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˚꩜｡summary: between cinnamon rolls and spilled glitter, you and wayne conspire behind eddie's back to plan the perfect birthday for him. unfortunately, it so happens to fall on the same fucking day as thanksgiving this year.
˚꩜｡tags/tw: tooth rotting fluff (but the blog is still 18+ so mdni) | no y/n, afab/fem!reader, est. relationship, thanksgiving, eddie's birthday, reader secretly being emotional, eddie calling us mama bc its hot idc, kinda grumpy (reader) x sunshine (eddie), no smut
˚꩜｡word count: 9.4k+
˚꩜｡a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for over a month. i hate it, its utter poo and not proofread </3
pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3
The following weeks disappeared faster than either of you had expected.
One moment, Eddie was desperately trying to finish the nursery while Wayne showed up every weekend with a new excuse about checking the paint or making sure Eddie hadn’t installed the shelves crookedly.
The next, Robin had somehow convinced herself she was Julian’s favourite aunt, Dustin and Will had started thrifting children’s fantasy books, and Steve had developed a stress twitch every time someone handed him a baby item – mostly because it wasn’t a baby item for himself.
He secretly grew to hate Eddie for beating him to becoming the first dad of the group.
Before you knew it, November had arrived.
And somehow, so had Eddie’s twenty-fourth birthday.
Which, coincidentally, fell on Thanksgiving that year.
Because you definitely didn’t have enough shit to do already.
Which was exactly how you’d found yourself sitting somewhat cross-legged on the living room floor – despite knowing getting back up again was going to be absolute hell – with Eddie’s entire collection of photographs from the last six months scattered around you.
A tube of glue rested beside your knee. The biggest photo album you’d been able to find lay open in front of you, surrounded by at least a dozen sheets of stickers and enough glitter pens to concern any reasonable person.
Looking back, you probably should’ve started sooner. Who would’ve thought sorting through six months’ worth of photographs, gluing them onto pages, and decorating them with little captions and notes would take more than ten hours?
Craning your neck towards the clock hanging above the refrigerator, a flicker of panic immediately settled in your chest when you realised it was already nearing five.
Which meant Eddie would be leaving the garage any minute.
Which meant you and your surprise gift were completely screwed. Because there was absolutely no way in hell you’d been able to clean up the disaster surrounding you and hide all the evidence before he got home.
Just like you’d predicted, not even twenty minutes later the soft click of the front door unlocking echoed through the apartment.
The photo album had been snapped shut and shoved beneath the couch – which would undoubtedly become a problem for another day – while your hands tried to move faster than what was humanly possible as you stuffed the remaining supplies into a plastic Walmart bag.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you muttered under your breath, your eye twitching when you nearly dropped a tiny tube of glitter onto the floor. “Please kill me.”
“Don’t even think that.”
Eddie’s voice immediately pulled you from your frantic movements. Your hand froze halfway towards the sticker sheets while your heart seemed to stop beating entirely.
Eddie, bless his heart, walked straight past the evidence without a glance. He set the plastic bag of takeout on the kitchen table, mumbled something about needing the bathroom, and immediately disappeared down the hallway.
Your eye twitched again, then a few times more.
Only when he’d disappeared into the bathroom did you finally snap back into motion, hurriedly shoving the remaining supplies into the bag before cramming it beneath the couch beside the hidden photo album.
While his disgustingly loud stream echoed through the apartment – because he’d recently developed the infuriating habit of leaving every door open in case something happened – you were busy trying to push yourself off the floor.
You tried twice before giving up entirely.
“I forgot to call,” he started before flushing the toilet. “But is Chinese okay?”
Heavy footsteps followed him down the hallway a moment later.
“Or do you want something else?” he asked as he stepped back into the living room. “I don’t mind getting something else if you don’t want Chinese tonight.”
“No, Chinese is fine,” you replied quietly as you finally found his gaze. “Did you get extra egg rolls?”
“Yeah, of cou–” Eddie immediately stopped mid-sentence, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“I–”
“And why do you have tiny containers of glitter?”
Your usual staring contest had apparently started without either of you noticing.
You didn’t win this one.
“I, uh…” you trailed off, desperately trying to buy yourself a few extra seconds while a nervous chuckle escaped you. “No reason, babe.”
“Sweetheart,” he said quietly as he reached for your arms.
“What?”
“You’re the best liar I know,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “But somehow you’re really giving yourself away with this one. What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” you grumbled between annoyed noises when you were finally back on your feet. “And I’m not a good liar.”
Eddie blinked slow and suspiciously at you.
“You literally just contradicted yourself with that second statement.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Sweetheart.”
“What?”
“You absolutely did.”
You ignored him completely as you shuffled towards the kitchen table.
Unfortunately, Eddie had spent far too many years dealing with your nonsense to be thrown off that easily.
“Besides,” he continued, reaching out to brush something from your cheek, “you literally gave glitter on your face.”
“That’s a pregnancy symptom,” you murmured as your hand immediately flew up.
“That’s not a thing, mama.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I’m fairly certain human beings aren’t disco balls.”
“Well, maybe Julian is.”
A laugh escaped him despite himself as he gently pulled a chair for you.
“You literally sound like me right now.”
“Your sperm made my brain melt, that’s why.”
Soft chuckled, the clanking of plates, and the rattling of cutlery being pulled from the drawer filled the brief silence that settled between the two of you.
“So, we’re just gonna pretend you’re not hiding anything?”
“Yes, exactly,” you mumbled around an egg roll.
Eddie simply stared at you. “You just admitted you’re hiding something.”
Shoving another egg roll into your mouth, you quickly dropped your gaze to the table and ignored the question entirely.
“So…” you started after finally swallowing. “What do you want for your birthday?”
Hopefully he’d get distracted by the subject of his birthday and forget all about your suspicious behaviour.
“I already got everything I want,” he replied softly as he scooped some fried rice onto his plate. “You. A beautiful mini-you. I don’t need anything else.”
“That’s bullshit,” you muttered between bites.
“Okay, yeah.” A grin immediately tugged at his lips. “Getting married still needs to be scratched off my list, but that’s a problem for near-future me.”
“Getting married is not a birthday gift.”
“It definitely is if you’re the bride, mama.”
Knowing Eddie after more than a decade, you knew he was being completely serious.
Which is exactly why, on top of stressing about a half-finished photo album and Thanksgiving dinner, you now found yourself stressing over the possibility of adding a last-minute proposal to an already overflowing to-do list.
It was a ridiculous idea – you knew that.
And it would absolutely make him dissolve into a puddle of his own tears the second it finally sank in that you’d beaten him to it.
Just like you’d done nearly six years ago when you’d asked him out on a date that had eventually turned in a relationship.
Eddie still told that story to anybody willing to listen. All glimmering eyes, bashful smiles, and increasingly dramatic retellings as he explained how he’d spent two full days convinced he’d imagined the entire thing.
According to him, he’d never fully recovered. If you were to ask everyone else, he’d simply never shut up about it.
Jesus fucking Christ. That date was coming up too.
While the white ceiling stared right back at you, your mind reeled with too many spiralling thoughts and the growing certainty that you were going to have a panic attack at three in the morning while Eddie snored peacefully beside you.
This was ridiculous.
So was the month of November – which you’d just decided was the worst month of the entire year.
First there was Thanksgiving, which somehow fell on the same exact day as Eddie’s birthday. Then there was the anniversary of your first date, and on top of that, Wayne's birthday too. Then there was the increasingly dangerous idea of adding another important date to the month while you continued entertaining the possibility of proposing to him.
And somewhere in between all of that, you still had to finish a photo album and grow an entire human being.
It was too much.
November was trying to kill you.
“Why are you awake, mama?”
Five quiet words were more than enough to nearly make you jump out of your skin and go into early labour.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you scared me,” you choked out. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled tiredly.
“November,” you mumbled back after a few seconds as you tried turning on your side, only to immediately give up and remain on your back.
“November?”
“November’s gonna kill me.”
Before Eddie’s brain could properly catch up with being awake again, you’d already started voicing your spiral. While you continued staring at the ceiling, your hand moved frantically through the air as you nearly tripped over your own words.
“...your birthday, and Thanks– and then our anniversary, Wayne, and then there’s the–”
The words immediately died in your throat.
Photo album.
“Julian.” You mentally slapped yourself.
Eddie immediately pushed himself up onto an elbow.
“What about Julian? Is she okay?”
The sudden alertness in his voice pulled a sigh from you.
“She’s fine,” you murmured. “She’s just… getting too big.”
One hand found your stomach.
“She’s conspiring with November to kill me.”
“I don’t think she’s capable of conspiracy yet,” he murmured after a relieved sigh escaped him.
“That’s exactly what she wants you to think,” you muttered, rolling your eyes before finally looking over at him. “She’s your daughter. Of course she’s already capable of conspiracy.”
Somewhere between debating whether Julian was going to be a troublemaker and reminding Eddie he’d been caught smoking under the bleachers at fourteen, exhaustion had finally won.
Not for long, but long enough.
Because the next thing you knew, the apartment smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and impending disaster.
The sleepy scowl that came with realising you’d woken up far earlier than any reasonable person deserved only deepened when you heard the soft clinking of dishes coming from the kitchen. Eddie’s arm remained glued firmly around your stomach, completely unaware of whatever crime was currently taking place outside the bedroom.
Whoever it was – and whatever they were doing – it was entirely too early to be dealt with.
Unfortunately, the moment you’d woken up, sleep had abandoned you completely, forcing you to deal with whatever was waiting for you outside the bedroom door.
A hoarse grunt that closely resembled a curse slipped from your lips as you quietly pushed the bedroom door open and waddled into the hallway.
Wayne had apparently used the emergency key – emphasis on emergency, which there certainly wasn’t at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning – and was now standing in your kitchen wearing the ridiculous pink apron Robin had once gifted to you, with the words Baking Queen stretched tightly across his chest.
Icy blue eyes immediately found your while both of his hands froze halfway through whatever he was doing when your footsteps echoed across the tile.
“Why are you awake?”
“Why are you in my kitchen?”
“No reason.”
Wayne immediately averted his gaze and turned back towards the counter.
Which was suspicious, extremely so.
“It’s seven in the morning, Wayne,” you mumbled as you shuffled towards the fridge.
“Then I won’t tell you I’ve been here since five-thirty.”
“Jesus Christ,” you sighed as you pulled the carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. “Eddie is truly your son. No DNA test required.”
The olden man merely snorted under his breath and shook his head as he stirred whatever suspicious concoction he’d poured into the expensive mixing bowl nobody but you were supposed to use.
“Can you at least tell me what you’re making?”
“My mom’s cinnamon rolls,” he replied distractedly. “And muffins.”
“What’s all of that for?”
“I just…” He paused briefly. “Haven’t been around much lately. Wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Wayne,” you deadpanned. “You’ve been here three times a week for the last month.”
“That’s not enough.” His lips pursed in obvious displeasure as his gaze remained fixed on the bowl. “I should be more present. Don’t wanna be like my grandfather. Absent and mean.”
The grip you had on the carton tightened slightly as an odd mixture of gratitude and annoyance settled in your chest.
“The last thing she’s gonna think is that you’re absent or mean,” you replied softly as you poured yourself a glass. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna accuse me of not being around enough compared to you and Eddie.”
“Well, she is a Munson,” he muttered, still not looking up from the bowl. “Dramatic accusations are kind of a family thing.”
“She’s still half mine,” you deadpanned. “Can still make Eddie agree on changing her last name to mine.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Wayne–”
“You’re not talking my baby from me.”
A very sleepy Eddie suddenly appeared in the kitchen before the two of you could continue your light-hearted argument.
Missing one sock and rubbing at his eyes, he shuffled across the hardwood floor like a man who wasn’t entirely convinced he even existed.
“Who’s taking who away from you?”
“Nobody,” Wayne replied as he poured him a cup of coffee before sliding it across the counter. “I won’t let her.”
Eddie frowned. “Won’t let her do what?”
“Change Julian’s last name.”
“Yeah, absolutely not.” Half-lidded brown eyes stared at you over the rim of his coffee mug. For a moment, he simply blinked. “And you won’t be able to manipulate me by showing me your boobies, so don’t even think about trying.”
“Eddie,” you groaned.
Wayne immediately pointed a wooden spoon at him. “Language.”
“Boobies isn’t even a bad word.”
“It is at seven in the morning.”
The sudden ding! of the egg-shaped timer echoed through the kitchen, immediately pulling Wayne’s attention away from the conversation. The wooden spoon in his hand fell back into the bowl as he turned towards the oven.
Eddie, who hadn’t even attempted to question why his uncle was standing in your kitchen at seven in the morning on a Saturday, quietly continued sipping his coffee while Wayne pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven and slid another one inside.
“Since you both are awake, should we discuss Thanksgiving?”
“That’s only next week,” Eddie murmured from behind the rim of his mug. “We’ve got more than enough time.”
Wayne slowly turned around. “Did you lose your goddamn mind, boy?”
Eddie’s hand halted halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“Thanksgiving is five days away.”
“Yeah, exactly.” He shrugged. “Sound like plenty of time.”
“That’s because you’ve never cooked Thanksgiving dinner,” Wayne muttered as he twisted the timer again. “And your goddamn birthday falls on the same day, too.”
Eddie’s eyebrows immediately pulled together as he glanced at you.
“Is that why you were stressing?” he asked quietly. “Because of my birthday and Thanksgiving?”
“What the hell do you mean she was stressing?”
“I–”
“Why the hell are you letting her stress?” Wayne immediately cut you off before you could even try to say anything.
“I wasn’t letting her stress,” Eddie shot back.
The morning slowly melted into afternoon while Wayne lectured Eddie about not letting you stress – making him shrink into himself before immediately becoming defensive again – while transforming the apartment into something that resembled an expensive bakery.
By noon, every available surface had been claimed by cinnamon rolls, muffin tins, mixing bowls, and ingredients you couldn’t even identify anymore. The sweet scent of cinnamon lingered so heavily in the air that you were fairly certain it had permanently attached itself to the walls.
Before you knew it, Wayne had scribbled an insanely long grocery list and shoved it directly into Eddie’s chest, ordering him to stop standing around looking dumb and go to the grocery store.
“I’m telling you, Wayne,” Eddie grumbled as he buckled his belt. “We have more than enough time to buy a turkey.”
“The more you speak, the better I understand why it took you three tries to graduate,” Wayne muttered, shooting him an unimpressed look.
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Go buy my goddamn turkey. And make sure it’s a big one,” Wayne added before he could get another word out. “Otherwise I’ll be roasting you this year.”
After placing a lingering kiss on your forehead, Eddie finally walked towards the front door, annoyed mumbling following the metalhead out the door.
Both you and Wayne stood perfectly still as you listened to the familiar sounds of keys jingling, and watched the door opening and eventually clicking shut behind him.
Silence lingered for another second, then another two, before you shuffled towards the large kitchen window and pulled the curtain aside just enough to watch Eddie climb into the van.
Only when he finally backed out of the parking spot and disappeared down the street did you let the curtain fall back into place.
“Thanksgiving and his fucking birthday on the same day,” you hissed, nearly breaking your neck as you turned towards Wayne. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“First of all, you’re gonna sit down and try a cinnamon roll,” he murmured beside you.
“…Can I have two?”
Wayne carefully loosened the cinnamon rolls from the tray while you shuffled back towards the table. A moment later, he placed a plate in front of you alongside a freshly refilled glass of orange juice.
He gave you three rolls.
A content sigh escaped you when you shoved a piece into your mouth.
“Good?”
“So, so good.”
Wayne chuckled softly as he poured himself another cup of coffee before pulling out the chair beside you.
“Now,” he started after taking a sip, “ about Thanksgiving and that boyfriend of yours.”
“It’s stressing me out, Wayne.” You looked at him with furrowed eyebrows while waving the half-eaten cinnamon roll around.
“Less stressing, more munching.” He pointed at the plate.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s keep it simple,” he continued. “He’s turning twenty-four. That’s not nearly as important as twenty-five.”
“Yeah, but it’s his last birthday without a screaming baby around.”
Wayne shot you a look that immediately made you shove another piece into your mouth instead of continuing.
“We keep it simple, but stupid. Too many turkey decorations,” he continued. “Enough to satisfy that photo obsession of his.”
A groan immediately escaped you. “Oh, God. He’s gonna love that.”
“Exactly.” Wayne took another sip of coffee. “We can ask that Byers boy to make him a banner.”
“A banner?”
“Something ridiculous. Munson Thanksgiving or some nonsense.”
“That’s a horrible idea.”
“Knowing him, he’ll lose his mind when he sees it. And he’ll probably take pictures of it,” he chuckled against the rim of his cup. “And then he’ll make you use it every year.”
You dropped your forehead onto the table. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
While you and Wayne had started making lists over shared laughter, coffee, and cinnamon rolls – even after he’d eventually cut you off, which you ignored – Eddie was currently the one stressing out on the other side of town.
Not because of Thanksgiving, or his birthday. Not even because of the goddamn turkey. But because, despite having been raised by the man, he still couldn’t decipher a single word of Wayne’s handwriting. He’d already asked two employees for help, and neither of them had been successful.
But that was a him problem.
You, on the other hand, had finally stopped stressing.
Kind of.
At least until you had left the bathroom and found Wayne standing in the middle of the living room with a broom in one hand and the photo album in the other.
A noise somewhere between a gasp and a dying animal immediately escaped you, while Wayne’s blue eyes flickered between the photo album and your horrified expression.
“Is there some kind of homemade pornography in here?”
“Jesus Christ, Wayne,” you groaned as you immediately reached for the album. “No. Give it back.”
He effortlessly lifted it out of reach. “If it’s not porn, then what is it?”
“I said give it back.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
Taking advantage of the fact he didn’t an obnoxiously large stomach standing in his way, Wayne all but jogged across the living room as he tried to get out of your reach and sneak a look at whatever the hell you’d been hiding.
The album fell open to the first page, and Wayne was met a photograph of you not nearly as pregnant as you were now, while Eddie grinned at the mirror behind you. Around the picture, ridiculous dragon and guitar stickers had been glued onto the page, alongside a sappy lyric from some love song.
“You made all this?”
“Wayne–” you immediately gave up and just sighed instead.
He continued flipping through the pages in silence, blue eyes moving painfully slowly over the ultrasound photographs, nursery pictures, and the little notes you’d scribbled beside each memory.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “He’s gonna be insufferable when he sees this.”
“Wayne,” you sighed again. “He cannot, under any circumstances, know about this.”
“He’ll probably cry, too,” he continued, completely ignoring you as he turned another page. “And then he’ll never shut up about it.”
“For the love of God, Wayne.”
A low chuckle escaped him when his eyes landed on the particularly awful photograph of you sprawled across the couch with a bucket of ice cream in your lap, trying – and failing – to hide your face behind one hand.
“You still got your key to the trailer?” he asked quietly, finally looking up.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because this isn’t safe here,” he tapped the edge of the album. “That boy can find trouble in an empty room.”
Then he carefully closed the album, tucking is against his chest. “Sooner or later, he’s gonna stick his head under that couch looking for a guitar pick or some other dumb thing.”
“That’s… a fair point.”
“I’ll hide it in the trailer if you want,” he tucked the album beneath one arm. “And you just come by whenever you can to finish it.”
“You’d do that?”
“C’mon, kid. I’m already an accomplice,” Wayne scoffed and patted the photo album. “Might as well help you hide the body.”
By the time Eddie had finally given up on his grocery mission – after only managing to decipher about half of Wayne’s list – you and Wayne had already finished conspiring.
The photo album had been safely hidden away in Wayne’s truck alongside the plastic bag filled with supplies, Thanksgiving had somehow evolved into a military operation, and a concerning amount of birthday-related nonsense had been added to the planning.
When Eddie finally walked back into the apartment, the two of you were cooking.
Or, more accurately, Wayne was cooking.
You were sitting at the table attempting to chop an onion between bouts of hysterical laughter while Wayne told you a childhood story about Eddie you’d never heard before.
“…and then Gareth asked him if he could fly,” Wayne continued as he stirred whatever he’d been cooking, completely ignoring the fact that Eddie had gotten home. “And Eddie being Eddie, he said yes and threw himself off the stairs.”
“Oh, God, no,” you snickered.
“Wayne,” Eddie groaned as he dropped the grocery bags onto the counter. “Stop telling her things.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t need to know these stories.”
Wayne finally glanced over his shoulder. “Kid, she got pregnant with your child. I think we’re well past the point of keeping secrets.”
Eddie’s secrets, in that case.
Because you and Wayne had spent the following few days plotting whenever Eddie was at work, or otherwise occupied somewhere else.
Somewhere along the way, Wayne had recruited Steve and Robin to help buy the ridiculous turkey-themed decorations.
Meanwhile, you’d somehow convinced Will not only to make the stupid banner, but to help you sew a birthday had out of felt. Turkey-themed too, obviously.
Looking back, you still weren’t entirely sure how the conversation had escalated that far. Even more surprisingly, Jonathan had agreed to spend the entire evening acting as photographer. Which meant, unfortunately, that you’d have to make an entirely separate photo album of just the Thanksgiving photos.
The only person left completely in the dark was Eddie.
Which, considering he’d been far too busy thrifting decorations, books and various other nursery-related nonsense despite the room having been finished for weeks, wasn’t particularly surprising.
The man had somehow convinced himself that the baby needed a personal library before she was even born. At this point, you were fairly certain Julian owned more books than the two of you combined.
Banners and garlands draped from chairs backs and light fixtures, all of them turkey-themed – some cute, some borderline unhinged – so that every corner of the room seemed to be screaming gobble gobble.
Robin and Steve had gone completely overboard, to the point they’d somehow found turkey-shaped napkin holders – which you hadn’t even known existed – and a ridiculously dramatic centrepiece that looked less like fall décor and more like an entire flock had staged a hostile takeover of the dining table.
Somewhere along the way, they’d manipulated Dustin and Gareth into helping them hang harvest signs, garlands made from fake leaves, and enough decorative acorns to fill a small forest.
Amid the turkey-induced chaos sat a bright, cheerful cake table. Balloons in various shades of black and grey floated above it, valiantly trying to compete with the ongoing turkey parade, while overhead hung the banner Will had made.
Bright block letters reading Munson’s Thanksgiving stretched across the fabric alongside an absurdly detailed painting of Eddie dressed as a turkey and you dressed as a pilgrim.
The living room looked festive in theory. In practice, however, the overload was so complete it bordered on madness – as though someone had given a craft store a mission and refused to stop until the walls started arguing back.
Eddie hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he’d learned Steve was hosting Thanksgiving this year.
The man had eventually convinced him by promising that next year, when Julian was actually around, the two of you could host instead.
What Eddie didn’t know was that you’d spent days begging. Incessantly, to the point of outright manipulation; at one point, you’d threatened to choose someone else as Julian’s godfather if Steve didn’t let you use his house.
The reason had been simple: Steve’s – his mom’s, actually – dining room was bigger than yours. And, more importantly, it allowed everyone to decorate without Eddie accidentally discovering the surprise.
Unfortunately, that also meant that Eddie had spent the entire week glued to your side after Wayne had told him to worry about you and your swollen feet instead of the holiday. Which, in turn, meant you were slowly climbing up the walls.
“What time do we leave again?” Eddie asked for what had to be the fifth time, squinting down at the cuffs of his button-up shirt.
The mascara wand nearly took out an eye when your eyelid twitched in annoyance.
“For the last time,” you groaned, blinking at your reflection in the mirror, “we leave in half an hour.”
“Oh,” he hummed. “Does that mean we have enough time for you to do my hair?”
“Not if you keep making me poke my eye out while I’m trying to do my makeup,” you muttered.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you sighed, catching his gaze in the mirror and shooting him a soft smile. “I’m almost done, okay?”
“Okay, mama.”
While Eddie paced back and forth through the apartment, checking for what had to be the tenth time whether the scalloped potato grin he’d made was still in the oven and hadn’t suddenly disappeared, you’d managed to finish your mascara and apply a quick layer of lipstick.
“How do you want your hair, Eds?” you asked softly as you gathered the assortment of curly hair products you insisted he use.
“Out of my face,” he mumbled, absentmindedly fiddling with his stuffed dragon.
You stared at him for a moment.
“…I got that,” you replied, shaking your head with a soft chuckle. “But do you want a bun? A low ponytail? Half up, half down?”
Eddie’s fingers stilled against the dragon. “Half up, half down?” he answered after a second, though it sounded more like a question than an actual opinion. “We never do that. Might be a nice change.”
“Mhmm.”
The bathroom fell quiet again as you worked the products through his curls.
Eddie remained seated on the toilet seat, knees spread slightly while the stuffed dragon rested in his lap. Every now and then he absentmindedly smoothed his thumb over one of its wings while you gathered the top half of his curls and secured them in place.
“You’re quiet,” you said softly as you washed the sticky hair product from your hands. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away.
His fingers continued tracing the dragon’s wing before he eventually shrugged.
“I dunno.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
Eddie remained seated, eyes fixed on the plushie in his lap.
“Everything just feels different this year,” he murmured quietly before shrugging again. “Good different.”
“Yeah?”
He finally lifted his gaze from the dragon. His eyes settled on your stomach for a few seconds before eventually finding yours.
“Just... next year we're gonna celebrate Thanksgiving with her here.” One of his hands instinctively settled on the curve of your bump while a grin slowly spread across his face. “She'll probably try stealing everybody's food.”
“She won't even have teeth by then, Eds.” You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips immediately gave you away.
“Then she'll gum the turkey,” he chuckled softly. The grin on his face widened as he glanced back down at your stomach. “She's a Munson, after all.”
You gently squeezed his shoulder.
Eddie reached up and wrapped a hand around your wrist before finally pushing himself to his feet.
“Thanks for doing my hair, sweetheart.”
Glimmering brown eyes found yours, and the softness in both his expression and voice spread a warmth through your chest.
“Of course, Eds.”
He carefully placed the dragon on the counter so he could hold you instead.
His hands immediately settled against your sides while he leaned forward to press a kiss against your forehead before resting his own against it.
“Think this is probably my favourite Thanksgiving already.”
The giggle that escaped you had very little to do with his dramatic sentimentality.
It had far more to do with the fact that he was completely unaware of how screwed he was the second he walked through Steve's front door.
His hands remained warm against your sides while his forehead rested gently against yours, thumbs absentmindedly brushing lazy circles against your waist.
“You somehow get prettier every single day,” he murmured quietly.
“You’ve lost your mind, Eds.”
“I did,” he agreed easily. “About ten years ago.”
Even after all those years, he somehow still managed to spread heat across your cheeks while he merely grinned to himself. A bashful laugh escaped you before he leaned in, stealing a slow kiss that lingered just a little longer than necessary.
“You ready?” he asked softly when he finally pulled away.
“As long as you’re with me.”
The drive to Steve’s passed surprisingly quietly. The scalloped potato gratin rested carefully on your lap like some bizarre practice baby while Eddie absentmindedly tapped his fingers along to the music drifting softly through the van speakers. Every now and then he’d reach across the console to squeeze your hand or steal another glance your way just to smile.
Completely, utterly oblivious.
Meanwhile, the Harrington household had descended into absolute anarchy.
“Everybody shut the fuck up,” Robin whisper-hissed as she peeked through the curtains. “The van just pulled in!”
Instantly, half the room sprang into motion. Someone flicked the lights off, somebody else immediately walked into a chair, and another person loudly whispered for everyone to stop making noise. Outside, the familiar slam of Eddie’s van door echoed through the driveway.
“Positions!” Robin squealed
Mike reminded her nobody had actually assigned positions, and chaos immediately followed his comment.
Lucas accidentally elbowed Gareth in the ribs while Max shoved Dustin behind the couch because he was too tall. Steve nearly tripped over the coffee table trying to get out of the way, and Jonathan quietly lifted the camera without saying a word.
The doorknob turned, the front door swung open, and the first flash was absolutely blinding.
The sudden burst of light left both of you blinking spots from your vision before you’d even managed to step properly inside the living room.
“What the fu–”
“HAPPY BIRTH-GIVING!”
While you were busy shooting everyone an unimpressed look over their spectacularly uncoordinated choice of words once the lights flickered back on, Eddie simply stood frozen in the doorway.
His eyes slowly wandered around the room, taking in the turkey decorations, the black and grey balloons, the cake sitting proudly on the dining table, and finally the ridiculously oversized banner stretched across the wall alongside the matching felt turkey hat. His eyebrows climbed a little higher with every new detail.
“…You guys threw me a Thanksbirthday?”
“Oh God, that’s so much better than what we rehearsed,” Dustin muttered. “How didn’t we come up with that?”
“When did we rehearse again?” Jeff asked confused, eyebrows pulled tightly together and her hands resting at her hips.
“We didn’t,” Erica sighed while pinching the bridge of her nose.
Dark brown eyes eventually found your through the overwhelming sea of decorations. His lips had already begun curling into the start of a pout while his eyebrows remained faintly pulled together.
“Is this… Did you–” he blinked once before looking around the room again. his voice cracked ever so slightly. “Did you plan this?”
Realising Eddie had apparently forgotten he was still holding the scorching hot baking dish, Dustin quietly stepped forwards and carefully lifted the porcelain dish from his hands before disappearing into the kitchen without another word.
“With some help from Wayne,” you admitted with a bashful shrug, your hands instinctively settling on your stomach as your fingers fidgeted with the fabric of your dress. “And a few other people.”
“Help my ass,” Steve deadpanned. “More like outright manipulation.”
Eddie slowly looked around the room again.
Steve sighed dramatically when he noticed the atmosphere slowly beginning to tip into something far too emotional for his liking, and clapped his hands together to put a stop to it.
“Right,” he announced, already making his way towards the kitchen. “Before everybody starts robbing, someone please take that stupid turkey hat and put it on the birthday boy.”
“I’ll do it!” Robin immediately exclaimed.
“You were always going to do it,” Steve muttered under his breath.
Before Eddie had any chance to protest, Robin had already plucked the felt hat from the table and proudly settled it on top of his freshly styled curls while another few blinding flashes followed.
Robin’s maniacal laughter as she forced the hat onto Eddie’s head was forever frozen in one photograph, while in another, Eddie’s glossy brown eyes and impossibly wide smile were directed entirely at you.
The prettiest one, however, had been completely unplanned. Despite your half-hearted protests, Eddie had suddenly pulled you into him, one had curling around the back of your head while the other settled carefully against your side before stealing another kiss. Behind the two of you, Max, Lucas, Mike and Gareth had apparently decided that the perfect opportunity to immortalise themselves was by pulling the ugliest faces they could manage.
While Eddie continued insisting that Jonathan take just one more, Wayne and Steve quietly took it upon themselves to reheat the homemade dishes and put everyone else to work.
And within minutes, the large open kitchen had become so busy it almost resembled one of New York’s subway stations. People constantly crossed paths carrying casserole dishes, bowls of mashed potatoes, trays of rolls and drinks from one room to the next, somehow avoiding collisions through nothing more than sheer luck.
Dinner quickly dissolved into the usual chaos that came with squeezing fifteen people around one table. Conversations lapped, someone stole food off someone else’s plate every few minutes, and Jonathan continued documenting the evening in between bites despite everybody’s – except Eddie’s – increasingly dramatic complaints.
By the time plates had long since been pushed aside and half-empty dishes carried back into the kitchen to be dealt with later, Nancy had already started rummaging through Steve’s cupboards in search of dessert plates and tiny forks for the cake.
Max swatted your hand away the second she spotted you reaching for the heavy cake she and Lucas had baked, shooting you an unimpressed look before carefully lifting the platter herself and carrying it back to the table.
It was… definitely a cake.
Extremely colourful in the way it looked like a unicorn had thrown up over it, with crooked icing, wonky letters spelling Happy Birthd-ay Eddie!!!!!!, and entirely too much edible glitter for it to still be considered edible.
Eddie, however, couldn’t have cared less whether it looked like it belonged in a bakery or a kindergarten classroom; not when every single one of the people he loved the most stood around him, clapping wildly while completely butchering Happy Birthday three times in a row.
At some point, your hands found his shoulders after you’d decided you’d had enough of clapping yourself. Instead, you simply held him from behind while smiling down at the birthday boy beneath the ridiculous turkey hat.
“Make a wish, baby,” you whispered against his ear, nestling your face into the crook of his neck.
Eddie turned his head just enough to steal a lingering glance at you. A soft smile tugged at his lips while something indecipherable settled in his eyes before he looked back towards the flickering candles.
His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, and then he leaned forwards and blew them out.
Steve, who had apparently decided his gift deserved to be opened first, slid the cake unceremoniously towards the middle of the table before Eddie had so much as touched the knife, then proudly dumped a total of six neatly wrapped boxes in front of him.
“Dude,” Mike deadpanned. “What the fuck? We all agreed on one gift.”
“It is one gift,” Steve replied, looking at him as though he were the stupidest person alive. “It’s a set.”
It turned out Steve had apparently been making mental notes every time he’d seen Eddie’s toolbox during the nursery renovations. Convinced the battered collection of second-hand tools was one poorly timed accident away from amputating a finger, he’d replaced nearly all of them with brand-new equipment.
Robin’s present consisted of matching t-shirts for Eddie and Julian in several different sized after she’d convinced herself the baby would probably outgrow the first four before she’d even had the chance to wear them.
Mike and Dustin, being perpetually broke college students, had pooled their money to buy an ridiculously overpriced guitar they’d stumbled across in a thrift store, while Will had spent hours painting a custom design across the body to make it one of the kind.
Eddie had become so preoccupied with tearing the Easter-themed wrapping paper of Max’s gift that he never noticed you quietly slipping away from the table.
Laughter and the occasional shout echoed through the hallway while you disappeared into the guest room, returning a moment later with the horribly wrapped scrapbook tucked carefully against your chest.
It had grown to nearly three times its original size since the day Wayne had discovered it beneath the couch, the pages thickened by photographs, stickers, handwritten notes and little keepsakes you’d glued inside over the past week and a half.
Without saying a word, you slid it gently across the table before pulling the chair beside Eddie closer and settling into it.
“Happy birthday,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek.
“The happiest,” Eddie answered absentmindedly, his eyes lingering on the smile you gave him instead of the gift.
It took three gentle taps against the wrapped cover to finally pull his attention away from you.
“I told you,” he murmured quietly as he rested his hands on it, “I already have everything I wanted.”
“And I told you you were full of shit,” you teased, biting your bottom lip while you watched him begin peeling away the paper.
Across the table, Wayne’s blue eyes immediately found you’re the second the puzzle-patterned cover came into view.
“What’s this?” Eddie asked softly.
“Open it,” you whispered.
The torn wrapping slipped forgotten onto the floor.
Eddie stole a quick glance at you before his fingers curled around the cover and gently lifted it open.
The Munson’s first photo album
Eddie’s lips parted ever so slightly.
“Sweetheart?”
He barely breathed the word as his fingertips traced the edge of the photograph, almost as though he were afraid it might somehow disappear beneath them.
“I was wondering where this picture had gone,” he murmured with a soft chuckle. “Though we’d somehow lost if off the fridge.”
You smiled to yourself but said nothing; instead, you simply watched as he turned the page.
The first ultrasound photograph had been carefully glued into the corner of the report the hospital had given you, the edges surrounded by entirely too much glitter and tiny heart stickers.
Every page after that had been arranged chronologically, each one overflowing with photographs, handwritten notes, little jokes, conversations, dates, and tiny keepsakes you’d somehow managed to save over the past six months.
The room remained impossibly quiet as Eddie slowly worked his way through them.
His eyes lingered on the particular unfortunate photograph he’d taken of your disgusted expression after one of your morning sickness episodes before drifting towards the small, crumpled list of baby names he’d scribbled somewhere along the tenth or eleventh week. Beside it, squeezed into the remaining space, was one of your observations.
10/11 weeks
Your dad continues to suggest horrible baby names while I continue considering breaking up with him and fleeing across the country with you
A breathless laugh escaped him.
“You wouldn’t dare break up with me and flee across the country.”
“Never,” you admitted quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifted into another smile before he carefully turned the page.
This time he was met with a photograph you’d secretly taken of him standing in the baby aisle of the thrift store, completely surrounded by children’s books and stuffed animals.
The receipt had been glued neatly into one corner alongside the crumpled chocolate wrapped he’d insisted on keeping because, in his own words: We need to immortalise this day! You willingly ate chocolate!
Beneath it, another note.
Week 13
I’m considering putting your dad into a conservatorship. He’s spending all his money on you instead of saving it for my pregnancy cravings. You aren’t even here yet and you’ve already got him wrapped around your finger.
Another quiet chuckle escaped him before it slowly faded away.
“You kept everything.” His voice was softer now, almost reverent.
You merely shrugged, suddenly finding your hands far more interesting than the room full of people watching the two of you.
“I wanted her to know.”
“Know what?” Eddie looked up, confusion softening the smile on his face.
“How loved the two of you are.”
Silence settled over the room, and Eddie lowered his gaze back to the album resting in his lap, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the edge of one of the photographs.
It wasn’t really a birthday present, and it hadn’t really been meant for him – it was for Julian.
So that one day, when she was old enough to ask about the pictures, he could pull her into his lap and show her just how loved she’d been long before she ever took her first breath.
Eddie barely made it another three pages before quietly closing the scrapbook, setting it aside, and pulling you into him.
His hand carefully cradled your cheek like you were something delicate and rare – which, in his eyes, you absolutely were – and he simply looked at you for a long moment instead of saying anything. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because none of the words crowding his mind felt nearly big enough.
His lips found yours instead, lingering there while his free hand instinctively settled against the curve of your stomach.
Neither of you pulled away when the familiar click of Jonathan’s camera echoed through the otherwise silent dining room.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Steve groaned from somewhere beside him. “Give them one minute.”
“She literally threatened to break my camera if I didn’t take pictures of everything,” Jonathan defended simply before lowering it anyway.
“They’re making out, dude.”
“I’m preserving memories. And my camera.”
A soft laugh escaped you against Eddie’s lips before he finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for another quiet moment.
The rest of the evening somehow slipped by unnoticed after that.
Cake was finally cut once Erica declared everybody had become entirely too emotional to appreciate it earlier, wrapping paper accumulated beneath and around Eddie’s chair until Steve eventually gave up trying to keep the dining room tidy, and Jonathan continued documenting the evening despite his growing concern over how much developing all those photographs was going to cost him.
Wayne quietly slipped the leftover cinnamon rolls into your hands before anybody else had the chance to claim them. Robin hugged the two of you no fewer than four separate times before finally accepting that you did, in fact, have to go home eventually, while Steve packed enough leftovers into plastic containers to feed the two of you for the better part of a week, muttering something about pregnant women needing proper meals whenever you tried protesting.
Somewhere along the way, Dustin and Gareth started arguing over who had actually won whatever boardgame they’d somehow managed to begin after dessert, while Max threatened to throw both of them outside if they didn’t stop bickering.
The house slowly emptied one goodbye at a time. Heavy coats were pulled back on, leftovers divided, forgotten dishes returned to their rightful owners, and promises were exchanged to meet again at Wayne’s birthday.
By the time the two of you stepped back outside, the November air had turned crisp enough to sting your cheeks. Eddie’s fingers immediately found yours as the two of you made your way towards the van.
He hadn’t stopped smiling once, not all evening.
Not even during the quiet drive home.
One hand remained lazily draped over the steering wheel while the other kept reaching across the centre console to find yours whenever the road allowed it. The scrapbook rested safely on your lap, and every now and then his eyes drifted from the road to the album before finding you again.
The apartment door clicked softly shut behind the two of you as you shuffled further inside, immediately struggling to shrug off your coat. Somewhere in the last few hours your arms had apparently doubled in size, leaving you unable to wrestle yourself free from the thick fabric.
“Here, mama,” Eddie murmured after hanging his own coat over the back of the couch. “Lemme help you.”
“I can do it,” you muttered.
“Clearly.”
You shot him an unimpressed look that only made him giggle.
A relieved sigh escaped you as he carefully eased the coat from your shoulders before crouching to help you with your shoes despite your repeated insistence that you were, in fact, perfectly capable of doing that yourself.
The second your feet were finally free, you leaned down to press a quick kiss against his lips before disappearing into the bathroom.
Makeup came off in lazy swipes while your jewellery clinked softly against the little ceramic tray beside the sink, another tired sigh escaping you as the day finally began catching up with you.
Something shuffled outside the bathroom door, and the mattress groaned a second later.
Eddie had barely taken off his shoes before dropping onto the bed on his stomach and flipping the scrapbook open to finish where he’d left off.
By the time you finally wandered back into the bedroom a minute later, he’d become completely lost in the colourful little world you’d crafted for him. Every now and then a quiet chuckle escaped him as his eyes wandered across pages overflowing with glitter, stickers, pressed flowers and little handwritten notes.
His gaze had settled on the page dedicated to the day you’d found out Julian was a girl.
Week 16
Your dad embarrassed me at the hardware store by picking the most horrible, monstrous shades of pink – worse than bubblegum and magenta combined. It made my eyes water and nearly turned me blind, that’s how bright they were! Luckily for the both of us, your mama managed to convince him that “dragons scale green” was a much better colour – which isn’t even a real colour, but it worked nonetheless.
“Can’t believe you manipulated me by lying about dragon scale green being an actual colour,” he murmured when he heard the bedroom door click shut behind you.
“You say that like you don’t know me,” you teased.
A low groan escaped you as you reached over to switch on your bedside lamp before making your way towards the dresser for a change of clothes.
Eddie merely chuckled before lowering his gaze back to the scrapbook.
“Aren’t you taking your clothes off?” you asked quietly while closing one of the drawers.
“Can’t,” he replied distractedly. “I’m busy, mama.”
“The scrapbook isn’t going anywhere, Eds.”
“You don’t know that.”
Week 16 – part two
Your dad manipulated your grandfather Wayne and uncle Steve into helping him with your nursery by telling them he was going to steal you away before either of them ever got the chance to hold you.
And he has the audacity to call me mean. Do you believe that?
Another tired chuckle escaped you as you slipped out of your dressed and pulled one of Eddie’s old shirts over your head – oversized, faded black cotton, and smelling entirely like home.
“I love you,” you confessed quietly as you climbed onto the bed and shuffled backwards until your back rested comfortably against the headboard.
“I love you so much more,” he whispered without looking away from the scrapbook, dark brown eyes glimmering beneath the warm amber glow cast by the bedside lamps. “You have no idea, mama.”
You watched him for another quiet moment before reaching over to cradle his cheek, the smallest smile creeping onto your lips.
Eddie leaned into your touch before pushing himself up just enough to steal another lingering kiss. When he pulled away again, he flopped back onto the mattress – this time on his back – and rested the scrapbook against his chest before shuffling closer until you were tucked comfortably against his side.
The more Eddie turned the pages, the bigger your stomach became in the photographs – and somehow, the more sentimental your little notes became.
Week 23
I hope one day you know just how lucky you are
Your grandfather Wayne loved you long before you were born – back when you were still fives times smaller than the tiny boots he’s holding in this picture
(Between me and you… he absolutely cried after this picture was taken. Don’t tell him I told you that)
A few more pages followed by a few more quiet laughs.
Then Eddie’s fingers suddenly stopped.
The page had been decorated around a photograph of him smiling straight at the camera. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, the prescription glasses he pretended he didn’t own sat balanced carelessly on top of his head. Beside it, you’d glued the photobooth strip from the date the two of you’d driven to Indianapolis together.
Week 26
Your dad is the best thing that’s ever happened to me
Eleven simple words, that was all it took.
His thumb remained resting against the paper while his eyes read the sentence once. Then again, and then one more time.
“…Sweetheart.” He barely whispered the word.
When he finally looked up at you, his lower lip had begun to tremble ever so slightly, his glossy brown eyes saying everything his voice no longer could.
Eddie’s fingers trembled as they moved to close the photo album before your hand gently curled around his to stop him.
“Look at the next page,” you whispered quietly.
His big brown eyes glimmered beneath the warm bedside light as he looked up at you for a long moment before lowering his gaze back to the scrapbook.
The next page looked completely different from the ones before it. There were no photographs, no glitter, no guitar stickers, nor another ultrasound tucked into one of the corners.
It was almost entirely blank, save for the little green velvet pouch taped carefully to the middle of the page.
His eyebrows pulled together. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” you chuckled tiredly, shuffling farther down the bed until your head rested comfortably against the pillows instead of sitting upright.
Eddie hesitated for a moment before carefully peeling the pouch from the page. He weighed it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand, fingers gently working the drawstrings loose until a simple silver band slipped quietly into his hand.
“What–”
“I’m not proposing!” you immediately choked out before he could finish, already shaking your head. “I’m not stealing that from you too. I just…”
A bashful smile tugged at your lips as you pushed a hand through your hair, suddenly finding the comforter far more interesting than meeting his eyes.
“I know you,” you murmured quietly. “And I know you’re probably putting every spare dollar aside to buy me some ridiculously expensive ring I don’t need.”
His mouth opened to protest, but nothing came out.
“And I also know you’re going to completely forget about buying one for yourself.” You shrugged lightly before offering him another small smile. “Marriage kind of requires two rings, Eds.”
Silence settled comfortably between the two of you while Eddie slowly turned the silver band over his fingers.
Then he froze again and his breath caught ever so slightly the warm glow from the bedside lamp caught the engraving tucked neatly along the inside of the band. His thumb carefully brushed across it. Your name. And next to it, Julian’s, followed by your anniversary date.
Without saying anything, you reached over and gently took the ring from his hand before carefully sliding it onto his finger – settled into place effortlessly.
“It fits,” he whispered in quiet disbelief, turning his hand from side to side beneath the light. “I don’t even know my own ring size. How did you…”
A sheepish grin spread across your face. “I may have stolen your pig-head ring.”
His head snapped towards you.
“That’s why I couldn’t find it!”
“I know.” A string of guilty chuckles escaped you as you hid your face behind your hand. “I’m sorry. I needed something for the jeweller to measure.”
Eddie looked back down at the simple silver band resting against his finger, absentmindedly twisting it.
“You really though about everything,” he murmured quietly.
“Hardly.” You snorted. “I just know you.”
“I wouldn’t have forgotten my own ring, sweetheart,” he argued, although there wasn’t much conviction behind it.
“Eddie.”
He lasted all of two seconds when you slowly raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Maybe I would’ve.”
A quiet laugh escaped the two of you.
Carefully, almost reverently, he slid the scrapbook onto his nightstand before switching off the bedside lamps. Darkness settled over the bedroom, broken only by the pale strip of moonlight spilling through the curtains.
Instinctively, Eddie’s arm found its familiar place around your waist, his hand resting gently over the curve of your stomach.
“Thank you,” he whispered into the quiet.
You turned just enough to press a sleepy kiss against his still covered shoulder.
Summary: In a world where the first words that soulmates say to each other are displayed like tattoos, what do you do when your particular soulmate's opening line is an unequivocal rejection?
Warnings: a healthy dose of angst (with an eventual happy ending!); enemies to friends to lovers; smut in later chapters (planning this as a slow burn); mentions of past family trauma and personal issues; slightly ludicrous amount of swearing (apparently I am a complete potty mouth!)
A/N: Right, after months of lurking and devouring so many fantastic stories by others on Tumblr, I finally found some time to try out this scribbling business myself. First time I've posted any of my internal ramblings, so please be gentle with me!
Chapter w/c: 1.4k
Divider made by @pixynari
To borrow an opening, it is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing good ever comes from answering the phone last thing on a Friday evening.
"Pleeeease babe, just come for a couple of drinks. Three tops. Or four. It'll be great. Steve and his friends really want to hang out with us."
"No Jennifer, Steve and his friends really want to hang out with YOU, his soulmate, the love of his life. My presence is very much not required."
"Not true babe, Steve loves you and the rest of the guys really want to meet this mysterious bestie I keep telling them about. C'mon, I really want you there with me tonight. And you're in desperate need of a good night out!"
Never really able to say no to Jen, your best friend since childhood and the most important person in your life, you found yourself caving with a weary sigh. Which was why, approximately an hour after that conversation, the two of you were pulling up outside a dingy looking bar in her boyfriend's antique BMW, a retro 80s model that was his pride and joy.
Ever the gentleman, Steve rounded the car and opened both Jen's door and yours, ushering you both onto the pavement with a little bow. "Here we go ladies, right this way."
"Thank you kindly, Steven," you replied imperiously, holding the cold demeanour for all of five seconds before you started to laugh. Steve smiled warmly, grabbing you for a brief hug before his arm returned to its usual place around Jen's shoulders.
You grinned as you watched them walk ahead of you, genuinely pleased to see them so wrapped up in each other. When Jen had called you four months ago in a total panic, screaming about having found her soulmate, you had initially been wary. You had very little time for the soulmate doctrine - the idea that everyone is born with an unbreakable bond to another person, revealed when their first words to you appear on your skin like a tattoo. So few people ever seemed to find their mates nowadays that it seemed like a totally ridiculous notion. And even if you did find your true mate, there was no guarantee that it would last. The weekly lifestyle magazines seemingly made a fortune with the many angsty tales of people whose soulmates turned out to be deadbeat cheaters or psychopaths (or, in the most unfortunate cases, a mix of both).
Your initial meeting with Steve Harrington in your official capacity as “Jen's Best Friend” had therefore begun extremely awkwardly. You had definitely approached it with a highly cynical mindset, determined to sniff out whatever personality faults Steve might be hiding behind his megawatt smile and gravity-defying hair. However, over a tray of burgers and fries at Benny's diner, he successfully proved you wrong, revealing himself to be one of that increasingly rare species in modern society: a nice guy. He showered Jen with quiet care and affection, paying close attention to her every need in an endearing manner. He wasn't phased by your initially icy mood, seemingly understanding that it came from a wish to protect your friend and keen to prove himself a worthy suitor for her. He spoke honestly about himself, his past as an idiot high-school jock and the way in which his found family of close friends in Hawkins had given him a purpose and set him straight after graduation. You had left the diner that evening comfortable in the knowledge that Steve really was a decent man and that Jen was (as you told her over the phone later) an exceedingly lucky bitch.
However, you had yet to meet any of the Hawkins crew (as Jen had dubbed them). Admittedly the fault for this lay with you and the many excuses you had made to wriggle out of prospective meet-ups in the past few months. Whilst you were no blushing wallflower, you were definitely more of an introvert than Jen, whose bubbly personality would easily win over any room in minutes. Your nature and your past experiences had made you distrustful of new people and large crowds were definitely not your natural happy place. But your friend was keen for you to get on with her new group of acquaintances so here you were, taking a deep breath and readying yourself to be sociable.
As the three of you walked into the bar, with its crowded, smoky atmosphere and pounding music, you suddenly felt the telltale feeling of anxiety clawing at your insides. The thought of meeting a whole group of strangers was rapidly becoming overwhelming and you needed an out, quickly. Taking a look around, you spotted the sign for the bathrooms at the side of the bar. You tapped Jen on the shoulder, motioning that you were heading to the toilet and would join them shortly, ignoring the concerned look that she gave you as you scurried away.
Pushing the door to the ladies open, you let out a deep breath. 'For fuck's sake,’ you thought to yourself. 'So fucking stupid, get a grip woman.' Moving over to the sink, you ran your hands under the cold tap as you took some deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down enough to head back outside.
As you steadied yourself against the counter, you became aware that the bathroom wasn't as empty as you had initially thought. Hushed noises of someone having a particularly good time in the far cubicle filtered through the air.
You chuckled under your breath. 'At least someone's enjoying their evening, I guess,' you thought wryly. As you went to turn off the tap in the sink, you felt an object hit you in the back, having been flung over the wall of the cubicle.
"So good Ed, love what you do to me so much, feels so fucking good..."
"Oh my fuck... You too baby, can't get enough of you sweetheart..."
Swallowing down a yelp, you turned round and saw a jacket lying on the floor. A cut-off denim vest covered in metal patches, the biggest of which was a large homage to Dio on the back. 'Cool jacket,’ you thought as you picked it up, laying it on the counter. 'Shame to ruin it on this disgusting floor.’
"Come on babe, I fucking love you, so fucking much. Cum for me baby, fuck!"
"Yes yes yes Eddie, fuck yes! I love you baby, wish you were my soulmate, should be you, not fucking Jason, oh fuuuuck!'
"Sssh baby, enough of that soulmate bullshit. You're it for me, no one else."
"But Eddie..."
"But nothing. You know what, if my goddamn soulmate walked in here right now, I'd tell them straight: 'I don't give a fuck about you, you're nothing to me!'"
NO.
WHAT?!
Time felt like it stopped completely as all the oxygen in your lungs suddenly drained away. You gripped the counter as a sharp stabbing pain burned along your right hip and sweat gathered on your brow. Gingerly lifting your shirt with a trembling hand, you saw the words that had just been screamed across the restroom branded on your skin.
'I don't give a fuck about you, you're nothing to me!'
No no no no, what kind of sick fucking joke was this?! An unequivocal soulmate rejection, memorialised on your body like a permanent symbol of your worthlessness. You felt shocked to the core, frozen on the spot in complete mortification. Yeah, you might have hated the whole soulmate concept as an abstract theory. However, it was quite the kicker to hear your apparently preordained life partner dismiss you so decisively and so cruelly in real life.
Biting back both a scream and the onset of tears, you breathed heavily and turned towards the door. You needed to get out of here before the lovebirds emerged from the cubicle. An obscenely large alcoholic drink was very much in order. Straightening yourself up and taking one last deep breath, you opened the door. "Message received loud and clear, arsehole", you muttered softly, hoping that the imminent branding stung this Eddie dickhead as much as yours had hurt you.
description: a cutie lil fic where eddie is just completely obsessed with you. who knew all he needed to bring you two together was jason carver beating his ass?
pairing: yearning!eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: yearning!eddie, protective!reader, eddie x reader, no y/n, reader insert, slow (ish) burn, first kiss, happy ending, fluff the house down boots, high school romance, so much fucking yearning, eddie's head over heels
WC: 4.5k
TW: bullying, violence, some smoochies
A/N: requested by @midgardian-rogue hope you enjoy!! sorry for the wait! life is kicking my behind. i haven't forgotten about you all.
reblogs are always appreciated my loves<33
hope you all enjoy an ounce of some innocent fluff before final girl pt.2 bc......
People talked about love like it happened all at once. Like it was lightning. Like one look across a crowded room, and suddenly the rest of your life made sense.
Eddie Munson thought that was complete and utter bullshit.
Love wasn't lightning; it was erosion. The kind that wore you down one unnoticed glance at a time until one day you looked up and realized you'd built an entire religion around someone who didn't even know your favorite color.
Everyone knew you.
Not in the way they knew Jason Carver, Jason demanded attention. You never asked for it…it simply just followed you.
Teachers smiled a little wider when you answered questions. Freshmen gravitated toward you on the first day of school like frightened birds, somehow knowing you were safe.
It was infuriating. Not because Eddie disliked you. God, that would've made things so much easier, no. You were kind.
Genuinely, painfully, kind.
The kind of person who remembered birthdays without writing them down. The kind of beauty that had nothing to do with your face. Though...that certainly wasn't hurting anything.
You smiled with your whole body. Your shoulders, your eyes, even your laugh looked warm. Sometimes Eddie wondered if the sun waited for your permission before coming up. Which—
Jesus Christ.
See? This was exactly the problem. He couldn't even think about you without sounding like he'd swallowed a Hallmark card. He'd never even spoken to you. Well, not really.
Sure, there'd been little moments. A borrowed pencil sophomore year. A quiet "thank you" when he'd held a door open. Passing each other in the hallway enough times that nodding became an unspoken ritual.
But conversations? Actual conversations? Those belonged to people who lived on the same planet. You lived somewhere else entirely.
Some place made of honor roll certificates, volunteer hours, and Sunday mornings that probably smelled of pancakes instead of cigarette smoke.
Eddie had long since accepted that there were invisible lines running through Hawkins High. Athletes. Nerds. Burnouts. Band kids. Freaks. You somehow belonged to all of them, while he belonged to exactly one.
Hellfire. The trailer park. The people adults warned their children about.
Wayne always said Eddie had expensive taste. Not in clothes or cars, but people.
"You always go lookin' at things that ain't yours to carry," Wayne had muttered once while Eddie admired an old cherry-red Gibson through a pawn shop window.
At the time, Eddie thought he meant guitars. Now he wasn't so sure. Because every morning, without meaning to, he'd find himself searching the parking lot before first bell. Just to see if your car was there.
And every afternoon, he'd linger exactly thirty seconds too long outside English because he knew your classroom was across the hall. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch one glimpse.
Then he'd spend the rest of the day pretending that was somehow enough, though it never was.
The thing about memories was that they lied. Or maybe they just... polished themselves over time.
Eddie couldn't remember what he'd eaten yesterday. Couldn't remember what movie he'd watched with Wayne the week before. But he remembered that afternoon, every stupid, humiliating second of it.
It had been almost exactly a year ago.
The last bell had rung, sending Hawkins High spilling into the hallways in a tidal wave of backpacks and locker doors slamming shut. Eddie had lingered by his locker, stuffing loose campaign notes into a folder while Gareth argued with Jeff about whether dragons were technically reptiles.
He never heard Jason coming. The locker door slammed shut before Eddie could grab it, the metal rattling loud enough to make nearby students jump.
"Well, if it isn't the freak."
Eddie sighed. "Christ, Carver. Don't you ever get tired?"
Jason leaned against the neighboring locker with that smug grin Eddie had grown to hate. Andy and Chance flanked him like loyal guard dogs, each wearing the same self-satisfied expression.
"Nah."
Jason reached out, flicking Eddie's shoulder with unnecessary force.
"I actually look forward to these little chats."
"I don't."
"Funny."
Another shove. Not enough to knock him down, but just enough to remind him who had thirty pounds and varsity sports behind him.
"You know," Jason continued loudly, making sure the people walking by could hear, "I heard you recruited another freshman into your little Satan club."
Eddie rolled his eyes. "You guys are really obsessed with us."
"Just looking out for the town."
Same script, different day. Eddie had learned years ago that fighting back only made it worse.
So he leaned against the lockers and waited for them to get bored. He almost missed the footsteps approaching.
"What are you doing?" Your voice wasn't loud.
Jason turned first. "So, this doesn't concern—"
"It concerns me now."
You stepped between passing students without the slightest hesitation, your backpack still hanging off one shoulder.
"Move."
Jason laughed. "Excuse me?"
"I said move."
Andy scoffed. "You serious?"
Without another word, you planted a hand square against Andy's chest and shoved him back just enough to force him away from Eddie. Not hard, but just enough to make it clear whose space he'd invaded.
Jason stared at you, his jaw tightening. "What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem?" you echoed. "Three against one seems pretty pathetic to me."
"We're talking."
"No." You folded your arms. "You were cornering him."
Jason took one step closer. "I'd be careful if I were you."
Eddie's stomach dropped.
But you didn't move. Hell, you didn't even blink.
Instead, one eyebrow lifted. "What?"
Your voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "You gonna hit a girl?"
Jason's expression hardened. "I didn't say—"
"No?" You tilted your head. "I mean... you've already got one thing in common with your father."
You paused, eyeing him up and down.
"It'd be a shame if you decided to copy the rest of his behavior too."
Jason's face went red. Not from embarrassment, but pure fury. The kind of fury that made his nostrils flare.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" You shrugged. "Then prove me wrong."
For a moment...Eddie genuinely thought Jason might do it. Might shove you. Might yell. Might finally snap.
Instead, Jason looked around. He couldn't touch you, not here. Not with everyone looking.
Jason just clicked his tongue. "Whatever."
He shot Eddie one last glare. "You're not worth it."
Then to you, "Careful who you stick up for."
You smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."
Jason scoffed before turning on his heel. "C'mon."
Andy and Chance followed without another word.
Eddie realized he'd been holding his breath. "...Thanks."
You turned toward him. For a second, he thought you might say something profound. Something unforgettable.
Instead, you smiled; that warm, easy smile he'd only ever seen from across classrooms.
"Don't mention it." You adjusted your backpack. "See you around, Eddie."
Eddie? Not ‘Munson’? He thought.
Then you just…walked away. Like standing up to Jason Carver was no bigger a deal than holding the door open for someone. Eddie watched until you disappeared around the corner.
He didn't realize Gareth had come back until someone elbowed his ribs. "Dude."
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
Eddie kept staring at the empty hallway. "...yeah."
A year later...Eddie could still tell you exactly where you'd been standing. Exactly what you were wearing. Exactly how your hand had looked when you shoved Andy away from him.
He'd spent three hundred and sixty-five days trying to convince himself it hadn't meant anything. That you would've done it for anybody. It was probably true. But God knows that didn’t help slow his crush on you down in the slightest.
There was a reason Eddie loved the Hawkins Fall Flea Market. Sure, half the vendors were selling ceramic geese in tiny bonnets or dusty kitchenware that should've been thrown out sometime during the Nixon administration.
But every now and then...Someone's grandfather died, and suddenly there'd be a box full of first-edition fantasy novels.
Or vintage dice. Or a stack of Dragon magazines someone didn't realize were worth something. Treasure hunting. That's what Wayne always called it.
"You never know what you're gonna find."
Eddie had been elbow-deep in a cardboard box labeled COMIC BOOKS - 25¢ for nearly twenty minutes before giving up his search for anything remotely Dungeons & Dragons related.
No dice…literally.
With a dramatic sigh, he wandered farther down the rows of tents, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he smiled to himself. It wasn't exactly exciting, but it was comfortable.
He almost walked right past the record stand.
It was tucked between a vendor selling antique fishing lures and another covered in old comic strips and movie posters. Milk crates overflowed with vinyl records while wire racks displayed cassettes in crooked little rows.
Naturally...Eddie wandered over. His fingers skimmed over faded album covers. Thin Lizzy. Rush. Van Halen. Not bad. Then—
"...No way."
He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there you were. Standing on the opposite side of the rack, your brows pinched together in concentration as you thumbed through a crate marked HEAVY METAL.
You wore an oversized forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed over your hands, faded jeans, and beat-up Converse he'd never seen you wear to school. Your hair was tucked behind one ear as you carefully flipped through albums like you actually knew what you were looking at.
There was no universe in which this made sense. You belonged in the classical section. Or maybe folk, something acoustic. Not Iron Maiden. Motörhead. Judas Priest.
He blinked hard, almost thinking he was staring at a mirage. Nope, still there.
You looked up and caught him staring again. A smile spread across your face almost instantly.
You smiled victoriously before turning back to the rack. After another moment of searching, your face brightened. "There it is."
You pulled out your own cassette. The Cure: Disintegration.
"See?" You held it up proudly. "I have range."
Eddie laughed. "I'll allow it."
"I appreciate your approval."
The older vendor wandered over. "You kids find everything?"
You nodded. "I think so."
As the man rang up your cassette, Eddie was still standing there holding the Mercyful Fate tape in both hands like you'd just gifted him the Holy Grail.
You paid, tucked the cassette into your canvas tote bag, and looked back at him. "I'll see you Monday?"
He swallowed. "...Yeah."
"Don't wait too long to listen to that." You pointed toward the cassette still in his hands. "I'd like to know what you think."
Before he could ask exactly how you planned to do that...you were already walking away.
You lifted a hand over your shoulder. "Bye, Eddie."
He watched until the crowd swallowed you whole. Only then did he glance back down at the cassette.
"You gonna buy it?"
The vendor's voice startled him. "Huh?"
"You've been holding it for five minutes."
"Oh."
Eddie looked down at the cracked plastic case, then toward the direction you'd disappeared. "...Yeah."
He smiled to himself. "I think I have to."
The cassette wasn't rare. He'd seen three copies of the same album over the last month. It wasn't even his favorite Mercyful Fate record. But this one? This one had your fingerprints on it.
By Wednesday, Eddie had listened to the Mercyful Fate cassette four times. Not because it had suddenly become his favorite album, it hadn't.
But every time King Diamond's voice crackled through the speakers of the van's cassette player, Eddie could picture your smile across that flea market record stand.
"I think you'd like this."
Wayne noticed by Tuesday night. "Ain't this the same tape you played yesterday?"
"...Maybe."
"You finally wear out your Sabbath tapes?"
"...No."
Wayne glanced over the rim of his newspaper. "...Girl?"
Eddie nearly combusted on the spot from how red his face was.
The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual as homecoming week had officially taken hold at Hawkins High. Construction paper streamers hung lopsided from the ceiling.
The student council had somehow convinced the administration to decorate every available surface in orange and green, making the cafeteria look like it had exploded.
Eddie hated it. He hated pep rallies, football, and he especially hated homecoming. And he especially especially hated listening to Jason Carver talk about the "spirit of Hawkins."
"So," Gareth said through a mouthful of fries, "we skipping the pep rally?"
"We're legally obligated to."
Jeff nodded solemnly. "It's in the Hellfire constitution."
Mike frowned. "We have a constitution?"
"We do now."
Laughter bounced around the table. Then Dustin elbowed Eddie. "Dude."
"What?"
"Twelve o'clock."
Eddie looked up. You moved from table to table carrying a thick envelope and a clipboard tucked against your chest. Homecoming tickets, of course.
You stopped at the basketball table first. Jason smiled, and you smiled back politely. Professional and nothing more. Then the band kids. Then the theater kids. Then—
Hellfire...and Eddie's heart immediately forgot how to function.
"Hi, guys."
You smiled at the whole table before your eyes landed on him.
"Hi, Eddie."
God. You always said his name like it belonged in your mouth.
"Uh... hey."
"So," you said, setting the envelope on the table. "I'm making my rounds."
You held up two small orange tickets. "Homecoming tickets. Five dollars."
Jeff snorted, Mike looked horrified, while Gareth dramatically searched his empty pockets.
"We're allergic."
"I figured."
Then you looked back at Eddie. "Oh."
Your smile softened. "Did you ever listen to the cassette?"
His brain completely abandoned him. "...Yeah."
"And?"
"It was..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Really good."
"'Really good?'" You looked mock offended. "I thought it'd at least earn a 'life-changing.'"
"I was trying not to sound insane."
"So you liked it?"
"I—" He smiled before he could stop himself. "...Yeah. A lot, actually."
"I knew you would."
Something warm settled in his chest. You knew. Not hoped, not guessed, knew.
Which is why, when he said, without thinking, "I'll take two."
Silence, which even made Eddie freeze. What?
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Two?"
He stared at the tickets. Abort mission. Abort mission. FUCK! Too late.
"Uh..." His hand was already digging into his pocket. "Yeah."
He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the table before his brain had the chance to intervene. "I'll take two."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then the smallest smile tugged at your lips. Then, you handed him the two orange tickets.
"Our music committee isn't nearly as good as Mercyful Fate."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I'll see you around?"
"...Yeah."
You gave the table one last smile. "Have a good lunch, guys."
Then, you disappeared toward the next group of students, and the second you were out of earshot...
Five heads slowly turned toward Eddie.
"...What the hell was that?" Dustin snaps.
"What?"
"You hate homecoming."
"I don't hate—"
"You called it," Gareth interrupted, "'capitalist propaganda with crepe paper.'"
"I stand by that."
Jeff leaned across the table. "So why," he asked carefully, "did you just buy..."
He held up two fingers. "...two tickets?"
Eddie blinked. "...Did I?"
"You were there." Mike snorted. "I'm pretty sure you even paid for them."
Eddie looked down at the tickets in his hand as though they'd magically appeared there.
"...Huh."
Gareth burst into laughter. "'Huh?'"
"'Huh?!'"
"You bought two!"
"I know!"
"Do you?!"
Dustin reached across the table and plucked one from Eddie's fingers.
"'Homecoming Admission.'"
He looked around dramatically. "Guys. I think Eddie the Banished has suffered a traumatic brain injury."
Jeff nodded. "Only explanation."
"You've spent three years talking about how dances are government mind control."
"They are."
"So, who are you taking?"
Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because...he hadn't thought that far. He hadn't thought at all. He'd just wanted another excuse or another thirty seconds of hearing your voice.
"...Nobody."
Five skeptical expressions. "Nnnoooobody?" Gareth echoed.
"Nope."
"So you just bought two tickets..."
"Yep."
"...For fun?"
"...Sure."
Mike deadpanned, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
Dustin slowly smiled. "Oh."
"Oh no," Eddie muttered.
"Oh, no."
Dustin pointed across the cafeteria, where you were still making your rounds. "You bought two tickets because you're gonna ask her."
Eddie nearly choked on his Coke. "I am absolutely not."
"You absolutely are."
"I absolutely am not."
Jeff grinned. "Dude."
"You've been listening to that cassette all week."
"You don't know that."
"Wayne told my mom."
Eddie's head whipped toward him. "...Wayne, what?"
"My mom was at the trailer dropping off your uncle's casserole dish."
Jeff shrugged innocently. "He said—and I quote—'Boy's been playing the same damn tape for three days. Must be love.'"
The entire table erupted while Dustin pointed triumphantly. "Called it."
Eddie dropped his forehead onto the cafeteria table with a groan.
By the time Hellfire finished packing up their campaign books in the theater room, basketball practice had just let out. Which meant letterman jackets, inflated egos, and Jason Carver. Perfect.
Eddie spotted them before they spotted him, or so he thought.
"You boys have another séance today?"
Gareth groaned.
"Just keep walking."
That had been the plan. Until Tommy H stuck his foot out, and Gareth caught it too late.
His books were scattered across the pavement, dice bouncing in every direction. One tiny d20 rolled nearly twenty feet before coming to rest beneath a parked truck.
"Oh, my bad," Tommy said without sounding sorry in the slightest.
Gareth muttered a curse beneath his breath as he knelt to gather his things.
Eddie was already moving. "The hell's your problem?"
Jason shrugged. "Gravity."
"You tripped him," Eddie says, pointing between Jason and Tommy.
"I don't know, Munson." Tommy grinned. "Looked pretty clumsy to me."
Jeff and Dustin immediately stepped toward Gareth, helping gather his books. Eddie stood between them and Jason.
"C’mon, man. At least pick on someone with a fighting chance."
Jason smiled as he chimed in. "I am."
The shove came so fast that Eddie barely had time to react, his shoulder slamming into the side of a parked car. The metal echoed.
"Jesus, fuck—" Eddie shoved him back, causing Jason's smile to disappear.
"Oh. There he is."
The first punch caught Eddie across the jaw, causing white to explode across his vision. He stumbled back, so Andy grabbed his jacket from behind. Then, Tommy landed one on his ribs. Someone else kicked the back of his knee.
Three against one, again. He heard Dustin yelling, Jeff trying to pull somebody off, and Gareth shouting Eddie's name.
"...Enough!"
Everything stopped as a familiar voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Eddie blinked through blurry vision and saw you.
You were marching across the parking lot faster than he'd ever seen anyone move as your backpack swung wildly against your side.
Jason scoffed. "Stay out of it."
"No."
You shoved Andy away from Eddie so hard that he stumbled backward. "I said that’s enough."
Tommy laughed. "Oh, here comes Wonder Woman."
You ignored him completely. Instead, you crouched beside Eddie. "Are you okay?"
He tried to answer, but instead, blood dripped onto his shirt. Your face tightened as you looked back up to analyze the scene: three basketball players, one bleeding boy, and his friend's reactions somewhere between horror and panic.
"You should be proud of yourselves."
Jason rolled his eyes. "He was acting insane. He pushed me for Christ's sake."
"That's bullshit."
Jason took a step closer. "What do you care?"
"I care because you three are acting like a bunch of fucking neanderthals. And for what? What the hell did he ever do to you?"
He laughed. "You really gonna defend this freak?"
You stood slowly until you were eye level with him. "I'm defending someone who can't fight three people at once."
Jason clicked his tongue. "You're wasting your time."
"No." You shook your head.
"You know..." You looked Jason up and down. "For someone who talks so much about honor..."
Your eyes drifted toward the gym. "...you sure need a lot of teammates when you throw a punch."
Jason's jaw clenched. "You should go."
"You first."
You kept your gaze fixed on Jason, putting on the best ‘don’t fuck with me today’ face you could muster.
His eyes dart between you and Eddie, a small and almost sinister grin forming. Then, he scoffed.
"C'mon. This freak show isn’t worth our spots in Friday's game.”
The last of the basketball team disappeared across the parking lot. Jason threw one final glare over his shoulder before climbing into Tommy's truck.
"...Jesus Christ." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Eddie looked up just in time to see you drop to your knees again beside him.
Your eyes darted over his face: the split lip, the scrape across his cheek, the beginnings of a bruise blooming beneath his eye.
"Dustin!" you called over your shoulder. "Go to the nurse's office!"
Dustin looked between you and Eddie before immediately taking off toward the school. "I'll get an ice pack!"
You nodded once before turning your attention back to Eddie. "Can you sit up?"
He managed a small nod even though every rib protested. You slipped an arm beneath his shoulder, helping him lean back against the brick wall of the school.
"So much for keeping your pretty face."
Eddie let out a weak laugh. "...Didn't know I had one."
You rolled your eyes. "Shut up."
Your backpack slid into your lap, frowning as you rifled through its contents. "No..." You dug deeper. "No..."
"Ah! There."
You pulled out an old black T-shirt, faded nearly gray with age. Eddie recognized the logo immediately: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast tour.
He blinked. "You just carry band shirts around for fun?"
"My dad leaves them in my car." You shrugged, "Guess they make good makeshift paper towels."
You hesitated. "Can I?"
He nodded before he even knew what you were asking. You folded the shirt into a small square before gently dabbing at the blood on the corner of his mouth; your touch was impossibly careful.
With your face inches from his, he’s embarrassed about how many times he imagined being this close more times than he cares to admit.
"You know..." You sighed, "...That was really stupid."
"Hm?"
"What were you thinking?" You wiped another streak of blood from his cheek. "There were three of them."
"They were picking on Gareth."
"I know."
"So..."
"So you decided to get yourself killed?"
"I wasn't gonna let them jump him."
"I know." You say with an exaggerated sigh.
You make another careful swipe of the shirt across his lip, "You don't always have to be the one who saves everybody."
He watched you instead of answering. Your brows were pulled together, bottom lip tucked between your teeth in concentration.
"Eddie?"
He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "What?"
"You okay? You keep looking at me and, like, zoning out. Do you feel dizzy?"
"Oh." His voice came out embarrassingly quiet, "Uh, no. Sorry."
"Oh." You reply, a tiny smile tugging at your lips.
“Huh?” He swallowed.
His brain screamed at him to say literally anything else. Comment on the weather. Ask about homework.
"I think I really like you."
You froze mid-wipe of his cheek, eyes quickly meeting his.
Eddie groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck—Forget I said that."
"Oh."
Fantastic. She sounds uncomfortable. Wonderful.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your hand gently caught his wrist before he could keep spiraling, "I just..."
He opened his eyes, and to his delight, you were smiling.
"I've been wondering how long that was going to take."
His eyebrows knit together. "...What?"
"I was starting to think you were never going to say it."
"...Say what?"
"That."
You laughed quietly. "I've liked you for over a year, Eddie."
His brain stopped. "No, you don't."
"I do."
"You can't."
"I can."
"You..." He searched your face for the joke, "You've liked me?"
"Since you helped that freshman find the theater room on the first day of school last year."
"...That's why?"
"You spent fifteen minutes walking him around the building."
"He looked lost."
"I know." You smiled, "That's kind of my point."
He stared, then laughed, a disbelieving and breathless laugh.
"I've spent an entire year convincing myself you were completely out of my league."
"I've spent an entire year waiting for you to realize I wasn't.”
His heart nearly flew out of his chest just then.
"But then..." You shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "You bought the second homecoming ticket, so I just assumed you found someone else to ask."
"...WHAT?"
The word exploded out of him so loudly that a flock of birds scattered from the nearby trees.
You blinked. "What?"
"No!" He sat up a little too fast before immediately grabbing his ribs. "Ow—Jesus Christ."
"Eddie! Jesus, would you calm d—"
"No, no, listen." He pointed emphatically toward the school. "I bought the second ticket because you were standing there."
"...I know."
"No, I mean—" He groaned. "I wasn't thinking."
"I've noticed."
"I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you."
You stared.
"So my brain went..." He mimed throwing something across the parking lot. "'Buy two tickets.' But uh, I didn't have a plan after that."
A laugh bubbled out of you. "So..."
He continued, growing increasingly animated. "...then Gareth asks, 'Who're you taking?'"
"And?"
"And I realized..." He buried his face in his hands. "...I had absolutely no idea what I was doing."
Your shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God..."
"I panicked."
"I can tell."
"I said I bought them for fun."
"You told them..." you managed between laughs, "'for fun?'"
"I know!"
"That's the worst lie I've ever heard."
"I KNOW."
"They believed you?"
"They absolutely did not."
You laughed even harder, and he found himself laughing, too.
"I have spent," he said through a grin, "the last four days wondering who the hell I was supposed to ask because apparently I'd already committed."
Your laughter slowly faded into something softer.
"So..." You looked at him carefully. "...Who were you planning on asking?"
He gave you the most incredulous look. "You."
"Really?"
"You literally just admitted you thought I found somebody else."
"I know, but..." You smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."
Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "You're evil."
"A little."
"You've been letting me suffer this whole time?"
"I thought it was kind of cute."
"Oh, that's cruel."
"It was a little cruel." You say, shrugging.
He smiles the biggest smile he can muster, considering the pain shooting through what feels like every inch of his body, and releases a deep sigh.
"So..."
"So?"
He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, wincing as his bruised ribs protested.
After a second of fumbling, he pulled out the slightly crumpled orange homecoming ticket, holding it out between two fingers.
"I know this isn't exactly the most romantic timing."
You looked down at the ticket, then back up at him.
"But..." His smile turned nervous, "...would you maybe wanna go to homecoming with me?"
You could’ve just verbally said yes, but fuck that.
You broke the final inches of distance between you, your lips meeting his. He kissed you back instinctively, one hand finding your waist, smiling into the kiss. You smiled too.
"Hss—" Eddie jerked back with a sharp wince, immediately bringing a hand to his mouth.
"Oh, my God!" Your eyes went wide. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"
"No, no—" He laughed despite himself, carefully pressing two fingers against his split lip. "I just forgot I got punched."
"You idiot."
"Yeah..." A grin spread across his face, "...Worth it."
You rolled your eyes, but he caught the smile tugging at your lips.
"This time," you murmured, leaning closer again, "try not to throw yourself into it like you're storming a castle."
"I make no promises."
"I know." You cupped his cheek, much gentler now. "So let me."
This kiss was much slower; you barely brushed your lips against his at first. He practically pulled you into his airspace, completely ignoring any stinging sensation because, hell, he’d thought about this at least a thousand times.
Afterward, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
"I've wanted to do that," he admitted softly, "for... probably an embarrassing amount of time."
You laughed. "Me too."
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "So..."
"So?"
"Does this mean you'll go to homecoming with me?"
You pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."
"Don't do this to me."
"I suppose."
He let out the most dramatic sigh of relief. "Thank God."
Before you could tease him for it, he was kissing you again. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as he smiled into it, and you smiled back.
Then you felt the subtle tension in his hand. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin. The sharp inhale he tried, and failed, to hide.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're hurting."
"I'm surviving."
"Eddie."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He grinned, lopsided because of his split lip. "I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times."
You laughed softly.
"And not once did Jason Carver punch me beforehand."
You rolled your eyes, your thumb carefully brushing beneath the bruise blooming under his eye.
"You are unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have."
His forehead rested against yours, his smile refusing to leave. "I don't think anything could ruin today."
"...Ahem."
The two of you froze and slowly turned your heads.
Dustin stood a few yards away, an ice pack dangling from one hand. He looked from Eddie to you, then to the fact that you were still sitting impossibly close together, practically entangled.
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
"...I guess you don't need that ice pack then?"
missed u guys sm:,) more coming soon, pinky promise <3
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description: for the sake of the band, the friend group, and his own sanity, eddie keeps his feelings for you firmly to himself. unfortunately, one offhand correction during a hellfire campaign reveals you're just as much of a fantasy nerd as he is. from that moment on, eddie is completely and utterly screwed.
pairing: eddie munson x nerdy!reader (fem!reader)
tags: eddie munson x you, no y/n, reader insert, FLUFFFF, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, boyfriend!eddie munson, hellfire club, guitarist!reader, gareth's bestfriend!reader, excessive physical affection, domestic fluff, reader gets special treatment during campaigns, gareth gets fed up of the will they wont they bs
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!, PiV, unprotected, some post-campaign fun ;)
WC: 7.0k
A/N: requested by @eddiemunsonspantschain AHHH hello all! requestpalooza has started, so thank you to all who have submitted! i hope you all enjoy!! (i proofread as best as i could, i am utterly exhausted pls be gentle)
reblogs are truly appreciated <33
enjoy some lovely fluff. thought you all would appreciate a palate cleanser after the angst streak.
If anyone had asked Eddie Munson to describe you, his answer would've been embarrassingly simple: quiet, pretty, funny when you actually spoke, and an absolute menace on rhythm guitar.
You'd been Gareth's best friend since elementary school, which automatically made you part of the group years before Eddie ever showed up. Somewhere between band practice in Gareth's garage and late-night drives to nowhere with cheap gas station snacks, you'd just... become one of them.
You usually sat with your combat boots kicked up on an amp, cigarette hanging lazily between your fingers while Jeff and Gareth argued over chords and Eddie rambled about whatever had caught his attention that week.
Sometimes horror movies. Sometimes a new Metallica album. Sometimes some insane campaign he'd spent six straight hours writing instead of doing homework.
You'd just listen, smile every now and then. Throw in the occasional dry comment that made everyone laugh harder than anything else said that evening. Then go back to quietly restringing your guitar.
As far as Eddie knew, that was the extent of it. He knew you liked metal. He knew you preferred your coffee black. He knew you kept a denim jacket covered in patches draped over the back of Gareth's couch because you were over there so often.
He knew you could play Iron Maiden riffs cleaner than half the guys he'd met. He knew he had the most pathetic schoolboy crush on you imaginable. He also knew Gareth would never let him live it down if he acted on it.
So he didn't.
He flirted just enough that everyone thought that's simply how Eddie talked to girls. He'd throw you a grin. Call you sweetheart. Offer you the first beer. Let your shoulder bump against his when everyone piled onto the couch.
Nothing serious, nothing obvious. Nothing that would risk screwing up something that already worked. Because having you around was better than making things awkward and losing you altogether.
You, meanwhile, had somehow convinced everyone you had absolutely zero hobbies beyond music, which was exactly how you preferred it.
Nobody knew about the stack of fantasy novels hidden underneath your bed. Nobody knew about the little notebook full of campaign ideas. Nobody knew about the afternoons you'd spent reading through Gareth's Player's Handbook after he'd accidentally left it at your house when you were fifteen. And absolutely nobody knew that after borrowing it once, you'd gone out and bought your own.
Then another, and then another. By now you owned enough books that your bookshelf looked suspiciously like a tiny game shop. Not because you actually played; you'd never had the courage.
You just liked learning about it. The stories. The worlds. The maps. The mythology. You found it fascinating. But somewhere along the line, quietly reading had turned into quietly memorizing.
Which was why, every time Hellfire met in the theatre room after school, you intentionally sat just far enough away that you couldn't hear very well.
Because if you could hear...You'd start correcting people, and nobody likes that person. So you kept your mouth shut. It worked for months.
Until one rainy Thursday when band practice got canceled because Gareth's parents wanted the garage cleaned out, leaving the entire group with nowhere to be. Hellfire happened to be meeting.
"You should just stay," Dustin insisted.
"You literally sit here anyway."
"I'm not playing."
"You don't have to."
Jeff chimed in from somewhere behind him. "Yeah, just hang out."
You looked toward Gareth; he shrugged, "Might as well."
So you settled into one of the empty chairs against the wall with a comic book you'd barely read a page of while Eddie started spinning another one of his ridiculously elaborate campaigns.
You weren't trying to pay attention; you really weren't. But you couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces. Names you recognized. Places you recognized. Monsters you recognized. And honestly? He was really good.
Animated. Creative. Completely invested. Watching him practically stand on top of the fake throne to voice an evil wizard was charming enough that you forgot to hide your smile.
Then it happened. "So naturally," Eddie declared dramatically, "the basilisk's gaze instantly petrifies all three of you permanently—"
You physically looked up, and your eyebrows pulled together, lips parting. No. No, no, no.
You looked back down at your comic. You could ignore it. You should ignore it. Dustin was already reacting. Mike was planning around it. Lucas looked mildly horrified.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Stay quiet. Stay quiet. Stay—
"...Actually..." The word slipped out before you could stop it.
Every single head turned toward you. You immediately wished the floor would open beneath your chair.
Eddie blinked. "Hm?"
You stared at your comic. "...Nothing."
He tilted his head. "No, c'mon."
You sighed through your nose. "...A basilisk's gaze doesn't permanently petrify you."
Silence. "It can," Eddie answered carefully.
"It can…but not instantly."
You paused, rethinking your life’s choices, but decided to follow through. "It requires you to fail the saving throw."
Dustin slowly looked between both of you like he was watching a tennis match.
Eddie folded his arms. "...Okay."
You already hated this.
"And how exactly do you know that?"
You mumbled the answer.
"What was that?"
"...Monster Manual."
"What?"
You looked up reluctantly. "The Monster Manual."
He stared, and you stared back.
"...Page seventy-three."
Absolute silence. Jeff's jaw slowly fell open. Gareth looked at you, a mix of suspicion and pride forming. "...Since when?"
You rubbed the back of your neck. "I don't know."
"You own a Monster Manual?"
"...Yeah."
Eddie's voice got quieter. "...Anything else?"
You made the mistake of answering honestly. "I've got most of them."
He blinked. "Most... of them."
"The books."
"The books."
"Yeah."
He looked genuinely speechless. Then, very carefully, "...Name five schools of magic."
You frowned. "There are eight."
His eyes got wider.
Without thinking, you started listing them. "Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Transmutation."
By the time you finished, Eddie was staring at you with an expression somewhere between existential crisis and complete infatuation.
He looked over at Gareth, looked back at you, then looked at Gareth again.
"You've been hiding this from me?"
You blinked. "I didn't think anybody cared."
"Cared?"
He sounded personally offended. "Cared?"
You shrugged helplessly. "I don't actually play."
"So?"
"I just read them."
"So?"
"I like lore."
"So?"
"I didn't think it mattered."
Eddie dragged both hands down his face, then looked at you again with something that almost looked pained. "I have spent three years desperately searching for people who voluntarily read sourcebooks."
You looked confused. "...Really?"
"And Gareth has apparently been gatekeeping the coolest girl in Hawkins."
Gareth immediately defended himself. "I DIDN'T KNOW EITHER."
Eddie looked back at you. Then, with complete sincerity, "Please join Hellfire."
You laughed.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"No, seriously." He leaned across the table. "I am literally begging you."
You couldn't help smiling. He looked completely smitten, like something had clicked into place. Like the cute girl he'd been trying not to flirt with too much had suddenly started speaking his favorite language.
And judging by the ridiculous grin spreading across his face, you had absolutely no idea what you'd just done to him.
It started small: a little less space between you on Gareth's couch. Conversations that accidentally stretched long after everyone else had wandered into another room. The realization that if Eddie had a campaign idea, your opinion was one of the first he wanted.
At some point, it became completely normal for Gareth to call your house and ask if he could come over to work on music, only to show up twenty minutes later with Eddie in tow and an armful of graph paper, dice, and notebooks.
Band practice would last an hour; campaign brainstorming would last four.
You'd all end up around your bedroom floor or the dining room table with pencils scattered everywhere, Eddie pacing barefoot because he'd inevitably kicked his shoes off halfway through explaining something.
"No, okay, listen," he'd insist, waving his hands around wildly. "Imagine the town thinks they're cursed because people keep disappearing into the woods."
You'd be scribbling notes already. "They're not disappearing."
He'd stop. "No?"
"They're being taken."
"By what?"
You'd chew on your pencil for a second. "They think it's a monster."
"But?"
"It's not."
He'd grin. "But?"
"It's a druid."
His eyebrows would shoot up. "Oh?"
"They're taking people because something older is waking up underneath the forest and they're trying to keep them away from it."
"That's why you're my favorite."
Gareth, without missing a beat, would throw a crumpled piece of notebook paper at him. "You are so unbelievable."
"What?"
"You don't even hear yourself."
"Hear what?"
"'That's why you're my favorite.'" He mocked.
Eddie would look genuinely confused. "I meant campaign-wise."
"Mhm."
"I did."
"Mhm."
Jeff would snort from wherever he happened to be sitting. You'd duck your head to hide a smile while pretending to be very invested in your notes.
Eventually Eddie would wander over anyway, leaning over your shoulder to look at whatever you'd been writing. His hair would brush yours.
His hands would be slightly closer to yours against the table. He'd smell faintly like cigarettes and weed and that cologne you complimented one time, and he refused to wear a different one since.
"Holy shit."
You'd glance up. "What?"
"This is so much better than what I had."
He'd snatch your notebook. "Eddie."
"Nope."
"Eddie."
"This is mine now."
"You can't just steal my ideas."
"I absolutely can."
He'd flip another page. "You drew maps?"
You'd immediately reach for the notebook. "No."
He'd lift it over his head. "You drew maps."
"Eddie."
"You color-coded the districts."
"Eddie."
"You made economic systems."
"Oh my god, give it back."
He'd be laughing too hard to defend himself as you reached for it, nearly climbing over him in the process. Somewhere behind you, Gareth would let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind.
"Jesus Christ."
Neither of you would even notice. You'd finally grab the notebook back, smoothing out the bent page with exaggerated offense.
"You suck."
"I know."
"You bent it."
"I'll buy you another."
"I don't want another."
"I'll buy you five."
"They won't have my notes."
He'd soften immediately. "...Good point."
Then, almost sheepishly, "I'm sorry."
You'd just smile. "It's okay."
And somehow that stupid little interaction would live in his head for days afterward.
The problem was that spending more time around Eddie wasn't making your crush go away; it was making it catastrophically worse.
It was one thing to think he was attractive from across Gareth's garage while he played guitar. It was another thing entirely to watch him get excited over stories.
To watch him grin when you challenged one of his ideas and immediately start building on yours instead. To watch him get genuinely delighted when you beat him to a fantasy reference. He really listened to you. Like, actually.
Half your conversations started with him saying, "Wait, what do you think?"
Nobody had ever asked you that so often before. It made your chest hurt a little. Then there were the little things.
He always sat next to you. Always offered you the first slice of pizza. Always saved you the root beer because he'd noticed it was your favorite after seeing you pick it out exactly twice.
One afternoon, he disappeared for ten minutes while everyone argued over music. When he came back, he tossed something into your lap. You looked down: a little pewter dragon pin. Nothing fancy, probably from the flea market. Its wing was chipped, and one eye had faded paint.
"I saw it and thought of you."
Your heart nearly stopped. "It's cool."
"I figured you'd put it on your jacket."
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. "I will."
He looked suspiciously pleased with himself. Across the room, Gareth watched the exchange happen in complete silence before rubbing both hands over his face.
Jeff noticed. "What?"
Gareth looked at him. "I can't do this anymore."
"Do what?"
He pointed between the two of you. "This."
Jeff looked over. "...They're talking."
"They're in love."
"They're discussing dragons."
"They're discussing dragons in love."
Jeff started laughing, then Gareth stood up dramatically. "Eddie."
"Hm?"
"You know you can just ask her out."
The room went completely still. Eddie looked genuinely horrified. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No?"
"Ask her out."
He immediately looked at you, then away again so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. "I am not asking her out."
"And why not?"
"Because she's your best friend."
"So?"
"What if she says no?"
You looked down at your hands, and Gareth threw both arms into the air. "And what if she says yes?"
Eddie looked personally offended by the suggestion. "Don't mess with me."
"I'm literally not."
Jeff had gone completely silent, clearly realizing something much larger was unfolding.
Gareth pointed at you now. "And you."
Your head snapped up.
"When are you gonna tell him?"
You nearly choked. "Tell him what?"
He stared. "Oh, don't even."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You look at him like he personally invented the damn game himself."
Your face instantly went hot. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You literally smile every time he walks into a room."
"I smile at everyone."
"You do not smile at Jeff."
Jeff looked mildly offended. "Hey!"
You buried your face in your hands. "This is awful."
Gareth groaned loud enough to shake the walls. "I swear to God, one of you has got to grow a spine."
Eddie looked over at you. You peeked at him through your fingers. The second your eyes met, both of you immediately looked somewhere else.
Gareth stood there for another few seconds before muttering to himself and grabbing his jacket. "I'm going outside."
Jeff followed. "Me too."
The door shut behind them. You were still looking at the floor while Eddie was rubbing the back of his neck.
Finally, after what felt like forever, he spoke. "...For what it's worth..."
You looked up.
"...I don't think he's completely wrong."
Your stomach did a complete somersault. He looked terrified; you probably looked exactly the same. Then, somehow, despite both of you being objectively hopeless at this sort of thing...
You both started laughing. The nervous, embarrassed kind that comes out when there's nothing else left to do.
"So..."
"So."
Then both of you started talking at exactly the same time.
"I'm sor—"
"I didn't mea—"
You stopped, he stopped, and you both laughed again. Eddie shook his head, looking down at the floor with the kind of smile that only appeared when he was genuinely embarrassed.
"I've fought people with knives, and somehow this is scarier."
That made you smile. "I don't think Gareth was supposed to say all that."
"He definitely wasn't."
"He looked like he was gonna explode."
"He has looked like that for weeks."
Your eyebrows pulled together. "Weeks?"
Eddie looked up, immediately realizing he'd said too much. "...Maybe."
You studied him for a second. "You knew?"
He let out a long sigh. "I knew he thought something."
"And?"
"And I kept telling him he was making it up."
"You did?"
"Mhm."
"And was he?"
He looked at you for a long moment before quietly admitting, "...No."
Your heart gave one heavy, impossible thud. He looked back down almost immediately.
"I just figured..." he started, picking at one of the rings on his fingers. "I don't know."
"You can tell me."
He laughed softly to himself. "I figured I was reading into things because I wanted to."
He shrugged. "You laugh at my jokes."
"They're funny."
"You always sit next to me."
"So do you."
"You remember everything I tell you."
"So do you."
"You still have that stupid dragon pin."
You instinctively looked down at your jacket hanging over the chair across the room. It was still there, pinned right over your heart.
You looked back at him. "...Of course I do."
His ears turned pink as he smiled to himself. "I kept thinking maybe you were just nice."
"And I kept thinking you flirted with everybody."
"I do flirt with everybody."
"I know."
"But not like that."
You looked at him. He was still staring at the floor. Quietly, almost too quietly to hear, he added, "Not like you."
He took another breath. "I didn't want to make things weird."
"I didn't either."
"I didn't want Gareth to think I was making band practice complicated."
"I didn't either."
"I didn't want to screw up the friend group."
"I didn't either."
That earned another little laugh from both of you. It was almost ridiculous, months of overthinking condensed into a handful of matching sentences.
He shifted a little closer on the couch. "...Can I ask you something?"
You nodded, but he hesitated anyway. "If Gareth comes back in here and starts laughing at me, I'm moving to Canada."
You couldn't help smiling. "I don't think you’d make it that far."
"I've got enough gas money to reach Ohio."
"Fair."
Then he just blurted it out. "...Would you maybe wanna go on a date with me?"
No dramatic speech, no rehearsed line, no confidence. Just Eddie, visibly terrified, trying to act like his entire future wasn't hanging on your answer.
Then your mouth betrayed you before your brain could. "...I thought you'd never ask."
His eyes got impossibly wide. "...Really?"
You laughed. "Eddie."
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"You mean yes?"
"I mean yes."
"You actually mean yes?"
"I do."
He blinked twice. Then covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my God."
You could hear him laughing behind them. "Oh, my God."
He dragged his hands down slowly, looking somewhere between relieved and completely stunned. "I had a whole backup speech."
"You did?"
"It was terrible."
"I would've liked to hear it."
"No chance."
"Please?"
"It somehow involved dragons."
You laughed so hard your head dropped forward. "I absolutely believe that."
He looked at you for another second before another thought visibly crossed his mind. "Oh."
"What?"
"So..." He scratched at the back of his neck again. "This is kind of embarrassing."
"What is?"
"I didn't think you'd actually say yes."
"So you don't have a date planned."
"...Not exactly."
You bit back a smile.
"I had approximately seventy-three fantasies and zero logistics."
"I appreciate the honesty."
He thought for a second, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait."
"What?"
"The open-air market."
"The one over by Main?"
"Yeah,” he smiled. "My uncle goes every few weeks."
"I've never actually been."
"You haven't?"
You shook your head.
"They've got old records and books and weird antiques and flea market junk and people selling handmade jewelry and all kinds of random stuff."
He was getting animated now, talking with his hands the way he always did when he got excited. "And this old guy that always has boxes of fantasy novels for like fifty cents."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
"And another booth with vintage band shirts."
"Oh?"
"And there's usually a food truck with cider donuts."
"...Eddie."
"What?"
"I already said yes."
"I know."
"I'm just making my case."
"You don't have to."
He grinned. "So..." His voice softened. "Tomorrow morning?"
You smiled. "I'd like that."
"You would?"
"I would."
"What time?"
"Whenever you pick me up."
His grin somehow grew even bigger. "Nine?"
"Nine."
For another second, neither of you moved, just smiled at each other like two complete idiots. Then the front door flew open. Gareth walked in carrying two sodas, took one look at the way you were looking at each other, and immediately stopped.
His eyes narrowed. "...No."
Neither of you said anything. He looked at Eddie, he looked at you, and then he looked back at Eddie once more. "...No."
Jeff stepped around him. "What?"
Gareth pointed dramatically. "They're smiling."
Jeff looked. "...Yeah?"
"The weird smiling."
"They smile."
"No."
He pointed harder. "The smile."
Jeff watched for another second, then slowly grinned. "...Oh."
Gareth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Did one of you finally grow a spine?"
Eddie looked over with a smile he couldn't suppress if he tried. "...Maybe."
Gareth stood perfectly still, then set both sodas on the coffee table. Then walked over and hugged you. Then hugged Eddie.
Then immediately pushed him away again. "If you break her heart, I'll kill you."
Eddie nodded solemnly. "Fair."
Gareth looked at you. "If you break his heart, I'll kill you too."
You nodded just as seriously. "Also fair."
He looked between the two of you one last time before throwing both hands into the air. "Jesus Christ."
Jeff laughed. "What?"
"I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THIS FOR SIX MONTHS."
He turned toward the ceiling. "THANK YOU."
And somewhere beside him, Eddie's hand quietly found yours for the very first time. He didn't make a joke. Didn't look at you. Didn't say anything at all.
He just laced his fingers with yours like he'd been wanting to for a very, very long time. You squeezed once, and he squeezed back.
The next morning, you were standing on your front porch at exactly 8:58 when you heard the familiar rattle of Eddie's van coming down the street. Not that you'd been waiting by the window or anything…definitely not.
The van pulled into the driveway, and before it had even fully stopped, you could see Eddie leaning across the passenger seat.
The door swung open. "Good morning."
You laughed. "It's nine in the morning."
"And?"
"You look entirely too excited."
He grinned. "I got a date."
Your stomach immediately betrayed you. The stupid thing was that you'd known Eddie for years now. You'd spent countless afternoons with him. Late-night band practices. Movie marathons. Campaign planning sessions.
Yet somehow, the word "date" made everything feel different.
You climbed into the passenger seat and immediately noticed the stack of cassette tapes scattered between the seats. "You cleaned."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I moved things."
"Eddie."
"The important garbage is still here."
Neither of you had to struggle for conversation. You talked about music, about the campaign you'd been helping him write. About the ridiculous argument Jeff and Dustin had gotten into over whether dragons or vampires were cooler. By the time the market came into view, you'd spent half the drive laughing.
The open-air market occupied an old fairground lot just outside town. Rows of tents stretched across the grass. People wandered between booths carrying coffee cups and paper bags. Music drifted through the air from somewhere. The entire place smelled like baked goods, fresh grass, and sunlight.
"This is cute."
Eddie looked weirdly pleased by your approval. "Right?"
You followed him through the aisles, taking your time. Every booth seemed to have something different. Old records. Handmade jewelry. Vintage books. Antiques. Hand-painted signs. One tent was entirely dedicated to old movie posters. Another sold homemade candles.
A woman was knitting behind a table full of scarves despite the weather being far too warm for scarves.
"This place is amazing."
"I know."
"You come here often?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes with Wayne."
You stopped at a table full of records while Eddie flipped through another crate beside you. Every couple of seconds, one of you would hold something up.
"What about this?"
"No."
"This?"
"Absolutely not."
"This?"
"Now we're talking."
It felt easy, like everything else did with him. Eventually you reached a booth covered in old band shirts hanging from racks.
Your eyes immediately lit up. "Oh, my God."
You were already digging through them. Most were faded, some had holes, and a few were clearly older than both of you combined.
You found a Black Sabbath shirt and held it up. "Eddie."
His eyes widened. "No way."
"It's my size."
"That's illegal."
You immediately bought it. He found a faded Dio shirt twenty minutes later and looked just as excited.
"You are absolutely getting that."
"I don't know."
"Eddie."
"It's kinda expensive."
It was eight dollars. You stared. "Eddie."
"Okay, when you say it like that."
You rolled your eyes. He bought the shirt, and you continued wandering. At some point, your shoulder started brushing his when you walked.
Then you found the books, a whole tent full of them. Secondhand fantasy novels stacked in crooked towers. Leather-bound collections. Old paperbacks. Forgotten adventures.
You immediately disappeared inside. Eddie smiled before you were even fully gone. Of course this would be your favorite booth. He watched you crouch beside a stack, completely absorbed within seconds.
Your fingers carefully turned pages. Your eyes scanned titles. You smiled when you found something interesting. And God, maybe it was pathetic. But he could've stood there all day watching you be happy.
Instead, he wandered a few booths down, and that's when he saw the flowers. A little elderly woman sat beneath a striped canopy surrounded by buckets overflowing with blooms. Sunflowers. Wildflowers. Daisies. Lavender. Tiny pink roses. The entire booth looked like something out of a storybook.
Eddie wasn't really a flower guy, at least he hadn't been. But then he spotted a small bouquet sitting in a glass jar. Nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers tied together with twine. It looked like something someone had picked during a walk.
For some reason, it immediately reminded him of you. The woman caught him staring.
"Got a girl?"
Eddie immediately looked away. "No."
She smiled knowingly. Then glanced toward the book tent where you stood.
"Honey."
He groaned.
The woman laughed. "That one's cute."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah."
"You should buy her flowers."
"What if she thinks it's weird?"
The woman gave him a look. "Son."
"Yeah?"
"She's here with you at the crack ass of dawn, isn’t she?"
Fair point.
Five minutes later, he was walking back with the bouquet hidden awkwardly behind his back. You still hadn't noticed him. You were standing in front of a shelf with three books pressed against your chest, completely focused.
"Find anything good?"
You looked up immediately. "Look."
You handed him one. Then another. Then another. By the end of your explanation, you were smiling so hard that he almost forgot what he'd been doing.
"Oh."
"What?"
"I got you something."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You did?"
He suddenly felt sixteen years old. "Yeah."
Then he awkwardly revealed the bouquet, and immediately regretted every decision he'd ever made.
"I saw them and—"
You froze. "Oh."
His heart dropped. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe flowers were too much. Maybe—
"Oh, my God." You looked genuinely shocked. "Eddie."
Your expression softened into something so sweet it nearly killed him. "They're beautiful."
The relief that hit him was immediate. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You carefully took them from him.
"They reminded me of you." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You looked up, and his face immediately turned red. "That sounded cooler in my head."
A laugh escaped you. "No."
You glanced down at the flowers again, then back at him. "It's actually really sweet.".
The crowd continued moving around you. People walked past. Music drifted through the air. Yet somehow it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to that tiny space between you. And somewhere in the distance, a vendor yelled that fresh cider donuts were ready.
Eddie immediately pointed. "Okay."
You laughed. "What?"
"Before I say something embarrassingly romantic and ruin my reputation—"
"You don't have a reputation."
"I absolutely do."
"You really don't."
He grinned. "Cider donuts?"
You looked down at the flowers in your hands. "Lead the way, Munson."
His smile was so bright it almost rivaled the morning sun. And for maybe the first time in his life, Eddie couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be
The funny thing was that absolutely nothing changed after you and Eddie started dating. And simultaneously, everything changed.
Band practice still happened in Gareth's garage. Hellfire still met every week. You still spent entirely too much time arguing over music and fantasy novels and campaign mechanics.
Eddie still stole your fries. You still stole his jackets. On the surface, very little was different.
Except now Eddie could kiss you whenever he wanted, which turned out to be a problem. Because Eddie Munson was possibly the most physically affectionate human being to ever walk the earth. You discovered this approximately forty-eight hours into the relationship.
It started innocently enough. A hand on your lower back. His arm around your shoulders. His knee pressed against yours whenever you sat together. Normal boyfriend things. Then it escalated…rapidly.
Somehow Eddie always needed to be touching you. Not in an overbearing way, just constantly. If you were sitting beside him, his hand would find yours without him even realizing it. If you were standing next to him, he'd hook a finger through your belt loop. If you were walking somewhere together, his arm would automatically settle over your shoulders.
Movie nights became nearly impossible because he'd slowly slide lower and lower until his head was in your lap. You'd look down halfway through a film to find him completely comfortable, stealing handfuls of popcorn and using your thigh as a pillow.
"Eddie."
"Hm?"
"You have your own seat."
"This is my seat."
"No, it isn't."
He'd just smile, close his eyes, and settle in deeper. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Then there were the kisses.
God. The kisses. Eddie kissed you constantly. Not because he was trying to be smooth. Mostly because he genuinely seemed incapable of stopping himself.
The top of your head. Your cheek. Your temple. Your shoulder. The back of your hand. Sometimes he'd walk into a room, kiss your forehead, and then continue whatever conversation he'd been having as though nothing had happened.
The first few weeks, it caught you off guard every single time. Months later, it still made your heart do stupid little flips. One afternoon you were helping him organize campaign notes at his trailer. You'd been focused on a map for nearly twenty minutes when suddenly—
Mwah.
You looked up. "What was that for?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You just kissed me."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He looked genuinely confused. "You looked cute."
Then immediately went back to writing, as if that was a perfectly normal explanation. Which, for Eddie, it apparently was. Wayne found the whole thing hilarious.
"You know," Wayne had said one evening while watching Eddie practically drape himself across you on the couch, "for a fella who spent years actin' tough, you sure turned into a sap."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Wayne pointed; Eddie was literally entirely in your bubble.
"And now?"
"I'm comfortable."
"You followed her into the kitchen earlier because she went to get some water."
"I was thirsty."
"You don't even like water."
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at you.
"...That's not the point."
The truth was that Eddie had spent so long convincing himself not to cross the line that once he finally could, all that affection had nowhere to go except directly toward you.
And honestly? You loved it. Because underneath all the teasing and dramatics, he was impossibly sweet. He remembered everything, every little thing.
Your favorite candy. Your favorite records. The books you'd mentioned wanting but couldn't find. The exact coffee order you got at the diner. One time you casually mentioned liking a specific fantasy author. Two weeks later, he showed up with a battered secondhand copy he'd found three towns over.
Another time you'd complained that your hands were cold. The next day he brought you a pair of fingerless gloves he'd found at the market. They were hideous and completely ridiculous.
You wore them all winter.
Ironically, your first kiss had been nothing like what you’d expect.
It had happened a couple of weeks after the market, after band practice. Everyone else had left. Jeff had work. Gareth had dinner. You'd stayed behind to help pack up equipment while Eddie finished putting away cables.
The garage had been quiet, just music playing softly from an old radio. You'd been sitting on an amp while he rambled about a campaign idea. Something about dragons, obviously.
At some point, he'd stopped talking, and you'd looked up and realized he was already looking at you.
"Eddie?"
"Hm?"
"You stopped talking."
"I know."
You smiled. "That's unusual."
His laugh had been nervous, which should've tipped you off immediately. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth, only for a second. And suddenly your stomach was somewhere near your shoes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Then Eddie had done something completely out of character. He asked quietly, almost as if he wasn't sure he was allowed, "...Can I kiss you?"
You remembered the way your heart had nearly exploded. The way he'd looked terrified. The way he'd immediately started backtracking when you didn't answer fast enough.
"I mean—you don't have to—I was just—"
You kissed him before he could finish. Mostly because if you'd let him keep talking, he probably would've apologized and fled the state.
For a second, he froze, as if his brain needed a moment to process what was happening. Then one of his hands found your jaw, and suddenly he was kissing you back. Soft and careful, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
Months later, Eddie still brought it up sometimes, usually when he wanted to annoy you.
"You know."
You immediately knew that tone. "What?"
"You kissed me first."
You rolled your eyes. "Here we go."
"I'm just saying."
"You literally asked."
"Technically."
"You were halfway through a panic attack."
"Technically."
"You would've talked yourself out of it."
"Possibly."
"Definitely."
He laughed, then leaned over and kissed your cheek. "Good thing you saved me, sweetheart."
By the time you and Eddie had been dating for about seven months, Hellfire had developed a new problem. Or, more specifically, Eddie had developed a problem. And that problem was you.
"Okay," Dustin said, pointing accusingly across the table. "This is bullshit."
The entire campaign immediately ground to a halt. Eddie looked up from behind his DM screen.
"What is?"
"This,” Dustin gestured wildly.
"Define this."
"You giving her special treatment."
You nearly choked on your soda.
Across the table, Mike immediately nodded. "Thank you."
Lucas pointed. "Finally somebody said it."
Eddie looked genuinely offended. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I absolutely don't."
Jeff snorted. "You absolutely do."
Even Gareth joined in. "Dude."
Eddie looked around the room. "You guys are insane."
Then slowly looked toward you. "...Back me up."
You immediately betrayed him.
"Oh, no." His jaw dropped. "You too? Babe."
The entire table collectively groaned; even the nickname irritated them now.
"Babe?" Mike repeated. "You call her babe in-game too."
"It slipped out once."
"It happened three times last session."
"That's not important."
"It kind of is when you're talking to a barbarian."
Eddie pointed dramatically. "None of you have evidence."
The room exploded. "No evidence?"
"Dude!"
"You literally gave her a dragon."
"It was a baby dragon."
"It was still a dragon."
"It was injured!"
"You let her keep it."
"She nursed it back to health."
"You gave her a dragon."
"...Okay, maybe the dragon thing wasn't helping my case."
"THANK YOU." Dustin practically stood up.
The truth was that they weren't wrong. Eddie tried to be fair; he genuinely did. But every time he sat behind that DM screen, all logic immediately left his body.
You'd mention some random piece of backstory you'd thought of at two in the morning, and suddenly there was an entire side quest dedicated to it.
You'd casually mention that your ranger grew up near the ocean. Next thing everyone knew, there was a mysterious coastal kingdom appearing in the campaign.
One time you'd joked that your character liked collecting shiny rocks. Two sessions later, Eddie had created an entire magical gemstone subplot. The man had no self-control, and everyone knew it.
Especially Gareth, who had spent months witnessing it firsthand. The latest offense had happened approximately twenty minutes earlier. The party had entered a ruined cathedral.
A dangerous encounter, lots of enemies, high stakes. Or at least it should've been. Unfortunately, Eddie had described a hooded traveler sitting alone by the fire.
A traveler who immediately recognized your character. A traveler who apparently knew your character's family. A traveler who had information specifically relevant to your backstory. A traveler who somehow only wanted to talk to you.
The entire table had immediately erupted. "NO."
"Dude."
"Again?"
"This is ridiculous."
Eddie had tried defending himself. "It makes sense narratively."
"No, it doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
"It absolutely doesn't."
Now, twenty minutes later, they were still arguing about it.
"I just think," Mike said, crossing his arms, "that maybe the rest of us deserve emotional character development too."
"You have emotional character development."
"When?"
"You got stabbed."
"THAT'S NOT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT."
Jeff nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Meanwhile, you were actively trying not to laugh, which wasn't helping.
Eddie noticed immediately. "You think this is funny?"
"A little."
The rest of the session dissolved into more good-natured ribbing until the guys finally started packing up their dice and minis, trading complaints about favoritism all the way out the door.
Gareth shot you both a knowing look as he left last, muttering something about "not wanting to know what happens next."
You started gathering scattered papers and pushing chairs back into place, the faint scent of dry-erase markers and lingering pizza still thick in the air.
Eddie watched you for a moment from the end of the table, that familiar wicked little smile tugging at his lips. Then he rounded the table, coming up behind you as you reached for a stray miniature.
His arms slid around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"You look like this," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "and they still act shocked I can't keep my hands off you." His voice dropped lower.
"Can't really blame me though. Look at you, sitting there all session like you weren't thinking about what I’d do to you once they left."
You shivered as his mouth found the side of your neck. He kissed the sensitive spot just below your ear, then scraped his teeth gently over it, sucking lightly until your breath hitched.
One of his hands splayed across your stomach, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace slow circles on your skin.
"Eddie," you warned, half-laughing, half-breathless. "We’re supposed to be cleaning up."
"Mm, we are," he said against your throat, kissing lower and more open-mouthed. "I’m just… multitasking."
His other hand slid down to grip your hip, pulling you back against the growing hardness in his jeans.
"Been hard half the session thinking about bending you over this table. You know that?"
You turned in his arms, intending to tell him to behave, but his mouth crashed into yours before you could. The kiss was messy and eager, all tongue and teeth, the kind that always left your lips swollen.
He backed you toward the edge of the massive wooden table, hands roaming under your shirt until he cupped your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through your bra.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your mouth. "Need you. Right here. Been dying to feel how wet you get for me after I’ve been staring at you all night."
You gasped as he lifted you onto the table, shoving aside papers and a few forgotten dice that clattered to the floor. He stepped between your spread thighs, grinding against you as he tugged your shirt up and off.
His mouth returned to your neck, sucking marks you’d have to hide tomorrow, while his fingers worked your jeans open.
You reached down to palm him through his pants, earning a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest. "Eddie…someone could come back."
"Let ‘em," he muttered, nipping at your collarbone as he pushed your jeans and panties down just enough. "Let ‘em see how fucking perfect you look when I’m buried inside you."
He dropped to his knees briefly, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss between your legs that had your head falling back with a moan. One quick, filthy lick, then he was back up, freeing himself from his jeans and lining up.
He pushed in slow at first, savoring the stretch, eyes locked on your face. "That’s it," he breathed, voice strained. "Take me so good, like you were made for this."
Once he was fully seated, he gave you barely a second before he started moving; deep, rolling thrusts that made the table creak beneath you.
Your hands fisted in his hair, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he fucked you harder, the drama room filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin and your shared, ragged breathing. He kept kissing your neck, your jaw, whispering filthy praise between thrusts.
"Love how you squeeze me… fuck, you’re dripping down my cock already. My perfect girl."
The angle had him hitting that spot inside you with every snap of his hips. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, chasing the building heat. Eddie’s rhythm faltered as he got close, one hand slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit.
"Come on, baby," he panted against your mouth. "Want to feel you come on me. I’ve been so good to you all night."
The combination of his words, his fingers, and the relentless drag of him inside you sent you over the edge with a cry.
He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed close, catching your breath in the quiet room. Eddie kissed you softly, peppering kisses all over your face, jaw, and neck.
You laughed breathlessly, tugging lightly at his curls. "We’re never going to finish cleaning up at this rate."
"Worth it," he said, already leaning in for another kiss.
well, hey! hope you all enjoyed ;) i have an inquiry for you all. going forward with requests, would you prefer...
request format
make a different post (what i've been doing so far)
make the fic within the request
bea's tab pls don't press (...but ik ya'll be pressing anyway)
summary: moving in with your best friend is supposed to be easy. and it is! until he gets painfully, shamelessly hard.
warnings/tags: so much smut, bdsm themes, alcohol/drug use, each chapter has their own tags
masterlist // join the taglist
part one- use me
when you and your best friend eddie finally move in together you discover a particular kink of his that youre more than happy to explore with him
part two- harder
Rocky Horror! Shadow casts! Lap dances? Fuck that. Eddie is yours. Only yours.
part three- baby please
part four- im yours
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Getting high with your guy best friend and he starts listing reasons you should let him put his cock inside you. Based on this post.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 MDNI, little bit of handjob, smut, unprotected sex, smoking weed, hint of size kink. I think that's all, lmk if i missed something.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4,5K
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: Yes, i'm still on hiatus but i'm still writing some ideas and requests that you guys sent me. I didn't really like how this went because i had something different in mind for this oneshot, but i was listening to ethel cain and maybe it got to my head so i wrote more...no, less sexy than i intended. But i hope you guys like it!! My requests are still open (and the anon option is back yay!!) so send me some ideas to write. Love you all, thank u for being patient with me. 🩷
The apartment's living room was shrouded in a whitish haze, filled with distorted guitar riffs and vocals indistinguishable amidst a symphony of screams and guttural growls. Eddie was currently sprawled across the vintage red velvet sofa, legs dangling over the armrest and head tilted back against the cushions; he looked like a marionette that had gotten too close to the fire — melted and then discarded.
His limbs lay heavy and loose, sprawled across the sofa almost like the exaggerated pose of a body at a crime scene, while his eyes were half-closed and his mouth twisted into a scowl that looked like disgust as he gave his head a subtle, minimal shake — it was just his own peculiar way of showing he was enjoying good music — specifically, the guitar riff that made the floorboards vibrate and would almost certainly earn him a complaint from the downstairs neighbor within minutes.
The weed had hit both of you harder than usual, turning the apartment into an almost slow-motion sanctuary where the only things that mattered were the rhythmic pulse of the bass and the way the sun filtered through the loosely closed blinds in irregular golden bands.
"Pass the lighter, please?" Eddie murmured, his voice hoarse and drawling. He didn't move his head; he simply extended a tattooed hand, the ink snaking up his forearm in sharp, geometric patterns. He had a way of moving that was always slightly dramatic, even when he was practically unconscious from a joint.
He smiled, the dimples beside his mouth deepening as he met your gaze, while dark brown curls tumbled over his shoulders in a chaotic tangle. You leaned forward, sliding the lighter across the coffee table, feeling your limbs as if they were made of hot, softened wax on the verge of turning to liquid.
You had spent the last three hours in exactly that state — talking about everything and nothing, arguing about vinyl records, and sinking deeper into the cushions until you almost merged with the furniture. There was a comfortable weight to the silence between you, the kind that exists only between two people who have seen each other at their worst and decided they still liked the view.
"Have you ever thought about how we’re basically just ghosts inhabiting flesh suits? No… aliens in a robot suit made of flesh, just like in the movie MIB," Eddie asked, his voice drifting as if he were narrating a documentary only he could hear.
He shifted his position, turning onto his side to face you in a slow, languid movement; the light caught his ear gauges, the silver rings glinting as he propped himself up on his elbow. The metal music shifted to something slower, a dense, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to sync with the pulsating heat beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach.
He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his. Instead, he reached out, sliding his hand along your shoulder with a tenderness that anchored you amidst that haze of smoke and metal. His fingertips were calloused from guitar strings, yet they grazed the curve of your breast with a light, teasing precision that made your breath hitch.
"Speaking of 'meat suits'…" he murmured, his brown eyes darkening, "I’ve been thinking of a few reasons why you should finally let me put this meat inside you."
You let out a low, breathless laugh, but the sound died away when you felt movement against his jeans. Eddie wasn't just talking; he was touching himself, his other hand sliding down to stroke his length right over the fabric.
He was in no rush, moving at a slow, deliberate pace that accentuated the thick, heavy outline of his cock. He pressed lightly against you; the friction of the denim created a low, thumping in your chest that competed with the bass of the music.
"Reason number one," he whispered, dimples appearing in a predatory, playful smile, "we’re already halfway there. The vibe is perfect. Reason number two…" He paused, his hand squeezing tighter, shifting the angle so you could see exactly how much space he took up. "You know I’m huge, right? Like, pornstar big."
"Shut up," you managed to say, though the protest lacked any real conviction. Your voice came out low, swallowed by the music's heavy distortion and the rising heat of the room.
Eddie didn’t blink, his gaze was fixed on yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He was no longer laughing, the playfulness had given way to something hungrier, though the warmth remained.
He shifted his weight, pressing his thigh firmly against yours, the heat of his skin radiated through his jeans. His hand continued that slow, rhythmic motion, the denim stretching taut over his thickness.
"I'm serious," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave and vibrating in the small space between you. "I'm massive. Touch it and see."
The challenge hung in the air, drifting languidly like smoke. You hesitated for a moment, your pulse pounding in your throat, before reaching out.
The instant your fingers grazed the rough denim, Eddie didn't wait for you to find your rhythm; with a fluid, practiced motion, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pushed his jeans — along with his underwear — down, freeing himself with a heavy, sudden thud against his navel.
You froze, the air escaping you in a sharp exhale as you looked down. It was magnificent — pulsing with a raised vein that ran along the base to the tip, the head swollen and leaking, flushed a deep reddish hue that contrasted sharply with the pale skin of the shaft. It was far larger than you had imagined; heavy, imposing, and of a length that seemed to defy the very definition of the word.
"Holy shit," you whispered, eyes wide as you darted your gaze between his impressive size and his face. "This is going to break me."
Eddie’s expression was one of pure, triumphant satisfaction; he arched his hips slightly, showing himself off with intense confidence. "God, I hope so," he groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
He reached out, his hand finding the back of your neck and pulling you just a few inches closer, close enough for the heat radiating from him to envelop your skin.
You didn't wait for him to urge you on again, your fingers closed around him, and the first thing you noticed was the searing, pulsing heat that seemed to vibrate in time with your own heart. He was solid — his skin smooth yet stretched taut over the sturdy structure of his length.
As your hand slid upward, feeling how he filled your palm — your fingers unable to fully wrap around him — Eddie let out a sharp, hissing gasp, his head hit the back of the sofa with a dull thud, and his eyes closed as he surrendered to the contact.
"Shit," he murmured, his voice strained. "You’ve got quite a grip, sweetheart."
You didn't answer, too occupied with what was right in front of you; you slid your hand down, feeling the weight of his balls and the way he pulsed against your palm. You squeezed his dick lightly with the other hand, testing his firmness, and Eddie’s hips jerked instinctively upward as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep in his throat.
"Careful," he gasped, though his eyes were open now, half-lidded and dark, revealing a mix of pride and desperation. "If you keep doing that, I won't be able to wait until the list is finished."
You let out a shaky laugh as your thumb caressed the head of his cock, noticing how he jerked at the touch. The weed had softened the outlines of the room; the velvet of the sofa felt like moss beneath your touch, and the air seemed thick, almost like liquid goo.
You moved closer, and his scent — spicy, woody vanilla, tobacco, and a faint hint of sweat — overwhelmed your senses. As you shifted, your knee brushed against his thigh; the contact sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl against the sofa.
Eddie’s hand, which had been resting at the nape of your neck, slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him to claim the space, his solid frame enveloping you completely. He lowered his gaze to where your small hand could barely grasp his thickness, and a slight smile appeared on his lips; his dimples appeared one last time before his expression turned serious.
“Reason number three,” Eddie whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath against your ear. "Chemistry. We have plenty of that, don't we?" He didn't wait for an answer; his hips surged forward, pressing his hot, velvet-smooth length against the seam of your jeans.
The contact was electric — a sudden, intense flare of heat that made your breath hitch. You felt the tremor in his thighs, the tension of muscles coiled like a spring, holding back a surge of urgency that threatened to spill over. He wasn't trembling from the effects of the weed, but from the immense effort of staying still while you explored his impressive size.
You shifted your grip, sliding your hand to the base of his member and pulling upward in a slow, firm motion; the friction of your palm against his skin created a wet, sliding sound that seemed to amplify as the music’s volume suddenly dropped.
Eddie’s eyes flew open, his pupils dilated to the point of swallowing the brown of his irises, turning them almost black; he let out a sound that was half-moan, half-gasp as his fingers dug into the small of your back.
"You're killing me," he said in a hoarse voice, his head lolling to the side as he struggled to breathe. "You're really killing me."
You didn't let up; you slid your hand back down to the base and closed your fingers around him again, this time squeezing with slow, deliberate pressure. The sound that escaped Eddie didn't even seem human — a low, guttural rumble that started in his chest and ended in a sharp intake of breath, making his entire torso shudder.
"You're talking too much, Munson," you whispered, your voice sounding distant and hazy to your own ears. You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his arm, the lust between the two of you was now a physical force that seemed to distort the hazy air.
Eddie’s eyes locked onto yours, the hunger there was almost predatory, yet softened by the warm, familiar affection that had defined your friendship for years. He made no move to push you away, nor did he pull back.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps; he shifted his hips, his weight and girth sliding against your palm. The friction created a searing sensation that made your head spin and your senses blur — like an addictive drug you’d discovered and had no intention of giving up.
“I’ve got plenty of reasons,” he managed to say, though his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “The fourth reason… the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to see if I really fit inside you.”
“You’re dangerous…” you whispered, but you didn’t pull your hand away. You shifted your weight, moving off the velvet cushion to kneel between his legs, which were spread wide across the sofa.
The change in perspective made him look even more irresistible: his chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his long hair fanned out against the sofa, creating a dark, wild aura. From that angle, his imposing presence was even more overwhelming; the room seemed to shrink, the walls receding until nothing remained but the distorted sound of the speakers and his scent — intense, masculine, and intoxicatingly warm.
Eddie let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling back against the sofa once more; his eyes were closed and his jaw was set, yet he remained completely attuned to the sensation of your touch. His hand, still resting on your shoulder, gave a light squeeze, his thumb grazing the line of your collarbone.
“The fifth reason…” He groaned, the words barely escaping his lips. “I… God, I thought about this every time we hung out these past few months. Every time you laughed at my jokes, every time you touched my arm… I just wanted to feel you all around me.”
The sincerity in those words hit you harder than the weed. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the mounting tension of months of pent-up desire and unfinished sentences.
You looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability beneath his tough guy act, the way his chest rose and fell in ragged, breathless movements. He was laying himself bare — raw and exposed — waiting for you to decide if the risk posed by his size was worth the reward of his touch.
You didn’t answer with words; you simply leaned forward, your lips grazing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Eddie let out a sharp, stifled sound — something between a gasp and a plea — and his fingers dug into the fabric of your top, pulling you closer.
You could feel the heat radiating from him in waves — a furnace of anticipation that made goosebumps rise across your skin. With a slow, deliberate movement, you slid your hand back along the length of his body; your palm molded to his imposing thickness, feeling him shudder and pulse beneath your touch.
"Six," Eddie whispered, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with dark desire. "Reason number six… because I know exactly how to take care of you. Once I’m inside, I’m not letting you go anytime soon."
You reached for the button of your jeans; as you lowered the zipper, the cool air of the apartment brushed against your skin for a split second before you felt his searing heat pressing against your thigh. He was so large he seemed like a physical barrier — a wall of heat and muscle that demanded your full attention and took up nearly all the space on the furniture.
As you pushed your jeans and panties down, the sudden absence of fabric felt like a release; you shifted, sliding back until you were stretched out on the velvet cushions, your legs parting instinctively to make room for him.
Eddie didn’t move immediately; he just watched you, his chest heaving and his eyes tracing your face as if searching for any sign of hesitation. Seeing you open to him seemed to break something loose inside him, and he let out a low, guttural sound, more of a growl than a word.
He moved with agonizing, deliberate slowness, kneeling on the couch as he settled between your thighs. It was impossible to ignore his approach; the heavy, throbbing head of his cock brushed against your entrance, and the friction made you arch your back. He let out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, his dark curls forming a curtain that shut out the rest of the apartment.
“Do you still think it’s too much?” he murmured, his voice a vibration you could feel in your very bones.
“Just do it,” you whispered, your fingers digging into his biceps and pulling him closer.
Eddie didn’t rush. He couldn’t. The size and thickness of his cock demanded a patience that contrasted with the desperate hunger in his eyes; he shifted his weight, bracing himself on his forearms with his chest hovering just inches above yours. He took a deep breath — a shaky, audible intake that rumbled in his throat — and then pushed forward a little.
He was so thick that the sensation wasn't one of sliding, but rather of a slow, insistent expansion; you felt his blunt head stretching you open, breaking through the initial resistance with a heavy, relentless force.
A small, involuntary gasp escaped you as your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the rock-hard muscle tense beneath your touch. Eddie froze and waited, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign that it was too much.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as if it had been dragged over gravel.
“I– Fuck, don’t stop…” you pleaded, arching your hips upward, unconsciously seeking that blend of pleasure, pain and being completely filled.
Eddie let out a low, distorted groan and shifted his hands; one slid from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to maintain eye contact as he pushed deeper.
The sensation was overwhelming, a forceful, pulsing power that made the air escape your lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss. You could feel every vein and ridge of him as he slowly navigated the tight space; his thickness left no room for anything but him; a collision of wet friction and wild desire, the feeling of being completely filled. As he drove in another inch, your hips lifted instinctively, your body trying to make room for his colossal size.
“Holy… shit,” Eddie groaned, his voice breaking. He had stopped moving, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving in violent, ragged breaths.
He was trembling, muscles taut, fighting the urge to simply thrust with full force; the pleasure of that tight, snug fit was clearly pushing him to the limit.
The look on his face was one of absolute, agonizing ecstasy, a religious epiphany and a physical breakdown all at once.
He shifted his grip, his large, tattooed hands slid beneath your thighs to lift your hips higher, positioning you so he could thrust even deeper.
The change in position allowed him to go to the absolute limit, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
He looked down at you — his brown eyes wide and glazed — and his dimples flashed briefly as a wild, hungry smile touched his lips.
"You’re really taking it all," he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken. "God, you’re so tight… it’s like you’re trying to squeeze the soul right out of me."
"Maybe I am," you managed to stammer, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears. You wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles to anchor yourself against his overwhelming force.
The sensation of being stretched to the limit was dizzying, a heavy, throbbing pressure that made the room spin faster than any high from the weed ever could. With every thrust, it felt as though he were rearranging your internal organs, opening up a space that had never existed before.
Eddie’s breathing came in a series of ragged, desperate gasps. He began to move again, but the rhythm shifted from a steady cadence to something more primal and erratic, his movements grew shorter, sharper, and more frenzied.
The friction of his thick length against the walls of your cunt was almost unbearable, making you arch your back and throw your head back against the sofa cushions. You could feel the bass vibrations from the speakers echoing through his chest and directly into yours, syncing with the heavy pounding of his heart.
"I can't—" Eddie groaned, his voice thick with emotion. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. "I can't believe you actually fit… God, you're so hot."
He shifted his body, placing all his weight on you and pressing you against the soft fabric of the sofa. The added pressure only drove him deeper, pushing past every limit until you felt his tip against your cervix that sent a wave of white-hot pleasure radiating through your lower belly.
"Reason seven," Eddie managed to say, his voice a hoarse, ragged sound; his eyes were squeezed shut, his head tossing from side to side as he struggled for breath. "Reason seven… is that I can't… God, I can't breathe— fuck, when I'm inside you." He let out a guttural roar, the sound vibrating deep within his chest.
"Eddie," you whispered softly, his name barely more than a breath. You weren't sure if you were asking him to stop or begging him never to let go.
"God, you're like… a vice," Eddie groaned, his voice cracking as he gripped your hips, tattooed fingers sinking into your skin to hold you steady, breathing as if he’d just run a marathon, his chest heaving against yours.
"I can feel every… every inch of you squeezing me. It’s unfair. That’s cheating."
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your legs locked tight around his waist, pulling him even deeper into that heat.
"Who's cheating? It's you… you practically have a whole tree trunk attached to you."
"And yet you let me plant that trunk in your soil," he shot back, a manic, dimpled grin breaking through the ecstasy.
He shifted the angle, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder to spread you wide open, the change in position allowed him to thrust with agonizing depth, his weight pressing you into the fabric as he drove all the way in.
You let out a sharp, stifled moan, your toes curling as his thick head hit that same white-hot spot, sending a fresh jolt of electricity racing through your hips.
His movements had turned heavy and relentless, every thrust was a slow, overwhelming slide that made it feel as though your skin were fusing with his, forcing your opening wide with a searing, slick heat that made your breath come in short, ragged gasps.
An intense, vibrant pressure spread through you, turning your muscles to liquid lava, you arched your back, your hips instinctively tilting to meet him, seeking that overwhelming impact again and again.
The friction was immense, a wet, slapping sound echoing the music’s deep bass, creating a sensory loop that drove you closer and closer to the edge.
"Eddie, please," you moaned softly, though you didn't even know exactly what you were asking for, you only knew that the sensation of being completely filled by him was the only thing in the world that mattered right then.
"Please what, sweetheart? Be specific," Eddie panted, his voice a hoarse, ragged whisper.
He didn't slow down, digging his heels into the sofa for leverage and driving into you with sudden, sharp intensity, hitting the same spot over and over.
You couldn't find the words, so you simply wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles and squeezing with all your might.
He began moving in shorter, frenzied thrusts, each withdrawal was a teasing, agonizingly slow release of pressure, immediately followed by a devastatingly deep thrust that seemed to rearrange your insides.
The sensation was overwhelming, a total occupation of your body that made the rest of the world — the music, the smell of weed, the mess of his apartment — fade into a distant, irrelevant blur. Nothing existed but his heavy, sliding weight and the way he filled every available millimeter of you.
"Right there," you moaned, your voice a fragile thread of desire and pleading. "Eddie, right there."
"Almost… right there," he gasped, his voice a shattered shadow of who he used to be.
The friction was turning into an overwhelming blaze, a searing heat that dissolved the boundaries between where your body ended and his began.
His movements shifted from rhythmic to desperate, his breath escaped in ragged, guttural sounds. He drove into you with absolute, focused intensity, bracing his heavy thighs against the velvet cushions as he sought the deepest connection possible. With every full thrust, he let out a low, trembling groan that made your entire body vibrate with raw, visceral desire.
"Holy… shit," Eddie moaned, his voice wavering.
He let out a long, guttural sound — half-groan, half-cry — as he slammed his hips against yours and buried himself deep, his entire body shuddering from the force of a release that seemed to make even the floorboards vibrate. He froze, his whole body locked in a rigid line of tension, muscles taut and trembling.
You felt his sudden, hot surge pulsing deep against your cervix and moaned a long, high-pitched sound of absolute surrender as his forehead dropped onto your shoulder and you finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure of climax, your breath coming in ragged, shaky gasps.
He didn't pull away immediately, he remained there, lost in the intense, pulsing heat of your body as your heartbeats synchronized in the sudden silence, before collapsing onto you with his forehead resting on your shoulder and his chest heaving in ragged, panting spasms.
He shifted and slid out of you, dropping onto the sofa beside you, a slow, reluctant withdrawal that seemed to last an eternity. As he slid out, a sense of emptiness took hold, his sudden absence was almost as impactful as the penetration itself, making you shiver despite the warmth of the apartment.
He let out a long, shaky breath, letting his head fall back against the velvet as he stared at the ceiling, dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Holy… God," he breathed, his voice returning to that husky charm, though stripped of all pretense. He looked at you, a hint of a smile returning to his lips. "Did I… you know… break you? Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how much of a wreck are you right now?"
"Eleven," you managed to say, your voice hoarse and fragile. "I think you actually shifted my organs, I can feel my liver in a different place."
Eddie let out a loud, rich laugh, the sound echoing through the room.
"You know," Eddie murmured, traces of laughter still in his voice, "the list had twelve reasons. I only managed to say seven."
You let out a low, weary laugh, turning your face to look at him. "Seven reasons seems like more than enough to me."
Eddie let out a deep, resonant laugh that vibrated through his entire body and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you so close that there wasn't a breath of air between you.
The room was dark, the late afternoon light had taken on a purplish hue, matching the languid, lazy atmosphere that had settled over you both.
description: just a short and sweet fic based on 'That '70s Show '. eddie is VERY eric forman coded and i will die on this hill.
pairing: eddie munson x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie munson x you, no y/n, eric forman coded!eddie, loverboy!eddie, donna pinciotti coded!reader, that 70's show vibe, childhood friends to lovers, best friends to lovers, friends who are basically already dating, sub (ish)!eddie, eddie is so down bad for reader it's adorable, he's also very corny but we knew that, steve is a shit stirrer, karen and ted are red and kitty, eddie has zero game but it works anyway
TW: literally fluffy as hell so schedule your dentist appointment now ig
WC: 4.2k
A/N: requested by @lisafrankensteindefender hope you enjoyyyyyyyy<3
hello, friends! long time no see. i've been trying to pull it together and write but if one more fuck ass man tests my patience i might actually scream. anywhooooooo, i hope this satiates ur cravings for now. johnny storm enemies to lovers fic coming out next, so get fucking excited >;)
reblogs are always appreciated <33333
ENJOYYYYY RAHHHH!!!
Nancy Wheeler's basement had become less of a room and more of a second address for all of you sometime around freshman year. Nobody had officially decided it; it had simply happened.
Steve claimed it was because Nancy's basement had the nicest couch. Robin argued it was because Karen Wheeler inevitably wandered downstairs every hour with a plate of something she'd baked "because growing teenagers need to eat."
Jonathan insisted it was because nobody ever bothered them there. Ted, on the other hand, maintained it was because the six of you were personally plotting to drive up his electric bill.
You suspected the truth was some combination of all four. By now, the furniture had permanent indents from where everyone always sat.
Steve occupied the armchair like he paid rent. Robin had somehow claimed the carpet as her spot, despite there being plenty of seating available.
Jonathan leaned against the wood-paneled wall with a camera resting beside him, quietly watching the rest of you carry on.
Nancy was halfway through her chemistry homework, somehow capable of participating in three conversations while balancing a textbook across crossed legs.
Eddie had been draped upside down over the couch for the better part of twenty minutes, his head hanging over the edge while his hair brushed the carpet.
"I think all the blood has rushed to your brain," Robin observed.
He blinked at her from his upside-down position. "Bold of you to assume there was any in there to begin with."
Steve reached over and smacked the bottom of one of Eddie's boots. "You gonna sit like a normal human being?"
"I tried being normal once," Eddie answered dramatically. "Worst six minutes of my life."
You snorted quietly from where you sat cross-legged on the opposite end of the couch, absentmindedly flipping through one of Jonathan's photography magazines. The sound caught Eddie's attention immediately.
His head tilted just enough for him to look at you upside down. "What?"
"What, what?"
"You laughed."
"I did."
"So something I said was funny."
"I wouldn't go that far."
He gasped, clutching dramatically at his chest despite gravity making the gesture look ridiculous. "You wound me."
"You'll recover."
"I don't know..."
"You seem resilient."
"I've had seventeen near-death experiences today."
Robin didn't even glance up from painting her nails. "Existing isn't a near-death experience."
"It is when Steve Harrington keeps hitting me."
"I 'hit' your shoe."
"It could've been my face."
"It wasn't."
"It could've been."
You finally looked over the edge of the magazine. "For someone who plays a barbarian every Saturday, you complain an awful lot."
His grin spread immediately.
"What?" You scoffed, tilting your head.
"You’re a bully."
"I am not a bully."
Nancy looked up from her homework. "You absolutely are."
"Oh, come on."
Steve pointed toward you without hesitation. "You made Eddie cry in fourth grade."
"I corrected his spelling."
"You told me," Eddie interrupted, sitting upright now, "'maybe if you spent less time drawing dragons and more time paying attention, you'd know how to spell Wednesday.'"
You frowned. "...I was right."
"You embarrassed me."
"You spelled it Wensday."
"It has too many silent letters!"
"It has one."
"Exactly."
Everyone laughed except Eddie, who looked personally victimized by the English language. "I still think that's excessive."
"You know," Jonathan added thoughtfully, "I don't think she's ever apologized."
"For being correct?"
"For making him cry."
"I didn't cry."
Steve looked at him. "You absolutely cried."
"I had allergies."
"In October?"
"There was... dust."
Robin rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "Dust made you cry because the pretty girl corrected your spelling."
"I was nine."
"You would've cried yesterday."
"I would've done no such thing."
You folded the magazine shut and leaned back against the couch cushions. "You definitely would've."
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it again, and pointed a finger at you. "You know what your problem is?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"You've always been mean to me."
"I've always been honest with you."
"That's somehow worse."
A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "You'll live."
"I might not."
"You've survived twenty years."
"Nineteen."
"Close enough."
"You don't even know how old I am."
"I know exactly how old you are."
"Oh?"
"You remind me every August that you're older than me for two weeks."
"...That's because it's important."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"It absolutely isn't."
"It gives me seniority."
You rolled your eyes and sighed, returning to Johnathan’s magazine. The basement fell into one of those easy silences after that, everyone returning to their respective task, with small, nonsensical comments and giggles breaking the silence.
Eddie, however, was still looking at you. He'd been doing that more lately.
You finally caught him. "What?"
"Hm?"
"You're staring."
"I wasn't."
"You are literally staring."
"I was thinking."
"Dangerous."
He ignored that. "I just..." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less confident than he had thirty seconds earlier. "I don't know."
"What don't you know?"
He shrugged. "I was just thinking you're..." His eyes met yours for a split second before darting somewhere over your shoulder. "...really pretty."
The room went painfully quiet. Robin's grin was practically so wide her cheeks could explode. Eddie himself looked like he'd only just realized the words had actually left his mouth.
"...Wow," he muttered to himself.
You stared at him. "...What?"
"I didn't..." He scratched the back of his neck harder now. "That came out way smoother in my head."
Robin made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh.
Steve wasn't trying. "Dude."
Eddie pointed accusingly at him. "Don't."
"You called her beautiful."
"I said pretty."
"You called her pretty."
"I know what I said!"
Nancy covered her smile behind her hand. You, meanwhile, were still looking at Eddie with an expression somewhere between amused and bewildered.
"You've seen me almost every day for fifteen years."
"I know."
"So..."
"So..." he echoed weakly.
"What changed?"
His eyes flicked toward the ceiling as though the answer might've been written there. "I don't know."
Robin completely lost it. "Oh my God," she wheezed. "He's actually malfunctioning."
"I'm not malfunctioning."
"You blue-screened."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Before Eddie could dig himself any deeper into the hole he'd created, footsteps echoed across the kitchen upstairs. Karen Wheeler's voice floated down the basement stairs before she did.
"I made brownies! If you kids don't come eat them while they're warm, Ted certainly will."
Ted's voice followed from somewhere in the living room. "I heard that."
"It was meant for you, dear."
The entire basement erupted into motion. Steve was already halfway to the stairs as Robin shoved past him. You stood, brushing imaginary dust from your jeans before glancing back toward the couch.
Eddie was still sitting there, still looking at you, still pink around the ears. You turned to him and flashed a quick smile.
"I think you're pretty too." Then you walked upstairs.
Behind you, Steve stopped dead on the staircase. "...Did she just—"
Robin grabbed his arm before he could turn around. "Nope."
"But—"
"Nope."
"They're finally—"
"Nope."
Eddie remained frozen on the couch for another five full seconds before a grin so impossibly wide spread across his face that even Jonathan, lingering at the bottom of the stairs, couldn't help but shake his head.
"...Took you long enough," he muttered as he followed everyone upstairs. Eddie, of course, was too busy staring after you to hear him.
The walk between your house and Eddie's took approximately twenty-three seconds. Twenty-five if you stopped to pet Mrs. Henderson's cat. Thirty if Eddie had left one of his bikes in the middle of the shared side yard again. Tonight, it took twenty-seven.
You hopped over the rusted chain that separated your backyards more for tradition than necessity, cutting across the worn patch of grass that had served as your personal highway since elementary school.
Wayne's truck was already parked beside the trailer, the porch light glowing warm against the summer dusk, and through the open living room window you could hear the unmistakable sound of a baseball game playing far louder than anyone was actually watching it.
Wayne looked up from his recliner the moment you stepped inside, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the newspaper.
"Evenin', kid."
"Hi, Wayne."
He nodded toward the hallway. "He's been pacing for twenty minutes."
"I have not!" Eddie shouted from his bedroom.
Wayne didn't even raise his voice. "You've walked a trench through my carpet."
"...Maybe a little."
You fought back a smile. "Can I?"
Wayne waved a hand toward the hallway without looking up from the paper. "You know where he is."
The bedroom door was already halfway open by the time you reached it.
Eddie was exactly where Wayne said he'd be, walking slow circles around his room with a cassette case in one hand and absolutely no idea what he was doing with it. He looked up when you leaned against the doorframe.
"Oh."
"Hi."
"...Hi."
"You pacing?"
"No."
You looked deliberately toward the floor. "Huh."
"What?"
"I could've sworn your carpet had little footprints in it."
He sighed. “Yeah, I was.”
You stepped into the room, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot before settling onto the edge of his bed like you'd done a thousand times before.
Eddie stayed standing for another few seconds before awkwardly dropping into his desk chair backward, folding his arms across the backrest.
Finally, Eddie cleared his throat. "So..."
"So."
"I'm... uh..."
"You called me pretty."
He squeezed his eyes shut. "...Yeah."
"You know everyone looked at you like you'd announced you were joining the circus."
"I noticed."
"I thought Steve was gonna choke."
"He almost did."
You looked around his room absentmindedly, taking in the same Iron Maiden poster that had hung on his wall since sophomore year, the cluttered desk covered in campaign notes, the guitar leaning in the corner.
"You know," you said eventually, "I've been thinking."
His eyebrows lifted. "...That can't be good."
"I don't think it is."
"Oh."
You folded your hands in your lap. "I like you."
He blinked. "...Okay."
"I mean..." You shrugged. "I like you."
Another blink. "...Okay."
"You don't seem surprised."
"I'm not."
"No?"
"No."
"How long have you known?"
He scratched the back of his neck. "...Couple years."
You stared at him. "...Couple years?"
"I wasn't exactly thrilled about it."
"You've liked me for years?"
"I mean..." He gestured vaguely around the room. "Have you... looked at yourself?"
You laughed. "I'm serious."
"So am I."
He looked almost embarrassed saying it. "I've liked you since... I don't know. Sophomore year? Maybe freshman year? Somewhere around there."
"And you never said anything?"
He looked at you like you'd asked the dumbest question imaginable. "I figured you knew."
"...Eddie."
"What?"
"I did not know."
"You climbed through my bedroom window at midnight because you 'couldn't sleep' after prom."
"I couldn't."
"You spent Valentine's Day watching horror movies with me."
"I hate Valentine's Day."
"You stole my jacket."
"I was cold."
"You still have it."
"It fits."
He stared at you. "You really didn't know?"
You frowned. "I thought... I don't know. I thought that's just... us."
"It was."
"...Oh."
"...Yeah."
You nodded slowly. "Huh."
"Huh?"
"I think..." You rubbed your palms over your jeans. "...I think I've liked you for a while too."
His eyes widened. "Really?"
"Mhm."
"Like..."
"A while."
"...Oh."
Then you sighed dramatically. "This is stupid."
"What is?"
You looked directly at him. "We've known each other since we were six."
"Five."
"Five."
"We've had dinner together like... a thousand times."
"Probably."
"My parents assume you're eating at our house three nights a week."
"They make really good meatloaf."
"You kissed me on the forehead when I got my wisdom teeth out."
"You were crying."
"I was drugged."
"You were really crying."
"I don't remember."
"You called me your favorite person."
"I was drugged."
"You also called me pretty."
"I was drugged."
He smiled. "I noticed a pattern."
You smiled back before shaking your head.
"My point is..." You leaned back on your hands. "...we're already basically dating."
His face scrunched. "...Are we?"
"I mean... think about it."
He did. "...Huh."
"We spend every day together."
"Mhm."
"We know each other's parents."
"Yeah."
"We've held hands."
"Accidentally."
"Not every time."
"...Fair."
"You've fallen asleep on my shoulder."
"You've fallen asleep on mine."
"I've worn your clothes."
"You steal my clothes."
"I borrow them."
"You permanently borrow them."
"So..." You lifted one shoulder. "I think we should just... finally do what everyone expects us to do."
His expression softened. "...What's that?"
"Go out."
The silence was so long you were convinced it was because his brain had completely abandoned him.
"...Yeah."
You waited as he nodded a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah."
Another nod. "No, yeah."
"Eddie."
"No, yeah, totally."
You laughed. "I'm serious."
"I know!"
"No, you don't."
"I do!"
"You sound like you forgot how words work."
"I..." He paused. "...I might've."
"So..." he said after a moment.
"So."
"...You're my girlfriend?"
You tilted your head. "I was hoping."
His grin was immediate. "...Cool."
"...Cool?"
"I mean..." He rubbed both hands over his jeans. "Really cool."
"You've got a way with words."
"I've always said that."
"You absolutely have not."
"No."
"...No."
Then you stood, crossed the short distance between you, and reached down to take his hand. His fingers laced into yours almost immediately. You gave his hand a gentle tug toward the bedroom door.
"C'mon."
"Where are we going?"
"My house."
"...Why?"
"My dad's probably watching TV."
"...Okay?"
"I want to tell him we're dating."
Eddie's entire body stopped moving.
"...Tonight?"
"Mhm."
"...Your dad?"
"Mhm."
"...The one who owns a shotgun?"
You smiled sweetly. "Mhm."
"...Can we maybe date for, like..." He swallowed. "...Twenty-four hours first?"
You laughed so hard you had to lean against the hallway wall, and from the living room Wayne lowered his newspaper just enough to call out without even looking.
"Told you she'd scare you first."
"I am not scared!" Eddie shouted back.
Wayne hummed. "Sure, son."
By Saturday afternoon, Nancy's basement looked exactly as it always did after everyone had been there for more than an hour.
Empty soda cans littered the coffee table, someone's jacket had been abandoned on the back of the couch, and a deck of cards sat scattered across the carpet after Robin declared Go Fish "psychological warfare" and refused to finish the game.
Steve had somehow become trapped in a debate with Jonathan over whether Bruce Springsteen was overrated, Nancy had long since stopped pretending to read the chapter open in front of her, and Eddie had claimed nearly the entire couch for himself, lying across it like a Victorian woman with the flu.
"You know," Robin said, tossing a pretzel into her mouth, "I don't think I've ever seen someone relax as aggressively as you."
"I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
"My next nap."
Steve rolled his eyes. "You've been here three hours."
"And?"
"You've done nothing."
"I resent that."
Eddie held up the comic book resting on his chest. "I've turned at least seventeen pages."
"You've read three."
"I reread the good parts."
Nancy finally snapped her textbook shut. "My mom wants to know if we're still going into town."
Robin immediately perked up. "The record store?"
"And Family Video."
Steve nodded. "I need to return a tape before Keith starts charging me."
"You mean before he lectures you for forty-five minutes?"
"Same thing."
Jonathan stood first, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm in."
Robin was already halfway up. "Shotgun."
"There are six of us."
"I said what I said."
Everyone began collecting jackets and car keys, the room filling with the familiar shuffle of people who had spent enough time together to move like a single unit.
Everyone except Eddie. He hadn't moved, not even a little. He simply adjusted the comic book higher on his chest and sighed dramatically.
"You guys have fun."
Steve stopped. "...You're not coming?"
"Nah."
"Why?"
"I'm comfortable."
Robin blinked. "...That's your reason?"
"It's a pretty good one."
Nancy folded her arms. "Eddie."
"I'm serious."
"You've been asking to go to the record store all week."
"I was younger then."
"It was Tuesday."
"I've changed."
"You haven't changed in seventy-two hours."
"I've grown."
Robin threw one of the couch pillows at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his face. He didn't even bother catching it.
"You all go ahead," he mumbled into the cushion. "Tell the outside world I said hello."
Steve frowned. "You are unbelievably lazy."
"I'm energy efficient."
"You're impossible."
"I'm comfortable."
Steve looked toward you. "You wanna tell him?"
You'd been standing by the stairs quietly pulling your denim jacket over your shoulders, watching the exchange with an expression that suggested you'd seen this exact performance approximately four hundred times before.
You zipped the jacket halfway before looking over at Eddie. "Eddie."
He didn't answer.
"Eddie."
"...Hm?"
"We're going."
"I know."
"You are too."
He let out the most dramatic sigh anyone had ever heard before cracking one eye open. "I don't know..."
You simply stared at him, tilting your head sweetly enough to make your eyes do the thing he says could “convince any man to admit to a crime he didn’t commit.”
Eddie stared back until your chin dipped, and his eyes widened. He hopped up with extreme force.
"Yes, ma'am."
In one fluid motion, he swung both legs off the couch, stood up, grabbed his leather jacket from the armrest, shoved his feet into his sneakers, snatched his van keys, and was standing beside you before anyone else had even processed what had happened.
"I am ready."
Robin looked between the two of you, then turned to Steve. "Did..."
Steve nodded.
"He just..."
Jonathan couldn't hide his smile.
"...Wow."
Nancy shook her head, laughing under her breath. "I've been telling you."
Eddie frowned. "What?"
Robin pointed accusingly. "I spent ten minutes trying to convince you."
"Mhm."
"Steve tried."
"Mhm."
"Nancy tried."
"Mhm."
"You ignored every single one of us."
"Mhm."
She pointed toward you. "She says two words—"
"And suddenly it's 'Yes, ma'am,' and you're putting your shoes on?"
He looked genuinely confused. "...Well..."
Robin threw both hands in the air. "Why?"
Eddie blinked. "...She asked."
Robin slowly looked back at Eddie. "I could tell you to jump off a bridge."
"I wouldn't."
Steve pointed at you. "But if she told you—"
Eddie thought about it. "...I'd at least ask how high."
The Hawkins quarry looked different in the evening.
The water reflected streaks of orange and pink from the setting sun, cicadas buzzed lazily somewhere in the trees, and the old plaid blanket beneath you had become less of somewhere to sit and more of something the two of you had gradually shoved into a tangled pile while arguing about absolutely nothing.
"...You're cheating."
Eddie looked scandalized. "I am not cheating."
"You absolutely are."
"I resent that accusation."
"You changed the rules halfway through."
"I evolved the rules."
"You lost."
"I adapted."
"You lost."
"I strategically repositioned."
"You lost."
He pointed at you. "You're impossible."
"You knew that before you asked me out."
"I thought dating you might make you nicer."
"You thought wrong."
"I did."
You grinned triumphantly before reaching over and snatching the deck of cards out of his hand.
"Hey!"
"No evidence."
"You can't just steal the cards!"
"I literally just did."
He lunged for them. You laughed, scrambling backward across the blanket as he reached over your shoulder.
"Oh, no you don't—"
His fingers brushed your wrist, so you twisted away. "Eddie!"
"Give 'em back!"
"You don't deserve them!"
"I absolutely deserve them!"
"You cheated!"
"I innovated!"
"You cheated!"
He caught your forearm, trying to pry the cards from your grip, so you immediately shoved back.
"Oh, we're wrestling now?" he laughed.
"You started it."
"I absolutely did."
You planted both hands on his shoulders and gave him one solid push. Completely caught off guard, Eddie toppled backward onto the blanket with a surprised "Whoa!"
You didn't hesitate. You followed him down, laughing the entire way before planting a knee beside his hip and pinning one of his wrists against the blanket in victory.
"There."
He blinked up at you. "...Well."
"You done cheating?"
"I wasn't cheating."
"You were."
"I disagree."
"You don't get to disagree."
He glanced down at the hand holding his wrist, then back up at you.
A slow grin spread across his face. "You know..."
Your eyes narrowed immediately. "...What?"
"I'm trying really hard to keep arguing with you..."
"But?"
"...The more you pin me down..." He tilted his head innocently. "...the harder it is to remember what we were arguing about."
You stared at him for exactly half a second before rolling your eyes so dramatically it almost hurt. "Oh, my God."
"I'm serious."
"No, you're flirting because you're losing."
"I'm multitasking."
"You are unbelievable."
"I'm resourceful."
"You are absolutely insufferable."
"And yet..." His smile softened just a little. "...you climbed into my lap anyway."
You looked down. At some point during your attempt to win the world's most pointless wrestling match, you had, in fact, ended up sitting squarely across his waist.
"...That wasn't intentional."
"Mhm."
"It wasn't."
"I totally believe you."
"I don't like your tone."
"I like yours."
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself, and finally released his wrist. The second you did, he reached up. Not to flip you over or continue the wrestling match, but simply to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"There."
"What?"
"It was bothering me."
"You've become incredibly distracting since we started dating."
He smiled. "I've actually always been distracted."
"By what?"
He looked at you like the answer was obvious. "You."
For once, you didn't have a sarcastic comeback. You just smiled, shook your head, and lightly flicked him on the forehead. "Dork."
"Takes one to know one."
"I suppose it does."
He laughed quietly before taking your hand and lacing his fingers through yours.
"...You know," he said after a moment, "I'm still counting this as a win."
You raised an eyebrow. "You were literally pinned to the ground."
"Emotionally?"
"You also lost emotionally."
"...Rude."
"Accurate."
"I liked you better when you were only mean to me as friends."
"I wasn't mean."
“Right, you weren’t.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "There."
"What was that for?"
"You admitted I was right."
He smiled to himself. "...Worth it."
The basement that Saturday afternoon had grown exceptionally quiet, which only left Steve’s mind to wander. A grin slowly spread across his face as he looked across the room at Eddie, who was busy trying to tune a guitar that absolutely refused to cooperate.
"...Hey, Munson."
Eddie didn't look up. "Hm?"
"You remember what you told us Tuesday?"
Silence, then, "...No."
Steve's grin widened. "Really?"
"...Should I?"
Robin looked between the two of them. "Oh no."
Jonathan sighed into his coffee. "I know that look."
Steve leaned back in his chair. "You told us you had a dream about Miss October."
Eddie froze, completely. The guitar string gave a pathetic twang.
"...Steve."
"What?"
"...Don't."
"What? It was funny."
You looked up from the book you'd been pretending to read. "...Miss October?"
Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "...It wasn't..."
Steve was already laughing. "Oh, it absolutely was."
You tilted your head toward Eddie. "Huh."
"...Honey."
"So, you dreaming about calendar girls now?"
"I wasn't—"
"Mhm."
"It wasn't like that."
"Mhm."
"I don't appreciate that 'mhm.'"
"I didn't say anything."
"You said everything."
You nodded thoughtfully. "So that's interesting."
Eddie looked horrified. "Interesting?"
"Mhm."
"I don't like where this is going."
"You have wandering eyes."
"I have never wandered a day in my life."
"You literally wandered into a dream."
"I can't control my subconscious!"
"You seem awfully defensive."
"I'm being attacked!"
Steve pointed at you. "She's got you there."
"I don't need added commentary anymore. Thanks, Steve."
You folded your arms, trying, and failing, not to smile. "So..."
"So?"
"Should I be worried about Miss October?"
Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he sighed dramatically, set the guitar aside, and stood. He walked the few steps over until he was right in front of you. He pointed a finger toward Steve.
"You left out the ending."
Steve frowned. "...Did I?"
"You did."
"What ending?"
Eddie looked back at you, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "I told him Miss October walked up to me."
You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."
"And she smiled."
"Convenient."
"And then she asked if I wanted to leave with her."
Steve blinked. "...I don't remember that part."
"'Cause you interrupted me."
Robin snorted. "Continue."
Eddie puffed out his chest with all the confidence of a man who was making this up as he went. "And I looked her dead in the eye..."
He paused for dramatic effect before casually slipping an arm around your shoulders.
"...and I said, 'Dream on, Miss October.'"
He nodded toward you. "...I'm her man."
You looked up at Eddie before shaking your head with a smile you couldn't quite hide. "...That was unbelievably corny."
He grinned. "...Did it work?"
You let him wait exactly three seconds. Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek. "It was close."
Steve groaned loudly. "Oh, come on!"
“Gross!” Robin exclaimed.
Eddie grinned at the crowd triumphantly before kissing you once more on the cheek, then padding over to his forgotten guitar like he’d won the lottery.
visual representation of me fighting my brain to come up with more, but I simply couldn't.
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Can I request Eddie munson X female reader where she and Eddie are best friends and reader has a bf and they have a 1 year old daughter and reader , Eddie and the daughter head home after a day out and walk in on readers s bf in bed with another women .readers little daughter was grabbing onto eddies leg and stuff can U make it angsty and maybe end it with the little daughter calling Eddie "dadda " or smth up to you thank you ❤️
₊ ° ⊹ ♡ 𝐚/𝐧: hii <3 tysm i literally love pam sm , also i think this is one of my favorites requests i’ve gotten oml . . . added a little more to this request since i have a need of tying things together so they fit
⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: lengthyish, not proofread, youngish mom reader, waitress reader, eddie and the reader are best friends, semi-grew up together, trailer park environment, reader’s boyfriend is a dick, reader is stressed tf out, mentions of slight alcoholism and sex if you squint, mentions of marriage, eddie pining the entire time, eddie’s extremely sweet (like tooth rotting sweet), very angsty but also fluffy!!! happy ending!!!
you and eddie had been easy since high school—two kids always tangled up in each other's orbit, stupid and young and inseparable. he made you feel like you belonged somewhere, whether he was surprising you at your locker or walking you home to your trailer. you were a package deal.
until john came along.
eddie didn't like him. you told yourself it was just protectiveness, the way he'd always looked out for you. you didn't see what was really underneath it. john was trouble, but not the fun kind eddie brought. john’s was the kind that burned—the kind that had you yelling at him one night and falling into his arms the next.
eddie watched it all: the way john talked to you, the way he made you feel small. the way you kept going back.
you thought you were in love. and maybe you were. but you never noticed that eddie was the one who really knew you. the one who'd been there the whole time. maybe even the one who loved you most.
flash forward a couple years later, and here you were at twenty-five—a community college degree tucked away like a small victory, even if it didn't change much. eddie never went to college. he didn't need to. he’d found his rhythm under the hoods of cars at the local garage, grease under his nails and a cigarette behind his ear, doing honest work with his hands. you waited tables at a diner on the edge of town, the tips just enough to keep the lights on and the fridge full.
then there was dahlia. a year old now, with your eyes and a stubbornness that seemed similar to eddie’s. your boyfriend was gone more than he was home—an over-the-road trucker, chasing miles and barely checking in. most nights it was just you and your daughter, the trailer quiet except for her babbling and the hum of the highway in the distance.
but eddie was always there. he showed up with takeout when you hadn't eaten. he’d rock dahlia to sleep when you were too exhausted to stand. he watched her while you worked double shifts, never asking for anything in return. just a nod and a crooked grin, like it was nothing. like he hadn't been catching you every time you fell since you were seventeen.
eddie never missed a chance to poke at the bruise.
"if i were him," he'd say, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, that familiar smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, "i’d’ve put a ring on your finger yesterday. maybe the day before that, too. hell, i’d’ve proposed in high school."
you’d scoff, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "he’s busy, eddie. he’s got a whole rig to drive cross-country. it’s not like he's got time to shop for rings."
"mhm." he’d tilt his head, fixing you with that look—the one that said he saw right through you. "sure. real busy."
"what’s that supposed to mean?"
"nothin'." he’d shrug, all innocence. "just saying. you and deedee deserve better than 'busy.'"
you'd wave him off, change the subject, find something to wipe down or fold. but the words stuck. they laced themselves under your skin and stayed there, quiet and persistent.
because the truth was, you were starting to believe it too. the dream of john showing up with a ring, of him choosing you—choosing her—felt thinner every day, like a photograph left too long in the sun. you still held onto it with both hands, because letting go meant admitting you'd been holding nothing all along.
one day, you were extremely busy.
you were in your waitress uniform—stained coffee-colored at the cuff, apron slung half-tied around your waist—and you'd been running since you opened your eyes. groceries needed to be bought. bills needed to be sorted. a shift was waiting for you in twenty minutes.
you rushed through the kitchen, grabbing your keys, your wallet, your sanity by a thread. and there was eddie, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with dahlia propped between his knees. he had a stuffed dinosaur in one hand, waving it in front of her face while making exaggerated roaring sounds. she was gigling, drool catching on her chin, her tiny fingers reaching for him.
“ed—" she babbled, the syllables stretching and stumbling. "ed-dee…"
he froze. his eyes went wide, that crooked grin splitting across his face like she'd just handed him the world.
“uh huh." he leaned in, voice soft and warm. "that’s my name. sweetheart, she said it!"
you wanted to smile. you really did. the corners of your mouth twitched, but the weight pressing down on your chest wouldn't let it settle. you forced a tight, distracted sound. "mhm."
eddie heard it.
of course he did. he always heard it—that edge in your voice, the one you tried to hide. he looked up, and his dark eyes found you across the room, pinning you in place.
"everything okay?"
you exhaled, and it came out shaky. the dam broke.
"i don't—i have to get groceries because there's nothing in the fridge, and the electric bill is overdue, and i’m already late for my shift, and dahlia’s diaper bag isn't packed, and i just—" you stopped, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. "i can't do all of this today. i can't."
without a word, eddie scooped dahlia up, settling her on his hip like she'd always belonged there—and maybe she had. he crossed the room in three easy strides, stopping right in front of you. close enough that you could smell motor oil and cheap cologne.
“hey." his voice was low, steady, the way it always was when you were falling apart. "look at me."
you did.
"it’s gonna be okay. i’ll grab the groceries. i know your list by heart, anyway." a pause. "and i can help with the bills till you get caught up. don’t argue with me."
you couldn’t help it. “eddie, you don't have to—"
"i know i don't have to." he shifted dahlia higher on his hip, his free hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. the touch was brief, but it lingered in the air between you. "but i want to. same as always." he tilted his head, that familiar smirk softening into something gentler. "i’ll watch her while you're at work. i was gonna do it anyway. you think i’d miss a chance to hang out with my best girl?"
dahlia tugged at his hair, and he winced, laughing.
"see? she agrees with me."
you opened your mouth to argue again, but the words died. because he was already turning away, already heading toward the couch where her toys were scattered, already taking some of the weight off your shoulders like it was the easiest thing in the world.
the relief hit you so hard it almost buckled your knees.
you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, and the tension in your shoulders finally loosened. you crossed the room in two quick steps.
“thank you so much, eddie. really." the relief in your voice was almost embarrassing. "i don't know what i’d do without you."
you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. his skin was warm. you pulled back just enough to press another kiss to dahlia’s forehead, and she let out a delighted squeal.
"alright, i gotta go. love you guys."
you grabbed your bag and headed for the door, already pulling out your keys. the door clicked shut behind you.
eddie sat there on the floor, dahlia still on his lap, staring at the spot where you'd been. the kiss on his cheek lingered like a phantom.
dahlia patted his face. "eddie?"
“yeah, baby," he said quietly, blinking himself back. "i’m here."
he looked down at her—at the curve of her cheek, the same stubborn set of her jaw you had—and felt something twist in his chest. every time you kissed his cheek, it rattled him. you always gave him a kiss on the cheek when he did you a favor. it was your way of saying thanks, but to him, it never grew old.
because in moments like this, with your kid in his arms and your lipgloss still warm on his skin, it felt so painfully right—like this was the life he was supposed to be living.
like he was the dad.
and stupid john was just some guy who happened to share your trailer.
by the time your shift ended, you were exhausted.
the diner had been a nonstop chaos of coffee refills, burnt toast orders, and a table of eight who'd asked for ketchup five times before their food even arrived. your cheeks ached from the smile you'd kept plastered on—the one the regulars loved, the one that kept your tips fat and your tongue bitten.
smile, sweetheart, you’re my favorite waitress in town.
on and on it went.
when you finally pushed open the door to the trailer, the first thing you noticed was the quiet.
the second thing you noticed was the groceries.
they sat on the table in neat, organized rows—canned goods in the back, boxed items in the middle, fresh produce up front. eddie had grouped them like he was running his own little pantry operation. you blinked, and then your eyes drifted to the fridge.
the bill was gone.
a sticky note sat in its place, written in eddie’s messy, all-caps scrawl: PAID. YOU'RE WELCOME. — E.
you stood there a moment, letting the reality of it sink in. one less thing to carry. one less weight on your chest.
across the room, eddie moved quietly in the kitchen, his back to you as he slid cans into the cabinet. he was trying to be silent—you could tell by the careful way he set each one down, the way he winced when a lid clinked too loud. he hadn't heard you come in.
you looked past him, into the living room.
dahlia was fast asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. one arm was flung out, her fingers curled around the neck of her stuffed bunny. her bottle sat beside her, half-empty. the tv played care bears on low volume, the colors flickering softly across her peaceful face.
something in your chest loosened.
you slipped off your shoes and padded quietly into the kitchen, reaching around eddie to grab a bag of apples from the counter.
he startled, then relaxed when he saw you. that smile spread across his face—easy, warm, like he'd been waiting for it all day. it didn't matter that your hair was a mess, that your apron was stained, that you looked like you'd been put through the wringer. he looked at you like you were the best thing he'd seen all day. it was refreshing.
"hey, stranger."
"hi." your voice came out softer than you expected. "how was she?"
"the usual." he shrugged, reaching for a box of pasta. "ate all her dinner. gave me a concert when i tried feeding her. screamed when i tried to put her in her jammies. standard stuff."
you caught the way he winced slightly as he reached up to the top shelf. "what’s wrong?"
“nothin’." he said it too fast.
"eddie."
he sighed, turning to face you with a sheepish grin. he tilted his head, and you saw it—a tiny, almost invisible gap near his temple where a few strands of hair were shorter than the rest.
"she, uh." he rubbed the back of his neck. "she got ahold of a clump during story time. little piranha has a hell of a grip."
you stared at him. at the gap in his hair. at the way he was trying to play it off like it was nothing.
the laugh that escaped you was raw and sudden, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest. it was the first genuine sound you'd made all day—no performance, no plastered-on cheer. just you, laughing at the image of your tiny daughter scalping the man who'd spent his whole day taking care of her.
eddie’s grin widened. he brought a hand to your mouth, eyes glittering with mischief. "shh, shut up. you’ll wake her up."
your shoulders shook with muffled laughter. "i’m sorry, i’m sorry—"
"you’re not sorry." he tsked, pulling his hand away.
"i’m not," you admitted, voice breaking on a giggle. "that’s amazing. she got you good."
“betrayed by a baby," he said solemnly, turning back to the cabinet. “can’t believe it.”
the two of you fell into a comfortable rhythm after that—him handing you items, you putting them away. the only sounds were the soft rustle of bags, the occasional creak of the floorboards, and the distant, cheerful murmur of the tv. it was easy. It was quiet. It was everything your day hadn't been.
you broke the silence first.
"eddie?”
"hm?"
you stopped, a box of mac and cheese in your hands, and looked at him. really looked at him. at the dark circles under his eyes that probably matched yours. at the way his sleeves were rolled up, his hands dusted with flour from god knows what. at the patience etched into every line of his face.
"thank you. seriously."
he glanced at you, something soft passing through his expression. "you don't gotta keep thanking me."
"i know." you set the box down, turning to face him fully. "but i want to. without john here, i just… i get pretty stressed. it gets hectic sometimes, and i need someone to help me out."
he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. his voice, when it came, was stripped of its usual teasing edge. "you don't need to explain yourself to me. i know what you're carrying. i see it."
your throat tightened. "i just—i don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you."
"hey." he stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the powder of baby wipes. "you’re not taking advantage. you’re letting me help. there’s a difference."
"still. i don't know how to repay you."
"you don't have to." he said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "i’m always gonna be here. for you. for her. that's a choice i’m gonna keep making."
you looked up at him, and for a moment, the exhaustion didn't feel so heavy. the weight was still there, but it was shared now—split between two people in a quiet trailer, with a sleeping baby and a half-empty bottle of milk and a care bears episode playing to no one.
"always?" you asked, your voice smaller than you meant it to be.
he held your gaze, steady and sure. "always."
the word settled into the space between you like a promise.
before eddie could say a word, the front door swung open.
your heart jumped. intruder—the thought hit before reason could catch up. your mind flew to dahlia, asleep in the next room. but when you rushed into the entryway, it wasn't a stranger.
it was john.
you hadn't seen him in months—just phone calls, his voice tinny through the speaker, always promising to come home soon. he stood there in the doorway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking heavier than you remembered. worn.
dahlia stirred in the crib, a soft cry breaking the silence. you scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead, letting her settle against your chest before crossing to him.
“john." the name came out breathless. "i—i didn't expect you at all. why didn't you tell me?"
he dropped the bag and pulled you into a hug, one arm wrapping around you, the other around dahlia. you breathed in, and the familiar scent of his jacket hit you. beneath it, something else.
whiskey.
your smile faltered. your eyes softened with something you didn't want to name.
"missed you," he mumbled into your hair. then he pulled back, already turning toward the kitchen. "i’m gonna grab a drink."
he stopped short when he saw eddie leaning against the counter.
"eddie." john’s voice flattened. "didn’t know you were here."
"john." eddie’s jaw tightened. his eyes had gone cold—the same look he gave him back in high school.
he just nodded once, sharp and short.
john grabbed a glass from the cabinet and didn't bother to ask where anything was. he already knew. he filled it halfway, threw it back, then refilled.
"honey, maybe you should slow down on the drinks." you kept your voice light, careful. "you just got here."
john turned, glass halfway to his mouth. his eyes had that edge to them—the one you remembered from late-night arguments, when he got defensive over nothing.
"i had a long day. i can't have a drink?"
you held his gaze for a moment, then let it go. dahlia was stirring again, and you weren't about to start a fight with her in your arms.
"i don't want to fight, johnny." your voice softened. "you just got here. i was only suggesting."
you rocked dahlia gently, humming under your breath until her little body relaxed against yours, her breathing evening out. when she was fully asleep, you padded over to the crib and laid her down, your hand lingering on her back for a moment before you turned back to him.
"it’s getting late." you kept your voice low, soft. "what do you say you and i go to bed soon?"
you meant sleep. real sleep. rest. but eddie caught the flicker in john’s eyes—something darker, hungrier. he set his glass down without a word and crossed to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. lingering a second too long.
eddie felt like he wanted to vomit.
“be there in a minute," you whispered.
he just nodded and disappeared down the hallway.
you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.
eddie was watching you, his eyes soft. that look—the one that said really?—was written all over his face, his eyebrows raised, his head tilted just slightly.
you met his eyes and shrugged, soft and helpless. what can i do?
"let me see you out." you said.
you grabbed your jacket and slipped past him, holding the door open. the night air hit you both as you stepped outside—cool and quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the highway.
you walked side by side, not saying much at first. the gravel crunched under your feet. the stars were out, faint through the haze of the trailer park lights.
"dee’s getting bigger," eddie said finally. "she’s got your eyes."
"she’s got your stubbornness," you shot back, but there was no heat in it.
he snorted. "she’s gotta get it from somewhere."
you walked a few more steps in silence before eddie stopped. you stopped too, turning to face him.
"i don't like him." eddie’s voice was flat. honest. "i never did."
"i know."
"i’m serious. he shows up after months, drunk, and you're already tip-toeing around him. that’s not—" he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "that’s not how it should be."
you looked down at your feet. "it’s complicated, eddie."
"it’s not." he stepped closer. "you deserve better than complicated."
you wanted to argue. you wanted to tell him he didn't understand. but you'd known eddie too long for that, and he knew you too well to buy it.
so you just said, "i’ll see you tomorrow, eds."
he held your gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "yeah. tomorrow."
he turned and walked up the steps to his trailer, pausing at the door.
“get some rest, yeah?”
you nodded. he disappeared inside, and you stood there for a moment longer, the night air cool against your skin, before heading back.
the next afternoon, eddie swung by your trailer with a bag of takeout, same as he always did. you were on the phone in the kitchen, wedged between the counter and the fridge, your mom's voice tinny through the speaker.
"—and when are you two going to make it official? you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart."
you shifted your weight, tracing the edge of the laminate countertop with your fingernail. "mom, it's not that simple. he just got back—"
"he’s been back long enough. a man knows what he wants."
you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. eddie ducked through the front door, lifting the bag like a peace offering, and the relief that washed through you was probably a little too obvious.
"hey, mom, i gotta go. eddie’s here with food. i’ll call you later, okay?"
you hung up before she could protest.
"you’re a lifesaver," you said, taking the bag from him. the smell of greasy chinese food filled the small kitchen. you set it on the counter and started pulling out containers. "eddie, i swear, i don't know what i’d do without you."
"i do," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "you’d starve."
"probably." you smiled, then called over your shoulder, "johnny! food’s here. come eat."
in the living room, john was crouched in front of dahlia’s play mat. a plastic block dangled from his hand. dahlia sat in the middle of the scattered toys, her little face screwed up in determined refusal.
“come on. say it. say dadda."
she shook her head. firm.
"say daddy. daddy. dad-dy."
another shake. her bottom lip started to pucker.
"dahlia. come on."
you watched from the kitchen doorway, a takeout container in your hand. it was almost funny—the way he kept pushing, the way she kept digging in. eddie hovered behind you, and you could feel him trying not to laugh.
“john," you called gently, "just bring her over. she’s hungry."
he stood up, frustrated, and lifted dahlia out of the mess of toys. she squirmed for a second, then settled against his chest as he carried her to the highchair. he slid her in and buckled the tray, still muttering.
"why won't she say it? she’s old enough."
you set a few pieces of soft chicken on her tray. "you haven't been here in a while, honey. it’s not her fault."
he scoffed, running a hand over his jaw. "oh, so it's my fault? i work really hard, you know. i expect my daughter to know who i am."
you sighed, the smile staying put out of practice. "yes, yes. i know. eat, please."
you slid a container of noodles across the counter toward him and shot eddie a look—one that said just roll with it. eddie managed a small smile in return, but his stomach had gone cold.
you deserved better than this. dahlia deserved better than this. and john had no idea how lucky he was that you were still here, still patient, still making excuses for him.
eddie wanted to say it. wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you awake.
i’d be here every day. i’d teach her to say "daddy" and mean it.
instead, he cracked open a container of fried rice and said nothing at all.
you settled into the chair beside dahlia’s highchair, nudging a soy sauce packet out of your way as you peeled the lid off a container of lo mein. eddie slid into the seat across from you. john took the one at the head of the table, near enough to dahlia to reach over and ruffle her hair, which she immediately swatted away.
for a few minutes the only sounds were the scrape of forks and the occasional wet smack of dahlia pounding a piece of chicken against her tray.
"so," john said around a mouthful of noodles, "how's the shop treating you?“
eddie's fork paused. he resumed pushing rice around his container.
"it’s fine. keeps me busy. boss is decent."
"yeah? you like the work?"
like wasn't the word eddie would use. the work was honest. grease under his nails that stayed there no matter how many times he scrubbed. engines that made sense in a way people didn't.
but he wasn't about to explain any of that to john.
"it’s fine," he repeated. he shrugged, a lazy roll of one shoulder. "get to get my hands dirty. better than sitting in some office pretending to care about a spreadsheet."
john laughed, oblivious. "i get that. man’s work, right?"
you caught the flicker in eddie’s jaw—the micro-shift of muscle—and you stabbed at your noodles before either of them could read your face.
"it’s honest," eddie said flatly, and that was the end of that.
you busied yourself with dahlia. she’d grabbed a fistful of noodles and was squeezing them into paste between her fingers. you pried her hand open and wiped her palm with a napkin, keeping your eyes down.
"so," john said, and there was a shift in his voice — a gear change you recognized but couldn't avoid. "appreciate you helping out around here. with dahlia and all."
eddie didn't answer. he just looked up.
"it’s been real helpful," john went on, spearing a piece of chicken. "with me working so much. can’t always be around."
can’t always be around. you felt the words settle into the room, heavy and quiet.
"we manage," you said lightly, still focused on dahlia’s hands. "it’s fine, johnny. we’re fine."
"well." john chewed, swallowed, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. his gaze slid to eddie, lingered. "she needs someone around here."
the words hung in the air a beat too long. you looked up. john was watching eddie now—not the casual glance of a man making conversation, but something slower. a measuring sort of look.
eddie held his gaze. not a challenge. just a stillness, the way you hold still when you've been caught doing something you're not supposed to.
“well, i’m not going anywhere," eddis said quietly.
and the thing was—he didn't say it to john.
he said it to you.
john’s fork clinked against his container. he dropped his gaze, pushed his food around, didn't say another word.
you kept feeding dahlia, the kitchen suddenly very small.
eventually, john scraped his chair back, the legs screeching against the linoleum.
"alright, i’m gonna head out."
you looked up from dahlia’s tray. "what?"
"got some errands to run. now that i’m back, gotta get a few things sorted."
"but—" you set the spoon down. "i thought you came back to spend some more time with us. i need you to be here with her, johnny—"
he crossed the space in two steps, cupped your face, and kissed you. quick. decisive. the kind of kiss that was meant to end a conversation, not start one.
"it’s fine," he said, already pulling back, already reaching for his keys on the counter. "eddie here can take care of it. like always."
he said it like it was nothing. like eddie was a utility. a backup generator you flipped on when the power went out.
eddie didn't move from his chair. his hand rested on the table, fingers loose around a crumpled napkin. you saw his jaw tighten—that muscle again—and you knew he heard it too. the dismissal. the way john had wrapped you both in the same sentence:
eddie here can take care of it.
as if you were a task on a list. as if eddie’s presence in your life was just a convenience john could authorize.
before you could say anything, the door clicked shut.
you stared at the space where john had been. the air still smelled like him—like the city, like the road. you let out a slow breath, and turned back to dahlia.
she was watching you with those big, curious eyes, a noodle dangling from her fist.
“yeah," you murmured, brushing her hair back. "i know, baby."
you picked up the spoon again.
"here. open up."
the kitchen filled with the sound of running water. eddie had risen without a word, gathering plates, stacking them with quiet efficiency. you watched him clear the table, his movements careful and practiced.
"thanks, eds."
he didn't look up. "you done with your plate?"
you nodded, handed it to him. he took it, turned to the sink, and began to wash.
the water ran. the sponge scraped. dahlia gummed a piece of broccoli.
you watched the broad line of his back at the sink, the way his shoulders moved as he scrubbed. the kitchen felt smaller with him in it. not suffocating like before—just contained. like whatever was in this room stayed in this room.
"ed—dee." dahlia babbled.
he didn't turn.
"eddie." you drew it out, stretching the syllables.
a pause in the scrubbing. then a grin spread across his face, visible even in profile. you felt your own mouth tug up, a soft giggle escaping before you could stop it.
"uh huh. yeah, he's right there. washing dishes."
dahlia babbled something back, and you laughed again—a real one this time, light and surprised.
he finished the last plate, dried his hands on a dish towel, and crossed to the highchair. dahlia’s arms shot up before he even reached her. eddie lifted her like she weighed nothing, and she melted into him immediately—cheek pressed to his shoulder, tiny fingers curling into the collar of his shirt.
you leaned back in your chair and let yourself look at them. fatherhood by proximity. a man who showed up, washed dishes, lifted your daughter like she was the most precious thing he'd ever held.
"she’s always so happy to see you," you said softly.
eddie adjusted dahlia’s weight, one hand cradling the back of her head. "can’t stay away from my two best girls."
the words landed somewhere deep in your chest—a place you hadn't realized was still bruised from the door clicking shut. john had never said anything like that. not once. not in all the years of coming and going, of promises made in doorways and forgotten by morning.
you looked at eddie, at dahlia already half-asleep against him, and for a moment you forgot about john entirely.
"stay for a bit?" you asked. "after she's down?"
eddie met your eyes. "i wasn't planning on leaving."
you smiled, and eddie caught it—a flicker of something warm in his eyes before he turned his attention to the small girl nestled against his chest.
"hey, princess," he said, his voice dropping into that silly, sing-song register he only ever used with her. "what do you say you and your mom and i go out for a bit, huh? get some fresh air? maybe go to the community pool?”
you blinked. "what?"
eddie shrugged, that easy, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he turned to you. the afternoon light caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his smile softening the edges of the kitchen.
"figured if john’s gonna be out, so should we." he bounced dahlia gently, and she let out a happy gurgle. "we can go to a pool or something. get out of this house. the day's too nice to waste it indoors."
you opened your mouth, then closed it. the knot in your chest—the one that had been tightening since the door clicked shut—loosened, just a little. this was his way of fixing it. of telling you it was gonna be fine. he was always just... there, offering to take you somewhere else. somewhere the air was lighter.
"okay," you said, and the word came out softer than you meant it to. "yeah. okay."
he reached over and ruffled your hair—quick, familiar, like he'd done a thousand times before. "alright. pack some things. i’ll be with her until i can do the same."
he didn't wait for an answer. he just turned and carried dahlia toward the living room, already narrating the journey to her in a low, animated voice—“and through the treacherous hallway, past the mighty laundry basket, our hero approaches the living room..."—and you heard her giggle, that small, breathless sound that always made your chest ache.
you packed quickly. two towels. a change of clothes for dahlia. you caught yourself smiling at the bathroom mirror and didn't bother to stop.
twenty minutes later, you were standing in the driveway, dahlia on your hip, a bag slung over your shoulder. eddie opened the van door—that familiar, rusty groan of metal—and you felt something settle in your chest.
the same van he'd had since high school.
beige, faded, duct tape holding the interior roof lining in place. a dent in the passenger door from a mailbox you’d misjudged senior year when he was teaching you how to drive. it smelled like cigarette smoke that had long since faded and the faint, sweet hint of the air freshener you'd bought him three years ago.
it was ridiculous. it was falling apart.
it was home.
he scooped dahlia from your arms and settled her into the car seat he’d installed months ago—something he luckily found while thrifting, the harness straps worn soft from use. he clicked the buckles in place with practiced ease, tugging once to check they were secure.
"alright, back there," he said, tapping her nose. "you ready for an adventure?"
dahlia kicked her feet and shrieked.
"i’ll take that as a yes."
he turned to you, holding out his hand. you took it without thinking, letting him guide you up into the passenger seat. the door groaned shut behind you, and the world outside the dirty windshield suddenly felt very far away.
eddie slid into the driver's seat, cranked the engine. it coughed, sputtered, then rumbled to life.
the parking lot was asphalt-hot, shimmering in the afternoon sun, and the pool gate squealed when eddie pushed it open with his shoulder. he had dahlia tucked under one arm like a football, her little legs kicking, and she let out a delighted shriek at the sight of all that blue water.
"woah, hold on there, little monster," he said, adjusting his grip. "we’re not launching you in yet."
you followed behind, the bag cutting into your shoulder, and scanned the chaos of lounge chairs and scattered towels until you spotted a couple of empty chairs near the shallow end—close enough to keep an eye on the water, far enough to avoid getting splashed by the kids cannonballing off the edge.
"over there," you said, nodding toward it.
he followed, lowering dahlia onto the towel you spread out.
"bathrooms are over there," you said, pointing. "i’m gonna go change."
"go ahead." he settled onto the towel, cross-legged, and scooped dahlia back before she could make it to the dirt. "we’ll hold down the fort. won’t we, deedee?"
dahlia grabbed his nose.
"ouch. yeah. good grip."
you laughed and headed for the changing rooms.
the bikini was simple—black, high-waisted, nothing fancy. you’d bought it last year on clearance and never worn it. standing in front of the warped mirror above the sink, you tugged at the straps, smoothed the fabric over your hips, and decided it was fine. good enough.
you stepped back out into the sun.
eddie was mid-sentence—some low, dramatic narration about the dangers of the pool drain—when he looked up. his voice died in his throat.
you caught him staring, but you didn't catch what it meant.
he remembered the beach. senior year. a group trip after graduation, the two of you sitting on the sand while everyone else was in the water. you’d worn a blue bikini then, and he'd spent the whole afternoon pretending not to look. he remembered the curve of your waist, the way he tried not to imagine how your skin might’ve tasted like salt and sunscreen. he remembered thinking you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
he was wrong.
that version of you was sharp and new and untouched. this version had a faint, faded line across her lower stomach—a silver scar, barely visible, left behind by the small person currently trying to eat his thumb. it was a map of everything you'd been through. everything you'd carried. everything you'd survived.
you looked more beautiful than before. not despite it. because of it.
"you okay?" you asked, tilting your head.
he blinked. "yeah. yeah, i’m good."
you eased dahlia out of his arms, settling her on your hip. she immediately reached for your hair.
"your turn," you said.
he waved a hand. "ah, i’m not really gonna get in."
your jaw dropped. "excuse me?"
"just gonna sit here. keep the towels company."
"no. absolutely not." you pointed at him. "you dragged us here. you are getting in that water."
"i could supervise."
"you could swim."
he groaned, a long, theatrical sound that made dahlia giggle. "fine. fine. but i’m holding you responsible if i drown."
"you won't drown. the water's three feet deep."
"i’ll find a way."
he stood, dusted off his shorts, and trudged toward the bathrooms with the air of a man walking to his execution.
when he came back, you understood.
the trunks were black, simple, hanging low on his hips. his long hair clung to his shoulders, and his arms—you'd seen his arms a thousand times, but they looked different now. filled out. broad shoulders, thick forearms, the kind of muscle that came from years of wrestling with engines and transmissions. his tattoos stood out sharp against his skin, ink bleeding into the afternoon light.
you forgot how to breathe for a second.
he caught you looking. a slow grin spread across his face.
“see something you like?"
you felt heat crawl up your neck. you looked away, busied yourself with adjusting dahlia’s strap.
"we accidentally matched," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near flustered.
he looked down at his trunks, then at you. "huh. black bikini, black trunks. real coordinated."
“didn't plan it."
“uh huh.”
you shot him a look. he held up his hands, still grinning.
dahlia, oblivious, was wearing a red one-piece covered in tiny black spots. a ladybug. it had little antennae on the hood.
"look at that," eddie said. "she’s got black too. we’re a whole theme."
"a very accidental theme."
he stepped past you and lowered himself into the shallow end, the water rising to his chest. he hissed at the temperature—“christ, that's cold"—then turned and held out his arms.
"alright, princess. your turn."
you handed dahlia to him. she went willingly, splashing into his arms with a shriek of pure joy. the water darkened the red of her swimsuit, and she kicked her feet, sending droplets across his face.
he didn't even flinch. he just grinned, wiped the water from his eyes, and looked up at you.
"you coming in or what?"
the water was cold against your ankles, then your knees, then your waist. you waded over to them, the sun warm on your shoulders, and dahlia reached for you, wanting to be held by both of you at once.
edie shifted her into your arms, and for a moment, the three of you stood there—water lapping, sun burning, the noise of the pool fading into something distant and unimportant.
the three of you floated in the cool water, laughing as eddie kept dahlia giggling. his gaze kept drifting to you, lingering a beat too long. he couldn't help it—you were beautiful.
he’s thought so since high school. a quiet ache settled in his chest: the old longing to have you, to be yours.
you caught his look and offered a soft smile. your chest warmed when your eyes met. you’d known him since you were seventeen. he’d always been there. for a moment, you let yourself imagine eddie as dahlia’s dad instead, the three of you a real family.
eventually, you all headed home, wrapped in towels despite being thoroughly soaked. on the drive back, eddie and you traded easy laughs, slipping into comfortable small talk. he parked in front of your place, and you noticed johnny's old truck.
"that’s weird." a slight smile tugged at your lips, still recovering from laughing. "i thought he'd be out the whole day."
eddie’s gaze hardened as he shut off the engine. of course. of course this is how the night ends. you, him, dahlia—a perfect day. and now, back to reality. john’s home.
he unbuckled dahlia and lifted her out. you grabbed the bag, and the three of you head up the steps. inside, eddie sets dahlia down, letting her toddle around to burn off the last of her energy.
you glanced around. "johnny?"
you headed toward the shared bedroom.
"mama!" dahlia pattered after you.
"hey, no, come here." eddie tried scooping her up, a quick joke about her escaping already forming on his lips. then he stopped once he reached the doorway.
johnny was in bed. with another woman.
dahlia tugged at eddie’s leg, confused. "ed-dee?"
your eyes were already welling. eddie saw it—the crack spreading across your face. he picked up dahlia, ready to say something, anything.
"can you take her?" your voice was quiet. broken. "to your trailer?"
he nodded. he knew what you needed.
he was halfway out the door when the yelling started behind him.
"how could you do this?!" your voice cracked and sharpened all at once. "are you fucking serious? i’ve been trying so hard, johnny! trying to take care of dahlia, picking up shifts at the diner, keeping everything together while you're gone. you’re here for one day—one goddamn day—and this is what you do?!”
the woman in the bed scrambled, half-asleep, fumbling for her clothes. johnny sat up, sheets pooling around his waist, face twisting.
"don’t you yell at me," he snapped. "you think it's easy? you’re always busy, always tired, i needed—"
"don’t." you shook your head, voice dropping. "don’t even go there.”
"it was nothing, alright? just—"
"i want you out." the words came out steady even as your hands shook. "it’s over. i’ll take care of dahlia myself. i’ve been doing it anyway."
his voice softened, slick and familiar. "come on, baby. it was just a mistake. one mistake. you know i love you."
but you're already somewhere else. the short phone calls. the way he never seemed in a rush to come home. the way he talked around marrying you, always soon, soon, never now.
"no." you met his eyes. "you’ve been doing this the whole time, haven't you? that’s why you never wanted to stay."
he opened his mouth. but you were already walking away.
the door clicked shut behind you when you walked into eddie’s trailer, and the silence that followed was somehow louder than the screaming. louder than the woman scrambling for her dignity. louder than johnny’s excuses still echoing in your skull.
you stood there. dripping. empty.
eddie didn’t say anything at first. he was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you. dahlia was passed out on the couch, curled into a tiny ball, a fortress of couch cushions walling her in. he must've built it while you were in there. while your world was ending a trailer away.
you opened your mouth. nothing came out.
that lump in your throat—hard, sharp, impossible to swallow around—pressed up until your eyes start to burn.
eddie’s face changed. the guarded tension in his jaw dropped away, and something raw and soft took its place. he didn’t ask. he didn’t say what happened or are you okay or any of the bullshit questions people asked when they already knew the answer.
he just opened his arms.
you stepped into him immediately, and the second your forehead hit his chest, you broke. the sob ripped out of you like it had been waiting for permission. your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and you shook against him, ugly and loud and completely undone.
his arms closed around you, solid and sure. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your wet hair.
"i got you," he murmured, voice low and rough. "i got you. let it out."
you cried harder.
he rocked you, just a little, swaying in the dim light of the kitchen. his thumb traceed slow, soothing arcs against your scalp.
"i’m so sorry, sweetheart." even his voice cracked at the edges. "i’m so goddamn sorry."
you felt him press his cheek against the top of your head. felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. felt his arms tighten, like he was trying to hold every broken piece of you together with his bare hands.
"you don't have to say anything," he whispered. "you don't have to do anything. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere."
and you didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were red too.
your voice was wrecked, barely making it past the tears.
"i can't believe he would do that." a hiccup. then another. "he—he was here for one day. one day, eddie. and he just… he brought that girl to our home. our home. in our fucking bed.”
eddie didn’t stop stroking your hair. his hand was steady, patient, grounding. he let you spill it all out.
you kept going, words tumbling over each other, half-sobbed, half-spat. how your mom was already on your back about not locking johnny down fast enough, about how you're twenty-five and still not married in her standards, how you're going to be alone forever if you don't—and now this. now he showed up after months gone with some girl on his arm like you're nothing.
"i don't know what to do." your voice cracked, raw and young. "i don't want dahlia growing up in this. watching her mom fall apart over some guy who doesn't—who never—"
you choked. then the panic shifted, practical and desperate.
"the bills, eddie. i can't—the diner shifts barely cover groceries. johnny sends money sometimes, but if he stops, if he's done, i don't know how i’m gonna—"
"hey." his voice cut through, soft but firm. his hand stilled on your hair, then cupped the back of your head, tilting your face up just enough that you have to look at him.
"hey. look at me."
you do, through blurry eyes.
he held your gaze, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek.
"johnny is an asshole," he says, quiet and certain. "he never deserved you. not one day of it."
you shook your head, trying to argue, but he doesn't let you.
"i’m gonna show up." the words landed like a promise. "i’ll take care of the bills. more. as much as you need. i’ll be here for dahlia—you know i will. and if it helps you sleep at night, i’ll pick up more hours at the shop. i don't care. i’ll work until my hands fall off if it means you don't have to carry this alone."
"but you can't—" you started, voice breaking.
"i can." he brushed a strand of hair from your wet cheek, tucking it behind your ear. his hand was warm, calloused, impossibly gentle. then he cupped your face, both palms framing your jaw, and tilted your head up to meet his eyes again.
"let me," he said, barely above a whisper. "please. let me take care of you. you don't have to figure this out alone. you never did. i’ve been here the whole time, and i’m not going anywhere." his voice dropped, softer than you've ever heard it. "you and dahlia are my family. you know that, right?"
the words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm.
you swallowed. you nodded as a fresh tear slipped down your cheek. he caught it with his thumb.
"i’ve got you."
the weight on your chest shifted—just a little—like maybe it didn’t have to be yours alone.
you couldn’t help but thump your fist against his chest, weak and trembling, frustration and gratitude tangled up so tight you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"god, y-you’re so—" another sniffle. another hit, softer this time. "annoying."
the word came out shaky, watery, stripped of any real bite.
eddie’s lips twitched. a glint flickered in his eyes, warm and soft, like candlelight cutting through the dark. he caught your fist before you could hit him again, holding it against his chest. his heart pounded steadily under your knuckles.
"yeah," he said, voice low and amused. "i know."
he pulled you back into his arms, and you go without resistance—boneless, exhausted, grateful. his chin rested on the top of your head. one hand spread across your back, the other craded the nape of your neck, anchoring you.
"let it out," he murmured into your hair. "you know i’m not going anywhere."
and you do. you cried until your chest ached and your throat burned and there's nothing left. through it all, he held you. rubbed your back. pressed the occasional kiss to the crown of your head. didn’t rush you. didn’t shush you.
when the last sob finally shuddered out of you, quiet settled around you both like a blanket.
"better?" he asked softly.
you nodded against his chest, too wrung out for words. your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might disappear if you let go.
he gave you one last squeeze, then tipped your chin up with his thumb and index finger. his eyes searched yours, earnest and unbearably gentle.
"i meant every word," he said. "every single one."
and he did.
over the next few months, eddie showed up more exactly like he promised. a fresh pot of coffee would already be brewed when you stumbled out of your room at six a.m. a bag of groceries would be sitting on the counter with the things you'd mentioned offhandedly three days ago. the rent would be paid before you could even stress about it.
john’s things disappeared piece by piece. you boxed them up yourself one rainy tuesday, and eddie didn't say a word—just handed you tape and sat on the floor beside you, sorting through the wreckage of a decade with quiet, patient hands. when you started to cry over an old photo, he didn't tell you to stop. he just set his hand on your knee and stayed.
slowlu, his things started appearing in their place.
a worn leather jacket hanging by the door. a second toothbrush in the cup. his favorite mug—chipped, with a faded band logo—claiming permanent space in your cabinet. a spare set of keys on the counter. a pillow that smelled like him on your couch.
he didn't move in. not officially. he still had his own trailer at the end of the lot. but somewhere along the way, yours became yours-and-his without anyone saying a word about it.
healing came slowly. in fits and starts. some days you'd be fine—laughing at something dumb he said, watching him teach dahlia how to change a tire on a tricycle she couldn’t even ride yet, feeling almost normal. other days, johnny’s ghost would settle heavy in your chest, and you'd go quiet, and eddie would just... know. he’d put on your favorite movie without asking. he’d make you coffee. he’d sit beside you and say nothing at all, letting you find your way back to the surface on your own.
it was hard. johnny was your high school sweetheart. he was woven into the fabric of who you were, and untangling yourself from him felt like pulling thread from a sweater—slow, delicate, sometimes ruining everything in the process.
but eddie made it bearable.
he made you laugh until your stomach hurt, doubling over in the kitchen while he attempted to make dinner and somehow set off the smoke alarm. eddie kept you company on sleepless nights, staying on the phone with you even when he had to be at the shop at six. eddie held dahlia when she had nightmares, rocking her back to sleep with a patience that made your heart ache.
he did everything he promised. and more.
and somewhere between the laughter and the quiet nights and the way he looked at you like you were something worth staying for, you started to realize—
you were falling for him.
it hit you one evening, soft and sudden. you were sitting on the porch, dahlia asleep inside, and eddie was beside you, acoustic guitar in his lap, playing something slow and nameless. the sunset caught the edges of his profile, and he glanced over at you with that half-smile, and your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with grief.
oh.
you looked away quickly, heart hammering.
but you felt his eyes on you, warm and patient, and when he kept playing without saying a word, you let yourself sit in the feeling. let it settle into your bones.
terrifying.
hopeful.
the door creaked open and a familiar voice rung through the trailer, warm and theatrical.
"honey, i’m home!"
you looked up from the broom in your hands, mid-sweep in the kitchen, and the sight of him—leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his grin already crooked and knowing—makes something in your chest bloom.
a smile broke across your face before you could stop it.
"hey, you," you said. "how was work?"
he hung his jacket on the hook by the door, taking his time, savouring the routine of it. "greasy. frank’s nephew stripped a bolt on a '92 civic and i had to drill the damn thing out. took me an hour." he ran a hand through his hair, leaving a faint smudge of oil on his temple. "other than that? same old. some guy’s truck finally gave out. told him it was the transmission three months ago. three months. but what do i know, right?"
you shook your head, biting back a smile. "you know everything, obviously."
"obviously." he winked, then glanced around. "where’s my girl?"
"daycare. she’s got a little friend group now. apparently they color-coordinate their snack times."
eddie gasped, clutching his heart like he'd been mortally wounded. "what, she got tired of me already? i’m replaced by a toddler named brayden and a juice box?"
you laughed—bright and easy, the kind of sound that lives in your chest now instead of getting stuck on the way out. you shook your head, leaning against the counter while still holding the broom.
"no, never. she loves you too much."
his expression softened. the teasing fades into something quieter, something realer. his voice dropped a little when he said, "yeah, i love her too."
a pause. his eyes held yours.
"especially her mom."
the words landed somewhere deep in your ribcage. you stilled, fingers curling against the broom.
"yeah?" you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you meant it to.
eddie took a step closer. then another. the worn linoleum floor creaked under his boots.
he stopped in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of motor oil and faded cologne. his eyes traveled over your face like he's memorizing it. like he's been memorizing it for years and still hasn't gotten enough.
"get rid of that," he said, nodding at the broom still in your hands.
you immediately set the broom aside—clumsily, nearly knocking over the trash can in the process—and when you turned back, eddie’s hands are already reaching for you.
he pulled you in by the waist, slow and careful, like he's afraid you might spook. his thumbs pressed into the soft fabric of your shirt, just above your hips. he looked at you for a long moment—really looked—and you see the question in his eyes. the hesitation. the offer of an out, if you wanted one.
you can still step back. we can pretend this didn't happen. i’ll wait forever if i have to.
but you don't step back.
you don't even blink.
and whatever he saw in your face—whatever certainty flickered across it—was enough.
he leaned in slowly. giving you every chance to change your mind.
you don't.
when his lips met yours, it's soft. gentle. nothing like the rushed, careless kisses johnny used to steal. this one tastes like patience. like years of waiting finally paying off. like a promise he’d been keeping since before you even knew to ask for it.
his hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head, deepening the kiss just a fraction. just enough to let you know he meant it.
when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still closed, breath warm against your lips.
"i’ve been wanting to do that for a long time," he admitted.
you opened your eyes and looked at him—really looked at him. the man who showed up. who kept showing up. who never once made you feel like a burden for needing him.
before you knew it, the two of you got a little carried away in the kitchen. one moment you were kissing, and the next his hands were on your waist, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, his mouth finding yours in that gentle, unhurried way that made the rest of the world fall away.
his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs tracing circles through the thin fabric of your jeans, and you sighed into his mouth, threading your fingers through his hair. the clock on the microwave ticked over. six minutes. then twelve.
"eddie," you breathed against his lips, but you didn't pull away.
“hm?"
you pulled back, breathless, giggling against his lips. "i have to go. dee—"
he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "five more minutes."
"she’s gonna be the last kid there."
"so let me get her." he said it like it's obvious.
you opened your mouth to protest—you don't have to, i can do it, it's not your job—the same thing you always say. but he cut you off, cupping your face in his hands as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and deliberate.
"be right back."
he grinned, and then he's out the door.
fifteen minutes later, he's back with dahlia perched on his hip, her little sneakers swinging. she’s babbling a mile a minute, pointing at something in the parking lot, and eddie nods along like he understands every word.
the three of you ended up sprawled on the couch, dahlia wedged between you. fraggle rock flickers on the screen. she’s more affectionate than usual—grabbing at eddie’s shirt, patting his cheek, curling her tiny fingers around his. you watched them, and something warm settled in your chest. she missed him. all day at daycare, she was waiting for him to walk through the door.
eddie’s heart tightened. he looked down at her, her little hand wrapped around his index finger, and he wiggled it, making her shriek with laughter.
"tell me about your day, baby girl. did you paint? build a fort? plot world domination?"
she babbled nonsense, and he nodded seriously. "good. world domination's a solid plan."
she looked up at him, quiet for a second. then, clear as day:
"dadda."
eddie’s eyes snapped to yours. your own go wide, a smile breaking across your face before you could stop it. he looked back down at her, a grin spreading slow and crooked.
"uh huh. dadda. that’s me." his voice is softer now, rougher. "can you say daddy?"
she stared at him. then she grinned. "dadda."
he laughed, the sound full and warm. "stubborn. i like it."
"da-ddy," you tried, leaning in. "daddy."
"dadda."
eddie shook his head, still smiling. "next time, sweetheart."
he leaned over dahlia, hand finding the back of your neck, and kissed you—slow, deep, like he's got nowhere else to be. you giggled against his mouth, and he smiled into it, and when you pulled back, dahlia is trying to copy you, puckering her lips and making a wet mwah sound.
eddie laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "love you, kid.”
you turned back to the tv, settling deeper into the couch cushions, dahlia’s weight warm and solid against your chest. but eddie’s gaze lingered on you. he watched the way your fingers traced lazy patterns through dahlia’s hair, the way your smile softened in the glow of the screen.
he felt at peace. like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
you weren't stressed anymore. you laughed more. you smiled more. the dark circles under your eyes had faded, replaced by a warmth that made him want to cup your face in his hands every time he saw it. he’d watched you heal, piece by piece, and somewhere along the way he'd realized he was healing too.
he’d stepped into a role john never deserved. a role john never even tried to fill.
and now, curled up on this worn-out couch with a fraggle rock theme song playing and a little girl who just called him dadda, eddie knew one thing for certain: he was going to give you everything you deserved. everything you'd never had.
his hand drifted to his pocket. the velvet box was still there, tucked away, waiting.
a week ago, he'd bought it. when he figured he had a chance. when he figured you felt the same way.
he looked at you now, the way you turned your head and caught his eye, your smile soft and curious.
"what?" you asked.
eddie just shook his head, a slow, secret smile spreading across his face.
“nothin’." he reached over and laced his fingers through yours.
📞·˚ ༘ ┊͙ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: one morning when you and eddie wake up after a sleepover at his trailer, you decide to show him a couple of moves you learned while taking ju-jitsu classes.
𝓞𝓡 , you and eddie’s friendship turns into something more when you accidentally grind on him while playfighting . . .
⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: smut, inspired by this post (thought the 7th link was eddie coded) , never proofread , best friends to…? , i always have to write eddie as a yearner , grinding/dryhumping , pervy! eddie & pervy! reader , pretty filthy if i do say so myself , lots and lots of teasing and dirty talk , praise mixed with degradation , a lot of position switches too since they’re wrestling , reader licking eddie through his boxers , oral (m receiving) , spanking , fingering , p in v , some orgasm denial ig , creampie (be safe horndogs.) , pining eddie , angsty ending
eddie woke up to the sunlight spilling through the window, a slow gold that slid across the floorboards and crept up the rumpled sheets. he yawned softly, shifting to find a more comfortable angle, and the movement stirred you from sleep—a low, sleepy hum escaping your throat before you even knew you'd made it.
his eyes fluttered open at the sound. the haze of sleep cleared just enough for him to register that you were here, in his bed, your face half-buried in his pillow. something in his chest pulled taut.
“mm. morning," he murmured, his voice rough and low.
"good morning," you mumbled back, not opening your eyes. you nuzzled deeper into the pillow, your breath slow and even.
he watched you for a long moment—longer than he meant to. his gaze traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the morning light caught the edges of your face, highlighting every small feature he already thought was beautiful, and he felt something warm bloom low in his chest.
he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“so," he said, quiet, "we didn't finish the movie."
you nodded, eyes still closed. "mhm. i knocked out on the couch."
you said it with a hint of sheepishness that made him chuckle. "i know. i tried to be quiet when i snuck away."
a lazy grin spread across his face even though you didn’t see it, boyish and unguarded in the soft light.
"wow. so careless of you," you teased, your voice still thick with sleep. "not even bothering to carry me over to your bed like a gentleman."
he scoffed, but the grin didn't fade—it softened, turned almost tender, even though you couldn't see it. "why?" he asked, voice dropping to something quieter. "why should i have to be a gentleman? it’s my room."
"cause i’m a girl, dumbass. it’s like an unspoken rule."
a sleepy smile tugged at your lips, and the sight of it made his heart stutter. he covered it with a laugh.
"oh, right. 'cause you're too dainty and delicate to sleep on the worn-out couch in my living room, huh?"
his hand found your hair, fingers threading through the mess of it, ruffling gently. you finally opened your eyes, swatting at his hand with a giggle.
“careful. i know jiu-jitsu, y’know.”
eddie’s eyes went wide, a slow grin spreading across his face as the memory surfaced. “oh, shit. yeah—you’ve been taking classes, right? you told me you’d show me some moves.”
you blinked, the haze of sleep parting just enough for confusion to settle in. “oh my god, really? i said that?”
“yeah.” he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lopsided smirk that always made your stomach flip. “you said you’d show me your bjj.”
you stared at him. “my what?”
“your bjj,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “your brazilian jiu-jitsu.”
a beat of silence, and then you relaxed, a laugh bubbling out of you. “oh. guess i did.” you stretched your arms above your head, the movement pulling your spaghetti strap tank top up just slightly. “i bet i could show you some moves right now.”
eddie’s eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “right now? in the morning? before breakfast?”
“what’s the matter, eds?” you tilted your head, voice dropping into something teasing and sweet. “too chicken?”
he scoffed, pushing himself upright, the challenge landing exactly where you aimed it. “i’m not chicken. i’m just saying—you’re in my bed, in my room, and you wanna grapple with me first thing in the morning?”
“scared i’ll pin you?” you shot back, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist.
his grin turned sharp, playful, his gaze dragging over you in a way that was half challenge, half something else entirely. “sweetheart, i’d like to see you try.”
“so it’s an invitation?”
“it’s a warning.” he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the sleep on his skin, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i don’t go easy on people who threaten me in my own bed.”
your heart stuttered, but you held his gaze, a smile curving your lips. “good. i’d be offended if you did.”
the second the words left your mouth, eddie lunged.
you let out a surprised yelp as he crashed into you, the both of you tumbling back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. the sheets twisted beneath you, and his weight pressed you into the pillows for half a second before you squirmed, hooked a leg around his, and rolled.
he hit the mattress with a grunt, the breath punched out of him. "shit—"
"too slow, eds," you breathed, already scrambling to pin his wrist to the bed.
but eddie was wiry and quick. he twisted beneath you, his hip bucking up hard enough to throw off your balance, and suddenly you were the one on your back again, his knee wedged between your thighs, his hands catching your wrists and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head.
"who’s slow now, huh?" his voice was rough, his chest heaving against yours. a strand of his hair fell loose, brushing your cheek.
you bucked, trying to throw him off, but he had you pinned good. your breath came fast, a laugh hitching in your throat. "beginner’s luck."
"beginner's—" he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "nah, this is just talent."
"talent my ass." you twisted your hips, and he made a small, strangled sound as your thigh pressed up between his legs. his grip on your wrists loosened just enough. you shoved, and he went rolling sideways, the two of you grappling across the rumpled sheets in a mess of grunts and half-stifled curses.
"fuck—" he grabbed for your waist, but you were already moving, swinging a leg over his torso and dropping your weight onto his chest. the air left him in a sharp oof.
"gotcha."
he bucked beneath you, strong and stubborn, his hands finding your hips, fingers digging in as he tried to unseat you. "not yet, you don't."
"eddie." you pressed down harder, your thighs squeezing his ribs. his back arched, muscles straining, and you could feel every shift of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. "just tap out."
"no."
you grinned, shifting your weight, and his breath stuttered as you bore down, one hand pinning his wrist to the mattress, the other pressing against his chest. "come on, say it."
“n-no, it's not happening."
he twisted again, and you almost lost your grip, your core tightening with the effort of holding him down. your hair fell forward, curtaining both your faces, and for a moment, all you could see were his eyes, dark and glittering and fixed on yours.
"tap," you said, softer now, but no less certain.
he held your gaze. his chest heaved. and then, slowly, his fingers curled against the mattress, and he tapped twice against the sheet.
a triumphant laugh broke out of you. "yes! yes." you flopped forward, your forehead dropping to his sternum, your body still shaking with the exertion. "i told you. i told you."
"okay, okay." his voice was strained, breathless, but there was a smile in it. his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heart hammering hard and fast. "that was... that was pretty good."
"pretty good?" you lifted your head, propping your chin on his chest. "i destroyed you."
"you got lucky."
"i got good."
he snorted, but his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his touch lingered, just a beat too long. "alright, hotshot. rematch."
you raised an eyebrow. "you sure you can handle another round? i’d hate to embarrass you twice in one morning."
"embarrass me?" he laughed, sitting up beneath you, and you had to scramble to keep your balance as he shifted. "i'm just warming up, sweetheart."
"mhm." you slid off him, settling onto your knees on the mattress, already rolling your shoulders. "so, same rules?"
"same rules." he mirrored you, his hands coming up in a loose guard, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "but this time, i’m not going easy on you."
"aw, you went easy on me?"
"i went gentle. i could’ve—"
you lunged.
but this time, he was ready. he caught your wrist, pivoted, and for a second, you thought he had you. but you dropped your weight, twisted, and wrapped your legs around his torso in a move that had him grunting in surprise.
"what the—"
you locked your ankles, your thighs squeezing tight around his neck, and suddenly he was trapped, his face pressed against the inside of your thigh, his body bent at an awkward angle as you rolled onto your back, pulling him with you.
"it’s triangle choke," you said, voice strained with effort.
his response was muffled. something between a laugh and a groan.
you tightened your legs. his hand came up, slapping weakly at your thigh. once. twice.
"tap?" you asked, breathless.
he tapped again, harder this time, and you loosened your hold, letting him pull his head free. he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, a hand pressed to his face.
"holy shit."
you grinned, rolling onto your side to face him. "see? i’m pretty good.”
he let out a breathless laugh, still catching his wind. "you didn't tell me you could do that."
"figured i’d keep it as a surprise."
he turned his head, looking at you with those big, dark eyes, his cheeks flushed, his hair a wild mess. "well, it definitely worked. that was... i didn't see that coming."
"most people don't." you propped yourself up on one elbow, feeling warm and pleased and a little smug. "you okay down there?"
"define okay." he shifted, clearing his throat, and you noticed the way his gaze dropped to your thighs for half a second before snapping back up. "i think i need a minute."
"from one round?"
"from that round." he sat up slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "you’ve been holding out on me."
"i told you i’d show you some moves."
"yeah, but i thought you meant, like... a wristlock or something. not..." he gestured vaguely at his own neck. "not getting put in a headlock by your legs."
you laughed, bright and genuine. "you liked it."
he swallowed. "i didn't say that."
"well, you didn't not say it."
he opened his mouth. closed it. looked away, a grin tugging stubbornly at the corner of his lips. "alright, fine. maybe i liked it. a little."
"just a little?"
he looked back at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach flip. "maybe more than a little."
you held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for something you weren't sure you'd find. that look in his eyes was still there, and it made your chest feel tight, so you looked away first.
there was something tense in the air, thick and unsaid. you cleared your throat.
"well, either way, you haven't pinned me down." you tried for teasing, but your voice came out a little quieter than you'd intended.
eddie scoffed, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "that’s 'cause I wasn't trying. if i did try, i would've pinned you down a long time ago."
you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "yeah, right. you told me you weren't gonna go easy."
"i was joking," he clarified, and there was an edge of sincerity now. "if i did, i’d probably hurt you."
you snorted, not buying it for a second. "sure, eddie."
"don’t 'sure, eddie' me."
"then don't be so full of shit."
“oh, shut up.” he laughed.
“make me.”
so he did.
you two tumbled back onto the mattress, arms tangling, breath coming fast. there just the sound of your ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets, soft curses slipping out as you fought for leverage. his knee dug into the mattress beside your hip. your hand slipped against his forearm, both of you slightly slick with sweat.
then he had you.
he flipped you onto your stomach and pressed his weight down, chest against your back, the side of your face squished into the pillow. his breath was hot against your ear, ragged, triumphant.
"not so tough now, huh?" he was panting. "told you i’d pin you down."
you squirmed, thrashing beneath him, trying to find an angle, a gap, anything. but the movement dragged your ass back against him through his jeans, and he felt that unmistakable pressure.
his breath hitched. "hey—stop."
"i’m trying to get out," you shot back, still writhing.
"then—fuck—try a different way."
you didn't listen. you kept moving, kept twisting, until you heard it—a soft, low groan he couldn't quite swallow.
you froze.
then it clicked.
you went still for a second, letting the realization settle warm in your chest. and then you didn't stop. you moved again, slower this time, more deliberate—rolling your hips back against him with intention.
"jesus," eddie breathed, his voice cracking. his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder. "you’re gonna kill me."
you didn't let up. you kept moving, slow and lazy, dragging your hips back against him like you were still searching for an escape. your voice came out sweet, breathless, edged with false concern.
"what’s wrong?" you murmured against the pillow. "getting tired, eds?"
he was quiet for a moment, just breathing—shallow, uneven, his chest heaving against your back.
"n-no," he stammered, and you felt his fingers twitch where they gripped your wrist. "i’m not tired. i can—" a sharp inhale as you rolled your hips again. "i can do this all day."
you hummed, a soft, pleased sound. "mm. if you say so."
you shifted beneath him, pretending to search for leverage, but you angled your hips deliberately this time—grinding back against him in a slow, torturous arc. his pelvis met yours, and you felt him through the denim, hot and hard and straining.
his breath stuttered.
"fuck—" it was barely a whisper, punched out of him before he could stop it.
you kept going. kept squirming. kept rolling your hips like you had no idea what you were doing, like this was just part of the game. and he let you. he didn't pull away. didn’t tighten his hold to stop you. he just stayed there, taking it, his breathing growing rougher by the second.
another soft groan escaped him, low and involuntary, vibrating against your spine.
"having fun up there?" you asked, your voice syrupy sweet.
he didn't answer. his jaw was clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding.
you moved again—slower this time, dragging your hips back in a languid, deliberate roll, letting him feel every inch of the friction. his breath caught. his whole body went rigid.
"okay." his voice was strained, hoarse. "okay, what the fuck kind of strategy is this?"
you blinked, all innocence. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"bullshit." but there was no heat in it. his voice had gone soft, almost wondering. "you know exactly what you're doing."
you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his expression from the corner of your eye. his face was close—so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. he looked wrecked.
your stomach flipped.
"i’m just trying to get out," you said, but even you didn't believe it anymore.
eddie’s jaw clenched. he stared down at you, and for a long, heavy moment, he didn't move. didn’t speak.
his mind was racing.
the two of you had always been touching, teasing, pushing boundaries until they blurred. he’d bite your shoulder just to hear you yelp, and you'd retaliate by stealing his shirts and refusing to give them back. sometimes he'd lick your face when you were being annoying, and you'd shove him into walls, laughing. it was easy. it was fun.
but this?
this was different.
he’d been in love with you for so long he couldn't remember when it started. it had crept up on him slow, like sunrise—imperceptible until suddenly everything was golden and warm and he couldn't look away. he’d watched you laugh, watched you get frustrated, watched you fall asleep on his couch with your mouth hanging open. he’d memorized the sound of your footsteps, the way you said his name, the way your hand felt small in his when you weren't paying attention.
and now you were beneath him, grinding against him like you were trying to undo him, and you didn't even know. you were just playing. just trying to win some stupid game.
but for him, this was everything he'd never let himself have.
he swallowed hard.
"you think i give a shit?" his voice came out low, rough, but underneath it—soft. vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself sound. "i don't care if you're trying to get me to tap." his breath hitched as you shifted again. "it’s not—fuck—it's not gonna work."
he held himself still above you, every muscle coiled tight, his forehead nearly pressed to the back of your head.
"i can do this all day," he repeated, but the words came out broken, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
you should have stopped. you knew you should have stopped. the game had changed, shifted into something heavier, something that made your skin prickle with awareness. but his voice—that soft, rough edge to it—sent a thrill through you that you couldn't name.
so you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slow and deep, and you heard him choke on a breath above you.
"eds," you whispered, and there was no teasing in it now—just curiosity, just heat. "you sure you're okay?"
he let out a breathless laugh, shaky and raw.
"no," he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "i’m really, really not."
the sound of his voice—that broken, breathless confession—settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and electric. it made you bold. made you reckless.
you moved again.
harder this time. slower, deeper, rolling your hips back against him with deliberate pressure, no longer pretending to search for escape. your body pressed flush against his, the friction sending a shock of heat through your veins. you felt him twitch against you, felt the sharp intake of breath that followed, and something dark and hungry unfurled in your stomach.
a low groan rumbled from his chest. it was guttural, involuntary, the kind of sound that seemed to surprise even him. his forehead dropped to the back of your head, his breath hot and uneven against your hair.
"oh, fuck," he breathed, the words barely audible, more air than sound.
you didn't stop.
you rolled your hips again, slower this time, letting the movement drag out until you could feel every inch of the contact. the denim of his jeans was rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, and the friction was maddening—not enough, never enough, but enough to make your pulse hammer in your throat.
his hands were still on your wrists, but his grip had gone slack. he wasn't holding you anymore. he was just... there. braces above you, trembling, his whole body taut as a drawn bowstring.
another roll of your hips. slower. harder.
his breath stuttered. a soft, broken sound escaped his lips—half groan, half whimper—and it sent a jolt straight through you. you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in the space between your thighs. your skin flushed hot, your own breathing growing shallow.
you hadn't expected this. hadn’t expected him to sound like that. hadn’t expected the way it would make you feel—powerful, yeah, but also desperate. hungry in a way you didn't have words for.
you arched your back slightly, pressing your hips more firmly against him, and the sound he made in response was almost too much. a strained, shuddering exhale that turned into a low, guttural moan. his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing back against you, and you felt the hard length of him through the layers of fabric.
he was losing control.
you could feel it in the way his breathing had gone ragged, in the way his body shuddered against yours, in the way his fingers curled weakly around your wrists like he was holding on to the last shred of his composure.
you moved again—a slow, grinding circle of your hips that made his breath catch and then release in a shaky, desperate groan.
"jesus christ," he whispered, the word cracking at the edges. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. barely recognizable.
your body responded before your mind could catch up. a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. you were getting wet. you could feel it—a slick, growing warmth between your thighs that made the friction of your movements even more maddening.
you wanted more.
you shifted your hips, angling yourself differently, and when you rolled back against him this time, the pressure was perfect. the seam of your shorts pressed against you just right, and a small gasp escaped your lips.
eddie heard it.
his whole body went still for a moment, and then he let out a sound that was almost wounded—a low, desperate groan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. his hips moved against yours, grinding back in a slow, instinctual rhythm, and the feeling of him moving with you sent a shudder through your entire body.
your breath came faster now. your skin was hot, flushed, sensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift of his weight above you. you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your back, could smell the faint, familiar scent of him—cigarette smoke and worn leather and something warmer underneath.
his mouth found the curve of your shoulder.
it was tentative at first, just the brush of his lips against your skin, featherlight. but then you rolled your hips again, and his breath hitched, and his lips parted. his mouth pressed open against your shoulder, hot and wet, and you felt the faint graze of his teeth.
a shiver ran through you.
he did it again—his lips dragging across your skin, his breath hot and uneven. his hips moved with yours now, matching your rhythm, grinding against you in a slow, torturous push and pull that made your head spin.
his breathing was loud in your ear, ragged and uneven, punctuated by soft, helpless sounds that he couldn't seem to suppress. a groan here. a shuddering exhale there. a whispered curse that dissolved into a moan as you pressed back against him harder.
you were both moving now. no pretense. no game. just the slow, grinding rhythm of your bodies, the heat building between you, the sounds of his breathing filling the quiet room.
his hand moved.
it happened slowly—his fingers loosening around your wrist, sliding down your arm, trailing across your skin with a featherlight touch that made you shiver. his palm came to rest on your hip, his fingers curling against the curve of your waist.
he didn't pull you. didn’t guide you. he just... held you. like he needed something to hold onto.
his thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your hip bone, and the tenderness of the gesture, in the midst of all this heat, made your breath catch.
he pressed his forehead to the back of your head again, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering against yours.
"fuck," he breathed again, the word barely audible, wrecked and raw and reverent all at once.
you rolled your hips in response, slow and deep, and felt his whole body tense. his fingers dug into your hip, his breath caught in his throat, and a low, shuddering moan escaped him—longer than the others, more desperate, more broken.
he was completely lost in you.
and the sound of it—the feeling of him falling apart against you—was turning you on more than you had ever expected.
the shift in rhythm was subtle at first—a slight increase in the roll of your hips, a little more pressure as you ground back against him. but eddie felt it immediately. his breath stuttered, a soft, strangled sound catching in his throat.
you did it again. faster this time. harder.
his hips jerked in response, meeting your movements with a desperate, uncoordinated thrust. his hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
"god," he breathed, the word barely a whisper, lost in the space between your bodies.
you moved faster. harder. the rhythm of your hips grew urgent, driven by something primal and hungry that coiled low in your stomach. the friction was maddening—rough denim and thin cotton, the heat of his body searing through the layers, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the room.
his eyes were shut.
you could feel it in the way his body moved against yours—blind, instinctual, lost. his brow was pressed to the back of your head, his lips parted, his breath hot and uneven against your scalp. his mind was blank. empty of everything except the feeling of you moving against him.
god, she feels so good.
the thought surfaced and drowned in the heat flooding his senses. he couldn't think. couldn’t form words. all he could do was feel—the slow, torturous grind of your hips, the soft sounds you made, the way your body fit against his like it was made for him.
he had imagined this before. late at night, alone in his van, when his mind wandered to places it shouldn't. he had pictured your hands on him, your mouth, your body pressed against his. but he had never let himself believe it could actually happen. you were too good for him. too bright. too far out of his reach.
but you were here. moving against him. making him feel things he didn't have words for.
and he was in love with you.
the thought hit him like a freight train, sharp and undeniable, and it made everything worse. made the ache deeper. made the heat in his blood burn hotter. because it wasn't just physical—it had never been just physical. every roll of your hips, every soft sound you made, every brush of your skin against his—it all meant something more to him.
his breathing grew ragged. shallow. his chest heaved against your back, and a low, desperate groan escaped his lips—louder than before, raw and unguarded.
your hips moved faster, grinding harder, and he felt himself losing the last thread of control.
“fuck," he gasped, the word cracking. "fuck, sweetheart—"
his hips bucked against you, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, and he couldn't bring himself to care. all he could think about was you. the way you felt. the way you moved. the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.
i’m gonna—
the thought came too late.
his body tensed. his breath caught. and then it hit him—a wave of heat that crashed through him without warning, pulling a loud, broken moan from his lips. his hips jerked against you once, twice, as he spilled into his jeans, the release sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond his control.
he gasped. panted. his body shuddered through the aftershocks, his forehead pressed hard against the back of your head, his hands trembling against your hips.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
the only sound was his ragged breathing, loud in the quiet room, slowly evening out as the haze began to clear.
then his lips found your shoulder again.
soft, open-mouthed kisses, warm and trembling, trailing across your skin. he wasn't thinking. he was just... feeling. trying to ground himself. trying to remember how to breathe. his lips pressed against the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of your skin.
but then you moved.
in a flash, you twisted beneath him, your body rolling with sudden, fluid grace. he barely had time to register the shift before you were on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressing his shoulders down against the mattress.
he stared up at you, wide-eyed, chest still heaving. a beat of silence. then a low, breathless laugh escaped his lips.
"you’re kidding me," he said, his voice still wrecked, still rough around the edges.
you pressed down harder, and he groaned—a soft, defeated sound that melted into another laugh.
"fine. fine." he raised his hands, palms open, and tapped twice against the mattress. "i tap. you win. congratulations, you defeated me, you little shit."
a grin spread across your face, bright and victorious. but there was a glint in your eyes. a question.
"did you just... come in your pants?"
his face flushed red.
he let his head fall back against the pillow, one hand dragging down his face.
"jesus christ," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his palm.
you raised an eyebrow, waiting.
he groaned. long and dramatic and full of self-pity. then he let his hand drop, staring up at the ceiling like he was praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
"yeah," he said, the word clipped and frustrated. "yeah, i did. i fucking came in my pants. you happy now?"
a laugh bubbled out of you—bright and genuine, not mocking, but warm. surprised.
"i didn't even do that much," you said, your voice teasing, but soft.
eddie’s eyes finally met yours. there was something in them—something raw and unguarded, something that made your laughter fade at the edges.
"yeah," he said quietly. "you did."
the words hung in the air between you, heavier than they should have been. he meant more than he was saying. you could feel it in the way his gaze held yours, in the way his chest was still rising and falling too fast, in the way his hands had come to rest on your thighs—not pushing, not pulling. just... holding.
but you laughed it off, shaking your head, rolling your eyes with playful affection.
"guess i’m just that good."
the grin returned to his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn't quite believe was real.
"yeah," he said again, softer this time. "i guess you are."
eddie’s eyes searched yours.
he told himself he was just looking. that he was just waiting for your next move, reading your body language, trying to figure out what you were going to do next. that’s all it was. just strategy.
but it wasn't.
he was looking for something else. some flicker of warmth, some crack in the playful facade that would tell him you felt even a fraction of what he felt. some sign that this meant more to you than just a game. some hint that you saw him—not just eddie the freak, not just eddie the dealer, not just eddie the guy who was convenient and willing and pressed against you in the morning.
but there was nothing.
your eyes were bright with mischief, sparkling with the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. there was heat there, sure—a lazy, satisfied kind of desire that told him you were enjoying this. but it was surface-level. fun. a game you were playing because you could, because he was letting you, because it was easy and exciting and meant nothing the next day.
something in his chest cracked, just a little.
he looked away.
the ceiling was suddenly very interesting. water stains. a crack running from the corner to the light fixture. he focused on that instead of the weight of you on his hips, the warmth of your thighs bracketing his waist, the way his heart was pounding in his throat.
"wasn’t fair though," he said, forcing his voice into something lighter, something that sounded like him. "you grinding your ass up against me like that. pretty sure it's cheating."
you rolled your eyes, and he could feel the movement, could feel the shift of your weight as you adjusted above him. "i still won. plus you weren't really in a rush to stop me."
he snorted. "yeah, well. i was being polite. didn’t wanna hurt your feelings."
"uh huh. very chivalrous of you."
"i am a gentleman."
"you came in your pants."
"gentleman," he repeated, louder, and you laughed.
the sound did something to him. made the crack in his chest spread a little wider. he wanted to bottle it. keep it. listen to it on repeat in the lonely hours of the night when he was alone in his van, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.
but he didn't say that. he just grinned, letting the banter carry him, letting it be enough.
"rematch," you said, and before he could respond, you were moving.
this time, you were faster. smarter. you caught him off guard, your body twisting with practiced ease, and suddenly your legs were around his head again, your thighs pressing against his ears, and he was trapped.
"jesus christ—"
he struggled, but half-heartedly. his hands came up to grip your thighs, but he wasn't pushing. he was holding. his breath was warm against the inside of your leg, and he could feel the heat of you through your shorts, could smell the faint scent of your skin, could feel the way your body settled against his with comfortable familiarity.
but you didn't stop there.
you shifted. adjusted. your hips lowered, and suddenly you were positioned differently—not just holding him, but using him. your weight settled lower, and he felt the damp spot there, still cooling, still embarrassing.
your mouth found it.
"oh, fuckkk—"
he groaned, loud and broken, his hips bucking up instinctively as your lips pressed against the wet denim. the fabric was rough against your mouth, but beneath it, he was sensitive, aching, still trembling from the aftershocks of his release.
"fuck, this again?" he gasped, his voice muffled between your thighs.
you paused, just barely. your lips ghosted over the damp spot, and he could feel your smile against the denim.
"want me to stop?"
he knew what you were doing. you were giving him an out. a chance to say no, to retreat, to save whatever shred of dignity he had left.
but he didn't want an out.
he wanted you.
“no," he said, the word coming out rough and desperate. "don’t—don't stop."
your hands found the button of his jeans. the zipper. the sound of it lowering was loud in the quiet room, and eddie’s breath caught in his throat. he stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains, at the crack in the corner, and tried to remember how to breathe.
you pulled the denim open. his boxers were visible now—dark blue, damp in the center, clinging to him. he was half-hard again, stirred by the friction, by the heat of your mouth through the fabric, by the sheer overwhelming reality of you.
your tongue touched him through the cotton.
he moaned—a sound he couldn't control, couldn't hold back, couldn't disguise. it was raw and desperate and full of everything he was trying not to feel.
his hands found your thighs again, gripping tight, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
the wet heat of your mouth through the thin fabric. the slow, deliberate drag of your tongue along his length. the way you explored him like he was something to be savored, something to be learned. the way your breath ghosted over him between licks, cooling the spots where your mouth had been. you were basically cleaning up his release.
his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. his hands trembled against your thighs, and he couldn't tell if he was trying to push you away or pull you closer.
"f-fuck," he stammered, his voice cracking. "do whatever you want to me. i’m still not gonna t-tap again."
you laughed against him—a soft, warm sound that vibrated through the cotton and made his hips jerk.
"we’ll see about that," you murmured. “you’re pretty easy to manipulate.”
eddie groaned softly as you licked him again. “s-shit, can you just put it in your mouth already?”
you hummed against him. “that’s not something a gentleman would say, eds.”
“i don’t care,” he panted. “just… please. just put my cock in your pretty mouth, please. instead of just… eating the come while you clean me off.”
you paused, a small smile forming at your lips. “you think my mouth’s pretty?”
he swallowed hard, realizing he had to be careful with his words if he was gonna keep this up.
“y-yeah. i think you’re pretty,” he failed immediately. “whatever. come on, just suck my—“
and then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
he lifted his hips without thinking, helping you, letting you. the fabric slid down, and then he was exposed—hard and aching and damp with his own want. the air was cool against his skin, but your mouth was warm, and when you kissed him there—soft, almost tender—he thought he might die.
"fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
you kissed him again. slower this time. your lips pressed against the head of his cock, gentle and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world. like you wanted to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him, the way he gasped and trembled beneath you.
and then your tongue.
a slow, flat stroke from base to tip, and his whole body arched. a desperate, broken sound tore from his throat, and his fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to leave marks.
you gave him more.
your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and perfect, and he felt his mind go blank. there was nothing but you—the feel of your lips, the stroke of your tongue, the way your throat relaxed to take him deeper. his hands slid from your thighs to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pulling, just... holding.
he was panting. moaning. muttering your name like a prayer, like a plea, like a confession.
"god, you—" his voice broke. "you feel so good.”
suddenly an idea popped into eddie’s head.
he arched his back deliberately, letting out a guttural moan that echoed through the small bedroom.
“fuuuuck, sweetheart. just like that. you’re gonna make me come again. right in that pretty mouth of yours—god..." his words were calculated, designed to throw you off your game while his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
you continued your work, taking him deeper as your tongue swirled around the sensitive head. your own arousal was building from the power dynamic, from having him completely at your mercy beneath you. but you weren't expecting what happened next.
the moment your mouth finally released him with a soft pop, replacing it with your hand stroking his length firmly, eddie moved. fast and decisive. in one fluid motion, he flipped both of you over, breaking free from your triangle hold with surprising strength fueled by adrenaline and arousal.
before you could process what was happening, you found yourself bent over his knee, your stomach pressed against his thigh, your ass raised high in the air. your hands braced against the mattress, steadying yourself as shock rippled through your body.
"what the fuck, eds—"
"yeah, right," eddie growled, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he positioned himself behind you. one strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you securely in place while his other hand hooked into the waistband of your shorts. "thought you were gonna get me again, huh?" he yanked your shorts down roughly, the fabric sliding past your hips and pooling around your knees along with your panties, leaving your lower half completely exposed to him.
his eyes darkened as he took in the sight before him—the curve of your ass, the glisten of moisture coating your inner thighs, the way your body trembled with anticipation and surprise. "holy shit," he breathed, his hand trailing possessively over the smooth skin of your rear. "look at you. all that just from teasing me, huh?"
"you’re such a good little slut for me, aren't you?" his thumb circled your entrance teasingly, feeling how wet you actually were. a low groan escaped him at the discovery. "this is what you wanted, wasn't it? to get me so worked up i couldn't think straight?"
the sharp crack of his palm against your bare flesh sent a jolt of sensation racing up your spine. you gasped, your fingers curling tightly into the rumpled sheets beneath you as the sting bloomed across your skin. a full-bodied shudder ran through you, and you whimpered—a sound that was equal parts pain and desperate need.
"eddie..."
hearing his name on your lips did something to him. something beyond the physical. the sight of you bent over his knee, your back arching involuntarily, your thighs trembling, your skin flushed pink wherever he'd touched—it hit him somewhere deep. like a punch directly to his heart.
"yeah? you like that, sweet girl?" his voice was rough and low, vibrating with barely restrained desire. his thumb traced slow circles over the reddened spot on your ass, soothing and tormenting in equal measure. "if you tap, i’ll play with you. i’ll make you feel reeealll good, i promise."
he gave you a moment to consider it. his hand rested warm and heavy on your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you exactly who was in control now.
but you didn't tap.
of course you didn't. because you were competitive. because tapping meant admitting defeat. and you'd rather burn than give him the satisfaction.
eddie noticed. a slow, knowing grin spread across his face as he read your silence loud and clear.
"that’s what i thought," he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker. possessive. "my stubborn girl."
his hand lifted, hovering in the air for one agonizing second—letting you anticipate, letting the anticipation build to almost unbearable levels—before his palm came down again with a firm, resounding smack against your other cheek.
"ah—!" the moan tore from your throat before you could stop it. your hips bucked involuntarily, pushing back against him in a way that was entirely contradictory to your attempt at maintaining composure. your walls clenched around nothing, your body betraying every ounce of defiance your mind was trying to cling to.
"there we go," eddie praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. his free hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your slick folds with ease.
the sensation of his finger dipping into your heat was overwhelming, a sudden intrusion that made your breath hitch violently. he didn't rush; instead, he used his fingertip to circle your entrance, dragging through the thick, honeyed slickness he’d already observed. the sound of his movements—the wet, rhythmic sliding of skin against skin—was deafening in the quiet of the trailer.
"god, look at you," eddie groaned, his voice cracking with a primal sort of hunger. “you're fucking drowning in it, sweetheart. absolutely soaked. every time i touch you, you just... you melt."
he pushed a single finger inside, testing your tightness, and you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper that sounded nothing like your usual self. you tried to keep your jaw clenched, tried to maintain some semblance of that stubborn pride, but your body was a traitor. your hips were practically begging for him to fill the void, tilting back toward him instinctively.
"all you gotta do is tap, sweetheart," he whispered, “just one little tap and i’ll play with you. i’ll give you exactly what you’re aching for. you think i don’t know how much you want this? i’ve known you for so long, i’ve picked up a thing or two about what makes you lose your mind."
he pulled his finger out almost entirely, only to drive it back in deeper, pushing past the initial resistance until he hit that sweet spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.
"mmmgh—eddie, please—"
“please what?" he mocked softly, though his breathing was coming in ragged, heavy bursts now. he was losing his own battle with control, his cock twitching rhythmically. "tell me what you want. tell me you can't take it anymore. tell me you're ready to tap."
despite the mounting tension, you still didn't tap. you clung to the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as you fought the urge to give in.
eddie let out a low, dark chuckle. "still no, huh? you’re really going to make me edge you? it’s just one little tap, baby."
the nickname hit you like a physical wave. the word 'baby'—spoken in that specific, low register—sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, causing your internal muscles to clench tightly around his fingers. eddie groaned softly as he felt the sudden, desperate grip of your walls. it turned him on viciously, but it also made his heart clench with an intensity that terrified him. the raw intimacy of it, the way you reacted to him, made him want to make you feel good.
"yeah, you like it when i call you that, baby? fuck, you look so pretty like this. come here."
he shifted his weight, leaning over you more aggressively. he didn't let go of your heat, but he reached around, pressing his thumb firmly against your lips. you didn't hesitate; you leaned into it, sucking on his thumb with a desperate hunger, your whimpers muffled and wet against his skin.
"yeah, suck on that, sweet girl. drool on it if you want to," he groaned, his voice sounding strained, almost pained. "just take it. take everything i’ve got."
his fingers inside you shifted gears, moving from a slow tease to a rough, demanding pace. he was driving into you now, hitting that precise spot over and over again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. he could feel your body shaking, your breath hitching in a way that told him you were seconds away from shattering.
eddie pulled his thumb from your mouth. before you could even gasp for air, he slid his hand down, pressing that same thumb directly onto your swollen, hypersensitive clit. he began to rub in a fast, relentless rhythm, perfectly synchronized with the rough pace of his fingers inside you.
the dual stimulation was too much. your head snapped back, a loud, broken cry escaping your throat as the world dissolved into white noise and pure, blinding pleasure.
as waves of pleasure crashed over you, eddie kept up the relentless pressure. his fingers curled inside you, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb circled your clit in tight, deliberate motions that had you seeing stars.
“come on, baby, you're so close, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a mix of dark amusement and genuine wonder. he leaned down, pressing his forehead against your shoulder blade, breathing heavily. "so fucking close to coming, huh? your wet, sloppy pussy's just aching to come, yeah? not until you tap though."
he punctuated his words with another sharp slap to your ass. the sting shot through the pleasure, intensifying it to an almost painful degree. you cried out, your whole body convulsing as a second orgasm threatened to tear you apart.
"c’mon, tap. i tapped for you earlier, baby," he murmured, his voice shifting into something sweeter, almost tender despite the cruel teasing. his thumb slowed its rhythm, becoming gentler as he coaxed you. "don’t you want to come? don’t you want to come for me?"
he knew you were fighting it. could feel the tension in your muscles as you battled against your own body's demands. it was infuriating and beautiful all at once. his heart swelled with something far deeper than simple lust.
"just one tap, sweetheart. give in. let me win this round," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear.
“please... eddie... please, i can't..." you managed to choke out, your voice cracking. you tried to pull away, to find some relief, but his hand on your hip was an anchor, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. "let me... just let me come, please!"
eddie’s grip tightened. he didn't relent; if anything, he increased the pressure, his fingers curling deeper, driving into you with a newfound, predatory urgency.
"no, baby, not yet," he purred, the teasing sweetness still there mixed with raw, commanding hunger. "don’t fucking come until i tell you to. you gotta tap."
"you’re... you're such a dick!" you sobbed out, a mixture of a laugh and a cry. you hated how much you loved this. you hated that even through the haze of ecstasy, your pride was still standing, stubborn and ridiculous. "fuck, i hate you, eddie!"
"yeah? you hate me?" his thumb worked your clit with a frantic, punishing speed that made your hips buck uncontrollably. "is that right? no, you don't hate me, sweetheart. you love—“ he paused. “…this. you love being told what to do by me, don’t you?”
he leaned down, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, leaving a mark that made you whimper.
"yeah? you’d rather i just edge you like that?" he taunted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that sent a fresh chill of arousal down your spine. "just drill that fucking pussy with my fingers? is that what you want? guess i should just fuck you then, huh? i’ll flip you over, pin you down, and pound you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone how to be stubborn."
the mental image was too much. your breath hitched, your lungs feeling too small for the air you were trying to pull in.
eddie’s gaze was unwavering; he watched every tremor of your muscles, every frantic roll of your eyes, looking for any sign of surrender. but even as his lust burned white-hot, a deep, aching pang of longing throbbed in his chest. he didn't just want to conquer your body. he wanted to pull you into his arms and kiss you until neither of you could breathe, to tell you everything he had been hiding behind jokes and hair-ruffling for years.
“yeah," he breathed, his voice a jagged edge of desire. "i’m gonna pump that pussy full of come. is that what you want, baby? to feel me inside you, filling you up?"
you were a broken, moaning mess. your protests had dissolved into incoherent pleas, your pride finally buckling under the sheer weight of the sensation. you were hovering on the precipice, your entire being vibrating with the need to shatter, but eddie was a master of torment. every time you reached for the peak, he shifted his rhythm, pulling back just enough to leave you gasping and empty.
suddenly, the friction stopped. the sudden absence of his fingers felt like a physical wound.
before you could even find your breath to protest, eddie moved. with a surge of strength that caught you off guard, he gripped your hips and flipped you over. you landed hard against the mattress, your legs falling open instinctively, your chest heaving as you stared up at him through a veil of damp hair.
he didn't care about the game anymore. the competition, the tapping, the teasing—it had all been burned away by a sudden, primal necessity. he needed to be in you.
eddie hovered over you, his eyes dark and hooded, looking like a man possessed. he guided himself to your entrance, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick, swollen folds. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.
then, with one heavy, decisive thrust, he drove himself home.
"oh god—oh god, fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing from his lungs as he buried himself deep within you. the sensation of your tight, pulsing heat swallowing him whole was almost more than he could bear.
your hand immediately found his arm, fingers digging into the taut muscle of his bicep as you tilted your head back against the pillow. the sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, sent sparks cascading behind your eyelids. a raw, guttural moan escaped your lips, his name tumbling from them without thought.
"oh fuck, eddie, you feel so good..."
the praise hit him like a freight train. his cock twitched inside you, swelling thicker as a shudder rolled through his entire body. the way you looked beneath him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin—it was beautiful. devastating. everything he'd ever wanted and more.
it wasn't just the sex; it was the fact that it was you. hearing you worship him, feeling your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, sent a wave of possessive, overwhelming love through him.
"yeah?" he panted, his hips finding a slow, rolling rhythm as he settled into the depth of you. "that feel good for you, baby? take that cock, sweet girl, take it all in." his voice was reverent, almost worshipful, despite the crude words. one hand slid under your lower back, arching you slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you gasp.
he began to move. slowly at first, savoring the feel of you wrapped around him like a glove, then gradually building momentum. each thrust was deliberate, deep, pushing to the hilt before withdrawing almost all the way, only to slam back inside with a force that made the bed creak in protest. the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting filled the trailer alongside your cries.
"hold onto me," he grunted, his pace quickening. "don’t let go, okay? not... not ever."
your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and eddie’s control fractured further. he buried his face against your neck, breathing you in while kissing at the skin—taking in the scent of sweat mixed with your perfume—as his hips pistoned into you with increasing desperation.
"i’m not gonna last," he admitted as he pulled back, his voice cracking. "not without you. come with me, baby, please. you’ve been so good. you can come now."
as your moans grew louder, more desperate, eddie’s gaze flickered downward. for a split second, he looked at your lips—swollen and parted and glistening—and something in his expression shifted. raw vulnerability flickered across his features before he masked it with another thrust.
you noticed.
"what, y-you wanna—fuck—kiss me, eds?"
you couldn't help yourself. even now, even with his cock driving into you and your entire world dissolving into sensation, you had to tease him. had to push him just a little further.
he swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. he saw the desire, the need reflected in your eyes, and suddenly, the longing that had been building beneath the physical urgency erupted. it was a desperate bid to bridge the gap between the physical act and the soul-deep connection he craved.
he closed the distance in an instant. his mouth crashed onto yours—deep, messy, and passionate. it was hungry, a furious expression of every moment of wanting, every unspoken feeling that had coiled inside him for so long. he kissed you with the ferocity of a man who was pouring every ounce of his love and longing into that kiss, trying to communicate everything he couldn't say aloud.
your initial surprise melted away instantly, replaced by a reciprocal fire.
as you met his mouth with a desperate, frantic hunger, your movements were driven by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him—the friction, the heat, the primal urge to feel more, to lose yourself in the pleasure he was providing. you were chasing the peak, riding the wave of physical ecstasy that threatened to drown you.
but eddie... eddie was somewhere else entirely. every time his lips pressed against yours, it wasn't just about the sensation; it was almost like a prayer. he was trying to anchor himself to you even as the world blurred around the edges.
he broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. his lips migrated from your mouth to your jawline, trailing hot, wet kisses down to the sensitive dip of your neck. his nipped at your skin, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you arch your back, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
"come on, baby... come on my cock," he groaned against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that thrummed through your entire body. he found your clit again, his thumb working with a rhythmic, punishing precision that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. "i got you, i got you. fuck, you look so pretty... you look so fucking beautiful..."
the praise, delivered with such raw, unadulterated devotion, was the final catalyst. your world fractured. a sharp, high-pitched cry escaped your throat as your muscles convulsed around him, the orgasm crashing over you in violent, delicious waves.
eddie let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he felt you tremble beneath him. he didn't slow down; if anything, the feeling of you tightening around him drove him closer to the edge. "oh, fuck... atta girl. atta girl, you did so good," he murmured, his voice thick with pride and adoration. he peppered your neck with frantic, soothing kisses, trying to steady you even as his own control began to disintegrate.
his body continued its relentless, insistent rhythm, each thrust a testament to the building storm within him. his words were a low, husky promise, his voice scraping against your skin like a gentle rasp. "oh, i’m gonna come... gonna come inside you, baby, you want it? you want me to come in that wet little cunt of yours?"
your response was a desperate, whimpish nod, your voice barely audible over the thrumming of your pulse. "yeah, eds, i want it. give it to me." the words were a siren's call, beckoning him closer to the edge.
and then, in an instant, he was over it. a low, breathless groan escaped his lips as he came hard inside you, his body locking up in a spasm of release. soft curses and a string of muttered oaths accompanied the violent, shuddering convulsions of his climax.
“f-fuck, oh god, yeah…”
as you both panted, struggling to catch your breath, his gaze met yours in a fleeting, shining moment. his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with the aftermath of his orgasm, but beneath the haze of pleasure, a glimmer of something else lingered. something that looked almost like hope.
he kissed your shoulder as he leaned down, his lips tracing a soft, comforting path along the delicate curve of your skin. his hand rose to your hip, resting there lightly as if anchored to your very existence.
then your hand moved up to tangle itself in his damp curls, fingers threading through the long, wavy strands with a gentleness that made his heart ache.
to eddie, that gesture was everything. that simple, innocent touch told him more than any confession ever could. for one fragile, suspended moment, he allowed himself to believe—that maybe, just maybe, you saw him differently. that the connection he felt wasn't just one-sided.
but he knew better.
"come here," he whispered, his voice hoarse and tender. he tilted your chin up with careful fingers, guiding your lips toward his. the second kiss was a revelation compared to the first. softer. slower. still carrying the embers of the previous passion, but burning with something deeper—something patient and aching and brave all at once. his lips moved against yours with a reverence that bordered on worship, savoring every millimeter of contact.
you hummed against his mouth, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully.
he kissed you until neither of you could breathe, and then he kissed you some more.
but as you pulled back, a soft giggle slipped from your lips. eddie smiled softly, brushing your hair away from your face. “what?”
you shook your head, still a little breathless. “nothing. just… didn’t expect us to become fuck buddies, i guess.”
your words landed like a knife between his ribs. fuck buddies. two words that reduced everything he'd just experienced—the emotional nakedness, the quiet desperation in his own kisses—to something casual.
like it was something transactional
he kept his expression carefully neutral, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. he looked away, staring at the wall of his cramped bedroom as if it contained the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. his thumb traced an absent circle against your hip, the motion mechanical now rather than intentional.
"yeah, me neither," he said quietly. too quietly. the words carried far less weight than the silence that surrounded them.
bbhe expected this to happen, but it still pained him to hear how casual you were about it. he felt like an idiot for even letting himself hope.
you laughed lightly, and he forced a small smile, still not meeting your eyes. he could feel the shift between them—a subtle, imperceptible cooling, like a cloud passing over the sun. you probably didn't notice it. or maybe you did and simply didn't care.
he cleared his throat, disentangling himself slowly. the loss of contact was immediate and acute—like a phantom limb, he felt the absence of your warmth against his skin with painful clarity. he sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled curls, trying to collect himself.
"so," he started, his voice settling back into its usual easy cadence—but something underneath it had shifted. a guard going back up. walls rebuilding brick by brick. "guess we should, uh... probably get breakfast or something."
he stood, stretching his tall frame, deliberately keeping his back turned to you. he needed a moment to compose himself—to push down the ache that was blooming in his chest like a bruise turning purple. he grabbed his boxers from the floor and pulled them on, the mundane act helping to ground him back in reality.
it’s fine. it’s just sex. just because you caught feelings doesn't mean she owes you anything.
he glanced over his shoulder, forcing that signature lazy grin. "unless you wanna stay in bed all day. i’m not complaining either way." the joke fell flat in his own ears, and he hoped you didn't hear it.
you didn't notice the flicker of pain in his eyes or the way his smile didn't quite reach them. you simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his shoulder. to you, it was a sweet gesture of affection; to eddie, it was a gentle twist of a knife, a reminder of how effortless this was for you while he was drowning in it.
“can’t. i gotta get home soon or my parents will freak,” you said, your voice light and cheerful. you stood up, grabbing your panties and shorts from the floor and tugging them on with a casualness that made his heart sink. eddie sat there, frozen, watching you with a longing so profound it felt physical. he traced the line of your silhouette, memorizing the way you looked in the morning light, knowing that the intimacy he’d just felt was a secret he would have to carry alone.
“fuck, where are my keys?” you asked, glancing around the room.
“probably on the dresser, sweetheart,” he answered softly, his voice lacking its usual theatrical energy.
you found them and let out a sigh of relief, stepping back into his space one last time to plant a quick, friendly kiss on his cheek. “thanks, eds. and thanks for… whatever this was,” you added with a little chuckle, the phrase 'whatever this was' echoing in his mind as a definitive label for their new arrangement. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”
you were already halfway to the door, your energy buzzing and untroubled. eddie just sat there, his shoulders slumping slightly as the silence of the room rushed back in to fill the void you left behind. he nodded, his gaze softening into something mournful.
“yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “see ya.”
he waited until the sound of your footsteps faded and the door clicked shut before he let out a long, shaky breath. he sank back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands, the ghost of your scent still clinging to his skin and the crushing weight of an unrequited love settling heavily in his chest…
summary: You only meant to write an article about the fall of King Steve Harrington. Somewhere between the interviews, the experiments, and the late-night drives, you forgot he was supposed to be your story — not the boy you fell for. ⟡ LOOSELY INSPIRED BY "HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS (2003)"
pairing: steve harrington x reader
w/c: 13k (I lost the plot)
a/n: i literally fever dreamed this so im hoping it comes across good because i totally blanked out writing this haha 😭 this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading, and reblogs are appreciated!! enjoy <3
content warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, (one bed trope kind of), observant/highly sensitive reader, mentions of nancy wheeler, miscommunication, interrupted kisses, public confessions, steve harrington being sad and soft (yay!), reader being a stubborn high school journalist, hopeful ending, etc
▪︎ my masterlist
By the time the final bell rang, the newsroom already smelled of hot dust, old paper, and somebody’s disgusting coffee of choice.
It was not really a newsroom, not in the way you truly wanted it to be. It was a converted classroom at the end of the English hall with two long tables shoved together, a crooked bulletin board covered in deadlines, and a mimeograph machine that coughed ink onto everyone’s fingers. The overhead lights hummed with a flat, yellow patience.
Outside the narrow windows, Hawkins High School settled into its usual afternoon disorder; lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and boys yelling too loudly because silence made them feel small. Typical behaviors.
You had spent three nights on your article.
Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore.
It was practically perfect.
You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.
The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.
Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.
“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.
You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.
Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.
Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.
“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”
The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation.
Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.
“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”
Intense.
You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.
That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.
You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.
“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”
Inside was not fine.
At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.
“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”
“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.
“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that. “You need something undeniable.”
“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.
“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”
Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”
You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement.
The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.
They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance, you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.
Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.
He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.
His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.
King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.
Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.
“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”
Leah, unfortunately, looked too.
“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight
“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.
You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”
“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”
Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”
“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”
The words landed before the joke did.
You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.
A whole identity built on being wanted.
The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years.
You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.
Leah's brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”
You rolled your eyes at that.
“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.
There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.
At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.
“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided.
“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”
Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential.
“And Harrington?”
You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.
“Steve is the case study.”
You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.
—
You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.
He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out.
Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.
You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more.
“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.
“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.
“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”
That got him.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.
You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you.
“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being, strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”
You gave a low hum in response. “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”
“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”
The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.
You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”
Now, he seemed a bit confused, his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two.
“With?”
You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.
“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.
His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”
“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.
You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.
“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”
Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”
“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”
You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.
You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.
Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.
You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.
Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”
His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.
“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”
“Seven.”
“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”
You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.
“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”
You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships, but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study.
Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.
You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.
—
On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.
He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.
Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.
"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door.
You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl. “Do you do that for all your dates?”
Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”
You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.
He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.
“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.
He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”
“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.
His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Not really.”
“Why?”
He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I told you. Inquisitive.”
“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”
The words fell between the two of you in a hush.
You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.
“What?”
“You’re shivering.”
Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not fine.”
Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.
“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.
Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”
Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”
“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle.
You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.
The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.
“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control.
You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him. They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words. “That’s not true.”
He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”
You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”
The words had you faltering from the truth it held.
Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”
Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”
He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”
Nancy.
There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.
What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.
You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it.
You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.
“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”
You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”
His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.
What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.
You didn't. You didn't stop him.
You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.
His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.
For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.
Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.
Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side. He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was, and didn't know how to navigate it. “So. Did I help?”
You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't.
“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong, small and breathless. “You did.”
You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated. The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly.
The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.
—
In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that.
Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.
“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”
You shut your locker too hard.
“Can we not do this right now?”
His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.
“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?
“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”
People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.
Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.
Keyword, tried.
His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”
His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”
“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”
You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.
You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”
Steve blinked.
His jaw tensed with movement, your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant.
“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.
And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.
You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.
At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.
He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.
You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.
Even detached on paper didn't feel right.
—
The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.
The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.
It was a rough start to say the least.
When you got there, he came around to open your door.
You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.
The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was.
The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.
For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.
Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.
“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”
Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.
He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him. “Does it look terrible?”
“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve.
His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”
“I mean it.” you did.
He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.
The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.
You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that.
“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”
The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.
You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.
You just remembered things instead.
You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.
You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.
And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.
It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.
You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.
His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.
The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric.
Neither of you moved away.
“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.
You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”
“It’s big.”
Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”
He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”
You understood what he meant.
Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.
You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”
“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”
You didn't like how his eyes dimmed. “And you?”
“I stay.”
The word sat between you.
He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine. “God, that sounded pathetic.”
“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower.
“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked. “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”
Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them.
The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.
“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips.
He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor.
“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”
He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down.
His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you.
You reached for his hand quickly.
He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you, but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.
You shifted closer.
That was all it took.
He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”
His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper.
For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering. The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.
You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.
He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.
“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped.
Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.
But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.
The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.
You kissed him back.
Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story
You wanted to, you truly wanted to..
You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.
When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours
He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.
“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.
“Shut up, Steve.”
His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."
For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.
—
The article sat unfinished for two days.
You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.
So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean.
No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.
You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.
The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.
You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.
“Working late?”
You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”
His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”
“No.”
“So yes.”
You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”
He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”
“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.
Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.
“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”
“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly.
You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.
If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.
You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.
Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.
It was the worst version, the sharpest version.
The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.
Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.
By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.
A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”
You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.
There it was.
Your article.
Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king
Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.
The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.
But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him
When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.
Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.
You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't, you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.
You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.
You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.
But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.
He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't.
His eyes were red.
Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.
“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind.
“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live, this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that.
“Was any of it real?”
You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue.
He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly.
“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true. And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”
“No!”
“No?”
“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”
His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.
He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”
“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”
“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”
Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything, wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.
“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”
“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.
Steve flinched back.
The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.
He was the one that came back sharp and strained.
“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it. “you just used me for a headline.”
The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue.
He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.
Then he turned and walked out.
The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.
The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.
You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.
With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven.
—
For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.
You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.
That hurt like a stab to the heart.
Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse. He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.
You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.
By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating.
The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.
You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.
Not disappointment. Not anger.
Nothing.
That truly scared you more than pain did.
You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened.
You sat at the typewriter.
For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.
This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.
By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts.
It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off
Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High
You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.
So, you ran.
The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.
Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.
The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.
At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.
“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield.
Before you even knew it, you started running.
It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.
“Steve!”
He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.
You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.
Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.
The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.
Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.
The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.
“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty.
“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”
You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.
“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”
His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.
You watched his eyes move over the page.
Correcting mistakes:
There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.
The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.
Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.
Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.
The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.
This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.
The boy was never a god.
He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved.
Steve stared at the paper.
His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.
For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours, and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”
“I lost.”
His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.
“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”
Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.
“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”
The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious. The defensive hardness in his face trembled.
You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.
“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.
For a second, nothing happened. That scared you. Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.
Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.
It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.
“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.
Your voice came out soft. “I know.”
“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.
“I know.”
“I could’ve hit you.”
You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”
His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.
The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.
He shoved the car door open.
You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.
“Steve—”
“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.
It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.
Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears.
Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.
His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.
When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now.
Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.
“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.
“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”
Your words came mechanical, as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”
“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.
His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
“Good.”
You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”
“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”
“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth. His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.
“You’re a terrible writer.”
Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”
He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.
“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”
The ache in your chest loosened all at once.
It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy.
But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.
You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”
His grin flashed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
This time, when he kissed you, the whole parking lot blurred into sun and noise and the smell of gasoline warming on asphalt. His hands were still careful. Yours were not. You held onto him with ink-stained fingerspads and a heart that learned how to be true.
summary: sometimes home is made of little things. a borrowed sweatshirt, a cup of hot chocolate, wayne’s blanket, and the strange comfort of eddie munson’s beautiful mess of a world. ☕🖤
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
tags: soft!eddie x you, no y/n, slow burn, friends to lovers, oblivious!eddie, mutual pining, the munson way of caring, protective!eddie, caring!eddie, teasing!eddie, dramatic!eddie, sweet!eddie, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, comfort after a bad day, sharing clothes, wearing eddie’s clothes, rainy night, cozy vibes, found family, wayne munson being wayne, eddie munson being eddie munson, acts of service, playful banter, soft moments, fluff, romantic tension, critical frost damage avoided ♡
warning: excessive fluff, dangerously high levels of domestic comfort, may cause sudden cravings for hot chocolate and a place on wayne’s couch
words: ~4.4k (not sorry)
notes: damn, i'm a curl girl ☆ next chapter not that long ☆ no promise ☆
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By the time Eddie finally admitted defeat, the two of you were long past the point of pretending you weren't freezing.
The rain showed no mercy. In cold, heavy sheets it had soaked clean through your jacket, your shirt, your jeans, until every step sent water sloshing inside your shoes.
"That," Eddie announced solemnly, lifting one foot for emphasis, "is the sound of my dignity leaving my body." The demonstration came with a squelch so horrific it deserved its own eulogy.
Water trickled down the back of your neck no matter how tightly you hunched your shoulders against the wind.
"I swear," Eddie muttered, shoving a handful of dripping curls out of his face. They flopped immediately back into place, as if the gesture had never happened. "That van picked the absolute worst possible moment to die on us."
"Honestly," you said, glancing out at the downpour surrounding you, "it really committed to the bit."
Eddie barked out a laugh.
"Yeah. Couldn't just break down Tuesday morning. Saving me from Mr. Kaminski."
Thunder rolled across the sky, low and rumbling, followed by another gust of wind that drove the rain sideways. Instinct made you turn your face away, though it barely made a difference anymore — there wasn't a single dry inch left on you to protect.
"This doesn't even count as rain anymore," you called out over the wind.
Eddie tipped his head back, blinking up at the vast, churning sky.
"This is personal. Whoever's in charge today clearly has a grudge."
The trailer finally emerged through the curtain of rain, its porch light glowing, a tiny beacon against the dark evening.
"Welcome to paradise," Eddie joked, relief bleeding through, plain and impossible to miss.
He took the steps two at a time and fished his keys from his pocket. You followed him up the creaking wooden steps, your soaked sneakers slipping slightly against the damp wood. Eddie's fingers were numb from the cold, and it took him two tries before he managed to get the key into the lock.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath. "Work with me."
The key finally turned.
Warmth hit you the moment Eddie opened the door. Soft carpet replaced splintered porch boards beneath your feet. The old couch sat exactly where it always had, its faded fabric still carrying the faint smell of cigarette smoke. A stack of cassette cases leaned beside it, old newspaper forgotten on the coffee table, Eddie's clothes thrown over the backrest. After the cold and the rain, seeing the familiar mess of the trailer felt strangely comforting.
Eddie pushed the door open and stepped aside with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
"After you."
"Wow," you laughed, brushing past him into the warmth, grateful for the sudden absence of wind and rain, "an actual gentleman."
"Don't get used to it," he called after you, already following close behind, the door swinging shut against the storm at his back.
"Figured I'd let the prettier one go first."
Looking down at yourself, soaked through, hair plastered to your face, you glanced back at him, equally drenched, a stray drop of rain still clinging to the tip of his nose.
"Pretty sure," you countered, fighting a grin, "neither of us is winning that title right now."
Wayne looked up from the kitchen sink, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, and let out a low chuckle at the sight of you.
"Well, don't you two look like a couple of drowned raccoons."
"Hi, Mr. Munson," you greeted, brushing damp strands of hair away from your face.
"Evening." Wayne's gaze swept over the two of you, amusement written plainly across his face.
"We definitely feel like it," you admitted, and that only seemed to deepen it.
Eddie looked at you, smiling slightly, before glancing down at himself. Apparently deciding the situation was still salvageable, he ran a hand through his hair, giving the curls one final adjustment before looking back at you.
"I think we pulled it off."
Wayne's mouth twitched, clearly unconvinced.
"Sure you did." Wayne returned his attention to the dishes.
"So, what happened?"
"Van died at the corner of Birch," Eddie grunted, wrestling himself out of his leather jacket, which protested with an unmistakable squeak.
"Real dramatic exit." Eddie threw his hands up, miming an explosion. "Smoke and everything."
Slipping out of your soaked sneakers, you lined them up neatly beside the door. Even so, droplets of rain escaped your clothes, gathering in tiny puddles across the floor.
"Sorry," you apologized, looking down at your feet. "We're making such a mess."
Wayne glanced at the puddle for all of half a second before looking back at you.
"I'd rather have wet floors than you two still out there." He nodded toward the stools at the kitchen counter and grabbed another towel from the rack.
"Here."
The moment it touched your hands, you let out an embarrassingly happy sigh.
"Oh my god, this is so good. Thank you!"
The towel had officially become the only thing standing between you and looking completely miserable, so you claimed a spot at the counter and pressed it over your face for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of laundry soap.
Eddie caught himself looking at you again. When you noticed, he didn't flinch. He just smiled to himself.
"You got the van off the road?" The mug was the next victim of the soapy water, disappearing beneath the bubbles as Wayne continued the cleanup.
"Yeah!" Eddie held his arms out, presenting the full disaster of his outfit, a fresh black smear now added to the wreckage.
"Such a drama queen till the very end."
"Locked it?" The mug received its final rinse, earned its place on the drying rack, and joined the others in pretending the cleanup was almost over.
"Mm-hm," Eddie hummed, wringing out the hem of his shirt with a grimace. "Though I'm not entirely convinced the thing is alive enough to care."
A small nod from Wayne.
"Good."
Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky again, deep enough to make the windows tremble, followed almost immediately by rain hammering even harder against the roof.
"Callin' Wade in the morning, see if he can tow it. No sense sending anyone out in this."
A last few crumbs met their inevitable end as Wayne cleared the plate, his gaze drifting toward the rain outside.
Eddie followed his gaze to the window and rubbed a hand through his still-dripping curls. A few drops of water fell onto the floor between his feet.
"Yeah... figured."
Judging by the amount of water Eddie was still shedding, Wayne clearly decided reinforcements were necessary. He grabbed another towel and tossed it toward him.
Catching it with a small nod of thanks, Eddie immediately started rubbing it through his hair, trying to get some of the water out. It didn't do much. His curls only seemed to grow more unruly, sticking up in every direction as he dragged the towel through them.
"...Fixed it," he grinned.
Looking at him for a beat, you smiled.
"Your curls beg to differ."
One look at the two of you was enough to notice something was off. Wayne's attention stayed on you a moment longer, quietly assessing.
"Doesn't look like you're warming up much. You're turning blue."
Glancing down, you found your hands trembling, a tremor you hadn't noticed until now.
"I'm fine," you said, the words coming out before you'd even thought them through.
Wayne's expression eased. "I know. Still, those wet clothes aren't helping." He tilted his head toward the hallway. "There's something dry in there. You two should get out of those."
The towel found its new home around Eddie's neck.
"Yeah, let's not turn into human icicles today."
The matter was apparently settled. The mugs waiting on the drying rack had already claimed Wayne's attention.
Eddie shook his head, a fond smile crossing his face at how quickly Wayne had moved on.
"Come on," he said, already heading toward his room and flicking on the light as he stepped inside.
The familiar chaos greeted you — band posters curling at the edges, cassette tapes scattered across every surface, the faint smell of candle wax and old paper.
Idle curiosity led your eyes over the room, taking in what Eddie would generously call "organized," until something on his desk caught your attention.
Your black marker.
It had quite obviously made itself at home beside his paints. Rolling it once between your fingers, you decided it had apparently chosen its new owner.
Honestly, you couldn't blame it.
"Alright..." Eddie announced, giving the drawer a good yank and a rattle until it finally gave in with a squeak. "You've got quite the selection here. Black, black, or..." He paused, his fingers moving through the pile with an almost adorable amount of concentration. "...premium black."
Suddenly you were all ears. Your whole body ached for something warm and dry.
"Ooh, premium is in stock?"
Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie flashed a wide, almost boyish grin.
"Oh, absolutely."
The clothes rustled beneath his hands, the soft clink of his rings filling the quiet room before he suddenly stopped.
"Actually... scratch that," he said, pulling out a faded black sweatshirt with a soft, stretched-out collar that had clearly seen better days. He held it up with exaggerated care, giving it an approving nod before presenting it to you.
"This is premium cozy black."
"...oh wow," you breathed, running your fingers over the worn fabric.
"Pretty sure this one comes with a comfort bonus," you hummed, giving the sleeve another squeeze.
Honestly, you understood the temptation of keeping someone else's stuff now — and you weren't sure you'd give this back either.
Eddie caught your reaction, and the look on his face made it painfully obvious he considered this a personal victory.
The clothes were arranged with the seriousness of a royal offering, the sweater and sweatpants presented like priceless family heirlooms before an unnecessarily elegant bow completed the performance.
"My lady," he announced with all the drama of a royal decree.
Not one to be outdone, you pressed a hand to your chest and inclined your head in return, accepting the bundle with matching gravity.
"A most generous offering," you declared, voice as regal as you could manage.
Clearly delighted that you were playing along, Eddie's grin stretched wider.
Tightening your grip on the pile, you felt the sweater's warmth seeping into your cold hands, a small, unexpected act of mercy. You'd barely taken a step when Eddie froze.
"Hold on..." He turned around so fast his wet curls sent droplets flying. "The ceremony isn't complete."
The drawer was immediately searched for the next essential item, and after a moment of dramatic rummaging, another treasure emerged with the same theatrical care as before.
"This is of great importance!" The final piece of the ensemble made its appearance, completing the royal collection before he gave you a quick wink. "Protection against frostbite... a devastating weakness of your toes."
"Socks!" you gasped, your eyes widening with perfectly feigned astonishment. "A rare item. I thought these were only a legend."
Eddie just stared at you. A crooked, pleased look crossed his face, warm and immediate.
"Okay," he said, his nose scrunching the way it did when he was trying not to smile too hard. "See, this is why you're dangerous."
You laughed. "Oh! Dangerous?"
"Yeah." He nodded seriously. "Encouraging me."
His expression shifted as your fingers brushed against his while you adjusted the stack of clothes between you, and just like that, the teasing dropped from his face.
Neither of you moved at first.
Then Eddie seemed to remember he was still holding onto the socks, and his fingers loosened with a small, almost embarrassed laugh.
"Uh... I'll let you get changed."
He lingered for just a second longer before backing toward the door.
"Eddie?"
He paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Thanks," you said, lifting the stack of clothes slightly between you.
Another grin, smaller this time but no less genuine, and then he slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door gently shut behind him.
His footsteps continued on to the bathroom, followed by the soft click of that door too, and the faint rustle of him getting out of his own wet clothes.
The trailer creaked softly around you, settling beneath the weight of the storm. Rain battered the roof like it was trying to break in, but inside, everything felt strangely safe. Warm. The world outside could do whatever it wanted, and it didn't matter quite as much in here.
The sweatshirt was a little too big, the sleeves falling over your hands no matter how many times you pushed them back. The sweatpants sat loose around your ankles, soft and warm, swallowing up the last bit of cold the rain had left behind.
Surprised by how quickly something unfamiliar had started to feel comfortable, you padded out of Eddie's room sock-footed. The overly dramatic sock ceremony had, unfortunately, been justified. They were really good socks.
Wayne was still waging war on the last of the dishes while Eddie gathered up mugs and plates, dressed and looking suspiciously put-together for someone who'd needed a small eternity just to find matching socks. The second Eddie turned and caught sight of you, a grin spread across his face.
Since a proper reveal lost some of its impact while still holding a bundle of soggy clothes, you draped them over the back of one of the kitchen stools.
"Well?" you asked, turning around with amused patience, arms held out as if giving him time to properly assess the situation.
Eddie set the dishes down and gave you a slow once-over, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin as though he were considering a life-altering decision.
"Give it five minutes."
"Until what, exactly?" you asked, eyes widening in exaggerated concern.
"Until you're quoting Sabbath, arguing about guitar solos, and informing innocent strangers their taste in music is objectively wrong."
Your straight face didn't survive that. Eddie's dramatic prediction was ridiculous enough to make you laugh, mostly because there was a little too much truth in it.
Eddie blinked, like he'd expected to tease you, not actually catch you off guard.
"Oh," you said, drawing yourself up, chin lifting as you slipped into the performance, "I think I'm already there. Just missing the curls, though."
Reaching up, you gave your hair a dramatic, tousled fluff in a poor imitation of his curls.
The accusation clearly required a response. His eyebrows lifted, and whatever amusement had been there was quickly replaced by the need to defend his reputation.
"My lady," you intoned in your best imitation of Eddie's voice — low, gravelly and just a touch too dramatic.
"Okay, that's slander," Eddie scoffed, stepping toward you with a look of mock offense, one finger already raised in protest. "I don't sound like that!"
"You absolutely do," you teased, tugging one sleeve back without really looking, already so used to the oversized sweatshirt it barely seemed to register anymore. "All the time!"
Still shaking his head, Eddie caught the end of one sleeve between his fingers, lifting it like an exhibit in a courtroom.
"The sweatshirt?" he declared. "Convincing."
His gaze flicked to you.
"The impression? Criminal."
"You hear yourself, right?" you mocked, trying to pull your arm free.
A playful nudge of your shoulder was your next attempt to escape, but Eddie only tightened his hold, clearly far too entertained to let you go. Instead, he only laughed, reached around you, and caught you in an easy hug from behind, his chin nearly brushing your shoulder.
"Eddieee—" you protested playfully, trying to pry one of his arms loose.
It accomplished absolutely nothing except making him laugh harder.
Eddie had seen you soaked through, freezing, trying not to make a fuss about it. Now you were standing there wearing his clothes, arguing with him over a fake accent. Somehow, that got to him more than it should have.
The microwave beeped, apparently confident it had done its job. A quick stir proved otherwise. After a moment of silent judgment, Wayne sent the pot back in for another minute.
"You two planning on eating tonight, or should I just leave you to the fashion show?"
Eddie's arms stayed exactly where they were, making it perfectly clear he had no intention of letting go. Defeat, apparently, came with remarkably comfortable conditions. Settling back against him, you decided fighting it was wildly overrated.
"We're conducting a highly scientific evaluation," Eddie declared.
"Of?" Wayne asked, already setting slices of toast onto waiting plates.
You pretended to give the question careful consideration. "My commitment to premium cozy."
Wayne looked over then. His eyes moved from the sweatshirt to the easy way Eddie still had you tucked against him before settling on your face. The sight seemed to please him.
"Looks committed."
Catching your smile, Wayne gave the toast another look before deciding a little extra butter couldn't hurt.
Tipping your head back against Eddie, you couldn't resist the quiet triumph in your grin.
"Heard that?"
With a small click of his tongue, Eddie leaned closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"You're clearly working together."
Apparently deciding the toast hadn't suffered enough, Wayne added another generous helping of butter before his attention shifted to the stool.
"Probably oughta hang 'em up before we forget."
Only then did Eddie seem to notice he was still holding onto you. He blinked, almost surprised by the fact that he hadn't wanted to let go, before easing his arms away.
For a second, you missed the easy comfort of his arms before reminding yourself that he had only been messing around.
"Got it." Before you could even move, the bundle was already being taken. Eddie shifted it into both hands, then paused, looking down at the pile.
"Oh." His brows lifted. "That's... all..."
Heat crept up your neck. "...Maybe."
"Even—" He stopped himself, catching the word before it could fully leave him. "Never mind."
"What?" You laughed. "You know rain doesn't magically stop at your jeans, right?"
A small shake of his head followed, apparently realizing the flaw in his own logic.
"Yeah. Just... Didn't really think that through."
The microwave beeped again, clearly done negotiating. Wayne rescued the pot from the microwave, gave the stew one last stir like he was personally responsible for its survival, and glanced toward the bathroom.
"Ed. The rack in the bathroom folds out."
"I know."
"Last time you said that, you put a wet towel over the shower curtain."
Looking offended, Eddie adjusted the bundle in his arms.
"That was one time," he said, already heading to the bathroom.
The cupboard opened with a quiet creak. Wayne paused for a moment, then took down the bowls stacked inside.
"Need a hand?" you asked, drumming your fingertips lightly against the edge of the counter.
He glanced back at you, a little surprised by the offer.
"That's kind of you. Think I can manage," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
A mug of hot chocolate appeared in front of you a moment later, courtesy of Wayne, who had clearly decided you needed warming up more than you needed another argument.
"Careful, though. Made it the way Ed likes it. Might rot your teeth."
Steam curled up carrying the rich scent of melted chocolate and something faintly like cinnamon. A few marshmallows floated on top, their edges softened into pale, gooey ribbons.
Warmth sank into your fingers the moment you wrapped both hands around the mug. The first sip was almost too hot, way too sweet, and somehow exactly right.
"Okay," you said, "this explains so much about him."
Wayne huffed, already reaching for the ladle. "Told you. Kid's got a sweet tooth. Always has."
"I would've guessed coffee." The second sip was just as reckless as the first, sugar be damned, and the warmth kept spreading from the inside out.
"Oh, that too. Mostly when he's got a paper due at two in the morning." Wayne tapped the ladle against the pot rim, stew flicking across the counter. "But given the choice? Hot chocolate wins every time."
"So that's his secret weakness." Clearly enjoying this far too much, you cradled the mug a little closer, already plotting a marshmallow stockpile. "Good to know. I'll keep a bag of marshmallows around for emergencies."
That actually got a proper laugh out of Wayne, low and warm. "Don't you give him ideas. He'll start negotiating a marshmallow allowance."
As Wayne cleared some space on the counter, something underneath the magazines caught your attention. Clint Eastwood stared back at you, looking deeply offended by his temporary imprisonment. You pulled the VHS case free.
"Pale Rider," you read off the cover. "Huh."
"Been sitting there since last week." The last bowl joined the others on the counter, and Wayne gave the VHS case a quick look.
"Was gonna watch it myself one of these nights, but—" he gestured vaguely at the general chaos of the trailer, of life, "—never got around to it."
The sun-bleached cover art was doing a surprisingly good job of selling the idea of a quiet movie night, right in the middle of the storm.
"I've heard of it. Never actually watched it, though."
"It's a good one. Saw it last year when it came out. Wasn't expecting much, but it surprised me," Wayne recalled, setting down another plate with a clink, already reaching for the cutlery.
"Ed'll tell you westerns ain't his thing." Wayne snorted, clearly more amused than he was willing to admit, and collected the last of the spoons.
"Still sits through every one of 'em, though."
Leaning an elbow on the counter, you said, "Yeah... He has a habit of accidentally getting invested."
Next to the slices of toast, the bowls of stew found their place, a knowing look crossing Wayne's face.
"You've noticed."
A small detail caught your attention, three plates instead of two. The extra plate sat there like it had always belonged — Wayne had just included you.
Right on cue, Eddie wandered back into the kitchen, drying his damp hands against the sides of his sweatpants. One curl had escaped whatever battle he'd fought within the bathroom and now hung stubbornly across his forehead.
"Mission accomplished. Your clothes are officially hanging in a way that suggests I know what I'm doing."
Dropping onto the stool beside you, Eddie immediately leaned over and stole a marshmallow straight from your mug before you could react.
"Hey!"
The stolen marshmallow disappeared into his mouth, completely unapologetic as he ignored your look of betrayal. The second mug on the counter offered the perfect opportunity for revenge. You plucked one of his marshmallows, popped it into your own mouth, then handed it over with your sweetest smile.
"Here."
Eddie chewed for a second before flashing you a thoroughly unrepentant grin.
"Worth it!"
With the mug now in hand, the entire exchange seemed to have gone exactly according to Eddie's plan, followed by a long, satisfied sip.
"So, what did I miss?" He asked, completely unaware of the chocolate mustache he was sporting.
"Since Zeus had other plans for us, we figured we'd let Clint Eastwood save the day."
You held up the cover, the grim-faced gunslinger staring back like he'd personally taken offense at the weather.
Without missing a beat, Eddie lifted his spoon toward you and Wayne.
"I knew it! I leave for one minute and you two start plotting."
"Sorry," you managed between laughs, "can't take you seriously with that mustache."
Noticing where you were looking, Eddie dragged his tongue deliberately slowly across his upper lip without breaking eye contact, taking the chocolate with it.
The smug grin stayed.
With hunger clearly winning the argument, Wayne made his way back toward the living room, the movie secured under one arm and his plate in the other hand.
"Movie's starting either way," he said. "You can hide out in Ed's room if you want, or come keep an old man company."
Apparently, everything had been successfully handled: dinner was ready, the movie was saved, and Eddie hadn't managed to ruin either one.
Three feet of carpet became an obstacle course the moment you and Eddie decided to cross it, arms full of plates, bowls, and mugs, exaggerated concentration written all over both your faces like you were crossing a tightrope instead.
"Corner or middle?" Eddie asked, tilting his head toward the couch while Wayne crouched by the TV, the worn VHS case already in hand.
You didn't even have to think about it.
"Middle," you decided. "Better view."
With the kind of clunk that meant the VCR was either working or pretending to, the old machine accepted the tape, and a second later the television dissolved into a brief shimmer of static.
"Careful," Eddie warned as he eased himself down beside you, balancing the bowl carefully on one thigh. "This couch was not built for personal space."
Fair warning, apparently. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging him effortlessly against you until his knee bumped yours.
"Noted." You shifted just enough to make room, though it hardly made a difference. "Too late now."
Something about your answer clearly pleased him.
"Way too late."
A blanket settled over your lap, soft and worn thin in places from years of use. You blinked down at it, then up at Wayne, who was already halfway back to his armchair like he hadn't just quietly made sure you were both comfortable.
"Wayne." Eddie eyed the blanket with exaggerated offense. "It's not cold anymore."
"Didn't say it was for the cold."
Already lowering himself into the armchair, Wayne didn't so much as glance in your direction.
For a moment, it looked like Eddie was searching for a comeback worthy of the occasion. Whatever he'd come up with apparently wasn't convincing enough. A quiet huff escaped him instead as he tugged one side of the blanket a little farther over both of you.
Static melted into the opening notes of Pale Rider, crackling softly through the old speakers while the storm outside continued throwing itself against the trailer roof like it still had something left to prove.
With a warm bowl in your hands and Eddie's shoulder resting comfortably against yours, you couldn't help thinking the van really could've chosen far worse places to give up.
"This is dangerously close to a family movie night, Wayne."
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⋆˚꩜｡pairing: 40s!eddie x 20s!fem!reader
⋆˚꩜｡summary: eddie learns that dating someone half his age comes with a few surprises; one of them is learning that your generation talks about sex a lot more openly than his ever did
⋆˚꩜｡tags/tw: explicit content 18+ minors do not interact | no y/n, afab!fem!reader, age gap, early relationship vibes, set in 2008 although not specified, communication is sexy (even when eddie is kind of bad at it), first time anal, anal fingering, masturbation (f!receiving), praise kink if you squint, some very mild degradation, steve deserves financial compensation for putting up with eddie's ass (punt not intended)
⋆˚꩜｡word count: 5.3k+
⋆˚꩜｡a/n: this is a detailed version of this post also I think this sucks so be warned lol
The Eddie you knew and were still getting familiar with was vastly different from the one that had lived through the eighties and nineties.
Well, vastly different might have been a stretch.
All in all, he hadn’t changed that much, if we were being honest. He still liked his hair past his shoulders, still listened to the same six bands and rarely put anything else on, and he still had that pretty boy-ish smile that told everyone in the room he was up to absolutely no good.
But he had changed in the little things. He took better care of his hair now, even spending a little more money than anyone should on a simple shampoo and conditioner, and he rarely talked about sex anymore.
It wasn’t that he’d magically become a prude over the years. He’d simply learned that some things were better — and hotter — left between two people, and no longer felt the need to tell his best friend Steve about whatever fucking position or wild thing had happened in the alley behind the bar.
Except now.
He’d switched to whiskey — double shot, no ice — about five minutes ago after realising the two beers before it weren’t doing much.
Steve, who had begrudgingly left his twenty-five weeks pregnant wife at home to meet Eddie for what had apparently been an emergency drink on a random Wednesday, looked completely and utterly lost as he quietly sipped his Sex on the Beach.
“So,” the younger man started slowly, tilting his glass while absentmindedly playing with the little decorative umbrella. “You gonna tell me what’s been plaguing you?”
“I can’t, Steve.” Eddie groaned, abandoning his nearly empty glass to drag both hands down his face.
“You literally called me because, and I quote,” Steve took a sip before making quotation marks with his fingers. “‘Steve, dude, I need to tell you something or I’m gonna explode.’ So, spill.”
“I know, I know.” Eddie groaned again, tipping back the last of his whiskey and pretending it still burned on the way down. “But I can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because…” Another sigh escaped him as he raised his empty glass towards the bartender for a refill. “It’s about sex, okay? Happy?”
Steve blinked at him and leaned back in his chair and silently raised his own glass for another drink.
“You’re acting like you didn’t fuck half the weird chicks behind the Hideout back in the day,” he said, absentmindedly fiddling with his straw. “I honestly don’t get why you’re acting like a fucking virgin. You’re pushing fifty, Edward.”
“I’m forty-two, Stephen,” Eddie deadpanned. “You— Forget it. You don’t understand.”
“Of course I don’t understand. You haven’t said shit fort the last hour.”
“It’s just…” Another defeated sigh escaped Eddie as his tattooed hand disappeared into the dark brown hair now threaded with silver that had, much to his horror, finally started to show.
He was being ridiculous, he knew that. Steve was right — he was acting like a fucking virgin despite being the furthest thing from it.
But this? He wasn’t sure about this.
Hell, he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t imagined the whole fucking thing.
Eddie opened his mouth, only to snap it shut again when two fresh drinks were set down on the table between them.
When the bartender had disappeared just as quickly as she’d arrived, a string of choked words tumbled out of Eddie’s mouth, vowels mashed together with embarrassment as he immediately lifted his glass to his lips, desperate to give himself something — anything — to do besides look at Steve.
“What?” Steve frowned. “Dude, what the fuck. Talk slower, like a normal person.”
“I said…” Eddie repeated, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere on the wall behind Steve. “She asked if I’d ever done anal.”
And there it was — the utter, skin-prickling silence.
Steve simply stared at him.
“…That’s it?” he finally asked after a full minute. “This is what’s had you acting all weird?”
“Dude—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, man.” Steve let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m finishing this drink and going home.”
“What? No.”
“Eddie, you’re being ridiculous.” He licked his lips before taking another sip. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that she’s half my age and she’s asking me something I’d never even stopped to think about.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
Steve sighed. The day was catching up with him, and Eddie’s bullshit wasn’t doing much to help. So he pulled his glass a little closer, took another sip through the straw, and counted to ten.
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
“You don’t—” Eddie sighed, exasperated, averting his gaze like he couldn’t quite believe what had just come out of his mouth. “Steve, we grew up in the eighties.”
“I know. I survived it.”
“Other than the occasional dirty joke at a party, we didn’t exactly sit around discussing sex.”
Steve frowned as he thought about it. “Now that you mention it…”
“Girls back then never asked if you’d tried this or that. They asked if you were a virgin, and if you both were, you just figured shit out… and then never spoke about it again.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, resting an elbow on the armrest as he sipped at his ridiculously bright cocktail, nodding along to Eddie’s rambling.
“Meanwhile, this girl looked me dead in the eye at nine in the morning and went, Have you ever tried anal? Like she was asking me if I’d ever seen Jurassic Park.”
A snort escaped Steve at the comparison.
“What did you reply?”
“…‘Can I have some coffee first?’”
Steve shook his head in disbelief, set his drink back down, and rested both hands behind his head like he was sprawled out on the couch watching a football game.
“Jesus, Eddie. You’re unbelievable.” He groaned.
“I’m going to kill myself,” Eddie muttered.
“Without trying anal first?”
“Steve.”
“The joke wrote itself, man.”
The younger man shrugged again, absentmindedly spinning his straw between his fingers.
“Listen, just go home and talk to her,” he said simply. “Tell her… I don’t know, that you weren’t expecting the question or something.”
“I can’t just… talk to her about it.”
“Eddie, my man, you’re acting like a fucking teenager.” Steve shook his head. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“Four months, give or take.”
“Four months,” he repeated slowly. “If this is supposed to go anywhere, you need to learn how to communicate. Apparently, that’s something you still haven’t figured out after forty-two years.”
“I hate you,” Eddie muttered over the rim of his glass.
“No.” Steve pointed at him with the end of his straw. “You hate that I’m right. There’s a difference.”
Much to his dismay, Steve had, in fact, been right.
Eddie had spent the entire fifteen-minute drive back to your place mentally turning over every word in the English dictionary, trying to figure out what he was supposed — what he wanted — to say once he got there.
By the time the red lacquered front door came into view, he still hadn’t figured it out.
The doorbell rang before he even really registered pressing it, and it only took a few seconds before he heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
And then there you were, standing right in front of him with messy hair and an oversized shirt you’d customised a few years earlier, back when you were still in high school.
“Hey—”
“I can’t stop thinking about your question, and it’s driving me absolutely insane.”
Your head tilted at the rapid stream of words that tumbled out of his mouth.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Somehow, you’d found yourselves locked in a staring contest that neither of you remembered starting.
“Uh… hi to you too, Eds,” you chuckled after a moment, pulling the door open a little wider.
Eddie slipped past you without another word, too busy worrying at his bottom lip to even attempt an explanation.
His dark brown eyes darted around your little living room with a newfound sense of curiosity that was really nothing more than embarrassment hiding behind a mask.
Eddie’s gaze bounced from the far corner overflowing with potted plants to the extensive book collection you’d built over the years.
He was looking at anything that wasn’t you.
Which definitely hadn’t gone unnoticed.
The tip of your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you quietly closed the front door behind you, your eyes fixed on the strange way he stood in the middle of your shoebox-sized apartment.
You leaned back against the door, absentmindedly drumming your fingers against the wood as you studied him.
“Eds—”
“I wasn’t expecting to hear something like that as nine in the morning,” he blurted. “Especially not how casually it slipped out of your mouth.”
“Look…” you sighed, scratching thoughtfully at your chin. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention.”
“What?” Eddie’s attention finally snapped back to you. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Are you sure?” you asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. “Because you’re acting like a teenager who just found out he’s gonna be a dad at fifteen.”
Suddenly, the little painted squares you’d made at a paint-and-sip workshop with a friend became ten times more interesting than looking you in the eye.
A quiet sigh escaped you as you pushed yourself off the door and walked over to him.
Eddie’s cheeks had turned a soft shade of pink as he stubbornly refused to meet your gaze, even when your warm hand gently cupped his jaw and tried to guide his face back towards yours.
“We can just pretend none of it happened, if you want.”
He still wouldn’t look at you, nervously worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
Then, ever so slowly, dark brown eyes finally found yours beneath the warm amber light.
“I…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to… pretend.”
The warmth beneath your hand deepened as his blush spread from his cheeks down his neck, your palm following its path until it rested lightly against his chest.
Your expression softened at the shy tone of his confession.
Letting go of his chest, your fingers curled around his hand instead, gently tugging him towards the couch.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
Eddie slumped back against the cushions, full lashes fluttering with the incessant blinking of his eyes.
His hands found your hips, gently pulling you onto his lap.
“It’s just… You asked it so easily.” He let out a humourless laugh as his thumbs absentmindedly traced slow circles over the tops of your thighs. “In my time—”
“God, don’t say that.” You cringed. “That makes you sound old.”
“Sweetheart,” Eddie deadpanned, a rogue chuckle escaping him.
“You know what I mean.” You rolled your eyes playfully before settling back against his chest, following his gaze to the silent television across the room. “Sorry. Please continue.”
“It just caught me off guard how easy it is for you to talk about sex,” he admitted quietly. “When I was your age, girls would’ve rather set themselves on fire than ask their boyfriends something like that.”
“…That bad?”
“In Hawkins?” He snorted, looking down at you with one raised eyebrow as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “You have no idea.”
The silence that followed lingered for a few moments as the two of you watched the two brothers hop in their jealousy-inducing car.
Then you licked your lips and shifted, turning to properly straddle his lap.
“I like talking about sex.” You admitted and shrugged at his wide-eyed expression. “Not just because it’s dirty or exciting. I’d just rather ask what you like than guess.”
Eddie’s eyes drifted over your shoulder and back to the television. One of the two brothers had somehow turned into a vampire while the other acted weirder than usual.
“You know…” he started hesitantly, still watching the show play out in silence. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me what I wanted before.”
You frowned at the quiet confession. “Really?”
“We just…” He shrugged, like it wasn’t something worth dwelling on. “Did things as we went.”
You reached up, brushing your thumb across his cheek and patiently waited for his eyes to find their way back to yours.
“Well,” you smiled softly, “I’m asking now.”
Eddie’s lips curled into a small, sheepish smile.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course you can, Eds.” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I was… kinda hoping you would.”
Before he could make fun of your little confession, you pushed yourself off his lap and darted towards the kitchen.
“I bought your favourite,” you called, pushing the beaded curtain aside. “You want ice with it?”
“How did you–”
“I can smell it on your breath, Eds.” Your chuckle echoed through the tiny kitchen and into the living room.
“…Just one ice cube, please.”
Eddie had stayed over the previous night after one drink had turned into two more, while the two of you laughed about sweet nothings as the television continued playing that weird show about demon hunting brothers in the background.
As it turned out, Eddie didn’t have to think about it.
Not really, anyway.
While he’d been busy panicking at the bar with Steve and then again during the drive back to your place, his subconscious had already made the decision for him — he just hadn’t noticed it.
Not until his eyes slowly fluttered open to the stark white ceiling of your bedroom, his brain immediately replaying the… particularly raunchy dream he’d had during the night.
And then there was the, uh… wooden log between his legs.
His eyes instantly drifted to his left, finding you still sound asleep with your back turned to him. Your frame rose and fell with each steady breath, and Eddie felt like a fucking teenager all over again at the mere sight of you — and at the persistent morning problem he’d woken up with.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbled groggily, dragging both hands down his face. “Get it together, man.”
Forcing himself out of the warmth of your bed, Eddie did the only thing he could think of: ignore whatever the hell was happening beneath his boxers and make himself useful by quietly sneaking out to put breakfast together.
Not even ten minutes after he’d finally gotten the situation between his legs under control and managed to coax your second-hand stove into working, careful footsteps padded down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Eddie tried really, really hard not to tense when your arms slipped around his waist and your face nestled against the broad expanse of his tattooed back.
He failed the moment your warmth seeped through his skin and your sleepy voice reached his ears.
“Morning,” you mumbled.
“Morning,” he replied a little too quickly.
A content sigh escaped you as you leaned further into him, tightening your hold around his frame.
“You’re acting weird again.”
“I’m not—”
Eddie cut himself off with a tired sigh, turning the stove down before carefully prying himself loose just enough to face you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hands drifting up and down your arms.
“It’s okay—”
“I dreamt about you,” he admitted quietly, his gaze immediately darting towards the small magnetic whiteboard hanging on your fridge.
“Oh?”
“Turns out I don’t need to think about it.”
“Oh.”
You straightened, suddenly feeling far more awake than you did half a second ago, your eyes searching his face as you silently waited for him to continue.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there pretending to be deeply invested in your weekly plans scribbled across the whiteboard.
With a small smile, you reached around him and turned the stove off completely.
“I’m trying really hard not to get…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “…hard.”
“Eddie,” you laughed softly.
“I’m serious.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re standing here in nothing but my shirt and a pair of lacy underwear, and I had the hottest dream of my life, and I—”
He immediately cut himself off, hesitantly lifting his eyes back to yours.
“Tell me about it,” you whispered, resting your eyes hands against his chest.
“About what?”
“The dream, silly.”
It was then and there that Eddie decided you’d come into his life for the sole purpose of turning it completely upside down.
Because there was no way in hell he was going to tell—
“We were watching that stupid show of yours,” he started before his brain had the chance to stop his mouth.
“Supernatural isn’t—”
“And then you stood up and suddenly you were completely fucking naked,” he continued, his hands slowly trailing down your spine until they settled against the soft curve of your ass. “And you started teasing me.”
Your throat suddenly went dry when you felt Eddie’s warm, calloused hands gently kneading the fat of your ass to emphasise his words as he continued recounting the dream.
Not that you were paying all that much attention anymore.
His voice had somehow faded into the background the moment his eyes had flickered down to your lips.
“—and then you were on all fours in the grass,” he continued, pulling you back to reality.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I don’t know either.” Eddie let out a soft chuckle. “But you looked absolutely beautiful, all spread out f’me beneath the warm sunlight.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you whispered, your stomach dropping in that all-too-familiar way whenever he talked to you like that.
“That’s what I said when I woke up,” he replied, a smug grin slowly creeping across his face.
The way Eddie had been acting over the last twenty-four hours was giving you whiplash.
One minute he was behaving like a schoolboy hopelessly fumbling through his first serious crush. The next, he’d slipped right back into his usual self, teasing you like it was his full-time job.
Your eyes widened in surprise when Eddie leaned in, meeting your lips in a soft, delicate press that felt like a total one-eighty from the conversation you just had. For a moment you froze, heart pounding wildly in your chest, but as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, something in you unfurled.
It’s chaste, almost innocent — just the brush of lips, a shared breath. Yet it sent a thrill down your spine. When he finally pulled away, you blinked dazedly up at him, still caught in the spell he’d just put you under.
You couldn’t do much but hold out your hand in a silent offer.
Eddie ushered you out of the kitchen, glass beads clinking together as the two of you hurried down the hall and made your way back to your bedroom.
The bed hit the backs of your knees as you tumbled onto it, pulling him down with you. Eddie’s tattooed hands roam feverishly, mapping the curves of your body beneath his shirt and drinking the low whimpers escaping your mouth as his fingertips brushed against the swell of your breasts.
You arched into him when his hands trailed back down to the hem of the shirt. He yanked it over your head and tossed it aside, immediately diving for the newly exposed skin. His lips trailed a path down your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone, while his tongue left a slick trail down to the tattoo you’d gotten four months ago at his studio.
“F-fuck, Eddie,” you breathed out, bucking your hips against his in a desperate attempt to ease the ache settling between your legs.
Eddie continued trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses towards your breasts, softly closing his lips around one of your nipples before he gave you a hard suck. His free hand roamed in search of the other one, rolling your hardened nipple between his fingertips while he continued sucking sloppily at the other, thick drops of saliva rolling down one side of your chest.
He pulled back slightly, searching your face after you’d given his scalp a particularly hard tug.
His fingers kept rolling and tugging at your hardened nipple while his eyes stayed fixed on your drunken face — eyebrows furrowed, mouth hanging open while you panted so prettily in his ears when he had barely even started.
“Have you… done this before?”
“N-no,” you confessed quietly.
“You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?”
There was a certain vulnerability in his voice, but lying on top of you now, feeling the heat of your skin, he found that he desperately wanted you to say yes.
He continued playing with your breast as he waited patiently for your answer.
Like the heavy panting that filled the otherwise silent room wasn’t enough answer.
“Y-yeah.” You licked your lips. “I want you to fuck me in the ass, Eddie.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed out. “That fucking mouth of yours is gonna be the death of me someday.”
A shiver of excitement raced down his spine. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed his free hand lower, fingers skimming over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You twitched beneath his touch, bringing a smug curl to the corners of his mouth.
Leaning down again, he captured your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your gasps. His other hand mapped the planes of your chest, tweaking your nipple until you writhed beneath him. Breaking away, his dark brown eyes found yours under the soft sunlight spilling through the window.
Not exactly the same way his dream had been, but similar enough.
“We’ll take it slow, okay?” He assured, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.
To punctuate his promise, he slowly rolled his hips against yours, groaning at the delicious friction.
He gently guided you onto your stomach, trailing reverent kisses down the length of your spine. When he reached your ass, he hooked his tattooed fingers into the waistband of your lacy underwear, tugging them torturously slow down your legs. Cool air kissed heated skin as he bared you inch by tantalising inch.
Eddie took a moment to admire the sight of you spread out before him, warm and quivering and absolutely desperate under his gaze.
“Gonna be so gentle with you, I promise,” he panted over your bare back, leaving soft kisses in between words.
He gave both of your ass cheeks a hard slap, watching the soft fat giggle afterwards. His heartbeat quickened and a low groan fell from his lips as his eyes maintained glued to your ass, slowly pulling your cheeks apart until you were completely exposed for him.
He never actually tried anal, or even gave it a second thought as had already been established, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the familiar bottle of lube tucked away in your dresser probably wasn’t the right kind, but it would have to do.
The drawer creaked softly as he pulled it open and reached for the bottle. It felt cool and slick against his fingertips as he gave it a tentative squeeze.
Eddie flicked his wrist, circling your rim teasingly, relishing your trembling exhale when you felt the cold, slick texture of the lube. Then, with careful pressure, he began to ease his pinky finger inside, determined to keep his promise of taking it slow.
“I– mmpff!”
He eased his finger deeper, marvelling at the tight heat enveloping him. He traced delicate circles, massaging gently until the initial tension faded and a breathy moan escaped your lips.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed softly. Then, lowering his voice like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, he added: “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this, sweetheart.”
He gently worked a second finger in alongside the first, pumping slowly. The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of your tight ass filled the room, obscene and head spinning.
“I-It hurts, Eds.” You whimpered, but immediately shook your head when he asked if you wanted to stop.
Watching you respond to his touch, pretty and swollen pussy fully on display and leaking as it continued being ignored brought a heady rush of pride and possession to him — how could he not, when he was the first person you’d allowed to have you this way?
“A-ah!” You breathed out at the empty feeling as he slowly removed his fingers out of you. “E-Ed— F-fuck.”
“C’mon, sweetheart.” He gently tapped your hips twice with his slick digits. “Can you push yourself up your hands and knees for me?”
The request came softly, and you instantly complied by pushing your ass up higher for him. Slicking his fingers once more, he reverently traced your rim in lazy circles before slowly dipping his fingers back inside, testing a third one before pressing forwards just a fraction.
Your cheek rested flush against the mattress, eyelashes fluttering with every slippery, careful thrust he gave your tight hole.
Eddie watched your face intently, sinking in steadily, increments of progress marked by your hitched breaths and broken moans. The tight clutch you had around his digits was maddening, and Eddie had to resist the urge to immediately plunge deeper, harder. Instead, almost against his will, he rocked shallowly, letting you adjust to the stretch of the three, thick fingers he had in your ass as he patiently waited for your cue.
“P-please E-Eds,” you whimpered, desperately pushing your ass against his hand. “M-more.”
Eddie’s heartbeat quickened at your breathless plea. Slowly, he eased a fourth finger inside you, taking care to maintain a steady, slow rhythm. His free hand found the small of your back, gently rubbing circles against your skin when he felt you tense up at the stretch.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” he murmured distractedly, eyes completely fixed on the way you greedily sucked his fingers in. “It’s okay, I got you.”
You keened softly, hips canting back greedily for more when the sharp stretched dulled.
The lewd squelch of lube echoed obscenely, mingling with your panting breaths and hitching moans. Eddie felt completely drunk at the sight, fingers pumping faster and deeper, curling and twisting as he chased the perfect angle to send sparks dancing along your nerves. His other hand snaked around to circle your clit, stroking in time with his thrusts.
“That’s it, baby. Feel good, hm?”
“S-so, so good, Eds,” you moaned out, rolling your eyes to the back of your head.
The obscene wetness between your thighs dripped down to your bedsheets with each wet slide of his fingers making you writhe shamelessly, lost in the pleasure only he could offer you.
Eddie’s cock, desperate and ignored, basically wept as it begged for attention. A wet patch of pre-cum had long since stained his boxers, and it only continued to grow with each passing minute.
A chill ran down his spine at the thought of burying his aching cock deep in your ass, feel you clench and flutter apart around him while you screamed his name.
Eddie’s eyes were pulled away from your greedy hole, landing on your curling toes. A smug grin spread across his lips at the sight, and he made it his mission to make you come like this — completely on display and at his mercy.
“You close, sweetheart?”
“Mhmm!”
At your breathless response, Eddie doubled his efforts, fingers plunging relentlessly as his other palm ground against your swollen clit and fingertips dipped shallowly into your cunt. The dual stimulation proved too much and you came undone with a broken cry.
“F-fuck! Ed-Eddie!”
Eddie buried his face in your neck, muffling sweet nothings in your ear as hot pulses painted your inner thighs. After a moment, he peppered your temple with feather-light kisses, basking in your warmth.
“You’re so beautiful when you come for me,” he whispered.
“I…” You trailed off quietly, swiping your tongue across your dry bottom lip. “P-please, Eds.”
“Hm?” He pressed a lingering kiss against your shoulder and carefully coaxed his fingers out of you, stroking the small of your back when a string of broken whimpers fell out of your mouth. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. I got you.”
Still catching your breath, you blinked dazedly up at him. The drunk look in your glimmering eyes raced a thrill down his spine at the thought of claiming you so thoroughly.
“P-please, Eds, need m-more,” you breathed out.
“Yeah? Sweet girl wants me to fuck her ass?” He cooed lowly, tracing soft circles at your hips as he pulled you closer to his still clothed cock.
“Y-yeah,” you nodded dumbly, mouth hanging open and drool dripping down on the bed beneath you. “W-want you to fuck my a-ass.”
With a low groan, Eddie reached for the bottle of lube once again, squeezing a generous amount of the sticky texture on your stretched hole before abandoning it somewhere beside you. He pushed himself off the bed and his boxers were pushed down his legs in a hurry, quickly forgotten as he threw it on the floor.
He pulled you closer by gripping your hips. Eddie slid his aching cock against your ass, spreading some of the lube against his length before he teased your slick opening with his mushroom tip. Heavy, calloused fingers dug into your hips, surging forward and sheathing himself slowly in small strokes.
“F-fuck! I-It burns,” you cried out, reaching a hand to stop him from moving.
Your hand twitched against his hip bone as you looked back at him with glossy eyes and furrowed eyebrows.
“J-Jesus,” he groaned out, accidentally rolling his hips despite your hand still trying to stop him. His eyes fluttered shut and his mouth hang low at the overwhelming feeling of your tight hole engulfing him. “Sorry, baby. I can’t help it, y-you’re so f-fucking tight.”
“Mmpff!”
Gulping down a dry lump, Eddie opened up his eyes and immediately looked down at where the two of you connected. His pink cock bordered on red, aching for more stimulation as only half of it had been pushed in. Slowly, after your hand had fallen away again, he rolled his hips backwards. His dark brown eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head at the sight of your ass gripping him, desperately trying to hold onto his cock, before he pushed back further into your greedy hole.
Eddie set a slow pace, hips moving back and forth in gradual thrusts until his hips are snapping urgently against the globes of your ass. The filthy slaps of his hairy balls against your dripping, neglected pussy and your broken moans spurred him on, driving him closer to the edge than he wanted.
“Yeah?” Eddie asked darkly, chest heaving at his relentless pace. “You like having my big cock in your ass, baby?”
“Y-yes! I l-love it!”
Captivated by your hopeless cries, Eddie redoubled his efforts, pounding into you with abandon. The lewd squelch of lube and your creaking bedframe filled the room, underscoring your desperate, broken moans.
The grip he had on your hips was bruising as he pistoned forwards, chasing his release. Eddie dragged a hand up your sweat-slicked spine, revelling in the goosebumps rising in its wake.
He leaned down, nuzzling in your neck and grazing his teeth against your tender skin.
“That’s it, baby,” he growled, punctuating each word with a sharp snap of his hips. “Come for me again.”
Eddie grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back until you had no choice but to push off the mattress. His chest was scalding hot against your back as he laved attention along your throat while his other hand snaked back down to your clit, desperate for your second orgasm to hit you so he could feel your ass clamp down on his cock.
“I-I’m coming, Eddie,” you breathed out hopelessly, tilting your head back against his shoulder and looking up at him with teary eyes and trembling lips. “P-please, d-don’t stop!”
With a hoarse cry, your orgasm crashed over you, muscles seizing as waves of ecstasy radiated outwards. The rhythmic clench of your tight hole nearly pushed Eddie over the edge as he pushed your face back into the mattress, holding you by the back of your head as he desperately chased his own release.
“J-Jesus, f-f-fuck!” he moaned out, orgasm ripping through him like wildfire.
He fell forwards, sinking his teeth into the crook of your neck as he gave you one last, particularly hard thrust. With a strangled groan, he hilted himself deep, pulsing hot spurts of his sticky cum in your ass.
Eddie collapsed on top of you, gasping for air amidst the trembling aftershocks. His teeth finally let go of the sensitive skin of your neck, replacing them with soft, lingering kisses instead.
“Sweetheart?” He called after a few minutes. “You still with me?”
As the haze started to clear, he strained to make out your unintelligible mumble. He held his breath, searching your face for clues.
“What?”
“I said,” you repeated tiredly, eyes fluttering shut as a small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips. “I think you just killed me.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Eddie at your tired declaration.
Pulling you closer against his chest, still buried deep inside your ass, Eddie rolled the two of you to your sides and pressed a tender kiss to your temple.
Closing his eyes, Eddie focused on slowing his breathing, quickly basking in the warmth of your skin against his while his mind continued reeling from the remnants of his dreams and everything that had unfolded since.
A soft groan escaped you as you turned your head back to look at him over your shoulder.
“Did you…” You hesitated for a moment. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Did I enjoy—” An almost disbelieving laugh escaped him as he dragged a hand through his messy hair. “Sweetheart, you just blew my fucking mind.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the wonder lingering in his voice.
“Really?”
Eddie looked at you like you’d asked the stupidest question imaginable.
“I don’t think I can just go back to fucking your pussy.”
The confession made your breath hitch before a comfortable silence settled between you. His dark brown eyes glimmered under the warm morning sunlight as they trailed across your face and down your naked, still intertwined bodies.
Then your stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl, completely shattering the moment.
Eddie stared at you for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Don’t think it’s worth reheating the eggs.”
Eddie Wayne Munson, Hawkins' own town freak. Leader and dungeon master of Hawkins High Hellfire club as well as the lead vocalist and guitarist of Corroded Coffin. He was a force to be reckoned with from his eccentric personality to his welcoming yet scary aura. Eddie didn’t regret a lot of things in his life except for one thing and that was letting you slip through his fingers. You were his best friend and his first love. You showed him the love and affection he so desperately craved but would never tell a soul about. You were something foregin to Eddie, it scared and excited him. When you first came back to Hawkins you immediately took up with Chrissy and her friends even though you stuck out like a sore thumb. Eddie knew you weren’t a cheerleader nor did you ever try to be no matter how many times Chrissy begged you to join the squad. What solidified Eddie’s love for you was the day you strolled into the cafeteria wearing the same DIO shirt that he had sewn to his vest. He saw how the basketball team looked at you with disgust but you were Chrissy's best friend so they had to accept how you looked regardless due to her, but that didn’t stop Jason from making an out of pocket remark about the way you dress.
“I swear Y/L/N you keep coming to school like that and hanging with us people are going to think we took on the freaks.” He snickers with Andy and Chance. Eddie’s head perked up when he heard the encounter. You smacked the table gathering more than just Eddie’s attention at this point.
“Carver, let's get one thing straight here, keep running that mouth of yours and I will make the rest of your high school days a living hell. If it wasn’t for Chrissy I would be over with the so called freaks as we speak because they seem a lot more tolerable than you and your losing team. Hearing your voice daily is so nauseating and I just want to sock you right in the jaw every waking moment I sit here.” You counter getting in his face. Chrissy tries hard to quiet her chuckles and the silence around you is deafening. What made the whole moment the greatest thing was the look on Jason’s face. Eddie smirks at the memory as he sits in his studio jotting down all the things he loves/loved about you in a song. You had Eddie wrapped around your finger, he was smitten from the first moment you had acknowledged his existence. Eddie was your first of many things but the biggest first he was, was your first love and you were his. Eddie was so used to being alone until you waltzed into his life and brought a whole new perspective to it. Your love of trash tv and movies, the fact that you were always so excited to receive love notes from him, you weren’t afraid of what your parents would think of him and how much love you had for your family and friends. After your first time with him he noticed how you latched onto his side under the covers and every night since you couldn’t fall asleep without being in his arms.
“Eddie, can you please come over, my parents are gone and I really don’t want to be alone. We can watch Nightmare on Elm Street… or we can do other things” You say in a suggestive tone over the receiver.
“Baby I need to finish this one sale and then I will be over in 30 minutes.” Eddie says unable to control the smile breaking onto his face. He kept that promise of being there within 30 minutes but the movie idea was long forgotten the moment he walked through your front door and saw you leaning against the counter in nothing but one of his shirts he had left behind. He hoisted you over his shoulder and you were sure to get complaints from the neighbors about the noise in the morning. During hellfire nights you graced them with your presence as well by bringing snacks, Dustin asked you to help him one day with his campaign he was putting together, Eddie had decided to drop by to see the younger Henderson but what he saw warmed his heart. You, Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Erica and Max were all dancing around the living room to Dancing Queen. Things changed after that day when Max was on the verge of death due to Vecna he held you tightly and swore he would never leave you alone but that was what ultimately broke you. You didn’t want this life for him, you didn’t want him to be in harm's way due to you constantly being drug into the issues with the Upside Down. You couldn’t bear to lose him like you lost Billy, like you almost lost Max. Eddie was quick to try and change your mind but you were set on saving him. That summer after graduation was the worst summer of both your lives.
Eddie sat in his studio finishing the song he was writing before the show tonight at the hideout. He hoped you still would show up so he could try to get you back but he knew you probably wouldn’t but what he didn’t know was that Steve, Robin and Nancy already drug you out there. They were dead set on getting you two back together. They were so tired of you two continuously tiptoeing around the fact that you two still loved each other and they were sick of seeing their friends hurting over a decision that still didn’t keep Eddie out of harm's way. Jeff and Gareth were already there setting up when they caught a glimpse of you smiling with Robin and Steve. The excitement they felt seeing you here was unmatched. They contemplated telling Eddie when he arrived but they felt it would be best if he scanned the crowd during their set and saw your beautiful face smiling back at him.
“Y/N give this another chance, everything is back to Hawkin’s normal. We know you miss Eddie, it's written plain as day on your face and you didn’t put up much of a fight getting out here knowing he’s going to be here tonight playing.” Robin says, causing you to blush.
“Of course I still love him but who knows how long this ‘normal' will last. I can’t risk losing Eddie like we almost lost Max and like we lost Billy. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to him.” You counter.
“Who the upside down targets is out of our control, what happened to Billy wasn’t even your fault. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and we couldn't control that.” Steve says.
“And what about Max?” You say.
“After Billy’s death you know Max had regrets about all the things she felt about him, how at times she wished that he was dead. Vecna used that against her just like he did to Fred and Chrissy. I know you and Chrissy were close as well and that wasn’t your fault either nor was it Eddie’s as much as this town wanted to believe it was.” Nancy says rubbing your shoulder.
“I feel stupid for ending everything, there is no way he will want to take me back, he’s probably already moved on from me.” You sigh. When you look up at the stage you see Jeff and Gareth setting things up and give them a small smile and wave. They smile widely at you knowing some things that you don’t and making the anticipation that much more exciting. They knew Eddie had been working on a song about you and was hoping to play it for you tonight. Your mind wanders to Eddie as you wait for the show to start.
The first time you noticed the mysterious dungeon master was during lunch that day you put Jason in his place. Much like you Eddie was a sucker for theatrics and made it known how he felt about your so called friends. “The devil has come to America, dungeons and dragons.. At first regarded as a harmless game of make believe now has both parents and psychologists concerned. Studies have linked violent behavior to the game, saying it promotes satanic worship, ritual sacrifice, sodemy, suicide and even…. MURDER.” You hear him say to his friends as you walk by with Chrissy to grab some food. You couldn't make out what his friends were saying but once again he started his monologue.
“We’re the freaks because we like to play a fantasy game? But as long as you're into band, or science or pArTiEs.. OR A GAME WHERE YOU TOSS BALLS INTO LAUNDRY BASKETS.” He yells facing your table now.
“You want something freak?” Jason stands in defense of his friends. Eddie sees you smiling at him and throws up his fingers like a little demon at Jason causing you to almost spit out your drink as Jason retreats back to his seat.
“It’s forced conforming, THAT’S WHAT'S KILLING THE KIDS. That's the real monster.” He yells running off his table scaring Debra in the process making you chuckle even more. Jason clearly pissed off at the whole encounter even more knowing he’s gained your attention.
“Really Y/N, you dress like those freaks, laugh when they insult us. Keep dressing like them and giving them this kind of attention people are going to think we took on a resident freak.” He insults you. You slap your hands down on the table getting dangerously close to him.
“Listen Carver let's get one thing straight here, keep running that mouth of yours and I will make the rest of your high school days a living hell. If it wasn’t for Chrissy I would be over with the so called freaks as we speak because they seem a lot more tolerable than you and your losing team. Hearing your voice daily is so nauseating and I just want to sock you right in the jaw every waking moment I sit here, and another thing that I have just noticed you are all talk and don’t have the balls to back up anything you say. If you had wanted to start something with Eddie, be a man and do something about it. Stop with all these open ended threats of wanting to kick his ass for what? Because he is different from you and your friends?” You counter, causing his face to turn red from embarrassment and also catching the attention of a certain curly headed dungeon master. That was the day Dustin and Mike asked you to be the sub for Eddie’s campaign, that was also the day that you would remember for the rest of your life.
You were pulled from your thoughts when you heard Eddie’s voice through the mic.
“How’s everyone doing tonight!” He yells causing the crowd to scream.
“Hell yeah, that's what I like to hear! To start the show off I want to play a new song that I wrote for something very special to me, who I hope is here tonight.” He says scanning the crowd not yet seeing you.
Take it
If she gives you her heart don't you break it
Let your arms be a place she feels safe in
She's the best thing that you'll ever have
She always has trouble
Falling asleep
And she likes to cuddle
While under the sheets
She loves pop songs
And dancing, and bad trash TV
There's still a few other things
She loves love notes and babies
And likes giving gifts
Has a hard time accepting
A good compliment
She loves her whole family
And all of her friends
So if you're the one she lets in
Take it
If she gives you her heart, don't you break it
Let your arms be a place she feels safe in
She's the best thing that you'll ever have
She'll love you, if you love her
On days when
It feels like the whole world might cave in
Stand side by side and you'll make it
She's the best thing that you'll ever have
She'll love you, if you love her like that
You walk to the front of the crowd harmonizing with Eddie causing him to stop singing before the next verse.
He wakes me each mornin' by kissin' my cheeks
And when I look a mess, says, "You're perfect to me"
He's more than my best friend, forever and then some
And I choose him over and over again
He pulls you on stage with him as you both stare into each other's eyes. Those chocolate brown eyes that you missed so much bring back all the memories you both shared. Tears well in your eyes.
So take it
If she gives you her heart, don't you break it
Let your arms be a place she feels safe in
She's the best thing that you'll ever have
She'll love you, if you love her
On days when
It feels like the whole world might cave in
Stand side by side and you'll make it
Shes the best thing that you'll ever have
She'll love you, if you love her like that
She'll love you if you love her like that
She'll love you (She'll love you)
She'll love you (If you love her)
She'll love you
If you love her like that
She'll love you if you love her
On days when
It feels like the whole world might cave in
Stand side by side and you'll make it
She's the best thing that you'll ever have
She'll love you, if you love her like that.
Before you can say anything to him, his lips are on yours. Every bit of heartbreak, sadness and fear you felt about Eddie not wanting you back disappeared as you wrapped your arms around him melting into his kiss. The crowd goes crazy as you both pull away and rest your foreheads against one another.
“I love you so much Y/N, I was so lost without you.” He says holding your face.
“I love you too Eddie. I don’t want anyone else's love but yours. I’m sorry I hurt you, I thought I was protecting you but I realize now we need each other.” You say looking into his eyes kissing him again.
“Meet me at my van after the show, I’m taking you back home with me and never letting you go again.” He smiles.
“Is that a threat or a promise, Munson.” You smirk before breaking from his embrace to rejoin Nancy, Steve and Robin. Once again that night Eddie kept his promise of never letting you go and made sure you craved only his touch from now on.
It's been so long since I have posted on here... I took a very long hiatus due to some mental health issues but now I think its time for a come back and what better way to do that than with some Eddie Munson fics. Asks are open... Tags are open.
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s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
