#surrendertodreams

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: The Princess of Hawkins High gets swept away in a secret romance with local freak Eddie Munson.

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Content: no Y/N, dual POV, secret relationship, mutual pining, opposites attract, Golden Girl!Reader, 24814 words

Chapters:

1 - Social Suicide Hotline - You - 2791 words

2 - The Great Fuck-Up of '85 - Eddie - 1829 words

3 - We Can Be Heroes - You - 1931 words

4 - Good Bad Influence - You - 1968 words

5 - Flight of Icarus - Eddie - 1611 words

6 - Risky Business - You - 3830 words

7 - Black Sabbath - You - 1686 words

8 - Reaping What's Been Sown - You - 1681 words

9 - Die a Happy Man - Eddie - 1686 words

10 - Rapunzel, Rapunzel - You - 1907 words

11 - Dean Man Walking - Eddie - 1966 words

12 - Family Matters - You - 1052 words

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: A one-time attempt to scratch an itch turns into something you aren’t prepared for when you realize that Eddie “The Freak” Munson is more than he seems.

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Hurt/Comfort

Content: no Y/N, Dual POV, opposites attract, secret relationship, friends with benefits to lovers, Bitch!Reader, 17415 words

Chapters:

1 - Feel the Rush - You - 1951 words

2 - Something There - You - 1445 words

3 - Dangerous Territory - You - 1820 words smut

4 - My Strange Addiction - Eddie - 4804 words smut

5 - Turn It Off - You - 1297 words

6 - Knocking on Heaven's Door - You - 1352 words smut

7 - Just the Two of Us - You - 2416 words

8 - Cold Hard Truth - You - 1323 words

9 - Long Time Coming - You - 846 words

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: You and Dean pretend to be a couple to investigate a case, but what happens when things start to get a bit too real?

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

Content: no Y/N, fake relationship, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, 10998 words

Chapters:

1 - My Bloody Valentine - 1011 words

2 - Just Married - 904 words

3 - Cold Feet - 1783 words

4 - Sweet Wine and Sour Grapes - 1254 words

5 - Bubbling Over - 1747 words

6 - Hot and Bothered - 3244 words smut

The bombshell Dean is chatting up smirks up at him, saying something that causes his signature grin to stutter a bit, green eyes wide, lips parted. It's cute, and she clearly agrees. He's definitely scoring tonight. 

You tear your eyes away, opting to look at Sam's judging face. It’s difficult to say which is worse.

"I am not pathetic," You say before taking a long sip of your lackluster margarita. Dean still teases you every time about your preference for “frilly” drinks, which is pretty much anything other than beer or whiskey to him. 

It's probably why you still haven't given up on them yet. Anything to get a moment of his attention, right? Even if it’s only a teasing comment about your bad tastes.

You really are pathetic.

"You should say something. If not for you, then for me. I beg of you."

Sam's sass makes you giggle. It's so easy to tell that he's a youngest child, even with his ginormous stature. It lives in all of his mannerisms.

"Never gonna happen." 

You glance back over at Dean and purse your lips when you see the two love, well, lustbirds making out against the bar. You can’t help that bitter feeling of jealousy that bubbles up within you. You chase it down with a bite of lime.

"Why the hell not?" Sam is exasperated by this game of yours at this point. He'd figured you out almost a year ago, which is kind of an achievement for you considering how long you've been pining after the older Winchester brother. And how goddamn nosy the younger one is.

Dean, of course, had no clue. Sam always was the brighter of the two.

"Cause I don't do casual. And Dean only does casual."

Sam is just about to speak up, words of defense for his brother bubbling over his tongue only to pop when the devil himself starts bounding over to your booth.

"Nice catch, casanova," You greet amicably and quickly enough to cover the obvious pause in conversation. Dean doesn't catch it. His mind is elsewhere, specifically hovering by the bar’s front door and inspecting her nails.

"I know right," He grins, all googly-eyed and smiley. If you weren't so good at playing pretend you'd probably falter at his boyish excitement. There’s something about that smile that always melts you.

"Look, we're gonna head out so, ya know, don't wait up." Dean is already backing away, unaffected by Sam rolling his eyes. "And remember, buddy system." He points sternly at the two of you.

You shoot him two thumbs-ups and briefly wonder if you being Sam's back-up babysitter is connected to the sheer amount of nights that end just like this one.

When Dean's finally back with the brunette lingering at the entrance you shoot Sam a look, vaguely gesturing in the direction Dean went.

"Okay, maybe he doesn't have the best track record in the world, but you never know. I mean, he adores you." The defense is weak and lacking sources. Not Sam’s best.

You squint at him. "He still calls me kid, Sam."

Maybe that wouldn't be the case if you hadn't met the Winchesters when you were only a preteen, if you hadn't been the exact same age as Dean's kid brother. But you had and you are, and even though Dean was just old enough to drive a car at the time, you were just another kid for him to take care of.

"Look, I get you're trying to help, Sam, but Dean and I would never happen. And I've long accepted that." 

You are not selling the whole “I’m not pathetic” thing.

Sam raises a brow.

"I'm not beating myself up over it. I'm okay. I promise." You try your best at an open and earnest expression, but you can tell it isn’t really winning Sam over.

Still, most of what you're saying is true. It hurts a hell of a lot less than when you first realized you loved Dean, when you still had hopes that he'd wake up and want you. Just you.

That didn't mean it didn't sometimes get the best of you. There were times when you got too in your head comparing yourself to the beautiful girls Dean took back to the motels, when he flirted with every waitress but never once looked your way. 

Most of the time that knot in your throat could be eased by the reminder that even if he wanted you, it would never be the all-in love you craved. It would be carnal. Empty.

But sometimes you think even that would be enough, if it was him.

Sam isn't convinced. You can tell by the steady furrow of his brow and the slight pout of his lips, like he's seen right through to your real thoughts. You're too much of an open book for your own good.

"I'd rather have him as a friend than lose him entirely, Sam. And I would lose him." You hope the new method, the more desperate, more vulnerable method, will make Sam give you some peace. It doesn't work, obviously. He's as stubborn as you.

"You wouldn't lose him. Dean wouldn't cut you out for something like that," Sam defends and he's right about that at least.

"He'd be walking on eggshells every second he's around me. He'd be so afraid to hurt me that he'd ice me out. God, Sam, that would be so much worse than him just kicking me to the curb." Your cool facade falls off with the fracturing in your voice as you practically start pleading with Sam. Dean can’t know.

This time he's silent. Sam knows better than you that when it comes to emotion Dean is way more inclined to sidestep the issue than approach it head on. No chick flick moments.

"I'm sorry." The words are loaded on his tongue. Sorry for overstepping. Sorry you have to go through this. Sorry my brother is the way he is.

"Hey, don't be so depressing." You push his arm off the table, hunting for a smile, from both you and him. "Hell, maybe he'll wisen up one day and realize there's more to life than working on cars and chatting up girls."

He scoffs and you grin. It's sort of a joke the way you say it, but you also can't help but be pathetic sometimes.

Maybe Dean will want more one day. And maybe one day, it'll be you like it's always been him.

You bring up your hand to caress his face, and he leans into your touch, skin warm under your still-damp fingertips. “I’m serious, Dean. I’m here, in my right mind, and I want you. I’ve wanted you for a while.”

“Promise?” he pleads.

“Promise.” You press a gentle kiss to his lips, which he eagerly returns. You grin into his mouth. “Now then.”

You push Dean back onto the bed, and he allows himself to fall with a bounce onto the patchwork-style duvet. You climb onto his lap, finding his lips once more while the water still clinging to your skin sinks into the fabric of his clothes and the bed. Hands make quick, blind work of his belt before tossing it to the floor where his jacket and overshirt sit discarded from earlier kisses.

“Have I told you how good you look in just a T-shirt? Always gets me so worked up when you take off those damn layers,” you say. 

Dean grins and lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Want me to keep it on, then? Not my usual style,” he teases.

“Absolutely not,” you say, pulling the thing up in one swift movement, leaving his broad, smooth chest bare for your admiration. Your hands run freely along his skin, tracing freckles and healed scars. He leans back on his arms to give you room. So many years of watching him from a distance, and now he’s fully at your fingertips. His breath catches and skips as you graze particularly sensitive skin: the curve of his neck, the edges of his nipples, the trail of hair leading down.

Your eyes come back up to the face you’ve learned inside and out over years of study. A curious fingertip along the ends of his lashes causes his eyelids to flutter. “You’re so pretty, Dean.”

“Well, I—” He clears his throat of his flustered tone and smirks. “Didn’t realize you were so obsessed with me, sweetheart.”

You kiss up the side of his neck. “I think we both know which one of us is the obsessed one,” you purr and rock your hips across him where he is hard and waiting, creating a delicious friction for both of you. He chokes on his breath with a weak groan. “You always get this easily excited?”

He scoffs. “If you had this view, you’d be the same way.” One hand, large and calloused, comes up to run along your side, cupping under your breast and drifting down the curve of your hip until it rests on your thigh. His eyes follow the languid movement of his hand and then his thumb as it wanders your inner thigh. A smirk forms on his face when your hips jerk at the bold, exploring finger nearly grazing your dripping, eager cunt. “You always get this easily excited?”

“Oh, shut up.”

His eyes glint. “I know a good way for you to shut me up.”

“Yeah? Do tell.”

His hands grip you by the waist and pull your chest to his mouth. Lips latch onto your nipples, kissing and sucking while his tongue twirls in circles, trading off one for the other. Your breath falls in pants, and your hips move instinctively back and forth, craving some release from the building tension in your core. Dean detaches from your breasts, and his hands run soothingly up and down the expanse of your back, holding you up as he kisses his way down until he finally gives in and lies on his back. He stares up at you, waiting, hands having drifted down your legs.

“Come here, sweetheart. Let me taste you,” he says, hooking his fingers into the crooks of your knees.

You oblige, using his chest to support you as you shift down his body. You leave a soft kiss on his lips before you finally rest your shins on either side of his head. His hands come up behind you, squeezing your ass appreciatively before sinking to a hold on your upper thighs.

“Hope you’re a good swimmer,” you tease, and he laughs, sending sweet, cool air across your wet cunt. You let him be the one to pull you down to his tongue.

“God, yes,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering closed as his tongue instantly finds your clit, sliding over it in smooth, firm circles. Your hand finds purchase in his short hair as you grind on his face while he works. He holds his tongue firm and flat to aid you. Then, you ride his nose while his tongue circles your entrance tentatively before dipping into you with warm, shallow thrusts. Dean groans against your skin when you pull his hair, and it sends sickening vibrations through its wake. He comes home to your clit, pressing sweet kisses to it as he catches his breath.

You look down at him, and as though he senses you looking, his lashes open to reveal his glittering, green eyes. “So pretty, baby,” you whisper. The corners of his eyes turn up, but his smile remains preoccupied between your thighs.

His hands lock your hips in place as he moves from lapping to sucking. The inversion of pressure on your clit rids you of the strength to sit up straight, and you fall forward onto your free hand, moaning like an animal in heat.

“Dean!” you cry out as warning or pleading. He doesn’t stop, and you don’t want him to even when the pleasure becomes so unbearably intense you don’t even have the mind to rock your hips anymore.

In this new position, one of his hands falls from your thigh to trail around to your exposed cunt. Mouth still sucking your clit, a single finger dips inside of you, gentle and slow. It reaches deeper than your own ever have, and it’s like finally finding that missing piece. Another joins in the gentle thrusts in and out, working you open as you fall apart on his tongue.

“Fuck, Dean!” you moan. Your body tenses as it approaches its precipice. Dean’s mouth loosens on your tortured clit, moving between sweet, firm laps and mindbreaking suction. “Oh god, please. Please, baby,” you whimper. He groans in response. The hand still holding you squeezes your thigh.

“Yes, yes! Dean!” you scream as the pressure in your body releases in a hot wave of pleasure. You tremble and convulse while your orgasm blows through you, and Dean carries you down with slowed motions. Your moans weaken into pants until you have no strength left and you have to give in, rolling over Dean to lie breathless on your back, shaking and sated.

Dean rolls over to join you, hand latching onto your hip and lips pressing kisses anywhere he can reach as he climbs up to lie beside you, resting on his arm. You can’t speak. Weak sighs fall from your lips as he kisses your neck and jaw.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he whispers. You hum, grabbing the hand that he’s rested on your stomach and squeezing. Your head turns to him, and you gladly accept the kiss that follows. He is tangy with your arousal but sweet with his gentleness.

“You’re a messy eater,” you say finally. Dean laughs, forehead pressed to yours.

“I think that’s more your fault than mine,” he says, pulling away to wipe his face clean with the back of his hand.

“Nuh-uh.”

You kiss away the smile that forms on his face, then kiss a couple of his freckles for good measure.

“You’re still wearing your jeans,” you note, tugging on his belt loop.

“I was pretty distracted. And I wasn’t sure you’d want to keep going,” Dean says, eyeing your hand as it trails along his waistband.

Your fingers find the button of his jeans, undoing it with ease. “Trust me. I want the whole package,” you whisper.

“Oh, I bet you do.” He smirks until you wipe the expression off his face by dipping your hand into his pants and cupping his hard, neglected cock. He’s been so patient.

“I’ve been so unfair, haven’t I?” you purr, palming him through his underwear.

“You sat on my face. I had the time of my life. I’d say that’s pretty fair,” he grunts.

“Dean?” you say, pausing your movements.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Take your pants off.”

“Right.”

Dean slides off the bed, reaching first into his pocket for his wallet. You shift to the center of the bed, settling on the numerous pillows provided while you watch him dig a condom out of his wallet and tuck it safely between his teeth while he removes the rest of his clothes. One thing about Dean, he’s always prepared.

Across years of dreaming about Dean, you always assumed he would be large, but it’s another thing to properly see his cock, fully erect and leaking. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and goes to remove the condom from its foil.

“Let me do it?” you ask.

Dean obeys your wish without pause, climbing back onto the bed with foil in hand. Not one to waste an opportunity, he kisses up your body as he comes to settle between your legs. He tucks the torn wrapper into your hand.

“All yours, sweetheart.”

The words are all you’ve ever wanted to hear from Dean in just the wrong context. Still, you take the condom from its sleeve and hold it to his tip. Dean hisses through his teeth as you gingerly roll the rubber down his shaft and groans when you pump him twice for good measure.

You pull him down for one more long kiss, hands locking around the back of his neck. Your body arches up into his, less patient than your mind is being.

“You ready?” Dean says, pulling away to look into your eyes properly. He tucks a wet strand of hair away from your forehead.

You open your legs wider and shift your hips before you nod.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, and you would’ve smiled if he didn’t soon after align his cock to your entrance and begin to push inside you. His forehead presses to yours again, and you both let out shaky breaths with slack jaws as you feel each other for the first time. He’s warm somehow even through the condom, and his size strains your walls even with his gentle pace.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a pinched tone when he sinks in all the way.

You nod. “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Feel like I might pass out. Your pussy is divine.” He grins.

“Divine?” You laugh, which makes him laugh, too.

“I’m going to move now, alright?” You nod.

He starts with slow, deep thrusts that you feel to your very core. Soon, the strain ebbs away, and you swirl your hips as he moves, matching his pace and drawing sweet groans from his lips. He takes one of your hands from his neck and presses it to the bed, intertwining your fingers with his own.

“Feel so good, sweetheart. Better than I ever dreamed,” he groans into your ear as he gradually begins to pick up speed, still hitting deep with each thrust. You hook one leg around him and dig your nails into his neck to bring him closer still. Moans slip from your mouth, each louder than the last. Already warmed up from your first orgasm, a second is eager to join when he sucks and bites at the skin on your neck and chest while his free hand teases your breasts.

“Faster?” you whine.

“My girl needs more?” My girl. You nod. “‘Course, baby. Anything.”

His hips start to jerk into you. The hand that has been swirling and pinching your nipples slips behind your back to arch your hips to his whims. He knows his angles, clearly, because when he tilts you he reaches a whole new level.

“Right there, Dean. Right there,” you moan. He kisses you through his smile.

“That’s right. Open up for me,” he whispers. His hand squeezes yours where he still has it pressed to the bed. “That’s a good girl. So sweet for me.”

You whimper at his praises, bringing him back in for a kiss. He kisses back sloppily as his own pleasure begins to override his control. 

“I’m getting close, sweetheart,” he admits, but you can tell well enough by the way his thrusts become more sporadic with each pass.

“Me, too, baby,” you say, panting. Your body falls into that telltale tension. Your fingers burrow in his hair, clenching tight around the strands. Dean groans into your mouth.

His hand releases from your hip now and instead moves between your legs. You gasp as his fingers find your clit, and your eyesight goes blurry.

“Eyes on me, okay? I want to see you,” he says, kissing your brow to encourage your focus back to him. “So pretty.”

It’s all so much. His words, his eyes, his fingers, his cock. You’ve never felt this good before.

Suddenly, the tension snaps, and your cunt spasms and clenches around Dean’s hard cock as your orgasm bleeds through you. Your thighs lock around his hips involuntarily, and a chorus of his name flows from your mouth.

“That’s right, sweetheart. So good for me. That’s it,” he coos between alternating kisses on your forehead, cheeks, and neck, slowing his hand’s movements on your clit as you come down from your high.

He groans louder, voice pitching as he grows closer to his own climax. He whimpers your name into your neck, and his hand freezes entirely from its steady attention to your clit to clench around your hip.

“I love—” His breath seizes, sucking back in through his teeth like it can take the words with it. His hips stutter, and he stays hidden in your neck as he tries to reestablish his pace, like nothing has happened.

“Dean,” you whisper, slipping your hand around to push his head back where you can see his face. His eyelids are squeezed tightly shut, and he bites his lip so hard the plush pink has turned white. “I love you.”

His eyes open suddenly, and his jaw falls open in a shocked groan, hips stuttering once more as he registers your words.

“It’s alright, baby,” you whisper, kissing his lips.

The fervor returns to his thrusts, delightfully overstimulating.

“I love you,” he says, eyes shining as he pounds into you and squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back. “I love you.” He cries out at your words, loud and untempered. “Come for me, baby.” You clench around his cock.

His hips jerk and spasm as he comes with a choked moan. He kisses you through his orgasm, slowing his thrusts until he reaches that original gentle pace. Finally, when he’s sated, he presses his lips to your forehead and whispers “I love you” one more time before pulling out with a shared whimper and falling onto his back. He quickly disposes of the condom and pulls you over to lie on his chest without a moment wasted.

You listen to his heart as it calms under your head while his hands idly run along your back. The words that have been lying in wait on your tongue since his confession by the bath finally spill over. “Why have you never made a move before?”

“You’ve always been off limits,” he says, trailing his fingers up and down your spine.

You pick up your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you. “Off limits?”

“You’re dangerous.” You scoff. “I can’t just fuck things up with you. I meet a girl on the road, and she decides she’s done with me, I can just leave her in Kansas or Utah or wherever. If I scare you off, I have to live with that screw up forever. Watch you moving on, falling in love with somebody else, knowing it could’ve been me. It was better just to leave you alone.” He clicks his tongue and smiles. “Guess, I’m really screwed now, huh?”

“So screwed,” you say, pulling yourself up to kiss him again.

“I’m going to run another bath, okay?” You nod and watch as he pads over to the still-full tub and drains the water. His back muscles ripple under his skin as he messes with the settings. When it’s mostly full again he comes back to carry you over.

The appeal of the large, open bathtub makes sense now as you bathe again with him beside you in the water. You shampoo and condition his hair with way too much product than is needed for the short strands. He kisses you as thanks. He “helps” you clean yourself purely for the privilege of touching you more. 

You dry off properly and put on your pajamas before getting in the bed this time, but only after you change the dirty sheets together. Turns out there’s a surplus in a nearby drawer with various woodsy or romantic designs. Dean insists on helping dry your hair, so you let him as you both sit on the pine tree bedspread. His movements are awkward but incredibly gentle. When he’s satisfied, he pulls you under the covers, and you hold each other as you drift to sleep.

His slowed heart rate has almost lulled you to sleep when you realize something is off. Even with the heater on and the heavy comforter, Dean, who is usually like a walking furnace, is freezing cold. You run your hand along his bare chest, but his skin is soft and dry from a fresh bath.

“Dean.” You shake him back awake. He comes to slowly, smiling when he sees you. “Dean, you’re freezing.”

His brow furrows like the very thought is unheard of to him, but he nods with half-shut eyes, squeezing your hand on his chest before he rises from the bed. He blindly reaches for his shirt on the floor before you realize too late what’s happening.

“Dean!”

Suddenly, he lifts in the air like he’s been strung up. A grunt is ripped from his throat as he reaches for his neck like something has grabbed him, and that’s when she appears.

Her hair is long and slick with ice, hiding her features as it crowds her face. She wears a buttoned, long-sleeve white shirt that is soaked through and a deep navy skirt that drips onto the floor. In one pale hand, she has Dean suspended by his neck.

Viola Lloyd.

“Dean!” you shout, climbing out of the bed yourself, but before you can touch the ground Viola juts out her free hand and you go flying backward. You slam into the wall with a crack that might have come from the wood or your ribs. Your breath is stolen from your lungs at the sudden impact, and wheezes fall from your lips in a panic as you fail to catch your breath. Using the bedframe as support, you pull yourself up to see over it.

You just barely catch a glimpse of Dean as he’s carried through the open door and into the slate-black winter’s night.

This was a ridiculous idea. Absolutely batshit stupid of you. If someone stumbled on you waiting out at the old picnic bench for a drug deal like some doped-up degenerate, your mother would lock you up like a princess in a tower.

You start biting your nails without thinking, a bad habit your mother has already scolded you for enough to last a lifetime, but she isn’t here right now. Thank God.

You’re considering the possibility that poor research has led to you waiting at the entirely wrong meet-up spot when you hear the rustling of footsteps coming from the direction of the school. Your body seizes like you’re being arrested at gunpoint. Then Eddie comes into view, and your heart flatlines.

He’s wearing a t-shirt for one of those metal bands he likes under the leather jacket and vest he wears daily like a wedding ring. Silver adorns his waist and hands in chains and rings. His curls bounce as he walks down the small decline to the clearing with an easy, careless stride.

He’s a vision.

Before he can notice the flush heating up your face, you turn your head to stare out at the foliage around you, urging your body to cooperate with you for once. He drops down onto the other side of the table, stealing back your attention as he releases his lunch box with a clunk and holds up a pink note between his fingers like a cigarette.

“You know, when I found this little guy in my locker this morning I would have never in a million years thought it was you summoning me to a midday rendezvous. All morning, I kept thinking to myself, what the hell does the Princess of Hawkins High want with me, Eddie Munson, because there’s no way it’s a baggie.” There’s a dramatic flare in his speech that’s signature to Eddie Munson. He talks with big gestures, like his hands can’t stand the idea of keeping still for a single word.

You realize too late that you’ve been too distracted with admiring him as he speaks to notice that he’s been waiting for you to respond. You jump to attention like you’ve been called on in class to answer a question.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to attack,” he says, clawing at the air like a bear.

“You’re late,” you say finally, meaning it as a statement not as reproach. Regret fills you immediately when your tone comes out more similar to that of a scolding teacher. This is a drug deal not an interview. Who cares if he’s late?

Oh, God. You’re at a drug deal.

The resurfacing panic is immediately quenched in confusion by the sight of Eddie standing with a flourish from the picnic bench. He touches his palm to his chest over his heart, hiding the other behind his back, and bends at the hip slightly in a bow. 

“Pardon my tardiness, Your Highness. Madame Gargoyle of the dreadful Science Department held me captive after third period for inglorious reasons I shall not plague thee with. I made my way here posthaste, but, alas, there is only so much a man can do when coming across a fiend in his journey.” Following his chivalrous speech, he peeks up at you under his brow, looking much like a dog waiting to be served a treat for a trick.

You laugh at the show, which brings a full grin to his face. He climbs back over the bench to sit down again, assured that you’re not scared of or mad at him. “She got on my ass again about my grades, and I swear to you I am trying, but it’s like every time I open that textbook I go cross-eyed.” He demonstrates by turning his eyes inward. It's astonishing how easily Eddie slips into treating you as a friend when you’ve hardly spoken a word to each other in your years of seeing him across classrooms and cafeterias.

“Mrs. Goyle is tough,” you say, untucking your anxious hands from between your knees in favor of setting them on the table. With them on display, you can’t seem to find out what to do with them until you clasp them together by interlocking your fingers.

Eddie lets out a puff of air with a roll of his eyes. “You say that like you don’t have an ‘A’ in every class. The gargoyle loves you.”

“She loves my dad, you mean. My work ethic isn’t actually that good,” you say, staring at the wood grain because having Eddie look at you with those big, brown eyes is like sitting under a spotlight. “It’s mostly privilege keeping me from drifting into ‘B’ territory.”

“Ah. So, the princess does have her shortcomings, and it’s not just us peasants with want for talent.” He slips into the faux-medieval dialect with ease that suggests practice. You’ve caught him reading fantasy books more than a few times.

“I really hate that nickname,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Hawkins High has a habit of giving out aliases you don’t ask for. Being called something like “Princess” only serves to remind you of what people expect of you. It clouds your own opinion of yourself to the point you can’t determine whether you should relish in or be ashamed of the fact that you set up this rendezvous with Eddie Munson.

“What, ‘princess?’ Yeah, no, right. Sorry. I totally get it. I’m none too fond of my own affectionately bestowed moniker.” He gestures vaguely in the air before his face like he could reveal the label of “Freak” by dispersing a magical veil.

The conversation lulls, and you know it’s meant to be your turn to speak. Talking is give and take, and right now you’re not doing a lot of giving.

“So, how much for one?” Another blunder, you’re sure from the second you open your mouth. You wince.

He nods, clicking his tongue like you’ve reminded him of something he’d forgotten, and flips open the metal lunchbox, pausing before he digs his hands around its contents. “One? Like an ounce or a bag? ‘Cause if I’m real with you, pr—” His body seizes like he literally chokes catching the word before it leaves his lips, eyes widening as he checks if you’ve caught him. Old habits die hard, but the gesture is sweet. He composes himself before finishing his thought. “If I’m real with you, I think an ounce is a bit much for your first foray. Not to be presumptuous or anything.”

“I’m pretty predictable, huh?” you say halfheartedly while picking at a loose chip of wood. There’s a reason you got the title of “Princess,” after all. Good girl with good grades and good habits and a good family with a good name.

“Didn’t say that,” Eddie covers quickly. “I was just making a, uh, educated guess.”

“Well, you’re right. This isn’t necessarily my thing,” you say, gesturing to the lunchbox on the table, realizing that the gesture seemingly includes Eddie and hoping that he doesn’t take it that way. He’s definitely “your thing,” not that he’s a thing.

“And, that’s totally cool. Little know fact, but I don’t actually partake much myself. Not one to ‘get high off my own supply.’ Uh, anyways.” He dips his hand into the lunchbox to present a bag of dry-looking buds. “I’ll give you half an ounce for twenty. I promise it’s a good deal. You’ll get a lot of mileage with this.” 

You diligently pull out your clutch to dig out a couple tens, feeling a bit loath to part with such a significant part of your allowance. 

Eddie watches you silently before speaking. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you over to the dark side?”

You flush, holding out the twenty dollars for him to grab. “It’s for a friend, actually.” A lie.

He freezes mid-motion at your answer, fingers clenched around the bills and, by extension, your hand. You try not to react to the contact, especially when he stares at you with furrowed brows. “I know your friends. I sell to your friends. Why would they send you off by your sweet lonesome to meet with The Freak?”

“I offered,” you say with too eager of a tone for it to pass as a good lie. Still, Eddie takes it, albeit with a confused flutter of his eyelashes as he sits back to tuck the money into his own beat-up leather wallet.

“You offered?” he questions after a moment of contemplation that obviously leads him nowhere productive, holding out the bag of weed to you. And just like that, your moment has finally come. Eddie’s tossed you the perfect pitch, and all you need to do is not drop the ball.

You take the proffered baggie with slow, hesitant movements. Holding it with as little contact as possible, you contemplate where the hell you’re supposed to put it. The pocket of your cheer sweater seems like a write-up waiting to happen, but you can’t stand the idea of it stinking up your bag for the rest of the day. Settling on neither, you lay the thing on your lap, pretending it’s not there as you elaborate.

“I wanted a chance to talk to you,” you say, softly as a voice carried on the wind. The implied “in private” lingers in the air, too heavy for you to say aloud but too light for him to pick up.

“You wanted to talk to me?” His jaw hangs comically at the idea.

You nod, taking the moment to think over a way of continuing without giving yourself away too quickly. “I really admire you.” The odd way it comes out sounds almost like a question.

Eddie shakes his head furiously in disbelief, curls swishing against his shoulders. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m not! Really!” you blurt before you realize you’re being way too loud. With recontained nerves, you continue, “Do you remember the Junior Talent Show? I was in seventh grade and you were in eighth. Everyone else was doing these lame acts because they were forced to participate, but then there was you and your band. You had this buzzcut and a whole pencil’s worth of eyeliner on your face, and you guys were all wearing these awful hand-painted T-shirts. You played guitar and sang this song that was so loud and energetic, and even when Principal Coleman pulled you off the stage after, you just grinned and laughed like you couldn’t care less . . . and I thought you were so cool.” When you look back up at Eddie after your ramblings, he’s frozen like a statue forged in fright by Medusa.

“Eddie?”

He comes to slowly like he’s being defrosted, so when he speaks it’s as if he’s working at half-capacity, none of that Eddie Munson flair in his voice. “You remember all that?”

“I spent the whole summer trying to find that song,” you say instead of answering with the obvious. You’d wasted so many hours pouring over vinyls and tapes that all the names and logos had started to blend together.

“Judas Priest. ‘Exciter.’”

Your jaw goes slack. “Judas Priest? I thought that was like a Christian rock band, because of the religious iconography.”

Eddie stares at you like you’re an alien, half in awe and half in disbelief. In a way, you might as well be to him. As far as Hawkins is concerned, you and Eddie are from two different worlds. “I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that, not only do you remember me, but you thought I was ‘cool?’”

“Still do. I’ve actually . . .” You suck in a deep breath before taking one last leap of faith. “I wanted to talk to you because I’ve actually had this huge, stubborn crush on you since that talent show, and I thought maybe we could . . . go out sometime?”

“Go out? You and me?” The unbelieving smile falls. The tone that replaces it reads like a joke, and although it hurts a bit, you try to remind yourself that this came out of left field for him. Of course, he’s acting with less tact. He didn’t have much tact to begin with.

You nod, a little fearful of how your voice might sound with your girlish hopes and dreams laid lovingly beneath the sword of Damocles. Eddie stands again, beginning to pace like he’s pondering the best way to break your heart.

He pauses, arms crossed and facing away from you. “We don’t even know each other.”

“I know enough to like you. You’re sweet. You’re funny. You look after people, like those little freshmen you adopted this year when Tommy H and his goons were being absolute assholes to them. Not to mention, you’re killer on the guitar.” You add the last point in a weak hope that the flattery will bring back the jovial Eddie instead of the Mr. Hyde version standing before you.

He spins around toward you. “But I hardly know anything about you other than,” he begins to count off on his fingers, “you’re smart, you’re nice, you're way too good for me, and you’re in almost every club this damn school has to offer. Oh, and for some reason you like me?”

The “too good for me” brings a bit of light back to the quickly forming nightmare, like a gentle breath blown on embers. “Isn’t that the point of dating? Getting to know each other?”

Eddie bounces his head left and right as he struggles and fails to contradict you. Instead, he tries another tactic. “What, and your folks are okay with you wanting to date the town freak?”

“They don’t know,” you admit meekly. You don’t have to mention the fact that they’d never allow it. Everyone knows the reputation that comes with the name Munson, him more than any of them.

He spins in a circle, hands splayed out in front of him. “Of course, they don’t know! Because it’s absolutely insane! They’d probably rip you a new one and send the mob after me, which I can tell you is not fun. Not to mention the fact that we’d be an absolute match made in hell. You’re the fucking Princess of Hawkins High. You should be dating someone like Steve Harrington until you tie the knot and have sweet little nuclear kids in some culdesac. Not schmoozing with the likes of me in a trailer park.”

“Maybe I don’t want that.” Your body begins to tremble so badly you tuck your hands back under the table, hoping to hide them, but only reminding yourself of the ziploc bag lying in your lap. You watch your fingers as they pick at the corners of the plastic. The contrast of the dead, dried buds against the pristine white sleeves of your sweater make you sick to your stomach.

“Sure, you don’t! You want to be unpredictable. You want to dip your toes into the dark side until the buzz wears off, and you come crawling back home to dear old mom and dad to repent for your sins.”

“That’s not true,” you whisper, voice constricted, and you realize that you’re on the verge of crying, as if this couldn’t get any more humiliating.

“Maybe not, but you’ve got to admit this is crazy, right?” Eddie talks to you like you’re in on the joke, and not the butt of it, like he’s not crushing you and your heart into stardust. “I mean, look at you, and look at me. It’s like oil and water. We don’t mix!”

“Eddie, please, just stop!” you shout, loud enough he freezes from his incessant pacing to stare at you for once, dead silent. “I get it, okay? I get it. This whole thing was just a stupid mistake.” The baggie is blurry in your hands as the tears start to slip down your cheeks. You keep your head ducked as you stumble off the bench, setting the dreadful bag on the weather wood table before you march back to school.

“Hey, no. Wait! I didn’t—That was harsh. I’m sorry.” Eddie’s pleas go unanswered.

You wish you’d never left that stupid note in his locker.

Next Chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: You’ll never tell Dean how you feel because he’ll never settle for you. That is, until he realizes he’s just as desperately in love as you are.

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Content: no Y/N, friends to lovers, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, 8418 words

Chapters:

1 - Casanova - You - 1120 words

2 - One Day - Dean - 693 words

3 - Changed - You - 546 words

4 - Loverboy - Dean - 502 words

5 - Gone Wrong - You - 1567 words

6 - Eyes Closed - Dean - 796 words

7 - Underwater - You - 83 words

8 - Lifeline - Dean - 524 words

9 - Eyes Open - You - 936 words

10 - No Better Time - Dean - 857 words

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: A one night stand has Dean Winchester considering becoming an honest man.

Genre: Fluff, Self-Inflicted Angst, Smut

Content: no Y/N, Dean POV, one night stands, strangers to lovers, Reluctant Wingman!Sam, canon-typical violence, 9432 words

Chapters:

1 - Monster of the Week - 1526 words

2 - Georgia Peaches - 1853 words

3 - Falling Into Place - 1513 words

4 - Sweet Like Candy - 2606 words smut

5 - Under My Skin - 768 words