraps both arms around you, loose and warm. "Also, did you just fuck me in the back seat of what I’m now realizing is a very expensive car? While wearing heels that cost more than my van? Because I feel like that’s a class mobility moment we should acknowledge."
"Shut up, Munson."
"Never." He kisses the top of your head. "Not when I’ve got a city girl in my lap who just made sounds that would get her expelled from the country club."
You bite his collarbone. He yelps, then laughs.
The parking lot is completely empty now. The neon sign of the Hideout is off. You end up back at the trailer because neither of you wants the night to end.
HUDSON WILLIAMS APPRECIATION WEEK (August 9th-15th)
in the spirit of season two filming commencing soon and wanting to spread some extra love for the boys, connorhudsongifs is hosting two separate appreciation weeks for hudson and connor! first up is hudson, while connor will have his own week in september! we ask that you tag everything (gifs, edits, art) #hudsonweek so we can keep track and reblog here!
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“Wait for me” and the reprise in Hadestown have killed me. Put that on my gravestone. Just kidding who can afford a gravestone times being what they are.
ᰔ older!beefy!eddie whose metabolism slowly began to catch up with him in his mid-20s. he now does mechanic work, still doing gigs with occasional bartending help when needed. you first met when your engine started making a weird sound and you came in looking like a lost puppy.
god, were you a flirt.
eddie knew he was screwed from the moment he first set his eyes on you. he had to admit, you made him feel like a bit of a creep. you were at least ten years his junior. town freak to town pervert? not a title change he’d be fond of.
but he was only a man. he wasn’t exactly the most popular in high school. he was going to make up for it now.
“eddie. oh, please.”
you were a blabbering mess on his bed— he already had scratches across the expanse of his back.
there’s a focused furrow line between his brows, teeth buried into the plump of his bottom lip. he’s keeping you face down ass up with a ringed hand pressed to the small of your back as he thrusted into you. he would’ve never thought someone would be this desperate for him.
“‘s okay..” he shushes lowly. his pace stays the same but his movements are gentle as he leans down to wrap the crook of his elbow around your neck, burying his forehead into your shoulder.
if he were to take you clenching around him as any sort of sign, he assumed you liked his arms.
Headcanon grogu gets zoomies sometimes and really wants to play tussle but din's always cautious abt not doing "too much" so it always devolves into grogu throwing himself at din's arm and biting and scratching and din just going 'uh huh good job' n occasionally nudging him away just so the kid has an excuse to launch himself at him again. Send post
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