#eddie's mirror is gone...

[chronicowboy]

Eddie isn't sure what he's expecting when Buck meets him at the airport. Red-rimmed eyes, splotchy face, hunched shoulders probably. Not this. Distant eyes, blank face, straight-backed. He'd been braced to catch Buck as soon as he landed, had spent his whole flight locking every bit of his own grief away to be thought about at a later date, let the guilt pool in his chest instead.

I should've been there, I could've -

He'd been ready to catch Buck, but it's Eddie who falls into Buck's waiting arms. Eddie who tears up. Eddie who clutches at the back of Buck's shirt like a scared child. And it's Buck sweeping his hands up and down Eddie's back, holding him together, murmuring:

"It's okay. I've got you. It's not your fault."

Eddie doesn't cry in LAX. His grief is a private thing. Always has been. He locks it into his bedroom and lets it out behind closed doors. But Buck is the safest space he's ever had, so he lets himself break a little. Lets himself shake apart under Buck's hands until he can ground himself with a deep breath at the junction of Buck's neck and shoulder. Until he can stand on his own.

Buck looks at him, eyes searching, deepest of furrows between his brows, so devastatingly gentle. And Eddie kind of wants to fucking scream at him for being okay. He'd needed to take care of Buck. He'd needed to have something to do. But now Buck is looking at him like he can fix him, and Eddie wants him to. So badly. But Buck knows Eddie's grief is for South Bedford Street, not LAX, so all he does is lead Eddie out to the parking lot.

It's a silent drive. Buck tells him the details of the funeral. Clinical. Sparing. And Eddie watches Buck's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. Listens to the creak of leather under an unyielding grip. And he sees it then. The countdown over Buck's head, ticking away steadily. He's grateful in a way.

They pull up to the house silently. The engine falls quiet. And they stare at the door. The door Bobby had appeared on the other side of just a few months ago for a goodbye dinner. At the house. The house Bobby made coffee in when Eddie couldn't stomach being alone. At the home. The home Bobby helped him build in every way.

Buck gets out of the car. Eddie follows. Buck unlocks the door. Eddie locks it behind them. Buck disappears into the kitchen. Eddie pauses.

Can't quite separate Bobby from kitchens in his mind. And it's not like Bobby ever cooked anything in Eddie's kitchen, but there's some stupid grief-crazed part of his brain that thinks he'll find Bobby at the stove for a last supper. A parting gift to Eddie. Because Bobby was always too good. Too generous. Too understanding. When it came to Eddie.

When he finally makes it in there, Buck is stood staring into the fridge. Vacant. Eddie joins him, presses their shoulders together as hard as he can without knocking Buck away, and looks at Buck's fingers curled loosely around two beer bottles. Eddie knows it's not the early hour staying his hand.

It feels wrong. To find comfort in alcohol at Bobby's expense.

Carefully, Eddie unpicks Buck's fingers from the bottles and watches as Buck's arm falls limp to his side with such weight it bounces off his hip. Swings once, twice, stops suddenly. Eddie grabs the water filter. Closes the fridge.

"Sit down," he whispers. Sure, steady.

Buck sits down.

Eddie grabs two glasses. Fills them with water. Leaves the filter on the side. Who cares? Who fucking cares? Takes the glasses over to the table in shaking hands. Spills only a little. Sits opposite Buck. Stares into his cup.

"I didn't say it back," Buck rasps eventually.

Eddie picks his head up with great effort. Ony manages it because he wants to see what hurt he's caused. Their missing medic. Absent in their hour of need.

"What?"

"B-he-he told me he loved me." Buck's eyes go wide. Horrified. Haunted. Hollow. "He t-told me he l-loved me, and I could-couldn't say it back be-because that would mean..." Buck chokes a sob into his hand. "I thought we'd fix it. I-I-I thought we'd find a way. We-we always do. I couldn't say it-it. I didn't want t-to let him go. And now, he's..." Buck's face crumples first. Then, the rest of his body follows, folding in on itself in the chair until he looks almost as small as Christopher had the first time he'd ever sat at this table. "He's d-gone, and he doesn't know I love him."

"He knows, Buck." Eddie's hand curls into a fist on the tabletop. Doesn't know what to do. For all he'd been ready to hold Buck together, he's not sure how. "He knows you love him, Buck. You told him every single day."

"But I never said the words!" he snaps. Pure rage. Pure guilt. He looks up at Eddie. Blue eyes wet and red and wild. The rage and the guilt seeps away, leaves only pure grief. "I never said the words."

He sobs then. Doesn't choke it down. Lets it out. Eddie reacts like it's instinct even though he's never done this before. Just somehow knows in his bones what to do when it comes to Buck.

He stands, rounds the table, slides a hand into Buck's hair, one on his shoulder, pulls Buck's face into his stomach and holds him there, holds him together. Buck's fingers tangle themselves in Eddie's belt loops. A lifeline. And Eddie holds him tight as he can.

"All the times you cooked for him. All the times he cooked for you. The two of you cooking together. You had your own language, Buck. He knows you love him."

And all Eddie hears is: you're gonna stand there with a hundred-something bodies on you and tell me I'm not fit for duty. Did Bobby know Eddie loved him too?

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Eddie drops his cheek to the top of Buck's head. Stops holding Buck together and starts holding on. Buck's hands grasp at his hips, twist into the back of his shirt just like Eddie's had at the airport.

And all Eddie hears is: I just want to make sure you don't think you have to lose everything before you can allow yourself to feel anything.

[chelseeebe]

gimme a hand

okay so i saw a silly tiktok abt how guys take nudes wrong and thought our lovely best friend reader could help eddie take some !! i am a little tipsy so pls excuse any mistakes

mdni. 18+. smut. like, literally just smut. fem!reader x eddie. modern au

“so.. how are things with you and.. whatshername?” clicking your fingers in his face.

eddie scoffs, batting your hand away, “chrissy is her name,” correcting your childish behaviour, “and it’s good, we’ve been.. texting a little,” shrugging nonchalantly.

you and eddie had been best friends for years, though these hang outs were few and far between now. both too busy with the perils of adult life to sit around and smoke weed all day, like you used to.

that meant that your relationship had skewed a bit, no longer as close as you once were. though you still tried to feign an interest in his, mostly nonexistent, love life.

he understood though, your life was far too interesting to care about the very small roster of girls he was seeing.

“texting?” you exclaim, stubbing the embers of the joint out into the ashtray, “so you haven’t seen her since?”

eddie shakes his head, realising that what he had thought was an exciting update, was actually just a pathetic retelling of a long text thread.

“i think we’re just.. testing the waters,” brushing off your disappointment. he contemplates even telling you anymore but what kind of a best friend would he be if he didn’t at least tell you all the details. “she sent me pictures the other day,” wriggling his eyebrows.

“pictures?” a slight mocking tone to your voice that he doesn’t like, “what kinda pictures?”

his face scrunches up, cheeks flaming red, as if it wasn’t obvious. “you know.. naughty ones.”

you whistle, blowing the air from your cheeks in the most sarcastic manner, “naughty pictures.. wow eddie, you’re really moving up in the world. did you send any back?”

his head dips, regretful of ever sharing this with you. you had never had a lack of choice for guys lining up for you. even back in high school. of course you wouldn’t understand.

“no..” shrugging again, “i don’t.. don’t know how.”

“you don’t know how to send nudes?” utter shock rippling through your voice, “didn’t i teach you anything?”

“not how to send nudes!” he hits back, getting increasingly frustrated that you’d rather mock him than help him get laid for once.

“i can help you if you want,” you offer, “i don’t have to watch.. i can just.. guide you?” proposing the question as if it were a completely standard conversation for you two to be having.

“really?” his eyes bright and full of hope.

eddie really liked chrissy, she was sweet and the times they had hung out, they got on well. he just wasn’t equipped to match her flirting, afraid he’d overthink himself into losing her.

“sure,” you smile, grabbing his phone as you stand from the couch, “come on,” beckoning for him to follow you down the corridor to the bathroom.

you bundle into the trailers tiny bathroom, poised in front of the mirror with his phone in hand.

“you stand here..” you instruct, guiding him by the shoulders, “you need to get hard,” grinning as you look at him through the mirror, “i’ll stand outside and just.. tell you what to do, okay?”

eddie’s too high for this, wondering how you’d gone from a joint and a couple of beers to now helping him sext the girl he liked.

you disappear outside, shoving his phone into his chest, the knob clicking quietly as the realisation of what the hell he was doing sets in.

“so..” he poises, swiping onto the camera, posing himself in the dirty mirror, “pull my pants down, right?” wanting to make sure that he got nothing wrong.

“yeah, but not all the way, just like.. a little bit.”

okay, he thinks. tugging his sweatpants down just beneath his balls, his boxers following suit. he was getting hard just thinking about it, the fact that you were instructing him what to do wasn’t helping.

his fingers wraps around the base of his cock, pumping his fist a few times, stifling the groan that had settled in his throat.

this was already weird enough, he didn’t need to make it weirder.

“okay..” his voice quivering, “what now?”

you tut, “pull your shirt up.. or off, it looks bad otherwise.”

eddie does as you ask, taking his shirt off and tossing it into the floor with the rest of his dirty clothes. he peers at the image through the screen, inwardly cringing at how stupid he looked.

“i don’t know,” though his dick was already stiff, aching for him to continue. “i look stupid,” he frowns, attempting to position the phone differently, although nothing seemed to help his pathetic stature.

“no you don’t,” your voice rings through the door, “now you gotta pose it.. make it look good, sexy.”

his eyes squeeze shut, wishing you’d stop talking with that low growl in your voice. this was for chrissy’s benefit, not his. getting off to the sound of your voice while trying to arouse another girl was not the plan.

eddie exhales, opening his eyes to reposition the phone, closer to the mirror. his fist begging to move and finish the job.

nothing helped, in fact, it looked worse than before. chrissy’d block him if he dared sent anything like this.

fuck, he felt like a pervert. this was wrong. twisted.

“have you done it?” you call.

“no,” he gulps, frowning at the image of himself in the mirror.

you huff, knuckles wrapping against the door, “i’m gonna come in, okay?” giving him no time to think before you appear next to him in the mirror.

your eyes fall straight to his cock, widening every so slightly, “wow.. okay,” chuckling awkwardly as you snap back into it. “you have to..” your hand lowers his phone, straightening the camera position for him.

his breath is jagged, on the edge of exploding and splattering all over his bathroom. whatever buzz he had had from the weed had dissipated, replaced by the hazy tingly sensation of your hand near his cock.

“and then..” you look to him, in person this time, not through the safety of the mirror, before wrapping your fingers around the ones that were still lingering around his cock. “do this..” voice trailing off into a low whisper, using his fist to pump his already leaking cock.

a strangled gasp leaves his mouth, heat searing through his body. mind too fuzzy to truly comprehend the shit he was seeing and feeling.

the heat of your body presses against his back, delicate fingers still travelling the length of his cock, “film it,” not once letting your eyes fall from the side of his face while his stay firmly on the mirror in front.

maybe this way he could pretend it wasn’t real, that he was just watching some video and you weren’t actually jerking him off by-proxy.

eddie, ever obedient, presses the record button, sighing into his phone as your his hand continues to move.

his knees almost buckle, kept afloat by the sound of you panting into his ear. it was almost too much, his brain collapsing into itself as your hand takes over, ignoring the phone in his hand to continue making him whine and quiver like that.

the weight of your body presses him into the cold china basin, eyes travelling from his face to his dick and right back up again.

you could’ve told him to jump right now and he would’ve. other hand reaching around to grab onto whatever part of you he could get a grip on.

your lips trace against his neck, lingering against the skin. he couldn’t keep the phone straight, the video would just be some big blur of him groaning and the sink. not that it matters. not while you’re touching him.

“is this good?” you ask, breath tickling against his ear.

eddie nods rapidly, “good.. so good,” fingers twisting around your shirt as his eyes flutter closed. “fuck,” he gasps, the phone slipping from his hand onto the counter when your thumb circles the tip of his dick. an otherworldly feeling he had never been able to feel before.

“yeah?” you grit, pulling his hand, signalling for him to turn. his bones were jelly, body mailable and under your control. his back now pressed against the sink, foreheads pressed together.

one hand holds onto your hip while the other finds your cheek, lazily trying to connect your lips. your knee slides between his legs, spreading them just enough for your other hand to creep between and grab his balls.

“ohh shit,” eddie wails, kissing at your bottom lip, sucking at the skin.

nothing felt real, waiting for his alarm to pull him out of this fucked dream to a sticky puddle and a new perspective on your friendship.

your expert fingers fondle his balls while the other fists his dick, pre-cum making your fingers glisten and move with ease.

his throat squeaks, the most pitiful noise a grown man could’ve made, his bottom lip still latched onto yours.

ten years of friendship and yet the two of you had never even kissed before. wishing you wouldn’t have wasted so much time on actually doing it. a newfound adoration for the sweet taste of your lips and the friction of your palm rubbing against his cock.

“i’m gonna cum,” he babbles, stomach flipping, waves of pleasure crashing through his tingling limbs.

you don’t respond to his whining, your nose brushes over his as his breaths become shallow and staggered. a iron clad grip on your shirt as he teeters over the edge, hips stuttering into your palm.

“ohh fuck,” eddie mewls, bursting all over your hand, “shit.. fuck, oh god,” your eyes dark, gazing down at your hand still wrapped around him, somewhat proud of what you’ve achieved.

he lets go of his hold on your body, hurriedly trying to find the counter to ground himself. his head a million miles away on mars, his lack of thoughts disrupted by the sound of the water running.

chest still heaving as he braves a look at you, watching his release swirl down the drain. you’re chewing on your bottom lip, a sudden realisation that you had just made your best friend cum maybe. he doesn’t really want to ask. hoping you won’t regret it.

eddie picks up his phone, stopping the recording, his thumb shooting straight to the tiny trash can until you grab his wrist.

“don’t delete it,” a fire within your eyes, twisting the screen in your direction, “i wanna watch.”’

his finger hovers over the play button, looking to you though your eyes are trained on the screen, waiting for him to press play.

the video starts, shaky footage as the audio of his pathetic grunts and gasps fill the tiny bathroom. eddie can’t bring himself to watch, forcing himself to watch you rather than the video.

you’re smiling to yourself, smug at the sight of you making him crumble. he wants to be embarrassed, can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and yet, he doesn’t turn it off.

“maybe don’t send that..” you remark, finding his eye, that mischievous sparkle that eddie hadn’t seen in years, reappearing.

he needed to feel you, in the way that you had felt him. cock already reawakening when your lips twitch into a smirk.

shit.

[cheer-nympho]

Thinking about my idea with Steve’s mom telling him when he was little that angels put beauty marks on people who are too pretty to be put out into the world- that the more marks, the more beautiful you are, but no one can see you truly until they count every single mark. And Steve is covered in them, which means he was too beautiful even for heaven to bear.

So every night before they went away, she’d snuggle up next to him and begin counting his beauty marks as she told the story once again. Finishing her count with a kiss to the ones under his left eye before slowly unwrapping her arms from him as he struggled to keep his eyes open,

and then she’d be gone. And he never know for how long.

But he could always stand in the mirror and try to count his marks like she did, although he’d never get them all.

And maybe one night Eddie starts absently tracing the marks, connecting them like constellations across Steve’s back as they lay together in bed. Starts counting under his breath as Steve feels his eyes struggling to contain the tears he know won't make sense.

[hellfire--cult]

🩷 Steve x Reader - Fluff, friends to lovers, modern!au

wc: 1.5k

So what if you used a TikTok trend so you could have an excuse to kiss your best friend (aka, the guy you have liked for years now) for the first time ever? Would he reciprocate?

a/n: It came to me in a vision of melatonin and yearning, and steve edits, this is not proofread, i wrote from my heart and my want to kiss this man stupid

⚡

Deep breath in, and out.

You could do this. You planned it out. It’s the perfect scenario for you to make a move and then play it off as a joke if it didn’t turn out as you expected and wanted. It would suck if it didn’t turn out the way you wanted, but that’s a heartbreak you could learn to live with later. You will never know what could truly happen if you don’t take this chance.

Your best friend had gone to the toilet, and you were staring at the big screen at the very far back of the drive-in cinema. It was a usual setup for the two of you. You had the bags of fast food at your feet, ready to be eaten, as the movie played in the background. This time, it was different. You were planning on doing something that would change your life forever, and it could make you lose your best friend or change the friendship into something more. Something you wanted.

You took his phone out of the phone stand that he stuck on the dashboard for GPS purposes, and you put up yours. You searched for your camera and selected the video setting. This was a crazy idea, and maybe immature, but you had a safety cushion if worse were to happen. You fixed your hair and you grabbed your purse, taking out your lip oil to put some on your lips. Your heart was in your throat as you looked at yourself in the small mirror that was on the passenger’s seat. A mirror, he put little battery-powered led lights on, just for you.

You were sweating, or at least that’s what it felt like. It was cold yet suffocating at the same time and you weren’t sure how to handle the situation. Were you being stupid? Were you hopeful for nothing? You didn’t know. You didn’t, and that’s why you had to take this chance. You didn’t, and that was also destroying you because, sure you could lose your best friend, but maybe you could also miss the chance of something great just because you didn’t take the leap.

You put the lip oil back in your purse, putting up the visor and turning off the lights from inside the car. You turned around in time to see him coming back from the bathroom, running a hand through his hair. This was it. You quickly pressed record on your phone, and the door opened as you took a deep breath in for courage.

“There was an old dude definitely looking at my penis.” Steve said as he closed the door, groaning as he got comfortable in his seat. You giggled despite your nerves, scratching the back of your neck.

“There are three possibilities. He wanted to have it like yours, he wanted to have it in him or…” You dragged out, to which he looked at you with a frown.

“Or?”

“Maybe he was short-sighted.” His eyes widened, jaw dropping in disbelief as he stared at you.

“Are you implying I have a small dick?”

“I never said that.” He was about to say something, but his eyes caught your phone on the stand, and that it was recording. He tilted his head to the side, leaning forward a bit towards it with a squint.

“Why are you recording?” He asked, and you could feel your body shutting off. It felt as if every limb froze in place and that if you moved, you would detonate an atomic bomb or something. You weren’t responding, and Steve was fixing his hair on the camera, like he always did.

Three years. Three years of being best friends with Steve Harrington. Meeting through your coworker Eddie, who presented Steve to you as a potential bachelor, as he put it. But Steve never showed signs of anything more than friendship. You weren’t sure if you gave any indication you wanted more than that, either, but you couldn’t be sure. There were many times when you got flustered and stuttered when Steve complimented you or said something nice. 

But now, the time to execute your plan had finally arrived and you were shitting your pants. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe you shouldn’t even try. Maybe you should back away. But then he looked at you with a smile that just melted your insides, his freckles moving when his cheeks went up. 

And you leaned in.

Or, well, clashed in. You went in quickly, your hands grabbing his face to keep him steady as you moved forward. Your lips harshly found his, yet it felt so good. They were soft, tasted like mint thanks to those Tic Tacs he always had on himself. You felt your ears ringing, loudly, almost like a fork scratching on a pan. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed since you leaned in, but you had to pull away and see the damage you had caused. He didn’t move. He didn’t kiss back. You didn’t know if he was shocked or if he figured it was a challenge people were doing on TikTok. 

‘Kissing your best friend for the first time challenge.’

You slowly pulled away, retreating your hands and painfully opening your eyes again, already with a wince on your face. He was wide-eyed, his lips puckered up because of the sudden kiss, his hands up in the air, not really aiming anywhere. You felt your heart already plummeting to the ground as he didn’t make any moves, as he didn’t say anything. You had to pretend everything was okay. You had to. You couldn’t afford to lose Steve.

“So–” Your words were cut off when two strong hands cradled your face, pulling you into a deep kiss, a desperate kiss, a rough kiss filled with tension. His lips moved against yours, angrily, and you held onto his wrists, your faces over the middle of the console. Your entire body heated up as the gears in your head turned and turned, but his lips were making it impossible to focus. Lips you have been waiting to taste for so long.

You melted more and more into the kiss, because he was kissing you the way no one else ever did. No one kissed you this way and made you feel like a goddess. Like you were one of the most exquisite things they’ve ever tried in their life. You were ruined after this one. Completely.

He pulled away slowly, the smacking of lips echoing in the car, his lips still brushing against yours as he breathed heavily. Maybe it was your imagination, but you felt him trembling against you.

“Please tell me this is not some stupid trend or challenge.” Your eyes found his, and he looked desperate and hopeful. Those eyes that were extremely expressive and would not let him hide his feelings at all. How did you not notice before? He looked at you like this in the past. He looked at you with these eyes that just said, ‘God, I want you.’

“That was going to be my excuse if it didn’t work–”

“Oh, thank fuck!” And he kissed you again, and this time, you didn’t fight the smile. His right hand went to the back of your neck, while the left one had its fingertips running through your scalp. Your hands were gripping the front of his shirt desperately, pulling him in for more and more. Soon, his tongue met yours, and it was everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you fantasized about. 

The temperature in the car became heavy, the windows started to become foggy and you felt suffocated but in need of more. You wanted more. He wasn’t far behind, and you noticed by how his left hand moved to grip your waist tightly, trying to move you closer but the console was not letting you. He pulled away, his breath sharp on your lips.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. Move to the back, please, please, please–” You bit your lip to hold back a moan at his begging with those puppy dog eyes of his. You nodded and pecked his lips, the butterflies making a turmoil inside your stomach as you moved to climb to the back. You sat down on the backseat, and Steve was literally shoving himself to the back before you stopped him.

“Wait! I’m still recording!” You pointed at the phone, and Steve turned and did an ‘oh’ sound before grabbing it. He pointed the front camera his way, and he was flushed, red on the face, eyes glistening with happiness and lust.

“Hi, I’m Steve Harrington. It is 10:42 PM on May 12th of 2025, and today is one of the best days of my life because I finally kissed the girl I had a crush on for years. Bye.”

The video cuts off with you going into a fit of laughter. When you posted the video to TikTok, it went viral. The song Electric Love playing, the kiss happens when the drop starts, and then Steve’s commentary later on. Eddie, of course, commented.

‘Cute, but I vomited.’

🩷

a/n: this tiktok trend repopped in my tiktok and i just, ths is very steve coded

i wanna kiss steve so bad

[ashwhowrites]

Ash! Goddess of words! Siren of one shots. My shayla! I’m so happy you’re back lovely. I missed you and your wonderful writing!

If this request is too much or icky or ANYTHING like that just ignore it and take my eternal devotion and happiness you have returned.

Eddie’s always been the utmost gentleman. Gentle, caring, loving, soft. You both cried the first time you made love. And that’s what it was. It was too gentle and beautiful to be called anything vulgar. And it was that way every time. But you overhear some girls in the hideout bathroom talking about when they hooked up with Eddie (before you and he met). The stories they tell are of wild, dirty nights. He called them dirty names, degraded and manhandled them in a way that made your knees weak even as you begin to worry. Is Eddie settling? Are you not hot enough? Does he not want you the way he wanted those girls? It all comes to a head later that night when Eddie tries to initiate. Eddie is shocked. He reassures you: he’s been holding back because he wants to be perfect for you. And then…he fucks you for the first time. Rough, desperate and saying things that would make even his hideout groupies blush.

I gave this my best shot! I truly hope you love it and it's smutty enough!! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Like a groupie

⚠️smut- degrading words, uses of cuffs and leather belts, choking

Just by looking at Eddie, Y/N was shocked by how sweet and gentle he was. She thought he'd be rough around the edges, but clearly, she was judging a book by its cover. Not that she was only interested in Eddie for his dark and edgy looks. He was the sweetest boy she'd ever been with. He was a gentleman in the streets and the sheets, which she loved.

She remembered when they first had sex. How slow, gentle, and intimate it was. He made her feel things she had never felt, and he was good at what he did. She never gave a second thought to their sex life; why would she? It was clear it was amazing, and neither had anything to complain about.

But then she overheard some girls whispering in the hideout bathroom. Y/N knew Eddie used to sleep around with some girls after shows; that was all before her, so she didn't care. At least, that's what she thought before she heard them describe how he was in bed.

It was the complete opposite of what she knew. These girls were talking about the nastiest things that Eddie said and did. He sounded rough, demanding, and dominant. It didn't sound like the same person to her. How could he compliment how gorgeous she was as he slowly inched inside of her, yet ram himself fully into these girls while slapping their skin and making them beg for a release?

One girl talked about how he had her bent over the very sink they stood in front of, his hand yanking her hair as he forced her to yell out his name. Y/N was slightly disgusted with herself for being turned on by the thought. Or how he edged the other girl six times before she could even think about cumming. The girls talked about handcuffs, belts, masks, bondage, gags, and anything on the shelf at a sex store. Where did Eddie hide all of these things? He never once spoke about toys or adding anything to the bedroom.

Was she too boring? Did he think she wouldn't be interested in it? Was he not as attracted to her? Did he not have this raging, animalistic desire to destroy her like he did with these girls? She waited until the girls left, leaving the stall as she washed her hands and looked at herself in the mirror.

~

Eddie had adrenaline pumping through his veins as he drove them to his place. He always got a huge rush after performing. It's when he felt most confident. They walked into the trailer, Wayne gone as usual. Upon seeing the empty trailer, Eddie was fast to slip his arms around Y/N's waist as he pushed her back against him.

He smiled against her ear, kissing it softly. "Looks like we are home alone."

Y/N focused on how his arms were wrapped around her. A soft and caring hold, loose enough that she could step out. Not tight like he had her trapped, and forcing her to feel his growing hard-on as he whispered things in her ear.

She snapped out of her thoughts as his lips moved around her neck, kissing her slowly and softly.

"You okay?" Eddie asked, pulling out of her neck as he turned her chin to look at him. The small move made her thighs clench; it was the matter that he moved her the way he wanted.

"Can I ask you something?" She asked, turning herself around to face him. His arms still wrapped around her, and his brown eyes were eager for her to talk.

"I overheard some girls you've slept with before," Eddie closed his eyes as she finished the sentence, "It's not what you think!" Y/N quickly said. Eddie was even more curious about where the conversation was heading when he opened his eyes. "Well, I guess in a way I'm jealous about what they got to experience."

Eddie blinked a few times as he tried to understand what was going on. He shook his head as he looked at her. "I don't know what that means."

Y/N sighed, "They were talking about how you manhandled them. How you had them crying and begging. Their body are sore and exhausted, but they don't care. You owned those girls," Y/N explained. Not caring if she sounded crazy or not.

"I'm sorry," Eddie said as he unwrapped his arms from her. He used his hands to run over his face. "You're jealous of how I had sex with groupies?"

"Yes!" Eddie looked at her, puzzled, as she practically screamed it in his face. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love how we have sex. But you don't get that way with me. Do you think I'm too boring sex-wise? Or do you not desire me as bad?"

"Absolutely not," Eddie said. "I desire you in a way I've never desired before. And that's why it's different," he said softly, leaning down as he put a finger under her chin. "I want to take my time with you. Touch every part of you. Soak in the feeling of you around me. With them, it was just a quick release. I love you so I fuck you like I do."

"What if I asked you to fuck me like you hated me?" She whispered, licking her lips as his eyes darkened.

Her words were quick to send Eddie in the mood. His jeans were instantly tighter than before as he looked down at her. The way she stared up at him with submission.

"I'd say," he said, leaning down as if he was going to press his lips against her waiting ones. "Get on your fucking knees."

Y/N's eyes widened at his words. It was like a switch had happened in his eyes. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen, almost like it was another man in front of her. She went to press her lips against his, but his hand harshly covered her mouth. She puffed air through her nose as he put his other hand on the top of her head and began shoving her to the floor.

She obeyed, sinking down to her knees. She waited until he removed his hands to look up at him. She was almost embarrassed by how soaked she felt between her thighs. She had no idea what to do next, so she watched him for a demand.

"What? You're so stupid that I must tell you what to do?" He spat, and she shivered at his words. "Why else would you be on your knees?" She watched his hands go down to work on his buckle, easily slipping it through the hoops. "Open your mouth," he said. She opened her mouth, tongue out as she watched him pull down his jeans just low enough to get his cock out. She didn't get a warning before he pushed his whole cock inside her mouth. Forcing her to gag on it. He held her head right against him.

She breathed through her nose. She felt her eyes watering as the tip of his cock was hitting the back of her throat. He slid out, keeping his hands on her head. He gave her time to catch her breath for a second before he slid his cock back in.

"Who would've thought a clueless girl like you knew how to suck cock," he snickered, roughly fucking her throat. She moaned around him, pressing her thighs together as she tried to ease the ache.

She took the assault for as long as she could, tears pouring down her face as her knees dug into the carpet. She gasped for air as he shoved her head off of him. Her spit still connecting them as his cock dripped.

"Fuck, Eddie," she horsely laughed. She was glad she woke up this side of him. She was so shocked at how much he had been hiding.

"Take off your clothes and stay right here until I call you," he said, harshly grabbing her chin as he forcibly shoved his lips against hers.

The kiss was short but had the power to take her breath away.

She began to strip off her shirt as he walked around her, and she turned to watch him disappear into the bedroom, belt in his hands. Anticipation filled her as she stripped herself bare as fast as she could.

She was sitting there for nearly ten minutes when he called her name. She practically ran to the room, excited as she made it to the doorway. She froze as he held up his hand. He sat on his bed, boxers loose on his hips as he leaned back on his elbows.

"Crawl to me," he demanded, using two fingers to call her over. She gulped as she went back on her knees. Crawling towards the bed as he watched. He smirked as he took in how gorgeous she looked crawling towards him. She made it to the end of the bed, waiting for the next move.

"Can you see me?" he asked. She nodded, taking in his shirtless body. She licked her lips as her eyes traced his tattoos. She loved the dark ink against his pale skin. "Good."

She watched as he removed his boxers, his hard cock bouncing up. "Spit on it," he demanded. She quickly kneeled up and spat on his cock, watching as it dripped down to his balls. "Sit."

She sat with a sigh as he used her spit to wet his cock, using it as lube as he began to jerk himself. She frowned as he pleasured himself, his eyes locked on her as he bucked into his hand. She was aching so bad, and her body was burning without any relief. At this point, she began throbbing.

But she had this feeling she wasn't supposed to ask for anything. Everything was turning her on. She was falling even more in love with her boyfriend as he fisted his cock to her.

"Such a pretty girl," he praised, "Can't believe my girlfriend wanted to be fucked like a groupie. Like a quick and useless fuck." She whined as her hips bucked.

He puffed air through his nose as he felt himself getting close. The small breaks in between her sucking him off to touching himself didn't do anything to make him last longer. "Come here," he said through puffs of air.

She quickly moved forward. He sat up, his hand digging into her hair as he yanked her head back. His busy hand worked on his cock as he placed the tip right against her bottom lip. She gasped as spurts of his cum landed all over her mouth, nose, and eyes. He mindlessly came all over her face, her roots burning as the grip on her hair never loosened.

She couldn't help but lick all around her lips as she moaned at the taste of his cum. He panted as he finished, scooping up cum from her nose as he shoved his fingers into her mouth. She happily sucked his fingers clean, then he did it again. She moaned as he fed her his cum, not stopping until his cum was smeared into her skin and covering her tongue.

"Damn good slut," he praised, releasing his grip. Her head fell, but she was quick to pick it up.

"On the bed."

She prayed this time she'd get some relief. She crawled on the bed, gasping as she felt a hand crack down on her ass. His hands were on her, quick, grabbing her body and flipping her on her back.

"Arms up," he said, handcuffs appearing out of nowhere. Her arms flew up, and he chuckled at her eagerness. He cuffed her hands together. His face was close to hers, and she ached to kiss him.

"Eddie?" The softness and urgency in her voice made his eyes snap to her, his fingers frozen on the cuffs. He looked down at her dearly, filled with love and worry. He was nervous; had he gone too far?

"Yes, you okay?"

She smiled at his words, "I just want you to kiss me."

He smiled, leaning down as he pressed his lips against hers. He gave her a slow and passionate kiss that felt as if it lasted forever.

He pulled away, clicking the cuffs. He placed his lips on her chest, kissing down her body until his lips met her soaked cunt.

"So so wet," he said to himself, sticking out his tongue as he licked between her folds. She shivered at the contact, feeling the smallest bit of relief as he ran his tongue up and down. She craved to dive her hands through his curls but that was impossible. Eddie enjoyed the way her body kept twitching with every stroke of his tongue. His hands ran up her body to yank on her nipples. She squealed as he harshly yanked and twisted her nipples, but her wetness continued to build as his tongue remained busy.

Her back arched as he pushed two fingers inside of her, knuckles deep as she felt his rings inside of her. He wasn't slow or gentle with his movements. Roughly shoving his fingers in and out as he moved his free hand to add attention back to her clit.

She tried to fight to keep her eyes open, loving how he looked between her thighs. His dark eyes look up at her. He added a third finger, then attached his mouth around her clit as he gently sucked. Her mouth dropped open but no sounds came out as she silently screamed. Her head was thrown back as her body arched again. The feeling didn't last long when he pulled back and left her empty. Her cunt clenched around nothing, her eyes tearing up in frustration.

Eddie could read her like the back of his hand, already knowing she regretted what she asked for. He could see the desperation on her face. He offered her a cocky smirk before he turned her body around. "All fours," he demanded. She quickly propped herself up, arching her back to push her ass up in the air.

Eddie couldn't help but moan at the view. His hands massaged her ass as he took in her dripping cunt. Her body trembled under his touch, his hands moving up her back.

Her cuffed hands were above her, the metal digging into her skin.

Finally, she felt the tip of his cock teasing her entrance, practically crying in relief as he pushed himself in.

"Fuck, so tight," Eddie moaned, his hands on her hips as he slowly fucked himself into her. She was wrapped around him, clenching him so that he could barely move. She was soaked everywhere, easily soaking his cock and pubic hair as he slammed into her.

She didn't care if he went slow or at a rapid pace, she was just thanking God he was inside of her. She moaned as he picked up his pace, the sound of their skin clapping filled his room as he sat on his knees. He was barely moving, forcing her body to move back and forth on him as he held her hips in a death grip. She wouldn't be surprised if she woke up with bruises.

The bliss only lasted a few minutes before his cock left her empty, he harshly slapped her ass as he stood up. She tried to look over her shoulder to see where he was going. He grabbed his belt from the floor, making her gulp.

She sat like a good girl as she waited for what was next. Then she felt the leather wrapped around her neck, a soft kiss planted on her cheek. She didn't have time to blush from the sweet kiss when he tied the belt around his hand, yanking her up straight. She choked as the leather dug into her neck. His free hand was back on her hip as he slid himself inside of her, both on their knees as he took her from behind.

She could feel her body giving up, the only thing keeping her pressed against him was the belt around her. With every thrust, he yanked on the leather. Her brain went fuzzy from the lack of oxygen as he pounded into her like never before. Her hands were in front of her stomach as she tried to reach her clit. He must have noticed because instantly his hand left her hip and roughly rubbed her clit.

Her head fell back against his chest as she cried out. His sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead as he took in her body. Both covered in sweat, she sounded like a broken record as she moaned his name.

"I'm impressed by you, baby girl," he mocked, "Just sitting there all pretty and taking whatever I want to give, huh? Smart enough not to ask or beg for anything."

They both knew she couldn't answer as the leather tightened around her neck as he went faster. He shoved her body down, her face slamming into the bed. His hand was quick to return to her clit, he clenched his eyes as he focused on bringing them both to their release.

"Come on you fucking slut, soak my cock. Milk me for every drop. You greedy whore," his nasty words mixed with the tug of the belt made her head spin. She began to see spots as she gasped for air. Her body shook, her thighs spazzing. Before she knew it, she was cumming.

Eddie released the belt, allowing her to breathe as she came all over him. He continued to fuck her, chasing his orgasm as she squealed under him.

Her body practically lost all feeling as he used her body to finish the second time. She moaned in bliss as she felt his hot spurts of cum fill her, painting her insides as he groaned out her name.

He kept himself inside of her as they both recovered. He gently removed himself, rubbing her hips as he pressed gently kisses up and down her spine.

Her body was jello as he moved her around. Turning her around as her sweaty fucked out face met his. He smiled down at her, a tired smile on her face. He quickly undid the cuffs and removed the belt.

"Perfect girl," he praised, kissing the marks the cuffs left around her wrists. Then he covered her neck with kisses as the belt began to leave red marks behind.

She was in a daze as he cleaned her up. She was having an out-of-body experience as she watched him move all around the room.

"We are so doing that again," she said once she caught her breath.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog

[liminalmemories21]

Epiphanies on a bathroom floor (911 ficlet - post episode 8x17)

@cecilyv and I took a crack at another version of what could have happened post 8x17. (entertainingly, I still haven't seen the episode - @cecilyv has though, so slightly more informed vibes this time around)

------------

Buck gets back from the scene, from the building falling to pieces around them, and locks himself in Eddie’s bathroom. Doesn’t feel like his house. Again. He stands, staring at himself in the mirror, rocking forward on his toes. His heart pounding in his chest, hammering against his breast bone like it's trying to escape. 

He barely recognizes the person looking back. 

Eddie knocks, asks if he’s okay. Buck’s not sure exactly what to say, what he should say, what Eddie wants to hear. Whatever he ends up saying must have been good enough because Eddie tells him that he and Chris are going to Pepa’s. 

Good, that’s good. More people Buck doesn’t have to put a brave face on for, any longer.  He listens to them leave.  In theory the house is empty now. He could unlock the door, go sit somewhere more comfortable for his breakdown. Go back to the church, double the number of times he’s gone in a decade in a weekend.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t know if the earthquake was a sign from God that he was blaspheming, but he can’t tempt fate again. Doesn’t have another earthquake or lightning strike in him right now. Bobby, God, whomever is watching over him and letting him royally fuck up.

There’s a noise, someone opening the front door, footsteps.  He wonders what Eddie forgot. Then a knock on the door and, “Evan?”

He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and squeezes them shut. Grips the edge of the counter until he feels it digging into his palms. Can’t start crying now.  Not sure he’d ever stop.  Breathes through it until he thinks his voice will be steady.

“Tommy?”

“Hen called me.  Said she was worried about you after that last call.”

And she’d called Tommy?  Has no idea what to do with that.

“She thought Eddie would be here, but apparently he’s at his aunt’s?”  Tommy sounds baffled. He doesn’t have the energy to explain.  He’s not sure what to think about the idea that Tommy was Hen’s first call after Eddie.

Just says, “Yeah.”  And then out of some kind of loyalty, or something, adds, “I, uh, I said it was okay.” It’s not Eddie’s fault that he was made wrong. 

Tommy makes a non-committal noise.  “Do you want to come out?”  He doesn’t think he makes a noise, but he must, because Tommy’s instantly backtracking, “Or I can sit here and wait until you’re ready.”

It takes him a second to place that tone of voice, and then he wants to cringe his way into a corner, because that’s the ‘talk the crazy person off the ledge’ voice. The first responder, ‘calm the victim down’ voice. He knows that voice; he uses that voice. 

Ma’am, I’m not Satan, my name is Buck. He really was begging to get smited, wasn’t he?

Slides down the wall instead, down down down, until he’s sitting on the floor. Wraps his arms around his legs, thinks he’s as small as he can be. Tilts his head against the door with a thunk. He’s sure that Tommy has better places to be, things he should be doing. He sits, for a second, a minute, expecting him to go. He should go. But then he hears Tommy moving, swearing softly, grunting when he hits the ground. His hip must be hurting him again, it does sometimes -- had always enjoyed getting his hands on him when it had, before, rubbing muscle cream into it, finding the knots and pushing until they loosened, making it better. 

Now, he thinks he should get back up, open the door -- keeping Tommy down here, with him -- he’s doing exactly what Eddie said he always did. Worries his lip between his teeth. Maybe he’d never made it better; maybe he’d always made it worse.

Can’t bring himself to move.  If he’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Tommy breathing and that has to be enough. 

He’s silent too long, because Tommy says, "Evan, I need you to keep talking to me.”

He's foggy enough that it takes a minute to figure out why. "You think I have a concussion?"

"Well, Hen thinks it’s a possibility, and I make it a policy not to argue with Hen." He snorts wetly.  Gets an amused hum in response, and then, “Since I can't get in there and check, I'm going to need you to talk to me until I can. Okay?"

Concussion protocols.  He can do that.  Could do it in his sleep.  "Um, my name is Evan Buckley." Pauses. "Do you know you and Maddie are the only people who call me Evan. Well, my parents. But I don't like it when they do it. You and Maddie are the only people who do it and I like it."

Hears Tommy make an indistinct noise he can't parse. Keeps going.

"President is, uh, Trump. Fuck all our lives." He hadn’t cared the first time, Washington was so far away, had so little impact on his day to day until fire season rolled around. He thinks about Tommy, Hen and Karen and Josh and all the other people who dealt with the fear and anxiety every single day. He should have cared. It should have mattered. It’s just another way he failed them without knowing; another way he could have, should have been better.

"Umm, what else. Oh right, what day of the week is it." That stumps him. Thinks backwards, flips through the shift calendar in his head. Still nothing. "Okay, I don't know that. But, to be fair, I don't think I knew what day of the week it was before the earthquake, so it shouldn't count."

He can tell you how many days it's been since Bobby died though. How many days he's been trying to hold everything and everyone together with tape and string and he's not Bobby, he's not enough. He can't do it.  Eddie made that very clear. 

“Two out of three,” Tommy says.  “Good enough for government work.” He waits for Tommy to leave.  He’s done his duty. Checked on him. One more way he’s making himself the problem - pulling Tommy away from whatever he’d been doing, making him drive out of his way to come check on him. Hears Tommy shift to find a different position on the other side of the door instead, jeans rustling when his legs rub together.  “Now that’s out of the way, how’ve you been doing?”

Pepa told him to accept change and Bobby told him to be there for people, that they’d need him, that he’d be alright — and he whispers, soft enough that Tommy shouldn’t be able to hear him, even back to back against the same door, “I’m not okay, Bobby said, but I’m not — and Eddie said--“ and trails off.

Closes his eyes.  Swallows it down.  Waits until he’s sure his voice won’t give him away. “I’m okay. You don’t need to stay.”

Tommy makes a hmming noise. “But I just got myself settled. I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll stay for a minute if that’s okay with you.”

He wants to ask why Tommy’s here. Why Tommy came when Hen called. Why he keeps coming when Buck calls, when all Buck ever is is mean to him. Thinks he should tell Tommy he’s not worth it, that whatever Tommy thinks he sees, it’s not real.

Hears Tommy shifting again.  There are blankets and pillows in the bedroom. He should tell Tommy to grab some if he’s planning on staying.  Floor’s not going to get any softer. 

Thinks about asking what he’d have to do to make Tommy want to stay. With him, not just here on this floor. Reminds himself not to make it about him, what he wants.  

He doesn’t want any of this. Wants a do-over.  

There’s a stretch of silence, then Tommy breaks it. “I watched the new Blue Planet the other day. Or well, I guess it’s not new, but I missed it when it came out, so new to me.”

He appreciates what Tommy’s trying to do. It’s still a little bit -- talk the crazy guy off the ledge, but well, he feels a little bit like he’s balancing on a ledge, so maybe Tommy knows something he doesn’t.

“Proof of life,” Tommy asks him, and oh, yea, didn’t respond. Out loud, anyway. Guesses that’s the only response that really matters. 

“Did you like it?” his voice sounds rusty, like it’s been scrapped over the shards of his throat. He wipes his eyes. Doesn’t know when he started crying. Must have been for a while. 

“It lacked commentary,” is all Tommy says, which is weird because it has a good narrator, and he-- oh. 

“You mean, uh, me?” 

It’s an old house, Eddie’s, his, whoever's it is right now. There’s a gap under the door — he watches Tommy’s fingers slide under, like a cat’s paw.  He hooks his finger with Tommy’s.

“I mean, you.” Buck lets that settle inside him, feels his lips quirk upward. “Think you’re ready to let me in?”

Could be talking about the bathroom. Could be about something bigger.  Either way. “I’ll only hurt you, I’m no good for anyone I love.”

And Tommy’s quiet again for a long time and when he speaks, his voice is funny -- not talk the crazy person down, more like he’s trying to talk around a lump in his throat. “I’m someone you love?” 

“Yes,” he says, affronted, before he can stop himself.  Because that’s never been up for debate.  “But that doesn’t matter, it’s not about me — what I want.”

“It matters a lot to me,” Tommy points out.  “And, I think it’s a little bit about what you want.”

Buck puts his other hand on the door, presses until his knuckles whiten. It’s what he wants, but he never gets what he wants.

He can’t believe they’re having this conversation while he’s locked in a bathroom, sitting on cold tiles, staring at the toilet. The lights are harsh, because he never bothered to change them from the cheap fluorescents Eddie put in. They expose every flaw for anyone who can see — God. Bobby. Himself. Maybe Tommy. 

“Think you can open the door now?”

He looks down at their fingers, still wrapped around each other. “I’ll have to let go.” Doesn’t want to let go, never did; right now it feels like the only thing tethering him, making him feel safe, wanted.

“Just for a second,” Tommy concedes. “I’ve got you.”

[musingsofmajesty]

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

or, you sleep over at eddie's for the first time.

"Eventually, you do settle. And it's perfect. You've never felt so warm, safe, or loved..."

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Wayne's gone so, you've got the whole trailer to yourselves. Which is quite nice when you're helplessly in love. The two of you spend the evening eating Eddie’s snacks (some of which he stocked up on for tonight) and watching reruns of Happy Days. But mostly just talking and enjoying each other's proximity as you're cuddled on the couch.

When it finally comes time for you to get ready for bed, you do your night routines around each other in the bathroom because you want to stay close, even if it is a tight squeeze.

As you're brushing your teeth, you stand in front while Eddie stands over your shoulder, his reflection in the mirror smiling at you from around his toothbrush. Both of you laugh when toothpaste drips onto his chin.

Things are definitely a lot slower and sleepier, but you couldn't ask for anything more.

There's a sense of ease about Eddie that's hard to come by. Part of you wonders how you'd gone so long without it. It feels like you've known each other for a lifetime.

Dim lamplight illuminates his bedroom as you crawl into his bed. The mattress creaks softly beneath your weight, and the sheets rustle as you settle beneath them. He lets you take the spot near the wall, while he takes the outside. Everything smells like him, earthen with the faintest undertone of something sweet.

Just as he's reaching over to the nightstand to switch off the lamp, you place a hand between his shoulder blades that makes him peek back at you.

"Hmm?" His eyes are soft as they take you in.

When you don't say anything, he gives you his full attention, turning to face you while propped on a forearm. Then he sees it. The beginnings of a smile. The amusement kindled just beneath the surface.

"You forgot my goodnight kiss."

Eddie sighs like the news grieves him.

"Already gave you about fifty. How many more do you need?" Even as he's saying this, he's leaning in to close the gap.

His lips are soft and sweet against your own. Warmth settles in your stomach.

"Satisfied?" he asks.

You nod your head in confirmation, then Eddie finally cuts the lights.

In the darkness, all sounds seem magnified. The muffled voices outside in the distance. Car wheels against gravel. Even your own breaths as your bodies truly begin to wind down. You can feel each other's heat, the weight of your proximity. It's new, and exciting, and grounding all at the same time.

For two people who always seemed to have a lot to say when it came to talking to each other, a comfortable silence settles in the space between you. It isn't long before Eddie's hand settles on your hip. It prompts you to roll over and face the wall so that you're turned away from him.

He presses in closer, his chest against your back. "This okay?" he asks.

"No," you joke at first. Eddie freezes for a fraction of a second. "It's perfect," you eventually say.

A shiver tumbles down your spine at the plush feeling of his lips meeting the nape of your neck in a gentle kiss. "An extra one for the road," he explains in a murmur.

You laugh not only because of the feathery brush of his lips, but because you still can't believe this is your life. Eddie starts laughing too, and you end up getting swept into a spell of amusement that makes itself hard to shake.

"Shhh," you manage to complain through your laughter, nudging his foot beneath the covers.

"You shush," he counters, giving your side a playful pinch.

Eventually, you do settle. And it's perfect. You've never felt so warm, safe, or loved.

Eddie yawns, then whispers, "Night, angel."

"Night, Eddie."

navigation

[lillypad910]

Pretty Girl

Mechanic! Eddie Munson x Chubby! f! Reader

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! Smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), bit of fluff, giggly couple, reader is a bit self conscious about her body, Eddie is down BAD. Not pre-read, might have errors

Summary: A shopping trip with Nancy and Robin have you going home with your first set of lingerie. You put it on to surprise your boyfriend when he gets home. Things lead exactly where you wanted.

A/n: This is oddly cute.

You had gone to the mall that week with Robin and Nancy, just doing a normal shopping spree for some new clothes for the season. But then you passed that certain store.

The mannequin bodies sit on the shelves, underwear and lingerie decorating them and the surfaces around them. Nancy walks in first, her attention gravitating to one of the tables. Robin awkwardly follows after. You stand in the door frame for a minute before slowly stepping towards your friends.

“This one’s cute.” Nancy lifts a simple white set, lacy and frilly, smirking as she holds it up to your bigger body.

“You’d look cute in it! Eddie would loose his mind,” Robin comments.

“I…” you hesitate, taking the set into your hands, “I’ve never worn lingerie before…”

Nancy smiles at you, “Well, there is no time to start like the present!”

They shove you into a dressing room, and standing just outside, they wait for you to try it on. You look at yourself in the floor-length mirror, subconsciously raising your arms over your exposed chubby stomach. You thought it was a cute little get-up, but if it was cute on you, you couldn’t tell.

You open the door to the dressing room, giving them a shy smile but not looking at their faces. Robin audibly aw’s, “You look so cute!” She pushes you into the dressing room, pulling Nancy in with her, shutting the door once again. Her hands place on your waist, grazing her fingers over the bits of fabric that squeeze around your stomach.

“It fits you nicely! You look beautiful. Eddie won’t know what hit him!” Nancy smiles at you as Robin practically feels you up.

“Shit if he’s not down, I am.” “Robin!!” You smack her on her arm making her laugh.

“No, but seriously, you look great. You should buy it!” You look at yourself again. You know Eddie would like it, the lace and ribbons giving him something to mess with while he has you on his lap, fucking into you until you’re a whimpering-

“(Y/n)?” Nancy’s voice drags you out of the thought.

“Yeah?”

“Buy it.”

“Ok…”

You stand in Eddie’s trailer, the lingerie now on your body once again. Robin told you to wear it for when he gets home.

“Surprise him with a treat.” She had said.

You look at yourself once more, feeling a little silly with how dolled up you got. If this goes to plan, your makeup with be ruined before long.

You hear the gravel outside the trailer, then a car turning off, and a door shutting. You know it’s not Wayne, knowing he already left for a shift tonight when you got here. You step out into the doorway of Eddie’s room, trying to cutely half-hide yourself behind the door. The front door opens, your lanky boyfriend stepping into the home, throwing his keys into the dish on a table. He shuts it, locking it before turning around. His overalls in his hands from work, oil still on his hands and t-shirt from his mechanic job.

“Welcome home, Eds, how was work?” You step out a bit farther, noticing him stepping closer to the kitchen without looking up.

“Hey, Doll, it was good.” He washes his hands in the kitchen sink, before grabbing some mail off the counter. You hesitate before stepping out, standing in the archway into the kitchen and staring at him. “How was your day, Sweetheart-“ his head looks up as he spoke, immediately his whole body freezing when he sees you.

He drops the mail back on the counter, suddenly not interested in the check that was there for him.

“I bought it today, I hope it- Eds!” Before you can finish your sentence, you’re scooped up into his arms and thrown over his shoulder. “Eddie Munson, put me down!” You hit at his back, only to yelp when a hard smack hits your very exposed ass.

You watch as you both enter the doorframe to his room, before being thrown down on the bed. “Eds-“ his lips meet yours, crawling himself up onto the bed, his hands gliding up from your ankles to your thighs.

“You can’t just wear this get-up and not expect me to have fun, Doll.” His voice makes you blush. Your thighs try to press together but he slots himself in between them before you can.

“Look at you, Baby girl… All this just for me?” He leans close to you, grazing his fingers over the garters on your thighs. “So pretty for me.” He nuzzled his nose into your cheek, pressing his chest against yours.

“Eddie, your clothes are all dirty.” You let out a soft giggle, feeling him nuzzle into your neck and leaving soft kisses in his wake.

“That can be easily remedied...” He quickly pulls away. He sits up on his knees yanking his shirt over his head and quickly shaking off his pants. You giggle as you watch him struggling to kick his jeans off his foot. “There.” He leans back in immediately catching your lips with his, kissing you with such love you feel yourself melting into his touch.

“Eddie,” you say his name softly in a small break he gives you in between kisses.

“Hmm?” He moves his lips across your jaw, slowly kissing down your neck.

“Eddie, you’re being really sweet, but I wore this for a reason.” You lean into him a little, trying to get him to act rather than just kiss you. A soft moan leaves him and you feel his hand squeeze at your hip, tangling his finger in the side of your panties.

“I know… I’m working on it… gotta make sure my girl knows… I appreciate her efforts” his sentence is broken between kisses, “Now, relax and let me worship my pretty girl.” He kisses your lips one more time before gliding his fingers towards your core, pressing his digits softly into the fabric to tease you.

“Eddie…” you moan out his name as his kisses down your chest, one hand pressing his fingers into you through the fabric, the other gliding over the lacy bra of the lingerie. His hand removes from your body, making you whimper a bit before they grip at your thighs and lay you down onto your back, your legs now up by his waist.

“So beautiful, gonna make you feel so good, Sweetheart.” You moan as his hands pull at the ribbons on the sides of the waist band, untying it from your body. "Too bad this doesn’t have a hole for me, remind me to make one later, but for now,” he pulls down the panties, removing them from you.

He lowers down, spreading your legs wider as he kisses down your stomach.

“Eddie…!” You gasp as he buries his nose into your cunt. You buck your hips up, nudging his face to get more into you, and he doesn't complain.

Eddie does his damn best eating out your pussy, lapping up everything you give him. He grips at your thighs, digging his fingers into the skin, massaging his thumbs into the fat. You can't help but moan, reaching for him and grabing at those gorgeous curls, raking your nails on his scalp. The action earns a soft groan, and you watch as his hips buck into the mattress.

"God, so good, Eddie." You barely can get out the phrase, trying to focus on his tongue as it swirls over your clit. He burries his face more making you giggle.

Fuck, Eddie loves your pussy.

"Eds," You groan out, pulling a bit more at his hair, causing his mouth to separate from you.

"Hmm?" He hums at you, looking over that blissed out expression you have. God, what he'd do to make you look like that all day. "What is it, Sweetheart...?" He moves one hand to the place you want him most, running his fingers through your slit.

"Is this what you want?" He asks, his cheeks flushing at his own words as he slowly inserts a finger into you, "Hmm? You want my fingers in you?" You let out a soft whimper as his fingers curl inside you, lightly thrusting in and out.

He moves his fingers in and out of you slowly, gaining lovely moans and groans from you. Eddie loves hearing you moan, loves watching you get off on his fingers.

"So good, Eds," You mumble, watching as his head lowers once more to suck on your clit. Fuck.

He looks at you with such love, his pupils blown as he fingers you, loving the noises you make for him.

"Shit, Eds. I'm gonna-" You grip the sheets under you, feeling your legs starting to shake as you are oh so close to coming undone on his fingers. Eddie pulls away just before you can go over the edge, lifing up onto his hands and crawling over you, giving you a soft kiss on your lips. You can taste yourself on him, that slightly salty taste that he loves so much.

"Can I...? Please?" Eddie looks at you pleadingly, placing his hips perfectly between your thighs, grinding himself against your soak cunt. "Babe, please..." He's so needy.

"Of course, Eds." You give him another kiss, pulling your hands up to wrap around the back of his neck, holdin him close to you. You spread your legs further, allowing his cock to have better access to you.

Eddie whimpers, feeling his swollen tip brush against you, he reaches down, grabbing the base of his cock. "I need you so bad, Sweetheart... God, been thinking about this all day." He slowly pushes himself inside you, both of you moaning as his cock buries into you. "Fuck."

"Yeah?" You look up at him, watching as he stares down at where you are now connected. "That good?" Eddie looks up at you, a smile on his face as he lets out a soft laugh.

"Better. So much better." He gives you a soft kiss, repositioning himself so your legs are closer to his hips, letting him push just a bit deeper.

"Eddie..." You moan out his name, feeling his cock twitch inside you as a response.

"Are you good?" He asks, obviously joking a bit. "You look a bit blissed there."

"I'm good, I'm good..." You mumble, leaning into his shoulder a bit. "You can move, Eds."

Eddie takes no time with that, slowly dragging his hips back before sinking them back into you, earing the most beautiful moan from you. He keep it nice and slow, enjoying the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.

"Oh fuck..." You focus on the feeling of his cock pushing into you, feeling him hit deep with ever thrust.

"God, I love this pussy." Eddie chuckles a bit, gripping at your hips as he begins to speed up a bit.

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah, you feel so good, Sweetheart." He groans as he nuzzles his face into your hair, letting the scent of your floral shampoo fill his nose. "So good."

You can't help but let out a soft giggle, but this just spurs him on, encouraging him to gain more force. "Oh-" You gasp as his cock hits that perfect spot, making your toes curl. "Shit, Eddie, right there."

"I know, Baby. Jesus, your squeezing me so hard when I hit there." His breath picks up with yours as his hips continue to move perfectly for that one place. Thrusting deep and good, over and over again.

It doesn't take long for you both to finish, it never does for you two.

You both lie there, your hearts racing at you giggle about it, Eddie snuggled into your neck. "I love you," Eddie nuzzles into your skin, leaving soft kisses on the serface of your shoulder.

"I love you."

Tag list!

@cagethemunson

@spikeybatt

@cherrycolas-things

@r-a-d-i-0-n-0-w-h-e-r-e

@ali-r3n

@thepurplelovewitch

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One

Eddie squints into the bright sunlight flooding the kitchen. He’s eating a bowl of lucky charms that taste like chemicals and fake sugar and he’s not even sure he’s going to make it to the end of the first mouthful. The texture is grainy and artificially chewy and Eddie is sure he used to like these.

Steve, the guy in Eddie’s house, sits himself opposite with a neat little piles of scrambled eggs and cut fruit on his plate. He looks at Eddie, gets up again, pulls the blind just far enough that Eddie’s eyes are shaded, and then comes back again.

“Can I get you anything?”

“You can get the fuck out of my house,” Eddie replies. But there’s no bite. No meaning. No energy. No anything behind the words. He’s so fucking tired and so done with it all.

Steve carries on like Eddie hasn’t spoken, and eats his breakfast.

Eddie’s spoon clatters on the rim of the still full bowl; he goes back to bed.

Eddie blinks open gummy eyes to find some electrolyte sports drink thing and a banana sitting offensively on his bedside table. His cock is hard and unrelenting and making him fucking miserable. He flops over onto his back and shoves his hand down his pants, thinking vaguely that he’d kill a dude for a bag. For a pre rolled. For a fucking cough sweet.

He comes too fast, his knot doesn’t even pop, and it feels empty. Like he’s starving and someone handed him a handful of popcorn; doesn’t solve anything. If anything, it’s made it worse.

He clambers out of bed, his sweats soaked with come. When they start to slide off his too skinny hips, Eddie lets them. Watches as they slide to the floor, a wet, pointless mess. Just like him.

Eddie stalks into the kitchen, Steve’s sitting at the table, he has a pen in his hand, and he’s tapping it gently against the page. Doing a cross word or something, Eddie guesses. Where the fuck did he even get a newspaper. Eddie didn’t even know you could still buy newspapers any more.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something to make all this better? Isn’t that your fucking job, or whatever?”

Steve sits back, he doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid over Eddie being naked, and he doesn’t stare either, just makes normal eye contact like Eddie being bare assed in the middle of the kitchen is a day to day occurrence.

“Are you open to taking a suggestion?”

“Are you open to taking a suggestion,” Eddie snarks back, bitches back, “like what?”

“Have a bath.”

“A bath? Really? That’s all you got for my...recovery or well being or to cure me of being a fucking addict?”

“No. You just stink,” Steve replies, still in his totally even and reasonable tone of voice.

“I’m in rut,” Eddie snaps back.

“Are you?” Steve raises an eyebrow, “can’t smell anything over the arm pint stank.”

“I- you- that’s just fucking rude, aren’t you supposed to be working for me? You can’t say shit like that-”

“I work for Chrissy.” Steve folds his newspaper and stands, “I presume you have a full bath in your en suite.” And Steve just...walks away. Eddie trailing behind as Steve lets himself into Eddie’s room and then into his bathroom.

“Oh. Sure. Just, make yourself at home,” Eddie bitches at him, “you just do whatever the fuck you like.”

Steve sets the bath running, rummages around under the sink and comes up with bubbles and bath salts that Eddie didn’t even know he had.

He wonders vaguely how bad bath salts would burn if he tried to snort them.

And then Steve starts cleaning, while the bath fills. He pulls out supplies, wipes down the counters and sinks. He throws some bleach down the toilet and wipes that down, “get in,” he turns the taps off, “I’m going to find something for this mirror.”

The mirror does look grim, Eddie can’t remember the last time he even had the cleaning lady over. He can’t remember if he’s still paying her. He can’t remember Chris saying a word about her. He wonders vaguely where she’s gone.

Eddie lies there in the steaming water, eyes slitted and vaguely watching as Steve brings the glass back to a perfect mirror shine, climbing up on the counter stretching high to buff away every last smear.

“I had a cleaning lady. Where’d she go?”

“She quit months ago.”

“She quit?” Eddie asks, genuinely surprised, “why?”

Steve raises that eyebrow, “wage dispute.”

“Fuck off, I paid her plenty.”

“Didn’t sound like any amount would be enough for what she was dealing with.” Steve lets that one sit, and Eddie wishes Steve would at least be smug or be a cunt or anything about it, but he’s not, he just delivers it like it’s a calm fact, the same as everything else he has to say. “I’ll do your hair.”

“I’m not a child.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His face is an unreadable mask of cool professionalism that’s screaming, ‘why do you act like one then?’

When he wets Eddie’s hair, Eddie’s sure he pours water all over his face on purpose.

Eddie sits in the tub, Steve perched on the side, and he lets Steve wash his hair. He knows which products to use. He knows which order. He knows what to let sit and when to bring out the wide toothed comb. This is not Steve’s first rodeo with curly hair.

Eddie slumps back at some point, muscles feeling like they’re unwinding and unspooling into the water, his eyes have been closed for ages and he doesn’t remember closing them.

It takes a long time for him to put it together.

“You’re not washing my hair any more,” he slurs. He sounds a little drunk.

“No,” Steve says quietly.

“What, you a masseuse too?”

“I wear a lot of hats. It’s part of the job. I believe in a holistic approach to recovery.”

"Oh yeah," Eddie speaks quietly, "gonna' wave your magic wand and fix me? Solve all my problems and let me skip off into the sunset?"

"No. You're probably going to be fighting this battle for the rest of your life."

"Jesus Christ. Do you have to be so honest about it? Aren't you supposed to be all positive and shit."

"I am being positive. I'm positive you'll always be an alcoholic and a drug addict-"

Eddie snorts a derisive noise.

"But I'm also certain it gets easier, if you stick with it."

Eddie makes another dismissive noise, and goes back to being half asleep, Steve’s sure fingers working into his scalp.

Steve leaves, at some point. The water starts to cool. Eddie starts to become aware of himself, and he doesn’t like it. The rut is there, itching under his skin, but it feels weird and half formed and almost like it’s happening to someone else, far away.

He vaguely wonders about scoring and then realizes he can’t. It just makes him want it more though. The more he tries not to think about it, the more he can’t avoid thinking about it.

He gets out of the water, finding clean towels on the heated rails he dries himself, twisting his hair up on top of his head inside a towel.

His bedroom has also been cleaned, the sheets changed. The drapes are pulled and a window is open, letting in fresh, warm afternoon air.

Steve has laid out a clean tee shirt and sweats on the bed.

Steve can go fuck himself.

Part Three

[electrosuite]

bathroom sex with eddie munson pls!

warnings: swearing, unprotected sex, public sex, descriptive sex, oral sex

word count: 1.1k

masterlist

You weren't sure you'd be able to pull it off, but when you finally convinced Eddie to come with you to your family reunion, you were ecstatic. You hated going to them; you always thought they were stupid and cheesy. But you knew this would be a perfect opportunity to introduce him to your whole family, saving you multiple occasions of meetings.

This year it was at your cousin's house in Carmel, Indiana, which was only about a forty minute drive. Eddie was so nervous to drive that you decided to do it, knowing the route better anyway.

"They're gonna love you."

"No, they're not."

"They're not like most people, y'know. They're not so judgmental."

"You say that."

"I know that. I promise they're gonna love you."

You could tell he still wasn't trusting of that, but you knew your family. And you knew they would love him.

But he mostly kept to himself or you. At one point, your aunt dragged you away to help set up some activity and he gave you a panicked look as you walked off.

When you came back to the table you'd left him at, he was gone. After asking around, you found him standing alone in a corner with a plastic cup full of some kind of soda.

You wrapped your arms around one of his and you could feel anxiety lift from his shoulders.

"Sorry," you said quietly. "She has the grip of an eagle. What are you doing over here?"

He shook his head. "Just standing." He dipped his head down a bit to kiss you.

You smirked at him for a moment, then looked around. When you saw that no one was looking, you grabbed the drink out of Eddie's hand and laid it on the bookshelf next to him.

"What are you-" You interrupted him by pulling him into the bathroom behind him. You locked the door behind you and leaned back against the door. "What are you doing?"

You just looked at him, putting on the face that he knew too well.

His eyes widened and he pointed at you. "I know what you're trying to do."

"What am I trying to do, exactly?" you asked coyly.

"Your family is right outside."

You were silent for a moment, and you could hear loud, muffled music begin to play through speakers all throughout the house.

"I dunno, I doubt they'd be able to even hear us talking."

"I don't wanna fuck up my first impression with your family."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just standing here." You adjusted your position so your hips pressed backwards against the door, accentuating your curves.

He stepped over to you slowly and stopped when he was only a couple of inches from your face.

"Oh, is that all you're doing?"

"All I'm doing."

He sighed teasingly, unable to hold back a smirk.

"You're such a tease."

He kissed you, his hands cupping your face. He kept you pushed against the door for a moment, not waiting long before pulling you by the face to the vanity. He scooped you up onto it and you leaned back against the mirror, his kisses following you.

You hiked your dress up to your hips and pulled your underwear to the side, Eddie crouching down and throwing your legs onto his shoulders. He immediately found your clit with his tongue and you gripped the edge of the sink, trying to be quiet even though the music outside was drowning out your voice.

Honestly, the fact that there were people — all of whom you were related to — that could hear you on the other side of the door was a bit of a turn on for you, and you weren't sure why.

Eddie seemed to be holding back a bit, and you knew why. Normally when he ate you out, he had you screaming just from that. He was incredible with his tongue, able to manipulate that sensitive little bud in ways not even you could. The combination of his tongue swirling and lips sucking was like the most intense vibrator ever, and it was all you wanted most of the time.

This orgasm wasn't even close to as intense as they normally were, because both of you knew that if they were, you'd get caught for sure. But it was still enough that you struggled to stay quiet.

"I don't have a condom with me," he whispered into your neck.

"S'alright." You leaned into his ear. "I wanted you to bust in me anyway."

He gulped at that, never fully getting used to hearing you dirty talk.

"You're disgusting," he joked. "Walking around your family reunion with my cum inside of you?"

"Mmm, yes please."

And with that, he was inside of you. His arms snaked under your knees and pressed them closer to your chest to allow himself to go deeper. He really filled you to your brim, and you didn't think you'd be able to take any more had he been even an inch bigger.

"Fuck, you feel so good, Eddie."

"Yeah?" he breathed. "How good?"

"So fucking good, Eddie. Fuck."

After a few more seconds, he pulled out of you and turned you around so you were facing the mirror.

"Look at yourself getting fucked."

You made eye contact with your reflection, seeing how lust-filled your eyes were. You felt him pull your loose hair into a ponytail with his fist, keeping a tight tension on your scalp. His other hand was on your shoulder, keeping you firmly in place where he wanted you.

You'd never done doggystyle with both of you standing. Usually you were on your knees on the edge of the bed and he was standing on the floor to keep better control, but this — your back arched, your head pulled slightly back, and your tits bouncing in the mirror — this was different.

It was better. Maybe you'd have to incorporate a mirror into sex every time from now on.

"Y/N, I'm already close."

"Already?" you moaned. "What, can't even last three minutes today?"

He yanked you back by your hair, your back flush against his chest. The hand in your hair was now around your neck, his other hand reaching down to finger you.

"Maybe I would if your whole family wasn't outside."

"Turning you on?"

He grunted and laughed as you moaned from the extra friction. It was literal seconds later that he had to clamp his hand on your mouth to keep you from screaming at your second orgasm.

And once it had ended, you felt his warm cum fill your hole, gushing out onto your thighs. That feeling alone could've made you cum again if he hadn't have stopped.

You both stood standing for a moment, your legs trembling slightly.

"Shit," he whispered, pressing kisses to your neck. When he pulled out, you felt cum dripping down your legs and you rushed over to the toilet, cleaning yourself up a bit. "Maybe we should fuck in public more."

[wonderlandwalker]

Off the Record (and on his knees)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐏𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 ?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rockstar!eddie munson x famous!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A rockstar who claims to thrive on indifference, a secret that's about to make headlines, and the kind of bad decision that tastes like more. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: just a lot of cliches probably, smut, mdni, honestly idk i need sleep

𝐚/𝐧: was supposed to be taking exams but ended up in the hospital so i had some downtime, hopefully this will bring some positive energy my way for resits (also a massive shout-out to @littlexdeaths for helping me edit this!!)

There are two fundamental truths that make Eddie Munson into the glorious, unrepentant disaster he is to this day.

One: He couldn’t give less of a shit what the world thinks of him.

Take seventh grade, for example—back when his voice still cracked mid-sentence and his hair was an unholy tangle of DIY bleach jobs, a walking middle finger to both genetics and good taste. He’d been a scrawny thing back then, all sharp elbows and a sharper tongue, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in sheer audacity. Tommy H., in his puffed-up, wannabe bravado, had cornered him in the locker room after gym class, sweat still gleaming on his forehead like he’d just run a marathon instead of dodging dodgeballs for forty minutes. He’d squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a rooster preening for a fight, and sneered, “You’re a waste of space, Munson,” like he’d just invented the insult. Eddie’s response? A slow, shit-eating grin, a lazy glance up through the mess of his bangs: “Takes one to know one.” And then he’d just… walked away. No fists, no shouting, just five words and a smirk. The other kids had gasped, like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. (He’d found out later that Tommy had punched a locker hard enough to bruise his knuckles. Eddie had worn that knowledge like a badge of honour.)

Or fast-forward to last year, when Gareth somehow—through a combination of dumb luck and family ties that shouldn’t have counted as networking—scored them an appointment with his aunt’s ex-husband’s nephew, who just so happened to be a mid-level A&R guy at Universal Music Group.

The band had collectively lost their shit; Jeff had stress-bought a button-up shirt from some overpriced boutique, then spent twenty minutes in the van trying to figure out how to tuck it in just right so he didn’t look like he was attending his own funeral. Gareth had rehearsed his "professional musician" voice in the mirror until he sounded like a Wikipedia article narrated by a malfunctioning robot. Even Don, who usually had the emotional range of a brick wall, had gone suspiciously quiet, staring out the window with the vaguely nauseous expression of a man mentally preparing to sell his soul. Eddie had simply rolled out of bed that morning, pulled on the same ripped jeans he’d worn the day before, finger-combed his curls into something that defied both gravity and basic hygiene, and strolled into that glass-and-chrome office building smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap diner coffee, and zero fucks given.

The exec—some slick-haired suit with a watch that probably cost more than Eddie’s entire van—had barely looked up from his phone when they walked in. His office was all sharp edges and sterile lighting, the kind of place that made Eddie’s skin itch just by existing.

So Eddie did what Eddie does best.

He cracked his knuckles, dropped into the chair across from the guy like he owned it, and said, "Wanna hear some real shit or what?"

No pretending. No apologies. No watered-down pitch about marketability or brand synergy. Just him—raw, unfiltered, a little too loud, a little too much.

For a long, excruciating moment, the guy just stared at him, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. Then, he smirked. Leaned back in his stupid ergonomic chair. Muttered something under his breath about "angst sells, I guess" and "decent fucking tunes" before reaching into his briefcase and sliding a contract across the desk. Gareth had nearly choked on his own tongue. Jeff’s carefully tucked-in shirt had come untucked from sheer shock. And Don? Don had actually smiled—an event so rare it should have been documented by National Geographic.

Two: Eddie Munson doesn't get nervous. Never has, never will. It's practically part of his DNA at this point, woven into the fabric of his being as tightly as the faded tattoos on his knuckles and the ever-present smell of leather and Marlboros that clings to his clothes. 

Not when Corroded Coffin played their first sold-out stadium show, amps screaming loud enough to shake the teeth in his skull and the foundation beneath their feet. He'd stood at the edge of that stage, sweat dripping down his temples, staring out at a sea of faceless bodies that stretched so far back even the stage lights couldn’t reach them—and instead of freezing up like some wide-eyed rookie, he'd just grinned like the devil himself, cranked the volume higher and played the opening riff of "Blackened Skies". 

Not when they were nominated for their first Grammy—or the second or the goddamn third. Each time, he'd strutted up to that mic like he owned the place (and in his mind, he did), tossing off irreverent quips that had the crowd howling. "Guess hell really did freeze over," he'd drawled the first time, dangling the golden gramophone from two fingers like it was a beer he'd just been handed. The camera had caught the exact moment some blue-haired socialite in the front row had choked on her champagne.

Nerves? Nerves are for people who give a shit what others think. For choir boys and politicians and anyone with something to lose. Eddie thrives on the chaos, feeding off it like some kind of beautifully messed-up symbiotic organism. The louder the crowd, the brighter the spotlight, the higher the stakes—that's when he comes alive, electricity crackling under his skin like a live wire just waiting to set the whole damn world on fire.

So why the hell is he suddenly hyperaware of every rumour that clings to him like cheap cologne? America's favourite Casanova. The man who could sweet-talk the habit off a nun with nothing but a crooked grin and a well-timed power chord. Sure, maybe there's some truth to it—he's got charm coiled in his veins like nicotine, confidence that borders on pathological, and absolutely zero shame. Flirting is his native language; he thrives on the electric back-and-forth, the dangerous tilt of a smile, and the way pupils dilate when he crowds just inside someone's personal space like he's got every right to be there.

Five minutes ago, he'd been holding court across the room, spinning that ridiculous story about smuggling a live chicken into the Bellagio as part of a bet with Ozzy's bassist. His hands had painted the scene in the air—the squawking, the feathers in the minibar, the security guard's face when they found the damn thing wearing Eddie's sunglasses. The crowd had eaten it up with fucking spoons because Eddie Munson could make reading the phone book sound like a rock opera if he felt like it. He'd been radiant, incandescent, the human equivalent of a lit match in a fireworks factory.

Now Eddie’s tongue feels like it’s been swapped out for wet cardboard, useless, sticking to the roof of his mouth as if his body’s forgotten how to function. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, aching for the familiar weight of a guitar pick between them, the grounding burn of a cigarette, anything to steady himself as the world tilts violently beneath his feet.

And then there’s you.

Leaning against the bar like some fever dream made flesh—all sinuous curves and effortless grace, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It screams louder than any of his stage antics ever could, louder than the roar of a sold-out crowd. The dim lighting catches the edge of your signature ring—that ring, the one from the Gucci campaign that had been plastered across every billboard last summer. It glints as you tap it absently against your glass, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that matches the erratic thud of his pulse.

He should look away… 

He can’t.

Because you’re not just beautiful—you’re impossible. The kind of impossible that makes his chest ache, the kind that shouldn’t exist outside of late-night fantasies and the pages of his most dog-eared poetry books. And yet here you are, real and radiant and right there, close enough to touch.

And Christ, he knows you. Not in the way of shared cigarettes backstage or whispered confessions after last call, but in that primal, bone-deep way sailors know a storm rolling in—through the electric charge in the air, the ominous stillness before the first crack of thunder splits the sky. The kind of knowing that prickles the back of his neck even as it pulls him helplessly closer to the cliff's edge.

The headlines from the Met Gala flash behind his eyelids like a vintage film reel stuck on repeat: you in that scandalous embroidered silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid gold, the neckline plunging with the same reckless abandon as a dive into midnight waters. The world had collectively lost its goddamn mind—fashion critics penning breathless odes to your "rebirth of modern glamour", Twitter wars erupting over whether you'd "saved or slaughtered" haute couture. Half the internet had clutched their pearls raw over the "death of modesty". The other half had been reduced to a single, guttural scream for you—your name trending with fire emojis, your walk immortalised in grainy cellphone footage that still played on a loop in Eddie's darkest, most private moments.

And now here you stand, all that barely contained lightning in human form, close enough that he can see where your perfume clings to the hollow of your throat. The realisation hits like a cymbal crash: he's spent months watching you through screens and tabloids, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the reality of your presence, for how the oxygen seems to thin when your gaze drags over to him.

Your head turns.

Your eyes meet his.

And just like that, his entire fucking operating system crashes.

The clever greeting he'd been mentally workshopping? Deleted.

His usual arsenal of one-liners? Corrupted file.

Every ounce of that legendary Munson charm—the same silver tongue that had talked his band out of a back-alley brawl in Berlin, flirted his way past VIP bouncers in LA, and charmed a room full of jaded music critics into giving his album a standing ovation—has short-circuited into white noise. What emerges instead is a strangled "Hey" that cracks halfway through, the single syllable tilting upward like a question, like a prayer, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re not some whisky-fuelled hallucination conjured by his traitorous subconscious.

His pulse thrums erratically at his throat, a wild staccato beat visible beneath the edge of his collar. For one horrifying second, he’s just a man reduced to bare wiring and exposed nerves, utterly certain that if you asked him his name right now, he’d stare at you like a dial-up connection trying to process the request.

What's worse? You know who he is. Or at least, you've absorbed the stories—those wild, larger-than-life legends of Eddie "The Freak in the Sheets" Munson that circulate through VIP lounges and gossip columns like holy scripture. The stories about him talking his way out of actual police handcuffs in Munich. The whispered accounts of how he once seduced a Rolling Stone journalist mid-interview, resulting in a profile so scandalous the magazine's servers crashed from traffic. The kind of reputation that usually has strangers crawling into his lap before he's even finished his first drink.

And yet…

The way you're looking at him now—head tilted at that precise angle of clinical fascination, like a virologist observing a particularly intriguing strain under glass. Your lips quirk in faint amusement, not the starstruck grin he's accustomed to, but the expression of someone who's just discovered the magician's trapdoor. There's no awe in your gaze, just patient analysis, like you were promised a category-five hurricane and got a stiff breeze that barely ruffled your hair.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—the smirk of a chess grandmaster who's already played this match twelve moves ahead.

"Hey," you echo, your voice smoother than the whisky in his abandoned glass and twice as intoxicating. Eddie catches the glint in your eyes first—mischievous, daring, the same glint he's seen in mirrors right before doing something stupid—and feels his pulse kick up a notch. Then your fingers skate up his arm, nails dragging just barely hard enough to raise goosebumps under the sleeve of his blouse. His breath stutters like a dying engine when your lips brush the shell of his ear, warm and teasing. 

"Are you going to stare all night, Munson, or are you actually going to say something?"

The slow arch of your eyebrow is the most devastating thing Eddie's ever witnessed—a silent challenge that hits him like a well-placed chord vibrating straight through his ribs. That deliberate lift, paired with the smug curl of your lips, sparks something primal in his chest. You look like the cat that got the cream, the guitarist who nailed the solo, like you've just won some private bet he didn't even know you were playing. 

And that—that smug little quirk of your mouth—is what finally kickstarts his brain. Because Eddie Munson doesn't lose. Not at banter, not at bets, and definitely not at whatever this sudden, unspoken game is that you've started between heartbeats and heated glances.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a growl as he straightens to his full height. When he finally speaks, his voice is all rough edges and smoke, the kind of tone that precedes either a killer riff or someone getting thoroughly wrecked against a backstage wall. 

"Funny thing about staring, sweetheart…" his fingers dart out, catching your wandering hand just as it begins its ascent up his chest. He twines his fingers through yours, pinning your palm against the rapid-fire beat of his heart. "—it takes a hell of a view to make a man forget his words." 

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes—because the joke's on him, really. You haven't just stolen his words; you've taken the air from his lungs, the rhythm from his pulse, left him feeling like an overstrung guitar about to snap from the tension.

Just as Eddie begins to find his rhythm in this dangerous little dance—just as he starts to anticipate your steps, to recognise the subtle hitch in your breath when he leans in too close—the music screeches to a halt.

Someone materialises from the crowd like a poorly timed jump scare, designer cufflinks glinting under the club lights as his arm slides around the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. The touch is possessive, practiced, the kind of casual intimacy that makes Eddie’s molars grind hard enough to spark.

And you—

You don’t even flinch.

The realisation hits Eddie like a kick to the ribs. He watches, jaw clenched, as the guy leans in—close enough that Eddie catches the cloying scent of his expensive cologne, the glint of veneers too perfect to be anything but bought. The way he kisses you is all performative passion, a showy press of lips that lingers just a beat too long, complete with a theatrical tilt of the head, like he’s mentally checking his angles.

Christ. It’s like watching a bad rom-com.

The guy pulls back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s never been told no, his thumb brushing your hip in one last obnoxious display of ownership before he turns to Eddie. He extends a hand, his Rolex glinting under the strobe lights.

“It’s Edgar, right?”

Eddie’s eye twitches.

“Theodore”, the guy continues, flashing a smile so white it’s practically radioactive. “I take it you’ve met my girlfriend?”

Checkmate.

Fuck.

How could he have forgotten?

He’d been too busy writing sonnets in his head about the cadence of your voice when you whispered in his ear and too busy memorising the way your nails felt dragging up his sleeve to even fucking remember you have a boyfriend.

And not just any boyfriend.

No, it’s Theodore fucking Langley. Actor. Heartthrob. The guy whose face is currently plastered on every teen magazine from here to Tokyo, the same guy who got voted “Most Likely to Make You Swoon” by Seventeen or some shit. The kind of guy who probably has a skincare routine longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a publicist who writes his posts for him.

Eddie forces a grin, sharp enough to draw blood, and shakes the guy’s hand just a little too hard. 

“It’s Eddie. And yeah, she was just warning me to steer clear of the right-hand stage.” He nods toward the VIP section, packed to the brim with Hollywood’s most gossip-hungry vultures. “Unless I want to end up as tomorrow’s TMZ headline.”

The excuse rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, but inside, his thoughts are a fucking hurricane. 

Because, honestly?

He doesn’t get it.

Not just because he’s got the hots for you (which, yeah, okay, he definitely does), but because the whole thing is so goddamn ridiculous. From what you even see in this guy to what the two of you could possibly talk about—Eddie knows the type⁠ in the way you know a bad sequel—overproduced, underwhelming, all flash and no substance. He’s met a hundred variations of Theodore at industry parties. ⁠Does he even know you? The real you? Or just the version that looks good on his arm during red carpets?

The tabloids are eating it up, of course. “Hollywood’s New It Couple!” bleeds across magazine covers in obnoxious neon fonts, while gossip sites run breathless slideshows of you and Theodore at every red carpet event, gala, and painfully staged coffee run. The cameras love the way his Armani-clad arm possessively anchors you to his side, how your designer dresses complement his tailored suits like you were manufactured as a set.

But they're not looking closely enough.

If they did, they'd notice how Theodore's fingers indent the fabric at your waist just a fraction too deep—the kind of grip that leaves bruises blooming like ink stains beneath fabric. They'd catch the microsecond delay in your smile when his lips graze your cheek, the way your eyes flicker toward the exits like a caged animal calculating escape routes. They'd see what Eddie sees with devastating clarity:

A mismatch.

A performance so polished it's rotting at the core.

The greatest fucking waste he's ever seen.

And then—the moment Theodore releases you to go charm some studio director who could "really take his career to the next level, darling," your hand snaps out with viper precision, your fingers curl around his wrist with deliberate precision—not tight enough to leave marks, but firm enough to make the veins in his forearm jump under your touch.

"Meet me backstage."

The words lick against his ear, molten and venomous—a command wrapped in velvet. Your teeth graze his earlobe just hard enough to remind him this isn't surrender. It's an ambush.

It's not a request.

Eddie's no stranger to the value in playing along, but Christ, the sixty seconds he forces himself to wait feel like slow torture. He counts each heartbeat against the sticky bar top, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm that betrays the calm facade. The ice in his whisky melts unnoticed as his pulse hammers in his throat, torn between walking away and breaking into a run toward whatever fresh hell you're offering.

The hallway to the dressing rooms is a study in controlled chaos, narrow enough that Eddie's shoulders nearly brush both walls as he stalks forward, the buzz of faulty fluorescents casting strobe-like shadows that make the space feel both claustrophobic and thrillingly illicit.

And there you are���a vision of calculated nonchalance leaning against chipped paint that flakes under your fingertips. One foot props against the wall behind you like you've been waiting lifetimes rather than minutes. When your eyes lock onto his, they're dark with knowing amusement, your lips curling into a smirk that says you've already scripted this encounter and he's just now catching up to page three. 

"Took you long enough," you tease, your voice a velvet-wrapped blade that cuts through the bass thumping from the main room. The words dance across the scant inches between you, each syllable weighted with unspoken challenges.

The dressing room door clicks shut with finality behind you, the sound louder than it should be in the sudden quiet. Eddie's body thrums with restrained energy—you can see it in the way his carotid pulses against the collar of his shirt, in the white-knuckle grip he maintains on his own belt loops to keep from reaching for you. The air between you crackles with the kind of tension that precedes summer storms, heavy with the promise of lightning.

You'd expected him to pounce—to back you against the nearest flat surface and finally give in. But instead…

He hesitates.

The space between his eyebrows furrows into a crease—the one that appears when he's tuning a stubborn guitar string or trying to decipher some cryptic lyric. But now it's deeper, more vulnerable, as his dark eyes roam your face like he's searching for answers in the slant of your cheekbones, the part of your lips. When he finally speaks, his voice is wrecked—rough as sandpaper and twice as raw, like he's been screaming himself hoarse backstage. "Is this what you want?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with something that makes your ribs ache. There's an unfamiliar tremor beneath the words. "Really?"

You blink up at him, and for one terrifying heartbeat, your carefully constructed mask slips—the one you wear at press junkets, the one you've perfected for Theodore's arm. Your breath catches audibly before you can school your features back into indifference. "What, don't you want me?"

The words slice through the charged air, sharper than you intended, laced with a surprise that has nothing to do with the game you've been playing. Eddie drags a hand through his hair, sending those riotous curls into glorious disarray. The movement makes his biceps flex, the tattoos peeking out from his sleeves suddenly vivid in the low light. "I don't give a fuck about my reputation, sweetheart." His usual smirk is nowhere to be found—just raw honesty that terrifies you more than any of his staged bad-boy antics ever could.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost pained, like the next words are being ripped from somewhere deep and rarely visited. "But yours?" A muscle jumps in his jaw as he gestures between you, his rings glinting. "You really wanna risk it all for this?" His usual swagger is fraying at the edges, revealing something far more dangerous beneath: a man who cares too much.

You tilt your head, lips quirking in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Since when do you care what people think, Munson?”

“I don’t,” he snaps, stepping closer—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the leather-and-cigarettes scent of his jacket. “But you should. That boyfriend of yours? He’s got the media eating out of his palm. You really think they won’t tear you apart if—”

“If what?” You step into him, chest brushing his, and watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “If they find out I’d rather be with you?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt with deliberate purpose, the fabric straining under your grip as you yank him down into a kiss that's more collision than connection—all clashing teeth and shared breath and the kind of desperation that borders on violence. Eddie makes a raw, punched-out noise against your mouth, something between a groan and a curse, before his hands find purchase on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises as he walks you backward until the sharp edge of the dresser cabinet bites into your thighs.

The moment your legs hit solid wood, his tongue swipes against yours with devastating precision—hot and demanding and tasting faintly of whisky and the cigarette he sneaked between sets. And fuck, he kisses like he plays guitar: all calloused fingertips and effortless skill, bending you to his rhythm until you're gasping against his mouth. There's that same reckless passion he channels into every riff, that same single-minded focus he reserves for chasing the perfect note—except now, he's chasing you, chasing this, like he's reaching for something sacred in the space between your bodies.

Your back arches instinctively, pressing every inch of yourself against him, and the sound Eddie makes—a broken, shuddering groan muffled against your jaw—sends a thrill of power straight down your spine. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head just before it would've connected painfully with the mirror behind you, his touch unexpectedly tender even as his hips grind forward with unmistakable intent. The contrast makes you lightheaded—this is Eddie Munson at his most dangerous, equal parts rough edges and brutal softness.

But then—

He tears himself away, breathing raggedly. “Wait. Wait. What about—?”

“Theo?” You nip at his lower lip, relishing the way his fingers dig into your waist. “What about him?”

Eddie’s brow furrows, that crease between his eyebrows deepening like a fault line splitting open. “I don’t want people thinking you’re—”

“A slut?” you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest in one slow, deliberate scrape, revelling in the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles jump under your touch. “A cheater?”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. “No.” His voice is rough, almost angry—not at you, but at the idea, at the world that would dare reduce this to something cheap. “I just—fuck—” His hands flex at your hips, like he’s holding himself back from something far more dangerous. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

And that—that just drives you crazier. Because Eddie Munson, the man who’s built his entire life on not giving a single fuck about consequences, is suddenly terrified—not for himself, but for you. For what this might cost you.

It’s the most reckless thing he’s ever done—caring.

Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut lines of his abdomen, fingertips mapping the heat of his skin, the ridges of scars and ink you’ll ask about later. You grin against his mouth, all teeth and no mercy. “Stop telling me what I’m supposed to do.” Then, softer, a whisper against his lips—“And just fuck me like you mean it.”

Eddie’s restraint crumbles.

One of his fists twists in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth crashes into yours again, harder this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to rewrite every kiss that came before this one. His other hand skims up your thigh, hiking your dress higher, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he’s been starving for it.

Then he’s hoisting you up onto the dresser with effortless strength, the cold surface biting into your bare thighs as he drops to his knees like a man preparing for ascension. 

And he tries to be patient—he really does. 

He presses open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, savouring the way your muscles jump under his lips, the way your breath hitches when his stubble drags against your skin. But Christ, he can already smell you—that heady, intoxicating mix of your desperation and his own name lingering on your tongue. It hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the liquor he’s been nursing all night.

Vertigo. 

A full-body shudder. 

The kind of high no drug could ever replicate.

And it’s not like he has a reputation to uphold—so he doesn’t bother hiding how fucking gone he is. He nudges at your clit with his nose, just to hear the way your breath fractures, just to feel your fingers twist in his hair like a silent please. Every flick of his tongue makes your hips jerk, every low, filthy noise you make going straight to his dick, and he’s already praying for a way to freeze time, to get to stay here between your legs forever. ⁠His tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, and the sound you make—fuck—it’s enough to send a bolt of heat straight down his spine. Higher pitched, broken at the edges, like you’re already halfway to ruin.

Heaven shouldn’t even bother trying. There’s no way it could top this.

Eddie dives in like a starving man, hands splayed over your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. And God, he’s insatiable once he starts. Eager. Determined. Like he wants to memorise every twitch, every gasp, every time your legs tighten around his ears like there’s a part of you that’s worried he’ll change his mind. He licks into you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’d happily suffocate right here if it meant getting one more taste. Your fingers tug at his hair, and Eddie groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat.

This isn’t a sprint. It’s not even a damn marathon—it’s a relay race, and Eddie is eagerly playing each part, trading one touch for another, one filthy whisper for a bruising kiss, until you’re gasping, wrung out, and still begging for more.

His hands are everywhere—skimming up your ribs, gripping the back of your thighs—each touch deliberate, each movement calculated to drag another broken sound from your lips. His mouth is relentless, trailing fire in its wake, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your back arch off the wall. He eats you out like he’s got something to prove, like he’s mapping every gasp, every shudder, filing them away for later.

And when you think you can’t take any more, he drags you right back to the edge, his lips finding that spot that makes your breath hitch. Your head falls back against the mirror with a thud, his name spilling from your lips in a moan that’s half plea, half prayer. The glass is cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the feverish press of his body against yours.

Eddie’s teeth scrape over your pulse point—claiming, punishing, worshipping—before his tongue soothes the sting, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s memorising the shape of them, like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.

And when you kiss him, when your hands are fisted in his hair as you drag him towards you, as your tongue swipes against his, you can taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp, and it makes you whimper, arching into him⁠. Eddie groans, low and rough, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He kisses you back just as hungrily, like he’s been starving for this, for you, and suddenly, there’s a certainty in his chest, bright and terrifying, that he doesn’t know how he ever lived without this. 

His usual moves—the ones that earned him that damn Freak in the Sheets nickname—are nowhere to be found. There’s something ruined in the way he touches you, like he’s not just trying to wreck you but worship you, like every sigh you let out is a prayer he wants to memorise. When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes search yours, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

“You okay?” He murmurs, voice wrecked.

It’s such a stupid question—of course you’re okay; you’re better than okay—but the way he asks it, like he genuinely needs to know, like your answer matters more than his next breath, it lights something inside of you as well. Because you feel it too—the way the air between you crackles even when you’re not touching, the way his hands linger even after he’s pulled away, like he can’t stand to let you go.

You swallow, suddenly too exposed. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be so…”

“So what?” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk—it’s lopsided, almost nervous.

“Attentive,” you admit, and his grin softens into something real.

Eddie huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well. You’re… special.”

Eddie exhales, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your waist—slow, possessive circles that leave fire in their wake. His voice drops, rough with something that isn’t just want but need.

“Let me take you out.”

His eyes meet yours again, dark and pleading, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a touch so tender it makes your breath stutter. His gaze is unbearably fond, like he’s already memorised every freckle, every hitch in your breathing, like he’s been waiting for you forever and just didn’t know it until now.

“Somewhere that’s not a dressing room,” he murmurs, lips quirking in that half-smile that’s equal parts mischief and vulnerability. “Somewhere with… chairs. And menus and shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky, because, fuck, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a distraction, a one-night rebellion against the perfectly curated life you’re supposed to want—the one where you’re Theodore Langley’s golden girl, where your smiles are scripted and your hands are meant to linger on his arm, not tangled in Eddie Munson’s hair.

But Eddie?

Eddie’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And that’s terrifying.

Because you feel it too—the way your chest tightens when he smiles, the way your skin still hums where he touched you, like his hands left permanent fingerprints.

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. His thumb stills against your lip, his voice raw. “Because I don’t think once is going to be enough.”

And God, the way he says it—like it’s already a lost cause, like he’s doomed, like he’s been ruined for anything else and he doesn’t even care.

You swallow. “What if I say no?”

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, but his eyes? Soft. “Then I’ll wait for you till you say yes.”

“For how long?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “However long it takes.”

And fuck, he's in trouble.

Because maybe there's a third thing that makes Eddie who he is right now—not just the leather-jacketed rebel who flips off convention, not just the raw-nerved artist who bleeds his truth into every chord. 

But Eddie Munson, the man who never begged for anything in his life, who would get on his knees for you.

Eddie Munson, who built his career on not giving a single fuck, would burn down every bridge if it meant keeping you warm.

Eddie Munson, the self-proclaimed freak, has never felt more terrifyingly human than when you look at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

A large part of the Steve Harrington lore was that he left his throne, his popularity, childhood best friends behind--for Nancy Wheeler. 

This was a lie. 

It wasn’t even one he encouraged--and Steve had done some damage control in the aftermath of that whole thing with the tunnels. 

He volunteered, dropped hints to the right crowd. 

It took time, but eventually, his insistence that he’d changed, left his old crew behind to become a better version of himself, began to stick.

Or at least it did with the people who mattered.  

It took Starcourt for him to realize that wasn’t really the truth either. 

Steve did want to be a better person. He was working actively on being a better person. 

But…

(But he still heard screams from a bus in the junkyard when he slept. Felt fear lick down his spine as he charged in, knowing he was the only thing standing between three dumb kids and a painful, shitty death. 

But he still heard Dustin, full of conviction, tell his friends that Steve was the only person he could find. 

But now he had a “bad” shoulder, a “twinge” in his ribs, and a head that was plagued by migraines, all of which made him look in the mirror and ask himself “What if I hadn’t gone with them?) 

…you couldn’t be there for someone, couldn’t protect someone, if you were too busy playing high school bullies with your friends. 

Robin would likely argue these were simply the reasons he wanted to be a better person, but Robin now ranked as one of Steve’s top 10 personal regrets--even if he was pretty sure they’d become best friends.

Because Steve was the oldest. He’d graduated high school for fucks sake, he should have shut Dustin down the second he realized what was happening was legitimate. 

He absolutely should not have let Robin get involved and Erica--

He can’t even really think about Erica, no matter how much Erica herself argues elsewise. 

At the very least, Steve can admit to himself he protected them in the end. 

Got beat to shit and had to fake his death alongside Hopper to do it, but they all got out. 

Alive.

Unscathed.

Hopefully to put this whole fucking thing past them once Owens finished cleaning house in the government. 

Unfortunately life--and Eddie fucking Munson--was not ready to put anything to rest. 

Munson in fact, seemed hellbent on disturbing what he could--and Steve, wholly haunted by the fact the kids always came to him, couldn’t let him do it alone.

At least, he thought with grim distaste, as he followed Munson’s weaving path to the ruins of Starcout,  he was getting his car out of it. 

xXx

Uncanny valley doesn’t do Steve’s feelings justice. 

Starcourt was laid out in a giant L, and coming at it from the outer edges like he and Munson did means everything looks disturbingly normal. 

Off putting, if only because it’s 10 in the morning and not a soul is in the mall, but otherwise? 

Like nothing ever went wrong.

As they move closer to the center, things begin to unravel. 

It’s not noticeable at first. Not unless you’re looking. The litter on the floor, the little piles of weird looking debris. 

The stains.

Nothing that outwardly screams “something horrible happened here” but it's coming--and though Munson is creeping along just as quietly as Steve is, he knows the guy isn’t on edge in the same way. 

Why would he be? Nothing Steve said had managed to deter him, and given Steve can’t exactly explain what happened or why he’s playing possum, Munson was plenty confident about going forward with his little B&E. 

At least not until they finally turn the corner, and the destruction hits them full force. 

Glass and chunks of plaster cover the ground like confetti. Lights hang sideways or lay smashed on the floor, as do pieces of doors (and railings and half of the entire upper floor.) 

The place looks like something out of a disaster film--which Steve supposes, is exactly what it is. 

If the disaster was supernatural in nature, and also caused by a giant monster made out of the melted flesh. 

(God, his life was weird.)

“What the hell happened here?” Eddie said, eyes wide as he took in the damage. 

Steve tried to imagine what it must look like for him. Looked at the scene and tried to pretend he was someone who wasn’t in the know, who thought the mall had been destroyed by a fire and subsequent structural collapse.

Could almost convince himself one could buy it--if it weren’t for the smears of blood that still stained the floor. 

He stared at said smears, trying to match up which puddle was the one Billy died in, in comparison to all the other stains that the feds hadn’t bothered to remove. 

Recalled the way Max screamed, fighting her way towards her step-brother when he finally fell.

The yell Billy himself had let out, when he’d managed to shake off the Mindflayer, long enough to give El the time she needed. 

Steve hadn’t really thought about it until now. 

Billy’s death.

 Hadn’t really had time too, given Owens had pulled him and a handful of others out of the ambulance and forced them into hiding.

(From the fucking Russians still hanging around, apparently, though that had been Owens flimsy excuse. Murray and Hopper and long guessed it was something far closer to home. 

“You ever think about how weird that was? That Russians made it to Hawkins and no one ever noticed?” Hopper had asked, a beer in the same hand that had an IV sticking out of the back of it. “Given the lab was right across town you think they’d be watching for that kinda thing.” 

“Please Jim, I am begging you, for once, to use your head. They didn’t get here without assistance and they certainly didn’t do it without help from our own government.” Murray had scoffed in return. 

He held two lit cigarettes in his hand, and was reaching for a third.

“Why the hell would the US military let in Russians?"

“An excellent question, and I’ll return it with one of my own. If we assume we are being lied too, and all the Russians are actually gone, why would Owens still need to hide us?"

“...Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”)

Now, Steve found he had all the time in the world to contemplate Billy Hargrove and his mostly unnoticed possession. His supposed sacrifice. 

 Had it redeemed him, the way movies and TV shows always said that kind of death, did? 

Steve imagined the sneered grin on Billy’s face that night at the Byers. Felt phantom knuckles brush across his face, the fury that had ignited within him when Billy hadn’t gone for him, but for Lucas.

Compared it to his own fight with Jonathan in ‘82. 

The words he’d allowed Tommy to spray upon the theater sign regarding his own girlfriend. The camera he’d destroyed. 

The demogorgon in the Byers house, lights flashing as it tore through the wall. 

If things had been different, if Steve hadn’t survived back then--would people wonder the same things about him? Would they ask themselves if his sacrifice was worth it--if it proved he was a good person, under it all? 

“Harrington?” 

Steve jumped, startling when Munson nudged him. 

“You good, man?” He asked, and Steve almost laughed at him because no, he definitely was not good. 

He can’t say that though, and so he does what he always does. Shoves the thoughts down, puts the feelings back inside a box in his mind. 

Lies. 

“Yeah--fine.” He said, brushing off his staring. “Come on, Scoops is that way.” 

He gestures, ignoring the concerned look that’s overtaken Munson’s face. 

Panicking he knows, will not get his keys back, and neither will it help him learn what idiot is poking around the Upside Down this time. 

Because for all of Murray's conspiracies, he doesn’t actually think the feds are Munson’s benefactor. Owens had been inclined to agree, when Steve first reported this entire situation back. 

It’s definitely not his parents, who are conveniently overseas in London. 

That leaves very little options, including a disturbing possibility of a new player to the game, and given all the green goo Steve had seen, the way they all know it does--something, to help power the gate... 

It’d be nice to get ahead of things for once, instead of scrambling to catch up. 

(Screw Hopper and Owens and everyone who told Steve to stay out of it.

He knew damn well Munson wouldn’t listen to his warnings. 

Wouldn’t back off and definitely wouldn’t leave it alone.

Hopper’s half-delirious (and morphine fueled) rants about this finally being a wakeup call for Munson if he didn’t listen wasn’t going to make up for the blood on Steve's hands if the guy went in there without him and died. ) 

Walking through Scoop's is almost more unnerving than walking through the mall itself. Likely because Steve spent time here, and seeing it in it's destroyed state--lights off, ice cream melted and fouling the air with the a rancid stench do him no favors.

The You Suck board is laying haphazardly on the floor.

Steve forces himself to walk by it, and breathes only through his mouth.

“Your locker, my liege!” Munson crows as they enter the back part of Scoop’s, throwing out an arm at it like he’s presenting a game show prize. “Shall we see if the treasure we seek is behind door number one?” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but remains quiet as he steps up and enters his combination. 

It swings open as easily as it ever had, and there, hanging from the crooked hook, is the car keys Steve is so desperately after. 

Munson throws his hands in the air, like Steve’s just shot the winning basket of a game. 

“Score!” He yells, and Steve grins reflexively even as he shushes him. 

“Now," Munson says dramatically, "the hunt begins for our second prize.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“I told you I don’t have a class ring.” 

“And yet they have me searching for one anyway.” Like a hound zeroing in on a trail, he immediately orients to the back of Scoop’s, waltzing through to the backrooms like this was everyday for him.

Given his confusing and handwaved excuse of how he got involved in this, Steve suppose it could be. 

(He had decided, sometime between the first and fifth time he’d tried to get Eddie to explain how, exactly he’d been roped into this little mission, that the man could never meet Dustin.

Henderson was already too good at steamrolling over Steve, explaining nothing other than the facts that would force them all to do what the little shit wanted, all the while leading them further into trouble.

He didn’t need to befriend someone like Munson, whose mastery of the same bullshit had him doing, well.

This.) 

To the end of the hall Eddie skipped, and Steve kept his eyes on his jacket. Some sort of demon thing was posed on the back, a shirt that had been ripped up and resewn to be a backpatch. 

It was better than looking at anything else back here.

It took them no time at all to reach their destination. 

The door down had a shiny new lock on it. A big thing, with chains so thick Steve briefly wondered if they were worried about containment. 

Had they pulled something through the gate, before it had exploded?

The base was large--larger than Steve had seen, and he'd passed room after room when running around down there.

No one had the time to explore, and one would assume any and all monsters had been removed from the premise but there was always that little tickling feeling.

The one that chanted 'What if...'

Unfortunately, the lock did nothing to detour this little jaunt. 

Munson dropped to his knees in front of a door, hair pin in hand. He fiddled with the lock for a moment and Steve took it to visualize how different things might have been if the older teen had been there with them. 

How much easier some of it would have been. 

(Not that Steve wanted to involve anyone else in this mess.

He'd carry the guilt of dragging Erica and Robin both into it for the rest of his life, not matter what either had to say about the matter. Dustin he knew he couldn't stop, but then, Steve doubted they'd have even made it that far without the girls.)

A click sounded, and Eddie looked up, eyes bright with a wild grin on his face. 

“Open sesame.” He purred as he stood, the door opening under his hands. He pushed on it, revealing the dark gaping maw of a stairwell.

Dread hit Steve like a wave.

“We shouldn’t go down there.” He said.

They had already had this conversation, but Steve felt the overwhelming urge to revisit it on grounds that he still isn’t sure how exactly, Munson got him to agree to come in the first place, and also, now that he was thinking of it, because the guy reminded him of Dustin.

“We shouldn’t be here at all.” Munson countered, springing back to his feet. “But some of us need this little thing called money.”

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, as if Steve needed the extra visual.

“If you’re giving me the car--and the car keys--what's the point of going after the ring?” Steve tried, staring down the stairwell before him. “Aren’t they gonna like, not pay you for not finding anything?”

Munson made a dismissive noise, waving his hands in the air like he was dispersing smoke. 

“Eddie.” Steve said, and knew by the way Munson looked at him that the use of his first name hit as intended. “I mean it, man.” 

There was no point in going through with the rest of it. No point at all.

“And I told you I was given a side mission to my main mission, and a little industry secret for ya here Harrington,"

Steve watched as cheshire-cat like grin lit up Munson’s face, in a way eerie similar to Dustin’s gummy smile. "the side missions always pay more.” 

“What's under there isn’t--this isn’t--it’s not safe.” Steve fired back, hating how he fumbled the words, like a ball slipping through his hands. 

Munson scoffed.

“Life ain’t safe.”  

“This is different.” He tried to argue and hated how stubborn Munson was being about this.

It almost made him feel bad about all the time’s Robin had protested. 

(Idly Steve wondered if this was how she felt. Like she was getting dragged along--like she had to go. 

Did her insides feel scooped out? Stomach hollow and head hurting?

Or had the excitement blinded her too much to feel the way the walls seemed to press in?)

Steve’s gut clenched with worry, and he shook his head to clear the anxiety.

Met Munson's gaze and desperately thought of something to say to convince him to walk away.

Some of that must have bled onto his face, because Munson was giving him an odd, searching look.

“I’ll make you a deal, Steve-O." He said. "You give me two good reasons why we shouldn’t go down there, and if they’re really convincing, I might agree to skip it.” 

“I signed NDAs.” Steve sighed, because this was an argument they’d also already had. 

Twice in fact--once, when Eddie first found him, alive and very much not dead as reported, and the second time when he approached Steve with his “retrieval project.” 

(Both times at the goddamn gas station, which Steve would now be avoiding for life.) 

On eyebrow raised. “Over a mallfire?” 

“I think,” Steve said dryly, gesturing around to the destruction that surrounded them, “that you’ve figured out it wasn’t a mallfire.” 

Technically he wasn't even supposed to say that, but then, Steve had long stopped caring if he actually broke the stupid thing.

The real issue was that the story sounded like something out of a bad horror film--fake and ridiculous. If he tried to explain it, Munson would assume Steve had finally cracked.

Or, more likely, decide he was being made fun of, and react accordingly.

(They couldn't afford to fight here, and neither did Steve want Munson storming off.)

“Well duh. But then, you’re the one who won’t say what really happened here.” Munson waggled his eyebrows in a way that was so cartoony Steve was mildly impressed a person could pull it off. 

He sighed a second time. 

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You keep saying that and you keep not trying me.” Eddie leaned against the door frame. “Come on Harrington. Two reasons.”

Steve tried.

Ran through what might convince Munson to leave it all alone. 

Figured the guy was kind of like Dustin, in that he couldn’t be too vague (because it would just intrigue him) and he couldn’t be too honest (because any idiot could see Munson would be all over some kind of government conspiracy.) 

“The fact the building might pancake on us at any moment isn't enough?" He asked, unsure if sounding desperate was the right move here (an equally unsure if he could hide it if it was.)

He’d hadn’t tried this route before--hadn’t thought Munson would go for it. 

Not when he'd waived off every other attempt Steve could think of, to stop this.

“Nah, I trust my source, this place will hold.” Munson leaned forward, deep into Steve’s space and though Steve waivered back, he let the older teen get close. “You’ve been off ever since we came in here, Harrington. I want to know why.” 

“I was in the fire. Munson. I did almost die."

He still had a bruise left to prove it.

"That ain't it and you know it."

"I don't know what else to tell you then." Steve said, angry. why was the guy making this so hard? Why couldn't he just fucking listen!?

“Not even two reasons?”

“There’s not--” Steve closed his eyes, frustrated. “I’ve given you far more than two reasons!” 

“Not any good ones.” 

“I don’t know what you want from me. "Steve admitted finally. "because I told you, you wouldn’t believe the rest of it--” 

Munson didn't let his rant pick up steam. instead he pulled himself back, interrupting Steve.

“Then down the rabbit hole we go, Alice!”

Quick as a flash he was  down the stairs and Steve bit back a curse as he rushed to follow.

“Munson--come on, wait!” He yelled back.

Eddie, of course, did no such thing. 

It took everything he had in him to rush after, but Steve did it anyway.

What else was he good for?

[steddiehyperfixation]

with blonde hair and a tan

steddie brainworms so bad i wrote this silly little thing immediately after watching the rocky horror picture show for the first time the other night lol @steddie-spooktober day 30: "where in the hell did you find that costume?" | 1083 words | T |

Eddie can hear Steve and Robin squabbling as he makes his way up the stairs to Steve's room. 

“I just don't know about this, Rob.” 

“It was your idea!” 

“It's too much. I should wear something else.” 

“Little late for that now.” 

“Well-”

“Where in the hell did you find that costume?” Eddie stops in the doorway, frozen in a state of shock at the scene in front of him. His mouth hangs open, eyes wide, and a sudden heat rises in his cheeks. 

Because Steve is standing in front of his mirror wearing only a tiny metallic gold speedo and matching gold boots, his great expanse of tanned skin and muscles and body hair on full display. Robin stands next to him with a spray can of wash out bleach-blonde hair dye at the ready. 

Steve looks over at Eddie. “It's too much, isn't it? I knew it. I told you,” he says to Robin, gesturing at Eddie as if his reaction proves his point. “Look at his face, even he's embarrassed for me.” 

Robin snorts. “Yeah, I don't think that's why he's blushing, Steve-o.” 

“No one’s even gonna know who I am,” Steve continues to complain, thankfully ignoring Robin’s comment. 

“Rocky,” Eddie says. His voice comes out weird and cracked; he clears his throat. “You're Rocky, from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” 

“See?” Now it's Robin’s turn to gesture towards Eddie in vindication. “Totally recognizable. Totally good. It's just one party, and you've got all that unwarranted jock confidence, you'll be fine.” She pats Steve on the shoulder, then turns and tosses the spray dye at Eddie. “Here. You can take over spraying his hair. I have to finish getting myself ready.” 

Eddie fumbles trying to catch the spray can, his attempt to stammer out a protest falling on deaf ears as Robin pushes past him out of the room. “Okay.” He sighs. This is fine. He can totally handle being left alone with this literal golden adonis without getting heart palpitations. He can be cool and chill and normal. He can. 

Steve looks amused. “You don't have to. I can probably manage spraying my own hair just fine,” he says when Eddie still hasn't moved. 

“No, I got it.” Eddie shakes his head, shaking himself into motion. “You won't be able to get the back right on your own anyways.” He approaches Steve - with great restraint, he might add, because there's a part of his brain that's all animal right now and it's just raring to pounce on him. “So are you done trying to talk yourself out of this costume, then?” 

Steve chews at his lip as he studies his reflection again. “I think so,” he decides. His gaze flicks up to meet Eddie's eyes in the mirror. “You really don't think it's too much?” 

Eddie breaks the mirror eye contact before his face can turn any more red, fixing his focus singularly on starting to spray the blonde dye onto Steve's hair. “No, you uh, you look good. You really should've warned me- told me, I mean, what you were gonna be. I would've matched your theme, could've gone as Dr. Frank N Furter.” (His current costume in comparison is quite boring, just a basic vampire - albeit with some pretty impressive fake blood around his mouth if he does say so himself, but ultimately nothing special.)

“Now that would be something,” Steve mutters, the words a little breathier all of the sudden, but Eddie still doesn't dare let his glance wander from his hair. His voice is back to normal in a second anyway. “Well, there's always next year.” 

“Yeah, next year,” Eddie echoes. That really would be something, both of them in flamboyantly skimpy costumes. He's not sure if that would make this situation better or worse for him. 

He pushes up some of Steve's hair to make sure he's covered all the layers in the back, his fingers accidentally brushing along the skin of his neck, and Steve shivers. Eddie finds himself watching with an odd satisfaction as the goosebumps ripple up in the wake of his touch. 

“I think I might freeze to death like this, though,” Steve comments with a self-deprecating chuckle that just barely conceals that weird breathiness that's returned to his voice. “I probably should've considered that before I decided to go out half naked at night in the middle of fall.” 

“I bet you could easily find someone to keep you warm tonight,” Eddie tells him, forcing detachment. He locks his attention back on his hair dyeing work. “You walk in there looking like this and you'll have all the girls at the party falling at your feet. Probably even some of the guys too,” he adds, remembering Steve recently came out as bisexual. 

“Yeah?” Steve sounds like he's smiling, or maybe smirking. He tries (unsuccessfully) to catch Eddie's eyes again as Eddie moves in front of him to get to the last few pieces of hair. “And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Would you be one of them?” 

Eddie finishes with the hairspray, nothing left to keep using as an excuse to avoid his attention. He finally looks at Steve's face and raises an eyebrow, deflecting. “You want me to fall at your feet, Harrington?” 

Steve shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He glances down for a moment, then looks back up at him from under his lashes and takes a step closer. “I want you to keep me warm,” he clarifies in a murmur as he reaches for Eddie's free hand and guides it to hold his waist. Eddie's blood ignites at the touch and the look Steve's giving him, flames racing along his veins. 

That's as good an invitation as any, and Eddie's restraint shatters. He draws Steve hungrily to his lips. How could he not? The spray can falls from his grip in favor of using both hands to pull Steve closer and roam his body. And if Eddie's wandering hands linger for a while in their investigation of that perfect gold-clad ass, well that's between them and the lovely little sound Steve makes against his open mouth. 

And Robin, who has the misfortune of poking her head back into the room right then. 

She yelps and jumps out of view of the scene, banging her fist against the wall just next to the doorway to get their attention instead. “When you guys are done being gross,” she shouts, “there's a party we're gonna be late for!” 

[steddie-lyfalling]

Anyone else write fanfic in their head to go to sleep? Well have mine...

"When?"

It was an abrupt interruption, he knew that, but there was no way Eddie was going to let Steve keep talking when he could barely hear him past the roaring of blood in his ears and the barrage of questions stumbling to the tip of his tongue.

"I'm sorry-"

"When? When did you start looking at me like that? When did you decide I was a good person, a person that deserves anything but animosity from someone as wonderful as you? When did you start seeing this person you're describing and not the one I see in the mirror? Actually no, screw that, it doesn't matter when! Why? How? What the fuck!?"

Steve looked confused; confused, overwhelmed and timid? Maybe shouting self defamatory questions during a confession, a love confession (but seriously what the fuck!?) wasn't the best way to handle it.

The thing is, Eddie feels the same. Head to toe gone for the guy now staring at his hands, picking at his cuticles. The guy that was, mere seconds ago, proudly and nervously confessing how he felt for Eddie. And he's already fucking ruined it. Jesus.

Imagine holding your bare bleeding heart in your open palms, offering it sheepishly to another to hold and that person. Eddie. Just pushes that offer back and shouts "Why? What? Where?... When?" Seriously?! C'mon dude.

"Shit, sorry. Stevie, take my hands, please?"

Thankfully in that moment, Eddie's voice managed to be calm, inviting, his bare bleeding heart held out in his open palms and Steve gingerly placed his alongside it. Holding Eddie's, only slightly shaking, thank you very much, but clammy as all hell, hands and finally looking back into his eyes.

"Rewind? Can we go back to the part where you were saying how kind I was? Before I shoved my foot right in my mouth and started shouting around it? Before I immediately disproved your kindness theory? And this time, Stevie, this time I'm going to stay quiet until you're done. But know the second you give me the nod, I'm going to tell you about every single wondrous part of you, the big and the small, and how every single wondrous part of you made me fall in love in every single way imaginable, and it's going to take hours, weeks, years actually. But you were the brave one you get to go first."

A small gentle smile creeps across Steve's, so handsome, so fucking handsome and cute and god!, face and looking deep into Eddie's eyes he starts from where he left off.

"Eds, you are so kind, and sweet, your heart is bigger than the universe. Your self control could use some work..."

[buddierealm]

ʚ MISTAKES NEVER LAST — e. diaz x reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 Wordcount: 4.1k Summary: Someone almost dies. You freak out. Alternatively, those accused of robbing banks together, stay together. Warnings: cheating, panic attacks, vomiting, yearning overload, idiot4idiot, they’re broken up but HR still hates them. A/N: anyone else feel like someone's gearing up to die and haunt the narrative?

13 times. Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen. You repeat the number so much in your head it doesn't even sound like a real word anymore. It's all you've done since you hung up on Bobby. It's all you can think about on the drive over. 13 times Chimney's been stabbed.

Howie Han can be annoying at times, but he's always been a loyal and kind friend. You don't understand why anyone would do such a thing.

And Maddie's been kidnapped, too.

They've seriously got to be the most cursed couple of all time.

You rush through the hospital doors, and tell the front desk your name. You're sure you look a mess. You had no time to even look in the mirror after getting that call. They ask for the patient's name and it takes you a long minute to come up with anything, cycling through Chim's endless list of nicknames in your mind.

“Howard Han. His name's Howard Han, he was...um,” you can't even bring yourself to say the words.

He was stabbed thirteen times.

The nurse at the desk's mouth drops open as she opens something up on the screen in front of her. You nod, you can tell she's just uncovered what's happened to him. Her eyes are full of pity as she directs you to the hallway adjacent to the ICU.

There, you find Athena and Bobby leaning against the wall, while Buck and Eddie sit in the corner. You walk up to Athena and she offers you a hug, before Bobby does the same.

“Anything new?” you ask Athena.

“No, he's stable for now. Last we heard they were getting him prepped for surgery,” she responds.

“Good, good,” you sigh, “What about the case? I mean, who the hell did all of this?”

“We don't know yet. There isn't much we can reveal. But before he fell unconscious, Howard mentioned a Jason Bailey. That name ring a bell?”

You think it does. You wrack your brain for a few minutes, trying to come up with anything from your conversations with Chim, but nothing comes up. As you're about to shake your head in response, though, you remember.

“Oh my god! Yes,” you yell, grabbing Eddie and Buck's attention, “This guy I met outside a bar we were all at. He asked for my number. I gave it to him.”

“He said his name was Jason Bailey.”

“Did he ever end up calling you?” Athena asks.

“Yeah, he called me a bunch after. I never responded, though,” you confess, as Buck and Eddie make their way over to the three of you.

“Would you mind giving me the number?”

You nod in agreement frantically, and pull your phone out. You read the digits out loud to her, and she logs them onto her phone. She explains that she'll try to track the phone attached to the number, and then leaves with Buck.

Shortly after, Bobby follows them. You're left standing there with Eddie, too stunned to speak. You can feel your throat closing up and a large pit forming in your stomach.

You move to sit down at the chair where Buck sat just minutes ago. You put your head between your knees and try to even out your breathing. Your mind is flooding with all of the different possible ways this could've gone. Repositioning your head fails miserably, when you start remembering all of the bad memories from the past month.

You've felt so lonely lately, the breakup with Eddie hitting you hard. You wonder, if it had been you, how long would it have taken anyone to find you?

You shoot out of your seat and make your way into the nearest storage closet you can find, slamming the door shut. If you're about to break down, it might as well be private. You can hear Eddie call after you, but you pay him no mind. You slide down the floor and sit in a crouched position, letting the cold floor cool you down.

Your face is running hot, you can barely hear your own heavy breathing with your mind running at 100 miles per hour, and it feels like someone's stabbed you in the stomach. You close your eyes tightly, trying to zero in on anything positive, but nothing comes up. And then Eddie walks in.

He closes the door behind him gently, and you're too busy wigging out to tell him to leave you the fuck alone, please. He grabs something off of a shelf above you and bends down to sit beside you.

“Hey,” he whispers, and your eyes turn to look at him. You're still freaking out but his voice is making this a little easier.

It could've been you. You instead of Chim. Maybe it should've been. You could've saved him. Maybe you would've been able to tell this guy was bad news. Why hadn't you responded to Jason's calls? If you had, it might've been you kidnapped right now. It might've been Eddie stabbed and left to die. Or you. You aren't too sure what this psycho's end goal is exactly.

“Take this, okay? Breathe into it for me,” he hands you a paper bag. You grab it desperately, and put it over your mouth.

You focus on filling the bag up with air, and breathing it back in. Eddie whispers praises into the dark, with a steady hand on your shoulder.

“You’re okay, cariño. You’re okay,” he tells you, “You’re doing so well.”

Your breathing's still irregular, though, and two breaths later you can feel the contents of your stomach come back up. You're immensely grateful for the bag, which Eddie grabs and throws into a trash can nearby. He makes his way back to your side immediately, placing his open palm on the middle of your back.

The worst of it is over, the endorphins from throwing up carrying you over. You feel a lot better almost instantly. Your breathing's gone back to normal, and you feel a little dizzy but it's a lot better than whatever the fuck that was. You rest your head against the shelf behind you as Eddie does the same. He sighs in relief, like he was the one who's just had a panic attack. Somehow, you can see it's affected him just as much as you.

“You okay, now?” he checks.

“Mhm. Much better,” you respond.

He rubs your back gently in circles. A few moments after you've both calmed down, you walk out of the storage closet. He leads you to a bathroom to get cleaned up, and waits outside.

Neither of you talks for the rest of the night. He takes care of you silently; he brings you food and coffee, holds your hand when Chimney goes into surgery, and consistently reassures you everything's going to be fine with just his eyes.

The morning after feels a little like dying inside. Chim's still in surgery, you haven't spoken to Eddie yet, and you're all going around sharing anecdotes about Howie like he's about to die.

When you feel like you're about to start panicking again, you put your head between your legs and claim it's just because you're tired. You can feel Eddie look for any signs of distress you might be exhibiting whenever you do this anyway.

The moment Michael and Harry turn up with drinks and baked goods, Eddie goes to grab you both a cup of the fancy coffee they brought by. You take the cup from his hand and thank him with a smile.

“We don't have to talk about last night if you don't want to,” he blurts out, as he takes a seat again.

You frown, “It's not that I don't want to. There's nothing to talk about. I freaked out. Chimney's my friend. I was worried.”

“It wasn't just that,” he accuses. “C'mon, we were both there. That wasn't just worry or sadness. It was guilt.”

You roll your eyes, “What the hell do I have to feel guilty for?”

He leans back, “You should ask yourself.”

He glances around to make sure no one's looking and puts a reassuring hand on your back, “None of this is your fault. It doesn't matter that this guy was trying to harass you first. It's not your fault, okay?”

His tone has a finality to it that almost makes you believe him. You nod anyway, and it's more of a promise that you'll try, than an affirmation. It's good enough for him.

You sip on your coffee slowly, and his hand never leaves your back.

There's still a smooth rhythm to your conversation. The quick-witted quips and jokes you shared during your time together still flow between you like you've never been apart. You're listening intently to Eddie talk about something that happened on a call the other week when his attention is pulled by something else.

“I happen to think...” he pauses, his eyes are now trained on someone behind you.

“Shannon?” he says, getting up.

You turn around to look. Yep, definitely Shannon.

He walks a few steps closer to lean down and hug Christopher. You smile at the sight, and get up to greet Shannon.

“Hey,” you say, introducing yourself.

She introduces herself as well, and you nod. Like you'd ever forget her. When Christopher hears your voice, he walks over to hug you. You pick him up into your arms, as Eddie grabs his walking sticks.

“Hey, buddy. How's it going?” you ask excitedly.

“Great,” he says, “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” you grin.

“Yeah,” Shannon responds, “He's mentioned you a lot.”

You nod at her, trying not to look visibly uncomfortable, and then ask Chris if he'd like to go see Chim. He's very enthusiastic for a kid that has to spend his Saturday at a hospital, but you entertain him anyway. You both walk further into the hospital, as his parents talk for a moment, before Eddie joins you and Shannon leaves.

It seems you have an insanely useless and incredibly inconvenient talent: it's crossing paths with Shannon Diaz. It's almost like the universe is punishing you by putting her in your life every time you have the gall to try forgetting about her.

And the curse doesn't stop at the hospital, it follows you all the way back to the station. Eddie's been out on a call for an hour and fifty-two minutes. Not just Eddie, everyone else too, but his shift had ended within those two hours, as had your own. You were just sticking behind in case anyone needed anything, definitely not to keep tabs on him.

Besides, no one ever said you couldn't keep tabs on your ex in your mind, even if he does have a wife. It's completely innocent. No one's getting hurt, and you find a little bit of solace in making sure he's fine after every call.

So, when you look over the railing to see if it's the team that's just stepped into the station and you catch sight of Shannon Diaz instead, you feel a little caught. It's almost like that woman has a sixth sense when it comes to you and Eddie.

She catches you staring at her from upstairs and waves her arm at you. She makes her way up with Christopher, and you greet them both, bending down to give Chris a hug.

“Hey, uh, Eddie's on his last call right now,” you inform Shannon.

She nods, and for some reason, you invite her to sit at the couch and decide take a seat with them. Christopher goes out of his way to sit next to you.

You entertain them with stories about rescuing people from the most inconvenient emergencies, but you keep out all of the graphic details for Chris' sake.

“Y'know, when I was with your dad, responding to an emergency once,” you narrate, looking at Christopher.

“There was a fire we had to put out. At the very last minute, I had to pull him away before he got caught in it. I practically saved his life. You should make sure he never forgets that,” you joke.

He laughs and nods like he’s actually going to remind his dad every 5 minutes. You can tell Shannon’s getting a little bored with all of the story-telling.

“Good thinking,” she comments, like she's praising a child for a cute drawing.

Chris almost immediately decides he wants a drink of water. He insists on going to the fridge for it alone. You watch him anyway, worried about the uneven flooring of the station. You finally look away when you realize one of your co-workers helping him out at the kitchenette.

“He's so independent for a kid. Wants to do everything himself,” you admire.

“Yeah, I know,” she responds, but she sounds like something else is on her mind.

“It is you, isn’t it?” she blurts out.

“Um,” you look around and repeat your own name back to her, nodding.

“You know what I mean,” she says, her voice heavy with accusation.

It’s clear she knows exactly what transpired between you and Eddie, before she decided to turn back up. If not, then she has a pretty damn good idea. You're too stunned to respond. You make sure to frown at her tone, though.

“What...” you begin, but you're thankfully interrupted by Eddie running up the stairs.

He hugs Shannon with one arm from behind the couch, and goes to say hi to Chris. When they both come back, Shannon looks positively furious. You feel like she might get up and kill you. Then, she does the most unexpected thing ever.

“Why don't you join us for dinner tonight? I'll make something nice.”

Is she seriously fucking inviting you to dinner?

Your eyes go so wide you might pop an eyeball. You turn to Eddie for a moment and then back to her.

“I kind of have plans. A date,” you lie.

That catches Eddie’s attention. You try your hardest to ignore his eyes boring into the side of your head, on account of his wife, who's literally sitting five feet away. There’s a palpable tension in the air. It makes you want to find the nearest sink and drown yourself in it.

“Maybe some other time,” you lie again.

You bid Christopher goodbye, and run to get dressed and leave.

A day later, it's Chimney's survived-a-brutal-stabbing party. Eddie and Buck hold up the party banner that reads, 'Chimney: 2, Death: 0.' Buck argues with Hen about respecting Chim's wishes, but she's having none of it. And, just on time, Athena brings the cake she picked up for the party being held at the station.

Hen announces that Chim's ten minutes away.

Perfect, you think, that's just enough time.

You walk up to Eddie as discreetly as possible and tell him to follow you into the bathroom. You go inside, and a few seconds later he's in there too.

“What?” he asks, a little concerned.

“Did you tell your wife about us?” you ask abruptly.

“Excuse me?” he whisper-shouts. “What I do and don’t tell my wife is none of your business,” he adds.

“Oh, don’t give me that. Just answer the damn question.”

He sighs in defeat, “Fine. Yes, I did. Of course I did. Happy now?”

“No, actually,” you respond, with snark.

“So what does she want now? For all of us to be friends?” you question, talking about how she so casually tried to invite you to dinner.

“I have no idea, okay?” he admits, "All I know is that I wouldn’t mind it.”

He waits for you to respond, expectantly. It's clear he's waiting for you to say the same.

You won't. You can't. The implications of it would be so fucked up. Especially after what happened at the hospital, which you're 100 percent sure Shannon doesn't know about.

“What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That it doesn’t kill me every time I see you with her and I remember what we had, and just how easily you let it all go?

“No. I won’t say any of that. Because it’s pathetic. And I’m not going to say anything to ease your guilty conscience. You should feel guilty.

“And I hate you for what you did.”

He's staring so intently into your eyes, you think he might be looking for any indication that what you're saying isn't true. Then, what you've just said dawns on you.

You've just admitted every single feeling you have for him in double negatives. And it's all true.

He grabs both sides of your face and pulls you into a hard kiss. He walks forward and pushes you into the tiled wall behind you.

It takes you a moment to slip your eyes shut, and delight in the feeling of his lips on yours. Just one word flashes through your brain, and it makes you pull back immediately like he's just burned you.

Wrong. This is all so, so wrong.

Looking into his eyes at this moment is the biggest mistake of your life. It instantly makes you forget everything. Your morals, your past, and his wife, it all fades away into the background.

You do remember the way he's made you feel, though. How sad, and dejected, and lonely he rendered you the day you realized he'd been lying to you. Your brows furrow at him, like looking into his eyes is causing you physical, palpable pain.

You slap him.

And before he can react, you pull him in for a kiss again.

His fingers are wrapped up in your hair in an instant. He pulls you impossibly closer, smushing your mouths together in desperation. You whine into his mouth at the feeling, but it reaches your ears as nothing more than a muffled, barely audible noise.

Your hands are cradling his face, but they just serve as leverage to keep him close. To make sure he receives everything you're pouring into this kiss.

You endlessly pour every single emotion he's made you feel since that night at the bar into the gesture. You hope he can feel the result, which just feels like a mess of love, and lust, and misery, and guilt.

So, so much guilt. So much guilt you're choking on it. When you almost can't breathe anymore, you pull back quickly. It makes you remember why you feel so guilty.

“No, no. Oh my god,” you exclaim, pulling his hands away and stepping back, all the way to the other side of the bathroom.

“You're married. Still married,” you think out loud, and it makes you feel a thousand times worse.

You shake your head firmly, “I'm not going to be some kind of mistress.”

You walk towards the bathroom door to leave, needing as much space between you and him as possible.

Since it's all out in the open now, so you feel the need to call him out on his bullshit once and for all.

“I won't tell you how to live your life. But if you keep playing house with someone you don't love, it'll do a lot more harm than good. To you and to Christopher.”

You had no idea a call could end so badly. You'd spent 12 hours locked up in a vault, unconscious and drugged. And now you're being interrogated. After having had to wait for everyone else in the 118 to be interrogated, naturally.

As you wait in an interrogation room in the LA police station ten minutes away from the 118, you tap your foot impatiently. You're so tired you could fall sleep right here on the metal table you're leaning against. You're also so angry you could annoy the idiots who brought you in here for hours. You probably will.

Two detectives step into the room, and take a seat in front of you. It's a man and a woman. They look familiar, and you already hope you never have to see them again after today.

The way they walk to their chairs, smiling at you, and look at each other plays out like a very badly written act they're trying to perform.

“Hello, firefighter…um,”

The woman checks your name and then says it out loud, tapping the piece of paper in front of her.

“I’m Detective Mercer,” she says, and then points at her partner, “And this is Detective Wash. We just have a few questions for you.”

You nod, because it’s the only reaction you can manage without completely freaking out at them. Your nerves are fried. Not only have you just gotten accused of being involved in a bank robbery, you had to wait four hours for these idiots to be done interrogating everyone else to bring you in.

“Look, we know you’re probably not involved in any of this,” Detective Mercer says.

You shoot her an expression you hope conveys, ‘Really? Then, why’d you bring me in here, idiot?’

“Yes,” she says with certainty at your disbelieving glare.

“I mean, you were already a Fire Cadet, who was qualified for Ride-Alongs by 17. Recognized by the Board of Fire Commission for your dedication. You graduated top of your class at the academy. The top graduate for three years after too, if I recall correctly,” Detective Wash notes, reading off of the file that rests in front of him. His partner just nods. 

“Your record’s completely clean. You’ve had no financial problems. Hell, your credit score’s better than either of us,” Mercer says, pointing at herself and her partner.

They both laugh, but you aren’t laughing with them. You know they don’t believe in all of the bullshit they’re spewing.

It’s all real, of course, but it doesn’t absolve you from looking guilty in their eyes. They’re just trying to pull you in by making you feel so holier-than-thou that you rat the 118 out, which you wouldn’t do in a million years. So, it seems there’s a few things they don’t know.

“So, where are the questions?” you ask, clearly too tired for this demeaning attempt at manipulation. 

Detective Wash sighs, and then looks at his partner like they’re gearing up to reveal a big secret to you. 

He then leans in, across the table, and almost whispers, “We heard, uh, somewhere, that there’s been some involvement between yourself and Probationary Firefighter Diaz. We also heard he hurt you pretty badly.”

Detective Mercer nods again, “Lord knows I wouldn't forgive an ex for lying to me that easily, either.”

You cock your head to the side.

What the actual hell...

You wish you could just run away. Or hide in the corner, or something. You were aware everyone in the station knew what was going on, but it being spoken back to you like this makes you want to pull your own hair out.

You haven't spoken to him since the kiss, but hearing his name still leaves you embarrassed and a little hurt.

“What are you trying to say?” you ask, annoyed.

Wash sits back like they've just caught you red-handed.

They haven't. It's why they're resorting to all of these cheap tactics, you tell yourself.

"What we're trying to say is..." Mercer sighs, feigning disappointment, “You don't have to go down for this with him.”

You roll your eyes, slamming your hands down on the table as gently as you can manage right now. They're bigger idiots than you previously thought if they genuinely think they can manipulate you into saying anything.

“Of course,” you laugh.

“Look, I didn't do anything. Diaz didn't do anything. The 118 didn't do anything. I was unconscious with my friend in a vault for almost 12 hours that day, but I can tell you with utmost certainty: you're barking up the wrong tree.”

You sit back in your seat. They look shocked at how plainly you speak. You hope they didn't realize the fury in your eyes when they suggested you might rat Eddie out. Of all people. He's the last person you'd betray.

They ask you a million other questions. They even try to insinuate you might've cooked this up to help Eddie out with his finances, which you had no idea he was even having problems with.

It's all irrelevant. Everything else sounds irrelevant to your ears after they've asked about your fight with Eddie. Your answers are clipped, enough to be cooperative, but not enough to give them any false hope that they might be right.

The investigation fizzles out, and you're all found innocent, obviously. But they've taken Captain Nash away from you. It tips the carefully curated balance you've all got going on when Chim assumes the role of Interim Captain Han.

It's the most entertaining thing to have happened at the station, since Buck got fired. You have no idea why everyone hates it so much. You loved having Bobby Nash as your captain, but you wouldn't mind if he stayed on the bench a little longer.

To be fair, Howard Han is pretty much completely afraid of you.

He wouldn't be able to boss you around if he tried. And he has, many times. When you first joined the 118 as a probie, he tried to act as a guiding hand. It seemed more like he was just trying to get you to do everything he tells you to do, constantly.

So, when you got tired of it, you put him in his place. Very loudly. For thirty minutes. And he hasn't tried to order you to do anything since.

It's just the dynamic you two have. Him becoming a temporary replacement for Captain Nash will never change that.

That being said, you still miss having Cap around, so you decide to visit him.

You're sure you might be the unluckiest person alive, though, because it isn't Bobby who opens the door for you. It's the very last person you want to see. And he looks as stunned to see you as you are.

As you walk into Bobby's apartment, and set down the cookies you've brought over, you realize he has the same stunned look on his face as you and Eddie.

“What? You guys look like I've just caught you sharing dirty secrets,” you joke.

“Oh,” you realize.

They were probably talking about Shannon, or Christopher. Or anything else you have no business butting into. Maybe Bobby even knows about the kiss. God, you hope he doesn't.

“Never mind,” you counter.

You sit down beside Bobby. The awkward silence becomes a little too much to bear, so you decide to ignore Eddie's presence completely.

“Bobby, I have to tell you, I'm so incredibly entertained by Chimney playing captain,” you gush.

“Really?” Bobby questions, “Everyone's been saying the exact opposite.”

“Yeah, well. Howie's too afraid of me to try any of his weird power-play stuff on me,” you explain, popping open the Tupperware you brought to grab a cookie. You urge them to do the same.

“I've got free passes out of all of the boring stuff he's having everyone else do."

“How'd you do that?” Eddie asks, smiling into a bite of a cookie.

You're a little disoriented for a moment. It's the first time he's directly spoken to you since the... well, the thing. And it was completely by accident. You can tell by the way his eyes went wide right after.

Now, you're stuck between a rock and a hard place. You could respond, and lose your credibility in this ongoing contest to see who's going to initiate friendship first. Or you could ignore him and make this entire visit a hundred times more awkward.

You respond, for Bobby's sake, “It's a long story. Maybe later.”

You start talking about all of the interesting calls you've had since Bobby left, and Eddie listens intently, despite having already been there for most of them. He laughs at every joke and grins at every other word.

Sooner rather than later, you check your phone and notice you're about to be late to brunch with Hen.

Eddie watches your every movement, like he's been doing for the past hour.

He must think he's subtle, but he really isn't.

“I have to leave in ten, Cap,” you announce, “I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” he says, “I'm booked and busy.”

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Eddie seems to realize, “I'm already twenty minutes late to lunch with the family.”

The family? You're sure Christopher has a physical therapy session right now, like he does every week.

Maybe he means Shannon? Why not say her name? Is he trying to spare you all the feeling of awkwardness when he mentions her in your presence? Or does he remember the things you told him the last time you...spoke. If you can even call it that.

He gets up to grab his coat, and hugs Cap goodbye. He spares you a long glance, too.

Before he can leave, Bobby speaks up.

“Hey, Eddie,” Bobby calls out to him, “I think you'll find the answer to your question within. You need to figure out how you feel.”

It sounds so cryptic, you're sure the question's related to his marriage somehow. It's the only reason Bobby wouldn't speak plainly.

So, you do your best to busy yourself getting your stuff together. Eddie does no such thing, though. He lets his eyes drift to you for a long moment, before nodding at Bobby.

“Wow. That's some Yoda shit. Has staying at home already made you wise beyond your many years, Bobby?” you joke.

Eddie laughs out loud as he closes the front door behind him.

A/N: if u remember what eddie asked bobby in 2.17 u get 10 points!

[sophiewritesworld]

ROLL FOR REDEMPTION - E.M. (series)

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend's influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.

PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend

next part

PROLOGUE : The last summer light

The summer of 1986 wraps Hawkins in a haze of heat and possibility, the air alive with the drone of cicadas and the scent of sun-warmed asphalt. You’re sixteen, perched on a picnic table at the quarry, your sneakers swinging, a half-empty Coke sweating in your hand. Eddie Munson sprawls beside you, his leather jacket tossed in the dirt, his hair a wild cascade as he mimics a guitar solo to the Black Sabbath tape crackling from his van’s open door. The sky burns orange, the sun sinking slow, and you’re laughing, your sides aching, because Eddie’s just spun a ridiculous tale about a Hellfire Club campaign where a goblin king demands tribute in the form of mismatched socks.

“You’re such a dork,” you say, shoving his shoulder, but your grin is wide, your heart full in a way only he can make it. He’s your best friend, your rogue to your cleric, the boy who’s been your anchor since you were twelve, swapping comic books and secrets in the dim light of his uncle’s trailer. You’ve battled imaginary dragons, weathered real storms—your mom’s late-night hospital visits, his dad’s long-gone shadow—and built a world where nothing can break you, not as long as you have each other.

He flashes that crooked grin, his brown eyes catching the dying light. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart,” he says, the nickname light and teasing, but it settles warm in your chest. You roll your eyes, leaning back on your hands, the rough wood of the table grounding you. The quarry stretches out below, its water still and dark, a mirror for the summer you think will last forever.

“You ever think about what’s next?” you ask, your voice soft, the question slipping out unbidden. “After this summer, I mean.”

He shrugs, his grin fading just a touch. “More campaigns, more gigs with Corroded Coffin, maybe actually passing history this time.” He nudges you, lighter now. “You and me, ruling Hawkins, right?”

“Right,” you say, smiling, believing it. You don’t know yet that a girl named Tara is waiting in the wings, her jealousy a storm that will tear you apart. You don’t know the silence that’s coming, the way you’ll lose him, the way you’ll become a ghost in your own life. All you know is this—Eddie, the quarry, the music, and a friendship you’re sure is unbreakable.

But the world is shifting, and the roll for redemption is closer than you think.