⛤Eddie's Lunch Box⛤

“He’s doing the stare again,” someone whispered.

“Don’t make eye contact.”

Eddie smiled. Tilted his head. Made direct, unblinking eye contact with a sophomore who immediately turned away and walked into a wall.

Oh yeah, Eddie loved parties.

He pulled the rings from his fingers one by one and put them back on in a different order. Took a swig of warm Jack. Watched a cheerleader explain to her boyfriend why Eddie Munson was “literally dangerous” and “probably in a cult.”

He raised his bottle in a toast to her. She squeaked. Boyfriend puffed his chest.

Eddie flicked his tongue.

Art. Form.

The bass from some terrible pop song thumped through the walls of the fancy house. Munson was already halfway to orbit—weed and various alcohol combined in his bloodstream creating a soft haze. Mission accomplished: jocks kept side-eyeing him, cheerleaders whispered: “freak show,” “Satan’s roadie,” and “the guy who fucks his guitar.”

Eddie heard you before he clocked you — that voice, bright and mean.

“Oh good, the freak’s here. Like we don’t have enough of him at school”

He turned.

You were standing with a cluster of your friends — he knew your name, knew your type, had been enduring your commentary since sophomore year in the hallway, in the cafeteria, once in the parking lot when you’d called him a quote, “walking dispensary”. You were wearing a short white dress, arms crossed, cup in hand, looking at him the way people look at gum on a shoe.

Eddie looked you over and flicked his tongue between V fingers. 

“C'mere, poisoned rose.”

You made a throwing up gesture and your friends laughed. The group moved to another room like a flock of sheep. Party went on. Munson leaned out of the window and lit a cigarette. 

The 7 Minutes in Heaven game was Tina’s idea, which meant it was inevitable, cause she hosted. 

A bottle. A closet. Timed on someone’s Casio. The usual theater of high school desperation.

Eddie had zero intention of participating until approximately the moment you rolled your eyes and said, loud enough for the circle to hear: “Can someone make sure Munson doesn’t play? I don’t want to die of whatever he has.”

He sat down in the circle and smiled at you across it.

You looked like you’d bitten into something sour.

The bottle spun. Dark green glass reflected the light. Slowing, slowing —then stopping, neck pointing at Eddie.

He spread his hands. Well.

It spun again.

It stopped at you.

The silence was beautiful.

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“Game’s a game,” Tina said, already herding people back and opening the closet door ready to  enjoy giggling and guessing that will start as soon as the door closes behind you two. 

“I’m not going in a closet with him.”

“Seven minutes,” Eddie said pleasantly, unfolding from the floor, “or you forfeit. Those are the terms. I didn’t make the rules.”

He gestured graciously toward the open closet door.

You looked at him. At the door. At your friends, who were completely failing to hide their delight at this development.

You walked into the closet.

Eddie followed.

The door clicked shut. The Casio beeped. Darkness swallowed you both, the air was warm, cramped, and smelled like lavender and Eddie’s leather jacket.

You told him immediately. “If you think I’m touching you, Munson, you’re even more delusional than everyone thinks.”

Eddie’s voice came low, amused, a little slurred. “Relax, princess. I’m not here for your virtue. Though word on the street is goats are scarce this time of year. Gotta make do with what’s available for a proper virgin sacrifice.”

You scoffed. “Keep dreaming. I’m not a virgin. Why does it have to be a virgin anyway?”

“You know,” he said, “I heard someone once say — and I thought this was kind of profound — that if you offer someone a sandwich, it’s better if nobody’s already—” he paused, and his voice was perfectly, infuriatingly pleasant — “you know. Messed with the sandwich before.”

You shoot him a glance that could kill.

He felt it even in the dark.

“Did you just compare me to a sandwich?”

Then a small, thin beam of light clicked on.  You flinched. “What is that—”

“Keychain.” He angled it down, away from your eyes, so it threw a dim glow between you. A little skull-shaped flashlight, dangling off his house key. “I go to a lot of dark places.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Yes,” he said and hung the light on the coat hanger. 

You stared at it. Then at him — half-lit from one side, sharp jawline with stubble, hair messy, completely at ease in the absurdity of the situation that was deeply annoying to you.

You opened your mouth for another cutting remark, but Eddie moved faster than a guy that stoned should’ve been able to. He caught your wrists, lifted them above your head, and pinned them gently but firmly against the shelves. The wood creaked. Your breath hitched.

“Shh,” he murmured, voice dropping into that velvet-dungeon-master register, warm hand gently covering your mouth for a second. “The ritual demands it. Arms up. Offer yourself to the dark powers.”

Those damn rings dragged against your skin, slowly down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the neckline of your white mini dress. Just gliding. In some order, like he was drawing infernal sigils on you.

You hated how your body reacted. The pulse pumping up, your nipples getting hard and sensitive, the goosebumps on the back of your arm.

“I’m stretching you on the altar in a pure white dress,” he murmured, “I paint unholy symbols on your body and raise the obsidian blade over your heart.” He traced the sharp edge of his ring over the swell of your breast, barely covered by the revealing neckline.

His breath hovered over your ear and deep voice demanded: 

“Surrender” 

You felt the heat of his body, his hardness touching your lower belly, pressing in. His lips ghosted down your neck, barely touching. 

“Offer yourself to my Master through me” Eddie traced the hem of your dress waiting for your verbal or nonverbal permission. You wanted it. You hated how much.

The ring traced your throat. “The blade is breaking the skin on your neck, surrender your body or your life.” 

A stupid, traitorous tear slipped down your cheek.

Eddie noticed immediately. He leaned in, and licked the tear off your cheek with one slow, slick swipe of his tongue.

“Delicious,” he whispered. “Bratty girls cry the sweetest.”

Your knees actually buckled. The air felt too thick. Your mouth went dry. For once in your life, you had nothing smart to say.

“I surrender,” you whispered, parting your lips as you breathed out. 

He kissed you so gently it demolished the last wall standing — and then his hand bunched the fabric of your dress at your hip, and your leg lifted almost involuntarily, and Eddie took over your mouth properly, with his teeth and his tongue, angling to get deeper, and you let him, you let him. 

A fist pounded on the door. “Time’s up, freaks!”

Eddie released your wrists but didn’t step back right away. He gave you that signature smug, dimpled grin in the dim light.

You stumbled out first. The hallway felt blinding. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to brace a hand on the wall. The circle of partygoers went dead silent at the sight of you—flushed, quiet, white dress slightly rumpled, another tear track still glistening on your cheek.

Eddie stepped out easy, hands in his pockets, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Someone whistled. “Damn, Munson. What’d you do to her?”

Eddie just winked, voice loud enough for the whole hallway. “Gave her a cathartic experience.”

You shot him a glare that was supposed to be withering but landed somewhere closer to dazed. 

Your friends surged toward you. What happened? Are you okay? What did he DO?

“Nothing,” you said. “He was weird. It was disgusting.”You sat down on the couch holding your cup with both hands. 

They believed you instantly.

You were, statistically, a very good liar.

The next pair got shoved into the closet. The party resumed its noise. And then, just under the music, close enough that only you could hear it:

“Until next time.” A pause. “Or are we doing this properly?”

You didn’t answer. You looked at the stairs.

Just once. Just briefly. A flicker of a glance that lasted half a second and said everything.

Behind you, you heard him push off the wall.

“Don’t keep me waiting, princess” 

If you need more D&D sex I have it here (stories are not connected)

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.

part 2 here: [nap trap pt.2]

It makes them reckless in some ways, but careful in others.

And I think that's what drives a lot of his behavior in s5.

Ultimately, Steve is someone who cares so much it probably gets exhausting for him sometimes.

For all his tendencies to act detached—snarky, cocky, stubborn, mean, bitchy, whatever you wanna call it—Steve has always been someone who loves people with his whole chest.

When he loves someone, he commits to them completely.

And when it comes to you, he's hopelessly attached.

So yes, when he fucks you prone—his weight crushing against your back as he grinds against your ass, buried so deep you feel him in your stomach—voice low in your ear when he asks if you can be a good slut for him—fuck, you just got so tight, baby. you like being my little slut? hm? gonna let me use this pussy whenever I want?—

When he yanks your arms over head, pushing his fingers into the space between yours, lacing them tight so he has all the leverage like this while he uses you—

When he leans down close, exhaling against your skin, nosing into your neck as he presses gentle kisses across your cheek—love you... love you so much. does this feel good? yeah? you gonna come for me, baby? that's it, good girl, let me feel you—all while fucking you so hard the bedframe thuds repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that the wallpaper’s gonna show it tomorrow—

You know it's because Steve doesn’t experience love in parts.

So when he presses you into an unlit corner in the radio station's basement—facing away from him, wedged between unfinished drywall and dust-coated shelves, whispering about how tight your pussy feels—bet it'd get even tighter if someone walked in, huh? you want that, baby? want someone to see how good you take this cock?—fucking you so hard until you have to bite down on the meat of his palm to keep from screaming—it isn't really because he wants an audience.

If anything, the possibility of one is secondary.

What he wants is proof.

Proof that you're still here, that you still want him. Proof that, out of everything happening around you, you're still choosing him.

The tangible, undeniable affirmation that, even as the world is ending around him, there's still this: your hands on him, his hands on you, the two of you choosing each other in spite of everything.

For a few stolen moments, there's physical evidence of something good still existing in his life. Something worth fighting for. Something that belongs to him just as much as he belongs to it.

And of course, it’s not something he’d ever say out loud—because naming it would mean having to sit with where it actually comes from.

What? It's hot, he'll say, the next time he pulls you into the tiny bathroom in the sqwk basement, smirking in the mirror as he bends you over the sink, shoving his pants down and stroking his cock; it's been hard the last half hour, straining against his jeans while he sat on the couch with his legs crossed, watching the group busy themselves with strategizing about tonight’s crawl, trying to figure out how to stop the world from ending—or at least pretend they can.

He'll insist it's about the thrill.

You look so good, honey, can't help myself.

What he'll never say is that it goes deeper than that.

He'll never admit that those reckless, impulsive moments are rooted in the same fear he's been carrying inside him for years. The fear of loss. The fear of loving people so completely and still being unable to keep them. He's spent his life watching people disappear, leave, die, or slip beyond his reach.

So he finds whatever excuse he can to steal a few minutes alone with you in a world that never seems to stop demanding something from him.

And for a man who's spent so much of his life losing things, those few minutes of certainty are intoxicating.

The irony of I-don't-give-a-fuck-anymore Steve is that, in some ways, he's the most frightened version of himself.

The shop he booked with has a steep cancellation fee (and also he’s not a bitch) so he decided “fuck it.” It’ll look good on him anyway. 

He knows because he did extensive research and some amateur photo editing after glass number four.)

He peels into the parking lot on two wheels a whole two minutes before his appointment and breathes a sigh of relief and the slightest bit of apprehension.

He knew booking during the week would be an ordeal but he didn’t want to wait, sue him.

So as he walks in the door to the very last appointment of the day, he’s got an apology on the tip of his tongue. He’s met with a bright smile and a wave.

“Hey man, welcome in! What can we do for you today?”

Steve catches the tail end of the once over the guy gives him and can imagine the picture he makes.

Who pulls up to the tattoo/piercing shop at 4:50 p.m. on a Wednesday in khakis and a corporate branded quarter zip?

He reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck, a sudden onslaught of nerves making him jittery.

“Uh yeah hi. I’ve got an appointment with Eddie?”

The guy behind the counter snaps his fingers and points. 

“Nostril piercing, right?”

Steve nods.

“Sick. You check out the jewelry here on this first shelf and I’ll let him know you’re here.” The guy walks toward a back room but catches the doorframe at the last second. “I’m Jeff by the way. Holler if you need anything.”

Steve peruses the jewelry and sees a ton of things he would never be brave enough to try for himself. But he sends a couple of snaps to Robin, sees some things she would look cool with.

He lands on a tiny diamond stud with a gold setting. Knows it’ll probably cost an arm and a leg despite its size but can’t bring himself to care. He’s always been drawn to things that sparkle and he can just imagine now how this one would look. Subtle, but flashy in its own right.

Jeff comes back and has Steve fill out some paperwork. Tells him he picked a good piece and that he’ll have to make sure he lets him see it before he leaves.

Steve kills a few minutes in the lobby, eyes drifting over the tattoo designs on the wall. A number of them signed “Eddie Munson.” Huh. Maybe if he decides to get tattooed next he’ll make this a one-stop shop.

His nerves are just starting to creep up on him when he hears footsteps coming down the hall.

Steve’s man enough to admit that he’s a little floored for a half second before he pulls himself together. 

“Hey man! Steve, right? You ready to go?”

Eddie, he assumes, is a character. That’s the only word he has for him.

He’s hot, first and foremost, but he’s also just interesting.

Dressed in black, lots of it, some 80’s band shirt and the clunkiest boots Steve’s ever seen, somehow his outfit is hardly the most noticeable thing about him. His tattoos on every inch of his arms are equally as distracting as the silver jewelry all but covering his ears. Steve can practically hear it clinking as he talks. He’s got wild curls pulled up on top of his head and Steve is grateful, he’ll say that.

He shakes himself off and nods. Shrugs with his hands in his pockets.

“Ready as I’m gonna get, probably.”

Eddie’s smile makes Steve’s stomach swoop. He nods toward the back and leads the way.

Eddie gestures for Steve to sit down and he starts talking about the process but Steve’s hardly listening. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and it's got nothing to with the needle he’s about to have shoved in his face. 

Before he can psych himself entirely out, Eddie shuffles in front of him with a pen.

“Look at me.”

Steve’s eyes dart up to meet Eddie’s and he watches them fill with mirth. Feels ringed fingers catch his chin and tilt his face up. Oh. Duh.

“Not quite, sweetheart.”

Steve can all but feel the blush cover his cheeks.

His eyes dart all over Eddie’s face while he marks on Steve’s skin. He looks at the sharp focus of his brow, the double hoops situated in the side of his nose, his stupidly pretty lips. The way he watches his eyes refocus on Steve’s whole face.

“You ever had anything pierced before?”

And oddly enough, “Yeah in college. Got drunk at a party and let some girl pierce my ears.” Eddie fake-winces and makes Steve giggle. “I didn’t keep them though.”

He feels Eddie’s fingers tuck his hair behind his ear and he turns Steve’s head to the side with a hum.

“Shame. Think you’d look awful cute with some hoops.”

Before Steve can process Eddie’s casual flirting the other man’s clapping his hands and telling Steve to check the placement in the mirror.

He doesn’t have the heart to say he couldn’t care less where the damn thing goes. Not when Eddie’s tugging black latex gloves on over his shoulder in the mirror.

He sits back down and wrings his hands in his lap, suddenly nervous again.

Eddie tells him to lay back and when he looks up at the ceiling his heartbeat really ramps up. 

“Am I gonna look stupid?” He asks. The impulse finally catching up with him and making him realize what exactly he’s about to do. 

Eddie walks around to stand above his head and he somehow still looks just as pretty upside down.

He shakes his head and adjusts Steve’s head where he wants it. “Hell no. You’re gonna look super hot.” He freezes for a half second before he shrugs, plays it cool. “In my very professional opinion, obviously.”

Steve snorts and smiles as Eddie lines up the needle. His eyes dart across Eddie’s face again and he’s clearly not listening, too distracted by thoughts of how much he wants to kiss his piercer.

He’s startled out of his own head with a tap to his cheek.

Eddie’s smiling down at him. “You don’t have to keep looking at me.”

Steve's mouth has always moved faster than his brain.

“Can I?”

Eddie’s face twists into a smirk but Steve can still see the faintest blush paint his cheeks so he calls his own inability to keep his mouth shut a win.

“You can look as much as you want, pretty boy.”

He lines the needle back up again and Steve takes in a sharp breath.

“Deep breath in, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Steve’s so caught off guard by the way that simple phrase sends all his blood south that he doesn’t even register the needle so much as he just hears Eddie say “– and out. That’s perfect. You’re such a good listener.”

And what the fuck?

Steve’s heart is pounding and his head is fuzzy around the edges and he just feels a little tug and suddenly Eddie’s peeling off his gloves with a “Voila!”

He sits up slowly, wary of the fact that he’s a bit dizzy albeit not from the needle. 

Eddie catches him before he can get to the mirror and Steve is fascinated with the way he can literally watch his eyes darken.

He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “Knew you’d look hot, but Jesus.” He hands Steve a handheld mirror and drags a hand over his face.

Steve looks himself over and can feel his own face light up.

“I love it. It's so cute!”

Eddie covers his face with his hands and groans. “Cute. Jesus fucking Christ.” He snorts and starts gathering up all of Steve’s care instructions and goodies. “Yeah, it’s cute alright.”

Now that he’s not scared anymore, loath as he was to admit that he was in the first place, he can crank the charm back up.

He tilts his head to the side and leans back on his hands. “Yeah? You like it?”

Eddie looks over his shoulder with his eyebrow raised.

“I do like it. Do you?”

Steve gives him a very deliberate once over. Shrugs one shoulder when his eyes make it back up to Eddie’s face. 

“Mhm. S’hot.”

Eddie shakes his head and laughs under his breath. He hands Steve a stack of papers and a handful of stickers.

“Your care instructions, darling.”

Steve snorts when he reads the sticker on top.

“”I got penetrated by a professional.” Really?”

Eddie shrugs. “You did, didn’t you?”

Once again, mouth beats brain.

“I would.”

There’s a charged silence before Eddie huffs and snatches the papers back from Steve.

He’s mumbling under his breath as he scribbles on the paper. Something like “–so stupid, what the fuck.”

When he hands them back there’s a number scrawled across the top.

“Call me when I’m not on the clock, if you’re interested in the alternative context.”

Steve smiles to himself while Eddie rings him up.

Only has to sit in his car for two minutes before he’s pressing call.